...I would at least have the good grace to feel embarrassed about missing the first born's first birthday - from a blogging perspective, that is.
But I have neither. And, besides, it is useful preparation for when I forget his actual birthday in the years to come. So, tough. I shall merely acknowledge that it has been some time...look, it's not my fault I forgot my password, ok?
Anyway...
A few nights ago, whilst trying to coax him back to sleep in the wee hours of the morning, I heard a dog bark. And bark. And continue to bark until I realised that it had probably been barking for hours, and had no intention of stopping for a while yet. And that said dog belonged to my neighbours, probably enacting revenge after 13 months of The First Born kicking off at 3 in the morning
So I got thinking (I do, occasionally), from a Bear V Shark perspective: which would be worse, from the view point of the even longer-suffering neighbours on the floor beneath us - a baby that not only never sleeps, but also either screams at the top of his lungs for sustenance, or demands adult companionship for decidedly non-adult activities like 'let's see how far we can throw this brand new book' (all at 4 in the morning); or the dog that did bark, but didn't stop?
I know what I would go for. But then, my opinions count for pretty much nothing in this household, so I won't tell you what I think. No point.
When Dr M started to wean The First Born off the breast, he picked up this peculiar habit of plunging his arm, usually up to the elbow but occasionally to the armpit, into her blouse and...well, there really isn't any nice way of saying this, but playing with her.
I must admit, I didn't see the big deal at first; he has already subjected her to all sorts of indignities in the name of breastfeeding, particularly his penchant for al fresco dining in the most inconvenient places. But that's life, I thought. The life of a mother.
Until he started tweaking my bits.
The first time, I assumed it was a mistake. His hand wend down my top, found my nipple and started...well, I'll spare you the gory details. It wasn't pleasant.
But after the second, and third, and fourth expeditions down the front of my top, I realised that this was no mistake. The boy knew what he was doing - particularly as he tended to laugh whenever he saw the look of horror and dismay on my face...
So I complained to his mother. And she laughed in my face. It's a hard life, being a father isn't it?
I'm officially changing The First Born's name to Duracell, effective immediately. It just isn't fair. He sleeps, on average, 29 minutes a night. Non-consecutive.
I mentioned this to my mother. She laughed, sardonically, and muttered something about revenge being a dish best served cold. frankly, I have no idea what she is on about.
I read a book last week, and one of the characters was obliged to wake up her baby. At 7.30 in the morning. Reader, on reading this, I sat down and wept.
Then I sat Duracell down and read the offending passages to him. Doubt if it made a difference, since he merely tried to eat the page in question.
Anyway, he's asleep now. And soon, hopefully, so will I.
'night.
