Toddler Diaries

I should probably start by saying that this is a blog about babies. For those of you who feel queasy at the sight of the millions of photos of other people's children on social media sites, now is probably the time to locate the small ‘x’ in the corner of this page. However, if, like me, you find this world of sleepless nights, gripe water, pampers, and breast pads rather fascinating: please, read on.

In the interest of honesty, I can quite positively say that I am not entirely sure what will end up being written here. I’m sure it will become a "hodge-podge" of funny stories, anecdotes, personal experiences, and possibly even an attempt or two at advice! Any opinions and views stated are entirely my own, and if they should contradict what you are being told during your usual appointments, then please do not report me to "the midwives," as a couple of them scare me a bit.

I currently have a 10-month-old, and she is potentially the biggest diva to walk the earth, after Naomi Campbell, and possibly her father. She is brilliant. But, she is also fantastically hard work! She will no longer sit still for more than five seconds, regardless of how many rounds of pat-a-cake I attempt; the closest she has come to crawling is getting onto her front and then screaming to be picked up, and she has a fascination for dragging out dusty relics from under the sofa, much to my embarrassment when we have company. So far, so "normal." But we are struggling with one "demon" that has run circles around us since day one: sleeping (and nighttime in general). Simply put, I begin dreading bedtime from the second I wake up, and have never been more tempted to buy either a bungalow or a pedometer due to the endless trips up and down the stairs I usually make. "Swaddle her!" I hear great crowds of health visitors cry, at which point I am bending over the cot attempting to tuck a blanket around a miniature person determined on doing her best impression of a member of "Kool and the Gang."

Next method, let her cry for a few minutes: during which time she does everything within her power to convince me that she is in great pain, starving, thirsty, and screaming in agony. Upon finally giving in (finally because the two minutes I actually lasted seemed like forever) and picking her up, she flashes me her best Oscars smile and begins babbling on like the scat man. Baby: 2, Mummy: 0. Usually this whole process lasts around an hour, at which point baby has a power nap to refuel for our next battle, while I retreat to the sofa eying the laundry pile in the hopes it may miraculously dwindle in size, as I am now exhausted and very much aware that round 3 will be beginning in the next hour or so.

Sleep, it’s a tough one. We are yet to work out our winning method, and console ourselves as we sit quietly crying that it will all get better once baby is 3 months…6 months…10 months old?? There is a light at the end of the tunnel somewhere; either that or a scratch on my eyeball from a flailing arm during the unsuccessful swaddling. In the meantime, I take what pleasure I can from baby being nothing short of angelic when faced with other people, and their coo’s of "she-is-as-good-as-gold-you-are-so-lucky" while I try to focus on them using my one good eye.