I brought a banana chocolate fudge cake OH HOLY MOLAR SO SCRUMPTIOUS! along to the Tupperware party last Thursday.
I’d never been to a Tupperware party before. Apparently there are two types: one version where everyone sits around fingering snap-lid tubs, and the other featuring sex toys and lingerie that promotes rather than reduces chafing. I presume it was the former type of Tupperware party since, although there were some strange-looking pieces of plastic, none of them looked as if they’d fit up the fanny.
I brought the Tiny Monster along, but he got so distressed we had to leave early. He must REALLY dislike Tupperware – or perhaps he was protesting the price.
I had my last remaining wisdom tooth extracted at the dentists’ last Tuesday. I was almost as nervous about the procedure as I was about my caesarian. When I had my three wisdom teeth extracted in Dubai I actually fainted. (Er. It was during the preliminary examination where I nearly garroted myself on the x-ray machine; I think it was due to a critical build-up of anticipation.)
“Probably because you’re attached to your teeth,” offered the dentist by way of explaining the phenomenon (he must have had a few puffs of nitrous oxide between me and his previous patient).
“Um, I’m pretty attached to my uterus as well,” I said.
Then he insisted on fully disclosing how painful the three injections would be. Look, of course it’s going to HURT; I’m about to be stabbed with a needle by a medically qualified sadist; just quit the small talk/foreplay and get on with it already.
As it turned out, the extraction lasted only about six minutes from start to finish. In contrast, the filling he did afterwards took nearly three quarters of an hour.
I wasn’t looking forward to caring for my little man the rest of the day, but in fact he was wonderful apart from occasionally head-butting me in the jaw with deadly precision.
When I related one of these incidents, “Did he cry?” asked Andrew.
“No, but I nearly did.”
Hilariously, after Finn hurls his head into your soft bits, he gets all outraged about his sore cranium. Same when he does it to the floor – especially when we sit around chanting: “Face plant! Face plant!”
I’m trying to teach Finn head-butting is only an appropriate form of expression for the Scots. Since he’s half-Irish he should be practicing knee-capping or perfecting the subtle art of poking peoples’ eyes out with a pointy stick.
Our Tiny Monster is growing so fast. The Plunket Nurse Harpy visited yesterday morning and remarked how sociable he is: all wide smiles, chatting away, solid eye-contact, turning to look at whoever is talking. However, he showed hints of passive-aggressive behaviour when he yarfed down her denim jacket. I’m going to train him to do that on command.
Speaking of bodily fluids – also boogers and poop on the occasions they don’t fall under the ‘fluid’ category – I suppose I could have just gone with ‘bodily fluids and/or solids’ – I remain mesmerized by the size of the bogeys Finn produces from his tiny nostrils. The only possible explanation is they expand when exposed to oxygen.
I always resolved never to be the type of mother who subjected others to her child’s poop, in either descriptive or demonstrative form. I’m about to break that rule, but I’ll make it as euphemistic as possible. Finn has recently taken to detonating what I can only describe as ‘atomic shits’. He usually saves it for when he’s sitting on someone’s knee; I always wince when he emits that delicate little grunt which precedes a violent salvo of squelch. Sometimes I worry he might blow someone’s leg off.
Rather than wiping him down, it’s often easier to fling him in the shower. He loves showering with mum or dad, to the extent that he hasn’t had a bath for weeks. Andrew’s nervous about Finn being so slippery he drops him, but I figure it adds an element of spontaneity. I hold Finn against my shoulder with one hand while I wash him with the other, and he thrusts his head back into the stream until water sluices down his face.
Finn doesn’t cry much any more. I hope this is due to maturity rather than extreme neglect like babies in Romanian orphanages. On the positive side it’s much more peaceful. He still complains, but it’s more along the lines of: “Oh I say, chaps, don’t mean to be a nuisance, but I’m not entirely content – I don’t mean to imply I’m unhappy, as such – frightfully sorry – I’ll just mutter to myself here another while – carry on.”
It’s actually pretty easy to dissuade him from grouchiness by giggling at him, or tickling his face with my hair, or simply kissing him vigorously until he gives up. Sometimes I worry he’ll grow up thinking an acceptable way of resolving a dispute with someone is pressing their nose and shouting ‘BEEP!’.
Although I do think world leaders should consider adopting this as a technique for conflict resolution.