Edition 82: "Space Invader!"

Negative Soundbyters – a gentle Good-Monday-Evening to you all! Mrs H and I have just finished a sumptuous braai-spread of sausages, ribs and chicken (not forgetting the salad which at this sort of meat-fest is a bit of an unwelcome visitor) accompanied by a rich, velvety cab-sav from the motherland. Tending the fire was a team effort as the weather seems not to be agreeing with Rafey’s approach to falling asleep.

He’s used to being wrapped up warm and he has what Mrs H has termed is his “snuggle” which is a very soft piece of material with a fur animal on the end that he rubs against his face for comfort – and then falls asleep. The challenge when it is still 25+ degrees outside is that if he was to stay cocooned he would literally start cooking ala pigs in a blanket. So we have introduced a fan, stripped him down to a vest and put a sheet over him. We thought this approach plus “snuggle” would do the trick. Um no. While we turned the chicken we watched Rafe on the baby monitor as he gave the term “tossed-and-turned” new meaning – he would have made an excellent salad. He was like a worm on the end of a fisherman’s hook except one is unlikely to see a worm in a kneeling position. Rafe on the other hand: This way-and-that. Facing up the cot. Facing down the cot. Trying to kneel. Trying to stand. On his stomach. On his side. On his back. All with “snuggle” desperately trying to keep up. He just wouldn’t settle.

I handed the braai tongs over to Mrs H to have a crack having had some success the previous evening. My Baby Whispering techniques failed dismally (his wriggling escalated to more of a thrashing – like one of those big game fish let loose on the deck of a fishing boat) and the big guns had to be called in. I munched my way through a few sausages and a rib while Mrs H dealt with the baby marlin. Eventually Rafe succumbed and Mrs H returned to the patio where our meat-fest continued.

I am now suitably stuffed, or satiated should I say (given the family rating of this blog) and I have retired to my eerie, goblet in one hand and laptop in the other (okay and a small chocolate flake to keep those pesky, sugary taste buds in check). Mrs H retired to watch some television. The word “retired” implies a degree of relaxation which I knew was in jeopardy when I heard the words “The bloody internet isn’t working again….no Sky….Aaaaargh”. I pretended that those words weren’t directed at me. I volunteered a rhetorical (in my mind) “Can I help?” but when I heard nothing further I assumed that a) she hadn’t heard me as I spoke so as not to wake the baby (um…ja…) or b) she had reset the router and all was back on track. Either way I didn’t hear a stomp-stomp upstairs towards my lair so I continued sipping my cab sav in the vein hope I would hit on a creative thought with which to entertain you….ha!

Time to move on but before doing so commiserations to the England football team. You did the nation proud. Hopefully coming home to those six figure weekly pay packets will numb the pain a little. (Now Hoddy if you don’t have anything nice to say……)

Big love to all.

Hoddy X

Play Areas.

All babies should have a play area – space permitting. That said “space permitting” is a relative term because there is a phenomenon known as play area “creep” where the designated area begins in one corner and slowly envelops one’s entire living space until you can’t take a step without treading on Barbie’s head (bad move if you have girls) or sitting down on a chair only to find that Buzz Light Year got there first. Your own house becomes a figurative minefield.

We basically had to move to cater for Rafey’s play area. Mrs H and I took the view that bringing up a small person in a flat would be difficult enough without having to confine ourselves to our bedroom as his “influence” spread throughout the flat which was just bigger than a postage stamp – therefore large by London standards!

We then built an extension. We tell ourselves it’s because we needed a larger entertaining space but actually it was with a degree of future proofing in mind because we knew that as Rafe’s mobility improved so would his desire to attach himself to various devices and scooch around the place.

Therefore Mrs H “shares” her dream kitchen with Rafey. In true Mrs H fashion his play area is demarcated with those large sponge letters. If he sits in the middle of it he has within his tiny – yet surprisingly firm - grasp a variety of plastic toys and books. (PS: Anyone looking to save the world from plastic – look no further than toy manufacturers; I reckon I have accumulated more plastic in one year than I accumulated in my previous forty….ahem…..forty two!) One problem though is that he isn’t big on sitting still at present and having discovered the art of crawling (in Rafey’s case it’s definitely substance over form) means that getting tangled in Mrs H’s feet as she prepares her latest culinary delight is much more fun!

One big step taken this weekend though: dismantling his “Jumperoo”. Rafey spent many a joyous hour jumping in this contraption and I had many a joyous hour disinfecting each component because as you can well imagine he also ate while jumping (a baby eating while stationery is messy; try a 3-toothed and very excitable tot bouncing up-and-down with a slightly crazed look in his eye while sucking on a piece of toast), got sick while jumping (no surprise), dribbled while jumping (teething) and sucked on any part of the Jumperoo that was within lip-shot. If we are to pass it on to AN Other Baby it best be without a hazardous warning attached.

Suddenly the play area seems much bigger. We now have a small book shelf in place of the Jumperoo so Rafe can see all his books on display. Naturally he believed it to be something to practice his standing technique against – as opposed to reading – but he’s happy and that means the play area remains fit for purpose – for now!

OUT :)

Pic of the Week

I look impressive....wishful thinking!