Sickness, Stagefright and Toast

Gah! International Put your Poem in a Shop Month  is slipping past me and nary a contribution!

Last year I had a really good excuse. What with being all pregnant and then all c-sectiony, and the weather being all ends of days snowy. It was fair enough that I didn't get out. But this year. What sad excuse will I roll out for my creative cravenness? My literary loucheness? My apathetic poeticness! My phlegmatic phonetics...

Well, baba has been sick. And had her first birthday. She was sick for her first birthday. All photos have her looking miserable. She was probably pissed that I made no effort for it though. What can I say, she's baby number four - oh look, you're a year old, well done. What do you want? A medal? No cake was made. I bought her the chavviest red track suit as her only present. I'll laminate Childline's number for her.

Sick... but wonderfully quiet.

That said, she did achieve two things of note this week. 1) She was so sick she didn't have the energy to screech. It was a blessed release. For the past ten days we have not had to listen to her go 'EEErnnnnnghghghghghgghgghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh' for 90% of the day. and 2) She said her first word! I was able to muster up some excitement for this. Mainly cause it was quite a good first word. We did have two possible other candidates for first word - 'Clap' and 'Dance' (a future on the stage perhaps?). But we couldn't definitely say that she meant to say these words. But the other morning was different. I was sitting there with my cup of tea, poached eggs and toast. She had a rusk. She wasn't into the rusk. She was pointing at my breakfast. I said, 'Toast?' She looked at me, thoughtful. 'Toast' she said. 

Sod this Baby Atkin diet - give me Carbs!!!

Can you beat that? How could you not love a creature whose first word was toast? She'll go far.

In other news, Big Sister Oub is in the bad books. Oh yes. As a mother I ask only that my children are brilliant and talented at all times and show the world that both my genetics and mothering are superior to all others. I don't think this is too much to ask. Well, Big sister Oub has disappointed! She has displeased me. 

It was Christmas Concert time. She was star of the show last year. Charmed the audience and quite frankly set me up as Alpha Mother among the Montessori Mafia. I was Don D'Oub. I wasn't actually there for the concert last year, what with me being held in a maximum security maternity hospital, but I did get to see her opening night triumph via live satellite link up. Hmmm, or maybe it was on video a few days later. I'm not sure. I was on a lot of morphine. (Not kidding about the morphine.)

But this year I got to be there! I could accept the admiring glances from the other mothers in person. I could be a shining beacon for nurture versus nature right there, right then!

But, I could tell from the moment I walked in that all was not well. Big Sister Oub was surveying the crowd. Cause she's a sentient 4 year old now. She knows that the crowd is made up with actually people this year. When she was three she didn't care! But now, now... now she has stage fright!!! 

Ah jaysus, me no likey!

She made it half way through before she collapsed in tears and had to retire to my knee for the rest of the performance. 

I wasn't happy. Uh huh. She has disgraced me in front of all the mothers. I will most likely be challenged by one of the other, younger, mothers in the car park now. I cannot avoid being beaten and cast from my pack to wander in the wilderness alone, looking for somewhere to curl up and expire...

Think of me, in my decline.

Remember me as I once was. Great and better than everyone else.

ahem.

I'll go write my IPYPIASM poem now...