One is rather domestically imprisoned at the moment. But, we're looking at the last month of 2011, Baba Oub will be 1 year old in a couple of weeks, so roll on 2012 and maybe a return to creative ways.
What we have been doing is obsessing over secondary schools for eldest Oub child. We went to visit another one a week or so ago. They had an Open Day. Everyone turned up. I mean everyone. Old ladies had heard that Confey College was open. Prisoners applied specially for day release so that they could have a look. Tribes from Papua New Guinea who had heretofore never made contact with the rest of the human race showed up. My youth, missing in action for some time now, was spotted strolling the corridors.
It's a great bloody school. Excellent results, lovely building, co-ed, polite students. Clean toilets. I dunno - how important are clean toilets to the over school experience? I've been in the loos of the other two schools and urgh, mingin' just isn't doing them justice. "So, Mrs Oub, why did you pick Confey College for little Master Oub?' "Clean toilets."
But, things are never simple. We did our tour of the school with the rest of the seven billion inhabitants of earth. And we were just generally blown away. Seeing as we felt there might be a bit of competition for spaces, we decided that I'd pop into the school super soon and put sons name down. Because this school has an unusual enrollment policy. You pay them a non-refundable 100euro, your child is guaranteed a place. Simples.
So, off I headed the very next morning. Knock, knock, knock on the secretaries door. One little conversation later. They're changing the policy. The board of management are putting into place a proper enrollment policy. A policy, if it is in line with the policy followed by pretty much every other school in the country, will see us bottom of the list!
But of course.
I tried bribing the school secretary. I tired flattery. I tired threatening her! Well, I didn't actually threaten her, but Baba Oub was in the room, so there was an air of menace... But to no avail. We've put his name down. Time will tell...Sigh...
What else have I been doing?
Breastfeeding. Extreme Breastfeeding. I should be put in a packet with instructions on the back that say 'Just Add Water'. I am a shrivelled husk. Baba Oub has discovered the auld pulling up of the top. My beleaguered boobs are being pawed at day and night. And when Mr Oub is done, baba is always hungry.
This blog post has been disturbed four times by demands for milk.
She is drunk on the power. No longer does she have to wait for mama to decide that she can have a feed, no, she can grope like the office letch for access anytime she bloody wants to. She is a milkcoholic. It's just boob, boob, boob, all the time. And she just screams if she can't. She's like an addict! Is there rehab for babies who like boob just that little bit too much? A twelve step program to recovery? It's time for her to admit that she is powerless over boob and that her life has become unmanageable... She needs to make a list of the people she has harmed and make amends to them all...
Hello, my name is Baba Oub and I a boobaholic.
|She got so drunk on milk she woke up in the laundry basket, not knowing how she got there...|
And, last but not least, here's what I made in pottery class last week. (Can't show you this week as I didn't have my phone with me. Please try not to be too inconsolable.)
Right, I'm off to write a poem for International Put Your Poem in a Shop Month! It may well be about schools and boobs. But then, aren't all poems?