a conversation with jack

Click here to watch a clip of Jack out in the garden the other day. It's a bit long (5 minutes), but fairly entertaining. I love how toddlers go off on various tangents, and I adore Jack's imagination. Please excuse the big scab under my boy's nose - he recently had a close encounter with the pavement at nursery.

(If the sound/image is really choppy, press the pause button and wait a little while for more of the film to load - look at the blue bar to see how much has loaded.)

have you seen this woman?

Oh, Nigella. Where have you gone? Where is that wrong-side-of-35 curvy domestic goddess that I loved so much? The spoon licking...the smouldering glances at the camera...the rapturous noises you made as you stuffed your face with steak in front of an open fridge. I miss you! What's happened to you, my poor Nigella? What have they done to you? I was so thrilled about your new series, but when I tuned into your new programme, a vacuous Stepford wife stared blankly at me from the screen. She smiles throughout each episode, literally non-stop - even whilst eating, which is thoroughly disconcerting. She uses the word "express" at least three times each show, rides in a taxi to and from Waitrose to do her grocery shopping (which apparently only involves four items and she always seems to have exact change because she simply hands over the cash and glides away), and uses at least five adjectives to describe every recipe item.

Long gone is the voluptuous yummy mummy. Aliens have replaced her with a Happy Housewife Fembot. How else can you explain the need to pause during cooking to look into the lens to give the audience a wide-eyed, maniacal grin? What other reason could there be for chocolate mousse made with melted marshmallows? And why are we now being treated to tips on how to dress the table?

Please come back, Nigella. All is forgiven.

sign of the times

So I was shopping in Milton Keynes a few weeks ago, and Mia was due for a feed. Not wanting to be obligated to purchase food somewhere just for a chair to breastfeed (and not at all interested in whipping out my boobs on those horrible aluminium benches outside of Clinton Cards or something similar), I remembered that the shopping centre had a feeding room. Although not the most pristine area I've ever seen (it's in desperate need of a paint job), it's a fantastic area for feeding and changing. One room is filled with purpose-built changing tables complete with sinks next to each one, and the other room has (vinyl) sofas for feeding. There is also a curtained off area at one end of the room for the very, very shy. It's actually just a shower curtain type arrangement around one of the chairs, which probably just makes you feel more of a dork for using it, really.

As I sat there feeding Mia, I thought about the sign used to indicate this room. It was something similar to this:


What about those of us who don't use bottles? How old fashioned to use a symbol like that, I thought. Why not modernise these signs to reflect the variations on the feeding theme, like this:


Upon further reflection, I realised that this would either confuse men into thinking there was a very small branch of Hooters restaurant near the toilets or it would make people think there was something sinister staring at them from beyond. This is probably why I never went into commercial art.

Incidentally, there is an international sign for breastfeeding, which is far more eloquent than mine:

waving a leek at wales

Charlotte Church gave birth to a little girl at home on Thursday evening. Good on her, I say. She allowed herself to look like a real human pregnant woman (with huge boobs and rolls of fat and bad hair and everything! Imagine!) without going into hiding, and put home birth in the news. As long as she and Gavin managed to avoid giving the baby an idiotic name, I give the young lady a round of applause. Well done, Charl!

three

, originally uploaded by Lisa Durbin.

Mia is three months old today. Three months! This is all going by too quickly. Way too quickly.

Mia sleeps through the night (and has been doing so for a month now), smiles and giggles, plays with toys, rolls on to her side, and enjoys watching cookery programmes. She's still in a moses basket next to me, and I'm in no rush to move her to the nursery. I'm glad she's petite because it means she still fits in the basket. She now weighs 10lbs 14oz (still on the 9th centile) and is still exclusively on the booby. Go me! Her eyes are blue and her hair is dark brown, but I'm not sure if either will stay that way.

I love the enormous gummy smile that spreads across her face whenever I look at her, especially when I peer over the side of her basket before I turn out the light to go to sleep. I love how she clings to my neck when I hold her. I love how she giggles when I wear glasses or when Jack performs for her.

She is my little Pixie Stix, bright-eyed and beautiful. Happy three months, my princess Mimi.

which reminds me...

Warning to all UK parents: I think a major grocery store chain has brainwashed my child. Subliminal advertising on those little television screens in the biscuit aisle at Bar Hill? Drugs in their organic whole milk? Suggestive imagery in their logo? Who knows, but for some reason, my son has said the following recently:
[When Paul said that Jack could eat his lunch outside "al fresco"] "No daddy, I not eat at Tesco!"
[When I said that the disco dancing clip in the post below made me laugh] "I like the Tesco movie!"

And even when we try to correct him, the answer is always "No! Tesco!"

I'm scared now.

soooo mature

Star in Your Own JibJab! It's Free!
This has been making Jack and I giggle all morning. We really need to get out more.