Yesterday, the spud came back from the child-minder smelling... well... much more grown up than normal. I spent ages trying to work out what it was. BO? Someone’s perfume? Further advancement in the state of his poo? Nope, it turns out that the spud has garlic breath. Guess I went a little overboard with his pasta sauce...
It's been a busy couple of weeks and getting away from my little angel is proving to be quite an issue. This is largely due to having been under the weather recently (well, it's been raining a lot...) and er... um... feeling a bit Motherly all of a sudden, so I've been letting Charlie sleep in the bed with us more than is strictly necessary.
The truth is that I go to bed every night nice and toasty beside the frog but wake up most mornings a tad chilly next to the spud and with no memory at all as to how he got there. This poses a problem as it appears I am sneaking him in beneath my own radar, meaning that stopping myself is virtually impossible without a crack team of stealth bombers. The worst thing is that not only am I chilly due to Charlie having my share of the covers, I also have back-ache due to sleeping twisted so that my boobs are within snacking distance of his mouth - after all, do you really want to have to get out of bed and crawl to the refrigerator when you're that age? Besides, it's obvious that part of me is happy to be woken up by the sharp tug of tooth enamel. Why I am doing this to myself, I have no idea. Maybe I hated myself in a past life and this is my revenge.
It’s lovely (it must be... you'll have to ask my other self for more details), but let’s face it, it’s not good. He’s getting the idea that all he has to do is… well, whatever it is he does at 3am to get me out of bed without actually waking me up (I suspect Derren Brown is involved)… and I come running to dutifully implant him in the middle of our bed, whipping out my boobs in the process. And he’s right. So far. The main problem is that he is suddenly much more attached to us than he was a few weeks ago and he cannot be left alone for a minute without his entire world falling to pieces.
Unless, of course, there is something contraband in his general vicinity, like the cat's bowl, an electric cord, glassware or some vital piece of paper-based information which will later turn up as that soggy thing you tread on and go 'ugh!'
It's clear that all he wants is attention but it's less clear how to create a balance between him amusing himself, him being lonely and me going mad - although given the state of his breath, I'm surely most of the way there by now. Perhaps time to give up the midnight boobs - even they smelled of garlic this morning.
I'm sure this post was going somewhere but it's taken so many days to get this far that I think I should just stop now.