F makes me feel horrendously unfit. Already, her podgy baby arms and legs are becoming lean and muscular. When she's not asleep, she's always doing crunches, sit-ups, squats and press-ups to better herself. In fact she's recently started including the weight of her high chair to press-ups, pushing herself and it away from the table over and over.
In contrast, I have done no dedicated exercise in the last eight months.
Picking her up and down might count for a bit, I suppose. Because she's always gaining weight, she's always slightly too heavy for me. This is excellent training, I suppose. Keep increasing what you benchpress, that's the way forward, isn't it? If I keep it up, by the time she's thirty five or so I'll look like a young Schwarzenegger. Except I'll be seventy. And still a better actor, even if I'm demented by then.
We walk a lot too, that's healthy. We bought a new baby bjorn, so I can keep carrying her until she's three or so. They're great things - they take all the stress of carrying baby out of your arms and shoulders and concentrate it handily in your lower back instead. F gets tired and shouty after about three-quarters of an hour in it. It takes me about three hours to massage the knots out of my sacrum after that.
She enjoys it, though, she likes being able to see out and grab things, and her patience for being sat in the pram is swiftly decreasing. Not that she has much patience. After the baby group, she's started trying to crawl a bit more. She knows there's something to it, she can see the point. Like the spoon feeding (latest development - use of a loaded spoon as a comb), she can't quite see how to achieve it yet. She's just really really angry that lying on her face and flailing isn't the right answer, although not quite angry enough to call it a day on that particular tactic.
Sunday, September 29, 2013
Saturday, September 21, 2013
Baa Baa White Lamb
F had her first taste of day care today. She went for a couple of hours of playing with other toddlers and near-toddlers at a local church hall. Good fun for her, I hoped, plus lots of new ideas for movement and some new toys to bash around. Her smurfs are starting to unionise, I suspect, I felt they needed a day of rest.
Being a parent makes me terribly competitive. From quite a competitive start, as well. It's not a race! I keep telling myself. Nobody is keeping track of how quickly your daughter grows, or when they hit milestones. Well, okay, they are, the midwife does it. But that's just quietly professional, there's not prizes or anything. Are there? There should be, is my basic instinct. And F should win them all.
The reason I mention this is that in a group of about ten children (I lost count very quickly), F was the only one there not actually walking or crawling independently. "Oh, that's fine, Valkyria/Odin* didn't start until he/she was twelve months" people kept telling me reassuringly. Except the proud mum sitting next to me, whose son was two weeks younger and leaping balletically round the mat like a young Nureyev.
The singing circle was kind of an ordeal - I knew slightly less than half of the songs. F has a CD of kids songs, some of which have osmotically embedded themselves into my brain through repetition. Not enough to do anything more than poorly and obviously lip-sync my way through the Swedish equivalent of 'Baa Baa Black Sheep', anyway. Which is 'Bä, bä, vita lamm' and has a totally different tune, just to make it even worse.
Hampered as usual by my dismal Swedish, I felt a bit gloomy by the end. Everyone else sat in the common room having fika whilst their kids romped and cavorted independently round the far end of the room. I sat with the kids, holding F up so she could play with the big plastic activity centre she wanted to grab. Lying next to it wasn't quite good enough, that made her get shouty and impatient, and whilst she's extremely close to crawling or pulling herself upright, she's a shade away from it still. So I'm still her bionic walking machine.
F had a splendid time, which was obviously more important. Other than the bit where she unexpectedly nearly stood up and faceplanted vigorously onto her nose, at least. All the other kids came and stood round me in an accusing circle, staring at F while she howled or checking back with their own parents to see if they'd learnt from my mistake. Perhaps no actual judgement was passed, I don't know, but for a moment there it felt quite Lord of the Flies. My head certainly felt at risk of being left on the handles of the inflatable rocking horse as a warning.
We're going back next week. By then, I will have taught myself the lyrics to all Swedish nursery rhymes and F will be able fly. That'll show 'em.
*Not their real names, sadly
Being a parent makes me terribly competitive. From quite a competitive start, as well. It's not a race! I keep telling myself. Nobody is keeping track of how quickly your daughter grows, or when they hit milestones. Well, okay, they are, the midwife does it. But that's just quietly professional, there's not prizes or anything. Are there? There should be, is my basic instinct. And F should win them all.
The reason I mention this is that in a group of about ten children (I lost count very quickly), F was the only one there not actually walking or crawling independently. "Oh, that's fine, Valkyria/Odin* didn't start until he/she was twelve months" people kept telling me reassuringly. Except the proud mum sitting next to me, whose son was two weeks younger and leaping balletically round the mat like a young Nureyev.
The singing circle was kind of an ordeal - I knew slightly less than half of the songs. F has a CD of kids songs, some of which have osmotically embedded themselves into my brain through repetition. Not enough to do anything more than poorly and obviously lip-sync my way through the Swedish equivalent of 'Baa Baa Black Sheep', anyway. Which is 'Bä, bä, vita lamm' and has a totally different tune, just to make it even worse.
Hampered as usual by my dismal Swedish, I felt a bit gloomy by the end. Everyone else sat in the common room having fika whilst their kids romped and cavorted independently round the far end of the room. I sat with the kids, holding F up so she could play with the big plastic activity centre she wanted to grab. Lying next to it wasn't quite good enough, that made her get shouty and impatient, and whilst she's extremely close to crawling or pulling herself upright, she's a shade away from it still. So I'm still her bionic walking machine.
F had a splendid time, which was obviously more important. Other than the bit where she unexpectedly nearly stood up and faceplanted vigorously onto her nose, at least. All the other kids came and stood round me in an accusing circle, staring at F while she howled or checking back with their own parents to see if they'd learnt from my mistake. Perhaps no actual judgement was passed, I don't know, but for a moment there it felt quite Lord of the Flies. My head certainly felt at risk of being left on the handles of the inflatable rocking horse as a warning.
We're going back next week. By then, I will have taught myself the lyrics to all Swedish nursery rhymes and F will be able fly. That'll show 'em.
*Not their real names, sadly
Friday, September 20, 2013
Swing
Swings are fairly safe for an eight-month-old, right? I mean, as long as you don't go nuts and start trying to get them to orbit the bar or anything. Or leave them to it while you go and get ice cream. And I'm talking the bucket seats here, that's obvious. Not the dangling tyres or the single rubber strap ones. Basically nothing that looks like it should have been on Gladiators. I'm not a monster.
I'd been tempted to give F a go on a swing for ages, but that nagging internal voice that tells you unsupervised fun is the same as bad parenting kept me from it. There was also an external voice that kept reminding me to wait until my wife wasn't at work. It wasn't a nagging voice, can I just make that very clear? She reads this blog, after all. It was a dulcet voice of kindly reason, one that I love very much.
F likes swings now. Creaky ones especially, they make a good noise. Even better than that is a creaky swing with another child in it, that's fascinating. I don't know if F is watching older kids to pick up movement tips or whether she's just trying to work out what they are. She's only recently realised things like birds and animals are at all interesting. Ducks are now hilarious, for example. Only a few weeks ago she was totally indifferent to them because Look! Leaves!
F likes most stuff, to be fair. Novel things especially, which covers pretty much everything. She doesn't generally seem to get scared or apprehensive of new stuff though, she just giggles or guffaws and tries to grab it. Worrying comes later on in development, I vaguely recall.
What bliss not to have to put up with that! As the top of my head begins its long, slow reveal through my increasingly grey-shot hair, I can't help but be a little jealous. About seventy percent of the parenting I feel I do (F does most of the hard work, learning motor functions and how the world works and all that shit. I'm basically a combination butler and pack mule, really) seems to be telling myself not to panic.
Not worrying is, for me, a learnt skill, the kind that I have to concentrate quite hard to maintain. Perhaps it will become automatic over time, the way that anything does with daily practice. Nothing in my experience or the many other parents I know seems to suggest this is the case, however. Fingers crossed for graceful balding, then.
I'd been tempted to give F a go on a swing for ages, but that nagging internal voice that tells you unsupervised fun is the same as bad parenting kept me from it. There was also an external voice that kept reminding me to wait until my wife wasn't at work. It wasn't a nagging voice, can I just make that very clear? She reads this blog, after all. It was a dulcet voice of kindly reason, one that I love very much.
F likes swings now. Creaky ones especially, they make a good noise. Even better than that is a creaky swing with another child in it, that's fascinating. I don't know if F is watching older kids to pick up movement tips or whether she's just trying to work out what they are. She's only recently realised things like birds and animals are at all interesting. Ducks are now hilarious, for example. Only a few weeks ago she was totally indifferent to them because Look! Leaves!
F likes most stuff, to be fair. Novel things especially, which covers pretty much everything. She doesn't generally seem to get scared or apprehensive of new stuff though, she just giggles or guffaws and tries to grab it. Worrying comes later on in development, I vaguely recall.
What bliss not to have to put up with that! As the top of my head begins its long, slow reveal through my increasingly grey-shot hair, I can't help but be a little jealous. About seventy percent of the parenting I feel I do (F does most of the hard work, learning motor functions and how the world works and all that shit. I'm basically a combination butler and pack mule, really) seems to be telling myself not to panic.
Not worrying is, for me, a learnt skill, the kind that I have to concentrate quite hard to maintain. Perhaps it will become automatic over time, the way that anything does with daily practice. Nothing in my experience or the many other parents I know seems to suggest this is the case, however. Fingers crossed for graceful balding, then.
Thursday, September 19, 2013
Spoon Update
It's been well over a month of training now. F can
- Put food onto a spoon with one hand
- Take food off a spoon with one hand
- Eat food with one hand whilst holding a spoon in the other
- Hold an empty spoon and bowl and pretend to eat out of it
- Not actually combine these activities to eat with a spoon yet
The blast radius for her feeding attempts is about a foot smaller, although this merely means it's also about an inch deeper in partially-masticated goo.
This is all quite frustrating for all concerned. This probably also means it's normal.
- Put food onto a spoon with one hand
- Take food off a spoon with one hand
- Eat food with one hand whilst holding a spoon in the other
- Hold an empty spoon and bowl and pretend to eat out of it
- Not actually combine these activities to eat with a spoon yet
The blast radius for her feeding attempts is about a foot smaller, although this merely means it's also about an inch deeper in partially-masticated goo.
This is all quite frustrating for all concerned. This probably also means it's normal.
Wednesday, September 18, 2013
Nostalgia
Gosh, time goes by terribly fast. I was bouncing F on my knee the other day. She's well over two foot tall now, it's getting tougher on my knees daily. I can't really believe she's the same baby that only a handful of months ago was able to lie fully stretched out on my chest without hanging over the edges. Aww, I thought with a tint of rosy spectacle, those days are already done. I miss them!
As though to remind me of the perils of fond hinder-gazing, F immediately got her first cold and spent the entire night awake and yelling. Not aggressive or miserable yelling, just 'hey, I'm awake, let's play a game' yelling. To start with, anyway. The miserable aggression came later, once she realised that mummy and daddy weren't up for it at three in the morning.
I got her cold soon after (she'd caught it from V, who'd caught it at the theatre). I made mine much worse by doing a stage fighting gig out at a local fortress. It was lovely weather, I didn't think I need a coat. Especially as I'd be dressed in a 17th century velvet frock coat and leaping from assorted battlements, wielding a rapier. Seeing as my Swedish is still pretty lousy, I hadn't realised I'd be expected to stay on after the fight for almost four hours, standing about looking gormless as a foil for the tour guide's wit. Professionally gormless, you understand, I was acting it. The fact that said wit was also too Swedish for me to follow merely helped.
By the time I got home, I was running a fever. I didn't sleep beyond an hour that night, and that was grabbed on the sofa because I kept waking F up by sneezing in the bedroom. Luckily, F was pretty much better the following day. For her, anyway. She couldn't understand why daddy didn't want to play at three in the afternoon either, very unreasonable.
P.S. - The long pause since the last blog is partly due to this cold. It knocked me pretty flat for a week or so last month, when all this happened. I'm a terrible one for getting out of habits if I'm thrown off my routine. I'm still planning on writing something roughly once a week. I can't imagine I've left anyone horribly bereft by skipping a few weeks, but apologies if you thought we'd all been kidnapped or something. I'm back now, and I have a few catch-up blogs to make up for the pause.
As though to remind me of the perils of fond hinder-gazing, F immediately got her first cold and spent the entire night awake and yelling. Not aggressive or miserable yelling, just 'hey, I'm awake, let's play a game' yelling. To start with, anyway. The miserable aggression came later, once she realised that mummy and daddy weren't up for it at three in the morning.
I got her cold soon after (she'd caught it from V, who'd caught it at the theatre). I made mine much worse by doing a stage fighting gig out at a local fortress. It was lovely weather, I didn't think I need a coat. Especially as I'd be dressed in a 17th century velvet frock coat and leaping from assorted battlements, wielding a rapier. Seeing as my Swedish is still pretty lousy, I hadn't realised I'd be expected to stay on after the fight for almost four hours, standing about looking gormless as a foil for the tour guide's wit. Professionally gormless, you understand, I was acting it. The fact that said wit was also too Swedish for me to follow merely helped.
By the time I got home, I was running a fever. I didn't sleep beyond an hour that night, and that was grabbed on the sofa because I kept waking F up by sneezing in the bedroom. Luckily, F was pretty much better the following day. For her, anyway. She couldn't understand why daddy didn't want to play at three in the afternoon either, very unreasonable.
P.S. - The long pause since the last blog is partly due to this cold. It knocked me pretty flat for a week or so last month, when all this happened. I'm a terrible one for getting out of habits if I'm thrown off my routine. I'm still planning on writing something roughly once a week. I can't imagine I've left anyone horribly bereft by skipping a few weeks, but apologies if you thought we'd all been kidnapped or something. I'm back now, and I have a few catch-up blogs to make up for the pause.
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