B: Week two

My life as a parent
Dylan has developed a fixation with nipples and tails this week. He's
convinced, although all the evidence points to the contrary, that the
dog has only two nipples, like the rest of the family. The tails are
easier to quantify, either you have one or you don't.
This fact rather startled the poor horse whom we went to deliver four
rather looking mangy carrots to. I'd discovered them in a fit of
premature spring cleaning in the back of what we lovingly refer to as
our millennium cupboard (it housed alcohol for the months prior to the
turn of the century) and decided that the slush oozing from their ends
was likely to corrode the one remaining can of Boddingtons away.
So there he is, standing hand outstretched with carrot positioned under
the horse's nose. The beast was gently edging its head down towards
this minute, but brightly coloured figure, when Dylan squawks with
enormous excitement, 'horsey got a tail'. I don't know whether the
horse or I was the most startled, but keeping its wits about it, it
grabbed the offered delicacy before retreating to a safe distance to
consider this latest revelation.
Poor Dylan. Not only was his garb brightly coloured, but also his
finger. In an accident that occurred as he was running away from me, he
slammed his finger in the cemetery gates (no, we weren't there on a
maudlin visit, we just happened to be walking by). To cut a long and
painful story short, he's now got a nail hanging on by a millimetre
thread of flesh and an infection under it to boot. Four doses of the
most vile tasting antibiotic a day. No wonder the tally of dirty
nappies is so extraordinarily high this week.
Last Saturday morning I found myself in fits of sudden hysteria,
sitting alone by the raffle table in the community hall. Here, a small
village, if you so much as show a passing interest in any community
related issue, you're co-opted onto a committee. After four years you'd
think that I would know better than to ask about fund raising for the
proposed new play park. Before I could say incredulously 'how much is
it costing?' I found myself as a founder member of the committee. Never
mind that Edna (still gestating) will be well passed the age of use by
the time that the required ?7,000 is raised. Who cares that I quite
like the existing play park and facilities? This is, after all, a
requirement of community living. You fund raise, collect for charity
and fund raise a bit more.
So there I was at the Christmas Fayre, selling raffle tickets (50p a
strip, star prizes a sack of potatoes and some dubious bath salts) when
it dawned on me. Here I am. This is my life. Bernard and Dylan were
busy mulling over the home-baking stall admiring the cakes that I had
supplied - purchased ten minutes before from the local bakers -
oblivious to the fact that everyone else present was staring at this
lunatic in the corner. Ha ha, he he I chortled to myself. I'm 30, a
freelancer with no lances and the highlight of my week is this. Boy, I
nearly peed my pants with the excitement.
Life has changed a whole lot this week. Dylan, for financial reasons,
is only attending nursery for two half days instead of three whole
ones. As I'm cutting down on my income - or rather, as my brain
disintegrates into pregnancy slush - I'm anticipating working less and
less. Now I have to fill those extra hours with creative and
challenging activities to simulate a two-year old. I've found that Toy
Story, Toy Story 2 and Chicken Run are great. He watches them and then
we play Buzzy (Bee) Lightyear. Luckily Dylan hasn't quite clicked on to
the fact that Buzz Lightyear doesn't actually do any washing up and
probably has never spent an hour putting socks on radiators. I always
wondered exactly what the innocence of youth meant, and now I
know.
Due to this financial straight, I have to get rid of the dog walker.
Now, before you choke with astonishment, please let me explain. This,
well he, is not a luxury item born of laziness. No indeed, for a while
before I became a people carrier, I worked full time and even had to go
to an office. We employed him then, as he was just retired, to take our
minx out during the day to relieve herself.
It was a great arrangement, he earned some pocket money and occupied
himself and we got our dog walked for hours on end. Actually, since
that point, he's rather built a business for himself and now has a
waiting list for dogs that need walking. He gives them trial runs and
if they aren't perfect - or more often than not - their owners aren't
perfect, they don't get onto his books.
So why do I feel so bad about letting him go? It's not that he needs
our dog's money anymore (he now only takes her on two days anyway),
it's the fact that he's the last connection to my life pre-parenthood.
You know, the life when I earned more than Bernard, when having a dog
was a prelude to children (not a chore) and when there was a difference
between my dog walking clothes and everyday wear.
Speaking of clothes, I turned out my drawers last night, to get rid of
all those mocking, sparkly numbers, the ones that I've been holding
onto for years in the hope that I can, one day, squeeze back into them.
With Edna swelling my midriff to the size of a juggernaut and space at
a premium, I thought it'd be, as my mother is often wont to say, 'for
the best'. This morning I had the choice of three shirts, two pairs of
trousers, one skirt and five rather baggy looking pairs of knickers. I
turned in despair to Bernard's wardrobe only to have Dylan chastise me
over breakfast for wearing Daddy's trousers. When, and how, did I turn
my son into a fashion fascist?