The One with the Cat in the Cot

We have a problem!

Oscar got in the boys cot today. Hubby and I didn't think that a 13 year old moggy could jump that high but I'm guessing he used a complicated manovere of blanket box, packets of baby wipes and balancing on the bars (sign this feline up for the 2012 gymnastics team) to get in.

It all started with a box. Cats love a cardboard box and Oscar particularly loves to curl up in one and go to sleep. When of course he decided to throw up in his box it had to go in the bin! No box, no obvious place to sleep (he has a basket, a cushion on one of our chairs in the lounge and is welcome on our bed when the rug is on it but oh no the miaows were telling me "Mummy I've got no place to go") so he found solace in another warm place to stay.

I'd just taken the boy upstairs for his lunchtime nap when I found him. After a "naughty pussy cat" and "Oh Oscar" he just gave me a look that said "Well where else do you expect me to go?" and lay back down to sleep. So I had to pick him up and shift him. Easier said than done! He gripped onto the bottom sheet with the sharpest of claws and all his might but eventually he was gone.

New bedding later, the lad was too nosey and excited from all the commotion to sleep!

We're going to need to keep the door shut from now on, or get a cat net or a gate for the door! Or all three given the cunning of Osc!

One over tired baby and one repentant miaowing moggy wanting milk does not a good afternoon make.

Luckily we went out! The boy slept in the car and Oscar...

Well he's curled up next to me as I type on a hard, wooden, dining room chair..

Cats will, after all, sleep anywhere it would seem....

The One with Half the Wall Gone

I've got damp! (it's my age!).

To be more precise our dining room wall has damp. We got a quote. And when we'd picked ourselves up off the floor we got another more reasonable one. And so the work begins.

To save time and money hubby has chipped off the existing plaster himself. Much thumb banging and swearing later (I took the boy out to avoid extending his vocabulary in that direction before can even talk) and the brickwork is exposed.

This has not only opened up the chimney breast but the preverbal can of worms.

The old fireplace wasn't bricked up but concrete blocks inserted. Looking at it we'd now rather open that right up and put a lintel in so the fireplace can be a feature in the room. We have a crack going further up the chimney breast than we thought so extra plaster has come off, the bricks need replacing and re-pointing and to top it all off this work involved moving all the dining room furniture round and we now both prefer it like that.

It's the classic case of once you start these things then more jobs surface to do and that's fine it's just having lived through basically gutting the house and re-building it over the last 11 years I thought we were done!

It would seem I was mistaken.....

The One where the boy moves out...

Hubby was away on business Thursday (the business of going to a leaving do for someone at work but still important social networking up in the smoke don't ya know - hmmm). Me, the boy and Oscar slept fine. I had none of the histrionics of previous evenings that week when it came to bedtime (I blame the jabs) and an unbroken nights sleep was enjoyed by all.

Little did I know it was to be our last together!

Hubby arrived home Friday after work and after hugs and kisses all round (and that was just for Oscar) he asked "So we've putting him in his own room tonight then?".

We'd talked about it. We'd talked about it a lot. When the boy was thrashing and wailing and looking highly uncomfortable in his moses basket we talked of little else but it was always something we were going to do, "We're putting him in his own room soon" I'd say. Never an actual time scale on it, just soon.

But last Friday, before I knew it bedtime came and there he was in his cot, looking small and helpless and vulnerable again like the first night in hospital after I'd had him.

Of course he wasn't helpless or vulnerable at all, he was happy as a pig in the preverbal and as for being small that was just a sense of scale from moses basket to big old cot bed.

So of course he settled fine and slept right through!

I of course was up every two hours checking he was ok!

The One with the Haircut

I've just been for a haircut (and before you ask yes it was what I asked for)!

I'd been going to my previous hairdressers for 15 years and although there's nothing wrong with them, it's out of town and they were a bit slow. Now whereas before I would relish a four hour session of shampooing, cutting, colouring and trashy magazine flicking motherhood just doesn't allow me the luxury of that kind of time. I needed a fast, efficient closer to home service.

Unlike U2 I think I have found what I'm looking for. I was consulted, shampooed, scalp massaged, not just cut but restyled, blow dried and straightened in 45mins! And it was loads cheaper than my last salon. By the way colour now comes out of a box and is done at home (my bank balance also now has stretch marks thanks to maternity leave pay).

Result? I love it and I was back home in time for bath, last bottle and the boy's bedtime....

Hang on what was I thinking? If I'd been gone four hours I'd have left all that to hubby!

This new hair do must have messed with my head!

The One that isn't about Bedtime

Frankly I'm fed up with bedtime. It's doing my head in. Time to talk about something else before I become so obsessed with getting my son to sleep at night I loose all sense of reason and humour.

So anyway. The cat.

Oscar is one special pussy! The tale (see what I did there) of how he came to us will be told as legend throughout the generations to come and is perhaps a blog for another time. Today I'm concerned with his social skills!

Now Oscar likes people well enough and he has been an absolute star adapting to the boy; bearing in mind he was our one and only for 2 and a half years and he's an old cat (we think coming up for 13 - unlucky for some) his acceptance and protection of the lad has been a revelation.

He's not opposed to dogs either. Our neighbour has a cute, small, yappy thing (my breed of dog recognition is up there with my knowledge of cars - "What sort of car does he drive?" "Errrr I think it's a blue one!") and Osc (who incidentally is bigger than said dog) just sits and looks at him quite unperturbed.

So adults, children, babies and dogs are all greeted with the usual "Miaow" and sometimes a cute tummy roll if he's feeling particularly show cat that day.

It's just other cats he hates.

If they stole his food I'd understand it. If they came in the house I'd welcome it. If they marked his territory in that inevitable fashion that cats do I'd get it (and to be fair all these things happen, because we have a cheeky bugger of a ginger tom next door who thinks he lives at our house and does all of the above), but Osc gets out of his cat basket if they just walk down his path! He is so territorial he doesn't even like seeing another cat cross our garden.

Yesterday morning Osc chased a Tabby one way and seconds later Ginger tom went flying across the garden from the other direction. There was that terrible wailing sound only cats make when they fight and skin and fur went flying!

I know it's hot and it's scrapping season but there's so much tension and rivalry I swear it's like "West Side Story" for cats in our back yard.

It's all part of being a cat owner. Cats fight. Especially in summer. Fact of life or nine lives to be precise, but with vets bills at 50 pounds a pop every time he gets bitten/scratched/looses a tooth from every fight, I just wish he'd win one occasionally....

The One with the Big Decisions

So we got tough tonight. And we started earlier. The last feed of the day was done in the quiet of the bedroom in the semi- light, then a little cuddle, the soothing tones of the Tomy light show (projects bears, stars and moons on the ceiling whilst playing restful tunes) and down he went in the moses basket for bedtime. Night night darling, sleep tight and off we crept downstairs.

Just enough time passed for us to eat dinner, so I can be grateful for that, before the wailing ensued!

I picked him up only twice, briefly to settle him, then he went straight back down again. No carrying him around on our shoulders, no constant pacing. He was fed, changed, dry and smiling at us (the so and so) once he'd got us back up there again so I knew there was nothing wrong, so we let him cry. Not for ages but long enough for him to know he had to go to sleep without us.

It was tough and it took, all in all, an hour and a half (so better than last nights two hours) but we got there. We managed to eat together and he was asleep by 9.30pm. We have even managed to watch some TV together, Outnumbered (hopefully not an omen for the future - please don't our boy turn out like Ben!!) and Top Gear.

He did however need an extra 2 ounces of milk and he is squashed up in his moses basket like

(and I quote directly from the great Victoria Wood's "Dinnerladies" here) "A cat in a tupperware".

Now bearing in mind he'd guzzled 8 ounces not an hour before and I have no choice but to put him feet to foot, as he fills the basket top to toe, I think we have two major decisions ahead of us!

Putting him in his own room and introducing solids.

They might bring about a more settled bedtime routine or we might be in for a whole new world of pain.

I'll keep you posted.....

The One with the Taxing Week

It's been a funny old week!

For a start it's been a full week since I blogged. Disgraceful. I kept meaning too. I promise. It was on my list of things to do, but on my list, much like my dining room table, once I clear one thing another six appear!

So since my last blog the boy had his last set of jabs until he's one. These are notorious for being horrible. We'd got through the first two sets completely unscathed. He didn't even need the magical elixir Calpol. This time was different. I knew we were on to a loser when the nurse said they'd be three injections. The boy screamed. My heart broke. Tears on both sides. Then he seemed fine until the evening.

The whole week went downhill from then on.

He's been a bit grumpy (not like him) and a bit sick (definitely not like him) and we are having a devil of a job to get him to nap in the day and go off to sleep at night. Result we're knackered!

The heat hasn't helped. I'm not a sun worshipper and it's been far too hot for me and the lad. I know, I know I shouldn't moan it's nice to see the sun etc etc. I blooming hate it! Thank goodness for the rain today. I know I'm a freak but I like rain.

So here's hoping for a better week. It's cooler. The jabs are over and he seems back to his old self and with any luck the hour long fight at night to get him to kip will pass soon too!

After all once he's gone to bed that's my blogging time and I've got a lot of stuff to say.....

The One with the Lost Weekend

We were supposed to do so much this weekend. Parties to go to, Chinese food to eat, music days in the park to stroll to.

We didn't do any of it!

I got a terrible headache that turned to a migraine on Saturday lunchtime and I felt washed out all weekend.

Feeling ill BTB (before the boy) was one thing but feeling under the weather (and this seriously was down to the heavy weather) when you have a four month old is quite another. Thank goodness I have my lovely hubbie to take charge when I fall at the wayside but it got me thinking to how people on their own manage.

For an only child I'm not fond of being on my own. I need company and support pretty much all of the time (needy cow!!) and luckily I have it but this weekend made me appreciate it even more. I admire people who, through no fault of their own, find themselves bringing up a child alone. I don't think I could do it. Knowing I can hand the boy to my husband when I can't do anything with him and let him have a go is a great relief and without that backup I'd probably crack up.

So that was that. What a waste. A lost weekend. When we had so much planned to do.

Mind you England were supposed to be in the quarter finals this weekend too and that didn't pan out either...

Mustn't grumble hey!

The One with a Solider Down

We lost a muzzy yesterday! The household is still in mourning. You know how much the boy loves a muzzy.

To be fair he didn't even notice. As I am a lucky girl and the boy is not a sicky baby I can get away with one muzz a day (known as muzzy of the day. Sing the Match of the Day theme tune..da,da,da,da,da,da,da,da,da.. it's muzzy of the day...) but it wasn't that one that we lost as that was safely stowed away in his changing bag. This was an extra muzz to protect his legs from the sun on our walk to our Thursday afternoon NCT mums group (known affectionately by me as Bub Club).

It must have slipped off as he slept and I negotiated steep curbs, pedestrian crossings and cyclists on the pavement (don't you just hate that)! It was only a plain white muzz (not our favourite spotty one- heaven forbid) so I wasn't too heartbroken but it got me thinking to when the lad is older and maybe has a favourite bear or similar critter that he won't go anywhere without. What if he loses that in transit? That scares me. I hate losing stuff, especially anything sentimental or personal and bears and soft toy critters definitely come into that category. I'd be devastated for myself let alone the lad.

I feel a device fashioned from Velcro coming on....

The One with the Naps

I really can't complain. It's not going to stop me but I really can't complain. The boy likes his kip and for this, especially at my age, I am eternally grateful.

I appreciate that, very soon, pre-weaning and teeth will probably send our 8 uninterrupted hours in the land of nod spiralling back to the land of night time feeds, comforting and generally having to be awake when no sane person should be, but for now we've had the best part of 3 months decent shut eye and I'm lucky I know I am. Mustn't grumble and all that. I know.

It's just the little so and so won't sleep in the day!

Call me greedy. Call me selfish. Call me a taxi right now to be honest because I'm looking at ironing and dusting and cleaning that I can't get done while the lad is grinning away one minute and screaming his head off the next!

Over tired!

I blame the heat. To quote the great Peter Kay "I like it warm but I don't like it this warm.".

When you ask for advice you get "Bless him he's so hot he doesn't know what to do with himself.".

I've got a suggestion.... give in and sleep.

And the irony is I'm spending hours now struggling to get him to go to bed. When he's a teenager I'll never prise him out of it.....