Baby’s Bad Language

I used to be a fantastic swearer. Growing up in the non-posh end of Fife, Scotland, attending a public high school and working many low paid jobs during my teens and early 20s equipped me with a fairly spectacular, blue vocabulary. F words littered each sentence like punctuation. I wasn’t even afraid of dropping the odd c-bomb.

After the Baby joined us I decided I’d like to try to avoid having my kid’s first word be a four letter one.  I cleaned up my act as best I could.  I even decided to write this blog without my beloved swearies, just so I get into the habit of finding other words to express myself.

But I can’t help but wonder, as I watch the Baby get annoyed and hurt himself, if he isn’t already cussing.

Perhaps his violent shriek and shove on one of the rare moments he doesn’t want to make out with the dog is actual a baby curse?

Maybe when he face planted (again) that guttural grunt was a satisfying swear word.

Maybe his yelling protests when his new favorite chew toy is confiscated is actually expletives.

 

 

Little potty mouth!

 

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How to Eat Out with a Baby

We have had a few successful restaurant trips with the Baby so naturally, like every phase I’m going to assume this is the new norm, offer advice and then be shocked when it all goes sideways next time.

So, with no further ado, here are the Rainbow Poop Mama 7 tips on how to eat out with your baby.

 

1. Choose your venue wisely.

 

In my opinion this is the most crucial point. You don’t want to be drowning in glares in a fine dining establishment. Nor do you want to be anywhere near a play park or soft play area unless happy to chase your crawling baby around, trying to make sure he isn’t flattened by a rampaging four year old rather than eating. Aim for somewhere between tablecloths and plastic cutlery.

 

2. Make sure they have a highchair.

 

We have one of those portable highchairs that miraculously attaches to any chair and ties the Baby down, leaving us hands free. It was great, for a time. Now the Baby reacts like we have tied him to a railway track and he can hear the locomotive engine chugging just around the corner. Plus when you’re weaning the more surfaces to catch food, the better.

 

3. Don’t get them out of the highchair until you’re finished eating.

 

Distract them in any way you can. Pull faces, sing songs, give them a spoon to play with. If you take them out you wont get them back in again for love nor money.

 

4. Bring snacks

 

It may seem a little counter intuitive to go out for food and bring food but a few rice crackers of Cheerios might save your hide when the food takes an age (which is about ten minutes in Baby time) to arrive.

 

5. Don’t worry about the mess.

 

Tidy up at the end. Don’t stress that your cherub has chucked enough food on the floor to feet the entire city’s cockroaches. If you try to tidy during the event it will quickly become a game which quickly sees the baby laughing and you crying.

 

6. Eat like you’re in prison.

Huddle over your food and protect it from those grabbing little hands. Eat at a speed which will either result in choking or heartburn. You never know when your meal might be interrupted by a feces throwing riot in full swing so get your calories while you can.

 

7. Be ready to bail at a moment’s notice.

 

If your Baby is anything like mine you’ll have between 5 minutes and 30 seconds from the first whine to a full on, red faced, squealing meltdown so order that bill early and be ready to hightail it outta there!

 

 

There you go, sweet readers. Go forth and enjoy eating out. There’s no reason the general public shouldn’t also experience dining with small children. If nothing else you’re doing your part to control the population by proxy.

 

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Is Your Baby a Genius?

As the Gunkle is fond of saying ‘Baby time is slow time’.

Oh yes it is. I find as the Baby gets more difficult mobile the seconds on the clock slow their march to a crawl. Unless it’s naptime, that is. Then they’re fairly flipping fly like they’re being chased by a pack of rabid, mangy soi dogs.

Clever Mother Nature is looking out for  me again though. Just when I feel I might slip into a coma through the tedium or have a stress induced stroke she reminds me that my baby is a genius.

An outsider might not be impressed by the Baby’s ability to give kisses when requested in two different languages (!). An outsider might point out that the Baby’s open mouthed, hair pulling, face grabbing embrace resembles a scene from the Walking Dead more than an actual kiss. She or he might also query the wisdom of also sharing these open mouthed kisses with the dog. Me? I think- ‘How cute is my frickin’ genius child?!’

An outsider might watch the Baby concentrating hard as he stacks rings and be unmoved. She or he might suggest that the ring which made it onto the stack probably did by accident. She or he might say that a success rate of 1/43 attempts is nothing to get excited about. Me? I’m all ‘When should we start applying to Oxford?!’

He even learned to pick his nose this week. That must be a sign of advancement, surely. I’m not sure about eating it after, but hey ho. Not to mention the determined and skilled way he demolishes everything within reach. Perhaps he’s one of those savants who is determining how things work by deconstructing them.

Hats off to ya M.N.! It’s certainly more fun to pass the time in the company of a gifted baby than a regular one.

How does your child show their genius?

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A Lesbian Mother’s Nightmare

 

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The ‘Me Do It’ Toddler Rap by Motherhood: The Real Deal

Normally I wouldn’t embarrass my extremely white, suburban self by getting involved with rap. One Vanilla Ice type act per lifetime is plenty, in my opinion. But never fear, rap fans, for someone else is visiting to show us how it’s done.

I’m happy to announce our second guest post here on ‘My Kid Doesn’t Poop Rainbows…and other parenting realizations’. Today we welcome Tayla, from Motherhood: The Real Deal with her hilarious take on a toddler rap.

 

I basically need you to imagine that your toddler is a rapper from the Bronx, else this just ain’t gonna fly.

OK so are you channeling a Bronx rapper? Yes? Good, so let’s do this…

Yo yo listen up, I got something to say, Mummy and Daddy pass the mic my way..

I wanna do it all, and do it good, best nobody messes in my hood!

 

Putting on my nappy, making my own milk, sticking my finger down the plughole in the kitchen sink

Yeah I don’t care when enough is enough, I’m a badass toddler, and I’m hanging tough!

 

Hit the boom box mamma – boom bap boom boom boom bap

 

Tying up my shoes or I’ll scream the house down

Zipping up my coat or watch my smile turn to a frown

Closing the front gate til my hand gets jammed innit

Wiping my own butt because yeah…

Hit the  boom box mamma – boom bap boom boom boom bap

 

Brushing my own teeth, coz who cares if they drop out?

Fastening every fastener, that my badself finds about

Yeah don’t try to mess, or a slap will come your way

Including when we cross the road, or you will pay!

Hit the  boom box mamma – boom bap boom boom boom bap

 

Coz I don’t care if it’s messy, dangerous or rad

Me do it myself because I am bad!

 

Yeah….Take it to the bridge home mummy and daddy…uh, uh, yeah….

 

Thanks for that masterpiece, Tayla.

For more toddler related chuckles head over and check out the rest of the ‘Inside the Head of a Toddler’ series here, here and  here. You can also follow Tayla on Facebook or Twitter.

If you fancy seeing your words next to my dodgy drawings check out the Guest Posting info.

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Why we don’t eat our young.

Loads of different animals eat their own young; bears, felines, canids, rodents, insects, fish, reptiles, amphibians and birds. And there are moments where I emphasize. So why don’t we?

Two words: parent goggles.

Mother nature has aced it once again by making our babies soooooo freaking cute and adorable to us we could never eat them. It was the love-tinted mummy goggles that got us through those hazy, leaky, poopy, sleep deprived first weeks.

Don’t believe me? Have a good look at your average newborn, one which you are not related to. At best the usually look like an old man, crossed with an alien crossed with a potato. That wasn’t what I saw when I looked at my newborn though. I saw the most gorgeous thing ever created.

Now that he’s mobile and getting more stubborn and demanding every day the Baby is in even more danger that I might just decide a yummy fat rolled baby thigh is much better than this parenting lark. But never fear, dear readers for Mother Nature has upped the stakes once again, ensuring the Baby grows even cuter every day…..

Mostly.

 

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#BigBoobProblems

I have large breasts. Well, for accuracy’s sake perhaps I should say I used to have large breasts. After they were sucked dry by breast pumps for five months they could now be better described as long breasts.

Being well endowed in the breast department comes with many issues, as any large chested woman will attest. Here are some of my daily issues, for your enjoyment.

1. Bra Shopping.

 

I am not an avid fan of shopping in most scenarios but bra shopping is actually traumatic for me. I stare, overwhelmed at the endless racks upon racks of cute, feminine, girly, tiny bras and optimistically check the sizes. After 20 minutes I admit defeat and ask for help finding my size, at which point I am quickly shuffled to the over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder section, where bras look more like scaffolding and pretty colours and patterns are replaced by belt-like straps and an option of black, white or beige. The swath of fabric required to manufacture one of these monstrosities is reflected in the price tag. There are usually a maximum of three options available in my size, none of which fit correctly or the same. I am usually found lifting and pushing my deflated breasts into the sides of the cups, trying to convince myself a bra will do and I won’t start pouring out the middle the minute I do something energetic like walk.

 

2.  Clothes Shopping.

 

You might have noticed I always appear here in a purple t-shirt. That is a true reflection of my limited wardrobe. When I venture into the shops to buy something new and shake things up again I am severely restricted. Tops and dresses which look cute and fitted on small breasted women make me look like I’m either a porn star or attending some kind of Hollywood award. I have a choice between fitted with thick straps and a high neckline or baggy, unless I want to be stopped by strangers on the street and asked ‘how much?’.

 

3. Weight Gain.

The first place I put on weight is in my bra. If I remember correctly when I was 5 months pregnant I was still wearing my regular shorts but had maxed out of the biggest bras available in Bangkok. I also have long, fairly slim legs, which I’m not complaining about but those in addition to plus sized breasts makes for a rather chicken-like silhouette.

 

4. Boob Sweat.

No elaboration necessary, I think.

 

Are you with me, big breasted women? Or are you an A cup-er who’s going to try and convince me how hard you’ve got it?

 

 

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Like mopping the beach when the tide is coming in.

Dear Baby,

When you’ve been playing with the remote control for 17 minutes and been ignoring your many, many educational, expensive, baby friendly toys for over an hour, I sometimes do this thing called tidying up. It is not an invitation for you to come and play. Especially not when your idea of play consists of charging over to destroy my neat tower of blocks or upturn the stack of rings, and then proceed to ignore the toys again in favor of chewing the Dog’s feet.

I am trying to create a crunchy granola, Montessori environment where you don’t flit from one object to another like a bumble bee on speed. That is made difficult by your insistence on mess and destruction of all sense of order.

Also sometimes I’d appreciate it if you stopped for half a second to marvel at my physics defying construction masterpiece rather than just gleefully knocking it down. It’s just polite.

Warm regards,

The Mama

My name is Mama and I have a problem.

Hello, my name is Poop Rainbow Mama and I have a problem…besides my name.

I’ve been in denial about this problem for many years. Probably since my early teens when I used to sneak around and steal in my house. After university I learned to hide my problem better and now I think only those nearest and dearest to me are aware of it.

But today I hit a new, fresh low and I have decided it’s time to take ownership of my problem and ask for help.

You see, today I went into the cupboard looking for something to eat. The Mummy had been shopping which goes some way to explain why the only non-sweet snack I could find was wasabi flavoured.

 

My name is Mama and I’m a snack-a-holic. Eating those peas was like chewing hot coals. My tongue was sizzling and my eyes were watering and still I ate almost the entire bag. What is wrong with me?

It is not limited to savory snacks, either. I also have a problem with desserts, chocolate, biscuits and sweeties.

I have created many, varied justifications for my problem:

• I had a light breakfast/lunch/dinner.
• It’s ages until my next meal.
• It’s my period.
• I had a bad day.
• If I eat them all now they’ll be gone faster.
• I did about 20 minutes exercise and burned about 120 calories so I can eat this 500 cal slice of fudge cake.
• There must be some nutritional value in this carrot cake/raisin cookie/potato (a vegetable, right?) chip.
• Saying this pack is two servings is just a marketing gimmick.
• Skinny people have more wrinkles.

But no longer! For the sake of my health and my baby’s I pledge to stop eating when I’m full, seek healthier snacking options and avoid eating my wife’s evil, torturous snacks*.

 

*Full disclosure: The post may have been written in a post-tim tam/wasabi pea/ coated peanut puddle of regret.

 

 

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Shy Bladder and Not So Shy Baby

My bladder is not what it used to be. My dad used to tease me because I’d race home from school and straight into the bathroom without saying hi. That was because I’d go all day at school without going to the loo.

Thanks to a 9lb baby who used to kick-box my bladder, those days are over. I now use all my school breaks to nip to the loo and usually wake up at least once at night. I’m not complaining- I laugh and sneeze without fear, things could be a lot worse.

When I need to go, I go. I do not hang around in public bathrooms. I honestly wonder what the heck women are doing in there. Surely peeing doesn’t take that long? Am I doing it wrong? And if there are twenty cubicles I’m pretty sure that everyone doesn’t need to do a number two at the same time.

Then I met the Mummy and all became clear. She has a shy bladder and needs to be able to concentrate to pee. For someone who has to really concentrate not to pee sometimes, this is a little strange to me however I have come to accept that this is who she is and I love her anyway. Even though it means I am often found lingering in public restrooms like a creepy weirdo.

Lucky for her then that the Baby understands and gives her peace and quiet to visit the bathroom…

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