Extra deep cleavages and traditional values

Shockingly we were all out of bed more than half an hour before we had to head out of the door. Sir Sprout was changed, dressed and busy disassembling his wooden train when The Ultimate Other Half got out of shower.

That doesn't mean that I was any more efficient than any other morning though. Lazy and sleepy as usual I curled myself into comfy bundle on the duvet while the boys were having discussions about the right location of dirty socks (wash basket, not Daddys feet) or mobile phone (Daddys pocket, all other options unacceptable). Eventually, after the boys had overcome all their differences and pranced towards the staircase, hand in hand, I headed to bathroom.

When I came out my bra was nowhere to be found. Or my top.

Yes, I do have more than one bra and top but those were the ones I wanted to wear! Ever tried to reason with pregnant woman? Don't waste your time!

Anyway, that's how I ended up downstairs in jeans and unzipped hoodie, tits akimbo.

The Ultimate Other Half gave me a long thoughtful look.

"Don't you think you've overdone it a bit with the cleavage," he said, staring at my not so covered boobs and belly.

"What's wrong with it," I snorted. "Don't you like it?"

"No, I do, it's just, you know, Irish traditional values and stuff ... People might not accept it. I know that you're proud of your bump but it's not really that noticeable."

"YES IT BLOODY IS!" I announced clutching the bra and top located on bench in the hallway.

"Trust me, you go to work like that and nobody will notice the bump!" he sneered.

Maybe I should start a poll about cleavage-tolerance of traditional Irish values.

And the top is firmly on. No need to traumatize beloved colleagues with topless whale.

Answer to (some of) my problems

Life was so much more predictable when I wasn't driving yet.

Granted, I had to drag hapless Ultimate Other Half with me either I needed to get a PPS number or bikini wax. But it was his own fault for not protesting more and only making very subtle remarks in lines "when will you learn to drive" once in couple of months or so.

Perhaps he was slightly put off by me barking "Never!" or giving long epic lectures about how cars are stronger than me, scary, unpredictable and you can't NEGOTIATE with them.

Or I just patted his hand lovingly and assured him that he's a brilliant driver and I have every confidence that he can get me wherever we going safely. Which he did.

He's driving skills faltered only once when he reversed forcefully into a lamp post in front of maternity hospital.

Who puts lamp posts in the middle of a parking lot anyway?

Anyway, we always got where we wanted to go in reasonable time and in one piece.

This Sunday I took Sir Sprout to a indoor play center in a nearby little town. After spending couple of hours propping him up to all kinds of attractions so he could slide down happily squealing (as a result I've been handicapped for 2 days, he's 15kg, have I mentioned that?) I decided to do the proper Mommy thing and have lunch in nearby restaurant.

About 40 minutes later Sir Sprout was stuffed with toasted sandwich and chicken from my salad. So we headed towards home.

Now, did I mention I go to work to that town? Five days a week.

Thus you would presume I'd have learned my way back home by now.

So how the hell did I end up in a village about 20km from the town IN THE OPPOSITE DIRECTION???

The fact that I just shrugged, turned the car around and drove home, shows how unsurprised I was. Sir Sprout didn't notice a thing. He was snoring in his seat.

Clearly there's only one answer to my problem. A personal chauffeur. All we need now, is to win a lottery.

Before I'll go to take Sir Sprout to the creche one of these mornings and will next be spotted someplace in Southern Spain, a bit puzzled since I still haven't come across local Supervalu.

About love, briefly

Morning, not a particularly early one.

Grumpy Foreigner has spread her considerable bulk all over the bed, leaving a quaint wee corner for The Ultimate Other Half to balance on. She is in very whingy mood.

"Sir Sprout has been whacking me the whole morning," she complains.

"And kicking," adds The Ultimate Other Half helpfully.

"Exactly. I think he doesn't like me," states Foreigner gloomily.

The Ultimate Other Half can see things going downhill rapidly and dives in for a save:
"No, that's because he LOVES you!"

"So THAT'S how you're supposed to express your love nowadays," snorts Foreigner. Then she pauses to think and bursts into a wail:
"YOU don't love me!!!"

A tad confused here

Courtesy of K8:

You Are 70% Boyish and 30% Girlish

How Boyish or Girlish Are You?

And there was me thinking I'm dead cute and feminine and stuff!

Does that mean that I'm pregnant with a boy???

Will The Ultimate Other Half feel a bit awkward around me now????

Where can I get some chocolate?????

Reports from the home front

The Ultimate Other Half is staying at home today with still a bit iffy and feverish Sir Sprout.

Nice relaxing day for him, you think naively.

Wrong!

I just got email from him:

"Could be a long day. He likes this:"

How to drive your husband nuts Vol 1

I think I have a lot to contribute to the subject. You could almost say I'm an expert.

And unlike some I am always happy to share my knowledge with the world. So the world could benefit, like.

Lets start with Little Things. They have proved to be extremely efficient.

Thing no 1
KEYS
Frustrated Foreigner after 10-minute search: Have you seen my my keys?
The Ultimate Other Half: I put them into key cabinet.
Foreigner: WHY the hell would you put them into key cabinet??? I NEVER put them there!!! FFS!!! (storms out huffing and puffing)

Thing no 2
CURTAINS
Grumpy Foreigner: Why do you bloody keep opening the curtains?!
Baffled Husband: To let light in, of course.
Foreigner: Well STOP doing it! We'll only need to close them again in the evening and it annoys me!

Thing no 3
OLD T-SHIRTS
Throw them away. Ignore his pleas.

Thing no 4
TOASTED SANDWICH MAKER
The Ultimate Other Half: Where's the toasted sandwich maker?
Foreigner: Dunno. Why do you want it?
Other Half (with poisonous stare): I want to make toasted sandwiches! Why did you move it?
Foreigner: Needed more space in the corner cupboard.
Other Half: The corner cupboard is almost EMPTY!
Foreigner: Well, it was IN MY WAY and annoyed me!
Other Half: So where did you put it?
Foreigner: Told you - I DON'T KNOW!

Oh yeah, don't mention it. I know I'm good!

I might move on to Big Things some time in the future since those inconsiderate people here in the office keep whinging that I should get some work done.

Or maybe I'll just retire and devote myself to blogging, Sprout-rearing and Husband-annoying. Oh what a life would it be!

Couple time

It is now 4 years and 2 days since I and The Ultimate Other Half became A Very Official Item and got a fancy binded document to prove it.

On Wednesday morning he dutifully handed me the flowers and I provided him with A Day Of Slightly Less Nagging. I was able to master such a substantial gift mainly by making sure we didn't spend much time together.

After getting home from work we stuffed Sir Sprout with random leftovers from the fridge, let him run riot for a while, hosed him down, squeezed into pyjamas (WAAAAAAAAA-AAAAAAA!!), pumped full of milk and deposited him into his cot for night.

Then I donned my dancing gear (read:track suit + runners) and took off with The Fancy Neighbouress to attend our third lesson in salsa dancing. I don't know why it's called salsa dancing since so far we've been shown the basics of cha-cha-cha and rumba but, quite frankly, I don't care.

I am also determined to ignore all the minor earthquakes caused by my attempts of booty-shaking.

And if any of you experienced some particularly nasty bouts of wind knocking over the dog houses or fences on Wednesday - sorry, but we were TOLD to wiggle our racks and I'm not the one to disobey the teacher. It has got me into all sorts of trouble back in high school and being wiser(ish) now I just salute and do as told.

I might need to strangle The Fancy Neighbouress though if she continuously neglects to put on loads of weight, wear scruffy clothes and look generally frumpy. She should also be considerate enough to at least TRY to match my clumsiness levels somewhat more adequately. You know who you are! Don't say you haven't been warned!

Anyway, that was our wedding anniversary sorted.

Yesterday we agreed to ship Sir Sprout to adoring grandparents and have the night for ourselves.

You know, like couples do. Before they have children and stuff.

It was going pretty smoothly at the start. Sir Sprout didn't have any objections to staying at grandparents since they were just sitting down for dinner. Eating is an activity which our baby tends to take quite seriously. We left him munching mashed veggies in bliss.

After getting home we had some leftovers from the fridge for dinner. (If you're wondering why all we seem to eat, is leftovers - don't ask. Just. Don't.)

And then we decided to go crazy and visit a pub. I hear you - respectable people like yourselves, what kind of a role models will we be for Sir Sprout etc. Well - we're just reckless and youthful like that.

So there we were, drinks on the table, out on our own. Not saying a thing.

You see, I had a fierce resolve NOT to discuss ANYTHING baby-related. It was a COUPLE time after all. We should talk about -erm- something else. Something personal and meaningful and wow-factor intelligent.

The silence was getting a bit awkward.

Eventually I pulled myself together. I raked my head for any witty, fun, nappy free ideas. I looked around for inspiration. There wasn't any available.

But I was DETERMINED to start a lovely loving chatter. The only option was a subject raffle. Just shake the contents of your brain, pick out a random thought slip and throw it on a table.

"So...are you going skiing next year?"

Aaaaarrrgghhhhhhh!!!!

Alarming tendencies

The Ultimate Other Half seems to be obsessed on waterproofing everything lately.

Veerryyyy suspicious.

Sounds like he doesn't want to wreck his watch OR miss anything in the soccer match while he's drowning me in the bath.

Note to myself: Keep away from the bathroom.

Outings and innings

In an effort to insert some girly activities into our nappy-infested lives Fancy Neighbouress and I decided to go shopping on Saturday morning.

"Around half nine or ten," guessed The Fancy Neighbouress. "I'll just feed and dress The Limbo Baby and pick you up."

I broke the news to The Ultimate Other Half whose face lit up like main street at Christmas time. Usually he's the one who has to taxi me from one retail park to another keeping his fingers crossed that I pick the one which at least sports the likes of PC World or Homebase.

His relief was obviously a bit overwhelming since he carelessly mentioned something about taking care of both babies while we're gone.

I was over to the phone before he could change his mind and broke the news to The Fancy Neighbouress who cheered with delight and promised to give us half an hours warning before she arrives in the morning.

Which she did.

I kicked The Ultimate Other Half out of the bed providing him with clear instructions to take his shower quickly and roll out the red carpet for The Limbo Baby.

"We'll be gone at least couple of hours," I warned him when The Fancy Neighbouress was emerging from her car looking like a lost celebrity attempting to fish for directions from rugged locals. Only thing spoiling the impression somewhat was her choice of accessories - clearly non-traumatized baby and huge plastic khaki-coloured ride on toy car.

I took a gloomy glance at my tracksuit-bottoms-will-go-with-anything outfit and promised myself to make more effort in the future.

"Are you sure you will cope?" I asked The Ultimate Other Half.

"Yeah," he mumbled.

I wasn't sure if he's sleepy or plain freaked so we took off quickly.

We got back five and half hours later.

Both babies were intact. In fact, they were quite perky and happy-looking.

"Does The Limbo Baby ever sleep?" asked The Ultimate Other Half with mild curiosity. "Sir Sprout had a nap but he didn't show any signs of slowing down."

I made a big joint of roast pork for dinner. Gotta compensate somehow.

Oh, and he got to have long baby-free Sunday afternoon with The Suave Neighbour. Watching rugby. On a BIG screen (involved the projector borrowed from a friend and a sitting room wall). Drinking beer.

I think we're even now.

Our son the bulldozer

Yesterday evening we were picking up Sir Sprout from the creche. We tend to do it every night as they get unexplainably cross if they have to keep him for night.

We peeled main layers of muck off two children remaining there to identify our son. I usually try to dress him in blindingly bright colours to fasten up the identification process.

He was in good form, busily trashing a toy tractor and shouting piercing "Hiya!-s". Through some difficulties we squeezed him into his fleece and stuck the hat on top.

As we were heading towards the door one of the teachers came over to bid him a proper goodbye. With tickles and hug and all.

"We call him Bull McCabe!" she said affectionately.

Seeing our puzzled faces she rushed to explain.

"Oh but it's a compliment. You see, Sir Sprout Foreigner does not stop for anything, neither does he go AROUND things. He goes over or through!"

We stared for a moment at our beaming boy who had used our moment of distraction and was trying to pull down a cardboard lantern hanging from the ceiling.

Then we said our polite goodbyes as Sir Sprout was blowing kisses and made an escape.

Once outside I stopped for a moment.

"Do you realize that he's gonna grow up to be quite a rogue?" I asked The Ultimate Other Half who was heading towards the car, Sir Sprout propped up onto his shoulder.

"Yes of course," he said happily.

...............................................

This morning I shared the story with The Sarcastic Colleague.

He sniggered a little.

"Well he's definitely getting that from his father!" he stated.

I must have looked a bit baffled.

"I've played soccer with him," he elaborated.

Oh. I see.

Twilight zone that is our house

Our household is not the most tidy and organized one by long run. In fact things have been known to mysteriously disappear and then just as mysteriously reappear couple of years later.

I am still looking for:
1) Waffle/toasted sandwich maker
2) Peeling knife
3) Around 300 single socks as my washing machine is located on top of sock consuming Black Hole
4) numerous other household items which I currently can't think of. Cause I've become kinda blasè on the subject.

Yesterday evening The Ultimate Other Half came upstairs to find me trying to read a book in the bed on my belly, duvet pulled up to my ears.

"Do you think I should take out the winter duvet?" he asked carefully.

I agreed that it might be a good idea.

"Where is it?" he queried.

"Ehmmm... Might be in the press next to stairs or in the junk room," I guessed.

You can see where it's going, can't you?!

The duvet wasn't in the press next to stairs or in the junk room. Neither was it in the guest room. Or in any of the wardrobes. Or anywhere at all.

It had just vanished.

Now let me tell you - it's one thing to lose a waffle maker or a peeling knife. No art to it really.

But a huge king sized feather filled duvet - that takes some skill!

Somehow we didn't feel too proud, just increasingly cold. Two old tired double duvets were dragged out from obscurity and spread on the bed.

Next twenty minutes were spent discussing who exactly had lost the duvet. The Ultimate Other Half kept insisting it wasn't him which didn't do much for his popularity levels. If it goes on like that he'll be watching rugby at home on Sunday, I'm telling you! On the SMALL TV!!!

Eventually I was able to move my toes again.

"It's getting kinda too hot with two duvets," I complained.

The Ultimate Other Half thought about it for a moment.

"You realize of course that when we throw it off the bed now we'll probably never see it again," he said.

The duvet stayed on the bed.

Men in doghouse - 2

I thought it was bad enough that Sir Sprout, the fruit of my own loins, treacherously let us sleep in this morning.

Boy was I wrong.

After having Quite A Day at work I noticed that The Ultimate Other Half had posted something in his blog. So over I wandered, for a relaxing moment, like.

He has spent his day ogling at SLIM orange women in bikinis!

Have I ever mentioned I could easily model for Michelin ads? No costumes needed or anything, quite a saving they would make.

Them wee white bikinis would probably serve me as wrist bands at best.

Although I'm quite lost at why on Earth would I (or anybody) need a wrist band.

I wonder what will Mutt The Mad come up with. Move out and marry a Chihuahua?

1:0 to The Ultimate Other Half

"I remembered to buy you your yogurts yesterday so you can't say I'm a totally shite wife!"

"Excuse me! I have NEVER said you're a shite wife."

"But you have thought it!"

"So now you're a mind reader as well!"

"Sure am! You look at me and think "She's an utterly shite wife". There's no deceiving me!"

"No, I look at you and think - she's an utterly shite mind reader!"

Lets talk about weather

It seems that whoever I run into this morning kicks off the conversation with complaints about the weather. Main points brought to my attention so far are:
a) it's cold
b) it's windy
c) the summer is over.

None of which comes as a surprise to me. In fact I noticed it yesterday when I had to insist that we need to put the heating on for an hour or so.

The Ultimate Other Half noticed the change in climate when I was attempting to thaw my toes by placing them strategically in close vicinity of his calves under the duvet.

Mutt The Mad got the picture when his pooch-esteem was once again injured by a dressing gown. It's to stop him drying himself on couches and carpet, honestly. AND we think it's dead funny.

Sir Sprout couldn't care less. He was wrapped into snuggly pyjamas and cozy sleeping bag, snoozing away in his cot.

But I love autumn. So I considered it my duty to explain people that I adore the wind, the cold, the rain, sudden crispness of air and long dark evenings. They edged themselves towards the door with a heavy touch of "get away from the freaky woman before she attacks me with a stapler" in their eyes.

Autumn is also one time I get really nostalgic. I miss the colours and fresh feeling of the season back in Home Ground. I miss the crunch of leaves under my feet while wandering in my favorite parks. I even miss the long wet and very-very dark late autumn.

Most of all I miss my friends.

The colours of autumn in Estonia

Sprout-proofing

Sir Sprout has become obsessed with a staircase.

Maybe I should be thankful that something has replaced his obsession with Mutt The Mads water bowl but surprisingly I SO prefer changing his wet clothes and mopping a floor to a constantly pending trip to A&E.

It only takes turning your back for split second and Sir Sprout is halfway up the stairs like oiled lightning squealing with delight.

Thing is, he hasn't really worked out that climbing down trick yet. He eases himself backwards for a step or two, gets kinda flustered and attempts to speed things up by taking a dive. Not the smartest of approaches considering there's tiled floor at the bottom of the stairs.

We got a fool proof easy-to-install pressure fit standard stair gate from my friend who assured us that she has 4 more and can bring in any additional ones should we need them.

That's when we discovered we have a non-standard house. The stairs are too wide. Never would have thought THAT could become a problem.

Options were quickly considered, purchasing a smaller house amongst them. Since we like the current one (and hate moving with passion) it left us with a task to find a wider pressure fit stair gate. The Ultimate Other Half is appearantly not partial to wrecking our so far pretty undamaged walls with screws.

Sunday was spent strip searching Argos & Smyths & Atlantic Homecare. We got home with a brand new gate, one 14cm extension & one 7cm extension. The Ultimate Other Half multitasked by trying to screw the whole lot together while prying Mutt The Mads water bowl out of Sir Sprouts eager hands.

When it came to installing the gate it appeared that due to additional non standard feature of the staircase it can't be fitted at the bottom.

Now we have a base bar of the gate hovering just in front of third step.

It's totally baby-proof.

Bets are taken as to which one of loving parents will break a neck first.

Diplomatic highlights of Saturday evening

Tonight the Ultimate Other Half decided to cash in some brownie points. To be honest, his virtual biscuit tin had been overflowing dangerously and something had to be done.

He had given it a thorough thought and came to conclusion that nothing beats a night of rugby in local lad-watering-hole with The Suave Neighbour. Text messages were exchanged and The Fancy Neighbouress negotiated with. The project got green lights.

Thats when The Ultimate Other Half pranced into the family room wearing "Superman wears Paul O'Connell pyjamas" T-shirt in attractive shade of shamrock suffering from overactive thyroid.

"Is this T-shirt OK? Not dirty or anything?"

"Well..." I said.

He turned up the lights so I could see better.

"Ehmm... looks clean enough," I mumbled. T-shirt was several sizes too big and only missed a wee frill on the bottom to pass off as a dress.

Spotting the lack of enthusiasm in my voice he proceeded to tuck the shirt into his jeans.

On a positive side he ceased looking pregnant. On the negative side any innocent bystander couldn't have helped but wonder why he went through all the trouble of nicking Paul O'Connells (or Supermans, who knows) cheap pyjamas and then decided to wear the top part with jeans.

"Does it look better like that?" he asked hopefully.

Thank Heavens I've never had any aspirations to pursue a career in international relations. Current delicate enough balance would have been long destroyed by some of my utterly unelegant blurts.

"It's positively vile!" I announced.

The Ultimate Other Half raced out of the room to change a T-shirt. I panicked.

"Oh, don't bother! I wouldn't care!" I shouted encouragingly.

A split second later I wanted to bang my head against the monitor, only it's a flat screen one and doesn't really help much as far as whipping brains back into shape is concerned.

Luckily (as I have mentioned before) The Ultimate Other Half is shockingly good-natured and did not present me with divorce papers there and then.

Instead he donned a neatish black T-shirt (13 - Unlucky For The Other Side) and was just in time to prevent Mutt The Mad mauling The Suave Neighbour through the front door glass.

Off they went. To the pub. Hope they'll have fun.


PS. To the Ultimate Other Half: In case you're reading this - Paul O'Connell called. He wants his pyjamas back.

See - he's DISTRESSED!

And then Sir Sprout was born...

I know I was supposed to feel elated, blissfully happy, moved, fiercely protective and attached to a little warm slightly slimy lump they placed on my chest. I was supposed to be bonding at the speed of light, knowing that My Life Finally Has A Meaning.

Instead I was dazed, confused and hugely relieved that the pain had finally eased off. My body was sweaty, enormous and very-very exposed to all the people prodding and poking and pulling and pushing. Not that I minded, it seemed like whole world was behind thick slightly transparent curtains and all I could do was just observe. It was almost funny.

Somebody somewhere had said: "Its a boy!"

Oh, I thought. I liked the girls name better. No idea what to do with boys. They have willies and weird attraction to ball games. So there then, I have a boy. Wow.

He moved slightly on my chest, very quiet slippery thing.

I looked at him.

His pupils were extremely dilated with sudden surge of unfamiliar light. Head a bit conical from vacuum delivery. Skin of soft olive shade and very smooth, not a single wrinkle or blotch. He didn't look like anything I had ever seen or imagined. Little stranger.

"He looks like alien," I mused.

Those were the words I greeted my son into the world with. Not "I love you!" or "He's beautiful!" or "Isn't he absolutely perfect?" like you read or hear from most stories. I wonder if anybody ACTUALLY ever says those things?

I was mostly just utterly surprised that the 9 month bulge in my body had actually resulted in tiny being who was not a part of me any more.

Except he wasn't that tiny at all. Ouch.

There I was, consultant happily embroidering my neither regions, belly gracefully draping all over the bed and boobs so bulky and bursting they could have easily been classified as weapons of mass destruction. Not happy, not unhappy - just tired.

The Ultimate Other Half was a bit teary announcing the birth of Sir Sprout to his parents over the phone. I love him so much, I thought watching him watching me. I guess things are good.

Not for long.

"Did they test you for diabetes during pregnancy," the midwife asked. "You have gained a LOT of weight."

Oh thank you, I thought, JUST what I needed to hear. I'm a bloody, sweaty, icky mountain hooked up to every possible tube and cable they could get their hands onto in the maternity ward. Lovely. I remember I used to be a person. I guess THATS over then. Shite.

At least it perked me up a bit. So I could wallow in self pity and disgust.

---------------------------------------------

Some hours later, after I had finally had a shower and a third change of sheets/nightgown; I sat on the bed and stared at little baby in tiny transparent plastic crib.

He is mine. Still weird.

I guess I should change his nappy. Cause that's what mothers do, isn't it?

The nappy was dry. I changed it anyway.

He slept through whole thing, opening his slightly slanted almond eyes for a brief moment only. They were piercing blue, just like his Dads. And he WAS perfect, tiny sturdy creature with button nose, long gracious fingers and fluffs of red hair. Or strawberry blond as nurses kept insisting.


Other Half had gone home to get a bit of sleep. I would have needed some badly but couldn't. My world was a bit too upside down and shaken at that.

I stayed up most of the day. And night. Watching and thinking and worrying.

There were 3 other babies in the ward who kept crying most of the time.

Sir Sprout slept and slept and slept. He didn't want to eat or cuddle or even have a pee.

I guess he was tired too.

My dog's not spoiled ... I'm just well trained

"The dog will not go up on the furniture," declared The Ultimate Other Half firmly eying up the adorable pup we had just brought home from animal rescue.


"Aw come on," I whinged. That concept was utterly shocking to me. I've had dogs since I was a kid, all of them very much part of the family which mostly meant that humans got to pick the spots on the couches dogs weren't overly fond of. "That's just cruel!"

"No!" insisted Himself who appearantly had decided that it was About The Time To Put His Foot Down.

"Ooo-kay... sure, sure," shrugged after long and fruitless pleading.

The Ultimate Other Half had principles and he was not afraid to use them.

"The dog will NOT sleep in our bedroom!" he insisted.

"No way will the dog ever come to our bed! He has his own one!"

At some point I just stopped arguing.

........................................................

It took me well over a year before The Ultimate Other Half was not bothered to grumble when I snuggled up with our pooch on the couch.

Mutt The Mad eventually learned that if you keep your head down and charge straight at the bedroom door it will open. I never said he was quite normal.

At first we still kept closing the door for night and just got used to the loud bang at early hours as Mutt casually leaked into the room, eventually landing on the rug with a satisfied sigh.

Now the door is just left ajar and Mutt comes and goes as he pleases. Other Half keeps tripping over him in the dark and issuing whispering curses.

This morning in the bed as I was untangling Sir Sprouts busy fingers from dogs generous coat while trying to nudge the Mutt out of the bed so I could finally stretch out my legs; I couldn't help a little giggle.

Marriage, you see, is all about compromising.

Couple of handy tips for those who are contemplating attending a wedding

My brain is still not functioning properly after a weekend dedicated to the wedding but I'll scribble down couple of handy tips. Just in case. Before I forget.

1) Never EVER borrow shoes from your friend!
I admit I should have seen this one coming. Unless you get thrills from simple things like trying to pull off a pair of posh heels crouching in the car. In front of the church. From feet which have magically gone up a size or two in last 2 hours. And have deep dents in attractive shade of blueberry.
I know that beauty demands certain sacrifices but I'd prefer to draw the line at dismemberment. Can't say I'm particularly proud or fond of my feet but would like to keep them nevertheless. I need them. For walking and stuff.

2) Orthopedic rubber-soled sandals - not the best footwear for waltzing.
You could just as well have self-applying brakes installed.
If you're wondering why I was reduced to waltzing in rubber-soled sandals in first place, please refer to Tip no 1.

3) Pack a swimming suit.
Seriously. There is nothing more dampening for glum enough Morning After Spirits than seeing The Ultimate Other Half soaking his troubles away in the hot tub while you are trying to negotiate the vending machine to accept your pitiful coins and spit out some Sprite. Or water. Whatever. A drink.

It was a good party, even considering my hippo feet. Pity I was knocked out before they started a sing-along. Since I only sing when sufficiently pissed it would have been a perfect chance to scar some perfect strangers (and some friends) for life.

The negative side is I can still feel the wedding in my bones.

Half a kingdom for a foot massage!

Good thing we are not wedding planners

We have a wedding to attend next Saturday. Me and The Ultimate Other Half, just in case you thought I'm using a royal "we" here.

Originally Sir Sprout was supposed to join us. So, typically for first time mother all my preparations were circling around himself. I got him a cute outfit. Soft leather recommended-for-the-babies-under-the-age-of-two-for-
ensuring-healthy-feet-development booties. Adorable little baby braces. Backup outfit for those unpredictable food/barf related incidents.

The Ultimate Other Half didn't say a word.

I had visions of well behaved little angel sitting pertly on my knees while the blushing bride is swanning down the aisle, pausing for a moment just to take in the unearthly beauty of my precious child. I had bought a special not-quite-fancy-but-roomy-enough-to-take-extra-nappy-and-
packet-of-baby-wipes handbag. I was just about to start looking for plain white bibs to harmonize with his outfit.

The Ultimate Other Half still didn't say a word.

Then we sat down to discuss logistics.

"Do you know where the wedding invite is?" he asked.

I thought about it. Hard. No, I didn't.

"Where is the church? Do you remember?" he asked.

"Ermmm ... Ennis???" I guessed.

"Not in Mayo?"

"Or maybe it was Galway," I mused.

We looked at each other.

"We better find that invite," I came to a conclusion.

"Do you know what time is the church?" asked the Ultimate Other half.

I was starting to get a bit annoyed.

"How would I know?"

"Thought you might have remembered," he sighed.

Conclusion was the same. We better find that invite. (We did. Two days later.)

But Other Half had more questions.

"Are you sure the hotel room is booked?"

I was pretty sure. Almost. Not that I had booked it. Or checked. Or knew exactly what hotel we were staying in. So I said the only thing I could have said.

"I think so. Gotta ask Shelly."

The Ultimate Other Half seemed to be satisfied with that answer. Phew.

That's when we started talking about wedding itself.

Once we had got past the fact that Other Half needs a new shirt and that I will get shoes from Shelly the conversation steered towards the joys of juggling the baby and a wedding dinner.

Then it occurred to us that we'll probably miss it. Or at least a big part of it since Sir Sprout does not look kindly at major changes in his bath/bed time. And that unless we put up travel cot in the function room one of us needs to stay with baby while the other one gets merrily drunk.

There was a long sad silence.

"So what will we do?" I asked.

And that's how we decided to dump our bundle of joy with adoring grandparents and take on the wedding on our own. Be it in Ennis, Mayo or Galway.

He can practice his table manners there. Maybe we will take him next time.