Today started early. I was loathe to complain about Baby Bird's insistence that 6 a.m. constitutes morning since she has mostly been waking at 4:30 a.m. in recent weeks and spending an hour and a half awake alternating between being quiet and happy whilst cuddled and crying inconsolably whenever she is put down until returning to her bed half an hour before Hubby and I need to start the day. That leaves me broken (and Hubby eating breakfast alone most mornings), so 6 a.m. wake-up was a blessed relief. However, it did leave me slightly concerned that our usual 10 a.m. playgroup might be a bit of a stretch.
Still, I pressed ahead, preparing pancake breakfast for the three of us. 7 successfully tossed pancakes later, I sat down feeling quite impressed with myself and tucked into maple syrup and lemon soaked pancakes with an enormous cup of tea and a glass of juice. I looked across at Baby Bird's plate and confess I wondered if she could really be our child: the banana had been carefully picked out from the pancake pieces and consumed; the pancake itself was untouched. She did grudgingly consent to try a small morsel, but mostly demanded repeated renditions of her favourite song and to be allowed to play (her latest baby sign and word). Oh well, it happens.
I cleaned her up and then began the battle to dress her. All clothing options were met with a furious shake of the head and she sprinted off at any opportunity. After about an hour, during which various tactics were deployed, including abandoning dressing in favour of other more popular personal grooming activities such as hair brushing and teeth brushing, I had succeeded in wrestling her into a vest and jeans. Socks and cardigans were flatly refused. I showered, I got ready, I tried again. Socks and cardigans again flatly refused. I generally allow Baby Bird to choose her own clothes (from within a handful of options I've put together) as I find it makes her feel more involved and so she co-operates better). Maybe she didn't like the outfits I'd chosen. I tried different cardigans. After offering her every cardigan she owned, I eventually chose one for her and put it on her. She simply sat and shouted at me, whilst tugging furiously at the offending garment (buttons are, for now, elusive). At that point I told her, in my sternest "mum voice" that, if she didn't stop messing about we would not be going to playgroup. My happy, smiley baby returned. She chirped "okay" and climbed on my lap, sucking her thumb.
So, by 9:30 this morning, she was falling asleep on my lap as I read Incy Wincy Spider to her (a really lovely take on the story that was a present from her American godmother), and now, two hours later, she is still asleep and I have unloaded and reloaded the dishwasher, fired up the breadmaker, tidied the kitchen and am currently stirring a pot of split pea and carrot soup that will make a tasty (and hopefully toddler tempting) lunch. Yes, for the second day in a row, I am blogging while stirring something, only it is green and orange flecked and smells delicious today. We will gloss over the fact that I am wearing the apron I bought for my six year old god-daughter to wear when we are baking, and we will definitely overlook the fact that, asides of it being about an inch too short, it fits rather well...