"Handy Uses For An Abercrombie Belt (Or Fifty Shades of Wired)"

Babies and Coffee Grinders Don't Mix?! (ahem)

In much the same manner as one would depict a sudden 'Eureka' moment hitting - say a village idiot - did it dawn on me mid-afternoon yesterday, that the reason my eight month old baby boy won't nap during the day is entirely down to me.  (Or rather, down to my coffee
connoisseur of a husband who recently decided to gift me with my own amazing espresso maker AND cafe grade home grinder. And a kilo bag of espresso coffee beans.)

How could I have been so stupid you ask?  Beats me.  All I know is that it has taken this long for me to realise that being wired and nursing don't exactly go hand in hand (sigh).  More's the pity.  (And here I thought I was doing so well with this whole 'new mother' thing.  I guess a fair amount of caffeine administered in such a way as to give the fastest, hardest, most potent hit throughout the day is responsible for my amazing tirelessness and the newly pronounced bounce in my step.  Ah well.)

As for the baby (who for some inexplicable reason I am calling 'Boo' these days), I don't know whether it's the caffeine or merely the propensity for a heavy metal vocalist career if he wants it - but he's discovered his voice these past few weeks and delights in scream-yelling his way through the day...a huge grin plastered across his face.

Of course, being alone just the two of us, I do get lonely and yearn for someone to converse with, so have now taken to 'scream-yelling' back at him, parrot fashion, with a huge matching stupid grin on my face.  (I realise I'm not doing much to dispel the village idiot likeness here.)

It's a pleasant enough way to pass the time I suppose, and sure beats dealing with the realisation that the bulk of my life is currently being spent in the kitchen:  preparing, feeding, wiping, cleaning, cajoling and mopping.  (And you can add human drain to that - given that our sink carburator  has recently packed up and until it gets replaced I have to manually drain a giant saucepan of water under the sink into the nearest toilet bowl. This needs to happen on average, oh, about three times an hour.)

So, I'm not so thrilled with things at the moment.  And I'll tell you what else I'm not thrilled about.  The brand spanking new, rather expensive high chair I decided to get for the baby.  It's turned into a death trap.  If only I could go back to the moment of purchase when the gormless young Asian clerk sold the baby set to me.

Me:  Do I need a harness with this?  Won't the baby be able to climb out?

Him:  How old is your child?

Me:  Eight months

Him: (smiling patronisingly) No.  You're good.  You won't have to worry about that until he's around a year old.

Me:  Are you sure??

Him:  Yeah.  Absolutely.

Me:  (dubiously) Fine.  Here's my creditcard.

And so within the first week of having it the baby learned how to use the wooden foot bar to hoist himself up and out of the chair.

So the husband lowered the bar.

The baby quickly figured out how to stand on his tippie toes and hoist himself out of the chair.

The husband lowered it further still, completely out of reach.

The baby learned how to cram one chubby little leg back up through the opening and thereby gain  necessary leverage needed to - you guessed it - hoist his entire frame once again, out of the chair.

I silently cursed the clerk.  Especially I went back to the store to bawl him out.

Me:  I need that harness after all.

Him:  (Incredulous) You do?

Me:  (Holier-than-thou) Yes I do.

Him:  (looking up with a grimace)  Sorry.  We're out of stock. Indefinitely.

Me:  (Exiting the store with a giant 'Harummph' and trying my best to flounce out in my  haughtiest manner, marred somewhat by my huge fat baby in sling clawing my face, yanking my hair and 'scream-yelling'.)

And so I've solved the problem temporarily by using my expensive dark brown leather Abercrombie belt to wince him in.

The belt is getting trashed, and I'm still no further to locating a harness, but at least he stays in.  When I remember to tie him in.  When I don't, this is what happens:  I'm turned round at the sink doing the dishes and glance over my shoulder to see this (sigh).

You can just see the forsaken highchair left out of shot

I give up.