Never Mind the Pollocks
Secondsonofsoulcompost was born at home, happy and well, on 20th September. Indeed, he arrived just in time for lunch, betraying encouraging early signs of maintaining family traditions. Sonofsoulcompost slept through the whole thing in the neighbouring room.
I am sure there are people who would keep a running journal of an event like this, compiling humourous yet insightful resumés of each day’s events, possibly supplemented by telegrammatic postings throughout the day to keep the world abreast of the latest state of nipple attachment, napping, winding, peeing and all that kind of thing.
I have discovered that I am not one of those individuals. I’m too knackered for one thing, and, for another, if MrsSC ever (and I mean ever) found me writing anything (and I do mean anything) to do with her nipples, then, well, the consequences could well invalidate the warranty on the blender. I may even have said too much already.
The big thing for me over the past ten days has been about becoming a complete manaboutthehouse while Mrs SC recovers. That means cooking, cleaning, shopping, foot rubbing, general jollying along and, most importantly, keeping sonofsoulcompost sweet as he makes the psychological transition to being a big brother. Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised, but this all takes more proactive and creative planning than I’d anticipated.
Take, for instance, my foray into toddler fingerpainting, an event that reminded me of the cocktail party my flatmate and I once threw as medical students. An evening (this is the party I’m talking about now, not the fingerpainting) that began with a nominated mixer-person blending recipes according to time honoured and proven recipes, descended – and, really, we should have seen this coming – into a bacchanalian free-for-all with all sorts of spirits getting flung together. There was a time when science progressed in this way of course, but our party was not one of those occasions. As I recall, it put a dent in our deposit too.
Fingerpainting, as I’ve said, was similar. Sonofsoulcompost opened with a delicate stippling motif using the tip of one dainty index finger. Then it was two fingers up to the hilt. Then two pots at a time. Then – and it is here that I showed my experience in attempting to call time – it was multiple pots inverted and vigorously shaken.
Finally, with a maniacal laugh and waving his paint covered hands in the air like some mad scientist in a gothic thriller, he fled the kitchen. I caught him just as he reached what was once our nice cream sofa.
I’m keeping this one, I think. When he’s older it might go in his Turner Prize portfolio. Till then, though, we’re going to do our painting projects with one of those little brushes.
Oh, and if he wins (the Turner Prize, that is), I’m going to let him buy us a new sofa.
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