Viva Espana!

Whoops! I appear to have forgotten I've got a blog. Sorry about that, lost and confused wanderers of the Interwebs. I'll try to do better in future. Oh bugger it, let's be honest, I'll probably not post again till 2013. In fact, I'll probably not even manage to post this. In which case, you won't be reading it... and... and... nope, sorry, lost myself there.

I went on holiday! On a plane and everything. And, this time, I actually took Mr Badger and Lumpy. What a dedicated wife and mother I am.

And you know what? It was good. I have to admit, I was filled with some trepidation at the thought of this trip.

[Aaaaaaaaaaand, I was right. I wrote this first bit about two weeks ago and have utterly failed to revisit it since. I am a big slice of crap pie. But hey! Here I am to write another few paragraphs before failing to finish yet again. Ho hum tiddly bum.]

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, trepidation. Or, putting it another (more accurate) way, I was being a right old grumpy cow, moaning about how holidays weren't really holidays with a baby... grump grump grizzle woe is me etc. Because it's so, so tough looking after a monster beasty like this:

am not monster beasty. how verys dare you. am clearli cute adorables little fluffpot.

And also... confession time. We took not one, but two (count 'em) Badger Grandmas with us. Two! To take one Badger grandparent on holiday may be regarded as sensible; to take both seems like greed. And possibly incompetence. But by 'eck, if we were going to get on a plane and invade a country with the Lumpybeast in tow, then we were going to need reinforcements. And we wanted their luggage allowance, too.

So, to cut a long story short (too late!), off we all marched to Luton airport at some ungodly hour to stand in various queues for many, many hours, before being shoehorned into a Sleazyjet seat with our knees folded comfortably behind our ears, and an x-large baby inadequately restrained on our laps.

Actually, it wasn't that bad. Lumpy loved the plane, and watching the clouds through the window (and the sack of toys and endless snacks we bribed him with every 3.2 seconds). And here's something - trying to entertain/wrestle/hog-tie a wiggly 15-month old in a space the size of a shoebox certainly makes time fly.

So before we knew it, we were ensconced in our apartment, which we set about babyproofing to the best of our abilities by dragging furniture around to block lethal staircases and barricading gaps with sandbags. And then I began - shock, horror - to enjoy my holiday.

I lazed, dear readers, by the pool. I read books. Books! Those papery things with black marks all over them that I used to be quite familiar with. I dozed. Because, you see, when you have two grandmas at hand, you hardly ever have to actually see your own son. Apart from attempting to drown him every now and then, of course:

is freezings. flesh is dyings. feets hav actualli dropping of.

noooooooo! dont dunks me againz mummies. promis i be good boy.

if i canz just. get. to. the. sides...

ahhh barf. iz lovelies.

Lumpy was also particularly impressed with the Spanish-town-square-as-social-hub notion, as it gave him lots of opportunities for harassing wildlife and generally tarting about - which are, of course, two of his favourite things. It also meant he got to eat two dinners - one in the apartment at his normal dinner time, and then whatever he fancied stealing from our plates later on - and got to stay up late too. Lumpy result! As long as he was facing the square he was usually quite happy to sit and watch the mopeds and horses (yes) go by, while we shoved deep-fried aubergine into our gobs and poured San Miguel down or gullets. But then he would be set free, and would rampage around the place, flirting with old men and trying to get the big kids to let him join in their games. He was in heaven.

In fact the main problem was wrestling him into submission to get him to come home.

noooooooooo. they wont take me alives!

Here I demonstrate the upside-down crusher grip. Highly effective when combined with tickling and biting of the shins. Which is just how we got him on the plane to go back home.

And I'm going to stop right there so that I actually post this post and this blog doesn't just curl up and die. See you soon. Realli realli promis.

Walk this way

Well, hello.

Contrary to appearances I did not perish on my foolhardy attempt to swim around the whole of Croatia. True, there was a sticky moment when I was arrested doing butterfly on the main road through Split, but then that's by far my weakest stroke, so it was always going to cause problems.

In fact, I had a rather brilliant time. I was accompanied on the trip by the marvellous Cake of Good Hope, who I have to say, is a holiday companion of the first order. If you ever get a chance to go on a sojourn with her, you should - quite literally - leap at the chance. Leap, I say! I hear she can be hired for all manner of trips, at the very reasonable rate of four ice creams and six large beers a day. Bargain.

And how did I cope with being away from the Lumpster? Rather well, I'm ashamed to admit. I actually didn't find myself missing the thrill that comes with opening each nappy (will there be poo? Will it be squishy or firm? Will it have escaped and require seven wipes to clear the resulting poo-nami? And so on), nor, strangely, did I yearn to be woken at 4am by an mysteriously inconsolable infant who still can't bloody talk and tell me what on earth is wrong.

In fact, I switched back to being a normal person with alarming rapidity and ease. This clearly makes me an evil witch of a mother, barely deserving of the name. But hey ho, I got to swim in sparkling clear water, eat the weight of my own head in ice cream every single day, laze in the sun, sup on many beers, and generally have a week of being delightfully responsible for no one but myself (and only at a very minimal level on that front). It was, truly, glorious.

I reported just before I went that Lumpy had learned to walk. Well, we thought he had. He took several steps, unaided and unsupported, using just his feet, and performed this exploit several times. I believe that's generally considered to be walking. I was fully expecting him to be running around by the time I got back from Croatia, and quite possibly being signed up for the 4x100m Great British sprint relay team for 2012.

But no. On my return he was still scuttling about on all fours. Apparently he'd refused to walk at all while I was away. This may be some form of bizarre baby-logic, by which he associated walking unaided with his mother deserting him. I expect the repercussions will cost us thousands in counselling at some point in the not-too-distant future. But who can honestly say they haven't mentally and physically scarred their child in some horrific, albeit unintentional, way? Eh? Well then. I rest my case.

Anyway, he's obviously decided that I'm not about to leap on a plane for another week of solo joy-time (more's the shame), and has - a good six weeks after his first steps - decided that walking might not be too bad actually, and there might even be some benefits to using this mode of transportation. For one thing, it's easier to carry food in your hand when you're walking, as it tends to get a bit squashed and mashed into the carpet if you attempt to crawl with it. (I am considering selling our floor coverings as some form of abstract art: presenting them as a radical comment on the excesses of Western culture (with a subtext examining the vagaries of a nearly 15-month-old's digestion.)

It's very odd seeing him toddling about on his hind legs, as if he's a proper person, and not some kind of noisy and demanding pet. One day, I suppose we'll have to start asking his opinions on things, and I might even have to stop dressing him up as a cow and balancing random objects on his head for entertainment.

But that day - heaven be praised - is still very, very far away.