You don't know what you've got till it's gone...

And what, I hear you cry, of Lumpy? Enough about your scabs and excesses of arse, woman! We come here to hear about the baby, dagammit! (Do you regularly say 'dagammit', dear readers? I like to think you do.)
Lumpy's fine.

There.

Oh, you want more, do you? Well, I'm a working woman now, you know. I only get a chance to take him out of his drawer once or twice a day. Just for an airing.

Actually, Lumpy is lovely. He has, in fact, maliciously and viciously become lovelier and lovelier in the build up to me going back to work, just to make me miss him even more. He has made his already deliciously fluffy head even fluffier, simply to taunt me with the fact that said head is no longer available to me 24 hours a day. He has developed yet more rakish expressions involving his eyebrows (such as raising one quizzically, whilst flashing a trademark Lumpygrin). He is making ever more word-like babbles, tantalizing me with the fact that his first witty sentence is surely mere days away. And he's pulling up on, climbing, and grabbing everything he can get his grabby mitts on, before shoving said everything into his gob, be it cat, cat food, carpet, passing human, herds of wildebeest, kitchen appliances, or even, occasionally, food.

Actually, that last bit makes me rather pleased to be back at work.

But the rest of it... ah, I do find myself waxing sentimental over the fact that I got to spend all day every day in the company of this frankly marvellous little person. And kick myself over the fact that I clearly did not appreciate the enormity of this privilege, considering I now get to spend all day, every day (well, four days a week) in the company of a couple of computer screens and a whole lot of words. Which are a whole lot less cute, charming, and fascinating, let me tell you.

But such, I believe, is the tragedy of human existence (oops, getting a bit deep here... don't worry, I'll shove in a reference to poo before the end, surely). We are incapable of appreciating anything we've got until it's threatened or already gone: be it health, youth, beauty, freedom, anything. Not being able to appreciate things you've already got is not a failing, as far as I see it. It's just a fact of being human. Which is why it's utterly pointless telling people who are about to have a baby that they should 'appreciate the peace and quiet while they can', and 'enjoy all that sleep'. But don't get me going on that, or we'll be here all day. And I'm sure you've got better things to do.

Or maybe it's just me who's crap at living in the moment. Maybe everyone else is perfectly capable of appreciating what they have and where they are, and don't waste their time wishing it away for a semi-mythical future. If so, then please ignore me, and continue about your enviably enlightened existence. Well done you. Don't worry about me. I'll be off rubbing my face on Lumpy's head and trying not to wish that he could tell me exactly what's going on in it. Right now.

(oops, almost forgot. Poo poo, big stinky baby poo. There.)

In which yet more evidence of my twattery emerges

I've always been open about the fact that I am a bit of a twat. However, recently I outdid myself. It was truly, deeply, magnificently spaztastic. Are you sitting comfortably? Then we'll begin.

I started work properly last week (hence the lack of posting lately... excuses, excuses, scrape, grovel, please forgive me, sole remaining reader... oh, there goes a tumbleweed). The second day, I was cycling in, feeling rather proud of myself for managing to leave the house almost on time, wearing a proper bra and everything. Unfortunately, I failed to wear proper trousers, and approximately 30 seconds away from the house I realized that said trousers were rapidly working their way down my arse, exposing some undoubtedly greying saggy old knickers and a fair acre of bum flesh. Nice!

Now, I am ever eager to protect the public from sights that may cause them to tear their own eyes out while running round in circles screaming in horror. So I decided to try and hike the failing trousers back up and over the exposed arse of shame. I took one hand off the handlebars to do this, and wiggled about, the better to get the rebellious waistband back up to its rightful place. Unfortunately, I began to go down hill at this point (both literally and figuratively). Feeling the bike speed up as I simultaneously wobbled all over the road, I grabbed desperately at the brakes. Unfortunately (#2) the grabbing was a little too desperate, and resulted in my front wheel locking completely. Following the laws of the physical universe - specifically that tricky little so-and-so gravity - this led to me shooting straight over the handlebars in a magnificent road-bound swan dive. I then proceeded to leave a sizeable amount of my own skin on the tarmac, along with what still remains of my pride.

If anyone was watching at the time, the whole incident would have looked utterly bizarre and really fairly amusing. Fortnately (whoo-hoo! There's a first time for everything), the one piece of luck was that there wasn't a soul around to witness my magnificent spaztwattery. So I'm telling you all about it now, so you can recreate the glorious scene in your minds, and have a good guffaw. Just don't try to visualize the arse. You have been warned.