Tag Archives: Babies

Joke 294

12 Jan

Little Johnny’s new baby brother was screaming blue murder.  Johnny asked his mum, “Where’d we get him?”

His mother replied, “He came from heaven, Johnny.”

“I can see why they threw him out!”

I Am Number 3,226,610,530

31 Oct

 

World population

Image by Arenamontanus via Flickr

The world’s population is expected to reach 7 BILLION today.  To put us in our place, the BBC have given us a calculator that, using our birth dates, will tell us what number of the current population we are.

There’s mine, at the top.  I bet Number Six isn’t complaining now; at least people will remember him; try looking up 3226610530 in the phone book and see how quickly you become a minus number. 

More people were born after me than were born before me.  I find that depressing.

In the grand scheme of things, however, I am the 77,046,364,608th person to have lived since history began, which means I avoided Roman slavery, The Spanish Inquisition and George Formby.  There’s always a silver lining.

The site also tells me that I will live 4.3 years longer than the Hub.  Yeah! for the not expiring too soon, but what on earth will I do for head rubs?

I was on the site for about ten minutes.  In that time the population grew by 2,159.  All I can say is, Condoms, people!  Condoms!

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Six Word Photo Challenge

15 Oct

In which I combine two memes.

I have nothing to blog about today; how is that possible?  It is impossible.  I will therefore use this Six Word Saturday to introduce non-WordPress bloggers to the WordPress Weekly Photo Challenge.

It is optional.  It is easy:

Take a new photograph or, as I interpret it, use an old photograph, to interpret the theme.  This week’s theme is Possibility.  Here’s my entry:

It is possible this child grew up to be respectful of and towards his mother. 

Possible, but unlikely.

To put it another way: he’s going to be a politician; the only thing he’ll learn to respect is the polls.

Ah, well.  He’ll get my vote anyway.  I’m his mother; it would be impossible for me not to support him, no matter how disgraceful his career choice.

You can read more Six Word Saturdays here.

Weekly Photo Challenge: Flowers

21 Aug

This is my beautiful niece-in-law on her wedding day.  Actually, she’s the Hub’s nephew’s wife, so that would make her my niece-in-law-in-law.  She’s lovely, and she’s given me two great-nephews.  In-law.  And they’re not just great-nephews, but great great-nephews.  I love them.  I love babies.  I miss babies.  I wish I’d had more babies of my own.  My own babies are just about grown up now.  Sigh.

What was the prompt again?

He’s Got A Nose For It

26 Jun

Sidey’s weekend theme is unusual angles.

When I was pregnant with Spud, we went for our first scan.  All I could see on the screen was a blob, but the Hub exclaimed, ‘It’s got my nose!’

And he has:

Joke 66

29 May

I seem to be reserving Sundays for the groaniest jokes.  I think I’m hoping people will sleep in and miss them.      

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Some men were discussing coincidences.

The first man said, “My wife was reading a A Tale Of Two Cities and she gave birth to twins.”

“That’s funny,” the second man remarked, “my wife was reading The Three Musketeers and she gave birth to triplets.”

A third man said, “My wife gave birth to quintuplets after reading Five Children And It.” 

Suddenly, another man jumped up, shouting, “I have to get home now!”

When asked what the problem was, he exclaimed, “When I left the house, my wife was reading Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves!”

I Like Not That

18 May
like

Image by debaird™ via Flickr

Some news items that caught my eye:

A father gave his child the name ‘Like’.  

Even though – get this – ‘he actually has fewer than 120 friends on Facebook and doesn’t really care for the social networking site.’

Well that’s alright then, as long as he doesn’t want to profit from it or get his name in the media…oh, oh, wait a minute…

It’s not as if he has the excuse of being famous; we all know how stupid that makes a parent at baby-naming time: Fifi Trixiebelle, Peaches Honeyblossom, Pixie, anyone?  What were you thinking, Mr Geldof?

Maybe I’m not such a bad mother after all: ‘Tory Boy’ and ‘Spud Bud’ have a nice ring to them in comparison, don’t they?

Over in Michigan – which I have always considered to be a sensible State – a woman sold a two-year-old child on eBay. 

It appears she did it to ‘see how eBay works.’  Wouldn’t a used DVD have sufficed?  I’ve often wanted to give my children away but it never occurred to me to make a profit from them.

In case you’re worried but too lazy to click on the link, the child was removed from the woman’s care and ‘is in her mother’s custody.’ 

I must confess I’m still worried: why wasn’t she with her mother in the first place?  When I said I’ve often wanted to give my children away, what I meant was, over my dead body, rigor mortised hands clenched round their pudgy little wrists and a ‘Noooooo’ scream etched on my blue yet still attractive face.

Have sex to save the rainforests

It’s a thing, apparently.  An article in the Metro discusses ‘Eco-porn organisation F*** For Forest,’ an ‘erotic, non-profit group.’  They have 1300 members.

There is going to be a ball of some sort, at which ‘a small space where people can be exhibitionists’ will be provided.

I got this last bit from Wikipedia but you’ll have to find the link yourself because this is a family blog: In their first six months of existence the group received seed funding from the government of Norway.

You couldn’t make it up.

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I Promised You A Secret

25 Apr

Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to read this post. 

Remember last week how I was so busy I ignored you all?  I was busy with this:

The Hub’s father once gave him a set of photo albums with pictures of his life.  Last August I thought that would be a lovely gift for Tory Boy’s birthday, with the addition of the stories of the photos, as much as I could remember.  My idea was to buy a couple of scrapbooks but the Hub thought it should be something special.  He found an old photo album in a charity shop, re-covered it, and bought two plaques: one for the cover with TB’s name and D.O.B., and one inside with a loving message from us all.  Spud chose the font; it was a family project.

By January I had sorted our extensive photo collection into His ‘n’ Ours groups.  I already had them filed by years into boxes, so it was a big job but not as big as it could have been.  All that remained was to stick them into the album and write comments.

Tory Boy’s (should I start calling him Tory Man now, do you think?) birthday was last Monday.  On the Thursday I thought I’d better get a move on, and did.  Ten-thirty Thursday night found me crying in the Hub’s arms that I’dusedtheoursphotosinsteadofthehisphotsnadI’dhavetostartalloveragain.  The Hub sent me to bed with instructions to start afresh the next day.  He was right. 

He would have helped me but he wasn’t allowed because every time he came near to offer guidance and advice I snarled getlostdivorcethiswasmyideayou’vedoneyourbit and he retreated to the safety of Sky Sports watching.  We haven’t stayed married this long by ignoring the danger signs.

Friday and Saturday were busy days but I got about seven hours in; Sunday, I locked myself in the bedroom all day, fortified by mugs of Earl Grey passed through a grill, and my secret chocolate stash.

On Sunday evening around eleven, it was done.  That boy better appreciate how much we love him.  His father and brother had to live with me like that for three days.  Think panic, hormones (my baby was no longer a baby, as every baby photograph reminded me) and blog-withdrawal.

The great day dawned:

That’s the album on the right.

He loved it; it was his best present, and his presents included an antique pocket watch:

a fabulous jellyroll quilt made by Viv (so he wouldn’t steal mine):

a Playstation 1 and Nintendo Gameboy from his brother:

and of course, books, dvds and lots of dosh – the last bit not from us, but from kind family and friends.  We are buying Tory Boy’s air ticket to wherever he wants to go that we can afford, and he will use his birthday cash as spends.  Making memories is more fun than material goods; though they are nice, too.

The PS1 and GB might seem like odd gifts, but TB is into old games.  The Gameboy used to belong to Spud and he sold it to a friend early last year.  TB was upset so Spud persuaded his friend (after a lot of harassing and restraining orders) to sell it back to him.  He happened to spot the PS1 on a boot sale the week before TB’s birthday and bought it because he felt bad that he had not been able to find the particular game TB wanted to go with the GB. 

Do I not have thoughtful, generous children?  I think I do.

We bought Tory Boy the obligatory key, of course:

From the pound shop.  He had a gold charm for his eighteenth and we know from experience that those keys end up packed away, one week after the important birthday, never to be seen again, so we thought our money was better spent on the ingredients for his birthday fridge tart:

It’s a favourite recipe of TB’s but costs a fortune to make.  The key ingredient is Peppermint Crisp (it’s a South African recipe) and TB supplied that himself, having ordered it from an online South African shop and presenting it to me with the words, Make fridge tart.

We couldn’t persuade him to have a party or even a few family and friends round on the day.  He wanted to spend it quietly at home with us, and he did, and declared it perfect.

He’s a man now; I suppose I have to let him do what he wants.  As proud of him as I am, however, I miss my baby.  I could make him get a haircut when he needed one.

Congratulations Tory Boy: You Survived Me

18 Apr

 

My little boy is twenty-one today.  I’m amazed he made it; I was such a nervous mother.  Also a boring one: I’m going to repeat some of his favourite criticisms of me, which I think I have mentioned before.  Indulge me.

I took him for his first check up at ten days old.  The midwife told me off for overdoing it a little on the clothing:

  • all-in-one vest
  • socks
  • disposable nappy
  • rubbers
  • babygrow
  • cardigan
  • all-in-one coat thing
  • hat
  • mittens
  • blanket

In a South African winter, when all we needed was a sweater for cool days.  I don’t know how he didn’t spontaneously combust.

Did you notice the disposable nappy and rubbers, by the way?  I used terry nappies but had disposables for trips out.  I wasn’t sure if he needed the rubbers but decided to err on the side of having the midwife in stitches on the floor.

Daddy, Mummy and Visiting Uncle decided to take a walk with Baby.  Baby’s pram wasn’t in the mood, hitting a rock and pitching Baby out onto the gravel.  Mummy wet herself laughing (nervous condition, I swear) when Baby hit the gravel face-first.  Daddy gathered up Baby, comforting him while cursing laughing Mummy and made sure to grass Mummy up to Baby as soon as cognition set in.  Baby has never let me forget it.

First time on a school trip: I made him wear bright orange raincoat, rain pants, and wellies.  Everyone laughed at him. 

First time on a scooter: I insisted he wear helmet, elbow and shin pads to wheel twenty yards outside the house.

First day of high school: I walked him to the bus stop.

First hint of Saddam unleashing his WMDs on us: I told him to keep his mobile on so I could call him at school if nuclear war broke out.

If that boy doesn’t emigrate to get away from me at the first opportunity, I have done my job well.

Happy birthday darling.  I’m sorry for being your mother.

The Laughing Baby

5 Mar

Something to really brighten your day:

Poor Bobo

18 Jan

Our little boy is poorly.  Not the big one who visits only on important dates or when his larder is empty; not the other one, who makes all the noise and has ‘strop’ as his default mood; but the cute one, Toby.

He charged downstairs this morning, straight to the back door, gagging.  He was sick three times.  He has refused food all day and this is a dog who believes if he’s not eating, nobody loves him.  He lives for food; we think his previous owners sometimes forgot to feed him when they left him in the freezing/boiling conservatory all day long.

His tummy has gurgled and growled all day and he has lain there looking pathetic.  He enjoyed his walk but he wasn’t as curious as usual.  He turned down all of his usual treats, including turkey jerky.  He was retching tonight but it’s just bile because his stomach is empty.

If he’s no better in the morning we will take him to the vet.  We’re not worried about the expense; if necessary, we’ll mortgage the children.

Bappy Hirthday, Spud

15 Jan

  Spud is fifteen today.  This is the same child who was nearly ten pounds at birth (thank goodness for caesareans) and looked like the ‘V’ alien baby.  He was the biggest child born in the hospital that week and staff from all over the wing popped in to the nursery every day to have a look at the little monster. 

He used to stick his hand down my top as a toddler, for no reason that I ever learned.  He liked to load a toy shopping trolley with shoes, walk them up and down the hall, and repeat to himself, ‘Shooss’.  He developed a taste for formal attire at the age of three, and went everywhere in a waistcoat and dicky bow.

He’d better wear one tonight: he’s having a fictional party.  Yesterday at school, some of his friends joked about him having a party; then someone created an event on Facebook.  Despite his repeated denials, he has had at least thirty messages asking him if it’s true.  I posted a message to say that it’s not, but anyone who turns up will be offered a slice of pizza, a glass of coke and a duster: if that many people are coming, they can make themselves useful.  I already raised him; I’m not cleaning up after him as well.

We Love Senryu

8 Dec

The prompt for We Write Poems this week was various kinds of love.  I didn’t write all of these senryu in response to that prompt, but it’s my favourite form (you might say I love it) and I have enough about love that I can share with you.  There’s also a short poem I wrote as a teenager in love on my South Africa – A Love/Hate Story blog.

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Talking Point

My son discovered
he loves Shakespeare: now we have
something in common.

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Christmas Eve With Dad

He lived and loved, laughed,
then sighed.  He held my hand.  He
held my hand.  He died.

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A Note For My Mum

An old woman passes me,
smelling of fags and
booze.  I grieve, for she’s not you.

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Friendship

Geese guard a stricken
comrade until it dies or
flies again – how neece.

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Adult Yearner

Married man longs for
someone. It can never be.
She is his wishtress.

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Unconditional Love

I expected to
feel it for my children, but
not for my pet dogs.

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Empty Nest

Forlorn housewife. Heart
heavy like wet washing on
the line. Mothers’ fate.

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Not-So-Modern Marriage 

Selfish man: your wife
will fetch carry clean feed love
you: stupid woman.

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Two Beautiful Things 

A bloody baby
and his brother, screaming their
way into my heart.

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I’ve Learned A New Word

6 Dec
Sun and Ice Fog on Boot Lake

Image by EclecticBlogs via Flickr

Not a swear word, you’ll be glad to hear: 

pogonip

If that’s not a fantastic word, then I don’t know what is.

It came from Dictionary.com: sign up for free and receive an email every day, giving you a new word.  I love Dictionary.com for two reasons: for all the new words I learn; and for all the words it sends me that I already know, so I can pretend I’m really smart that day.

Pogonip is defined as An ice fog that forms in the mountain valleys of the western U.S.  It’s from the Shoshone word for ‘thunder-fog’.  Don’t you love a language that even has the term ‘thunder-fog’?

If you like learning new words, check out my South Africa blog; today I talk about biltong and dorps.

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You may recall a while back I promised you a photo of the most beautiful toddler in the world; well here it is:

 

Just for good measure, here’s one of him with his parents.  You can see he gets his good looks from his mother:

Daddy is the Hub’s nephew and also the perpetrator of many a joke against me, including a fart machine before they were popular, and telling me they had taken the word ‘gullible’ out of the dictionary.  I showed him my own dictionary but he pointed out that it was an old copy; I eventually believed him.  I have no defence, even if it was back in my what’s the internet? days; I guess I’m just…what’s the word?  Let me check Dictionary.com.

This photo is my revenge for his latest trick.  Do you remember my wooden leg post?  You may also remember I had a response from a Shirley Bumtruffle: he confessed the other day that she ’twas indeed he.  I suspected someone else altogether; he had me completely bumtruffled.

 

Flaky Mothers Of The World, Unite!

20 Nov

I have long been suspected of being a flaky mother:

Riding your little scooter up and down the path?  Wear these skateboarding knee pads, elbow pads, thick sweater and pants and a helmet or you don’t go.

First day of high school?  Let me walk you to the bus stop in case there are any paedophiles or fast cars lurking to take you from me.

WMD?  Keep your mobile switched on at school in case we are bombed and I need to get hold of you.

My kids never stood a chance, really, and these are just a few of my mistakes with Tory Boy; never mind what I did to poor Spud.

But today, something wonderful happened: Tory Boy phoned (no, that’s not it; especially as he yammered on for thirty minutes while my cereal milk went cold).  He told me that his philosophy lecturer threw a book across the classroom to illustrate a point and there was just one gasp of horror – Tory Boy’s.  He stayed afterwards to remonstrate with the tutor, and refused to accept ‘But it was an old book…’ as an excuse.  Now I know I was right to read to my babies in the womb.   

 

 

Tory Boy insisted on having his shirt signed rather than damage a book

 

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