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You shall not pass

m swingWay back when I was growing up, kids didn’t need passports until they were 16. I’m not sure exactly what the procedure for taking a child out of the country was, I assume you just scribbled its name on your own passport and nodded assertively when customs asked if it was yours. At some point, someone decided that this made life far too easy for parents and that actually, children did need passports after all. I imagine that person also squeezes toothpaste from the middle, puts toilet roll on the wrong way round and forgets to scrunch down biscuit wrappers so they don’t go soft.

When you decide to get your child a passport, one of the crucial elements is a photo. The rules around passport photos are pretty prescriptive, which is great, because everyone knows how great babies are at following directions.

Normally, my child loves having her photo taken. So naturally, the second we began trying to get a simple face-on head and shoulders shot of her against a plain background, she became hysterical. First she began wailing. Not crying, just going ‘eeuuhhhhh’ at an egregious volume and pitch and contorting her face without producing tears. Clearly, this was not enough of a protest, so she simultaneously relaxed all of her limbs and slithered to the ground like a large, petulant snake. Any attempts to sit her back up were met with increased levels of wailing and flopping, interrupted by furious attempts to speed-crawl across the room and plunge her fingers into an unguarded socket.

After around 7,000 attempts to get the picture and around 7,000 blurred images which would have left CPS wondering exactly how we were torturing our child we decided to come up with a plan B. Having discounted a series or preferable options, including using a picture of a stranger’s baby from the internet and divorcing so we’d never need to go on holiday together again, we hit upon a truly genius solution, used an Iphone to YouTube episodes of Peppa Pig and dangled it in front of her.

Having managed to secure a photo of our daughter beaming, glassy-eyed and positively catatonic with delight, we got the form off so that it can go sit at the bottom of a very large pile of other hard-won baby passport forms.

The unfortunate side effect of our magnificent technique is that the baby has now realised Peppa is not confined at the TV and has taken to seizing smartphones and manically incanting ‘pahpah, pahpah’. Still worth it to end a wresting match akin to trying to dress an angry octopus into a tuxedo.

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Whole lotta precious time

MpartyIt’s been a while since I blogged. So long, that it’s now only three days until Baby M’s first birthday, which means that I have somehow kept her alive for 162 days, despite knowing terrifyingly little about baby-rearing. This is partly because since my child developed the skill of independent movement I mainly spend my time chasing her around and removing from her hands and mouth things which have the power to kill her. Because apparently strawberries are revolting and the appropriate reaction is to throw them indignantly to the ground, but anything that falls off the dog is an unparalleled delicacy.

When I’m not yanking knives from her grasp and Googling ‘is it ok if your baby just drank a little bit of bleach’, I’m usually either at work, at Tesco, or thinking about what I need to buy from Tesco. So blogging has sort of slipped off the radar for a while. However, I realised the other day that the only creative thing I’ve done in the past six months was a fairly appalling drawing of Peppa Pig, which I sketched out absent-mindedly while the baby chewed through the wax crayons I wasn’t using.

By way of a catch-up, here is a quick rundown of some of the things that have happened since I last posted.

*I went back to work, and the baby did not forget who I was
*She had her first Christmas and ate an appropriate amount of wrapping paper, tinsel and pine needles
*We are still breastfeeding despite the fact she has five teeth, which is a clear sign I must secretly hate myself
*The baby started saying words. Mumma, dada, woof and bear were quickly followed by ‘Peppa’, which makes me glad I don’t to to baby groups any more and run the risk of having clearly flouted the ‘no screen-time before age two’ rule, making me an embarrassment to parenthood
*Real meals replaced milk, and it became clear that people were not just playing some awful joke when they said things like ‘you will miss the smell of baby poo’
*A health visitor told me my baby is too small and that I should stop breastfeeding and give her custard. It’s ok, she’s dead now
*The baby did not magically potty train herself in the night no matter how hard I wished
* I realised that the teeny, tiny blender I bought for weaning, which could hold approximately half a small carrot, was actually the most pointless thing I ever parted with money for while sober
*The baby continued to sleep 12 straight hours pretty much every night. Please nobody send me faeces in the post.

Hopefully my next update will be a bit more timely.