Apologies for the lengthy break between posts. How life has changed in 2009.

I have a hectic social life revolving around Baby A, who's now almost six months old. I have learned the words to three hundred or so nursery rhymes, which we (when I say we, I mean I) sing in the library on Thursdays and the hydrotherapy pool on Mondays, and which I hum in my head while I drive across town to mothers group on Tuesdays and Fridays. (Meanwhile my sister's emailing me her essays on modernity and asking for constructive feedback, which is nice - I certainly wouldn't be asking me for intelligent commentary on anything right now.)


I am a slave to Tizzie Hall (so-called Baby Whisperer and author of “Save Our Sleep” – which has become my bible) and my life revolves around my endless quest to get baby A to sleep for more than twenty minutes during the day and more than four hour stretches at night. My new idle fantasy is to invite Tizzie round and present her with my super strong-willed, party animal baby who doesn't like to miss out on a minute of her exciting new world. Come, Baby Whisperer, I dare you.

I no longer read novels, or the papers, or even the catalogues. I read about solids and sleep routines. Cot safety. Car safety. CPR. I wonder how other mums find time to write journals and study and work part time, but in my own precious spare time I can be found surfing the net, deliberating over which frilly bloomers to buy for baby A, or taking facebook quizzes about where I should be living and what job I should have (Paris, and tattoo artist). That, or I’m slaving over recalcitrant vegetables for baby A, or sometimes even attempting to create edible food for adults.


I assumed that with motherhood came some sort of bonus hormone that would guide me in the brave new world of baby food production. Kind of like the magic breastmilk-making one, but with pumpkin and apples. Alas, it took me four hours to prepare three carrots for baby A last weekend.

Filled with boldness and virtuousness, I put the carrots in the steamer.

Then I waited twenty minutes. The water had all but evaporated and the carrots were still a bit hard, so I removed them. (I was worried about the nutrients.)

Next, I put them in the blender and pressed Puree. A small pool of carrot mooshed around the blades and the rest of the carrot chunks just sat around the edges like nervous street theatre spectators.

I transferred them to a bowl and tried to mash them. Still the nervous lumps persisted.

So I pressed them through a sieve using the back of a spoon, a surprisingly drawn out and physically taxing process.

And this is how my Saturday night passed. The whole process seems insanely inefficient (why spend hours mashing carrots when you could be answering facebook quizzes), and yet I would hate to confess to the other mums that I have given up and opted for Heinz, less than two weeks in.

One of the girls from my mums group had a birthday the other day, and since I happened to be hosting the group at my house that day, I decided to bake her a chocolate cake. Sometimes I just forget that my baked goods are always, without exception, disgusting. I forget lots of things these days, thanks to my rock and roll sleep patterns. The recipe called for two 20cm diameter cake tins, and I only had one, so I decided we’d just have an extra thick cake, like the ones you see in the cake cabinets in cafes. The timer went off and the middle was still runny. I left it in for 20 extra minutes and then the inevitable smell of burnt cake began to seep from the oven. I took it out and undid the springform bit around the edges. The cake appeared to be stuck to the bottom of the tin. I asked the girls for their advice. They suggested a knife. About 60% of the cake came away, in a kind of inverted chocolate volcano. It tasted awful but the mums all (or I should say both) ate a piece and even agreed to seconds when I apologised for the awfulness. It was in that moment that I realised I will probably be friends with these girls forever.