Yesterday i got up at the fairly respectable hour of 8.30am-ish. Those childless readers (hello? any body out there?) amongst you may recoil in horror at the thought of getting up at that time on a Sunday. I, however thanked both my lucky stars, and Little Companion, as it is down to him that i was allowed my lie in. To be fair, he had refused, point blank to go to sleep at his usual 8pm on Saturday night, interrupting my gleefully planned dinner of a wedge of Gorgonzola, rice cakes, and red wine. I did the sane parenting thing of ignoring the first noises i could hear emanating from his bedroom, but when he started to say, loudly, woefully, while in tears, 'Mummy - gone... Daddy - gone.... Didi [what he calls my dad, his grandpa] - gone... Granny - gone...' in rotation, i could ignore no more. He came down and we waited for Naked Chef Husband to return home at the fairly respectable, for a Saturday night, 9.30pm. i do not call Naked Chef husband that because he bares any resemblance to Jamie Oliver, but purely because he's a chef and he likes being naked. 
Anyway, i digress. my point is, i had an albeit small, but very appreciated lie in yesterday morning, before i headed over to my parents house, where i left Little Companion so that i could go for a run. In September I entered the Reading half marathon, which is on the 20th March. Back then I had Plenty Of Time, and I said that a lot, feeling absolutely sure that everything would be great, I had a couple of months to get my 'base mileage' (so they call it) up to 8-10 miles per week, as suggested by my beginners training schedule from Google. This was of course all before I THREW MYSELF DOWN THE STAIRS. Well, I say threw - that sounds like i wanted to top myself which i didn't and don't, i actually fell like a proper dramatic fall down a pretty steem, adn unfamiliar at that point, set of stairs.
I was bringing Articulate down stairs as one of my friends was visiting me in our new house (Little Companion, Naked Chef Husband and I had moved into our grown up house the day before). I was walking down the stairs and our big, stupid, gentle and nervously afflicted cat, Leroy, was lying across one of the very steep, newly carpeted, and therefore already perilous stairs. He was hidden from my view by the Articulate box, so i trod on him. He slipped from under my foot like silk, and I ended up rocketing down the stairs much to my friend's horror. The result of this minor drama was that my knee was completely buggered, and could well still be - but I'm currently choosing to ignore and conquer. Instead of getting my base mileage up slowly over October, November and December i decided the best option, as i couldn't run with my knee problem was to drink as much alcohol, and eat as much carb/fat/sugar/dairy food as humanly possible. 
In light of that i have had a mildly panicked feeling in the low part of my stomach since January (must be all that booze- i hear you cry), as I'm not exactly the fittest or exercisy person in the world. In fact i would say that while i like a lot of exercise, i like it most when I'm sitting on my couch, watching telly, eating ice cream and thinking about it fleetingly every couple of days. i have never entered a race, and i have never run more than about 3 miles or so. Having said all that, training is going well, i have done a lot of runs over the last 2 weeks, i ran 5.39 kilometres on Saturday, something I'm hugely proud of, but am also acutely aware that its only a quarter of what I'm going to have to run in about 9 weeks. gulp. oh well - It Will Be Fine.
Once I'd finished my run Little Companion and I went home again, and i strangely still had a lot of energy, so i decided to clean the house. I put some music on, a mixture of Ministry of Sound Electro House, George Michael, Byonce and Erykah Baddu This all went well until i went into the living room, still humming along to the jumble of music, using my awesome new Black and Decker Dust Buster (a revelation gadget present form my clean/neat freak parents, trying to drop a not so subtle hint i think...) i start to hear something. it sounds something like 'mumble mumble' THUD 'COMPLAIN COMPLAIN' THUD! I stopped my dust busting, went into the kitchen to find that Little Companion, who had been happily playing outside, was now inside, and had emptied the mopping water all over the kitchen floor, and was now attempting to swim/dive into it. I sprang into action, stripped him on the spot and we went upstairs for an early bath. He still smelt vaguely of Flash this morning when we woke up, but all in all no tears, no terrible burns or rashes, so i think he's fine.
After finishing the cleaning while little companion slept, i chilled, spoke to my parents and invited them over for dinner later that night. I watched a bad film on telly and waited for and Naked Chef husband to get home. When Naked chef Husband did get home, (Little companion was awake again by this point, while waiting we'd watched the end of Beauty and the Beast together in that wonderful post afternoon sleepy hue that toddlers have, where they want to be wrapped up, warm and close to you, and for about half an hour aren't intent on launching them selves off or climbing up furniture, and he loved it) i had an amazing shower, actually blow dried my hair and i cooked some dahl - my current obsession, its just so yummy and good for you!
I went for a smoke while the dahl was cooking. I sat on a chair outside feeling this amazing feeling, a feeling that i haven't felt for a long time. I was clean, rested, i was surrounded by my family, waiting for my parents to arrive, so much I'd done stuff this weekend- I'd seen one of my best friends for dinner on Friday night, been for my 5.39km run on Saturday, on Sunday I'd done exercise AND cleaning (almost unheard of on the same day), I'd successfully been in charge of my son all day, flying solo, had lots of fun, and managed not to kill him, and we only had to look in the direction of the naughty step once. This is what i call a rip roaring success of a weekend. It hit me. The emotion that i was feeling was happiness. Contented, warm, clean, fuzzy, happiness, and it feels much like the first time you put on a new, luscious, woolly winter bobble hat - the wool is fresh and smells of shop, the hat doesn't give you hat hair, because you're just trying it on for a bit. That's how i felt last night, like a brand new winter bobble hat, and it felt good.
In theworld of motherhood the phrase Number Two conjures up two main images I’m not sure which I prefer really...
The first is that wonderful delighted feeling you get when a whiff of faeces wafts your
way and you cry, in your most light, innocent voice, 'BABA, HAVE YOU DONE A
STINKY POO?'. Then, if like me, you are the mother of a tall for his age two
year old, after a few 'No’s, and laps round the living room which puff you out
and make you feel a slight twinge of guilt that you haven’t quite managed to kick your 4 delicious and cherished guilty pleasure smokes a day habit/been to the gym or yoga for a couple of months, you manage to heard Little Companion upstairs and the process of clearing up said number two commences.
At this point you may wonder if I aught really to be beginning to think about potty training - he is two after all, eating normal grown up food and therefore... Well, you get the point: it’s not exactly a pleasant thing, changing my beloved son's nappies. I remember when I was childless and my then, only mother friend would bring her son round who had a love for blueberries and would actually poo in blueberry (had a slightly purple tinge and tiny seeds throughout - fascinating), I would wrinkle my nose in a slightly disapproving manner, as she began the process of clearing up the soiled nappy. I would drop not so subtle hints and say things like 'should he still be in nappies??' and helpful things like, 'God, I don't know how you can do that...' if I could go back and slap my childless self I absolutely would -bitch that I was. I have since apologised for wearing my Judges Wig when I saw her all those times… She smiled wisely in that way that people who have older children than you do. (I’ve been practicing the smile on the two pregnants in my office. It's accompanied by my Knowing Hat, which looks rather like the wizard's hat from Fantasia’s The Sorcerer’s Apprentice.)
Blueberries!
In answer to the original question, Yes, I am thinking about potty training, and I have to say it fills me with dread, and completely exhausts me all at the same time. Having said that, it cheers me up that at some point Little Companion will most definitely go through the process of potty training - I mean we all learn at some point, don’t we?! And I will come out of the process with a few more of your wonderful English pounds in my pocket, with brilliant, really small and therefore cute, colourful and cartoon underpants to hang up, and a mood hat of smugness mixed in with relief and triumph. I believe this hat would look a little like the one that Napoleon used to wear. Joking aside (well, I say joking I really mean humorous truths aside) I will probably start potty training our little man in the spring and summer, so that he can run around naked - if he's anything like his dad this will bring joy unbounded, and we'll cross that bridge then. I will most probably talk more about this process when this bridge to the Napoleonic Smug Hat is in the processed of being trudged across...
Napoleonic Triumphant Smug Hat
The second Number Two I would like to address is the theoretical little person that is Baby Number Two. Baby Number Two is discussed almost from the point of the birth of your first child. People think it's funny/clever/a really good topic of conversation when two zombified parents of a 6 week old child, who can barely think past the next milk feed, who have perpetual bags under their eyes, manage to make it to the pub to see their friends. These friends have either made it through this phase already, or are yet to experience the prickly, fog inducing, low level exhaustion that only a new person in the world can bring its parents, and while stifling giggles, ask when exactly these new parents are planning to have the next one, nudge nudge, wink wink! The new parents tend to widen their eyes at the thought of it, smile weakly and mumble something about never again/not for a couple of years, while in your head, or at least in mine, anyway, you're really thinking, 'We're at it like rabbits bareback style already. Want to get pregnant again as quickly as possible. Think a 9 or 10 month age gap is perfect...'
In certain circles – one in particular that I had the pleasure of spending the intense 3 months before and 9 months after the birth of Little Companion with, where Mother Earth, natural birthing, (how bad it is to have) pain control during labour, breastfeeding, weaning, teat types, buggy types, baby massage, buggy fit, after pregnancy exercise, baby yoga, basically anything natural, expensive, guilt and paranoia inducing and baby orientatedis completely obsessed over and discussed to within an inch of its life, my experience is that these folks think they will accurately plan the age gap between Baby Number One and Baby Number two. To be fair to them, most of them do, successfully. I however have a slightly different outlook. I tried for, and really wanted a natural birth, but Little Companion was breach, so the hospital decided for me - I was to have a C-section. I tried to breastfeed, managed and am proud of what I believe to be a whapping 11 weeks of almost exclusive breastfeeding (with gallons of milk being expressed, eventually resulting in my milk supply depleting and causing me to have to do half breast, half powder, when I thought, what the hell kind of thing am I putting myself through here - You've had a very good run by lots of standards, so if you want to stop breastfeeding, give yourself a break, so I did) Little companion is healthy, happy and none the wiser that I didn’t make it to the (NCT members, look away now) 6 months breast feeding mark….
Little Companion, while being an absolutely delightful, most loved, welcome and
awesome addition to our family, was not exactly a planned addition, which in
some ways makes him all the more wonderful in my eyes.
SURPRISE!
While I was trying to fit in with the group of Earth Mothers/Diamond Encrusted Women described above, who most definitely would never have a surprise baby like I did, I thought to
myself, I’ll have Baby Number Two when Little Companion is about two and a half
to three and a half. I am a (sort of chaotic, yet hugely control freaky) planner
– just ask my ‘It will be fine’ husband (argh!! How will it be fine?! SHOW
ME!!?), I like to know what’s going to happen, and to be able to control things.
But when it comes to Baby Number Two, my experiences seem to be, planning too
much only bring stress – things don’t seem to go to plan when conceiving and raising
children, and stress is most definitely not what you need when you have a
toddler, a newish full time job, have just moved house, had a pretty rocky
Christmas in terms of marriage, an ever red bank balance, lots of wonderful
friends and family members who you are desperate to see regularly, a husband
who you love deeply, but rarely get to see before eleven on week nights due to
his job.
So number two, faeces or intimate details about when you next plan to conceive... not
sure which I’d pick, so maybe I’ll be donning my 'sitting on a fence’ hat:
think white, with long dangly bits at the sides, like the Stuarts, or Mormons.
