My beautiful, beloved baby daughter, Charlie Cinnamon (CC) was born ten days late on August 6th and has proceeded to change my life forever, as babies do. Despite the ear grabbing, caterwauling and rivers of green poo, the thing that has surprised me the most is what an easy baby Charlie turned out to be. It’s not at all what I was expecting. CC has slept through the night since she was 8 weeks old. We’ve not had to get up once in the night since then. Not. Once. The one ‘just you wait’ thing I heard about the most from other parents when I was pregnant was about the sleep deprivation. And CC spared me that. I LOVE HER. For so many reasons I love her… (but mostly for this).
This angelic start to Charlie’s life has recently got me thinking about what might be ahead. I mean, she is a Leo after all, and this could very well be the calm before the mother of all storms. So an idea for a book has taken hold and I think I might road test some of it on here. The book is written from the point of view of an eight month old baby called Cinnamon Cricket. She’s got sass, a dancing Grandmother, a Stephen King loving Auntie, and a mother who’s starting to get very confused. That’s about all you need to know I think. I give you, Cinnamon:
Stephen King says that when writing you shouldn’t use – or severely limit the use of – italics, capitals, similes, exclamation marks, and ellipsis-es. I love Stephen King as much as the next person, maybe more because my Auntie did build a bookcase just to house his entire collection, which means there’s Stephen Kingophilia in my bloodline, but I won’t be following those rules. Partly because I shout a lot, but mostly because those rules are dumb.
My name is Cinnamon Cricket. I love left boob, cake, and Tony Soprano. I was the last IVF embryo of the last try of the last seven years of trying in the last shriveling womb of my 42-year-old mother. This makes me very, VERY special and I need all the cake. Despite needing all the cake, I decided to come out of her hoary womb behaving perfectly. Mostly because I’m special and have a lot to accomplish so I don’t have time to fumble my way through the kid stuff. Latching, feeding, sleeping, rolling, grabbing? Kid stuff. I have things to do, places to name and people to conquer. There is simply no time for spit-up.
My Master Plan (MP) for world domination (WD) was going swimmingly until I met Grandma. I don’t have just any old Grandma, I have a dancing Grandma. DANCING. I’m not sure you’re getting the significance of this, but more of that later.
Depending on how you look at it, Grandma is a very bad influence on me. I’ve recently worked out that because Mum is old, Grandma is old too. But really old. This means when I’m 20 she’ll be barely recognisable as a human being. You’ve seen pictures from Pompeii? Yes. Because of this, Grandma is in even more of a hurry than I am to do stuff. Grandma is BUSY. She’s basically a blur. As well as being in a great big hurry, Grandma feels bad that she produced a daughter with a wibbly-wobbly-womb who has to be an old mother and can’t ever be another mother again. (Honestly, I can’t fathom what the big deal is there. I’M here and I’M special and there simply wouldn’t be enough cake to share with a sibling. Everyone in this family is so DRAMATIC!)
Anyway, because Grandma feels bad about Mum, she’s made me join The Revolution (TR). TR is teeming with irony. Basically, Grandma has incited [bribed with cake and dancing] me to misbehave so Mum can experience all that motherhood has to offer – seeing as I’m so perfect – please, keep up. So even though I don’t have time for the baser things in life, Grandma has – via TR – talked me into making sure Mum gets to experience me doing them anyway. Sometimes they’re attempts at half-measure and sometimes they’re world record attempts, performed with the zest of the Royal Shakespearian company on Ritalin, attached to IV drips of red creaming soda. It just depends on how much cake Grandma has promised and which boob I was subjected to prior.
When I was young (I’m currently eight months old so quite worldly-wise, obviously, pft) boobs were my all and everything. The first thing I did after I was born, apart from breathing (uh-mazing) and telling the pediatrician in the theatre to get the hell away from me, was search for boob. But now I’m older and eat steak and sultanas – sometimes simultaneously and mostly exclusively for weeks on end – my feelings for boob have become more complicated. This is mostly due to Grandma and TR.
Prior to Grandma and TR I just quietly lay on Mum’s lap and happily and contentedly sucked the living life-force out of whichever boob she presented to me. So efficient was I at draining those puppies that at each feed they started at E cups and ended up Bs. Yup. Once TR was in full swing however, Grandma informed me that refusing one boob is completely acceptable behaviour for a small baby and she encouraged me to pick a favourite… and then swap it randomly for the other one. I can’t even begin to tell you how much fun this is!!
Stay tuned for the next instalment of Cinnamon Cricket’s fantastical adventures…