The twelve days of Kidmas

On the first day of Christmas my baby gave to me
A giant poonami

On the second day of Christmas my baby gave to me
Two AWOL socks
And a giant poonami

On the third day of Christmas my baby gave to me
Three tantrums
Two AWOL socks
And a giant poonami

On the fourth day of Christmas my baby gave to me
Four squitty turds
Three tantrums
Two AWOL socks
And a giant poonami

On the fifth day of Christmas my baby gave to me
Five hours' sleep
Four squitty turds
Three tantrums
Two AWOL socks
And a giant poonami

On the sixth day of Christmas my baby gave to me
Six tepid coffees
Five hours' sleep
Four squitty turds
Three tantrums
Two AWOL socks
And a giant poonami

On the seventh day of Christmas my baby gave to me
Seven loads of laundry
Six tepid coffees
Five hours' sleep
Four squitty turds
Three tantrums
Two AWOL socks
And a giant poonami

On the eighth day of Christmas my baby gave to me
Eight milky muslins
Seven loads of laundry
Six tepid coffees
Five hours' sleep
Four squitty turds
Three tantrums
Two AWOL socks
And a giant poonami

On the ninth day of Christmas my baby gave to me
Nine goofy giggles
Eight milky muslins
Seven loads of laundry
Six tepid coffees
Five hours' sleep
Four squitty turds
Three tantrums
Two AWOL socks
And a giant poonami

On the tenth day of Christmas my baby gave to me
Ten sticky fingers
Nine goofy giggles
Eight milky muslins
Seven loads of laundry
Six tepid coffees
Five hours' sleep
Four squitty turds
Three tantrums
Two AWOL socks
And a giant poonami

On the eleventh day of Christmas my baby gave to me
Eleven minutes' me-time
Ten sticky fingers
Nine goofy giggles
Eight milky muslins
Seven loads of laundry
Six tepid coffees
Five hours' sleep
Four squitty turds
Three tantrums
Two AWOL socks
And a giant poonami

On the twelfth day of Christmas my baby gave to me
Twelve precious cuddles
Eleven minutes' me-time
Ten sticky fingers
Nine goofy giggles
Eight milky muslins
Seven loads of laundry
Six tepid coffees
Five hours' sleep
Four squitty turds
Three tantrums
Two AWOL socks
And a giant poonami

Prams and prejudice

Like all good hypocrites, I'm about to have a healthy rant about something which I was guilty of myself up until only recently.

Before little miss graced us with her presence, I had little time for the pram-pushing posse of parents with an uncanny knack for blocking aisles, doorways and pavements when I needed to get somewhere.  My intolerance probably stems from seven years of London life, where I was one of the 'elbows up' brigade who thought Oxford Street needed a fast lane, who had a wide portfolio of tut sounds reserved for shuffling tourists and teenagers and who was always running late, half thanks to TFL and half thanks to my love affair with the snooze button.

Becoming a mother changed everything.  Suddenly I find myself walking in the sensible shoes of those tired pavement trudgers trying to manoeuvre unwieldy vehicles down uneven streets littered with obstacles and tutting pedestrians.

In the past few months, I've nearly up-ended my precious cargo over a particularly problematic kerb, abandoned shopping because trying to manoeuvre down crowded aisles was annoying me as much as fellow shoppers, and had to do about-turns on pavements rendered impassable by vans or wheelie bins.  I've gone for lunch where they seated seven of us, each with a pram, on the mezzanine level, meaning we each had to stand sheepishly at the top of three steps waiting for staff to help us get back down again when it was time to leave.  I haven't even entertained the idea of taking a train anywhere, for fear that my peculiarly British trait of not wanting to ask for help will mean little miss and I are stranded at the stairs-only station all afternoon while my pleading looks inevitably end up looking more like resting bitch face.

Husband and I didn't really bring practicality into researching prams.  We reasoned that living in suburbia rather than the Serengeti meant we didn't need a zippy little all-terrain number, and ended up with a beautiful but bulky Italian model.  While the pram's perfectly serviceable, I regret now that we were sucked in by its impossibly chic promo video (glamorous madre in heels, padre in a sharp suit) and detachable coffee cup holder (which, in a bitter twist, doesn't even accommodate my cappuccinos) rather than considering whether it was up to the job of navigating clogged pavements, muddy parks and country roads.

So next time you find yourself tutting as you find your festive shopping put on hold by a struggling mother laden down with a squawking infant and a bevy of bags, please remember, when you become a pram-pusher, the world is no longer your oyster but an obstacle course.  I tell myself things will be different once little miss starts walking, but that's probably the festive delusion setting in!

Baby, I'm amazed

It's almost a year to the day since we found out that you were on your way, and that I'd be spending the festive season fooling no-one with my lame excuses for sobriety.  Your frantic arrival in July, three weeks earlier and a pound lighter than expected, turned our world upside down and shook it vigorously like a vibrant, sparkling snowglobe.  We're counting down to Christmas this year far worse off in terms of money, free time and sleep (I even need to schedule in time to cut my own toenails these days), but the giddy excitement that we're sharing it with the newest, cutest addition to our little family more than makes up for this.

In the first few weeks after welcoming you into the world, we quickly realised we had a little diva on our hands, with a fussy outlook, insatiable demands and a powerful, neighbour-bothering pair of lungs.  We decided that our little handful had small baby syndrome, and quite frankly, though you've almost tripled in weight since birth, you still do.  But I marvel every day at the speed at which you're learning and growing, the complex little personality emerging, how beautiful you're becoming.

There have been dark moments, of course.  The three threatened miscarriages which dominated the first half of my second trimester of pregnancy, each heavier and with a bleaker prognosis than the previous one.  Watching my tiny daughter trying to fight off an infection which laid her low at only two weeks old.  My own early episodes of weakness when I agonised over whether I knew what I was doing, if I would ever get a decent sleep again, when you would ever give us a sign that you felt we were up to the job and making you happy.

I needn't have worried on the last point.  Since you started rewarding our hamfisted but well-meant parenting efforts with gorgeous gurgles and smiles, I've realised that we're getting it right at least some of the time, and that despite being tiny, you can match the infinite amount of love we have for you.  I've seen snippets of a glorious, goofy sense of humour emerging, and even if you're the only person out there who finds mummy funny and appreciates my singing, amen to that.

This Christmas, I won't be stumbling up a snowy drive and fumbling for house keys at 4am after a long, boozy tour of High Wycombe's watering holes, and I won't be struggling to keep my Christmas lunch down as a result.  I probably will be up at 4am, for completely different reasons, and I'll be hoping you keep your lunch down so that it doesn't decorate that gorgeous but utterly impractical tartan frock I'm planning to dress you in.  You'll be too young to fully appreciate it, but we want to fill your Christmas with cuddles, sparkles and special moments, whilst probably palming you off on your extended family for an hour or two so that mummy can get a mulled wine and festive nap in.

This post may be an unashamed slice of soppiness, but it's nearly Christmas and, well, you're wonderful.  Thank you for enriching our lives, little miss, all our love, and happy Christmas.