It’s been a hot day, a real scorcher, or scorch-ah, depending on where you’re from. That Friday night buzz is in the air. I think of the people in the world having after work drinks, the couples and friends getting ready for a night out, ladies putting on cool breezy dresses, and amping up the make up just a bit. Those lazing at the beaches and parks with no preoccupations about wake up time tomorrow.
Hubby leaves for night shift. Sausage wakes from a late afternoon nap crabby and in need of some cool watermelon. She’s hydrated, sticky and has pink-stained her clothes. I need to get us out of the house but it’s not quite walking weather yet – my northern Canadian upbringing makes me a bit precious when it gets over 35 above.
I drive us to the library for a quick exchange of books a couple of weeks overdue thanks to my inability to get anything done or returned on time in this new mommy-state. We revel in the building’s air con and darling cries when I put her back in the car.
I am feeling Friday night wild and think it’s perfect Sauv Blanc weather. A quick stop into the bottle shop gives her a chance to wave and be a goof ball with a couple customers and the checkout dude. Happily one of my faves is on sale. I look forward to a drink once she’s in bed.
We get home and take our positions, me at the stove semi-anxiously hoping she will eat what I’m preparing, her happily snugged into the corner working her way through the Tupperware and assorted “safe” packages on the bottom two shelves of the pantry. Playing with lids, eating a stale corn chip, and generously handing me some onion skin that I toss in the bin.
Dinner almost ready, girlie is getting excited and irritated pressing her little paws onto the just cleaned patio window. I gaze out and realise that all of her birdie friends are on the grass. The weather is too perfect. What a silly waste of a perfect night. Her high chair and placemat are repositioned at the patio table, smattered with this evening’s selection of rice, peas and pan-fried Rankin cod coated in breadcrumbs and fresh dill.
I was going to eat dinner solo this evening after she had gone to bed. But she’s onto something. Al fresco right now is good. She is at her best outdoors. I am so happy she has this affinity, there are so many beautiful places that we want to show her.
I munch on my salad and fish and sip the plonk I couldn’t resist pouring. She shovels peas and rice and fish into her mouth, grunting for her sippy cup and tossing it onto the ground when she’s quenched. I feel as though I have succeeded in getting her to eat; the rice is a new thing and she rarely eats meat or fish so I’m pleased. Truthfully it’s her; I fumble and sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.
Relaxed that she’s getting some non-fruit nourishment into her body, I contemplate my week. Some highlights include that I taught a vinyasa class this week. I felt the old me returning; whilst teaching I felt a surge of other sequences popping into my head, little creative ideas germinating. I came to life, the teaching will be back when it’s right.
I managed to get to the gym once this week, finally felt well enough for it. I pulled some very wrinkled gear out of the drawer and opted to try one of the new toning classes where a physiologically impeccable instructor complained about her bulges and encouraged us to try on our bikinis for more motivation. I resisted the urge to approach her after class and mention that perhaps some of us were new moms, annoyed when a supposed “health” professional puts her Body Dysmorphic Disorder onto students.
A house cleaner has been found and I’m hoping we can work out a fortnightly arrangement so I can focus on le job, girlie, writing, fitness. This blog must be magical! What shall I ask for next? Lose the last ten pounds? Get the perfect yoga teaching opportunity? Publish? Hollywood blockbuster? World peace?
Monumental highlight would be this morning’s 8:30 sleep in. I cannot think of when this last happened but it was a precious gift. Darling lying on her side sweetly lalala-ing to Peggy Piggy in her cot when I stumbled into her room, stunned but so full of appreciation.
And then the blueberry monster arises, plucking me from my contemplation of good fortune. Oh the little turd, she is a blueberry fiend. Truthfully we’ve had many a purple-poo nappies that even smell quite nice. I’ve eaten hardly any berries this year; they are a number one reliable food for her, a precious resource.
Bored with the peas, fish and rice, she starts pointing and half humming, half growling towards the bush. This stops once the blueberries are set on the placemat, her pincer grip perfected as she plops the berries into her mouth one after the other in speedy succession.
We go through a couple rounds of this routine before I tell her there are no ripe berries left on the bush. I lift her out of the chair and she sees her wagon, another point, hum, growl. The neighbourhood wagon-ride is cut short with the tired cries, and we head inside for her bath and bottle, her legs gripping my waist, another Friday night almost over as we slip through the door.