1.  Bathtime

2.  Second and third steps

3.  Happy birthday

I had a long bath this morning while The Man looked after the boys.  I’m suffering from stopping breastfeeding - clumps of concrete have formed and things are very tender.  I was pushing Son 1 aged 4y 1m and Son 2 aged 13m away from cuddles this morning because it’s too painful when they bash my chest.  So I had the bath to myself and things seemed to get better.  Although I’m very fluey now and more concrete lumps have formed.  Hopefully it’s just a cold and not mastitis, which I had last time round when I stopped.

Granny and Granddad arrived, and Son 2 demonstrated sharp timing by standing on request, with a big smile on his face, and then tottering forwards, right left right left… Twice.  He had a bit more control over it this time.  It was nice that The Man saw him do it too.  I think Granddad is hoping Son 2 will walk properly during their week down.  Son 1 and Son 2 did some drum and keyboard solos.  Granny was very enthusiastic, not quite sure about Granddad.  Son 1 was very loud indeed.

The Dover Sole tea was a success.  I did home made chips, parsley sauce and peas, and left Granny to deal with the fish.  Son 2 wolfed it and ate three helpings of sauce.  Son 1 stuffed himself with chips and finally ate some fish and parsley sauce when he saw Son 2 demolishing his.  He just about managed to stay at the table for the meal, which is a real achievement for him.  Son 1 chose Granny a Colin The Caterpillar cake from M and S, we sang Happy Birthday, Son 1 blew the candles out.  Granny opened her presents and cards.  Son 2 was hanging with tiredness because of the clock change. 

1.  Family Lunch

2.  The Band

3.   The Pub

Granny and Granddad are arriving tomorrow, so we all went into The Town to get some things we needed.  Wrapping paper, cards, and something for a meal.  We bought Dover Sole from the fishmongers.  Granny can cook.  I had lunch for Son 2 aged 13m, so we stopped off in a cafe to give it to him.  Got Son 1 aged 4y 1m some chips… ordered ourselves a snack… and had a really nice impromptu family lunch.  Son 2 wouldn’t eat his jarred mush as soon as he clapped eyes on the chips.  He’s using a spoon now.  Not always the right way up, not always the right end in the food, and mostly using long swinging arcs that splat the food on the table, on his clothes or on his forehead.  But he’s using a spoon now.

At home Son 1 played his drum kit, Son 2 played keyboards, The Man played Argos toy electric guitar and I was the singer.  Son 2 lurched for the microphone on the toy keyboard  “Ahhhhhh” he sang, “Ahhhhhhhhhhhh.”  Son 1 banged his drumsticks together “One Two Three, hit it.”  We devised a running order for Granny and Granddad’s visit.  “When Rock Was Young,” “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,” “Give a Dog a Bone.” 

I went out with the Wednesday mums.  A very nice evening, all three of us on red wine. A mistake, but I’m still doing daft things because at last I’m not breastfeeding or pregnant.  We had a boat crew arrive - the skipper sat down with us, his crew were between our table and the bar.  One Mother chatted to him, I chatted to the stewardess.  Leaving for the Caribbean on Monday.  They wandered off.  We carried on drinking and talking and talking and drinking.  Then a man came over and said could he buy us ladies a drink.  Oh go on then, a small red wine, we said.  Large glasses arrived.  But not the chap who bought them.  We had to leave them because we couldn’t drink them fast enough before the pub shut.  Just one of those weird evenings - the three of us were absolutely self-contained and weren’t interacting with the rest of the pub in any way.  We still got it girls.   

1.  A Quiet Coffee

2.  Bird Park Revisited

3.  Bedtime

Downstairs with Son 2 aged 13m at 0545 to get him some milk.  A starfish hand stretched out to the fruit bowl.  Two old apples and an ancient lemon.  I made a big pot of coffee, bacterio yoghurtie thing for Son 2 aged 4 (no pineapple juice,) and snacks for them both.  Upstairs we all read a big photo baby book - Son 2 likes sitting looking at pictures while we tell him what they are.  And occasionally joins in by poking a soft baby finger at a picture with an “uh,” making Son 1 and me cry out “peas!” excitedly.  Son 1 went to the loo, Son 2 followed him.  I could hear Son 1 laughing madly, but no sound from Son 2.  I settled back on a big pillow, savouring my coffee.  They were in the bathroom, so if they were messy it would be easy to clear up.  There was plenty of entertainment for Son 2.  They were safe.  And Son 2 wasn’t squealing like a stuck pig, so Son 1 was clearly keeping his hands to himself.  He came in again, giggling. “Come and see.  We’re up to mischief.” An empty loo roll holder.  Son 2 had unravelled it, Son 1 had stuffed many, many yards of loo paper into a yellow wicker basket.

Today’s trip was the Bird Park.  I took bags of change from Son 1’s money boxes and paid for everything in coppers and 5ps.   Both boys loved it.  Son 2 couldn’t get enough of the ball pool. “If you’re happy and you know it, click your balls,” we sang, smiling happily and clicking, one in each hand.  He climbed, he went down the slide, he laughed.  Son 1 still likes the toddler area best.  There are very high, very steep slides at the Bird Park for older children and younger (than me) parents.  Son 1 and I stood at the top of one, peering down.  A boy and his father jumped off.  “You do it, Mummy” said Son 1.  “You do it,” I replied. ” I can’t. I’m too scared.”  I was scared.  But I did it anyway.  Because you should push through your fears to see what’s on the other side.   I climbed up over and down I dropped, crashing into the ball pool at the bottom, buried two layers.  I pushed my way out.  “Do It Again!” came the instruction from the top.   I Did It Again.

I couldn’t get Son 2 to sleep tonight.  I went up with the boys at 1820. I got down at 2015.  And he woke again within 20 minutes. We have now done four days without a breastfeed.

1.   Battle

2.  Festival

3.  Party

There is another Festival in the Town.  The Plan was to celebrate stopping breastfeeding with champagne in The Square.   We dawdled and dilly-dallied over getting up.  Son 2 aged 13m was yawning, eye-rubbing, high-pitched shrieking and falling over every three minutes.  I got the hint and put him back to bed. Son 1 aged 4 had Mummy Time.  Playing on CBeebies on the computer.  And then out came The Pirates.  I’m ambivalent about Pirates.  My tens of thousands of regular readers will know that Son 1 first became enchanted with Pirates in Feb 2007, aged 2y 5m.  There was a Pirates 3rd birthday. A Peter Pan 4th birthday.  I was kinda hoping that maybe somehow Power Rangers or Spider Man or dinosaurs would move in at 4+. But then I wasn’t. Because everything we have is Pirates.  And, bored out of my tree as I am, I will miss them.  Like the breastfeeding.  So.  The Pirates were going to raid the new treasure chest.  But… exciting new twist… a Power Ranger Megatroyd was defending it.

We trogged down to the Festival.  It was packed, and we were hugely popular, with our Big Pram and rickety MacLaren.  We’d told Son 1 he could paint shells, like he did last year, and the year before.  He wanted his shells, I wanted my champagne, The Man wanted seafood.  Son 1 and I fought our way to shell-painting, and he was happy.  The Man got seafood, stuck a bottle of English sparkling white in the back of the Big Pram and shoe-horned it in the Marquee.  Son 1 painted earnestly, Son 2 ate the glitter pens and painted his own shell.  My plastic glass of bubbles stood on the table in front of the pre-schoolers. We met friends. The children played.  They all went on the bouncy castle, and Son 2 loved it, trying to dive-bomb it afterwards when I was taking him for a nappy change.  I shopped and bought cut-price Usbourne  books and  a birthday present for Granny.     

Son 2 spotted there was something missing.  There was an Office retirement party which I had to go to.  It was really lovely.  One colleague was retiring, one colleague - someone I’ve worked with for 17 years - was leaving to become a childminder.  Everyone came, so there was much reminiscing, pouring over old photos and laughing.  I took Son 2’s great babyring for the childminding colleague.  One of those we-could-get-thirty-quid-on-ebay-or-the-local-paper-oh-you-have-it-I-hope-it’s-useful decisions. It was a great do, and I got back way after midnight.  We bought the retiring colleague a star.       

1.  Bananas in Pyjamas

2.  Third Time Lucky

3.  The Last Breastfeed

Last night I stuck my hand in my pyjama drawer and found a designer pair from the BC days.  Cream.  Cotton/microfibre mix. Soft.  Lace at wrists and ankles.  This morning I sat in my glam nightwear propped up on pillows with Son 1 aged 4 and Son 2 aged 13m reading baby books.   Son 1 went to the loo, Son 2, who’d kicked off his pyjama bottoms, crawled after him.  I sipped my coffee. This is great, I thought.  I can’t believe I haven’t worn these lovely pyjamas for more than four years.  Son 1 called from the bathroom: “Son 2’s done a poo!”  And then: “And it’s all down his leg!” Son 2 crawled back into the bedroom, his nappy hanging off, leaving a great turd on the floor.  I picked him up and took him to the changing mat. He thrust his hands down to his willy and coated them.  I held him upright, him crying indignantly, his legs pedalling furiously in the air, and called to The Man. “I need help here.”  “I’m clearing this up. ” “I need help.” “In a minute.”  At last, The Man finished with the floor problem.  By which time Son 2 had pedalled squashy brown flecks onto my lace, my buttons, my sleeves, my shoulder and my stomach. I looked like I’d been shot by a paint gun filled with poo.  All over my beautiful, beautiful pyjamas.     

I made another appointment for Son 1 at the doctor’s, The Man took him up.  Son 1 has an ear infection and needs antibiotics.  Earache. Moaning about his ear.  Sensitive to touch. And waking screaming and feverish, night after night.  This is of course a positive blog.  But.  I believed the doctor who looked in his ears on Tuesday and said there was nothing wrong.  And, having heaved him all the way up there yesterday, I would have liked the Duty Doctor to ring back, as promised.   Son 1 wasn’t well enough to go to his friend’s party.  Looking on the bright side, we have now established that he only hollers at night when there is indeed something wrong.

I fed Son 2 for the last time tonight.  I’ve reduced the lengths of the feeds; I’m offering him milk from his cup.  I couldn’t really see him feeding in the gloom, and wondered vaguely when I last watched him.  Guilt - I know he still loves it, and he’s finally settled down to find the last feed of the day comforting.  Dread - really not looking forward to tomorrow night.  I hope it’s not hard for him.  Regret - bye bye babyhood.  Grief - no more little babies for me.   Pride - I did it, even though it was very, very hard. And I know in a week’s time we will both be fine.    Relief, maybe. I’ve picked a day, and I’m sticking with it.