The Tall Guy just got some bad news. He got the diabeetus.
It's come as a bit of a surprise, because in addition to being The Tall Guy, he is also The Thin Guy, The Fit And Active Guy, and The Hates Sweet Things Guy. As you can imagine, he is a mite irked.
"I can't eat condensed milk", he said mournfully, as we leafed through the multitude of "So, Your Pancreas Don't Work Too Good" literature provided by his kindly healthcare provider.
"And I can't have beer. Or Coke. Or Tim Tams. I never even tried those Rum and Raisin Tim Tams!"
"Uhhh.....Tall Guy? You never had that stuff anyway! You don't even like beer!"
"But now I'm not allowed it You try not being allowed to eat things!!!"
Yesss.....that would be called "Pregnancy", dear.
In some ways it would almost be easier if he was overweight, and we did eat a twoallbeefpattiesspecialsaucelettucecheesepicklesonionsonasesameseedbun kind of diet. It would mean that there would be some easy changes he could make to do what everyone agrees is the golden shining miracle for type 2 diabetes - lose weight.
As it is, I'm not sure there would be much left of him if he did lose weight. So we're going to concentrate on building up muscle, a low GI/GL diet, and on him not catching me when I sneak a Jet Plane from the hidden secret stash.
So it seems the Tall Guy has another new baby. And, well, so do I. Princess Pugsley Snufflepig is now nearly 6 months old, and is (as all parents are wont to declare), truly wonderful.
But.
Sleep has become a legend, whispered of in hushed voices around the coffee table at the weekly mother's group meeting.
Breastfeeding made me want to go back to the nice hospital where all the lovely people kept offering me drugs in labour, and tell them I'd changed my mind about this whole "natural" thing, and after all doesn't morphine come from poppies, and they're pretty natural aren't they? And what's a little drug diversion between friends?
But we persevered, and everything healed and its a lovely bonding experience and hopefully Pugsley's first words won't be the fuckfuckfuckouchfuckfuck she heard chanted through the first nights of her life.
My beautiful, colourful, and structured pre-baby clothes lie abandoned in an attic, and I schlump around draped in various items which can only be described as "black" and "stretchy". Black may be flattering for the figure (and lord knows my figure could do with a little flattering), but it does not hide the byproduct of one of Pugsley's more productive pastimes - reflux. You know those ads? For, I don't know, coffee or microwaves or the Ford Yaris or something? The ones where the new dad goes into the office all yawny and wearing the Daddy Badge - the teensy tiny splodge of baby puke on the shoulder? Yes? My question - did his wife give birth to a baby bird?? If those ads showed the Tall Guy, there would be white splodges down his back to his shoes, and a squelchy noise as he walked. This probably would not sell coffee, or microwaves, or even the Ford Yaris. It might sell Durex condoms instead
But, then again -
This baby is rolling and reaching and stretching and grabbing and yodelling and tasting and splashing and seeing the world with intense concentration and I am having to stop and say - wow, lemons really are pretty damn amazing, whether its your first taste or your five hundredth. A trip to the zoo made me look at ostriches and giraffes as the wonders of long stretchy necks that they really are. Wind and trees and even rain is really really cool stuff.
So this cynic had a baby. I think the baby broke the cynic.
