Creases

Once, at the suggestion of @SAHDandproud, I didn’t bother ironing my whole shirt. I just did the front of it and kept my suit jacket on.

That was the most action my iron had seen in quite some time. Slovenliness thy name is Lewis.

I once worked with a woman who ironed EVERY item of clothing. Including socks. She also ironed her towels and tea towels. That’s weird isn’t it? Or is it normal?

Creases do not usually bother me. Why would I want to spend lots of time ironing things when they only get creased again as soon as I put them on? The time I would spend ironing can be redistributed, used for things I want to do. Like spouting inanities on Twitter, bemoaning the increased price of a Freddo bar or wondering what happened to white dog poo.

Creases in clothes I can live with. It’s the creases in Cam which I am finding concerning.

He’s a chubby little baby. His thighs are enormous. His face has a surplus of chin. At last count there were six of them, nestling under his jaw. I assume he still has the neck we used to see, but I can’t be certain he hasn’t sold it on eBay without telling us.

With chub comes creases. They’re like a free gift. Like the ones you used to get in cereal boxes. Actually, you still do get them, they’re just rubbish now.

“Free bag sealing clip in every pack”

Well, woo and hoo. I bet all the kids are swapping their bag sealing clips in the playgrounds of the nation, desperate to collect all six. That or surreptitiously throwing them in the bin, while simultaneously developing a deep seated loathing of Kelloggs.

Anyway, yes, free creases with your fat.

Trouble is, nestled within those creases is angry looking red skin, flakes of scrot and general fluffy miscellany. All things which hide away from us, quietly festering. Especially in this uncharacteristically warm weather we’re having now. I dread to think what manner of microbial beasties could be living out a life of sweaty luxury in the soft folds of my son’s blubber.

Google suggests we are not alone in having a creasy baby. Others describe similar situations for their own offspring. In bad cases the folds can apparently emit a smell similar to a strong cheese.

Ack.

Nasty.

What, I ask of you, is the solution?

Removing the creases is not it: he is too small for even the tiniest of gym equipment, and I’m pretty sure ironing a baby is likely to get me a custodial sentence.

Treatment then. Last night we applied Sudocrem to the sore looking area. Will the magic cream help, or simply act as the agar jelly to The Creature’s Petri dish? If he smells of Gorgonzola this evening I will know the answer.

As ever, your suggestions are both welcome and appreciated, thanks for reading.

Responsibility

So, here's the thing.  I'm a bit rubbish at being a grown up.  Usually I can do a decent job of ignoring the fact that I'm basically an overgrown ten year old.  That sort of denial comes easily when you're rubbish at being a grown up.  It's all conveniently circular and self perpetuating.

I've been on a training course in Cardiff this week, for my job.  I sit in the room, I look like I'm listening and taking in the information which the trainer is throwing at me.  But, really, in the morning I'm thinking about what the buffet lunch will consist of (sandwiches, cold chicken drumsticks, soggy mini pancake rolls, a selection of chopped up stuff to dip in pureed other stuff) and in the afternoon I'm thinking about how late I can have a cup of tea and still complete the ninety minute drive home without needing a wee break.  Across the entirety of the day there are underlying thoughts of the imminent baby, plus plans for the weekend, plus what is my favourite cheese.

I'm not loving the training course.

But it has brought me back to Cardiff, the city where I studied for my degree.  Yesterday it also became the city where I parked my car and couldn't find it again, which is a less endearing feature.

Students, being all studenty.  They were probably drunk.

When I was walking back to my car today (parked in a road which I wouldn't forget this time) I was looking at all the current students milling around.  I don't envy them, despite their fresh faces, "statement" clothing and air of yet-to-be-realised potential.  Because they're going to come out of university with a degree (probably), a raging hangover (almost definitely) and roughly three times the amount of debt I accrued while studying (maybe, I don't pretend to know their actual financial situation).

It was as I realised how much debt they'd be in that I had a horrible thought: in eighteen years time I will have an eighteen year old.  My eighteen year old will probably want to go to university.  I will want my eighteen year old to go to university.  But I will not want my eighteen year old to become a twenty-one year old saddled with masses of debt.   Shit it.  That means I'll want to help him out, give him cash to waste on booze, weed and all the other trappings of studentdom.

BUT I HAVE NO CASH.  Precisely because I am an overgrown ten year old who sits in training courses and thinks about whether chocolate and Philadelphia should ever be mixed (still unresolved) I am to the corporate ladder as a greased sloth is to, well, anything it tries to climb.

So, what to do?  Because I'm fairly sure there are some costs associated to having a child prior to their enrolment at university, so I don't have an eighteen year window in which to win the lottery (haven't checked my tickets from Saturday yet though!)

I know money's not everything by the way, I'm more using it as an example of my responsibilities.  There are others, many, many others.  But this has already got quite long, and I should go to bed, to make sure my mind is fresh, sharp, ready to think about the important issues of tomorrow.  Like whether a HobNob is better than a Digestive.