See no evil, hear no evil - guest blogger Jeremy Jones

I find myself adoptng this pose more and more often.......

11 weeks old - or Rufus goes scrumping

Aunty Rachel likes riding bikes. She and Pops ride their bikes all over the place, doing crazy long distances at stupid o'clock in the morning. They just bought new racing road bikes. Last weekend Aunty Rachel rode hers into the back of a parked car and went straight through its back windscreen. Very luckily she was wearing a helmet and cycling goggles. According to those in the know this type of accident happens a lot. Poor Aunty Rach is a bit battered and bruised - she has stitches in her chin and right eyebrow, a graze on her nose, cuts on her forehead, a bruised arm and one hell of a headache. She is not a happy Aunty. So on Tuesday Rufus and I went to cheer her up.

He announced his arrival by presenting her with a poo that had been another six days in the making(!) - she thought it was hilarious. Then we went for a walk. I love this time of year - cool and crisp and sunny, hedgerows and trees full of things to pick. If you're clever you never go anywhere without a bag. With Master Jones hitched up in his sling we found ourselves in a thicket of trees, we wound through the tiny paths trying to stop his legs from being stung by stingers or snagged by brambles - difficult when he won't stop waving them around with excitement - he does love a good tree.

Then lo and behold the path opened out into a grassy little orchard. The trees were literally dripping with apples and plums. Over ripe fruits littered the ground giving off that lovely heady boozy smell a mixture of damp grass and fruit sugars fermenting. We assessed the situation - the grass is very over grown, there's an abandoned tractor in the corner, there's an enormous amount of fruit going to waste. It's clearly not public countryside - but at the same time it doesn't appear to be a money making orchard. Surely the crime is not in filling a Tesco bag with Damsons and a rucksac with apples? No the true crime is allowing all that glorious fruit go to waste.

Despite this judgement we get to picking tentatively, talking in whispers and fearing discovery. I pick with one hand, all the while trying to keep a very excited 11 week old baby quiet. I will him not to grizzle and draw attention to us. I have visions of trying to run from a farmer wielding a shot gun and a grumpy old sheepdog without falling over and crushing Rufus in the process. Luckily he decides that now would be a good time for a nap. Or perhaps he realises that some sort of minor crime is being committed and that if he's asleep he can plead innocence in the dock and get off as a mere accessory.

We stagger home under the weight of the "borrowed" fruit and decide that if we're caught we'll offer to make them a pie or a jar of jam. I used my spoils to make a damson crumble the next day. I proudly serve it to Mr Jones and then watch as he winces at the first spoonful. I taste mine - I didn't put enough sugar in the fruit - it's the kind of sharp that makes your jaw ache and your bum clench. I battle on through with the help of custard and a bit more sugar - Mr Jones eats the oaty crumbly topping and leaves the fruit. Rubbish.

In other news this week - Rufus has done a bit more rolling, has improved his sleep pattern to feeding at 1pm ish and then again at about 5.30/6am - hurrah (if only he didn't keep rousing himself at 11.30pm and 4am too - but beggars can't be choosers - we're getting there). Oh and we went to Baby Beans - which involves a lot of very twee singing and dancing that is soooooo not me. Rufus kept looking at me with one eyebrow raised as I sung silly songs to him and made him dance - "Mummy - what on earth are you doing?". Then he was sick and halfway through - despite the noise of rattles, 11 other babies, their singing mums and a very smiley instructor chirping away - he fell into a deep sleep - as if to say - "hmmmm not sure this is really for me." Bless him - we'll try again next week.

Technical glitch resolved - however the little man is now a fan of waving his arms about so getting good pics is very tricky!

10 weeks old - or Poogate

When you have a baby you suddenly become obsessed with poos (well to be honest I've always been a bit obsessed with poos - I love a good chat about bowel habits - so if you think toilet humour is quite foul and get a bit squeamish around all things gut orientated it's perhaps best if you move along now to another blog - perhaps one that talks about food or other frivolities - this post will be all about poo).

Babies poo a lot - at least in the beginning - after practically every feed they present you with a full nappy. It becomes a bit tiresome after a while, although I still delight in the noise of it all, it makes me giggle. However during the earlier part of this week Master Jones seemed to have had enough of pooing. He's gone one or two or occassionally three days without one in the past but this week we got to four and then five.

It became the topic of every conversation. There were texts and emails being fired across the country enquiring after the elusive poo. The styles varied from the inquisitive - "Any poo yet?", the slightly coy (probably from someone who isn't really into toilet humour but feels they must be polite and enquire) "has he been?, to the slightly rude "Hey, is your baby still full of S*&t?" and on day six - simply - "poo?"

Yes day six! On day five I called the health visitor. "Erm it's about Rufus - you see he hasn't done a poo for five days now, he's a bit grumpy, should I be doing something."

"Right dear," says she in a slightly -'oh another neurotic first time mum' tone of voice. "Are you breast feeding? They can go up to two weeks without doing one."

"Two weeks!!!! He'll explode."

"Just feed him for England, massage his tummy when he's calm, give him warm baths to help him relax and keep him upright in a sling close to you. If he still hasn't gone after seven days take him to the doctors."

So I duly started feeding him every two hours. I tried massaging his tummy, he was not amused. He grizzled through his baths and was generally a very grumpy little man. So focused had I become on the poo that I even found myself talking to his tummy post feed asking Mr Poo to come on out and see us! Nothing seemed to work. I was beginning to wonder where exactly on earth six days worth of poo was residing in such a small being when it happened.....

I gave up feeding for England and went back to our three hourly routine. He obviously felt like he was being starved and settled in for a marathon mid-morning snack. Then I got that unmistakable waft of dirty nappy. My sister says they smell like ham, but to me they smell like a microwave two days after you've made yourself some of that delicious buttery popcorn. A kind of rancid, sweet, buttery stench that lingers.

Master Jones is the king of the stealth poo - they creep up on you unannounced and assault your nostrils. This one could offend my nose all it liked - I've never been so happy about a poo in my life. I danced a little jig of glee up the stairs.

I opened the nappy and couldn't help but feel disappointed - such as small amount of poo for such a long time. My dismay didn't last for long. All of a sudden there was poo oozing out everywhere. I tried to contain it in the nappy but it couldn't take it, this was the poo to top all poos.

The clean up operation was immense and involved half a pack of wet wipes, a quarter of a box of tissues, a towel and a bin liner. It was really a two man job. My hands were covered, Rufus seemed determined to dunk his feet in the carnage and threatened to leave poo prints on my top. But by some miracle I managed to keep both of our outfits clean - his because it was up around his neck - and mine because I was doing all of this with my body on the opposite side of the room to my arms!

Clean nappy on, I got him dressed again and popped him under his mobile to recover with a good kick. I dealt with the fall out, washed my hands and went to sit down to watch him giggle at Malcolm - the pink monkey with the black and white striped legs. But there it was again - that popcorn smell. I unpoppered his trouser leg and peeked into his nappy - more poo. This time the whole thing was full to bursting and I'd only just caught it in time. It kept on coming - I gave up with the wipes and fully sacrificed the towel that had taken a hit in the last onslaught. I waited a full five minutes, holding his feet in the air to see if there was anymore to come before I finally got him clean.

There was a time in my life when I really wouldn't have found it acceptable to be covered in someone elses poo. But not anymore. My jolly little baby was back and I'd spend everyday covered in poo for his smiles. I wonder how long it'll be before we get the next one?

PS - technical hitch still in full swing - pics to come soon.

Nine weeks old...or two steps forward one step back

Master Jones has lifted his head and chest off of the floor for the very first time this week. He's getting rather good at it and does it (rather alarmingly) at the same time as making crawling gestures with his legs - hmmmm. He's also rolled over a few times - more by accident than design we think - he cries with shock each time he does it. So that would be the steps forwards.

To counterbalance all that cleverness he appears to have forgotten how to go to bed nicely and how to settle back to sleep after his first feed. This could be down to the fact that he's moved into his big boy cot - but really he's been playing in it and sleeping in his moses basket in it for weeks so the fuss really isn't necessary! We're hoping it's just a temporary glitch.

Earlier in the week he decided he just didn't like eating either - a screaming paddy ensued every time I suggested he might like to feed for more than five minutes. Perhaps he just wasn't hungry, he didn't seem particularly bothered by it all. I on the other hand felt most unloved and quite put out that my carefully manufactured meals were being shunned. The poor boobies decided that they'd just have to empty themselves he wasn't going to do it - which just added to my misery and embarrassment. Grr Babies.

Despite the hunger strike he weighed in at 12lb 5oz on Friday and the health visitor confirmed my fear that the weird eating pattern might have something to do with what looks suspiciously like a tooth under his gum!

On the upside Mr Jones has had some time off and we've had some much needed family time. He and the little grizzler have had lots of cuddles and I got to do aerobics and have my eyebrows waxed - hurrah. I didn't realise how much I missed time to myself and a good workout. I now feel like a human being and no longer look like a freckly albino (alright I know that albinos can't be freckly - but seriously my eyebrows had faded to whiter than white and had grown so much that they were trying to move in with my eyelashes - it was not pretty!)

We have a technical glitch this end in the computer has died so I will upload some pictures once it's all fixed - which I'm hoping won't be long.

One Year Ago Today....

....I married Mr Jones - hurrah. And what a year it's been. I can't believe we're a family already. I never imagined a year ago today that we'd have a baby by our first anniversary. The wedding seems ages ago, but at the same time just a few moments in the past. It almost seems like a dream now (especially when it comes to fitting in that dress again!).

We certainly tested our vows. Poor Mr Jones spent the first four months of his married life looking after me, the cats and the house. Cooking me whatever weird concoction of food I thought I might fancy and then watching, patiently, while I threw it all back up again. The thought of baked beans, fish fingers and smash now makes my toes curl. But we got through it.

Then there was pregnancy insomnia, my sudden hatred of being pregnant which meant he found me inconsolably sobbing on more than one occasion. And of course the hideous labour - throughout which he held my hand and whispered words of encouragement in my ear. The relief on his face and through his tears at the end of it all spoke volumes.

And now of course we have sleepness nights and Mr Jones is struggling a bit to get to grips with fatherhood. But we're getting through it all together and despite the grumpy words at 3am and the scowls through another screaming fit (the baby - not us) we still love each other - and plan to for many years to come.

Eight weeks old

He's getting big - he now weighs 11lb 14 and a half ounces. Though I'd swear he was more like two stone! It's a tricky time - he's got past the newborn "I just want to sleep all day" phase, but hasn't quite reached the "I'm happy to be put down and play on my playmat" stage as yet. So he spends the majority of the day awake and demanding to be carried about so that he can be generally nosey, which is a tad tiring. It also makes getting anything done hard (see Mrs Jones trying to mop the bathroom floor with a baby on one arm or hang out washing one handed)

He had his first lot of injections this week. Bless him - he was doing his best flirting with the doctor as she did his check up and then she repaid him by stabbing him in both thighs with giant needles. He was not a happy boy and spent the next few minutes doing his purple faced screaming cry. Suffice to say that she won't be getting his lovely smiles in the future.

We had some glorious nights of sleep - he was tucked up in bed by 7.30/8pm and managed to make it all the way through until 2am one night. He'd eaten and was back asleep by 3am and then snuggled up with me in bad at 5am (without eating) and slept until 7.15. However this was all ruined by two nights of leaky pampers - rah - which had us back to waking up at 11.30pm and then again at 3.30am for food - rubbish. We're hoping he gets back to the long sleeps again soon.

Seven Weeks Old

This week was tough. Mr Jones was in Scotland and Master Jones had awful wind - of the trapped variety. We have now changed the Boomtown Rats Song to Tell me why do I hate Wednesdays?. Rufus it seems isn't a fan of Wednesdays - if he's not grumpy during the day then he will be come bedtime.

This Wednesday he was so hacked off that he decided it wasn't even worth sleeping past 11.45pm! I spent the whole night carrying him around trying to get him to go back to sleep and stop grizzling. People keep asking me how I've lost my baby weight so fast - well people if you have an 11lb baby to carry around permanently you'd lose weight fast too - jiggling burns lots of calories.

My mummy was my saviour. Sometimes only a mummy will do. She took the little monster off my hands at 5am to let me get some precious sleep. She discovered that this sleeping position is good for Rufus' with wind. Rufus loves his Granny - she likes to play - lots. Thank you mummy for being such a star.

This week he seems to have discovered his tongue and delights in poking it out at every opportunity and giving things a good lick.