Oscar is turning one next week.
One. Seriously? Where has that year gone and why am I not skinny yet?
Let’s not pull at that thread.
Anywho, Bosco – as he’s affectionately known – is practically a man now so I figured it was time to engage my sleep-deprived brain and try to write again. Sorry, guys.
Things have been somewhat different this time around. I read numerous blogs telling me that would be the case but I didn’t actually believe it. I assumed I was too much of a control freak to be anything other than I was with Bear.
How wrong can you be?
I’m surprised the poor child has made it this far…
My only defence for my relaxed approach to parenting this deviant is: he’s a completely different baby than Oliver.
They are night and day – I want to say in a good way, but that’s just a lie.
The truth is: I live with a psychological terrorist.
Oliver is an emotional wreck at the best of times but he is sweet and kind.
Oscar is the happiest looking kiddo going but has a temper that would rival that of a 1940’s dictator.
He adores Oliver, but adores annoying him more; and his older brother is that much of a pushover he usually relents to whatever Bosco wants.
My lips are chapped from kissing imaginary hurts caused by this miniature menace.
Any hopes that this one would remotely look like me have been well and truly squashed. He’s practically a clone of his father. It’s rather unsettling.
I can’t fight with Conor then look after Oscar, it’s like his face has picked a side of the argument.
Another traitorous baby.
I was cautious about using dummies with Oliver, Oscar practically looks like Maggie Simpson at this stage.
Oliver is a graduate of controlled crying, Oscar broke us by day three.
Oliver was rushed to A&E whenever he had the faintest hint of a cough, Oscar was left to fight off croup until he was admitted to hospital.
Oliver takes himself off to bed and most mornings needs to be woken up, Oscar blinked once. I think.
The steriliser is more of a choice than a necessity.
I’m not coming off too great here, am I?
Judge all you want, I haven’t slept properly in three years.
Oliver finally started teething at 11 months, Oscar has decided he’ll wait a while longer.
Like I said: night and day.
This child has broken me. Any hopes that my husband had of a third are well and truly gone.
These two are my legacy, whatever shape that may be.
Ozzy’s birthday will be a world away from Oliver’s. There will be no bouncy castle (come on, it’s January!), there will be the usual Friday night dinner with a cake. I’ll take an appropriate amount of pictures and not post a message ‘to him’ on Facebook about how ‘proud’ I am of him (boke).
He’s one. His major achievements include: giving his parents *just* enough sleep so they don’t throw themselves off a bridge and managing to do the most horrendous nappies every time we are hungover.
Zozzle (yes, he has many names and is rarely called Oscar) is amazing and was worth the wait but seriously, is the whole ‘dipping the dummy in whiskey so they sleep’ thing still frowned upon? I’m asking for a friend…