A Moment to Myself. Bubby's 6 Month Check Up. Matching Outfits. How to be a Glamorous Mum.

Bubby is asleep, hubby is at a work dinner, I have done some tidying up and have a load of washing in the washing machine. I have a moment to myself. As I type this the time is 9.51 and I'm just about to eat my dinner. Because it's just me I can't be bothered cooking. I just made myself a couscous salad with smoked salmon, grape tomatoes and pine nuts. It's really a case of what can I throw together that doesn't require cooking. The closest I got to cooking was when I boiled the water for the couscous. Come to think of it I practically haven't eaten anything that's cooked today. I forgot to have breakfast and for lunch I had sushi. I suppose the rice in the sushi is cooked but that's about it. I'm practically on a raw food diet. Don't worry, it won't last. As if I can be associated with any form of diet other than bad.

I missed breakfast this morning because I had to get Bubby to his 6 month check up with the paediatrician. It takes a while for both of us to get ready. Bubby was in fine form. In trying to assess Bub's development, the doctor didn't have to do much. Bubby tried to grab the doctor's stethoscope, tried to eat the toy he was being distracted with, tried to roll off the bed, tried to sit up, chitchatted away, laughed at the doctor several times, was bouncing on my knees while I was talking to the doctor and when I mentioned that he doesn't like to sleep in the daytime he yelled out "Na!" at the word sleep.  He got an A+ for his 6 month report card with the comment "V. Good development". Bubby gets a gold star. 

The 6 month check up is pretty special so we dressed up. Bubby wore his green onsesie that he wore here and here, and I wore my military green shirt dress. I tried it on yesterday to match Bubby's Commando onesie.

On me: shirt dress - Target. On Bubby: onesie - Carter's, pants - Sprout

I was trying to go for a military look to match Bubby's outfit but I think I looked more women's prison matron. I like the dress but for the colour. I have a love affair with shirt dresses but that deserves another post on it's own.

Someone who saw me in that dress commented that I looked nice. I am vain. I take care to make sure I look 'put together' before I walk out of the house. I'd rather skip breakfast than walk out in jeans and t-shirt. T-shirt? What's that? However, I am far from being a glamorous mum. Faux Fuschia is a glamorous mum. I don't know how she stays so Jackie Kennedy with a baby. She mentioned on her blog that Witching Hour was upon her. For a brief moment I was comforted by the thought that this Domestic Goddess was just one of Us, you know, mere mortals. However, the comfort is short lived when the realisation dawns on me that despite the Witching Hour she can still dress well, have Superior Hair, Declutter, have Unchipped Nail Polish and bake and cook as the Universe directs (She will want credit for using her Terminologies). Meanwhile, I sit and observe my house that has been hit by a tornado that is only 6 months old and eat Bhuja Mix because it's dry, can be shovelled into my mouth while feeding and won't stain the couch should it spill. The only thing that I have in common with Faux Fuschia (apart from having a baby boy) is that I have a fauxrchid. I got it to replace the real orchid that used to live in this pot.

So yeah, I like to appear glamorous but I'm far from it. I don't even think I achieve the appearance of glamour. Last night, I found a mango stain on my white top. I don't know how long it's been there and I don't even want to think about where I went in public that day. Like green, yellow isn't my colour either. Then there was that time when Bubby vomited on himself and I didn't realised until we were at the end of our one way street that the vomit ended up in my dry clean only pants as well. I was wondering why I could still smell spew after I have changed Bubby's clothes. Someone did say to me that I will soon learn that there is an acceptable amount of spew on your clothes that you can still show yourself in public. I'm afraid I crossed that line that day.