If I ever considered calling my baby Emma (which I didn’t, it’s a nice enough name, it just never jumped out at me), the awful booklet that is ‘Emma’s Diary’ would be enough to put me off. I wonder if this piece of crap is the reason that the name Emma seems to have dropped in popularity the last few years – it’s down 8 places from last year alone – because people get so sick of reading the name ‘Emma’, they realise they can’t possibly call their child that.
So this week, Emma went to Paris. It was “totally lush”, and the weather was gorgeous. Now here’s the injustice of the thing; I’m fairly sure that even if I’d gone to Paris this week, it wouldn’t have been gorgeous, because it’s the middle of winter. Why does she get the nice having a baby weather? (Now I’m being facetious here, but this isn’t a gross overreaction considering some of the things I’ve gotten upset about the past couple of weeks).
They wandered all around Paris and scaled the Eiffel Tower and went shopping, ooh la la. I can barely manage to make it downstairs to the fridge without crying because my hips and back hurt so much (on the bright side, not being able to reach the fridge is doing wonders for my figure), but it also means that going swimming/to the gym, something I really want to do right now, isn’t possible because I’m scared of shitty little kids on their school holidays kicking me. And one day, I’ll be in possession of one of these shitty little kids. These dilemnas aren’t easy.
I like Emma’s descriptive qualities. She gets upset because she’s not allowed “runny, stinky cheese”. Call me crazy (I’m crazy) but if someone told me I couldn’t have cheese best described as runny and stinky, I’d give them a hug. Then again, I’ve never understood the appeal of all those runny cheeses (however, if Emma had read the actual guidelines rather than making up her own rules, she’d know that certain types of soft cheese are fine to eat as long as they have been thoroughly baked and are piping hot all the way through). But it’s ok, she ate loads of French bread and olives instead. And there’s me thinking I was doing well with my posh Dairylea Dunkers (also known as breadsticks and a blob of cheese spread on a plate, bloody delicious!).
One thing Emma and I do have in common is that our other halves felt kicks this week. Well, D felt one last week, on Boxing Day, but we’ve had such a wriggly baby this week that he’s felt it loads of times now. Thankfully D didn’t make any comments about it being ‘the next Messi’, like Emma’s Nick apparently did. I’d have thrown him off the bed if he had. It’s not that I don’t like football – I’m more of a football fan than D is, actually – but Messi? Really? If he knew me at all, he’d say Ronaldo at the very least.
He actually called it our little rugby player, which I’ll admit – I liked even more!
Signing off now, as the baby doesn’t like the laptop and is kicking at it trying to make me move it!