Um Abbas

Sometimes feeling out of this world.

A Ram Sam Sam

…guli, guli, guli, guli, guli ram sam sam… (A-nooo-yiiing annoying..)
Not gone crazy yet, just re-playing this kids song in my head over and over and over since I’ve heard it.
Mr. Pickles’ new favourite. God bless him and his little taste in music. Here he is, finally back on track with weight and height, delightful average in charts. Hate them charts.


On a side note, I’ve been backing up the site for bigger platform update and have gone through some stats. Amazing stuff. Most searched phrases leading to this blog include: hijab whores (wow!), how to make rahash arabic sweet from kuwait (something with sesame seeds grinded and honey and… I don’t know, I just eat it ☺ ), skinny girls are not glamorous (yap!), face kissing (…uhm?), he already mentioned a third date (ok…), kuwait car stuck up palm tree (really, I don’t get surprised anymore), arab women ugly (na-a!), cholesterol level in kuwait (high!), vyvářka kotlů (wait… that’s in czech and not relevant to me at all?) and many others. None really any way connected to this blog.
Wow.

I’d Love to Have a Minute to Be Myself, Please…

… so I can finish some of my stuff. Like, uhm, the crocheted blanket I wanted to have finished by December. I am about 90% away from fulfilling that particular goal. Maybe a tad more. Note, that the blanket is supposed to cover a king sized bed.


Abbas, however, disapproves of my idea of spending free time and still – yes, still, darned Velcro baby – hangs on me with all twenty fingers. No space to breathe, that’s how I feel time to time (which forces me to tears and than being upset about how silly I am).
On the other hand, I do enjoy the little hugs he gives me on occasion when he’s particularly happy to see me; usually due to me carrying a bottle of milk; and I do enjoy the cuddle as I know very well this won’t last. Soon in the stores – The Baby Who’s Ashamed of his Mother. But for now, now I am that Milk Goddess to him. And I will remain one for at least six more months.
I still would like to finish my blanket, though.
I mean, is it really that hard and psyché damaging to lay right next to me while I crochet a bit? Well, tell me, is it? I sing to him, talk to him, pass him toys, while trying not to entangle my index fingers in a ball of yarn. (Did I ever mention, how gorgeous the Fishermen’s Wool is? I’d just buy a whole room of them and sleep on them. Just like that. No need to crochet it. One day, when I am rich…)
Sometimes I would just needlessly rage on them kids, and than realize how stupid that is; sleep frustration and feeling pregnant even though I gave birth (now stop that thought, not weight wise, all right?!), like we never parted with Abbas, makes my nerves… melt away. Mostly, I can stop myself from being upright abusive (in a sense of being much harsher in requirements for a “clean” room, “well done” homework, or a “good enough” nap). On occasion, I do explode and insist on goals being met and after that getting frustrated when they aren’t – getting myself in a pretty loop, I can see here from perspective of a well-slept person now (very first night since birth my sticky baby slept from 9pm to 5*30am in his own bed, oh my gosh oh my gosh oh my gosh!). But. That is really not a standard here. Mostly (they come at night, mostly) I am fine. Ask my daughter. Really.
My husband promised me to take me away for a day, after Abbas turns year and a half. I don’t think I will live up to that day in pure sanity, but OK. Effort is what counts.