The car seat on the floor has been talking to me.
A chatty bugger too, so he is. Unsurprisingly most of our conversations revolve around the transportation of its future inhabitant.
I’m not best pleased with the tone it takes either – ‘you’ll drop me you know’, ‘you’ll whack the baby’s head against the door frame walking through’, or ‘you’ll tip the baby out putting me in the car’.
I firmly responded, and confidently assured him that none of those things would happen, but in the back of my mind all the while wagging my finger at a talking inanimate object, I knew he had a point.
I break stuff, especially new stuff. My phone and iPod both ended up skidding across car parks within their first week. I catch new trouser pockets in door handles, get paint on new window blinds, and scuff my new shoes.
What if I scuff the baby?
I can’t fetch coffee for workmates without scalding myself on the return, or having to lick someone else’s espresso from the hair on my arms.
I can’t cook rice without it turning into porridge and I don’t think I’ve ever poured myself a drink in my entire life without spilling some.
What if I scald the baby, or spill it, or end up having to lick something off it?
I’m not worried about day to day stuff, I can wipe my own arse and I haven’t starved myself to death yet so I’m almost certain I can manage the same with an 8 pounder, it’s my inherent clumsiness that raises concern.
I’m surprisingly awkward for a short person.
Tripping, stumbling, catching, cutting, and pinching myself are all common events when I have a bag or a cup in my hand, but social services generally don’t bother themselves when I trap a mug in a door hinge, or spill tea on the telly.
It’s the poor underdeveloped and unsupported cranium of the human being harvested in ET’s gut they may be more concerned about.
Can you get crash helmets for babies?