Beware of tables in public places

Two belated tales today, both of which should have been posted a couple of weeks ago.

Firstly, Wilf turning three months old.  He rolled for the first time this week. Unfortunately his play mat was on the kitchen floor so he came down with a bit of a bump, not sure he will be doing that again for a while. He has found his hands and now sits with them together looking like he is plotting things (maybe like his escape, or how he is going to get rid of those post Christmas pounds). He doesn't hide his feelings and has two main faces - a major frown or a big smile. Unfortunately the frown tends to come out now for anyone he doesn't know which I think may be unnerving for the friendly lady in the local shop.

Here is his monthly picture with Pierre Duck, now firmly in his grip and heading for the mouth:

Secondly, a story which may make you avoid public tables in future. 

When G Kisby was off work recently we took a trip to Trafford Centre for a spot of lunch and a shop (apparently G Kisby needed yet more new shoes and a "new smart wool coat with nice detailing which won't be cheap but 'will be an investment'" - what the hell).

Anyway as we were leaving decided it would be worth giving Wilf a quick feed before the drive home. There is a large communal 'food court like' area in Trafford so G Kisby grabbed me a nice coffee and I set up at a quiet table where I could get my boobs out discretely. The car wasn't parked particularly close so G Kisby set out to go and put the bags and pram away whilst I did the feed, with strict instructions not to move because I had no battery on my phone so wouldn't know where he was. To save me carrying I gave him my full nappy bag (minus one nappy and a pack of wipes) to take back.

After his feed, realising that the nearest toilets weren't that close, I decided to do my usual nappy change on the knee. I took the old one off as quick as possible, gave him a wipe and...dropped the new nappy on the floor. My usual swift swap over went wrong and as I ducked under the table to retrieve said nappy he did a huge, 'just been fed', wee. 

I admit I panicked. I used the new nappy as a shield, trying to stop the flow but actually just diverting it down my own leg. It kept on coming, I've never seen so much wee. 

When it finished I literally just sat there looking at him, smiling lay over my knee, and at my leg, soaking wet. I had no phone. I had no change of clothes for him or me. And I definitely had no clean nappy. And I was sat in an area for eating food surrounded now by a growing collection of grannies here for a tea dance (don't ask, something Trafford Centre do on a weekly basis). 

I had no choice but to remove all his clothes and swaddle him in my cardigan and scarf (luckily it was a chunky knit). I looked down, there was a puddle of wee under my chair. I looked around, no one was watching. I head for the exit.

I'm not proud but there was nothing I could do.

G Kisby said he looked up to see some sort of wild woman (think Kate Bush Withering Heights, or indeed just Kate Bush generally) eyes wide, running with nothing but a vest on (it was the snow week needless to say) towards the car with what looked like a stolen baby. We then had yet another or our stressful conversations where I demanded, "can you help, I have had a bit of an incident" to which he replies, "what do you need me to do..." and so on it goes.

Here he is, naked outside the Trafford Centre. Really hope that is the only time I write that.

Don't laugh at his shelf, he is starting to get a complex.

His caring sister saw a baby in the bath on the television this week and said,
"There's a fat baby"
Paused. Looked round at Wilf and pointed,

"That's a fat baby"

Brutal man.