This is a baby blog, ok? Its about being pregnant and surfing the hormonal Big Wave. Its about the fear that grips at 3 am when I am wide awake because my body is apparently 'practicing' for the wee-hour breastfeeding sessions. Its about surges of unexpected heart cracking and the sudden alarming way I have started grinning at other people's babies in prams, even the ones that already look middle aged and corporate. Later, if I last that long, it will be about the creature on the outside. No doubt I will discuss whether bamboo re-usable nappies are better than hemp ones. I will have an opinion about sleep training.

Now I know many of you are contemptuous of this, and I too have yawned and clicked on through when encountering many of those 'isn't-little-widgum-cute-and-what-a-pretty-poo-he-did-today' blogs. oh yeah. who the fuck cares.

Writing about boring baba routines has to involve some sort of alchemy if its going to be even vaguely interesting for others. All that mechanical wiping and plugging in dreary sleep haze has to be transformed through a crucible of humour or lyricism to deserve a place in cyberspace, ne?

Er, no promises there. This is the internet baby, s'up to you to sort through the trash. No really, that's why I've separated it out. Fleeing Muses as the net that will still strive to catch those fugitive moments of inspiration. For the part of me that is afraid that the independent artist activist lifestyle is going to shrivel like an exhausted testicle. This one here will be about Mommy stuff. Or, differently put, that blog is the arty, this one is the farty. (Actually, the real reason I'm doing it is for Fush. I want to keep him as a reader. I'm sifting out the nappy talk for him.)

So, who's the Owl, who's the Pussycat you ask? Of course you do.
Obviously, Owl is yours truly. Wide-eyed not from wisdom but overwhelm. Slightly skeptical and beaky and with a fearsome propensity to swoop down and dig claws into things that go scurry in the night.

And sometimes, that means Pussycat. Now he's not all cute and rubbing his cheek against your trouser leg mind you. In spite of his Taurean earthiness, his love of naps, stroking and a good bit of sushi, he also has claws and a hiss. And you should hear him yowl when he's ruffled the wrong way.

So there we were, having stopped up all the leaks in the beautiful peagreen boat. Well most of them. Still had some honey, and well, not exactly plenty of money, and we have eyed the five-pound note a couple of times but managed to hang on to it for now. The runcible spoon still serves us well, and has many more uses than we initially imagined. As we danced by the light of the moon.

And then there was a bump.