Читать книгу The Mumpreneur Diaries: Business, Babies or Bust - One Mother of a Year - Mosey Jones - Страница 8

No rest for the wicked, or even just the slightly naughty. I decided weeks before his birth that Boy Two was going to integrate seamlessly into the Jones household. Just because there was a newborn kicking around, it was no excuse to take life slowly. I can therefore only assume that it is some kind of post-partum insanity that leads me to book a skiing holiday for when he will be barely five weeks old.

I don’t think the travelling itself will cause the headaches, even though we have also decided to tackle most of Europe by train, with the out-laws in tow. It is how to decide on a name, register the baby, get a photograph that doesn’t make him look like an alien and get the passport back in time to catch the 7.15 am from St Pancras on 8 March.

We had settled on a name halfway through the pregnancy, but now he is out I’m not sure Boy Two really suits it. I don’t have a great history with naming things. In my lifetime I’ve owned three cats so far. They’ve all been pedigree Burmese and came ready-equipped with fancy monikers, such as Aduihbu Buttermilk Dennis, which didn’t really trip off the tongue when I was rattling a bowl of Kibbles and bellowing the name into the garden at sunset. More shouty names were required.

The first kitty was a Chocolate Burmese, the naming of which, I felt, was a no-brainer. That would be Cadbury, then. But my sisters also got a chocolate and named that one the far snappier, simpler, cattier Wispa. Unfortunately Cadbury had an argument with a car and lost. Her successors were twins: the aforementioned Buttermilk was a Yellow Burmese and his brother was a Blue (which is actually grey) with a similarly mental name. I swiftly renamed them Little Leo and Ichabod (no, neither do I), respectively. When it became clear that these were as crap as the pedigree titles, they sort of renamed themselves by being skinny – Weeman, and fat – Fatso. And I’ve spent the past six years working with words in the branding industry. Boy Two was stuffed from the start.

But whether or not Boy Two’s name will dog him for the rest of his life is immaterial. We have four days to register him, get the certificate and get it off to the passport office. There is no time for creativity. I also need an official passport photo. The passport office doesn’t like ultrasound pictures – it’s really hard to get a foetus to smile for the camera.

The nice man at Jessops lies Boy Two on a white marshmallow and takes the pics. I’ve been fretting about how you get a baby to look straight at the camera with a neutral expression, but as newborns spend much of their time trying to focus on their own noses, the photographer says the passport office tends to overlook it.