I confided in a lovely friend last week that I am feeling a bit low.
I think anyone getting as little and as broken sleep as I am would feel pretty rubbish. And things aren't good at work. I've been made redundant and offered another job but it isn't what I was expecting and I feel hurt and disappointed although I know the decisions are down to cost-cutting and not personal.
But it's neither of those things that are getting me down really. I think it's the view I now have of the open field ahead that the rest of my life represents. I've done childhood and I've done the pre-children years. I've done being pregnant and giving birth and now the next phase is on the horizon. There is no kidding myself any more that I'm not a proper adult (catch me off the cuff tho' and ask me what year it is and I'll tell you '1988') and I need to work out where I'm going in life.
Exciting, yes - I have some ideas for new career paths, but I realise now more than ever that the responsibility for our financial stability weighs upon my shoulders. I'm the one who's going to have to significantly increase our household income if we are ever going to have enough cash to enjoy ourselves with, move house etc. A challenge but a weight too. Especially as I don't intend to return to work full time, and don't want my kids going to every pre and after school club that exists once they enter full time education.
I suppose I also feel suddenly very aware that I'm approaching the big 40, and that I've had the first half of my life and am definitely into the second. I find it a bit scary and I feel unsettled. Could I be approaching a mid-life crisis?
Worry not! I'm sure this is a temporary phase. I will work on a cunning plan. I will turn my thinking around over the next few days and start seeing the glass as half-full. I have lots of ideas - if only I could find the time to make some of them happen.
Perhaps OH and I need to save up for and plan a massive joint 40th birthday treat so that we've got something fantastic to look forward to. (I must jot that down, nice idea...) Do something we've always wanted to do. Hum. Spend the night in a yurt? Have a holiday in one of those sheds on stilts above water? See the sun rise in Nepal? I've always wanted to swim with dolphins, he's always wanted to go to Florida, perhaps we could combine dreams. It would be nice to come up with something that doesn't cost an arm and a leg. Or anything at all.
Heigh ho, nice food for thought. Meanwhile, talking of birthdays, Babe's third birthday is on the horizon. Party dilemnas stressing me. I am a total party pooper. Worry about stuff. Like the horrendous materialism surrounding the concept of party bags yet my son's guests' likely expectation that we will have them. And I would like to have a naming ceremony for both boys but unless we get our skates on and organise that it won't ever happen.
Blah! There's no way I'm going to be able to work on any of this or my life plan until New Babe has stopped waking every blinking hour or so during the night seeking out my boob. I have inadvertently taught him a gamut of terrible habits: sleeping on his front, so he cannot tolerate pushchairs or car seats, and feeding him too often and feeding him to sleep which means I can't leave him for longer than a feed cycle, which isn't long. He won't take a bottle or a dummy.
I don't know how this happened, but we have agreed that from Monday it's boot camp for him, poor little blighter. I am prepared for two weeks of hell while we teach him to get to sleep on his back, on his own, in his cot, at regular intervals. I am also moving into the spare room with OH so that New Babe can have a room of his own where he can't smell me. I think this may help him wake a little less. Let's hope so, I'm desperate. Watch this space...
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Water bombs and the like
Today I was assailed by a group of young boys in the park, who attacked me with water bombs. I couldn't be bothered to move and my brain wasn't working fast enough to react anyway, so I watched, as if in slow motion, as two landed on the ground by my feet, and one popped against my knee, splashing soggily into my shoe. 'Good shot!' I thought vaguely, as I watched them run up the slope behind the slide.
I felt I should reprimand, respond, do something, but I wasn’t sure what to yell. It was bloody cheeky, but not the worst behaviour I’ve witnessed by a long shot. Babe took my silence as compliance and shot up the slope after them, the traitor, so I had to move my sticks and stones and get up there after him. Sure enough my soggy shoe slipped and my nose grazed the turf. My handy shopper did a 180 degree turn and my keys, mobile, purse etc. slid down onto the woodchips at the bottom.
Should I follow Babe, or gather my valuables? He was nearly out of sight, so I bolted after him (he’s only two, but bloody hell, he’s fast) and lo and behold the little buggers completed a circle and grabbed my… cheesy oatcakes, and made off with them.
Whatever! I don’t understand why other people in the park didn’t do something. Perhaps they were all catatonic through lack of sleep as well.
I seem to attract random and slightly ‘off the beaten track’, shall we say, incidents with small groups of eleven-year-olds.
This happened a lot during my university years. I was regularly harangued by one such small group of boys who hung out on a bridge round the corner from a flat I lived in, in Cardiff. The kind of kids who called you a ‘tight bitch’ if you gave them a mere 50p for the guy on 5 Nov, despite the fact that you were broke and saving a quid to call your mum with at the weekend. On my graduation day, another asked my step-father for a tissue which he managed to produce and then had it shoved back at him because it apparently had ‘huge greenies’ in it.
One evening I was walking in the dark to somewhere or other with my green umbrella. My granny’s. It had a long handle, not a modern folding jobby. But was smallish and stylish and I loved it. (Have sadly lost it but I digress.) As I walked up the steps and onto the bridge, I saw an eleven-year-old approach. As we reached one another, instead of stepping to one side, he blocked my way. And grabbed my umbrella. I wasn’t going to let go of it easily so we both held on, two hands apiece, staring at one another. I don’t know why neither of us said anything. It was quite a tense and physical stand-off. I remembering wondering when it would end, but was concentrating on maintaining my grip of steel.
Suddenly, he grabbed both my breasts. One in each hand. And squeezing them, shouted, ‘Beep, beep!’. Then ran off.
What a nerve! What a cheek! But at least he’d left me with my brolly.
Now that I think about it, a very similar incident happened in Barcelona, where I also spent a year as a student. Except that the intruder, so to speak, was a tall, greasy and very fat eighteen-year-old. I saw him lolloping towards me along the pavement, but didn’t expect him to grab my boobs as he continued past me and on his way.
As I am blonde, I expect he took me for a tourist and did not expect me to yell in fluent Spanish, ‘You perverted son of a gun! Stop that pig, someone!’ (“Pig” being an appropriate expletive given the context, in Spanish. I appreciate that it does not sit very comfortably in English.)(Ignore the 'son of a gun' bit, I'm exaggerating about what I said.)
He probably even less expected that I would give chase, which I did, shouting as I went so that a straggling line of pursuers joined me in my quest. Eventually he ran, panting horribly, into a square that had no exit, and stood, sweating and heaving behind the central fountain, which as it happens was a cast iron naked beauty.
‘What did he do?’ yelled an accompanier as they arrived and gathered round. All men, incidentally, and all panting too. I was trying to work out what I was going to do next.
‘Did he take your bag? Your wallet?’
‘No! He grabbed my breasts!’ I cried.
This met with confusion.
‘He grabbed your breasts?’
‘Yes. And now I’m going to sort him out!’ I threatened, moving towards the centre of the square.
Two of the men grabbed me. Another told the boy to run off. When he had disappeared, they let me go. By heck, I was angry. Perhaps they were saving me from myself? I think about that incident, trivial as it may seem, when I read of people who have a much harder fight for justice on their hands, and are not heard, do not have their rights respected, and worse.
But… back to Cardiff, and I was intending that this should be a happy, humorous entry.
One evening I was sitting alone in my flat, some time in November, when the intercom rang. I pressed the button to ask who it was, when two eleven-year-old voices burst into song. Quite quiet and somewhat pitiful and I couldn’t help but imagine that they were desperate for cash and the victims of abuse.
‘Once in royal David’s city…’ they droned.
I didn’t feel I could interrupt.
They continued. A full three verses. Perhaps they expected me to interrupt. My finger on the buzzer was sore. I had to imagine their pale little faces.
At the end they stopped and one coughed.
‘Hold on, I’ll be right down!’ I said, and ran back into the living room to find them some cash.
I didn’t have any. Or any crisps or biscuits. Half a cold cheese and onion Gregg’s pasty wasn’t going to cut the mustard. My last two Silk Cut (those were not the days)? Nope… All I had was two apples. I walked downstairs slowly and with embarrassment and went to hand them over.
But then realised they were just two of the bridge lads, blagging what cash they could out of people.
‘Oh, sod OFF!’ I said.
One winked and the other showed me his tongue, then laughing, they ran off.
Perhaps I'll dream about my Uni days tonight. They seem as long ago and as far away as they now are. We've all had a sick bug over the last few days (OH had to spend all today in bed, BTW, although he is sitting quite happily on the sofa watching X Factor and eating a sandwich as I write this). How I long for just a bit of tickety-boo normality. As least the kids are in bed and my mum is coming to stay for a few days tomorrow to help me get some stuff done.
Buenas noches...
I felt I should reprimand, respond, do something, but I wasn’t sure what to yell. It was bloody cheeky, but not the worst behaviour I’ve witnessed by a long shot. Babe took my silence as compliance and shot up the slope after them, the traitor, so I had to move my sticks and stones and get up there after him. Sure enough my soggy shoe slipped and my nose grazed the turf. My handy shopper did a 180 degree turn and my keys, mobile, purse etc. slid down onto the woodchips at the bottom.
Should I follow Babe, or gather my valuables? He was nearly out of sight, so I bolted after him (he’s only two, but bloody hell, he’s fast) and lo and behold the little buggers completed a circle and grabbed my… cheesy oatcakes, and made off with them.
Whatever! I don’t understand why other people in the park didn’t do something. Perhaps they were all catatonic through lack of sleep as well.
I seem to attract random and slightly ‘off the beaten track’, shall we say, incidents with small groups of eleven-year-olds.
This happened a lot during my university years. I was regularly harangued by one such small group of boys who hung out on a bridge round the corner from a flat I lived in, in Cardiff. The kind of kids who called you a ‘tight bitch’ if you gave them a mere 50p for the guy on 5 Nov, despite the fact that you were broke and saving a quid to call your mum with at the weekend. On my graduation day, another asked my step-father for a tissue which he managed to produce and then had it shoved back at him because it apparently had ‘huge greenies’ in it.
One evening I was walking in the dark to somewhere or other with my green umbrella. My granny’s. It had a long handle, not a modern folding jobby. But was smallish and stylish and I loved it. (Have sadly lost it but I digress.) As I walked up the steps and onto the bridge, I saw an eleven-year-old approach. As we reached one another, instead of stepping to one side, he blocked my way. And grabbed my umbrella. I wasn’t going to let go of it easily so we both held on, two hands apiece, staring at one another. I don’t know why neither of us said anything. It was quite a tense and physical stand-off. I remembering wondering when it would end, but was concentrating on maintaining my grip of steel.
Suddenly, he grabbed both my breasts. One in each hand. And squeezing them, shouted, ‘Beep, beep!’. Then ran off.
What a nerve! What a cheek! But at least he’d left me with my brolly.
Now that I think about it, a very similar incident happened in Barcelona, where I also spent a year as a student. Except that the intruder, so to speak, was a tall, greasy and very fat eighteen-year-old. I saw him lolloping towards me along the pavement, but didn’t expect him to grab my boobs as he continued past me and on his way.
As I am blonde, I expect he took me for a tourist and did not expect me to yell in fluent Spanish, ‘You perverted son of a gun! Stop that pig, someone!’ (“Pig” being an appropriate expletive given the context, in Spanish. I appreciate that it does not sit very comfortably in English.)(Ignore the 'son of a gun' bit, I'm exaggerating about what I said.)
He probably even less expected that I would give chase, which I did, shouting as I went so that a straggling line of pursuers joined me in my quest. Eventually he ran, panting horribly, into a square that had no exit, and stood, sweating and heaving behind the central fountain, which as it happens was a cast iron naked beauty.
‘What did he do?’ yelled an accompanier as they arrived and gathered round. All men, incidentally, and all panting too. I was trying to work out what I was going to do next.
‘Did he take your bag? Your wallet?’
‘No! He grabbed my breasts!’ I cried.
This met with confusion.
‘He grabbed your breasts?’
‘Yes. And now I’m going to sort him out!’ I threatened, moving towards the centre of the square.
Two of the men grabbed me. Another told the boy to run off. When he had disappeared, they let me go. By heck, I was angry. Perhaps they were saving me from myself? I think about that incident, trivial as it may seem, when I read of people who have a much harder fight for justice on their hands, and are not heard, do not have their rights respected, and worse.
But… back to Cardiff, and I was intending that this should be a happy, humorous entry.
One evening I was sitting alone in my flat, some time in November, when the intercom rang. I pressed the button to ask who it was, when two eleven-year-old voices burst into song. Quite quiet and somewhat pitiful and I couldn’t help but imagine that they were desperate for cash and the victims of abuse.
‘Once in royal David’s city…’ they droned.
I didn’t feel I could interrupt.
They continued. A full three verses. Perhaps they expected me to interrupt. My finger on the buzzer was sore. I had to imagine their pale little faces.
At the end they stopped and one coughed.
‘Hold on, I’ll be right down!’ I said, and ran back into the living room to find them some cash.
I didn’t have any. Or any crisps or biscuits. Half a cold cheese and onion Gregg’s pasty wasn’t going to cut the mustard. My last two Silk Cut (those were not the days)? Nope… All I had was two apples. I walked downstairs slowly and with embarrassment and went to hand them over.
But then realised they were just two of the bridge lads, blagging what cash they could out of people.
‘Oh, sod OFF!’ I said.
One winked and the other showed me his tongue, then laughing, they ran off.
Perhaps I'll dream about my Uni days tonight. They seem as long ago and as far away as they now are. We've all had a sick bug over the last few days (OH had to spend all today in bed, BTW, although he is sitting quite happily on the sofa watching X Factor and eating a sandwich as I write this). How I long for just a bit of tickety-boo normality. As least the kids are in bed and my mum is coming to stay for a few days tomorrow to help me get some stuff done.
Buenas noches...
Thursday, September 24, 2009
In anticipation of a holiday
Below are listed ten things I hoped would not happen during our [then] impending sojourn in the bosom of OH's family this month. As I am fairly superstitious I decided not to publish this post until we got back. I am now doing so, with annotations. Enjoy ;)
Note: the ten items are not listed in order of priority.
Note 2: neither, you may be interested to know, are the items on my 'to do' list. Which is why I am never properly on top of anything, despite an air of being organised that lingers about my person.
1 That OH's mother will drop her attempts at getting her grandsons to urinate on her head to bring prosperity and good fortune to the family. It is hard enough changing wriggling little ones on a broken bed without her nose-diving into their privates in order to achieve the effect outlined above. It is even more terrifying when she seizes them and throws them over her head, as she is old and not half as strong as she thinks she still is.
Repost: I gave it to her straight not long after we arrived: Babe will tell everyone at nursery that his granny is fixated on his privates and it will bring shame on the Albanian nation. All the males in the family immediately demanded that she stop.
2 That the hotel I am planning to stay in across the road will not be fully booked.
Repost: Mercifully, it was open. See previous post.
3 That Babe will not throw my valuables over the balcony like last time, having been taught to do so by mad granny.
Repost: He was instead taught to scribble on sheets, eat in bed etc - see previous posts. However I got close to throwing myself off the balcony a few times. (And not far off throwing mad granny off, either.)
4 That the water and electric shortages will not coincide like last time.
Repost: Only a couple of power outages, and I'd taken a solar powered lamp from Ikea so that I could read in bed and which I kept in the hotel. Hee hee. Water still goes off every morning, but I made sure we had bottled water in stock and that we all passed motions in the evening. Yawn.
5 That I will not lose my temper and insult the family every few hours like last time.
Repost: Only every few days this time, which is pretty good going.
6 That we will not be given any more naff souvenirs that fill our suitcase and prevent us from stocking up on olive oil, raki and honey.
R: Take a look at the window sill in my kitchen: mugs, plates, calendars, sea-shell covered booze bottles and an Egyptian (??) papyrus photo album.
7 That we will not get up close and personal with the carcasses of stray dogs and random rams if we go snorkeling in the harbour.
R: Snorkel did not leave suitcase. What was I thinking when we packed it? We are parents, now, for crying out loud.
8 We will not get ill.
R: We all got ill.
9 We will not get injured.
R: Babe was bloody lucky that he was not hurt when knocked down by motorbike on first day.
10 We will come back alive. (I had to word this in the affirmative, such is my primitive superstitious thinking.)
R: We did, God be praised.
Note: the ten items are not listed in order of priority.
Note 2: neither, you may be interested to know, are the items on my 'to do' list. Which is why I am never properly on top of anything, despite an air of being organised that lingers about my person.
1 That OH's mother will drop her attempts at getting her grandsons to urinate on her head to bring prosperity and good fortune to the family. It is hard enough changing wriggling little ones on a broken bed without her nose-diving into their privates in order to achieve the effect outlined above. It is even more terrifying when she seizes them and throws them over her head, as she is old and not half as strong as she thinks she still is.
Repost: I gave it to her straight not long after we arrived: Babe will tell everyone at nursery that his granny is fixated on his privates and it will bring shame on the Albanian nation. All the males in the family immediately demanded that she stop.
2 That the hotel I am planning to stay in across the road will not be fully booked.
Repost: Mercifully, it was open. See previous post.
3 That Babe will not throw my valuables over the balcony like last time, having been taught to do so by mad granny.
Repost: He was instead taught to scribble on sheets, eat in bed etc - see previous posts. However I got close to throwing myself off the balcony a few times. (And not far off throwing mad granny off, either.)
4 That the water and electric shortages will not coincide like last time.
Repost: Only a couple of power outages, and I'd taken a solar powered lamp from Ikea so that I could read in bed and which I kept in the hotel. Hee hee. Water still goes off every morning, but I made sure we had bottled water in stock and that we all passed motions in the evening. Yawn.
5 That I will not lose my temper and insult the family every few hours like last time.
Repost: Only every few days this time, which is pretty good going.
6 That we will not be given any more naff souvenirs that fill our suitcase and prevent us from stocking up on olive oil, raki and honey.
R: Take a look at the window sill in my kitchen: mugs, plates, calendars, sea-shell covered booze bottles and an Egyptian (??) papyrus photo album.
7 That we will not get up close and personal with the carcasses of stray dogs and random rams if we go snorkeling in the harbour.
R: Snorkel did not leave suitcase. What was I thinking when we packed it? We are parents, now, for crying out loud.
8 We will not get ill.
R: We all got ill.
9 We will not get injured.
R: Babe was bloody lucky that he was not hurt when knocked down by motorbike on first day.
10 We will come back alive. (I had to word this in the affirmative, such is my primitive superstitious thinking.)
R: We did, God be praised.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Ten things an English Mummy should do
Honestly! You would think the Albanian nation responsible for the propagation of the human species, given the amount of earwigging I've been getting about how to bring up my children. Quite how they think mothers in the UK rear children who survive and prosper I don't know.
One night on holiday New Babe got wind and cried quite a lot (for five minutes), and my sister-in-law was calling relatives in Athens for advice before I could catch my own breath. Meanwhile my mother-in-law harangued me to take him up to the hospital, and I found myself explaining to my (traditional, retiring) father-in-law that the milk flows faster from my left breast than my right and that sometimes the baby gets windy on it. Bloody hell!
So, for your amusement, here are ten things I am doing wrong and am asked about almost constantly:
1 Not putting New Babe to sleep on a pillow (surely this is a no-brainer??)
2 Not giving him a teaspoon of cooled boiled water every day (why would I when he hasn't got any problems to cure?)
3 Not giving him chamomile tea every evening (see above)
4 Not stopping him from putting his hands in his mouth. I should, apparently, be getting some 'equipment' (??) from the hospital that can achieve this (just f off and leave us alone)
5 Not putting him to sleep in crisp, white, 'fresh' sheets that have been ironed with a little chlorine each day (the last time I ironed something was for a job interview ten years ago)
6 Not bathing him every day (environmental concerns do not reach Albania)
7 Not putting him in the sea (he's three months old for Pete's sake)
8 Putting him in the sea (I did it to shut you lot up and now he's got a temperature)
9 Not taking him to hospital because he is small and not fat enough (Now you are really beginning to annoy me, Babe was not much bigger at the same age)
10 I can't remember 10 as I was crying in the toilet at the time. But it was something about feeding him only every three hours. I demand feed...
Not, you understand, that any of this is expressed with malice, quite the opposite - OH's family really do love me as a daughter and would hate to think they were upsetting me. But there are only so many times p day you can be asked the same sodding stupid question before you start to crack.
Despite the regime they would have me put New Babe under, they think I should back off with Babe entirely, let him have his own way over everything, and let him eat what he wants to (biscuits), whenever he wants to (all day) and wherever he wants to (including in the loo and in bed), and go to bed much later (close to midnight) so that he'll rise later (I have explained that I have tried everything in order to make him sleep later than 6am)... But they think I should force feed him a little honey each night before he drops off (good for his throat, apparently). I invited Granny to administer said honey and she backed off after nearly losing a finger.
The family think Babe is an angry, 'nervous' child and that he takes after me. (!) They seem unable to realise that they are bugging him to death and that' why he's been running around screaming and refuses to be left alone with them for five minutes.
Meanwhile cousin Alexandros (the same age as Babe, but quite a way behind him if you ask my opinion - I don't want to make comparisons but read on), so I am told, eats olives by the handful, loves his granny and hugs and kisses her constantly, and has been out of nappies for five months. I doubt the truth of this, as we saw him in Athens five months ago, and the only thing he was doing in the toilet was having his dinner with the tap running, as it was the only way they could get him to eat.
Whatever! I must turn in now as New Babe woke every hour last night and I am utterly tired, once again. It seems very exciting to be back at home and able to get online whenever I want to, but of course I have many other things vying for my attention now. Including that dancing programme on BBC1. Adieu!
One night on holiday New Babe got wind and cried quite a lot (for five minutes), and my sister-in-law was calling relatives in Athens for advice before I could catch my own breath. Meanwhile my mother-in-law harangued me to take him up to the hospital, and I found myself explaining to my (traditional, retiring) father-in-law that the milk flows faster from my left breast than my right and that sometimes the baby gets windy on it. Bloody hell!
So, for your amusement, here are ten things I am doing wrong and am asked about almost constantly:
1 Not putting New Babe to sleep on a pillow (surely this is a no-brainer??)
2 Not giving him a teaspoon of cooled boiled water every day (why would I when he hasn't got any problems to cure?)
3 Not giving him chamomile tea every evening (see above)
4 Not stopping him from putting his hands in his mouth. I should, apparently, be getting some 'equipment' (??) from the hospital that can achieve this (just f off and leave us alone)
5 Not putting him to sleep in crisp, white, 'fresh' sheets that have been ironed with a little chlorine each day (the last time I ironed something was for a job interview ten years ago)
6 Not bathing him every day (environmental concerns do not reach Albania)
7 Not putting him in the sea (he's three months old for Pete's sake)
8 Putting him in the sea (I did it to shut you lot up and now he's got a temperature)
9 Not taking him to hospital because he is small and not fat enough (Now you are really beginning to annoy me, Babe was not much bigger at the same age)
10 I can't remember 10 as I was crying in the toilet at the time. But it was something about feeding him only every three hours. I demand feed...
Not, you understand, that any of this is expressed with malice, quite the opposite - OH's family really do love me as a daughter and would hate to think they were upsetting me. But there are only so many times p day you can be asked the same sodding stupid question before you start to crack.
Despite the regime they would have me put New Babe under, they think I should back off with Babe entirely, let him have his own way over everything, and let him eat what he wants to (biscuits), whenever he wants to (all day) and wherever he wants to (including in the loo and in bed), and go to bed much later (close to midnight) so that he'll rise later (I have explained that I have tried everything in order to make him sleep later than 6am)... But they think I should force feed him a little honey each night before he drops off (good for his throat, apparently). I invited Granny to administer said honey and she backed off after nearly losing a finger.
The family think Babe is an angry, 'nervous' child and that he takes after me. (!) They seem unable to realise that they are bugging him to death and that' why he's been running around screaming and refuses to be left alone with them for five minutes.
Meanwhile cousin Alexandros (the same age as Babe, but quite a way behind him if you ask my opinion - I don't want to make comparisons but read on), so I am told, eats olives by the handful, loves his granny and hugs and kisses her constantly, and has been out of nappies for five months. I doubt the truth of this, as we saw him in Athens five months ago, and the only thing he was doing in the toilet was having his dinner with the tap running, as it was the only way they could get him to eat.
Whatever! I must turn in now as New Babe woke every hour last night and I am utterly tired, once again. It seems very exciting to be back at home and able to get online whenever I want to, but of course I have many other things vying for my attention now. Including that dancing programme on BBC1. Adieu!
Thursday, September 17, 2009
We're coming home :) :(
Home is on the horizon. This afternoon we get the boat back over to Corfu, where we'll stay the night with relatives, and tomorrow we fly home.
Yesterday we spent the entire day on the beach and it was beautiful, the water still and clear, a gentle breeze in the air and enough cloud cover to take the edge off the heat. Babe slept for nearly three hours with OH on a sun lounger in the middle of the day, and although I was really tired, as Babe is now waking four times p night, I was hugely relieved that his temperature had finally subsided and I was happy just to hold him and gaze at the water. I do so love to be by the sea.
All in all, it has been a pretty good holiday I guess, really. As good as it probably gets with kids, anyway. Much easier to be staying in a home environment than a hotel, and with the beach and promenade for evening jaunt just down the road, you can't really go wrong. Auntie Eleni has been hugely useful, holding New Babe so that I can attend to Babe or dip in the sea. We haven't had to cook a meal (although Babe hasn't eaten one...) and most of our clothes are washed ready to put in the suitcase. Along with more bottles of honey, olive oil and home-brewed booze than we can hope to make it back to Blighty unbroken.
Our soujourn hasn't been without its traumas, but when did we ever have a holiday that was? And although OH and I didn't really have time to connect, we have both managed to relax, and I saw glimpses of our old selves when he started to joke with me in front of his mum as he used to. How having kids changes your life completely! I didn't even consider feeling hacked off that we weren't getting off the beaten track to unspoilt beaches with them - it felt like a massive feat just to get to the beach with everything we needed to pass a couple of hours there in one piece. I guess things will be even harder next year (yes, I already realise the inevitability of these holidays...) with New Babe toddling around and putting everything within reach in his mouth.
Last night it rained heavily, and it's cool and cloudy today. Much better, this, than to be leaving on a beautiful beach day. I have come out as OH is trying to fix some electrical connections at home, it is muggy indoors, and Babe is crawling up the wall. Last night I had 'words' with my mother-in law when she let Babe scribble with a biro on some new bed sheets. I am close to losing my rag completely with her, and don't want to end the holiday on a bad note. I am preparing an entry on my mother-in-law, as she is a complex character, to say the least...
As things stand, I have been predicatably grumpy enough for them all to be quite relieved when we go. We're getting Auntie Eleni onto skype from a neighbour's house so that they can all see the kids between holidays.
I am very glad that we left the house clean and tidy, so we won't have lots to do when we get home, and can hopefully have a nice weekend together without OH moaning about the weather.
And I am already working on a new list of resolutions for when we get home that includes:
Yesterday we spent the entire day on the beach and it was beautiful, the water still and clear, a gentle breeze in the air and enough cloud cover to take the edge off the heat. Babe slept for nearly three hours with OH on a sun lounger in the middle of the day, and although I was really tired, as Babe is now waking four times p night, I was hugely relieved that his temperature had finally subsided and I was happy just to hold him and gaze at the water. I do so love to be by the sea.
All in all, it has been a pretty good holiday I guess, really. As good as it probably gets with kids, anyway. Much easier to be staying in a home environment than a hotel, and with the beach and promenade for evening jaunt just down the road, you can't really go wrong. Auntie Eleni has been hugely useful, holding New Babe so that I can attend to Babe or dip in the sea. We haven't had to cook a meal (although Babe hasn't eaten one...) and most of our clothes are washed ready to put in the suitcase. Along with more bottles of honey, olive oil and home-brewed booze than we can hope to make it back to Blighty unbroken.
Our soujourn hasn't been without its traumas, but when did we ever have a holiday that was? And although OH and I didn't really have time to connect, we have both managed to relax, and I saw glimpses of our old selves when he started to joke with me in front of his mum as he used to. How having kids changes your life completely! I didn't even consider feeling hacked off that we weren't getting off the beaten track to unspoilt beaches with them - it felt like a massive feat just to get to the beach with everything we needed to pass a couple of hours there in one piece. I guess things will be even harder next year (yes, I already realise the inevitability of these holidays...) with New Babe toddling around and putting everything within reach in his mouth.
Last night it rained heavily, and it's cool and cloudy today. Much better, this, than to be leaving on a beautiful beach day. I have come out as OH is trying to fix some electrical connections at home, it is muggy indoors, and Babe is crawling up the wall. Last night I had 'words' with my mother-in law when she let Babe scribble with a biro on some new bed sheets. I am close to losing my rag completely with her, and don't want to end the holiday on a bad note. I am preparing an entry on my mother-in-law, as she is a complex character, to say the least...
As things stand, I have been predicatably grumpy enough for them all to be quite relieved when we go. We're getting Auntie Eleni onto skype from a neighbour's house so that they can all see the kids between holidays.
I am very glad that we left the house clean and tidy, so we won't have lots to do when we get home, and can hopefully have a nice weekend together without OH moaning about the weather.
And I am already working on a new list of resolutions for when we get home that includes:
- Agreeing on how we discipline Babe so that he doesn't play us off against one another
- Agreeing on which second language - Greek or Albanian - we are going to teach both boys, and making this happen by scheduling a half hour per week for learning new words and phrases together
- Trying to hold my tongue when I start to feel angry
- Try and get New Babe to wake a bit less at night
- Try and ensure that OH deals with Babe in the night.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
No time to relax...
There is much I would like to share, following my last entry. But time so limited. In fact, when I started this entry two days ago, I was called home because an angry clingy Babe was hurling himself around the ceramic tiled floor of the hallway in the family flat and in danger of knocking himself out.
Since then he has calmed down somewhat, thank God. He will probably fully relax and start to enjoy himself properly the day before we leave. I keep thinking that I'm starting to enjoy myself, and then something else happens to remind me that I'm not. Since yesterday, New Babe has had a blocked nose and temperature, a rash on his arms and legs that I'm told is probably heat rash, and a dodgy stomach. I'm told he looks small for three months old, that his poo 'just isn't right' and that I should be giving him chamomile tea every evening. I will try and write a full list of all the other things I'm apparently doing wrong before I leave. Suffice to say that of course I'm worried about him.
In the meantime, I am loving the hour or so we snatch on the beach every morning, and am making like a dolphin as I had dreamed I might. But the weather is hot and windy, some days worse than others, and it's very hard to gauge how far we can push being out, especially with the children being under the weather, and I fear that tomorrow I may not make it out at all. How selfish that must sound!
Anyway, back to Babe. He has really been impossibly badly behaved and clingy, and I feel as though I don't know the little boy I'm observing. For several days he complained of stomach ache, ear ache and a sore throat, poor chick, and I discovered he had mouth ulcers. He did not really eat for three days, or poo, and is utterly and persistently over tired. For the first few days, when we made it to the beach for an hour or two each morning, he didn't want to so much as put his feet in the sea, and just rolled his little bag of cars around despondently on a sun lounger.
So desperate was I for some sleep on Friday that I made it to the hotel across the road for the night. I think everyone within a ten-mile radius heaved a communal sigh of relief as I carried my bag over, as the way I am feeling is hard to disguise, and I was ready to scream. But by 2am I was standing outside in the dark, struggling to ignore the bi-hourly screaming cries for 'Mummy! Mummy!' coming from the family balcony across the road. I think everyone in the vicinity would have paid to have me back again - Grandad, who is ill, was close to throwing Babe off the balcony I think - but three nights later Babe has accepted our new nightly routine and at least I am only waking to feed New Babe now.
We must take Babe in hand when we get home. (How many times have I thought something like this?) He has been ill, and is coping very well with irritating relatives, but nevertheless I think we probably fawn on him too much, and let him get one over on us too easily.
Having said that, I am considered strict and harsh by the relatives here, where I observe the same treatment of kids that I have noticed in both Greece and Spain: pretty lax discipline, better integration into family life, treating children like little Lords and Ladies if I'm honest. But it seems to work, as they grow up into decent human beings! Hum. I'd like to reflect further on this right now, but no time! More tomorrow, perchance.
Since then he has calmed down somewhat, thank God. He will probably fully relax and start to enjoy himself properly the day before we leave. I keep thinking that I'm starting to enjoy myself, and then something else happens to remind me that I'm not. Since yesterday, New Babe has had a blocked nose and temperature, a rash on his arms and legs that I'm told is probably heat rash, and a dodgy stomach. I'm told he looks small for three months old, that his poo 'just isn't right' and that I should be giving him chamomile tea every evening. I will try and write a full list of all the other things I'm apparently doing wrong before I leave. Suffice to say that of course I'm worried about him.
In the meantime, I am loving the hour or so we snatch on the beach every morning, and am making like a dolphin as I had dreamed I might. But the weather is hot and windy, some days worse than others, and it's very hard to gauge how far we can push being out, especially with the children being under the weather, and I fear that tomorrow I may not make it out at all. How selfish that must sound!
Anyway, back to Babe. He has really been impossibly badly behaved and clingy, and I feel as though I don't know the little boy I'm observing. For several days he complained of stomach ache, ear ache and a sore throat, poor chick, and I discovered he had mouth ulcers. He did not really eat for three days, or poo, and is utterly and persistently over tired. For the first few days, when we made it to the beach for an hour or two each morning, he didn't want to so much as put his feet in the sea, and just rolled his little bag of cars around despondently on a sun lounger.
So desperate was I for some sleep on Friday that I made it to the hotel across the road for the night. I think everyone within a ten-mile radius heaved a communal sigh of relief as I carried my bag over, as the way I am feeling is hard to disguise, and I was ready to scream. But by 2am I was standing outside in the dark, struggling to ignore the bi-hourly screaming cries for 'Mummy! Mummy!' coming from the family balcony across the road. I think everyone in the vicinity would have paid to have me back again - Grandad, who is ill, was close to throwing Babe off the balcony I think - but three nights later Babe has accepted our new nightly routine and at least I am only waking to feed New Babe now.
We must take Babe in hand when we get home. (How many times have I thought something like this?) He has been ill, and is coping very well with irritating relatives, but nevertheless I think we probably fawn on him too much, and let him get one over on us too easily.
Having said that, I am considered strict and harsh by the relatives here, where I observe the same treatment of kids that I have noticed in both Greece and Spain: pretty lax discipline, better integration into family life, treating children like little Lords and Ladies if I'm honest. But it seems to work, as they grow up into decent human beings! Hum. I'd like to reflect further on this right now, but no time! More tomorrow, perchance.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
We're all going on a....
So, here we are. Oh my gosh, yes, here we are.
Got our flights on time. Worth mentioning as there have been countless incidents of missing flights, thanks to OH's inability to keep time. This time I had everything ready the night before, the only thing outstanding being getting OH's stuff in the suitcase and shutting it. However, this task had yet to be completed at lunch time the next day, seven minutes in fact before the taxi taking us to the airport was due to arrive. He was held up collecting Babe from nursery, getting some cash out and parking our car outside someone else's house. ??? During aforementioned seven minutes I fed New Babe, heart in my mouth, and managed to dress Babe with one hand at the same, bribing him with promises of the treats I'd bought him for the flight. OH changed, wrapped his Wash and Go in an insane quantity of clingfilm and got his stuff in the case and padlocked it.
Our first disagreement was over whether to take the buggy for Babe or not. We had agreed to, as well as the pram for New Babe, but OH changed his mind at the last minute and I just couldn't be bothered to argue. Babe did of course, crash in the taxi to the airport, which meant OH had to carry him around over his shoulder when we got there, went through passport control etc. This meant I ended up walking around loaded like a packhorse.
Our second disagreement was over how we would handle the potty situation on the plane. My feeling was that to do a wee in the potty on the floor by our seats was a lesser risk than trying to get Babe to the loo in time and failing, but that poos should be done in the loo or in pants if that's what it came to, rather than subject fellow passengers to the smell if he used the potty. OH disagreed.
After walking down the aisle and getting stuck behind the drinks trolley during turbulence with a potty full of wee in my hand, I was convinced I was right, and I don't think anyone with an aisle seat would have disagreed with me. But an hour later I was breastfeeding New Babe when Babe, who OH was allowing to roll all over the aisle, picked up his potty, pulled down his pants and shorts in full view of everyone behind us (we were seated near the wings, bad choice on my part as Babe couldn't see much outside the windows, in case you're interested) and announced he was going to poo. I hissed at OH to move him but he wouldn't, worried I suppose (let's be generous, I'm trying to see his point of view over stuff) that it was too late. Then one of the air hosts came up and said, 'You can't let him use the potty in the cabin, guys, it's disgusting.' I was mortified, but OH indignant, and didn't do anything. So I yanked New Babe off the breast, grabbed Babe and the potty, and made it to the loo in time for him to do... nothing. Four more wolf calls later and still nothing. Babe had got our attention good and proper, and there wasn't a whole lot we could do about it.
Not entirely funny, eh? You're right. I hated most of that flight. Babe was in fact very good, but no two year old that I know is going to sit quietly for three hours, and whereas my policy is to distract him with Thomas magazines and snacks, OH thinks the British are uptight and is more than happy for Babe to make his presence felt, in both the physical and vocal sense.
Moving on... I was very relieved to arrive in Corfu. We were met by two of OH's now grown-up nephews, who he insisted on whistling and shouting to through the automatic doors separating baggage collection from the World Outside, waving his arms and making the Victory sign like a Japanese tourist. The eldest had bought a clapped out sports car, eighties style with huge reclining seats and dice hanging off the mirror, but when he opened the side door I noticed holes where the speakers had been ripped out; the car didn't go more than 40mph, and the smell of petrol on the ride home nearly asphixiated (no time to spell check that one) us all.
A fish the length of my thigh bone had been caught and grilled for us, and was ready on the table. Babe immediately fell in love with all his cousins and allowed them to feed him copious amounts. It's as though he tunes in to anyone under 25, and out to anyone over 25, whether they speak his language or not. Which is a real shame for grannies, grandads, aunties and uncles etc. But lovely for cousins.
That night was sweltering. I didn't sleep at all - and I mean that. New Babe only woke once, exhausted by the journey and heat I suppose, and his nappy, which is usually soaked in the morning was virtually dry. That's how hot it was. (28 degrees all night apparently.) I found this stressful, and was quite glad when the cocks outside started crowing at 4am. We had to rise at 5am English time, 7am Greek time, to get to the port. I was ready, with Babe dressed and New Babe fed and dressed an hour early. It wasn't until we got outside that I realised there wasn't a plan in place for getting a taxi.
OH walked up the road to a kiosk and was given a number. He asked his brother in law the address, but for some reason he didn't seem to know the name of the road. He snatched the phone impatiently, and his impossibly mad, rude, incoherent conversation with the taxi driver on the other end must have gone something like this:
[Shouting] 'Taxi! Here! Now! For Albania we going'
'Where is "here"?'
[Still shouting] 'Here! Now! Albania to. By supermarket the!'
Which supermarket?
[Going mental] 'Near port! Now! Bar Cappuchino!'
You mean by the rear of the Marinopoulos supermarket nearest to the port?
[Shrieking] Yes! Yes! Bravo! Bravo! You are here now!
I was about to be sick with stress - I feel sick writing this and remembering it, but that's because this Internet cafe is full of smoke and I've got thirty minutes of kid free time to write, as I've just stormed out of the house dramatically in a strop. I'm not going to have time to edit, so forgive me the lapses in spelling and punctuation - and was utterly convinced that the taxi driver would have sworn at his phone and not turned up, but amazingly he did, and we got to the port with about ten minutes to spare. True to form...
The boat ride was beautiful. Breezy, cool - I'd have traded my Macbook (given that it has a few faults) to stay on it for a day, alone with New Babe, drowsy and drifting in and out of sleep. Even I was moved by the raising of the pint-sized nylon Albanian standard as we left Greek waters. But we had to get out and face the family.
I now have to summarise the last two days in about five minutes but it's not hard. It's bloody hot. So hot that you sweat all night. We have all been ill with bad colds and OH and Babe have both had temperatures and dicky tummies. It is too hot to venture outside between eleven and four. OH's dad is ill (again - always ill) and OH ended up spending all yesterday morning in hospital with him, and we were all woken up to him groaning at 5am this morning. I am feeling somewhat better, but Babe is still complaining of pains in his head, ears and tummy. There is no hope of me getting to sleep until the rest of the family do - which is late, as they are used to rising late - although I am managing to get Babe and New Babe down at the usual time, despite the light and noise, by getting onto the bed as well. Babe is being predictably clingy and my plan for sleeping in the hotel opposite is delayed and in fear of being aborted.
BUT we did get out for an hour and a half at about half nine this morning and spent a reasonable time on the beach, so there is hope for us yet. Will keep you posted!
PS Babe was knocked over by a motorbike on the way back from the beach. I was pushing the pram and screamed like a woman jumping for her life as I saw Auntie Eleni grab at Babe, miss and he ran straight across its path. Amazingly, mercifully, he was not hurt but my sleep deprived nerves are in utter tatters. The jerk riding his bike down the pedestrian walkway saw us ahead, and didn't stop or slow down, don't think he even saw us. I gave him an earful the entire town must have heard and then walked home sobbing in shock. Where was OH? Talking to a friend and missed it and presumes I am being difficult and over-reacting as usual. I think I am, possibly, going deranged. Could write so much more but will have to wait until tomorrow.......
Got our flights on time. Worth mentioning as there have been countless incidents of missing flights, thanks to OH's inability to keep time. This time I had everything ready the night before, the only thing outstanding being getting OH's stuff in the suitcase and shutting it. However, this task had yet to be completed at lunch time the next day, seven minutes in fact before the taxi taking us to the airport was due to arrive. He was held up collecting Babe from nursery, getting some cash out and parking our car outside someone else's house. ??? During aforementioned seven minutes I fed New Babe, heart in my mouth, and managed to dress Babe with one hand at the same, bribing him with promises of the treats I'd bought him for the flight. OH changed, wrapped his Wash and Go in an insane quantity of clingfilm and got his stuff in the case and padlocked it.
Our first disagreement was over whether to take the buggy for Babe or not. We had agreed to, as well as the pram for New Babe, but OH changed his mind at the last minute and I just couldn't be bothered to argue. Babe did of course, crash in the taxi to the airport, which meant OH had to carry him around over his shoulder when we got there, went through passport control etc. This meant I ended up walking around loaded like a packhorse.
Our second disagreement was over how we would handle the potty situation on the plane. My feeling was that to do a wee in the potty on the floor by our seats was a lesser risk than trying to get Babe to the loo in time and failing, but that poos should be done in the loo or in pants if that's what it came to, rather than subject fellow passengers to the smell if he used the potty. OH disagreed.
After walking down the aisle and getting stuck behind the drinks trolley during turbulence with a potty full of wee in my hand, I was convinced I was right, and I don't think anyone with an aisle seat would have disagreed with me. But an hour later I was breastfeeding New Babe when Babe, who OH was allowing to roll all over the aisle, picked up his potty, pulled down his pants and shorts in full view of everyone behind us (we were seated near the wings, bad choice on my part as Babe couldn't see much outside the windows, in case you're interested) and announced he was going to poo. I hissed at OH to move him but he wouldn't, worried I suppose (let's be generous, I'm trying to see his point of view over stuff) that it was too late. Then one of the air hosts came up and said, 'You can't let him use the potty in the cabin, guys, it's disgusting.' I was mortified, but OH indignant, and didn't do anything. So I yanked New Babe off the breast, grabbed Babe and the potty, and made it to the loo in time for him to do... nothing. Four more wolf calls later and still nothing. Babe had got our attention good and proper, and there wasn't a whole lot we could do about it.
Not entirely funny, eh? You're right. I hated most of that flight. Babe was in fact very good, but no two year old that I know is going to sit quietly for three hours, and whereas my policy is to distract him with Thomas magazines and snacks, OH thinks the British are uptight and is more than happy for Babe to make his presence felt, in both the physical and vocal sense.
Moving on... I was very relieved to arrive in Corfu. We were met by two of OH's now grown-up nephews, who he insisted on whistling and shouting to through the automatic doors separating baggage collection from the World Outside, waving his arms and making the Victory sign like a Japanese tourist. The eldest had bought a clapped out sports car, eighties style with huge reclining seats and dice hanging off the mirror, but when he opened the side door I noticed holes where the speakers had been ripped out; the car didn't go more than 40mph, and the smell of petrol on the ride home nearly asphixiated (no time to spell check that one) us all.
A fish the length of my thigh bone had been caught and grilled for us, and was ready on the table. Babe immediately fell in love with all his cousins and allowed them to feed him copious amounts. It's as though he tunes in to anyone under 25, and out to anyone over 25, whether they speak his language or not. Which is a real shame for grannies, grandads, aunties and uncles etc. But lovely for cousins.
That night was sweltering. I didn't sleep at all - and I mean that. New Babe only woke once, exhausted by the journey and heat I suppose, and his nappy, which is usually soaked in the morning was virtually dry. That's how hot it was. (28 degrees all night apparently.) I found this stressful, and was quite glad when the cocks outside started crowing at 4am. We had to rise at 5am English time, 7am Greek time, to get to the port. I was ready, with Babe dressed and New Babe fed and dressed an hour early. It wasn't until we got outside that I realised there wasn't a plan in place for getting a taxi.
OH walked up the road to a kiosk and was given a number. He asked his brother in law the address, but for some reason he didn't seem to know the name of the road. He snatched the phone impatiently, and his impossibly mad, rude, incoherent conversation with the taxi driver on the other end must have gone something like this:
[Shouting] 'Taxi! Here! Now! For Albania we going'
'Where is "here"?'
[Still shouting] 'Here! Now! Albania to. By supermarket the!'
Which supermarket?
[Going mental] 'Near port! Now! Bar Cappuchino!'
You mean by the rear of the Marinopoulos supermarket nearest to the port?
[Shrieking] Yes! Yes! Bravo! Bravo! You are here now!
I was about to be sick with stress - I feel sick writing this and remembering it, but that's because this Internet cafe is full of smoke and I've got thirty minutes of kid free time to write, as I've just stormed out of the house dramatically in a strop. I'm not going to have time to edit, so forgive me the lapses in spelling and punctuation - and was utterly convinced that the taxi driver would have sworn at his phone and not turned up, but amazingly he did, and we got to the port with about ten minutes to spare. True to form...
The boat ride was beautiful. Breezy, cool - I'd have traded my Macbook (given that it has a few faults) to stay on it for a day, alone with New Babe, drowsy and drifting in and out of sleep. Even I was moved by the raising of the pint-sized nylon Albanian standard as we left Greek waters. But we had to get out and face the family.
I now have to summarise the last two days in about five minutes but it's not hard. It's bloody hot. So hot that you sweat all night. We have all been ill with bad colds and OH and Babe have both had temperatures and dicky tummies. It is too hot to venture outside between eleven and four. OH's dad is ill (again - always ill) and OH ended up spending all yesterday morning in hospital with him, and we were all woken up to him groaning at 5am this morning. I am feeling somewhat better, but Babe is still complaining of pains in his head, ears and tummy. There is no hope of me getting to sleep until the rest of the family do - which is late, as they are used to rising late - although I am managing to get Babe and New Babe down at the usual time, despite the light and noise, by getting onto the bed as well. Babe is being predictably clingy and my plan for sleeping in the hotel opposite is delayed and in fear of being aborted.
BUT we did get out for an hour and a half at about half nine this morning and spent a reasonable time on the beach, so there is hope for us yet. Will keep you posted!
PS Babe was knocked over by a motorbike on the way back from the beach. I was pushing the pram and screamed like a woman jumping for her life as I saw Auntie Eleni grab at Babe, miss and he ran straight across its path. Amazingly, mercifully, he was not hurt but my sleep deprived nerves are in utter tatters. The jerk riding his bike down the pedestrian walkway saw us ahead, and didn't stop or slow down, don't think he even saw us. I gave him an earful the entire town must have heard and then walked home sobbing in shock. Where was OH? Talking to a friend and missed it and presumes I am being difficult and over-reacting as usual. I think I am, possibly, going deranged. Could write so much more but will have to wait until tomorrow.......
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Utterly exhausted
Ugh. Here we are again. I am so utterly, wretchedly knackered that I am having total sense of humour failure. Which is a shame because I was hoping to provide some slightly more uplifting posts this week.
But New Babe isn't going longer than 2 - 3 hours between feeds during the day, and not much longer than that at night, despite being three months old. Which has made me wonder if my milk is less 'top of the' and more the 'semi-skimmed' variety. First Babe was well-established on five feeds a day by this age.
So, this evening I got OH to offer New Babe a bottle of formula. Which he took straight away! (Having acted like he had no idea what to do with a bottle for me, and rolled it about in his mouth before dribbling all the milk back out). I'm hoping it might help him go a bit longer tonight. Will keep you posted! Just got both boys to bed now, so will have to dash off myself in a mo. Gosh, the thrills and adventure in my life... My step-father asked at the weekend if I do any singing or drama in the evenings at the moment. I could have knocked him around the head with a saucepan, so removed is he from the reality of my existence. (And for those of you feeling shocked or worried at the thought of me acting or singing, well I haven't since I left school.)
But back to the bottle, so to speak: I could dwell on the politics of breastfeeding, and the guilt I feel at putting some formula baby's way, but I won't. Suffice to say that people - well, other women mainly, let's be honest here - are pretty quick to judge your actions when it comes to the whole breastfeeing lark. A lovely woman at my active birth group told us today how, when she reached for her formula in a cafeteria the other day, the woman at the next table said loudly to her friend, 'You'd think she'd be able to feed it herself, wouldn't you?'.
What a bloody cheek! My friend went over to her and said quite calmly:
'This is my third child under the age of five. I breastfed the first two successfully, but for some reason this baby needs a formula top-up after each feed. Perhaps it is because I am totally, utterly, ball-breakingly exhausted and can't provide her with enough myself.'
Why should she have felt the need to explain herself?
Anyway, I'm hoping to start to see light at the end of the tunnel. I am neither energetic nor good-humoured, and sensing this, Babe is doing his best to keep me on my toes. Which backfires on him badly, poor little mite.
OH seems equally tired, but was wonderful last weekend. He took Babe off to kiddie-gym as usual, at 9am prompt on Saturday, agreeing to park, farm and fast-food establishment it afterwards so that I could have a couple of hours to myself while New Babe slept. When he hadn't, unusually, dropped off by half ten, I felt ready to bawl, as could see my one break slipping away from me fast, so called OH. Crying down the phone, somewhat hysterically, it has to be said.
He drove back, marched upstairs, put the plug in the bath and the hot tap on. Then he grabbed New Babe and the car seat, and disappeared with both boys until lunch time. (Think he had probably been letting Babe 'play' in Asda and the pet shop, but whatever...) Babe had fallen asleep in the car, and after a feed, New Babe finally dropped off too. So we had a blissful hour and a half to ourselves. Amazing how once you reach lunch time, and bed time is no longer an eternity away, you start to re-discover the will to live.
And amazing how a hot bath does revive. Think I'll have one now before I hit the sack. Wish me well :)
But New Babe isn't going longer than 2 - 3 hours between feeds during the day, and not much longer than that at night, despite being three months old. Which has made me wonder if my milk is less 'top of the' and more the 'semi-skimmed' variety. First Babe was well-established on five feeds a day by this age.
So, this evening I got OH to offer New Babe a bottle of formula. Which he took straight away! (Having acted like he had no idea what to do with a bottle for me, and rolled it about in his mouth before dribbling all the milk back out). I'm hoping it might help him go a bit longer tonight. Will keep you posted! Just got both boys to bed now, so will have to dash off myself in a mo. Gosh, the thrills and adventure in my life... My step-father asked at the weekend if I do any singing or drama in the evenings at the moment. I could have knocked him around the head with a saucepan, so removed is he from the reality of my existence. (And for those of you feeling shocked or worried at the thought of me acting or singing, well I haven't since I left school.)
But back to the bottle, so to speak: I could dwell on the politics of breastfeeding, and the guilt I feel at putting some formula baby's way, but I won't. Suffice to say that people - well, other women mainly, let's be honest here - are pretty quick to judge your actions when it comes to the whole breastfeeing lark. A lovely woman at my active birth group told us today how, when she reached for her formula in a cafeteria the other day, the woman at the next table said loudly to her friend, 'You'd think she'd be able to feed it herself, wouldn't you?'.
What a bloody cheek! My friend went over to her and said quite calmly:
'This is my third child under the age of five. I breastfed the first two successfully, but for some reason this baby needs a formula top-up after each feed. Perhaps it is because I am totally, utterly, ball-breakingly exhausted and can't provide her with enough myself.'
Why should she have felt the need to explain herself?
Anyway, I'm hoping to start to see light at the end of the tunnel. I am neither energetic nor good-humoured, and sensing this, Babe is doing his best to keep me on my toes. Which backfires on him badly, poor little mite.
OH seems equally tired, but was wonderful last weekend. He took Babe off to kiddie-gym as usual, at 9am prompt on Saturday, agreeing to park, farm and fast-food establishment it afterwards so that I could have a couple of hours to myself while New Babe slept. When he hadn't, unusually, dropped off by half ten, I felt ready to bawl, as could see my one break slipping away from me fast, so called OH. Crying down the phone, somewhat hysterically, it has to be said.
He drove back, marched upstairs, put the plug in the bath and the hot tap on. Then he grabbed New Babe and the car seat, and disappeared with both boys until lunch time. (Think he had probably been letting Babe 'play' in Asda and the pet shop, but whatever...) Babe had fallen asleep in the car, and after a feed, New Babe finally dropped off too. So we had a blissful hour and a half to ourselves. Amazing how once you reach lunch time, and bed time is no longer an eternity away, you start to re-discover the will to live.
And amazing how a hot bath does revive. Think I'll have one now before I hit the sack. Wish me well :)
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