You would not be blamed for assuming that this post is to catalogue OH's DIY disasters - heaven knows, there's enough of them to list and smile wanly over. But I'll save that for another time. No, today's post is about song lyrics, subversion, philosophy and humour. So that's all right, then. :)
I'm not sure if tiredness, hormones, money worries or what exactly was causing my bad humour this morning, but Babe being a little pickle was not helping matters. And as we made a huge cut-out race track out of pieces of wallpaper stuck together (I add that piece of detail so that you know what a creative, generous-hearted, fun mum I am, even in the face of adversity), singing together as we worked, I found myself subverting song lyrics.
I usually do this in my head. There is one kids TV programme - I can't remember the title - whose theme tune goes something like 'Posituney, offirooney, big, bang, boo...' and at the end I always sing it's conclusion to myself thus: 'Stinky pinky poo'. And there is an ad on Channel 5 for awful and absurdly expensive girls' shoes that the hum in my mind's eye calls 'Smelly Kellys'. Perhaps this immature behaviour gives vent to some of my tiredness and anxiety, I don't know.
But today, as we were singing Bob the Builder - can you believe this is actually on nursery's repertoire of songs? - and shouting, 'Can he fix it?' I just couldn't help myself and out popped, 'No, he can't!'. Babe looked a bit shocked, so I shrugged cheekily and we both rolled on the floor and laughed. I felt way better afterwards, so subverted a few more: 'Postman Pat and his black and white pants'; 'Hokey Cokey cola' (anti-consumerist twang to that one, you understand, although that may have gone above his head) and 'Humpty Dumpty sat on the rubbish bin'.
My firstborn has developed a love of Dora the Explorer quite by accident (we were lent a Postman Pat DVD that had the wrong disc inside) and is begging me to invite her to his birthday party in a couple of weeks' time. (There's a fancy dress challenge for OH to meet;)) Babe particularly loves the pirates episode, in fact that's the only one he wants to watch, and I have been pleasantly surprised by its philosophical content.
Dora and the gang have to complete three challenges: Seas, bridge, treasure island. (Or, 'Treasure, I am' as Babe insists the lyrics go. I can't blame his misunderstanding as the characters do have terrible accents, nor his insistence that he is right, as I refused to believe that 'Mull of Kintyre' wasn't 'Margowyn Town until I was at least 25.) Once they have travelled the seven seas they have to get through this bridge by righting the song lyrics it wrongs.
It starts with: 'Twinkle, twinkle, little star, how I wonder what you ate for breakfast!'. I wonder what post-modern deconstructions would make of that. It continues with, 'Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream. Merrily merrily merrily merrily, life is just a bowl of spaghetti.' I couldn't put it better myself. The final song goes like this: 'Old Macdonald had some pans, oye, oye oye.' Boy, did the writers run out of steam on that one, eh? Unless I'm missing something really clever and funny. Do let me know if that is the case. Babe prefers, 'Old Macdonald had some chocolate stars.'
Moving on (I cannot believe I am blogging this knackered, but I have to keep something in my life going as everything crumbles around me), my mid-life crisis and re-born desire to subvert are shifting their attention to Babe's wardrobe in order to find something to do.
I have never liked kids to look trendy; it seems inappropraite somehow to make them vehicles for their parents' fashion pretensions. And there is nothing worse than tarty-looking little girls, I'm sure you'll agree. I don't, however, like kids to look too 'Marks and spencers' either. You just know, looking at them, that they'll be the squares in the class at school.
To date, Babe most often just looks a mess, as I do. Sometimes a bit cool, sometimes a bit square and rarely matching as most of his attire comes from ebay job lots. I realise I tend to dress him as I dress myself - never quite matching, one or two nice items and quite a lot of tat.
Anyway, I've been given quite a few hand-me-downs recently that definitely have a bit of edge to them, and I'm kind of enjoying letting my son out of the house looking, well, a tad 'roguish' I suppose. But, I wonder, if he looks a bit edgy, will he be treated a bit edgy?
Before you accuse me of totally over-analysing all this, bear with me, please! If you and I judge one another quite heavily on how we look, don't we do the same with our kids? I know I pick out a mile off the ones I think look dull and the one that look a bit wild and the ones I think Babe might like to hang with, terrible tho' that sounds. And doesn't this lead to a subtle vibe in our reaction to them that might become self perpetuating, subtly re-enforced by the child him/herself, and reflected in his/her behaviour? Hum...
At my active birth group on Thursday Babe was exhausted and badly behaved. He and a little friend were allowed out into the beautiful garden that had a trampoline, slide, swings, etc etc. What did Babe do? He ran over the wood pile and start throwing logs around the garden. Could this have been because of the too-big baggy sleeveless Scooby Doo T he had slung on over his baseball top? Answers on a postcard, please...
New Babe crying, have to fly. OH out with Babe buying, I suspect, gifts for my impending birthday. Wonder what they'll get. I must do a post on some of the hilarious things OH has given me in previous years. Lots of love, then, xxx
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Monday, October 12, 2009
Money matters
My craving for sleep and the devastating impact of its absence from my life continues.
Last evening, I stood by the hob, to heat the vast vat of soup I had prepared earlier, in an attempt to get more vegetables into us. As I stared at the flames licking its bottom (so to speak) I could have sworn I heard a muffled cry. I leaned closer. Yes, I hear a tiny roar. Then another yell. I stood up straight and started at my reflection in the window above the sink. I was feeling and looking excessively knackered. Too knackered to feel disturbed or afraid.
I stuck my finger in my right ear (I think I've experienced some hearing loss since the birth of New Babe but the doctor assures me that nothing is punctured) and wiggled it around. Then listened again. 'Mum!' yelled the soup. I jolted backwards, somewhat freaked. Then with a thump from above, the realisation that Babe had not settled for the night after all, dawned. And I trudged upstairs to deal with him.
(FYI the soup was carrot, parsnip and ginger, and both OH and Babe refused to eat any. It gave me the most terrible abdominal pain and must have upset my breastmilk as well, as New Babe woke on the hour, every hour, last night, and it was his breaking wind, not his crying, that dragged me from sleep in the next room.)
(FYI2 I give Babe some great natural iron green vegatable supplements you can buy.)
(FYI3 It occurred to me last night, as I got back into bed having fed the baby and gone to the loo afterwards for the umpteenth time, that my bed is so close to the toilet, despite them being in adjacent rooms - our house is small - that it is kind of like having an en suite. Probably less distance between my bed and our toilet than from my brother's bed to the loos in his ensuite, I speculated at 4am.)
Anyway, OH has been laid off work again and money stresses are even more real than usual. So I have decided to dabble with ebay. I have lots of baby gear and maternity wear to get rid of, as well as other things I don't like or need anymore, and our roof is full of tools that OH doesn't use, as well as things like his tap shoes. (Long story, worn once - I thought tap dancing might be a fun activity we could share after work when living in London. Despite his general physical dexterity and high level of fitness, OH could not decipher the lingo - ShuFULLbullCHANGEetcetcetc - and was crap at it. I had the best laugh of my life that night but it was not £95 well spent.)
I thought I would start on ebay with something small. So I picked up a 'pale blue Acessorize angora cap-style beret, VGC' from the top of the pile. I then spent the best part of an effing hour, while NB slept, trying to capture it at its photographic best. If you manage to find the bloody thing on ebay, its the one with the terracotta breeze blocks in the background. Yes, the garden offered the best light and you can see a snippet of my brown sleeve in the pic.
It's harder than you might guess to take a photo of a beret with your hand inside it, trying to make it look appropriately full and not floppy, get the peak and the twiddley bit on top in, etc etc. I asked OH to model it - he refused, and his hands are hairy and it wasn't looking good when it held it up on various backgrounds. I considered putting it on a large stuffed toy, but feared it might trivialise the purchase to prospective buyers. I hope I haven't overstepped the mark by describing it as 'cute'. To cut a long story short, it doesn't even come up when you type in 'beret' - can some clever dick reading this explain why? - and I realise I've left the word 'outfit' or 'set' off my 'newborn boy winter jacket and trousers, VGC' and that isn't coming up easily either. Dang and blast.
So, if you wonder what I'll be doing for the rest of the evening (and probably the rest of my maternity leave, if not my life), it's trying to get my photos and keywords right on ebay. If any of you know a geeky adolescent who would take everything I possess and try and flog it for me, in return for a cut of the profit (or, I don't know, some lessons in the language of love or something - as I said, OH is without a job a the moment), please let me know!
Last evening, I stood by the hob, to heat the vast vat of soup I had prepared earlier, in an attempt to get more vegetables into us. As I stared at the flames licking its bottom (so to speak) I could have sworn I heard a muffled cry. I leaned closer. Yes, I hear a tiny roar. Then another yell. I stood up straight and started at my reflection in the window above the sink. I was feeling and looking excessively knackered. Too knackered to feel disturbed or afraid.
I stuck my finger in my right ear (I think I've experienced some hearing loss since the birth of New Babe but the doctor assures me that nothing is punctured) and wiggled it around. Then listened again. 'Mum!' yelled the soup. I jolted backwards, somewhat freaked. Then with a thump from above, the realisation that Babe had not settled for the night after all, dawned. And I trudged upstairs to deal with him.
(FYI the soup was carrot, parsnip and ginger, and both OH and Babe refused to eat any. It gave me the most terrible abdominal pain and must have upset my breastmilk as well, as New Babe woke on the hour, every hour, last night, and it was his breaking wind, not his crying, that dragged me from sleep in the next room.)
(FYI2 I give Babe some great natural iron green vegatable supplements you can buy.)
(FYI3 It occurred to me last night, as I got back into bed having fed the baby and gone to the loo afterwards for the umpteenth time, that my bed is so close to the toilet, despite them being in adjacent rooms - our house is small - that it is kind of like having an en suite. Probably less distance between my bed and our toilet than from my brother's bed to the loos in his ensuite, I speculated at 4am.)
Anyway, OH has been laid off work again and money stresses are even more real than usual. So I have decided to dabble with ebay. I have lots of baby gear and maternity wear to get rid of, as well as other things I don't like or need anymore, and our roof is full of tools that OH doesn't use, as well as things like his tap shoes. (Long story, worn once - I thought tap dancing might be a fun activity we could share after work when living in London. Despite his general physical dexterity and high level of fitness, OH could not decipher the lingo - ShuFULLbullCHANGEetcetcetc - and was crap at it. I had the best laugh of my life that night but it was not £95 well spent.)
I thought I would start on ebay with something small. So I picked up a 'pale blue Acessorize angora cap-style beret, VGC' from the top of the pile. I then spent the best part of an effing hour, while NB slept, trying to capture it at its photographic best. If you manage to find the bloody thing on ebay, its the one with the terracotta breeze blocks in the background. Yes, the garden offered the best light and you can see a snippet of my brown sleeve in the pic.
It's harder than you might guess to take a photo of a beret with your hand inside it, trying to make it look appropriately full and not floppy, get the peak and the twiddley bit on top in, etc etc. I asked OH to model it - he refused, and his hands are hairy and it wasn't looking good when it held it up on various backgrounds. I considered putting it on a large stuffed toy, but feared it might trivialise the purchase to prospective buyers. I hope I haven't overstepped the mark by describing it as 'cute'. To cut a long story short, it doesn't even come up when you type in 'beret' - can some clever dick reading this explain why? - and I realise I've left the word 'outfit' or 'set' off my 'newborn boy winter jacket and trousers, VGC' and that isn't coming up easily either. Dang and blast.
So, if you wonder what I'll be doing for the rest of the evening (and probably the rest of my maternity leave, if not my life), it's trying to get my photos and keywords right on ebay. If any of you know a geeky adolescent who would take everything I possess and try and flog it for me, in return for a cut of the profit (or, I don't know, some lessons in the language of love or something - as I said, OH is without a job a the moment), please let me know!
Monday, October 5, 2009
Style icons
My concerns that I am approaching a mid-life crisis continue. Yesterday I bought a hair clip in the hope that it could revive my flagging personal style (cute, buttony) (the hairclip, not my personal style, that is) but in fact it just makes me look like a wa**er.
When I was pregnant I felt so bloody awful that I vowed I would hit the treadmill in the gym just as soon as I'd given birth, lose loads of weight and purchase a capsule wardrobe that even Gok would be the envy of. I took a plain piece of A4 and listed a number of adjectives (and adjectival phrases ;)) I wanted my new look to say about me. They included: comfortable, feminine, organised, appropriate, practical, but with a hint of quirk, je ne sais quoi, carpe diem, etc etc, so that my True Self would shine through. (Would a bloke ever sit down and complete such an exercise I wonder?)
Actually, I'm not sure who my True Self is anymore. I'm a fairly passionate mouthy sort, with a reasonable sense of humour and a mega grumpy dark side that I blame on PMT. I am very organised (well I try to be) but am somewhat ineffective at 'sharpening the sword' (Seven Habits speak, as those of you who have done the course and bought into the ridiculously expensive filofax will know), also somewhat pedantic (I added that after re-reading the para above) and quite a scorpio I reckon. But more of all that another time.
In my youth (What?! Am I actually saying things like that now?) I thought of myself as 'alternative'. Or should that be 'Alternative'? or 'an alternative'? For F's sake! I had my nose pierced before it became de rigour (yep, I noticed the italics symbol tonight), wore a lot of tassles and purple and tights with big flowers on them and thought I was The Business. I have never been a follower of fashion, would hate to look cool, but would hate to look uncool and would hate to look as though I'm trying too hard. This must be boring you senseless. Total navel-gazing self-indulgence.
It's hard to get enthusiastic abut looking good when you spend your days arriving late at playgroups, sweating and pavement pushing, or hanging out in the park with your boob hanging out, dribble, crumbs mud and dog poo decorating your inner and outer wear. But I still aspire to being a woman that people would look at know I am just, I don't know, a bit different, not conventional, a liberal free thinker not run of the mill ho de hum diddley dee I don't know.
So, with Babe in nursery, and fired up by my recent hair clip purchase, New Babe and I hit the shops this morning. I wanted to purchase a gilet, what with the colder days approaching. (Now if that isn't sodding conventional, I don't know what is, but whatever. I need something I can thrown on fast and which will keep me warm, but enable me to cool down quickly when I open it.)(!).
I was immediatly distracted by a number of handbags - good friends will know of my search for the ultimate 'third lung' - a vessel that carries my daily requirements to perfection, both looking and feeling The Business - and also of my general obsession with all things of a receptacley nature (make up bags, wash bags, lunch boxes, pencil cases...). God, I'm sad.
In the knowledge that for the forseeable future I have need of nothing but a baby change bag, I managed to avoid the clutches of the clutches, saddle bags, satchels etc that kept crossing my path, and somehow or other ended up in the Disney shop, quite at odds with my anti-consumerist principles and bought an indecent amount of Cars film memorabilia for Babe's impending birthday.
Feeling bored and irritable, I decided to give TX Maxx a try, as there one can rely on variety under one roof. I bought Babe two jumpers and a coat. New Babe kicked off before I could continue shopping for myself, so I had an early lunch in a cafe while he bounced on and off my breast, leaving my nipple exposed every time a suave young man entered the joint.
Feeling bored-er and irritable-er, I bounced round a few more shops where I bought a few more things for my kids, before somehow ending up at a bakery where, yes, you guessed, I bought the equivalent of an early tea to eat on the bus on the way home. At approximately 12.45am.
I then sprinted along several pavements, trod in two turds and arrived sweating at nursery to pick up Babe. On arrival I lifted New Babe from the pram and he promptly posseted over my shoulder and down my back. Rummaging about my person for a tissue I noticed that my left boob had leaked quite badly en route. And that there was doughnut jam stain on my elasticated trousers. And that my shoes were muddy. My hair was tied back and I wasn't wearing any make up. Bloody hell.
I retrieved Babe, who was covered in paint, had sand in his shoes and was wearing girls' pants and trousers as he had weed and pooed himself senseless all morning and refused to use the potty and they had run out of spare boys clothes for him. We looked at one another as he took my hand, and despite his tender years I believe a mutual sigh of understanding was shared. We picked up some juice, bananas and chocolate buttons (half a pack for Babe, two-and-a-half for me) from the corner shop and headed to the park as it started to rain...
When I was pregnant I felt so bloody awful that I vowed I would hit the treadmill in the gym just as soon as I'd given birth, lose loads of weight and purchase a capsule wardrobe that even Gok would be the envy of. I took a plain piece of A4 and listed a number of adjectives (and adjectival phrases ;)) I wanted my new look to say about me. They included: comfortable, feminine, organised, appropriate, practical, but with a hint of quirk, je ne sais quoi, carpe diem, etc etc, so that my True Self would shine through. (Would a bloke ever sit down and complete such an exercise I wonder?)
Actually, I'm not sure who my True Self is anymore. I'm a fairly passionate mouthy sort, with a reasonable sense of humour and a mega grumpy dark side that I blame on PMT. I am very organised (well I try to be) but am somewhat ineffective at 'sharpening the sword' (Seven Habits speak, as those of you who have done the course and bought into the ridiculously expensive filofax will know), also somewhat pedantic (I added that after re-reading the para above) and quite a scorpio I reckon. But more of all that another time.
In my youth (What?! Am I actually saying things like that now?) I thought of myself as 'alternative'. Or should that be 'Alternative'? or 'an alternative'? For F's sake! I had my nose pierced before it became de rigour (yep, I noticed the italics symbol tonight), wore a lot of tassles and purple and tights with big flowers on them and thought I was The Business. I have never been a follower of fashion, would hate to look cool, but would hate to look uncool and would hate to look as though I'm trying too hard. This must be boring you senseless. Total navel-gazing self-indulgence.
It's hard to get enthusiastic abut looking good when you spend your days arriving late at playgroups, sweating and pavement pushing, or hanging out in the park with your boob hanging out, dribble, crumbs mud and dog poo decorating your inner and outer wear. But I still aspire to being a woman that people would look at know I am just, I don't know, a bit different, not conventional, a liberal free thinker not run of the mill ho de hum diddley dee I don't know.
So, with Babe in nursery, and fired up by my recent hair clip purchase, New Babe and I hit the shops this morning. I wanted to purchase a gilet, what with the colder days approaching. (Now if that isn't sodding conventional, I don't know what is, but whatever. I need something I can thrown on fast and which will keep me warm, but enable me to cool down quickly when I open it.)(!).
I was immediatly distracted by a number of handbags - good friends will know of my search for the ultimate 'third lung' - a vessel that carries my daily requirements to perfection, both looking and feeling The Business - and also of my general obsession with all things of a receptacley nature (make up bags, wash bags, lunch boxes, pencil cases...). God, I'm sad.
In the knowledge that for the forseeable future I have need of nothing but a baby change bag, I managed to avoid the clutches of the clutches, saddle bags, satchels etc that kept crossing my path, and somehow or other ended up in the Disney shop, quite at odds with my anti-consumerist principles and bought an indecent amount of Cars film memorabilia for Babe's impending birthday.
Feeling bored and irritable, I decided to give TX Maxx a try, as there one can rely on variety under one roof. I bought Babe two jumpers and a coat. New Babe kicked off before I could continue shopping for myself, so I had an early lunch in a cafe while he bounced on and off my breast, leaving my nipple exposed every time a suave young man entered the joint.
Feeling bored-er and irritable-er, I bounced round a few more shops where I bought a few more things for my kids, before somehow ending up at a bakery where, yes, you guessed, I bought the equivalent of an early tea to eat on the bus on the way home. At approximately 12.45am.
I then sprinted along several pavements, trod in two turds and arrived sweating at nursery to pick up Babe. On arrival I lifted New Babe from the pram and he promptly posseted over my shoulder and down my back. Rummaging about my person for a tissue I noticed that my left boob had leaked quite badly en route. And that there was doughnut jam stain on my elasticated trousers. And that my shoes were muddy. My hair was tied back and I wasn't wearing any make up. Bloody hell.
I retrieved Babe, who was covered in paint, had sand in his shoes and was wearing girls' pants and trousers as he had weed and pooed himself senseless all morning and refused to use the potty and they had run out of spare boys clothes for him. We looked at one another as he took my hand, and despite his tender years I believe a mutual sigh of understanding was shared. We picked up some juice, bananas and chocolate buttons (half a pack for Babe, two-and-a-half for me) from the corner shop and headed to the park as it started to rain...
Friday, October 2, 2009
Thomas and the Mad Bomber
I could write a lot about kids' tv and DVDs etc, and the merits or otherwise of each. I am interested in children's literature and media, in fact I've co-written a number of children's books, and have enjoyed writing for, teaching and working with children.
Personally, I had intended that Babe would not be introduced to tv until he was at least the age of consent but that was before I knew I'd have a baby who would be up at half five every day. These days my bottom line is that if the telly keeps him quiet from 6 - 8am, I'm not that bothered about him watching it.
A friend suggested recently that if I banned tv in the mornings, Babe may then stay in bed longer. Not a bad suggestion - tho' he has always been an early riser. I suppose I could buy a lamp he can switch on himself (he'd need one as he has a black-out blind) and insist that he plays with his toys in his room until 7am or something like that and may try it, once I have the energy to face the inevitable repercussions and tantrums. From OH that is...
OH has a certain Mediterranean (based on my experience, that is) adoration of the tv. I may have mentioned in a previous post my observation that in many households across Greece and Albania the tv acquires a shrine-like status in the sitting room, complete with croched doiley and ornament or religious icon on top.
It is not considered rude to continue watching tv if guests arrive, and I have cringed on numerous occasions when OH either refuses to turn the tv off when people come in, or will turn it on in the middle of conversation after a meal. Usually to tune in to 'Euronews' which he wrongly assumes our guests have the same interest in as he does.
He also has a Mediterranean liking of having all household appliances turned on at the same time: TV, stereo, radio, iron, etc, (well, ok, maybe not the iron) and then having to shout in order to make himself heard.
And being East European (sorry about these generalisations, I admit that's what they are) OH a) believes that most of what he hears on the tv is the 'truth' - thanks to communist brainwashing - he once suggested I try some wonder diet pills that were said to have been used by Princess Diana, because Albanian TV said they 'definitely' worked, and b) also has a dodgy liking for crap American movies, particularly the ones in which the plot centres around a canine with humanesque qualities. He will actually sit and laugh hysterically at such epics, cry at films about inept fathers and their sons/lost twin brothers etc, and was once asked if he was drunk on a flight back to the UK during which an inane kids cartoon (Tom and Jerry I believe) was making him roar out loud. But perhaps it's tension release at the strain of living with me.
Worse than all this, OH seems to be actively teaching Babe to sit and watch DVDs with him on Saturday afternoons, so that he can crash next to him on the sofa for a couple of hours. He has bought a huge number of kids' films from the supermarket and puts them on with great excitement, to Babe's bemusement. Although I strongly disapprove of this, I have had my own come-uppance in the films department and realise that I may be the bearer of double standards.
Recently a friend lent me a bunch of DVDs to take on holiday. I couldn't help but get excited about it. If I'm completely honest, I was delighted to discover you can get feature-length Thomas films and sometimes I put them on during the afternoon when OH is at work so that I can lie on the sofa and rest (see what I mean about the double standards? Why is it any less bad when I do it?).
One of the DVDs I was lent is about a tap-dancing penguin. It didn't occur to me to vet it. We sat down to watch, but a few scenes into the film, the cute baby penguin is being chased by horrible scary sea birds and gets stuck under the ice. I sat with growing discomfort, looking at Babe's face, and wondered how I could turn it off without worrying him further at my censoring of the material. I tried to interject with comments such as 'Oh, poor little penguin, I expect his friends are just about to arrive and play with him'. But when he got stuck Babe, with a look of horror on his face burst into tears and screamed at me, 'He's on his own and he's lost his mummy and his daddy!'
I can't tell you how bad I felt, that I had happened upon this experience unprepared. We kept watching until it became clear that the penguin was perfectly alright, but Babe had been confronted with a whole load of stuff I'd have preferred to introduce him to myself when I felt the time was right.
Also recently, I have taught Babe to surf youtube for video clips. He loves Thomas songs and one we had found on the official site called, 'What makes an engine happy? What makes an engine sad?' and which would make your heart ache to hear him sing along to, was suddenly removed.
In my efforts to track it down I had got as far as discovering the composer was a Lib Dem supporter living in the Totnes area, when a friend found the song for me on youtube. We were overjoyed! But I quickly discovered the frustration of either having to sit with Babe and watch all the related Thomas clips myself, or return to the computer every three minutes or so each time a clip ended. So it made sense to teach him to scroll through and click and select the clips himself.
I can't believe that as someone who works on the web, and on children's materials at times, it didn't occur to me to check that there weren't any dodgy clips among all those songs and episodes. But having watched hundreds with him, and usually being in the room with him while he watched them and not overheard anything inappropriate, I trusted the stuff and presumed it was all harmless Thomas fun for kids.
I certainly didn't expect to pop out of the room for a beaker of milk and come back in to hear a frightened Thomas call 'Help, help!', have his head blown from his tank and end up with it inverted, smoking, beside him on the tracks. I swooped to the laptop and slammed it shut (and we haven't been back to youtube since), but not before Babe said in a small voice,
'I don't like this one, Mummy, it makes me feel sad.'
Gah! The guilt! A steep learning curve and proof that you just can't be too careful with your kids. From now on, it's nothing but Thomas and Postman Pat, at tightly controlled and rigorous intervals...
Personally, I had intended that Babe would not be introduced to tv until he was at least the age of consent but that was before I knew I'd have a baby who would be up at half five every day. These days my bottom line is that if the telly keeps him quiet from 6 - 8am, I'm not that bothered about him watching it.
A friend suggested recently that if I banned tv in the mornings, Babe may then stay in bed longer. Not a bad suggestion - tho' he has always been an early riser. I suppose I could buy a lamp he can switch on himself (he'd need one as he has a black-out blind) and insist that he plays with his toys in his room until 7am or something like that and may try it, once I have the energy to face the inevitable repercussions and tantrums. From OH that is...
OH has a certain Mediterranean (based on my experience, that is) adoration of the tv. I may have mentioned in a previous post my observation that in many households across Greece and Albania the tv acquires a shrine-like status in the sitting room, complete with croched doiley and ornament or religious icon on top.
It is not considered rude to continue watching tv if guests arrive, and I have cringed on numerous occasions when OH either refuses to turn the tv off when people come in, or will turn it on in the middle of conversation after a meal. Usually to tune in to 'Euronews' which he wrongly assumes our guests have the same interest in as he does.
He also has a Mediterranean liking of having all household appliances turned on at the same time: TV, stereo, radio, iron, etc, (well, ok, maybe not the iron) and then having to shout in order to make himself heard.
And being East European (sorry about these generalisations, I admit that's what they are) OH a) believes that most of what he hears on the tv is the 'truth' - thanks to communist brainwashing - he once suggested I try some wonder diet pills that were said to have been used by Princess Diana, because Albanian TV said they 'definitely' worked, and b) also has a dodgy liking for crap American movies, particularly the ones in which the plot centres around a canine with humanesque qualities. He will actually sit and laugh hysterically at such epics, cry at films about inept fathers and their sons/lost twin brothers etc, and was once asked if he was drunk on a flight back to the UK during which an inane kids cartoon (Tom and Jerry I believe) was making him roar out loud. But perhaps it's tension release at the strain of living with me.
Worse than all this, OH seems to be actively teaching Babe to sit and watch DVDs with him on Saturday afternoons, so that he can crash next to him on the sofa for a couple of hours. He has bought a huge number of kids' films from the supermarket and puts them on with great excitement, to Babe's bemusement. Although I strongly disapprove of this, I have had my own come-uppance in the films department and realise that I may be the bearer of double standards.
Recently a friend lent me a bunch of DVDs to take on holiday. I couldn't help but get excited about it. If I'm completely honest, I was delighted to discover you can get feature-length Thomas films and sometimes I put them on during the afternoon when OH is at work so that I can lie on the sofa and rest (see what I mean about the double standards? Why is it any less bad when I do it?).
One of the DVDs I was lent is about a tap-dancing penguin. It didn't occur to me to vet it. We sat down to watch, but a few scenes into the film, the cute baby penguin is being chased by horrible scary sea birds and gets stuck under the ice. I sat with growing discomfort, looking at Babe's face, and wondered how I could turn it off without worrying him further at my censoring of the material. I tried to interject with comments such as 'Oh, poor little penguin, I expect his friends are just about to arrive and play with him'. But when he got stuck Babe, with a look of horror on his face burst into tears and screamed at me, 'He's on his own and he's lost his mummy and his daddy!'
I can't tell you how bad I felt, that I had happened upon this experience unprepared. We kept watching until it became clear that the penguin was perfectly alright, but Babe had been confronted with a whole load of stuff I'd have preferred to introduce him to myself when I felt the time was right.
Also recently, I have taught Babe to surf youtube for video clips. He loves Thomas songs and one we had found on the official site called, 'What makes an engine happy? What makes an engine sad?' and which would make your heart ache to hear him sing along to, was suddenly removed.
In my efforts to track it down I had got as far as discovering the composer was a Lib Dem supporter living in the Totnes area, when a friend found the song for me on youtube. We were overjoyed! But I quickly discovered the frustration of either having to sit with Babe and watch all the related Thomas clips myself, or return to the computer every three minutes or so each time a clip ended. So it made sense to teach him to scroll through and click and select the clips himself.
I can't believe that as someone who works on the web, and on children's materials at times, it didn't occur to me to check that there weren't any dodgy clips among all those songs and episodes. But having watched hundreds with him, and usually being in the room with him while he watched them and not overheard anything inappropriate, I trusted the stuff and presumed it was all harmless Thomas fun for kids.
I certainly didn't expect to pop out of the room for a beaker of milk and come back in to hear a frightened Thomas call 'Help, help!', have his head blown from his tank and end up with it inverted, smoking, beside him on the tracks. I swooped to the laptop and slammed it shut (and we haven't been back to youtube since), but not before Babe said in a small voice,
'I don't like this one, Mummy, it makes me feel sad.'
Gah! The guilt! A steep learning curve and proof that you just can't be too careful with your kids. From now on, it's nothing but Thomas and Postman Pat, at tightly controlled and rigorous intervals...
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Mid-life crisis?
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...
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...
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 :)
Friday, August 28, 2009
My son, the diplomat, Part II
Of course, what Babe said at the end of my penultimate post, was repeating exactly what I had said when we set off an a Family Day Out to a rescue establishment of the bovine variety at 8am last Sunday.
A day later, he interrupted our bickering thus:
'Don't speak to mummy like that, daddy!'
'I'm sorry,' says OH.
'Mummy, daddy says sorry,' says Babe.
'I'm sorry, too,' I rejoin, giving OH an unpleasant hand gesture as Babe turns his back.
Shocking, I know.
I am determined to put this phase behind us, and some fun back into family life. I am sure the constant stressing and bickering is upsetting Babe. So I try to suggest we do something nice together at some point during each weekend. (Incidentally, we're all upset, not just Babe. New Babe probably thinks that people only communicate without shouting on birthdays and thier own Saint days.)
To be honest, I don't look forward to weekends at all as weekdays are simpler, despite being pretty heavy-going for me. We usually survive Saturdays and Sundays by taking turns to take Babe out while I clean the house or, when it's his turn, OH chills on the sofa. My ultimate aim is to achieve the cleaning, shopping and cooking during the week, so that I can get some rest at the weekend too, or at least not get irritated by how much there is to do and attempt to chill. Babe has started saying, 'Just chill, Mummy!', which drives me insane. Learnt from OH of course.
But, back to our last Family Day Out (sorry for all these bits in brackets, I am trying to cut down on them) unless we get Up And Out, Babe is likely to drop off en route wasting valuable RandR time for us. Which is why I insisted (begged, prostrated myself on the floor, cried, made offers of one BJ per month etc etc) that we leave early. Unfortunately I had not checked the opening times of aforementioned bovine establishement, and we ended up bickering in the car park in the drizzle for an hour when we got there. Not a nag in sight, but a clearly testosterone-fuelled young farm hand revving a quad bike desguised as a bull that pulls a line of passengers around the paddock for about £30 quid a head.
I am fast learning that Babe doesn't mind where we are as long as a) we are not arguing and b) he has a little mate or two to play with. He runs up to kids anywhere and asks what their names are and then stands as close as can to them until they start involving him in thier play.
Last Sunday, we were pretty much the only ones there. We made a cursory tour of the stables, slid down the slides whooping as loudly as we could, so that he'd feel the place was fun and lively, and then mustered the energy to leap over some kiddie-style horse jumps in the outside area with him. There were wasps everywhere which was making me nervous, as OH has a serious allergy but does not carry his epi pen with him. (I know!!) Then the one or two other visitors started to convene near the paddock for the 'bull ride'. We argued briefly as to weather Babe could go on alone, then agreed that he and OH should go on together. Just as well we did, as it bounced about all over the place. Babe loved it. I giggled a lot at the sight of a very cramped OH, knees about his ears, trying to control just how hard Babe bouced against his crotch.
We left, following some obligatory purchases in the gift shop: Babe, some mini aeroplanes, me some fudge - boy, did I need it, OH a horse brush (don't ask).
We arrived back home at about eleven thirty, every bit as exhausted as if we'd been out for the day. Which made the entry fee quite good value, I guess. Babe and New Babe were asleep in the car. So OH chilled on the sofa and I - well, I'll leave what I did up to your imaginations.
A day later, he interrupted our bickering thus:
'Don't speak to mummy like that, daddy!'
'I'm sorry,' says OH.
'Mummy, daddy says sorry,' says Babe.
'I'm sorry, too,' I rejoin, giving OH an unpleasant hand gesture as Babe turns his back.
Shocking, I know.
I am determined to put this phase behind us, and some fun back into family life. I am sure the constant stressing and bickering is upsetting Babe. So I try to suggest we do something nice together at some point during each weekend. (Incidentally, we're all upset, not just Babe. New Babe probably thinks that people only communicate without shouting on birthdays and thier own Saint days.)
To be honest, I don't look forward to weekends at all as weekdays are simpler, despite being pretty heavy-going for me. We usually survive Saturdays and Sundays by taking turns to take Babe out while I clean the house or, when it's his turn, OH chills on the sofa. My ultimate aim is to achieve the cleaning, shopping and cooking during the week, so that I can get some rest at the weekend too, or at least not get irritated by how much there is to do and attempt to chill. Babe has started saying, 'Just chill, Mummy!', which drives me insane. Learnt from OH of course.
But, back to our last Family Day Out (sorry for all these bits in brackets, I am trying to cut down on them) unless we get Up And Out, Babe is likely to drop off en route wasting valuable RandR time for us. Which is why I insisted (begged, prostrated myself on the floor, cried, made offers of one BJ per month etc etc) that we leave early. Unfortunately I had not checked the opening times of aforementioned bovine establishement, and we ended up bickering in the car park in the drizzle for an hour when we got there. Not a nag in sight, but a clearly testosterone-fuelled young farm hand revving a quad bike desguised as a bull that pulls a line of passengers around the paddock for about £30 quid a head.
I am fast learning that Babe doesn't mind where we are as long as a) we are not arguing and b) he has a little mate or two to play with. He runs up to kids anywhere and asks what their names are and then stands as close as can to them until they start involving him in thier play.
Last Sunday, we were pretty much the only ones there. We made a cursory tour of the stables, slid down the slides whooping as loudly as we could, so that he'd feel the place was fun and lively, and then mustered the energy to leap over some kiddie-style horse jumps in the outside area with him. There were wasps everywhere which was making me nervous, as OH has a serious allergy but does not carry his epi pen with him. (I know!!) Then the one or two other visitors started to convene near the paddock for the 'bull ride'. We argued briefly as to weather Babe could go on alone, then agreed that he and OH should go on together. Just as well we did, as it bounced about all over the place. Babe loved it. I giggled a lot at the sight of a very cramped OH, knees about his ears, trying to control just how hard Babe bouced against his crotch.
We left, following some obligatory purchases in the gift shop: Babe, some mini aeroplanes, me some fudge - boy, did I need it, OH a horse brush (don't ask).
We arrived back home at about eleven thirty, every bit as exhausted as if we'd been out for the day. Which made the entry fee quite good value, I guess. Babe and New Babe were asleep in the car. So OH chilled on the sofa and I - well, I'll leave what I did up to your imaginations.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Homeland on the horizon
It seems I have once again agreed to take our annual vacation in OH's homeland. How the F did I manage that? Especially after last year's protestations and this year's tantrums - in fact a decade of protestations and tantrums.
Thing is, I love the man, and realise that I was expecting something of him that I wouldn't have been prepared to agreed to myself. Plus I'm insanely tired and realised there wasn't a lot of sense in paying money we don't have to spend a week away together, having the 'family holiday' I aspired to, arguing over whose turn it was to sleep/chase Babe around the swimming pool. What's more, having lived abroad and feeling very comfortable in several European countries where one or the other of us knows the ropes and the language, I feel strangely insecure at the thought of going somewhere new. How very parochial!
So, in two weeks' time (I've bought the tickets, so let's hope I get New Babe's passport application processed in time, got an appointment tomorrow - eek!) we're flying off the Greek island that is a short boat ride away from his hometown. And to an insane number of fawning relatives. But hopefully, too, some simple excursions down to the sea front with aunties who will help with the kids while I dip in the ocean. Watch this space!
PS I'll be sleeping in the hotel opposite his home. That is my bottom line.
PPS Re para two and my comment about 'loving the man' etc: he was clearly not going to back down on this one anyway. I am going to take the pertinent move of buying cheap tickets for him and Babe to go to visit the family over the New Year as well, to avoid a month of argument that results in costly tickets. But for a week next May, the world will be my oyster :)
Thing is, I love the man, and realise that I was expecting something of him that I wouldn't have been prepared to agreed to myself. Plus I'm insanely tired and realised there wasn't a lot of sense in paying money we don't have to spend a week away together, having the 'family holiday' I aspired to, arguing over whose turn it was to sleep/chase Babe around the swimming pool. What's more, having lived abroad and feeling very comfortable in several European countries where one or the other of us knows the ropes and the language, I feel strangely insecure at the thought of going somewhere new. How very parochial!
So, in two weeks' time (I've bought the tickets, so let's hope I get New Babe's passport application processed in time, got an appointment tomorrow - eek!) we're flying off the Greek island that is a short boat ride away from his hometown. And to an insane number of fawning relatives. But hopefully, too, some simple excursions down to the sea front with aunties who will help with the kids while I dip in the ocean. Watch this space!
PS I'll be sleeping in the hotel opposite his home. That is my bottom line.
PPS Re para two and my comment about 'loving the man' etc: he was clearly not going to back down on this one anyway. I am going to take the pertinent move of buying cheap tickets for him and Babe to go to visit the family over the New Year as well, to avoid a month of argument that results in costly tickets. But for a week next May, the world will be my oyster :)
Saturday, August 22, 2009
My son, the diplomat, part I
We leave for our weekly jaunt to my active birth group reunion. The members live at diverse locations in our neck of the woods and it puts my driving skills to the test. I got my license relatively late and get very stressed about trying new routes. Today's involves using three motorways and I don't usually do motorways.
Once the car is packed and we're all strapped in, I turn the key in the ignition and call to the rear, 'is everyone ready for a new adventure?'.
New Babe cannot, of course, reply. But his elder brother responds at once:
'Yes! No more shouting or arguing, we're going to have a nice family time together!'
Once the car is packed and we're all strapped in, I turn the key in the ignition and call to the rear, 'is everyone ready for a new adventure?'.
New Babe cannot, of course, reply. But his elder brother responds at once:
'Yes! No more shouting or arguing, we're going to have a nice family time together!'
Thursday, August 20, 2009
A quick one... or not. At all, that is.
So, my mum has been to stay for a few days. Lovely to have some company and fantastic to have an extra pair of hands to help me through the day. Took Babe swimming this morning which was wonderful, despite the fact that he nearly froze and is constipated (see below) and therefore reluctant to embrace the full potential of his physicality. Incidentally, I dread to think what the temperature of the baby pool feels like in winter.
It's also been great to have someone to help with Babe when he wakes in the morning. I had a particularly bad night last night. New Babe is now 11 weeks old, and in the last week I've been getting him down by 8.30pm - 9.oopm. He has, on a couple of occasions, woken just once in the night to feed, but he's equally able to wake every three hours, which he did last night, starting at eleven - about an hour after I went to bed. For those of you who don't know, it is agony to be roused from little sleep from you are already exhausted.
Last night Babe woke about four times as well, and at pretty much equidistant intervals between new Babe waking: once for the potty - great (he's now slept without a nappy for three nights and been dry every night. I wonder if this is beginner's luck as he's just spent two entire days trying to poo and it has marred everything we've tried to do as he hasn't wanted to get off the potty); once for an apple he'd been dreaming about, which I had to pretend to try and find behind the bed, and twice because his head had come out from underneath the pillow (these days he can only sleep with it on his face. He's his mother's son all right - I'm a terrible sleeper. It took me twenty years to wean myself off the ear plugs I started wearing during my A levels. Not the same pair, of course, and I don't mean I started wearing them during the exams).
To cut a long story short, I woke up knackered. And because Granny was staying, Daddy was in Mummy's bed. So for once he was reminded of just how crap my nights are. But somehow I still ended up getting up to Babe as well, as I'm the one he calls out for and it is easier to go than withstand the shrieks he produces if his dad does, as I don't want new Babe woken if I can help it.
Having fed at 5am, got up to Babe at 6 and half 6, I was pleased when OH got up with him at 6.40. I say pleased, but I elbowed him in the ribs so hard he knew it wasn't up for discussion. At 7.15 I heard my mum get up, glad that I could stay horizontal while OH got ready to go to work. ASTOUNDED when, at 7.20, OH bounced up the stairs, into my (I don't say 'our' any more) room, stripped off, and jumped back into bed. He needed to leave for work in fifteen minutes.
'What the F are you doing?' I hissed, hearing new Babe stir in his cot and knowing he would wake soon. 'Don't you realise I need every last minute of rest I can get?'
'I thought we could spend five minutes being close together,' he replied.
New Babe started to cry.
'Close together?' I yelled. 'CLOSE together? Get out!', I continued, rolling out of bed and staggering over to the cot. 'If I didn't want to shag first thing before we had kids, what on earth makes you think I want to now?'
He didn't answer. He just looked, forlorn, at the monitor hanging on the wall next to me. The other end of which was on the sofa next to Granny and Babe. I groaned and put radio 4 on, so that I could be further depressed by the weather report and the 8am headlines. OH put on his orange casual trousers (yes, orange - bought at an East European street market and apparently very comfortable, but give him a matching sweatshirt and a broom and he'd pass for a street cleaner), I presume as a distraction. And walked downstairs very slowly.
It's also been great to have someone to help with Babe when he wakes in the morning. I had a particularly bad night last night. New Babe is now 11 weeks old, and in the last week I've been getting him down by 8.30pm - 9.oopm. He has, on a couple of occasions, woken just once in the night to feed, but he's equally able to wake every three hours, which he did last night, starting at eleven - about an hour after I went to bed. For those of you who don't know, it is agony to be roused from little sleep from you are already exhausted.
Last night Babe woke about four times as well, and at pretty much equidistant intervals between new Babe waking: once for the potty - great (he's now slept without a nappy for three nights and been dry every night. I wonder if this is beginner's luck as he's just spent two entire days trying to poo and it has marred everything we've tried to do as he hasn't wanted to get off the potty); once for an apple he'd been dreaming about, which I had to pretend to try and find behind the bed, and twice because his head had come out from underneath the pillow (these days he can only sleep with it on his face. He's his mother's son all right - I'm a terrible sleeper. It took me twenty years to wean myself off the ear plugs I started wearing during my A levels. Not the same pair, of course, and I don't mean I started wearing them during the exams).
To cut a long story short, I woke up knackered. And because Granny was staying, Daddy was in Mummy's bed. So for once he was reminded of just how crap my nights are. But somehow I still ended up getting up to Babe as well, as I'm the one he calls out for and it is easier to go than withstand the shrieks he produces if his dad does, as I don't want new Babe woken if I can help it.
Having fed at 5am, got up to Babe at 6 and half 6, I was pleased when OH got up with him at 6.40. I say pleased, but I elbowed him in the ribs so hard he knew it wasn't up for discussion. At 7.15 I heard my mum get up, glad that I could stay horizontal while OH got ready to go to work. ASTOUNDED when, at 7.20, OH bounced up the stairs, into my (I don't say 'our' any more) room, stripped off, and jumped back into bed. He needed to leave for work in fifteen minutes.
'What the F are you doing?' I hissed, hearing new Babe stir in his cot and knowing he would wake soon. 'Don't you realise I need every last minute of rest I can get?'
'I thought we could spend five minutes being close together,' he replied.
New Babe started to cry.
'Close together?' I yelled. 'CLOSE together? Get out!', I continued, rolling out of bed and staggering over to the cot. 'If I didn't want to shag first thing before we had kids, what on earth makes you think I want to now?'
He didn't answer. He just looked, forlorn, at the monitor hanging on the wall next to me. The other end of which was on the sofa next to Granny and Babe. I groaned and put radio 4 on, so that I could be further depressed by the weather report and the 8am headlines. OH put on his orange casual trousers (yes, orange - bought at an East European street market and apparently very comfortable, but give him a matching sweatshirt and a broom and he'd pass for a street cleaner), I presume as a distraction. And walked downstairs very slowly.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
More paving slab analagy
Heck. I still have nothing either funny or interesting to say but must blog today, to preserve my self esteem and reputation as a woman to be relied upon. Hum.
Guess I could continue with the paving slab analagy: there are a few more similarities to share. I'm feeling worn at the corners, a bit cracked and somewhat heavy... In fact I weighed myself round at a friend's house last week and I am don't just feel heavy, I am heavy.
Everyone's been saying that I look like I've lost weight (well, two people have), so I said with confidence that I reckoned I was X stone. Was secretly thinking I was at least half a stone lighter, and would be able to feign delighted surprise, but as it happens I'm a whole stone heavier. Pistons and water tanks! Or whatever it is that Thomas says. Something has to be done. So I've added 'writing a diet plan' to my 'to do' list. Nearing the top is, 'write a three-week rotating food plan', which is followed by 'send Other Half on a cookery course', 'make a list of things to do before I'm 40', 'write a will' and 'list places it might be nice to move to'. Ha! I'm really getting into this being organised lark.
You may be wondering when I'm finding time to write this, as I still seem to be feeding new Babe until ten o'clock each night, when I just have to crash too. Well, I've got them both to sleep at the same time, would you believe?! (Other Half has gone out for some fresh mint so that I can make sauce to accompany the roast today, which I estimate will take him about two hours and he'll come from the shop down the road with either basil or oregano.)
Babe is in his buggy in the hall, and woke briefly a few minutes ago, and looked around, yelled 'I don't want to,' and then crashed out again. What a sweetie! New Babe is in the pram top. Upstairs. But that's a random boring detail I don't really need to share, except that I am obsessed with perambulators at present, since managing without a double buggy, when you've got two kids, limited access to a car and the weather is rubbish is not funny. I did buy a side by side model on ebay, which we had to drive some distance to collect. Unfortunately it won't fit through our front door and is now in the roof. Despite the fact that I discovered I could get it through the front door with two sleeping kids in it, by collapsing it a bit, as it is frankly just too heavy and unwieldy to use. I don't really like the 'one under, one over' models that cost £300 smakaroonies, especially as I'd have to haul a rucksack around with me or buy paniers that no doubt also cost an arm and a leg. Will keep you posted on this one, no doubt.
Potty training going really well again by the way. Last night Babe came and hung out with us for twenty minutes in the sitting room, before announcing casually that, 'there's a poo on the floor in the other room'. He's so helpful! Actually, I never guessed that potty training was going to cost us a fortune in Thomas locomotives, as we try and persuade him not to defacate in hidden corners or dark places that you'd only come upon by accident. Like under the seat of his ride-on digger. We're ending up with some really random trains as well - diesel10, for example - (what does he do, apart from have a slidey plastic thing on top that a toddler can try and pull off?).
Heigh ho. Better go and get my succulent quorn roast outta the freezer. Do any readers know of a tasty sauce I could knock up to accompany it? xx
Guess I could continue with the paving slab analagy: there are a few more similarities to share. I'm feeling worn at the corners, a bit cracked and somewhat heavy... In fact I weighed myself round at a friend's house last week and I am don't just feel heavy, I am heavy.
Everyone's been saying that I look like I've lost weight (well, two people have), so I said with confidence that I reckoned I was X stone. Was secretly thinking I was at least half a stone lighter, and would be able to feign delighted surprise, but as it happens I'm a whole stone heavier. Pistons and water tanks! Or whatever it is that Thomas says. Something has to be done. So I've added 'writing a diet plan' to my 'to do' list. Nearing the top is, 'write a three-week rotating food plan', which is followed by 'send Other Half on a cookery course', 'make a list of things to do before I'm 40', 'write a will' and 'list places it might be nice to move to'. Ha! I'm really getting into this being organised lark.
You may be wondering when I'm finding time to write this, as I still seem to be feeding new Babe until ten o'clock each night, when I just have to crash too. Well, I've got them both to sleep at the same time, would you believe?! (Other Half has gone out for some fresh mint so that I can make sauce to accompany the roast today, which I estimate will take him about two hours and he'll come from the shop down the road with either basil or oregano.)
Babe is in his buggy in the hall, and woke briefly a few minutes ago, and looked around, yelled 'I don't want to,' and then crashed out again. What a sweetie! New Babe is in the pram top. Upstairs. But that's a random boring detail I don't really need to share, except that I am obsessed with perambulators at present, since managing without a double buggy, when you've got two kids, limited access to a car and the weather is rubbish is not funny. I did buy a side by side model on ebay, which we had to drive some distance to collect. Unfortunately it won't fit through our front door and is now in the roof. Despite the fact that I discovered I could get it through the front door with two sleeping kids in it, by collapsing it a bit, as it is frankly just too heavy and unwieldy to use. I don't really like the 'one under, one over' models that cost £300 smakaroonies, especially as I'd have to haul a rucksack around with me or buy paniers that no doubt also cost an arm and a leg. Will keep you posted on this one, no doubt.
Potty training going really well again by the way. Last night Babe came and hung out with us for twenty minutes in the sitting room, before announcing casually that, 'there's a poo on the floor in the other room'. He's so helpful! Actually, I never guessed that potty training was going to cost us a fortune in Thomas locomotives, as we try and persuade him not to defacate in hidden corners or dark places that you'd only come upon by accident. Like under the seat of his ride-on digger. We're ending up with some really random trains as well - diesel10, for example - (what does he do, apart from have a slidey plastic thing on top that a toddler can try and pull off?).
Heigh ho. Better go and get my succulent quorn roast outta the freezer. Do any readers know of a tasty sauce I could knock up to accompany it? xx
Saturday, August 15, 2009
To be, or not to be... a washing machine
So there was I, knackered, with very little time on my hands, feeling about as witty and interesting as a slab of paving, and with a commitment to blogging twice per week but nothing to say. When the next little domestic issue springs on me.
I have had no working washing machine for ten days. I realised there was a problem with the rinse cycle - 'it's almost as if the water isn't entering the machine' - as I explained to Other Half, as the washing was clean, but hot, and still a bit soapy, when I opened the door. For a few days I managed, by rinsing off washing in the bath, then returning it to the machine to spin. But the number of smalls - baby clothes, and more Thomas and Bob the Builder underpants than I thought conceivable when I started potty training - (incidentally, I've spent more on underwear for my toddler in the last three weeks than I've spent on myself in the last three years. But Other Half never notices it in his eagerness to get it off, so why bother?) made this an arduous and time-consuming task.
Thing is, I was deliberating over whether I should find someone to come and fix the washing machine, rather than just buying a new one, this being the environmentally-friendly option. But the time and energy involved... and what would it cost? What to do?!
After a few days, Other Half looked at it, cleaned the filter etc, and said he didn't know what was wrong. So the next day, I used a couple of my precious 'toddler at nursery' hours to walk in the rain with the pram to a place that sells dented fridges and the like, to see if they had something cheap that would suit us better. They didn't - well, they might have, but there's no way I'm buying a machine without a manual as I'm not instinctively good at working out how things function, and OH is worse. So we went hurriedly to a well known outlet in OH's lunch break and I picked a new washing machine in the approximately four minutes I had available.
He went to collect it after work and brought it home. I smiled at him affectionately through the front window as I knew he was tired and hadn't stopped all day. We agreed that he'd remove the old one before bringing the new one in, as we haven't got much space.
Some minutes later he emerged from the utility room.
'Viola!' he called. 'I've worked out why the old one wasn't working! I'd turned off the cold water supply to stop the sink tap leaking!'
I looked at him with an expression he quickly recognised on my face. And I didn't say anything except, 'So you better return that one right now then, hadn't you?'
I then spent another hour and a half on my own with both kids while he did.
We had to go back together the next evening, as we could only get the refund put on my card, and as it happens our fridge freezer has given up the ghost after a twenty year innings and we thought we'd pick a new one. We gave ourselves four and a half minutes for this. Which is how long it took Babe to poo himself and then wee against a 15-inch flat screen TV. I'm ashamed to say that we dragged him away without 'fessing up. The one time I leave the potty in the car...
But next week a lovely new fridge-freezer is being delivered, and I am happily half-way through about fifteen loads of washing, using the old machine. And our downstairs sink now has no cold water tap as I needed it to hit OH over the head with. Actually, the hitting bit was in my dreams, but you get the gist. What's more, OH has persuaded our neighbours to take our old fridge-freezer, as he cannot get through the day without carrying out numerous acts of apparent kindness, despite the fact that he hasn't warned them it is crap, and the well-known outlet will remove and recycle it for free. Whatever... I'll have to visit them on Monday and explain the situ. But hey, I've got time on my hands, haven't I?
I have had no working washing machine for ten days. I realised there was a problem with the rinse cycle - 'it's almost as if the water isn't entering the machine' - as I explained to Other Half, as the washing was clean, but hot, and still a bit soapy, when I opened the door. For a few days I managed, by rinsing off washing in the bath, then returning it to the machine to spin. But the number of smalls - baby clothes, and more Thomas and Bob the Builder underpants than I thought conceivable when I started potty training - (incidentally, I've spent more on underwear for my toddler in the last three weeks than I've spent on myself in the last three years. But Other Half never notices it in his eagerness to get it off, so why bother?) made this an arduous and time-consuming task.
Thing is, I was deliberating over whether I should find someone to come and fix the washing machine, rather than just buying a new one, this being the environmentally-friendly option. But the time and energy involved... and what would it cost? What to do?!
After a few days, Other Half looked at it, cleaned the filter etc, and said he didn't know what was wrong. So the next day, I used a couple of my precious 'toddler at nursery' hours to walk in the rain with the pram to a place that sells dented fridges and the like, to see if they had something cheap that would suit us better. They didn't - well, they might have, but there's no way I'm buying a machine without a manual as I'm not instinctively good at working out how things function, and OH is worse. So we went hurriedly to a well known outlet in OH's lunch break and I picked a new washing machine in the approximately four minutes I had available.
He went to collect it after work and brought it home. I smiled at him affectionately through the front window as I knew he was tired and hadn't stopped all day. We agreed that he'd remove the old one before bringing the new one in, as we haven't got much space.
Some minutes later he emerged from the utility room.
'Viola!' he called. 'I've worked out why the old one wasn't working! I'd turned off the cold water supply to stop the sink tap leaking!'
I looked at him with an expression he quickly recognised on my face. And I didn't say anything except, 'So you better return that one right now then, hadn't you?'
I then spent another hour and a half on my own with both kids while he did.
We had to go back together the next evening, as we could only get the refund put on my card, and as it happens our fridge freezer has given up the ghost after a twenty year innings and we thought we'd pick a new one. We gave ourselves four and a half minutes for this. Which is how long it took Babe to poo himself and then wee against a 15-inch flat screen TV. I'm ashamed to say that we dragged him away without 'fessing up. The one time I leave the potty in the car...
But next week a lovely new fridge-freezer is being delivered, and I am happily half-way through about fifteen loads of washing, using the old machine. And our downstairs sink now has no cold water tap as I needed it to hit OH over the head with. Actually, the hitting bit was in my dreams, but you get the gist. What's more, OH has persuaded our neighbours to take our old fridge-freezer, as he cannot get through the day without carrying out numerous acts of apparent kindness, despite the fact that he hasn't warned them it is crap, and the well-known outlet will remove and recycle it for free. Whatever... I'll have to visit them on Monday and explain the situ. But hey, I've got time on my hands, haven't I?
Monday, August 3, 2009
Long time, no see
Apologies for the delay in updating my blog. As most of you know, I discovered I was pregnant when on holiday in Albania last September. Joy :)
But this was followed by nearly four months of appalling sickness and shivers, and then various other pregnancy ailments and I just couldn't do anything in the evenings except groan and crash once we'd got Babe into bed. I've kept a pregnancy diary to remind me how awful it was and put me off having any more kids. I'd always wanted a brood, but I just don't do pregnancy at all well.
Having said that, the birth was fine - see entry below, and our new arrival, another little boy chicken, is gorgeous, squidgy, sleepy and gurgley. I don't feel much more tired than I did when pregnant, despite night feeds and Babe being a little pain in the ar*e, quite frankly, in the sleep department, and knowing I'm not going to get any rest from the time Babe goes up til he goes down means that I'm in a psychologically much better position than I was first time round. Plus I know what I'm doing and I've got the kit :). And I haven't aged the way I felt I did with Babe, not the same aches and pains and immediate wrinkles. So, as for a third sprog, well, I'm not saying this to Other Half, but never say never...
I'm now working on getting my health and fitness back. Bollocks, am I! But I intend to. And have some career plans at last, that I may share at some point once I've started the training. And we're working on a plan for writing a plan for thinking about moving house and maybe upgrading our car at some point! The excitement! Before long I'll have a life map in post-its on the bathroom wall again. Other Half has banned marker pens which I think is reasonable.
BUT our immediate dilemna and source of perennial friction, as you know, is: where to go on holiday when we have a new-born, nay cash, and a horrible bunch of relatives you know where.
And that, combined with potty-training and another shitty British summer, is frustrating me enough to need to re-open this blog.
So, from next week, you can expect to see two updates per week. Lucky readers :)
But this was followed by nearly four months of appalling sickness and shivers, and then various other pregnancy ailments and I just couldn't do anything in the evenings except groan and crash once we'd got Babe into bed. I've kept a pregnancy diary to remind me how awful it was and put me off having any more kids. I'd always wanted a brood, but I just don't do pregnancy at all well.
Having said that, the birth was fine - see entry below, and our new arrival, another little boy chicken, is gorgeous, squidgy, sleepy and gurgley. I don't feel much more tired than I did when pregnant, despite night feeds and Babe being a little pain in the ar*e, quite frankly, in the sleep department, and knowing I'm not going to get any rest from the time Babe goes up til he goes down means that I'm in a psychologically much better position than I was first time round. Plus I know what I'm doing and I've got the kit :). And I haven't aged the way I felt I did with Babe, not the same aches and pains and immediate wrinkles. So, as for a third sprog, well, I'm not saying this to Other Half, but never say never...
I'm now working on getting my health and fitness back. Bollocks, am I! But I intend to. And have some career plans at last, that I may share at some point once I've started the training. And we're working on a plan for writing a plan for thinking about moving house and maybe upgrading our car at some point! The excitement! Before long I'll have a life map in post-its on the bathroom wall again. Other Half has banned marker pens which I think is reasonable.
BUT our immediate dilemna and source of perennial friction, as you know, is: where to go on holiday when we have a new-born, nay cash, and a horrible bunch of relatives you know where.
And that, combined with potty-training and another shitty British summer, is frustrating me enough to need to re-open this blog.
So, from next week, you can expect to see two updates per week. Lucky readers :)
Saturday, August 1, 2009
‘It’s a beautiful day!’
The day my second son started his way into this world was perfect. A beautiful June day – Monday June 1, one of my due dates in fact (the other was 3 June; two dates because the midwives couldn’t agree on a date following my dating scan!). It was warm and sunny, with a gentle breeze.
I had finished work four weeks earlier and worked myself into a sweat, panicking that this baby would come early, as his brother had, and that I was physically and mentally unprepared. As my due dates approached and nothing happened, it occurred to me that he might not be early at all. Indeed, he might be late! Then I started worrying about the cycle of intervention that might start, and which I was keen to avoid, if he didn’t start heading our way before long.
It was hard to imagine that any time soon I’d be holding a baby in my arms, he seemed so comfortably ensconced in my belly. Shame that I couldn’t just relax and enjoy having some time off work, with Babe in nursery part-time, ahead of the next arrival. But there was a lot to do; I was feeling pretty awful, and to be honest it’s quite surreal waiting for the second most momentous moment of one’s life to take place, and wondering when exactly it will be.
On the Sunday night I’d spoken to a good friend of mine, whose parting reflection was that she thought due dates are given for a reason and are often accurate. I went to bed hoping she was right. During the night I had one brief and slightly painful twinge, and wondered if things were starting.
Once Other Half had dropped Babe at nursery on the Monday morning, I set about pottering – despite the best of intentions to rest, as I hadn’t been sleeping well for some time and knew I needed to relax when I could.
I was watering some plants in the garden when I realised something was going on down below. I’d had a bit of a ‘show’ and was overjoyed and really excited. It meant things were happening, and bang on time. The anxious speculation could end!
Babe had been born six days after a show, so I didn’t expect things to start happening right away. I went and had a shower, cooked some food, and tidied round a bit, making sure my hospital bag was ready, etc. To be honest the bag had been ready for at least a fortnight. I am pretty anal in the organization department and after some initial panicking when I finished work, had got the house up together very fast. Ordered kitchen blinds, headrests for beds, you name it…! The only stuff that hadn’t been done was the long list of DIY tasks that Other Half had failed to complete, despite promises to the contrary.
During the course of the morning I had what felt like menstrual aches and pains, which I knew were a sign of early labour, and which hadn’t started straight away like this after the show with Babe. I had some lunch and laid down on the sofa to have a rest. The sun was pouring onto the rug through the grape vines we have outside our sitting room doors, and I felt really warm, relaxed and comfortable. Put on Monsoon Wedding, but couldn’t concentrate, so switched to TV and fell asleep for an hour. When I woke, the pains had gone – I guess as I’d been on my side and weight was thus off my cervix.
Other Half collected Babe from nursery at five and brought him home. I said I’d get him into bed, and that if OH wanted to go to the gym or whatever, to go early, just in case things kicked off. I’d spoken to my mum during the day, to warn her that things might get moving soon, as I wanted her with me during the birth and she had to get up from Dorset. I’d spoken to my younger brother as well, as the plan was for him to come round and look after Babe when I went into hospital.
My low platelet count means that I was to go into hospital as soon as labour started, so that they could test my level and give me a transfusion if required. But because my first labour had lasted four long days, I didn’t want to rush in until I was sure labour had actually started. I was also secretly worried that the reason I coped without pain relief the first time round was because I’d had so long to get used to it, and that I’d be screaming for an epidural hours into this one. Low platelets means that I’d need a transfusion in order to be given an epidural, so there were potential stresses ahead…
Babe had a snack and we played games and then I got him in the bath. I was getting intermittent pains by now (about 7pm – every 15 minutes or so?) but assumed it was just the start of a long process and didn’t pay them much attention. At half seven I called mum and we agreed that she’d come up in the morning, as I was pretty sure the pains would die down once I went to bed and laid down.
I started to feel pretty grumpy getting Babe dried and dressed, and while I was reading him his bedtime stories I had to lie against the side of the bed, stop reading and breathe long exhales during the contractions (although I was not yet admitting these are what they were) which were pretty painful. I was running out of patience and let Babe read to himself while I found the tens machine and laid out the wires etc on the sofa. Was beginning to wonder where the hell Other Half was, when he got back. He had been to a well known supermarket to buy… several pots of jam. The mind boggles.
‘Get Babe into bed’, I gasped. ‘Then help me get this bloody thing on!’
God know how he did get Babe down, as the little fella knew something was going on.
As OH came downstairs I stripped to my underwear and passed him a camera. I think he hoped we were going to try some of the rubbing and smooching recommended by my spiritual midwives book. ‘We haven’t got any pics of me pregnant,’ I said, and stepped out onto the decking for him to take some 360 degree shots. Then he stuck the tens on me and I got dressed.
‘Is your mum on her way?’ he asked.
‘No,’ I said, ‘I think this is going to wear off, so she’s coming in the morning.’
‘Are you mad?’ he replied. ‘Get her here, now!’
So I called. ‘Mum, this might be a false alarm,’ I said, ‘and I really don’t want to mess you around, but it might be as well if you come up tonight.’
‘Fine’, she replied. I then called my brother and arranged for Other Half to come and pick him up after work – about ten pm. It was now about half nine.
I walked through the kitchen to the loo. Other Half was eating.
‘This is going to be bad, effing bad,’ I said. ‘Shit, shit, shit.’ If this is what pre-labour is like, I was thinking, how the hell am I going to cope with the real thing?
I called the hospital and they said I should come in, to be on the safe side. I had to pause on the phone when I was contracting, but thanks to the breathing techniques I learnt in active birth classes I was coping fine. The sister in charge who had taken the call later said that she’d thought I was going to be a fast one!
I waited half an hour - God knows why, what was I thinking? - before calling my brother and asking him to get here asap. I think the pain must have intensified, but more likely, the contractions were coming at about every 4 – 5 minutes by then, so I knew that I should get into hospital, even if I was managing the pain.
I got Other Half to pack the car. Brother arrived at about half ten, and between contractions I told him there were pizzas in the freezer and that mum was coming etc.
We set off. The roads were clear and it wasn’t far. I had two contractions en route that it was fairly hard to deal with, sitting down in the front. So I twisted round and stuck my bum towards the front window.
‘Get me there before I have another one,’ I seem to remember pleading.
When I arrived at the delivery suite, I was asked to wait for a few minutes, and then shown to a room. ‘I’m not sure whether to bring my bags in or not,’ I said, ‘As I might be asked to go home.’
‘The midwife will have to decide that,’ the woman who had met me said, and led me to a room. Quite spacious, and a window! We had joked at active birth classes about not wanting to get one of the rooms that don’t have any natural light.
I think I was in there alone about twenty minutes. In that time I told Other Half to get the bags; we put the mattress and ball on the floor, and I took my socks, shoes and trousers off. Think I realised I’d be staying! The mattress, by the way, was a thin, self-inflating camping mattress. I left the stoppers out so that I wouldn’t burst it and would totally recommend it. It gave me a large clean space that was soft underfoot/knees to move around on.
When the midwife came in, I was coming out of the loo, with an ‘I’m having a contraction’ look on my face that probably wasn’t very welcoming as she introduced herself to me. I took to her immediately and was hugely relieved. She seemed to know what I wanted and needed, and I felt I could lean on her, both literally and metaphorically.
It gets a bit hazy from here – First Babe’s birth is still clearer in my mind than this one! She took blood from me, and I think checked my blood pressure etc and the baby’s heart beat (which was a bit fast, so had to be monitored, around my tummy. This didn’t cause me any problems as I standing all the time and not needing lots of room) before she looked to see how dilated I was. That check was at 11.40, and I was fully prepared for her to say I was only two cm gone. But I was six! I felt hugely relieved, and that I was in really safe hands.
At some point I started putting my arms around the midwife’s neck during contractions (OH was like rock and didn’t know what to do), but didn’t put much weight on her. I really focused on blowing out a long exhale, pushing the weight through my feet, circling my pelvis, dropping my shoulders, shaking my hands, and lifting my face up. Really tried to relax, smile, feel excitement and joy. Which doesn’t mean I didn’t mutter ‘help me!’ at the start of each contraction, but I knew that I had to keep calm, in control and enjoy the experience as much as I could to endure it. I wouldn’t say I entered a ‘zone’. I was pretty compus mentus between contractions, managing the situation. Not especially hot, but quite thirsty as the blowing was making my throat dry. Was I coping? (as our active birth teacher encouraged us to ask ourselves). Yes, I was.
My mum arrived at about 12. I cried something about not feeling ready and she misunderstood. I was meaning metaphorically, not literally. She pointed out that I still had four cm to go and that it would probably be a while yet anyway. I could see in the midwife’s face that she didn’t agree and that was hugely comforting. She must have been noticing my contractions speeding up and getting longer, and after a while asked if I wanted to give birth where I was, standing by the bed.
It didn’t seem real to me, that I was going to have the baby so soon. I was pleased, confused, shocked I think. I was very happy not to be told to get on to the bed, as I had been with Babe, and said that yes, I did, if I could. The midwife spread some plastic pads down, ‘to save my mattress’, and said she was asking them to bring in a resuscitator, which was normal practice. It was really good to have these things explained so that I didn’t panic.
[A while earlier, but after mum came, a man (the anesthetist?) had arrived to cannulate me for the platelets. Getting the pipe in my arm took a couple of shots as I was moving during contractions. It wasn’t very pleasant and I felt he was a bit ham-fisted if I’m honest, but that’s a minor detail, can’t have been easy for him.]
Not long after this, the midwife told Other Half that she and he were going to have to swap places while she put her gloves on. They did. I think around this time, maybe a bit before, I’d said I had a ‘needing to poo’ feeling (although I’d felt a bit like that since before I left the house), and she told me not to push, but breathe through it. ‘That’s the baby,’ she said. I can’t remember when she said it was ok to push – how did she know when it was ok? - but when she did, I wanted to break my waters. I bore down hard and they sloshed onto the floor, breaking all over OH’s lower legs and he shot backwards. He must have had a premonition as the only thing he’d put in the birth bag was a pair of toweling socks! Other stuff slopped onto the ground as well – the poo feeling wasn’t just the baby… That was about 00.35.
I think the midwife then asked if I’d like to get onto all fours to make things easier, and I wasn’t sure if I could move, but tried, and did. The sister-in-charge was with us by this time. With a huge push I got the baby’s head out – and a hand, against his ear. After a few minutes (?) seconds (?), I had to get the body out. I think they told me I was going to have to push really hard. With another mammoth push I got the body out – I could feel it passing through my cervix and leaving me. I think I remember some burning from when the head crowned, I can’t say what I was feeling was pain – but it must have been - so much as something that required tumultuous effort and concentration on my part to deal with. I was roaring – a low guttural ‘god this is hard’ sound. Vaguely aware that it might be disturbing to anyone who could hear it, but it wasn’t fearful or out of control, just the noise of someone working very hard. I was almost afraid I was going to lose my back package altogether, the feeling in that region was so intense, but amazingly I didn’t tear at all.
OH through this time was amazingly lovely and encouraging, and the physical support I needed. Think I was leaning on him now, so he must have been taking a lot of weight. He sure saves up his compliments for when I need them most.
The pushing was done in about ten minutes – just two big pushes I think. Huge relief! And delight that it had been so straightforward and manageable. Thank god that the midwife read me, understood what I wanted and needed, and handled everything so well. Time of birth was 00.45. The baby was smaller than Babe, at 7.9 (3.44) despite the fact that I’d been told to expect a big baby, and an additional scan had shown he was a month ahead, size-wise.
The baby was a bit a quiet and shocked when born. I asked for him to be handed to dad – I didn’t feel ready to take him. They must have cut the cord before that – I don’t remember them inviting OH to do it, and I don’t remember it happening. I was given the injection to remove the placenta.
At some point during labour my platelet count had come back at 28 – ie under 30, so the medical plan stated that I should be given a transfusion - and I remember asking where the platelets were some time after that – the response being that they were in a taxi. So, once the baby was born, the midwives wanted to get the placenta out, and the platelets, which had arrived, in. I was a bit surprised that they still wanted to give them to me, but as I say, we still had to get the placenta out. It must have been stressful for them, knowing I should have had the platelets before delivery, when they hadn’t arrived. When I reflected further on this, it seemed pretty shocking that they hadn’t had platelets on hand to give me, and I am following this up with the hematology department. I had a detailed medical plan that went pear-shaped at the last minute. But wasn’t helped by me not getting in to hospital sooner.
I tried to turn on the mats and lean back against mum, but was worried about putting my weight on her, so she took the baby and OH knelt behind me. This still wasn’t working, so I got up on the bed, and before long, and after a couple of checks/attempts, the placenta came out. Think it hurt a bit – my back passage area felt shot away! Once other stuff had been done, the midwife showed me the cord and placenta. It had been whipped away from me when I gave birth to Babe, and my birth plan for number two included wanting to say goodbye to it!
Babe was handed to me soon after, and took straight to the breast. Some time later we had a cup of tea, reveling in how fast and straightforward everything had been. I felt fine, excited, happy, a bit dazed. I didn’t feel the rush of intoxicating emotions I had with Babe, but felt calm and sure that everything was going to be all right. It felt strange to be feeling so normal when something so amazing had just taken place. I don’t think I could have had a simpler or more straightforward labour. The midwife said it was textbook and that I’d done really well.
I know I did do really well. Giving birth (twice, now) has made me feel the most incredibly powerful, strong and resilient person. I feel validated in a way that I never had before. I know I can more than cope in difficult circumstances. Millions of women give birth every day, I know, and many with no medical assistance. Millions more people struggle with other hardships I’ve never had to face. I’m not suggesting that I’m an incredible person! But in giving birth I came up close and personal with someone I’ve been afraid to look straight in the eye all my life. And I like what I saw.
Having said that, three reflections: I will never forget the midwife who helped me deliver my second son. She was wonderful, and I know my labour might not have been the same had I not been in her hands. You can’t put a price on that connection, which gives you reassurance and confidence when you need it most. And my active birth teacher – had it not been for the knowledge she shared with me, and the wonderful, inimitable way she shared that knowledge, I wouldn’t have known how to deal with labour, and I needed help. She will always be part of who I am, and I’ll always think of her on my sons’ birthdays. And thanks, too, to the old friend from home, whom I re-discovered when I was pregnant with Babe, and who suggested that I go to active birth classes. Do all things happen for a reason?
I had finished work four weeks earlier and worked myself into a sweat, panicking that this baby would come early, as his brother had, and that I was physically and mentally unprepared. As my due dates approached and nothing happened, it occurred to me that he might not be early at all. Indeed, he might be late! Then I started worrying about the cycle of intervention that might start, and which I was keen to avoid, if he didn’t start heading our way before long.
It was hard to imagine that any time soon I’d be holding a baby in my arms, he seemed so comfortably ensconced in my belly. Shame that I couldn’t just relax and enjoy having some time off work, with Babe in nursery part-time, ahead of the next arrival. But there was a lot to do; I was feeling pretty awful, and to be honest it’s quite surreal waiting for the second most momentous moment of one’s life to take place, and wondering when exactly it will be.
On the Sunday night I’d spoken to a good friend of mine, whose parting reflection was that she thought due dates are given for a reason and are often accurate. I went to bed hoping she was right. During the night I had one brief and slightly painful twinge, and wondered if things were starting.
Once Other Half had dropped Babe at nursery on the Monday morning, I set about pottering – despite the best of intentions to rest, as I hadn’t been sleeping well for some time and knew I needed to relax when I could.
I was watering some plants in the garden when I realised something was going on down below. I’d had a bit of a ‘show’ and was overjoyed and really excited. It meant things were happening, and bang on time. The anxious speculation could end!
Babe had been born six days after a show, so I didn’t expect things to start happening right away. I went and had a shower, cooked some food, and tidied round a bit, making sure my hospital bag was ready, etc. To be honest the bag had been ready for at least a fortnight. I am pretty anal in the organization department and after some initial panicking when I finished work, had got the house up together very fast. Ordered kitchen blinds, headrests for beds, you name it…! The only stuff that hadn’t been done was the long list of DIY tasks that Other Half had failed to complete, despite promises to the contrary.
During the course of the morning I had what felt like menstrual aches and pains, which I knew were a sign of early labour, and which hadn’t started straight away like this after the show with Babe. I had some lunch and laid down on the sofa to have a rest. The sun was pouring onto the rug through the grape vines we have outside our sitting room doors, and I felt really warm, relaxed and comfortable. Put on Monsoon Wedding, but couldn’t concentrate, so switched to TV and fell asleep for an hour. When I woke, the pains had gone – I guess as I’d been on my side and weight was thus off my cervix.
Other Half collected Babe from nursery at five and brought him home. I said I’d get him into bed, and that if OH wanted to go to the gym or whatever, to go early, just in case things kicked off. I’d spoken to my mum during the day, to warn her that things might get moving soon, as I wanted her with me during the birth and she had to get up from Dorset. I’d spoken to my younger brother as well, as the plan was for him to come round and look after Babe when I went into hospital.
My low platelet count means that I was to go into hospital as soon as labour started, so that they could test my level and give me a transfusion if required. But because my first labour had lasted four long days, I didn’t want to rush in until I was sure labour had actually started. I was also secretly worried that the reason I coped without pain relief the first time round was because I’d had so long to get used to it, and that I’d be screaming for an epidural hours into this one. Low platelets means that I’d need a transfusion in order to be given an epidural, so there were potential stresses ahead…
Babe had a snack and we played games and then I got him in the bath. I was getting intermittent pains by now (about 7pm – every 15 minutes or so?) but assumed it was just the start of a long process and didn’t pay them much attention. At half seven I called mum and we agreed that she’d come up in the morning, as I was pretty sure the pains would die down once I went to bed and laid down.
I started to feel pretty grumpy getting Babe dried and dressed, and while I was reading him his bedtime stories I had to lie against the side of the bed, stop reading and breathe long exhales during the contractions (although I was not yet admitting these are what they were) which were pretty painful. I was running out of patience and let Babe read to himself while I found the tens machine and laid out the wires etc on the sofa. Was beginning to wonder where the hell Other Half was, when he got back. He had been to a well known supermarket to buy… several pots of jam. The mind boggles.
‘Get Babe into bed’, I gasped. ‘Then help me get this bloody thing on!’
God know how he did get Babe down, as the little fella knew something was going on.
As OH came downstairs I stripped to my underwear and passed him a camera. I think he hoped we were going to try some of the rubbing and smooching recommended by my spiritual midwives book. ‘We haven’t got any pics of me pregnant,’ I said, and stepped out onto the decking for him to take some 360 degree shots. Then he stuck the tens on me and I got dressed.
‘Is your mum on her way?’ he asked.
‘No,’ I said, ‘I think this is going to wear off, so she’s coming in the morning.’
‘Are you mad?’ he replied. ‘Get her here, now!’
So I called. ‘Mum, this might be a false alarm,’ I said, ‘and I really don’t want to mess you around, but it might be as well if you come up tonight.’
‘Fine’, she replied. I then called my brother and arranged for Other Half to come and pick him up after work – about ten pm. It was now about half nine.
I walked through the kitchen to the loo. Other Half was eating.
‘This is going to be bad, effing bad,’ I said. ‘Shit, shit, shit.’ If this is what pre-labour is like, I was thinking, how the hell am I going to cope with the real thing?
I called the hospital and they said I should come in, to be on the safe side. I had to pause on the phone when I was contracting, but thanks to the breathing techniques I learnt in active birth classes I was coping fine. The sister in charge who had taken the call later said that she’d thought I was going to be a fast one!
I waited half an hour - God knows why, what was I thinking? - before calling my brother and asking him to get here asap. I think the pain must have intensified, but more likely, the contractions were coming at about every 4 – 5 minutes by then, so I knew that I should get into hospital, even if I was managing the pain.
I got Other Half to pack the car. Brother arrived at about half ten, and between contractions I told him there were pizzas in the freezer and that mum was coming etc.
We set off. The roads were clear and it wasn’t far. I had two contractions en route that it was fairly hard to deal with, sitting down in the front. So I twisted round and stuck my bum towards the front window.
‘Get me there before I have another one,’ I seem to remember pleading.
When I arrived at the delivery suite, I was asked to wait for a few minutes, and then shown to a room. ‘I’m not sure whether to bring my bags in or not,’ I said, ‘As I might be asked to go home.’
‘The midwife will have to decide that,’ the woman who had met me said, and led me to a room. Quite spacious, and a window! We had joked at active birth classes about not wanting to get one of the rooms that don’t have any natural light.
I think I was in there alone about twenty minutes. In that time I told Other Half to get the bags; we put the mattress and ball on the floor, and I took my socks, shoes and trousers off. Think I realised I’d be staying! The mattress, by the way, was a thin, self-inflating camping mattress. I left the stoppers out so that I wouldn’t burst it and would totally recommend it. It gave me a large clean space that was soft underfoot/knees to move around on.
When the midwife came in, I was coming out of the loo, with an ‘I’m having a contraction’ look on my face that probably wasn’t very welcoming as she introduced herself to me. I took to her immediately and was hugely relieved. She seemed to know what I wanted and needed, and I felt I could lean on her, both literally and metaphorically.
It gets a bit hazy from here – First Babe’s birth is still clearer in my mind than this one! She took blood from me, and I think checked my blood pressure etc and the baby’s heart beat (which was a bit fast, so had to be monitored, around my tummy. This didn’t cause me any problems as I standing all the time and not needing lots of room) before she looked to see how dilated I was. That check was at 11.40, and I was fully prepared for her to say I was only two cm gone. But I was six! I felt hugely relieved, and that I was in really safe hands.
At some point I started putting my arms around the midwife’s neck during contractions (OH was like rock and didn’t know what to do), but didn’t put much weight on her. I really focused on blowing out a long exhale, pushing the weight through my feet, circling my pelvis, dropping my shoulders, shaking my hands, and lifting my face up. Really tried to relax, smile, feel excitement and joy. Which doesn’t mean I didn’t mutter ‘help me!’ at the start of each contraction, but I knew that I had to keep calm, in control and enjoy the experience as much as I could to endure it. I wouldn’t say I entered a ‘zone’. I was pretty compus mentus between contractions, managing the situation. Not especially hot, but quite thirsty as the blowing was making my throat dry. Was I coping? (as our active birth teacher encouraged us to ask ourselves). Yes, I was.
My mum arrived at about 12. I cried something about not feeling ready and she misunderstood. I was meaning metaphorically, not literally. She pointed out that I still had four cm to go and that it would probably be a while yet anyway. I could see in the midwife’s face that she didn’t agree and that was hugely comforting. She must have been noticing my contractions speeding up and getting longer, and after a while asked if I wanted to give birth where I was, standing by the bed.
It didn’t seem real to me, that I was going to have the baby so soon. I was pleased, confused, shocked I think. I was very happy not to be told to get on to the bed, as I had been with Babe, and said that yes, I did, if I could. The midwife spread some plastic pads down, ‘to save my mattress’, and said she was asking them to bring in a resuscitator, which was normal practice. It was really good to have these things explained so that I didn’t panic.
[A while earlier, but after mum came, a man (the anesthetist?) had arrived to cannulate me for the platelets. Getting the pipe in my arm took a couple of shots as I was moving during contractions. It wasn’t very pleasant and I felt he was a bit ham-fisted if I’m honest, but that’s a minor detail, can’t have been easy for him.]
Not long after this, the midwife told Other Half that she and he were going to have to swap places while she put her gloves on. They did. I think around this time, maybe a bit before, I’d said I had a ‘needing to poo’ feeling (although I’d felt a bit like that since before I left the house), and she told me not to push, but breathe through it. ‘That’s the baby,’ she said. I can’t remember when she said it was ok to push – how did she know when it was ok? - but when she did, I wanted to break my waters. I bore down hard and they sloshed onto the floor, breaking all over OH’s lower legs and he shot backwards. He must have had a premonition as the only thing he’d put in the birth bag was a pair of toweling socks! Other stuff slopped onto the ground as well – the poo feeling wasn’t just the baby… That was about 00.35.
I think the midwife then asked if I’d like to get onto all fours to make things easier, and I wasn’t sure if I could move, but tried, and did. The sister-in-charge was with us by this time. With a huge push I got the baby’s head out – and a hand, against his ear. After a few minutes (?) seconds (?), I had to get the body out. I think they told me I was going to have to push really hard. With another mammoth push I got the body out – I could feel it passing through my cervix and leaving me. I think I remember some burning from when the head crowned, I can’t say what I was feeling was pain – but it must have been - so much as something that required tumultuous effort and concentration on my part to deal with. I was roaring – a low guttural ‘god this is hard’ sound. Vaguely aware that it might be disturbing to anyone who could hear it, but it wasn’t fearful or out of control, just the noise of someone working very hard. I was almost afraid I was going to lose my back package altogether, the feeling in that region was so intense, but amazingly I didn’t tear at all.
OH through this time was amazingly lovely and encouraging, and the physical support I needed. Think I was leaning on him now, so he must have been taking a lot of weight. He sure saves up his compliments for when I need them most.
The pushing was done in about ten minutes – just two big pushes I think. Huge relief! And delight that it had been so straightforward and manageable. Thank god that the midwife read me, understood what I wanted and needed, and handled everything so well. Time of birth was 00.45. The baby was smaller than Babe, at 7.9 (3.44) despite the fact that I’d been told to expect a big baby, and an additional scan had shown he was a month ahead, size-wise.
The baby was a bit a quiet and shocked when born. I asked for him to be handed to dad – I didn’t feel ready to take him. They must have cut the cord before that – I don’t remember them inviting OH to do it, and I don’t remember it happening. I was given the injection to remove the placenta.
At some point during labour my platelet count had come back at 28 – ie under 30, so the medical plan stated that I should be given a transfusion - and I remember asking where the platelets were some time after that – the response being that they were in a taxi. So, once the baby was born, the midwives wanted to get the placenta out, and the platelets, which had arrived, in. I was a bit surprised that they still wanted to give them to me, but as I say, we still had to get the placenta out. It must have been stressful for them, knowing I should have had the platelets before delivery, when they hadn’t arrived. When I reflected further on this, it seemed pretty shocking that they hadn’t had platelets on hand to give me, and I am following this up with the hematology department. I had a detailed medical plan that went pear-shaped at the last minute. But wasn’t helped by me not getting in to hospital sooner.
I tried to turn on the mats and lean back against mum, but was worried about putting my weight on her, so she took the baby and OH knelt behind me. This still wasn’t working, so I got up on the bed, and before long, and after a couple of checks/attempts, the placenta came out. Think it hurt a bit – my back passage area felt shot away! Once other stuff had been done, the midwife showed me the cord and placenta. It had been whipped away from me when I gave birth to Babe, and my birth plan for number two included wanting to say goodbye to it!
Babe was handed to me soon after, and took straight to the breast. Some time later we had a cup of tea, reveling in how fast and straightforward everything had been. I felt fine, excited, happy, a bit dazed. I didn’t feel the rush of intoxicating emotions I had with Babe, but felt calm and sure that everything was going to be all right. It felt strange to be feeling so normal when something so amazing had just taken place. I don’t think I could have had a simpler or more straightforward labour. The midwife said it was textbook and that I’d done really well.
I know I did do really well. Giving birth (twice, now) has made me feel the most incredibly powerful, strong and resilient person. I feel validated in a way that I never had before. I know I can more than cope in difficult circumstances. Millions of women give birth every day, I know, and many with no medical assistance. Millions more people struggle with other hardships I’ve never had to face. I’m not suggesting that I’m an incredible person! But in giving birth I came up close and personal with someone I’ve been afraid to look straight in the eye all my life. And I like what I saw.
Having said that, three reflections: I will never forget the midwife who helped me deliver my second son. She was wonderful, and I know my labour might not have been the same had I not been in her hands. You can’t put a price on that connection, which gives you reassurance and confidence when you need it most. And my active birth teacher – had it not been for the knowledge she shared with me, and the wonderful, inimitable way she shared that knowledge, I wouldn’t have known how to deal with labour, and I needed help. She will always be part of who I am, and I’ll always think of her on my sons’ birthdays. And thanks, too, to the old friend from home, whom I re-discovered when I was pregnant with Babe, and who suggested that I go to active birth classes. Do all things happen for a reason?
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