The Maybe Diaries

Knitted Cutes

2011-09-30T12:06:00.000+01:00

I am always in awe of people who have the aptitude forknitting, and infinitely grateful to any of them who put that skill at mydisposal.

Having another winter baby, I was determined to come up witha solution to the revolting sweaty snow suits that are available for babies whilealso finding a way to keep the new little cherub warm and snugly.

I’m lucky that my friend Natalie knows her way around theknitting world and suggested this pattern

Which looks so good I was actually wondering if she could doan adult sized one for me!!

I picked up the finished suit on Monday and I’m SO in lovewith the finished article. Having raided the button pot and spent last nightsewing on the buttons it is now ready to go.

Typical then that we’re in the middle of a mini heat waveisn’t it?

Keith commented that he thinks she will look like Sack Boyfrom Little Big Planet which I choose to see as a good thing.

Alfie does the Dancing

2011-09-23T17:30:00.000+01:00

I just wanted to share this video with all of you who don't believe that my son has suddenly become the frickin Energizer Bunny.

Send help in the form of booze and tranquilizer darts.

Our Days are Numbered

2011-09-22T12:22:00.000+01:00

It is so good tohave the levels of testosterone back up to normal at FTC.

I did enjoy the break, but a week was long enough and thedog is a poor substitute for a welcome home snog. Plus the neighbours managedto block the drain yesterday and who would have dealt with that?

Something really weird has happened to me as a result of TheTails being away and instead of looking at the calendar wondering how many minutesthere are left until the birth, I am now totally focused on enjoying these lastfew weeks as a family of three.

Last weekend we took full advantage of a “75p weekend” atthe local cinema and took Alfie to see his first film. I was a little concerned that he mighteither get bored or distressed so I chose a film that neither Keith nor Iwanted to see on the basis that we wouldn’t care if we missed it.

Clearly I had no need to worry, because if the film waslacking, the popcorn was not and Alfie managed to lay claim to the whole cartonand growl at anyone else who dared put a hand near it. Growl, and slap ourhands away.

He also screamed at several points in the film which was OKbecause the whole cinema was full of young children, but also presented anunique parenting challenge to Keith and I who were totally unable to deal withhim for laughing.

Whoever in Madrid taught him how to scream like a teenagegirl I have three words for you:

I.HATE.YOU.

My ears hate you.

In fact, everyone in central Bedfordshire now hates you.

There is part of me that wants to do a full on belly laughat him when he runs around SCREECHING with a grin nailed to his face, but thatpart is getting drowned out by the pain in my ears, and the overwhelming urgeto slap Keith round the face when he encourages Alfie by joining in.

Let’s hope he finds it as funny when Alfie fails to realisethat homes and libraries have different rules.

Despite the utter chaos, I really had missed the randominterjections in my otherwise normal day.

Last night I was in the shower when Keith burst through thedoor with a look on his face that gave me a good insight into a younger Keithon Christmas morning.

“I totally forgot to tell you!!”

“oookay” I say subtly putting his razor back on the shower tidyand straining to hear over the noise of the water.

“when we got to Madrid airport we had to go up theescalators and round to get to the baggage reclaim ... ”

“right”

“and when we got there ...... THERE WAS A HANDLE GOING ROUNDTHE CAROUSEL!!!!!”

After a brief pause there was only one response to thatstatement:

“NO. F’ING. WAY!!!!!!”

And suddenly both the interruption and the expression madeperfect sense.

And I laughed.

In fact I laughed so hard I actually had to cut my showershort so I could carry on laughing without having to deal with water in my faceat the same time.

If you need to know why such an innocent comment was sofunny, look here.

My belly hurt by the time I clambered into bed.

Which reminds me, for anyone looking at the update thinkingc’maaaahn with the pregnancy news I do have something to share:

Braxton Hicks. Truly the highlight of my day.

Remember please that I didn’t have them last time, so thisis all new turf to me (along with pelvic pain but that’s not quite so jolly)and it took me a while to work out what was going on. The only way I candescribe how they feel to me is like an old fashioned lift stopping too fast orgoing over a humpback bridge – except that w’OH!! feeling in your throat lastsfor minutes at a time.

I love it!!

I was expecting them to be uncomfortable or to focus on myback or belly and feel like achy muscles, I was totally unprepared to feel likeI’m tipping off the top of a rollercoaster for half the day.

In some ways karmic justice since my entire department isleaving me behind to go to Alton Towers in a few weeks.

But then who needs Alton Towers when you have Braxton Hicksand hormones? WHEEEEEE!!!!

No, I've got something in my eye dammit!!

2011-09-15T13:28:00.001+01:00

My friend sent me a link to a post this morning that I just really wanted to share.

You'll either get why I've posted it or you won't.

A Welcome, With Thanks

Brief interlude for me and the Princess ... shudder

2011-09-14T18:07:00.000+01:00

This might seem like a mundane post, but to me this is aglorious moment of calm at FTC.

I have managed to pack the kids off to the other side ofEurope for a WHOLE WEEK which means I have free run of the house to indulge mypregnancy whims.

Seems I have quite a few that up to now had been drowned outby the chatter of toddler, husband and other demands on my time.

Mostly I have been spoiling myself with the kind of birthpreparation I did buckets of with Alfie but have totally neglected this time. Ihave had early nights, pampered my skin, watched birth videos and hynobirthed my ass off.

I have even had a chance to catch up with all the incrediblepeople I follow on Twitter and they have introduced me to a site that actuallymade me pump my fists.

I don’t admit that lightly.

Keith and I are both more than a little scared at thethought of having a daughter who is swamped in pink and personally I am also rabidlyadverse to my daughter being defined by the kinds of gender definition thatseems to start almost from the moment of birth.

But look at this site, seriously lookit, Princess Free Zone!!!

This is where I dance a little jig at knowing that there areother people who share my horror at the anti-feminist attitude of largecorporations to little girls.

If you think I’m over exaggerating here, I’m not. If youwant me to scare you with the numerous t shirts and toys that tell yourdaughter she’s too pretty to think from before she even knows what thinkingmeans, just ask, I’ll happily flood your mailbox until your spam filter runsaway shrieking!

PS is bad that half of me wants to tell the boysto stay in Madrid another week???

Lost: One Plot

2011-09-09T17:35:00.000+01:00

I am writing this in the hope that some second + time mumswill read it and make me feel better about some current weirdness that hasinvaded my life: Anyone who reads this and make the “crazy gesture” will gethunted down and sat on.

I’ve started having flashbacks to Alfie’s birth recently,but these flashbacks feel like they are being triggered by my olfactory systemby a smell I can’t quite smell.

Yeah, I know, believeme I know.

I’ve had really vivid flashbacks to being in the labour ward,wandering around the room waiting for the induction to work. The odd thing isthe visual image isn’t the focus, it’s the sense of anticipation and contentednessat the thought of meeting our baby that really comes through.

I’ve also had flashbacks to being on the post natal wardwhen I was padding around, my little snugglebug in his goldfish bowl crib, andagain it’s not the visual but the emotional that really comes through to me.

These aren’t negative flashbacks in any sense, the moments Iam reliving are the moments where there was anticipation, and hope, andcontentment and calm – rare as those were – but what bothers me is that I can’twork out for the life of me why they have started.

I know there is a big hormonal shift in the last few weeksof pregnancy when oxytocin and prostaglandins start to ramp up in preparationfor labour. There is also a pheromone called estratetraenol which hits its peakat the same time, so it is not beyond the wit of man to guess that one, or allof these things is causing this latest strangeness.

But what weirds me out is the way they strike, not by gentlyfloating into a daydream, but suddenly, like a switch has been flicked and I’mright there reliving the moment completely. Just like when you hear a song, orsmell a familiar but long forgotten smell and wham-o you are 11 years old againand suddenly you’re back on a bed hallucinating that there are giant buttons onthe ceiling and that you can taste a red balloon.

No? Just me? Good to know.

Maybe this is my mind taking what nice memories it can findand using them to reinforce the training I have been doing as part of my Natal Hypnotherapy?

Answers on a postcard please; along with somereassurance that I will one day rediscover the plot, perhaps just hidden undera pile of papers and a little tea stained.

There is a chance I might be nesting ...

2011-09-08T12:31:00.001+01:00

After looking all over the known interwebs for the types of sheet I wanted to put on my little girl's crib, I may have hit the jackpot.

This place could easily take all the money I don't have if I allowed myself any more time to gaze and drool over their amazing patterns.

Somehow I managed to restrain myself, I just went for one sheet in their Cosy Flower pattern.

If they did this bedding in adult sizes, I might have to get a set for our bed too ... or I might just try and crawl into the crib.

Alfie's First Film

2011-09-05T19:57:00.001+01:00

Until yesterday Alfie had never watched a film. It wasn’t for lack of trying, but he seems to have inherited his father’s attention span so we would cutch up on the sofa only to be abandoned by the end of the opening credits in favour of some obnoxious toy.

Yesterday was a Sunday, the weather was autumnal, and I happened upon a child friendly film just as it was about to start, so I thought I would take a punt and see how the little man got on.

I genuinely thought that the film in question was innocuous enough - possibly because I am 33 years old and was brought up with old school cartoon violence – but clearly I had underestimated both the ability of a child that age to distinguish between reality and fantasy, and also the impact even milk carton violence would have on him.

The “oh NO!”s started just after the opening credits, and progressed in volume and pitch until there were times when only the dog could hear him. There were even a few times when he turned around on my lap and clung onto me for dear life. He was so vocal in fact, that Keith would look down the corridor from the kitchen to laugh at the melodrama being played out on the sofa.

The primary cause of the hysteria?

For those of you thinking “well of course he was scared of a bloody great tusked predator” yeah I know, I should have caught that one. Except it wasn’t just Ice Age that caused a problem, I had an IM from Keith today with a film related update:

Stuck Toy Story 3 on while I made pancakes.

calls of 'Oh NO!' came from the lounge

I came to see what was up

it was the bit where the kids enter the nursery and start misplaying with all the toys

oh if only he knew the irony of his remark!!

Irony indeed my boy, irony indeed.

So now I’m caught in something of a parenting quandary.

There has been a progressive shift in children’s films in the last few decades to move towards a genre that appeals to both children and adults, but I wonder if that has meant that very small children are now left at a disadvantage? I’m not talking about violence, because even from the advent of the genre Bambie’s mother was shot and that bloody scary evil step mother witchy person poisoned Snow White. I’m talking about the pace and intensity of the films which, when combined with violence is just too much for a toddler like Alfie.

I’m not sure I want to desensitise my son to violence by dressing it up in a cartoon wrapper, but then neither do I want to pretend that violence doesn’t exist. Does “age appropriate” come from keeping him in a space where he is already comfortable, or does it come from showing him the outer edges of that space and encouraging him to expand his view of the world?

And isn’t it curious that I find the question of films harder to answer than whether I should allow my son to see a dead cat?

I think the difference for me is about the window dressing that comes with any cartoon. I am absolutely set in my mind that Alfie not be prevented from knowing the truth that all living things die, and that he should be allowed to see them when appropriate. Real life isn’t like a cartoon though, there is no dramatic music, no schmaltz or personification or emotional blackmail deliberately designed to raise our emotion to a fever pitch.

When Alfie saw that dead cat he was sad for all the intuitive and natural reasons that one should be sad at the passing of an animal – he showed natural compassion. He didn’t need to see a flashback to missus cat and all the kittens at home waiting for papa cat to return, he wasn’t under the impression that the cat had died doing anything heroic, and there was no dramatic music designed to make him shed a tear.

I feel more comfortable with that somehow.

When Alfie shrinks in horror at personified toys being ripped apart by cartoon toddlers I wonder if it might be a good way for him to appreciate the viewpoint of something that has no voice and yet that in itself is completely ridiculous: I want Alfie to stop throwing his toys around because he doesn’t want them to get broken, or to hurt anyone around him, not because he thinks he might be causing them pain!!

But that’s the thing about Disney, people like me who have grown up with it from a very young age have no qualms in accepting that a car can learn how to be a “good winner” or that toys can create a strong community. I have witnessed a lifetime of fantasy portrayed as reality and my mind is completely comfortable with that weird duality where I simultaneously know something is complete fantasy but yet happily suspend reality to immerse myself in the story.

I’m sure as a vaguely sane adult that does me no harm at all – I’m just not so sure I can say the same for my son.

Let’s hear it for the boys

2011-08-31T19:00:00.000+01:00

I wasn’t going to write about this for fear of reprisals, but after several recent conversations with girlfriends the weight of evidence was such that I feel I would be doing a public disservice if I didn’t.

Turns out, second time around in the pregnancy game is a open season to men folk: Both their epically funny humour, and a miraculous transformation into the three wise monkeys.

There are whole sites dedicated to the rude things people say to you when pregnant, but top of the list of things I have heard in recent discussions are “My God you weigh a ton!!” and “Making love to someone as pregnant as you is just freaky”.

Men, I kid you not, comments like this are not covered by the Geneva Convention: In fact there is a specific clause in it that allows for brutal torture of people under these circumstances.

There is never a time when telling your beloved lady she is the size of a house/ as sexy as a gnu is a wise and sensible life choice. Even if there is a tiny part of your brain which dares think it, have the good sense not to ever, EVER say it in earshot of the lady in question. For preference, keep a whole entire time zone between you and her before thinking it safe to release any such thoughts back into the wild.

It’s more than just the comments though, it’s also the lack of help.

Perhaps us women don’t do ourselves any favours by being superheroes who hold down careers, kids and homestead but there seems to be a definite lack of chivalry after the first pregnancy erring towards almost complete and total denial that anything is at all different. If I were being ungenerous I would wonder whether it was fair to say that the novelty has worn off and so, therefore, has any real appreciation of the help that we need.

Maybe it is unfair to assume that a man knows that we expect the same treatment the second time around. After all, we’ve done it before right? What’s the big deal? Well my friend, I can sum that up in two words: Toddlers and Hormones. The two, when combined, suck the marrow from your bones. Maybe you think you do enough just going to work, but whatever it is you think you bring to the table, we are growing A WHOLE NEW PERSON, so don’t tell us how tired you are. You don’t KNOW for tired.

Also, you remember all that nesting we did last time? The buying of clothes, the washing of clothes, the putting away of clothes, and muslins, and nappies, and blankets? That stuff still needs to happen again this time. It doesn’t happen when there is a toddler demanding our time and energy so unless you want your newborn child wrapped in newspaper like it’s just arrived from the chip shop, we need your help. Please don’t wait to be asked, earn yourself some freaky brownie points and offer before we are tempted to smother you with our ten ton bellies while you sleep.

And when your mother in law steps in to help clean your house? Buddy, you best be making good with some running shoes.

True Story.

(Except the bit about the Geneva Convention, although that SHOULD be true)

He's Growing Up Too Fast

2011-08-30T19:54:00.000+01:00

The older Alfie gets, the more I feel like I am seeing the world through brand new eyes. He amazes me constantly with his skills and his language but more recently with his emotions.

After I read this article on Friday I really started to think about toddler emotions, and whether empathy in particular was something that would have to wait a few years. I think about these things because in a few weeks Alfie will need to practice a whole new set of skills in his relations to his little sister and I'm not overly convinced that he will have the capacity to treat her generously. Or at least I wasn't until the weekend.

Keith had gone on a bike ride and called me to say he had seen a cat the worse for wear at the side of the road and could I run up there with Alfie to see if there was a collar with a number.

Well he wasn't lying, the cat was in fact an ex-cat and had clearly been hit by a car because while its limbs were still in the standard configuration, there was a little blood here and there and a glazed open eyed stare.

Alfie has never witnessed death before, certainly not first hand, and yet he surprised me utterly by his reaction. As soon as he saw the cat (which I would like to stress didn't look traumatic or gory) he instantly quietened down, frowned deeply and in a quiet voice said "oh no". Not in his usual melodramatic clownish way, but in a careful and considered way that made me realise he not only knew there was something profoundly wrong with the cat, but that the wrong was something to be sad about.

The whole time I was looking for a collar (sadly there was none) he continued to stare at the cat, frowning and deep in thought and it wasn't until a while later that he slowly came out of his pensive state.

I'm so proud of my little man and his capacity to pick up so quickly and intuitively on the things around him. He acts the clown so often and is such a complete rhinostrich that it is sometimes easy to forget to look deep into those eyes and see the quiet sensitivity that lives there.

I was also given a chance to witness this article in glorious techinicolour when our friend Matty came up to see us. He spent some time reading a counting book to Alfie and every time they got to this page, Alfie would take the book and turn it around.

It took me a while to work it out, but when I did I was blown away by the logic of the kid: He was turning the bicycle the right way up. And just to confirm my suspicions and I asked him what he was doing he looked at me like I was a complete dumbass and pointed to the bicycle.

I don't feel bad about being constantly behind the game where Alfie is concerned, I think the only way I could be ahead is if I woke up every morning assuming he was going to demand a volume of Keats to enjoy with his morning porridge.

In other news I have unpacked, sorted and started to wash the stash of newborn clothes. I had to share this photo because for the first time there is a pile of washing for Alfie, and a whole other pile for his little sister.

Call me slow but it's moments like that which make me realise that family life really is about to change.

Shop Til You Drop

2011-08-27T10:07:00.008+01:00

Hopefully not literally but I have been doing a lot of shopping recently for someone of my usual anti shopping disposition.

It seems to me that shopping for babies is a bit like shopping for weddings in that it is primarily a social occasion and luckily for my bank balance I have relatively few social shopping opportunities so I’ve limited my damage to a few key items:

Keith had been whinging about the current change bag for some time and trying to convince me that a £90 leather satchel was an appropriate alternative. Luckily due to the woeful stock control of White Stuff I was never faced with that moment of standing at the till wondering what level of epic mistake I was making and instead I found and have bought a far more suitable alternative.

See, practical enough to keep me happy and manly enough to please Keith and with the merest whiff of leather satchel about it as well.

Next on my hit list was a Bednest because as I’m sure I had mentioned before, we’re planning on co sleeping with this little chickadee until she is 6 months old, at which point both kids will move into the larger back room where there is at least 20ft between them and us and a nice thick wall with an actual door to keep their chaos away from our ears.

Only slight fly in my co sleeping ointment is that I managed to coincide the decision with the worldwide shortage of aforementioned co sleeper so the prices of second hand versions have been going up while the new ones have been unavoidably detained in the sustainable forests of China. Still, I managed to bag one for £50 less than the new price and all I have to do now is drive to Cambridge to collect it.

Oh and find some sheets for it that don’t bore the bejesus out of me. If anyone has a stash of funky unisex/ slightly feminine brushed cotton lying about that I can cut up and turn into sheets, please let me know before I swallow my own tongue at the sight of more pastel shades.

The last piece of baby action for the week was the momentous occasion of us dropping off the pushchair for slight modifications. And by slight modifications I mean complete redesign because I’m an idiot and didn’t do my research properly.

Keith was violently opposed to the idea of getting a double buggy and only under duress and the threat of epic hissy fit did he eventually concede that there might be room for a double buggy in our lives as long as it was this one, which is the double version of our current single.

Yeah no problem darling, they’ve only been out of production for 12 years.

I somehow managed to find one at a reasonable price on eBay which only came with the seats, and not the bassinette you can see in the picture which was fine because we got a bassinette with the single. I congratulated myself on being a money saving genius and rubbed my hands with glee while it was collected for us by family friends and dropped off by Mr B senior.

So happy was I that I fair skipped into the garden with the bassinette in hand and a tra-la-la on my lips.

It didn’t fit.

Turns out I should have looked here before bidding because it says right there, clear as day, singles and doubles do not mix. Oh and you can’t buy new bassinettes any more.

Still I made a good attempt at making it fit but pretty soon my tra-la-la was more SONovaBITCH and I was trying to think of some way of digging my way out of the inevitable I-told-you-a-double-pushchair-was-a-bad-idea lecture I knew was hovering in the kitchen watching my progress through the window.

Anyway, as luck would have it, we know a man; an incredible car interior upholsterer who has both the technology and the skill to turn my minor SNAFU into a workable solution. He seemed confident it wouldn’t pose too much of an issue and I’m confident I’ve avoided the worst of the lectures so fingers crossed by next weekend I’ll be collecting a fully working pushchair.

That’s actually is no bad things because I am now 30 weeks pregnant, which is in the right ballpark of numbers for this baby to actually be born.

Clearly she is related to Alfie so the chances are slim that there will be any baby action this side of Christmas but there is a slight frisson of excitement building about her arrival, because this girlie is the Michael sodding Flatley of babies and frankly I don’t know how much longer my body is going to contain her.

The left hand side of my ribcage hurts all the live long day and people have actually asked me if I’m OK because they think I’ve just startled. No, no, that’s not me, that is my unborn child rocking my whole entire body with the force of her kicks.

Now if you would please call me an ambulance I fear I may need a rib replacing.

Evolution of Man Flu

2011-08-17T20:02:00.000+01:00

Alfie is ill. The jury is out as to whether he has just taken his teething to epic new levels or whether he has caught a low level cold which has compounded his previous teething misery.

Regardless of which it is, Keith and I were treated to an insight into the evolution of man flu as Alfie swung from Woes through Doom and on to MUTHERFUCKINSNAKESONTHEMUTHERFUCKINGPLANE!!!

First he refused to be separated from us, even for a second, and insisted on being held. All well and good unless you are 7 months pregnant and trying to cook dinner at which point a 10kg child might as well be a fully grown hippo.

Then the special comfort food meal I prepared for his benefit (sausages, mash and home made tomato sauce) especially designed to be easy on gums, sore throats and any conceivable other ailing body part was spat out in disgust and fruit demanded in its place. Chopped fruit. In bite size pieces. STAT.

Bath time? GETMEOUTMYNOSEISRUNNING!!

Bedtime Drink? Give me all the moo juice in the land woman, I want it all. STAT MAX!!!

And hitting the grand finale of the day, we had bedtime. A bedtime of such epic disastrousness that my brain still itches: Although I did learn that my bump is now big enough to prop me up when I doze off sitting on the end of a toddler bed which seems like a skill I can make use of over the next few months.

The problem with Alfie’s man flu is that it seems to turn him into a total control freak. I spent hours last night being arranged by my son into various human origami positions that he considered acceptable for the purposes of being comforted. Just to add to my inner joy the position changed on a fairly regular basis and involved much huffing, shoving and unwilling compromise between what Alfie wanted and what was physically possible for two and a half people on a toddler bed, none of whom have reversible joints.

I tried extracting myself a few times on the basis that I was losing feeling in most of my body but no dice. Sorry, I mean NOMUTHERFUCKINGDICEBITCH!!!

No dignity either when Alfie sat bolt upright as I was crawling out of the room on hands and knees looking like some sagging sofa making a break for freedom. I should have carried on and pretended I always leave a room that way instead of backing up, yes backing up, still on all fours and assuming the last known comforting pose with a barely stifled sob.

I choose to believe that this is a temporary state of being and a compliment that my son finds such comfort in my arms when he is feeling rotten. I choose to believe these things because the idea of my boy taking this kind of behaviour to its logical conclusion in manhood means I might have to look into donating him to the lion’s den at London Zoo.

What a Family Needs

2011-08-17T16:52:00.001+01:00

Having babies close to your birthday is bad planning, not least because 2 weeks post-partum isn't exactly party time and even if it was, what would I ask for? Clothes for a temporarily wobbly body? Toiletries I won't use? Days out I haven't got the energy to attend?

The same applies to gifts for second children. I know this baby is a different flavour, but really, we have so much of what we need and are so picky about the additional things we want that we've made it virtually impossible for anyone to buy us something we will truly treasure.

And then I worked it out, and I know what will be the best and most valued gift that anyone can give us: Time.

I'm only off work for 3 short months and that time will get filled too quickly and pass too quickly. We did far too much during my time off with Alfie and it felt like I spent no time at all just being, and appreciating, and enjoying. I wasn't selfish enough with my son and while he socialised with a huge number of people from an early age, it was at the expense of my time with him.

I want to try a different way this time. I want us to spend acres of time together as a new family just getting to know each other and appreciating every last moment before it is gone forever. I don't want to share my new baby, my toddler, or my husband and I don't want to gallivant all over Europe. I want my world to be the four of us.

Clearly I'm not alone in thinking like this. Gloria Lemay's article gives a fantastic list of ideas and for my birthday I will mostly be asking for vouchers for a local laundry and cleaning company. If anyone does feel like they want to help us celebrate the baby arriving, or my birthday, please take the time to read the list of ideas because it will mean more to us than the most expensive toys, or elegant clothes could ever do.

Sleeping is good, abusing my son is NOT

2011-08-15T12:14:00.001+01:00

I saw this link recently to a really nice little article on infant sleeping. Like a lot of articles it doesn’t really say much that doesn’t seem little blinding common sense but sometimes it just takes the right slant for things to drop into place.

When you think about infant sleep patterns as a biological imperative, it makes me wonder once again how we as a society (and I include myself wholeheartedly in this) have found it so easy to be sold a pup by these “infant sleep experts”. I suppose the basic premise of the sales pitch is that people fundamentally want an easy life, and anyone promising to pave the way to the nirvana of “through the night from 6 weeks” is basically on a gravy train.

In my head though it feels similar to the rise of the epidural.

Don’t get me wrong, I get it, I really do. Someone dangles this magic carrot in front of you and tells you that they can make your life instantly more comfortable with no nasty side effects that you need worry about then why wouldn’t you take them up on it? Except there are scores of sayings telling us that nothing is ever truly free and we all seem wise to that fact, except when the person offering the freebie is a so called expert.

Epidural to take your pain away? Of course it’s safe! Nope, no side effects here, move along, nothing to see. Your baby a bit drowsy and slow to get going? Nope, no ideas. Hey look over there, a nice Bounty Pack full of freebies!

OK so that is a very glib take on things and epidurals have helped a lot of women. My point is though, do women get the chance to make an informed choice about the effects of an epidural, or are they given a sales job for the benefit of the professionals attending them?

And does the same apply to sleep training? If you were given a balanced picture that told you that there was a way you could train your baby out of waking, but that doing so would have certain consequence, would you make the same choices? I’m not sure I would. If I had taken the time to associate shorter sleeping cycles and frequent waking with the biological imperatives of a newborn I think my parenting of Alfie would have been very different.

No actually, I know it would have been.

And mention of my son brings me neatly onto my mini rant – soft play centres.

People, do not use these places as a crèche!!

Alfie and I met up with some friends yesterday at a local play centre and had a pretty good time romping about. I did struggle a little lugging myself around after him but he enjoyed himself and we adults even had a few minutes to catch up when the children were persuaded to stop for snacks and drinks.

Not long before lunchtime Alfie was in a ball pool in the toddler area playing quite roughly with another similarly aged, but much larger child. I didn’t mind a certain degree of mutual clothes pulling but I was standing right there and as soon as Alfie put a toe out of line he was removed and told very firmly that what he was doing wasn’t on.

You know why I did that? Because I’m a responsible parent. That means despite being tired, pregnant, hot and bothered, I was there supervising my child rather than sitting at a table sipping a latte and hoping my toddler was going to act like an angel of his own accord.

It is the most ridiculous idea to take a young child to one of these places and expect that of them: Soft play centres are like kiddy amphetamines and you can’t seriously expect a toddler to be that over stimulated and still to regulate their own behaviour.

Well clearly the mother of Alfie’s playmate/ victim did because she was nowhere to be seen, which meant that it was me who had to step in and grab her son’s arm when he wrapped his chubby little fingers in my boy’s hair and ragged his head repeatedly up and down unto the ball pool until he was absolutely screaming in pain. When I prised his fingers off Alfie he still had a load of his hair in his hand and Alfie was in pieces.

I was SO angry.

Not at the child, but at the parent.

WHERE. WERE. YOU?

I’m actually glad that they didn’t make an appearance at that moment because I’m not sure I would have trusted myself not to have been extremely rude. I hadn’t seen a parent the whole time the boys were playing and there had been a few tussles that I had broken up. I don’t want to be that horrible over protective mother who won’t let their child get involved in rough and tumble because Alfie is more than able to handle himself, and is often the one getting told to calm down and be more gentle. There is a line though, and when my son is being properly hurt I draw that line and feel somewhat murderous to any who cross it.

Which is exactly why I don’t go to those places more often.

The Futility of Naughty

2011-08-08T12:16:00.001+01:00

Alfie and I were off on more adventures this weekend, seeing some of my amazing family. Thanks to Keith being busy elsewhere, Alfie and I had a rare chance to co sleep and so when I snuck into bed snuggled up to him at midnight on Friday, I was hopeful of having a rare lie in wherein we woke up refreshed and smiling and ready to face the day.

Apparently “lie in” has undergone a slight redefinition since my student days.

I’m not sure what happened at 4am, perhaps a cow farted 3 counties over, but whatever it was clearly signalled to my little boy that sleep time was over and it was time for us to wake up and start the day. He wasn’t subtle in communicating this to me, his preferred method being to bounce up and down shouting while smacking me on the side of the head until I gave in and opened my eyes. There was no reasoning, forcing or otherwise persuading him to change his mind: He was awake and he WANTED TO PLAY!!!!

In order to save the sanity of the rest of the household, I dragged my bones out of bed and took Alfie down to the kitchen where he enthusiastically indulged in some fridge magnet hurling and I sat at the table drinking tea and trying to ignore the tired shakes.

I think as a form of escapism, my mind drifted off to a place where it could meander through a daisy field of self examination and unsurprisingly it settled on the theme of the word “naughty”.

Like a lot of people of my and older generations I have a reluctant familiarity with the word naughty. There were times when it was my second name and it was one of those words that I never actually took the time to examine, but the general principle of which made me feel hugely uncomfortable.

When Alfie got old enough to start challenging Keith and I, we very quickly needed to have a discussion about how to address his behaviour and my input was very strongly that I didn’t want us, or anyone else around him, to use the word naughty. I felt so strongly about it I remember sitting there shaking at how passionately I hated the idea of applying the word to a child of mine.

Discussion of the word naughty has been around for a few years now, and like a lot of parenting topics, there are two diverging camps – one who see traditional methods as the wisdom of ages and others who are re-examining the old ways and finding them wanting.

No prizes for guessing which camp I’m in. No really, no prizes, I can’t afford them at the moment.

One problem I have with the word naughty is that it is an easy label, not just for behaviour but for a child themselves. And I mean easy for adults, because it’s a pretty crappy label for a child to have to deal with on any level and also one that is almost entirely devoid of any logical explanation. Naughty is the very epitome of an abstract concept for a child. If you look at what naughty means it changes every time it is used. Naughty basically means “guess what you’ve done that has pissed me off and stop doing it”. For a child who is learning about behaviours that is a horrible burden to place on them.

Alfie does about a hundred things a day that could be called naughty. Was his 4am behaviour naughty? Well a lot of parents would have said so, yes. But what would I have actually meant by calling him naughty? Well I suppose I would have meant that waking me up at 4am was inconvenient, and that doing so by whacking me repeatedly on the face was unpleasant and that I wasn’t in a place to appreciate the explosion of excitement and emotion that was manifested in that way. I wasn’t in that place because I was exhausted and my brain was screaming OHMYGODCHILDSHUTUPANDSLEEPBEFOREIFEEDYOUTOTHECAT!!!!! But that’s my problem, not his, I shouldn’t have gone to bed at midnight. Would he have even understood which element of that entire scenario I was referring to if I had called him naughty? Or understood what I wanted him to do differently?

The other issue I have with the quicksand definition of the word is that it is also based on the premise that I, as the caller, am right and you, as the callee, are wrong. Always. There is no room for discussion or negotiation. I don’t feel comfortable putting myself up on that pedestal to be honest, or arrogant enough to feel that I deserve to think that my children should do so either. I am a moral compass to my children, all parents are, that is part of the responsibility of being a parent. But so is humility, and the awareness that they are going to teach you as much as you will teach them.

Naughty is a very lazy word because it replaces the whole paragraphs that your children deserve to hear. There is less value to using the word naughty, than explaining to your child what it is that you don’t agree with and allowing them to understand why. If Alfie launches his plate in the middle of a crowded restaurant one lunchtime what is more useful to him? For me to tell him he’s naughty or for me to explain to him that it’s OK that he’s tired, and doesn’t like his lunch and doesn’t want it sitting in front of him anymore, and that the way to deal with that is to hand me his plate rather than delivering a spaghetti Frisbee to the table 5 doors over. It takes more time to do that, of course it does, but it’s the un-lazy way to parent. It is also slightly uncomfortable for me because it means I need to acknowledge that it’s my fault that we didn’t sit down to lunch early enough and that I allowed him to get frustrated and tired and that I chose a meal he didn’t want, but then why shouldn’t I feel uncomfortable when I get things wrong?

I sometimes wonder if the fear that parents have is that those of us who remove the ‘old ways’ are happy to leave a vacuum in its place; that if I don’t tell my child he’s naughty it means I don’t try to implement discipline. Error. We discipline Alfie a lot, and we are 100% intolerant of malicious behaviour on the very rare occasion that his behaviour is actually malicious. Parenting Free From Naughty though is about looking more deeply, and it is surprising how rarely our son is genuinely in the wrong. He often gets over excited and plays too roughly, strokes the dog with precordial thumps, or tips his drink over himself just so he can shout “oooooh NO!” to us. Those things are frustrating as hell and require instant and calm intervention from us. They’re not naughty or malicious though, they are the first socialising steps of a young mind.

Is it more useful in the long term to nurture that mind to think about the consequences of actions, or to blindly accept the judgement I have made of them?

Those were my meandering thoughts as best as I can write them: I apologise for any errors in recounting them.

Did I mention my child woke me up at 4AM????

Feral Children

2011-08-03T12:23:00.000+01:00

Sometimes there are days that you know you will always remember. They aren’t the big days, like the “where were you when ...” days, but the days when you are looking at your loved ones and everything just conspires into something so beautiful it takes your breath away.

Last weekend a group of us went out on a boat to have a picnic at Windsor. It was a replay of a trip we had all taken a few years ago when Sal was pregnant with Joe and I was pregnant with Alfie – actually at the same point I am now – and we had another amazing day enjoying the company of amazing friends.

Sitting in a field by the river, I had one of those breathtaking days watching three boys so full of the joy of life they almost glowed. There were no expensive toys, nothing really for them to do and still they spent the entire afternoon smiling and running and tumbling around.

Alfie and Dan played chase until they were both breathless with exertion and laughing, occasionally Joe would get too close and would scamper back to the adults as the boys tried to include him in the chasing.

It was amazing to see them, three boys who don’t get to see each other half as much as they should but who adore each other, and the time they spend together.

and strawberries.

The Future is Bright

2011-08-02T12:16:00.000+01:00

I did something recently that teetered wildly on the divide between brave and stupid.

I got my notes from Alfie’s birth.

Friends warned me that I should only read them with a big box of tissues and a cup of something comforting but that didn’t put me off; it felt like something I needed to do to close the door on the questions I had. As time went on, I wondered whether my morphine stained mind had played tricks on me and I wanted to see things written down in black and white to know whether the decision we had made was based on perception or supportable fact.

Anyway the notes came, and rather than feeling like an old wound being ripped apart I actually felt quite dispassionate, apart from a few “oooh, you sods!!” about some of the comments on us needing to be “managed more actively”. What I also felt was a real sense of vindication by the end, not just of my mind, but of my body as well.

I remember writing at the time about a phenomena called “Pit to Distress” and how I had those words ringing in my ears when the doctors suggested an epidural and another 2 hours of Syntocinon at maximum dose. I didn’t know why I felt like that at the time, nor why I had refused to let them turn the drip up earlier other than a gut instinct that there was too much contraction and not enough rest.

Guess what? My gut instinct was right.

I was bloody right!!!!

The notes show how many contractions I was having and at the point where I stopped them turning up the drip I was already contracting 4-5 in 10 and by the current definition, 5 or more in 10 is uterine hyperstimulation. Of the two people who have already looked over the notes, they have both looked up at the end and said “That would have been a Pit to Distress”.

It is cold comfort in some senses, but to know that despite being drugged to the hilt I called it right and stopped my son being put at risk makes me so happy. I trusted my gut instinct and it was right. I listened to what felt right (or not) with my body and I was right.

Those notes, rather than making me feel like my body failed for not dilating does the exact opposite, it makes me grateful to my body for being so “right” - holding onto my precious boy in a threatening environment, telling me clearly that it wasn’t happy - and that I had just enough clarity of mind to hear those messages.

And this post just keeps chugging along the happy tracks because the other thing I’m really excited to be able to share is that after nearly 6 months of epic fail, we finally managed to meet up with a lovely midwife called Amanda last week. You’ll get to know her name pretty well on this blog because she is going to be my midwife for the upcoming birth.

I did wonder at one point whether we were ever going to arrange a meeting and whether it was really worth all the hassle: The answer in both cases is YES.

Meeting this woman showed all our previous midwife experiences in their true light. For the first time, we were talking to a woman who had not only been there and done that when it came to VBAC but who had come out the other side of it with the ability and inclination to make sure other women had a better option.

For the first time, I feel like we have midwifery cover that will really make a difference to my labour. I don’t feel like we need to pray to the god of midwife rotas, or that poor Mel will have to come armed with nunchucks, because we have found someone who will fight tooth and nail for a good birth and give us the chance we deserve.

Also someone who suggested that if I wasn’t happy being examined that Keith might like to do it instead. I’ll let you know how that one pans out.

The Error of Our Ways

2011-07-23T15:38:00.017+01:00

I hadn't thought about writing about this subject but I suppose I should really hold my hands up: I have done a complete U Turn on one aspect of child raising and this post by the Analytical Armadillo explains beautifully why.

Dear Sleep Trainer Expert,

by The Analytical Armadillo on Friday, 22 July 2011 at 13:34

COPIED FROM BLOG COMMENTS - BY EMMA:

Dear Sleep Trainer Expert,

My Grandfather died a month ago and my Grandmother was still not sleeping very well until last week and she was crying a lot in the night. It's really been disturbing my sleep. She had a stroke about 2 years ago and can't walk or talk so I'm her primary carer. It's hard work but I love her, and I know it will pass but I really needed more sleep! I was desperate!

I wanted to tell you how pleased I was to find your book "The Contented Little Baby Whisperer's guide to Saving my Sleep". Over the last few nights I've been sensible and strong. It's been tough, but we did it!

I've put Gran onto a routine where I feed her at 7pm, and that's THAT. She's learning now that if she's thirsty in the night, she'll have to wait. I bathe her with the lights low and tuck her in bed with 16 blankets, said goodnight and left her to it. Let me tell you she didn't half complain on that first night! She cried and cried but I wasn't going to let her manipulate me. Just because she's slept next to Grandpa for the last 45 years! She has to learn to be independent from other people, I realise that now.

I found that going in every few minutes and not giving her eye contact eventually meant she got the message. She was sick at one point which was a shock. I didn't know old people could manipulate like that! Anyway, I cleaned her up and just ignored it so she won't be trying that again.

She seems very happy today. Well, she's quiet anyway. Not hassling me at all! Bonus.

I can't wait to tell all my friends about your amazing system. My friend Sally has a disabled daughter who is 10 and can't talk or walk. I'm sure she'd find this system works brilliantly for her, too.

Love your biggest fan,

xxx

Yup, we followed the *cough* sage advice *cough* of a best selling (and highly litigious) sleep training expert and we made our boy follow a strict schedule of feeds and sleep trained him in his blacked out room, swaddled in his cot from the day we brought him home.

I honestly believe we're just about unpicking the damage of that approach to this day.

It is pointless to beat myself up over our approach, and in honesty Keith still doesn't really see that our approach was wrong at all, but then I am the sort of person who voraciously consumes research and he is the sort of person who looks at the end result of a relatively peaceful night and considers that the end justifies the means.

I'm not going to get on my soapbox and quote a lot of research about how sleep training leaves a deep and lasting scar on the mental and emotional makeup of a child because if you are the sort of person who thinks about these things, you are fully able to search Google for the many studies that have been done.

I just wanted to post that "letter", as much to myself as anyone else, as an amusing reminder why I will never, EVER let my child cry it out alone at night again.

I blinked ...

2011-07-22T12:16:00.001+01:00

... and missed half my pregnancy.

Honestly that’s how it feels,

“FFFFFFFFFFFFWWWWWWWwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww”

“What the hell was that?!”

“Oh that? That was your pregnancy, here’s your daughter”

I feel like the milestones are hitting me one after another and the latest one is we have now completed 24 weeks. That is my favourite milestone of all because it’s the time at which my daughter starts to be treated by the outside world as a proper potential person.

The way I felt about the last few weeks is, I imagine, similar to the way people feel when they reach the £500,000 question on Who Wants to be a Millionaire. The closer to 24 weeks, the higher the jeopardy and you just want everything to hang together for just those few more days and weeks until some mythical box is ticked and yes, your child is now viable.

It actually makes no real difference, there are babies who survive happily before 24 weeks and babies who don’t survive long after 24 weeks has passed, but that stupid arbitrary numbers is the key to buying your child a chance at life at the hands of the medical profession and that makes it important.

I remember feeling the same way about Alfie which in hindsight is quite amusing considering how long my pregnancy lasted. I also note the stark contrast between my pregnancies in that this time I have done nothing to prepare for this birth.

I’m reliably informed that comes from having a toddler in the house.

I think I should also point out that unlike in the post above, there have so far been no knitted gifts arriving from the land of Gibraltaria. I point this out because my daughter is all “where’s my damn waffle fries??” and it’s my ribs that are taking the beating. So you, Auntie Michie, get on it.

In actual fact that is no joke, by ribs ARE taking a pounding at the moment which is simultaneously great because it means my little girl is head down most of the time and bad because it bloody hurts. Considering I have an anterior placenta this time I am shocked at how strong this baby is, and how much of a pounding my belly is taking. I don’t ever remember being able to watch my belly jump around last time, but I can now.

She is also a total daddy’s girl and every time Keith puts a hand near my belly she’s all KA-BLAMO!!!! ... sweet that he finally gets to feel a baby kicking him, not so sweet when it happens at 5am after Keith has rolled over and cuddled into me. She kicked him so hard this morning he actually half woke up and asked if what he’d just felt was a kick.

No my sweet, I was just having a clandestine game of Buckaroo.

I also haven’t managed to take or post one single belly shot this pregnancy either, but I feel the time has come. And since Keith was too busy lamenting the end of the space mission to take a photo for me, I had to cobble one together this morning with the aid of a mirror and barely opened eyes.

As my final thought for the day, I’m strangely drawn to researching Kangaroo Care this pregnancy. No idea why. But I saw this article today and I thought I would share it as a good introduction to something that I hope will become common practice in the care of premie babies. Like all good ideas this one feels like nothing more than good common sense.

Are You Feeling Quite Right?

2011-07-18T12:24:00.000+01:00

Some of you may have heard that a pretty major paper was released last week by the RCOG and that I have singularly failed to comment on it.

Am I feeling ok? Has the cutes of my first born dulled my previous sharp inclination to social commentary?

Firstly, yes I am feeling just fine and secondly, he’s not cute. He is a rabid little monster who refused to come inside from his house last night (despite there being a full on downpour) until his dad dragged him in sporting a death pout.

There is actually a very good reason why I haven’t bothered to blog so far about the RCOG paper, and that’s the lesson I was taught as a child that if you have nothing nice to say, you should stay quiet.

Well I tried but the more I read about this story, the more I feel compelled to write something about it. I feel bad being the wet blanket here but I feel like I have to return a dose of reality to things.

With my NCT hat on, this report is amazing news, not just for what it says but for the fact that we as the NCT were heavily involved in contributing. Organisations working together to provide healthcare – that in itself is worthy of the news coverage surely?

I’m also loving the idea that the organisation representing consultants is recommending that more birth be taken outside of the current tertiary setting (that’s consultant led care to you and me) and back into the community where it belongs. It’s a pretty shocking statement to hear from the governing body of God complexes isn’t it?

So what’s your problem woman? What’s with the negativity?

OK well I’ll tell you.

It’s never going to happen.

There I said it. Sorry, I hate naysayers usually but I feel like this euphoria needs a serious dose of reality.

The proposals that are made in the RCOG require what is optimistically called a “cultural change” in the NHS. More precisely it says:

“The impact of developing a woman’s health network will result in more services being delivered in a primary and community-based setting. Women will still have ready access to hospital-based care

but this will be when clinical need dictates or the woman chooses to have her care delivered in this setting (if clinically appropriate). Specialist services are likely to be strengthened by pooling the

subspecialist consultant resource into fewer localities, allowing for more focused delivery of care.

It is likely that the medical workforce will be required to be more flexible in the settings in which they work to facilitate improvement in care. This will require contractual negotiations across

foundation trusts. However, such an excellent model exists within midwifery, with midwives working across different levels of service. This also facilitates continuity of care for the woman.

Such a major change needs a culture change among professionals (particularly primary and secondary care physicians), commissioners and women. A concerted effort will be required to

educate all stakeholders.”

Are you out of your ever loving minds?!?!

So just to clarify:

Women (who have spent the last 3 generations being told that if they don’t come to hospital to birth their bodies will implode into a big ball of fail) are going to be suddenly empowered to choose a different model of care. They are going to choose to abandon hospitals in their droves when at the moment most hospitals struggle to get them off their backs in the delivery room.

Midwives who are (according to the report) 5,000 members down on where they need to be now are going to take on a larger slice of maternity care.

And just to top it off, commissioners are going to implement a nationwide strategy removing local variations in service offerings.

Ah ha. I’m sorry was I away the day they dished out the jazz cigarettes?

This is one of those times I really hope I’m wrong because it’s amazing to hear the RCOG looking beyond their egos to what is genuinely in the best interests of women. But my limit experience of the machinations of the NHS leave me feeling pretty hopeless that this paper will ever come to pass. It is certainly not geared up to be able to deliver it now, and to develop that capability and get the people on the front line of delivering the service to implement it on a consistent basis would be like expecting the army to hand in their weapons and resolve all future conflicts through the power of song.

There are your chips, consider them well and truly peed on.

Fig Tree Cottage - The Junior Edition

2011-07-17T19:22:00.000+01:00

On Friday Alfie had a very special delivery of his first house.

There is one constant in Alfie's play regimes and that is if there is a play house in a 10 metre radius, the house is belong to him. Or more specifically the door.

Door opens, door closes, door opens, door closes.

I'll be honest, it's not a game that plays out well with other children and usually ends up in squawking hissy fits from whoever loses the battle of It's-My-Door-No-It's-Not.

So we saw a house recently with some money off and decided to use some vouchers we had hanging about to splurge and give Alfie a front door of his very own.

Check out the Mediterranean pose ... Ciao!

So after he installed himself in his house, we thought it might be nice to see if he might want to play. Keith went up to the door, knocked and asked to come in - yeah I know, like he'd fit, right? - the answer was unequivocally "No!".

That's the polite version, the actual reaction involved the baby equivalent of "F'coff" and the threat of wanton violence.

Keith sensibly beat a hasty retreat but if anyone wants to come over for a play date, I'm sure we can hog tie him long enough to let someone else have a go.

Swamp Thing

2011-07-11T21:23:00.001+01:00

Warning: This post will probably make you think I'm the worst mother in the world. If so, I expect a hearty UNFOLLOW!

Yesterday we were once again abandoned by Keith, so Alfie and I arranged to go and spend some time with Tiff and her her hounds at a local beauty spot.

It's a bit shameful to admit but in the 3 years I lived near it, I never knew it existed. I wish I had because it is just the mos amazing place and I am quite gutted I no longer have it on my doorstep.

When we arrived I hurried Alfie past the ice cream van and callously sidetracked him with carved wooden creatures in the children's area.

He bought it - and I do appreciate the fact that or a few short months I can persuade him that climbing is preferable to a Zoom lolly, I doubt I will be so lucky next summer.

It did help that in this case there were other children to play with. I'm pretty sure he's pulling his best "so .... you come here often" line on her in this photo.

Not long after this we met up with Tiff and went off into the wilds of the park proper. Alfie in his buggy, the dogs running laps around us as we got out of the baking sun and into the cool of the forest.

Eventually we reached a pool where the dogs belly flopped gratefully after sticks.

Alfie thought this was a marvellous idea and knowing I had one spare t shirt, one spare nappy and a boy who loves water, I decided to strip him down to his T and shoes and for us both to go for a paddle.

It's called pragmatic parenting.

I want to say a massive thank you to Tiff for taking these photos and for letting me share them, otherwise you would only have my words instead of the following sequence that actually gave me a stitch.

c'MON mum!!

Just a bit deeper, see the Fey dog is all the way over there!

Can I sit here for a bit? I can make swirly mud shapes if I kick my feet.

I. don't. want. to. warm. up. I. am. FINE!

See we can stand here and watch the dogs

And maybe we can do the splashing

I splash YOU!

Oh, I splash me too.

I do stick throwing too.

Stick goes down.

Stupid follow-though

I am WOES!!!

Poor me.

But tasty treat makes it better.

Yup, I am a bad, bad mother. Or maybe I'm a mum who takes an old school approach of letting my over adventurous son discover his limitations for himself - these days the two seem to be viewed as the same thing.

Sad really, whole generations of kids will miss out on impromptu skinny dipping in favour of over chlorined toddler pools. Sadder still that they will miss out on an important life lesson in cause and effect - throw stick too forcefully, get stinky pond water up nose. Fact.

Books That Change Your World

2011-07-08T13:07:00.000+01:00

There are some books that you read and then set aside and go on with your life. There are others that you read at just the right moment so that they leave a huge indelible footprint on you.

A lovely friend leant me a book recently called Birthing from Within. It was hard going at first because it started with chapters on birth art (which I really had no interest in creating for myself) but then the book moved on to other subjects.

At that point, my head was still in a similar place to where I was with Alfie: I was busy trying to organise my way to the perfect care and birth. A really strange thing happened as I was reading the book though, my focus begun to shift as the words I was reading slowly began to sink in.

I read a chapter about Birth Plans and it suddenly made sense to me why I had been struggling to visualise labour. With Alfie my focus was on organising every detail, my Birth Plan long and trying to account for every eventuality and what I had really done was make it so narrow that it was almost impossible to achieve. I was trying to organise my way into what I imagined the perfect labour to be, this book flipped that on its head and made me realise that the perfect birth was adaptable, flexible and very much in the moment.

I haven’t written a birth plan this time. Instead I have put my energy into talking to Mel about where I am and where my boundaries lie.

Instead of a Birth Plan I have an awesome picture copied from the book and blown up to stick on the wall which illustrates this next passage.

Because the lesson I really took from this book in a light-bulb moment was that to succeed, I was going to have to not think. If I was going to do any preparation before this birth it wasn’t to educate myself, but to pass my thoughts and feelings onto someone I trusted to use them so that I could forget them entirely.

I don’t try and visualise labour any more (I still can’t see what it’s going to look like) instead I visualise doing nothing extra.

Except booking my TENS, I really need to do that.

Everything About You

2011-07-06T19:57:00.000+01:00

I’ve been focused on writing about this pregnancy recently because that is what has been filling my head. Luckily for me I also have the most amazing toddler in the world who makes me and his dad remark on a daily basis how much we love him and find him the funniest thing since Del Boy fell through a bar.

In the last few months every part of his development has just exploded and I can suddenly see before me the child that my baby is becoming. It’s a pretty awe inspiring thing to witness, this little person emerging from the cocoon of a toddler and I thought it was time I captured the things I love most about Alfie right now so that when he is 16 and trying to be The Big I Am in front of some girl, I can call this page up and embarrass the crap out of him:

Oh No!

You have to imagine a slightly Cartman-esque delivery for this one, it’s usually said “ooooooh NOH!” with hands raised melodramatically to cheeks. It is also said about 50 times a day at the moment and if there is nothing currently going wrong, my little darling will create something just so he can say it. I’ve now lost track of the number of times Keith and I have replied “don’t you oh no me, you did it!” but on the other hand I hope he never stops doing it because behind every raised eyebrow and stern look is a chuckle desperately trying to force its way out.

Blowing dandelions

Now that the weather is warm and the evenings long, we have become a bit more chilled about pushing back Alfie’s bedtime. After dinner we often go for walks up a local closed road called West Drive which is a great place for Alfie to weave his drunken toddler way in our wake investigating the plants and sticks. We taught him how to blow the seeds from dandelion clocks except he didn’t quite get the blowing part. First he would just kiss them, which was sweet but not entirely effective. Then he mistook what we were trying to tell him and started sucking instead of blowing. I have spent many minutes on our walks fishing clumps of spit soggied dandelion seeds from my son’s mouth recently while trying not to laugh too hard.

Dancing

Alfie loves to dance. At home, in the car, in fact anywhere. I bought Keith a Paulo Nutini album recently and it lives in the mighty Benz. Not only does Alfie clap enthusiastically at the end of several tracks but when Pencil Full of Lead comes on he does this really sweet sitting down hula dance move in his car seat. It starts with the head going side to side and by the end of the track is a bit of a full torso tank slapper. It’s even worse when he’s standing up but at least he offsets the wobble with a weird stamping arm flapping arrangement. If it weren’t for the smile nailed to his face I might get worried he were suffering some kind of seizure.

Balala?

Still a favourite food, The Banana has been renamed. He’s getting pretty good at identifying the various parts of a balala too. Yesterday during our midwife appointment (which went perfectly) Alfie looked into a waste paper basket and seeing a banana skin turned, pointed to it and asked “balala?” in his best “please may I have one?” intonation. I love that he recognises the word when we say it in conversation and looks up quizzically with a “yes-please-now” expression. I love that he has now taken banana eating to the next level by experimenting with eating them widthways as well lengthways. I especially love it when he can’t decide how many bites are left and instead rams the whole damn lot into his chops, often to the extent that he needs a hand placed over his mouth to stop the whole lot escaping again.

Bedtime

Bedtimes are still me and Alfie time and I treasure them more and more every day. They always go the same way: We go upstairs, he gets up onto his bed and tucks into his bedtime drink while I change him into his night clothes. Then I lift him round onto the pillow, tuck him up with ‘Walla and we read a story. Often I read him one of the Spanish books we have because it’s the only way he gets to hear Spanish regularly and he points at pictures while I read. When he’s finished he hands me his drink and turns onto his side with a big sigh. I have to leave the book though otherwise there are grumblings. Then I kiss him, tell him I love him and leave him to it. By ‘it’ I mean the hour of playing that always follows me leaving the room. I love that he thinks me and his dad can’t hear the herd of Rhinostrich upstairs, or that we don’t twig when his room looks like Armageddon the next morning, but if I look back at the door, I can always see a beady eye trained on me just waiting for me to go. Son, you had better get better at being subtle if you ever want to sneak out of the house.

In terms of things I don’t like about Alfie these days there is but one – The Toddler Tantrum.

Oh dear Lord how they do vex!

I saw this article today though and it was a timely reminder for me. I sometimes find it really hard to remember that flailing screaming ab dabs aren’t just an exercise in pissing me off but this article I think takes a pragmatic and sensible approach to what you can do to avoid selling your offspring for the price of a G&T.

Waterbaby

2011-07-04T12:24:00.001+01:00

I must be one of the few people who was actually quite hoping for our UK summer to underachieve in its usual spectacular way.

For most of this pregnancy I have been THIRSTY and all this warm weather has just sent me over the edge. Seriously, don’t leave a drink near me, I’ll down it.

I also have a fairly common folate metabolism disorder which means I am stuck with taking folic acid (and aspirin) every day of my pregnancy. Not exactly the biggest inconvenience for the pleasure of growing a new human, but still a bit of a faff sometimes. I have bottles of tablets at home, at work and even in the car and an alarm set on my phone and yet somehow I still end up forgetting; but that’s nappy brain for you.

Anyway the point is that my troubles may be over!!

I won a competition run by a new company called Waterbaby who have produced water with folic acid and other good stuff in it. That means I will soon be getting a supply of citrusy flavoured water that means I won’t risk giving myself crippling stomach ache again when I accidentally forget and take my tablets on an empty stomach.

In the days when I was feeling like I was in a small boat in the middle of a stormy sea this would have been the perfect way to get my folic acid without running the daily gauntlet of breakfast. I’m not condoning skipping meals of course but the reality of morning sickness is that it doesn’t exactly give you an appetite.

I fully intend to install my free supply of Waterbaby in my car so that when I’m slowing char broiling on the M25 in standing traffic, I will at least have the pleasure of knowing that I am giving my little girl the goodness she needs.

Birth Grief

2011-07-01T07:11:00.001+01:00

I was reminded by a good friend the other day that people read this blog. Not a shocking revelation perhaps but she told me the story of her friend who had gone to an antenatal appointment and in response to some seemingly innocuous comment had released a whole can of whoopass on herself when the emotional maelstrom of her first birth was suddenly and violently released. I’ve been thinking about that lady for the last few days, and my own experiences this pregnancy, and I decided to share what I can in the spirit of sisterhood.

I was left emotionally broken by Alfie’s birth. Like a lot of women though I didn’t stop to acknowledge that fact, I sucked it up, dug deep and threw myself 100% into the evolution of our new little family. I didn’t do it deliberately but I am the sort of person who seems to get called a “strong woman” a lot, and us strong women don’t sit in a corner and weep, we pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off and join some committees to kick the ever loving crap out of the system that did us wrong.

I think I would have quite happily carried on like that had we not decided to have more children. I’m not sure what innocuous trigger would have set me off, perhaps that is irrelevant because it would have been something, but in actual fact for me it was my hynobirthing CDs doing what they were supposed to be doing and helping me let go of my past birth. Except instead of the few resentments I thought I was carrying, what those CDs did was open a door I didn’t even know was there and suddenly my entire insides were full of anger and pain and hurt and I don’t know what the hell you are but you have 3 heads and big fucking teeth!!

It made me want to cry lots. And shout too. It made me want the whole world to go away and leave me the hell alone. It didn’t make sense and it certainly wasn’t under my control and I didn’t understand any of it. Most importantly I didn’t know what to do with it.

So I did what us ‘strong women’ do and got on with things and left this thing to sit in the corner and throw its toddler tantrum. Except that didn’t make it go away, although it did give me the time to be able to study it and slowly it turned from a mass of nasty into tangible themes and shapes and reasons that I was actually capable of putting into words. The problem then was who would listen to those words.

I chose to talk things through with my doula Mel and it was a wise decision. For those of you who have husbands like mine, who think the only topics of conversation that hold any merit are the transfer window or whether Vettel has this championship locked out (unfortunately I think he may well do) please find yourself a ‘Mel’. I have spent the last five months being told “god you’re so pregnant” whenever I’ve gotten emotional or cross and I’ve known there was little to no point in trying to explain that actually I’m grieving horribly because it would be a little like trying to explain to a gazelle that the lion doesn’t hate him, it’s just really hungry.

I have felt horribly alone and lost with the strength and intensity of the emotions I’ve been feeling which is ironic because I’m not alone at all: This is not an unusual situation I find myself in. There are a lot of us going through this horrible reckoning during our subsequent pregnancies and it is hard to deal with, not least because of the guilt you feel that your last pregnancy was like a Disney film and this one has been a complete train wreck. It isn’t helped by idiots who try to give you the idea that your last birth was ok “because you all came out of it alive” (if you are one of these people do yourself a favour and don’t EVER say those words again) because that is patronising and horribly ignorant of your needs as a woman.

There is no real point to this post I suppose, other than to say to any woman out there who reads this and feels a spark or recognition that a) you’re not going mad, you’re grieving, it’s allowed and b) you are not alone.

For the first time ever I am able to cry and for it to feel good. It’s a horrible road that will leave you cut and raw, but it’s a good road too. And when I reach the end of it, maybe I will share more of my journey along it.

Pity the Ducks!

2011-06-29T18:13:00.001+01:00

I just found some photos on my phone which I had forgotten to share:

These were taken in Maldon a few weeks ago when Alfie and I went for a walk and he discovered DUHs, real life DUHs that waddle and quack and RUN WHEN CHASED!!!!

Yes it was mean of me to stand by and watch, but hell it was all I could do to hold my phone still through the laughter.

Look it! DUHs! Shame about the fence

Ooooh yeah, the DUHs are coming this way. Game. On.

I run and run and run and run

OK fine! I'll stop. You see if I don't pout about it though!

It’s been a while ...

2011-06-27T13:06:00.001+01:00

... and it’s not that I don’t love you all dearly, but frankly, I have had other things on my mind which have left me feeling a bit cold at the thought of blogging.

At our last midwife’s appointment, we had a long involved (hour long) chat with Debbie which left me feeling completely and utterly deflated. It was a good and respectful conversation but I came away just wanting to cry at having to fight for my choices all over again. Memories of how wearing it was during Alfie’s pregnancy came flooding back and frankly, I would have given my right arm to just take my bump off, put it on a shelf go have a sulk and come back in a few months. What I did instead was write to the Head of Midwifery at Bedford Hospital to inform her of my choices and to ask for her support. Cynicism be stilled, a week later I had the most amazing letter drop onto the mat saying, amongst other things

“I would like to reassure you that we will endeavour to meet your desired outcome this time for a safe vaginal birth at home”

Needless to say I am slightly wary about any caveats that were accidentally left out of the letter but I do at least feel like I have “bought” some peace and quiet for the rest of my ante natal care.

The real reason I haven’t blogged much is because I have started doing my Natal Hypnotherapy properly now and the more I do it, the more I realise that there are issues I never even knew I had with Alfie’s birth, and they have really put me in a strange and not very jolly place. OK I’ll be honest, I have a head full of nasty which needs some serious healing. I was helped massively in taking the first steps last week when I had a long chat with my doula Mel. I feel bad that I basically spent an evening blowing snot bubbles on her sofa and probably not making much sense but then actually not much of this makes much sense to me at the moment, although talking about it has robbed it of some of its power. Still a lot of work to do and maybe as time goes on I might actually want to share some of it, but right now I feel like a small moon orbiting round this massive planet of ‘stuff’ and I need to focus on making that OK.

There is one small piece of news I really ought to share while I’m here though

We had our 20 week scan on Friday and despite being asked several times by Keith (just in case she was joshing with him) the answer came back time and again that yes, we are indeed having a girl. I’m over the moon that she seems healthy and happy and now I can spend the next 5 months persuading my husband that pink is not the devil’s own colour as long as it is taken is moderation.

Anyway here she is:

According to the scan data she is bigger than Alfie, although just as skinny at the moment and the current estimate of her birth weight is over 9lb. But then again so was Alfie’s and he wasn’t even 7lb wet through. Just in case this madam has designs on becoming a little chunk monkey though, I may go easy on the treats for the next few months.

Same Sh*t, Different Hospital

2011-05-10T20:46:00.001+01:00

One of the good things about the second time around is that you get to learn from the mistakes you made the first time around.

When I was pregnant with Alfie and each “mini crisis” came up, Keith and I would go to our appointments in the belief that we would have a reasoned discussion with the consultants and that they would be impressed with our knowledge and delighted to engage in some in depth discussion.

Error.

Important Lesson: Consultant appointments are not a forum for open and well researched discussion. Consultant appointments are an opportunity to be talked at and for you to listen and do as you are told.

So this pregnancy there is a slightly different approach.

As with Alfie I have buried Keith and I under a mound of research to be reviewed and digested: Research on VBAC risks and benefits, on hypnobirthing, refresher research on my blood condition, the whole shooting match. Armed with that I feel very comfortable that we are able to make a decision that is right for us, and Keith feels comfortable that he just needs to do as he’s told.

So this different approach means that we are happy to go forward with midwife led care and can’t see anything new or positive that a consultant can bring to the debate. I don’t feel the need to “prove” my knowledge to anyone this time, and Keith has assured me he has no questions he would like to ask a consultant, so we have no need of the visits on offer.

Today the letter arrived to inform me of my first consultant appointment on 20^th May. A very kind offer and a reassuringly prompt turnaround so full credit to the hospital for their efficiency.

I thought it only fair that I call to let them know of our decision because I wanted to free up the slot for a more needy woman. In hindsight, I should have saved myself the trouble and the jovial tone of voice:

“Good afternoon maternity department, how can I help you?”

“I’ve just received a letter inviting me to a consultant appointment and I’m calling to let you know I won’t be attending”

“Right can I take your details please”

“Certainly my number is xxx”

“Mrs Batsford? This is an ante natal appointment, they are going to want to see you.”

“I won’t be keeping the appointment”

“Are you sure you want to cancel?”

“Yes please”

“Right, I’ll do that for you know then”

Sounds like a very polite conversation doesn’t it? Except that there is no font to illustrate the open animosity in this lady’s voice; the utter contempt that I would be phoning to decline an appointment with the consultants. If there had been subtitles to her words they would have been:

“THERE ARE WOMEN BABIES DYING ALL OVER THE WORLD BECAUSE OF A LACK OF OBSTETRIC CARE AND YOU ARE WASTING THE CHANCE THEY WOULD LOVE TO HAVE. YOUR SELFISHNESS IS RESPONSIBLE FOR POOR DEAD BABIES. ARE YOU HAPPY NOW?!?”

Yes lady, yes I am. Oh and this? This is your dummy, would you like it back?

Anti-blubber

2011-05-06T19:24:00.000+01:00

There is a difference between growing a beautifully formed baby bump and just plain getting fat and the line between the two is shockingly easy to blur.

The problem (are you listening Mother Nature, you unreasonable wench) is that you are pretty much incapable of doing anything more than dragging yourself through the day for the first 3 months meaning that all your good exercise habits from pre-pregnancy crash and burn and your net calorie intake increases leaving you with the inevitable outcome.

Not a recipe for a good self image.

So as soon as my first trimester exhaustion so much as looked over its shoulder to plan its strategic retreat I was up, trainers on ready to start my anti-blubber campaign. If I’m honest, I have maybe been a little too hasty because I have spent the last few nights asleep by 8.30, but I’m not going to let a little thing like that worry me.

I have decided on a two prong approach this time: Davina and running.

In actual fact this is remarkably similar to my approach pre Pip, except this is the “diet” version with far less actual effort due to the extra effort of growing a whole new person.

So predictably I chose this DVD which might be 5 years old, but is still effective. I love that the workout is broken down into lots of little sections so you can do as little or as much as you feel able to. And helpfully for me there are lots of posture checks and reminders to drink water and breathe and other vital life skills I usually forget when I concentrate on too many things at once - like combining steps and digs and toe taps and shuffle ball change and splits and jazz hands. I may have made a few of those moves up.

The running is still a future plan at the moment. Mel and I are both ex runners and have decided we’re going to go out together to see if we can kill each other. On my side, I have that I have only taken 2 months off so far and I was pretty on form before that. Mel has taken 12 months off but I have a sneaky feeling she’s still going to hand me my ass in a sling. I have picked out a slightly challenging 2.5 mile run for next weekend so if you don’t hear from me after then, I probably didn’t make it home.

The Long Weekend

2011-05-03T19:43:00.000+01:00

I'm basking in the glory of a 5 day weekend, and five whoooole glorious days with a teething Alfie. I know, I'm jealous of me too.

I have rediscovered an old love this weekend too - actually scratch that, an old obsession - I like to call White Chocolate. Not that famous evil version that we don't allow in this house, but the Green and Blacks version. Oh. The. Precious. Things. I covet this stuff with such a serious passion that I am seriously concerned that when I hit the beach this summer Greenpeace are going to turn up and try to cast me out shouting "Swim Orca, swim!"

Might be a good thing then that I started my new exercise regime this weekend. Yeah, cos that's going to offset the billion calories in each of those delicious creamy squares of chocolatey goodness.

Also good that I finally got measured for a new bra in the right size because my old maternity bra was so small I was sporting a uni-boob which is a truly bad look. Turns out I was a back size AND a cup size out, which is really going some!

And my final thought for the day – I saw this and can’t quite decide whether the designer is a genius or a complete sadist.

Applying it to my own little bundle of melodrama (did I mention THE TEETHING?!?) who is terrified of the vacuum (not surprising considering how rarely he hears it) could I imagine this being the perfect way to create good vacuuming memories? Possibly.

Could I also imagine this being the source of the mother of all hysterical fits should child and sucky hose accidentally come into contact while actually sat on the sucky device? Oh hell yeah.

And do I want to risk the resulting counselling bill? Not s’much.

That Small thing I Forgot

2011-04-28T12:51:00.000+01:00

OK so clearly my pregnancy brain has pushed out sensible thoughts in favour of obsessing over pretzels and stone baked pizza because I may have forgotten to post up Pip's first mug shot.

So there is the obligatory, fuzzy, magic eye, WTF have you got IN there?!? photo.

The whole appointment was pretty chilled. Apart from when Alfie got it into his head that I was being hurt in some way which led to a wobbly bottom lip, and Keith had to hold him and point out the screen in a pretty futile attempt to explain what was going on.

We got to watch Pip streeeetch and bounce his way around the screen. Everything is fully functional, present and correct.

I also wanted to share this video with you. It was tweeted by one of the bloggers I follow and I agree with her totally, it is the most amazing birth video ever - save it for home though ;-) - Oh and look out for the shot of mum holding her new baby just after birth. She is just glowing.

Alfie's New Obsession

2011-04-27T12:58:00.002+01:00

Now that the weather is a little less arctic, Alfie has taken to spending the majority of his day out in the garden, sometimes in nothing more than his jelly shoes and a nappy.

He has found a whole new world of amusing toys to play with, like the hose for instance and I caught him the other day dipping the end of it in the bucket and then placing it on a Frisbee he wanted to wash. Clearly the logic is slightly flawed but full marks for getting the general gist.

Nil point for sucking the end though chief, especially when you share it with the chickens.

You won't be surprised to know that our garden has dirt in it, nor that my son is attracted to it like flies to a steaming heap of cow pie. You probably won’t even be surprised to know that Alfie’s way of cleaning his inevitably dirty hands is to lick them.

Yup, I said lick them.

That brings me neatly to this photo which Keith took and somehow manage to distil the absolute essence d’Alfie.

I also love the way in true wildlife photographer style he chose not to get involved with the subject while he was engaged in his hand cleaning.

It is gratifying to know that the next time the plague does the rounds, my boy is SO going to have the last laugh.

My Little Kumquat Baby

2011-04-27T07:04:00.000+01:00

OK so at this point, my handy little phone gadget is telling me I am growing a kumquat. In fact the makers of this app seems a little obsessed with food because so far every week I am told both the size of my baby, and the size of my uterus in fruit measurements (this week my uterus is a grapefruit).

Guys, may I suggest you feed your content team because there is something a little weird about turning a pregnancy into a fruit salad.

You'll all be pleased to know that other than reading some books and listening to the VBAC Hypno Birthing CD once (I decided the M25 was a BAD place to be releasing all that emotion) I have done very little except lie on the sofa and fall asleep while it's still light outside.

I suck at this second time round thing - but it is OK, all will be well. I'm putting all my metaphorical eggs in the basket called second trimester when the Yik will have packed itself off and I will feel human again.

Food – the winners and losers

2011-04-27T07:03:00.005+01:00

When I was pregnant with Alfie there were certain foods that I took sudden and extreme umbrage to – most notably fish with heads still attached and wine. There were also things I clung to in a bid to ease me through those first rocky months – won ton soup and real ale.

I was a bit worried that there might be some kind of on/ off switch operating in my taste buds and that this time I would be wanting feast on fish heads soaking in merlot, but no, it doesn’t seem to have worked like that.

This time I have merely added to the list.

In favour now are pretzels and tofu, oily fish (with no heads), tomato sauce and chocolate.

I’m waving goodbye to anything vaguely spicy on the basis that just the thought makes me dry heave (although the reality sometimes doesn’t – go figure).

I also have more of a hunger this time than I did before, which is somewhat cruel considering every meal is an exercise in sheer will to stop from throwing up.

This is how I know God is a woman.

So Very Tired

2011-04-27T07:03:00.004+01:00

The second time is worse than the first, there is no question. I’m not sure quite why but this pregnancy is kicking the ever loving shit out of me. I feel so sick I have now taken to keeping my bin within reach at work, and I’m so tired that I can barely walk around a farm for a few hours before having to rest for a whole entire day.

This is not fun!!

It also explains the lack of posting which once these posts all magically appear will make a lot of sense to those who read the blog, I’m sure.

I am now the proud owner of VBAC Natal Hypnotherapy course. Keith and I were in two minds about how much time and money to invest in hypnobirthing and for the princely sum of £11.99 this seemed like a good compromise.

I shall report back on whether I get on with it.

There is also progress on the midwife front, which I thought I would share. We saw a lovely IM last week, and we were all set to sell one of the dogs to pay for her when I got in contact with a lady who just happens to live in the next village and who is somewhat more experienced in the VBAC world than I am.

She told me about another practice who are ... ummm ... not quite local but who are VBAC specialists and who indeed say on their site they will travel nationally, indeed internationally to attend births.

I’m very excited because I’m planning on calling the lady this evening to talk to her.

It feels like a crazy plan, like truly insane to be looking at someone on the other side of the country to attend this birth, but that actually seems about par for the course with us, and these things just have a way of working out.

Hey put it this way, the M25 isn’t involved so she stands a chance of making it to us in time.

Booking the Booking

2011-04-27T07:03:00.003+01:00

I feel pretty flat today, which is a shame because I expected to feel really happy. I had my booking appointment yesterday afternoon and it turned into something of a complete SNAFU

I was supposed to see the same community midwife as I had last time and was actually looking forward to meeting up with her and seeing if we could start out positively. Instead I had another member of the team who I don’t think I saw last time: I’m pretty sure I would have remembered her condescending attitude.

So for a start this other midwife didn't have any packs with her, so she added me to the list of people the usual midwife needed to call to arrange a booking appointment. Isn’t that why I’m here? I’ve seen the doctor, now I’m here to be booked aren’t I? No? OK I’m here to book my booking. Oh good. Do you find that system usually works well for working parents who have to make arrangements to NOT be at work in order to come to these things?

So instead we "chatted": She asked about my due date and I made the point about my longer cycle and she asked if it had been an issue at Aflie's birth. I said I'd gone to 43 before being induced simply for being post dates and she was very sympathetic about how unfair that was.

Next we moved onto what hospital I had chosen, which was when I made the fatal mistake of telling her I wanted a homebirth.

“Is that what your son was?”.

“No he was a section after a failed induction”

*record scratches to a halt and her eyes make like dinner plates*

"Wow, you're brave ... You know we won't want you to birth at home because you're high risk ..."

I pretty much switched off after that while she tried to simultaneously tried to tell me she was sure I was aware of the risks while also letting me know any freedom of thought would be much frowned on.

I came away from that meeting feeling so deflated and tired and stressed. I mailed Mel an update and she sent me back exactly the words I needed to hear which just makes me so thankful I have her support for this pregnancy.

I started getting some material together today around risks and stats – and here’s a scary one for you.

A VBAC gives a 1:200 chance of uterine rupture, or 0.5% if you like your numbers buttered that way up. However, if you have a repeat section your change of needing a hysterectomy are 1:90, or 1.1%. That means in the “OMG SOMETHING SCARY IS GOING TO HAPPEN!!” stakes, it is over TWICE as risky to choose to have a subsequent section as it is to attempt a VBAC.

Bet the doctors don’t bring THAT one up with me in a hurry!

List of things to organise: Doula? - Check!

2011-04-27T07:03:00.002+01:00

I've been feeling quite tense this pregnancy, and I knew a lot of it had to do with the fact that both Keith and I took a massive and fundamental knock to our confidence as a result of Alfie's birth which we were now being forced to examine.

We had a row the other day because he made what to him was just a throwaway comment about having to deal with bottle feeding again and what I heard was "you're going to fail as a breast feeder". The only miracle is that we both came out of that particular conversation alive.

So I'm going to let you imagine what I felt like when I drove home from meeting up with Mel knowing she had agreed to be my Doula. No, you can't imagine, you just have no concept of the palpable weight I felt rolling off my shoulders as I started the car and drove home. I was very close to bursting into tears from the sheer and utter relief of having had such an amazing chat with someone who just seemed to be reading my secret mental checklist of what the perfect birth partner should be and then actually agreeing to be that birth partner for me!!

I knew Mel from the NCT anyway, because she is one of our recent volunteers, but I hadn't had a chance to really chat to her alone until now. We talked about our recent births, about the pressures of modern birth practices and the work that a Doula can do to help protect the birth experience for parents. Just hearing Mel talk was like a teeny tiny gaggle of cheerleaders going off in my head because here, finally was someone who I knew was on our side one MILLION percent and who was committed to making this birth a success.

The only way I can describe how I feel right now? I just pulled the ripcord and my parachute opened.

Umm, hello? Anybody there?

2011-04-27T07:03:00.001+01:00

I feel really weird this pregnancy, and if you made me describe my symptoms it would be that I feel ... fine! My uterus did that initial hedgehog stretching thing, there is tiredness a go-go and last week as I reported the Yik arrived, but even that isn't as bad as last time.

If I'm honest, I don't feel like I feel pregnant "enough".

As part of my doctor appointment last week I asked him if I could keep running. He nodded enthusiastically and said "you don't take up skydiving but running you keep doing" (are you taking notes Comedy Store, I'm telling you, this guy is the next big thing) and I am wondering if part of my lack of symptoms is the fact that I am fitter this time and that I'm still running.

Ah yes, my Monday run, that wasn't too weird then. To protect against belly wobble I strapped myself into the big fat support knickers I bought when I first started running and my abdominals were still in a state of shock after 10 months of baby followed by surprise surgery and I chose a nice even track around the lakes to gently jog around. I had a spell of about 30 seconds when I felt like my cervix was attacking me with a cattle prod but otherwise it was the most enjoyable run I have had in a really long time.

If this is the secret to an easier pregnancy then I'm finding me some maternity running gear. Or failing that a small marquee with strong webbing.

Here comes the Yik

2011-04-27T07:03:00.000+01:00

It has been a long weekend - it feels like I have slept forever and could still sleep for a year. I woke up at 4am today needing the toilet and decided that since I was going anyway I would use my last remaining test at the correct time of day.

Yup, still pregnant.

I crawled back to bed for some more rest and woke up again to discover that the Yik has finally arrived. You may know it as morning sickness but actually, in my case, Yik is far more appropriate. Last time I didn't actually throw up, I just felt like I was constantly on a very rough sea. I fancied my face to be the kind of light shade of green Dulux might ironically call Apple Delight 6. Looks like this one is going to be very similar so for the next 8 weeks, I will mostly be eating nice plain food in the presence of other people eating nice plain food. You spicy people? Take yourselves off into the corner, you are not welcome here.

At least I am now back in clothes that aren't trying to saw my chest in half. Last time I took a sudden and violent dislike to having anything around my waist, this time the problem has been the underwire in my bras. In all seriousness there were moments last week when I could cheerfully had ripped my bra off in the middle of a meeting for the pain it was inflicting on me. Not sure that would have done a massive amount for my career prospects.

It takes a village to raise a child

2011-04-27T07:02:00.000+01:00

I love that saying, and I think that even in this isolated society it is as true as it ever was - now we just these villagers midwives, and health visitors and toddler groups.

I think it takes a village to birth a child as well though, and looking back at Alfie’s birth I think the biggest mistake we made was underestimating the size of the village we needed.

My mind is slowly forming the shapes of how we change that this time around and who I want around us when Pip comes along. Oh yeah, did I forget to mention that, this one is nicknamed Pip because that is how big it was when I first looked at one of those pregnancy ticker things - as big as an apple pip.

Today I had my booking appointment and was faced with the tricky question of which hospital I wanted to opt for. Ummmm, not the same one as last time?

Actually the appointment was great, and in SUCH contrast to the last one. When I saw the doctor in 2009 I was warned about my precious pregnancy and given progesterone, and told to go away and say three hail marys and a how’s y’father and hope the consultant would see me safely through. This time our doctor, who is a Gibraltarian, asked me to sit down and then said in a thick llanito accent:

“Ooooooh I see here you are overdue for your smear. When you leave make an appointment ok? Now how can I help you?”

“I’m pregnant”

“You know what I just said? Forget it.”

If he ever decides to give up medicine, he has a career in comedy, his timing is impeccable.

He then spent 10 minutes telling me to carry on running as long as I didn’t take up sky diving, and to stay away from farms.

So I’m booked in with the same community midwife (boy is she going to try to climb out the window when she sees me!!) and a different local hospital from last time and I guess we see how that particular institutional cookie crumbles. My plan is use them for tests and scans and take my care the independent route.

I have some appointments with an independent midwife and a doula over the next week and I’m really excited about the idea of having some incredible people standing squarely behind me. I want my village big, anyone with the right mentality is invited and we’ll see if we can’t bring this baby into the world the right way this time.

The Time Has Come

2011-04-27T07:01:00.000+01:00

So, I guess most people now know, I'm pregnant again, and I suppose I ought to publish those posts I've been doing in secret for the last few months now.

Yes, I am sneaky, I know.

Hopefully now we can get back my usual drivel spouting now that I am slowly starting to feel a little more human.

Bet you can't wait, eh?

A Weekend Away

2011-04-18T18:21:00.000+01:00

This time of year is amazing isn’t it? It feels like the winter will never end, that you’ll never again wake up in anything but darkness and suddenly, out of nowhere you get these incredible sunny days that remind you that you are not a mole.

This weekend we went down to Essex and while Keith was busy breaking down in the sea and swearing at his own forgetfulness, Alfie and I had some fun.

He climbed into bed with me on Saturday morning which was the single cutest thing I think he has ever done. He snuggled up on my shoulder and cuddled my arm which meant for nearly an hour I could only lie there and bask in the cutes while his hot breath made my arm go all clammy.

Such a precious moment.

Then he decided to wake up refreshed and ran laps of the pillows.

Note to self: I must cut my hair.

We spent a lot of Saturday chilling with our friend Lindsay around the Prom in Maldon. There are some of the most amazing facilities there – people of Maldon I hope you appreciate how spoiled you are. Alfie was especially impressed with the spade someone had left behind because as covered in a previous post, he is a fan of the digging.

And dig he did.

After lunch we went for a wander and found some Morris Dancers outside of a local pub. I was this close to calling Pimms o’Clock and settling in for the duration.

As a counterpoint to all this twee loveliness, I will just highlight a small flaw in the “aren’t the days lovely and light” aspect of spring.

Anyone who claims that lighter evenings are a good thing clearly doesn’t have small children. Even more clearly, they don’t have to deal with staying at friends houses who have a lovely south facing room which is still light enough to conduct keyhole surgery by at 8pm and a small boy whose sole reaction is “BONUS PLAYTIME. BRING IT!!”.

It took me hours to get Alfie to drop off. After a while spent lying alongside him putting him back in bed every time he wandered off (an option met with much screaming and pouting), and a while head stroking and singing (fine until the dog started shouting at a cat until I screamed at him in language that would make a fishwife blush) I gave up and left him to bounce on the bed. There were a few large thumps before it eventually went quite an hour later. I went up to check on him and was pretty smug to see him passed out width ways on Keith’s side of the bed. Unlucky Batsford.

Sunday I got payback by packing Keith and Alfie off so I could have a lie in.

And then we went round to see the father in law, and the very nice car is currently housing for Keith. I threw some lunch together and afterwards I did something that will have burning torches and pitchforks at my door, I stripped my son of his top and shoes and let him run around the garden semi naked .... IN THE SUN!!!

I lay on the grass and watched him wiggle his toes in the grass, pout as stepped on his first piece of gravel and then with one of his trademark mischievous grins come running over to me and jump on me for a kiss.

It’s the first time in years that I wasn’t in a hurry for Keith to finish working on a car.

What did you do with the sunshine this weekend?

2011-04-11T10:31:00.007+01:00

We did the digging,

Then we inspected the chickens,

The chickens did not like that

Alfie had a dreadful cold this weekend, so we generally took it a bit easy. There was lots of time on the swings, eating ice cream and other well known cures.

He was better last night though, as proven by the fact that a full hour after bedtime I went upstairs to find him with one foot on his pillow, one on his bedside chair about to attempt the final assault of Mount Chestodrawers.

We're Gonna Need a Bigger Crash-mat

2011-04-08T14:58:00.001+01:00

I asked a friend today what the minimum age was for children to come along to her climbing wall.

And before anyone pipes up wondering what business an 18 month old has at a climbing wall let me just show you this:

This is what passes for a light warm-up for my son, right before he launches himself into something a bit challenging, like a 50ft tree.

He climbs his bookcase like it was a ladder AND STANDS ON TOP.

He climbed up a 5ft wooden ladder at toddler group on Tuesday and I only knew about it because I heard him whinging that he couldn’t work out how to get back down in the 5 SECONDS I had been away hanging his coat up.

He climbs everything he can find ... INCLUDING HIS PARENTS!!

He is unstoppable and like his mother before him, has absolutely no shred of fear. He’s a force of nature and a whirling dervish without so much as a screw to come loose.

I’m so proud!

Happy Mothering Sunday

2011-04-04T12:55:00.000+01:00

I know I have been silent for a few weeks now, and I do feel bad about that, but life, colds and holidays have conspired to turn my brain into complete mush.

In reality I’m still not feeling right so I’ll spare you any attempt to write something interesting – I just wanted to thank my amazing hubby and son for my pressies yesterday.

Many years ago, when I moved into my first flat, I treated myself to a full dinner service from Habitat and I have treasured it ever since. Unfortunately Alfie wasn’t so big on the treasuring and I have lost 2 of my beloved mugs to his experiments in gravity.

So this was his gift to my yesterday.

Brought to me in bed clutched firmly in chubby little toddler hands and with an enormous grin on his face and presented with no end of open mouthed toddler kisses.

I can forgive him anything when he does that.

Even jumping on my head.

The dog is not a rolemodel!!

2011-03-13T19:20:00.000Z

Alfie woke up early this morning and as a consequence has been a grizzly little mard-arse all the live long day.

He cheered up for one teeny tiny window just after lunch, and that was when Harry sauntered in to help clean up some stray leftovers.

Alfie very helpfully pointed out to Harry where he had dropped some potato and beef and then, THEN he did something so revolting, so utterly gross, it not only took me several moments for it to sink into my head, it took several more before I finally spluttered out an outraged ALFIEHARRYSTOPPIT!!!!!

My son licked the highchair alongside the dog.

I'm not even joking.

Part of me wishes he had eaten worms instead, somehow that would be less gross.

Hitchin' a Ride

2011-03-10T20:18:00.001Z

So, what do you do with a running rucksack when the bladder gets nasty?

You turn it into an Alfie rucksack!!

I took some patches off an old top and sewed them on in my slightly cock-eyed fashion, and I love the end result.

We are going back to Gib soon to see the family and I'm going to fill this little rucksack with crayons and books and plenty of fun stuff to try and keep his airborne boredom down to a dull roar.

First Aid Saves Lives

2011-03-07T09:27:00.001Z

Rixa from Stand and Deliver recently gave birth to her third baby, a surprise unassisted birth at home. Rixa being the kind of lady she is, has very kindly shared the videos of the birth online, along with some commentary on events.

I recommend you have a look at this video, not for the birth (menfolk, you see nothing scary, be still) but because of what happens just afterwards.

Baby Inga loses tone and colour and Rixa steps straight in and gives her some lifesaving breaths.

In reality Inga is blue and floppy for a minute, but even watching it just feels like an eternity. I cannot imagine what it must have felt like, not for Rixa who by her own admittance just goes onto autopilot, but for her husband Eric who sits quietly by helping as needed.

Congratulations again Rixa, not just on the birth but on dealing with the situation so swiftly and also for sharing this with your readers.

Ladies and gents, please, please, please look into taking a CPR course - you just never know when you might need it

Soakers a Go-Go!!

2011-03-05T19:31:00.000Z

After the last post, I was absolutely blown away by the kindest offer from one of the other NCT mums of a few longies and shorties that her boys had outgrown. She also offered to make Alfie one of his own so he has a custom pair coming in the future.

But for now, he has been basking in the glory of woolly trousers.

Does he look snazzy or what?

Keith took a while to get used to the main difference between wool and plastic - wool is breathable. Obviously this has amazing benefits for Alfie's skin, unfortunately it has fewer benefits for our noses. The wool is crazy good at dealing with wee smells, but Alfie farts burn right on through them - and that we hadn't bargained for.

He seems to love them, and they keep him toasty warm and hell, anything that only needs washing once a week is good by me. I might just have to invest in a few clothes pegs.

One Born Every Minute

2011-03-01T12:20:00.000Z

I watched last night's episode with Keith, and wouldn't you just know it there were a pair of c-sections.

Despite it being a hanging offense to sneeze when the football is on, Keith decided that no such rules exist for my programmes and in fact audience participation was to be encouraged. That was an error on his part that was remedied with a swift "Will. You. Shut. UP!" at which point he retired into his copy of Classic Bike.

I thought I was going to hate the show last night, but actually I didn't. More than that, I genuinely celebrated the births of those babies as appropriate use of caesareans. One of the mothers, Hayley, was giving birth for the fourth time after having two babies who died at, or shortly after birth and who clearly carried a very heavy burden for her lost children. She was having an elective section because she couldn’t face the uncertainty of going through another labour.

I watched her sitting in her bed, going through the preparations with a midwife and her pain was etched into her face as clearly as if it were written in ink. There were tears in her eyes at the emotion of knowing she had brought this baby to term and that what was for her a stressful and traumatic state of uncertainty would soon be over.

Watching her I was profoundly sad that she still carried the burden of her lost children with her, and that nobody had been able to help her lay down those feelings of failure so she could enjoy her last pregnancy. I was also glad for her that she was able to take control of this birth by electing to have a section which clearly for her was the right decision.

Yup I did just say it, a caesarean was the right thing for her to do.

Maybe I take a contrary view to a lot of other NCTers, I think perhaps I do. I remember sitting at the conference last year and being shocked at the pantomime boos that came from the crowd during a discussion of hospital birth. I don’t really share that view, maybe because I don’t see nature as a soft, bountiful mother, but as a dispassionate observer who allows both great joy and beauty, but also great cruelty and suffering.

Anyway, the point is I believe most strongly that birth is a natural process, and sometimes that makes it a sad and bitter process. However, what I campaign for as a member of the NCT is for women to be given the right support to have the right birth. Most of the time that means less interference, yes, but one size never fits all. Some women will never again believe in the power of their bodies to carry and birth a baby, and I don’t see that those women should be forced to labour when they can take control of that birth and opt for a section.

I think we sometimes overlook the mental implications of birth which has left so many women feeling broken and alone afterwards. I think forcing a woman like Hayley to labour would have been as damaging to her as it was to force a woman like me to have a section. It was amazing to see this couple have their pain respected enough to be given the choice to birth their baby in the right way for them.

This time, I think it was a job well done by all.

BFP Number 2

2011-03-01T12:16:00.000Z

This is really weird writing in secret again. I hate secrets, I'm terrible at keeping them, which is why I needed to write this blog in the first place, to have some method of telling people without actually saying anything.

I wasn't hopeful about this month, Keith and I have been all over the place and unlike the last few months, my left ovary wasn't killing me mid cycle, which I took as meaning it was the turn of the right hand ovary to do some work. Turns out that is the winning ovary because by the end of last week I "knew" all over again. I came home on Saturday evening and thought I ought to do a test, and low, there was a faint pink line on there.

I didn't say anything, I just hid it in the cupboard and looked at it every time I went to the bathroom - which I had forgotten is about every 30 seconds in these early days, ye GADS! - and by yesterday I thought I would buy a proper digital affair and give the results to Keith as a sort of extra birthday pressie. This may in part have something to do with the fact that I had nothing else to give him as he had already had his Playstation game on Friday.

And there it was in black and white - no ambiguity, no "trick of the light": I am pregnant. Again.

Keith didn't react quite as positively as I might have hoped. In fact when I gave him the test he asked if I was pregnant. Yes darling that is why the test says pregnant. Oh right so it's not a question then?

And I choose to breed with this man!!

I have already told a couple of people, and Keith is threatening to have to tell a few more for logistical reasons but I feel strangely protective of this pregnancy already - even from Keith.

Last night for the first time I saw how much baggage Keith is still carrying from Alfie's birth. My head is full of things I am going to do differently this time, while his is full of fear that it doesn't matter what we do, we'll end up in the same scenario as we were last time.

I wasn't able to deal with that last night, which was poor of me, because he needs to resolve these feelings as much as I did, he's just taken longer (and a kick up the pants) to realise they are there in the first place.

Tonight, I have made two discoveries

2011-02-24T21:31:00.000Z

I have spent the evening trawling the interwebs for interesting small person treats. I used to love doing that when I was pregnant but I have to be honest, I haven't done it for a long time now.

I managed to find two things that really appealed to me, one a sling, the other some super cutes for Alfie.

I'm sure you remember a million years ago when Keith and I went to order Alfie his washable nappies and sat talking about vaccines while we waited to be rescued and taken to the nearest purveyor of replacement tyres? I know, I can barely remember it either, but then I've slept since.

We have always used plastic outers with Alfie, but they often end up wiffy by the end of the day. I have long coveted some "soakers" for him, but could never justify the cost of buying them and frankly don't have the skills to knit a coaster, let alone a pair of trousers.

So look what I found instead

I am VERY excited. I have one or two old jumpers that I was waiting to use for something inspired and now? Well let's just say that Alfie's soon going to have some multicoloured legs going on. Oh yes, I am already sewing the seeds of his future therapy sessions.

If any of you have any spare wool jumpers kicking about that you want to donate (and apparently I need them to be 90% wool, who knew wee absorption had such specific needs!) then I will gladly take them off your hands!

The other thing I found was a sling I have been meaning to track down since one of the other mums mentioned it at the last homebirth meeting. It is a Japanese variation on the Mei Tai that we use with Alfie and is called an Onbuhimo. You don't wanna know how many races Keith had done on GT5 in the time it took me to learn that!!

I'm having issues finding one in the UK. They seem to be a very poor relation to the Mei Tai which I can't understand because they look a million times easier to use and, well, I want one.

I have found a patten or two but after the endless whinging I was subjected to by my husband after the last sling I lovingly made I'm not sure I can bring myself to make another. If anyone sees one for sale within a 3 hour flight, let me know would you?

Alfie's First Masterpiece

2011-02-22T08:57:00.001Z

In case I need to help you with this, you are looking at the lid of our toilet.

I am at least grateful that a) these are special bath crayons and b) he managed to put pen to pan without ingesting or inserting a brightly colored stick.

Clearly he is an artistic genius

Whatever happened to Personal Responsibility?

2011-02-21T18:26:00.006Z

This weekend I went to an NCT Ante Natal class to drop off some goody bags to the expectant parents and tell them about the many things we do in the local area.

It’s a new initiative for us and a big deal for someone like me who comes over all Arkwright at the thought of doing A Presentation. I used to do public speaking as a child, not a hint of nerves, and then at some point when it actually started to matter I totally lost the ever living plot. Saturday was a little less ugly than it normally would have been, mainly because I had a chance to chat to some of the couples ahead of the session.

I have to admit I came over all misty eyed.

I loved that excitement of being pregnant for the first time and meeting all these other first timers who were as excited as I was. I wanted to tell these couples to enjoy every last second of it, to write it down, photograph it, capture it because it is over so very quickly, and it’ll never be your “first time” ever again.

My second secret weapon in getting through the presentation was the killer – I brought Alfie with me and he was on all systems go charm offensive. I was offered a swap for a bump (which I believe I accepted so technically I’m waiting for you to come and collect him lady) and he insisted on fetching all the toys from the corner of the room to me one by one which I didn’t even need to look around to know because every minute or so sixteen pairs of eyes moved as one to my knee level and I was hit with a collective sigh. Good team work Alfie, you scored yourself a bonus cookie for that little stunt!

The other thing I wanted to talk about (and the title of this post) is more to do with the media circus surrounding the Kirsty Vs NCT Twitter argument which culminated in this article which took the usual "balanced" media view of proceedings

I know I have harped on about this before but it is a source of constant amazement to me that women are so willing to turn against each other in defense of their birth experiences. There are a lot of ways in which women are let down by modern maternity practices and many - myself included - are left very badly off as a result.

I made a throwaway comment while chatting to the couples at the ante natal class that I had gone 43 weeks with Alfie and guess what, one lady instantly came back with “they let you go 43 weeks?!”. My response, as always was “no, I let them induce me at 43 weeks” before going into an explanation of how nothing can be done without your permission.

And that’s what really bothers me about this argument – should the NCT be talking about c sections? Yes. Should we be providing PND support, you bet your ass! Should it be down to us to hand hold parents through every permutation of how birth can turn out? No, actually I don’t think we should. I don’t even think there should be an expectation of it when you come to an ante natal class because to do that would take a degree course.

It also doesn’t address a pretty fundamental point - probably an unpopular one to make in this day and age - and that is one of personal responsibility. If I make a major life decision then it is my responsibility to make sure I educate myself about what I am doing. If I don’t make sure I know the risks and the possible outcomes then I honestly don’t believe I should expect anyone else to do it for me.

It is sad that some mums are being let down by some teachers who are not talking about sections and it is absolutely not what the NCT are about to exclude mums who have had a section (personal example, right here, as are about 50% of the rest of the committee) and maybe as an organisation we need to find a better balance between parent led content and a set curriculum on our courses but if you are honestly trying to tell me that as an expectant parent you would choose not to educate yourself about c sections when women today have a 1 in 4 chance of having one then frankly you need to take the responsibility for that.

It is not about stigmatising women who have had sections, it’s about women being given proper choices, about enabling them to go away and make the right decisions for their situations and about working to give them a birth story that makes them feel totally empowered, no matter what shape that narrative takes. It is about using c sections as a tool to help women with specific needs rather than as a “get out of jail free” card for poor practices.

Women who have section have nothing to feel ashamed about, end of, and nobody has the power to make you feel anything ... unless you give it to them. Sometimes I think it’s a pity that we don’t learn that lesson and make more productive use of our passion.

Supping and Dining

2011-02-16T21:22:00.000Z

A friend said something to me recently that made me realise the power of what we are trying to do within the NCT. She was sitting in the middle of toddler bedlam at her daughter’s party and said “last year it was just us: Who would have thought I could make so many friends in a year?”

I don’t talk much about the NCT stuff I get up to, mainly because so much of it at the moment is planning rather than doing, and maybe a result of that is that I forget how important the “bread and butter” events of our organisation really are.

The truth is, our groups make a difference to families, not just in big ways, but sometimes just in a cup of tea and a chat. It made me humble to realise I'm part of something so powerful.

Nice moment, now bring on the grump; because it's been a while since I got on my soapbox.

Have you read about this?

My friend sent me the link complete with a short missive on her own perspective because like a lot of child related issues, this one seems to divide opinion with the strength of feeling that normally causes people to reply with a "HELL yeah!!" backed up by some firing of guns into the air.

And didn't you just know it, I've got my own opinion on the idea of children in restaurants.

If you go to a restaurant and my kid is sitting at a table, making a conversational level of noise and keeping his food within the confines of our table, YOU HAVE NO REASON TO COMPLAIN.

If my child starts to bellow, launch food half way to Mars or run around knocking waiters down like skittles, you had better believe that I will not smile indulgently at him, I'll be carrying him back to the car by his ankle.

Because I am a responsible parent and that is how you act in a public place. Any. Public. Place. And I don't need a guide to tell me that.

If you don't like the idea of a small children in restaurants then stay at home because they have as much right to be there as you do. That is just the unfortunate thing about public places you see, they contain other people who might just have differing views to your own and unless your name is the one above the door, you're just going to have to put up with it.

N'OK cupcake?

Three Little Birds

2011-02-12T19:26:00.000Z

I don't talk much about my tattoos on here. I'm not ashamed of talking about them, I just never really think to talk about them because my tattoos feel as natural a part of me as my liver or my fingers, and I don't really think to talk about them either.

My brand new ink deserves a mention though, because having taken my own sweet time, I finally go round to having my "family" tattoo started.

I got the inspiration for this piece from a milk carton holder I saw in a craft shop in Gib when Keith and I had just gotten married. I knew instantly I wanted to use it as the basis of my family piece and hoarded a photo of it until recently, when I went to see Jeff at Evil from the Needle who does all my work, and most of Keith's as well.

The biggest problem I had was deciding where to get this piece, knowing that it would need to grow as our family grows, I was avoiding the fact that the only sensible place also happened to be the one part of my body which is plagued with the intense discomfort of a trapped nerve on a daily basis.

Good thing I discussed painkillers with Jeff beforehand because I think he might have called the session off had he not known me and known that I don't usually lie on his table in a codeine haze. At one point I was so out of it I was on the verge of piping up with "do you know you're not actually on my skin any more" because I could hear the gun but couldn't feel a thing. Luckily for my pride I kept that gem to myself because Jeff hadn't developed depth perception issues at all.

So here is my new ink.

Thanks to a very talented man it is everything I had hoped it would be, and more.

Little Bit of History Repeating

2011-02-10T12:20:00.003Z

Did you ever wonder whether you look like someone in your family?

In case you were wondering, this isn't me and Alfie gone retro, it's my mum in the red top holding me on her lap.

Snowdrops and Cake

2011-02-08T20:16:00.000Z

At some point on Sunday Alfie had an epiphany - walking is easy and why would you think otherwise?

Since then he has been wearing a groove in the tiles so I was really looking forward to today when we would be going to toddler group and then to a local garden with my parents.

Alfie was on form today - full charm offensive in fact - and we had an awesome day with him.

For once I'll let the photos do the talking...

Guardian of the Gardens

The snowdrops of Benington

Walking down the garden path

Check me, I got this walking thing sorted

A bit unusual for a garden ornament

Crocuses

Cake, cake, cake!!!

I am a chocolate vampire

Yes I stealed cake, but I am cutes so is OK.

Guilt, and the assuagement thereof

2011-02-05T19:57:00.000Z

As any good Catholic will tell you,there is no end to the things to feel guilty for. As a working mum I do pretty well avoiding guilt because I know Alfie is getting daddy time, but there are still times when I ache to be at home, when I torture myself thinking that Alfie is suffering because I’m not there. Mostly it’s at times when I get Facebook messages that start

“Just to warn you boy looks like he’s been through the wars. Scratch and a black eye today L”

Those are the moments when my ego demands that he need me and my cuddles. Those are the moments when I want to grab my bag and head straight for the car because there is nothing on earth more important than drying my son’s tears and kissing his bruises better.

I stayed at work though, and saw out a really tough week, and in a feat of unimaginably bad timing, Keith had made plans to be away today instead of being at home to soothe my aches and feed me beer.

Actually it turned out to be unimaginably good timing, because Alfie and I had an “us” day. An incredibly good “us” day.

We started off at a soft play place. Be grateful I put a filter on this photo, the colours in this place made my eyeballs blister.

Alfie’s eyes lit up when we got there, not because of the toys but because of the other children. As soon as his little feet hit the mats he motored off to the nearest toddler and they began that intricate ritual of bubble blowing and arm flapping that seems to come when toddlers meet.

An hour later he was ready for lunch, so we wondered down the road to Cafe Rouge and he hoovered salmon fishcakes before rubbing strawberry jelly into his sleepy eyes and passing out in the buggy on the way back to the car.

Normally Alfie is a one shot deal when it comes to nap time, but my little boy has had such a hard week I managed to get him to drop of three whole times. Oh yes. The third time was just my idea of heaven – we kutched up on the sofa together under a blanket, his head slowly sapping the feeling from my arm while his sweaty little hands clung onto the front of my jumper.

And that’s when the rest of the world disappeared and I found my little bit of heaven, snuggled up breathing in sweet smelling toddler hair. There is nothing that matters to me in those moments except him and me, and maybe that's enough to make up for the other moments that I miss?

Tantrums and Bobble hats

2011-01-31T20:56:00.001Z

Am I the only person who has a deep seated fear about how their toddler will behave in public? Maybe I don’t mean I have a fear of him, as much as the threat of him unleashing a full on Toddler Scream that makes glasses explode and dogs attack their own feet.

I find my fear of tantrum is directly proportional to the amount I like the people I am meeting, so taking Alfie to the Hertfordshire Home Birth Support Group on Saturday morning was seriously testing the upper limits of my deodorant, which was totally stupid because of all the places I should have felt 100% at ease, it was there.

A room full of supportive women and children of various ages all sharing and laughing and nyoming amazing cake together is just my idea of a fabulous way to spend a Saturday morning, but Alfie has had a battery upgrade from Snoozy Baby to Relentless Toddler and I knew it was going to be a big ask to keep him entertained for 2 hours while trying to hold sensible conversations.

Luckily for me Alfie was able to investigate the world of flapjack for the first time, and let me tell you, he investigated the shit out it. THREE SQUARES he troughed almost without pause for breath.

In flagrant disregard to my terror of tantrum, I made an effort to remove piece number 3 from his chubby little fists. Turns out my son got his cunning from me because he first outwitted me by grabbing a substitute piece with one hand while I was prising his fingers apart on the other, and then when I grabbed both hands he let out the opening notes of a piece he likes to call “I’m going to make your life HELL if you don’t let me go woman”.

He might be cunning, but I’m a woman. One of the other ladies had her adorable toddler with her, who happened to be the same age as Alfie. We managed to pen them into one corner of the room (away from the cake tray) and let them lose on some toys. The little girl picked up a saucepan lid and Alfie picked up a thick pink pen and started banging it.

So many puns about making beautiful music together – except for the fact that it was less beautiful music and more hideous clanging din. But they were happy and it meant we could join in the conversations so it was good enough for me!

After the main meeting had broken up, I ended up having a chat with the mum of Alfie’s new playmate and she got me very excited about turning my old jumpers into hats for Alfie (and possibly me too) by felting, sewing a few seams and then attaching some BOBBLES!!!!

Anyone recognise these from primary school?

I spent my lunch making these and they have made me nostalgic as hell. So much so next week I might water down some oil paints and marble some paper just for the hell of it. We got to do so many cool things at primary school, and now I get to do them all over again!!

Goodbye L&D

2011-01-28T16:32:00.000Z

It’s been a busy week of visits to hospital for Alfie.

On Tuesday I took him to have his skin prick tests at the dermatology department, which I really enjoyed. Alfie got to see his favourite nurse, and then got to eat stickle bricks out of tea cups in the waiting area while his tests developed. It was no surprise to find out that he had a reaction to hen’s eggs, although I did have to follow that up with an Awkward Question (TM) when I asked if that meant he would be ok with other types of egg. My thinking was that in the same way Alfie can tolerate goat milk far better than cow’s milk, maybe duck eggs would be easier on him than hen’s eggs. I don’t think there is a textbook answer to that one.

On Thursday Keith took him to see the dietician and Alfie had a great time dishing out a round of his new favourite pastime on the poor lady’s desk. Alfie’s new favourite game is called “I want to unpack all the drawers I can reach before opening and closing them repeatedly”. I can’t remember the last time his trouser drawer actually had a neat pile of clothes in it for more than 10 waking minutes. Anyway, the dietician was very pleased with him, as well she might be seeing as since he has come off milk and onto a proper diet he has jumped 2 (count them one, TWO) percentiles on his weight chart.

My son is officially a heifer. Well maybe not, he’s actually more of a tree frog. Every time I see him in the bath he makes me laugh because he has these teeny tiny spindly limbs, and a big round barrel belly. What makes me laugh though is that he is so proud of it: He loves staring down at it, poking it and sometimes even stroking it as if it were a baby bump. And then he hears me laugh and looks up at me with a big gurny grin on his face still clutching his bump and thinking he’s the funniest little boy in the world.

Both departments have now agreed that we are handling Alfie’s eczema/ allergies so well that he no longer needs to be under their care. Which of course is fabulous news.

To celebrate (in true Gibraltarian style) we went out to dinner. I chose the sort of pace we haven’t been to for years, and took Alfie to an oriental buffet. Yeah ok, sniff all you like, but it makes perfect sense when you have a child who is still discovering their tastebuds.

Keith and I frowned slightly when the waitress informed us that they would have to charge us £3.70 for Alfie’s meal. The same thought was flashing between us – that’s a bit steep, he might not touch a thing! – but we agreed and went up to walk the aisles of steaming trays.

Turns out that £3.70 was the best value we’ve ever had from a restaurant. At one point, Keith mused that they would be well within their rights to charge us for another adult because Alfie ate for AN HOUR AND A HALF .... SOLIDLY.

Keith is no doubt going to post his video for you on the other blog but I’ll summarise it for you here:

“Mmmmmm spare rib, nyom, nyom, ooooooh nuddle!! Gimme!! *stuff* nyom, water now!, *slurp* spare rib, nyom, nyom ...”

Repeat until small boy explodes, or fall asleep mid chew, whichever comes first.

At one point Alfie did actually lean his head over onto my arm and let out a huge sigh, mid chew, as if to say “mum, this is hard work, but I’ll get there”. What a little soldier, eh? Behaviour like this will make you very popular with your extended family young man.

Needless to say he slept like the dead that night.

Koala, and baked beans (apparently)

2011-01-19T12:56:00.003Z

I’m going to show you a photo that will make you go “aaaaah” and possibly even wrinkle your nose ...

See.

This was lunchtime yesterday when Alfie fell asleep in this highchair after eating a load of baked beans.

In self defence I want to say that Alfie has had a cold recently, and is possibly also teething (yet again) and so is just pretty much a snot-sneeze of a child at the moment. We don’t make him stay up all night sewing wallets or anything. That would be stupid, he would eat the needles.

I only found out about this little episode later on in the afternoon when my husband told me over the phone. He said something else too, which took a while to sink in so caught up was I in visions of cutes. He said “and then I put him in the buggy to go up to the post office but he woke up”.

.... but then he woke up ... think brain think .... come on work it out .... HOLYSHITYOUMOVEDHIMANDHEWOKEUP?!?!?!?!

History tells me that I should have started scouting for a doorway or park bench on which to spend the night at this point because the second law of Alfie, right behind the one stating that Alfie doesn’t share food, is that Alfie doesn’t appreciate being woken up. That’s the polite version. The proper version involves language that would make your face explode, and he can’t even talk yet! That is how much the kid hates being woken up from naps!!

So by the time I walked in from work, the inevitable had happened and Alfie was in total meltdown. I’m being serious here, it was SCARY.

Not only was he bright red and raging the house down, he was so full of cross, it actually pushed out vital information from his brain. Like how to breathe. I had to resort to blowing sharply in his face to ‘slap’ him out of it. He was like the baby on the Incredibles when Syndrome tries to carry him off. Except actually I would have jumped into the jet engine.

By the time we had sat down to dinner the rage had all but blown itself out and Alfie had admitted that he was in fact a little sleepy. A decision he reached by whinging with his eyes closed for 5 minutes before face planting onto a spoon on soup and falling sound asleep at the table, again.

Needless to say it was the easiest bedtime I’ve had in a while.

Alfies Dream of Cuddly Koala

2011-01-17T12:29:00.000Z

This weekend Alfie’s room had a bit of a refresh. His cot was taken down, his Ready Bed deflated, his armchair swapped with a smaller one from the lounge and his new bed installed. Yes, a new bed, a proper little boy new bed. With dinosaur bedding.

There were a lot of conversations about replacing the cot vs buying a bed, and we took a chance that the amount of time it took in scooping up escaped toddlers and replacing them in their beds now would pay dividends later. Plus with the cot dismantled there was a spare mattress kicking about which could be pressed into crash mat duty, so at least if Alfie did decide to ooze off the side of his bed he would have a soft - if not untidy - landing.

Was my son grateful and loving to me for all this effort on behalf of his comfort? Was he ‘eck, he was a little swine all weekend.

He had managed to collect a new set of germs at toddler group during the week and like his father, it turns out Alfie is a lousy patient. Worse, he decided to take out all of his frustration on me by causing me as much pain as he physically could. I have rarely had to set him down and walk away, but I had to several times this weekend for fear I might accidentally give him to the dogs to raise with a heartfelt “see what YOU can do with him!!”

The upside of his snot ridden, strop throwing, drool fest was that he was more eager than usual to take an afternoon nap ... in his new bed. When he dropped off I barely restrained myself from running a lap of the house at the thought of getting an hour or so to myself. Instead I took a photo of the cutes.

True to his weekend form, Alfie was just lulling me into a false sense of security on the sleep front because bedtime was HORRENDOUS. His favourite snugly toy is ‘walla brought all the way from the land down under by Rachy Chums. According to my son, ‘walla is cuddly enough to squish, soft enough to nuzzle, and heavy enough to wrestle.

Yeah, wrestling, that fun game we now play at bedtime apparently.

Bathtime? Happy little boy.

Bedtime milk? Snoozie little boy.

Tuck into bed? Snuffly little boy.

Just about to creep away? BAM eyes wide open, head spins slowly round to where ‘walla is nuzzled into him and it’s – to use sporting parlance - game on.

Back goes the duvet, over goes my boy, furry limbs flapping everywhere as poor ‘walla gets the pounding of his short life. I have no idea what silent transgression occurred but it was being remedied with extreme prejudice. I tried everything I could think of to get Alfie to calm down and go to sleep but he was having none of it, all he wanted in life was to wail on poor ‘walla’s ass.

In the end I got so frustrated I just walked away and left him to it. Keith came back from walking the dogs to find me sitting on the sofa glaring at the TV while a coyote got skinned upstairs. I can understand his look of confusion, because clearly this is not how I usually leave my son at bedtime, but he wisely chose not to question me too closely when I spat the words “he doesn’t want to sleep” up the corridor in his direction.

A few hours later, once the coyote party had been quiet for at least an hour, I snuck upstairs to assess the damage.

And that is when I did a perfect impression of a pair of bagpipes shagging a whoopee cushion.

My son was indeed asleep, snoring in fact, but he wasn’t in his bed. He and ‘walla were on the crash mat, walla lying face up and star shaped, my son curled up face down over him, like for all the world he had finally gotten ‘walla in a wrestling hold and then fallen asleep waiting for the count of 10.

Seeing as it was only 9, I decided to replace Aflie in his bed rather than risk him getting cold later on, so I managed to slide my hands under him and ‘walla and lift them onto the bed in situ. I mention this because that is how I know that ‘walla was absolutely soaking wet. I have no explanation for this, none at all, and the only one who did was fast asleep and also lacking the linguistic skills to explain it to me, so I can only hope that it was the result of prolonged chewing.

It’s at times like these that I miss my little baby boy - the one that couldn’t move, or bite with little rodent teeth, or yank hair out by the roots - but since I am now stuck with a Toddler, I just want to say fair play to you ‘walla, thanks for stepping in and taking some of the abuse this weekend, I appreciate it.

Mother Health International

2011-01-14T18:36:00.001Z

It occurred to me recently that it’s been a while since I wrote about people who have had a big impact in the world of midwifery – these are the sorts of things I think about when I am out running – and then as if she had somehow tuned into the mêlée of my mind, Rixa posted an article on Mother Health International which made me scurry over to their website.

You can read what they’re about on their blog but essentially these are an international group of midwives providing care to women in Haiti.

What struck me most about these women was how women centric the birth stories were. This is going to sound stupid, but reading them, I found myself wishing I could have access to that level of midwifery care in labour. Which is total madness, because these women are working in a blow up dome in Haiti, and frankly I have stayed at campsites with better facilities than the ones they are having to work in.

Does that makes it more, or less sad that I nevertheless found the idea of birthing in their care more appealing than birthing in this country?

If you read some of the birth stories you get such a strong sense that these midwives, these women (and I’m not sure what order I put those attributes in here) are confident that a baby will find a way to be born. They recently posted a saying recited by the village midwives and elders among the African Yoruba “The goats have no midwives. The sheep have no midwives. When the goat is pregnant she is safely delivered. When the sheep is pregnant she is safely delivered. You, in this state of pregnancy, will be safely delivered.” I really love that.

These watchers put faith in the birthing mothers, faith in their attendants, and faith in their own skills. I love the sense of community that just beams out of their blog and knowing that they are volunteering in some really hardcore conditions, and yet barely mention them.

I find women like these really humbling.

Lazy Days

2011-01-10T18:01:00.005Z

Sometimes the best days can come from the most unpromising starts.

This weekend was FA Cup Weekend – otherwise known as that time of the year when everyone gets excited about a team they have never heard of because they got new brave boots for Christmas and somehow caught a premiership team napping. Being a loving wife, I agreed we could get a few jobs done and then spend lunch in the pub watching the football.

We went to a local pub of the sort that would have made my blood run cold pre-Alfie. It has an indoor soft play area, need I say more.

Except this time the planets aligned and we had the most incredible day. We got a table right near the TV and ate a fantastic lunch. Alfie cleared his entire plate which was nothing short of frightening when you consider it was a proper child’s plateful and he is still a mere scrap. We went and played in the multicoloured room of plastic hell and I even kept up the tradition of soft play areas the country over and evicted some big kids who were just a little too hyped on sugar to play nice.

And then, just as I was thinking it was time to quit on a high and pack ourselves off home, our friends Claire and Sean appeared out of the blue with Alfie’s buddy Jamie. And that, as they say, was the end of that. Larry and Kelly had arrived as well so while Claire, Jamie, Alfie and I spent the afternoon catching up, Keith got to catch up with his friends AND we got to watch the second game, which for once I was all behind for the two reasons that a) it was a local team and b) I had bet money on them winning – which they did.

Alfie even got to practice his solo locomotion – oh yeah did I forget to mention that? My boy is walking!

I’m excited from the point of view that it is SO sweet watching him stamp at the ground like a little toy soldier before setting off for a few paces and falling flat on his well cushioned backside. He doesn’t do it very often though, and would rather maraud around the place with one fingertip dragging behind him for balance, but he’s certainly on his way.

All that excitement took its toll, so yesterday we had a bit of a lazy day involving snuggling on the sofa together.

Did you ever see a squishier mouth?

The Big F

2011-01-07T12:02:00.002Z

I’ve been going for acupuncture recently for a couple of reasons. First I wanted to get on top of my eczema which has flared since I had Alfie, and secondly, I wanted to make sure that anything still left unhealed from my C-section was finally healed so that Keith and I could move towards having more children knowing that there was nothing standing in our way.

Yesterday I had a really awesome session where my doc "opened my gateway". I'm not entirely sure what gateway that is, or whether it is considered good form to charge entry now that it is open, but I do know that it made me see some craziness while the needles were in. First my sight felt like I had made finger goggles - try it - you can see a flash coloured border can't you? That's what happened to me, except there were no fingers near my face. Then I started getting mad shadows flashing over my eyes, a bit like on a sunny day when there are lots of little clouds moving fast and you see lots of little shadows zooming across the ground. It was mad.

Afterwards I went out for dinner with a good friend of mine who has been trying to conceive for a few years. She has just been to an appointment of her own and we spent a lot of the meal chatting over our respective situations.

It occurred to me driving home what a complicated relationship us women have with our own fertility. I have several friends who for a variety of reasons have/ are/ will struggle to become pregnant. It took Keith and I over a year to conceive Alfie so I had a tiny taste of the utter desperation that comes with that monthly rise and fall of hope. Does that relationship become any easier once you have had a child? Actually not really. On the one hand I will always be a mother. Regardless of whether I ever have another baby, I will always have had Alfie. I suppose on a really basic level, I will always know that my body was able to reproduce. But if I knew now that I would never have another baby, would I feel differently to how I felt when we were trying for Alfie?

Actually I don’t think I would.

For me it’s about expectation rather than a primeval need to seed future generations. My expectation has always been to have a family of more than one child. Hopefully, we will have several more children and the ability to conceive each of those children stands as a discreet need for me. I remember my best friend calling me after we had gone through months of “there’s your no f’ing bunny rabbit” to tell me she had finally passed the pee test. I was over the moon for her but also bitterly disappointed that I wasn’t pregnant too. I couldn’t understand then why she was so worried about getting pregnant when she already had one child, but I get it now.

There is a saying in the markets – Past performance is no guarantee of future results. Shares, babies, same difference.

To me, Alfie is only part of the story. An incredible part, but a part nonetheless. There has always been something about him that says that he needs to be part of a bigger whole. He has a personality (not unlike my own) that will expand to fill whatever size void is available and the makings of a pretty fierce attitude, which will make him an excellent big brother, but a lousy only child.

And aside from him there’s me, and my needs (yes, I do still have my own needs, I haven’t subjugated them to the greater good just yet) and I’m not finished with the process of birthing babies. I have a deep seated belief that my story as a mother is still only half told. I have more births stories left to tell, and more pregnancies to huff and puff my way through.

I feel guilty saying that in the presence of those who have yet to who have yet to become pregnant. I know in this age of atheism it isn’t easy to sell the concept of faith, but I do advocate it as the cornerstone of trying to conceive. Regardless of what becomes before and after, that’s really all you have when it comes to thinking those sticky thoughts.

Festive Season Roundup

2011-01-04T18:02:00.002Z

Today is a very blue day for me because I’m back at work after 10 whole days of Alfie goodness. I miss him. LOTS.

The festive season was kind to us, and we spent loads and loads of time together playing, and snuggling and, well, just being. I love his smell, the faces he pulls, the way he wants me all the time. Staring at his photo is a very poor substitute.

I’m not sorry I was AWOL from blogging over the festive season, and I promise I won’t bore you with a tome describing everything we got up to – I don’t think I could if I wanted to because there aren’t the words to describe those millions of lovely moments you have together when you finally have the time and space to just ... breathe.

Instead, here are some photos from the last few weeks.

Alfie is currently sleeping in a sort-of-bed. Keith managed to smash the catch on his cot by accidentally losing the ability to throw a mini football against a wall so we were left with a bit of a dilemma. We decided to try an inflatable ready bed out because we were hoping it would simultaneously sort out the issue of the broken cot, and also the fact that we were going away lots over the festive season and just couldn’t face the trauma of making Alfie sleep in his travel cot.

It worked, but as an added bonus it has given us a daily dose of funnies. First there was The Claw – that nasty plastic orange thing you can see – which Alfie is so obsessed with, he woke up on the first night, realised he could get access to his toys and set about digging it out for the next 10 minutes. All we knew was there was a lot of lights flashing and electronic noises as if we had spawned some kind of mini mad professor.

In the morning we snuck into his room and found him curled up with it hugged to his side.

We’ve done a lot of sneaking over the last week or so - every morning in fact - to see where on the floor our son has ended up. He has yet to finish a night fully on his bed, but at least he has learned that the carpet leaves a very unhealthy waffle print on your forehead and now has the good sense to roll onto his back. Now that I am back at work I’m going to try and sneak him back onto his mattress when I leave in the morning. If I fail, Keith will have to get up and deal with the woes, but it means I get to cheat a sneaky morning squish, which I think is worth the risk. Then again I would, wouldn’t I?

We met up with Keith’s mum in London at Winter Wonderland and mooched. They took Alfie on a few rides, we ate mondo nyom at Jamie Oliver’s stall and mooched for most of the day.

There were loads of old stalls and rides and because the fair was German in origin, the folk in charge of the rides were of the very healthy opinion that parents should be able to decide on the health and safety of their children. So Keith took Alfie on a death slide.

Alfie was entirely unimpressed – and I don’t mean in a lip wobbling way – I mean his face was deadpan. You could almost hear him sighing in boredom which I think upset his dad a little. I think Keith was at least hoping for a bit of an arm flap, maybe even a chuckle, anything really.

Batsford family meal at a local eatery. Alfie shared my curry and rice with a flagrant disregard for the laws of etiquette and cutlery. I feel sorry for whoever had to pick the rice from the carpet but frankly, if you are going to advertise as child friendly, you have nobody to blame but yourself.

Keith on our new Playstation Move. We spent ages deciding between the PS and Xbox, both of which have anti-blubber facilities these days (important in the post Christmas and post baby phases) but the Xbox needed a room bigger than our whole house, so it seemed pointless getting one when the only thing that would get fit would be my groin. I can think of more interesting ways to tackle that particular area of my body.

1 sleep to go - Link for the Day

2010-12-24T11:08:00.000Z

With just one more sleep to go there is only one thing for me to share with you today:

http://www.noradsanta.org/en/index.html

Happy tracking!!

3 sleeps to go - Photo for the Day

2010-12-22T12:28:00.000Z

I have just been to the supermarket to do our shopping for the festive period. Holy sweet mother of JAYSUS what is going on? Is the world ending? Are we forecast more snow with a side order of hell and damnation?

I feel SO sorry for the poor people valiantly trying to stack the shelves which the plague of locusts were stripping with double the vigour. If that were my job I think by now I would simply have wheeled the dolly into roughly the right place and stood back.

Milk seemed a particular favourite. I saw one woman with 6, yes 6 big old bottles in her trolley. Lady if you are honestly going to get through that much moo juice before the expiry date, I would seriously consider asking Santa Claus for a cow!!

Also why do people who are clearly both off work decide that it is a good idea to drag their children to the shops with them? Do you not have the imagination to leave one of the adults at home, in the park or let's face it ANYWHERE more child friendly than a packed supermarket?

And don't say to them "I need you to be a big boy and be patient" because frankly that is NO motivation for a child to act older than his age. Hmm, my choice is not grow up and get what I want or act grown up and get ignored. Choices, choices. If you want a child to act grown up, make it the more appealing option!!

Anyway, it is all done now, and I can sit back and feel tranquil with my strangely psychic tea.

4 sleeps to go - Photo for the Day

2010-12-21T14:40:00.000Z

Alfie 2, Christmas Decorations 0.

5 sleeps to go - Video for the Day

2010-12-20T12:44:00.000Z

As my husband has already pointed out, we have had our fair share of snowy limitations over the last few days. I am at work right now (don't worry, I'm on lunch) looking nervously out of the window at the darkening cloud.

I blame whichever bright spark made disparaging comments about it never being white at Christmas. For SHAME people, don't you know by now that the fates don't take kindly to being called out on these things? Next time you want to say something that stupid, at least wait until I'm off on holiday!!

Alfie has also now had his first experience of snow, and he has decided he will pass thank you very much.

I was holding on my hip and talking to Keith in the garden yesterday when I felt the little man shaking violently. Looking round he was flapping his hand like he was trying to take off, and making an odd squawking noise, his hand absolutely covered in snow.

I warmed his hand back up by sticking it in my mouth for as long as he would let me. That wasn't long because that would have interfered with the epic sulk he had decided to indulge in.

How is a mystery, but he has developed a killer pout recently. If I find out one of those CBeebie things is responsible, I'll be down there with a shotgun before you can say Waybaloo.

Anyway, apropos of nothing, my techy side saw this and thought it was quite funny, so I decided to share.

10 sleeps to go - Photo(s) for the Day

2010-12-15T11:37:00.000Z

Please do not adjust your sets, this is not a new breed of hamster, it is just my son with a piece of gingerbread.

Keith has taken to making batch after batch of the stuff in some kind of weird experiment in feeding me up and it turns out that Alfie's egg issues have either been outgrown or else he has just once again invoked the Power of Stubborn (TM) to overcome eggy effects in order to devour star after biscuity star.

There can only be one caption for these photos - and connoisseurs of the show Friends will know exactly the tone in which this is said - ALFIE DOESN'T SHARE FOOD!!!

11 sleeps to go - Photo(s) for the Day

2010-12-14T14:12:00.000Z

I'm feeling very sorry for myself at the moment. I've had one cold after another and the current one made me sleep until midday yesterday, which is unheard of for me.

Luckily my mum had been staying with us for a long weekend (and spoiling us all rotten!!) so I could lay in bed and listen to the amazing sounds of her and Alfie playing together in his room.

I loved having mum over, and even if she hadn't have filled the fridge, cleaned the house and bought us a ton of Christmas pressies I would still have loved having her up because it's in the reflection of those people who don't see him every day that I really see the differences in him.

This Father Alfie-mas is something Keith's mum bought him last year.

Hanging it on the tree made me think about everything that has happened in the last year - the family who are still with us, and the friends who are not - and how fast it has gone. Is it always like this when you have children? Does time always vanish in a hail of everyday miracles?

This is another new tree ornament courtesy of my mum. This year we can't all be together on Christmas day, but if we manage to find somewhere snowy to go away to next year (Keith's current dream) this will definitely make the cut of "travel decorations"

16 sleeps to go - Photo for the Day

2010-12-09T07:39:00.000Z

This is a section of our mantelpiece. Leading the charge this year in personalised Alfie gifts is Nana Jan with his very own Christmas card. If I can find it amongst the other baubles, I might post a photo of his Father Alfie-mas.

And in case you were wondering if there had been an accident, or a spot of ritual massacre take place in the house, the splatter on the wall is from where Keith decided it was fine to blow out the advent candle, the RED advent candle without putting his hand behind it. Ho frickin ho.

But of Course you Do

2010-12-08T12:20:00.006Z

I had one of those texts the other day. By that I mean a text from home that make me choke on my tea until I either cough and splutter all over my monitor or risk it escaping via my nostrils.

Aside: This actually happened to my little sister Ammie once. We were late for my school coach and mum was speed feeding her runny Ready Brek when she announced she was going to be sick. My mum slapped her hand over her mouth to buy her enough time to find something for her to be sick in and next thing you know? Two jets of Ready Brek out the nostrils.

So this text read something like

"Don't put any dirty washing in the bath tub, there's a fish in it"

I know, it's hard to know where to start with a text like that, isn't it?

Anyway, this is Nancy The Not Shibumpkin. I bought her, and the now deceased Sid, about 5 years ago when they were mere fry and she is having to seek refuge in the bath because the pond is just too cold for her to survive.

Apparently the story of her rescue is a dramatic one, involving Keith smashing through ice, and carrying her back to the house, all hope lost, and her gills moving just in time to stop her becoming sashimi. Sometimes I worry that Keith needs a little more adult company in his life.

I'm actually considering making her a permanent feature, there is something amazing calming about watching her swim around when you are brushing your teeth in the morning.

Countdown to Christmas

2010-12-07T21:26:00.000Z

This isn't Alfie's first Christmas - not strictly speaking - but it is the first Christmas he will be aware of. He was only weeks old last year, and while we had fun in Gib with the family, Alfie wasn't really a part of that fun, it just sort of happened around him while he got used to how digestion works.

He's part of things this year though, more than that, this year he's in the driving seat and we're just hapless passengers with the map upside down.

Actually it's worse than that, I'm the one with the map upside down looking up occasionally in the hope of seeing a sign I recognise, Keith is the one in the back seat bouncing around like a sugar crazed toddler screaming "ARE WE THERE YET?!?!"

Pity me people, pity the fact that I live with two people so excited, I'm scared to make sudden movements in case it triggers an accident requiring the use of a mop and disinfectant. Keith is excited about Christmas (understatement of the century) and Alfie is excited because his daddy is excited:

Also because he loves chocolate.

Misery

2010-12-02T12:05:00.002Z

Dear Universe,

I am writing to let you know that I am now fully aware of your views on day trips to France, and to apologise for making you go to such lengths to prove your point.

I recognise now that when my train runs out of electricity at Canterbury due to frozen tracks, I should perhaps take it as an early warning shot.

I must admit I thought it was a little harsh trapping my husband and son on the M25 for 10 hours in the snow. I don’t think anyone alive deserves to be faced with that length of wait to be allowed to soar majestically over the Dartford Crossing. I am especially peeved that after being trapped in traffic hell for that length of time, Keith was made to pay for the privilege. Most people would not consider that good value for money.

In view of the long wait - during which both my husband and I flattened our phone batteries with no way of charging them thereby causing me no end of nervous trauma - I’m not entirely sure it was also necessary to make my son spring to life on arrival at the hotel when we had a mere 4 hours of our night left. I love my son dearly, but yes I would gladly have shoved him head first into the snow when he insisted on playing for 3 of our 4 available hours and screeching for the small amount of time that remained.

I also considered it a personal slight to send us GALE FORCE WINDS on the ferry crossing knowing, as of course you do, that I get horrendously sea sick and that Keith had forgotten to pack my travel sickness tablets.

Giving you the benefit of the doubt, I will assume that my son screaming his head off for the WHOLE ENTIRE DAY was an unintended by product of his lack of sleep and not another ploy on your part, but regardless, it had the intended effect of us not being able to get any meaningful shopping done. So thank you for that valuable lesson in thrift.

Clearly, it was far better for Keith and I to eat lunch in shifts while the other tried to comfort our young son, as it would have been entirely inappropriate for us to sit down to enjoy lunch as a family as we had intended. Again a valuable lesson learned.

Oh and the looks on the faces of the supermarket workers when I asked for Calpol was a masterful touch. My status as Bad Mother (TM) has now slickly gone international which I personally think is a highlight of my year. As is the knowledge that French supermarkets don’t condone the wholesale drugging of children.

Be assured that in future I will greet any excited appeals from my husband have a “fun day” Christmas shopping in France with scorn and possible physical abuse and once again, I thank you for this valuable life lesson.

Love and kisses

XX

As if by Magic

2010-11-29T13:02:00.000Z

I just got a text from home:

Lots of little balls of white fluff falling from the sky

And for my next trick

Hmmm all we need now is one million pounds

C'mon now universe, make it 2 for 2.

House of Klutz

2010-11-29T13:01:00.002Z

There is new reality seeping into the house at the moment – one involving life with a toddler. There’s nothing I can quite put my finger on, but there is just something in the way Alfie moves and acts that is subtly, but definitely grown up. I love watching him, seeing his new appreciation for how things work (small wooden hammers included) and his strong willed character flourish.

Here’s some FTC banality for you.

We walked home from a birthday party yesterday evening, warm and snugly after an amazing afternoon of talking to friends, demolishing tea and cake and watching Alfie strut up and down a lounge slapping away any hands that tried to help him steer the walker he had borrowed. Keith had baked some bread so I threw on some beans for a super quick dinner to head off the grizzles.

Alfie isn’t talking yet, but actually, he doesn’t need to be for you to know exactly what is going on in his head. He sat down to a plate of bean juice soaked toast, and a pile of beans with a spoon. What follows is a rough translation of Alfie’s internal monologue.

Hmm beenz. I love beenz. Spoon of beenz! (Flap, flap) That is more beenz than I can pick up all in one go. Gimme woman! (Snatch)
Nyom! Beenz taste as good as last time I had them. Yes. (Nods head)
And bread too. Bread is very nyom. I think maybe I can put bread and beenz in together (stuffs bread into already bean filled mouth)
My cheeks are full. Beenz may escape. (Holds spoon in front on mouth and catches an escaped bean)
Yes, I am wise, I saved the bean. (closes eyes in haughty expression)
I have space now (re-eats escaped bean).
Nyom.

And so it went on, with spoonfuls of beans and fistfuls of toast. It is the first time I can remember Alfie not just eating disjointed items from his plate, but showing clear signs of appreciating that he was eating a meal, and that his meal would sate his hunger. These are the moments I love the most.

Now that my birthday is over, Keith has finally been allowed to unleash his Christmas excitement. I’m not joking here, he is actually going to explode. Little bits of it keep escaping from him in the form of squeaks and giggles at the moment, and we’re still a month out.

I had to try and channel some of his excess energy so we did some festive stuff this weekend.

First of all we hung the advent calendars. The top one is belong to Keith. The grown up one is Alfie’s (and mine) and it nearly made me burst out crying in the middle of Waitrose. I was so thankful for finding it, I went to Customer Services to tell them as much.

I know Alfie doesn’t care about chocolate advent calendars. I know as a good BLW mother I could have made him one filled with something a bit more healthy than chocolate, but that is missing the point entirely. I worry about Alfie missing out because of his food issues. I try really hard to find alternatives for him so he never has to ask me why the other children get to have yummy stuff while he has to make do without. My hope is that he will never actually think he is missing out because the alternatives we give him are so nyom, it’s the other children who feel hard done by. Opening a chocolate advent calendar is an exciting treat for a child, and it is one of the things I didn’t want him to miss out on. He won’t have much of the chocolate this year, but thanks to the people at Celtic Chocolates, he will be right there with Keith and I opening the windows and popping out the chocolates every evening after dinner.

The advent calendars weren’t enough to take the edge off Keith’s Christmas mania, so we made our very first homemade pud. Ten points for guessing which recipe we used.

Y’know this is the first year I can actually contemplate eating some pudding, if it stays as nyom as it smelled when it came out of the steamer anyway. I just hope Keith doesn’t go too crazy feeding it brandy for the next month otherwise I’ll be asleep until the new year.

Oooh and just to complete the line-up of my photogenic family? This is Alfie’s new hat. It comes with matching mittens (of which Alfie does NOT approve, and he can make a surprisingly awkward starfish with his hands given the threat of having to wear them) and also some waterproof boots for stamping on snow.

Now we just need some more snow.

A Very Big Month

2010-11-23T19:59:00.000Z

I know I have been keeping people in suspense by not posting, and I'm sorry for my silence - the seasonal snot monster has descended on FTC and currently I am spending most of my time wanting to cheese grate my nose to stop it itching, as is my boy.

My boy. My one year old boy.

I keep expecting that to be weird, but it's not. I keep expecting to get all misty eyed over his birth, but frankly I don't think there's ever going to be enough booze to make me go misty eyed over those few days. On the run-up to his birthday I kept being told I would have a moment, but if it came, it was heavily disguised with a fake moustache and comedy glasses.

I think maybe I just measure Alfie's life against a different yardstick. Standing up, feeding himself, pointing, these are the things that hit me between the eyes and make me wonder where my wrinkly old man baby has gone.

Oooh speaking of which guess what. You'll never guess, Alfie has just developed his first rolls. His thighs now have creases, how cute it that?!? My skinny whupput of a son has little chunky thighs!!

So we had a party, it was ace. You know those moments where you have this hope of how it will be and then it not only meets it, it totally blows that hope out of the water? Yeah that was the party.

The babies all sat around a table and stuffed food into any mouths that were open. Meatballs, sometimes half chewed ones, were freely shared, and determined toddler tantrums were thrown when anyone spotted something they had not been offered. It was really funny to watch.

We had cleared the back room and filled it with toys (literally after the amazing gifts Alfie was given by his friends) and the babies climbed over each other like puppies to play with everything.

I won't say they were entirely sugar fuelled, but at one point I admit to being sat in the middle of the floor with one baby demanding jelly from me with a baby bird mouth while another stole fistfuls directly out of my bowl. Shocking behaviour.

It was an exhausting day for everyone though, especially the birthday boy who crashed about 30 seconds after we loaded him into the car.

Once we had just about got over being attacked by a marauding herd of ankle biters, I was hit with another surprise. The lovely chair of our NCT branch decided to step down, and asked me to take her place.

Me?! What do I know about running a branch? I've only been around for 5 minutes, surely there must be a more qualified ..... no? ..... wow, I didn't see that one coming.

So I seem to have somehow become chair of our local NCT branch. Our 600+ members, top 10 fundraising, CEO of the whole damn organisation comes to out AMM branch. No pressure then.

I'm not entirely sure whether I'm more terrified, or excited. I have so many ideas about what I would love to do, but also I still feel like I'm on work experience and someone has accidentally mistaken me for the boss because they caught me sitting behind the desk with my feet up.

I know it's going to be hard work but also the most amazing opportunity to keep working with the best group of mums I could have imagined getting to know. Between them they are like the village of old, so supportive, so friendly, so knowledgeable.

Mostly I just feel in awe of them and so lucky to have them around.

Laughed so hard I nearly choked

2010-11-08T12:58:00.000Z

This is not the mail you want to receive when you have just sat down to eat your lunch.

from: Keith

to: Tash

subject: your son

removed his nappy again this morning.
I had more of a cleanup operation to do than last time.
Potty training begins tomorrow!

How much are those bumbo toilet ones?

Love you
xxxxxx

Is mine the only nearly 1 year old who has decided he doesn't like being wet or dirty and to take matters into his own hands?

When I made a mental list of skills I would quite like my son to excel in, undressing was not one of them, like it wasn't even in the top 50.

Talented musician, eloquent speaker, avid book lover? check

Ability to remove nappy and distributing contents all over bedroom? Nil Point!!

So not great, but on the plus side, trying to potty train a stubborn little gremlin with a penchant for escapology is going to give me buckets of blog material!!!

Oops

2010-11-03T21:02:00.000Z

We went on a little trip yesterday.

Our friend, Bryn, very kindly offered to lend us his talents for the day to take some family shots. He had in actual fact offered some time ago, we are just useless at arranging these things.

Bryn lives on a farm with the most amazing buildings and fields and a gypsy caravan. It was almost purpose built to be the kind of place where we could have a very 'us' photo shoot.

Keith is busy resizing and uploading the photos elsewhere, but I just wanted to share this little sequence with you.

Keith found this old bucket lying around and I picked a spot that was out of the wind to set it up. Just out of shot is an old telegraph pole with the remains of a metal bracket attached.

What do you think happened next?

Here's a small hint - it involved a lump, and a lot of cuddles to make better.

Thing is, you can actually see the moment his little brain figures out the mischief potential.

You can also see where I said "Aaaallfiiiiiieeee" and he decided to pull his very best "can't hear you mother" face.

Klutz

At least he had the good sense to miss the metal he was trying to reach. That would have been a whole different can of A&E based whoopass!

Playtime

2010-11-01T12:20:00.001Z

For reason I won’t bore you with, Alfie and I went to Birmingham yesterday and we ended up at one of those soft play centres.

I cannot describe my son’s reaction to be dumped into a multicoloured plastic wilderness without judicious use of the words ‘peacock’ and ‘cattle prod’.

He loved it: Every little bit of it.

He made friends with an older kid who he happily followed around for AGES. This older kid was lovely to him as well, and Alfie thought he was the funniest thing he had ever seen. You can see him here doing his new favourite thing, hugging.

Second on the list of new favourite things? Climbing slopes and going down slides face first. Apparently this is the funniest thing since his new friend. Also a new scary skill for his father and I to keep an eye on because lord knows that child already tried hard enough to give himself brain damage without adding stairs into the equation.

Being a boring mum I had to drag Alfie away a couple of times for things like changing, and to force some food and drink down him. He wasn’t impressed, in fact he stuffed his banana down so quickly I was worried it would make a cameo somewhere in the bendy tunnel.

It didn’t, in fact he took himself off to have a quiet moment playing with cogs when it all got a bit much.

Shortly afterwards we got in the car to head home. He was so tired he didn’t even make it to the end of the road and slept until I woke him up an hour later for fear he would be too well rested to go to bed.

Yesterday was a good day.

You Know You're a Parent When ...

2010-10-27T13:04:00.000+01:00

This post is equal parts shameless exploitation of the chance to post photos of Alfie, and opportunity to point and jeer at Keith.

Recently Alfie has taken to being a little cocky with his eating skills.

For a start he has issues sitting still

which can add a small frisson of danger to mealtimes if you accidentally forget the cutlery and need to dash back to the kitchen.

When he does sit still he is showing early signs of having the same attention span as his father. Apparently spoons are for amateurs and actually don't require the use of any of my son's vast intellect these days. That is reserved for daydreaming

But by far the weirdest development at the table is this

I don't even know where to begin with this. This is what Alfie now does with almost every mouthful that arrives via a spoon. Don't ask me why, I have no idea, but he seems mightily pleased with himself while he's doing it.

I got told off last night for wrestling the spoon back out of gnasher's gurning face so I let Keith take over negotiations. To his credit, Alfie responded very promptly to the request, a little too promptly and dumped the yoghurty spoon on the floor before Keith had a chance to grab it.

And it was at this moment that Keith proved to me he has now entered the dark and dingy world of toddler parenting. He picked the spoon up off the floor and stuck it in his mouth to clean it.

I know!

I'm guessing my face registered something of the revulsion I felt at seeing that slobbery, yoghurty, satay (main course), fluffy (dog hairs) spoon vanishing into his mouth because he looked at me with a blank stare and said "what?"

WHAT?!?! DO I REALLY EVEN HAVE TO PUT INTO WORDS HOW ICKY THAT WAS?!?!?!

I didn't say that though, I just smiled as much as my slight nausea would allow and said "nothing".

Because I have a blog to break it to him instead.

Kindred Spirits

2010-10-26T08:44:00.000+01:00

I was catching up on the blogs I follow yesterday and I re-read something from the weekend I wanted to share with you

This piece by Amy is something I know I have often thought about myself.

I love her honesty ...

"I will tell you I have adult temper tantrums sometimes when I look around and see piles of pet fur, crumbs, spilled food no one has bothered to clean up, dishes and dirty clothes all over, toys spread far and wide, etc. I can't stand it. I crave cleanliness and organization, for my own sanity if nothing else."

Oh my God me too! I have lost count of the number of times I have walked through the door, seen the carnage of a day and totally lost the plot. The dogs, Harry especially, make it very hard to keep the place clean and it is only recently that I have actually bought a broom (yes mum, I know that's amusing after 3 years of marriage) which means nightly sweeps to keep on top of things. That's enough for me, I can cope with thing not being perfect, as long as they're not gross: That's my line lol

What I really loved about Any's post though was being reminded about this concept:

"Then when I'm vacuuming it occurs to me that 10 or 20 years from now my girls won't remember if there were 1 million black lab furs across the white kitchen floor or not. What they will remember is me playing with them, us doing fun things together. They will remember their mom freaking out over messes, or they'll remember us happily enjoying our day. Really, when I think about it that way, maybe the cleanliness isn't such a big deal."

It seems crazy that we as women (and sorry if that seems sexist, but it is pretty universally women who this applies to) feel like they need to beat themselves up every day because they haven't done enough. We do so much and we really ought to be satisfied that we have done enough.

There is an amazing quote by an incredible woman called Maya Angelou that goes

"I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel"

And I want my family to feel like they are the most important thing in the world to me. Because they are.

Ágnes Geréb

2010-10-25T08:08:00.000+01:00

I haven't forgotten that I was intending to write about legendary midwives, I have just had other things to talk about recently.

Now I want to put the spotlight on a lady called Ágnes Geréb who is currently in prison in Hungary for having attended a woman who presented at her clinic in the latter stages of labour.

Rixa has put together a comprehensive and (as always) well referenced piece about her here

Stand and Deliver: Birth Around the World: Home Birth in Hungary

Birth services in the UK aren't in good shape, but by contrast we are still miles ahead of Hungary.

I often wonder why women like Ágnes, and Lisa Barrett in Oz, carry on fighting against the tide for the rights of women they will never know. I guess we don't need to know, we just need to say thank you to women who believe so passionately in these choices that they risk so much to defend them.

To Ágnes and all like her, I say a humble thank you.

Education Type Ramblings

2010-10-22T11:21:00.000+01:00

I'm sure I mentioned that we recently went to see a school that we really want Alfie to attend from nursery onwards. It was the sort of school that is just so incredibly perfect you can't do anything more than look upward and mouth "thank you".

Then you look at the price list and it's all "Ummm, excuse me, I think there's a typo here. Are you sure the decimal point is supposed to go there? Really? Do you take kidneys?"

When I was looking online for photos to add to this post, I stumbled across another blog of an ex pupil of the school.

Now many years out of school, she wrote this:

"I think I was happy there because my life was full and well-rounded: I was stretched academically and allowed to develop socially and emotionally. I liked, admired and respected the headteachers and the large majority of the school staff, and I have always considered myself lucky to have been there."

I can't believe how little that has in common with my memory of school life.

The school is a Montessori school, and the more I look into the teaching philosophy, the more I question not just the values of traditional education, but the basic premise of what it means to "succeed"

There was a page pinned to the board by the entrance of the nursery. It was basically a creed by which the school operates, and it defined what constituted "a Montessori child". The one I remember being most surprised at was "a Montessori child is not competitive".

Wow.

It took me a while to process what that really meant, and as it happens I had another jab in the ribs just today when a friend at work talked about her son, and how she felt he ought to be pushed to compete at school.

Why does the very idea of that make my hackles instantly rise?

The fact is there will only, by definition, be one person who is ever "the best" at any one thing. For that person, the thousands of people who tried and failed define that success, validate it in fact. But what is the cost for those who have tried and failed? Why do I need to teach my child that in order to be happy he has to be the best, knowing that it's 99% certain he will fail?

Keith and I trust Alfie as an individual. We have seen that given the opportunity, he is already well able to demonstrate a strong opinion on what and how much he eats. We treasure that. Watching our son investigate new foods and go through a process of evaluation and decision is fascinating. Seeing his skills develop through a process of trial and error fills me with pride at what a clever individual he is.

I am less impressed at the skill he has learned which involves unscrewing the baby gate from the wall, but I suppose them’s the breaks when you encourage autonomous learning.

It feels counter intuitive to say that after 3 years of taking this approach, he is going to have to fit into a model of education which can broadly be described as “one size fits all”. Only it doesn’t: It fits a tiny number of children and all the others have to either wear thick socks or use a shoehorn.

It feels far more in tune with how we treat Alfie to allow him to choose his educational path; to have access to inspiring surroundings and adults who are there to keep him safe while he investigates.

I don’t worry that he will sit idle and learn nothing because children are naturally curious, and Alfie especially so. He will happily spend an hour in his room playing on his own. If you creep up and look through the door most of the time you will see a little guy focused intently on either a toy or a piece of furniture, moving it, manipulating it, learning how it works, and in the case of his current obsession – doors – learning not to leave your fingers in the way. Klutz.

The purpose of education sadly, is rarely as an exercise in itself, but to prepare children for life as an adult. The single biggest challenge I hear to the idea of a Montessori approach is that competition is “the reality” of life and that traditional education is a much better preparation for that.

I don’t think I agree with that idea. Competition for resource is certainly not a new idea, and once, absolutely, it was all about survival of the fittest. I don’t agree that it still holds true in the modern western world however.

I don’t have to get up in the morning and fight for food or water. I suppose I might have to compete for a parking space at work if I were late, but once at my desk I certainly don’t have to compete with anyone or anything in the course of an honest day’s work. In actual fact, on the rare occasion that I do need to compete for any reason, I’m left feeling out of sorts for the rest of the day.

The point is that today the idea of life being competitive is useful as a tool to encourage a certain set of behaviours summarised by the term “consumer”. If I am trained from a young age to compete with those around me, I will want a better car/ house, that means/ demonstrates I earn better money, buy better clothes, etc. etc. you get the idea.

If I reject that ideal, does that make me a penniless hobo? Not last time I looked. Having bought into the “rat race” and also rejected it, the latter feels by far the best.

Competition triggers primeval physical reactions, such as adrenaline, which you need to be sharp and focused and to pump you up with the desire to win. Adrenaline is not a surgeon’s scalpel though, it is a wooden club, it is an all or nothing reaction, and that is an exhausting way to live.

I’m not saying that a Montessori education is going to be single handedly responsible for removing Alfie’s competitive streak - If he is one ounce his father he will never be able to walk past a board game without the urge to kick ass - but I do really hope it helps give him a sense of perspective. At least then if he chooses to be competitive in his life it is because he has chosen that path for himself.

Almost worth getting out of bed for

2010-10-21T08:04:00.000+01:00

You know you think too much when ...

2010-10-21T07:55:00.000+01:00

I recently admitted that I sing to Al in the shower, and mostly I sing him the classics, except for this week when I thought it might be nice to start teaching him a Christmas carol.

I thought we would start with something simple, Away in a Manger, except halfway through the second verse I was faced with a moral conundrum: As a mum I find the lyrics profoundly wrong, and can I really teach my son a song I feel so strongly about?

Just to remind you how it goes:

“The cattle are lowing, the baby awakes
But little Lord Jesus no crying he makes”

No crying? So what you’re telling me, oh long dead Victorian moralist, is that the epitome of good, the living God on Earth wakes up, but doesn’t make a fuss? Have you ever met a baby?!?

Surely what this song is saying is

Good child = quiet child

Or in other words, listen well small children, if you want to be like Jesus then don’t make a fuss, be good, and be silent. If you’re not then you’re not like Jesus and if you’re not with him, you’re against him, and you know what that means ...

How miserable a message is that?

Worst of all, it made me think of all the children who have innocently sung that song over the year, me included. Not really thinking about what we’re singing, but reaffirming that idea generation after generation. It might be traditional, but so was public hanging, doesn’t make it fit for today’s society. Unless we want to get rid of votes for women and public healthcare while we’re there.

I think some alternative lyrics are called for here, or potentially a night out.

DITL Part 2 – Weekend NCTer and Motor Sports Fan

2010-10-18T13:01:00.001+01:00

I love doing these kinds of posts, they take relatively little effort and I love, love, LOVE, taking the time to photograph the detail of our lives. Incidentally, all these photos are being taken on my phone, with an app called Vignette which I love.

So Saturday morning alarm call from Alfie, who is very happy to indulge in a game of “Earthquakes” while daddy is downstairs making wake up drinks. In case I need to explain the game, Alfie hold onto the bedstead and we shake it while shouting “Earthquake” and he dissolves in hysterics. It is doing nothing for the stability of our already rickety bedstead. If we are too slow in starting the shaking, Alfie does it for us, using his whole body.

Morning brew for the grownups

Morning brew for t’baby, Alfie.

It’s all a bit much for some of us, who could have used a bit more sleep

But not for others who are now fuelled up and ready to go and play at MAX ZOOM!!!

While I get on with boring jobs like sorting the washing into piles. Bleugh.

Then it is time to go out on a nice long w-a-l-k with the dogs. Up the closed road to the next village

Which means there is a chance to take Harry off-lead to go for a run. Or a sit.

I love autumn and all the way up the drive the leaves are starting to collect in piles. Keith kicked them up for a few yards and it struck me how little chance people have to do that these days. Why are leaves tidied up so quickly???

After the walk we need to run into Hitchin for Keith to run an errand and I sit with Alfie in the town square to wait for him. They have a Tenor doing a street performance, and he’s not half bad. Alfie decides to sing along which is sweet, but he doesn’t know the words or the tune of Nessun Dorma so he accidentally carries on when the song ends. Klutz.

After dropping the boys back home I have to run to an NCT training session I have helped organise. It’s all about volunteering. I quite enjoyed it although I think I’m about 6 months too late in taking it!

Home for dinner. Pasta Genovese. Apparently green beans are nyom.

Time to chill in front of the fire. Harry has been feeling a bit blue recently so he’s allowed to come into the lounge to be close to us.

Alfie is teething and wakes up at 10.30 demanding drugs. Any drugs, he’s not fussy, although he is grumpy.

We decide it is too cold to leave the lounge and all snuggle up in the sofa bed for the night. Or rather the 3 hours of kip followed by the innumerable hours of screaming.

Luckily that means we are all awake to see the Moto GP. I was going to take a photo, but my eyeballs were having trouble pointing in the same direction. It also means I have time to organise them before driving to Prescott.

I can’t believe what a wintery morning it is.

Alfie offloaded into his buggy snugly thingy still complaining about his teeth. We tell him to make an official complaint to someone who he hasn’t just deprived of a nights sleep.

How lovely is this place?

We have an amazing morning there just looking around and chilling and then head back.

Apparently my son is starting early with the teenage attitude. Don’t think he took too kindly to the earlier lack of sympathy

At Beaconsfield services munching on some cereal bars. Why is it when you are sleep deprived you need to eat so much more.

And why is it that not even a full dose of Calpol Night is enough to knock my son out? Last night was almost as hideous as the night before.

When that kid is finished getting his teeth, I’m going to throw a frickin party.

The Evil Teething Drool Monster

2010-10-18T08:20:00.000+01:00

Just while I sort through the photos of this weekend to post, I thought I would share this with you.

THIS is the reason we have had the sum total of 7 hours of sleep the WHOLE ENTIRE WEEKEND.

No sudden movements people, we're all a little wired.

Law of Unintended Consequences

2010-10-14T19:50:00.000+01:00

My son is currently standing on his father's lap burbling and gurning and doing all the other things that make him so cute. There's only one small problem with that. It's 7:40pm and that is a clear half hour into grown up time.

You remember the subject of my last post? Course you do, I was thanking my mother for having bought my son a lovely snuggly warm thingy for his pushchair. I was commenting how much he loved sleeping in it and how cute he was.

Turns out my son has rediscovered a love of napping. For the first time in his LIFE he is sleeping twice a day in his snuggle bag without complaint.

Awwwwwww.

I hit some hellish traffic on the way home and sent something helpful to Keith along the lines of "Grrrrr, traffic, hungry, ARGH"

Except less eloquent

I got such a cute text back. It said "Booo. Hurry up and get home and you'll see your son asleep in his snuggle"

Awwwwwwww ........ No wait, say WHAAAAAAA?!?!??!?!

It's 4.30 man!! 4.30!!! It's 90 minutes away from bedtime!!! Is he ill? Dying??? Drugged?!?!?!

No, he's just snuggly. Do you want me to wake him up?

No. Shit. Sherlock.

So here we are, all sitting up watching a program about extreme airports and crashes. Which is fitting considering the complete crash that bedtime tonight has been.

And you can stop sniggering in the back there in Gib. This is what happens when you make children warm.

I TOLD you no good would come of it!