The day gets off to a bad start when Microtoes wakes earlier than expected for her first feed of the day (NB: anything before 5am doesn’t count as the first feed..) And then doesn’t feed. She just teases my mammary glands for about an hour, while I get into all kinds of ridiculous positions to facilitate her feeding, until I have two giant balloons full of milk. I resort to laying her on her back while I drape myself over her, milk spraying in all directions except her mouth. She just stares up at me in sweet wonderment. Thank goodness DearDaddy deals with Tinytoes in the mornings.
Before running a hot bath to relieve myself of said milk build-up, I check my phone to find the following message in from my Catalan mother-in-law (MIL) awaiting me: Que tal esteu? He vist una foto teva al Facebook i fas cara de cansada (roughly translated as “How are you? I’ve just seen your photo on Facebook and you have a tired face.”) Charming!
I immediately know which photo she is referring to – I’d thought of it as a nice, natural photo. One friend even posted the words “Just beautiful” underneath. Okay so I’m not deluded enough to think my friend was referring to me: I have my glasses on and no make-up and I’m cradling Microtoes who has her back to the camera, all bundled up in a foetal position. But “You have a tired face”?! What does my MIL expect? I hesitate briefly before replying in Catalan (which takes time to cross-reference spelling) “Of course I’m tired with two under two – it’s to be expected!” accompanied by a laughing emoticon to evoke ironic mirth. I hastily exit the app to save the reply she is typing until I am feeling a bit more benevolent.
I get out of my milky bathwater to be startled by a loud knock at the door. I fling on a strange mixture of skimpy clothes, ingeniously concealing exposed post-partum waistline by holding Microtoes lengthways, and open the door to a rather bemused postman. “Here’s the ‘thing’”, he says cryptically, handing me a crumpled-looking plastic envelope. “Oh the thing!” I scoff as I remember.
Yesterday he had handed me a bill for £7.99 owed for a package with incorrect postage. “Lot of money that, it’s probably from abroad,” he’d said. I’d instantly assumed it was a present from one of DearDaddy’s friends or family in Spain to congratulate us on the recent arrival of Microtoes. My annoyance about having to pay for something before we knew what it was, was tinged with a smidgen of excitement at the thought of a ‘baby girl’ present from Spain. It had just better be worth more than £7.99 in euros.
My heart sinks as I study the creased package. It is from the Spanish consulate. Despite paying £20 for five official, certified copies of Microtoes’ birth certificate, DearDaddy had decided to send her original certificate to the Spanish consulate along with the other documents needed to get Spanish citizenship. I had ‘slightly’ flipped out when he first told me this. After all you only have one original birth certificate and I want it to last her until she’s 100. Mine is still in pristine condition and I’m 37. Microtoes, on the other hand, is only 6 weeks old. “It’s fine, we’ve got lots of copies”, he’d said, slightly missing the point.
My suspicions are confirmed when I open the envelope and out falls a sorry-looking bit of paper. We now have five immaculate copies and a distinctly shabby original. My face grows a whole lot tireder.
I feed Microtoes – properly this time – and as the milk drains away, so does my irritation. I’m sure there’s a correlation. I check my watch and it’s nearly 1pm; time to head to our first baby weighing clinic at my local surgery.
I walk briskly in the mid-September heatwave and suffice to say I’m fairly ‘glowing’ by the time I arrive at the surgery. The receptionist waves me upstairs; quite a challenge when carrying carrycot, wheels, nappy bag and baby. I glow some more. I’m greeted by a closed door. I knock several times and get no reply. I call my health visitor on her mobile and get the answerphone. I leave a terse message, not quite able to remove the irritation from my voice. “Hello. It’s 1.15pm and I’m at clinic but no one else is here. I’ve walked all the way here in the heat and not had my lunch yet. It is rather awkward because I’ve had to ask my mother to collect my toddler from nursery so I can be here. I hope you’ll be here soon.”
I’m on the verge of heaving everything back down the stairs when a pleasant-looking lady appears, looking rather surprised to see me. We establish I’m the one with a 6 week old baby due to be weighed today. She stares at me. “You know clinic is not until 2pm?” I inwardly groan.
Luckily for me, the lady agrees to weigh and measure Microtoes, even though she is not a Health Visitor. She helps out at the clinics and happened to arrive 45 minutes early. I immediately click with her and we end up chatting until 2pm. She asks me if I’m left-handed, which I am. Apparently – and I quote – “left-handers have a more analytical brain, but after childbirth the dominant section of the mother’s brain switches hemispheres, so if you were very organised beforehand you will struggle now.” I have no idea if there is any shred of truth in that (Googling seemed to suggest there isn’t) but I’m happy to accept that as an excuse.
Despite her lack of hunger this morning, it turns out Microtoes has grown three whole centimetres both in length and head circumference over the past four weeks and put on over a kilo of weight. At least some of my milk must be getting into her. I tell the lady I’m new to the village and she invites me to a weekly postnatal group for mums and babies, which is starting next Thursday morning. I agree to attend, hoping it won’t be full of first-time mums 20 years younger than me.
Back home I’m in a better frame of mind and check my phone to read MIL’s reply: Ja se que som lluny, pero qualsevol cosa que necessitem ens ho dieu (“I know that we are far, but if you ever need anything at all, you just have to ask”). I instantly feel bad for being annoyed. And, after all, I do have a tired face these days!
Calamitous Mummy 