Month: October 2016

Two under two – myth busting

Calamitousmummy

When I was pregnant with a one year old in tow people loved to voice their opinion. Comments tended to fall into two camps: the positive and the negative. Anything negative instantly annoyed me.  Given I was already pregnant I couldn’t exactly change the situation and if people couldn’t say anything nice I’d rather they said nothing at all.

The negative comments I received, most of them well-meaning but misguided, ranged from “are you mad?” to “it’s especially tough at the beginning”, to “it only gets harder”, to “just you wait until there are two of them running around /they start arguing.”  Or I’d be regaled with unhelpful anecdotes like “my older one put a marble in the baby’s mouth and he almost choked and died.”

Surprisingly few people had positive remarks to contribute. One lady – an acquaintance of my mother’s – said to me “oh they’ll be friends for life and love playing with each other and keep themselves entertained.”  I could have hugged her. I’m a glass-half-full kind of person and even if I was in for a tough ride I preferred to envisage the best case scenario.

I don’t know if it’s because I was finding it trickier looking after a 18 month old when I was heavily pregnant – I struggled to lift Tinytoes, especially when she was having a meltdown and kicking out or even to change her nappy when she was being particularly ‘spirited’ and resistant – but as my due date approached I began to wonder how I’d ever manage. Maybe all the negative comments had finally got to me. Or the reality that I could barely look after myself – cook, clean and tidy, work, go up the stairs very easily – let alone my feisty one-year old, let alone a new born baby thrown into the mix.

I became convinced that Tinytoes would either a) be wildly jealous of her younger sister and try to harm her or b) become instantly disinterested. After all, babies don’t ‘do’ anything, apart from the obvious traits, which I supposed would be highly unappealing to a toddler.

Tinytoes met Microtoes for the first time the day after I’d given birth. I had been looking forward the moment with a mix of intrigue and trepidation. We had our cameras at the ready as Supergranny pulled up to the house with Tinytoes in the back of her car.

In an unfortunate twist of bad timing the health visitor rocked up at almost exactly the same moment. Luckily Supergranny was able to waylay her in the kitchen with the promise of a cup of coffee (without knowing where we actually kept the coffee), while we whisked Tinytoes off upstairs to meet her baby sister.

Her reaction was both beautiful and totally unexpected:  “Babee!” she gasped in delight and astonishment. “Babee, babee, babeeeee” she squealed again and again, both amazed and thrilled to find this perfectly formed, micro-sized creature inhabiting her parents’ bedroom. And, as she reached out a tentative hand to gently stroke her little sister, I was to learn that her fasciation and love would only grow, not wane, as time went by.

‘Babee’, soon turned into ‘Bab-ia’ (a hybrid of ‘babee’ and Microtoes’ actual name), which she now chants at almost every waking hour. Whenever she spends time on her own at SuperGranny’s the first name on her lips as she marches in through our front door, straight past me, is always “Bab-ia!”

The first few times I collected Tinytoes from nursery I felt bad I was unable to give her a proper hug when she came running towards me as I would have Microtoes clasped to the front of my body in a sling. One day when DaddyO was working from home, I jumped at the chance to leave our 5 week old baby with him so I could go to collect her alone. I approached the door to her room, arms open and ready to give her the biggest hug.

But Tinytoes stopped short and looked at me in total dismay. “Babia?” she asked. “Babia? Babia?’, more urgently now, pulling my top away from my body and peering down it to see whether I was storing her underneath.  When she couldn’t be found there, she frantically began patting my tummy in case the baby had somehow decided to jump back into my womb – perish the thought!  I didn’t get my hug, but I didn’t care. It was that moment I realised that Tinytoes truly loved her little sister.

Today Microtoes is exactly 12 weeks old and her older sister is still as doting; frequently bringing her toys (not all of them suitable – many her own, favourite toys) or blankets (when she already is wrapped up warm) but always behaving so incredibly gently towards her.

Of course, it’s not all sunshine and roses –sometimes there are the inevitable displays of jealousy – but we’re learning, along the way, how to avoid these. Although Tinytoes has a strong sense of ownership (she once looked distraught when I gave my unsuspecting mother coffee in DaddyO’s mug or when I came downstairs in DaddyO’s pyjama bottoms – pointing accusingly saying “Daddee, Daddee!”), we’ve learnt that firmly explaining which toys/ devices belong to her baby sister is not always sufficient. If the object looks exciting enough and she sees it first without her sister in the room, she will still think she has a viable claim to its ownership. Woe betide anyone who should try to prise her out of a delicate baby seat not suitable for children over 6 months. Yet we’ve learnt that if Tinytoes first claps eyes on the device when it is being used by Microtoes then she is astonishingly accepting and takes pride in pointing at the toy saying “Babia, Babia!”

Then there are the times when Tinytoes is very upset about something and screaming, which will scare Microtoes who will give a little scream too (shortlived). Or sometimes they will simultaneously need a nappy changing. Or simultaneously need feeding. Or carrying. Then it becomes a case of ‘who needs genuine attention the most’ and deal with them first.

It’s certainly a juggling act at times. But – for anyone pregnant with a one-year old who is reading this – they really do keep each other entertained.  What’s more, 22 month-old Tinytoes not only takes delight in helping me to change nappies – bringing me the changing bag, handing me nappies/ wipes etc – but she has begun copying Microtoes too. Nine times out of ten she’ll now lie perfectly still on her back having her nappy changed (as opposed to trying to leap, Kamikaze-style off the changing table) and if she doesn’t I just have to say “hey – lie still, like Babia does!” and she’ll comply, with a sheepish grin.

It’s only been 3 months and we have a whole lot more weeks, months and years ahead of us, but it’s been an exciting experience so far, full of unexpected twists and turns, and I can’t wait to see what the next months have in store for us.  Yes there may be common themes for parents of one, two, three children or more, close in age or far apart, same or mixed gender, but no one can foretell how sibling relationships will pan out. No two families are the same.  And that’s what’s so exciting about writing your own, untold story. You can listen to the experiences of others, but what matters is your own.

The Vicar that came to tea

Calamitousmummy

With two babies under the age of two, time has become an increasingly precious commodity. By time I guess I’m referring both to quality time DH and I spend together with the children and to time spent just the two of us. Time to hold a conversation without having to gesticulate or shout into each other’s ear above the loud, yet persistent wail of an overtired toddler.

By the time the babies are in bed we are often too tired to converse. I will start a sentence and take an inordinately long time to remember which words I need to finish the sentence. By which time DH will lose patience and try to start a new sentence of his own. Or, more frustratingly, add to the pressure by getting up to leave the room to look for whatever it is he’s asked me the whereabouts of, without knowing where to go!

Yet DH does pretty much the same. He starts talking and then drifts off when he gets to the point of his sentence, ending by saying “you know.” No I don’t know. That’s why you’re telling it to me. He prefers to keep me in irritated suspense: “Oh I don’t think she’s crying because she’s teething, she’s crying because …because… you know.”

On weekdays we just about manage a half an hour ‘playtime’ all four of us when DH gets home from work. He takes over the role of Entertainer-in-Chief and I make myself a cup of tea and slowly start to unwind, while Tinytoes makes me more plastic cups of imaginary tea that I pretend to drink. Then at 7pm he’ll bath and put Tinytoes to bed, while I cook supper and feed Microtoes. We’ll eat at around 8pm, watch a bit of TV as we’re too exhausted to do anything else, then tidy up the supper, toys and flop into bed.

The days of client champagne receptions in the city, dinners out with best friends, pub quizzes with good mates or romantic dinners with DH feel like a bygone era.  Don’t get me wrong; I obviously wouldn’t trade it for anything else in the world. I’ve had plenty of years to have reckless, self-indulgent fun; this is just to set the context for my annoyance with the village vicar.

So, Microtoes is being christened next month in the local church and the vicar told us we would need to undergo ‘baptism preparation’ and to pick a suitable time for her to come over for a cup of tea. I had genuinely been looking forward to this event for two main reasons. Firstly, the vicar is a lovely, jovial lady and I thought Tinytoes would be excited to have her come to our house. Secondly, I was intrigued to find out what baptism preparation would entail; no such thing had happened before Tinytoes’ christening.

My eagerness began to fade rapidly when the vicar had still not appeared by 6.15pm. She had been due at 6pm and DaddyO had left work early to be there on time. At 6.20pm there was a knock at the door. Although she apologised for being late, I didn’t pick up on any particular urgency to catch-up on lost time. By the time I had made her a tea and we had sat down at the kitchen table it was pushing 6.30pm.

Tinytoes was sitting in a grown-up chair at the table – after an early supper to be ready in time -and Microtoes was sleeping angelically in a Moses basket. We had 30 minutes until Tinytoes’ bath time. We looked at the vicar expectantly. She barely shot Microtoes a sidelong glance. For the next 20 minutes she discussed the buddleia and various other shrubs in our garden, her relatives visiting their house and the cotton wool buds that her niece –or someone else, my mind had begun to wander – had knocked onto the floor.

I began to wonder if chitchat was part of the preparation for baptism. Maybe she was performing some sort of psych test and if we demonstrated sufficient knowledge of God’s plants and flowers we would be deemed suitable parents for baptised children.

Bath time came and went, by which time the vicar embarked on a potted history of Christendom, taking us from ancient times to the 1600s, the Great War, right through to the current day. DH did a good job of looking her in the eye and nodding. I meanwhile, was trying to keep poor Tinytoes entertained. She had opened a book and to my amusement was pointing at a spider, rather aptly saying ’bible bible! ‘(her word for spider). The vicar looked less amused.

Thus far Tinytoes had behaved impeccably and I began to feel waves of annoyance – firstly that her good behaviour was being wasted – I would have loved to have been playing with her while she was this cheerful – or cooking the dinner while Microtoes  was sleeping, or more importantly, if I wasn’t cooking the dinner or feeding Microtoes I would have loved to have had a rare chance to  bath Tintoes and  put  her to bed myself.

I wouldn’t have minded any of this so much if I felt we were actually being prepared for the baptism!

After what seemed like an eternity, we were handed an example ‘order of service sheet’ for baptisms. Tinytoes excitedly tried to grasp hold of mine, while the vicar painstakingly started to read through every word on the sheet, taking time to explain what the word ‘renounce’ meant, just in case we hadn’t known what ‘renounce all evil,’ meant.  By this point, I have to say, I wasn’t feeling very virtuous.

As I tried to gently prise my order of service sheet from Tinytoes’ hand she let out a wail, which woke Microtoes, who began mewling for a feed. I realised the time was fast approaching 7.30pm – Tinytoes’ bedtime.

“I’m so sorry, but we need to put our daughter to bed now,” I found myself finally saying. Why hadn’t I said this earlier?

Her response left me reeling. “I did wonder, I was surprised to see her up so late.”

Up so late? She would have been fast asleep by now if it wasn’t for you, I felt like saying.

She had already stood up so did not see my jaw quite literally drop after her next remark: “Drop me an email to let me know when you’d like me to come over for Part 2.”

Part 2?! So we’ve got to go through it all again. An entire evening totally wasted for nothing. Tinytoes was overtired and grumpy, Microtoes was hungry and I was hungry and grumpy. And DH was irritatingly cheerful as he has different coping tactics to stressful situations.  We didn’t end up eating until nearly 10pm that night, mainly because I was too wound up to cook the dinner properly, so it had to go back in the oven.

Our time is precious.  Don’t mess with the parents of small children! All the same, I’m hoping our vicar does not read this blog…

Breastfeeding: milking it

Calamitousmummy

Something as natural as breastfeeding should be easy to master, right? This was my misguided assumption when I was pregnant first time around with Tinytoes, but oh how wrong I was.  Nearly two years later and breastfeeding with Microtoes finally going ok, I feel it’s the right time to cast a critical eye over what went wrong and what went right, as well as sharing a few tips I’ve picked up along the way.

With Tinytoes things went downhill from the outset. I had the milk supply, but she struggled to latch. I was kept in hospital for 6 days after giving birth so that every health worker, carer, lactation specialist, midwife, you name it, could file into my room to poke, prod, squeeze, pump and manhandle my breasts.  Some would ask if I minded them touching me first, while others would dive straight in, hands still smelling of cigarettes from their fag break as they grasped my newborn’s head. Tinytoes screaming, milk spraying everywhere.

When it because clear that Tinytoes wasn’t having any of it – figuratively and literally –the expressing started. Hand expressing to begin with: often there would be one ‘carer’ working at each breast, while a third would hold my screaming baby. The hospital fridge steadily began to amass syringes full of my colostrum.

On day 3, the milk police handed me over to the electric breast pump.  Bottle upon bottle of my milk filled the hospital fridge until there was more than Tinytoes could drink. I felt like a battery cow. My breasts were like rocks, aching with too much unwanted milk. By day 6 I was begging the hospital staff to let me go home. It was obvious my baby was never going to latch, but at least I was painfully aware how to express and administer my milk via a bottle.

A few weeks later a lactation consultant told me to stop expressing. “Your body thinks you have twins” she said.  Instead I discovered that nipple shields (pieces of plastic that emulate the teat of a bottle) allowed me to feed my baby directly and stimulated my milk supply less than the expressing.  (She tried to discourage me from using nipple shields too, as they also stimulate milk production, and are a faff to use, but I ignored her as I was sick of spending 3 hours at a time trying to get Tinytoes to latch.)

Although it has to be said that nipple shields are fiddly little devices, which caused me my fair share of anguish. Breastfeeding in public – and the possibility of revealing my nipple to total strangers, or indeed friends and family – is not something I’m entirely comfortable with.  Yet Tinytoes became awfully good at rearing back her head and knocking my sterilised nipple shield to the ground with her tiny hands, revealing everything to everyone.

On one occasion I was so determined to be as quick and discrete as possible at ‘setting up’ the feed, I didn’t notice I’d placed the nipple shield next to rather than over my nipple. I turned back to my friends and continued my conversation, blissfully unaware that Tinytoes was not actually drinking any milk. It was only a good 10 minutes later, I was horrified to discover she had sucked so hard she had moulded my breast to the inside of the nipple shield!

Over the following weeks and months I was to endure the joys of reoccurring mastitis, cold sweats and having milk cysts suctioned out of me with a giant needle. I would wake in the night so drenched in milk we’d need to change the bed sheets. All this could have been avoided if I knew then what I know now. It was the doctor who removed my milk cysts who eventually told to run a hot bath to siphon off excess milk and massage out any blocked ducts as soon the tell-tale red patches of mastitis appeared. And I finally tracked down a nursing bra to fit my new Dolly Parton-sized breasts, ridiculously big for my small frame, that I could wear at night with breast pads to stop the leakages.

I do realise I was lucky to have a good milk supply. I have friends who experienced the reverse issue and were unable to produce enough milk to feed their hungry baby, which must be equally soul-destroying, but in a different way. When I told one friend about the hospital fridge running out of room for my milk, she countered that with her dismay at seeing her 10ml of proudly expressed milk sitting alongside the full bottles of other mums’ milk.

But, besides the physical discomfort, I struggled to get my head around the disillusionment and a strange feeling of ‘rejection’: I had the milk but my baby refused to take it from me. She didn’t have tongue tie, only ‘possible posterior tongue tie’ that was not severe enough to stop her from feeding. There must have been an explanation – most likely the stress and pressure put on me in the hospital which Tinytoes would have picked up on

And so it was, that after 5 long months of grappling with nipple shields, Tinytoes suddenly decided she wanted to breastfeed normally.  Just like that. I kept going until she was a year old – suddenly life became easier again.

With Microtoes, things were immediately easier. I chose to give birth in a birthing centre – anything to avoid a hospital. She started to feed within minutes of being born. But she was a ‘lazy feeder.’ She would suck for a few seconds and then fall fast asleep. She wasn’t taking in enough milk, but I still came home the next day; terrified of a repeat performance of what happened with Tinytoes.

Night times were particularly tedious. She would cry for a feed. I would put her to my breast and she would fall straight back asleep again. So I would put her back in her cot and into her grobag, then she would cry for a feed again. And so it continued.

I struggled to find a good position. The only successful breastfeeding position I found was lying prostrate on the floor, which sometimes allowed Microtoes to feed, but hardly practical if shopping on the High Street.

I began to worry she was losing weight so we returned to birthing centre, where I discovered she had in fact gained weight. I may have even shed a tear of joy. One of the midwives then sat me in a comfy chair and told me to relax and to stop tensing my shoulders. And gently placed Microtoes in the crook of my arm, where she began to feed and feed and feed. I realised I had been so traumatised by my unsuccessful attempts with Tinytoes, that my next baby had been picking up on my anxiety.

It hasn’t all been plain sailing with Microtoes. I’ve had the night sweats, headaches, hot red patches and high temperatures. But, although I have a prescription for antibiotics, I’ve thus far managed to avoid full-on mastitis and avoid taking any medication this time around.

She’s two months old and I reckon I’ve more or less cracked it. She latches and stares up adoringly at me while she feeds – just how I always imagined it would be to breastfeed.

Watch this space for my top tips for breastfeeding – coming soon.

Vaccines: a matter of life and death?

Calamitousmummy

This morning I take Microtoes along to week 2 of the postnatal group in my new village. Unfortunately for her, she falls fast asleep and misses out on the baby massage session. I explain she had her 8 week vaccinations yesterday, hence her sleepiness.

If truth be known I had forgotten what a traumatic experience it is for a mother to watch her baby being vaccinated. Microtoes had been sleeping deeply when I presented her to the nurse. She must have been having a nice dream as she had the faint flicker of a smile on the edge of her tiny lips.

When the first needle plunged into her chubby little thigh, her piercing, startled scream shot like a lightning bolt through my heart. As the third injection (and third heart-rending scream) took place the nurse simultaneously passed me some tissues to wipe away the silent tears streaming down my face.  Microtoes recovered quicker than I did.

When discussion in the postnatal group naturally turns to vaccinations, I’m shocked to discover that none of the other women in the group are planning to vaccinate their babies. Not yet anyway.  The friendly girl I’m sitting next to tells me she may give her son just the rotavirus vaccine: when he’s 9 months old.

I’m uncharacteristically speechless.  I don’t want to antagonise the entire room in one fail swoop. I’ve only just moved to the village and these are my first potential local mummy friends.  But similarly I don’t wish to remain silent on something I feel quite strongly about. So I start by asking questions.

It turns out the girl next to me – and the other mummies – are not 100% decided about the injections and they are attending a ‘talk’ on the subject matter in the village tomorrow morning, by a local homoeopathist. I try not to scoff. “But surely the homoeopathist will favour the natural approach?” I ask.

“Oh she gives the arguments for and against, and still gives homoeopathic treatment to babies who’ve had the jabs,” came the reply.  Oh I bet she does, I think to myself.

The UK government’s National Health Service recommends giving the ‘5 in 1 vaccine (to protect against diphtheria, tetanus, whooping cough, polio and Hib), the Pneumococcal jab, Meningitis B vaccine and Rotavirus vaccine from 8 weeks, with follow-on vaccines at 12 and 16 weeks.

I try to gently explain to the girl next to me that by not immunising your baby you are putting it at risk from life threatening illness. She counters this with the fact it is highly unlikely the baby will develop that illness.  True, but even if there’s a 0.01% chance would you really want to put your baby at risk? I don’t say this. Nor do I point out the irony that if it’s “highly unlikely” her baby will develop a disease, it is thanks to the people that are vaccinating their babies.

Instead I try to sow the seed that by not vaccinating your own baby you are also putting other babies at risk from life-threatening diseases.  I explain how at Microtoes’ 6 week postnatal check-up the doctor had told me only 50% of people living in the village bring their babies to be vaccinated, when there needs to be 85% vaccinated in order to guarantee the efficacy of the jabs. Put another way, even though I’ve vaccinated Microtoes she won’t be properly immunised. I think I’m too subtle. It ends up looking like I’m saying I needn’t have bothered vaccinating her.

When in fact I’m trying to say that if she – and the others – do not vaccinate their babies, it renders the jabs less effective for the parents who choose to vaccinate their babies.  And there is good medical evidence to back this up: something that a village homoeopathist is not necessarily going to be educated in.

She concludes by diplomatically saying “well it’s up to each parent to decide what they want to do really.” And I want to shout “No, no no” but I’ve only just met the girl, so I stay quiet. And decide to blog about it instead.

The NHS website claims: “It may be tempting to say ‘no’ to vaccination and ‘leave it to nature’. However, deciding not to vaccinate your child puts them at risk of catching a range of potentially serious, even fatal, diseases.”

And alas, this is not purely anecdotal. In Catalonia, only last year, a little boy from Girona, near my husband’s hometown of Barcelona, died from diphtheria. It was widely reported in the local news. Why did he die? Because his parents chose to believe the anti-vaccination camp and not vaccinate their son. Later they spoke of their “terrible guilt” over the decision not to have him immunised.

That boy became the first child to contract the disease in Spain in almost 30 years.  After this tragedy had unfolded, a further eight children were found to be carrying the diphtheria bacteria, but thankfully the disease did not develop given they had been vaccinated. Had this all happened in my village, however, where the vaccination rate is much lower, those eight children may well not have survived after contracting the disease.

Normally I agree wholeheartedly that ‘each parent should decide’ when it comes to whether they want to – or can – breastfeed their baby or not/ dress their son in pink and their daughter in blue or vice versa/ co-sleep (I still think this is risky..) or not.  But hey it’s up to them and doesn’t affect anyone else.

But whether they vaccinate their baby or not? It could not only affect their own baby – enough to kill them – but also risks spreading these diseases to other babies and threatening their lives, as well as reducing the efficacy of any injection those other babies may (or may not) have had. Now that I couldn’t disagree with more.

Outnumbered by babies

Calamitousmummy

For the first time since giving birth to Microtoes two months ago today, I’m outnumbered by my babies. Technically speaking, they’ve always outnumbered me, but DearDaddy is away on an overnight work trip so I’m properly alone with them for the first time. What’s more, his work trip has been cleverly timed to coincide with when SuperGranny (my invaluable back-up support) is also away.

Pathetic as it may sound, I confess to having been a little terrified by the prospect. I want to be the best mummy I can to both of them and thus far both babies have always had one-on-one attention from a parent in the night time, evenings and early mornings. Generally speaking I’ve been the main person to take care of Microtoes during these times, as her key need is being breastfed.  And consequently, DearDaddy has had more contact with Tinytoes.

I’m also mindful of the fact that 21 month old Tinytoes has become more of a daddy’s girl than ever recently. Last week she had a series of meltdowns and spent what seemed like entire afternoons chanting – or shouting – “daddy,daddy, daddy…”. How can one person handle that and meet the demands of a newborn and stay sane?!

In the run-up to DearDaddy going away, my brain began working overtime and I tried (unsuccessfully) to stop myself coming up with ‘what if’ scenarios. What if Microtoes’ umbilical hernia changes colour and becomes strangulated (there’s a 10% chance) and I have to rush to A&E in the middle of the night with both babies for an emergency operation? What if I get one of my aura migraines (which happens about once a year and my vision goes like shattered glass) and I can’t see enough to care for either baby? What if – heaven forbid – we get another mouse in the house?!

I know there’s no point thinking like that – I may as well worry about getting knocked over by a bus when crossing the road – but for the first time ever, I’m solely responsible for two tiny and helpless little people.

But so far – and I don’t want to jinx this – things have been going astonishingly well. Take nursery pick-up yesterday. Last Friday Tinytoes had refused to go down the stairs and had lain like a draught excluder outside the upstairs door to the nursery. If I hadn’t been carrying Microtoes, I would have been able to scoop her up kicking and screaming and march her down the stairs. I felt so desperate I even contemplated going back in and asking her carer how the hell I could get her to go down the stairs. But I chickened out. I mean, what kind of a mother cannot get her own child to go down the stairs?!

Anyway yesterday, Tinytoes obediently climbs down each step, takes my hand to cross the road and gets into the car of her own accord.  She doesn’t scream the whole way home either; instead she spends the journey turned towards her baby sister, saying ‘hello, hello, hello!’.

She goes straight off to sleep for her nap, and when I’ve had lunch I nap too. For nearly two hours. Microtoes naps too. When Tinytoes awakes, she smiles at me. I give her supper and she eats it. She is happy and chatty. I take them for long walk in the twin buggy. I buy Tinytoes a magazine with stickers and she reads it all the way home. Microtoes sleeps.

After sticking the stickers in her magazine, I let Tinytoes watch an episode of Peppa Pig; the one about a power cut. She gets frightened when it all goes dark and calls out “mummy, mummy!”  flinging her arms around my neck for a cuddle. I feel guilty for enjoying her rare display of affection, because I know it’s because she’s scared. Microtoes wants a feed so we watch it again, both babies on my lap this time.  I stare at them both, brimming with love.

As the programme comes to an end, I marvel at the fact that Tinytoes has not once asked for her daddy. This is even more incredible given she doesn’t even know daddy won’t be coming home from work yet.

Bath time turns out to be a breeze. Microtoes normally cluster-feeds at this time and I had been concerned as to how I could possibly perform both tasks at once.  But Tinytoes is delighted I have brought her little sister up to watch her have her bath. She runs over to stroke her, bring her toys, and gently bounce her in her little chair, before going to bring me her towel (something she’s never done before!).

The whole bedtime routine goes like clockwork and I only have to break-off once to feed Microtoes; more because Tinytoes is concerned about her crying (I would have probably waited otherwise).

As I go to kiss Tinytoes goodnight, she asks just once “daddy?”. I say “oh he’s working darling, but you can kiss your little sister goodnight instead” and her eyes gleam with excitement. She then sleeps the whole night through. Microtoes wakes just once for a quick feed. In fact the main disturbance is the heating coming on loudly in the middle of the night because I had forgotten to turn the thermostat down.

Today, too, has gone swimmingly well so far. It sounds naff, but I feel empowered.  I realise I needed to manage alone in order to be a better mother. I think my empowerment must, in some way, have rubbed off on Tinytoes and she has sensed the need to behave for me these couple of days. She has also clearly enjoyed having more contact with her baby sister.

And more quality contact with her mother, for that matter. I’ve been more focused on making sure she has fun entertainment (rather than thinking ‘oh well DearDaddy will be home in 15 minutes, 10 minutes, 5 minutes.. and then he can entertain her’). It obviously helps that she’s not permanently crying and shouting ‘daddy’ in my company.  And that she is no longer teething with a nasty cold.

I now feel considerably less anxious about DearDaddy’s week-long trip to the Middle East at the end of the month. It won’t be easy doing this for six whole days and nights and mornings and evenings – and I mustn’t brag too much to DearDaddy about how ‘successful’ his absence has been – but at least next time SuperGranny will be around. And at least I know I can cope.

Making a run for it

Calamitousmummy

Before I had babies, I used to go running quite a lot. After a bit of cajoling, DearDaddy caught the bug and joined me in the London marathon. The following year we ran two marathons in two weeks – one in Barcelona (the week before moving house) and one in Paris (the week after moving house).  That was only three years ago, but it feels more like a lifetime ago.

Since then, I’ve managed a few runs in 2015, a couple of months after giving birth to Tinytoes, but that’s about it. In the summer I began to go down with every virus imaginable (all of them ending in ‘itis’) and by November I was pregnant again. This time with a young baby to look after. And severe morning sickness.

So this morning I was expecting to feel a twinge of envy at the prospect of going along with the baby girls to watch DearDaddy running a 10k race in our new village.  We had spotted the posters advertising it and, seeing how his eyes had lit up, I’d been the one to egg him on to sign up. After all, I was in no fit state to run it.

I realised I’d need to sacrifice DearDaddy’s help in the evenings so he could train, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel envious of him coming home after a day in the office only to go straight back out the door for a liberating run along the old railway line. I, meanwhile, would be sitting at home looking after the babies, after a day of looking after the babies.

To be fair, he only went on three training runs as he’d signed up the week before the race itself. And there was no way on earth I could ever have managed a 10km with barely any training. Let alone eight weeks after giving birth.

But the morning of the race doesn’t pan out quite as expected. It turns out I don’t have time to feel envy at DearDaddy running the race; quite the opposite in fact. I realise I’ve grossly underestimated the time needed to get two little people and myself fed, dressed and cleaned. It transpires that 60 minutes is woefully inadequate.

DearDaddy, meanwhile, had already left the house to register and begin the race. He had even given Tinytoes breakfast before leaving. But I still had to get her out of her pyjamas and into her clothes (which always takes an inordinately long time), change her nappy, have a quick shower and get dressed myself, eat my own breakfast, get Microtoes dressed, breastfeed her twice and change her nappy. And I did all of the above in no particular rush as I was blissfully unaware of the time.

The plan had been for me to leave the house 30 minutes before DearDaddy’s estimated completion time, so we would be there to cheer him over the finish line. So imagine my panic when we’re finally ready to leave and I see he has only 11 minutes to go. I know how proud DearDaddy felt at the prospect of having his two girls being there to see him cross the finish line and it would be all my fault if we weren’t there.

I throw open the front door and run down the hill, tightly grasping the handle of the twin buggy. The weight of both girls in the buggy and the water bottles underneath actually pulls me along and it’s easier than expected to run (bar the fact I’m wearing a nursing bra rather than a sports bra).

When the road flattens out, the momentum from the hill and the extra weight of the buggy seem to propel us along for a fair stretch. We must have been quite a sight.

The first incline slows me down to a brisk walk. For the rest of the way I alternate walking and jogging until we arrive at the (back of the) finishing line with about one minute to spare. One of the organisers takes pity on me (clearly we were a sight) and lets us have pole position to wait for DearDaddy.

When he arrives a few minutes later, Microtoes is fast asleep and Tinytoes is picking her nose and looking in the opposite direction. I don’t care because at least we were all there and at least I was able cheer him on. Tinytoes flashes her daddy a huge smile, when she finally clocks him, completely unaware he’d even been running.

And so it was that I’d ended up running my own race – ok so it wasn’t 10k –but it was my ‘equivalent’. And when DearDaddy gets back from this week’s trip away with work, I fully intend to leave him with both babies one evening and attempt my first proper run. In a sports bra this time. And minus the buggy.