Month: November 2016

‘Normality’ has finally resumed. I was slightly dismayed to see DaddyO return from his week of travels looking almost as knackered as I am (and that’s saying something), but at least there were two of us to share the parenting over weekend. And at least he arrived with some nice roses and a card to make up for missing our wedding anniversary.

Thank goodness he arrived in time for our ‘family outing to A&E’. I’m not sure how I would have coped alone, but in fact it turned into quite a fun day out, for Tinytoes at least.

Microtoes was our source of worry. For a baby that normally only gurgles, smiles and sleeps, she began screaming incessantly, was pale and salivating and wasn’t feeding properly. Something was clearly wrong and I wasn’t about to hang around and hypothesise.

So we piled into our car (amazingly I’d pre-prepared a bowl of pasta and bacon for Tinytoes’ supper, which I grabbed on the way out the door) and bombed it along to our nearest hospital with a paediatric A&E department. The first 10 minutes of the 30 minute journey was rather less ‘bombing along’ as we were stuck behind a slow-moving bus.

Sitting in the back, tightly wedged between two baby seats, I voiced my concern when Microtoes’ breathing became staggered.  This was probably just a result of her frantic screaming, but it was enough for DaddyO to push hard on the accelerator, swerving out dramatically to overtake the bus. At which point my breathing also became staggered. Tinytoes, on the other hand, found it all very exciting.

Arriving at hospital we were ushered straight through to the paediatric department. After a short stint in the waiting room – which was full of exciting toys for Tinytoes to play with and one of the Ice Age movies for DaddyO to watch – we were taken to a little room where a consultant saw to us. In an effort to stop poor Microtoes screaming, he made curious duck noises that astonished both myself and Tinytoes.

Microtoes’ cries finally subsided and he checked her umbilical hernia (one of my main concerns) and reassured me it had not become strangulated and that despite the doctor on my 6 week check-up telling me this could happen – and the NHS website saying this could happen –umbilical hernias don’t in fact strangulate and cut of the blood supply and in all his 15 years of practising he had never come across this happening.  I was relieved, yet puzzled to hear this.

As the consultant performed a thorough set of checks and went through detailed questions he noticed a viral rash appearing on Microtoes’ face. Once the major illnesses were eliminated, we were told she was probably just brewing some type of cold or virus. Eventually she calmed down, fed and then vomited all over my shoulder. The Indian consultant said I needn’t worry unless the sick turned the dark green colour of saag paneer. He told us we should still get a urine test done before he could discharge her.

Ever since the mention of saag paneer-coloured vomit, I developed a curious craving for an Indian takeaway. It must have been the relief that nothing was majorly wrong with Microtoes, coupled with the fact I was very hungry.  Instead I watched Tinytoes eat her bacon and pasta while a giant sanitary pad was inserted into Microtoes’ nappy and we all sat around waiting for her to pee. Not quite how I imagined family life…

In the end, DaddyO and Tinytoes went back to the movies and games in the waiting room while I waited with Microtoes in the little room, fantasizing about my Indian takeaway. Given she’d hardly fed all day she took longer than usual to pass urine. When she eventually did and the test came back clear, we were discharged.

Back in the waiting room I found Tinytoes happily rocking back and forth on a plastic police car watching the Ice Age. She was shouting “titor! titor!” as a dinosaur came onto the screen much to the polite amusement of others in the waiting room. All eyes and smiles turned to Microtoes as I appeared. Unable to put Microtoes’ jumper on while I was standing up, I sank down into the nearest brightly coloured armchair, which felt alarmingly snug around my hips.

“Is this a child’s chair?” I asked the women next to me, concerned that pregnancy had had an even more pronounced effect on me than I’d feared. “Yes,” they giggled, then continued cooing over Microtoes.

Meanwhile Tinytoes began a spectacular protest at DaddyO putting her coat on; the prospect of leaving the wonderful waiting room and her plastic police car was too much for her. She was having way too much fun. Aware that the entire waiting room was now staring in wonderment at our family, I made a move to stand up and leave. But, much to the amusement of everyone else in the room, I realised the chair had come up with me, still attached to my adult-sized posterior (!)

Still delirious with relief that Microtoes was okay, I began to giggle with the women next to me. I felt like Miranda, in the episode where she gets stuck in a chair, I mused as I finally managed to prise off the chair and make a hasty exit.

We were treated to a night sky lit up with fireworks on the drive home, which Tinytoes would never normally have been able to see given she had such a young baby sister. Back home I tucked in hungrily to that delicious Indian takeaway and reflected how the day had gone so much better than ever expected. Nevertheless, I hope we won’t be revisiting A&E any time soon.

My next blog post had been all mapped out. I had intended to write how I’d forgotten giving birth would knock me for six, but how finally, after 12 long and tiring weeks I was getting back on my feet. I was being a mummy of two under two, I was cooking, I was cleaning, I was tidying, but I was also starting to see friends, going out running, in talks with new potential clients for the business I run. I was more than coping. I was super mummy…

That was last weekend. That blog post never got written. Last Saturday in the night DaddyO went away to the Middle East. He gets back tomorrow and not a day too soon. I have bloodshot eyes from lack of sleep and the glands in my neck are swollen like they do when I get really run down.

One overriding theme has been that a strong-willed, independent toddler has found it particularly hard to fathom that her constant – her beloved daddy – is suddenly and inexplicably no longer there. And, as far as she’s concerned, he may not ever be coming back.  And I’m the one having to deal not only with fallout from him being away, but also looking after two tiny people by myself.

My attempt to prepare Tinytoes for his absence failed miserably. On the eve of his departure, I looked her in the eye and told her gently, yet gravely, “My darling, Daddy is going away for a long time, but he will be back. He loves you.” At which point she burst into tears and began howling in despair. I quickly realised it would better to deal with her questions on a day-by-day basis, deciding that each time she would mention her daddy I would say firmly but matter-of-factly “oh Daddy’s at work,” ending with a cheerful “he’ll be back!”

Strangely, she has only mentioned his name a couple of times. Tinytoes is clearly missing him but her little brain is processing his absence via disobedience and screaming fits. On one joyous occasion I tried various cunning tactics to get her to go down the stairs to the car after a morning of nursery, but to no avail. I had been trying for nearly 15 minutes. Her baby sister, clasped to the front of my body in a sling, was starting to grizzle for a feed and I too was getting hungry.

To avoid Microtoes getting clouted in the head, I resorted to picking up her screaming sister under her armpits. I held her with my arms outstretched and rigid, as far away from me and her baby sister as possible, and descended the steep stairs very slowly and carefully, her furious kicks jolting me backwards and forwards. I tried to put on my best, benign smile to other parents climbing the stairs behind their docile offspring. I’m not sure I was terribly convincing. The battle to get her into her car seat at least took place with a certain degree of privacy.

Tinytoes’ furious moods have been interspersed by moments of great happiness and glee, but toddler entertainment requires a large amount energy and vigour; neither of which I have in vast quantities at the moment. Breastfeeding every hour or two is particularly draining and sleep has been in short supply; Tinytoes spent the first few nights screaming out from nightmares. As the days went by she awoke a bit less, but then Microtoes began waking earlier than usual, for predawn feeds.

I’ve found myself doing what I vowed never to do: pandering to Tinytoes’ ridiculous demands to avoid the screaming fits, as they not only give me a headache, but they frighten Microtoes and make her cry. Examples of her demands include: her wearing my shoes and me wearing her shoes (they fit on about three of my toes) /me sitting on the kitchen floor without a cushion and my back against the washing machine while I breastfeed Microtoes, with Tinytoes sitting on a comfortable cushion/ both of us wearing winter coats indoors with the hoods up while the heating is on full pelt.. I could go on but you get the gist.

Today – my fourth wedding anniversary no less- has possibly been the toughest day of the lot. I didn’t sleep well after a misplaced comment from DaddyO last night. Earlier in the week he had diced with fire by telling me – in all seriousness – that he had slept badly after changing hotels, because the pillow in his luxury hotel suite was the wrong thickness (!) I found myself laughing, slightly hysterically, at this remark…

Last night, though, I made a superhuman effort to get Tinytoes bathed and in bed early and Microtoes fed early in time to speak to him before embarking on cooking my dinner. The previous night it had been a bit too late for him to talk, since it is three hours ahead in the Middle East, so yesterday I was determined to be ready a bit earlier so we could actually talk. Imagine my dismay when it took me 30 minutes to get hold of him. And when I explained my efforts, he said defensively – wait for it – ‘I was only having a few drinks!’ Suffice to say, this remark did not leave me laughing, to put it mildly.  Of course I didn’t mind that he was having fun and having a few drinks, but I did mind the lack of compassion given my dramatically different situation.

This morning, frustratingly, I woke of my own accord at 5am. I fed Microtoes at 6am then fell back into a deep slumber, not having heard a peep from Tinytoes all night. At 7.15am I became faintly aware of her cries and got up to go to her room, quite unprepared for what would be awaiting me.  Let me first preface this with the fact that the outside temperature had dipped sharply to just above freezing and the central heating had yet to come on.

I discover Tinytoes, her tiny body freezing cold and totally naked bar her nappy, cowering in the corner of her cot. She had somehow managed to pull off her thick 2.5 tog winter grobag and her babygro and her vest. I pick them up and realise they are slightly damp: her nappy had leaked, hence her wanting to remove them. I touch her skin and it feels icy cold. I feel a wave of horror wash over me as I scoop her up, clean her, put on a fresh nappy and layer upon layer of warm clothes. All the while she is balling her eyes out and screaming at the top of her lungs ‘Daddy, daddy, daddy, daddy!’ and my heart bleeds for her.

I hold her to me as I run downstairs to turn on the heating, wondering how long she’d been like that; freezing cold and naked, whimpering in the corner of her cot.  In terms of parenting failures, this felt pretty epic, although I don’t know how I could have prevented it, save programming the heating to come on earlier or putting her nappy on tighter.  I heat up her milk, rather than giving it to her chilled as usual, but despite all her layers her hands are still cold.  I delay taking her to morning nursery. She has a nasty, rasping cough and I worry that I’ve given her hypothermia.

I achieve little this morning: it takes me an hour to fix the coffee machine, by which time I’m gagging for my daily caffeine fix (reduced to daily because of the breastfeeding). Then another hour to replace the carrycot part of our iCandy peach blossom twin buggy with a seat. The heinously expensive carrycot is meant to last 6 months, yet Microtoes has already outgrown it despite not even being 3 months old! I end up having to call the shop we bought it from as I’m unable to attach the lower seat in a forwards facing position.  The woman ends up FaceTiming me as I’m unable to tell her if the buggy has various components such as ‘elevators’ as I’m unfamiliar with what the &@%# they are. Then my phone dies. Turns out I’m unable to have the seat in a forwards facing position and that’s why it doesn’t fit (!)

This afternoon is filled with dramatic nappy leakages and sullied clothes from both darlings: Tinytoes is teething and Microtoes had her vaccinations yesterday. I eventually manage to bring Microtoes to be weighed, but we almost miss the clinic what with the nappy leakages and opening a letter from passport authorities informing me my application for a passport for Microtoes was rejected because ‘the cheque date was invalid. We have now destroyed it for your security.’ Damnit. We need the passport to travel to France next month and Spain in January to visit respective family members.

What a week. Today I wouldn’t have known it was my wedding anniversary bar a handwritten card from my mother, lying unopened on the kitchen table. Both darlings are now sleeping and I’m burning the midnight oil typing up this blog post. Because it’s cathartic. And because I no longer care if I’m exhausted and wrung out because DaddyO is coming back tomorrow and he can help out.

It’s tough having to cope alone but I’ve been rewarded with some amazing, beautiful moments. Like when Microtoes laughed her first laugh on Monday. A deep, explosive, belly laugh. Time just stood still for a moment. She now tries to talk too. Her own babble, but it sounds exquisite to my ears.

Or Tinytoes calling out ‘Mummy, mummy, mummy’ early one morning before I entered her room (for a Daddy’s girl that’s quite something!).Or helping me change Microtoes’ nappy. Or, entirely of her own accord, bringing me Microtoes’ clothes to help dress her this morning.

And I’ve not been totally alone either. Supergranny has lived up to her name, taking us on an outing to a farm last Sunday, a little shopping outing yesterday, and just generally being ‘there’ around the corner – a fun person to visit and spend time with. Without her being so nearby, the week would have seemed a whole lot longer.