Author: Calamitousmummy

Tinytoes has hit the terrible twos. To be fair she has been ‘spirited’ since she was about 14 months, but now she can talk we are at least beginning to have some insight into what can trigger a temper tantrum. Not that we can always do anything about it, mind.

Now Tinytoes has a peculiar obsession with moons. This recently manifested itself when she was crying in desperation at her Catalan grandparents not understanding the word ‘moon’ in English. “Ah, la lluna!” they repeated when I came into the room and translated.  Tinytoes nodded vigorously with renewed hope that a moon would now be drawn on her blackboard. However, after drawing a moon my mother-in-law made the grave mistake of thinking it would be appropriate to draw a sun next to it. “No no no!” she screamed. “A moon, a moon, a moon!”  Fortunately for my MIL, the chalk could be wiped away and a moon could be drawn in its place. Over and over again.

I had no such luck the following day. After drawing around 30 moons in her note book, I make the fatal error of attempting to draw a planet – Saturn to be exact – in black felt tip pen. “No!” she screamed. “Take it off Mummy!!!!”.  And my heart sank helplessly. Ripping the page out wasn’t an option. Neither was trying to explain that Saturn had moons. I simply had to endure her cries of frustration.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not one for walking on egg shells around my daughter or pandering to her ‘needs’. I just think if a non-essential temper tantrum can be avoided and it’s towards the end of a long day, well, I’ll happily draw 300 moons if it will pass the time until DaddyO walks through the door.  One day last week I began to seriously question my sanity when I looked up from one such moon-drawing frenzy to discover that my audience was no longer there. I was on the sofa colouring in moons and Tinytoes was playing with her Daddy and her baby sister. I think they hadn’t liked to disturb me…

Temper tantrums

Thankfully when Tinytoes hits the pinnacle of her rage, she now takes herself off, of her own volition, to sit on the mat by the front door. When all the doors surrounding her are closed she will sit eerily quietly in the hallway for a good 15 minutes. When she’s ready, and only when she’s ready, she will come out for a ‘cuddle’. This works a treat unless 1) it’s bedtime and I want to get on with cooking the supper/having an evening/life 2) it’s a mealtime and we want her to eat rather than provide her with a crafty getaway 3) we need to go out for whatever reason.

Tinytoes’ confusion about the meaning of certain words often adds an injection of irony to her meltdowns. She thinks ‘want’ means ‘don’t want’ and will wail: “I want it, I want it mummy!” in front of an untouched and eventually cold plate of chicken, carrots and baby potatoes.

She thinks ‘need’, on the other hand, means ‘want’. For example, she will shout in earnest ‘I need granny’ or ‘I need fish fingers!’ When I went with Tinytoes to drop our friends off at the railway station the other day I made the mistake of telling her, “I’ll take you on a train somewhere one day, that would be fun wouldn’t it?’  The words had slipped out of my mouth before I could stop them. And she began shouting ‘Train, train, train,” and with increasing urgency ‘I need a train mummy, I need a train!’. I was treated to a repeat performance the next day when I drove her back from nursery through our local town.

Today, she finally gave up on trains and went back to her usual practice of reciting every single carer’s name at her nursery followed by ‘a nice lady.’ A reassuring, if not slightly irritating, endorsement that we’ve chosen the right nursery. She then continued with her own name, followed by “a nice lady?” Yes, well, you’re a ‘nice girl’. “No no no, nice lady!” her voice began to wobble. There are some battles worth fighting, it’s about choosing the right ones.  “Ok yes you’re a nice lady,’ I replied quickly.

She calmed down then said her baby sister’s name followed by “a nice lady?” “No, a nice baby,” I began, then quickly changed tack. “Yes that’s right a nice lady,” I sighed.  She continued happily, “And daddy’s a nice lady?” I stayed quiet. “Daddy’s a nice lady? Daddy’s a nice lady?”  “Well he’s actually a nice man…but yes yes daddy’s a nice lady, daddy’s a lovely lady,”  I found myself saying, to my disbelief.

Postscript

By way of a postscript (I wrote this 2 days ago but didn’t get a chance to post it) my mother came over today to watch the babies while I had a call with a potential client. When I had finished the call she informed me her granddaughter had told her Daddy was a nice man, she herself was a nice girl, her sister was a nice baby, her granny was a nice lady and that her mummy – wait for it – was a nice girl! So, unless nursery had given her a crash course in family gender, something at least had gone in. And there’s questionably still some youthfulness in me yet.

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This post is basically a list of things that get my goat about other people’s behaviour towards babies. Things that would go into my very own Room 101. They range from mildly obsessive (on my part) to what I consider perfectly reasonable grounds for despair.

1. Playing pass the parcel – figuratively speaking
   By this I mean taking it turns to pick up my baby and pass her around the room. I’m all for cuddles, but babies also need downtime and space to kick. Plus I resent her sweet milky smell being replaced by someone else’s strong perfume.
2. Shoving unwashed fingers (or toys) into their mouths
   Before this precious being I have brought into the world has had anything other than breast milk to swallow, I would prefer it if random people avoided shoving their dirty fingers into her sweet little mouth.  It’s an awkward one to avoid; especially in someone else’s house. I once tried saying ‘ooh! Maybe a toy instead!’ but before I could hand over her fabric caterpillar book, a grime-encrusted plastic rattle was shoved into her mouth instead.  Now I’m all for a bit of dirt to build up a child’s or an older baby’s immunity, but grubby hands in a newborn’s mouth is another matter entirely.
3. Not calling things by their proper names
   A bird is a bird. Not a birdie, or a birdie wurdy. And a horse is a horse.  Not a horsey.  And a dog is not a doggy woggy. And a poo is not a poo poo. You get the gist. As much as I don’t want to come across as a spoilsport, I fail to see the point of teaching your tiny offspring a whole new language, only for them to have to learn the real, more concise names a few years down the line. But I suppose I should really tolerate ‘pussy cat’ and ‘piggy’ since they’re found in nursery rhymes. So are doggy and horsey, come to think of it…
4. Vests with emotive slogans: ‘I love mummy’
   Yes, I’m sure most babies adore their mummy/ daddy/ grandma etc. But they’ll have plenty of opportunity to express their own sentiments in years to come, without needing them to be emblazoned across their chest. I know it’s meant as a bit of fun, but something still rankles. ‘Little princess’ is another bugbear of mine. If, on the other hand, it’s facts not feelings we’re dealing with, then it’s a slightly different matter. A quick Google image search revealed there are some pretty dodgy babywear slogans out there, but one did make me smile: ‘Sorry ladies, my daddy’s taken.’ Not forgetting, either, that we silently announced my second pregnancy with a vest that Tinytoes wore with the words: “I’m going to be a big sister.”
5. Nappy changing bystanders
   Q:How many people do you need to change a nappy? A: one. This one goes out to people who like to gather around to watch nappy changes, bath times or other intimate baby moments. From a practical point of view, it just isn’t helpful. Microtoes is a very wriggly baby and nappy changing needs to be fast and slick to ensure the new nappy is on before she has flipped over. Distractions or unwanted interventions tend to result in shit-flicking disaster. On another level, it feels slightly voyeuristic to be gathered around staring at my baby’s naked butt when there is clearly no other purpose to be there. Ditto for bath times: for space reasons alone there is no need for more than two adults to be standing and staring in a small bathroom while two babies are being bathed. Thank goodness no one has yet tried to observe breastfeeds….

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DaddyO has just returned a day early from a week in Miami – and not a minute too soon. It’s so hard looking after two tinies on your own, whilst simultaneously trying to run your own business.

Being a breastfeeding mummy it’s sort of tacitly assumed that I am the one to stay at home and look after the children. After all I have my own business and work from home, so it’s the ideal situation. Microtoes can’t go to nursery yet as she won’t take a bottle. And in fact I’m glad she can’t, because she’s only 7 months old and I’m not ready to part with her yet.  Tinytoes only goes four mornings a week, because she’s only two years old and I’m not ready to part with her yet either…

I had the rare luxury of having both parents at home while I was growing up. My father was a lot older than my mother, so he took early retirement and my mother stopped working when they married. We got by living off his pension as they knew their days together would sadly be numbered.

It’s hard to have it all though isn’t it? I want to replicate my happy and idyllic childhood for my own children, but am all too aware things need to be done differently.

Coping alone with the tines this was 10 times more difficult than I imagined. DaddyO travels a lot, but not usually for a whole week. And I didn’t exactly start the week in a refreshed state of mind:

Turdgate unfolds

On the eve of his departure poor Tinytoes had a near miss with the potty. It would have all been fine, had her ‘deposit’ not stayed attached to her as she stood up. It sort of slid down her leg and onto the floor as she moved away from the potty.

Yours truly, meanwhile, was bathing her baby sister; unable to take my eyes off her for more than a few seconds. DaddyO was meant to be supervising afore-mentioned potty activity.  I glanced up to see DaddyO staring in surprise at the large turd on the bathroom floor. When he finally set off in search of a baby wipe, he was followed by Tinytoes, unwittingly depositing another, smaller turd on the carpet as she went.

Being a bit of a hygiene freak, I found it tough to contain my despair at the disaster unfolding before my eyes – wasn’t DaddyO meant to be watching her?! – all the while aware I needed to heap praise on poor Tinytoes for her potty efforts, which went wrong through no fault of her own.

Later on, after both tots had finally been bathed, I noticed the turd had mysteriously disappeared from the carpet. DaddyO, trying to be helpful, had removed it. But there was no indication of where exactly it had been! So we ended up having to carpet clean the entire landing!  By then it was getting seriously late, we were exhausted and still had to cook supper, eat it and tidy up. So much for an early night…

Glassgate occurs

Much later, after I had given Microtoes her 11pm feed, DaddyO helpfully went to the bathroom to replenish my pint glass with water. Finally sleep was in sight. Seconds later I heard the noise of glass shattering. Everywhere. All over the bathroom floor.

I wasn’t cross he’d dropped it, he was tired and these things happen. But I was desperately tired and resented him taking 30 minutes to clear it up and covering the broom in tiny shards of glass. And the bathroom floor for that matter, as I later discovered.

Poor DaddyO was only doing his best, but sleep deprivation and stress can turn you into a grumpy cow when you’re exhausted and your body is crying out for sleep. By 1am we were finally asleep.

DaddyO’s departure

He left early the next morning. Turdgate and glassgate paled into insignificance during the week to follow. Microtoes came down with a fever of 39 degrees and a viral rash all over her tummy and back. Thank God for SuperGranny, who lives in the same village and was able to come over to help look after Tinytoes, while I cared for Microtoes.  I seriously do not know how I would have coped otherwise.

It’s been an exhausting week, mainly because I was consumed with worry about Microtoes for the first part of it, who only now is beginning to eat normally again. And both babies are teething. And I’m in the middle of taking on not one, not two, but hopefully three new clients.

As the week went by, I confess to feeling increasingly envious that DaddyO was spending a whole week in balmy Miami, while I fretted over Microtoes not eating and Tinytoes screaming out in the night. I used to travel overseas with my work too, but now a one hour meeting in a London office has been the most I can manage (and even then I’ve had to travel with DaddyO and Microtoes in convoy, feeling guilty about DaddyO having to take a day off work so I could feed her before and after the meeting).

Last night, when I found out DaddyO would be coming back a day early, I was almost too exhausted to feel any emotion. Of course I was over the moon, but I was so burnt out I was a shadow of the person who had got annoyed about the glass – and other matter – on the bathroom floor.

I realise I just about cope staying at home while DaddyO goes out to work in the daytime. I just about manage to juggle clients and business development during nap times and nursery times, and then try to fit in walks and fun activities for the children in amongst the shopping, cooking, washing etc. But I struggle to manage the sleepless nights and mornings and evenings by myself too.

With DaddyO back home again I can breathe again. Now he’s back I realise how amazingly helpful he is. That we’re a team. He can break as many glasses as he likes (preferably not in the bathroom) and un-observe as many potty attempts as he likes – I’m just glad he’s back!

For anyone considering flying with a baby and a barely-two-year old, or one or the other, I’ve come up with some handy hints to help eliminate episodes of humiliation or desperation*.  Having travelled in consecutive weeks to France and back to see my family and then to Spain and back to visit DaddyM’s family, I feel something of a seasoned veteran in easyJet flying with tots. In no particular order, here are some of my top tips, complete with anecdotal insight:

*Please note there is no guarantee you will neither despair nor be humiliated…

1. Take a sticker book

   One of my best uni friends, B, gave MiniM#1 a dinosaur sticker book when she came down for MiniM#2’s baptism and this quite literally kept her occupied the entire outbound leg of the journey to France and most of the way back home again. Ok so Mummy and DaddyM had to assist with dinosaur-sticking (helping detach each individual sticker and then making sure they weren’t stuck in the sky/ upside down/ or in the wrong section of the book) but it was well worth the effort. A happy MiniM#1 = happy easyJet passengers + happy Mummy and DaddyM.

2. Explain the order of events carefully

   Similarly to older generations, very young children are not so good at expecting the unexpected. They like routine and knowing what is going to happen when. But this is where the similarities with elderly relatives end. We’ve learnt the hard way that if you combine an overexcited, overtired two year old with an unexpected event – like having to fasten your seat belt when the plane starts its descent – they may put on a rather spectacular display of resistance. Even if they’ve been immaculately behaved thus far with afore-mentioned sticker book.
   In our case MiniM#1 began screaming at the top of her lungs when we insisted she needed to strap in. Since she’d only turned two the week before, we asked the friendly air steward if she could be strapped to a parent like her younger sister. He dismissed this idea, calling in reinforcement in the form of another male member of the cabin crew.
   All the while I was discretely trying to breastfeed MiniM#2: bearing in mind it is tricky to discretely do anything when you have a two year old screaming at the top of her lungs right next to you. It kind of attracts attention.
   “I’m sorry but we will not be able to land the plane unless she is strapped in.” The friendly air steward was looking a little less friendly.
   By now there were three grown men – DaddyM and the two air stewards – trying to restrain MiniM#1. Every time she kicked or let out an anguished wail, MiniM#2 would come off my breast and whirl her head around in wide-eyed wonderment to see what was going on. As would the people in the row in front. And those in the rows in front of them…
   By this stage I was beyond feeling mortified. Instead, I began to find the whole thing hysterically funny. I just sat there laughing and trying, somewhat unsuccessfully, to hide my face and breast from the astonished stares in our direction.
   The air stewards decided it would be a good idea to give MiniM#1 a chance to calm down or the plane would need to start circling. As she sat there, puce in the face and shuddering from all her screaming, DaddyM gently leant across and strapped her in. Just like that. She barely moved; exhausted from all her exertion.
   Before the return journey took place, we calmly explained the order of events that would take place right from handing in her luggage, with which she would be reunited upon arrival at Gatwick airport, through to folding up her tray table – and other such events – prior to landing. As such there was no more inconsolable anguish at seeing her beloved Bee Trunki disappear along the luggage belt at check-in, nor was there any more airborne resistance at inflight safety procedure. Everything went like clockwork once we’d told her what was going to happen. Give or take…

3. Give timely feeds

   You’ve probably heard that it’s advisable to feed babies (and give a drink to small children) when the plane is taking off and landing. Unlike adults, they are unable to make their ears pop by themselves when there is a change in cabin air pressure. The right time to feed a baby is meant to be when you can feel the pressure start to change in your own ears. However, I’ve now made a mental note to try to avoid pilot announcements during breastfeeds. Or rather wait until an announcement has just taken place before beginning a breastfeed, thus reducing the likelihood of one occurring mid-feed as happened when we were flying to Barcelona. Tucked away discretely (or so I thought) by a window on the left-hand side of the plane, MiniM#2 had just started to feed on my left breast when the pilot’s voice came over the tannoy; “We are now cruising at a height of 45,000 feet and are about to begin our descent towards Barcelona. If you look towards your left now you will see a stunning view of the French Pyrenees.”
   The noise of the tannoy prompted MiniM#2 to jerk her head clean off my breast just as the entire two rows to the right of me began craning their heads around to stare through the window that my now bare breast was silhouetted against. I didn’t know whether to be amused or horrified as I watched the expression on people’s faces change from curiosity to embarrassment.

4. Keep a close eye on your little darlings at all times

   This may sound too obvious for me even to mention. Of course you’ll keep a watchful eye on them. Who would be dumb enough to lose their own children? *clears throat awkwardly*. Well we managed to lose MiniM#1 going through security at Barcelona airport…
   At Gatwick security check we were spoilt. We each had an airport official helping us load our paraphernalia onto the conveyer belt. We managed to leave a large nappy bag and baby sling squashed under the buggy I was wheeling through the metal detector, but the kind official took apart the buggy to retrieve them and placed them on the conveyer belt, while I just stood there cuddling MiniM#2.
   In stark contrast we were left to fend for ourselves at Barcelona. I was told to dismantle the entire buggy and actually place it on the conveyer belt. This is easier said than done whilst carrying a weighty baby in a sling. DaddyM, who was up ahead with MiniM#1, had put the other suitcases onto the conveyer belt and was being told to empty the coins out of his pocket and place them in a tray. As the larger pieces of buggy were carried into the scanner they began to cause an almighty blockage. More people kept piling on trays so that when the blockage was eventually released, objects began to shoot out the other side at high velocity. The tray with DaddyM’s loose change was tipped up vertically and our last remaining euros were sent showering everywhere.
   DaddyM let out an uncharacteristically loud expletive and began scrambling around on his hands and knees to pick up the coins and other items that had fallen. I meanwhile, was trying to heave heavy luggage off the conveyer belt as delicately as possible given I was carrying a young baby in a sling.
   When I’d finished putting the buggy back together, DaddyM had got up from the floor and was picking up the last suitcase. And MiniM#1…. Was nowhere to be seen. “Where is she?” I said very loudly. “She’s gone!” even louder.  DaddyM looked as startled as I did and sprinted off towards the DutyFree shop.
   “La meva figlia! Mi hija!” I shouted, glued to the spot with powerless panic. “Don’t worry,” a Spanish official said, “she can’t have gone far.” Time seemed to stand still and I felt sick, staring around stupidly but not seeing her. Then a rush of relief as I heard the words “we’ve found her, Señora, here she is.” But I was being presented with the wrong child. A bemused dark-haired girl was shoved in my direction, her parents looking even more bewildered. “That’s not her! Where is she?!” I wailed. Then suddenly, as if from no where ,MiniM#1 appeared. There she was at my feet, looking a bit scared. I scooped her up and gave her the biggest ever hug. She clung on tightly too. She was probably only missing all of 60 seconds but it was the longest 60 seconds of my life.
   Now to find her missing daddy…

5. Exhaust them so they sleep

   On the return legs of each set of flights, both babies slept for a considerable chunk of the journey. It was bliss. DaddyM had a coffee and I had a tea and a kitkat and we flicked through the easyJet flight magazine. And looked at each other in jubilant disbelief.
   Staying away for a few nights and breaking from their usual routine naturally exhausts very young children. In an ideal world I’d recommend exhausting them before the outbound flight too, but in practice this is harder to achieve. Travelling in the afternoon definitely guarantees they are more tired, but there’s a fine line between slightly tiring them – enough to be fractious and disruptive – and totally knackering them enough to sleep.

6. Watch them as you pull along the Trunki

   Trunki suitcases are a great invention for not only keeping small children entertained at airports, but also for transporting the child – and the suitcase itself – as you pull it along. However, if, like us, you chose to ignore the product warning of not being suitable for children under 36 months, I would advise you to turn your head 180 degrees to watch the child in question being trundled along. Even if it means that you yourself walk smack into someone. And not to be simultaneously pushing your other baby in a buggy, given the impossibility of looking backwards and forwards at the same time.
   So it was that DaddyM was striding out of the luggage claim area with a trolley literally groaning with our luggage (baby paraphernalia combined with Christmas presents), while muggins here was pulling along MiniM#1 on her beloved Bee Trunki, whilst pushing MiniM#2 in front of me in the carrycot. The airport was heaving. I managed to negotiate the thongs of people and headed towards the exit doors. As I passed through them I heard a thunk and a wail. I turned around just in time to see MiniM#1 bounce off a metal pole and come tumbling off her Bee. I had pulled my poor daughter into a metal pole! Luckily we were traveling extremely slowly but I would strongly recommend exercising extreme caution when using a Trunki.

7. Travel at Christmas
   Not only are the cabin crew full of festive cheer, but we were regaled with easyJet orange Father Christmas hats (had to end of a positive note after Trunkigate… )

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Tinytoes and Microtoes slept really well last night, whereas I lay wide awake for much of it. When DaddyO travels I feel the need to be more alert and awake. Which is silly really because I’m usually the lighter sleeper anyway; my ears tuned in to detect the smallest wail or whimper.

I kept expecting Microtoes to wake for a feed, but the past two nights she has slept through – from 7pm to 6.30am. This is unchartered territory for me. I’m used to feeding her at 11pm and then again at 3.30am.  I started weaning her on Sunday but would be surprised if the miniscule amount of baby rice I manage to cram into her mouth mid-breastfeed on two lunchtimes could have had such a dramatic impact on her sleep.

Tinytoes also slept right through in her new, adult-sized single bed which arrived last week. The girls were undoubtedly tired out from the excitement of being stranded in a car yesterday…

It had all been going so well. Tinytoes was so pleased to see me when I came to collect her at nursery that she shouted ‘mummy!’ in delight and then put her coat and shoes on without any fuss, before reaching out for my hand and carefully walking down the stairs with me to the car. She then climbed into her car seat and patiently waited for me to strap her in while I strapped Microtoes into her car seat.

In my dazed state you would be forgiven for thinking that maybe I had picked up the wrong child, but no, it was definitely Tinyotes. The new, revolutionised nursey pick-up routine, which has immeasurably improved the quality of my daily life, is solely down to Tinytoes moving up a level last week. She is now slightly out of her depth, playing alongside 2-4 year olds rather than 0-1 year olds.

She’s gradually settling in, but still overjoyed to see me and come back home. No longer do I have to chase her around the nursery while carrying Microtoes, just to put her coat on. Or to patiently reason, cajole and then coerce her to come down the stairs. The whole process of simply exiting the nursery would sometimes take 45 minutes, but today it only took 8 minutes.

I was quietly congratulating myself on such a speedy turnaround as I pulled the car out onto the main road. Frowned as it felt slightly strange to drive –  I was in third gear but the car wasn’t accelerating properly, it was just rattling – then felt dismay wash over me as I realised something was seriously wrong with the car.

Back by the side of the road I quickly realised my front, offside tyre was completely flat. DaddyO was at the airport about the board a plane to Italy and suggested I tried to put the spare tyre on the car myself using the kit in the boot (!) Was this some kind of joke?  Yes I’d fitted a spare tyre on our hire car in Cuba in 2007, but we got rather a lot of practise at that because we got through three tyres on that trip, and that was 10 years ago; and it was a balmy 30 degrees rather than four degrees like today. Oh and I didn’t have two babies sitting in the back of the car.

Two babies looking up at me in surprised, yet unperturbed expectation, somehow taking it for granted that Mummy would know what to do.  I called Granny who was at a reunion 2 hours away. With only 30% battery left on my phone I called the RAC; thank goodness we renewed our membership.  By the time the woman on the other end of the phone had identified our whereabouts I only had 5% battery. “Someone will be with you at around 3pm,” she concluded. “That’s nearly 2 hours away! I have 2 infants in the back and it’s freezing cold,” I spluttered, at which point Tinytoes started a low wail of despair and I knew it wouldn’t be long until Microtoes joined in.

Luckily, things couldn’t have worked out better for us (except if I’d hadn’t broken down in the first place of course). I texted Granny to see if she had any local friends who could help, then made a last-ditched plea on social media. Granny texted back to say she had found an old lady V from her bridge club who would be coming to pick us up in a silver Honda.  My phone promptly died.

As we sat and waited for the Honda to arrive, Tinytoes had a whale of a time romping around inside the car and Microtoes fell fast asleep. Barely 10 minutes later we were all crammed into the back of the Honda; Tinytoes on my lap (I later discovered this was not illegal for short, emergency journeys, so I was not incriminating V) and Microtoes beside us in her detachable car seat. V turned out to be a lovely old lady, well into her late 80s, and I felt uncomfortable for dragging her out of her warm flat to chauffer her bridge friend’s daughter and grandchildren back home.

Not long after we got back – both girls were settled to sleep and I was preparing my lunch – than the phone rang and the guy from the RAC was already with the car, telling me there was a ‘pinhole’ in the side of the wheel.  “Hmm did someone do that deliberately?” I mused indignantly. “Either that or the wheel was scraped along the edge of the kerb,” he replied. I had a sudden flashback of nearly arriving late at nursery because Microtoes had needed a nappy change just as I was leaving the house. I drove there quickly and to ease parking I carelessly let the wheel ride up onto the kerb and drop back down onto the road.  “Oops, that would have been me then…”

The man from the RAC went above and beyond the call of duty; driving all the way to my home to pick up my keys. He then drove back to the abandoned car, retrieved the spare tyre from the boot and fitted it, before driving back to return my keys to me. After I’d thanked him profusely, it transpired it had been a nightmare for him because it had been school home time and I’d left the car outside a school. The whole road was blocked with a long queue of buses, struggling to get past my car, which I’d left slightly sticking out in my haste to turn off the engine.

Later than evening, Granny drove me and the girls back up to reclaim the car and then we drove back home in separate cars. I was sheepish I put so many people out – the old lady, the RAC man, my mother – all because I’d parked carelessly. I, on the other hand, got off rather lightly, all things considered. And the girls were none the wiser; just another day full of curious events.

It’s been a long time since my last blog post. There have been so many things I’ve wanted to write about, but simply not been able to come up for air. Like Microtoes being baptised (when Tinytoes gazed intently at the vicar before dipping her chubby hand into the font and splashing water onto her own forehead…)  Or when Tinytoes turned two and was given a tour of a fire station (by a rather astonished fireman who had clearly never given a tour to someone so young).

I’ve been too busy to write, because I’ve been juggling. Not literally juggling (that would be a bit weird..). I’ve been trying to do other things besides being a mother of two tiny people. It’s not that I’ve been oblivious to how full-on it is with the relentless breastfeeding, nappy changing, playing, singing, clothes washing, cooking, cleaning and tidying.  Far from it. Half of me just wants to be ‘lazy’ and stay at home doing all of the above.

But the other half of me realises that if I’m able to do ‘non-mummy’ activities, such as going for a run, seeing friends or continuing to run my own marketing business then, although its uses up more energy, it lifts my spirits and gives me a different purpose. I return from a run feeling revived, refreshed and with renewed stamina to face the wrath of a grumpy two-year old or the cries of an overtired baby that won’t settle. And winning over a new client gives me a new purpose: the buzz of satisfaction inherent in growing a business (as well as two small children…) And seeing friends is just, well, nice.

To stay motivated I set myself a challenge of running 2km when Microtoes was 2 months old, 3km when she was 3 months old and so on and so forth. That way I wouldn’t be running a marathon until she was precisely 3 years and 6 months old.  It was all going beautifully to plan; by the time Microtoes turned 4 months I was running 4 km two or three times a week. Either at the weekend, or my mother would come by midweek and watch Microtoes for 20 minutes or so.   Work I squeezed in as and I when I could; which was becoming increasingly tricky as Microtoes began to nap less in the daytime.

Things came to a head just before Christmastime. We had two trips planned (since before I was even pregnant) – one to France to stay with my family and one to Spain to stay with DaddyO’s family – and both within the space of two weeks. I had been apprehensive prior to leaving. Holidays with extended family aren’t terribly relaxing at the best of times and travelling with two small children, one of which developed bronchiolitis the eve of going to France, meant I was even more on edge about being out of my comfort zone.

I won’t go through all the ins and outs of the trips – maybe save some of the more humorous travelling highlights for another blog post.  The day we were due to France, however, I was trundling my suitcase along at Gatwick airport and I felt my left knee give way.  I don’t know if it was because I had been running that morning or just one of those things that happen now I’m the ripe old age of 38. When I got back from France the osteopath told me I’d damaged my meniscus cartilage. No running for 6 weeks.

Once I’d got over the shock of not being allowed to run, I actually felt a sense of relief. I had clearly been doing too much in a bid to remind myself of some of the (tamer) thrills from my previous life. Of course I’ve missed the endorphins, but after my body stopped running I began to realise how desperately tired and tense I was. Running was just my way of ploughing on through.

When I returned from Spain I saw a cranial osteopath, J, who noticed my body was so tense and stiff that she hardly touched my knee, but focused on the rest of my body instead. I have another appointment on Wednesday for the knee. J worked wonders on me. There’s a great deal to be said for talking to a compassionate professional about what you are unable to admit friends, family or even yourself.  I was clearly doing too much and my body was testimony to this.

I spend the next two days in a state of relaxed lethargy, sleeping a lot more than usual and feeling strangely light and almost heady. Then on Saturday I suffered one of my aura migraines, where my vision goes like shattered glass. Thank goodness it was a weekend and I was with DaddyO and not alone with the children. He drove us back home from town and I retreated to bed. Never have I experienced such nausea and pain with the headache: one of the worst I’ve ever had. These headaches tend to occur when I start to relax after periods of extreme stress, so I guess this was some pretty hard-core relaxing I had underway.

My next appointment with J to focus on my knee is on Wednesday but my knee already feels better. Finally I’m able to crawl into Tinytoes’ castle wendy house she got for Christmas when she shouts ‘Mummy in!’. It’s still quite an operation if I’m carrying Microtoes too, but it makes me feel less of a spoilsport (and more on a par with DaddyO who seems to meet her demands more easily).

Body and mind are so closely entwined. I’ve realised that if I try to fit too much in and my mind can’t cope with doing everything then my body packs in too. And I’m no good to anyone. Least of all my beautiful daughters. So I’m embracing the fact I cannot run at the moment and am working as and when I can. Finally I took J’s advice and bit the bullet and directly asked my dear mother if she could watch Microtoes a morning a week for 2 hours while Tinytoes is in nursery.  And she agreed. So now I have 2 hours a week where I can properly work, write my blog post, tidy the house.. or simply just have a long hot bath and reflect on how lucky I am!

As a small business owner I can never really be off-duty, even on maternity leave. I still need to commission projects to subcontactors, monitor business finances and be on the lookout for new clients. My dismay at one client recently deciding not to renew their contract was counterbalanced by the thrill of a new, larger corporation expressing interest in my company’s services. This interest led to an initial phone call one morning when Tinytoes was safely at nursery and Microtoes was quietly napping. In turn, the phone call led to a request for a face-to-face meeting at the firm’s offices up in Moorgate, East London.

What would normally have been a run-of-the-mill trip up to the city transpired to be an epic journey with military scale planning. Given I had always purely breastfed Microtoes directly and not yet given her expressed milk, it was decided that DaddyO would take the day off work and travel up to London with me and Microtoes. I would feed her on the train, head to the meeting and then feed her again after the meeting. Simple. Or so I thought.

I suffered a moment of mild panic when my contact at the London-based firm emailed to say she needed to change the day of our meeting because they had to rehearse for an important webinar. Not only had I paid for my Paris-based colleague M to come over by Eurostar to join me for the meeting, but DaddyO had already booked his time off work. Without sounding too desperate, I eventually managed to convince them to rejig their schedule to fit us in on the original date.  M would now arrive halfway through the meeting, but at least she would be there for some of the time.

As the day drew near, I began to worry Microtoes would last the duration of my absence without milk. She was going through a 4 month growth spurt, feeding every 1-3 hours in the day and every 3-4 hours at night. So, I dug out the expressing equipment, which I carefully washed and sterilised, before expressing out enough breastmilk to last her an entire afternoon.  Just in case.

Instead of preparing for the meeting itself, I found myself preparing the logistics of leaving my baby with my husband: spare clothes (for her not him), spare nappies, wipes, toys, blankets, baby sling so he could go to the gents without leaving her (with strict instructions that she should be inward not outward facing)… I began littering the house with notes so as not to forget the expressed milk, train times and the time we needed to leave the house for the station – I allowed 45 minutes to drive from our house to the station carpark alone as we would need to unload the buggy and all the paraphernalia, buy the tickets and get onto the train.

I had to rethink my wardrobe too as my normal business attire was woefully too tight for my postnatal body. Thank goodness I had some smart business clothes left over from my pre-marathon running days; when I was less skinny than my pre-pregnancy days. I manged to squeeze into a shiny black pencil skirt from Whistles and thankfully found just one loose-fitting, smart red jacket that  would fasten over my milk-engorged breasts. I wore a breastfeeding top which would stay hidden underneath.

D day arrived and we left the house at 10.15am allowing plenty of time for me to get to my 1pm meeting. I would leave DaddyO and Microtoes in one of the baby-friendly cafés I had researched in London Bridge and then take the tube two stops to my meeting in Moorgate.

When we got to the station I realised the train was direct to London Victoria, not London Bridge, so we would need to change at East Croydon. I decided to feed Microtoes just before changing trains as I figured the next train would be crowded with commuters.

A few seconds after starting the feed we heard that familiar low rumble akin to a jet plane taking off. We instantly knew it would be a messy nappy and DaddyO gallantly headed off in the direction of the train toilets, to spare any literal fallout onto my smart clothes.

As the stations flitted by and the train edged its way closer to East Croydon I began to worry I would be leaving the train with DaddyO and Microtoes still in the train toilets.

He emerged in the nick of time, looking flustered and gripping a half-dressed baby (I hadn’t expected the change of clothes to come into play so soon) for us to grab the baby paraphernalia and finish off dressing her on the platform of East Croydon station.

Things started to go wrong when we realised the onward train to London Bridge was 30 minutes delayed. Thanks to all the extra time I had allowed, I would still be at my meeting in time but it would be tight.

The train eventually pulled up to the platform, 2 minutes ahead of its predicted delay. We jumped on and sat down, surprised that not more people were piling on. Moments later I twigged we were on the wrong train. It was heading to Victoria. I let out a few expletives and emailed the prospective client to let them know I would be running late.

It was actually taking M less time to travel from Paris to the meeting than it was taking me, who lives just 30 miles outside London.

Suffice to say I arrived late and flustered to the meeting, having travelled 8 stops on two different tube lines.  Not the greatest of starts.

And so it was that nearly five months of maternity leave, three sleepless nights in a row and a desperate dash across London on the tube had left my mind slightly cloudy. My company overview began in too much detail – so, halfway through I decided to condense it by describing the five main facets of the business in a punchy, bullet point format.

The three people sitting opposite me picked up their pens and began to take notes. But when I got to point 4 I realised with a sinking feeling that I’d run out of facets. Maybe I’d grouped together some of the facets. Or maybe there were more that I’d forgotten about.  In any case there were three faces looking up at me, pens poised, so I improvised and blurted out a few services we used to do in the past while they scribbled away earnestly.

M arrived only 10 minutes after me – luckily she missed the painful company overview – and I was glad we were now two against three.

The meeting finished abruptly owing to the webinar rehearsals and we were told the company would be in touch following its budget planning meeting next week.

I had planned to invite M back to London Bridge (now Victoria..) for a coffee and introduce her to Microtoes, but before heading into Moorgate station I gave DaddyO a quick call to see how things were going. I heard shrill screaming and then my husband’s normally calm voice telling me to ‘come back now! “What’s happened?” I asked, panic rising. “She won’t take the bottle and she’s hungry and screaming the place down. Just get here now!”

I turned to M “I’m so sorry I have to go…” before hotfooting it as fast as I could back across London to Victoria, my heart pounding at the thought of my baby in distress. I found DaddyO having left the coffee shop, was pacing around the station with Microtoes now fast asleep in the buggy.

I had barely been apart from her for 2 hours – and the meeting had only lasted 1 hour – but we had spent an entire day running around like headless chickens. I marvel at how complicated it is to juggle babies and work.

Thankfully SuperGranny was on hand to pick up Tinytoes from nursery – I’m not sure we could have handled both babies on our elaborate journey to London and back.

‘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.