Author: Calamitousmummy

Sorry love.. Builders in the house

Calamitousmummy

img_1693Wednesdays are always more complicated, because it’s the one weekday that Tinytoes doesn’t spend the morning in nursery. Juggling two little ones by myself early in the morning is trickier than in the afternoon for three main reasons: 1) I’m usually half asleep 2) It takes a while for Tinytoes to recover from her raging despair at seeing her beloved Baba (Deardaddy) walk out the door to work and 3) Microtoes needs feeding quite a lot when she wakes up, making it tricky for me to entertain Tinytoes.

Today however, is different. We have special, in-house entertainment in the form of two balding builders from Manchester who have come to fit a new tile roof onto our conservatory. Tinytoes had been at nursery when they’d arrived at 8am yesterday morning (looking astonishingly cheerful after a 4.5 hour drive… ) and she napped and played at Supergranny’s in the afternoon until after they had left, so was none the wiser to their existence.

Things don’t get off to great start today, however. At 7.45am there is a loud knock at the door. I frown. One of the builders is already on the roof, as we had left them keys to the back door so they could come and go as they pleased without having to bother me.  DearDaddy has recently left and Tinytoes still has tears in her eyes. Luckily Microtoes has just fed and is sleeping. I scoop Tinytoes up in my arms, rush down the stairs and fling open the door. We’re still in our nightwear, with crazy hair. I find myself face to face with the other builder.  Turns out he hadn’t known about the keys. “Sorry love, did I wake yer?” Chance would be a fine thing, I think, but accept that my dishevelled appearance must have suggested the contrary.

After dressing Tinytoes and Mircotoes (I always seem to forget about me..) making the builders cups of tea and giving Tinytoes her Weetabix, I sit down to feed Microtoes again, with my back to the kitchen door. Everything is surprisingly peaceful. The door suddenly flies open. “Sorry love, can we see your copy of the contract?”

“Erm.. I’m breastfeeding at the moment… give me a few minutes.”

“Sorry love!”

I wait for Tiny and Micro to finish feeding, relieved I’d had my back to the door. I’m in a dilemma. I’m sure the contract is upstairs, but I can’t take them both up with me and look for the contract, just in case Tinytoes unwittingly does something to harm her newborn sister.  Since most of Tinytoes’ toys are downstairs, I whisk Microtoes into my arms and head upstairs, knowing full well my actions may well trigger a meltdown; Tinytoes is unlikely to handle her mummy going off alone with her little sister for any length of time.

I look everywhere for the contract, with increasing annoyance. It’s nowhere to be seen and I’d been hoping to have my breakfast instead of looking for the wretched contract. Amazingly the only noises to be heard from downstairs are the occasional sounds of banging and drilling.

Eventually I give up – I didn’t have the foggiest where the contract was – and I was beginning to worry about the ominous lack of sound from Tinytoes:  far more concerning than any wailing.

I run downstairs and find her with her face pressed to the conservatory glass door staring, transfixed at the builders. She’s not even aware I’m in the room.

I apologise to the builder for not finding the contract and ask why he needed it. “Oh it was just to know how many LED lights you wanted fitting.” I sigh. That wasn’t even in the contact as we had decided later! I tell him we wanted six.  “Cheers, love”.

Before getting too annoyed at having raced around like a crazy thing hunting for a contract that wasn’t needed, I turn to look at Tinytoes. She is still staring through the door at the roof work, utterly captivated.

I decide to count my blessings and get on with the household chores, even managing to get showered and dressed without her noticing.  Microtoes is lulled to sleep by the noise of the electric drill. Maybe having builders in the house isn’t such a bad thing after all…

When to push the panic button

Calamitousmummy

keep-calm-and-carry-on-original-wallpaper-1It would be so much easier if babies came with bespoke instruction manuals. (Bet DearDaddy thinks the same about me sometimes…)   Last night, soon after Tinytoes had gone off to sleep, Microtoes, began crying. And I mean really crying.   That in itself would not have given us cause for panic. I mean she’s a 6 week old baby, that’s what they do. Except that Microtoes rarely cries; usually only a gentle whimper when she wants a feed.

Maybe she’s having a growth spurt, I wonder. I proceed to feed her and feed her for several hours. She glugs down the milk, but cries incessantly between feeds.

She seldom wants winding, but maybe that’s the problem and giving her more milk is just making matters worse? We trying patting her and gently jigging her up and down but still the crying continues. DearDaddy thinks we should try Infacol, but as I squirt the pipette into her mouth, Microtoes turns a deep red and starts properly wailing and spits the medication back out.

Last week at our 6 week check-up the doctor had agreed Microtoes had a possible ‘umbilical hernia’ (where the stomach muscles don’t join completely after birth and the intestine or other tissues bulge through). Her advice had been to “go to A&E immediately if she starts to cry or the belly button looks any different.”

We notice Microtoes’ belly button is more raised than usual and slightly discoloured. But surely taking her to A&E is a little extreme? It’s 11pm. Tinytoes is finally sleeping soundly (after 3 consecutive sleepless nights of terrible teething). Do we really want to wake her up and rush the whole family to our nearest A&E – a 45 minute drive away – in the middle of the night? Besides maybe her belly button has always been slightly discoloured and we hadn’t noticed? And it does tend to distend randomly; which is apparently common with umbilical hernias. And babies do cry…

I start sobbing as I’m overcome with exhaustion and worry and simply don’t know what to do for the best. I feed her again. Guiltily, we decide that sleep is the best possible action, and that I would take her to the local surgery in the morning.  We all sleep deeply until 5am.

Microtoes awakes her usual happy and gurgling self. When I call the surgery this morning I’m told appointments are fully booked.  I describe the issue and a doctor calls me back immediately to say we can be seen.

“You did the right thing bringing her in,” he says, after examining her carefully. “You don’t need to push the panic button just yet, but she does have a hernia and if the umbilical area gets any darker then you’ll need to call 999 for an ambulance to bring her to A&E and be immediately operated on.” A darker colour would denote strangulation of the bowel and could cut of her blood supply within hours. Last night’s crying, however, was probably unrelated (hers, not mine). Maybe it was just a growth spurt.

As I walk back home I wonder how much darker the belly button needs to be for me to call for an ambulance. And how I’d remember the exact colour it is at the moment to be able to compare.  Microtoes smiles up at me, and I focus on the fact that everything is currently ok and she’s a happy, beautiful baby. I think that’s all a parent can do really.

Bit of a boob in church

Calamitousmummy

This morning is our second stab at attending Sunday worship since Microtoes was born. I’ve always been a church goer, albeit with wavering regularity, and DearDaddy dutifully comes along with me. It’s actually proven quite a handy way of keeping Tinytoes entertained on long Sunday mornings, which begin so much earlier than they used to.

Embarrassingly, it’s also tended to be Tinytoes entertaining the congregation at our local village church, which is almost entirely made up of rather elderly parishioners. They coo and chuckle at her as she grins away, popping up from behind the pews during silent prayer or wandering out into the middle of the church halfway through the sermon. 

With a very young baby in tow now too, I am slightly wary of the dynamics of keeping Tinytoes in check and making sure Microtoes is fed and in a clean nappy (both of which needing doing at a fairly astonishing frequency). Bearing in mind we are not only on public display but in a church, I am apprehensive about how it will all work out.

Two weeks ago, it had all gone horribly wrong.

It had been a ‘goodbye service’ for the Canon at the church in the town I grew up in. Mircotoes was only four weeks old and I was nervous for all the above reasons. Things didn’t get off to a great start when I got the time wrong and we arrived at 9.30am instead of 10am. As more and more people filed in, we became squashed in at the back of the building next to my old headmaster, of all people, who was now a reverend at the church.

Towards the end of the two hour service Tinytoes began to get increasingly tired and hungry and thought it would be fun to squirt her fruit sachet all over her clean outfit, the floor and DearDaddy. At that exact time, Microtoes began to cry for a feed. I’m shy at breastfeeding at the best of times, let alone in a place of worship and sitting next to my former headmaster. Luckily I was not only wearing a very discrete nursing top, but I had taken the precaution of draping a wide scarf over my shoulder just in case.

I grabbed a handful of baby wipes to give to DearDaddy and self-consciously picked up Mircotoes. My dismay at seeing DearDaddy shoving a wodge of babywipes dripping in sticky goo into my former headmaster’s outstretched hands, was counterbalanced by the fact that the fruit sachet incident had ensured there was enough distraction going on for me to safely breastfeed without anyone noticing. Or so I thought.

Towards the end of the feed I asked DearDaddy if he could take Microtoes so I could use my scarf as a shield while I carefully repositioned my breast pad and covered my modesty. It was the end of the service and the Canon and all the clerics were processing in our direction towards the back of the church. To my horror, as DearDaddy lifted Microtoes he also managed to scoop up my scarf with her, taking it clean away from my body! I was left completely exposed and mortified, too embarrassed even to see who had seen.

So it wasn’t without a certain amount of trepidation that we decide to visit the church in our village. But, as it happens, this morning could not have gone more smoothly. Apart from the fact we bring our babies and not our pets.. It turns out the main church service has been relocated to a neighbouring village church, while our local village church is holding an outdoor service of worship for pets (much to the amusement of DearDaddy: the word ‘pet’ means ‘fart’ in Catalan.)

Tinytoes is delighted as she can scramble around on the chairs outside and it doesn’t matter if she shouts because there are a lot of animals making a lot of noise. Disappointingly they are all dogs. I’d hoped there would be horses, goats, sheep and pigs like the episode with the animal service on the Vicar of Dibley. Tinytoes doesn’t seem to mind and happily shouts “woofwoof, woofwoof”, at sporadic intervals which blend in with the yapping dogs. The icing on the cake for her, however, was when the vicar blesses her beloved Winnie the Pooh; our substitute pet.

And, as for Microtoes, she sleeps the entire way through.

Baba’s girl and 6 week check-up

Calamitousmummy

We managed to sleep five glorious, uninterrupted hours last night – from about 11pm to 4am. But that was about it. After Microtoes’ pre-dawn feed and nappy change we were just dozing off, when Tinytoes sprang into action. Gentle cries of “Baba, Baba…” (what she calls DearDaddy, her interpretation of the Catalan “Papa”)  drift across the landing just before 5am. Our bodies stiffen and wait. There it comes again a bit louder this time “Baba, Baba…”.  I sigh. Then “Baba, Baba, Baba, Baba,” increasingly loud and frantic. DearDaddy pulls back the covers to get out of bed.

“Just wait a few moments,” I groan. “If you go to her every time she calls out, you’re pandering to her needs and she’ll know she just needs to shout Baba and she’ll get a cuddle.  And then how will I manage when you start travelling with work again?” The covers go back on. We wait a few moments as it all goes quiet.

Then (she must have been taking a deep breath) “BABA, BABA, BABA, BABA,” she roars. “BABA, BABA, BABA, BABA, BABA, BABA, BABA, BABA, BABA, BABA, BABA, BABA.” My resolve evaporates: “Just give her a cuddle!” I wail.

Tinytoes has always been a bit of a Daddy’s girl but in recent months – while I’ve been heavily pregnant and then postnatal – Daddy has been increasingly present in her life. In the evenings he’s been bathing her and putting her to bed, while I cook the dinner and feed Microtoes, and in the mornings he’s been getting her up either to drop her off at morning nursery or to hand her over to me after I’ve finished feeding her little sister.

Mindful that our family has become slightly segregated – DearDaddy and Tinytoes versus myself and Microtoes – we’ve recently begun to swap roles: with me sometimes bathing and putting TinyToes to bed, while DearDaddy cooks the dinner (great idea in theory, but he takes longer to prepare it than me and although it’s usually yummy, I’m often starving by the time it arrives!).

Last night DearDaddy arrived home to find some random electrical gadget had arrived from Amazon that he was eager to install, so Tinytoes missed not only her bath time but also her playtime with Baba. This was possibly too much for her to handle.

Hopefully, as we continue to mix and match who does playtime and bathtime with her, her morning cries will stop. In the meantime, I guess I should be grateful she’s calling “Baba” and not “Mama”..

Much later this morning, at 9.30am (which feels like lunchtime), I bring Microtoes for her and my 6 week post-natal check-up. I learn a worrying fact when discussing immunisation. The doctor tells me only 50% of people living in my village bring their babies to be vaccinated. Apparently there needs to be 85% of babies vaccinated in order to guarantee the efficacy the jabs. Put another way, even if I vaccinate Microtoes she won’t be properly immunised.

Astonished, I quiz the doctor further. We will definitely be vaccinating Microtoes, and besides, although I’m not exactly cosmopolitan at the moment, I don’t intend to spend all my days in the village.  But why is it there are so many people refusing jabs? She tells me it’s because of a certain international school in the neighbourhood which has alternative views on medicine. “They believe that it’s better for the body to have illnesses – even cancer – than be treated medically,” she explains. “We have people coming into the surgery and asking for mistletoe, which they use to treat cancer, but we can’t give it out on the NHS and obviously it’s ineffective.”

My apprehension grows when she tells me about a measles outbreak in the village, which she says Microtoes won’t now be fully immunised against. I’m aware it’s a contentious topic, but I cannot understand why people would want to put other babies and children at risk.

Conversation turns to contraception. The doctor is keen to plug the coil (if you’ll pardon the pun). Being squeamish, I’m not so sure. She begins to convince me until I ask about side effects. “Ah,” she looks a bit uncomfortable. “It’s quite rare, but it can sever your uterus”. I pale. “The other side effect is that it’s not fixed into place so it can become dislodged and move up inside.”

My mind is made up. No to the coil, but a definite yes to the 8 week jabs.

 

“You have a tired face”

Calamitousmummy

The day gets off to a bad start when Microtoes wakes earlier than expected for her first feed of the day (NB: anything before 5am doesn’t count as the first feed..) And then doesn’t feed. She just teases my mammary glands for about an hour, while I get into all kinds of ridiculous positions to facilitate her feeding, until I have two giant balloons full of milk. I resort to laying her on her back while I drape myself over her, milk spraying in all directions except her mouth.  She just stares up at me in sweet wonderment. Thank goodness DearDaddy deals with Tinytoes in the mornings.

Before running a hot bath to relieve myself of said milk build-up, I check my phone to find the following message in from my Catalan mother-in-law (MIL) awaiting me: Que tal esteu? He vist una foto teva al Facebook i fas cara de cansada (roughly translated as “How are you? I’ve just seen your photo on Facebook and you have a tired face.”) Charming!

I immediately know which photo she is referring to – I’d thought of it as a nice, natural photo. One friend even posted the words “Just beautiful” underneath. Okay so I’m not deluded enough to think my friend was referring to me: I have my glasses on and no make-up and I’m cradling Microtoes who has her back to the camera, all bundled up in a foetal position.  But “You have a tired face”?!  What does my MIL expect? I hesitate briefly before replying in Catalan (which takes time to cross-reference spelling) “Of course I’m tired with two under two – it’s to be expected!” accompanied by a laughing emoticon to evoke ironic mirth. I hastily exit the app to save the reply she is typing until I am feeling a bit more benevolent.

I get out of my milky bathwater to be startled by a loud knock at the door. I fling on a strange mixture of skimpy clothes, ingeniously concealing exposed post-partum waistline by holding Microtoes lengthways, and open the door to a rather bemused postman. “Here’s the ‘thing’”, he says cryptically, handing me a crumpled-looking plastic envelope. “Oh the thing!” I scoff as I remember.

Yesterday he had handed me a bill for £7.99 owed for a package with incorrect postage. “Lot of money that, it’s probably from abroad,” he’d said. I’d instantly assumed it was a present from one of DearDaddy’s friends or family in Spain to congratulate us on the recent arrival of Microtoes. My annoyance about having to pay for something before we knew what it was, was tinged with a smidgen of excitement at the thought of a ‘baby girl’ present from Spain. It had just better be worth more than £7.99 in euros.

My heart sinks as I study the creased package. It is from the Spanish consulate. Despite paying £20 for five official, certified copies of Microtoes’ birth certificate, DearDaddy had decided to send her original certificate to the Spanish consulate along with the other documents needed to get Spanish citizenship. I had ‘slightly’ flipped out when he first told me this. After all you only have one original birth certificate and I want it to last her until she’s 100. Mine is still in pristine condition and I’m 37. Microtoes, on the other hand, is only 6 weeks old.  “It’s fine, we’ve got lots of copies”, he’d said, slightly missing the point.

My suspicions are confirmed when I open the envelope and out falls a sorry-looking bit of paper. We now have five immaculate copies and a distinctly shabby original. My face grows a whole lot tireder.

I feed Microtoes – properly this time – and as the milk drains away, so does my irritation. I’m sure there’s a correlation. I check my watch and it’s nearly 1pm; time to head to our first baby weighing clinic at my local surgery.

I walk briskly in the mid-September heatwave and suffice to say I’m fairly ‘glowing’ by the time I arrive at the surgery. The receptionist waves me upstairs; quite a challenge when carrying carrycot, wheels, nappy bag and baby. I glow some more. I’m greeted by a closed door. I knock several times and get no reply. I call my health visitor on her mobile and get the answerphone. I leave a terse message, not quite able to remove the irritation from my voice. “Hello. It’s 1.15pm and I’m at clinic but no one else is here. I’ve walked all the way here in the heat and not had my lunch yet. It is rather awkward because I’ve had to ask my mother to collect my toddler from nursery so I can be here. I hope you’ll be here soon.”

I’m on the verge of heaving everything back down the stairs when a pleasant-looking lady appears, looking rather surprised to see me.  We establish I’m the one with a 6 week old baby due to be weighed today. She stares at me. “You know clinic is not until 2pm?” I inwardly groan.

Luckily for me, the lady agrees to weigh and measure Microtoes, even though she is not a Health Visitor. She helps out at the clinics and happened to arrive 45 minutes early. I immediately click with her and we end up chatting until 2pm. She asks me if I’m left-handed, which I am. Apparently – and I quote – “left-handers have a more analytical brain, but after childbirth the dominant section of the mother’s brain switches hemispheres, so if you were very organised beforehand you will struggle now.” I have no idea if there is any shred of truth in that (Googling seemed to suggest there isn’t) but I’m happy to accept that as an excuse.

Despite her lack of hunger this morning, it turns out Microtoes has grown three whole centimetres both in length and head circumference over the past four weeks and put on over a kilo of weight. At least some of my milk must be getting into her. I tell the lady I’m new to the village and she invites me to a weekly postnatal group for mums and babies, which is starting next Thursday morning. I agree to attend, hoping it won’t be full of first-time mums 20 years younger than me.

Back home I’m in a better frame of mind and check my phone to read MIL’s reply: Ja se que som lluny, pero qualsevol cosa que necessitem ens ho dieu (“I know that we are far, but if you ever need anything at all, you just have to ask”).  I instantly feel bad for being annoyed. And, after all, I do have a tired face these days!