Picking a fight with Santa

Calamitousmummy

Last year we didn’t even make it to the nursery Christmas fair. MiniM#2 was only a couple of months old and we were probably visiting relatives or something. This year I was determined we would at least show our faces on Saturday. The girls were older and it was ‘all for a good cause’.

I had been in Paris during the week on a work trip (DaddyM took time off work and coped ridiculously well in my absence). I felt twinges of guilt at emails coming through from the nursery asking if we had something we could donate to the fair: either prizes for the tombola or simply our time to help with organizing it, or to run a stall.

My mind was too busy juggling work and the girls and I only got back from France on Friday night. I toyed with the idea of bringing a bottle of aged Rum from La Martinique which an Italian company had given to me after winning a category in an awards event on the Thursday night, because it wouldn’t fit in their carry-on luggage and I was travelling by Eurostar. But then again, it would be handy to offer to guests over the Christmas period, and presumably the tombola prizes had already got their raffle tickets on them. Hopefully us just being there would be enough.

We walked into the nursery and I was surprised to find myself face-to-face with L, a Swedish guy I hadn’t seen working together in London 7 years ago, and his two year old son. L was manning a little stall with an inflatable plastic reindeer with hoops that need to be thrown over the antlers behind a line marked ‘please stand here’.

“That’s very near to the reindeer, this should be easy” I laughed, paying my 50p and positioning myself toe to the line.

Then it dawned on me. “Oh it’s for the kids isn’t it?” L gave a nervous laugh. “Yes”.  I hurriedly gave 2 hoops to MiniM#2 who promptly shoved them in her mouth and the other 2 to MiniM#1 who ran off with them in her hand.

“It’s very good of you to do this.” I ventured to L, nodding at the stall, while Daddy M tried in vain to prise the hoops away from MiniM#2’s iron jaw clamp. “Oh I’m just doing my bit for the nursery,” he shrugged. “Yes, yes, of course…” I said blushing, feeling a bit like Julia from Motherland.

Next we bought 5 tombola tickets for £3 and somewhat embarrassingly won 2 bottles of wine. I wished I’d donated that Rum.

I paid for the girls to decorate Christmas cards, but ended up decorating them myself while the girls watched, dipping their fingers in paint pots as they started to get bored. “They look pretty, well done!” said a mum who had generously given up her time to help out on the Christmas card decorating stall. “Thank you,” I mumbled awkwardly, realising the remark was meant for the girls.

The key attraction was Santa’s grotto and MiniM#1 was particularly excited about meeting him. After waiting dutifully in the queue, the door finally opened and we were beckoned inside.

MiniM#2 took one look at the chap dressed as Father Christmas and began to SCREAM at the top of her lungs. To such an extent that her older sister began to look uncertain and her upper lip began to wobble too. “Don’t cry,” said Santa. “I remember meeting you both last year…”

At which point I quickly interjected “Oh no we weren’t here last year, we missed the fair.”

“Yes but I came to your home on 24th December,” the guy dressed as Santa replied.

“Oh no, I don’t think you did. Maybe you’re confusing us with someone else,” I added helpfully.

“I definitely did. I came to your home on the night of 24th December to bring presents.” Santa insisted.

“I really don’t think you did, because we were away in France last year…”

The nursery helper gave me a dig in the ribs “Santa did come – to give presents to the girls, right? Like he does with all children on 24th December?”

“Ohhhh…. Yes! Of course! Yes, you came to France didn’t you. Sorry Santa..”

I needn’t have worried. Both girls were howling in horror at Santa. DaddyM was trying to stop them running out the door. And I was sitting at Santa’s feet ready to smile for the photographer.

And so it was, that I was the only person in the family photo shoot with Santa…

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What a difference 6 months makes

Calamitousmummy

I’m not going to lie. Having two babies under the age of two is tough – physically, emotionally and logistically. But, whatever scare stories anyone tells you, read my lips: It does get easier.

DaddyM is having his first work trip away since April and boy what a difference 6 months makes! He is in the Middle East all week and so far, I’m coping just fine (although I don’t want to jinx it as he’s only been gone 36 hours…) .

Rewind the clock back 6 months I can remember balling my eyes out on the kitchen floor, worn down and sobbing that I couldn’t cope. DaddyM was in Miami for a whole week and I was still breastfeeding 8 month old MiniM#2, while 27.5 month old MiniM#1 was going through a ‘difficult phase’ still adjusting to the presence of a younger sister, coupled with some pretty spectacular two-year old temper issues. I was having to do everything for both of them, pretty much at the same time. MiniM#1 wasn’t at nursery yet and I was running my own business from home during her naptimes and in the evenings.

At a family gathering in June, DaddyM and I met a couple with 2 children of similar age gap, who were a few years older than ours. They told us, almost boastfully ‘oh it gets much harder as they get older. They argue all the time and we don’t get a minute’s peace.’ We looked at each other and chose to ignore their unhelpful victimization. Their two were off playing, while the couple in question was tucking into their lunch, knocking back the wine and chatting. We, on the other hand, were taking it in turns to hold on to MiniM#2 for dear life to stop her wriggling off onto the concrete patio in the baking sun, while the other tried to get MiniM#1 to eat and occasionally shove something into our own mouths.

And it turns out we were right to ignore the scaremongering. Today, 6 months on from when DaddyM last travelled, I’m finding it’s so much easier looking after a 14 month old and a 27.5 month old on my own. MiniM#2 is now at nursery 3 mornings a week and is much more independent. She toddles around the house, entertaining herself with books and toys and can even shovel food into her own mouth. And MiniM#1 has matured so much it’s almost like she’s a different child. Instead of refusing to go up/ down the stairs to nursery, she will carry both her and her sister’s coat, or both rucksacks. At home, she will entertain her MiniM#2 by reading her stories or showing her toys or singing to her. She will do as she is told 80% of the time. And if she doesn’t I can sometimes even get her to comply without raising my voice.

I’m not going to pretend. It still has its tricky moments. I used to be sporty, but I currently have a back injury from coughing too violently during a recent chest infection (the doctor asked me if I was heavy smoker!). And I’m awaiting a knee operation for a torn meniscus, meaning I cannot bend my leg to lift objects or wriggly little people, which doesn’t exactly help the back…

But at least things are tricky because of my own decrepit state, rather than my unruly offspring. I love it when the three of us have fun playing together and laughing. I look forward to nursery pick-up so I can be with my girls again. And when DaddyM is away, it means I get them all to myself!

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Call from Social Services

Calamitousmummy

Let me start by providing some form of context for those of you that don’t know me:

I’m the kind of mummy who keeps reapplying sun cream on my girls even when it’s not that sunny, who panics after forgetting the baby vitamins on a weekend away, who stopped using my face cream as it contained retinoids which I read could be dangerous when breastfeeding, who sometimes sobs a little bit herself when her baby cries after tripping and bumping into something, who feels a tearing at her heart when her baby wakes and is crying for food and I can’t quite warm it up quickly enough…

An over-protective worrier of a mummy who is often on the phone to the nursery to check her girls are doing ok: Are they happy? Did they sleep? Did they eat? Is the cough better? And then will email if after pick-up I see their nappies have been put on too loosely or too tightly, or if they’re wearing not enough or too many clothes or if I find too much glitter or mud in their nappies. Or if their toothbrush looks dirty. 1 year old MiniM#2 and 2 year-old MiniM#1 are long-awaited and dreamt of. In short the best things that ever happened to me.

I’m not sure whether it was the call itself from social services that was the most upsetting or the appalling way in which I was treated at pick-up from nursery yesterday lunchtime. The deputy manager X came into the baby room brandishing 2 accident forms for existing injuries. My heart always skips a beat at the word ‘accident form’, but I smiled in relief when I saw what they were: one was for a little scratch under her chin that had happened that morning (and I told DaddyM to mention it at drop-off) and the other for a few barely-visible bruises on her shin.

leg

I was oohing and ahhing in proud delight as MinM#2’s carer told me how she had taken 15 steps that morning, when X told me to sign the accident forms, which I did. Then she asked me to explain how the injuries happened. I felt puzzled/ surprised she was still talking about them, because the scratch had already been accounted for and the tiny leg bruises seemed too insignificant even to mention (see above photo snapped upon my return from nursery pick-up yesterday). I had no idea how they happened. I’d first noticed them on Tuesday so they could well have happened the previous day in nursery. I said I had no idea: “probably crawling around and playing, or on the changing table as she’s always wriggling.”

But I began to sense a slightly awkward air in the room. X was wielding a pen in my direction.  I had already signed the forms, but she wanted me to write down the reasons.  “I don’t know how the bruises happened,” I said simply. “She’s always taking tumbles now she’s starting to walk.”

“Well you need to write down how they happened as social services may want to know. They take bruising very seriously.” I looked around the room amazed at the way the conversation was going. The two other carers looked like they were blushing slightly and the other parent who had been dropping off her baby left swiftly, avoiding eye contact.

I felt an awful, gut-wrenchingly uncomfortable feeling of betrayal. Here was the person charged with caring for my two precious bundles of joy and she was suggesting I could have deliberately hurt them one of them?! The very idea filled me with a sick feeling. I wrote down two random reasons on the form: ‘tripped playing on the patio’ and ‘slipped on the changing table’ and she warned me I might get a call.

Up until this point I had been making pleasant chitchat, confused as to why there was an air of awkwardness in the room. Now I knew why. I moved swiftly towards where MiniM#1 and MiniM#2 were sweetly playing on the other side of the room. They threw their chubby little arms around me as they clambered onto me, both squealing ‘mama, mama’ and I got that warm mushy feeling inside. Swiftly followed  by a spike of alarm when I saw MiniM#1 had a large sequin disk in her mouth taken from the huge box of completely age-inappropriate sequins that had been put out for the babies to play with. I hooked my finger in and dragged it out, unusually unabashed about expressing my concern for such ‘toys’.

I hurriedly scooped up the girls and X followed me out of the room. ‘Oh they have lovely hair,’ She said. I stared at her in disbelief. ‘What sweet rucksacks they have’ she continued. Incredulous, I found myself forcing out a weak ‘thank you’, when really I wanted to shout ‘Oh F~@K off!!!’

I wrote the politest email I could manage – how dare she threaten Social services like that when obviously they weren’t really going to call me over something like that!

And then the call came.

She chose to call me while MiniM#1 was having the most almighty meltdown because I wouldn’t give her fish fingers two days in a row. I could barely hear what the lady was saying she was screaming so much. And then MiniM#2 started crying because I wasn’t feeding her soup because I was trying to hear what the women in social services was trying to say. And because MiniM#1 was crying.

After detailed explanations on my part – in essence I had no idea where these bruises came from and it could be all manner of reasons which I hypothesised over – she apparently ‘won’t be taking it any further’ as they’ve had no previous record on us.

I was made to describe the bruising in detail, because the lady said it was not possible for me to send her a photo.

The combination of the call, coupled with the unpleasant experience at nursery earlier that afternoon reduced me to tears.  I appreciate bruises need to be followed up but surely an element of common sense and reasoning should come into nursery referrals?!

I’m a hardworking and devoted mummy who loves her gorgeous girls more than anything else in the world. MiniM#2 is 12.5 months old and just beginning to walk. She is a happy, beaming, gurgling bundle of gorgeousness, who travels fast with boundless energy and significantly less balance.

If witnessing my interactions with her and seeing how happy and contented she is was not enough to alleviate any concerns, then surely common sense could have prevailed. She is a highly mobile baby, only just learning to walk, who is prone to taking a tumble. Or to dragging her shins across uneven ground in the nursery garden when she crawls. Suffice to take a look at the state of her trousers from knee to ankle when she comes home from each of her two half-day sessions a week and it doesn’t take a wild stretch of the imagination to guess where the bruises came from.

I don’t know if it was the combination of the small scratch under her chin and the tiny bruises, or simply the fact the manager was on holiday and the deputy manager was left in charge and needing to prove herself. But to have a ‘record’ with social services made me feel like a criminal.

Luckily I’m strong-minded and confident and I know I’m an excellent mummy – the best my girls could get – but my little girls had to see their mummy sobbing when I had hung up. Imagine how this could effect someone who was really struggling with being a mummy (and believe me there are still moments when of course I do really struggle as do most mummies)?

I find it staggering that on countless occasions I’ve been asked to sign accident forms for injuries that happened at nursery, many of which the nursery is unable to account for. Then when a devoted mother is unable to pinpoint some tiny bruises, they call social services, apparently saying ‘her story didn’t quite add up!’

It’s great that nurseries are vigilant about children’s welfare – and indeed vital that they are – but referrals should be handled sensitively and above all with common sense. Otherwise they can do more harm than good.

I’m sure the sight of a normally cheerful mummy blubbing away has done way more harm to my girls than a couple of barely visible bruises.

As more than one of my friends has pointed out – the absence of bruising to the knees and shins of a happy and healthy toddler should give more cause for concern.

After a sleepless night and lots of tears (I’m surprised how hurtful this whole experience has been given I know I’m a bloody good mummy: I dread to think how someone younger or questioning their abilities would feel) and lots of support from friends, blog readers and local network groups, I feel stronger and defiant. DaddyM had strong, sensible words with X at drop off this morning and I avoided her at pick-up. She wanted to talk and tried to block my way up the stairs but I told her “I’m too upset to talk to you. My husband has told you everything that needs to be said.”

When the manager is back from nursery next week we will go to see her instead and if her attitude is not adequate or reasonable then we will take it to Ofsted. Oh and we are booked for a tour around another nursery next Friday, just in case…

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Open letter to the nursery*

Calamitousmummy

I’m writing with regard to the conversation I had with X at lunchtime pick-up today regarding the few small bruises on MiniM#2’s legs and the scratch under her chin.

Firstly I think it’s excellent that you pay attention to detail and I really value that you ask parents to sign accident forms for both existing injuries and new injuries sustained at nursery.

However, I confess to being made to feel uncomfortable when I was unable to pinpoint the exact cause behind the individual bruises on MiniM#2’s legs. She is a wriggly baby who loves to explore – with an overly excitable older sister – and is often taking tumbles both at home and at nursery. Since bruises tend to come up a day or two after a tumble, they could well have occurred as a result of her afternoon in nursery on Monday as I first noticed them on Tuesday evening in the bath.

The scratch under her chin was caused by slipping on the changing table this morning when my husband and I were both in the room. I was changing her older sister and MiniM#2 slipped when she was trying to climb up to see her sister. I asked my husband to notify K about this at drop-off so she could keep an eye on it.

As for the bruises, there are often a few minor bruises on her legs for the reasons outlined above, so I did not feel it was necessary to tell me that I may need to explain myself to someone from social services. Pressure was put on me to come up with a specific reason for these bruises, which, given the fact they take 1-2 days to appear was almost impossible for me to do.

Social services are of course welcome to call – and to visit us in our home – we have nothing to hide, indeed we are proud of the infinite love and care we have for our girls who are most precious things in the world to us – but I was left to feel very uncomfortable after being told they may call and ask me questions about a few small bruises (that she may have sustained in nursery anyway).

It’s great – and vitally important – that you pay attention to the babies and their welfare, but I ask that you are careful not to make a parent feel uncomfortable for being unable to pinpoint a specific bruise and being given a pen and forced to write down a random reason. If outside parties feel the need to call and ask questions then that is fine, but I don’t see the need to mention this unless you know for a fact they are likely to call.

While we’re on the subject of welfare, I would like to reiterate that I still feel uncomfortable about MiniM#2 playing with tiny plastic/ metallic sequins and pieces that can – and did while I was there – end up in her mouth. I fail to see the point of giving such objects to babies if they have to be constantly removed. And if they reach her throat there is the risk of choking. It makes me worried.

I hope this adds a bit of colour to the accident form and our previous discussions.

Apart from my concerns about MiniM#2 playing with small objects that can be put in her mouth, we’re delighted with the care she is receiving: K, E and S are excellent.

Best regards

*actual email, edited to remove MiniM#2’s name and names of carers

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The perils of a wriggly baby

Calamitousmummy

As a parent of a wriggly baby, I’ve come to terms with the fact that certain baby-related activities will take an inordinately long time. And others can be ruled out altogether.

If there was a wriggliness scale, mine would be off the end of it. Even at my 12 week scan the sonographer exclaimed ‘My you’ve got a wriggly one!’  At my 20 week scan the photos were all blurry because she wouldn’t keep still (that was the sonographer’s excuse anyway…) And I didn’t get any photos at my 36 week scan because ‘her hand kept getting in the way’ I was told, almost accusingly.

From the ages of 0-5 months, I found MiniM#2 refreshingly compliant. She would fall asleep in my arms, on my shoulder or in my lap or simply lie awake staring up at me, cooing and gurgling.

At about 6 months the rolling over on the changing table began. In the early days, a new toy would be enough to distract her as she lay on her back, but then she began flip onto her tummy with the toy, often at a crucial point in the nappy-changing process. When you are holding onto her for dear life with one hand, while the other hand is trying to fold up the nappy and its contents as quickly and hygienically as possibly, it’s nigh on impossible to stop a wilful baby from flipping.

Another trick that came in handy in the early days was to make a high-pitched warbling sound reminiscent of a Cherokee war cry that would astonish my baby into staying very still, eyes wide and blinking. The effects of this ‘trick’ soon wore off the more commonplace it became and besides, I began to feel uneasy about changing her anywhere public. Coffee shop customers or train passengers would blink at me in an astonished way too as I emerged from the baby changing area.

When it became clear that toys, warbling or hanging mobiles had zero effect, we bought the ‘nappy pants’ which, thank God, came onto the market just when MiniM#1 had hit the changing-table flipping stage.  It wasn’t the perfect answer, but it still worked. Once I had whipped off the dirty nappy and wiped her, it was simplest and quickest to put her on my knee and ease the clean nappy pant up her wriggly legs, hoping her bladder – and other bodily functions – would hold.   At baby weigh-ins other mums would look at me in amazement while their little cherubs lay back placidly on the changing mats.

But the real ‘sticking point’, came at about 10 months when I been to struggle even to remove the dirty nappy.  MiniM#2 would not only flip onto her tummy at nappy changes, but she would continue to flip around and around in total disregard of the soiled nappy being gingerly removed. Arms and legs would splay outwards, in a windmill-like fashion, ready to spear the dirty nappy, often right in the centre, with a heel or a hand.

As a mother, your instinct is to prevent your darling baby from diving off the changing mat and hurtling headfirst to the ground. Yet that soiled heel or hand will continue to circulate as you hover above your precious little one, occasionally smacking you square in the face as you frantically try to wipe the baby clean, while simultaneously removing the dirty nappy as far from danger’s way as possible. By that stage, her soiled foot or hand will often have been dragged all over the changing mat, me and any toy she may have grabbed hold of along the way.

Once the dirty nappy is out of harm’s way, the dangers are far from over. MiniM#2 has developed a rather disturbing habit of firmly planting her hand exactly where the nappy had been, before I have a chance to wipe her…

On some occasions I’m still able to stall her with the baby wipes or the Sudocream pot. I’d rather waste a packet full of wipes being torn out if they can distract her long enough. And I’d rather her hands and body are covered in Sudocream than other substances.

DaddyM, usually unflappable, has hit a wall with MiniM#2. Last weekend he popped upstairs to carry out a routine nappy change and was gone 45 minutes, I kid you not. I thought there had been a misunderstanding and he was trying to put her down for a nap. I didn’t have time to discover details as MiniM#1 awoke from her nap during this time, but I do know that they both ended up having a shower.

Now that MiniM#2 has begun teething in a big way (she’s 1 year old and still only has 2 teeth), we’re experiencing all-time low on the nappy changing front. Undigested food passes straight through her as many as 7 or 8 times a day (sorry if TMI), meaning I’m spending a large chunk of the day changing her, washing her and her clothes and bits of me, and disinfecting anything that’s come near us.

Aside from the nappy changing horrors, having a wriggly baby presents other challenges in terms of meeting up with parents of more chilled-out babies. Going to a café with a friend becomes impossible if the baby can wriggle out of highchair, yet is not old enough to sit in a normal chair.

Taking a wriggly baby to a a crowded soft play with an older sibling is a recipe for disaster if your baby is forever wanting to dive into the ball pool full of 6-year olds jumping up and down.

While chilled-out babies will sit calmly on playmats with age-appropriate toys, MiniM#2 will be trying to climb up a plastic slide that older kids are whizzing down.  If you pick her up and hold her she will wriggle. And if you put her back on the playmat she’ll return to the foot of the slide.

Try putting one of those babygros with poppers on it and you’ll be there for 15 minutes, only to discover the poppers are all one popper out.

Having a wriggly baby is a challenge, so it’s just as well I love her to pieces. By the time she’s 18 months she’ll have probably stopped wriggling, but I want to make the most of every minute of her still being a baby (even if many of those minutes are currently devoted to removing nappies…)

And I savour those precious, golden moments when she’s just woken up or just dropped off to sleep and she’s lying all little and gorgeous and perfectly still in my arms.

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Furry friends go on an adventure

Calamitousmummy

MiniM#1 loves her cuddly toys. She has a special triumvirate comprising Pooh bear, Te (a rabbit comforter) and Pop (an octopus comforter). We have a rule that only allows her to take one of this trio out and about. There have been too many near misses.

She often carries all three of them around at home (the troop as DaddyM calls them). But she loves putting them in random places – in a drawer or a box, or behind a chair or a door, or inside a toy car or a wendy house – and then forgetting where she’s left them. Then at bedtime all hell breaks loose if she can’t find one or all of them. DaddyM and I will be tearing around the house frantically trying to find them, as she sits on her bed wailing their names.

It’s bad enough searching for them at home, but if you extend the remit of possible hiding places to the great outdoors, then you’ll understand why we have the rules in place.

On DaddyM’s birthday, though, they somehow managed to slip through the net. We were headed to a local beach – a good 45 minute drive away – and luckily the weather was fine. DaddyM was charged with putting the girls into the car (I hereby absolve myself of all responsibility..) while I rushed around getting the picnic ready and all the last-minute beach and baby paraphernalia.  Vaguely aware there seemed to be more than one cuddly animal in the car, I remember muttering something about only one of them coming to the beach with us.

However, with all the muddle of getting the buggies, and little ones and paraphernalia out of the car, more than one furry friend managed to make it onto the beach.

The weather was warm, but the experience was far from relaxing: MiniM#1 wanted to charge towards the sea and run fast along the water’s edge, requiring one parent to jog along behind, pulling her back from the waves as they threatened to engulf her. The other parent meanwhile had the task of constantly removing the tiny pebbles that MiniM#2 was stuffing into her mouth.

The picnic was a bit of a flop too: MiniM#1 preferred to clamber up onto the groynes, while MiniM#2 thought it was a funny game to throw any food we passed her onto the sand.  It was getting a bit cold and windy, so we decided it was time to go home, DaddyM dragging the laden buggy back across the pebbles to the car, while I carried MiniM#2 and two bags.

As the girls began to drift off in the car, I got excited at the prospect of having a childfree coffee on our sunny new patio back home. MiniM#2 transferred from car to cot nicely, but MiniM#1 awoke and started calling out for Te. She had Pooh Bear and Pop clutched firmly under her arm. But there was no sign of Te.

My heart sank.  Our rare prospect of relaxation began to vaporise. “I think she just took Pop and Pooh Bear to the car this morning” DaddyM, said slightly unconvincingly. Thus ensued a frantic hunt throughout the house. MiniM#1 claimed all three animals were on the beach.

As she waited peacefully on her bed, I began to lose my patience. It had been an early start to the day and I felt tired and annoyed with poor DaddyM who couldn’t remember which animals she had had with her. We were probably searching the entire house for nothing.

I was so tired I actually began to cry that Te was missing. She had had that rabbit since she was born and I’d lovingly sewn her name on it when she first took it to nursey aged 9 months, and then repaired it when its arm came loose.  MiniM#1 meanwhile had dozed off for her nap. It dawned on me that I was probably more bothered about the bloody rabbit than she was!

To my shame, DaddyM and my heated discussions about the missing bunny’s whereabouts ended up waking up our poor toddler (and baby who luckily went back to sleep…), so he decided to drive all the way back to the beach with MiniM#1. So much for our relaxing coffee.

By a stroke of luck, Te was found ‘peacefully sleeping’ on the beach and the world was put back to rights.  I treated DaddyM to a relaxing birthday dinner in town later that night.

I doubt either of us will ever let any furry animals slip through the net again. This morning MiniM#1 developed a new obsession with a soft toy rabbit she has randomly named ‘Suzie.’  I suspect Suzie and her crew will be the object of strict surveillance.

MiniM#2 however doesn’t care in the slightest about soft toys. She only has eyes for a red plastic Star Wars ball…

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Birth take two

Calamitousmummy

A potted account of birth a second time around…

On an airless, sultry day last August I resorted to literally sticking my head in the fridge and weeping. I was heavily pregnant, had just bitten my DaddyO’s head off about some petty annoyance and was craving white chocolate magnums.

The next day I gave birth. “The second one will be much quicker” everyone had kept telling me until I began to worry she would suddenly drop out of me. Chance would be a fine thing.

I was awoken early that morning by mild contractions. Luckily Tinytoes was at nursery and DaddyO had decided to work from home. I decided a brisk walk was in order to get things moving and asked DaddyO to accompany me.

Our walk, through a farmyard, took a perilous turn when a large rat darted out in front of us. Moments later we had to walk through a field of curious horses, only to find the metal gate was tied shut on the other side. After clambering over the gate mid-contraction, we found ourselves in a field of cows, only partially certain they were not bulls…

Safely back home, the contractions continued apace and DaddyO announced he was going back to the home office to make some work calls. I looked at him aghast. “Can’t they wait?” I wailed. I had been on the brink of calling the birthing centre but I knew that when I called my mother to ask if she could pick up Tinytoes from nursery it would become ‘official’. What if the contractions stopped? And then Granny would go to pick up Tinytoes and explain what was happening and DaddyO would cancel his calls all for nothing.

At the Birthing Centre

I ended up standing my ground and very soon we were on our way to the birthing centre. The midwife looked at me suspiciously. “You’re very smiley for someone in labour,” she proffered. She agreed to examine me, then told me: “You’re only 2cm, would you like a sweep?” As I mulled this over, conscious I needed to decide quickly since she was already ‘there’ so as to speak, she said “how about we go for a partial sweep?”. “OWWW..” was all I could reply.

To my dismay, I was then told to go back home or go for a coffee in the local town. Home was an uncomfortably bumpy twisting drive away and besides we couldn’t go back without more explanations and confusion for our toddler. Anyway, I knew that birth was near. I just knew it. I felt dreadful and wanted to stay put. Coffee was the last thing on my mind. So they agreed to let us have a room to rest in.

So it was that DaddyO sat in a comfy nursing chair munching on his snacks while I gyrated on all fours, moaning in discomfort. In fact, that only happened once. Thereafter he was banned from munching on any snack and watching like he was in the cinema while I was going through the contractions themselves.

When the midwife came to see how I was doing I made sure I wasn’t smiling this time. I could have just about mustered up a smile but I was terrified she was going to send me back home. When she confirmed I was ok to stay I began sobbing, such was my relief that they seemed to believe I was legitimately there now.

Barely four hours after my previous examination, I was examined again. 8 cm now. I could scarcely believe it. Midwives scurried around to fill the birthing pool. I was still in denial. “So I’m really going to stay and to give birth then? I don’t need to go home?” I asked in amazement. They looked at me curiously.

In the Birthing Pool

In the pool everything slowed down. The contractions seemed to peter out. DaddyO began chatting with the assistant midwife about her upcoming trip to his hometown Barcelona. When he began to detail which tourist bus she should catch – the red one – I almost started laughing at the ludicrousness of the situation. Hello?! Here I was naked in a pool and my husband was making small talk over my head to the student midwife! I soon shut them up with a big contraction.

When DaddyO tried to resume the conversation, I was glad the student realised that now was not the best time. She shot me a sympathetic look when the older midwife started asking me about my profession. So much for getting into the zone. “Investor Relations,” I replied curtly. “Ooh what does that entail?” she asked. I groaned. My job is hard enough to explain succinctly in the best of social occasions and this was the last thing I wanted to be talking about. “Can I tell you later please?” I shouted before contracting again.

Despite the chitchat and the questions, I felt in safe hands. So I felt alarmed when, after only 40 minutes of being in the pool, the midwife and the student midwife’s shift ended and they were replaced with two new faces.

It wasn’t long before I felt in safe, if not delicate, hands again. With each painful contraction, I was unable to squeeze the midwife’s hand as I was worried I would break it: she was semi-retired and looked too frail. So DaddyO got his hand crushed instead.

In water births, the mother needs to avoid raising her body when the head appears to prevent the baby from breathing in air and then drowning if it is lowered back into the water. I asked if people instinctively stood up when the head was out and the midwives reassured me that no, this didn’t happen.

My waters still hadn’t broken and I felt fretful. There was talk of getting me ‘out’ for a while. I was adamant I wanted to stay put so they examined me again, in the water this time, and in doing so they broke my waters.

Ten minutes (I’m glad I have my birthing notes) and a lot of shouting later a head emerged. Instinctively I went to stand up. I recall the midwives apologising for shouting loudly and pushing down hard on my shoulders, but I was too out of it to really realise.  Precisely two minutes after this, the rest of her tiny body followed and I immediately fell head over heels in love with her.

I didn’t sleep a wink that night because my adrenalin was still pumping from all the excitement. And the next day I ended up driving us all home. That wasn’t the plan, but I couldn’t physically fit between the two baby seats in the back. As silly as it sounds I didn’t want my precious bundle to have no one sitting next to her in case she stopped breathing or something dreadful.

I had opted for no stitches as they were only borderline necessary, and felt primly indignant when I was told to ‘keep my legs together’ so I would heal.  What did they think?! Moments later I found myself painfully straddling one of the baby seats and actually managed to get in, before realising that being wedged between 2 hard plastic seats on a boiling hot August day hours after giving birth was not the best idea.

I realised that, sod it, I would have to repeat the painful process to get out and then drive us home, with DaddyO neatly squeezed into the back. And so it was that we became a family of four.

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Cornwall capers

Calamitousmummy

We have just come back from our first holiday as a new family of four.  I had no idea what to expect, only that it would be unlike any holiday we’ve ever experienced before. I’ve decided the best way of relaying how it went would be to post a select sample of highlights and lowlights.

Lowlight: The journey.
As documented in previous blogpost it took 9 hours to get there and involved generous helpings of noise and sick.

Highlight: The location.
We stayed in an idyllic cluster of self-catering cottages in a rural farmyard setting in Cornwall. From pony rides, to feeding the farm animals, to swimming in the heated indoor pool or exploring the play barn there was so much to keep a 9-month-old, a two-year-old and their parents entertained onsite that we had a tough job deciding whether to stay put or discover the amazing beaches and activities in the surrounding area.

Lowlight: Telling TinyToes there would be elephants, tigers and giraffes at Newquay Zoo.
The zebras, tapirs and agoutis didn’t quite cut it. Ok so there were some lions, but TinyToes spent most of the morning repeating “where’s the effefant? Mummy, where’s the effefant?” My explanations didn’t wash and the questions continued…

Highlight: Going for a run in the Cornish countryside..
… while DaddyO rested and the tinies napped one afternoon and then doing 60 lengths of the heated swimming pool (only 15m a length I hasten to add), which I had all to myself. One giant bathtub all for me. No kids, no noise, just me in the water. My first proper swim since before I gave birth. I emerged from the water feeling resplendent and revitalised; a shiny, new person.

Lowlight: Going swimming all four of us…
…when we had the cunning foresight to put the little ones in their swimming nappies and costumes before arriving at the pool, but only realised at the end of their swim that we had forgotten to pack new nappies for them to change into. In a Catch 22 situation, we couldn’t exactly leave both cold and wet with one parent while the other went to get the nappies. I quickly volunteered to take 2-year-old TinyToes, figuring there would be a lower probability of any spillages. Amazingly, 9-month-old MicroToes, snugly harnessed to DaddyO in the baby carrier, managed to stay dry too.

Highlight: The pony ride.
Although she was a bit scared of the chickens and frightened of the ducks, TinyToes was thrilled with her first ride on a pony, which she still talks about now. She got given a badge in recognition, which she insists on keeping in her pocket.

Lowlight: A nearby village going by the name of Sticker.
Every time we so much as muttered any reference to the godforsaken place, a little voice would start up “Sticker mummy! I want a sticker! Mummy – I want a sticker! Daddy – a Sticker!” and continue for the next 30 minutes or so…

Highlight: Visiting Lappa Valley steam railway…
…and riding on the miniature-sized trains. I’m not sure who had most fun.

Lowlight: An attempted ‘romantic dinner out’ all four of us in Mevagissey.
What were we thinking?! Neither child wanted to stay still and both took up our constant attention. We barely had time to say ‘cheers’ with our drinks and were left with the vague impression the food would have been amazing if we’d actually had five seconds to appreciate what was in our mouths.

Highlight: Bird watching in the cottage garden one sunny afternoon with TinyToes.
We had been out to the beach that morning and she and I sat on a rug armed with the bird book from our cottage. The family owners had given us a bird feeder to hang on a tree and we watched the great tits and robins and blue tits flying back and forth, pointing to them in the book and ticking them off on the bird watching sheet we had also been given.

Lowlight: There only being two changing tables…
…and a whole load of babies in the entire M5 service station in Exeter. One was in the ladies’ toilets and the other was in a room of its own. None in the men’s toilets…

Highlight: The family owners – aka Farmer Dave and Nanny Pat and their son Paul.
They were so welcoming and great with children. When we went to say goodbye, they gave us our very own bird feeder to hang in the garden. It’s highly likely we’ll be returning next year.  And no this is not a commercial blog…

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Travelsick Toddler

Calamitousmummy

This blog entry was intended to be a brief collection of highlights and lowlights from our recent first holiday as a new family of four.  After the first ‘lowlight’ went on for more than 600 words I decided to grant it an entry all of its own. Contrary to the shaky start, we actually went on to have a fantastic holiday, which you can read more about in my next instalment.

Duped by Google’s five-hour journey time estimate, we were dismayed to discover that a medley of roadworks, accidents and traffic jams meant it actually took us closer to nine hours to drive from the South East to the South West of the country. Our journey was punctuated with two-year old Tinytoes throwing toys onto Microtoes and then screaming to have them back again. If we refused, her screams would intensify. If we arched backwards over the front seats Houdini-style to prise the toys out of the iron grip of her nine-month old sister, Microtoes would then wail in protest. Unfortunately for poor Microtoes we generally opted for returning the toys to her older sister, because if we didn’t, Tinytoes’ cries tender to be louder, went on for longer and were more distracting to the driver.

The ultimate lowlight came just as I was congratulating myself for finally managing to get Tinytoes to eat a whole load of fruit. A whiney voice piped up “Get down. Get down please.” We told her we knew it was a long journey but we were now only 30 minutes away so she had to stay put. Suddenly something caught DaddyO’s attention in the rear-view mirror. We could only look on in horror as Tinytoes proceeded to slowly regurgitate everything she had eaten thus far that day. It went everywhere.

We stopped the car as soon as we could – in a layby by a row of houses – where we placed our pallid two-year old on the grassy verge and stripped her down to her nappy. Amidst the commotion, Microtoes awoke from her brief nap and began wailing for food. I went to take her in my arms, handing DaddyO some spare clothes (for Tinytoes, though he could have done with some for himself) who was trying to clean up Tinytoes with baby wipes. It was when he shoved her in my lap, with strands of sick still in her hair, in order to get the bigger lumps out of the car seat that I began to wonder: how on earth would I have coped if I had been on my own?! Bearing in mind my lap also contained Microtoes, whom I’d been trying to feed but was now being literally kicked off and was teetering headfirst towards the foot-well of the driver’s seat. We could barely manage with two adults…

At that moment, a kind Cornish lady appeared from one of the houses, bin liner in hand, for us to dispose of the larger remains of sick that DaddyO was decanting into plastic nappy bags and empty Costa coffee cups. She offered both DaddyO and I to use her bathroom and to wash our hands. She was the woman I had seen silently arrive in her car minutes earlier and I had muttered under my breath because she had not asked if we were ok or even so much as given a sympathy smile in our direction. She had, in fact, gone above and beyond normal kindness levels and served as a timely reminder never to judge people or situations.

When we finally arrived at our destination, dusk had fallen and we were too tired to appreciate the beauty of the farmyard complex we were staying it.  The reception had long closed and a key was left in our cottage door.

The knock at the door came at the worst possible time. DaddyO was getting the rest of the sick off Tinytoes in the bath and I was breastfeeding Microtoes. The owner of the cottages looked a bit taken aback by our brusque reception. Unable to leave our sleepy, sick-encrusted two-year-old alone in the bath for more than a few seconds, I heard DaddyO gruffly saying ‘yes, ok, yes ok, thank you very much goodbye.’ I leapt up off the bed, Microtoes still clamped onto me, shouting out ‘…and the washing machines? Is it ok to use the washing machines later tonight?’

She nodded, quickly indicating where they were as she closed the door. I had wanted to apologise for our demeanour and to say how beautiful her cottage looked. That would have to wait until the next morning. First things first, we needed to wash the car seat cover, soft toys and clothes that were in the back of the car. Not the best of starts, but at least we had arrived.  I was just glad I had had the foresight to pack two bottles of lager in the cool bag.

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Spot of running buggy bother

Calamitousmummy

So I accept we’re fairly a niche target group: parents with two offspring both of a buggy-needing age. And we like running. And we’re crazy enough to want to take them running with us. Maybe we’ve just been unlucky, but the task of purchasing a double running buggy really shouldn’t be this complicated…

I’ve changed my mind about the ‘crazy’ bit though. In fact, I think it’s a quite sensible idea that allows us both to run and keep the sprogs amused too. Why take turns running in the evening and leaving the other parent – either knackered from work, or knackered from juggling work at home and littlies – being summoned by a spirited toddler into the Wendy House along her 8 month old sister and a trolley full of plastic fruit and veg?

When instead we could both be taking a break from the above, as well as getting fit by running together with them in the evening, if we had a double buggy. Or I could even go out to run on my own with them in the daytime when they’ve woken from their afternoon nap. Or I could cook the dinner in peace one evening while DaddyO goes for a run with them. He gets his run, the kids are entertained and I get a bit of peace and quiet.

I did try running a few times with the non-running double buggy, under the instruction of my osteopath. I was recovering from a knee injury and he suggested running for a few hundred metres and then walking again when I was next out with the buggy. Except Tinytoes wanted to get out and run too. To her credit she ran quite well, but I had to keep looping back with the buggy so as not to lose her – when I tried running slowly she shouted ‘RUN! Mummy, RUN!

But I since heard it was dangerous to run with a non-running buggy. Running buggies have brakes like bicycles so you can keep your hands on them at all times. Normal ones apparently won’t take the wear and tear of running, are generally too heavy for repeated running use, there is limited suspension for the comfort of little ones and, more importantly, they have front wheels that can pivot meaning if they hit a pothole in the path they can turn and throw the buggy over.

So it was decided that we would buy a double running buggy. After trawling eBay I put a bid on a “Phil and Ted Sport Double Buggy”: With a name like that it had to be for running, right? Luckily I was outbid. DaddyO expressed his scepticism just in the nick of time. Apparently buggies are like cars with the word ‘Sport’ in the title: they have a ‘sporty look’ but you can be about as sporty as me when I was 9 months pregnant to use them.

After a bit more research we discovered double running buggies are harder to come by than anticipated. There are not many models out there, but we finally settled on the Britax BOB Revolution Duallie Stroller. We found one on eBay described as the ‘Mercedes Benz’ of double running buggies. We downloaded a PDF of the stroller online to make sure it was suitable for running and indeed it was.

We won the bid by a whisper and so it was that after work one Wednesday night DaddyO found himself driving halfway around the M25 to Enfield in north London to collect the buggy. The phone call came at 7.30pm when I was putting the tots to bed. “It doesn’t have a proper brake on the handles.” My heart sank. He called him back after ploughing through the instruction manual. Our fears were confirmed. “It’s not a running buggy.”

It turned out the manual we had downloaded was for the Britax BOB Revolution SUS Duallie Stroller – for running – whereas the buggy in question was a Britax BOB Revolution Duallie SE Stroller – not for running. Our money was instantly refunded, but we were still minus a running buggy and DaddyO had wasted an entire evening and a tank full of petrol.

But DaddyO is abnormally hard to faze. After spending 4 hours driving around the M25 all he could say was ‘Oh well, it’s good we tried.’ Let’s just say I wouldn’t have had quite the same honey-coated outlook had I been the driver.

We then ordered a new Britax BOB Revolution SUS Duallie on Amazon. It arrived early – on day 1 of the Easter holidays – much to the delight of everyone. Tinytoes had chicken pox – cleverly timed to coincide with the start of the holidays, but running outdoors wouldn’t risk contaminating people. We were excited to try out the buggy and so was Tinytoes. We spent Good Friday morning assembling it and pumping up the tyres. Only then did we notice there was a foot brake and not a hand brake! We had been sent another Britax BOB Revolution SE Duallie  – not for running (!)

I mean seriously, how hard can it be to acquire a double running buggy?! It seems we are destined not to receive one. We ended up taking it in turns to go for a run while the tinies slept, later that afternoon.

How amazing it would be one day to chill out one weekend while they sleep and then run – as a form of entertainment for them and for us – when they are awake. Maybe one day we’ll get there while they’re still of a buggy-needing age. We now have to wait for Amazon to contact the seller, which takes two working days. Given it’s the holidays this may take a while.

If we ever do manage to get hold of one, I guess there’s no guarantee Tinytoes won’t insist on getting out and trying to join us running. But maybe she’ll be a runner too by then…

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