Tag: Babies

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.

Feel free to post your comments underneath or on my Facebook page 

Flying solo

Calamitousmummy

The past two weeks have been full-on. DaddyO was in America all last week with work and then entertaining the Americans back here this week. Until yesterday when they went home.

I foolishly assumed the fact he was ‘working from home’ today would mean he could collect Tinytoes from nursery at lunchtime. As Microtoes gets heavier*, I’m finding it increasingly difficult to carry her up the stairs to nursery and then back down again with her older sister and rucksack, wellington boots, raincoat,  rabbit comforter and other such paraphernalia that we’re not supposed to leave behind at nursery (which occasionally I ‘forget’). If SuperGranny’s in town she will swing by the nursery just to sit in the car with Microtoes, so I have just one small person to negotiate down the stairs.

The only saving grace is that since moving up a level, Tinytoes has made a radical turnaround in terms of her willingness to cooperate in coming home with her mummy. This helps not only fulfil my objective of actually leaving the place and returning home with my daughters before dusk, but also dispels any notion that I am an evil, wicked mother whose daughter is so desperate to stay in nursery that she will kick up the most almighty pandemonium to stall leaving.

Unfortunately for me, DaddyO had a series of cleverly timed lunchtime calls preventing him from doing nursery pick-up today. Determined to make him help out in some small way I ask if he could load the twin buggy into the car for me, with just the seat for Microtoes. Since I would be picking up Tinytoes from nursery, I would have two hours to kill in town after ‘Rhyme Time’ at the library with Microtoes.

As usual it was a rush to be ready on time after a last minute nappy change and needing to grab some pureed carrot and pear, eating utensils and cooled, boiled water, on top of the usual baby-related items. As I drove off I realised I didn’t have time to check that DaddyO had put the correct buggy combination in the back of the car.  Surely he can’t have got it wrong I mused.

Fifteen minutes later I was having a tense call with DaddyO: ‘the elevators’ to connect the lower seat (Microtoes’ part) were missing. (I don’t know if I felt more annoyed that he had forgotten them or that he was trying to tell me I didn’t need them when clearly I did…)

In actual fact it was my fault for failing to load the buggy into the car myself. The penny began to drop that I could and did actually manage by myself better than I thought. Thankfully SuperGranny needed to pop into town that morning so was able to drop the ‘elevators’ off at the library. I cursed myself for having to bother her. And the librarian who gave me stern looks for furiously texting during’Rhyme Time’ to arrange drop-off of said ‘elevators’, while everyone else was bouncing their baby on their knees.

I ended up having a productive morning doing errands about town, buying the Big Issue (because the woman selling them gave Microtoes a beautiful smile and said ‘what a gorgeous baby’) and covering Microtoes in carrot and pear in Costa Coffee. In return she then covered me in breast milk as she found it far more interesting to pull her head away from me and stare at the customers, as my milk continued to soak through my top, which I was using to preserve my modesty.

At least nursery pick-up went smoothly. I’ve mastered a new technique of shoving Microtoes into the arms of any random nursery carer while I put Tinytoes’ coat and shoes and rucksack on, which is a nifty way of avoiding running around with one under each arm. Another mum I know occasionally leaves her little one in the car while she dashes upstairs to collect her older one. I can see the appeal, especially the times when Microtoes is fast asleep in her car seat, but I simply can’t bring myself to do this.

It’s hard work with two in nappies, but the prospect of nappy training scares me a little more. Little by little I’m finding it easier to cope by myself. As they get older, they are beginning to interact more with each other and – amazingly – sometimes nap at the same time in the afternoons. Tinytoes is becoming easier to reason with as her speech develops and although Microtoes is still feeding throughout the night, she will soon be needing less milk from me when she learns to swallow her carrot puree.

DaddyO is away again tomorrow – taking his British Citizenship test in London – but I’ll be using my window between breastfeeds on Sunday morning to go on a two hour bike ride on my own. I’m still buzzing from the one I did last weekend.  It felt amazing to have some ‘me time’. Now DaddyO’s turn to manage by himself…

 

*Incredibly, at 6 months old, Microtoes is only 3.5kg lighter than Tinytoes and one size smaller in nappies, despite being 19.5 months younger than her sister.

Two under two – myth busting

Calamitousmummy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Breastfeeding: milking it

Calamitousmummy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vaccines: a matter of life and death?

Calamitousmummy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Outnumbered by babies

Calamitousmummy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Making a run for it

Calamitousmummy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Black Wednesday  

Calamitousmummy

Today is a bad day. It starts off alright, if you don’t count the rubbish night that is. It was a combination of Tinytoes crying out in pain from her teething and DH unintentionally waking me up in the night which kept me from sleeping. Paradoxically our newborn is the quiet one; waking just once for a quick feed when I was awake anyway.

The day starts well enough; DH gets Tinytoes up and out of bed, dropping her off at nursery on his way to work. I take Microtoes to the first session of the postnatal group I mentioned last week and finally get to meet some mums in my new village. The session itself is pretty boring: one and a half hours all about weaning. The three others are first-time mums and new to it all, whereas I was still weaning Tinytoes this time last year.

The day begins to deteriorate when I pick Tinytoes up at 1pm. It is lightly raining and I’d not had lunch as time was too tight between postnatal group ending and nursery pick-up.  I didn’t even have time to attach my sling properly and could feel Microtoes slipping lower and lower as I climb the stairs to the nursery.

Tinytoes is clearly unhappy and out of sorts: she is still teething and has a bad cold. She refused all her lunch at nursery. Her rebellious frame of mind becomes evident when she stops stock still on the stairway, refusing to descend more than halfway and refusing to give me her hand.

I hover nervously next to her, my left hand desperately clutching her eight week old sister to avoid her slipping out through the sling. I’m unable to move further up or down in case Tinytoes should trip and plummet to the bottom of the stairs. She can’t even walk in a straight line without tripping or hurtling into something, so descending a steep staircase is another matter entirely.  I stand there helplessly trying not to let her see how much I want her to move in case it makes her rebel further. This was not the place for a full-on meltdown, I think, as I gradually become aware that we are causing the most almighty bottleneck.

Tinytoes is blithely unaware of the commotion we are causing. Instead, she finds it entertaining; staring up at the parents queuing to come down the stairs with their little ones, while I grimace apologetically at those waiting to come up.  Terrified Microtoes is going to drop out the bottom of the sling, I cradle her tiny body with both hands and eventually step down in front of my toddler, allowing the people behind us to file past. I use my body to stop Tinytoes from falling. Once everyone has come down and everyone has gone up (this takes quite some time), Tinytoes waits until the last remaining person has exited the building before slowly descending as she grasps onto the banister, rather than my hand.

Assuming my troubles are over, I couldn’t have been more wrong. Still refusing to hold my hand, I panic as Tinytoes runs out towards the road. I tell her very firmly to hold my hand, cars are dangerous etc but she is unfazed. I raise my voice and grab her arm. Furiously she flings herself onto the wet road (next to a parked car) and refuses to get up. Across the road, a young woman holding a baby stares gormlessly at me. I try to pick her up but struggle with Microtoes who I’m convinced is about to fall from the sling. Eventually I manage to scoop up Tinytoes under my right arm, her wet and muddy arms and legs flailing, holding onto Microtoes for dear life with my left arm.

Back home I place Tinytoes in her cot but she refuses to sleep. I leave her for a while and try yet again to call one of my two main clients; whose contract is up for renewal tomorrow.  After weeks of calling, finally I get through. I run my own business and this particular London-based client has always been ‘delighted’ with my work.

The call leaves me reeling. The co-founding partner tells me that although they’re ‘delighted’ with my work, they won’t be renewing the contract as they have decided to use someone else.  I hide my horror and keep my reaction professional. To begin with I’m nonplussed. His explanation is that they’ve chosen someone who can do other areas of work (all of which my firm can also do).

Then the penny drops: it must be because I’m on maternity leave. When I’d first announced my pregnancy we’d discussed contract renewal. The partner had insisted they would be continuing with my company, initially via a Paris-based colleague I subcontract (whom they’d already met and apparently liked). They’d even gone as far to say it was ‘highly commendable’ for me to juggle work with small children and they were keen to support me in my endeavour.   Naively I’d believed them.

After hanging up I stare into space, my addled brain trying to process what I’d just been told. I have a nagging headache along with some  of the early symptoms of mastitis, which tends to flare up when my nursing routine alters. Microtoes jolts me back into reality, giving a little cry for a feed. She smiles up at me and my heart melts. For a moment nothing else matters.

Then Tinytoes wakes up and the proverbial sh#t really hits the fan. She is furious and in obvious pain with a streaming cold. I manage to administer the Calpol and the screaming continues. I manage to bring her downstairs and place her in her highchair, next to Microtoes. Mindful she had not eaten any lunch I manage to prepare her a yummy meal of sausage and baked beans (don’t judge me, they’re the sugar-free variety…).That’s about all I manage.  For the rest of the day. My plans to travel to the supermarket with both of them go out the window.

She angrily flings her bowl of food in such a way that the baked beans go all over me, Microtoes and the floor. I snap and shout at her and she roars in fury, totally inconsolable. Microtoes begins crying for a feed. I carry her older sister kicking and screaming up the stairs and place her in her cot until she calms down, which doesn’t happen. After feeding Mircotoes I return to her sister who is still kicking and screaming and shouting out for her daddy.  I’m normally a “glass half full” kind of person, but by now I am overwhelmed.  I pick up Microtoes who regurgitates my breastmilk back into my hair and down my shoulder, where it curdles into the baked bean residue.

How did things come to this, I wonder?  I eventually get Tinytoes to calm down slightly by offering her some packets of tissues to play with. She, Microtoes and I are all on my bed. One by one she takes every single tissue out of each packet, but I don’t care as she’s no longer crying. Microtoes  is on her back sleeping.

I breathe a sigh of relief as I hear DH opening the front door back home from work. Tinytoes leans forward and accidentally knocks Microtoes’ head, thankfully not hard, but enough to wake her little sister and make her scream. And Tinytoes joins in crying. It’s all too much for me and I begin to sob too. As DH enters the bedroom he is confronted by all three members of his family balling their eyes out. On a bed strewn with unused tissues.

He takes it all in his stride and Tinytoes is soon silenced, in awe at seeing her mummy crying. Microtoes is soon back asleep again. My husband comforts me, telling me I’m not a crap mum and it’s not something wrong I’m doing (it feels like it sometimes), but Tinytoes is just suffering with her teeth, her cold, not having eaten and is expressing herself the only way she knows how. I know all this deep down, but sometimes it takes someone else to tell me.

DH then whisks Tinytoes off to the supermarket (after she hungrily polishes off the remnants of her dinner) and leaves me to marvel at the silence reigning as I type up my blog (for those of you still reading: well done! Sorry it’s so long but I’m finding it immensely cathartic).

DH is the glue that holds the family together, I think to myself. How the hell am I going to manage next week when he’s travelling overnight (over 2 nights) with work? And how the hell do other people manage; single mums or dads with 2, 3 or even 4 kids? And why the hell is Tinytoes always as good as gold for DH – and nursery staff – and not for me?!

I take my temperature and it’s 37.9 degrees. Maybe another reason for things getting too much for me today…

Oh well, tomorrow’s another day; let’s hope Tinytoes is not still teething and that Microtoes’ feeding regulates so I can keep the mastitis symptoms at bay.

 

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.