Tag: Babies

Baba’s girl and 6 week check-up

Calamitousmummy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

“You have a tired face”

Calamitousmummy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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