Tag: Family

When young meet old – our trip to a care home post COVID outbreak

Calamitousmummy

Growing old may not always be fun, but you stay the same person and that’s what counts. Children, especially, get it.

I’ve always been very fond of my half-sister. So, when I heard she had been transferred to a care home my instinct was to go and visit her. I gave her a call and she told me she’d had no visitors yet. This was because of a 14-day quarantine period imposed owing to COVID restrictions. I told the girls about her and they wanted to go and see her too. They remembered her fondly from the last time they saw her at Christmas.

It was never going to be an easy trip with the girls in tow, given the strict regulations in place owing to COVID. The care home was a good 75-minute motorway drive from where we lived. None of us would be allowed to use the ‘facilities’ or enter inside the building. We would have our temperatures taken upon arrival, we’d have to wear masks and strict social distancing would be in place. We were also in the midst of a heatwave.

But I was determined to see her. DH would be working and the girls were excited to see her again. They had begun drawing pictures of rainbows, flowers and butterflies to go on her wall at the care home.

When I told my half-nephew I was planning to visit his mother, he questioned if it was wise to bring the girls with me, suggesting that I check with the care home.  This comment puzzled me, but I didn’t like to press him. Was he worried they’d not respect the social distancing rules? Or that they’d be bored? Or that it would be complicated for me?  I told him I thought his mum may enjoy seeing them, but I’d see what the care home said.

I contacted the care home to book the visit and they agreed it would be OK to bring my 5-year-old and 4-year-old along with me. I had to fill in three separate forms, one for each of us, to testify our health, and I got MiniM#1 to ‘sign’ her form and Mini#2 to ‘sign’ hers before scanning them back to the care home.

A couple of days before our visit I received a call from my half-sister, who expressed concern about the girls coming as she was worried it could distress them. Again, I was puzzled. She said that she didn’t want to girls to be upset by seeing very elderly people and was I sure I wanted to bring them.

I replied that from our point of view, the girls were really keen to see her and that I believed it to be important for children to meet people from all walks of life, and not to shield them from the elderly, because we all become old eventually. After all, she’s a person, not an age. She replied that she had changed, and may not be looking very glamorous and I ventured that if she felt at all uncomfortable from her own perspective about the girls seeing her, then she must say so, and I was absolutely OK not to bring them. She replied that she was fine for them to see her, and that I’m their mother so it was up to me, but her sons had expressed concerns that it could be distressing for them to see elderly people.

I hung up, dithering what to do. Was I putting my children in an awkward position? Was it her talking or her sons? Getting older is part of life and people are still the same people whatever their age.  I feel particularly strongly about this point, as my beloved late father was a lot older than most fathers. He was 70 years old when I was born, hence my half-sister turning 85 next month.

I vividly remember, aged 14, being told by my mother that I didn’t need to continue to visit my father in the hospice if I didn’t want to. He was dying of cancer. Her suggestion felt like a bullet through the heart and I remember staring at her in complete and utter disbelief, my head unsuccessfully trying to make sense of the words I was hearing. Why on earth would I not want to carry on visiting my father, one of two people I loved more than anyone else on the entire planet, at a time when he needed us the most? My heart still squeezes when I recall this moment (of course never with any resentment towards my dear mother, she was only trying to protect me). Needless to say, I continued to visit him.

And today I paid his daughter a visit, with my two daughters, on the hottest day of the year. The journey to see her went fairly smoothly. The temperature gauge in the car nudged 36 degrees as I sped along the M25. The aircon was on full pelt, but it still felt hot and clammy in the car. Upon arrival MiniM#2 was a bit groggy after falling asleep in the car and was grumpy about having her mask put on.

We stood outside the main doors and the receptionist came out to take our temperatures. Mine was 39.5 degrees (!) I looked at her, horrified that our trip may have been in vain, and amazed it was such a high reading when I felt fine. She took it a couple of times more and it still read the same. We agreed it must be the heatwave. I asked her to take the girls’ temperature and they were both 36.7 degrees.

When mine had eventually edged down to 37.8 degrees she agreed my half-sister could come outside. She had gone up to her room to apply her lipstick. I thought she looked as lovely and as elegant as ever. The time flew by. We were only allowed 30 minutes, but the receptionist turned a blind eye to us staying almost 50 minutes. The girls were as good as gold (apart from MiniM#2 moaning that she wanted a biscuit for the last 10 minutes – I kept telling her she could have one in the car!).

I felt sad that my half-sister obviously wanted to hug us and invite us in and show us her room, but was not allowed because of the COVID restrictions. And she suggested letting the children play around with her frame but we had to tell her it wasn’t allowed either. She could at least look at the flowers we brought and the girls’ pictures, but she wasn’t allowed to touch them. The receptionist took them at the end of the visit and said they would be ‘sprayed down’. I hoped the colours wouldn’t run, and the flowers wouldn’t wilt.

I felt sad too when we had to go. The girls showed her how to give virtual hugs and said goodbye to her. She was sorry DH hadn’t come too, and asked to say ‘goodbye’ to him too. This sounded awfully poignant and I made up my mind to come back and see her again soon, hopefully with DH. My heart felt a bit squeezed as I waved goodbye to her. ‘Ahh it’s hard growing old,’ I said to the girls in the car. MiniM#1 looked at me, nonplussed. “Why?” she asked, puzzled.

And the fact she asked me that question made me extremely glad I had brought her along. And fully convinced it was completely the right thing to do. “Oh, I didn’t mean being old,” I corrected myself, “I meant having to deal with all the COVID restrictions.” She immediately looked less puzzled and nodded in agreement.

The trip back was less smooth. The heat and the journey had taken their toll on the girls. Poor MiniM#1 vomited profusely in the back of the car. Luckily, we were nearly back home and I opened all the windows. The clean-up job wasn’t pretty, but we agreed the trip was worth it. And she was fine later – gobbled up her fish fingers, peas and couscous for supper.

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The day my 3-year-old caught the Corona Virus

Calamitousmummy

sick mia 2Or at least we assume she did. We can’t be sure as the UK is not testing (except for the rich and famous of course.) And it took her to become seriously ill for me to take stock and ‘calm down’.

At the beginning of last week, when schools, pubs, playgrounds, shops and cafes were still open in the UK, I was driving myself into a panic reading all the news alerts and increasing death tolls worldwide; wondering why nothing was being done in the UK to anticipate this impending doom. Herd immunity sounded such a risky way of dealing with the situation, compared to the enforced lockdown that had been going on in Italy, France, Spain and Switzerland.

And then, last Tuesday, I got the call from preschool to tell me my 3-year-old was experiencing breathing difficulties and couldn’t stop coughing, and that I needed to collect her. I jumped straight into the car, my heart pounding. As I rang the preschool doorbell, I became convinced my worst fears were about to be realised, and I began sobbing (really unhelpful, I know, but I couldn’t stop myself).

The preschool manager and carer were so calm and caring and level-headed; luckily MiniM#2 didn’t see me crying as she was fast asleep in one of the carer’s arms. This in itself was unheard of. She stopped her afternoon naps before she turned two and is normally a tireless ball of energy. She looked so pale. With tears streaming down my face I carried her out into the carpark, cradled in my arms, with wellies, bags and coats hanging off my fingers. I stood there, feeling a bit lost, wondering how I was going to get my car keys out of my back pocket.

Back home, she awoke while still in the car. Surprised at where she was. She had a slight cough and was indeed wheezy, but didn’t seem as bad as I’d feared thank goodness. I actually felt relief that now we would legitimately have to take MiniM#1 out of school and MiniM#2 out of preschool and DH out of the office and self-isolate for 14 days. That way we would no longer be exposed to the possibility of coming into contact with the virus.

Over the next day or two MiniM#2 had a constant cough and wheeziness, but she was happy and merry, dancing and jumping and playing as usual. I began to take stock of the situation and calm down. I stopped reading or listening to the news. We would be safe and stay together in isolation.

It was Thursday night when everything changed. We were woken at 3am to the sound of rasping coughing and gasping for breath. MiniM#2 couldn’t breathe properly, nor could she even talk properly; her voice came out as a muffled squeak in between coughing. Tears were streaming down her red face and her eyes were wide and frightened. I stroked her head to try to calm her and forced myself to look calm when I was exploding with fear inside. “I want God to save me mummy,” she managed to croak.

I called 999 without hesitation and was told an ambulance was on its way. I sat in bed with MiniM#2 on my lap, keeping her in an upright position as she coughed and coughed and coughed, gasping for breath. I was shaking uncontrollably, like a leaf. “Stop rumbling, mummy!” she croaked at me.

The ambulance took me and her to East Surrey hospital where she was checked over by a doctor. I was told it was likely she had COVID-19 but they no longer tested. She was breathing better by the time she was seen and her chest and airways were deemed clear, despite all the wheezing and coughing.

DH came with MiniM#1 to pick us both up at 7am, weary and exhausted. MiniM#2 was already chirpier and excitedly told her big sister how the police had taken her to hospital (!) Back home, I managed a 2-hour nap while DH cancelled his work calls and minded the girls. MiniM#2 kept going until about 4pm when she fell into a deep sleep on the sofa. When she woke, she was burning up, still wheezy and coughing. We called 111, who called another ambulance.

The paramedics were amazing and so matter-of-fact. They said she probably did have COVID-19, but that it was just a virus and not to worry – 80% of people with the corona virus don’t need treatment. They even removed their masks; explaining that it was likely they’d catch it anyway and that masks didn’t really do much to protect.

While they were there, MiniM#2 began to rally.  Her temperature didn’t go lower than 38.3 degrees even with Calpol, but she visibly perked up and began playing with the medical kit of the paramedics (they encouraged this!) and showing them her dollies and hair accessories. They accepted our offer of tea and coffee.

Just having the paramedics sitting there, in our living room with us, watching over MiniM#2 and addressing all our concerns was unbelievably reassuring. The high temperature was her little body fighting the virus. She continued to improve over the next few days.

Who’s to know what lies ahead. Whether my own recent shortness of breath, slight cough and swollen neck glands is me fighting the virus? I’ve been prescribed an inhaler and banned by the doctor from doing any form of sport for 7 days. DH and MiniM#2 are still fine.

But mentally I feel stronger and more defiant. I needed what felt like a close brush like that to put things into perspective. There’s no point wasting energy and resources worrying about countless ‘what if’ scenarios if they are not actually happening.

It’s been 10 days since preschool called me and MiniM#2 still has a cough but seems OK now. Hopefully I’ll be fine too. That’s what everyone healthy should be focusing on. I’m happy staying at home until all this passes. I’m sorry MiniM#1 may miss the end of her first year at school which she was loving so much. I’m sad they can’t see their granny at the moment. I’m sorry MiniM#2 is missing having fun at preschool, but I’m thankful we have each other. And we can spend time together as a family, even if it is full-on and exhausting at times…

As for the news alerts, I’ve deactivated them and I’m dipping in far less frequently to the news. It’s all about living in the present. And we’ve swapped our evening dose of scandi-noirs and gritty thrillers for Miranda and Fawlty Towers box sets.

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Corona Virus: 10 Positive Takeaways

Calamitousmummy

Girls ashdown 2I’m still recovering from the shock of my 3-year-old falling seriously ill with what we’re told is likely to have been COVID-19 last week (more on that in a future post). To keep spirits up I’m trying to focus on some of the positives that this surreal pandemic has brought us:

  1. More family time – being forced to reorganise our working lives so that we both have more quality time with the kids (albeit in shifts while the other works). Now I no longer have any pangs of guilt from sending my 3-year old to preschool four days’ a week so I can work.
  2. Less vain – I’m no longer wearing make-up at all, which saves time (and in the long-term a bit of money I guess). I’m also growing out the blonde highlights that I’ve had since I was 21 and living in France (ahem.. 20 years ago), after cancelling my hair appointment. I’ve always been nervously curious to see how much natural blonde I have left, and now I have the perfect excuse.
  3. Back to basics – I’m cooking at home every day and we are sitting down and eating together as a family. I’m enjoying being more culinarily creative with the children.
  4. Sisters playing together – Instead of one being in pre-school and the other at school, they are at home together, forming a tight sisterly bond that will stay with them forever.
  5. Conference calls instead of schlepping up to London – saving time and money. (This has generally worked, apart from a call last week I completely forgot about – a potential French client I’d been pitching to who had five senior directors waiting 25 minutes on a conf call line to speak to me; one eventually had to call my mobile while I was helping MiniM#2 on the toilet. Totally bewildered, I had to drag poor DH out of his own call, before pitching to the client in confused French, with the girls shouting for me outside the door!)
  6. Getting increasingly fitter – I’m making sure I go on a cycle ride or a run at least every other day. I’m actually less tired through not going to London and instead staying at home so I have more energy to go faster and further.
  7. Empty roads – my local cycling route is less perilous as there are much fewer cars whizzing by on the pot hole-ridden twisting country lanes. Exchanging knowing nods and rueful smiles with other cyclists, mindful that we can at least enjoy being out on our bikes and have the roads almost to ourselves.
  8. Saving money – through not going out so much and not eating out and (hopefully) getting refunds from events and holidays we’ve had to cancel.
  9. Activities – forced to be creative, resourceful and plan, and doing all the crafty, fun activities with the kids I always wanted to do, but often neglected as we were either out and about or working.
  10. Being grateful – that we live in a house with a garden, rather than the thousands of people in flats without any garden. And that we have each other.

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Perks of a 3h wait on tarmac

Calamitousmummy

middle ramen

Returning from catching up with friends and family in Barcelona last week, I was typically knackered. We only go back twice a year so it’s all about seeing as many people as possible in a short space of time. With two toddlers in tow it’s become more ‘entertaining’, but also more tiring. I didn’t know it at the time but I had tonsillitis when I boarded the flight back home. All I knew was I was feeling pretty rotten, the glands in my neck had swollen like mini golf balls and it hurt like hell to swallow.

So when easyJet announced there would be a 1h25 min wait on the tarmac, followed by another 1 hr 20 min wait, because of thunderstorms at Gatwick I feared the worst. But it actually turned out to be one of the best flights I’ve ever had post-kids and here’s why:

  • The girls spent 3 hours running up and down the entire length of the plane, much to the amusement/ dismay of fellow passengers. As one man quipped: “They’ll soon have run the entire distance from Barcelona to Gatwick before even we’ve taken off!”
  • They barged into the cockpit and got to meet the pilot and co-pilot. I think both were a welcome distraction for each other – all four of them equally bored of waiting for air traffic control.
  • We were given free snacks and drinks by a really friendly and apologetic cabin crew (the delay wasn’t their fault; they were due to clock off any moment yet flew regardless)
  • Thanks to having so much time to run up and down the plane, both girls fell fast asleep pretty soon after take-off! And – wait for it – slept the entire duration of the flight!!! We could read, eat our free snacks and chill in peace. It was glorious.

The only drawback was trying to eat steaming hot chicken chili ramen over my one-year-old’s head. And the fact I was feeling quite so rough.  Other than that I couldn’t have wished for a more perfect flight.

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Mia

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.

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.

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.

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.