Tag: Motherhood

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.

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…

“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!