Tag: Parenting

Call from Social Services

Calamitousmummy

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

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

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

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

leg

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then the call came.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

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.