A letter to Nelson: month three May 11, 2008

Dear Schmoo,

I am struggling to believe that next week you will be three months old. Something strange happens in adult brains, I think, when it comes to time and babies. The hours when you scream your displeasure at how tired you are seem to drag on forever. And yet it feels to me like only yesterday I was lying in bed, in the quiet of the early morning hours, feeling your little heels kick against the top of my uterus, and here today you are upstairs in your own big bed, cooing to yourself as you fall to sleep.

Son, this month as with the past two you have challenged me, tested my patience, broken my heart and mended it over and over again. I am speaking specifically of your ability to go for days without any great periods of sleep.

This last week your Special Aunty SimonaMinx came to visit me while your father was away on business in Europe. For three days, you slept in 20 minute power naps, and came out of each one fully pumped for whatever life could throw at you, and you seemed perfectly OK with the fact that babies such as yourself only needed four hours sleep MAXIMUM in the dark. I really thought we had the sleeping thing down with you: in the past it only took a dream feed at 11pm to keep you going through til 6am, but apparently you like to keep me on my toes and not get too comfortable. Who needs all that sleep anyway? It’s for the weak.

Then, of course, the first night your dad was home you selpt from 11pm through til 5am. Perhaps it is the peaceful vibe eminating from his aura that has calmed you. Whatever, on the one hand I’m happy it’s working, on the other hand, WHY WON’T YOU SLEEP LIKE THAT FOR ME (YOU LITTLE BUGGER!)?

Yesterday your dad and I started the process of getting you to sleep in your own room. This basically involves sticky-taping tin foil over the windows and skylights, so that your room is as dark as possible, and the purchasing of a baby monitor, so we can leave you in the room to go to sleep but still spy on you. Fingers crossed that the end result is you sleeping and napping for longer.

You loved your aunty, and you spent many hours grinning and chatting and giggling with her. She loved you back and you showed her just what to expect from a pooey nappy when she pops out her own wee bairn in a few weeks time. I think she was a bit shocked at just how much work you can be. I think even *I* was a bit surprised at how much work you can be when there isn’t a daddy around to help out (purely on a selfish note, though, it did mean I got all your love and cuddles to myself).

This made me think of two things: one, how amazing your Aussie Grandma is, because she brought me up by herself, with no daddy around to help. It’s only since I’ve had you that I’ve really been able to appreciate what she has done for me. And two, how grateful I am to have your dad around, because working as a team to bring you up really spreads the workload.

Last week I toddled down to the baby clinic to have you weighed - 14 pounds 6 ounces. That’s a stone. You are a big boy, no two ways about it: you dwarf many of the babies at group who are months older than you. I have given up carrying you around in your harness because you are just too heavy for me. Every day you seem to unfurl a little more, grow a little bit more into the wonderful person your dad and I know you to be.

This month you have started to drool and shove your fists in your mouth with gay abandon. Nothing is quite so entertaining as the feeling of your cute little fingers in your gummy mouth.

You love to kick in your basket and play with your squeaky pirate, to gurgle and ‘talk’ to me and your dad. You adore it when your father whistles you a tune, any tune, doesn’t matter what, you think it’s the funniest thing on the planet, and we are just eating that up at the moment because we know that in about 15 years time you will think we are the most embarrassing humans that ever existed.

You are also becoming a lot more physical with each new day. No longer are you content to lie on your back in your basket and let the world pass you by. You want to roll over, lift your head up, reach for things - and you let us know how unhappy you are when your body doesn’t do what you want it to.

No longer are you content to lie snuggled in my arms. You want to stand up and look around or at the very least, sit up and look around, so I grasp you firmly under the arms and stand you up and bounce you on your very long legs. I’m sure, given how time seems to pass now I’m a parent, that I’ll turn around and you’ll be running off to school or jumping puddles.

Love,

Mum.

The sleep monster, junior + senior March 27, 2008

Unsurprisingly, Number One Son has been having sleep troubles. And, also not surprisingly for a newborn baby, he’s taken to crying as if it’s a national sport.

After spending 10 months in a nice, warm dark place with meals on tap, being rocked gently to sleep when one feels like it, I’m not surprised, really, but what I am is really fucking exhausted. Beyond exhausted, actually.

Number One Son has fooled us on a couple of occasions wherein he’s slept for five hours straight (five fucking hours! The luxury of it!).

But more often, nights follow this sequence:

11pm: feed Number One Son. Burp Number One Son thoroughly, knowing that if not burped thoroughly, Number One Son will wake up about 10 minutes after going to sleep. Get Number One Son to sleep.

2-3am: Number One Son awakes for night feeding. Repeat burping procedure. Gently nudge son towards sleep.

3.30am: Son awakes again. Repeat nudging procedure.

4.15am: Son awake. Repeat nudging procedure again, praying for divine intervention, or for social services to magically step in and work some sleeping mojo.

5am: Repeat.

5.45am: Feed son. Burp son. Nudge son towards sleep.

6.15am: Son, WHY ARE YOU AWAKE AGAIN?

And then it’s daylight and The Beloved is away to work and I am alone in the house with a son who will not sleep for any length of time but seems quite happy to cry non-stop until ten minutes before his father gets home.

Until yesterday we have been getting Nelson to sleep by comforting him on either of our chests, until we fall asleep. But according to every single expert this is dangerous practice that will come back to haunt us in times to come. Son needs to learn to fall asleep in his own bed, by himself.

So last night we read over ‘The Baby Whisperer’, by Tracey Hogg, in an effort to try and get this kid to sleep for more than 45 minutes at a time in his own bed, by himself.

Step one was to swaddle the kid, then do this shush-patting business, then stick the kid in bed, and continue to shush-pat as required, etc etc until kid falls asleep.

I thought we were on a winner, I really did. And we may yet be, but at the moment it feels like I’m out in some very cold and lonely wilderness with no map, no guides and no end in sight.

Son slept for about four hours (oh, thank goodness! I thought, rashly giving thanks for a decent block of sleep that SURELY was about to be followed up with another, thanks to this marvellous swaddling-shushing-patting procedure) then after feeding at 2.45am, awoke at 3.30am, 4.20am, 5am and 5.30am, by which time I was gritting my teeth with frustration and probably not behaving in a very soothing manner. Bless The Beloved, who took over and let me sleep from 6-7.30am. Wow. A whole, uninterrupted hour and a half.

“There you go,” he said, just before departing for work. “Son is in basket, relaxed but not sleepy.”

“Relaxed” lasted about two minutes after Number One Son heard his father leave the building, and has since made his displeasure known by yowling pretty much constantly.

Listening to your baby cry can be soul-destroying. Knowing that you’ve tried everything to get it to stop, and it doesn’t stop, makes you want to slit your wrists, but not before shouting “JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP!” at the kid, which is about as effective as yelling “KICK A FUCKING GOAL, YOU DIMWIT!” to Richmond’s Matty Richardson, standing ten metres directly in front.

And then you sit on the couch and burst into self-pitying tears yourself, as loudly as the kid, there you are together, crying on the couch, one soggy, adult mess and one arched back, red-faced junior who can’t tell you what’s wrong so you can fix it.

These are the bits the parenting books do not tell you about: some parts of motherhood really are quite shit.

And often one shit bit will pile on top of another, until you get six or seven shitty bits cascading over each other until all you can do is fall over in a heap and cry. Or get on the lash. Or both.

For example, this morning: kid won’t sleep, try feeding, kid throws up, continues wailing, change clothes, kid throws up again, starts crying again, change nappy, kid wees all over you, continues crying, leave the house for mother & baby group, forget Bag of Baby Stuff, return home to get Stuff, re-leave house for group, get to group only to discover it’s not on this week, which upsets you more than you anticipated, because you were looking forward to talking to some other mums with young babies, even if they’re strangers at least you’d be out of the house and with some company, decide instead to attend baby-friendly cafe for a cup of tea, wait in queue, get to front of queue, person in front of you takes last available seat, which upsets you profoundly as it means you have nowhere to sit and must return home to four walls and screaming child as it is raining outside and not a good time for a walk, besides which, you don’t want a walk, you want the kid to shut the fuck up, immediately, or you will go insane, and you’re thirsting for a nice cup of tea and a hug from a friendly face who will say “you poor thing, here, have some chocolate”, which won’t happen because you don’t really know anyone in the town where you live, so home it is, and you really do feel ready to disown your child, because you are clearly so utterly incapable of looking after him yourself and you are a total, useless failure at this parenting gig.

That’s the thing about sleep deprivation. It sneaks up on you in a multitude of ways, and it’s not like where you’ve had too much to drink and next door’s party wakes you up a few times in the night. It’s sometimes every 15 minutes, sometimes every 45, sometimes it might be every four hours, so the second you close your eyes there’s this immediate pressure to soak up the available seconds with sleep ASAP, while simultaneously listening out for Number One Son stirring to the point of being awake again.

And when you’ve had even two hours sleep, and then you’re being woken every hour or 45 minutes or whatever, I cannot really describe how dizzy with sleep deprivation you become. Every last fibre of your body is dragged kicking and screaming into being awake, because you can’t just ignore what’s waking you up. It must be attended to. You stagger awake and to the baby and seriously resent what it’s doing to your own sleep schedule, and worse than that, you get really, really jealous of your partner, who snoozes away as per your agreement, and you know that you’ve both chosen to take on these particular roles, but it doesn’t stop you being extremely fucking jealous of the fact that they are asleep and you are most definitely not.

On top of that is the knowledge that it will be months before you will get proper sleep again. Number One Son is still waking for night feeds and probably will do so for some time yet, a responsibility that is yours.

People urge you to sleep when the baby sleeps but two things: one, I can’t switch my sleep on and off that easily; and two, sometimes it’s more torturous to have an hour sleep while Junior naps than it is to just stay awake and get shit done.

They don’t tell you that in those ‘What to expect’ books, do they?

The aftermath March 22, 2008

The danger of expectations …

What I was expecting, part 1:

A earth mothery, waterbirth with minimal pain relief, definitely no epidurals or surgery, lasting under 24 hours.

What I got, part 1:

A 36 hour labour that never progressed past 4 centimetre dilation, a membrane sweep, three applications of cervix-softening gel, artificial rupture of my membranes, followed by 10 hours of fake oxytocin through an IV, and an epidural, all of which were followed by an emergency caesarian, during which I suffered a massive panic attack and lost over a litre of blood.

What I was expecting, part 2:

To breastfeed until the cows came home, or at least until Number One Son didn’t want the bosom any longer. That breastfeeding would be a deeply bonding and satisfying experience for both parties.

What I got, part 2 (a):

I hated breastfeeding. Excruciating pain in both bosoms throughout. One nipple suffered deep bruising from where The Wee Champ was incorrectly attached directly after birth; the other bore a crack the length of it that meant feeding was like having someone poke white hot sewing needles directly into said bosom repeatedly.

What I got, part 2 (b):

An unhappy baby that was never fully satisfied at any feed and the guilts that I wasn’t nourishing my child well enough; and that I should be happier and more proficient at breastfeeding.

What I expected, part 3:

Was to never have the need to use formula or bottles, because there was plenty of good food on tap for Number One Son.

What I got, part 3:

Industrial sized box of organic baby formula, several bottles and a steam steriliser now in regular use for Nelson. Result: a happy, satisfied baby and a more relaxed me with the freedom to now get back on the sauce. IT TAKES THE EDGES OFF.

What I expected: part 4:

That my kidlet would never, ever use a dummy.

What I got, part 4:

A dummy. Works a treat, and has saved our sanity on several occasions. JUDGE YE NOT.

What I expected: part 5:

Kidlet would sleep in his own cot, in his own room, in decent 3-4 hour blocks, from day one.

What I got, part 5:

A baby that has yet to sleep in his own room and occasionally spends nights sleeping in 45 minute chunks.

What I expected: part 6:

That I’d be GIFUCKENNORMOUS for months after the birth and that I’d never fit into my pre-pregnancy clothes again.

What I am got, part 6:

My favourite pre-England jeans a l m o s t do up, already! And yesterday I tried some new jeans on and managed to fit into a size 14. For someone who has spent the past nine months feeling like a very grey, dull heffalump, this (usually) superficial experience transcended ordinary joy. I’ll be a yummy mummy yet!

A letter to Nelson: month 1 March 16, 2008

Dear son,

This Wednesday you turn a month old, a fact that amazes me given that I’ve read *this* many manuals about parenting, but I am still hopeless inept at the job. I am getting much better as the days pass, however, at blaming my farts on you.

In the past month we have weathered many storms already, mostly involving your not sleeping, and not fully appreciating that when you arch your back a certain way you are not performing a complicated yoga pose but in fact have wind, but sometimes it means you are showing off how strong your neck and back muscles are, and sometimes it means wind AND showing off, and then you go and do something cute and a switch gets triggered in our brains and somehow we think your weeing all over your father is cute.

One of your favourite things to do at the moment is to lie on your back on the bathroom floor, and stare at god only knows what, and listen to the water pump in the cupboard bringing the blessed relief of hot water to your poor mother’s bosoms. And then throw in a wee vomit on the carpet for good measure.

Another of your favourite things to do is not sleep, which makes me wonder where those experts who say babies sleep 16 hours a day get their babies from. Because they sure didn’t take you into account. A little while ago you spent two nights sleeping in 45 minute chunks, and then taking your naps during the day like a damn angel. After the first night I assumed that you would tire yourself out by the second, but no, you were impatient to set the world record for minimum number of minutes spent fooling parents into thinking you were asleep, and by gee by jingo did you surpass that record. GUINNESS HAS BEEN CALLING.

I now understand why sleep deprivation is used as a method of torture because you have proven that you are way, way better than George Bush in this respect. In fact, I wouldn’t even vote for you in case you made it part of the constitution. The thing about you is that once you wake up and realise that there’s no bosom in your mouth, which means you’re not eating, you are determined to let the world know about it so someone will come along and fix it for you. Because hey, the squeaky wheel gets the oil, right?

Your father and I have discovered a method that slides you towards sleep without you actually thinking that you’re sliding towards sleep, because according to you, if you’re sleeping you’re not eating, and that’s a really tragic state of affairs, one that everyone needs to know about, even the neighbours we haven’t met yet in the next street.

You like to lie on your dad’s chest because that’s male bonding time and you like to lie on my chest because there’s bosoms involved, and if there’s bosoms involved then there is even a slight chance more food will pass your lips. The other night as I tried to convince you that 3am wasn’t the ideal time to be staring at my face or discussing life and the universe, you dropped your head between my bosoms and began to do that cute, ‘I’m really comfortable, so comfortable I might be heading towards that S word’ snuffle, and I began to pat your back. And I thought to myself, take advantage of this, kid, because the next time you’re face down between some female’s tits and she’s rubbing your back you’re probably going to have to pay for it and you might just get arrested.

But it’s hard to convey that to a 4-week-old baby, so I’ll just write about it here and you can read it later.

This month you and I have been to our first mother and baby group. You are the biggest kid there, and that takes some doing, given one of the kids is nearly eight months old. We turned up a little early, me nearly crying for the effort of getting out of the house, dressed in a puke-covered hoodie and you in a harness on my chest with a muslin square over your head to protect you from the rain. The other mothers showed up immaculately dressed, with make-up on (MAKE UP! HOW DO THEY *DO* THAT?) with their kids in new prams with rain covers.

As we all sat there pretending not to eye up each other’s children, and comparing everyone else’s kid to our own, one of the mothers began to change her kid’s nappy. I glanced over and I’m proud to say this, son, you have WAY bigger balls than that 4-month-old Charlie. WAY bigger.

In the past week your constant desire for food has taken its toll on my bosoms, so much so that we are now in the process of making you a formula-fed baby, something that, weirdly, bothers you much less than when you were breastfed, but has the breastfeeding police up-in-arms because I haven’t tried hard enough to keep you latched to my bosoms for 27 hours a day. In your first two weeks of life it felt like you were constantly at my chest looking to suck my bosoms dry. You are some optimist because you also tried suckling your father’s nose, arm and chest, as well as your hands and - let’s face it - virtually anything that passed within ten millimetres of your mouth. And while the current size of my bazoombas pleases both you and your father for different reasons my current thinking is that no one is allowed near them for the next 25 years.

You have been weighed three times now since you were born at 9lbs 12oz. A week later you were 10lbs 2oz, then five days after that you were 10lbs 9oz, and the other day at the baby clinic the weirdo nursery nurse weighed you in at 100kgs. Not really, it was actually 11lbs 2oz, but it means that you are putting on weight faster than average (one ounce per day), which in my book makes you ADVANCED. And heavier than that 6-month-old Archie from group. GET IN.

Although you are officially putting on weight, we are at a loss as to where you put it. Because you are definitely not fat - you’re long limbed and dare I say it, BIG BONED.

You have my big man hands and ballerina feet, just like I thought you would, and your dad’s cute nose and cheeks and face, and we’re not sure who to blame the flat arse on just yet. But probably me, because kids like to blame their mothers for all kinds of stuff, right, so why not start now?

Before you were born other parents warned us that kids grow up really fast and suddenly we’ll turn around and we’ll be embarrassing you at your 21st birthday with nudie pictures of you taking your first bath. It is really only in the past week that I have come to appreciate these words of advice. Each day I marvel at how your face changes shape, how you are able to recognise sounds more easily and how you are coming to smile when your dad or I come into a room. And at your incredible capacity to do a giant shit in a nappy I’ve *just* changed.

You may not yet be able to talk, my chubby cheeked, adorable son, but already I have learned so much from you, mostly about how difficult it is to put someone else first, all the time, after a lifetime of tending only to numero uno and enjoying the luxury of eight or nine hours uninterrupted sleep every night. I have your dad to thank for showing me the way, and you to thank for rewarding me with a completely new level of love that I never really knew existed or wanted to know about until now. You somehow have used a key to open up my heart even further than your father did when I met him all those years ago, and bring me peace.

One of the cute things you like to do is sit up and stare at me, something that on occasion alarms me because all manner of expressions cross your face as you’re staring. The other morning as you stared and I wondered how I could manage to turn the staring competition into a nap, or at least try and get some sleep sitting up with my eyes open, you raised one eyebrow quizzically at me and viewed me with suspicion, as if to say, ‘Hey … you were here yesterday. Are you my mother?’

Yes son, I am.

Love,

Mum.

Week 40 and a bit: where are you? February 8, 2008

Dear pikelet,

We were just wondering, your parents, why you have decided to be late. given that your parents are consistent over-estimators when it comes to working out how long it takes to get anywhere, and have been late for a sum total of about ooh, three things in their whole lives, our question to you is this: WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?

I, your mother, cannot talk on the phone any more, which is like your father voluntarily electing to never again use computers (but the day that happens is the day the world will end or men will suddenly develop the ability to bear a child, so no fear there), because I know every fucking time that phone rings it’ll be yet another well meaning friend or relative agog with excitement about your ALLEGEDLY impending arrival, screaming ANY NEWS YET? ARE YOU A MUMMY YET? To which my response has been thus far, no, and no, but if you want news cop this: I’ve watched five episodes in a row of Jamie Oliver’s home cooking/gardening show, which is more TV than I’ve watched in one hit for over two years. Take that. Pow, ANY NEWS IN YOUR FACE.

I, your beloved mother, who has thus far in your short, short life sacrificed her career, wardrobe, healthy eating regime, and any appearance of being even vaguely interested in housework in order to being you life, limbs and eyelashes, believes that YOU OWE ME TO SHOW UP. I would really like that, today, if at all possible, and even if it means going through many many hours of pain in the downstairs area or several gigantic needles in my spine combined with a lovely bit of gut splicing. Or even both. I am that desperate to rejoin the human race, the race that stands about and walks at normal paces and doesn’t get winded by the mere thought of walking up a flight of stairs. I would like my bladder back; I would like to be able to sleep in more than one position, in fact, I’d dearly love to just get some damn sleep.

We think you are a bit of a joker, and we’re cool with that, except for all the Braxton Hicks contractions you keep tricking me with. I get two in a row and I’m heading to the phone to ring your father, to say, this is IT, come home now and lavish (even more) attention (than usual) upon me and ease my discomfort, and then you in your wisdom will think it’s a tiny bit cruel to lead an excitable woman on in such a way, and settle down to a good hour of hiccupping and then a bit of a kick and a long nap.

I have already worked out that this is my first lesson of parenting: I may very much want you to do something, but if you don’t want to do it when I want you to, you won’t. You’ll do it in your own sweet time, and all I can really do is guide you and cross my fingers.

So hurry up already.

Week 39: we’re ready as we’ll ever be February 1, 2008

Dear sproglet,

Aside from the remake of the Saturday Night Fever album cover position, and the head-banging to Nirvana position, neither of which bother your father or me particularly, even while in the womb, did you have to take up the posterior position as your preference, just before birth?

At least we can count our blessings: you’re not bum first, you’re not sideways, but you are … tricky. Doing things your own way, just like your parents, I figure. And we’re cool with that. But don’t let it remain unsaid that we won’t try and guide you into a position - like, say, ANTERIOR AND EASY THROUGH THE BIRTH CANAL, BUSTER - on your way out. Or is it the way in?

And unfortunately pretty much the only way I can guide you into a better position for birth is by crawling around on my hands and knees for as much of the day as possible and reading the paper on all fours. Let me say it now: THE THINGS I DO FOR YOU, CHILD. One website I read even suggested going up and down the stairs sideways and trying to sleep on my belly. That website was clearly written by someone who has never been pregnant before.

Anyway, whichever, but consider this your official eviction notice. Your new room is ready, resplendent with decorations home made by your parents and Aunty-Lady-Jane, we’ve packed the labour bag, and we are pretty much just hanging around out here while you hang around in there. Why not come out and join us?

After spending so long in denial about what it’s going to take to get you into this world (either many hours of pain in the downstairs area, including the infamous ring of fire; OR a fucken big needle or six in my spine and my guts cut open to find you) I have finally reached a point of just being completely tired of being the pregnant lady who can’t move further than from the couch to the fridge.

I have watched as much Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel, 24 (Series 1) and re-runs of the Sopranos as I can handle. I’ve played way, way too many hours of MarioKart. I grew heartily tired months ago of those conversations with strangers wherein they inquire how long I have to go, then deign to impart to me their opinion about my weight, appearance and whether I’m still carrying to high to give birth. I have even stopped caring whether I punch those people in the face any more.

I’ve stopped answering the phone, partly because I cannot have any more Have you had it yet? NO! conversations, and partly because the phone is usually at the other end of the house to my grossly large beached whaleness. Very inconsiderate for a cordless phone.

I’ve even grown tired of the fucking computer. How am I even writing this? M i n d p o w e r. Get used to it, kid. By the time you understand what that means I’ll have eyes in the back of my head, too.

My pretend contractions are increasing with each passing day. This morning I had three strong ones in a row, the first of which woke me from my futile attempt at dozing while carrying a small elephant inside my female parts. Then your father made me coffee, I remembered there was the internet and bills to pay and then it was 2pm and I was still in my jimmy-jammies waiting for labour to start for real. Not unlike right now.

I was going to write a big long post about promises I want to make to you, and ones your father will smile and nod to, because he knows who the boss is of this family, the real boss, not the one who goes out to work Monday to Friday. In the outside world. With other people. Where they drink on Friday afternoons. And stand around. Bastards.

So these promises. I had a great post about it all lined up in my head at about 3am yesterday, and then forgot it, because my brain is still all mushy from the carrying a small elephant around in my girl parts for the past nine months thing, and then I thought about writing it again and realised that I just couldn’t be bothered.

And yet, here I am, so here goes, but first with the things I won’t be able to promise, and you’re just going to have to deal with that (send us the therapist’s bill):

1. I can’t promise that I’ll never spit on a tissue and then wipe crusty bits of food from your face right before you get out of the car to go to school. Sorry.

2. I can’t ever promise for definite that I won’t ever say: “You don’t have to like it, you just have to it eat it” or “I don’t say no for fun, you know” or “This hurts me more than it hurts you”. Again, sorry.

What I CAN promise, however:

1. Never to negate your feelings. What you feel is what you feel, and that goes for me and your pa as well. We will deal with our feelings and emotions about issues, events, problems, whatever - together, as a family. No drama (unless you really want some).

2. To take responsibility for my own feelings, and to separate them from your behaviour as best I can when you decide the loungeroom wall looks much better covered in glitter and non-removable crayon.

2. Never to put you down for what you are wearing, even if it means gritting my teeth from saying anything. Listen, the second you can dress yourself (which will be when, you’re three? four? help me out here), you’re doing your parents a big favour by removing a chore from their never-ending list. What are your thoughts on dusting, by the way?

3. Never to bust into your room without knocking. If your door’s closed, you cute little sulky teenager you, I’ll knock. I’m sure you’ll put me back in my place if I don’t.

4. To admit my mistakes, as a human, who is continuing to learn about life.

5. To accept when I am wrong.

6. To take you to Glastonbury one day. If you’ll have me.

Week 37: oh, shit January 17, 2008

I am ginormous. Utterly ginormous.

This week I had to check the BBC’s pregnancy calendar to work out exactly how pregnant I was. That’s because my brain has turned completely to mush. Last night The Beloved was very excited to show me his new computer software that enables him to (literally) make beautiful music. I stared somewhat vacantly at the screen, muttered various words of encouragement and all I could really think about was returning to the loungeroom to continue playing MarioKart (look! bright colours! funny creatures! whee!).

As befitting a mammal of such large proportions, my capacity for movement has also slowed down considerably. We have just moved into a three-storey terrace and I have become very proficient at going up and down the stairs the minimum number of times possible. Stairs - they’re hard work, man. Seriously.

The baby’s room is now almost ready for the Wee Wriggler, due really at any time from here on in. We are still trying to decode the puzzle of the disassembled changing table, however. Still, the kid will have somewhere to sleep, and if we have to we can change nappies on the floor.

The Beloved and I started birth classes two weeks ago and they have proven interesting in some respects and quite horrifying in others. I have seen a pair of forceps. I do not want them near my body. The birthing pool, however, I baggsied on the first week. It’s even bigger than the bath in our house, which takes some doing, and if the midwives really will fill it with hot water and give me gas to make me high at the same time while I squeeze a rather large object through a relatively small hole, then, so be it. I can probably live with that.

You can say what you like about gender stereotypes fading into insignificance in this modern age but it all goes out the window when it comes to birthing classes. The midwife leading the class says things like ‘vagina’ and ‘anus’ and ‘10 centimetres dilation’ and the blokes sit there with this frozen expression on their faces, which basically translates as, ‘ohhh … shit … are they going to make me look down there?’. All the while the pregnant people sit there looking slightly tired but interested and clearly wondering when the proceedings would be arriving at the ’session break with chocolate biscuit’ part, and whether said midwife would notice any sly reading of trash mags left on nearby tables.

Yesterday I went into a very large chain store to purchase washable nappies. I’ve talked before on this site about how the maths and the ethics don’t add up for disposables, but when you have £200 in your hand one minute and then a recyclable bag laden with a few bits of absorbent cotton and Velcro the next but minus the cashola you do begin to question your sanity and wonder whether one person’s preference not to add to landfill is really worth it. Interestingly, I did not question my sanity when I dropped £180 on a sexy iPod a few months back before I got pregnant. Priorities, huh? I ended up exchanging a large wad of cash for these particular nappies that are made of bamboo fibre. They are almost guaranteed to give my kid that cute overly big and round baby bum. As well as do all the other things, you know, like not leak poo all over the bedding.

Life currently feels a bit like we are heading towards a (possibly pleasant and vastly rewarding) nuclear meltdown. We are in the process of battening down hatches, in preparation for the arrival of the Wee Disco Dancer, which involves doing truckloads of life administration - organising direct debits for bill paying, buying bits of furniture, practising putting up the pram without losing my temper (harder than you think!!) - and making sure we have everything as ready as we can for said meltdown.

Now the nappies are in, I’m doing the last of the gazillion loads of washing of all the baby’s stuff, and buying the last few bits of things I think I might need before getting around to packing my labour bag and choosing the sproglet’s very first outfit in which it will travel home. And, of course, battening down of hatches involves watching lots of Buffy and Angel and eating very nice reduced price desserts from Waitrose, conveniently located within waddling distance of my house.

It’s weird to think that the next time I write I might very well be a parent. I think that’s about as big a life change as you can get, other than a sex change.

Weeks 31-33: the confinement December 18, 2007

Well, I’m finally on maternity leave. It’s a very weird feeling, knowing that I have voluntarily left a good job to have a baby, and before the baby is born I get to hang out on the couch and watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer AND get paid for the privilege. Not a bad deal, once my hack agency sorts out my lost maternity certificates and actually PAYS ME.

Now I am officially confined, as the Brits so love to call their pregnant women, I am coming up with new and inventive ways to be the best possible hausfrau for The Beloved, what with him being the main provider of income and all. Today’s agenda has followed thus:

8.30am: Make The Beloved sandwiches. Admittedly this is not the first time I’ve made him food, but quite probably the first time I’ve ever actually voluntarily arisen before I needed to and made food for him that hasn’t involved also making food for myself and subsequently eating it. Retire to bed. Contemplate nap. Read graphic novel instead.

9.30am: Arise. Officially. Decide that as an act of defiance I will not get out of my pyjamas all day. Partake of breakfast; check blogs; consider taking constitutional before lunch. Decide instead to do some godamn housework instead of sitting around on my arse all day. Such housework, today, has consisted of:

• Yet another bloody load of washing. How can two people go through so many clothes? I ask this because since I have become the size of a small beached whale, I have found my acceptable-in-public wardrobe reduced to about two items and a heap of underpants. Yet the washing pile ever-remains.
• The dishes. Our dishwasher (the mechanical one) has kicked the bucket, so we have resorted to using old technology for cleaning dishes. Ie, the hands of a hausfrau. Our kitchen is one of those in which if any single item looks remotely out of place, or if a single dirty dish is placed within eyesight, the entire kitchen looks as though it has been heavily over-populated by first year university students. Don’t start with me, I used to be one. I know.
• Tidying of the bedroom. Honestly, you’d think first year university students had taken over our entire flat. Why does it still seem, as my late 30s gallop toward me, that the floor or a chair is an infinitely better place to store your clothes than the wardrobe? Why is that?
• Started packing for our imminent move to a slightly smaller town in just under two weeks. I have so far in one day managed to pack an entire wardrobe’s worth of stuff (linens, baby clothes, fragiles), PLUS about 1/3 of our CD collection, PLUS emptied and boxed up our bathroom cabinets (X 2).

12.30pm: Time for lunch, and a spot of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

12.45pm: Take nap on couch mid-Buffy.

4pm: Awake and consider more housework. Decide on fruitcake and hot chocolate instead.

4.30pm: Begin Mario Kart marathon.

And so the days continue.

While I could deffo get used to this lounging about lark, the Protestant working class in me does harbour some shreds of guilt about how I’m sitting about not really doing much other than breathing, eating and taking in popular culture. Then the modern, university-educated part of me kicks in and boots the Protestant over the head, because hell, growing limbs and brains and eyelashes and kidneys is damn exhausting business, and besides which, I’ve worked a demanding, full-time job that includes a 1.5 hour commute every bloody day for pretty much every day of this pregnancy until yesterday, so fuck, I’VE EARNED THE RIGHT TO WATCH BUFFY ON THE COUCH AND EAT FRUIT CAKE IN MY JIM-JAMS.

And at least while I am at home relaxing I am in a much better position to restrain myself from punching strangers in the face who insist on gazing in some kind of weird stranger-awe at my belly and asking in supposed jest, WOW, ARE THERE TWINS IN THERE?? Instead of hi, how are you?

No, I’m just fucking big, my kid is big, and thanks for reminding me. Like I’m not already becoming vaguely nervous about pushing something THAT big out of something THAT small.

Weeks 22-25: the house guest October 28, 2007

While I am officially down with the being pregnant concept now, I am still yet to completely be jiggy with the idea of welcoming a new person into our home in three short months.

When I think about the baby, I am fine thinking about where it is now, kicking away, fine thinking about giving birth (well, kinda) but it’s the after the birth thing that’s still hard to conceptualise.

The closest I can come is thinking of the baby as a new house guest. It’s not someone we already know, really, more like hearing about a distant long-lost relative coming to stay who we’ve never met before, but know a bit about. We can make some guesses about what kind of clothes and bedding to get ready, how our lives might change in terms of routine, but that’s about it.

It’s hard to explain. There’s just so much mystery, in many ways, mostly because The Beloved and I are so damn curious to meet the little thing, feeling it kick in my tummy, and have spent many hours wondering whose fingers it will get, whether it will have the two little curls of skin behind its ears like its father, hate being woken up, just like its mother … who knows. Will it get my nose?

We have also been talking a lot about how to set boundaries, and what we might do in certain circumstances. Should it get pocket money (yes, for doing extra chores over and above the ones we all get to do as part of the house)? What about clothes and appearance (happy to support whatever fashion or appearance it chooses, even if that means supporting it through gritted teeth)?

I have been reading Gina Ford’s The New Contented Little Baby Book, the first I’ve come across that does away with waffle and says, right. Week 1, when you get home from the hospital, 7am, get the kid up. She lays out hour by hour what needs to happen to ensure the kid gets fed, watered and put to sleep regularly, and all with parents’ sanity in mind. It has been a godsend for my peace of mind. The last thing I think either The Beloved or myself would want is a baby that needs constant rocking to be put to sleep, up all bloody night and is a fussy boob juice drinker. At least, so it seems, we are able to minimise these fussy elements and get things into a routine fairly easily and quickly.

Of course, babies don’t read the manuals. So we shall have to see. Even if the CLB routine doesn’t work at first, we have it as a basis for working towards.

I have had some great ideas for baby clothes, as I have finally given up looking for anything remotely different or interesting at a reasonable price in any of the stores here.

I was in London last weekend with the scrumptious MellaStella, and as we wandered around Portobello Road I came across some really seriously cute baby clothes: all bright colours, each different … each costing £8-£20 a pop. Now, these are items a baby will grow out of in about two weeks, so who-ever was making them was clearly on a winner.

Some of the clothes would be quite easy to copy, I reckon - they were just tie-dyed in really bright colours. So that is my first project. I only need a couple of buckets, rubber bands, baby-safe clothing dye and several different sizes of baby clothes and we’re away.

I figure it’s a project I can take on once we’ve moved after Christmas and I’ve stopped paid work for a while and I’m sure I’ll be busy just getting nesty and ready for baby.

Some of the other baby clothes were stencilled with some very cool graff art and cultural stencils that I think would also look really cute - again I can just buy some baby-friendly fabric paint, some acetate and get cracking.

It can’t be that hard to copy a Sex Pistols album cover in size miniature, can it?

Weeks 22-24: disco dancing October 11, 2007

My little disco dancer,

Your disco dancing is verrry cute. In the past few days your father has been able to feel you dancing away in there when he puts his hand on my belly.

We had our scan the other day, only two weeks or so after we were meant to, only because your mother currently boasts a butter brain, and got the days confused. Regardless, the scan went well, you have ten fingers, ten toes, a kind of freaky looking but totally normal spine but whether you have a willy or girl bits? That’s something we’re going to have to wait to find out. We chose to look away, although your father confessed later that he nearly peeked.

Your grandmother is here from Australia, and she brought with her about half the nation’s fitted nappy supplies, at least five sheep’s worth of knitted garments, some of which I’m sure will only fit you for about a week, some badly needed Bonds boyleg undies for your mother and - !praises be! - Australian chocolate.

We also toured France for about two weeks, so we can officially say that you’ve technically swum in the Mediterranean.

While I’ve been enjoying your wee dancing shenanigans, I’ve definitely not been enjoying the EXTREMELY FUCKING AGONISING leg cramps that have woken me up over the past few nights. I used to suffer from foot cramps when I swam a lot as a young kipper, but those cramps were nothing like these.

Nothing much else to report at the moment. My tiredness comes and goes, as does my energy; I think I am in the nice middle period of not being too uncomfortable physically and getting excited about meeting you and beginning my parenting life.