More Growing Up

Would you believe it, my children seem to have grown more again!? I mean, just check out this boy…

He’s practically a man.

And apparently I’m still a child.

And our little Rozziebear?

Well she’s only gone and got herself a tooth!

And this boy is just hilarious and is imagination is something else. On the way home in the car this morning he had a tractor (well, digger, but potato potahto) and he said it was digging. I look round, “oh it’s digging your trousers!” He looked up from pushing the plough bit along the leg of his rumpled jeans “No no, NOO WAY Mummy!” He laughed “no digging the TROWSIRS! Nooo wayyy!” “Oh” I replied, “So what is it digging?” The answer? “My trousers”

He didn’t get why Stuart and I found that so funny.

Roslyn has also finally mastered a crawl, it’s still mostly commando style but it gets her about fine.

She doesn’t tend to use it unless she REALLY wants something though, which makes sense as army crawling is hard work.

She is up on her hunkers though doing all the crazy downward dog stuff they do before mastering the arm coordination for a proper crawl though, so chances are it wont be long.

Sandy has been taking a keen interest in music lately. His favourite song remains Walk of Life by Dire Straits (yes, it’s still on blinking repeat for full car journeys) but since Stuart got a record player he has found prog rock. We got to him early!

He has loved watching the record player spin and the picture on a specific one go round. It’s the Charisma label image of a man singing and he asks for the man who goes “aaaahhhhh!” Then he goes “aaahhhhh” too.

The record is Genesis – Foxtrot, and he loves the first song and asks for “water of a skies” (aka watcher of the skies) and sings along to it.

There is a prolonged guitar note at the end which he sings, and he appears to have gained Stuart’s musical abilities, not mine, thank god. The note goes “aaaaaaaaaa”…

…then “ooooooooooooooo”.

Meanwhile Roslyn masters her clapping on command…

… and works on her waving…

And as you can see she is standing up, and can pull herself up to standing too! Hooray! I wonder if she will walk sooner than Sandy did out of necessity?

They are both perfect the moment (and I am sniggering at the irony of this while I sit here listening to Stuart presuading Roslyn to go back to sleep even though we have to leave in 15 minutes. Meanwhile Sandy is snoozing peacefully having faffed about for the first hour of nap time so that’s going to be fun to wake him prematurely). Sandy is a joy to be around and Roslyn is becoming more content playing and actually bloody sleeping, it’s a flipping miracle!

Good times, and more to come I hope! Apologies all the blogs are so bitty at the moment (see previous post) I will have time to work on something cohesive again soon!

Oh and a happy 2.5 years today to my boy! 🙂

Hospitalization (Round Two) and the Future

Apologies for the radio silence, but as you may have gathered from the title we’ve been in the wars again. A week and a half ago Roslyn got a minor cold. Sandy got it too and it was literally just a runny nose for him, but it went straight to Roslyn’s chest, as I later learned is common following a rough bout of bronchiolitis (which she had at the end of November). The other reason I could tell she wasn’t right was that she slept all night with only one wake up. Stuart was delighted and remarked that she was probably coming down with something. Too right.

So this happened. Again.

We got her up in the morning and as soon as I picked her out her cot I could feel the effort she was exerting to breathe. I took her downstairs and went to feed her and she refused, another warning sign, though not as scary as last time as she had fed well all day and the night prior. Then I undressed her and saw a chest recession the size of a golf ball and it was on the phone to 111 who sent an ambulance. Sandy was pretty jealous of mummy going in the neenaw. Roslyn got some oxygen in the ambulance and was coping okay until we got to a&e and a million nurses descended in an unfamiliar room and tried to put IVs and tubes all over her and (quite rightly) she freaked out. You could see the abject terror in her eyes and her breathing worsened. The pediatric doctor arrived just as she was starting to turn a tinge blue and ordered space and quiet for her immediately. We moved her to the recus room and she got a nebuliser mask with the kind of drugs you get in inhalers. It wasn’t long until she was breathing a lot easier thankfully. Apparently it was a scary time but I don’t feel that scared looking back. Perhaps it was the calmness of the pediatric doctor or maybe it was the same mode I went into when Sandy went missing briefly in the park that time, where you know getting scared isn’t going to benefit anyone and just focus on the task in hand. Either way, I’m glad it wasn’t too traumatic. Luckily I was prepared for the inevitable hospital stay that followed, but glad she bounced back much quicker (largely due to it being post viral induced wheeze and not the horrible RSV bug) and we were only in two nights this time.

Sandy coped far better this time too, mostly because he was well this time and also because we maintained his routine, consistency and I was at home more, letting family and Stuart watch Roslyn while I spent time with Sandy (and, realistically, the housework). We went to macdonalds for a treat on the afternoon I was with him and then to the hospital where I fed Roslyn while he played with the toy spaceship on the ward. I marveled at just how easy looking after only one child is!

I was able to put Sandy to bed then Stuart came home and I went back to hospital. Roslyn was largely unsettled at night waking due to the noise and the disruption of the oxygen prongs up her nose. She wasn’t able to sleep on her front which didn’t help any either. I gave up trying to sleep between the 30 minutes where she did and ended up just reading for my PhD.

After her first night she was much more herself and as she woke after the second night she ate her breakfast and played and generally proved she was ready to go home.

So we got sent off with an inhaler and the happy feeling of a sleep in my own bed that was impending. That said there was still that familiar safety of the ward at night, the feeling of other people all going through the same and never being the only one up. It was coupled with the few nurses who remembered us and I felt quite surprised and warmed by it, that they cared to know us even though we were but a passing group of many surrounding sick babies in winter.

So that accounts for some missed blogging. The rest of it comes under either job hunting or PhD completing, as well of course as being with these beauties.

I’m in the home stretch now. As January comes to a close I’ve had the sudden realisation that not only do I need to finish a 100,000 thesis now, but that my funding runs out at the end of march, meaning I have two short months to find employment. I have applied for one job and I am applying for several more this afternoon. I am trying so hard to find something where I can afford to work part-time, so I can still be with Sandy and specifically Roslyn (who is very much a mummy’s girl and facing my working far younger than Sandy) on at least one day of the working week. I have the problem of not knowing how much of a salary to be shooting for, what is a PhD worth in this job market? It’s hard to tell.

As for the PhD itself I have one chapter left to finish before only my introductory chapter and conclusion remain. This week will see the completion of that remaining chapter come hell or high water and then it’s some reading and onto the intro. I hope to have a full draft submitted by the end of February with then a month to review and format the final thing. I highly doubt it will be that seamless (though I hasten to add not through my own lack of timekeeping) but having the work done for when I hope to be starting a new job would be ideal. And thus closes my essay of why I’ve not been blogging.

In other news little miss Rozzie has cut her first tooth, it poking through rather anti-climatically amid the hospital stay. She’s not been too bothered by it and a little ibuprofen here and there has helped. I’m surprised because Sandy’s first tooth didn’t come until he was 11 months old, and it was a top one, but Roslyn’s bottom left (her left) is there at the end of her eighth month. Speaking of months, she is almost nine months, which means she will soon have been out longer than she was in, which is quite a milestone, one I can’t believe has happened so fast. *Insert other growing up cliches here*

On the 2nd of February our little man will be 2.5 years old. We celebrated 18 months yet it seems a bit weird to celebrate 30 months, but we will nonetheless. He’s such a boy now it’s untrue. I look at our canvas on the wall of him when Roslyn was brand new and his arms are still chubby and his face is still baby. Then I look at him now and he is lean and wise and grown. I can’t quite understand what happened but I love it. He makes me ridiculously happy each day with his love, humour and excitement.

Apart from that we are enjoying once again settling back into normality with play…

…routines…

…fun…

…and cuddles.

I’m trying so hard to soak up every moment with them now, knowing the clock is ticking on my stay at home mum status. I wish so hard that I could just stay with them forever. It’s two and a half years since I became a mum and part of me doesn’t want to go back to being just me. But on the other hand I know nothing lasts forever and even if I feel it is a tad premature for Roslyn, there is independence there and I need to find some myself. I’m grateful to have made it this far with my study but so relieved that once I have completed the PhD it will be done and I can put a lid on this era of my life. A PhD and two kids is anything but easy, but I never expected it to be. I’m glad to be leaving research behind me and moving onto something new, and challenging, though I will undoubtedly mourn the loss of being with my babies every single day.

I’m so grateful for the summer we had, our trips, the fun, the three of us. And for the winter with its snow, cosy times at home and a wonderful christmas.

And as this weekend past proved it’s not the end of everything. There is still the weekend and much fun to be had. The prospect of holidays and days away.

I can’t wait.

I’ve Become One of ‘Those’ Parents…

It dawned on me as I we hit the third circuit. Standing over the weights, about to do a clean and press, and I pipe up to my Mum next to me, “oh, Sandy would get a kick out of seeing this”. And I realised it was about the fifteenth time I had managed to obscurely relate the circuit training class to Sandy and Roslyn in some way and I’d barely been there an hour. Last Wednesday was the first time I’d been away from Roslyn beyond 5pm since her birth eight months ago. A rare car journey not spent trying to become disjointed passing snacks back to newly installed rear facing car seats. I needed not to turn on the lights inside so Sandy could read Stickman and Walk of Life wasn’t on its seventh play. I didn’t need to concern myself with sneaky and inopportune naps. But as soon as I walked into the gym and a bunch of faces looked at me and a girl on a bike stopped cycling I reverted back to safe ground and I didn’t leave it. Roslyn wasn’t down yet, you know, and I kept checking that phone. You know what Sandy said this morning? It was so cute! Oh and Roslyn’s just learned something new. Check the phone. That weight is one of Sandy’s favourite colours. How cool would it be if Sandy was using this punching bag? Roslyn would love to crawl over here. And so I went on, unware until I started that clean and press for the third time and it was hurting now and I couldn’t think about what else Sandy and Roslyn had to say about the class and I realised that yes, I’d become one of those parents.

This week saw me out of the house twice in the evening. The second time was to attend my Aunt Lib’s 50th party. A party in Glasgow, at a proper venue, where alcohol would be consumed, and there would be no little faces, and only the floor would be sticky, not all the furnishings and everyone’s hands. Where I would have to wear a dress and (very, very slight) heels and I wouldn’t need to worry about things being boob accessible and my bag could be infinitesimally small. Strange foreign lands I tell you. And I went and as soon as I was settled on a seat with my parents beside me (thinking it ironic that my first night out would be spent with the same adult company I get to see most times anyway) I was being introduced as “Sandy’s Mum” and pictures of Roslyn were doing the rounds and I was discussing her being asleep when I left and what Sandy had eaten that day and I was safe and secure. Sometimes people say that you need to retain your identity and individuality when you have small children, and they relish the chance to talk about non-baby things. I agree but I don’t do it. I’ve become more Mum than Helen and more Mum than Wife even. Stuart and I go out and lament the lack of them and everything that happens becomes a big thing that they have missed. I feel bereft when they aren’t with me. It doesn’t feel like I’ve lost a limb but it feels I’ve lost a bit of my innards. I am them now, and myself and my confidence diminishes when they are not there. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

I know I will get back to myself as they grow. I’m often told that you get immersed in parenthood when they are young, and you finally emerge out the other side at some point. I’m in the depths just now and I’m okay with that. I had one of those “I’m going to miss this” moments this afternoon lying on the couch with Stuart, thinking of Roslyn’s size and Sandy’s words and my impending entrance to the job market. I honestly don’t want to be any less absorbed in my own little life right now, because I want to give it my all. I want no regrets and I never want to look back and think I should have done more. I’ve my whole life to sleep and read and drink, to stay out late and drink my tea hot; but only a few short years where I am everything to these two. So I apologise to all the attendees of the circuit training class, and all those at a party who are sick to the back teeth about discussing someone else’s kid, and to anyone in a shop who ends up hearing far too much about my life, and – of course – the poor souls subjected to mentions of the three P’s…pelvic floors, placentas and pee. I find it hard to take myself out of the bubble when I’m so much inside it. I’ve become one of those parents who are just a parent and not a real person anymore. I will be back, but for now, I’m happy as Mum, and Helen will see you in a few years; just call it an extended maternity leave of the mind.

Sandy and Roslyn Lately

Often I feel like I am forgetting to jot down all the little things Sandy and Roslyn do. It’s clear that I’m never short on pictures but it takes a second to snap and more to write and time is something I’m short on. I want to try and get down all the amazing and hilarious things they do so when I’m an old gibbering woman I can read back and cry over how good it all was.

Recently Sandy had EXPLODED in terms of his vocabulary. He speaks in sentences all of a sudden, makes jokes, and will give anything you say a repetitive bash. He was in the shower the other morning shouting “mummy, I’m sitting in the rain”. He makes himself heard, especially if something isn’t how he wants it to be. I was dancing for Roslyn the other day and all I hear is “No! Don’t! ENOUGH!!” Charming. A favorite phrase of late is “help me” (halp me, actually) said with a pitiful tinge. He narrates what is happening on television and adds comments full of emotion saying “oh no!” “WHOA!”, “wow” and “oh deeeeaar”. When he hurts himself he has taken to saying “sorry”. I tried to explain that you only need to say sorry if you hurt someone else but still you will hear a bang and then “owwww… sorree mummy”. And by far the cutest thing he has said of late is “come here” followed by arms outstretched and “big cuggles”. In the night he woke crying and I was in with him resettling and Stuart pops in to check he is ok. He sees him and the arms go out: “Daddy… come here!”

As for Roslyn she can say “mumumum” to me and “dadada” to Stuart; and she says them to the correct person! I often hear her withg Stuart and she starts to cry then goes “mumumumum” in the cry. Or when Stuart walks past her she will chirp up with “dadada” to get his attention. When she is hungry and being spoon fed something she now shouts excitedly between bites, as though she is saying “more! hurry up!”. Apart from that babbling often takes a back seat to blowing raspberries, which she does on command and as a joke, knowing she will get us in stitches. I love the sheer effort involved in it, putting her all into blowing air out her mouth.

She has been trying so hard to crawl these last few weeks. Shes been on her all fours often but either backing up into a seated position or belly flopping in frustration. She wants to go so badly but hasn’t quite mastered the arm and leg coordination just yet. She can get about slowly though by wiggling, sort of army crawling and spinning on her tummy. She can’t quite sit up from lying and rarely rolls, even though she can. She can stand up against the side of the couch though, but would fall down as she isn’t able to sit down safely herself yet. I think Sandy was a little ahead of her in terms of movement by her age but she is doing great and he was pretty early compared to his peers.

Sandy is coming on leaps and bounds in terms of what he knows too. He can count to ten and delights in doing it going down the stairs. He knows most colours though still mixes some up. He has mixed up reds greens and browns quite often so I was querying colourblindness to myself but it comes from the mothers side (even though Stuart is colourblind) so I will need to find out if my Grandad was colourblind. He knows some shapes too and is very keen on pointing our “circles round and round” and squares.

Roslyn has been working on how to stack items as well as hitting things off of each other, such as drumsticks on drum. she loves anything intricate, namely whatever age inappropriate toy sandy is playing with at the time, as well as the baby staples of remotes, phones and cables. Strangely she also loves sucking on wet (clean) washing. I found her with Stuart’s boxers in her gob the other day. Classy.

Sandy’s eating is still the biggest behavioral struggle we have but I count myself lucky it is something innocuous and common, and isn’t as bad as it could be. He seems to be very suspicious of anything you seem to want to have him eat, yet very canny to typical tricks like “oh no, this is MUMMYS SPECIAL JUICE” (it wasn’t mine or special), making healthy ice lollies from fruit juice, or filling the frube packets with greek yoghurt and pureed fruit. What has helped is not making a big deal of it and just time. He has become a heck of a lot more reasonable and willing to listen to explanations recently. Giving him smaller portions, fewer choices (but not none) and bringing him food, rather than letting him root about in the fridge has helped too. We’ve hidden all the sweet stuff and are keeping things that aren’t great (like sugar laden frubes) out the house. It’s much easier to tell him we don’t have any than that he can’t have it. I suppose it makes no sense to him that I would want him not to have something that tastes so much better than anything else on offer, he knows not of healthy eating. He got a digger themed cutlery set which has helped him back into eating food in bowls (which was a major issue as I’d pushed too hard and he had a major aversion to anything you couldn’t run around the house with in your hand). And of course there is old faithful, toast. He eats a shocking amount of toast but is happy to eat wholemeal or seeded bread and with full fat butter on it’s pretty nutritious considering.

Roslyn on the other hand is in that delightful phase of eating anything. We started with baby led weaning and she has gained amazing dexterity due to it as well as being really happy to fend for herself, chowing down on big chunks of meat, fruit, veg and bread, or anything else on offer. I have recently started spoon feeding mashed foods too, alongside finger foods, as she was enjoying it so much. I try to keep it to things she we would eat on a spoon as adults, like soups, pasta in sauce, cereal, porridge etc. She loves it. She has also mastered drinking water from her sippy cup herself which is brilliant. Somewhat typically the second child just does it because there’s not a constant adult presence to do it for her.

Finally sleep. Sandy is still waking 1-2 times a night. He was asking for milk, often because of his poor eating, but we’ve decided to bite the bullet and refuse to give milk at all in the night. Last night was the first night, Stuart explained to him and he accepted it after a minutes protest and went back to sleep. He cried out “mummy” sporadically at night but went back each time. I think he’s been used to night wakings and us coming quickly since the weeks of illness when he did need us so we need to work on getting him back to sleeping through.

Roslyn has improved since when she was still in my bed but is still up several times. She goes to sleep at 7 and typically wakes up every 2-3 hours, though she did a couple of 5 hour stretches recently. She’s usually up 3-4 times a night. Stuart and I are taking half night shifts though so the other can sleep, and as she takes a bottle now as well as breastfeeding it has left me free to rest or, as I will be doing soon, go out of an evening. I feel happy that I am getting some me-time back, yet not losing the closeness of feeding her as I did with Sandy (as I stopped breastfeeding him at 7.5 months cold turkey, something I still regret).

All in all I feel so happy with how they are doing. Sandy is getting so much more a boy and I’m loving having a friend around all the time. It’s lovely being able to chat to him and ask him what he thinks. We can have jokes together and special things for just the two of us. He’s still a bit of a mummy’s boy and I can’t complain. Roslyn is a treat. She never stops smiling and laughing and is so content with her lot. She loves being close and cuddling in and giving big open mouth kisses. She’s pretty shy of strangers or people she doesn’t remember at the moment, so only goes to people investing the time to see her a lot, making her a bit of a mummy’s girl too! Sometimes it is hard to be constantly needed so vigorously by both of them, especially when they both need me at the exact same time, but on the whole it is incredible to be so wanted and I wouldn’t change it. I feel so happy with my two wee guys and can’t wait for all that the future brings for us.

Hospitalisation

Recently we were at home in the throes of illness. This happened:

And then they woke. They slept on me. Roslyn on my chest, Sandy curled in a ball on my lap. They coughed and cried. It grew dark and the lights were off and I was laden with my babies. We were riding it out.

We kept riding through the night and as Sandy finally got some rest Roslyn got worse. She barely slept. She wouldn’t be put down. She moaned in our arms. She wouldn’t feed. We called 111 in the morning and headed to the out of hours doctor at the hospital. She slept in her sling. I never expect things to actually get bad. I’m always the one thinking it’s someone else’s story, but that day it was ours. We were sent to the pediatric ward and she was monitored and tested. At one point we were told we could go home if we were confident to but Stuart said he wasn’t and he was right to be cautious. Her breathing was worse soon after.

The RSV virus is horrible. Absolutely horrible. It caused her Bronchiolitis and a secondary chest infection. Her little ribs heaved as she breathed and the doctor said it was like she was running on a treadmill. The poor girl couldn’t rest, she needed to lie in the cot to be peaceful but was fighting all of her (and my) instincts to stay close to me, much like they do with fevers when they want you and don’t understand the body contact heats them further. Finally we got her in the cot and she rested. She had oxygen in a tube at her nose. 2 litres.

A nurse came and scared me. I’m still recovering from the postnatal stay with Sandy. I’ve not been in a hospital ward since then (other than Roslyn’s brief hearing test). She waffled on about us having worries and them having worries and how if they have a worry then we have a worry. She talked of covering her back. She talked of worst case. I thought Roslyn was dying. Two hours sleep a night for a week and the evening and the tubes and I couldn’t think straight. I held fast until she was leaving so I could turn to my mum and cry, then she added “only one person can stay overnight” and it was the postnatal ward all over again.

I called Allison, my midwife, and she set me straight. Midwife for life I told her. It wasn’t that my mum couldn’t reassure me, I needed some medical opinion that I could trust. We argued with the staff and mum was able to stay in the parents room so we could spell eachother. My ribs ached with having held her all night long and each time she stirred I picked her up and felt like I would fall. She needed me but I was barely there.

We made it through that night and from then on it wasn’t as bad really. She ended up with IV fluids because feeding was just too much work for her. She wasn’t to eat. She woke ravenous. We cuddled her but she rooted. I fed and she struggled. I expressed and we syringed her just enough milk to make her comfortable. She had a NG tube inserted and was tube fed my milk and seemed a bit happier. The next night her oxygen came down to 0.5 litres and she was improving. She started to breastfeed again.

It’s funny how institutionalised you become so quickly. By day two Mum and I were set with out hot water bottles and snacks, she had her knitting, me my phone. We knew the drill. We spelled each other time on the couch in the parents room and we learned the lingo of upper respiratory infections in infants startlingly fast. We helped with her care and observed her stats. The nurse called the ward a family. I wouldn’t go that far but I certainly felt the cohesion. And there’s something comforting about walking up the dimly lit corridors at 1am, staff smiling as you pass and children coughing, machines beeping. Stuart said it was like being on a plane, with the gentle white noise and intermittent human sounds, babies crying, chairs creaking, footsteps falling.

In the day I went home. I’ve not been apart from Roslyn really. Pre-hospital she was deep in separation anxiety mode. But she didn’t need me as much in there with the care of the staff and the machines and the rest she took. I came home the second day and showered. The house was eerily quiet. I slept. The next day I spent time with Sandy, just us two. Again, so strange, not having a little baby to keep an eye on too. I felt quite devoid of functions.

And the next morning she smiled. Stuart was saying he was waiting for her smiles and he knew then he could lessen his worry. And she delivered, she woke and wasn’t crying and she looked at us and made a small crinkly smile, inhibited by the tapes on her face. Later that morning she was sitting up on my knee, playing with her emily doll her Gran brought her. I suggested Wednesday as a going home day to a nurse and she said maybe, but she wouldn’t be surprised to see us when she was back in on Thursday.

She fed all night and then it was Tuesday and she was well and I went home and she surpassed expectation. Stuart called to say she was going to be allowed out that afternoon. Joy! I went back in without any supplies. It had been over a week of hell and I craved normality. Dad was with me, he’d settled her with Stuart while I’d been home. She smiled and played and watched everything. As we were going to be free the nurse took all her tubes off and she had a nap and she put on the monitor to give us reassuring numbers for our departure. Her oxygen dropped. I felt she would fail at the final hurdle. We had a cup of tea in a now familiar routine in the pantry and went back to look at her stats. The nurse smiled telling me they were fine. Soon after we left.

We are home now and she’s okay. It can take weeks to clear up and the cough can last months. The security of the hospital has given way to change, and I’m not good at change. She’s in a cot now. We were forced to put her in the cot for undisturbed peace and it seemed a shame to waste that when we came home. She used to scream in the cot, now we put her down and a few girzzly cries are all that lead to sleep. It’s good to have space in the bed again, but how I miss her. The little heavy, warm body. The sound of her deep breathing. The smell of her hair. And all so close now removed to the little prison. It’s for the best, but it’s hard for me. Harder for me than her. Yet it is a silver lining of this whole ordeal, her being in the cot, along with her ability to spend some time with others and not crave me so strongly that she screams. She was also taking a bottle of formula to top her up in the hospital, yet she has refused since getting home. It would have been useful as I could have slept, yet she needs the comfort of the breast more than the milk as her cough wakes her continuously. This morning she was a bit laboured in her breathing again after a day of relative activity and it was a sign to keep things relaxed. More cot time for my doll, and a nest on the couch. And I play with my boy and make biscuits and we look with delight at the windows of the advent calendar. Still I feel unstuck and unsure, I felt I would drop back into life once we got home but it’s been the end of an era. It’s not all bad, but it’s hard. We will work towards Christmas for normality to return. Thank you to everyone who has wished well upon our poor girl this week.

The 5 Phases of Toddler Illness

Phase one: Denial

Did you hear that cough? Something probably went down the wrong way. He has a runny nose… Hopefully it’s teething. He feels a bit warm, better turn the heating down. That could be teething too. That’s probably it. He’s fine. Yep. No need to worry. Oh, is that snot yellow?

Phase two: Super Mum

Ok I’ve got a poor baby on my hands. My little angel is sick, and I’m going to cure him with LOVE. Let’s get some oranges, and orange juice, and whatever else vitamin C lives in. Now, a bed on the couch, extra comfy pillows, lavender spray, dummies when awake. Lots and lots of cbeebies, stat. Would you like a blanket dear? Hot water bottle? Warm juice? Cold juice? A bath? Here, slather on this Vicks, and get this calpol in you. Olbas oil EVERYWHERE. I love you darling, you’re so brave, cuddles, cuddles, cuddles, more cuddles? Ok, more cuddles….

Phase three: The Trough

He’s still sick. He wants to be glued to me. But I have a baby too, and there is a distinctly fluorescent tone to the goo coming from her nose. Oh and the baby doesn’t sleep anywhere but on me at the best of times. Can I have her on my chest and him in my other arm? NO WAY NO WAY NO BABEE MUMMMMMEEEEEHHEEHEHEEEE. Ok I’ll put her down, come hear darling. WAAAHHH oh good, crying baby. Right, let appease him with something… toy story? No way! Chocolate? No way! Juice? No way! Pa? Would you like your pa? No way! (WTAF!?) Ok. Fine. Pick up baby, ok now they are both crying and I can’t take this anymore. Now we are all crying. Screw it. Jam them both in the car and just drive…

Phase four: The Breakthrough

Green car. What was that!?! Green car! Oh my god he’s back, he cares about cars! Hallelujah! Gingerly pass a bowl of cereal… Holy crap he ate some! Thank god! Feel forehead, woohoo! The fever has passed! No more straight jacketing him to force in calpol! And he’s napped! In his bed! *HAPPY DANCE*

Phase five: Recovery

Yep, he’s officially better. He’s bouncing off the walls (thanks, calpol). There are toys EVERYWHERE. The kitchen is a riot because he’s eaten 1/20th of fifteen requested meals in the last hour. He wants out. Mummy’s car! Mummy’s car! Tractors! Pa’s van! Tate’s house! Shop… For ice cream!! He appears in front of me with his Wellies on the wrong feet… Garden! This is great, yet why doesn’t it feel great? Is it because I don’t feel great? *blows nose* is that snot yellow?

Would You Say That to an Adult?

When sandy was born he came out with the most beautiful platinum blonde hair. I remember an orderly at the hospital comment “I’ve never seen such bright hair on a wean before”. It was the start of many such comments I’ve received on his hair.

While this comment wasn’t negative, it was made because he was different. Perhaps she loved his hair, perhaps she was shocked by it. Either way she saw something unusual and commented. As sandy grew his hair all but fell out and he was bald for at least six months and when his hair came back in it wasn’t platinum blonde but a bright sandy blonde. Then it started to get some more ruddy bits and became what I would now describe as strawberry blonde. It’s beautiful.

As it has grown so have the comments. From the seemingly innocuous “oh I love his red hair!” and “I’ve got ginger grand kids/nephews/god children” to the more abrupt “wow he’s got ginger hair” and the absurd “is he bad tempered? You know, because he’s a red head?”

At first I didn’t pay much attention, then as the comments increased I started to get annoyed. I didn’t know why at first but soon realised it’s because no one was saying to the mother next to me “oh wow, your daughters hair is so BROWN”. Yet sandy’s hair colour seemed something they just couldn’t avoid mentioning. Why? I doubted it was because “red” hair is so awe inspiring that you just had to say something. It’s not like his follicles were producing spun gold. I realised it is because people see it as a negative. They don’t like his hair colour. They see it as a bad thing and (for some obscure reason) think they have to reassure me by commenting on it. I really, really wish they would not.

Unsurprisingly when Roslyn came I didn’t get a single comment on her hair colour. Never has someone told me they too have brunette children, and no one has queried her for a placid nature due to the mousey colour she boasts. Such is vindication of the anger I feel when people mention sandy. But what I have experienced with Roslyn is comments about her birthmark. She has a red birthmark on her eyebrow. Her strawberry. And this is the thing people need to mention when they meet her.

“Is that a birthmark?” They ask. Yes, it is, and so?

“Did someone hurt her?” Is another I get. I wonder do they really think I hurt my baby or is it just a round about way to get me to admit she has a birth mark.

Most common though? “Oh DONT WORRY, it will go away” followed by some tale of someone their granny knew whose birth mark faded, thankfully.

You know what? I don’t care if her birth mark fades. I love her birth mark. And I’d love her without it. And I really do not need people going around commenting on it. I don’t need people commenting on my children’s appearances, especially to point out things they deem flaws. And it’s just that, because no one tells me that sandy is tall, and no one mentions that Roslyn is petite. There is no pointing out of button noses, or delight about rosy cheeks. No, it’s the hair and the birth mark. It’s all I hear.

Since when did it become okay to point out these things to children? You’d never hear someone say to an adult “is that a birth mark?” or “wow! Your hair is ginger!” It’d be not only incredibly rude, but hurtful to the person. So why is it okay to do it to my kids? No wonder some people view ginger hair or birth marks or otherwise negatively, when they are brought up in a society which allows adults to comment on them. I don’t want my children to be sensitive over these things, I don’t want them to feel ashamed of any part of their appearance. Sure, it will happen to some extent. I mean, I can’t patrol the playground waiting until a child makes fun of them. But I sure as hell can’t allow adults to do the same, in a faux interested way. They are going to get complexes about these things and it makes me so angry.

So the next time you comment on a child’s appearance, ask yourself if you are doing it for the right reason (that being to truly compliment the child) and if it would be appropriate to say the same to an adult. Or, just don’t do it. Just ask the child their name, or how old they are, or about their toy. There are a million and one things to discuss aside from personal appearance, so do just that.

My son has strawberry blonde hair and he loves tractors. My daughter has a birth mark and she flaps her hands up and down when she’s excited. These children are people and they should be treated with as much respect as you would expect to receive yourself.

High Need Babies

I have two high needs babies. I know that now. I didn’t know what it was called when I was struggling with sandy. I called him “busy”, “demanding”, “hard work”, “omg please give me two minutes peace” and such, but what I meant was that he was high need.

I don’t know if it’s a great term. It’s meant to be a positive way of describing a baby who requires a lot more of their parent. For some reason to me it sounds a bit negative though? I’m not sure why. But it will suffice.

I recently posted about how my children don’t sleep, and that’s part of it. Frequently waking, not self settling, anti-cot. But there are so many other facets of a high need baby which fit with the characters of sandy and Roslyn.

High need babies are said to be intense, described as “driven” and in a high gear all the time. If that wasn’t an accurate description of sandy I don’t know what is. The boy never stops. He has one speed and one volume and they aren’t slow or quiet, that’s for sure.

Add to this an intensity in reactions and you hit on Roslyn a bit more too. Put her down and walk away and you don’t begin to hear a whinge or cry of dissatisfaction. Nope, she’ll be screaming so vigorously and loudly that you would check to see you lay her on a blanket right enough, not a bed of needles.

Both of my high need babies have been frequent feeders. I would hear of people being able to time their babies need for a feed to the minute. Oh it’s been three hours now, they will need fed. If either of mine went three hours without some boob time I’d be seriously concerned for their welfare. Of course it’s a comfort thing, because it’s hard work being a baby, and the only way to calm down is to suck, it seems.

High need babies are described as demanding and draining. It is said that they suck every thing they can from you and leave you with only enough left to scrape through the day alive and still (kinda) sane. I remember with sandy one day pleading to him “what do you want? I’ve given you every little bit of me and it’s still not enough!” And of course he just looked back at me and gooed, you know, cause he was a baby.

These babies are also unpredictable. By some miracle you manage to find some way of soothing them, you formulate an insanely choreographed dance of sleep with several moves which have to be performed in a precise order and your baby falls asleep. It’s amazing. You did it! You actually solved the problem! No more crying! No more asking “what is wrong!?!”. You know! So the next time your baby is upset (probably within the hour) you smugly settle into your new routine. And does the baby think “oh good, mums doing that thing I like, I’m going to relax”. No. No baby does not. Baby decides that that whole song and dance is absurd and horribly uncomfortable and exactly the opposite of what would induce sleep. Yeah right mum. And fast forward to toddlerhood. You may have finally cracked sleep (well, to some extent, enough that you could drive the car the next day without worrying about falling asleep at the wheel, maybe) but that fickleness prevails. The boy won’t eat, as ever, and you’ve accepted it. So you are out and you get something to snack on and he asks for it, so you offer and, holy crap, he actually EATS it. Amazing. You make a detour on the way home to stock up on this precious nutrition. And as soon as you offer it at home it’s like you served him up a fried turd. And then you find out that the fried turd he so detests is actually a delicacy at grannies house. Along with all sorts of other banished food sources including actual meat and vegetables. Seriously.

High need babies are hard. I like to think it’s a sign of intelligence. They are hard work because they are blooming. That the blooming is disconcerting and frustrating and something worth getting upset over, yet mum’s life doesn’t seem to fit into babies needs. And I think it’s actually this schism between the modern developed life of human adults and the primitive, animal like needs of a young child which create the problems. High need babies wouldn’t be too much of a problem if you could just sleep all day to make up for night wakenings. Or if you could just sit at home all day letting them feed and nap on you. Or if you could devote every minute to their ever changing wants, able to attend to them before they kicked off. But that’s not the way things are.

Despite that though, the best of us come to find natural ways to cope with high need babies. We give up on settling them in a cot because it takes an hour to achieve and then they wake after 20 measly minutes. So we bring them into bed and they sleep and we sleep and the milk bar is open. They won’t be put down so we pick them up. We strap them to us and keep them close and, ok, we can’t do everything, and packing the shopping with an infant on your front isn’t exactly ergonomic, but hey, no-one is crying, and that in itself is a big achievement. And they need us and need us and need us for attention so we give it, and when it’s hard, we call in the cavalry and the wider family give attention and the mum gets a break and it’s all ok.

Sometimes I feel hard done by that I have had two babies who won’t let me rest. Babies who don’t do those one off long sleeps, or have days where they just play and relax. I’m never let off the hook and I can never revel in an unusual lie in or day without them because they don’t mind going with someone else. I see people going on spa weekends baby free and getting full nights sleep because their baby happily accepted bottled from their daddy that night and I feel jealous. I’m not going to lie, it makes me think, “what am I doing wrong?” But the truth is I’m doing nothing wrong. And they are doing nothing wrong. All babies are different and some are more at ease with being a baby than others. It just turns out my babies need more of me, and you know what? It’s so nice to be wanted. There is nothing that can describe the feeling of being the only person in the world who can give that little soul what they need. Being wanted so intensely? It’s incredible. And providing for their every need with merely my body? Wow.

High need babies are hard work. It’s never easy, but it’s always worth it. So if you think you are doing it all wrong, think again. You are doing it the way that works for your baby, and that’s all that matters. Trust your gut, it won’t see you wrong.

My Children Don’t Sleep

Ok that’s a lie. What I meant was my children don’t just nod off. They require rocking and soothing and cajoling and bargaining. Tip toeing out the room and mentally scooshing wd40 on the door hinges. White noise, no noise, some noise but not sudden noise.

My children don’t sleep 12 hours overnight. They nap late and won’t go down or go down early and rise before the sun. They wake in the night and demand that it’s day. They want milk and cuddles and mummy’s bed. They never – never ever ever – lie in.

My children don’t sleep in the car. They protest and shout, and cry and moan. They stay awake until their eyes are slits. They resent the soothing motion and background noise, and refuse to be lulled by the passing scenery. They wake as soon as the car stops (don’t even think about turning off the engine.)

My children don’t sleep as long as they need. They cat nap the crap about of a day. They wake after twenty minutes crying, eye rubbing, in a daze. They will not go back; even a thirty second doze resets the clock an hour (an unbearable grumping hour). They wake in the night, numerous times, for reasons unknown.

My children don’t fall asleep in funny places. They don’t collapse on the play gym. They don’t doze off in my arms on the couch. They don’t just lie down and let themselves drift away. They don’t find impromptu places to rest because they just couldn’t wait til bedtime, and I never get to take those ‘look what I found’ photos all the other mums seem to produce.

When pregnant with Roslyn I was at a cafe with my mum and sandy. Another mother and granny combo rocked up with two children in tow. The toddler proceeded to join sandy in the play area and the baby, in her car seat, gradually dozed off. Amid the noise of the cafe, the shouting of children, the chatting of mothers and clanking of plates, this child slept. My mum said “that will be you soon, the second one will just fit in. It will be easy”. But, alas, my children don’t sleep. I wouldn’t change them and I have learned to cope, but they don’t. And surely I’m not the only one?

Sleep doesn’t breed sleep and being tired doesn’t guarantee they will rest. My children don’t sleep, or, at least, not how they’re meant to!

Little Reminders

I’m at my most hormonal in the evenings it seems. When my babies fall asleep and I can let go of the stresses of the day and remember just how happy I am. I think back to the dark days of before and smile because, while there are constant challenges, I’m living in domestic bliss. I lie with Roslyn and stroke her tiny little hand as she feeds into a milk coma.

“Look at her chubby little fingers!” I say to Stuart.

“Look at her smooshy little sucky face”

“She’s so beautiful I can’t even believe it”

“She smells so good”

“And that boy…” Stuart pipes in, “…that boy”

“He’s perfect”

“He’s so funny”

“I love him so much”

It’s always when the calm of bedtime descends, and the oxytocin of a milk let down is released, that I get soporific and over emotional about my babies. But there are other times too, times when little reminders of their presence in our lives stand out from the chaos and the mess. Small scenes which shimmer with life and happiness, amazing amounts of adoration from the ordinary.

The fact that our cutlery drawer has a whole section dedicated to baby spoons.

Little versions of our shoes, thrown haphazardly onto the rack alongside ours.

Tractors and planes and bath books, cluttering the floor of the shower.

Hand prints on glass.

Their sounds.

Impromptu art, happily emblazoned atop lists.

Toys left in situ, waiting.

Little socks.

Such are the little reminders that live all around my home, telling me that it’s okay to be upset right now, because the love is right there waiting. Babies may not settle and toddlers may thrash on the floor and mothers may lose their cool and shout or scream or rush out the room lest they suffocate from responsibility. But after all is done of a day the little reminders of the good stuff remain.

It’s easy to get bogged down in the bad. And similarly it’s easy to idealise the good. But it is in the consistency of everyday life, the satisfactory, the normal, the routine, where comfort lies.

In the calm after the storm I look for little reminders that things are fine, and I know we are all going to be okay.