The Red Peril of pregnancy

WARNING: CALL THE MIDWIFE SEASON  6  SPOILERS AHEAD! 

Like many viewers in the U.K. And across the world, I'm a big fan of Call The Midwife . I had read Jennifer Worth's memoirs and was thrilled when the BBC announced they were embarking on a drama series based on them. I've followed the seasons faithfully, first of all watching with interest and longing, but no real understanding. By season 5, I was finally expecting my own bundle of joy and my emotions swung widely as I journeyed through the stories each week, but none of the stories resonated as much as last night. Season six, episode four. 

We had been left hanging last week with Sheila in a hospital bed, the future of her pregnancy uncertain. That alone had hit me hard, as I have found myself identifying with her character a lot already (no, I've never been a nun, though I may have felt like one at times), but this week saw Sheila, and her ward mate Gloria Venables dealing with antenatal bleeding and late term miscarriage.

 This one hit so very close to home. People don't talk about infertility or miscarriage much in our society, despite how common it is. So many women are left feeling like the only person in the world who has ever felt that way, hugging their fragile and complex emotions to them like a comfort blanket. Yes, many women are putting off attempting to conceive later and later, but not all women are conceiving late out of choice. Society tells us we should wait. We are expected to have a career, contribute to the world before starting a family, yet infertility can make you feel as though you are being punished for doing the right thing.

 In my case, despite my childhood dreams of an early dazzling career, picture perfect wedding at age 24 and cherubic babies by 25, I didn't actually meet my husband until I was 36. However, from my very first period at 17, I'd had problems. I was the poster child for PMS. Backache, cramps, nausea, mood swings, acne...if there was a period symptom, I had it. I was literally floored for a week each month, curled double in agonising pain. It took 3 years, numerous GP appointments and finally a private laparoscopy before I was diagnosed with endometriosis. Over the years I tried every contraceptive on the market, desperately trying to keep my many symptoms at bay. 

At 35, whilst on a teaching exchange to Birmingham, Alabama, I started my period as usual in November...and it was still going by February. Non-stop bleeding for over three straight months. Hell On Earth. But you don't talk about it. Women are expected to just put up with painful and problematic periods as their lot in life. Not Me. 4 days after caving and seeing my GPu, I was talking to a gynaecologist. He did an ultrasound then and there, telling me that I needed surgery to remove a degenerating fibroid. He didn't pull any punches. An ultrasound isn't set in stone, and can't tell exactly what is going on in there. There was a chance that it wasn't a fibroid and that he may have had to remove more than just that. 

The surgery took longer than anticipated, and my mum (who had flown in to be with me), my US mama (my exchange partner's parents had taken me under their wings and treated me like their own, god bless them) and my good pal Ashley, who had driven down with her son to be with me, were all waiting patiently for my return. Mum is a nurse, and god bless her, she may be wee, but she is fierce. She peppered the doc with questions, the most pertinent being "can she still have kids?". I was incredibly lucky. When I returned I was told that had I been in the UK, they'd have just done a hysterectomy and made no attempt to remove the fibroid. According to my gynaecologist while I may find it difficult to conceive, I should be able to carry a child but, due to my many surgeries over the years, I'd have to deliver via Caesarean section. I was thrilled with that. I may have been single, but at least I was still hopeful that I may have a chance for a family in the future.

It took time, and a prescription for Clomid, but I did finally conceive. I can remember leaping on the bed with the positive test, waking my husband from sleep. No special card or gift and a videoed reveal of his reaction, I couldn't wait for that. After so many negatives I was ecstatic and couldnt wait to take the next step. I saw the midwife at 8 weeks, was given my maternity pack and a timeline of appointments and I was thrilled. Finally! Finally my body was doing what it was supposed to do! Finally I would get my chance to be a parent! No more staring at pregnant women and wondering why them and not me. No more buying baby gifts for friends, stroking little vests and wondering if I'd ever get to buy them for myself. 

 

It was just a week later when I bled for the first time. 

Nothing can describe the feelings you get when you see that terrifying flash of red in your pants. The plummeting stomach. The surge of fear. The deep gasping intake of breath that seems to take hours but in reality probably happens instantly. What's worse is that all too often the early pregnancy unit can't  (or won't) see you straight away and you have to wait for a day or two, or even longer, not knowing whether you are still pregnant or not. Scared to go the bathroom in case you see more blood, scared to move or turn too fast in case you accidentally make things worse. Scared that you may have done, or not done something that you should have. As a woman, as the person who carries the child, there is such an intense sense of responsibility, that if something goes wrong it is your fault. Something you ate, or didn't eat. Was there wine in that sauce you had with your meal? Did you run up the stairs too fast? You question every little move you make. 

All in all I had six small bleeds over the course of my pregnancy. Six times I saw that crimson smear when I sat down. Six times I rushed to the hospital terrified each time that I would be told that I had lost my baby. Six times my husband held me while we waited and I sobbed my heart out, so fearful that I had failed in my task to safely carry and nurture our child. In the first trimester ultrasounds showed a small pool of blood near the placenta, but they couldn't find a reason for it, or give me any idea of what I could do to stop it. Finally it vanished....but still I bled. That was even worse as there was nothing to blame it on. No visible reason for the constant small bleeds I was becoming used to. I had so many scans. Sooooo many. I know many people wish they could have more, but at 15 altogether in the end, I could have handled a few less. 9 weeks, 10, 12, 15, 18, as the gaps between bleeds stretched, I tried not to get too excited, as the fear and disappointment each time I saw the Red Peril was horrendous. 

 

The last bleed was at 23 weeks. It had been five weeks and I'd begun hoping. I could feel him moving clearly now, and so could the husbeast. We were attached. The Tiny Dictator, as we had come to call him, held our hearts tight in his grip and I could not imagine what I would do without him. It was a pretty memorable occasion. It was World Book Day, when all teachers (and their pupils) are expected to dress as a book character. I'd originally intended to dress as Truly Scrumptious from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, but my not-so-burgeoning bump was never going to fit into that costume, so I'd ordered a character onesie from Amazon. As had become my routine since getting pregnant, as soon as the bell for break rang I legged it to the bathroom. Several people along the way reminded me that I needed to be on the playground for the group photo of us in all our costumed glory, but this mama had to pee! I was so happy that morning. The kids loved my costume, they were learning well, despite all the pressure from the government to teach a ridiculous amount of grammar, and I was full of the joys of life even though I was still puking my guts up often. I had honestly stopped expecting to see blood, so when it was staring back at me, my heart just sank.

 Luckily at that later stage of pregnancy, things are taken a little more seriously and triage saw me that same day. I couldn't think straight, and barely remember the 30 minute drive to the hospital. It's a wonder I didn't crash the damn car, I was so out of it. I didn't notice the strange looks from people as I hurried through the doors of the women's unit. The midwife didn't bat an eyelid as she did her checks, it wasn't until I was getting undressed to let the docs examine me that I realised I was still in my Winnie The Pooh onesie. I've never worn that suit since and don't think I will ever wear it again. 

I was exceedingly fortunate. The Tiny Dictator was burrowed in deep, and he managed to hold on for another 13 weeks, before being delivered safely 4 weeks early. I didn't have to say goodbye. I didn't have to face the worst news imaginable. We have been so fortunate, but each bleed left a small crack in my heart. Each dash to triage broke me a little, made me a little harder, a little colder and I am irrevocably changed going forward. 

Not every pregnancy ends well. When you see that woman, stroking her bump and looking wistful, it may not be dreams of the future. She may be praying and wishing and hoping that her child clings to her, clings to life. So spare a thought for the ones who could not cling. For the babes who just weren't able to last the full forty weeks. Spare a thought for those who have to say goodbye once, or over and over and over again. 

I know I do. 

 

The 8th month sleep regression...or tenth circle of hell?

Yes, I've been MIA again. Firstly, I haven't quite cracked this blogging lark and thought I'd scheduled a post to go up automatically last week...but that clearly didn't work. Secondly, we are neck deep in another growth spurt/sleep regression/leap whatever you want to call it and it is taking a toll. 

I love my kid. Truly I do. I know I'm biased, but I think he is pretty bloody awesome as teacup humans go, however this past week I have been sorely tempted to leave him out for the wolves. Up to 4 months, I was feeling pretty good about this whole parenting lark. He would sleep at night in 3-4 hours bursts, and as we breastsleep, he would roll over, grab a boob and feed, then roll back all without ever truly waking. His day time naps were pretty regular too. At least an hour, sometimes more, both morning and afternoon. We had it made! 

Then plaguegate happened. 

Things never really got back to normal after that, but we were muddling along until this last month. Suddenly, naps stopped. Unless he was literally on me, or I was right beside him, he wasn't napping during the day, and for us that meant crappy nights too. The expression that "sleep breeds sleep" is definitely true for our minibeast and well sleep hasn't really been happening. He's been feeding hourly all night, and napping for 10 minutes if I'm lucky during the day and now I finally understand why sleep deprivation is used as a form of torture. 

Thanks to him still refusing bottles (😳 I have no idea what I'm going to do when I go back to work in a few weeks...answers on a postcard please?) all night feeds are my job, though if the other end needs sorting, that's the husbeast' job. I'm running on empty. My hubs is awesome, and tries hard to help out, but he sleeps like the dead. The other night, the lil bird decided that 4am was play time. He wiggled sideways in bed and was repeatedly kicking my husband and yelling "Dad, Dad, Dad" at the top of his lungs. I tried kicking him too. Not even a murmur. Next morning he said "you should have woken me". Don't worry, I didn't smother him in his sleep. Maybe next time?

But Jamie just seems to want mama, and only mama, and well....mama is a little touched out. How do you do it? How do people survive on so little rest? I genuinely would love to know, especially as I don't drink tea, coffee or cola so I can't even rely on caffeine to see me through. I find myself getting frustrated and irritable over the teensiest of things. Tiny molehills have become the highest mountains and my mental health is taking a bashing. I'm lucky that I have a good tribe, and plenty of support around me, but I can easily see how mums struggle and give up on breastfeeding at this point. I mean I find it hard enough to deal with when we share a bed. It must be ten times worse when you don't have that option, and not everyone does. 

For now, I'm existing on the glorious morning smiles, frequent cuddles...and cookies. Lots of cookies. See the recipe below for my super quick, easy cookie recipe that makes just enough to gorge on without feeling like a total heifer. Or maybe that's just me.

 

Chocolate Fork Cookies (makes 8 palm sized cookies)

Preheat oven to 180 Celsius 

Using your stand mixer (or a fork and bowl) mix together the ingredients below until they form a dough.

100g butter or margarine (I prefer real butter)

50g caster sugar

120g self -raising flour 

15g cocoa powder (I do a heaped tablespoon)

Split your dough into 8 pieces, roll between your palms to form balls, then place on a baking tray well spaced apart. Press the top lightly with the back of a fork. 

 

Bake for 15 - 20 minutes  in the centre of your pre-heated oven. ,

Leave to cool on their tray for 5 minutes before trying to move them as they will fall apart otherwise.

 

Perfect with cold milk, but even better with a good glass of Bailey's or Coole Swann 😉

Cheap Cheap Chicken Pie

I have always loved to cook, but pastry has never been my strong suit. I learnt to work with the ready to roll frozen stuff and this chicken pie is a firm favourite in our house. It's pretty quick to put together and generally looks like you've made more effort than you actually have. There is also the added bonus of it being ideal for baby led weaning. the sections of pastry and chunks of chicken are perfect for little hands. I always make too much mixture, so the quantities below will make two pies

All you need is:

two pack of ready roll shortcrust pastry (one per pie)
one tin of mixed vegetables
one tin of chicken soup
4 chicken or turkey breasts.

oven tray
parchment paper
a mixing bowl
a frying pan
a sharp knife
a tin opener
olive oil

Start by covering an oven tray in some parchment paper. I tend to use the foil backed stuff from Lakeland. That stuff is amazing and so useful for everything.

Once you've covered your tray, roll out your rectangle of pastry.

Using a sharp knife, draw (not cut) two lines down the length of the pastry to mark it into thirds.

Cut matching notches down each outside edge...you will use these to form your lattice.

Now open your tins of soup and veg and pour into your bowl.

Cut your chicken breasts into wee chunks and brown off in a tiny amount of olive oil

Once browned, pop them into the bowl with the soup etc and stir together. Spoon the mixture down the centre of your pastry rectangle then, working from either end, fold in your pastry strips at an angle to create your lattice top.

 Repeat for your second pie. Bake in the centre of the oven at 200 (180 for fan assisted) for about 30 minutes or until golden brown. If you have not used frozen pastry then you can freeze the second pie for another day.

I serve it with mashed potatoes and steamed broccoli. A big hit wit my lil guy! Not much left at all

 Enjoy!

Cheap overall bib tip

I'm trialling a new look to th blog for a new year. My "intention", as I don't do resolutions, is to aim for one blog post a week, but rotating topics, so alternating between parenting, clothing/shoe/accessories reviews, top tips, and I'm determined to try out some of the trillions of tutorials and hacks I have pinned.

This is something my mother suggested and it works like a charm. My lil dude was 4 weeks early and is a dainty little guy. Most overall bibs drown him, and even more annoying for him, he has teeny t-Rex arms. I haven't met a sleeve yet that I haven't needed to roll up. This was from Christmas Day and he was getting pointers from his great Granda 

 

He gets super frustrated when he's trying to eat and the billows of overall get in his way. We've tried plastic and terry and still have the same problem...until today. My mum made the very simple suggestion of using an old onesie that he has outgrown, cutting off the bottom and putting it on back to front. We tried it (without cutting off the bottom yet) this morning and what a difference! Despite being poorly and not his usual chirpy self, he found eating so much easier! Thanks mum!

 

What's your favourite hack?

PSA for new mamas

It's bloody hectic this time of year, and I'm discovering that it's twice as bad...and twice as fun...with a baby. However several things seem to keep coming up in my parenting groups that are really starting to get on my tits & I've decided to address them. As I tell anyone before I offer advice, feel free to ignore me and scroll on, I won't get butthurt over it. This is just intended to hopefully hold a candle...(or flame thrower, pick your poison) to those first 100 days of darkness of the fourth trimester.

1. "My partner sleeps in the spare room cos they need to get some sleep for work" 

Are you frigging kidding me? Being a parent is a full time job and one which requires boatloads of energy. They need to help with the night tasks, end of. I know it can be hard. We breastsleep, so the husbeast can't really help with feeds, but if all the kid needs is a bum change I hand him over and go right back to sleep. Look at it this way. If you were putting your child in a daycare type place, would you be happy if the staff were running on sometimes less than an hour's sleep and no food or drink? I sure as hell wouldn't be, so why expect it of yourself? Work out a routine that makes sure they pull their weight. For us, the husbeast gets up 30 minutes earlier than he used to and takes the boy downstairs for a bum change and a play, while I starfish across the bed and snore my head off. After an hour he dumps the baby back in beside me and I give the lil dude another feed. The baby goes back to sleep and I can get up and start getting ready for the day in peace and quiet...except I can't shower. The kid totally has a radar for that thing and loses his shit the second my toe touches the water...which leads me onto my next point. 

2. "I know it's ungrateful/terrible but I just want to feel like me again/pee in peace/shower alone"

Why is that so bad? Does your partner get to do these things? Then why the hell shouldn't you? Look, being mum is hard. 9 times out of 10 the kid will want you, and while your partner is at work it'll be nigh on impossible to do anything alone, but when they get home all bets are off. You deserve the chance to wallow in a bath or shower once in a while.

And talking about wallowing, or feeling yourself again, will you cut yourself some slack? You just created life and that shit does not come easy. Not to mention the fact that that wee life's mission is to break you. You will have changed. In so many ways for the better, but I can understand that some people will struggle with their new body. You have to live with that body though, so try to find ways to love it, or change it. I chose to love mine. I try to have one nice long shower on a Sunday morning, where I leisurely wash my hair and shave my legs (ok, so I don't always manage those) and spend at least 30 minutes without being covered in pee, snot, poop or puke. It doesn't always happen, and these last few weeks have been hectic so it's been snatched chances to wash here and there and my poor legs haven't seen the light of day in forever. If it makes you feel better, before the shower I just had, I could measure my leg hair with a ruler and it took an entire tube of hair removal cream to defuzz them. Uh huh, that's right...A WHOLE TUBE OF VEET! I'm petty sure that new civilisations were forming in the rainforests on my legs 😳 

3. "You've got everything together, how do you do it all?" 

I don't. Basically, something has to slide. I pick my battles each day and decide what has to be done and what can get put off. I'm incredibly lucky. The husbeast has no expectations of a clean and tidy house, or food on the table when he gets home. He fully understands that some days it's all I can do to get the kid and I dressed, let alone tidy or even leave the house. God bless the man, he never, but never, leaves work without asking if I need him to pick up dinner and I won't tell you how often I say yes. We have a joint cleaning blitz at the weekend. I do the kitchen, he does the bathroom and we both hit the lounges/bedrooms/laundry. I've started laying out clothes for the baby and me the night before, so I'm not faffing about in the morning and I no longer waste a trip. If I'm heading upstairs to pee, I take up laundry, or bring it down to the machine.

But most of all, I try to keep my expectations of myself fairly low. Is the kid alive? Has he been fed? Is he clean and warm? If the answer is yes, then I give myself a pat on the back and a choccie biccie. Go team me! 

You have to stop thinking that what you see on social media is real cos it's really not. We only show our best to the world, so of course we look like we've got it all together. We are terrified that if we show our true selves, child services will show up at the door to take our kids away. 

It does get easier, I promise, but nothing will change until you make the changes. You have to be the driving force. Whether that is accepting your mumtum (or taking steps to get rid of it), or telling your partner to suit up and be a parent too, nothing will get better until you set it in motion. 

Good luck and Merry Christmas! Now excuse me while I continue to frantically pack for our first ever flight with a baby...or pray for me, that works too! 

 

MIA....or almost

Well it's been about two weeks since I last posted. I thought we'd hit the bottom, but the following day (after another horrible puke-filled night) the GP referred us to the hospital. My poor lil bird  spent the next six days being fed through a tube, as he was just so tuckered out from the constant vomiting and the coughing that disturbed his sleep, he couldn't find the energy to suckle. A viral infection with bronchiolitis was what they told us, but all I knew was that my wee man was dehydrated and so far from being himself that I barely recognised him.

Being as it is bronchiolitis season, the place was packed & we spent two nights on the assessment unit waiting for a bed on the children's ward. But even with the move to the ward our problems didn't end. No one was deliberately negligent, but they were so overworked and understaffed that problems were unavoidable. My biggest annoyance, of many, was finding that the hospital had either lost, thrown away, or given away to another patient (😱) breast milk that I had fought hard to express. You see while my little boy is doing just fine feeding from the source, I've never been a great pumper. Apart from the first day my milk came in, I've always struggled to get more than 50mls between the two boobs & when he started refusing bottles around 4 months, I stopped bothering. As they were giving the boy 60-80mls per feed, I spent the first few days pumping around the clock like a crazy lady, and panicking when I didn't have enough. 

At this point my tribe went into action. I am so incredibly lucky to have found the haven of the Retro Mummies & Pregnant Pin-Ups group on Facebook. The women there are strong, fierce, non-judgemental and a force to be reckoned with when united to a cause. Between them, they put the call out to all their groups and before I knew it, my messenger inbox was filling up with offers of donor milk. Total strangers to me and my boy went out of their way, in some cases by many miles, to bring sustenance to my child when I was not enough. Women from as far as Luton & Leighton Buzzard made their way to MK General Hospital with bags of liquid gold to help get my wee man back on the mend. With the pressure taken off me, I was able to attempt to get some sleep (I'd been pumping hourly to try to keep ahead of the feeds) and to concentrate on being there for my baby. 

There are not enough words in any language to tell these ladies just how much their kindness and thoughtfulness meant. I was going out of my mind trying to be all and do everything and their donation gave a much needed respite that allowed me to focus on the baby. Between the kindness of strangers, and the support of our families, and my tribe, I survived our stay. There were many times I thought I'd crack, but every single time there was a mama there to hold a candle to my darkness. Even when I live streamed my hoarse, croaking lullabies at 2am, god help them, they sat through them. 

Thankfully, a week on from our discharge, things are slowly improving. All three of us still have a lingering cough, we are still catching up on our sleep and the baby is clingy as fuck...but we are home. We are past the worst & taking it easy. Lil bird even took most of his grandparents (my daddy had to stay home and mind the shop, so we will repeat later on for him) to meet Father Christmas. Despite the beginnings of separation anxiety, he was so good! We are excited about the holidays ahead and can't wait to see what Santa has in store.

To all our wonderful donors- Thank you seems so small, but it is honestly, and truly heartfelt. To my amazing tribe - Thank you. Always, always, thank you. To our parents -thank you for all the wonderful support, it was and is truly appreciated . To my long-suffering hubs -we can do this! 

 

 

From the depths

They say pride comes before a fall, and they aren't far wrong. As you will know from my last post, we have the lurgy. The plague. First it was the much dreaded norovirus, and now it's a viral infection. It's bad enough at 39, but at almost six months old it's pretty unbearable, especially when the idiots who are raising you don't have a clue. My poor poor boy's health goes up and down faster than a prostitute's knickers these days. In fact, days aren't so bad, it's the nights that are a killer. I smugly thought we were getting over it...but I was wrong.

You are warned that parenting is hard. Every man and his goddamned dog revel in reminding you that you'll never sleep again, but what few people mention is the guilt. The helplessness. The frustration. The anger. At 26 weeks, Lil Bird is trying hard to talk to us. He chatters and chunters to us all the time, but actual words elude him. There have been a few times we've thought he said "yeah" but we aren't convinced. He can't tell us what is hurting and we can't explain to him why snot is pouring out of every orifice or why his throat hurts. That's a lot to handle right there on its own. But add in sleep deprivation and you discover a very special circle of hell reserved just for parents.

I have cried bucketloads this past week. My patience is long gone. I hate everyone and everything. I hate this bug. I hate being covered in puke. I hate the baby wiping snot on my tits. I hate forcing toast in when I'm not hungry, because I need to fuel up to make milk for the baby. I hate not knowing what to do to help him as he cries after yet another bout of coughing till he pukes. I hate seeing him in pain and unhappy. I hate my hubs ability to sleep through bloody anything, including being puked on. I hate resenting my child wanting me and not my husband to comfort him. Most of all, I hate that I'm having all these negative hateful feelings.

Last night I hit a new low. Understandably, the baby is sick of random shit that is not milk going down is throat and he has taken to protesting against the calpol. I thought teenagers had the duck face market locked down, but they aren't a patch on a baby refusing a calpol syringe! It is utterly heartbreaking to hear them cry, and move their head to try to avoid the meds, and I was already exhausted, so you can imagine my horror when my child unmistakably said "Mama" in the most forlorn and hopeless wee voice. It is soul destroying to hear that your baby's first words are a plea for you to leave them the fuck alone.

I sincerely hope we are turning a corner, and that we can soon put this behind us...I, for one, am not feeling worthy of the title of mum right now and I'm sending big hugs to those feeling the same.

He ain't heavy, he's my baby

So we've been doing a bit of travelling, the boy and I. We visited a pal in Bristol last weekend then headed on down the country to Stonehenge to stay with a mummy pal. Her wee man has been under the weather, her hubs is away so we thought we'd come keep her company for a while.

Bet she regrets that now.

You see we must have picked up a bug, maybe at Bristol Aquarium, & my poor wee dude has been so ill. Diarrhoea, projectile vomiting...the works. When his eyes rolled in his head and he went floppy, we called an ambulance, diagnosed with gastroenteritis, we came back to ride it out only for my friend and I to get food poisoning the next day. Talk about disastrous! We had to call my hubs to come nurse us!

Being sick with a tiny baby is hard. Being sick with a 6 & 9.5 month old who are both poorly but still want to play is hell. So here is my advice.

You aren't a superhero so cut yourself some slack,
Call in the cavalry. Take whatever help is offered and take it with a smile cause you need it.
Hydrate hydrate, hydrate
Screw the laundry, send someone to Tesco for new jammies or sleepsuits and go back to bed.
Antibacterial wipes, hand gel & bottles of water are your new best friends so get that pal you sent to Tesco to stock up.
Make a comfy nest with blankies, pillows & favourite toys. Blankets can go through a hot wash to kill germs. Much easier than trying to clean a duvet. They're great for layering too, so you can change your level of warmth as your body temp goes up & down.

It will pass. Yes, right now I feel like I've been hit by a bus. My body aches from retching, my head hurts and the room is swimming, but I'm still cuddling my poor sweet boy who would only sleep on mama tonight, no matter how much daddy tried to relieve me. We have turned a corner and things will get better. Don't give up hope...you've got this!

Milky Time!

I'm so happy this week. I'm finally back on dairy products and good lord but it is good. Who knew that a tall cold glass of milk could be better than a cocktail? Well...OK... I won't get carried away, it's as good as a cocktail.

See almost 2 months ago, I took the lil bird to the GP as we had had a silent reflux diagnosis and were following up on how the new medicine was working. We had tried Gaviscon but all it did was make him constipated and give him acid farts, poor guy. The next step was to move onto Ranitidine and it was great at stopping his arching and writhing in pain, but shortly after he began taking it, he had an awful tummy and was having up to 12 dirty nappies a day. I was pretty sure it was a bug, but the doc thought it might be CMPA and asked me to go dairyfree for at least 6 weeks to see if it made any difference to the symptoms.

Like any 21st century mama, I googled the shit out of Cow's Milk Protein Allergy, and the more I read, the more I was convinced that it wasn't what he had, but I was happy to give it a whirl to see if things improved. It didn't start too well. I was smugly knocking back Lactofree milk and thinking that that this whole DF thing wasn't that bad at all...until I realised that it wasn't actually DF. Just lactose free. Oops! Once I'd figured that out and started again, the dirty nappies had died off back to normal levels. Still I persevered, losing half a stone in the process (cutting out snacks really works!) and I made it through 6 weeks of being truly DF.

This week I was told to have a bit of a diary binge, and then monitor any reactions the wee man might have. Monday morning I breakfasted on a large glass of milk and some biccies. For lunch I had scones with jam and heaped with clotted cream. Tea was a thick creamy risotto and for dessert I had sponge pudding with toffee custard and more cream. I waited anxiously for any adverse reactions, putting his old grottiest clothes on in case his bum protested and he blew out a nappy.

Hours went by and my boy was sunny and chirpy. He napped well for a change. That night was the best night's sleep he'd had in weeks. I put it down to his swim class knocking him out, but when Tuesday dawned he was still cheerful and happy, napping well in the day and last night he actually slept for 5 hours straight!
FIVE HOURS!!!!

Until Monday night, my kid hadn't gone more than 1.5 hours between feeds since the experiment began. I'd assumed that as he was teething and in a growth spurt, the clusterfeeding was normal, but now I'm wondering if he was missing out on the dairy in my diet? Perhaps, like his mama, he is going to love all the creamy creamy things? Either way, 3 days in and my kid just seems to get happier each day. I think we can safely assume that he isn't allergic.

Praise all the gods, cos the thought of Christmas without dairy was making me super sad!

It takes a village...to save our sanity

I'm going to preface this post with a disclaimer: before I had a kid I was a judgemental tool. 

I'm also going to add that in the immortal words from one of my favourite movies (home for the holidays ) "opinions are like assholes: everyone has one and everybody thinks everyone else's stinks." 

Basically, feel free to take or leave what you read...no judgement here anymore. 

There's a huge amount of advice out there for parents, new or old, & most of it is unsolicited. There are so many different methods and schemes, books and dvds, all claiming to be the best way to raise your child. I'm not quite sure what I'd call my method. I guess it's a little like gentle or attachment parenting, but mostly I like to call it lazy. 

See here's the thing. Babies are exhausting. You know this going in, hell people tell you constantly during pregnancy. Every idiot you meet, particularly strangers who have clearly never been pregnant, will tell you to enjoy your sleep now cos you'll get none when the kid arrives (like that's even possible during pregnancy!) But nothing prepares you for it. The tiredness seems endless and gaping and like it will eat you whole. You suddenly discover that you can manage on four hours sleep after all and that you can all asleep almost any time or place.

My parenting choices came about to optimise my chances of getting anything like actual sleep. So yes, after years of swearing that I never would (it's sooo dangerous, don't you know) we co-sleep. As a breastfeeding mama, learning how to feed lying down was my proudest achievement. Screw the feeding in public thing, that was relatively easy! Feeding on your side, especially with ginormous boobages, not easy at all, particularly when your baby is wee, with a tiny wee mouth to boot. Now I find that The Minibeast is less windy after those feeds, sleeps better too as when he's starting to fuss in his sleep, I can just roll towards him, unclip my nightie and let him help himself to the buffet before he wakes enough to wail himself into a frenzy. BETTER SLEEP FOR EVERYONE! That being said, I understand that it isn't for everyone. We just know that it's working for us, and we were lucky enough to have a health visitor with some common sense who supports us. She's fantastic...a rare beast, I know. 

I also swore I'd never babywear. I told you, judgemental arsehole, right? Not only is it useful for getting shit done, it's actually really nice to have the kid close to you while still having hands free for snacking or knitting or setting your flying monkeys on that judgemental bitch who tried to give you advice. 

But here's my problem with some of the other mothers who also do these gentle/attachment approaches. They can't seem to understand that they don't work for everyone. Yes, in my house if I'm in doubt I whip a boob out. Yes, I co-sleep and yes slings were useful...but they don't always work for everyone. I swear that on some of the parenting forums I'm in, some poor people are vilified for mentioning a bottle or a buggy, instead of boob and sling! 

Hell yes, I can clean a kitchen with my kid strapped to me. Hell yes, I can cook and tidy or dance and rock with him dangling from my front. I am mama and I'm a badass who can do anything (shh, don't disillusion me, this teething thing is hard yo). But I don't WANT to have to clean with the kid strapped to me. I don't WANT to have to resort to pushing the buggy for three hours & god knows how many miles to keep my teething baby calm. Side note, that day was 

I love that I can breastfeed my son. We have a wonderful bond and I feel like a bloody superhero when I think of my body nourishing my kid. But we've had our rocky moments, though I'm saving them for another post. Breastfeeding isn't easy and it isn't for everyone. There are some days when I'd love to hand over my bottle refusing cherub & go to the movies, or for a cocktail with my friends. 

What a lot of people seem to have forgotten is that it takes a village to raise a child. I understand that gentle/attachment parenting is just going back to what has been the norm for hundreds of years, but we don't live like we did in those days. In those days people lived cheek by jowl and everyone mucked in to help out. Not these days. Not everyone has family or friends nearby, and not everyone is lucky enough to have supportive families. Some people are new to an area and are struggling to make friends. Some people have families or friends that are rather vocal and want to rule the roost, so they give in for some peace & quiet. Lives are fast & furious and some days feel like you don't even have time to breathe. 

You breastfeed? Whoopie for you, now go warm that bottle for your pal whose kid just shat everywhere for the second time today. 

You prefer bottles? That's nice dear, now fetch that boobyfeeding mama a glass of water, cos even if she hasn't said, she's probably parched as she hasn't been able to feed herself yet today. 

Being a parent is fucking hard work so can we please stop judging each other & dragging each other down? How about lending a hand or a listening ear instead? 

 

Where to begin?

I know, I know, I suck at this regularly posting thing. It's been a busy two years for me. Like I said last time, my life changed in the blink of an eye after meeting P. We met in late February 2014, and by July we were engaged. Well, when something feels right, what was the point in waiting? We married in May 2015, a truly gorgeous day, despite the early rain. It was everything we had hoped and planned for, and I felt like a million dollars.

See, I am never going to be thin. I've come to terms with that. P loves me just the way I am, and I have learnt to love myself. I'm the healthiest I've been in years, so what if I am a tad curvaceous?

Just a few short months later, our happiness stretched even further when we discovered we were expecting a little bundle of joy. Little Bird (not his real name, don't panic) has changed my life completely. It was a tough pregnancy, culminating in him arriving a month early, so when I say it's been a whirlwind...I'm not exaggerating! We brought him home on our first wedding anniversary, and life as mama is a most amazing place. Life, truly, is good.