Seats for Landing

In reply to Anonymous...

2011-06-03T21:41:00.006+01:00

There are lots of Anonymous's out there, and one of them wrote -

You still haven't said what it was that got you better, Ciara! Why are people who claim to have been healed by these various techniques so unable to simply say what it was that cured them. I just don't get this reluctance. NLP/Lightning/CBT/Mickel are all like some weird religion such as Scientology who are completely secretive about the ways they behave. I just don't get it!

Okey dokey, Anon. I was like you, I just didn't get it....and the irony is, I'm not sure I really get it, even now. Yes, it seems freakishly unbelievable and improbable that anyone with serious illness could benefit from signing up to a bunch of nebulous concepts and behaviour changes. I know.

It was Mickel therapy I tried, but I guess it could have been any of the above. At first I railed against the recommendation that you don't discuss treatment while undergoing it. How ridiculous and self-limiting, I thought. How unhelpful to other sufferers. And yet, after a while I realise that repeatedly analysing the ongoing process got in the way of the 'flow' of trying to recover. It would be like trying to practise snooker/ yoga / tennis, and stopping to calculate the angle of every move, while debating the pros and cons of your game with others in the room/audience. Better to wait till the game is finished and discuss it then...

And yet - here's another twist - if it works and you do get better, miracle of miracles (!) some of us still don't fully understand how it happened. I was almost embarrassed. How could a behavioural therapy reverse a profoundly physical illness? Joe Public will reassure themselves that, yes, (it's as they thought!) you can't have been that ill in the first place. You just milked it for a couple of decades.

Of course some Recover-ees may feel cautious about what they choose to say. We face scepticism from all sides and we're not quite sure how to explain it to ourselves.

However, I am now more intrigued by the role of the psyche in all illnesses. What's the new field of research called? Psycho-neuro-immunology? There might be some answers in there.

I'm not even sure that I buy into the entire overview of these therapies - there are subtle variations down each path of MT/RT/ LP/ NLP etc. The single most important factor for me was having a therapist (is that even the right word?) who had overcome serious ME/CFS herself. (I think Recover-ees training as therapists is reasonably common in these treatments). Her experience kept me believing, or suspending disbelief, against the odds.

I think there are books and websites explaining the various 'plans for recovery', but in my experience, it would be quite hard to try it on your own. I think most people would benefit from a 'therapist' to guide them and keep them on track. I know it's expensive, and many people find that off-putting. I don't know any way round that, other than taking a gamble. It's up to every individual. I'll say again: I'm not trying to sell any thing or any one crede, I'm only speaking of my experience. I don't know if this helps or perplexes.

As they say at the end of Tele-tubbies, 'Time for Tubby Bye Byes'. Time for bed. My kids could be up at 6am. Still feels far too early. Drastic and draconian, even.

-C

Ground Elder - grinding you down.

2011-04-30T22:30:00.003+01:00

I am trying to become a gardener for the time in my life. I have good ideas; I have enthusiasm. I have an Alan Titchmarsh calender that cost me a pound in the January sales. I also have a weed called ground elder that is causing me awe and despondency.

The ground elder just keeps growing and colonising - flower beds, the lawn, the compost heap. Its strangulating tendrils would be good in a Dr Who episode. Apparently weed killer and repeated digging will control but not eradicate it. Punters on garden message boards ask, 'how do I get rid of ground elder?' And those in the know reply, 'move house or get a nuclear bomb'. Here's a similar account of declaring war on ground elder.

Most evenings, I go out to the garden after the marathon childcare/tidy-athon that is your average parenting day...and then I try to find the stamina to dig out a bit more of the Ground Elder. I think I am veering towards obsession as I like to swear at it, and then spend too much time looking up Internet articles on how to kill it. Apparently you can eat it but it tastes worse than spinach.

Ah well, the apple blossom is out and the kids are loving the paddling pool. In this recent generous sunshine, it's not far from idyllic.

-C

On recovering - where to start?

2011-04-17T22:24:00.005+01:00

Until now, I have stalled and side-stepped attempts at writing in depth about my recovery after 20 years of ME or ME/CFS. (I used to loathe the term CFS but I include it to help those googling, 'recovery ME/CFS'). As the previous post said, it still feels like 'a kind of miracle' and my mind somersaults when it tries to understand the contrast, the shocking contrast, between then and now.

And yet, I am joyously here and I often feel I owe it to others to document my journey, while simultaneously being apprehensive about potential criticism from the many who may tell me I wasn't 'that ill', or I didn't have 'real ME'. All I can say is, it is my story and this is the truth as it unfolded for me.

My 'ME' was diagnosed in 1987 - it was an illness I had never heard of. I tested positive for coxsackie virus and I was bed-bound for the first 4 years. I was ill for 20 years and during that time I took part in research studies that found various biological 'markers': an MRI showed choline 'peaks' indicative of 'brain inflammation'. One hormone assay (an insulin tolerance test?) lead me to pass out within a few minutes with nurses flapping and panicking, saying they had never seen a response like this.

Anyway.... I am not prepared to jump on the defensive and run round all the specifics. I know, and anyone who knows me, knew I was very ill for two decades and even at my best, I felt I only had 60% of 'normal' function. The other 40% of the time was spent collapsing into bed and struggling to recharge or ameliorate awful neurological-type symptoms: migraines, tinnitus, dizziness etc. Oh, and the ever-present feeling of being 'poisoned'. It was awful. The non-restorative sleep. The feeling that I might never get better. The frustration that people couldn't see just how desperately ill you always felt, and how you struggled just to 'be'.

I too, heard the odd, very rare, 'miracle' story of others who had recovered (even partially) and I would rake over the details in my head, thinking, how how how, and why not me? None of it seemed to compute.

So how did the miracle begin? In a strange round-about way, I suppose. My mum kept telling me I was 20 years ill and why didn't I do an article for a Scottish newspaper to 'raise awareness.'? Again?! I really didn't want to. I hated the whole 'sad, tired photo' thing you had to go through. Reluctantly, I agreed.

Shortly afterwards, I got an email from a Mickle Therapist offering to treat me. Was I skeptical and cynical? Only by the bucket load. But there was one thing that hooked me in. This therapist girl was my age and swore that she too had endured 20 years of severe ME and was now recovered. Her story rang so true to me in such a profound way, I had to give it a go. I had to risk my hopes being disappointed for the millionth time. I had to lay my heart open.

Now, fast forward to the present. I will go on record to say that *for me* I think this area of treatment would have helped under certain circumstances. I am not a purist or devotee of the so-called Mickel Therapy. I think it is bigger than that, this mystery of how bodies heal (or don't heal). Of how the mind and body can interact in such powerful ways that we don't fully understand.

It was the 'how how how?' that kept me going. It took me the best part of 2 years to say I was 'recovered' and before I reached this point, I felt I was 'stuck' at 70 or 80% 'improved'. But I was irked that this type of therapy had worked for others (including my therapist) and not me. I was like a Jack Russell with a rag. I just couldn't unclench my jaws thinking about it. I was angry that I wasn't 'getting' the last piece of the jigsaw.

I even left the therapy feeling 'unfinished' and stalled. I had taken up a part-time office job which was still effort-ful. I knew I would love children but I knew that didn't mean I'd automatically be able to have any (especially as I was 39 at the time). When I finally got pregnant, I was thrilled and I let myself off the hook about 'feeling exhausted' or various other symptoms. After our beautiful son was born, I expected to feel tired - new mums are all obsessed by sleep deprivation.

And so it's all been a whirr since then. Our daughter was born 15 months after our son (fast turnaround, huh?). I've had many breastfeeding sleepless nights and pockets of exhaustion, but it's so different now. I used to always bang on about ME tiredness being different and so hard to put into words. By God, I know it.

Life as a mother is tiring but it's normal and natural. It has it's own rhythm and it's not frightening or alien. That's where I am now and that's why I feel I can finally use the word 'recovered'.

There is so much more to say - I realise I haven't even attempted to explain the mechanics of how I got better. I can try that another time. And feel free to ask more.

I think it's never too late for hope or possible improvement. That has been my experience. If you get tingles of excitement just thinking about it, then your cells are up for trying to help you out. I don't know how it works, but somehow it did for me. A biology that felt almost damaged beyond repair began to renew itself. It was like a slow, 'stop-starty' spring where I could barely believe the leaves unfurling.

-C

A kind of miracle

2011-04-17T22:08:00.005+01:00

Okay, the following blog comment is spurring me back to action. It reads as follows -

I haven't commented here for a long time, but I too have been so happy for you and so astonished that you have made such a recovery and have two children now, and the part you wrote about feeding your soul 'with a life I thought I'd never have' brought me to tears. It does give me hope - I am bed bound, age 35, after 20 years of illness, have developed various complications, and often hope feels in short supply. Sometimes I find myself thinking, 'was Ciara still severely ill at my age? Is there still time for a miraculous recovery?"!

All I can say is that your story IS a kind of miracle to me and I am very, very happy for you. Enjoy it. I know you know how incredibly precious this level of normality is.

And, in reply, I will open a new post.

-C

A happy place to sit.

2011-03-03T21:17:00.003Z

Well, as you can see, I rarely post any more and if there are any readers left, they may be wondering what has happened to me. I am telling myself that this not-writing is a good thing for now. It is just a sign that my life is so full, that I am well, and that looking after our two beloved children is my calling.

When I just had Hugh, I could post when he napped, but now, with Tess (almost 1) it's pretty much a 12-14 hour day and in those last two hours of the day, when the kids are in peaceful sleep, I just want....well, I just want to relax. I surf the net, watch TV, read, chat, or whatever. Usually I want input and not more output.

So I'm going to lurk until the next chapter comes along. I feel amazingly lucky to have made such a shocking recovery after twenty years of severe illness. Twenty years. It never ceases to amaze me. One day I hope to write more on that. For now I am just enjoying the everyday and feeding my soul with a life that I thought I'd never have. I'd love if there were others who could surprise themselves too. It's never too late for hope.

-C

Dressy but not

2011-01-13T21:28:00.003Z

I was buying a patterned top in a charity shop today and the woman behind the counter said, yes, I can see you getting a lot of wear out of that; it's dressy but not.

New Laptop, New Start.

2011-01-09T20:54:00.005Z

I have a new laptop. I also have new laptop guilt, because I had no idea how easy it was to let a toddler break the old one. I wonder how many laptops are broken by beloved chubby hands poking and footering and, whoops! A £400 mistake. That easy. Not like mobile phones that survive endless bounces off the floor.

So, I am frantic about trying to keep the wains off this one. It sits high on a bookshelf and they stand in front of it wailing, praying, willing, 'Puter down. Puter dowwwwnnnn!' It's hard to explain why they can't have it.

I keep telling myself I should blog more. I need to get into the rhythm of it again. To get less self-conscious. To just write. At the moment I'm enjoying reading a book version of Stuart's blog. It's called 'The 'Celestial Cafe' and it just flows like a good conversation or a spring morning and makes you want to read more.

I don't think I'm even aiming for profundity. I just want to get into the habit of writing. You gotta have that for starters.

-C

Digital Detoxes and Blog holidays

2011-01-05T22:41:00.002Z

Forgive me, dear reader, for my infrequent posting. Yes, I am still torn, often wondering how much time online is too much? I've been enjoying 'The Winter of Our Disconnect' as Radio 4's book of the week.

Basically, a technology-addicted family gave up all screen time for 6 months and found themselves reconnecting in simple and rewarding ways. Here's a summary from a G2 article. Tempting, huh? Nice Man announced, 'We are not doin' that, by the way.' Hmm? Maybe at a later date, I could work up to it. In the meantime, I must get to bed!

-C

Perpetual tidying and not wasting

2010-11-21T12:05:00.005Z

Oh, yes, it is perpetual, this domestic tidying. And the randomness of it all: lone baby socks, cardboard toilet roll holders, leaflets, toast crusts and the occasional crushed grape on the carpet. I found a 50 pence piece under the bed and felt the urge to throw it in the bin, just to save me walking down the stairs again to try to find my purse. But of course I didn't. That would have been wasteful to the point of immoral.

I now have three bars of Palmolive soap sitting on the hall unit. The hall unit where everything miscellaneous ends up. I had bought a 4 pack of the soap on a whim, thinking it smelled fresh and alpine. Eh? Rethink - durr, it smells like an explosion in a Magic Tree factory, garish and over-chemically. I am struggling through the first bar and must jettison the others! But where shall they go? Let them not linger for too long in my hallway. Be gone, soaps, but not wasted. Fragrance-free soapery, I open my arms to you again.

-C

Blimmin' facebook

2010-11-15T21:19:00.005Z

Why, oh why, did I reactivate my Facebook account? I was perfectly happy without it. Positively serene without it. Now I feel a need to check it every day and this irks me. One more thing to check in a long list of daily checks. It's all scrappy and bitty and busy. And I'm too self-conscious to write anything on it, so I just look at everyone's 'news' and comment and then wonder what else I could have spent the time on. Grrr, Facebook. Stop it. Okay, just one more look...

...I think I will cease Facebooking. When it bugs me enough. However, I did love the film about the story behind Facebook, 'The Social Network'. It was cracking. Mike Leigh's latest film, Another Year, was too clunky and hammy for me. Hey, I sound like someone who goes to the cinema often. Twice in six months, maybe. Right, enough trivia. I'm starting to go a bit Facebook-y and I need to do something else instead.

I shall pat myself on the back for doing well while Nice Man is still away round the back end of Europe with his rock and roll band.

'Well, it's a fiat actually...'

2010-11-05T20:52:00.006Z

I am surprised and bemused by Hugh's fascination with cars and types of cars. At the age of 2, he's starting to get a bit Jeremy Clarkson on me. It started with black taxis. They prompt a joyous exclamation from him each time. 'Black taxi!'

Then I told him a red car was a 'Mini car' and he started identifying Minis everywhere. I tried him with 'Volkswagen', just to see if he could even manage the word, and then he started pointing out Volkswagen Golfs too, with less accuracy, however. Today I heard myself say, 'Well, it's a Fiat actually,' while thinking, how did I get us into this 'trainspotter' zone with motor vehicles? To me a car is a car. Sometimes I feel eco-guilt about having one, so why don't we look at some trees/flowers/goldfish instead?

Still, I take joy in Hugh's joy - whatever he's interested in. I'll enthuse about cars. I already do! 'Broom, broom.' Today was his second birthday and after his bath, I turned off the bedroom light and we looked out at fireworks going off across the city. I felt really moved to think of the moments of dizzy happiness of the last two years.

-C

Colds, jet lag and waiting on Mad Men

2010-10-26T21:21:00.003+01:00

I thought toddlers and kids got frequent colds, precisely because they are so young and this is the slow construction of their later-to-be-adult immunity. So why do I keep catching all the colds that Hugh and Tess bring to me? I used to get one a year, now it seems like one a month.

So, at last, 'Nice Man', Francis, is home from leg one of the Teenage Fanclub tour - Canada/USA/Japan/Korea. It's great to see him back, even if he has conked out with jet lag for half the day. Ah well, we'll get back to our Mad Men boxed set when we slide on to the same time zone.

-C

Hoovering

2010-10-21T14:51:00.003+01:00

There are days that you pick up the toys, then hoover the carpet. There are other days when you just hoover all the toys to the edge of the carpet. After the kids have gone to bed, you watch TV with a 'flotsam and jetsam' toy-tide lapping round the edge of your living room.

-C

No Occupation?!

2010-10-13T22:42:00.004+01:00

When the traffic policeman first pulled along side the car, I commented enthusiastically to Hugh, 'Look, a policeman on a bike!' When the policeman informed me that our tax disc had expired and there was a fine, I was considerably less excited. When he took details and asked me my occupation, I replied, 'Full time mother'. In his note book he wrote, 'No Occupation.'

If he set up a police observation unit, he might notice that I am 'occupied' for 12-14 hours a day (and sometimes in the middle of the night) tending to the two Under 2's. Surely he committed some sort of violation himself? Some error in Trade Descriptions?

-C

Today was the day...

2010-09-27T21:43:00.003+01:00

...I dragged the sun lounger from the garden into the basement. Then I humpfed the ugly metal fireguard out and back into the living room. I realise 'humpfed' may just be an Irish colloquialism. Or a MacLaverty one. Just like the phrase, 'incandescent with rage.' We use that when we get irked.

Nice Man is off on tour with his rock n' roll band. He's in New York for a few nights. We Skype most days (thank you, Skype, you are great!) and I try to get Hugh to chat. He just says, 'Daddy in a cupboard' and yells for more toast. Although today he sang Twinkle Star and tried to reach out to the screen. Aww.

Meanwhile, now the kids are in bed, I'm listening to my cheesy CD's on Nice Man's stereo without a jot of shame or embarrassment. (PS - I am a poor speller but I always remember that embarrassment has two r's and two s's, 'cause it has an embarrassment of letters. Ha).

-C

Photostream

2010-09-26T21:15:00.002+01:00

I feel I've left the ol' blog in limbo for quite a while now and I still feel ambivalent about it all. I have so many short blog posts in my head....and then I don't write them. Have I become ridiculously shy after 5 years of blogging? Should I take a sabbatical?

Everyone else does the quick-fire Tweet and Facebook thing. I signed up but I feel I can't keep up. It's so busy. I get even more shy there. You have to butt in if you want to say things.

I'm enjoying Flickr. I am keeping a 'photostream' of the kids here. Maybe that'll do it for a while.

-C x

Dishwasher

2010-09-07T20:55:00.003+01:00

We have a slimline dishwasher that was here when we moved in. The previous owner said she rinsed most things under the tap before she stacked them into the machine. I do the same. Sometimes I wonder is it any less hassle than doing the dishes. Maybe. But the relief comes in knowing that the dishwasher has final responsibility. If there are any random shreds of, well..., Shredded Wheat stuck to the breakfast bowls, it ain't me, babe. Not that I'm ever put off by the odd fleck of oat on a plate. Meat or fish, yeah, but tea stains and random carbs, they're all part of the domestic cycle.

-C

Doh!

2010-08-24T23:02:00.003+01:00

Yes, I know, the ethics of supermarkets are well dodgy, but I had just spent an hour in Asda tonight, buying £97.89 worth of 'stuff,' including loaves of bread reduced to 0.01p ('whoops!') and a pair of black boots for £36 (looked about £80). When the girl had rung everything through the till and packed it all into bags, I had a flashback of Hugh playing with my purse earlier today, pulling out the plastic cards and the 'moneys.'

And, no, of course he didn't put it back in my bag. Of course not. He left it on a corner of the living room carpet, just so I could feel like a feckless dimwit in Asda. And it was one minute to ten and the store was closing and the poor workers had to put it all back on the shelves.

Ah well, the moon was gorgeous when I drove home. Just under a full moon, or just past. I can't tell - if it's waxing or waning. Lovely anyhow.

Husky

2010-08-07T12:20:00.004+01:00

These are the last few weeks before I introduce Tess to the joy of baby food, so she's still waking 3 or 4 times a night to drink milk. I'm feeling cumulative tiredness from the broken sleep. I caught a cold and a really husky voice. While reading Hugh his bed time stories I sounded like Bonnie Tyler with the 'drunken' drawl of Dylan Moran.

Marks and Sparks

2010-08-01T20:39:00.003+01:00

A friend once commented that Marks and Spencers was full of, 'wives zipping their husbands into wee fawn cardigans'. It made me laugh. I was in M&S yesterday and I saw one school boy standing in his socks and underpants while his mum rustled a pair of polyester school slacks over his pale hips. Not in the changing rooms. On the main floor, close to the wide screen TVs, the bras and the leather sofas. Aww.

I went to Clarks to see if I could get Hugh's feet measured but the wait time was going to be 20 minutes. It was back-to-school-bedlam. I said no way José.

-C

Bliss

2010-07-23T20:31:00.002+01:00

Those first few moments after putting your children to bed at night are bliss. You feel almost drunk and giddy with the prospect of having two hours to yourself.

-C x

Shivery frog rescue

2010-07-20T22:27:00.003+01:00

Today was the second day I stumbled across a frog in our garden. (We have no pond and no neighbours with ponds). I go all shivery when I see a frog unexpectedly. Or even expectedly. That slimey pulsating wee torso. Beautiful, yet repulsive too.

So, both times I managed to coax the frogs into a bucket (shiver, shiver) and then took them to Bingham's pond and set them free.

Bingham's pond is not as romantic as it sounds. It is beside a petrol station (with an M&S) and 'The Pond Hotel' (concrete travelodge stylee). However the pond itself is large with many bull rushes, ducks and general pond life. I'm hoping the Kermit guys are happier there. When I take Hugh back there he asks me to 'find f'og' again. Needle in a haystack now, mate.

-C

The compound noun

2010-07-17T20:19:00.003+01:00

Today has been the day of the compound noun for Hugh. He was walking round the garden, randomly saying 'bin bag' and 'man cub'.

-C

My brother: Mange Tout to Tom Jones

2010-07-06T20:33:00.003+01:00

There's a programme on BBC1 tonight (Imagine, 10.35pm) featuring the career of Tom Jones. I will probably be in bed, as 10.35pm is way too late for a 5-times-a-night breast feeder (cheers, Tess). I may seem blasé about trying to catch it later on i-player. Will I find the time? I should find the time, as I'm very proud of my brother who directed it.

In childhood, my sister and I used to tease our brother remorselessly. In teenage years, we mainly ignored him (unless we wanted to borrow his Wrangler denim jacket). During his first job, as a kitchen help in a fancy restaurant, he tried to shell the Mange Tout. Our eyes widened. He what?! We witches of Macbeth.

Now, even if I don't catch all his programmes, I still feel proud of him in a warm way. There's a hero-ism in always doing your best. I still remember the boy who went off crab fishing, for whole days (with just a few limpets and some fishing line). I recently found a map of Islay with his child's hand-writing on the sea surrounding the island - 'good', 'okay' and 'very good'. The crab fishing guide for nine year olds.

-C

Toaster conflict

2010-06-30T21:10:00.006+01:00

Today I saw an advert for a see-through toaster and it was a perfect example of my

everyday conflict about consumerism. I thought -

a) What a genius idea

b) Wouldn't it be great to get one

c) How much? Nope. That's way too much

d) Oh, no! Rich people everywhere will be buying them and throwing out perfectly good toasters and this is not what the environment needs. This is the opposite of what the planet needs. What about our children and grandchildren?

...But, a see-through toaster. Genius. You wouldn't have to strain your neck looking down the slots. You wouldn't have to pop the toast up and down, up and down....a little bit more, a little bit more....okay, slightly too much. Fine, I'll butter it anyway. Hmm, I do love toast.

-C x

Don't leave the soup on, baby...

2010-06-27T14:48:00.008+01:00

Well, we are home from a self-catering week on the island of Mull, where we stayed in this big house. It sleeps ten but we got a last-minute cancellation at a reasonable price.

It might have cost considerably more: we returned from the beach to find the soup burnt dry on the gas, but - phew, phew, Barney McGrew - it was only the soup and not the tasteful barn conversion that burnt to a cinder. Burning down your holiday home is generally not recommended as the best start to a holiday.

We liked the house and the beach, and we even managed to take our wellies off. See photographic evidence below.

-C

Shamed out of Lurker-dom

2010-06-16T20:32:00.002+01:00

Aww, thanks to blog reader, Hazel, for saying she misses my blog posts. It has spurred my fingers onwards to the 'new post' button.

Well, this is absolutely my favourite time of year. If the seasons are a ballet, this is the highest arc, the ballerina's most spectacular and graceful jump. The trees, the trees! They are falling over themselves in triumphant greenery.

Our darling babies are doing well -and what a love affair we have. I can't stop kissing their chubby necks and sniffing their heads. Tess used to sleep 7 hour stretches and now seems to wake every 2 or 3 hours in the night. But she'll get there. I just have to use patience and logic and everything we learned with Hugh.

I'm researching options for a holiday in Scotland and will report back later.

There seems to be about four thousand snails in our garden. I tried to cull some, but I felt so guilty when their eyes popped up on wee antenna to look around. I filled a bucket with them and they were crawling out, climbing on each other's backs like desperadoes. I had to stop. They're still eating my plants, so who knows what I can do...

-C

Raging ambivilance towards the Wider World

2010-05-02T13:45:00.005+01:00

So, I still can't get online easily. I get wee scraps of time on other peoples' computers - and only at rare intersections when both babies are sleeping and Hugh isn't clambering to play on the 'pewtoo' (his new name for the computer).

I tell myself that it doesn't matter and I don't need to keep up with random online surfing - news, blogs, trivia. Hell, I don't need to communicate with the Wider World! I tell myself it's only a virtual world and the real stuff, the only stuff, is in the 'now'- in the front line of babies laughing, or wailing and needing comfort. And then there's the toast on the floor and the laundry to hang out.

And other times? Well, I'm gasping to spend an hour or two 'floating' online and communing with the Wider World. Yes, indeed Wider World, that's you. What do you mean, you're not listening? What was it I meant to say again?

-C

Tess

2010-04-08T22:16:00.004+01:00

We've decided to call her Tess. Full name, Tess Maggie Macdonald. I better stop faffing about online and go and feed her.

By the way, my laptop is still broken so I only get online every few days - so sorry for all the delays in email. I've morphed into a reclusive lactating Luddite. But that's fine, right? She's worth it.

-C

She's here!

2010-03-27T15:22:00.003Z

I'm so happy to write that our baby girl was born at 4.01pm on Tuesday 23rd March. I was so surprised by her girl-ness (soothsayers everywhere voted boy) that we hadn't finalised any names. Still flicking through those name books and will let you know more soon. She was 7 lb 3 oz's of gorgeousness after 5 or 6 hours of labour. Phew!

-C

Wait watchers...at week 40

2010-03-19T13:13:00.003Z

Well, bambino 2 is officially due this weekend (Sunday 21st March) and, as yet, there are no signs at all. First time birth (with baby Hugh) came like a slow rumble of an earthquake (2 weeks early). I had subtle aches and cramps that built steadily and surely over 2 days and then a whole day and night in the hospital, thinking *when* will this be done? (I'll spare you the vernacular and the sound effects).

It's as if baby two is in no hurry whatsoever. Last week I had a sickness bug and this week I have a heavy cold that makes me feel as if Mike Tyson has beaten me round the head and some strange corporation has stolen all my saliva. I'm actually hoping the labour holds off until I can breathe properly again. Eucalyptus and cough sweets aren't cutting it.

As a special treat, Hugh has broken my laptop. Correction, it broke ('boke') when he slid it from the sofa on to the rug. I thought only juice or milk on the keyboard would kill it, but a gentle flump to the floor has led to it's total demise. Duh. So replacement will have to wait for now. Too big a project to take on while I'm in the the scatty and preoccupied waiting zone.

Technically speaking, I may have to wait until the end of the month - the hospital allows 12 days past Due Date and then they start coming at you with synthetic hormones and plastic aprons. I hope it doesn't come to that. We'll see...

In the meantime, my local playgroup is having a jumble sale tomorrow, so that's my only planned expedition for now. I'll rummage for a bit of home-baking, a few plastic toys or a pot of plum jam.

-C

Week 38

2010-03-08T21:16:00.002Z

All quiet. No pending signs of labour as yet. Glad that the weather has finally skirted above 10 degrees Celsius and the crocuses (croci?) have peeked out from the garden soil.

Teething

2010-03-01T21:14:00.004Z

In his far-thinking wisdom, Hugh has decided to prepare me for the birth of his sibling by reminding me what lavish fun interrupted sleep can be. With a sudden burst of teething, his normal peaceful nights have gone out the window, leaving me floppy and foggy-brained in front of Cbeebies at 7am. Oh, and it's a shame when that thon Calpol gets all o'er your Orla Kiely pillowcases.

-C

The radio-pop-horoscope game

2010-02-22T20:31:00.008Z

I am too logical and science-y minded to believe in superstition, but it's funny how the thoughts pop into your mind anyway. When I was a teenager, I used to play the radio-pop-horoscope game: I'd say, right, the next song on the radio will have some predictive resonance for my near future (or, in teenage-speak: the words will tell me if some boy likes me.)

Today I said, right, the next song on the radio will reveal something about the bambino inside. The song that followed? I've got you under my skin. Ah, I see. I'd be okay with metaphorical. I wasn't expecting the literal.

Later I was changing pillowcases and I could only find 3 out of 4 matching ones. I started to think, hmm, what does that mean? Something bad? I had to lasso the frisky pony of my mind and tell it not to be irrational.

I like the names of some of the classes I take Hugh to. We used to go to Mini Music Makers. Now we go to Boogie Babies. Earlier I bought him a heart-shaped helium balloon from a charity shop. He carried it round all day (like Winnie the Pooh) and referred to it as his 'boon'.

-C

Laundry luck in week 36

2010-02-21T20:48:00.003Z

So, I took a risk and put my 'dry clean only' cream coat in a 40 degree white wash. Feeling cavalier, I threw in my white trainers (sneakers) too. Everything came out fine and clean - the soles of the trainers looked shop-new again. Oh, the small victories of domestic life.

The pregnancy train is pulling into week 36 and I'm willing it on to week 37. Any baby born between week 37 and week 42 is 'full term' within the normal range. The hospital has given me a due date of 21st of March, but I'd be happy if my body was ready any time from March 1st (week 37). Hugh arrived at week 38 (on the same night Barack Obama was winning the US election).

So anyway, dear readers, I am looking after myself and thinking about the month of March.

-C

Pass the croissants...

2010-02-06T22:08:00.005Z

Yes, it has gradually happened - I've become an infrequent poster. I'm excusing myself on this account. I was amazed to realise the blog has almost been going six years now, so it's allowed a wee rest by the side of the road.

I am week 33 of the pregnancy and, once again, I look like I have a space-hopper up my jumper. 'You look identical to last time,' said a friend, and she is right. I am 'carrying' the same way.

I have to take iron tablets for pregnancy anaemia. The tablets give me an irritable stomach and the instructions recommend avoiding tea and wheat for an hour beforehand and two hours afterwards. I don't think there is a 3 hour compartment of my life (especially my pregnant life) that doesn't involve a sip of tea or a bread product. Ah, bread... I'd be rubbish on an Atkin's diet.

Better get off to bed. More news if I have it. I'll not be too far away.

-C

Toddlers don't do sarcasm

2010-01-05T21:44:00.004Z

So, Hugh is walking now, or at least toddling. Every so often someone teases him (playfully?) with a stern voice. Today he was considering a mild cry about some minor toy issue and a well-meaning passer-by said in a mock stern voice, 'Come now, no no no. There's no need for tears, young man.' And his wee bottom lip trembled as if he was shamed and now he had to cry his way out of the shame too. Aww. I wonder if people do it to baby boys more than girls.

Meanwhile, the man who sells the Evening Times outside the subway pronounced loudly that, of course I was having another boy. He predicted Hugh correctly so he's obviously an expert in his field.

-C

There's a lot of it about

2009-12-16T21:36:00.003Z

I must have eaten something dodgy or picked up a bug. After being ill through the night, I felt wiped out today and fell into bed all afternoon. I had deja vu of the bad old days - a kind of melancholy of inertia. I hope I pick up soon.

To allow me to rest, Nice Man took baby Hugh to his office (where I'm sure he helped 'tidy' the filing cabinets and piles of CD's). 'Hugo' was all revved-up and smiley when he came back, as if the Daddy-bonding day had done him good.

-C

The youth of today?

2009-12-15T14:15:00.003Z

Yesterday, on the bus, I had a minor moment of Daily-Mail-style Tisk-tisking as I struggled with Hugh's buggy and my ever widening pregnancy bump and a bunch of coiffed lads from the local 'posh' school barely moved to let me past, and none stood to offer me a seat on the full bus. I thought their parents may be paying £10K a term to send them there, but somebody somewhere forget to teach them basic manners and bus etiquette. There, harrumph over. Normal service resumed soon.

I love those electronic displays on the bus stops that tell you how long before the next bus is due. So much better than waiting clueless. Do they work by satellite or infrared or something? Very clever and useful anyway.

The longer I wait to post....

2009-12-10T15:26:00.003Z

...the more ambivalent I am to post anything, as it can seem too trivial. I should get with the Twitter ethos and stop being blog-precious. There, I've leapt in now.

Life is mainly good (I feel grateful). I sit here awaiting the gas man to do a service check on our heating.

It's nearly impossible to buy 'man tights' for a baby boy, to keep his legs cosy. Parents know that baby socks fall off like autumn leaves - all year round. Tights for the under 2's only seem to come in pink, red, white or selection packs of pink, red and white, some with decorative love hearts. I have one pair of last year's (blue) 'boy tights' from the Gap and they are in the washing machine and draped on radiators almost daily. I love putting them on Hugh, warm from the heater, stuffing his wee chubby ankles into the cosy padded feet. I put his dungarees on top and we're ready to roll. Or crawl....

Week 25 of the pregnancy and bambino 2 is kicking away.

-C x

Immunised?

2009-11-14T13:48:00.003Z

I listened to the government's persuading and decided to

get the swine flu jab. Apparently a third of pregnant women are undecided, a third don't wish to take the risk, and a third roll up their sleeves and say okay, hit me with it. It's been 2 hours and I feel okay, thus far.

I didn't want to get the jab on an empty stomach, so I found myself eating a Gregg's Festive Pastry in the torrential rain outside the GP surgery.

-C

Blog neglect or blog holiday?

2009-11-03T20:42:00.006Z

Ah, one kind reader asked if I am okay, because I haven't posted recently. Yes, I have written many short blog posts in my head...and then kept them there. A case of blog neglect or a blog holiday? I couldn't decide.

I am now in week 20 of pregnancy - a kind of half way point, although March 21st (due date) still seems a long way off. The novelty of the first pregnancy was constantly exciting; second time around I'm feeling more of a warm, mushy gratitude and forward-looking hope.

I don't have any cravings, although tonight I was eating a bowl of Coco Pops* for the first time in years. I was padding about the kitchen with the bowl and I thought, wow, these taste so great, I should sit down to appreciate the cheap chocolate-y naughtiness of this experience.

* (I only had a mini box of Coco Pops in the house as part of my Halloween 'costume' - I wore a necklace made from Kellogg's Variety packs and carried a pretend knife, rustled up from tin-foil and cardboard. What do you mean, what was I? A serial/cereal killer, of course. Ah well, there's always next Halloween.)

Enough waffle. Why don't I post a picture of Mr Hugh, who'll be one this week! Awww.

-C

Fall-y down trousers

2009-10-12T21:33:00.006+01:00

It's one of the paradoxes of pregnancy - despite the fact that your waist keeps growing, your trousers won't stay up properly. They slide on to your hip bones and feel precarious. I commented on this to my (thrice pregnant) sister and she said, oh yeah, you just have to get used to

fall-y down trousers.

The weather has been so autumnal and beautiful for weeks now, it's almost made me forget the wash-out that was July and August.

I've just had battered fish and it's made me feel all thirsty. I shouldn't be surprised.

-C

CBeebies

2009-09-30T21:43:00.004+01:00

Do the CBeebies schedulers have any idea how randomly irksome the Waybuloos are, when compared to the glories of Iggle Piggle and friends? Drippy, hippy, doe-eyed Waybuloos, with your pastel-coloured, floaty nonsense - I will you past (a 6pm slot?!) while waiting for the true path of The Night Garden.

Ooh, I sound quite curmudgeonly.

-C

Prophecies and floorboards

2009-09-25T20:13:00.003+01:00

Okay - so I feel as if my communications to the world are thwarted somewhat. We are living with my parents for a week as our floorboards are sanded and varnished. And at the same time, I'm having technical problems with email, our land line and my mobile. A triple whammy that leaves me with a possible case of Ignoring People Guilt.

In the meantime, who needs a world of electronic intercourse when there is an old-fashioned visionary at my local supermarket? Cup your ear, readers...

My pregnancy is just beginning to show but could still be mistaken for a case of too much cake and pizza. However, a few weeks back, there was really no belly and I was a wearing 'slimming' black mini-dress and black tights. A tall African man at the till in said supermarket made me gasp when he said he knew I was pregnant with a baby boy.

There was no way he could have seen a bump. I could have flounced off and complained to the manager at such a comment. Yet he told me he was a preacher in 'his own country' and has the 'gift of prophecy.' I was so amazed, I found no real reason to doubt him. Cue spooky music and save the blue bootees.

-C

We're very happy...

2009-09-20T20:24:00.001+01:00

...to be expecting a second baby in March 2010.

-C

Just s'not fair.., (sorry)

2009-09-15T12:58:00.005+01:00

Why is it, when your baby has a runny nose that leaves his top lip like a melting glacier, he does not thank you for wiping it clean? Nay, he protests as if you are merely trying to compound any misery with your motherly brandishing of tissue, your eager pursuit of dry, soft skin.

-C

New Hoose

2009-09-08T21:06:00.004+01:00

So, where were we? I'm writing this with eyes tingling from onion fumes. We've had the rooms of our new house painted and a friend suggested cutting up an onion in a bowl of water to absorb the chemical waft of new paint. Now the house smells like a giant onion. I may abandon the experiment.

Carpets are the next big frontier. I'm sure the dog and cat who lived here before us were lovely creatures - animal pensioners, if you will, but they also left half their fur in the shag pile. I am phoning men with sanding machines and hoping for golden floorboards. Patience...it shall be worth it.

-C

Living in a cardboard box...

2009-08-24T21:12:00.004+01:00

...well, not quite but there are umpty-twenty cardboard boxes of stuff littering our flat. Why such chaos? Indeed we are moving to a new house on Friday. Very exciting, of course, if a little hectic. Don't say the word 'stress', okay?

I'm having to do things like clean the inside of the oven (generally a no no) while trying to stop Mr Hugh licking the TV screen. Normal blog service should resume in weeks to come.

-C

Silence please

2009-08-04T09:54:00.004+01:00

Outside Mr Hugh naps in the pram while bus brakes squeal and children yell in the park. Inside, when he's napping in the cot, I tip toe about the hall. I don't flick light switches, I ease them backwards as if they were mini see-saws.

This may be pathetic, but I do it anyway.
-C

What is it with low sofas?

2009-07-28T21:33:00.002+01:00

I am currently surfing for new sofas. What is it with the ubiquitous low-slung sofa? Okay, they look modern and create a sense of space and feng shui, but come on, we need back support and head support and a general comforting 'flump' in the act of sitting down. I say nay - nay way - to the low sofa and will keep up the search for upholstered comfort of a more traditional variety.

-C

Phew - it's not as bad as it looks!

2009-07-24T21:03:00.003+01:00

So, Hugh loves his bath and he has just learned to pull out the plug. Ah well, I thought, he shall learn a new association: no plug, no water. The simple poetry of learning. No plug, no water? No woman, no cry. That sort of thing. Only this time we both learned something new - fingers down the plughole for half a second, big cry. When he pulled them out, he had nasty cut. Ouch and How the frig?!

Cue me getting all panicky as the blood dripped into the bath and spotted on to the white towel. I scooped him up and he smeared it on his face and generally all-over-the-place, like a convincing audition for Casualty (I never watch it anymore but I can imagine). Oh, my wee boy!

But it was okay in the end. We got the necessary bandage - I phoned Devoted Grandparents and they came with some gauze and white tape and we made a cartoon finger bandage, that looked was better and more fitting than the soggy plasters that were still looking too red for comfort.

Phew and double Phew. Hugh then got all excited and smiley for the unexpected ceremony of bath time visitors and ministerings. So, kids, today's Sesame Street lesson is ...beware of plugholes. Sometimes baddies might be lurking down there, after all. No need to go poking around, just in case.

-C

Mystery shopper

2009-07-21T20:45:00.004+01:00

The other day, in the supermarket, I set down my wire basket of shopping and wandered briefly to another aisle. When I came back it was gone. I asked the cashiers and no one had seen it. The manager checked with the shelf-stackers and they all agreed that another customer must have taken it up.

I wondered what kind of customer suddenly decided that today was the day he (or she) couldn't live without 2 tiramasu, value-pack avocados and 11 Huggies aqua nappies.

-C

Saturday at the Museum

2009-07-18T20:31:00.001+01:00

Breaking News in Times Square

2009-07-06T22:41:00.003+01:00

So.., as I was saying, we were in Times Square and I overheard an American voice ask, 'Is Michael Jackson dead?' and I thought, there is a person who doesn't know anything about anything, a person who hasn't a clue. It's Elvis who's dead, and John Lennon, and Kennedy. Duh.

And then it flashed up on the giant screens that poor 'old' Wacko Jacko had joined them. Jeeze. I never felt strongly about him, one way or the other, but what a sad end. Billie Jean was my favourite song. It was so 1983, (or was it '84?).

My sister and I occasionally referred to Michael Jackson as Meek-leh. (We changed the names of a lot of people for no apparent reason - pre Heat Magazine). My sister would walk into the room, wriggle her leg like Jackson dancing and then say, Meek-leh leg.

I'm not sure that works in translation, but I've said it now.

Yes, the pedestrianisation of Times Square has my full approval. You can never get too much pedestrianisation. Get a few pigeons elected to the city council and there would be no looking back.

-C

About time in Times Square

2009-07-03T12:14:00.000+01:00

Bonkers Jet Lag

2009-07-02T10:19:00.003+01:00

Wow, the jet lag is rumbling on. I can't get to sleep before 3am or wake before 11am. (Mr Hugh is sleeping 10pm to 11am too, with one 'night' feed in between). Today I'm trying to break the cycle. I've been yawning since 8am and trying to stay awake so I can go to sleep earlier tonight. That's the theory. I might have to sellotape my eyelids open this afternoon.

-C

New York stories

2009-06-30T23:51:00.005+01:00

We are just back from a groovy holiday in New York - my first time out of Europe. I'll write more when the jet lag wears off.

-C

Make my baby look camp in a photo? Surely not.

2009-06-12T20:34:00.004+01:00

PS - in the second photo, readers can play Spot The Mouse who's had Enough.

-C

Tiredness and untidyness, okay. Chewing gum, nope.

2009-06-09T21:00:00.003+01:00

Phew - I'm tired tonight, but I think it's allowed. Sometimes my day starts at 6am, when Hugh won't go back to sleep. I used to think only farmers, bakers and postmen got up at 6am, now I realise people with babies do too.

Sometimes I can't keep up with the tidying and I have to learn to ignore the mess and not let it irk me. I've always been a really tidy person, so I see it as a slow personality change. Bundle of clothes lying in a pile? Sure! Toys and sticky stuff on the kitchen floor? Go right ahead.

Nice Man is away to LA. I'm amazed I know anyone who goes to LA, never mind being 'married'* to such a person. (Not technically 'married', you see, just to confuse and exasperate relatives...but, when a couple have a kid, I think that's as big a commitment as it gets).

Ah well, the check-out woman at the supermarket told me she had never been on a plane. She looked about 62 and I wished she would treat herself to an aviation adventure. I also noticed that there were about 24 types of chewing gum at the checkout (seriously - 4 rows of 6 flavours). There used to be two - plain spearmint Wrigleys and then 'Juicy Fruit'. I never buy chewing gum, so I guess I missed the 'chuggy' revolution. Ah, the relief of not having to care.

I will go to bed early tonight. Even if the light outside is fooling me into thinking the day is young.

-C

I just can't get enough...

2009-05-27T11:29:00.003+01:00

...bitesize Weetabix. They cause you to eat more than the standard 'soap-size' (?) Weetabix. Before you know it, you've gobbled quite a few.

-C

Sappy Swingin' Parents Go Goo

2009-05-26T13:37:00.002+01:00

A game for readers: Spot the Sock

2009-05-25T22:15:00.003+01:00

'Don't Eat the Marshmallow'

2009-05-18T20:11:00.007+01:00

Nice Man showed me this fascinating article in The New Yorker. It's about a psychology experiment designed to measure self-control. Four-year-old kids were left alone in a room, sitting at a desk. On the desk was a marshmallow. The kids were told they could have two marshmallows if they waited and didn't eat the first one. If they ate the first one, that was their lot. Predictably, some of the kids could delay gratification and others crumbled and ate the first marshmallow.

But the scientists followed them up years later and discovered that the 'delayers' had higher IQ's and fewer behavioural problems than the non-delayers. In fact, the delayers managed life much better all round.

I wonder how long I'd have held off eating the marshmallow.

I remember when I was about five, asking my mum for an ice cream just before dinner. She wisely said no. I ran to my dad and asked for 2 pence (yes, 2p!) and with that 2 pence I bought a Mr Whippy cone with strawberry sauce. I think I took two licks of it, then threw it behind a wall, like Judas with the thirty pieces of silver.

I liked the end of the article where it said that 'even the most mundane routines of childhood, like not snacking before dinner, or saving up your allowance, or holding out until Christmas morning - are really sly exercises in cognitive training.' Apparently this is the most valuable training your parents can give you. And I realise my parents gave me all of the above.

Once I instigated an argument with Nice Man when he ate a roast chicken leg just before we went to my parents' for dinner. Yikes, it's not as if I can just benefit from the delayer 'rules'. Sometimes I have to annoy myself by my inflexible adherence to them years later. It obviously runs deep.

Still, I'm guessing I'll steer Mr Hugh away from any ice cream vans just before dinner time. Or I'll tell him that when the van plays the music, it means they've run out of ice cream.

-C

The wrong clothes?

2009-05-16T09:56:00.003+01:00

Billy Connolly once said there is no such thing as bad weather, only the wrong clothes. I can see what he's getting at. But, Billy (comedy God that you are), you live in LA for most of the year. I have been wearing the same clothes since January - if you know what I mean. I still cannot jettison the 'double trew' (leggings under my jeans) and I think my black cashmere polo-neck and red scarf are genetically modifying themselves with my DNA to become part of my person. I long for the air to be warm. I long to feel the sun on my bare ankles.

-C

The bumpiest pavements, please.

2009-05-12T17:03:00.003+01:00

Most people are glad to see their council tax spent on practical things like making the pavements smooth and safe for all. When Hugh is crying in the pram, trying his utmost to get over to sleep, I steer headlong towards the bumpiest paving stones, aiming for every manhole cover and water-mains lid. It's his best chance.

-C

A baseball cap, you say?

2009-05-02T20:17:00.001+01:00

I've been immortalised in Lego

2009-04-19T11:27:00.005+01:00

Christoph has done a great job with these Belle and Sebastian covers in Lego. Vielen Danke Christoph. What delight.

-C

On not getting a minute

2009-04-17T20:48:00.004+01:00

You hear people say it all the time. They 'don't get a minute to...do whatever'. Sometimes it's how I feel about the blog. But it's okay. It's something I could never have imagined before.

The best book I have read in....ages

2009-04-10T21:09:00.002+01:00

'The Road' by Cormac McCarthy is the most spellbinding and heartbreaking book I have read in years. It's about a father and his young son travelling across America in a post apocalyptic world, where most of the population are dead and the sun never shines through the ashen polluted atmosphere. It sounds sensationalist but it's so gripping because the two central characters are so real. I fell in love with the wee boy.

I have to go now. Nice Man is cajoling me to watch some TV, now that Hughster is asleep.

-C

Hugh Tube

2009-04-04T20:08:00.002+01:00

Here's a short video I sent to Nice Man, when he was working in the USA, away from Mr Hugh. It helps if you've seen the Bob Dylan original.

-C

Who knew?

2009-03-30T20:51:00.005+01:00

Banana stains don't come out of baby bibs in a 60 degree white wash. Britain's favourite fruit, you surprise me.

And as for 'poly-cotton', well 'easycare'? Schmeesy-care. Once you start weaving plastic thread in with good old honest cotton, you get more wrinkles, not less. Give me 100% brushed cotton any day.

That is the end of the laundry bulletin.

-C

Inappropriate raspberry action

2009-03-25T19:53:00.006Z

Last night Mr Hugh woke about six times to feed. I said, look Mister, this is getting ridiculous, but he paid no heed. I tried to spoon baby rice and banana into him today, but he still looked puzzled and bemused and hasn't quite bought into the concept of food-swallowing yet.

I took him to view a flat (we are considering purchasing one in the longer term with the generous help of my parents). I felt patronised by the owner who talked me through the location of every plug socket and pulled out hefty maintenance and council tax bills while Hugh was wriggling in my arms in semi-irritation. The owner offered to hold 'the baby'. I said no thanks and then he started blowing slevery raspberries on Hugh's wee hands. I mean watery, noisy raspberries. Hugh tried to eat his finger. No, Hugh, refrain, my love, refrain!

The owner then told me about the offers they'd turned down and I decided instantly that I could take this no further and said so in polite language. He still insisted on showing me the back yard on the way out. He was wittering on about the recycle bins and I thought, didn't I just say no thanks? Do I need to get tougher?

-C

Holiday Photos

2009-03-23T21:09:00.007Z

I'm just back after five days in England visiting my sister and my nieces. Niece Maddy (5) said Hugh should be called Mr Googly Eyed Hugh, as his eyes are always so wide open. And to think we struggled to choose a middle name. Nice Man is still working hard in the US of A.

-C

Monkey Mothering

2009-03-15T21:02:00.007Z

I've been thinking about monkey mothering. I haven't come to a theory yet, but thoughts of monkeys are in response to my ongoing confusion over conflicting baby-care advice. I'm still getting frustrated at the list of 'Don'ts'....i.e. Lists of Ooh, Beware! points. Beware - if you feed baby on demand or feed to sleep, you'll 'spoil' baby and make him / her demanding / stroppy / a heroin addict when they grow up. They don't say that last bit, but it feels implied.

Mr Hugh is struggling to get to sleep without feeding first. He feeds and feeds. I try to latch him off (moments) early to 'teach' (?) him to settle himself in the cot and he keeps crying. So I repeat the whole sequence again... and then again and, yup, again. And then several times in the night.

But I also think of the monkeys and all the other mammals that snuggle and feed so naturally. Nobody tells a monkey to put her baby in a separate cot and teach it a stiff upper lip. For its own good! Hmm, where does that leave me? I don't know. Clarification and illumination, readers. They elude me. Cute monkeys though.

-C

Some headline about humble pie and tossing cookies

2009-03-09T12:26:00.004Z

Geeze. I'll eat humble pie, if I could just get my cookies to stay down. So maybe Hugh's 24 hour vomit-athon was a virus - and not a reaction to the injections - because, guess what, I'm joining in now. It is truly horribilus and wretched. Just have to wait it out. We are a house of lurgy. Isn't there some sort of service that can rescue us and make it all better?

-C

Back to the Starship, Captain...

2009-03-08T20:33:00.000Z

'The screens please, nurse'

2009-03-07T21:58:00.008Z

I promise this blog won't be all about baby stuff and nothing else. But we've had a rough couple of days after Mr Hugh's third immunisations (4 month injections) so that's uppermost in my mind.

The wee soul wasn't able to keep milk down the next day after the 'jabs'. Through the night he just stopped feeding and started writhing in pain. He projectile-vomitted over land and sea (okay, duvet covers and bath towels) for 24 hours. Oww. I ended up trying to feed him 'cooled boiled water' with a syringe to try to avert the real risk of dehydration.

The GP said it was probably 'a virus' and not linked to the immunisations. Call me an old reactionary cynic but I wonder otherwise. Hugh also went through a rough stage after his injections at 3 months (more crying in unexplained pain) so, you can imagine how I'll be looking forward to any future needle action...

I think there is a 'yellow card' office somewhere, where you can report after-effects to add to the collected data. Surely somebody keeps a record of these things nationwide?

I'm rushing off to try and grab sleep now that Mr Baby Anger has zonked out - in his pram. Sleep training? Ha. By hook or by crook, it was, tonight.

-C

PS. for US google searches, I'll spell immunizations with a 'z' too. So, tagging - baby immunizations, 4 months, reactions, vomitting.

4 month sleep regression, you say?

2009-03-02T13:00:00.005Z

Well, shut me up and call me a smug daftie as Hugh is now waking about 4 or 5 times a night to feed and his naps have become a battle. I don't regret dropping the dummy (soother / pacifier). Not for a minute. But I found this website / blog - www.askmoxie.org and it's a consolation to my tired eyes.

Readers, you know I can get too 'heady' and tie myself in knots trying to follow 'best practice' from whatever baby book I am reading. I have just about given up with the Baby Whisperer. There are so many rules that seem unfair to me - eg. feed only every 4 hours (at 4 months). Blimey, I need to eat every 2 or 3 hours, so call me a hypocrite. All the rules make me doubt myself. Pah.

The Moxie blog pointed out that there is a recognised '4 month sleep regression' associated with leaps in development. Baby brains are so busy developing, they find it hard to shut down for sleep.

So here you find us, Mr Hugh watching BBC news and gurgling in a bouncy chair. Me sitting in my dressing gown, sleep deprived and reporting from the front line of the babydom trenches. Ah well, it's a phase, a phase, I say. A bit like life.

Ah, I just had a phone call from a dear friend who has a young baby too. It's good to bond over all the minutiae. She said her bambino followed the same patterns - staying awake most of the day in one phase about this age. Now she's surfing the teething wave. We had the rant about babies being baffling, exhausting and amazing, and then I resolved to follow her in 'going with the flow', whatever that means. It sounds simple...

-C

7am - Look no dummys!

2009-02-21T07:11:00.005Z

The first hour was the worst. Nice Man shh-ed and coo-ed to Mr Hugh as he tried to get to sleep on his own for the first time - that is, tried to sleep without the aid of dummy or breast milk. It was hard but it worked. Once asleep he slept better and even had spells of contented babbling in the cot at night. No more holding our breath, waiting for the dummy to fall out. He still put up a fight at his morning nap, but it was less of a fight. I'm hoping we've turned a corner or qualified for some gold stars or something.

-C

Cold Turkey and the Dummy?

2009-02-20T11:04:00.005Z

I take it all back. I will not complain about getting up at 7am, if that's what Mr Hugh needs to get his wee (almost) 4 month-old body into a proper sleep/wake/feed routine.

We gave him a 'dummy' (or pacifier) to help him through his awful colic (at 6 weeks old) and now, almost shamefully, I can see that he needs to go to Dummy-holics Anonymous and stand up (okay, lie down) and say, My name is Mr Hugh and I am a... (Well, he can no longer get to sleep without his dummy). Other babies in the room will nod sagely and gurgle support.

What is the problem, you may ask? Well, now Mr Hugh wakes up every 1-2 hours crying to be replugged with the dummy. Since we don't have a machine or a small monkey to do this, it means myself and Nice Man are wakened 8 or 10 times a night (it's almost worse than the newborn phase). This would likely go on for another few months until Mr Hugh could put it back in himself.

So, after obsessive reading of the Internet and asking everyone (including the gas man) about dummy weaning, it seems Cold Turkey may be the most effective method. The thought is stomach-lurching for me. I see how much he cries when he wants it.

Of course, you have to be resolute once you start, and we will try to follow the Baby Whisperer's tools / methodology, which mean that you stay with, and gently support, your baby while it cries, as opposed to closing the door, but, ouch ouch ouch, you can expect baby to put up wailing protests every time (even for an hour or two) until you teach him/her to sleep on their own. It may take about a week before Mr Hugh can say, Dummy? What's a dummy?

Apparently, allegedly, this is the best gift to teach the baby and it should sleep better after this. But oh, I am dreading it. I don't see any other way around it. Surely we will be doing him a favour in the long run? My sister had to implement a similar strategy when her baby started waking-to-feed five times a night. They don't need it at this age. It's a habit you have to wean them off.

Wish us luck and resolve. I'm feart.

-C

7 until 7? Is it madness?

2009-02-12T22:56:00.006Z

So, I've been reading the baby books again - this time 'The Baby Whisperer' by Tracy Hogg. It seems to make more sense and isn't as scary as the infamous Gina Ford. However, I have one stalling point. All the books aim to get your baby to sleep 7pm to 7am.

Now, my own family were never early-wakers, and, my whole life long, I have never risen before 8am (ie 8am in school days). People in America and England get up at 6 or 7am. Not us Celtic types. Nooo. We like to get up about 9 or 10am (or 8am if we have school kids). Likewise, I don't want to have to fall into bed at 9pm, when all the good programmes are starting on TV. I love the quiet hours between 11pm to midnight and beyond.

So, when the baby books tell you to get up at 7am it all seems a bit of a cold shower. Can't we have 8 till 8? Or 8 till 9am? Anyway, Hugh has started to comply by sleeping earlier (currently 8 or 9pm). He then thinks it's fun to wake up at 1am, 5am and then 2 or 3 times after that. I keep looking for answers in The Baby Whisperer, while trying not to read the bit that says 'Get up at 7am'. Is that cheating?

Yikes, it's gone 11pm. You see? I feel pressured to get myself off to bed now, instead of chatting to you folks.

I took Hugh to a local Gaelic-speaking playgroup today. They called him Ùisdean, which is Gaelic for Hugh. I love that name, but no one would ever be able to pronounce it. And I thought my name was tricky. Anyway, I tried to look like I knew the words when everyone sang The Wheels on the Bus in Gaelic.

Okay, better go. Sleep pressure! Gute Nacht. That's German for Good Night instead.

-C

Shout We Are

2009-02-06T17:15:00.004Z

I am having my usual 'five o'clock wilt' (delayed effects of sleep deprivation) but I found pockets of joy earlier.

I took Hugh to 'Bounce and Rhyme' at the library, where a room full of mothers sat on orange carpets with babies plonked on their laps. We sang dumb nursery rhymes and pretended like our babies could sing too. If you're happy and you know it, clap your hands. (A few of the toddlers had only just mastered the art of clapping). The babies drooled and let their heads wobble gently as they gazed around the room and absorbed it all, neurones buzzing. If you're happy and you know it, shout We Are. I instructed Mr Hugh to gurgle it for me as I was all choked up with happiness tears. That's babies for ya.

-C

How much for my eco guilt?

2009-02-02T23:01:00.006Z

So Nice Man has to go away on a business trip in March and I looked up possible flights to my sister's in England. BMI Baby would charge me £27.98 return (huge bargain apart from the tax of my eco-guilt. I know, I know...). But get this - an infant (ie Mr Hugh) would cost £30 return. He doesn't even get his own seat (he'd have to wriggle in my lap). What is that all about?!

It's enough to make me take the train in protest.

Our snow went all sleety and didn't lie. Aww.

-C

Okay, now I'm really feeling hypocritical. Sneaky wee internal flights are one thing when they are anonymous. As soon as I declare such an intention publicly, the irony is inescapable. We have a baby boy. I should be minimising our carbon footprints at every oppor-chancity. We should get the train...

Penguins in Trees and Sartorial Cusps

2009-01-28T17:21:00.006Z

After flicking through The Observer's Free Guide to the Top 50 UK Garden birds, I got momentarily excited when I spotted what I thought must be a rare British breed in the park today. I zoomed in to discover it was a toy penguin - a 'baby' one with fluffy grey plumage. Someone had lodged it on to a branch, as if it were real. There was a lone tea bag and some sawdust on the grass near by.

Hugh slept through our gentle trundle, thus missing the Glasgow landmarks and the dim and pleasant January sun. Earlier I had chatted on the phone to Stuart about the moment that winter turns to spring. Yeah, he said... the cusp. When he was in New York, on such a day, someone shouted at him, 'Hey faggot, take off the jacket!' Today Hugh was still in his cream furry all-in-one suit and a polka-dot bib. Somewhat camp until Spring crawls closer then...

-C

Mousey gets fresh!

2009-01-25T16:59:00.006Z

-C

Inky Polaroid

2009-01-23T14:51:00.006Z

Ah, my posting rate has slowed down again. So here is a random snapshot of this moment in time, an 'Inky Polaroid' as someone once called it.

It's raining outside. The windows have misted up on the inside, with baby clothes drying on the radiators. I am typing one-handed with Hugh feeding on my left side. I am wondering if I can get away with machine-washing a coat that says 'Dry Clean Only'.

I ate left-over Quorn chilli for lunch - for the third day in a row, but this I do not mind. I like to see things getting 'used up', as my mother's phrase goes; (she doesn't read the paper, she 'gets the paper read').

Hugh has rolled his sleepy wee head into the crook of my elbow and his mouth is still making tiny fish flutters into the air. It's just gone 3pm and I can hear school kids shouting in the distance. My carbohydrate craving for Earl Grey tea and decent scone-age is upon me. Should I get the wee man into the pram and hit the pavements?

-C

PS The Christmas tree in the flat opposite is now gone. Oh the relief!

Best laid plans...

2009-01-15T22:42:00.003Z

Hugh had a wakeful night, my car battery went flat and we never got to the mums' group. But more importantly, why won't the people in the flat opposite us take down their Christmas tree? The gold star on the top is tipped at a wonky angle. Come on folks...

-C

New Mum Pals - the dance steps

2009-01-13T23:35:00.008Z

Ah, motherhood, t'is good. Life is inching towards more of a routine. I try to get out with Hugh most days, and a new phenomenon has arisen - sizing up potential 'mummy' pals.

When I see suitable candidates in the local supermarket or cafes, I have an urge to start baby conversations in the hope that we can become New Mum Pals. (Often I'm timorous - as if I'm back at school and have to choose one of the boys for a country-dance partner). So - attributes of a suitable NMP candidate?

Woman pushing pram. Woman over 30, preferably over 35 (22 year olds need not apply - sorry!) An occasional strand of grey hair that has escaped the hair dye (I'll empathise). Nice coat or clothes I would love to own myself. A sense of humour. Of course, you can only detect humour after you have risked a few opening lines, hence the gambling nature of the situation.

I'm off to a mother and baby group tomorrow. It's in a church hall and they have sofas and rugs like an episode of Friends. There's a kitchen too and local woman run a wee cafe with great-value lunches. I'm so impressed with people who have vocational jobs and provide real community service. The people who make soup and pancakes from the goodness of their hearts, and then tidy the toys away at the end. Quiet heroism, if you ask me.

-C

Thank you letters and Crazy Banana Man

2009-01-08T14:52:00.005Z

I keep wracking my brain to try and remember everyone who sent Hugh a present and make sure I thank them. I keep thinking I must be forgetting somebody. This was one of his first toys and I can't remember who bought it. I wave it in front of him every morning and sing my own composition entitled Crazy Banana Man. You just repeat the words Crazy Banana Man, preferably in an off-key tone. He loves it - for a few moments - and then he looks away towards the kitchen cupboard door. Well, they say you can have too much of a good thing. But hey, he'll love it tomorrow all over again. Thank you, thank you, oh giver of Crazy Banana Man, whoever you are.

-C

Who would...

2008-12-24T11:44:00.004Z

...dress their baby up in a Santa suit, rendering him a cliche of Christmas commerciality? It was a present, a present, I say! We love it though.

Controversy and the Contented Little Baby Book

2008-12-18T14:07:00.008Z

I decided that if I borrowed it from the library, I would only be taking a peek - a mere skim read - and would not step into the controversy by spending 'good' money on The Contented Little Baby Book, by Gina Ford. I am now thrown into disarray!

Gina claims that, once trained ( or 'Gina-ed' ) her babies barely cry more than an hour a day. She thinks colic may be caused by breast feeding on demand - babies take too much and their stomachs and can't digest it in time.

Her remedy is a strict regime of naps and wakings and - here's the killer for me - only feeding ever four hours. I expect that for the first few days of any such regime, Hugh would be apoplectic with baby-faced rage if he had to wait four hours to latch on. The hypocrisy is this : I eat every 2 or 3 hours and have done all my life (I'm a normal weight). Lordy, I'd be tetchy without my snacks.

However, I can't deny that Hugh has no routine whatsoever at six weeks old. He will feed (or cry and fuss) for 30 minutes or an hour - or 2 to 3 hours any time of day or night. If it's a 2am to 5am stint, it's a tricky one. My energy levels are a lottery depending on his pattern.

Then I try to analyse other parts of Gina's theories - if you let an adult sleep and eat (from an overflowing food table) as much as they wanted, they might get over-tired, bloated and grouchy. Maybe a baby does need structure - even if it protests by screaming? Oh, ma heid is confused... There is so much conflicting advice in the big ol' baby care world.

I know I just couldn't wait while our baby cried his wee heart out for any length of time. I don't have the stiff upper lip gene.

-C

On not ruining it for the other person

2008-12-14T17:28:00.005Z

When I was at University I was lucky enough to stay in a large hall of residence - it was a bit like living in a hotel with all your friends. There was always the possibility for meeting more students and I remember some of us going to the room of a boy named Keith.

In Keith's room there was barely any wall space that wasn't covered in posters of Sylvester Stallone, aka Rambo or Rocky. Wow, I said, I hate Rambo, he's awful. Perhaps I expounded on why I disliked Rambo's cliched manifestation of gung-ho, Guns-and-Ammo masculinity. Perhaps I wasn't even that articulate. Keith said he'd seen all the Rambo and Rocky films 27 times (or whatever). Clearly we would not be drawn together as natural friends, but if I could go back now, I'd have said, I see you like Rambo, and left it at that.

Years later, I saw a Rocky film and actually enjoyed it - in easy way, with no resistance. I liked Sly Stallone's unabashed acting. Maybe Hugh will grow up playing with guns, a la Rambo stylee. Maybe he'll have a pal called Keith. Keith Karma.

-C

Up for air and into things

2008-12-11T17:20:00.004Z

Ah well, after 4 hours sleep on a recent night, Hugh let us get more last night. It's like coming up for air.

I made it into town with him today. You hear all the traditional Glasgow patter: one guy says into his phone - Naw, I canny be annoyed wi' that. A middle-aged man sits alone in John Lewis's cafe telling me his wife is doing all the shopping and she's threatening to buy him a jacket. He says, I dinny want any'hing at all. She just brings me to town so she can put me into things.

-C

Colic

2008-12-10T22:32:00.003Z

I didn't really know what colic meant before Hugh was born. It's a descriptive term for prolonged inconsolable crying in an otherwise healthy baby. It occurs in up to 30% of babies (more common in boys) and usually lasts a good few weeks. More colic info here, for anyone who needs it.

Poor Hugh. He has been crying 'inconsolably' in the evenings and the middle of the night for a few hours at a time. It's a total heart-breaker. The midwives have said if you have a 'colicky' baby it's just something you have to get through. It reminds me of the early days of ME when medicine just shrugged its shoulders.

Ah well, when wee Hugh is calmer, I feel even happier for him. I love to see his big eyes looking about the room, with tears forgotten. Oh, the wee man...

Apologies for not keeping up with social stuff. Any e-mails I manage to send are typed on one hand. The other hand is reserved for Hugh joogling.

-C

Greek myths and grandfathers

2008-12-06T12:51:00.007Z

I love that my father can be randomly dry and surreal. I phoned today and said, 'Hi, it's me.' He replied 'Ah, do you know about Prometheus?' I didn't, but at a random guess I said, 'Greek God?'. Perhaps an item about Prometheus was on the radio or it was something my Dad was 'boring' my mum about...but I like the way he always tried to expand our minds as children and told us all sorts of stories and random facts in the name of education...and love, really. We were like sponges and took most of it in. In latter life, we joke and tease my dad, claiming to be less interested in his encylopedia chat (and tragically we often are less interested. Why is that?!). Furthermore, we tease him if he knows little or nothing of popular 'youth' culture. Merciless.

Anyway, Hugh and I are going to stay at my parents' house for a couple of nights as Nice Man is working away. I'm sure my dad will inform Hugh about the mythology of Prometheus. Hugh will perfect the art of looking spellbound and perhaps stroke his chin in an erudite way.

-C

Randy does Bob

2008-12-04T20:24:00.005Z

I've been introducing Hugh to some breast feeding music to try and soothe his occasional feeding frenzies when he gets all over-excited and starts headbutting me. His hopeful open mouth flails wildly anywhere from my shoulder to my inner elbow. My song choices have all been a bit girl-y (dare I say gay?). Like Abba and Randy Crawford. Tonight though, he seemed to like it when Randy did a cover of Bob Dylan's Knocking on Heaven's Door. Nice Man will let me away with that one.

White noise was recommended to us to soothe a baby off to sleep. Yesterday Hugh and I both fell asleep to The Archers (very British radio soap opera, world readers). It seemed like a lot of poshos shouting and screaming. I don't usually listen to it. I drifted back into consciousness with the line, What kind of parent calls their child Marshall? So, yes, life still feels occasionally surreal.

-C

To be Expected?

2008-11-27T23:34:00.004Z

I've been keeping the blog upbeat recently, but today I confess to the intermittent spells of complete exhaustion. Hugh has started to feed more vigorously at night (for several hours a night) and today we both conked out for most of the day.

Everyone tells you how exhausting the first few weeks are. With my history of illness, it's hard to tell what is what....and I find myself confused...but I do think it may be normal to feel this 'zombie-fied' at this stage of the game.

We've received so many cards and gifts. It's so touching. I hope we can get 'thank you' notes and emails sent out this side of Christmas. In the meantime, I send gratitude across the t'interweb.

Ten past midnight. A bowl of Rice Krispies is what I want, and I shall have it.

-C

Put those handcuffs away

2008-11-26T16:20:00.009Z

Question: What have playing chess and having a new baby got in common? Answer: It helps to think a couple of moves ahead.

I took Hugh in his pram to the supermarket, to get a few groceries. I suddenly realised the challenge of pushing a supermarket trolley and Hugh's buggy at the same time. I was like a Cyborg with opposing mechanical arms. Come to think of it, I had never seen any other new mums do this. I felt a bit silly. Some people smiled. One old woman refused to smile.

I couldn't dispense with the trolley and put my items in Hugh's buggy's low-slung nylon hammock, in case it looked like I was stealing them. Heaven forbid. I'm sure a court of law would have given us benefit of the doubt (me, Hugh and Richard Madley?) but this is Britain after all - we all get hung up on how things might appear. Best to avoid criminal convictions before 3 weeks old.

-C

Scottish Gas makes us Refugees and we nearly end up in Hospital!

2008-11-23T22:25:00.006Z

Yes, it's true. What a crazy weekend. Just in case everyone thinks new-babydom is nothing but a giant tub of fluffy happiness, here's a footnote entitled - When It Gets Challenging.

It all began when Scottish Gas came to try to fix niggles in our central heating system. Navy-trousered Gas man spent most of Friday taking the boiler apart and then sellotaping it back together, telling me he'd be back on Monday and the boiler might be 'a bit temperamental', but it should 'last the weekend'. It lasted about 30 seconds. It hissed gently and refused all heat and hot water. Meanwhile I was starting to feel like I was going down with the flu and Hugh decided now was the time to change from being a 'good' baby into a 'watch-me-cry' baby.

Nice Man returned to find us both blubbing and I asked him to phone Gas Man and be Not So Nice Man. No good. Gas Man said we'd need to wait till Monday for 'a part'. Somewhat defeated, we all trekked like refugees (with plastic bags full of nappies) to my parents' house. Thank the Lordy for them.

Overnight my temperature rose to almost 40 C (103.5) and I barely slept. When I phoned the midwife next day, they wanted me straight up to the hospital. Turns out I had a soft tissue infection common in breast feeding laydees (and, mooo, milking cows). My heart clunked lower when Hospital Doctor started using phrases like 'intravenous antibiotics' and '24 hour monitoring'. In the end, they allowed me home (or back to my parents) with oral antibiotics and told me to rest as much as possible.

Today I feel marginally better and we should get our heating fixed tomorrow. I like to think I might be brave enough to embarrass the Scottish Gas Man with stories of blocked milk ducts and Hugh's wailing protests at having his wee world disrupted. At times he was so distressed he looked like John Sergeant. Awww. In a nice way. Come on. Everyone likes John Sergeant these days. That dancing programme....

-C