New Mum Pals - the dance steps

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

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...

...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

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

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

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

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

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

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?

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

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!

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

Slow and steady wins the race

People keep asking if Hugh looks like me or like his Daddy. Occasionally I am reminded of the tortoise from the Creature Comforts Cartoon. Aww, I mean that in the nicest possible way. Really. Please don't send anyone round to arrest me. In my defence, I am reading the Supernanny 'Confident Baby Care' book and breastfeeding every 4 hours.

I have closed down my facebook and myspace sites - yee ha. I couldn't keep up with them. This blog will be enough. Better go and offer the Scottish Gas Repair man (boy, really) a cup of tea and a bit of cake.

-C

He Shoots, He Scores!

Camera Obscura (one of the bands that Nice Man works with) sent Hugh a card with an accompanying outfit. The message read - " If he's born in Glasgow, he'll either be a musician or a footballer, so better get him into this outfit pronto". We felt a bit cruel, giggling as we dressed him, but hey, he wears it well and the shorts cover his nappy with adequate sufficiency.

-C

One week young

Well, it's true. They say the memories of the pain of birth start to fade fast. I was all ready to rant about how excruciating it was, how barbaric and almost medieval, but a week later there are new 'headlines' that seem simultaneously mundane and miraculous. Things like:

Sling-sational: Hugh goes to Tesco Express. (The Sun)

Too much Too Young? Partick 'Jakey' invites Hugh to pub for first Pint. (West End Courier).

And - Hugh(ge) Credit Crunch! - Old Woman tries to bless Hugh with Silver and runs out of Change. (Financial Times)

I'll spare you the reports on nappies, crying and cheesy bokes. I think that's all de-rigour. It's all so surreal. I keep seeing Hugh and thinking - who's that baby and how did he get into our flat?

-C

Baby Hugh Macdonald

Baby Hugh Macdonald is born at 2.49am, Nov 5th 2008, 7lb 110z. Here's to him.


-C

Love to burn? You mean heart burn....

People always tell you that having a child is the single biggest change you can make to your life and everything feels different afterwards and you can never imagine what it feels like until it happens to you. (Patronising to the child-less or child-free perhaps?) Anyway...

I have not reached this 'universes collide' moment yet, and already these last few weeks of pregnancy feel strange and surreal. I feel a sort of 'hush' where I'm less aware of waiting. It's like standing at the side of a stage ready to go on and read your lines. It's daunting - but there's also a relief and stillness, knowing that it's almost time.

I've also been thinking about my propensity to avoid writing. Good God, any excuse not to write! I have decided the main excuse might be vanity. My dad once said that the 'artist' must have the courage to be thought pretentious. He's right. I don't blog things because I think, that's too trivial or too specific (or not specific enough) and generally I wimp-out of writing. Wimp, wimp, wimp. Well, I have these final days of pregnancy ahead, and darn it, I should use them to write more on the blog; to be another pin prick in the galaxy of blogs; to risk being pretentious. Currently, I'm pretentiously pregnant with heart burn.

More soon, readers. Hold me to it!

-C

Things and more things

Right! There is apparently a recognised phenomenon of 'nesting' whereby pregnant women get frantic about trying to get their houses tidy before their baby arrives. I am having moments of mini wars against 'things'. Things like - sunglasses with one leg detached, leaflets from Sunday newspapers on Eco Living or How to Play the Piano, threadbare towels, books I'll never read again, and general dust. Spiders can sneak back behind the bath, if they want.

I don't see the attraction of owning so many things. In fact, I feel cluttered by them. (Nice Man, meanwhile, enjoys collecting, and has 77 million CD's, books and DVDs and thinks I could be a philistine). In my humble opinion (turbo-charged by pregnancy hormones) I am ever more content that 'Content' (ha, see the adjective to noun shift there?) is everywhere for free - TV programmes, radio, music, i-player; books from the library and charity shops. When I'm finished reading or consuming, I like to give the books/things back to the chari shops - a kind of good karma, keep-the-energy-flowing position.

I've heard the term 'infobesity' to describe the general information overload of our media age, and I'm waiting for my next fit of de-cluttering to see if a sudden urge could prompt me to delete my facebook and myspace sites. I mean, this blog is enough, surely ? I can't keep up with social networking sites. They make me want to stare into the middle distance, like a cow chewing grass in a field. Feel the peace of that.

And, of course, space must be created for bambino stuff. It's the five week countdown...bonkers.

-C

Beetroot juice and Billy Ocean

Some child-care gurus recommend talking to your baby regularly before it is born. I feel like a daftie trying to do this, but today I loved driving the car home from work and singing along (loudly, badly, deeply) to Billy Ocean. (I could pretend Billy was merely on the radio by chance, but that would be a lie, dear readers. I am in possession of BO's greatest hits. Nice Man heroically defied his musical DNA to buy it for me).

And guess what - the baby was not being cynical about this tone-deaf joyous recital of 80's-pop-without-irony. Nay, baby was kicking away. This either means it is (A) uncomfortable and trying to move position or (B) contented and happy. I will choose to believe (B).

Thank you for all the comments and good wishes. I have been eating beetroot because the Romans decreed that it was good for strengthening the blood. I bet they made that up. I bet they just inferred it when they saw how the purple juice stained their togas.

-C

'Awfie Stout'

Well, I am not the poster I used to be. I post far less, I realise. This is okay, surely? Not posting is like keeping a yogurt at the back of the fridge that's a couple of days past it's 'sell by' date. You don't eat it and you don't throw it out either - just in case you might eat it. Inertia gains control of the yogurt - or, in this case, the blog.

I'm pleased to say I am now 32 weeks pregnant. Strangers like to pronounce on my physiology. I do not mind. I am not easily offended by this. Today one woman shouted, Oh, you're awfie stout, hen. I just know it's a boy. A teenage girl exclaimed to her pal - look at her, sooooo pregnant. I love pregnant people. A man in the swimming pool (73 with terrible teeth) bet me 10 pence it's a boy. 'Boy' is the general consensus from uninhibited street punters.

I feel as if it is a boy too - but, of course, I could be wrong. I said to a friend, I feel male energy and she laughed.

Mostly I feel fine, but recent blood tests show my platelets are low - this means my blood is thin and may not clot easily. How dare my blood start to whinge! Does it not know how far I have come to get here? Anyway, we are waiting to see a consultant about the wimpy platelet levels and I am trying to eat iron rich foods and stay cool and demure. I will stay out of street fights and bar room brawls.

-C