I haven't written on here recently as I have been spending most of my life wandering around Wembley in a dead-eyed haze, pushing a pram containing a wide-eyed and alert Piglet, who sits staring at me blankly as I plead with him to take a nap.
He does actually need a nap. He has all the signs. All the signs that every baby book and website says are there to tell you that the baby has gone past his window of normal drowsiness, and has passed into the realm of the wired clubber at 6am getting second wind after fifteen vodka Red Bulls. The yawning, the eye-rubbing, the screeching; even the frantic crying when put into the pram and forced to wait for an inordinately long period of time for Mummy to rush around the flat taking such obscene liberties as grabbing the keys and putting shoes on before we can actually leave.
And every time I tell myself, through the persistent and ear-splitting screams, he will be asleep as soon as we leave this flat and start moving. Please God, don't let the neighbours think I'm some sort of heinous child abuser.
The thing is, back in Ye Olden Days (a few weeks ago), Piglet did fall asleep as soon as we started moving, but now he is far too excited at the prospect of having a little wander round Baby Gap, or watching Mummy drink a latte in Cafe Nero, that he simply Will. Not. Sleep.
Today we walked the entire perimeter of Wembley Stadium (which is a surprisingly long walk, let me tell you), being buffeted by gales (it's randomly very windy up there. Sort of like being in the middle of the sea), with Piglet wide awake and wired, eyeing me from his car seat with the slightly insane look of the sleep-deprived. We walked so far that we encountered a whole new Sainsbury's which I didn't know existed (forgive me my excitement. I live a simple life). We saw people dressed as actual real monks and nuns. One was in a full-on authentic Mother Teresa outfit. I thought it was her until I remembered that she was dead. I thought I might be hallucinating through lack of sleep but it turns out that there was a Catholic event at Wembley Arena. Actual monks and nuns in the genuine uniforms people! Who knew? It was a bit like that moment in my first term of university when two people in the E block kitchen started talking about their boarding schools and I started guffawing with laughter as those things died out in the 1950s and only lived on in the Mallory Towers books, right?
And through all this, Piglet continued to sit in his pram, wide awake, taking it all in. We went into Cafe Nero and he behaved impeccably, sitting bolt upright in his car seat like one of those black and white pictures of bonnet-clad 1930s babies in their humungous prams, fixing their gaze on the camera in a steely stare while children in rags play hopscotch around them. We then went home and all hell broke loose, with persistent shouting interspersed with a few brief periods of quiet where Piglet was pulling his Bumbo seat apart while I tried to get him to eat his dinner, followed by an hour and a half of constant breastfeeding.
He is now asleep, but for how long?
Showing posts with label Screaming babies. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Screaming babies. Show all posts
Saturday, 7 March 2015
Monday, 15 December 2014
Yet Again I Impress the NHS with my Great Knowledge of Medical Matters
Just taken Piglet for his BCG vaccination.
I don't think this was as entertaining for Piglet as it was for me, as he screamed blue murder throughout the experience. However, it was necessary, warned the nurse, as TB is "everywhere."
"Ah," she said, leafing through Piglet's red book, "you have just moved here."
"Well, not moved exactly. I stayed with my mum for the birth, so Piglet was born in Bristol."
"Hmmpphh" said the nurse, continuing to look through the red book, "anyone would think it was a different country. These books are all different! Everyone does their own thing, every borough, every county. Even in East London the red books are different!"
"Are they? Sorry." Yet again I have inconvenienced the NHS with my rudeness as not remaining in the same village from cradle to grave like an eighteenth century peasant.
"So," the nurse continued. "How old is he? Why hasn't he had a BCG vaccination yet?"
"They don't do them in Bristol."
"Ah, it is because they are posh! They think it doesn't affect them, but I tell you, TB is EVERYWHERE!"
I have visions of it chasing us down Wembley High Road. It must be a miracle we haven't already got it. We are probably literally surrounded by it every day, despite the fact that the NHS website says you have to be in "close contact" with a sufferer to be infected.
The nurse then launched into a potted history of vaccinations, taking in the discovery of penicillin, the pitfalls of international air travel and the Western colonisation of Africa. She also reassures me that vaccinations are preventative medicines, not attempts to infect Piglet with anything. I nod knowingly throughout this and assure her that I am aware of all this.
So there are people in the world who think the NHS vaccination programme is a huge government conspiracy to infect babies with once-prevalent terrible diseases??????
"Ah," says the nurse, "you must work in NHS!"
This is not the first time in the course of my child-rearing experience that someone has said this. I know what tuberculosis is. I've read Victorian novels. I know that when someone coughs and their cheeks look a bit rosy they'll be dead from consumption by the next chapter. I also have a modicum of education. I even did the History of Medicine paper in my GCSE History, it's not difficult. Do people exist in the world who don't know these things? Am I so unusual in having a minimal level of knowledge about infectious diseases that only people who are actual doctors and nurses can match my peerless expertise?
I fear for the future of the world if this is the case. It is starting to make sense to me why all NHS leaflets appear to have been written for a five year old (although my all-time favourite is still one produced by the Miscarriage Association: "Miscarriage does not happen just because the baby is a boy." Let's imagine that it did for a second. Think of the logical conclusion here).
Anyway, Piglet is now comfortably sleeping off his traumatic experience at the hands of the nurse and I, so I am going to take this opportunity to cook myself some brunch, and maybe train as a doctor, since I am clearly more than qualified for the role.
I don't think this was as entertaining for Piglet as it was for me, as he screamed blue murder throughout the experience. However, it was necessary, warned the nurse, as TB is "everywhere."
"Ah," she said, leafing through Piglet's red book, "you have just moved here."
"Well, not moved exactly. I stayed with my mum for the birth, so Piglet was born in Bristol."
"Hmmpphh" said the nurse, continuing to look through the red book, "anyone would think it was a different country. These books are all different! Everyone does their own thing, every borough, every county. Even in East London the red books are different!"
"Are they? Sorry." Yet again I have inconvenienced the NHS with my rudeness as not remaining in the same village from cradle to grave like an eighteenth century peasant.
"So," the nurse continued. "How old is he? Why hasn't he had a BCG vaccination yet?"
"They don't do them in Bristol."
"Ah, it is because they are posh! They think it doesn't affect them, but I tell you, TB is EVERYWHERE!"
I have visions of it chasing us down Wembley High Road. It must be a miracle we haven't already got it. We are probably literally surrounded by it every day, despite the fact that the NHS website says you have to be in "close contact" with a sufferer to be infected.
The nurse then launched into a potted history of vaccinations, taking in the discovery of penicillin, the pitfalls of international air travel and the Western colonisation of Africa. She also reassures me that vaccinations are preventative medicines, not attempts to infect Piglet with anything. I nod knowingly throughout this and assure her that I am aware of all this.
So there are people in the world who think the NHS vaccination programme is a huge government conspiracy to infect babies with once-prevalent terrible diseases??????
"Ah," says the nurse, "you must work in NHS!"
This is not the first time in the course of my child-rearing experience that someone has said this. I know what tuberculosis is. I've read Victorian novels. I know that when someone coughs and their cheeks look a bit rosy they'll be dead from consumption by the next chapter. I also have a modicum of education. I even did the History of Medicine paper in my GCSE History, it's not difficult. Do people exist in the world who don't know these things? Am I so unusual in having a minimal level of knowledge about infectious diseases that only people who are actual doctors and nurses can match my peerless expertise?
I fear for the future of the world if this is the case. It is starting to make sense to me why all NHS leaflets appear to have been written for a five year old (although my all-time favourite is still one produced by the Miscarriage Association: "Miscarriage does not happen just because the baby is a boy." Let's imagine that it did for a second. Think of the logical conclusion here).
Anyway, Piglet is now comfortably sleeping off his traumatic experience at the hands of the nurse and I, so I am going to take this opportunity to cook myself some brunch, and maybe train as a doctor, since I am clearly more than qualified for the role.
Friday, 12 December 2014
Who is even allowed to use the birth centre?
Just returned from a quick excursion to the toilet to find Piglet slumped in his bouncy chair, hanging off the end. Perhaps the time has come to start strapping him in (what's that sound? The sound of social services being called at the fact that I have so far failed to do this). Either that or I am going to have to start taking him with me to the toilet. Last night he cried when I left him in his cot in the bedroom while I went to clean my teeth, and I had to take him into the bathroom with me and lie him on a towel on the floor to keep him quiet. I may never have a moment to myself again.
Anyway, today we have been to the library, so that Piglet got to have an excursion in the pram so that he could go to sleep; and we went swimming. There was a nap required before the latter as well, and as Piglet did not seem to want to nap in the bouncy chair, or go anywhere near the bouncy chair, crying every time I tried to put him in, and thinks his cot is a receptacle for bicycling his legs around and giggling, we had to leave half an hour early for swimming, and sit in the "London Designer Outlet" (sorry, that still cannot be written without the use of inverted commas) for ages so that we could get a good nap in beforehand. Luckily, it paid off and Piglet was surprisingly cheerful throughout swimming, managing to crack no less than three smiles. As usual he behaved impeccably, which made me feel better about having to sit through the following poolside Competitive Mother conversation that took place beforehand.
"My labour was really quick-just six hours."
"Really? Mine was three hours."
"Mine too."
I HATE YOU. I HATE YOU ALL. Perhaps I should just dive into the very shallow pool head first and kill myself now as I am obviously a failure as a mother and as a woman in general. One of the women even said she gave birth in the birth centre. The BIRTH CENTRE. I thought giving birth in there was banned. Isn't it just there to make women feel better and make sure that the species doesn't die out by making us all think that maybe there's a remote possibility that giving birth is just going to be a matter of bouncing on a beach ball a couple of times, playing some whalesong and sitting in a paddling pool grunting? One of the women from my antenatal class was banned from using the birth centre just because she'd visited the hospital a few times during her pregnancy worried that she wasn't feeling the baby move enough, even though there was nothing wrong, and even though the birth centre is like, in an actual hospital. WHO IS EVEN ALLOWED TO USE THE BIRTH CENTRE?
Piglet is gazing at me forlornly from his baby gym, sucking his thumb. The look on his face says "yes you are a rubbish mother. You are not even fit to call yourself a woman. Because of that caesarean, I am now traumatised for life like it says in your hypnobirthing book. And it's ALL YOUR FAULT."
And if that wasn't bad enough, due to my rubbishness as mothering, he then banged his head on the lockers in the changing rooms, mercifully not enough to do himself an injury, but enough to make him howl for long enough that all the other mothers considered calling social services. And then I accidentally poked him in the eye whilst trying to soothe him. ARGH.
He later did a projectile wee into that very same eye while I was changing his nappy later in the day, which I imagine must sting a bit, but as we were at home and minus an audience, that didn't even register a whimper.
The Public Badge of Good Motherhood has now been confiscated.
Anyway, today we have been to the library, so that Piglet got to have an excursion in the pram so that he could go to sleep; and we went swimming. There was a nap required before the latter as well, and as Piglet did not seem to want to nap in the bouncy chair, or go anywhere near the bouncy chair, crying every time I tried to put him in, and thinks his cot is a receptacle for bicycling his legs around and giggling, we had to leave half an hour early for swimming, and sit in the "London Designer Outlet" (sorry, that still cannot be written without the use of inverted commas) for ages so that we could get a good nap in beforehand. Luckily, it paid off and Piglet was surprisingly cheerful throughout swimming, managing to crack no less than three smiles. As usual he behaved impeccably, which made me feel better about having to sit through the following poolside Competitive Mother conversation that took place beforehand.
"My labour was really quick-just six hours."
"Really? Mine was three hours."
"Mine too."
I HATE YOU. I HATE YOU ALL. Perhaps I should just dive into the very shallow pool head first and kill myself now as I am obviously a failure as a mother and as a woman in general. One of the women even said she gave birth in the birth centre. The BIRTH CENTRE. I thought giving birth in there was banned. Isn't it just there to make women feel better and make sure that the species doesn't die out by making us all think that maybe there's a remote possibility that giving birth is just going to be a matter of bouncing on a beach ball a couple of times, playing some whalesong and sitting in a paddling pool grunting? One of the women from my antenatal class was banned from using the birth centre just because she'd visited the hospital a few times during her pregnancy worried that she wasn't feeling the baby move enough, even though there was nothing wrong, and even though the birth centre is like, in an actual hospital. WHO IS EVEN ALLOWED TO USE THE BIRTH CENTRE?
Piglet is gazing at me forlornly from his baby gym, sucking his thumb. The look on his face says "yes you are a rubbish mother. You are not even fit to call yourself a woman. Because of that caesarean, I am now traumatised for life like it says in your hypnobirthing book. And it's ALL YOUR FAULT."
And if that wasn't bad enough, due to my rubbishness as mothering, he then banged his head on the lockers in the changing rooms, mercifully not enough to do himself an injury, but enough to make him howl for long enough that all the other mothers considered calling social services. And then I accidentally poked him in the eye whilst trying to soothe him. ARGH.
He later did a projectile wee into that very same eye while I was changing his nappy later in the day, which I imagine must sting a bit, but as we were at home and minus an audience, that didn't even register a whimper.
The Public Badge of Good Motherhood has now been confiscated.
Sunday, 7 December 2014
New Sport of Ostentatious Breastfeeding Makes Wembley Debut
And so for a bit of ostentatious breastfeeding.
Well not at the moment. At the moment I am watching X Factor on mute so as not to wake Piglet from his slumbers. Michael Buble is either singing or talking to someone who may or may not be Nelly Furtado. Without the benefit of sound, they both look like they're hosting the Eurovision Song Contest and are having a faux-hilarious conversation about the merits of Azerbaijan whilst pretending to look excited about the prospect of someone from Bosnia-Herzigovina singing a heartfelt ballad in Serbo-Croat.
Anyway, today Piglet again behaved impeccably throughout swimming, and another comment was made about how relaxed he seemed to be in the water (another star on my Public Badge of Good Motherhood). One poor child was screaming so much his parents took him out of the water, which would not have even merited a comment here were it not for the fact that I caught Piglet watching him with interest as his parents tried to take him to the other side of the pool to test to see if he could go in again without crying, and I am pretty sure that he was taking notes.
Piglet's impeccable behaviour continued throughout the afternoon as I went to meet friends for coffee, but then sadly decided to deteriorate right at the point when Mummy and friends decided that they wanted a mulled wine at the Christmas market. The following farcical events then ensued.
1.) Piglet starts screaming. This is worrisome. Previous attempts to feed him in Costa Coffee have been unsuccessful; partly because my eyes are constantly scanning the room for any signs of Nigel Farage or Katie Hopkins come to chase me into the corner, where I will sit behind a taped-off police cordon marked with the sign "Danger! Breastfeeding woman ahead!" with a napkin draped over me; and partly because I am wearing an enormous fluffy jumper which gets in the way.
2.) Piglet is briefly distracted by some fairy lights. Thank the Lord for fairy lights! And for being born at Christmas, allowing us all to have fairy lights! This gives Mummy enough time to chug down the greater part of of a cup of mulled wine, keeping it well away from Piglet of course (remembering the health visitor's dire warning about a baby they saw recently who had been scarred for life by a hot drink).
3.) The fairy lights are forgotten, and the crying resumes. Mummy attempts a fair bit of ostentatious breastfeeding, standing on the table yelling "Look everybody! I'm breastfeeding!" squirting jets of milk at the two other people in the open air Christmas market bar, and the five bouncers they have inexplicably needed to employ to keep those two people under control.
4.) OK that last one was inaccurate. What actually happened was that Mummy had to take off Piglet's hat and unbutton his coat while the Public Badge of Good Motherhood fell from its privileged position on Mummy's lapel in the cold December air, and attempt to latch Piglet onto the breast while the fluffy jumper and Piglet's fluffy coat conspire to render such a feat impossible. Well, I couldn't take the coat off as IT'S DECEMBER GODDAMIT AND THE BABY MIGHT FREEZE, and I couldn't remove the fluffy jumper either in case Nigel Farage happened to be promenading past arm in arm with Katie Hopkins and THERE WAS NO CORNER IN THIS EDIFICE. I mean, it was like, in the open air! It was just a roof with some tables! And it was sort of a bar as well, which serves ALCOHOL, so what was I even doing in there with a baby? Off with my head!
5.) As things get even more fraught, I decide we may have to vacate the area, and knock back the remaining mulled wine. As I do so, some of the mulled wine spills onto Piglet's fluffy white coat. It looks like blood. AARGH! I am terrible mother! I have done something terrible to baby!*
6.) That's it. We're going home. I look around. The five bouncers are looking at me in a judgemental way which says, "you are a disgrace to motherhood. Get Nigel Farage on the phone IMMEDIATELY."
And that, my friend, is ostentatious breastfeeding.
* I must add here, before you all call social services, that the mulled wine was, by this point, cold. Piglet was never in any danger from the mulled wine spillage. Put down your phones, people.
Well not at the moment. At the moment I am watching X Factor on mute so as not to wake Piglet from his slumbers. Michael Buble is either singing or talking to someone who may or may not be Nelly Furtado. Without the benefit of sound, they both look like they're hosting the Eurovision Song Contest and are having a faux-hilarious conversation about the merits of Azerbaijan whilst pretending to look excited about the prospect of someone from Bosnia-Herzigovina singing a heartfelt ballad in Serbo-Croat.
Anyway, today Piglet again behaved impeccably throughout swimming, and another comment was made about how relaxed he seemed to be in the water (another star on my Public Badge of Good Motherhood). One poor child was screaming so much his parents took him out of the water, which would not have even merited a comment here were it not for the fact that I caught Piglet watching him with interest as his parents tried to take him to the other side of the pool to test to see if he could go in again without crying, and I am pretty sure that he was taking notes.
Piglet's impeccable behaviour continued throughout the afternoon as I went to meet friends for coffee, but then sadly decided to deteriorate right at the point when Mummy and friends decided that they wanted a mulled wine at the Christmas market. The following farcical events then ensued.
1.) Piglet starts screaming. This is worrisome. Previous attempts to feed him in Costa Coffee have been unsuccessful; partly because my eyes are constantly scanning the room for any signs of Nigel Farage or Katie Hopkins come to chase me into the corner, where I will sit behind a taped-off police cordon marked with the sign "Danger! Breastfeeding woman ahead!" with a napkin draped over me; and partly because I am wearing an enormous fluffy jumper which gets in the way.
2.) Piglet is briefly distracted by some fairy lights. Thank the Lord for fairy lights! And for being born at Christmas, allowing us all to have fairy lights! This gives Mummy enough time to chug down the greater part of of a cup of mulled wine, keeping it well away from Piglet of course (remembering the health visitor's dire warning about a baby they saw recently who had been scarred for life by a hot drink).
3.) The fairy lights are forgotten, and the crying resumes. Mummy attempts a fair bit of ostentatious breastfeeding, standing on the table yelling "Look everybody! I'm breastfeeding!" squirting jets of milk at the two other people in the open air Christmas market bar, and the five bouncers they have inexplicably needed to employ to keep those two people under control.
4.) OK that last one was inaccurate. What actually happened was that Mummy had to take off Piglet's hat and unbutton his coat while the Public Badge of Good Motherhood fell from its privileged position on Mummy's lapel in the cold December air, and attempt to latch Piglet onto the breast while the fluffy jumper and Piglet's fluffy coat conspire to render such a feat impossible. Well, I couldn't take the coat off as IT'S DECEMBER GODDAMIT AND THE BABY MIGHT FREEZE, and I couldn't remove the fluffy jumper either in case Nigel Farage happened to be promenading past arm in arm with Katie Hopkins and THERE WAS NO CORNER IN THIS EDIFICE. I mean, it was like, in the open air! It was just a roof with some tables! And it was sort of a bar as well, which serves ALCOHOL, so what was I even doing in there with a baby? Off with my head!
5.) As things get even more fraught, I decide we may have to vacate the area, and knock back the remaining mulled wine. As I do so, some of the mulled wine spills onto Piglet's fluffy white coat. It looks like blood. AARGH! I am terrible mother! I have done something terrible to baby!*
6.) That's it. We're going home. I look around. The five bouncers are looking at me in a judgemental way which says, "you are a disgrace to motherhood. Get Nigel Farage on the phone IMMEDIATELY."
And that, my friend, is ostentatious breastfeeding.
* I must add here, before you all call social services, that the mulled wine was, by this point, cold. Piglet was never in any danger from the mulled wine spillage. Put down your phones, people.
Sunday, 23 November 2014
Life: Entirely Governed by Piglet's Naps or Lack Thereof
Piglet is currently forgoing his afternoon nap in favour of lying in the baby gym chewing his favourite hanging plastic ring. He is concentrating very hard.
OK he just started screaming for no apparent reason. Just removed him from the baby gym and sat him in his bouncy chair, where he is violently shaking a blue rabbit. A toy one that is. Otherwise that would be weird.
It's now two hours later and he has finally started his nap. How long it will last is anybody's guess.
Had a fairly unproductive day. My plan to buy baby wipes, go to the library and get some milk was scuppered by Piglet deciding he was hungry in the middle of a very rainy Wembley High Road and having a non-stop screaming fit inside the pram which did not subside until I took him home. I had been hoping he would take the opportunity to have a nap in the cosy environment beneath the fleecy blankets and industrial-strength rain cover, but it was not to be. The remainder of the day was spent watching old repeats of Escape to the Country whilst walking Prince Piglet around the house imploring him to sleep, which he responded to by protesting loudly every time I tried to sit down. Now watching Countryfile on mute. One of the presenters just held up a poster emblazoned with the words "Bird Crime." I have no idea what's going on. Are birds going around terrorising the countryside with their criminal ways?
Absolutely knackered and in need of a nap myself. I wonder what the neighbours would think if I started shouting in baby language, crying and making straining noises every time I needed to sleep, in the style of young Piglet.
OK he just started screaming for no apparent reason. Just removed him from the baby gym and sat him in his bouncy chair, where he is violently shaking a blue rabbit. A toy one that is. Otherwise that would be weird.
It's now two hours later and he has finally started his nap. How long it will last is anybody's guess.
Had a fairly unproductive day. My plan to buy baby wipes, go to the library and get some milk was scuppered by Piglet deciding he was hungry in the middle of a very rainy Wembley High Road and having a non-stop screaming fit inside the pram which did not subside until I took him home. I had been hoping he would take the opportunity to have a nap in the cosy environment beneath the fleecy blankets and industrial-strength rain cover, but it was not to be. The remainder of the day was spent watching old repeats of Escape to the Country whilst walking Prince Piglet around the house imploring him to sleep, which he responded to by protesting loudly every time I tried to sit down. Now watching Countryfile on mute. One of the presenters just held up a poster emblazoned with the words "Bird Crime." I have no idea what's going on. Are birds going around terrorising the countryside with their criminal ways?
Absolutely knackered and in need of a nap myself. I wonder what the neighbours would think if I started shouting in baby language, crying and making straining noises every time I needed to sleep, in the style of young Piglet.
Tuesday, 4 November 2014
The Maternal Guilt Starts Here
Well actually it started three months ago, when the wee one was born. And there is never a moment when you are truly safe. There's always something waiting round the corner that could be going wrong. A case in point being the one illustrated below.
On Friday I was happily bleating down the phone to a friend about how being a single mother is "fine, just fine" (except for the fact that I am about to slip into a financial abyss from which I will quite possibly never return). But finances aside, i.e. if I had all the money in the world, or even just a bit more money, like I'd won the Euromillions or something, then it's all just fine and dandy. Then, inevitably, something happens almost immediately that shatters that illusion.
On Friday that something was me suddenly acquiring some sort of food poisoning or norovirus type ailment. I won't go into detail about what it entailed but suffice to say I was in no fit state to be looking after a wee one. Luckily, by the time it struck (at 9pm) Piglet was asleep (something of a miracle. He normally goes to sleep around midnight). Consequently, the last few days have been spent doing the following:
1.) Feeling rough
2.) Not eating
3.) Tentatively sipping water
4.) Watching Loose Women whilst lying on the sofa in a sleeping bag
5.) Lying in bed with Piglet, apologising that I have no energy to do anything else.
There were several points where I actually had to take Piglet off the breast to go and vomit/other end, leading to screaming fits which definitely lasted longer than most child psychologists would recommend.
Speaking of which, I am still confused about the best way to get Piglet to go to sleep as half the Internets I have read say that babies should be in a routine by now and that rocking or feeding a baby to sleep is going to mean he will turn into David Walliams in Little Britain demanding "bitty" from his ageing mother at inappropriate times, and the other half say that imposing a routine is going to mean the child turns into a Romanian orphan circa 1990, silently banging his head against the cot he still sleeps in at the age of twelve, unable to speak, so basically whatever I do, Piglet is doomed.
He's actually lying next to me now, shouting at me that why oh why when the parents were being given out did he have the misfortune to end up with me and not Brad and Angelina. At least I think that's what he saying. It actually sounds more like "O-OOOH EH OOH, GOOO," but I'm pretty sure that's baby language for the above.
Motherhood. The guilt just never ends.
On Friday I was happily bleating down the phone to a friend about how being a single mother is "fine, just fine" (except for the fact that I am about to slip into a financial abyss from which I will quite possibly never return). But finances aside, i.e. if I had all the money in the world, or even just a bit more money, like I'd won the Euromillions or something, then it's all just fine and dandy. Then, inevitably, something happens almost immediately that shatters that illusion.
On Friday that something was me suddenly acquiring some sort of food poisoning or norovirus type ailment. I won't go into detail about what it entailed but suffice to say I was in no fit state to be looking after a wee one. Luckily, by the time it struck (at 9pm) Piglet was asleep (something of a miracle. He normally goes to sleep around midnight). Consequently, the last few days have been spent doing the following:
1.) Feeling rough
2.) Not eating
3.) Tentatively sipping water
4.) Watching Loose Women whilst lying on the sofa in a sleeping bag
5.) Lying in bed with Piglet, apologising that I have no energy to do anything else.
There were several points where I actually had to take Piglet off the breast to go and vomit/other end, leading to screaming fits which definitely lasted longer than most child psychologists would recommend.
Speaking of which, I am still confused about the best way to get Piglet to go to sleep as half the Internets I have read say that babies should be in a routine by now and that rocking or feeding a baby to sleep is going to mean he will turn into David Walliams in Little Britain demanding "bitty" from his ageing mother at inappropriate times, and the other half say that imposing a routine is going to mean the child turns into a Romanian orphan circa 1990, silently banging his head against the cot he still sleeps in at the age of twelve, unable to speak, so basically whatever I do, Piglet is doomed.
He's actually lying next to me now, shouting at me that why oh why when the parents were being given out did he have the misfortune to end up with me and not Brad and Angelina. At least I think that's what he saying. It actually sounds more like "O-OOOH EH OOH, GOOO," but I'm pretty sure that's baby language for the above.
Motherhood. The guilt just never ends.
Friday, 3 October 2014
Why Middle Aged Women Should Rule the World
For the last two days I have managed to get Piglet to bed at *around* the 9pm mark. This is an immeasurable improvement on midnight, which was his previous bedtime. It may in fact now be the case that Piglet will grow into a creature of reasonable nocturnal habits, and will not be staying up all night to play on his Playstation (are they still a thing?) all night by the age of two.
To celebrate this irrefutable evidence that I am now an uber-mother, and should definitely be crowned Mother of the Year by Mumsnet, the Pride of Britain Awards and OK! magazine (whichever of those venerable institutions has such an award), I decided to do two things.
1.) Take Piglet to Time for Rhymes at the local children's centre, and
2.) Stand up for mothers everywhere-and the disabled and mobility challenged-by taking both Chiltern Rail and London Underground to task for failing to provide a place to swipe one's oyster card at the step-free entrance at my local station, which for reasons of protecting the guilty, shall remain nameless (Wembley Stadium).
Neither of these were entirely successful.
Time for Rhymes was actually brilliant. I loved the songs and toys (tambourines! Drums! Every bit of the percussion section at the back of the hall that we weren't allowed to touch when I was at infants' school!) more than Piglet, who mostly just sat on my lap staring into space while other, bigger babies toddled up and tried to poke him and their parents cooed "ooh, look at that tiny baby! I'd forgotten how small they were!" I also liked the fact that the staff were so nice and informative. And then, upon lifting Piglet from my lap as I told a member of staff that I thought he needed changing and asked where the baby change facilities were, I discovered that not only did he need changing, but I did too, as the poo had seeped right through his nappy, covering the stylish dungarees (very Prince George) that I had lovingly dressed him in that morning, thinking that such an occasion merited proper big-boy clothes, rather than the usual daily babygro, and the stylish dress that I had lovingly clothed myself in, thinking that I was going to be a trendy yummy mummy and the envy of all the other mothers at Time for Rhymes, rather than my usual daytime uniform of milk-stained pyjamas.
"This doesn't usually happen!" I squealed at the member of staff, terrified that she was going to think I was an unfit mother and ignoramus who couldn't put a nappy on properly. I then spent ten minutes running back and forth to the pram, which had been left in the buggy park outside (thankfully hadn't been stolen. The amount of time I spend worrying that the pram will be stolen is ridiculous. I love that Bugaboo almost as much as the baby) fetching the spare babygro and nappy bags, and dealing with a screaming, poo-covered Piglet. Sadly, although I had the facilities to clean the baby, my organisation did not stretch to cleaning myself, and I spent the remainder of Time for Rhymes, and the not-inconsiderable journey home, with three huge poo stains on the front of my dress.
Could have been worse I suppose. At least it wasn't the back.
My second fail of the day came when I ventured into Central London (always a test of endurance) to meet a friend and fellow mother (look at me, drinking coffees in Regent's Park with my fellow mothers and talking about motherhood!). I had decided to take the train rather than the tube, as the nearest tube station to where I was going (Baker Street) was not step-free, and being a caring, sharing sort, I didn't want to lumber the great British public-who already largely despise me for procreating if the number of people who moved seats to get away from a squawking Piglet and I on the Jubilee Line yesterday is anything to go by-with the headache of feeling obliged to assist me on the stairs with a lumbering pushchair.
This would be fine if it were not for the fact that the train station in question (Wembley Stadium) has no oyster card reader at the step-free entrance which, I might add, is some distance away from the main entrance with the card readers. This led to a particularly fraught journey with a screaming Piglet last week when I had to walk all the way around from the step-free exit to the main exit just to swipe my oyster card to avoid being charged a million pounds. Thanks Transport for London. Thanks a bunch.
I'd just like to take a moment to point out to my fellow Londoners here that if Transport for London do cut the vast numbers of jobs they've been threatening, other stations will go the way of the wretched Wembley Stadium, as being an unmanned station there is a) never anybody there who can help you with anything and b) nobody at any other stations ever understands why you were unable to swipe your oyster card/purchase a ticket as they just assume it's a normal station, with a kiosk and turnstiles and everything, instead of just a random unmanned and un-gated platform which happens to have a few trains stop there occasionally, and have a go at you and imply you are a moron for being unable to see where to swipe oyster card/purchase ticket despite the fact the ticket machine is not working and there is nowhere to swipe oyster card. Angry point made. I shall continue.
Anyway, last time I used this station I had to leave Piglet with a random middle aged woman (risk assessed as being of the demographic least likely to kidnap Piglet or allow him to have some terrible accident in my absence) so that I could run up a huge flight of stairs to swipe my oyster card. Today, however, the only other people at the station were middle aged men, which I considered a less favourable demographic and so decided to press the little button on the platform for information. This led to a long conversation where it took ten minutes to explain what the exact issue was and then the man on the other end of the line had to go and speak to his supervisor to see if he could find out if anyone knew if there was somewhere to swipe the oyster card that did not involve walking up a flight of stairs. At that point, the train came.
I then had to explain to someone at Marylebone why I had not swiped said oyster card, which met with the inspired response "you need to swipe your oyster card. Now you're going to be charged loads when you swipe your card here", although he did at least let me through the barrier, saying I should speak to someone in the tube station about it as oyster card readers were Transport for London's business and not theirs. I then went to the tube station to explain the situation and to politely request that they install a card reader at the step-free entrance at Wembley Stadium, only to be told again that I should have swiped my oyster card, despite the fact that I'd already explained multiple times why I was unable to do this, and that this was Chiltern Rail's problem and not theirs (why was the rail service ever privatised? WHY? Not only this, but the logo was much better in the old days) When I explained that I had already spoken to Chiltern Rail and been told to speak to London Underground as they are the ones with the oyster card readers, I was accused of being, and I quote, "ignorant."
On the way home, I was still so angry that I couldn't face Marylebone or Wembley Stadium or the whole situation, and got on the tube at Baker Street instead-the station I had been trying to avoid due to its many steps. I was immediately asked by a middle aged woman who reminisced about when she used to have a double buggy and couldn't go anywhere if I needed assistance with the pram. Moral of the story: middle aged women rule. Men who work at stations do not.
To celebrate this irrefutable evidence that I am now an uber-mother, and should definitely be crowned Mother of the Year by Mumsnet, the Pride of Britain Awards and OK! magazine (whichever of those venerable institutions has such an award), I decided to do two things.
1.) Take Piglet to Time for Rhymes at the local children's centre, and
2.) Stand up for mothers everywhere-and the disabled and mobility challenged-by taking both Chiltern Rail and London Underground to task for failing to provide a place to swipe one's oyster card at the step-free entrance at my local station, which for reasons of protecting the guilty, shall remain nameless (Wembley Stadium).
Neither of these were entirely successful.
Time for Rhymes was actually brilliant. I loved the songs and toys (tambourines! Drums! Every bit of the percussion section at the back of the hall that we weren't allowed to touch when I was at infants' school!) more than Piglet, who mostly just sat on my lap staring into space while other, bigger babies toddled up and tried to poke him and their parents cooed "ooh, look at that tiny baby! I'd forgotten how small they were!" I also liked the fact that the staff were so nice and informative. And then, upon lifting Piglet from my lap as I told a member of staff that I thought he needed changing and asked where the baby change facilities were, I discovered that not only did he need changing, but I did too, as the poo had seeped right through his nappy, covering the stylish dungarees (very Prince George) that I had lovingly dressed him in that morning, thinking that such an occasion merited proper big-boy clothes, rather than the usual daily babygro, and the stylish dress that I had lovingly clothed myself in, thinking that I was going to be a trendy yummy mummy and the envy of all the other mothers at Time for Rhymes, rather than my usual daytime uniform of milk-stained pyjamas.
"This doesn't usually happen!" I squealed at the member of staff, terrified that she was going to think I was an unfit mother and ignoramus who couldn't put a nappy on properly. I then spent ten minutes running back and forth to the pram, which had been left in the buggy park outside (thankfully hadn't been stolen. The amount of time I spend worrying that the pram will be stolen is ridiculous. I love that Bugaboo almost as much as the baby) fetching the spare babygro and nappy bags, and dealing with a screaming, poo-covered Piglet. Sadly, although I had the facilities to clean the baby, my organisation did not stretch to cleaning myself, and I spent the remainder of Time for Rhymes, and the not-inconsiderable journey home, with three huge poo stains on the front of my dress.
Could have been worse I suppose. At least it wasn't the back.
My second fail of the day came when I ventured into Central London (always a test of endurance) to meet a friend and fellow mother (look at me, drinking coffees in Regent's Park with my fellow mothers and talking about motherhood!). I had decided to take the train rather than the tube, as the nearest tube station to where I was going (Baker Street) was not step-free, and being a caring, sharing sort, I didn't want to lumber the great British public-who already largely despise me for procreating if the number of people who moved seats to get away from a squawking Piglet and I on the Jubilee Line yesterday is anything to go by-with the headache of feeling obliged to assist me on the stairs with a lumbering pushchair.
This would be fine if it were not for the fact that the train station in question (Wembley Stadium) has no oyster card reader at the step-free entrance which, I might add, is some distance away from the main entrance with the card readers. This led to a particularly fraught journey with a screaming Piglet last week when I had to walk all the way around from the step-free exit to the main exit just to swipe my oyster card to avoid being charged a million pounds. Thanks Transport for London. Thanks a bunch.
I'd just like to take a moment to point out to my fellow Londoners here that if Transport for London do cut the vast numbers of jobs they've been threatening, other stations will go the way of the wretched Wembley Stadium, as being an unmanned station there is a) never anybody there who can help you with anything and b) nobody at any other stations ever understands why you were unable to swipe your oyster card/purchase a ticket as they just assume it's a normal station, with a kiosk and turnstiles and everything, instead of just a random unmanned and un-gated platform which happens to have a few trains stop there occasionally, and have a go at you and imply you are a moron for being unable to see where to swipe oyster card/purchase ticket despite the fact the ticket machine is not working and there is nowhere to swipe oyster card. Angry point made. I shall continue.
Anyway, last time I used this station I had to leave Piglet with a random middle aged woman (risk assessed as being of the demographic least likely to kidnap Piglet or allow him to have some terrible accident in my absence) so that I could run up a huge flight of stairs to swipe my oyster card. Today, however, the only other people at the station were middle aged men, which I considered a less favourable demographic and so decided to press the little button on the platform for information. This led to a long conversation where it took ten minutes to explain what the exact issue was and then the man on the other end of the line had to go and speak to his supervisor to see if he could find out if anyone knew if there was somewhere to swipe the oyster card that did not involve walking up a flight of stairs. At that point, the train came.
I then had to explain to someone at Marylebone why I had not swiped said oyster card, which met with the inspired response "you need to swipe your oyster card. Now you're going to be charged loads when you swipe your card here", although he did at least let me through the barrier, saying I should speak to someone in the tube station about it as oyster card readers were Transport for London's business and not theirs. I then went to the tube station to explain the situation and to politely request that they install a card reader at the step-free entrance at Wembley Stadium, only to be told again that I should have swiped my oyster card, despite the fact that I'd already explained multiple times why I was unable to do this, and that this was Chiltern Rail's problem and not theirs (why was the rail service ever privatised? WHY? Not only this, but the logo was much better in the old days) When I explained that I had already spoken to Chiltern Rail and been told to speak to London Underground as they are the ones with the oyster card readers, I was accused of being, and I quote, "ignorant."
On the way home, I was still so angry that I couldn't face Marylebone or Wembley Stadium or the whole situation, and got on the tube at Baker Street instead-the station I had been trying to avoid due to its many steps. I was immediately asked by a middle aged woman who reminisced about when she used to have a double buggy and couldn't go anywhere if I needed assistance with the pram. Moral of the story: middle aged women rule. Men who work at stations do not.
Saturday, 27 September 2014
The Kindness of Strangers.
Why is it that every time I go out, no matter how many times I have fed Piglet (and no matter how many times he has tried to escape from the Hide-the-Boob Tent), and even if I have fed him immediately before leaving wherever I am, by the time he gets on the train home he is hungry again and screaming blue murder as if to alert every passer by within a fifty mile radius that I am a useless and neglectful mother who doesn't feed her baby and who will doubtless end up with a child with a shrunken brain from all the cortisol released during the frantic screaming.
And why is it that as I run from station to home with the pram, reassuring Piglet repeatedly that we are almost home as he shrieks inconsolably, and pointing out every local landmark that he won't recognise to support my point, that EVERY ONE of those passers by feels the need to give me the Look of Death which communicates in no uncertain terms that not only do they-Mr and Mrs Judgey McJudge, the Great British Public-wholeheartedly agree with the sentiment outlined above, but they are also on the verge of calling social services.
And why is it that every time I pass another baby, they are sitting there serenely in their mother's arms, cooing and gurgling into their swaddling bands whilst looking up at their parents with a look of blissful adoration as if they have never shed a tear in their young life. WHY, WHY, WHY?
And lastly, why are all these people always full of useless suggestions to stop the crying, such as (I kid thee not) blowing on the baby's face?
BECAUSE THAT'S GOING TO WORK
Surely the one time in the history of the world that this worked was when the reason for the crying was a hair or bit of dust or fluff happened to have fallen on the baby's face and was really annoying it until a knowledgeable stranger walked by and blew the offending article away.
It has been mooted (on the Internets, obvs.) that one possible reason for a baby's crying is that a hair has become tightly wound around the baby's finger, toe or (eek!) penis, annoying said baby and potentially cutting off the circulation to the area. I now live in fear of this happening (particularly the penis situation, especially since today I found one of my own ludicrously long hairs lurking in Piglet's nappy). However, so far every time Piglet has started to cry on the train, the only thing that can satisfy him is the boob. And it's hardly practical to whip one out whilst walking down the street, however successful a multi-tasker I consider myself to be.
Yet why have I never seen anyone else in this predicament?
And why is it that as I run from station to home with the pram, reassuring Piglet repeatedly that we are almost home as he shrieks inconsolably, and pointing out every local landmark that he won't recognise to support my point, that EVERY ONE of those passers by feels the need to give me the Look of Death which communicates in no uncertain terms that not only do they-Mr and Mrs Judgey McJudge, the Great British Public-wholeheartedly agree with the sentiment outlined above, but they are also on the verge of calling social services.
And why is it that every time I pass another baby, they are sitting there serenely in their mother's arms, cooing and gurgling into their swaddling bands whilst looking up at their parents with a look of blissful adoration as if they have never shed a tear in their young life. WHY, WHY, WHY?
And lastly, why are all these people always full of useless suggestions to stop the crying, such as (I kid thee not) blowing on the baby's face?
BECAUSE THAT'S GOING TO WORK
Surely the one time in the history of the world that this worked was when the reason for the crying was a hair or bit of dust or fluff happened to have fallen on the baby's face and was really annoying it until a knowledgeable stranger walked by and blew the offending article away.
It has been mooted (on the Internets, obvs.) that one possible reason for a baby's crying is that a hair has become tightly wound around the baby's finger, toe or (eek!) penis, annoying said baby and potentially cutting off the circulation to the area. I now live in fear of this happening (particularly the penis situation, especially since today I found one of my own ludicrously long hairs lurking in Piglet's nappy). However, so far every time Piglet has started to cry on the train, the only thing that can satisfy him is the boob. And it's hardly practical to whip one out whilst walking down the street, however successful a multi-tasker I consider myself to be.
Yet why have I never seen anyone else in this predicament?
Friday, 19 September 2014
One of the Few Ways My Life is (Still) Similar to Sex and the City
What does one do with a seven week old baby?
In Piglet's case, the answer is sit him in his bouncy chair with a comforter and a mobile for company (not a mobile as in phone, obviously. Not letting him loose on that just yet. Or like, ever. Watch me eat my words on that one in a few years).
I'm sure I should be talking to him, but I'm knackered and not entirely sure what we can talk about when we're just sitting in the flat. I guess I could explain the plot of the two episodes of Sex and the City that we just watched, but not entirely sure someone of Piglet's extreme youth should even be watching it. As everything in life can be compared to a scene in Sex and the City, I think that one is pretty much akin to the scene in season six when Charlotte and Harry babysit Brady and he wakes up and catches them having sex. As Miranda is completely unbothered by the situation and points out that Brady (older than Piglet in that scene) doesn't know what's going on, I'm going to assume that Sex and the City is safe for Piglet to watch for at least long enough for us to get into a bedtime routine and for Mummy to not have to watch old episodes of it to kill time whilst feeding/bouncing him on her knee for hours on end before he finally goes to sleep.
Anyway, as soon as Piglet noticed I was paying attention to the computer and not him, he started howling. It is now the next day and the same thing is happening.....
And it's now many, many hours later and he is finally snoozing, after a manic half an hour of incessant screaming that had the staff in Tesco waving me to the front of the queue just to get us out of the shop.
ARGH he's now stirring again. This blog is the Kiss of Death for any kind of peace and quiet.
In Piglet's case, the answer is sit him in his bouncy chair with a comforter and a mobile for company (not a mobile as in phone, obviously. Not letting him loose on that just yet. Or like, ever. Watch me eat my words on that one in a few years).
I'm sure I should be talking to him, but I'm knackered and not entirely sure what we can talk about when we're just sitting in the flat. I guess I could explain the plot of the two episodes of Sex and the City that we just watched, but not entirely sure someone of Piglet's extreme youth should even be watching it. As everything in life can be compared to a scene in Sex and the City, I think that one is pretty much akin to the scene in season six when Charlotte and Harry babysit Brady and he wakes up and catches them having sex. As Miranda is completely unbothered by the situation and points out that Brady (older than Piglet in that scene) doesn't know what's going on, I'm going to assume that Sex and the City is safe for Piglet to watch for at least long enough for us to get into a bedtime routine and for Mummy to not have to watch old episodes of it to kill time whilst feeding/bouncing him on her knee for hours on end before he finally goes to sleep.
Anyway, as soon as Piglet noticed I was paying attention to the computer and not him, he started howling. It is now the next day and the same thing is happening.....
And it's now many, many hours later and he is finally snoozing, after a manic half an hour of incessant screaming that had the staff in Tesco waving me to the front of the queue just to get us out of the shop.
ARGH he's now stirring again. This blog is the Kiss of Death for any kind of peace and quiet.
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