Friends of ours have just had a baby, by just, I mean in the last week. Wonderful news indeed. Their little bundle of boy will probably be at the stage where babies do what I had somewhat foolishly believed babies always do, sleep and feed, sleep and feed, with the occasional happy gurgle. In fact I remember commenting to my husband that I didnt know what all the fuss was about, that living with a new baby was easy peasy lemon squeezy. At eight weeks of age, everything changed. Feeding and sleeping were now interrupted by prolonged periods of awakeness and an accompanying reluctance to be anything other than awake. Easy peasy no more. Anyway, I digress, I have not of course shared the 'Eight Week Metamorphosis' with our happy friends, not wishing to burst their cuddly bubble and of course, it may be that their delightful offspring continues to be just that. Hmmm.
One thing I do know, New Mummy is breastfeeding. Now this is something which I do truthfully miss about babies, but I have not forgotten the complete awfulness invloved which NOBODY tells you about. Oh no. Keen as I was, I devoured information on establishing breastfeeding with almost as much ferocity as I devoured rather too many jam doughnuts. Still working, I borrowed the educational baby doll from the office and put its little plastic face to my bosom. Oh yes, by the time my baby was born, I had a clear mental checklist of latching on, breastfeeding posiions, etc etc. I was looking forward to doing what I had read about, 'relax and watch your baby feed' accompanied by a soft focus picture of a pretty, presentable mother and baby who had clearly bonded at conception.
Total shock when the picture in our house was somewhat different. A tired, possibly slightly grumpy mother, pale and dishevelled in the cold light of day, clad in pyjamas with the obligatory patch of baby sick up on one shoulder, (at any time of day or night), toes curling in pain as my beautful new baby fed happily with a sucking power I had only ever encountered on a vacuum cleaner. How is this possible? How can a creature who cannot support its own head, find the strength to stretch and pull a nipple beyond recognition? I watched my baby feed alright, and I got pretty good at recognising when she was about to do the 'I'm finished, think I'll have a stretch, but won't let go' thing.
Partly because I am stubborn, well, mainly because I am stubborn, I persevered. There was a brief foray into the world of nipple shields, but the poor child struggled to get what is essentially a toy traffic cone into her mouth without getting poked in the eye. As time went on, my toes began to uncurl, I stopped crying when she cried to be fed and I truly did enjoy her feeding. It was just us, and at night when we were both fighting to stay awake in the dim night light, listening to the gentle tick of the clock and soft baby snuffles, it became almost magical.
I wish my new mummy friend the very best in her breastfeeding endeavours and should it not work out, I hope she wont beat herself up about it. My boobs were my own again when my babies were around four months old and after seeing what eager little baby teeth can do to the teat of a bottle, I am very glad I stopped when I did.
GRSA3JJFCW7E
Tuesday 23 February 2010
I was babysitting for a friend the other night, (yes, the MI5 one), when I noticed in her kitchen a toy cooker. This brought back memories of conversations about our little ones noisily entertaining themselves alongside us as we attempted to prepare dinner. And by prepare dinner I mean opening a pack of frozen peas whilst trying to remember what time the frozen thing went into the oven. For one mad, insane moment, I thought to myself, ah, I kind of miss that. What?! What was I thinking? What kind of rose tinted madness was this? Having pulled myself together, I was able to look back with clarity at what I was bizarrely recalling as an almost magical parenting moment.
Parenting survival guides will quite often advise that within a kitchen there should be one drawer or cupboard which is safe for your youngster to explore. The theory being that whilst you prepare a sumptuous and nutritious repast, they will be able to satisfy their curiosity and entertain themselves happily and safely. Marvellous! What a great idea! Having gone to great lengths to establish such a safe, but fascinating collection of harmless kitchen objects, it soon became clear that this theory was flawed. In fact, I began to wonder if the person who had come up with such a thing had ever attempted to put it into practice. Maybe they had an enormous kitchen like the ones in all the Magnet ads. I however, do not. It is surprising how a small child can quickly and with remarkable dexterity, open and empty a kitchen cupboard. Equally surprising is how the aforementioned harmless kitchen objects suddenly become anything but, turning your kitchen into something resembling a mine field. If you’re having one of those rare, but wonderful ‘I am a parenting God’ kind of days, you may be able to navigate your way through the debris from cooker to sink unscathed. The smug smile of satisfaction may become a little strained however once the banging and crashing starts. Saucepans dropped onto a tiled floor are difficult to ignore. And why is it that a baby who is startled ad occasionally reduced to tears by a bursting balloon or noisy motorbike actually laughs at the sound of pan lids crashing? Repeatedly. There is only so long you can grin and bear it. Your child may be happy, but you have now been staring at the cooking instructions on the side of the box or a full two minutes and you still don’t know what to do with it. I’ve been the bad guy, I’ll admit it. I have taken the joy giving saucepan from a smiling baby. They look away, you swoop in, remove the offensive item and replace it with something equally fascinating, yet infinitely quieter. I would however advise against the wire cooling rack. It’s amazing how easily chubby little fingers become stuck in the gaps. Should this happen, not only have you added to the kitchen floor mess, but your baby is now crying. You can guarantee that the peas you have been waiting forever to boil will boil over the instant you move over to free your little ones swollen fingers.
Parenting survival guides will quite often advise that within a kitchen there should be one drawer or cupboard which is safe for your youngster to explore. The theory being that whilst you prepare a sumptuous and nutritious repast, they will be able to satisfy their curiosity and entertain themselves happily and safely. Marvellous! What a great idea! Having gone to great lengths to establish such a safe, but fascinating collection of harmless kitchen objects, it soon became clear that this theory was flawed. In fact, I began to wonder if the person who had come up with such a thing had ever attempted to put it into practice. Maybe they had an enormous kitchen like the ones in all the Magnet ads. I however, do not. It is surprising how a small child can quickly and with remarkable dexterity, open and empty a kitchen cupboard. Equally surprising is how the aforementioned harmless kitchen objects suddenly become anything but, turning your kitchen into something resembling a mine field. If you’re having one of those rare, but wonderful ‘I am a parenting God’ kind of days, you may be able to navigate your way through the debris from cooker to sink unscathed. The smug smile of satisfaction may become a little strained however once the banging and crashing starts. Saucepans dropped onto a tiled floor are difficult to ignore. And why is it that a baby who is startled ad occasionally reduced to tears by a bursting balloon or noisy motorbike actually laughs at the sound of pan lids crashing? Repeatedly. There is only so long you can grin and bear it. Your child may be happy, but you have now been staring at the cooking instructions on the side of the box or a full two minutes and you still don’t know what to do with it. I’ve been the bad guy, I’ll admit it. I have taken the joy giving saucepan from a smiling baby. They look away, you swoop in, remove the offensive item and replace it with something equally fascinating, yet infinitely quieter. I would however advise against the wire cooling rack. It’s amazing how easily chubby little fingers become stuck in the gaps. Should this happen, not only have you added to the kitchen floor mess, but your baby is now crying. You can guarantee that the peas you have been waiting forever to boil will boil over the instant you move over to free your little ones swollen fingers.
A friend commented recently that if the MI5 wanted to extract the truth from a suspected spy, all they need to do is sit them in a car with a small child. After a five hour journey of non stop toddler chatter, they would surely confess to all manner of things, screaming to the driver to just stop the car!
Car travel and children, what a delicious combination! Road safety agencies advising against driving whilst eating, programming the sat. nav. or fiddling with the stereo, should also consider cautioning drivers against travelling with toddlers. The ultimate in multi-tasking, you are a captive audience, driver, navigator, mediator. Take to the road with pre-schoolers and your sanity is in their grubby little hands.
And it starts even before your journey does. You get to the car, (this in itself may have taken a ridiculous amount of time.), bend down to help your little cherub into their seat when you hear those three little words. “Me do it!” You know for a fact that they cannot do it. They do not accept this. Panic begins to set in as you mentally scan the options. If you let them try by themselves you will almost certainly be late. If you help them you will be rewarded by an angry outburst of massive proportion.
Of course, a lot depends upon mood, yours and theirs. On a good day when things are going swimmingly and you feel in control, (hah!) it doesn’t matter that you have been standing outside the car for half an hour watching Little Miss Independent try and repeatedly fail to manouver her chubby little body into her car seat. Occasionally on particularly good days you can even turn it into a game, becoming a big crane to hoist your toddler cargo into position. If your time, patience and mental capacity have already been sorely tested however, you are likely to go for option two, bracing yourself for the indignant wails of fury as you contort little arms through twisted straps, rummaging madly for the buckle whilst trying to bend your child in the middle.
I must admit, it is usually with some degree of relief that I ease myself into the drivers seat secure in the knowledge that my two energetic children are, well, secured. Relief quickly dissipates however once the journey is under way together with the running commentary. One of the best bits about being a parent is how completely fascinating and full of wonder the world is to children, how they find joy in the simplest of things. And it doesn’t stop in the car.
Stressful it may be, but after three and four years of advanced driving, as I like to think of it, the children have me well trained. I will now with very little prompting, regularly extend my hand behind me into the back seat ready to receive any manner of empty bottle or packet. I have learnt to notice and announce diggers and tractors with toddler-like enthusiasm and a train passing over a bridge above us has us all squealing with delight.
I can see totally where my friend is coming from, and I have a couple of little chatterboxes the MI5 could borrow from time to time. I am sure they would prove most effective. Thing is, after being my in-car entertainment for a number of years now, I think I would find the silence even more tortuous.
Car travel and children, what a delicious combination! Road safety agencies advising against driving whilst eating, programming the sat. nav. or fiddling with the stereo, should also consider cautioning drivers against travelling with toddlers. The ultimate in multi-tasking, you are a captive audience, driver, navigator, mediator. Take to the road with pre-schoolers and your sanity is in their grubby little hands.
And it starts even before your journey does. You get to the car, (this in itself may have taken a ridiculous amount of time.), bend down to help your little cherub into their seat when you hear those three little words. “Me do it!” You know for a fact that they cannot do it. They do not accept this. Panic begins to set in as you mentally scan the options. If you let them try by themselves you will almost certainly be late. If you help them you will be rewarded by an angry outburst of massive proportion.
Of course, a lot depends upon mood, yours and theirs. On a good day when things are going swimmingly and you feel in control, (hah!) it doesn’t matter that you have been standing outside the car for half an hour watching Little Miss Independent try and repeatedly fail to manouver her chubby little body into her car seat. Occasionally on particularly good days you can even turn it into a game, becoming a big crane to hoist your toddler cargo into position. If your time, patience and mental capacity have already been sorely tested however, you are likely to go for option two, bracing yourself for the indignant wails of fury as you contort little arms through twisted straps, rummaging madly for the buckle whilst trying to bend your child in the middle.
I must admit, it is usually with some degree of relief that I ease myself into the drivers seat secure in the knowledge that my two energetic children are, well, secured. Relief quickly dissipates however once the journey is under way together with the running commentary. One of the best bits about being a parent is how completely fascinating and full of wonder the world is to children, how they find joy in the simplest of things. And it doesn’t stop in the car.
Stressful it may be, but after three and four years of advanced driving, as I like to think of it, the children have me well trained. I will now with very little prompting, regularly extend my hand behind me into the back seat ready to receive any manner of empty bottle or packet. I have learnt to notice and announce diggers and tractors with toddler-like enthusiasm and a train passing over a bridge above us has us all squealing with delight.
I can see totally where my friend is coming from, and I have a couple of little chatterboxes the MI5 could borrow from time to time. I am sure they would prove most effective. Thing is, after being my in-car entertainment for a number of years now, I think I would find the silence even more tortuous.
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