Well hello there winter

Here I was enjoying the leaves turning, the toadstools growing, the conkers falling, the mist hanging and then, as if out of nowhere, Yorkshire decided to move into winter.

Last Saturday I woke up, looked out the window and thought “It’s been snowing”.  Convincing myself that such would be ludicrous and clearly I had just forgotten what a hard frost looks like after months of lovely summer (hem hem) I carried on with my day.  Needing to run some errands in town I bundled Alby and Percy into a freezing car hoping to double up a trip to town with the morning dog walk.  

Just as we entered town the snow started to fall.  It was mixed in with plenty of rain, but by this point there was no denying that it really way snow.  Cars parked in the market were lightly dusted and it even managed to settle on random patches by the side of the road. 

Snowy dusting

 

Whilst I often find that things actually warm up once the snow starts to fall, being the over protective mother I sometimes find myself as, I wrapped up Alby as though he were the younger brother in “A Christmas Story” – and he reacted in a similar way clearly unimpressed with his new foot muff and stripy mittens.

Alby thoroughly unimpressed by the number of layers I'm forcing him to wear

Alberistics - Bear's Magic Finger

Similar to hundreds of thousands of other children I grew up to the amazing stories of Roald Dahl.  I knew them inside out and back to front and just loved the wacky worlds his seemingly normal characters lived in.  One of my favourite stories was “The Magic Finger” which is about a girl whose index finger would punish people for being naughty.  (Looking back on it now, this book may be responsible for the development of my nagging finger…?)

A picture says a thousand words

 

Watching Alby I am fairly certain that even if his index finger isn’t magic, he is convinced of it being so.  His little index finger gets every where - pulling, pushing, hooking, prodding, poking, sticking – if his finger isn’t involved, he isn’t interested. Every new discovery Alby makes is done with the definite presence of his Magic Finger as demonstrated by his new favourite thing - turning on and off light switches.

Yes indeed, it would appear that my hopes to raise a child who is environmentally savvy and aware and already paying off as I cannot leave a room at the moment without Alby having to turn the light off first.  This highly ethical attitude sometimes spills over into a general desire to have all lights turned off at all times.  Increasingly when we are playing together he will turn, stare up at the light switch and then fully extend his arm all the way to the tip of his Magic Finger which strains to get up to the switch.  Once lifted up he laughs at the switch as if it to show it once and for all who’s boss, wipes his soggy finger over it and then pushes down until he gets the desired result.  At which point he gives a satisfied giggle and flaps his arms about (more often than not bashing me in the process).  Admittedly, his green tendencies are slightly undone by him then instantly turning the light back on again, and off again, and on again… but at least it’s a step in the right direction and one more chance to show off the brilliance of Albert the Bear and his Magic Finger.

New shoes

Alby went on a proper little quest today travelling all the way to Harrogate in search of shoes.  (Admittedly we did try Northalllerton but it turns out the shoe shop isn’t open on Sundays.) 

According to all my parenting manuals it is of upmost importance that babies are properly fitted for their first pair of proper shoes.  The science behind such demands are based on baby’s feet being made up of soft cartilage which can easily be pushed out of shape or damaged.  If I don’t get it right now Alby will end up looking like the cross between a Hobbit and an 18^th century Chinese courtesan. 

I confess the cynical side of me questions how much money shoe manufacturers have spent to ensure the message of properly fitting shoes is etched onto the brain of all new mothers, but regardless we dutifully went to our most local Clarks for Alby’s “first shoe experience”.

And what an experience!  In addition to measuring his feet - length (3 ½), thickness (G), and finding a suitable pair of shoes, he also got his photo taken and stuck onto a souvenir “first shoe” card.  What fun!

Walking in his shoes took a little bit of adjustment time and there were a few moments when Alby became more Bambi-esque than normal, but once he spied the open door and stairs on the other side he was back to his normal waddling best. 

Lt Percy on duty

This afternoon I had to go into the admin office to get my HM Forces rail card.  I left Percy outside with the buggy thinking (wrongly) that it would only take a minute or so.  When the clerk realised I was Mark’s wife and therefore owner of Percy I was sent to the front to get him.  Percy was beside himself at being back in a room amongst people dressed in uniform and was a frenzy of waggy stump and down ears.  Alby didn’t get a look in – all eyes and compliments, once again, went to Percy.

Percy was so buoyed by the love that he sprinted the whole way home and didn't even complain when I made him walk the long way back to house (walking around the block rather than straight home).

Percy just seems to love going to the office.  We’ve had to go up to the Welfare Office for a couple of bits and pieces recently and he couldn’t get up the stairs fast enough.  Yesterday the REME were offering the wives of deployed soldiers winter checks on their cars.  (Yup, just the wives.  Men left behind have to fend for themselves poor chaps).  I drove over with the boys and, despite revving engines and all sorts of banging Percy didn’t flinch once.  He snuffled about and trotted out of the hanger head held high.

Whilst I could take this love of uniform as a sign that he is thoroughly tired of me, I am writing this with Percy perched on my lap.  Over the past week Percy has upped the melty stakes a couple of levels and is doing his best to ensure that I hit my quota of daily bulldog cuddles.

Giving men a break – an essay

A friend posted a link on Facebook to a brilliant article called “Why women still can’t have it all”.  It gives a very frank and intelligent account of trying to balance being a high powered business woman (and I mean high powered) and also a mother.  (It’s a great article if you fancy putting aside an hour to read it all: http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2012/07/why-women-still-cant-have-it-all/309020/#.UIgSdS1VLSU.facebook)

Somebody commented on the article to the effect of “only men have it all”.  Eager not to get into a public debate on Facebook I decided to defer my comments to this blog. 

The comment annoyed me. A lot.  Whilst I totally agree that women can’t have it all and I suspect that throughout my life I will be reviewing and reassessing where I position myself on the sliding scale between work and family, not for one minute do I think that Mark “has it all”.  Nor do I think that my brother or my father before him, or any of my male friends are going through life thinking that they have it all. 

Men, from time in memoriam, have gone out to work whilst the women stay behind with the children.  Mark, and all the other men I know, have grown up thinking that they will get married, have children, work during the day and spend weekends cheering on their children at whatever extracurricular activity takes their fancy.

I don’t imagine that Mark, on finding out that I was pregnant, thought for a second about how to balance work and family.  That he has to go to work at 8am and return home at 5pm is how his life is whether we have no children or fifty.  As is a seven month trip to Afghanistan.  Does he think that is “having it all”?  Of course not.  Of course he would love to spend more time with Alby and with Percy.  Of course he doesn’t want to be away from his family and friends on training exercise after training exercise, but that’s his lot and he accepts it and gets on with it.

Women on the other hand have spent the last few generations challenging that traditional image. And rightly so (don’t get me wrong I’m not anti-feminist) I was brought up to believe that I could achieve and do whatever I want.  I was taught to strive, to push myself, to enter the workforce and find my place within it.  I wasn’t taught to be a mother, in fact nothing in my schooling referred to the idea that I might one day have to raise a child. 

In contrast to Mark I spent my entire pregnancy and maternity leave trying to work out where I wanted to position myself on that sliding scale between work and family.  I found this a huge question, one that challenged my very core; querying who I am and what I want out of life.

And the discussion isn’t over.  I’ve made peace with the situation I am now in but I know that when we have a second child I will have to rethink it all again, and that when Alby is in school I will rethink it again, as I will when dealing with the after school years.

I think that for women there will always be a discussion over balancing work with family.  I think its right that as women we challenge the past and that we choose our identity.  I wish that today women had the confidence to not only make a decision without feeling guilty, but also to change their minds, constantly, without feeling guilty.  (No doubt testosterone injections will be needed to accomplish such).

But let’s not give men a hard time just because we are challenging our history.

Yes, let’s challenge equal pay, fight for greater respect and work towards better representation of women in all walks of life (including nursery rhymes – more on that another day).  But let’s not pretend either that men in high powered jobs, or even just mediocre jobs “have it all”.  If you’re leaving home before your child wakes up in the morning and not getting back until your child is in bed then you’re not having it all either.

Sleepy bug

Over the past two weeks Alby has been a little star with bedtime.  He is settling down for the night within 15 minutes of getting into his bedroom, only waking once or twice in the night and when noises do come through the monitor he has settled again before I’ve even left the sofa.  This is a real transformation and I’m so proud of him it’s silly.

One of the things I am concerned about though is that he isn’t napping as much as he should.  Whilst I appreciate that as he grows naps will become less frequent, this doesn’t seem to be about not needing a nap but rather not managing to settle down in the mornings.  I used to time Percy’s dog walk with Alby’s morning nap but it isn’t working anymore.  Outside of the walk, prepping for work and nursery mean that I don’t have the time to focus on settling him each morning.  Once at nursery it’s all far too exciting to sleep and he doesn’t crash out until the afternoon, which can happen when in a cot, but has also occurred mid-lunch and even mid-nappy change according to his nursery notes!

This morning Alby woke at 6am which I decided was too early so we had a feed and cuddle and snuggled down again in my room.  When my alarm went off half an hour later Alby didn’t even stir and so, with naps proving more allusive, I left him.  I showered, dressed, sorted laundry, cleared some paperwork, made his lunch (running upstairs every other minute in case he’d woken for fear of him falling off the bed) and finally at 8:15am Trouble Monkey woke up – almost two hours later than normal but better off for it if the clapping hands and smiles are anything to go by.

This evening he fell asleep in my arms having a feed whilst we watched “In the Night Garden” – an hour earlier than his usual bedtime.

I’m not worried about this.  If lying in and earlier nights are needed to replace naps then so be it.  What I am doing, and have been doing since Mark left (as much as possible) is to keep a record of how his day goes – sleeps, feeds, meals… We did this when he was tiny and it helped us to recognise the routine he had set for himself.  Well, now we’re trying again to see how he settles and work off his cues to make sure that he is getting his needs met.  If that gives me a few free hours every morning for tasks then great.  And if today turns out to be a fluke then I’ll accept that too and look at other ways to make sure he gets the sleep he needs.

Inspiration from others

I have become a total emotional wreck when it comes to other parents and babies these days. I used to watch “There’s one born every minute” as a bit of light entertainment in the evening, whereas now I have to prepare myself for an emotionally heavy show where I feel a personal bond with everyone on the programme.

Today’s show featured a young couple whose baby was born with it’s bowel outside of the body.  He has had two operations already and is living in an incubator surrounded by tubes (obviously) and the mother hasn’t even been able to hold him yet.  They attempted to let her have a cuddle when they moved him from cot to operating theatre but trying to work around the tubes got her in a faff, he started crying and she broke down terrified that she would drop him. 

Last week my colleague at work lost her grandson.  He was three weeks old and had been born with a serious heart defect.  They knew about it before birth and he got the very best of care from day one, but that does make it any less tragic.

Before I had Alby I used to find parents could often be quite patronizing spouting out such comments as “you can’t understand until you’re a mother” or “you don’t know what it’s like”.  I still think such comments are pretty patronizing and try to check myself before I say the same out loud– you don’t have to be a parent to know what love is.  But I also recognise that becoming a mother has caused a fundamental shift in me.  Whether that’s just simply growing up or a hormonal change I have no idea, but within a week of Alby being born I knew that I would do anything for him, that I would give my life for him with a ferocity that I haven’t experienced towards anything else in my life. 

The strength of these parents is phenomenally powerful and awe-inspiring.  I truly hope that I have never taken for granted what a smooth time I had with Alby during those very first days, nor indeed what a smooth time I have with him now.  But on those occasions when I do get flustered I hope that I have the good sense to think about those who really have had a rough ride; that through them I can achieve perspective and stay grounded. 

Autumn in Yorkshire

The leaves are turning and falling, the starlings have arrived and are filling the sky with their manic cries each night, and everywhere you step there seems to be a different type of fungus growing. 

Now the challenge is to try and put a name to the toadstools littering my garden and everywhere else we turn...

 

Double Trouble

I’ve always thought I would have two children.  I find it an odd thing to express for fear of some twisted tempting fate type notion, but I like the idea of Alby having a partner in crime.

And then I have a morning like this morning and I remember I already face Double Trouble every day. 

This morning I sat on the floor and dressed Alby from my lap in an attempt to keep his squirming as confined as possible.  Once Alby had finally escaped my clutches (albeit with only half his poppers done up) Percy decided it was his time for love and climbed up onto my lap, where he promptly settled himself.   Never mind that I needed to get Alby to nursery, never mind that I needed the loo, never mind that he had only just eaten and so his breath was particularly fresh,  Alby had had his turn, and now it was Percy’ go.

Perched pooch

I confess I’m feeling a little bit sorry for Percy at the moment.  As Alby learns to walk he is pulling himself up on everything – included Percy’s back and, on occasion, his face.  Alby has also decided to revive the game he played with Daddy and his walker – an amusing game which calls for Alby to bash his walker into the shins, followed by a hearty giggle.  Only this time Percy is on the receiving end and as Alby is now exceptionally talented with his walker Percy is having to experience life on the other side of the bash.  Poor bullhound. 



Bushed by bashes

First steps

Alby took his first steps a couple of weeks ago. They began more as the result of chance rather than any specific skill; Alby would be standing at the coffee table or sofa and then throw himself at you.  The action forced his feet to take a few steps but it was more a case of semi-controlled falling than walking.  Since then, control has slowly increased and whilst I wouldn’t yet say that he is a “walker” he is gradually mastering the first few steps. 

More often than not he falls within a second or two – and far short of his destination.  But every now and then true skill shines through and Trouble Monkey is officially moving
. 

 

Whilst I have shared a number of Alby’s developments in this blog, this one I have stalled on.  I haven’t known where to start or how to write it, ultimately because of how big a milestone walking is and how cruel it seems to be sharing it with Mark over the internet rather than in person.   

My message to Mark is don’t be sad at not being here for this.  In all honesty I found watching him charge up and down the living room with his walker for the first time far more precious than this – maybe because you were there to share it with, but also because in my head those were the true first steps, that’s where it all started.  As with all other Alby milestones you get the first look in a good month or so before the skill has been mastered.  The wobbly sit preceding by several weeks true accomplished sitting, the gumming of an apple happening months before real biting or chewing, the commando reach marking the start of crawling.  And now this, the walker mayhem acting as the precursor to the zombie-armed, side shuffling, front shuffling totter. 

And in case you thought the walker may now be redundant, it most certainly isn’t (much to Percy’s distress).  With no Daddy around to bash into, Mama and Percy are now bearing the brunt of Albert the Bully.  Whilst independent walking is still a work in progress, he is a pro at the Walker – and as such there is no point in claiming his bashes are accidental, especially not when they come following a perfectly executed three point turn. 

Mastering the double pause and the revival of "Alby is okay"

Now Trouble Monkey is up and moving not an hour goes by where he hasn’t bashed himself.   

On two occasions last week when collecting Alby from nursery I had to complete an accident form following a red bump on his forehead (Tuesday) and a bruise on his cheek (Wednesday).  On neither occasion did the nursery staff know where the marks came from, not because of any negligence on their part but because Alby hadn’t made a peep.  Little Trouble Monkey is a tough cookie, even being bashed by Percy rarely brings on any reaction other than giggles. 

Some of this tough skin I feel may be down to having had to make the “double pause” second nature early on in Alby’s active life.  They say that when your child hurts themselves they pause to see how you will react and then feed off your emotions.  With Alby, we do the double pause - he bangs himself and pauses to see how I react, I just stand there frozen as if in a game of ‘Stuck in the Mud’ waiting to see how he reacts.  Eventually, with nothing coming from me and nothing coming from him, we both unfreeze and go about our day. 

When he really has hurt himself I find myself resurrecting a little ditty I sang to him whenever he cried as a newborn.  It went:

“I’m okay and you’re okay.

I’m okay and you’re okay.

I’m okay and you’re okay.

We’re okay Alby.

We’re okay Alby.” 

No musical masterpiece but with my brain flustered, my hormones going crazy and my exhaustion levels at an all time high, if it wasn’t repetitive I wasn’t about to remember the words.  The danger of the simple chant is that it can easily turn from gentle lullaby to a manic jig as your voice and mood merge into a state of heightened panic.  Many a time crying baby Alby would be bounced almost viciously as my strained voice robotically repeated my supposedly calm song.

Today, more often than not no song is needed but when Alby is tired and/or hungry life becomes a drawn out version of 'Musical Statues' as we alternate between the double pause and the swoop, hug and song as we make our way to the mirror / toy box / kitchen tap where a proper distraction from crying waits for us.  Who knew sticking a child's hand under running water could stymie tears so effectively?

Bedtime blues for Alby, bedtime brooding for Mama

Today I had a work event to attend and so, after an early morning cuddle and feed I left Alby in the care of his grandparents and headed off to Birmingham.  It was 6:30am when I left the house (in deep fog) and just gone 8pm when I got home.  Returning home little man was upstairs, sitting with his Poppa in his bedroom in the dark, having a cuddle and crying his little eyes out.  They had tried his bottle, they had tried rocking him in the pushchair, they had tried reading to him, he simply wasn’t going to give up.

We calmed him down and I picked up our normal bedtime routine of a story and feed.  Within about two minutes his eyes had shut, but he wasn’t going to be put down that easily.  It was another 25 minutes before he finally broke the latch and allowed me to place him in his cot.

His reluctance to sleep for others always sparks a web of thoughts in my head about parenting and the role of mother, the role of father, nursing and nurturing, unconditional love, support, development and learning.

Since Alby’s birth I have overseen bedtime.  This is more due to circumstance than anything else – Mark’s schedule over the past year was so manic he was rarely home for a whole week let alone longer.  On the few occasions when I haven’t been around for bedtime I have come home to Alby awake and playing, awake and crying or asleep in front of the telly in his pushchair.  Now Alby is perfectly happy to be left with others all day long – I’ve never had a call from nursery and his Granny stated that he (and Percy) were “perfect” all day.  But when bedtime comes it’s as though his little brain suddenly stops and says “Hold on, where’s that Mama lady?  No going to bed without Mama.” 

Over Mark’s summer holidays, when he had four weeks off from work, I seriously considered giving him the responsibility of bedtime.  I would remove myself from the scene, we would probably have a few days of tears, but then Alby would have settled into Daddy’s ways.  The reason we never went down this track is because we could cope with a week of tears, we could rejoice at a week of Alby and Daddy bedtimes, but then Mark would be gone and we’d be back at the start line.  Is it really worth distressing him for a week only to go full circle?  I don’t think that it is, and yet that doesn’t stop the conversation.

Years ago, when my niece was just a toddler, we got together for a family lunch and I remember vividly that whenever she was upset for whatever reason she would run to her mum.  Dad simply wasn’t good enough - it had to be mummy.  And I found that very sad.  I always wanted my children to know that they could and should be able to go to Mark or myself equally.   I’m a competitive person but I can say, hand on heart, that I’m not in competition with my husband for Alby love.  You hear of women who struggle to hand things over to their husbands because of how keenly they feel the bond with their child and how terrified they are of that slipping.  I don’t hang onto bedtime for my own gain.  There are many things about parenting that I had no sense of before Alby came along and I have had to change my views and beliefs quite radically in some areas.  But this is an area I still believe very strongly in.  And despite circumstances being stacked against me it is an area I will work on to achieve a balance.  To let Alby know that I’m just one half of the parenting team and that the other half is just as good – if not better.  Lordy only knows how, but we’ll get there because I’m not having Alby run to me if he can run to Daddy too.

Bin man in the making

Parents can only give good advice or put them on the right paths, but the final forming of a person's character lies in their own hands."  Anne Frank

Bin day today and so last night I dutifully went around the house emptying all the rubbish bins ready for collection in the morning.  When it came to emptying my bedroom bin I was a bit confused to find a sock in it.  I didn’t remember throwing away the sock, but considering I’ve recently misplaced an avocado I didn’t think too much of it. The next thing I know, I’ve pulled my alarm clock out of the bin in addition to an as yet unopened box of tissues. 

Now I’ve known for quite some time now that Alby is skilled at emptying boxes, baskets and, yes, bins.  It is for that very reason that the bathroom bin now sits on the window ledge and the bin in the study has a new home on top of the piano.  It’s also why the kitchen has been subjected to random child locks on every other cupboard and drawer.  Indeed so impressive is Alby at emptying things that people feel the need to applaud his cleverness – as happened with my friend Mike last week who blurted out “I love you Alby” after Trouble Monkey went from living room to kitchen via the toy box (which he emptied), the box of tissues (which he began to empty), Percy’s water bowl (which he emptied) and the cubbyhole with trays and chopping boards in it (which he emptied). 

What I had totally failed to appreciate (presumably as I’ve very selfishly been focused on putting things away instead of to the wonder that is Alby) is that little Trouble Monkey has also learnt to put things away.  He put away my sock and my alarm clock and my tissues.  Okay he put them in the rubbish, but let’s focus on the important bit here.

It is insanely easy to get hung up on things as a parent.  When we did our NCT classes I was recommended a book called “The Social Baby” and in it there is a photo story (all real) of a dad sticking his tongue out at his son, who is only a few hours old, and the little baby sticking his tongue out in response.

Now, I’ve been sticking my tongue out at Alby for 11 months and it is only in the last few weeks that he was been polite enough to stick his out back at me.  I won’t pretend that over that 11 month period I didn’t wonder why Alby wasn’t willing to show me his lovely pink tongue.  But then he does something like this; he learns for himself.  And he learns despite my efforts – I’m fairly sure that were I of the fanatic Mozart listening, flashcard reciting breed or the peace-loving, Hippy breed, Alby would still be the same.  And my alarm clock would still be in the bin. 

Keeping Daddy in sight

“If there ever comes a day when we can’t be together, put me in your heart, I’ll stay there forever.” -A.A. Milne, Winnie the Pooh

The saying goes “out of sight, out of mind”.  Well bollocks to that.  I’ve printed off large photos of Alby and Daddy, laminated them (to keep them safe from Alby dribble) and stuck them at Alby level around the house. 

Pint and Half-Pint

Daddy snog!

Three have been placed above his cot so that Daddy can look down on him at night.  Though this afternoon they proved a useful distraction when I was dong errands; Alby happily snogged and poked Daddy whilst I hung up his clothes and put away the toy bricks he had tipped across the floor.

Co-sleeping the Afghan way

As I learnt this evening, when I’ve exhausted myself and have a crying Trouble Monkey in my arms, having Mark looking at me makes for an emotional bedtime.  Each time I see him I hear his words in my head.  I hear him chastising me and encouraging me and standing at my side.  It makes for a sentimental fool but if that’s the worst that can be said of me then I’ll take it gladly.

Reluctant sleepers

The other day it got to 11pm.  I still had a couple of things on my to do list but none of them were urgent and bed was calling.  But I didn’t go to bed.  I stayed up and rearranged the furniture in our living room, essentially swapping the sofa and dining room table around. (The highchair is large and cumbersome and annoys me greatly.  I hoped that this new set up would keep it out of my way during the day.  As it turns out, the highchair maintains its frustrating characteristics no matter where it is placed, but I like the change.) 

This trait is one that I completely and utterly owe to my mother.  When my dad used to go on business trips she would stay up late writing emails or pottering about the house getting through odd jobs until finally heading to bed around 2am.  And I do the same.  Our body clocks mean we have an energy dip in the afternoon and then around 9:30pm suddenly get a mad rush of adrenaline which keeps us going for several hours to come. 

Two weeks like this and a crash comes.  Not normal exhaustion – I seem to be immune to yawning and heavy eyes these days, but just that vague zombie state where it takes an extra 5 minutes to make any decision and then a further ten minutes to actually get going.

I was hoping the crash would wait until Sunday when my in-laws are up to help with Alby and my work conference is done and dusted with.  But life doesn’t work that way and my zombie state has been in full swing all day.

If me being groggy around the edges wasn’t enough, Alby came back from nursery having skipped both of his naps.  Efforts by the nursery staff to get him down had the same results as my attempts this morning – utter failure.  He came home hungry and eager for cuddles.  He still wouldn’t sleep though, instead turned his fight against sleep to a fight against order upturning toy box, kitchen cupboards and bookshelves with a zeal I could only be impressed by.

When bedtime finally came he was so shot he cried the minute I got him out of the bath and continued until the bottle was in his mouth.  He didn’t even have the energy to fight against getting dressed.  It took him five minutes to get to sleep – a new record.  Meanwhile, I’m feeling awake for the first time all day.  Now, where’s the duster…  

Feeding on the move

 When I was pregnant I never thought twice about breastfeeding.  It was a total no brainer for me.  This is how animals feed their babies, this is how women around the world feed their babies and this is how I would feed my baby.  I was confused when we turned up at the breastfeeding session of our NCT class and learnt that the day would focus more on persuading us to breastfeed than the practical side of it.  I was already sold, I didn’t need convincing.

That said, I didn’t think I would still be feeding 11 months on.  I’m not sure where I got the 6 month marker from but in my pre-baby head you fed for 6 months, put your baby onto solids and with that the feeding stops. 

How naïve of me.  Not only in regards to the realities of being a mother and baby weaning but such beliefs also completely ignored the obsessive, excessive side of my personality.

And so here I am, still happily feeding my little man.  Whilst on the surface it sounds like little has changed in reality 11 months on its totally different ball game.  Nowadays I have to contend with an “on the move” feeder.  Only during the night will Alby curl up in my arms like a newborn.  During the day he twists, turns and flips out of my arms until he is upright.  A friend of mine's little girl will only feed if she is sitting up on her mother's lap these days.  Alby tried sitting up for a week or so and then decided he'd much rather stand.  To feed him I have to sit at the edge of the sofa whilst he stands between my legs, one of us leaning slightly up, the other slightly down.  Thank goodness I’m short.  Thank goodness I’ve always been top heavy.  Thank goodness he is a quick feeder.  And, above all else, thank goodness Alby doesn’t feed in public anymore. 

I want to say that the standing feed is far more dignified than it sounds but I'm not 100% sure that it actually is. 

The six month mark came and went in a blink.  It was only in month seven that I suddenly though “ohhh, am I supposed to be stopping soon?” Eager for answers I hit the books and google and read that the NHS recommends mothers to continue feeding until their child is 2 years old.  Two!  At least at the moment I can pretend Alby is still a baby, by two he'll be a proper walking, talking toddler. And what is the NHS doing claiming that target when you consider that the last infant feeding survey in the UK revealed that only 3% of 5 month olds are exclusively breastfed.

At six months I wasn’t emotionally or mentally ready to stop breastfeeding.  Now, I’m working towards the end.  It will be dictated for the most part by Alby but he is already making moves towards that.   Next month I get to finish with expressing as I replace Alby’s nursery bottle of mama’s milk with cow’s milk.  Such a big boy!

Makka Pakka Mikka Makka Moo

I’ve decided to turn the TV off during the day.  I can’t have it on without being slumped in front of it and I don’t really like having the telly on as background noise.  As I work on laying down a loose daily routine which will help to ensure some sort of balance between Alby, Percy, chores, work and friends in addition to being on a punctuality drive at the moment, daytime TV is simply not an option.  (I don’t care what I said in high school, you can’t do your homework in front of the telly.  Trying only turns a 15 minute job to turn into a 3 hour effort and I’m looking for shortcuts not massive extensions to every task).

Transfixed Albert

And so, it stays off so that I can focus on playing with the boys, walking Percy and getting dinner together until…

…6:20pm when “In the Night Garden” comes on. 

I confess my no daytime TV decision only came after I found out that this show makes a daily appearance on CBeebies.  With Alby’s routine the timing couldn’t be better and for me knowing that come 6:20pm I can stop, sit down for a family cuddle and turn my brain off actually helps me to get through the preceding few hours after work/nursery.

And Alby loves it.  He is utterly transfixed for the entire programme. He hasn’t watched it very often but he seems to have already developed a soft spot for Makka Pakka and the Tombiloos.  When they come on he starts clapping, waving at the telly, slapping his hands on my legs and jumping up and down.  Not quite the bedtime calm I expect and a far cry from the high brow intellectual stuff my father has spent his life trying to indoctrinate me in, but if it keeps Alby happy I’m happy.  And Percy doesn’t seem to mind either.

Hearing from my man

Yesterday I got an email from my love.  It was only a dozen sentences or so long but I’ve re-read it about twenty times already.  Just having his name in my inbox makes him more real and the email brought with it a wave of missing.

Today we managed a phone call.  Which means that I should now be on a massive high right not, but it was all a bit frustrating - Alby was all grizzly during it as it was coming up to his dinner time so he was hungry.  And if that wasn’t enough Percy decided to freak out in the garden and spent half the call barking at the BBQ.  I could have removed the Alby grizzles by giving him a feed but that would have thrown his dinner and the rest of the evening (and I’ve got a date with Makka Pakka these days).

Love love

Contact is so infrequent that when it comes you want it to be perfect, but rather the old adage “No expectations, no disappointments” sounds out in my mind.

Last time Mark was on tour we had to make it work against a backdrop of explosions and dodgy phone lines.  It worked but it took a bit of time adjusting.  You have to prepare yourself for frustrations.  And make sure you start every call with “I love you” in case you don’t get a chance to end with it.  Today we have to make it work against a Trouble Monkey, a Trouble Hound as well as whatever Mark’s side decides to throw at us.  It will take time, it will take effort and it will take team work but we’ll get there.  We always do.

Chocolate Trouble Monkey

Chocolate trimmed top

Friday marked two firsts for Alby: first taste of chocolate and first taste of cake.  Before people start pointing the finger at me for being a thoroughly irresponsible parent I would like to highlight that the event happened at nursery and I knew nothing of it until I picked him up in the afternoon.  It was his nursery friend and partner in crime’s birthday and to celebrate Sunni turning one his mum had brought in chocolate cake for one and all.

Whilst I have no intention of making chocolate a regular feature of Alby’s diet I confess to being relieved that this particular milestone has been crossed.  When we were doing NCT classes the topic of introducing chocolate came up and Mark placed himself very firmly in the “no chocolate until 3 years old” category.  I was, in theory, a bit more flexible being under no illusion that whilst I can control the flow of junk food in my own home nursery, parties and grandparents will be quite a different thing.

That said, moderation and I are not good friends.  I’m an all of nothing girl – something I find a weakness as much as a strength.  And so, whilst I have no trouble signing up to the notion of flexibility implementing such can be quite a different thing.  In a few weeks Alby turns one and I’ve already wasted many hours debating in my head whether or not he should be allowed birthday cake.  With Mark away I feel the burden of such decisions keenly and they grow out of all proportion from something very small into some life defining decision.

And then along comes lovely nursery, who not only keep me grounded but keep me on the lighter side of life.  And allow Trouble Monkey his first mouthful of chocolate.  And of cake.  Together.  Such fun!

When does baby brain stop?

I realised at 4pm today that the jumper I’ve been wearing all day was on backwards.  And I’ve lost an avocado.  I had planned to put it in the airing cupboard to ripen it (a tried and tested trick) but it seems I never got that far and I’ll be damned if I can find it. 

For the past month or so the baby monitor has been acting up on us.  It will only hold its charge for five minutes when not plugged in, beeps incessantly and has come very close to being smashed against the wall.  Today I had the brainwave of putting in new batteries and, hard to believe I know, but it’s now working perfectly.

Alby often wakes up within an hour or so of going to bed, a pattern that on a bad night can be repeated until midnight.  Mark and I have spent weeks of our lives theorizing about the cause – is he hungry, too full, too hot, too cold, teething…  A couple of nights ago I was in the kitchen cleaning up and had the radio on.  Alby woke up and it was only when I was in his room that I realised how much sound travels in the house.  (This despite me having spent a number of evenings cursing Mark under my breath when he is home and listening to the radio downstairs whilst I put Alby down for the night.  It is so loud even when it’s quiet). 

It’s as though any noise from the kitchen moves directly to his bedside.  And so for the past few nights I have closed all the doors downstairs, kept the TV volume down low and all other appliances turned off.  And quel surprise – without the spin cycle on the washer and me banging about in the kitchen Alby has been sleeping at least a four hour stretch each night.

How has it taken me 6 months to work out that closing the door and keeping the house quiet (really really quiet) is a good idea?

Why did I not think of changing the batteries?

When will I learn to dress myself?

And, where in the world is that bloomin’ avocado?

As a bit of a side note, there is some comfort to be found in the fact that Mark didn’t  think to close doors or change batteries, but I’m fairly confident he would have stopped me from going outside with my clothes on the wrong way round.  

Alberistics – it’s like stealing toys from a bulldog

A couple of weeks ago when I collected Alby from nursery his Key Worker, Rachel, told me that he was being quite cheeky that day – a trait he has repeated.  It turns out that Alby enjoys pulling dummies out of the mouths of his classmates.  Rachel was under the impression that he doesn’t do it because he wants the dummy for himself but rather that he seems intrigued but what response he might get.  (A yelling child I suspect, Alby.)

Alby has never had a dummy and I worked off the presumption that this was just natural curiosity relating specifically to seeing a dummy in a baby’s mouth.  That was until this weekend however.  I was telling the story of Alby The Dummy Thief to my friend whilst Alby was playing with Percy.  And it was watching the two of them play which has caused me to rethink the situation.

Alby would crawl up to Percy, grab the toy in his mouth, pull on it until Percy dropped it, and then stuff it back in Percy’s mouth.  This game of steal and sutff repeating itself until Alby finally bores and crawls away. 

If I tried to grab a toy from Percy’s mouth I would be instantly engaged in a furious game of tug-o-war as I attempt to pit my might against the brickhouse that is my dog.  For Alby though, Percy is the definition of gentle.

Actually scrap that comment.  Earlier Alby crawled up behind Percy when he was playing with a toy.  The toy got thrown, Percy turned, jumped and chased the toy completely taking out Alby in the process.  Alby performed a faultless teddy bear roll, sat back up again, wondered why his mother and her friends were laughing hysterically and then crawled off to get a toy.  Percy meanwhile trotted back with toy in mouth eager for the game to continue.

So clearly Percy isn’t the definition of gentle, but the degree to which he tolerates Alby stealing his toys leave me equally stunned and grateful.  And begs the question – does Alby look at his classmates and see Percy with a toy?  Will Rachel be telling me soon that Alby has progressed from stealing the dummies to throwing them across the room and telling his friends to fetch?  Or does Alby see in Percy a little boy sucking on his dummy?  An easy mistake to make if you have ever seen Percy in a state of Ted-love.

Bromance. 

Genius at bathtime

I was speaking to a friend recently about watching Alby develop.  We spoke about him hitting milestones and the instant, pure joy that comes with seeing a new skill being added to the list.

All the books tout the same list of skills that, over the course of a year or so, you’re baby will master: sitting, rolling, waving, clapping, pulling to stand, cruising, babbling, eating… And it’s no exaggeration to say that with each new skill not only does Alby beam, but so do I.

However, there is one thing I think that tops these listed milestones and that’s when you see your baby starting to piece things together.  As they work things out for themselves, explore, discover and learn cause and effect you get a double rush as they team up physical ability with mental awareness.

Alby has always loved the water.  The transition from kitchen sink to big bath occurred without incident.  As a newborn just the sound of the bath running would calm him down.  And, if the last week is anything to go by, it seems his love of running taps is as strong as ever.  Now when I start the bath he steps up onto the ledge under the sink, stretches out to get the water, shakes his hand under the tap until it’s soaked and then gives his drenched fingers a good suck.  Who needs a cup when you’ve got fingers to slurp?

Once or twice he has managed to turn off the tap, leaving a bemused look on his face.  Occasionally he falls off the ledge, but then it’s straight back up again. 

Obviously I think this is quite the most impressive thing ever.  Indeed, I would go so far as to suggest that I am in the presence of a genius.

Taking a pause with nature

Autumn has come to Yorkshire – the leaves are turning, the fungus is growing, and the world has gone “fresh”.  For the past few days we have been surrounded by a beautiful mist every morning, hanging above the golf course behind the house. 

I learnt yesterday however that nature had a little surprise for me.  As I took the boys for a walk first thing yesterday morning, Percy pulled me onto the green so he could snuffle about.  Once there  I realised that what I had taken for a low, heavy mist was actually a sea of dew covered cobwebs, hanging from the tops of the grass.  It went all over the golf course and was simply stunning.

View from the 5th tee

A blanket of webs

Time management fail

Today when I picked Alby up from nursery, ten minutes late as I got caught up in a phone call with work, I was given a slip of paper saying “It has come to my attention that some parents are not collecting their children at the correct times.  Please can you make sure that you arrive to collect your child at either 12:00pm or 3:00pm.  Parents who continue to arrive late will be charged for an extra session.”

Oooh, not good.  Serious Mummy time management fail.

My work day officially ends at 3pm, which is also the time that I am supposed to collect Alby from nursery.  With the nursery just a short walk from my front door, in theory I can leave my desk at 2:55pm and still be at nursery to collect him on time.

In reality however, at 2:55 I look at my computer and think “time to go”, I then move some papers around, look for my shoes, put on my shoes, think about whether I need a coat, find a coat, decide whether to carry Alby in the carrier or push chair… and I’m probably not getting out of the door for another ten minutes at the very least.

I am an expert at trying to do a hundred things in the time I have to do ten.  I marvel at people who are punctual.  It’s one of the many traits of that Mark has which make me sit back in wonder (well not sit back, rather run around like a headless chicken in wonder).

I’m not good at criticism.  Not at all.  That’s not in anyway to say that I think I’m perfect.  Far, far from it, I feel my faults very keenly and spend a lot of time seriously chastising myself for them.  And so, when somebody else criticises me it’s like the volume has been turned up in my head and what I thought was “bad” is now “horrifically terrible” and I am a hopeless failure.  The result is a bit of an internal emotional drama – I get defensive and grumpy for about half an hour, and then the determination and motivation kicks in. 

And that’s where I’m at now, and it’s a fantastic high to be on.  All this week I have been working out in my head how to structure the days – how to make sure that I can get through the housework, my job and still have quality time with Alby and Percy.  This is my second week into the deployment and my first week at home.  Little tweaks are being made all over the place and I’m actually grateful to the nursery for pointing out my chronic lateness because it helps to shape the bigger picture and adds to the kick up the arse I was halfway through giving myself.

Annabel + cheese = meal time survival guide

When Alby first moved onto solids I found it a real struggle to remember his meals.  With breastfeeding the only forethought needed is over what tops to wear in the morning, whereas weaning seemed to constantly leave me being caught short.  I’d be out grocery shopping when I should have been feeding him lunch or doing chores through dinner. 

I’d like to say that almost six months on I’d perfected meal times, but I’m afraid it’s still a bit of work in progress.  Breakfast we have down to a fine art, although truth be told Alby can often be found sitting on the kitchen floor eating breadsticks as I pull everything together.  With Alby at nursery for lunch almost every day circumstances force me to be organised.  His lunch fluctuates between tuna, carrot and cheese toasties, chicken, carrot and cheese toasties and vegetable omelette (of course with cheese). 

When it comes to dinner though, it all gets a little bit messy.  Essentially because I’m still stuck in my old ways of forgetting that little man needs food!  I finish work, collect him from the nursery and in theory we should have two hours to ourselves before dinner.  Where those two hours disappear to though I have no idea.  I pull together whatever I can as quickly as I can and then get emotionally thrown about when he responds by being less than keen for the odd assembly of food I lay before him.  Alby’s little nuance of only preferring his food at room temperature adds an extra challenge with him rejecting foods fresh from the oven or out of the fridge.

Conscious that blame for dinner time failings lie much more on my lap than his, I am on a drive to be more organised.  And, as such I spent much of last night mass cooking for Alby.  With Annabel Karmel on one side and a cheese grater on the other I made a feast of chicken burgers and pasta dishes to keep him satisfied for the rest of the week.

I used to worry about the amount of cheese Alby eats.  It is hands down his most favourite food and there was a time when it featured heavily in every meal.  However, I have found great comfort in the fact that almost all baby recipes, including those by Annabel, include cheese. 

Today I remembered to take out my prepared meal from the fridge a few hours before dinner so it could warm up.  I was thrilled when Alby chomped down all of my offerings.  Here types a smug mother, who has provided her child with three well rounded, healthy meals. 

My own dinner of rice cakes and cheese triangles wasn’t quite so impressive, but such is a mother’s lot, we’ll worry about me another day.  Perhaps.  

“Adam and Eve had many advantages...

...but the principle one was that they escaped teething” – Mark Twain.

My little man is the proud owner of four teeth – two on the bottom which came through a few months ago and, as of last week, two top teeth. 

To throw me a little bit off track, although the top two teeth cut at exactly the same time just like his bottom too did, they aren’t next to each other.  To be all technical we appear to have the central incisor on the left and the lateral incisor on the right.  Either that or he is going to be in need of some serious dental assistance.

There is no denying that I’ve been eagerly looking out for these teeth for some time now.  A couple of weeks ago Alby’s mouth was clearly bothering him and he was being a very cuddly, mum-focused baby because of it.  Aided by Nelson’s Teetha, frozen grapes and frozen peas we made it through the rough patch, though every day I would eagerly check his mouth expecting five teeth to have grown over night, only to be bitterly disappointed. 

Alby pleased as punch about his two new teeth

I should have known Alby better.  As with the last two, the actual cutting of the teeth seems to be no bother at all.  In fact, so unnoticeable was it that I didn’t even think one was a tooth – I’ve been mistaking it for several days now thinking it is one of the “white spots” you hear people talk about.

It baffles me slightly how the emergence of new teeth causes me to swell so much with pride.  There is nothing surprising or special about babies getting teeth, but in this world where every day reveals a new development and a new skill, teething seems to have squeezed itself onto the list of things to be delighted by.  Another little moment which gives you reason to pause, smile and have a cuddle!