New year, new mummy?

Well I'm back on the blogwagon after a wonderful festive hiatus, now the grateful owner of a living room which looks like it's been sponsored by Fisher Price thanks to little miss's doting grandparents, aunts and uncles.  It might seem unwise for someone who struggles to keep her champagne flutes intact for a year, let alone a bunch of resolutions, to even bother setting some, but as I'm a mum now maybe I should at least attempt to be, y'know, responsible.  So here goes:

1. Get out more with the baby.  While the weather needs to be nigh on apocalyptic to stop me at least venturing out of the house, most outings tend to be brief, mundane and necessary: doctor's, supermarket, coffee shop.  They're not exactly broadening little miss's horizons or adjusting her to unfamiliar surroundings and longer times away from home, something which became all too clear over Christmas, when the inevitable bevy of visits to family often resulted in a grumbling grandchild hankering after her own bed and unrivalled attention from mummy and daddy.  
2. Get out more without the baby.  A handful of date nights, girls' nights and work days since little miss arrived have slowly drawn me to the conclusion that as long as she's being looked after by hubby or family, I don't need to be there for every feed, change, cuddle or kick-off.  That reconnecting with who I am as a wife and friend as well as a mother is critical.  And that a large glass of rose once baby's in bed is SO DARN GOOD.
3. Decorate the baby's room.  We've graduated on from the early days, when little miss's room was little more than a dumping ground for boxes and assorted baby equipment which we hadn't had a chance to unpack yet thanks to her unexpectedly premature arrival.  However, it's still very much a cluttered space where little other than changing her takes place.  Hubby and I have been obsessing over pictures and frames practically since day one, but in true scatty style have got precisely nowhere so far.  Without going overboard and striving for Pinterest-perfect, I'd like us to create a little girl's room to be proud of, at least a day or two before we end up moving.
4. Learn to love every moment.  It's not always easy when I'm functioning on three hours' sleep, worrying how the next bill is going to be paid and on the fifth outfit change of the day (three for her, two for me).  However, against the odds we have a beautiful daughter, who depends on us, loves us and lights up when we enter the room.  That might be just about worth keeping the resolutions for.

The twelve days of Kidmas

On the first day of Christmas my baby gave to me
A giant poonami

On the second day of Christmas my baby gave to me
Two AWOL socks
And a giant poonami

On the third day of Christmas my baby gave to me
Three tantrums
Two AWOL socks
And a giant poonami

On the fourth day of Christmas my baby gave to me
Four squitty turds
Three tantrums
Two AWOL socks
And a giant poonami

On the fifth day of Christmas my baby gave to me
Five hours' sleep
Four squitty turds
Three tantrums
Two AWOL socks
And a giant poonami

On the sixth day of Christmas my baby gave to me
Six tepid coffees
Five hours' sleep
Four squitty turds
Three tantrums
Two AWOL socks
And a giant poonami

On the seventh day of Christmas my baby gave to me
Seven loads of laundry
Six tepid coffees
Five hours' sleep
Four squitty turds
Three tantrums
Two AWOL socks
And a giant poonami

On the eighth day of Christmas my baby gave to me
Eight milky muslins
Seven loads of laundry
Six tepid coffees
Five hours' sleep
Four squitty turds
Three tantrums
Two AWOL socks
And a giant poonami

On the ninth day of Christmas my baby gave to me
Nine goofy giggles
Eight milky muslins
Seven loads of laundry
Six tepid coffees
Five hours' sleep
Four squitty turds
Three tantrums
Two AWOL socks
And a giant poonami

On the tenth day of Christmas my baby gave to me
Ten sticky fingers
Nine goofy giggles
Eight milky muslins
Seven loads of laundry
Six tepid coffees
Five hours' sleep
Four squitty turds
Three tantrums
Two AWOL socks
And a giant poonami

On the eleventh day of Christmas my baby gave to me
Eleven minutes' me-time
Ten sticky fingers
Nine goofy giggles
Eight milky muslins
Seven loads of laundry
Six tepid coffees
Five hours' sleep
Four squitty turds
Three tantrums
Two AWOL socks
And a giant poonami

On the twelfth day of Christmas my baby gave to me
Twelve precious cuddles
Eleven minutes' me-time
Ten sticky fingers
Nine goofy giggles
Eight milky muslins
Seven loads of laundry
Six tepid coffees
Five hours' sleep
Four squitty turds
Three tantrums
Two AWOL socks
And a giant poonami

Prams and prejudice

Like all good hypocrites, I'm about to have a healthy rant about something which I was guilty of myself up until only recently.

Before little miss graced us with her presence, I had little time for the pram-pushing posse of parents with an uncanny knack for blocking aisles, doorways and pavements when I needed to get somewhere.  My intolerance probably stems from seven years of London life, where I was one of the 'elbows up' brigade who thought Oxford Street needed a fast lane, who had a wide portfolio of tut sounds reserved for shuffling tourists and teenagers and who was always running late, half thanks to TFL and half thanks to my love affair with the snooze button.

Becoming a mother changed everything.  Suddenly I find myself walking in the sensible shoes of those tired pavement trudgers trying to manoeuvre unwieldy vehicles down uneven streets littered with obstacles and tutting pedestrians.

In the past few months, I've nearly up-ended my precious cargo over a particularly problematic kerb, abandoned shopping because trying to manoeuvre down crowded aisles was annoying me as much as fellow shoppers, and had to do about-turns on pavements rendered impassable by vans or wheelie bins.  I've gone for lunch where they seated seven of us, each with a pram, on the mezzanine level, meaning we each had to stand sheepishly at the top of three steps waiting for staff to help us get back down again when it was time to leave.  I haven't even entertained the idea of taking a train anywhere, for fear that my peculiarly British trait of not wanting to ask for help will mean little miss and I are stranded at the stairs-only station all afternoon while my pleading looks inevitably end up looking more like resting bitch face.

Husband and I didn't really bring practicality into researching prams.  We reasoned that living in suburbia rather than the Serengeti meant we didn't need a zippy little all-terrain number, and ended up with a beautiful but bulky Italian model.  While the pram's perfectly serviceable, I regret now that we were sucked in by its impossibly chic promo video (glamorous madre in heels, padre in a sharp suit) and detachable coffee cup holder (which, in a bitter twist, doesn't even accommodate my cappuccinos) rather than considering whether it was up to the job of navigating clogged pavements, muddy parks and country roads.

So next time you find yourself tutting as you find your festive shopping put on hold by a struggling mother laden down with a squawking infant and a bevy of bags, please remember, when you become a pram-pusher, the world is no longer your oyster but an obstacle course.  I tell myself things will be different once little miss starts walking, but that's probably the festive delusion setting in!

Baby, I'm amazed

It's almost a year to the day since we found out that you were on your way, and that I'd be spending the festive season fooling no-one with my lame excuses for sobriety.  Your frantic arrival in July, three weeks earlier and a pound lighter than expected, turned our world upside down and shook it vigorously like a vibrant, sparkling snowglobe.  We're counting down to Christmas this year far worse off in terms of money, free time and sleep (I even need to schedule in time to cut my own toenails these days), but the giddy excitement that we're sharing it with the newest, cutest addition to our little family more than makes up for this.

In the first few weeks after welcoming you into the world, we quickly realised we had a little diva on our hands, with a fussy outlook, insatiable demands and a powerful, neighbour-bothering pair of lungs.  We decided that our little handful had small baby syndrome, and quite frankly, though you've almost tripled in weight since birth, you still do.  But I marvel every day at the speed at which you're learning and growing, the complex little personality emerging, how beautiful you're becoming.

There have been dark moments, of course.  The three threatened miscarriages which dominated the first half of my second trimester of pregnancy, each heavier and with a bleaker prognosis than the previous one.  Watching my tiny daughter trying to fight off an infection which laid her low at only two weeks old.  My own early episodes of weakness when I agonised over whether I knew what I was doing, if I would ever get a decent sleep again, when you would ever give us a sign that you felt we were up to the job and making you happy.

I needn't have worried on the last point.  Since you started rewarding our hamfisted but well-meant parenting efforts with gorgeous gurgles and smiles, I've realised that we're getting it right at least some of the time, and that despite being tiny, you can match the infinite amount of love we have for you.  I've seen snippets of a glorious, goofy sense of humour emerging, and even if you're the only person out there who finds mummy funny and appreciates my singing, amen to that.

This Christmas, I won't be stumbling up a snowy drive and fumbling for house keys at 4am after a long, boozy tour of High Wycombe's watering holes, and I won't be struggling to keep my Christmas lunch down as a result.  I probably will be up at 4am, for completely different reasons, and I'll be hoping you keep your lunch down so that it doesn't decorate that gorgeous but utterly impractical tartan frock I'm planning to dress you in.  You'll be too young to fully appreciate it, but we want to fill your Christmas with cuddles, sparkles and special moments, whilst probably palming you off on your extended family for an hour or two so that mummy can get a mulled wine and festive nap in.

This post may be an unashamed slice of soppiness, but it's nearly Christmas and, well, you're wonderful.  Thank you for enriching our lives, little miss, all our love, and happy Christmas.

It's a hard life...

I find it all too easy to feel a pang of jealousy towards my daughter in my weaker moments.  One of these days, I'd like to be wheeled around at a leisurely pace on my back rather than having to trudge through town, fed and cuddled on demand and, perhaps most pointedly, indulge in several daytime naps and an unbroken twelve hours' shuteye overnight (it's great that she's now sleeping through, but I doubt very much she's waking up in an 'are-they-breathing?' panic at multiple intervals in the same way that her parents are).

This envy usually evaporates though, when I consider the fact that being a baby isn't so easy after all.  From the moment that you're either squeezed out of a tiny orifice or wrenched into the open at birth, every day brings a learning curve and the necessity of adjusting to new sensations, surroundings and experiences.  The fact that little miss has just started teething makes me think about the on and off agony my wisdom teeth caused in my teens, and how the pain would have been all the more excruciating if it was completely new to me and not something I could relieve myself ('spread Calgel on my gums' is not the easiest request to decipher from a four-month-old).  There are plenty of other moments my daughter goes through which make me realise that actually it's a pretty hard life, being a baby:

• The fact that, no less than eight times over a (thankfully now over) eight-week phase, her tiny legs were jabbed with vaccines which made her sleepy, weepy and irritable.  However crucial they are, it's hard to explain that to a small baby's red, crumpled face after they'd previously been all smiles each time in the surgery waiting room.
• Although she's made it pretty clear from week one that she hates it with a passion, her mummy still plonks her on her tummy at multiple intervals during the day and waves toys above her head while she inevitably faceplants, drools and squawks.
• Every Monday, she's taken to a baby music class where she's wrestled into various positions regardless of how full her tummy or heavy her eyelids, forced to put up with a full hour of mummy's caterwauling and the even louder singing of the less self-conscious mums around her, and usually placed next to an over-zealous baby boy twice her weight who cuffs her round the face during an excited rendition of 'round and round the garden, like a teddy-bear'.
• Every month, she's taken to a cold, clinical space where she's stripped naked without warning, flung onto a pair of scales then has to undergo the humiliation of her mummy discussing her latest bowel movement in graphic detail with a health visitor.
• And finally, the fact that her mummy is already plotting various ridiculous outfits to dress her in over Christmas which will serve as blackmail fodder and boyfriend deterrent for many years to come.

So, next time you find yourself looking at your sweetly slumbering baby and get a case of the green -eyed monster, look at it this way: they need that sleep to grow and develop, but also to recover from all the crap you put them through!