One on One

That's over, then.

January's gone and good riddance. It's the month of the year I'm most rubbish at.  And, as I like a good list -  here's one to reflect on Things That I Failed To Achieve in January:

• Keeping my temper with Gilby
• Using the rowing machine
• Losing even a pound of weight
• Maintaining my blogging regime
• Serenity - generally

But we did start to achieve something that I had tried for last year: spending time independently with the kids. It was a thought I had a year ago when Gertie fell down a mountain and was in hospital.  I had to spend hours with her in intensive care and had plenty of time to realise that we never did that - just take time out with them individually.  (Not the circumstances I would choose, but it made the point.)

So - under far happier circumstances this year - Gilby got a father-son trip to the Emirates to watch his beloved Arsenal play in the FA cup.  Thankfully it was a win (against Sunderland) so record intact.

Gertie got a mother-daughter trip to Birmingham to see the Strictly Come Dancing Roadshow. Not bad photos with the zoom lens.  (Last year's Christmas present - not quite as good as the car, but up there.) It manages to casually suggest that we weren't in row ZZ:

And Eddie...well, neither of us are quite brave enough to tackle him alone, yet.  But he does do a nice impression of a snooker player:

He came last at his feis, but goodness me he looks the part.

And he has his sister to keep him in check when they are dancing.

His time will come.

Currently reading: The Fatal Englishman by Sebastian Faulks

The Look That Says It All

Sheepish.

Yes.  So ignore last post entirely.

Hospital telephoned on Friday to say that they had looked again at the x-ray and Eddie did in fact have a cracked elbow.

So, once again I find myself up for the worst mother award.

Poor little mite.  Just in time for the summer holiday.

It's A Shoe-On

We don't get out much. 

Even less, since the night time shenanigans began in earnest for Gilby in the run up to Christmas.  Nine weeks of interrupted sleep seems a lifetime, and I wouldn't want to inflict one of those tortured evenings on an unsuspecting baby-sitter.  But given that we have Lady Visa, our au pair, we thought we'd try it last night.  Just round to friends' for supper; a few streets away.  Easy to return if things kicked off back at home. We took the unusual precaution of pre-ordering a taxi, on the off-chance that one or two glasses of alcohol might be consumed.

We returned, relaxed(!) and refreshed at about quarter past eleven (phew - late night!) to find Gilby crying his eyes out, one shoe on, sitting by the back door trying desperately to pull the other shoe on.  Ouch.  That is the combined pain of my heart hurting, and the piercing stab of guilt. 

He was incoherent, but I'm assuming he must have wandered into our bedroom, realised that we weren't there, and, without checking Lady Visa, decided that he had been abandoned.His three year old mind had then hatched a wild plan to head out into the dark night to come and find us.  We live on a main road in the middle of nowhere.  Fast cars and no people!

Once we had calmed him down, he whispered in my ear that he was 'sorry for being naughty and for putting my shoes on, actually...'.  Ouch, ouch, ouch!

Sigh.  So there's guilt and there's...guilt.  It will be a while until we try to go out again, methinks.

Over the Moon (But No Cows Jumping)

For a long time now Eddy hasn't been growing very well.  He was a big baby at birth (9lb 10oz) but at the age of about seven weeks his growth seemed to tail off.  I wasn't too worried.  He had begun to sleep through the night (not fair, I know, but Gilby took over two years to perform this feat, so I feel like I've done my time).  The health-visitor was not impressed and suggested that I wake Eddy up to feed him in the night.  "But he sleeps through!  Why would you want to wake a sleeping baby?" I protested. 

"Perhaps he's too weak to wake himself up?" she suggested.

I nearly exploded with indignation.  Eddy, of the three, is by far my happiest, smiliest, most contented baby.  There couldn't possibly be anything wrong with him.

Aged 12 weeks

By about ten weeks, the health professionals were suggesting that I give him formula.  "But I have plenty of milk! He feeds very well. Isn't it good to breastfeed your baby?  It worked for the other two..."

Of course, I knew better, and ignored this advice until it was time to return to work and I needed to give Eddy formula.  As he began weaning he displayed a very healthy appetite, and never rejected a single food, often demanding 'seconds' right from six months.  Nothing wrong there, then.  Except that he continued to show poor weight gain until he dropped off the bottom of the chart.  He also didn't seem to want to sit up.  In an effort to get as much fat as possible into his diet, I frantically grated cheese into every meal I prepared for him.

Eventually we were referred to a consultant paediatrician.  I had to concede that there was a problem.  Various tests ensued.  None of which we have had the results for as yet.  Suddenly it all got a little bit scary. 

The consultant suggested that we eliminate dairy products entirely from Eddy's diet for 6-8 weeks, in spite of establishing that he never seemed uncomfortable after meal times, or displayed any of the classic symptoms of having a cow's milk allergy.  So we have a prescription formula free from cow's milk, and all dairy has gone from his diet.  No more manic cheese-grating.

Three weeks in and Eddy has jumped a percentile on the weight charts.  When I say 'jumped a percentile' what I actually mean is that he now registers somewhere on the chart instead of hovering below it in the blank space of nothingness.  He has also, aged eight months, learned how to sit unaided. 

Could it really be as simple as that?  We won't know for sure for a little while longer, but, fingers crossed!

Discussions in Lilliput

Parents' evening.

As a teacher I'm usually on the other side of the desk for parents' evening, but this week it was my turn to hear about the shortcomings or otherwise of my children. Except that at three-and-a-half and one-and-a-third respectively you might expect the issues to be a little different.

My husband and I dutifully squash ourselves down into the low mini-chairs that the children use, flesh oozing unattractively over the sides, to hear that all is wonderful in the pre-school world of Gertie (apart from the fact that they are not allowed to encourage her literacy, but we didn't seem to be able to bring that up). She is good and listens and is extremely helpful and always polite. Oh. Do they have the right child? We look through her 'Learning Journal' at all the boxes that have been ticked. There are a scary amount of categories in which she is expected to succeed, but she, and consequently we, appear to have passed most of the tests.

So the first meeting goes well. Smiling, we move on to Gilby. And we learn that he will be staying behind in the Baby Room (oh dear, being kept back already) because though he is due to move up to 'Toddlers' in six weeks time, he's not yet walking so it wouldn't be safe. So his Learning Journal has not so many boxes ticked and he seems to be a little, well, below average, in a few sections.

I try to explain that his elder sister was just as slow at getting to her feet, and that perhaps Gilby is compensating by, um, being good at words. Whilst his 'key-worker' is smiling and nodding sympathetically, I can't help feeling as though I have somehow engineered this slow-walking situation and am responsible for his disappointing behaviour.

So he's gone from being the youngest baby in the nursery by a good few months to being the oldest by some way. Still, the ratio of staff to children is better in this room, so every cloud...

We eventually make it to our feet, escaping from the Lilliputian chairs, and wonder what parents' evening will be like when they are both actually in school; when there are many, many more boxes to be ticked and tests to be passed.

And it seems that perhaps the issues aren't so very different after all.

Inner Ear and Inner Sanctum

More guilt from the 'recently-working-and-not-very-happy-about-it' mum this week.

My baby, Gilby, got an inner ear infection and I didn't notice it until after the worst was over. I came home on Thursday and spotted lots of nasty gunky stuff in both ears, so rushed him up to the surgery. The doctor actually said to me, "Well he's not in pain now, but he would have been two days ago..." Excuse me while I just punch myself in the head.

On the upside, I have been invited into the 'inner sanctum', as I was included in a night out with the Ummer Nursery Mums this week. (Gertie actually stopped substituting 'ummer' for 'other' a year ago, but for some reason neither my husband nor I have made the same linguistic leap...)

I don't know what I have done to deserve such an honour, but it was good fun and something of an eye-opener. Discussion involved the politics of the nursery (I simply had no idea!) and Other Children. It did make me wonder what might have been said about us on all previous nights out. Whilst the wine flowed, I felt that I was undergoing some kind of test.

Only another invitation will determine whether or not I passed, and meanwhile I will contempate whether or not I want to!

Chicken Scraps, Anyone?

Despite the snow's best efforts to prevent me, I have managed to get Gilby to his first few settling in sessions at nursery this week, in preparation for my return to work.

Feeling guilty about the whole process anyway, I have taken extra care with packing his bag and preparing his lunch and bottles. Everything is carefully named; special 'dishwasher-proof' labels on the plastic items and his cot sheets have his name sewn in. I never do sewing! It is as though all this extra detail will somehow make up for the fact that I will not be with him through the day soon.

Anyway, he went off for his first half-day yesterday, and the one thing I had forgotten to get was a lunch-box for him. So I just took an old ice-cream container, put his name on the top and filled it with all his goodies. He's only just weaning so we are still at the mush and puree stage.

Now, I also keep an old ice-cream container near the sink to fill with scraps for the chickens. It makes me feel good to throw out less rubbish, and the chickens feast on Gertie's left over porridge, the vegetable peelings, the remains of supper. You know where this is going, don't you?

My husband did the nursery run yesterday morning, taking Gertie and Gilby in together for the first time. He was explaining all the timings carefully to the nursery carer who would have responsibilty for Gilby.

"And my wife has made him a delicious lunch..." and he lifted the lid of the carton with a flourish - to reveal the extremely unappetising chicken scraps. You quite literally would not feed them to a dog.

Failed again!

(Much laughter ensued, and he did come back and get the right box but I have a feeling that I will not be allowed to forget this...)

One Large Parcel of Guilt, Perfectly Wrapped

I'm carrying around a large parcel of guilt and it's not just a result of the Catholic education, though I'm sure that features.

I was set to go back to work on Friday. Full time. Gilby is not quite sixth months, but given term times, exam classes, financial considerations and all the rest of it, this seemed like the moment.

He was booked in for 'familiarisation' sessions at the local nursery. He will be going three days a week. His sister is already there and she will be attending on the same days. So far so good. On the other days I have an ex-student coming over from Australia to look after them, and Daddy will have one of those mornings off too, to take them both to their swimming lessons. And the grandparents are all very supportive. Great.

But the snow interfered with Gilby having his practice gos at nursery as it was closed last week. So now I am supposed to return to work without even being sure that he is settled. My Australian friend has problems with her visa and has not yet booked flights. And to make things worse, when we visited this morning, I discovered that he is the youngest baby at the nursery by three months.

What on earth does that say?

So all in all, for what would be a difficult time anyway, my guilt and anxiety are growing by the second. It's not feeling very happy-new-yearish any more!