January Blues

Hearth-Father is in the throes of some sort of mid-life crisis.

We have a rowing machine in our bedroom.

Alcohol is but a distant memory, 'carbohydrate' has become a dirty word, sugar is the devil's work.
In a thank you letter to friends who invited us for supper last weekend, I felt the need to apologise for our 'uncharacteristic sobriety' and promise that it wouldn't happen again. 'Microbiome' has entered our vocabulary.

In the sixteen years that we have been together I have never known Hearth-Father come home from work and not have a glass of cider. Men's Health magazine has a lot to answer for.

Time to take stock as we near the end of our self-imposed Dry January.

I should be pounds heavier in the bank from all of the money saved from not buying wine. Surely?
I should be pounds lighter in the flesh from all the healthy eating...?

Neither.

And, for some reason, I seem to shout at the kids more.

Roll on February.



Currently reading: The Gut Makeover by Jeanette Hyde (in keeping with the theme)

When Honesty is Not the Best Policy

After working on manners over the holiday, I think I need to move on to lessons in diplomacy.

My children are...too honest, it seems.  The latest example came in the confines of the family changing cubicle at our local swimming pool.

"Mummy's tummy is very wobbly!" pronounced one, to the general giggles and chortlement of the others as I was busy getting changed.  Chortlement, of course, isn't actually a word, but should be, since it so accurately describes the atmosphere within the cubicle.  Though Mummy, it has to be said, was not feeling it.

Particularly not as she had spent the summer determined to get into shape, swimming 30-50 lengths three times a week (and every day on holiday), not to mention occasionally bypassing the camembert and brie.

"Yes," she snapped.  Notice I do this third person thing when I don't come out of a situation glowingly. "And her tummy is mostly wobbly because it's had you three in it!"

There.  That really told them.

It was on a par with them discussing the fact that Daddy could never have head-lice because his hairs weren't close enough together.  Must admit that caused me a small amount of chortlement.

Or when they decided that Nano looked exactly like Mummy only one hundred times wrinklier.

So, I look forward to turning into a wobblier, wrinklier version of myself as the years pass by; and for it not to be acknowledged openly by my children as they gradually become more diplomatic versions of themselves.  (Or possibly not, in Eddie's case.)



Currently Reading: A Possible Life by Sebastian Faulks

Ouch

I remember being at a cricket match about three years ago and having a drink with another Mother who at the time had two young boys. She asked idly, just to make conversation, I think, how many times we'd had to go to casualty.

Gertie was four, immaculately behaved with a penchant for sedate pastimes like reading and beading.  Dipping her toe into waves at the seaside was about the limit of her daredevil activity.

I laughed and thought the other mother was joking.  But no, it transpired that this was a regular occurrence in her household.  There had been falling out of trees, from bikes, in the playground.  It was a world alien to me as I cradled my baby boy and watched as Gertie worked away at her tapestry.  (I embellish a little, for narrative effect, but you get the idea.)

Fast forward to last weekend and our very first 'A&E' experience.  Another sunny Saturday afternoon at the cricket, home team on the verge of what would be a tight victory. A cry from the long grass.  Gertie comes running over because Eddie has fallen.  Eddie's arm hangs limply by his side and he is emitting a strange wail that I have never heard before.  I scoop him up in my arms and run to Hearth-father pronouncing that we have a 'situation' on our hands.  There is an off-duty nurse at the pitch side.  She takes a look and doesn't like what she sees.

Hearth-father looks longingly at what is left in his pint glass and decides that it isn't worth the risk with the inevitable drive to the hospital ahead.

Hearth-granny is called to babysit the big kids.  Hearth-mother is crying, convinced that x-rays will reveal the worst.  (She's not entirely sure why she has slipped in to third person at this stage, except that it also contributes to narrative effect.) Eddie doesn't stop screaming for the entire journey, despite being cradled by his mother all the way.  She feels every bump and jolt and corner even more than she did in labour on the same route two and a half years ago.

It is Saturday night and the accident and emergency department is standing-room only.  A queue of unfortunates line up waiting to be seen.  Eddie has cried himself to sleep and now looks unconscious, which gains some sympathetic glances from the other casualties.

The triage nurse provides painkillers and unhelpfully wakes Eddie in the process of weighing him.  Agrees that the signs are not good.  Eddie perks up a bit when he sees the toys in the paediatric waiting room, and we are at least now away from the drunken melee in the main waiting area.  Eddie tries to play, but cannot move his arm and feebly plays left-handed.  Another boy, about the same age is being tickled by his daddy.  Eddie wants us to do the same, but is too protective of his arm to find a giggle.

Two hours pass.  All the toys have been played with.  Conversations have been struck up with the other parents.  Everyone now knows everyone else's business.  Eddie has inadvertently revealed that Gertie was giving him a piggy back when he fell, much to the consternation of his parents and the amusement of everyone around. Oh.  That puts a slightly different complexion on things, exacerbating the extent of the injury.  He has fallen from a greater height than we originally thought.

Two more hours pass. There are still fourteen people ahead of us to be treated.  Eddie is becoming increasingly fractious (that's one of my favourite euphemisms). We decide to leave and get some sleep.  It it past midnight by the time we reach home.

Eddie wakes screaming at 2am and we give him more medicine.  In the morning his arm is still useless.  He tries to eat cereal and screams as he raises the spoon.  We phone NHS direct and they advise us to go straight back to casualty.  We cancel our plans for a visit to friends, and bring plenty of snacks and activities to the hospital.  The big kids are excited by the adventure, though Gertie is a little sheepish about her role in events, and her reluctance to impart crucial information the previous evening.

Three hours and three x-rays later, we discover there is nothing wrong.  Nil. Nada.  Eddie high-fives me. With his bad hand.  Which has miraculously come back to life with the news. I manage to refrain from throttling him in full view of a number of health officials.  It really is a very good job that he's cute.

We try to salvage something of the day by going out for lunch, but Eddie is grumpy and we abandon the mission. Hearth-mother is unsympathetic. (See, detaching myself again).

Eddie wakes up on Monday morning and with a twinkle in his eye asks if we can go back to the hospital and play with the toys.  My response is unpublishable.

I come home from work to find that his nanny is 'really worried about him' and has him lying on the sofa with his arm in a sling.  She is mopping his brow.  Seems perturbed when I am undisturbed.  Eddie realises that the game is up and hops up smartly to begin playing with his siblings...

Ouch.  Not sure who has been hurt more by the whole episode.  I am just aware that I lost seven hours this weekend that I won't get back.  Eddie: not his real name.  Might change it to 'Flimflammer'.


Currently reading: You Talkin to Me? By Sam Leith

Jeans Blues

I have, this morning, much to my surprise, managed to squeeze myself into a pair of pre-Gertie jeans. 

I have therefore disproved the well-known (to myself) proverb that you can't teach old jeans a new body, and though they no longer make the most comfortable outfit, and I shan't be sporting a cropped top with them, there is something deeply satisfying about the achievement. 

The joy this brings is marred somewhat by the realisation that they are probably eight to ten years past their fashion-date, being rather more on the flared side of bootcut, and of an indigo that hasn't been seen on the high street in a while.  Sod it.  I'm wearing them anyway.

This is a post that won't be receiving a pictorial accompaniment...

Wonders of Wimbledon

Gertie loves Wimbledon, for two reasons as far as I can see.

I try to watch as much tennis as possible during the tournament (on television, of course - haven't made it to the championships since children arrived on the scene) and so for Gertie it means time spent with Mummy cheering on Andy Murray. There's a sort of osmosis happening here, because she likes the things that Mummy likes. (I know that will not last, so I'm just enjoying it while it does.) More importantly, though, for Gertie, it sometimes means late nights, staying up past bedtime, and it often means strawberries and ice-cream in front of the televison. Two treats that happen rarely at other times of the year.

Gertie enjoyed seeing Serena Williams win this afternoon, (though her delight was in how many people she cuddled at the end and the size of the plate, more than in the performance itself) and was fascinated to hear that this was Serena's fifth Wimbledon title.

Whilst her enthusiasm doesn't quite match that of her mother's, Gertie's very much looking forward to tomorrow and seems excited that Murray is in the final.

"So how many times has Andy Murray won it before?" she asked, conversationally, as Serena did her post-match interview.
"He hasn't."
"Oh. So he's not very good, then?"

I started explaining how difficult it was to win Wimbledon and then gave up, bowing down to the logic and clarity of the five-year-old mind. Just hoping that tomorrow changes that mind, though.

And, speaking of changed minds: after my last post about the excitement of Eddie putting on weight, it seems that the health visitor made a mistake with the scales and he hasn't jumped up onto the chart at all. I'm sure there's a full blog post hidden in there somewhere, but at the moment I'm too angry to think about it.

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!

Old Enough and Large Enough to Know Better

January is a time when thoughts inevitably turn to getting fit, being healthier and losing weight - and clearly, when the new year 'detox' fails, the solution is gym membership.

If you have not succumbed already, then a word of caution. Last September I signed up as a member of my local golf club. This has nothing to do with a passion for golf (it is a silly game that I am rubbish at) and everything to do with a multi-million pound refurbishment of the gym, swimming pool and spa and very reasonable off-peak membership - £36 a month to include all classes and as many visits as you can make. They also have a wonderful creche.

So obviously I am regularly swanning around in lycra, receiving admiring glances at my svelte and trim post-pregnancy figure. Well, no. Because of course with two small children and in spite of the 'wonderful creche' there is never any time to go. I have calculated that my average visit costs £18. This goes up dramatically if I am forced to use the creche (not included in the membership and payable by the hour). A bargain!

And this is not the first time I have been suckered in to unrealistic gym memberships; in waving goodbye to my monthly direct debit I might as well throw a bundle of tenners into the passing wind every four weeks. I am old enough and 'large' enough to know better!

This is my 50th post - how did that happen? And written in response to this week's writing workshop posted by Josie at Sleep is for the Weak: What I am unable to learn no matter how hard I try.

Weighty Issues

Earlier this week I had to visit the health visitor and the vet within the space of an hour. Both appointments followed a remarkably similar pattern and included my baby and the cat (Iggy) being weighed. Both, it seems, are doing fine.

So Gilbert is a healthy baby boy, hovering around the '75th percentile' and staying nicely on his curve. This apparently means that although he is above average weight we don't need to worry about anything. He is 16 weeks old now, and the contrast between this and his sister could not be marked.

She was born nearly two and a half pounds lighter, nearly two and a half years ago. The pregnancies were very similar (though I was much sicker second time around) and I put on approximately the same amount of weight during each. I have breastfed both, introducing a single bottle of formula at around the 14 week mark.

But first time round the health professionals would not leave me alone. Gertie remained on the '4th percentile' and they insisted that she was weighed weekly. I was constantly made to feel inadequate for the slow rate at which she gained her weight, and felt incredible pressure to stop breast-feeding in order to ensure that she got all that she needed.

In fact I did not do this but carried on feeding her myself until she was nearly 16 months, although I worried about her continuously for the first six months until she was also taking on some solids.

She remains around average height, but slightly below average weight, so a slim build. She has been very healthy during her short life so far, and I know that by the time she is in her teens she will thank me for her slender frame, and that all the anxiety will have been needless.

I have done nothing differently for the new baby: my diet is the same as it always was, he feeds a similar amount. And yet I am praised for his 'bonny' development. I have done nothing, as far as I can see, to influence this. And so it makes me a little bit cross. I have come to the conclusion that babies are just the size they are, and a new mum should not be made to feel terrible (and certainly not consider giving up breast-feeding) because they don't conform to a silly chart.

And the irony of the whole story really lies with the cat, I think: the vet was delighted with her condition and her weight.

"You're obviously doing a wonderful job of looking after her. She's in a tip-top state for her age."

Hmm. Right. I didn't bother to explain that Iggy rarely puts in an appearance at home during the summer; Though her food and water bowls go down and get refilled with regularity, her ladyship is entirely elusive. We occasionally catch the odd glimpse and are lucky if we manage to find her to flea her. I have no idea where she sleeps between April and October. But as soon as the weather turns cold and wet she plants herself in front of the fire and doesn't move from our hearth until March.

So she has only been back being 'looked after' for about a fortnight. Lucky, really, that we're doing such a good job...