At Least She Doesn't Go Up To 11

One of the slightly dimmer children in my mother's classroom, upon seeing this picture on the wall, asked if the volume knob actually worked.

Tattoo Designs

As some of you may remember, I've got ink. Of course, being as addictive as it is, the birth of a child is too large an opportunity to pass up for another appointment with the needle to burn another piece of permanancy into my flesh. (Tattoos are weird that way.)

Just trying to get a consensus on the design.

These are the Chinese Symbols for "mother" and "daughter". (Mother is the larger one on top) These would be joining two other Chinese symbols on my back.

This is a little design that I've come up with in Photoshop. May I just say hooray for the text to path feature previously only available in Illustrator? Obviously, this is the Prawn's name. Some people have commented that it is slightly hard to read, but I think I'm okay with that, as I think it looks nice as a pattern on it's own.



Both designs leave the option for a second one should be we lucky enough to have a second child. I can either add another "daughter" or "son" to the first one or a second name "wreath".

What do you ladies think? So far, the name wreath has the most votes, but I'm really open to either of them

Playtime

The arrival of the Prawn also heralded the arrival of many stuffed animals in our household. While is it very sweet to have a shelf of furry creatures with glassy eyes staring at our offspring, she unfortunately doesn’t seem to be all that keen on any of them just yet. We assume that she will make her own decisions on favourites, but we have to admit to a bit of lobbying on our part for 3 favourites of our OWN.

Sir Humphrey Bollagard: An extremely soft, cuddly donkey type creature bought by my virtual sister in law. (My b.i.l’s girlfriend who it’s painfully obvious to everyone that he’s going to marry) He started out as just Humphrey, as it seemed suitable name, but then Mr. DD began to use him as a crotch guard while changing The Prawn when it became obvious that she was making a serious kicking attempt to scupper plans for possible siblings, so he became Humphrey Bollagard. He was knighted after sterling service in the nappy changing arena.

He has one black mark against him however since he scared the living hell out of her on at least one occasion. Note: Don't place an unfamiliar stuffed toy on baby's lap when they are asleep.

I have mixed feelings about my child telling people that her donkey is called Sir Humphrey Bollagard, but you have to keep other people on their toes.


Ugly Worm: A gift from the Prawn’s godmother, my best friend from college.

As a recovering D&D player, I was actually mulling over the purchase of a cuddly Cthulu but my friend got this repulsive, yet cuddly beast for her goddaughter. Mr. DD doesn’t think he is as suitable a favourite as Sir Humphrey, but the lingering subversive gamer in me hopes that the Prawn will take Ugly Worm to her spit-covered bosom.

As I am a great imitator of ideas, I would dearly like to have a go at making an Ugly Doll myself. I am not, by any means, a seamstress, but I think I could probably handle an amorphus blob, a big creepy eye and a couple of teeth.

Many more Ugly Dolls are available from their home website.

Nichales Cow: I bought Nichlaes Cow way back in May of last year, before I was even pregnant. I loved his little face and hoped that we’d be able to have a child to enjoy him as much as I did. I highly recommend Nordic Kids, by the way, for unique baby stuff. Chances are, if I buy baby gifts, I buy them from there. The same manufacturer also makes a similar cuddly pig (which we have gifted to two other babies) and more recently, a cat.) I also own the change purse that bears his likeness, so, as you can see, I'm a big fan.

He is not quite as cuddly or large as either Sir Humphrey or the Worm, but what he lacks in cuddliness and size he makes up for in charm.

Musicality

In our quest to make the Prawn into a well rounded human being, we’ve tried to fill her life with as much music as possible. Indeed, she attended at least 3 gigs before she was even born. While she seems to be quite enamoured of Green Day and fairly tolerant of just about all of the rest of our record collection, we thought it was probably prudent to invest in some children’s music to make sure she doesn’t have any rage issues from being exposed to repeated listenings of Appetite for Destruction at an early age.

I went browsing on Amazon.com for suitable Prawn-friendly tunes and after handing over a fair amount of cash, I received a package from the States with many hours of listening pleasure in it. Children’s music can be so, so SO AWFUL and I was willing to part with a fair sum of cash to make sure that my daughter didn’t grow up believing “The Wheels On the Bus” sung by people that sound as though they have frighteningly white, sharp teeth was not the limit of her musical horizon. (Not that there’s anything wrong with “The Wheels on the Bus”. They’ve got to learn the basics of public transportation somehow. The wipers going swish, horn going beep…they pretty much have it covered except for the drunk next to you who goes puke, puke puke.)

First and foremost among my purchases was Peter, Paul and Mommy, the classic children’s album that was a classic even by the time /I/ started listening to it. The first track, “Marvelous Toy” had me in floods of tears as I remember quite clearly my mother and father singing it to me. The Prawn looked bemused; the whole sunrise/sunset thing was slightly lost on her. The rest of the album was not quite as perky as I remembered it although see seemed to enjoy “Daddy’s Taking Us to the Zoo Tomorrow”. I urged her not to take it literally as there is little time this week available for zoo visitation. (Luckily, there IS quite a good one just over the hill, filled with bears that are huff-huff-a-puffin, monkeys scritch-scritch-a scratchin and seals honk-honk-a-honkin.)

A friend's gift of Elizabeth Mitchell’s “You Are My Little Bird” after the Prawn was born turned me onto the children’s folk artist in a big way, inspiring me to download “You are My Flower” and purchase “You Are My Sunshine”. Although the latest album is by far the most polished, there are some lovely gems on her earlier recordings. Despite my rawk leanings, I’m really kind of a floaty, folk chick at heart who enjoyed living in a same sex dormitory in college and singing along loudly to the Indigo Girls. (No joke. I totally went to Lillith Faire) Mitchell obviously takes her folk music seriously (anyone who invokes the name of Woody Guthrie usually does) so I’m pleased to have her warbling away in my living room on most mornings.

No children’s record collection would be complete without at least one Dan Zanes album, I’m lead to believe, so, invariably, the Prawn now owns one. I don’t know much about him other than that he’s the Raffi of the day. (I can’t say I ever listened to Raffi, but kids went apeshit for him. But then again, kids also went apeshit for Bananas in Pajamas, which scared the hell out of me, so who knows WHAT’s going to turn the little buggers on?) I enjoyed the album a lot, although I believe that the Prawn will most likely enjoy it when she is slightly older. While Mitchell’s music is repetitive and fairly simple in structure, Zanes’ is slightly more complex, not to mention banjo heavy. I’m sure it will provide many happy hours of bopping around the living room for a toddler.

Along with the aforementioned Sesame Street Bathtime Sing-a-long and a Putomayo Playground compilation, I’m sure the Prawn is now musically tooled. For curiosity’s sake, please feel free to share childhood musical memories of your own!

Show Us Your Righteous Indignation

I have taken to taking the Prawn out for afternoon strolls in her buggy. I was once led to believe that small babies are quite passive and happy to stay where they are put, gleaning information from the world around them, ready to impart what they have learned in a philosophical treatise entitled, “Mama, Dada and Doggie: Nouns, Caregivers and Face-lickers” when they turn 9 months old or so. However, I found that I was much mistaken. The Prawn is BORED and lets us know by telling us, “ATTENTION PARENTAL UNITS. STIMULATE MY BRAIN OR FEEL MY WRAAAAAAAAAAATH!!” Hence, the daily change of scenery.

Yesterday, as I made my way up the sidewalk with the Prawn, a boy, on the unchanged voice side of puberty shouted out a window of a taxi at me, urging me to display a set of familiar female body parts.

There are many things that one thinks of saying long after a speeding car with a rude pre-pubescent wank-pot in it has disappeared, (i.e. “I would but you wouldn’t know what to do with them.”, “Come back when your balls drop”, etc) but nothing really covers the disgust that one feels when hearing something like that out of the mouth of a child while you yourself are pushing your 3 month old daughter up the street in her buggy. Having been to college in a small midwestern town with a high pick up truck/population ratio, I have experienced this phenominon on many occasions, but almost always from the person who was DRIVING the truck rather than someone who should be strapped into a booster seat in the back.

It got me thinking, on the rest of my stroll (The Prawn, who is supposed to BENEFIT from the change of scenery, fell fast asleep and when we returned home looked at me reproachfully as if to say, “Weren’t we going to GO somewhere, you lazy wench?”) about the whole nature vs. nurture argument. It’s fairly obvious to me that one can’t rely on either one or the other to completely shape a child, although either can limit the extent of his or her horizons. Children obviously aren’t BORN with a need to behave like utter asshats- asshattery is a learned skill. In the case of my squeaky friend, my guess is that he’s heard such phrases from his father or older brother with startling regularity. Obviously, I began composing an open letter in my head that I would dearly like to stick on the village notice board.

To the caregivers of the vile whelp who verbally assaulted me on Marsworth Road, 6th of June, 2007,

If you will pardon my tone, just what in the name of holy hell are you doing in that home of yours that makes your ignorant man-cub think that it’s okay to shout “show us your tits!” to a lone woman pushing a baby buggy up the road?

You are clearly inbreds and should be locked in public stocks and pelted with rotten tomatoes at earliest convenience.

Love and kisses,

Rockmama

Battle of the Bulge

I realized that there were some hard truths to be faced this week when I begged MR. DD to drag 3 heavy boxes of summer clothes down out of our stuffy attic so that I could stop sweating profusely in my winter long sleeves. (The fact that the weather has now turned slightly more “seasonal” is not lost on me)

When one blows up a balloon for the first time and then deflates it, one will notice that it is no longer the taut, rubber bit of merriment that it once was. It does, in fact, more resemble a deflated testicle than a previously entertaining bit of latex. So it goes when inflating a human belly. There are, shall we say, bits left over that made it well nigh impossible to fit into ANY of my previously worn summer clothing without said bits hanging unceremoniously out the bottom. There were very nearly tears. And so it came to pass that I ended up in our local shopping centre looking for something to clothe myself with that didn’t make me look like a whale that wandered up a shallow tributary.

I can’t say that fashion interests me. Fashion is for people with too much time and money on their hands. Fashion is for people who conveniently “forget” to wear underwear to nightclubs and then make damn sure they open their legs wider than the Grand Canyon while getting out of their car so that the assembled throng of camera jockeys can get their money shot that will inevitably make it onto the pages of tabloids everywhere, but that’s ok because AT LEAST PEOPLE ARE TALKING ABOUT ME. The only time that fashion interests me is when it precludes me from dressing myself in a flattering manner.

I’m in luck this summer, because the “thing” seems to be long shirts that cover a multitude of sins as well as reproductive detritus. Some of these “things” are very flattering- empire waist tank tops, etc. But, is it me, or do the vast majority of these “things” happen to be shapeless sacks that flatter NO ONE including the morbidly thin? How does something that makes someone like Kiera Knightly look like she’s been eating butter on EVERYTHING including breakfast cereal become popular? Something that looks bad on thin girls and fat girls alike shouldn’t be flying off the shelves. (And can we not even talk about the cropped 80’s “Desperately Seeking Susan” leggings that seem to be making a comeback? For anyone with calves of a circumference greater than coke can, these are a real no-no. Kiera Knightly, for example, or perhaps the Olsen twins, are the only people I’ve seen who make them work without looking like they belong on the US Olympic hurdling team.)

I managed to acquire a few items of clothing that I’m promising myself that I WON’T be wearing next summer; hopefully not even at the end of THIS summer. While I spent most of my pregnancy thanking the almighty that I wasn’t carrying through the heat of summer, I failed to realize that I would be giving birth too near to swimsuit season to have a chance in hell of not looking vast. While Hollywood people seem to emerge from the hospital wearing size 0 clothes, the majority of us do not. (I have a theory that no one in Hollywood actually gets pregnant. They pay surrogates and strap on a fake belly for 9 months. It’s the only real explaination.)

Size 0, however, is not my goal. I’d settle for a size 12 at the moment. Here’s to the hard work ahead.

Beware the Firm Who's Name Rhymes With "Mountie"

Changing the Prawn has recently become just about as easy as diapering an octopus. She seems to sprout limbs when I get her on the changing mat and uses every single one of them to make the process as difficult as possible. So, imagine my joy when the phone rang today, just as I’d gotten the bottom half of her babygro off.

Oh, how I hate unsolicited phone calls. Telemarketing is evil and no one can convince me otherwise, but there is a special circle of hell reserved for these particular telemarketers.

Possibly the day after my c-section when I was felt like Atilla the Hun was making war on my midsection and that Fog that eats people was camped out in my centre of higher reasoning, a woman came by my bed. She asked me for some details, my address, phone number, etc. Taking her for a nurse, I answered her questions, hoping maybe she’d give me some more drugs. But all she left was a bag filled with samples, which was vaguely confusing.

It wasn’t until several days later that I twigged who had visited my bedside; a member of a rather well known marketing firm here in the UK. I felt like the top of my head was about to come off when I realized that the hospital had allowed this vulture onto a ward full of drugged up and highly confused women and allowed her to take personal details.

So, guess who was on the phone today?

Picking up the writhing Prawn, I went to answer the phone only to find this unscrupulous marketing firm on the other end.

“Just calling today to find out if you’d invested your £250 Child Trust Fund voucher, madam.”

Did I tell her that I found her firm’s methods odious? Did I tell her that I would happily set fire to the next member of her company who dared contact me? No.

“This is a really bad time,” I told her as the Prawn let out a shriek and tried to escape my grasp. I hung up before I could hear the rest of her apology.

Wankers.

A Public Service Announcement

No matter HOW cute they may be looking, it is completely unacceptable to eat your baby.

The Origin of the Species

I've found myself being slightly disconcerted recently by the realization that if Mr. Darwin had had his way, most likely, neither I nor the Prawn would be be here now.

This occured to me the first time soon after the c-section. If my cervix wasn't going to open after 3 days and a lot of fairly strong drugs, there was a good chance that it wasn't opening for for anybody. It doesn't take a degree in history to know what would have happened to me in the days before medicine.

As if that weren't enough, there's also the breastfeeding situation.

As much as I've been trying to convince myself that I don't feel guilty for my lack of success with breastfeeding, but the truth is, I do. My production is ridiculously low. I have tried breast massage. I have tried pumping well beyond when the breast is empty to stimulate production. I have tried Fenugreek. I have tried it all. But nothing seems to be working. If I get two lots of 80 mls a day, I'm lucky. In the days before formula, it also doesn't take a genius to know what fate would have befallen my daughter.

Health care professionals seem to be quite keen to point out the obvious to me. "You do know that breastfeeding is best for your baby?" one stern health visitor asked when I told her I'd been forced to suppliment. No, I thought, I must have missed that part of pre-natal class and the roughly 8 billion posters stuck to the walls of every health care facility I've visited for the last year, plus be bereft of an ounce of common sense. Telling me that I'm nutritionally failing my child when I'm already acutely aware of the fact is helping a lot, really it is. It also doesn't help that local NHS Trusts have breastfeeding targets to maintain funding, so it's not really in their interests to make me feel better about my situation.

That the Prawn is here at all is a minor miracle in my book. She's a tremendously happy and healthy baby. I just wish I could rid myself of the guilt of failing her.

It Has to Be Said

Okay, this story has been chapping my ass all week. I’ve wanted to write about it, but have been restraining myself.

First off, there can be nothing more horrifying in a parent’s life than a child being abducted. Nothing. It’s beyond awful. I check back with the BBC several times a day to see if any headway has been made in the search for this little girl and hope against hope that this story has a happy ending.

But.

Can anyone please tell me how any parent can think that leaving 3 children under 4 alone in a flat while you have dinner at a restaurant up the street is a good idea? The missing girl’s grandparents are quoted as saying that anyone who criticizes her parents is “misguided” and “has got it all wrong.” Excuse me, but did they or did they NOT leave 3 TODDLERS alone in a flat?

What blows me away further is that these are not stupid people. They are both doctors, which indicates a fairly high level of education. It is incomprehensible then, that no matter how “safe” they felt their resort community was, that they should have even considered leaving their children alone.

Let us put aside for a moment the whole pervert/pedo/deviant lurking in the bushes outside the window angle of abandoning a 3 year old and two 2 year olds in an apartment. THEY’RE 2 AND 3 YEAR OLDS. Do you know what they do? ANYTHING THEY FEEL LIKE DOING UP TO AND INCLUDING SETTING FIRES AND LICKING WALL SOCKETS.

When I was about 11 or 12, I babysat for my neighbor’s children who were maybe 5 and 3 at the time. 20 minutes after putting them to bed, I began to hear strange thumping noises coming from upstairs that were managing to cut through the soundtrack of whatever R rated film I’d chosen from their VHS collection for my viewing entertainment that I never in a million years would have been allowed to watch at home. You know what they were doing? CUTTING EACHOTHER’S HAIR. WITH PINKING SHEARS. Where they got them, I have NO idea. (Both of these children are now on the other side of college. God, how old am I?) At any rate, this adventure into the world of hairdressing happened with me simply downstairs and not a few hundred yards up the road.

I’ve gotten that off my chest now. If you have a moment this week, spare some good thoughts for the McCann family.

Sorry, Sorry, Sorry, Sorry....

OMG.

I know. Enough with the Prawn pictures.

But...

Damn.

Hands of Fury

Based on a lifetime spent watching nature programs on television and the last 6 weeks watching the Prawn, I’ve become increasingly baffled as to how we’ve managed to succeed as a species due to the fact that babies are really a bit useless.

This is not to say I don’t totally adore my useless baby. On the contrary I love every finger and toe on her squishy little pink body. But when compared with the offspring of other species, who are pretty much independent straight from the womb, she’s a little dopey. In the wild, her mother probably would have eaten her. This is, of course, the price we pay for our big brains; they take a good old while to jump start.

At the moment, it’s her hands that are bothering me; and coincidentally, bothering her as well. They seem to belong to someone else. A while back, a viral video was circulating the internet featuring a dog who’s hind leg seemed to have a mind of it’s own, causing the dog to attack himself. This is kind of how it goes with The Prawn. Her hands, under the direction of some obscenely gleeful puppet master, take great pleasure in pummelling her tiny head.

So we’ve started swaddling her at night and sometimes during the day if she’s particularly fussy. I’ve read some anti-swaddling propaganda on certain fringe websites, (it’s cruel, it’s restrictive, blah, blah, blah) but seeing as how the practice is thousands of years old, they can go suck it. Swaddling, of course, has it’s most famous proponent in the Bible. If the Virgin Mary thought it was good enough to keep the son of God from punching himself in the freaking face every 5 seconds, it’s good enough for the Prawn.

I’ve been told that The Prawn will eventually gain control of her limbs and cease trying to perpetuate this early form of self-harming and use her hands for good rather than ill. There are enough perils in the world that I must try to keep my child from without having to worry about her being one of them.

The Mommy Conundrum

Truman Capote once wrote that there are more tears shed over answered prayers than unanswered ones. Truman Capote, being a sensationally egomaniacal twerp, not to mention notorious homosexual deeply entrenched in the party scene in 1960’s New York obviously never considered infertility. However, these words sprang to mind around 4.30 this morning when my daughter’s regular velociraptor noises became a full throated wail and I was forced to abandon all notion of getting back to sleep in order to bring her into the living room to rock her in the rocking chair. The blackbird in the tree in the neighbor’s garden began to sing just after I sat down. I wanted to throw something, but I didn’t have anything to hand.

I knew I’d be doing this post soon enough. It seems that most blogs, even ones dealing with life after infertility, contain at LEAST one post who’s gist is, “I know that I wanted this more than anything on the planet, BUT….” I’ll apologise up front for it; I know how ungrateful it sounds. I also know that in a few months, things will most likely be better and I’ll believe that The Prawn shits sunshine and roses, but at present, I’m spending a lot of the day wanting to hide under the bed.

Ms. Prufrock, of Barren Albion wrote once, when her newborn was in middle of the worst of her GERD, that she was sure that she LOVED her daughter, but wasn’t sure that she LIKED her all that much. I’ve seen this sentiment expressed in more and more mommy blogs, which makes me feel not quite so much like a jerk. These women’s experiences helped to prepare me to accept that I might not have that love-at-first-sight experience, so it wasn’t massively disappointing when I didn’t. In fact, due to my obscenely bad hospital experience, I felt more like I’d been ambushed by a baby rather than having given birth to one.

There are some moments when it is extremely easy to like the Prawn; when she coos and smiles (this is a new trick and it won’t be long before she realizes that she can use it as a potent weapon against us.) and naps with her tiny mouth open, but the thing that sleeps in the cot at the end of our bed is a totally different creature. I mean, if someone walked into your bedroom several times during the night and went, “AAARRGGBBBBLLLLPPFTTTAH!” for hours on end, after you’d done everything in your power to meet their needs, chances are, they wouldn’t be on the top of your favourite person list. Chances are, you’d phone the police. So, why does anyone expect you to feel differently about a baby?

To add to my feelings of mommy guilt, my breastmilk supply is really not all it should be. I can hear the rattlings of the La Leche League sabers and before any of them can tear the flesh from my bones, I will admit that I probably didn’t give breastfeeding the best shot I could have. Whether expressly expressing is the “easy option” I’m not sure, (I spend twice as long on the feeding process- first extracting the milk and THEN trying to get it down the Prawn’s gullet) but it doesn’t seem to be good in supply terms. I pump every time after we feed her, whether the feeding is a breastmilk one or a formula one. The health visitor gave me a disapproving look when I mentioned that we were supplementing with formula (by supplementing, I mean half and half, but I didn’t really want to tell her that.) and told me that it was just something that I’d have to accept since I didn’t choose to feed from the breast. Not the most helpful of statements, since, during the second week of her life, the Prawn spent a lot of time screaming because she was hungry and I was TOLD to supplement. I’ve ordered some fenugreek (which sounds like some weird continental cheese to me) online as I’ve heard that it can boost production. (So can oatmeal, apparently, but no one is going to be served if I spend the morning throwing up due to it’s absolutely vile consistency, so I’ll try the fenugreek.)

The Prawn is currently asleep in her father’s lap. Swaddled in her pink cellular blanket, gently snoring and smelling of lavender baby soap, she is easy to like. To love, even. When I can feel the same at 4.30 in the morning, I’ll know I’ve arrived.

A Thank You Note

To the Black Hearted Son of a Prostitute Who Has Been Using My Debit Card to Buy Phone Top up Cards and Pornography;

So glad to have been able to facilitate your texting/filthy movie habit. Being a new mum on a budget definitely gives me the leisure time and money to call my bank, sort out fraudulent transactions and then have to reclaim money that’s actually been debited to my account. You know, between nappy changes, feedings and senseless screaming, that’s exactly how I’ve envisioned spending my afternoon.

It’s gratifying to know that my maternity pay is going to a good cause.

You utter fucksock.

Love and kisses,

Rockmama

Moot Point

Well, my marathon plans were scuppered by the changeable plans of my potential ride down to the city, so I suppose the Prawn and I will be watching on TV. I doubt we'll catch a glimpse of Mr. DD, but you never know. It's especially gutting because it's supposed to be an absolutely fabulous day and Mr. DD really wanted to see us at the finish line.

But now I have a new problem. I think the Prawn has a cold. (Just as well I DIDN'T go to London)

Do I own one of those baby nose sucker-outers? Of course not. Is anyone in my family around today? Nope. Are any of our friends around today? No. Am I allowed to drive yet after the c-section? Hell no. However, my baby has a bunged up schnozz, so I think I'll probably risk a trip into Aylesbury to try to find a de-snotting device.

I spent my first night alone with The Prawn last night, hence the early morning entry. To tell you the truth, I was completely wetting my pants.

I've never had a thing about wanting to be in charge. In any number of retail jobs I've had, I've always turned down further training to become a manager because I had absolutely 0 desire to be in charge of people. I don't like telling people what to do. Not only that, but if I'm pretty honest, I didn't really want the responsibility. ( I'm rubbish with numbers and don't like having to kiss the asses of random members of the public with mild personality disorders just to "keep the customer happy".)

Being left alone with a baby is like the ultimate managerial position. The customer is almost ALWAYS unhappy, needs constant supervision, will call you after hours for assistance and you can absolutely, positively NEVER lose your temper with them. Mr DD and I have successfully managed to tag team the Prawn since her arrival without either of us going spare, but after an evening spent trying to keep the screaming at bay solo,(a new phase of screaming! Awesome!) I'm feeling pretty frazzled and sleep deprived. The Prawn, of course, is sleeping happily on our bed making congested rhinoceros noises. Little bugger.

Right. I need a cup of tea.

I Am Either Stupid or Batshit Crazy

Tomorrow, Mr. DD, unbelivably, after all of the sleep deprived nights, is going to run the London Marathon. It's his second time; he felt woefully unprepared for his first attempt and hit the metaphorical "wall" at around 16 miles. He still finished, though, and I know /I/ definitely couldn't have, so it wasn't so bad. This year, he's trained harder, is fitter and is determined to get a time beginning with a 4.

The atmosphere in the city on marathon day is hugely exciting and really positive. The sheer volume of people is amazing. Everybody cheers for everybody. Runners who aren't dressed up like Spiderman, giant rhinocerous or Cornish pasties have their names written on their shirts so that everyone can shout for them. A huge proportion of the runners are raising money for one worthy cause or another (Mr. DD is running for a local children's hospice-at-home charity that he's been involved with for about 6 years now) so there's a lot of good will sloshing around, knocking over spectators and BBC camera people. I went the last time and had planned to stay at home this year with the Prawn and watch on telly.

But I think we're going to go to cheer Daddy on in person. This is where batshit crazy comes in.

St. James Park, which leads to Buckingham Palace (at the finish line) is a large and lovely expanse of green in the city of London. While it will be full of people, there will undoubtedly be space under some shady trees for me to set up camp. I will be packed as if going on holiday, brimming over with all manner of baby equipment- buggy, carseat, ready made formula, breast pump (I've got my Hooter Hider, so no having to get my baps out in the middle of a royal park) extra clothes for her, diapers, wipes, the rain shield for the buggy and plenty of blankets. Oh yeah, and probably like a sandwich for myself or something. And then I'll stay put while the rest of the family traipses around the city, trying to catch glimpses of Mr. DD. We'll just be waiting for him at the finish line.

Now tell me, is this a truly awful idea? We've taken her out a LOT over the past few weeks- even down to the Excel Centre in London for Mr. DD to register. She's a good traveller. If I spent the day at home, chances are she'll spend the day shouting. If I take her to London, chances are, she'll spend the day sleeping and I'll get the fresh air I so richly deserve. (I've not been out of the flat in 2 days.) It's not going to be cold, (23 C. Rather too warm for the runners!) so I'm not worried about her freezing and I can always take clothes off of her if it's too hot. (Under the trees, it shouldn't be.) There are public loos in St. James Park, too, so that's me taken care of.

So, ladies, am I making a big fuckoff mistake or do you think this could work?

A Whole Month of Prawn

While I often have location envy when it comes to where we live, at this time of year, we have some pretty spectacular scenery in the local woods in the form of Bluebells. They aren't what would be called Bluebells Stateside- we have those over here too, and they're known as Grape Hyacinths. These little flowers grow wild on forest floors, making for a spectacular display yearly in late April or early May.

Mr. DD and I took the Prawn up to the local bluebell woods to celebrate her 1 month birthday. The popularity of the bluebells often means large crowds despite the relative seclusion of the location, but since we went on a weekday afternoon, we almost had the whole place to ourselves. It was lovely and quiet, despite the incongrous presence of a lone ice cream man in the parking area across the street. Did we get ice cream? Hell yes, we did. Never look a gift ice cream van in the mouth.

We celebrated this evening with a chocolate cake in honor of the Prawn, who spent most of the time asleep on my mother-in-law's lap. Milestones for the first few years are more of an excuse for grown ups to have a party than anything else. I imagine that around about the age of 2 or 3, one has to start actually start having parties FOR the children and grown-ups regretably have to stop drinking to make sure that no one gets hurt or sets fire to anything.

So, a whole month of the Prawn. Long may she reign.

Thoughts in the Early Morning

So, it's just past 6 am.

Everyone warns you about the sleepless nights. However, it's hard to fully wrap your brain around the fact that it doesn't matter how badly YOU need something, because now there is something else that needs something MORE. (Or, in some cases, doesn't need anything, but will still make Tyrannosaurus noises at 3 am nonetheless.)

It's funny that things that seem cute and endearing during daylight hours take on a sinister angle once it gets dark. You can't help but think, "You're doing this on purpose, aren't you?" Of course, my daughter hasn't yet developed the cognitive capacity to thwart my authority, but after the 15th time she's kicked the covers off her feet, woken herself up and started grizzling, I get a sinking feeling regarding her potential for evil during toddler and teenage years.

Mr. DD shares nighttime duties. (Although this week, he's trying to get as much sleep as possible due to the fact that he's running the London Marathon next Sunday. I'll be surprised if he wakes up in his hotel room on time to make it to the start line.) Due to my obviously black heart and inadequate breast milk supply we supplement with formula, making it easy for him to join in the feeding fun. He, however, escapes moo-cow duties with the super sucker, which I believe is rapidly giving me a bad case of RSI. ( I do have an electric pump as well, but at night, the noise is too jarring.) Pumping is a drag, but when you have a baby who is as contrary when it comes to breastfeeding as the Prawn, it's the only way to go. After a few weeks of her gleefully destroying my nipples at every opportunity, I gave up and started expressing, which I found easier at any rate, because I could be sure that a) my supply was adequate and b) how much she was eating in one sitting. (125 ml. Little oinker.) Supplementing was something that made me feel guilty for about 15 minutes, but after her last health visit when we discovered she'd put on 2 pounds, the guilt rapidly diminished. She's still getting the good stuff 3 or 4 times a day and she's not yelling any more just due to her being hungry. I can't feel guilty for feeding my child.

It's hard to believe that she's been with us for nearly a month now. Although I feel my brain leaking out of my ears as I speak, I know our experience with her so far could have been much worse. She DOES sleep, although not when we want her to just yet. She's not overly fretful. She travels well. (One of my big fears was being cooped up in the house for months on end, but she happily sleeps in her buggy or car seat while we take advantage of the brilliant weather and have lunch al fresco in a pub garden or visit friends.) And she smiles. (No, it's totally not just wind.) All in all, not to bad. But I certainly have a huge amount of respect for SAHMs who's partners AREN'T home during the day. How you ladies get anything accomplished is beyond me.

The Prawn is draped over me on the living room couch at the moment. Come 7.30, I may wake Marathon Man so that I can have a quick snooze before the day begins in earnest.

Living with Muppets

My parents, who left yesterday to go back home, (to a great weeping and gnashing of teeth on this side of the ocean) brought with them a recording of a Sesame Street album that I spent many, many hours listening to as a child. I bought it on ebay last year with the idea that the Prawn could also benefit from it’s wholesome goodness. Although the Prawn slept through it’s first playing, I’m sure that she will also spend many happy hours enjoying songs like Old MacDonald, On Top of Old Smoky and John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmitt. It's strange to think the recording was made the year that I was born and now my daughter will be listening to it too.

The album opens with the long suffering and dreadfully anal retentive Bert taking a leisurely bath when his perpetually orange, hetero life-mate Ernie bursts through the door of the bathroom with his piano and the entire population of the Sesame Street ‘hood in order to have a singalong. Along the way, the shindig aquires any number of monsters, a motorcycle, a big bird and finally, in the coup de gras, the University of Michigan marching band. Rather a tall order to cope with when you’re sitting naked in a tub of rapidly cooling water. (in so far as muppets are capable of being naked, at any rate.)

Am I right in thinking that if Ernie was anyone’s real life roommate, it’d be only about a week before they started to seriously consider putting rat poison in his breakfast cereal?

After the Storm

So.

Motherhood.

It’s obviously taken me some time to getting around to blogging again. Mainly because typing one handed is somewhat laborious. The Prawn is not so amenable to being put down unless in a deep state of unconsciousness. When I have visions of never again being able to get anything accomplished, I must remind myself that she is only two weeks old and does not grasp complex concepts like laundry, paying bills and other people eating. I miss eating.

But unconscious is just the way we like her at the moment. Awake generally means shouting, but at the moment, as her American grandparents are here, there are two extra sets of arms to hold her every minute of the day, so it means lots more peace and quiet. It’s strange how quickly you can forget what things were like WITHOUT a baby once one moves into your house- our flat is really rather peaceful.

It’s obviously taken some adjusting. Mr. DD and I are having to learn to take turns doing everything. “Here, hold this,” has become the most uttered phrase in the house over the past two weeks. We miss eachother, to be honest- after almost 12 year together as constant companions, getting used to life as a threesome is a little bit of a rude awakening. The sleeplessness, I expected. The crying, the diapers, none of it a surprise. But missing my husband when he’s sitting in the same room…that was a bit of a shock.

I was expecting to have something eminently profound to say about the state of parenthood after infertility, but I’ve been struggling to find any profundity in my everyday life at the moment. My daughter is beautiful. I love her extremely long toes at the end of her tiny feet. I love the way her head smells after we shampoo her hair. I wake up in the night whenever she makes one of those alarming baby noises that makes it sound like they’re choking on half a club sandwich. (Damn those noises. They suck.) But I think that my feelings right now are pretty basic and fairly common. Fear of screwing up, especially when left on my own. Joy that she’s finally arrived and that she’s safe and healthy. Sorrow for the life that we had before. And just the general dose of screwed-uppedness that most new mothers find themselves facing. I’d feel vaguely silly trying to shed any new light on early motherhood. The best I can manage in the way of insight is to say, “Yeah. Me too.”

It’s going to get easier. I suspect this because everyone tells me so. And, like 70 different people with children under the age of 2 aren’t all likely to be wrong. It’s just hard to believe that all will be well while we are currently doing our best walking dead impression and the colicky Prawn is squealing bloody murder in my earhole.

To be continued.