It's The Final Countdown!

Today, my little boy is 11 months old.
This time next month, I'll have a ONE year old.  Yikes.

It's a funny thing to ponder really.  On one hand, it feels like a million years since I was waddling around chatting to my bump, but on the other I can't quite believe how quickly the tiny little baby we brought home from hospital has turned into the proper little person I spend most of the day chatting to now.

Eleven months ago, his talents were pretty much limited to lying on his back, blowing bubbles, shouting for food & snoozing.
Nowadays, he hardly sits still. Crawling, climbing, couch surfing, babbling & chattering, trying so hard to find his feet and his first words.
His personality shines through a little more everyday. 
He's so mischevious, so cheeky, but so loving too, he gives great cuddles & big sloppy kisses. He loves meeting people and other babies (particuarly the laydees, he's a huge flirt) and he's a generous little monkey - usually expressed by smooshing his rusk into mummy's face, but the sentiment is good, right?
He's curious and inquisitive - definitely wired a little differently (prefering to climb up his walker than push from behind, and to build towers on the sleeping dog rather than the floor) but that's all part of what makes him brilliant. 
I love watching him develop - every day brings something new - something different to make him giggle, another corner he's managed to get into (and sometimes get himself stuck), something he's never tried before for lunch bringing a smile to his face... it's impossible to get bored.

And as much as I always swore I'd never be one of those 'gushy mummies', It's impossible not to beam with pride and be super proud of the little person he's becoming.

Who knows what skills he'll have added to his bambino CV by the time he's one - I can't wait to find out, but I'm going to try & really savour this last month of him being a 'proper' baby.  And at the same time, try to brace myself for what comes next.  Wish me luck!

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The Gallery: Colour

Week three of The Gallery already? Is it just me, or is each week evaporating faster than the last lately?

Anyway, this week's title, is 'Colour'.
I thought about showing you a photo of my favourite colour (purple), or maybe my most favourite dress (blue), my eyes? (green, in case you were wondering), the little dude's eyes? (biggest blues you ever did see, gets 'em from his daddy)... but in the end, I thought why not show you ALL the colours? Or quite a lot of them at least.

So, voila:

Prettyful, no?!
This is a scene from a game The Little Dude & I have invented, whereby we line up all his stacking cups & fill them up with smaller toys of the same colour.

Mummy over enthusiastically names all the colours, Little Dude plops the GREEN marracca in the green cup, mummy gets all over excited and convinces herself she's raising a child genius.
(Yes, yes, I know, it's highly likely to be more luck than judgement when he gets it right, I'm not completely deluded ...honest.)

Anyway, it's an easy way to keep the little man amused. He loves it. And it holds his attention a lot longer than just sorting the shapes into the sorter.

And it's certainly colourful.
Don't forget to visit Tara's blog for the links to lots more pretty pictures too - there have been some amazing photos to look at the last couple of weeks, I'm sure this week will be the same.

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The day my body let me down.

[Edited to add: Having just read Sally's post here, I just wanted to clarify, this post is NOT about me feeling like a failure.  Hell no.  I actually think I'm doing okay - The Little Dude is nearly one, has had no brushes with death, and is generally a cheerful, contented little man. All good, right? The post is in a relation to a prompt about one's body letting one down, which mine did, but only at the last minute - and to be fair, it had just done nine month's hard labour making a baby. So no hard feelings body. And I promise, I'll sort out that post-baby-muffin top any day now.  Really.
Anyway, as I was saying...]

This week at Josie's Writing Workshop, prompt 4 is: Tell me about a time your body let you down.
As The Little Dude is one next month (gulp), I've been doing a lot of looking back, and have been pondering the idea of facing my fear and writing about 'the birth' - which I've pretty much skimmed over before now as the memories aren't exactly happy. I'm hoping it might help to work through those memories I've done so well to squash in a corner at the back of my mind and ignore. Let's see.

April 20th 2009 - The day my body let me down.

Sunday, April 19th - I was 10 days overdue.
I felt like a hippo.
I was tired, achey, and liable to punch the next person who said 'still no baby then?' or offered another stupid old wives tale about how to kick-start labour.

At about noon, I felt a twinge.  Nothing major, but definitely different.
The Mr was at work till 3, so I decided against ringing him, didn't want to get his hopes up.
By the time he got back, the twinges were leaning towards uncomfortable, and more frequent.
'Shall we go to hospital?!' mr asked - desperate to meet his little boy.
'No' I said, 'It'll be ages yet, they'll only send us home. Just keep me distracted.'

So he did.
He was amazing actually. made me dinner, ran me a bath, put on my favourite dvds, made me lots of hot drinks, noted down the times of each contraction, checked the time about 12 times an hour, made sure his phone, my phone, and the camera were all charged. Repeatedly!

By 4am, the contractions were every 10 minutes, and officially hurt. A lot.
Time to go to hospital.

I remember being strangely (foolishly?) calm.
I wasn't scared. I wasn't panicky. I just wanted to get on with it & take my baby home.

We checked in, The Mr got me unpacked, a midwife came in to examine me, I was 5cm dilated.
I felt quite chuffed with myself for lasting so long at home.

I mooched around the room, trying to stay mobile, keep moving.  Still pretty calm.

The next few contractions kicked things up a notch.
I screamed. I swore. I may have almost broken The Mr's hand. (Sorry honey.)
The midwife said the birthing pool was free if I was interested.
What the hell, I thought, worth a try.

Four hours of bobbing about in agony later, my contractions were 5 minutes apart, and unbearable.  I felt like I was barely catching my breath after one before the next one started. I was exhausted.
'Jump out & we'll see how you're doing' chirped the midwife. God I wanted to slap her for being so cheerful.

Still 5cm dilated.
She had to be joking.
She wasn't. I cried.
I was exhausted.
I felt like I couldn't take another ten minutes, and they were telling me it would probably be hours.
My body was giving up.  I had nothing left.
I agreed, reluctantly to an epidural, thinking at least then when it was finally time to push, I might have replenished some energy.
A very tall, very German man came to stick a needle in my back.
'Keep very still' he kept saying. My body had other ideas. The contractions were getting more and more frequent, and the gas & air was doing nothing.
Finally, it was done.
'Your legs should feel numb and pain should stop in around 10 minutes' he said, and left.
Twenty minutes later, the contractions were still coming thick & fast.  And I could definitely still feel them.

Turns out, my body didn't fancy an epidural.  It had failed.

The midwife examined me again. By that point, I was hooked up to a big bleepy machine to monitor mine & the baby's heart rate.
She looked at it, wrote something down, and said she was just going to get a doctor.

Panic.

I grabbed The Mr's hand - what was going on?
Seconds later, there was a doctor, 2 midwives & a nurse around me, muttering about contractions, and failed epidurals, and tests, and positions.
I squeezed The Mr's hand tighter, holding my breath, waiting for what felt like an eternity for them to say... something?

'Your baby has changed position and his heart rate is spiking everytime you contract. We need to get him out, quickly. We need you to sign this form so we can do an emergency caesarean.'
I looked at The Mr with eyes full of tears and panic, pleading, begging him to make it better.
My body had tried so hard to get my baby into the world, but it was so tired, it couldn't finish the job.

From there, it's all a bit hazy.
I remember The Mr telling me it was all going to be fine, he'd be there the whole time.
But he wouldn't.
He was pushed out the door 'just while we prep you for the operation' someone said. I screamed that I didn't want to be on my own. Nobody listened.

Next thing I knew, I was wheeled into a stupidly bright room. There were about 8 people buzzing around above my head, none of whom were my baby's daddy.
I was crying uncontrollably.
A tiny Asian woman with a shrill voice asked if I could feel pain.
A tall man with kind eyes tried to calm me down.
I sobbed and told him I wanted my boyfriend.
He said they'd let him in in a minute. He lied.
I heard the shrill Asian woman say I was 'too unsettled'.
That's the last thing I remember.

I woke up at 10.30am. With a mouth like sandpaper and a banging head.
For a second I wondered if it had all been a dream and I was actually waking up to the world's worst hangover.

But there at the end of the bed, was The Mr, holding the most beautiful little baby I'd ever seen.

He explained that after they'd wheeled me off, they'd given him scrubs to change into while they 'prepped' me.
But instead, because of the state I was in (ie. crying uncontrollably due to being terrified and on my own) they'd made the decision to 'put me under', so he wasn't allowed back in. He'd had to sit, on his own, and wait. They'd brought the Little Dude through to him at 10am. He was born at 9.55am.

I still have a lot of unresolved anger and resent about the way things panned out.

I didn't agree to the GA. I wasn't even consulted. The decision was taken out of my hands.
I wanted to be conscious for my son's arrval, and that was taken away from me.
My man wanted to be there when his son was born, and that was taken away from him.
I still get angry and upset thinking about it, because I can't help wondering, if they'd just given me 5 minutes alone with my man, he could have calmed me down, 'settled' me, and made for a very different experience.



At the time though, looking at our gorgeous son, it was hard to feel anything but delirious happiness.
And even now, I can look at it all as a 'means to an end' - It wasn't pretty, but despite my body failing me, I got a beautiful baby boy in the end. 

I am lucky, and grateful, and blessed.

Reminding myself of that doesn't make the other stuff go away, but it does make it easier to deal with.

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Mother's Day: I like!

So yesterday, was my first official Mother's Day :)
(I just missed out last year - though I did get a card & bunch of flowers from the bump, which was super sweet.)
I must say, I approve!

I got to sleep in until half past eight, at which point I was woken with fresh coffee & nutella croissants. Well done Little Dude's Daddy, very well done.
Next up, got a free pass to shower & pretty-fy self in peace with no distractions, while the daddy got the little man breakfast-ed & dressed.
Post shower, there was more coffee waiting, plus a beautifully dressed little baby boy clutching a (slightly chewed) card & a 'best mummy' bear. I admit, I teared up a tiny bit.
Then there were flowers.  And chocolate.  Hat trick!  (And a little tear.)
We went out for a walk along the seafront in the sunshine, came home via the park, then I was ordered to chill out on the sofa, where I was brought a cuppa & the biggest cupcake I ever did see.
In the evening, I had a bubble bath (complete with a glass of Baileys - booze in bath! That's glamour right there!) while The Mr cooked scrummy dinner, served with too much wine. (I forget what a complete light weight I am these days. Three glasses nearly finished me off!).

A perfect, dreamy day.
I ♥ my boys & I love Mother's Day - roll on next year!

Hope all my mummy friends out there in blogland had a super day too xx

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The Darkside of Babyled Weaning...

Let me start by saying, I love Babyled Weaning.

It's definitely one of the best parenting decisions I've made. (Ooh, that was a scary sentence to type - check me out all grown up. yikes.)


We've been super lucky in that The Little Dude took to it like the proverbial duck to water - happily chowing down on anything he could get his hands on. (And if that happened to be whatever mummy & daddy were trying to eat, all the better. We can get round to teaching table manners and decorum at a later date... right?)

Now, we're at a point where he basically has mini portions of whatever we're having, which is great as it encourages Mummy & Daddy to eat lots of veggies & generally err on the side of healthy and nutritious (honestly couldn't tell you the last time we had Chinese takeaway!), but it also presents a little problem.
As you more experienced mummys will know, babies need a healthy diet, but they also need lots of calories.
Which means: full. fat. everything.

Just to quantify that, I have diligently bought reduced fat healthy options of everything other than chocolate & cake (if you're gonna do it, do it right.) for as long as I can remember. Now, my fridge is choc-full of full fat cheese, full fat houmous, WHOLE milk...


And I know, I know - I could abstain, keep buying the healthy versions too, but seriously - Have you tasted full fat Philadelphia? I always thought the skinny version was pretty great, but there is absolutely no comparison.
It's lucky really that the full fat revolution coincides with The Little Dude mobilising and therefore my spending much of everyday running interference between him & impending doom, otherwise, I would surely be the size of a house.

And that, friends, is the darkside of Babyled Weaning.  And possibly the real culprit behind the curse of the mummy tummy.  Maybe.

What do you think? What did you/are you secretly indulging in under the guise that you 'buy it for the baby'? - own up! (I won't tell, promise.)

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Under (Self Inflicted) Pressure & The Gallery: Three

As the song goes, Three, is a magic number. I heartily agree.
This week's photo for The Gallery, features the three biggest loves of my life. The baby boy, watching The Daddy & The Puppy* having a run around in the park. 
It's not the best photo in the world, but I love it because it captures one of those perfect moments in a perfect day where I really understand the word family.  And it makes me happy.

I'm going to multi-task here, and mention Josie's writing workshop, where one of the prompts this week is 'What is making you feel under pressure right now'.  The answer to that, is me. 
I am my own worst critic, always have been. 
I'm also a neurotic loony with a tendency to overthink things and get all caught up in my own head.
I have a compulsive need to be super duper organised, always ready, always prepared, always ahead of the game.  Turns out, all that stuff is not so easy to accomplish with a little person who needs all of your attention all of the time on the scene. 

In turn, I beat myself up because the to do list never gets any shorter. 
I exhaust myself trying to squeeze as much productivity as possible into every single day. 
I want to get on with the hundred bits of decorating that need doing, I want to focus on & make a real go of my own business, I want to be the best mummy ever and take LD to allsorts of wonderful baby activities, I want to make lots of new mummy friends so that he has lots of little play mates, I want to de-clutter my wardrobe, I want to be a perfect little housewife & put a delicious feast on the table every night, I want to get rid of the last little bit of wobbly mummy tummy, I want to start painting again - I want to be able to chill out & relax while the little man naps without mentally listing the million and one things I still need to do.  
I have a boat load of dreams and ambitions and goals, and the trouble is, I want it all now, if not sooner.  I never was very good at patience.

But I'm learning. Being a mummy is definitely making me stop, or at least pause, and re-assess what's really important.
Yes, it does my head in that we're living in an un-finished mess of a house, but the little dude doesn't care. He has somewhere warm to sleep, food in his belly, and a mummy and daddy who love him to pieces. (And a stupid amount of toys.)  He's happy.

And I am too.  Because I am incredibly lucky.  I just need to remind myself now and again.  And I need to spend less time putting pressure on myself & fretting about what needs to be done, and more time at the park with my THREE favourites - my Man, my Baby, and my Dog.  My family.

(*The Puppy, is actually 4, but she's little, and bouncy, so we still call her The Puppy.)

Don't forget to go check out the rest of The Gallery at Tara's blog, and the rest of the Writing Workshop at Josie's.

Oooh, and while we're talking about family, a quick shout out to Bec over at Beetroot & Gherkins, whose gorgeous family is going to be getting bigger in the very near future - wishing you lots of love & luck miss - and sending *superfastandeasylabour* thoughts a go-go :) xxx

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Music to mother to...

Dear CD Producing Bigwigs,

It seems to have escaped your attention, but there are babies being born, and therefore mothers being created every. single. day.
It follows then, that musical tastes in the mother demographic, are constantly evolving.
Or to put it another way, not all mummy's are fans of Ronan Keating, Westlife, Michael Buble et al.
And dear God, John Barrowman?! Exactly who told you that would make a perfect gift for mum?
*shudder*
I did not abandon my love of noisy Indie Rock and/or sign up to the easy-listening-middle-of-the-road fanclub the moment my waters broke, nor do I intend to anytime soon.

And I'm pretty sure I'm not alone.
Actually, I'm certain, if for no other reason than I can't think of a single mum I know who'd have any use at all for a Barrowman CD other than an overpriced coaster.

To be fair though, I don't think there's any CD that could be dubbed 'the perfect gift for mother's day'.  Unless it's a subliminal message affair that instantly lulls a stressed out baby to sleep, or miraculously sheds several pounds from your mummy tummy while you sleep.  Then maybe we could talk.

Fact is, Mothers, are as individual as the children the bear, and the idea of a 'one size fits all' collection of songs, is just plain silly.

So please, just stoppit.

Many thanks,
The Little Dude's Mummy.
(for whom a nice card & some flowers will do just fine, thank you please.)

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