parenting

October 15, 2019

In search of sleep…

I’ve recently (ok, seven months ago..) had another baby. That date I went on about three years ago actually turned out to be with a Good Man and became a Good Thing. We bought a house, blended our families and so far life is good (I say ‘so far’ because one can never afford to be complacent about such matters. Just look at what happened to the people in Alanis Morrisette’s Ironic if you are in any doubt).

Anyway, girl baby slept like a dream for about five months. THROUGH. THE. NIGHT. The pregnancy had been particularly shitty and as well as being in constant pain, sleeping less than I had when my son was a baby, towards the end I had started to fear how I would cope with the lack of sleep the pain AND a newborn would bring. But, in the miracle that is childbirth (an amazing, life affirming, putting-past-trauma-behind-me elective c-section, in case you were wondering) the pain disappeared almost immediately and the baby got into a great sleep routine after a few weeks.

The sun shone, the birds sang, I felt euphoric.

It is important to note however, that I did nothing different with the girl baby than I did with the boy baby. Her patterns were nothing to do with me – more likely the Next To Me crib and the Sleepyhead pod that my friend had lent me.

Everything changed when some unhealthy stars aligned at six months – the school holidays brought change to our daily routine, baby moved into a cot bed and weaning began. Long naps became a thing of the past and we entered a new phase called ‘The Battle of Bedtime’.

You know that feeling when you’re bone tired? When your heart feels heavy, your brain is surrounded by fog and your muscles seem to have forgotten their job in supporting your body, instead pushing you towards the floor? That’s how I’ll remember the school holidays. For a good few weeks I dragged my body to the beach, the park, anywhere for my son to burn off energy and the baby to have her 30 minute nap in her pram.

But this week I am taking a stand. We are going to nail the routine (just in time for half term.. obvs.. I’m a terrible planner, but these are desperate times). Gone are the days where I would put her down for a nap at the sign of a yawn. Now we are on a schedule and three hours after waking, that baby is back in her cot, sometimes with a shush pat, sometimes with the help of some white noise.  She will have a little moan for a couple of minutes, but will usually settle. My plan does not include leaving her to cry it out.

We’re 36 hours in and so far all her naps have been at least an hour and a half. She’s still waking multiple times in the night, but if I can get the naps right then I think we’ll get there in the end. Although I’ve probably spoken too soon and will soon be cursed with the return of the 30 minute napper. For today though, the light is starting to creep through the clouds and I have hope that the fog will soon clear.

If you have any tips for cutting the multiple night time wake ups, please let me know!

 

 

 

August 27, 2016

Sir Grumpsalot and the epic meltdown

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(‘Let me take a photo of you… Go on… Just one’ ‘NO NO NO NO NO NO’)

Yesterday marked a special milestone in the toddler career of my little man – the unstoppable, irrational, typical two-year old’s tantrum culminating in an epic meltdown which left even my four year old nephew complaining of a headache.

The warning signs were there. Lack of sleep? Check. Nose turned up at quality home made food constructed of the finest ingredients (i.e including two different types of vegetables. Oh yeah.)? Check. Recent bout of illness? Check.

And still I ploughed on with a ‘Nice Day Out’. The sun was shining and the weather warm and I was determined that under no circumstances would we spend yet another day inside – either watching some sodding cartoon about cars/dogs/fish OR going to a place that induces an actual smile and genuine pleasure in my child… Yup, Tesco.

(I am a little ashamed of that last bit. WE LIVE FIVE MINUTES FROM THE BEACH, GODDAMMIT! We should be permanently sporting wetsuits, matted hair and beautifully exfoliated feet.)

Anyway, given the close proximity to the water, I announced that we would go to a nearby sea pool which had a heated pool for young children (Of course it wasn’t actually heated… And my inability to read a webpage would come back to haunt me shortly.)

So me, my son, dad, sister and nephew packed up the car and headed off. And as a result of some clever manoeuvring between the adults of the group, I ended up wedged in the back between the children. This was fine in the beginning, entertaining both boys wasn’t too difficult. I had this cool mum/aunt thing sorted.

When we got to the pool, the boys excitedly dragged us into the water, which I later found out was 17 degrees centigrade. Or, to put into context, bloody freezing. Most of the kids in the foot deep water had wetsuits on. We made our retreat after 10 minutes.

As the boys warmed up, they spent the time they should have been spending getting exhausted in the water, by amusing themselves in other ways. Or as we would call it, tapping into their mischievous sides… trying to fall off a little step, running after seagulls and attempting to get back in the water (I mean, how short are their memories?!). Perfect conditions for the onset of a major grump.

The warning signs were there by the time we finally got back to the car about an hour or so later – E didn’t want to get down from the wall he’d been walking on and he certainly didn’t want to get in his car seat. Bribery didn’t work, praising his cousin for sitting nicely failed to have any impact and you can imagine how well my final exasperated ‘Get In’ said through gritted teeth went down.

Cornwall being Cornwall, and very popular at this time of year, meant that our half hour journey home took twice as long. Or forever if you’re stuck with a toddler screaming NOOOOOOOOOO. NO CAR SEAT……GET OUT….. for most of it. The last straw was when my nephew started to cry and mumbled to my sister in the passenger seat ‘Mummy I have a headache’…

For my part though, I’m finding it increasingly harder to deal with the temper tantrums. I know it’s part of growing up, but there are times when I just want to stamp my feet on the floor too. And then I remember that I’m supposed to be the grown up.

I don’t want to raise a meek, compliant child who never questions or challenges. And part of the reason he has tantrums is because there have to be limits. So that’s a positive for the parenting bit, yeah? I’m clutching at straws here, but you gotta take the positives where you can…

As with all these things, this morning E woke up none the worse for wear for his ordeal. It’s nice to see he doesn’t hold a grudge. Yet.

 

 

 

 

May 1, 2016

My son thinks the Gruffalo is from Bristol

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Poor Dick Van Dyke, I’m sure most people have had a chuckle at his ‘Maeree Paarpins’ British accent. Or Anne Hathaway’s attempt at ‘Northern’ in One Day (which I still think has an unnecessarily cruel ending. Dexter and Emma should have been allowed to be happy! Why Lord, why?)

Moving on… I can do precisely three accents – Cornish, Bristolian (NO, THEY ARE NOT THE SAME…) and a deep voiced East Ender (think Danny Dyer rather than Barbara Windsor). I am Cornish and also lived in Bristol for a while so I can see how those accents developed. I can only blame the East End interpretation on my love of TV.

Not being an amdramer, prank caller or spy (they must need a good bank of accents surely? Fake documents can only get a person so far…), I’ve not had much call to extend the repertoire until now.

You see, children’s stories have characters. And those characters need accents. If one is to provide a satisfactory reading experience (i.e entertain child long enough to make them forget about wanting to take cars to bed), then it is not sufficient to have just the one reading voice. Which means my three accents are getting plenty of practice.

Gruffalo? Bristolian. Mouse in Gruffalo? East End. Tiddler? East End. Plaice in Tiddler? Bristolian. Snail in The Snail and the Whale? Cornish. Whale? Whale. Wait a minute, I CAN DO WHALE! ADD THAT TO THE BANK!

This would be fine if I were reading a book a night to my child like the helpful post that’s doing the rounds on Facebook at the moment – you know, the one that says that if you read a book a night to your one year old that by the time they reach five they’ll have read a gazillion books? (I may be   paraphrasing here…) But we’re stuck in a Julia Donaldson loop at the moment of Gruffalo, The Snail and the Whale and Tiddler. We’ve read the same books over and over again  – and in the case of Tiddler, every night since the start of February. My son is picking up on the intonation of the sentences and trying to repeat the words in the way I’m saying them as I read. So while he has no idea at the moment what or where Bristol is, when he does, I’m having visions of one day being asked if the Gruffalo lives just off the M5…

 

 

 

 

August 10, 2014

Swear at my baby? Never. Swear around my baby? Trying not to.

The daily travels with my pushchair around our local town centre give me an opportunity to indulge in people watching, one of my favourite pastimes.

Pre E I didn’t notice the many babies and toddlers being wheeled around the streets, their mums and/or dads blearily pushing them and mentally willing them to sleep. I also didn’t appreciate just how slow some people walk, usually in the centre of the pavement, oblivious to those of us who can longer just ‘hop off’ on to the street to get around them.

Anyway, during yesterday’s walk I was treated to a wonderful display of one of my pet hates – people who swear at their children. I’m no saint and do have a bit of a potty mouth which I am desperately trying to rinse out with copious amounts of soap and water, but I would never swear at my child.

Growing up, the strongest language I heard until I was around 10 was a terse ‘bloody hell’, usually uttered by mum, mostly directed at her sewing machine or cooker or, occasionally, if we pushed all the right buttons, my sister and I. TV and reading materials were carefully monitored to prevent any offending words reaching our sheltered minds and there was even an embargo on Eastenders in our house for a few weeks in the late 80s when someone said the word ‘bastard’.

Of course, then I hit secondary school and was treated to a new vocabulary, although if someone actually swore in class or within a 50m radius of a teacher, it would be met by an audible ‘gasp’ from those around. Fast forward a few years after that and pressures of work deadlines which usually involved situations out of my control, most sentences would involve swearing, a helpful ‘FFS’ capturing the mood beautifully.

So now, joined at the hip to my precious innocent baby son, I am ashamed of myself any time I swear. To me, swear words are designed to shock, a verbal slap. Not something I want him to experience or try to emulate.

Back to Ms Sweary McSweary from yesterday. She seemed to have no shame with the constant and loud stream of ‘effing and jeffing’ directed at her three young sons, the youngest just two years old. The kids didn’t bat an eyelid and just carried on with whatever it was that was annoying their mum.

If you grow up thinking swearing is an acceptable way of communicating with someone, what happens when the red mist descends and you want to hurt or shock someone or stop them in their tracks? My worry is that the stakes are raised and the words turn to actions.

I’m still a work in progress when it comes to censoring my language around E, but I am getting better. I’m not naive enough to think he won’t learn swear words at some point, but I’m determined to make sure he won’t learn them from me.