Business as usual (kind of)

It’s been a while. A long while, actually. It’s amazing how busy looking after two little humans (and one big human) can keep you. But now that Orla has started going to nursery two days a week, it’s time for me to try to get some of myself back. I’ve started working again, I’ve joined a gym, and I’ve finally started writing the book that I’ve been trying to find time to write for years. And hopefully I’ll be able to squeeze the odd blog post in now and again….

I’ll keep it short and sweet, as my two Orla-free days seem to fly by so I haven’t got much time. Since I last posted, we’ve moved house, Poppy’s lost seven teeth, I’ve finally got divorced after a five-year separation (hurrah!), Poppy’s turned six, Orla’s turned one, I’ve changed (roughly) seven million nappies, we’ve been to Ireland twice, have had a household full of illness all winter (which included pneumonia), have wiped about three litres of snot from Orla’s nose, and we’ve had three fairies move into Poppy’s bedroom, which, believe me, is a stressful business.

Poppy’s new year’s resolution is to learn to ride her bike, Orla’s is to learn to walk (according to Poppy), and Paddy’s is to learn to drive. Mine is to learn how to juggle everything I have to do without drowning. I’ll keep you posted on our progress…wish us luck!

 

Orla looking bemused on her big day.

 

Orla looking even more bemused on her big day.

 

 

 

A very late announcement

It’s only taken me almost seven weeks, but here it is, my baby announcement. Orla arrived on St Patrick’s Day, much to the utter delight of her Irish daddy. In the end, she was born four weeks early after I began bleeding again and showed signs of early labour. My C-section was classed as an emergency, though – thanks to the fact I’d eaten two slices of toast that morning – I actually had several hours to get my head around the fact I would be meeting my daughter that day. Despite the fact she was going to be premature, I was relieved the consultant took the decision to deliver her when she did. My hospital stay had become pretty tough, particularly that week as Poppy had picked up a sickness bug and was crying down the phone to me, begging me to go home to her. Every part of me wanted to up and leave so I could be with my little girl, but I knew that would be a stupid thing to do. And of course, she couldn’t come up to the hospital to visit me either as we couldn’t risk the spread of infection. It broke my heart.

So it was with nervous excitement that me and Paddy laughed and joked away the hours waiting in the labour ward for the operation I’d spent weeks and weeks worrying about. We met the team who were going to be performing my surgery, who tried their best to convince me that, basically, they had got this. Just before we left for the operating theatre, The Proclaimers and The Pogues came on the radio in the labour suite, as if to confirm Orla’s Scottish and Irishness.

At that point, my nerves really got the better of me, and as I sat on the hospital bed in the floodlit theatre, with Paddy kitted out in ridiculous ill-fitting hospital scrubs, it felt like the set of a film, not something that was happening to me. My entire body began to shake, and I remember being asked if my heart rate was always that high, thinking ‘do I really need to answer that?!’ We were encouraged to put on some music, so a rather bizarre conversation about indie music and Bluetooth connection ensued as the anaesthetist inserted a spinal into my back, pointing out the microscopic mistake her predecessor had made just over five years ago when I was giving birth to Poppy, which meant my epidural didn’t work. I remember thinking she was amazing to be able to spot that, and I felt safe in her hands.

The operation itself was pretty straight forward. I lay there chatting to Paddy about the amazing spa weekend he was obligated to buy me for going through all this, while LCD Soundsystem, Father John Misty and Metronomy provided the soundtrack (Orla was pulled out to Metronomy’s The Look). I didn’t really know for sure that they had started until the midwife announced our baby would be here in five minutes or so. There was some almighty tugging inside my stomach, there was some much-welcomed crying as she was pulled out of her home of eight months, and there she was. At five minutes past seven, Orla finally entered our world.

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“It’ll be worth it in the end….”

Training her up.

You know those women who can “only” run the six miles every day instead of their usual ten now that they’re 39.5 weeks pregnant? I hate them.You know those women who don their new maternity yoga pants and go to pregnancy pilates classes “because everyone knows exercise is good for you and the baby”? I hate them. You know those pregnant women who work right up till they go into labour because “it would be so boring sitting about at home all day?” Well, I hate them too. And the ones who can still single-handedly do the week’s food shop, carrying all the bags up 20 flights of stairs by themselves. And the ones who can pick up their existing children to comfort them when they fall over. And the ones who can  bend over to retrieve stuff that they’ve dropped on the floor.But you know the ones I hate the most? The ones that can walk.

My hatred isn’t actually confined to pregnant women. At the moment, I hate everyone who can walk.In fact, I pretty much just hate everyone full stop. So what’s my problem,other than being a grumpy, miserable pregnant woman about to enter the joys of the third trimester, I hear you ask? Well it all boils down to a condition given the generic (and delightful) medical name of Pelvic Girdle Pain – or PGP for short. I don’t expect most people to have heard of it,unless they are one of the very unfortunate souls to have suffered from this debilitating pain during pregnancy. Apparently one in five pregnant women suffer it to some degree or another. But you can instantly tell the ones who have – you can see the empathy in their eyes and a pained expression on their face when you tell them you have it.  As a quick synopsis, the essential production of the hormone relaxin in pregnancy softens the ligaments connecting the joints and for some unlucky women – like me – this results in the joints in your pelvis moving unevenly and basically causing the most horrendous,consistent, eye-watering pain I have ever experienced. Medical lesson over. Don’t say I don’t teach you anything.

The problem is that there is pretty much nothing that can be done about it. I had it for the final three months when I was pregnant first time round – which I think is one of the main reasons I swore I was done at one. This time it started just after I finally clawed my way out of the nausea/exhaustion phase (so around 14/15 weeks).It is getting gradually worse as my stomach expands and my weight increases, putting even more pressure on my pelvis and back. It is there all the time, no matter what I do. It’s sore when I stand, when I sit, when I walk, when I try to pick anything up, when I lie down,when I roll over in bed, when I sit on the floor to attempt to play with my daughter and the new Sylvanian Families hotel she got for Christmas. There is just no let up. As with other types of chronic pain, there are good days and bad days. Some days I can manage to walk five minutes in only mild discomfort.Other days it’s out in force from the moment I wake up till the moment I manage to roll myself in an incredibly undignified manner back into bed at the end of the day.  On these days I don’t want to even get up in the first place. Aside from the physical agony, this condition comes with a really crippling mental anguish too. It’s hard to be in constant pain every day. It’s hard going from being fiercely independent to not even being able to walk to the shop to get a pint of milk. It’s hard not to be able to go on my usual adventures with Poppy because I literally cannot move. It’s hard not to be able to do the school run and enjoy that quality time with my daughter each day. It’s hard to ask for help putting on your shoes, especially for me as I’ve done everything for myself and Poppy for years. Some days all I can do is cry,the feelings of helplessness and uselessness – paired with normal pregnancy hormones – completely overwhelming.

Now clearly I don’t actually hate everyone who is capable of being pregnant AND going about their normal daily lives.I am of course just insanely jealous of them and wonder why I can’t just have a nice, normal, pain-free pregnancy? But, with my rational head on, I can accept that our bodies are all different and everyone’s experience of creating human life is therefore different. And anything worth having is worth fighting for etc etc. But think of it like this: we all want the perfect beach body, doesn’t mean to say we enjoy going to the gym to achieve it.  And,despite the woe-is-me nature of this blog post, I don’t want pity. All I want is understanding, and to raise awareness of this condition which – other than the appearance of crutches in really bad cases and some very slow, pained movements -is pretty much invisible to the outside world.Even the NHS has very limited resources dedicated to it, with some midwives barely even knowing what it is. I just want people to realise that women with this condition need support and understanding, as well as the odd offer of help. They have not just suddenly turned into lazy couch potatoes who can’t be bothered cleaning or shopping or going out anywhere. Yes, I use my pregnancy as an excuse to eat a family sized block of Mint Aero, but I don’t use it as an excuse to avoid pushing my daughter on a swing, and I literally would give anything to be “normal” again.

I’m lucky that I have other mum friends and a kind neighbour willing to help out with the school run, a family who will come to stay if ever I ask them for help,a caring daughter who is my Chief Picker Upper of Things, and a boyfriend who got so fed up of me asking him to hoover that he’s started paying for a cleaner every week (now this is definitely a PGP perk!) but I do feel for those women who have no-one to help them, or a young toddler to deal with. I know in the grand scheme of things, it will all be worth it in the end – as people so helpfully tell me on a daily basis – but when you have constant pain coupled with pregnancy hormones, the isolation,despair and frustration can take over. And when you’re actually looking forward to childbirth, I think that says it all really.

Sporting my newest fashion accessory.

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Pants

I sometimes feel sorry for my boyfriend. He was thrown into the deep end of parenthood, meeting my daughter for the first time when she was three and a half years old and already a fully established little girl. Like me, before Poppy came into his life, he had no hands-on experience bringing up children, but at least I got to grow and learn with her and I had a considerable head start on him. When I think about it, it’s really quite remarkable the way he’s adapted to the role. While most of his friends who have known him for years struggle to imagine him as a responsible parent, I can confirm that he is pretty damn good at it. After all, I wouldn’t entrust him with the single most precious thing in my life if I didn’t think he was capable. And I certainly wouldn’t be having a baby with him. I’m quite lucky I’ve been able to “test drive” him as a parent before we decided to have one of our own together.

However, as much as I appreciate how difficult it must be to suddenly be thrust into parenthood without at least having the 9 months preparation period most people have, I can’t help but laugh at some of his questions as he tries to get his head around the dark art of bringing up a little girl.

The first time I left him on babysitting duties is by far the funniest – though at the time I did question my decision to leave him unattended with my pride and joy. Picture the scene: I had just been “relieved” from the duties of motherhood to go to relive my youth at a Shed 7 gig in Glasgow. I was on the train, winding down, getting ready for a few beers and the chance to belt out every lyric of every song like it was 1996. I hadn’t been on the train 2 minutes when I got my first phone call.

“The helter skelter’s shut because it’s too windy. She’s upset. Can I take her to McDonalds to cheer her up?”

“Sure, why not?” I’m no stranger to food bribery myself.

Another two minutes pass. My phone rings again.

“She says she doesn’t want the chicken nuggets Happy Meal, what will I do?”

Me: “Just get her it anyway, it’s her favourite and she’s playing you…if she’s hungry, she’ll eat it.”

I think I might have had, at a push, five minutes of peace when the third phone call came.

“She needs the toilet. What do I do?”

“Take her to the toilet.”

“Which one do I take her to?”

“Well unless you want to get arrested, I’d strongly recommend you go into the men’s…..”

Since that night, I’m pleased to report he’s getting much better at making common sense decisions, and I don’t need to be consulted on *every* minute detail. Although a recent trip to H&M to buy socks for Poppy resulted in him spending an hour in the store, with a running phone commentary, and him returning with about 20 pairs of socks looking like he’d just served six months in Iraq.

And one of my favourite gems came a couple of weeks ago when he nipped in to Marks & Spencer to look for some new work trousers for himself.

I received the following picture via text message:

“Should I buy Poppy some Frozen pants?”

“If you want,” I replied.

Him: “What size?”

Me: “I dunno, are they generous sizes?”

Him: “I don’t know, I’m not taking them out the packet.”

Me: “Yeah, cos that would be weird wouldn’t it? A bit like a grown man standing on his own in the middle of Mark & Spencer taking photos of children’s underwear….”

Him: “Right, that’s it, I’m leaving. She’s not getting any pants!”

Is it in your tummy?

Hedgehog, bunny, or baby?

So, Poppy finally got her wish – a baby in my tummy. Which explains my blogging absence over the past little while. I’ve been absent from many aspects of life recently – I’d forgotten just how exhausting being pregnant is. I’d forgotten a lot about pregnancy actually. I guess your memory wipes itself a little bit, erasing all the horrible parts so that you’re not put off ever reproducing again.

At 16 weeks, I’m starting to feel it fluttering around inside, and that’s the part of pregnancy that your memory keeps. That stage of feeling the first signs of life growing inside of  you is the best feeling in the world.

I remember feeling Poppy’s first tiny kicks, but it’s sometimes now hard to imagine she was ever just the image on a scan. And now she’s holding a scan picture of her little brother or sister, desperate to be able to feel those kicks with her own hand.

Suffice to say, she’s over the moon with the news, and – on occasion – is even cutting me a bit of slack when I don’t feel like chasing her in the park or lifting her up the stairs.

To watch the video of her initial reaction to the baby news, visit http://www.facebook.com/writeonmumblog. Her complete and utter disbelief is just the sweetest.

 

Best days of your life…

Before.

It’s hard to believe this is Poppy’s fourth week of being “a big schoolgirl” (a phrase I am using very frequently in a futile bid to get her to actually act like one). The weeks have flown by, and I’m pleased to report that at this stage, she is absolutely loving it. She skips off with her class quite happily every morning, following the teacher she already idolises, and chatting with her newfound friends. You should see the grin on her face on the days she’s first in line in the mornings. Those are the days the teacher will hold her hand during the walk to the classroom. Those are the days she is Queen Bee.

“Losing” her to school has been nowhere near as traumatic as I thought it would be. I spent so long fearing the unknown, dreading her first day, and just generally overthinking the life out of it all, that by the time it actually came round, I was almost over the whole thing already.

It was a gorgeous sunny day, and the walk to school was just a sea of tiny children in red cardigans and jumpers, all greeting each other along the way, looking pristine and far too small to be wearing school uniform. As I kissed her goodbye and held her tight in the playground, I was glad of the sunshine and the fact it meant I could wear sunglasses, as I shed a few secret tears before releasing my grip and setting her free. But she gave me the strength not to be sad. Her whole face was beaming, and she was oozing happiness and excitement. How could I be sad when she was so ecstatic about this new chapter in her life?

Shedding a sneaky tear.

And, to be honest, having peace to have a coffee and eat my full Scottish breakfast outside – yep, it was THAT warm – in a nearby cafe with my boyfriend and brother afterwards quickly took away any remaining doubts I had.

After.

Back to reality…

The past couple of months have pretty much been non-stop. In fact, there was a point when I hadn’t spent a weekend at home for about 6 weeks. We had Thailand, then Stone Roses in Dublin (I left Poppy with my parents for that one, much to her disgust), London, then London again, then Dumfries to stay with gran and granddad, then Ireland for a wedding…..and we have just returned from our most recent weekend away in the Highlands.

So, I’m officially hanging up my holiday hat for the year and getting back to business. Poppy has started school (will post about that later) so our lives will now be dictated by term times and her social calendar.

In the absence of frequent blogging during the course of these adventures, I’m copping out and posting a series of photos instead to illustrate the past couple of months.

The hair braids that took as long to take out as they did to get in.

Kata Beach, Phuket.

The waterpark that got her through the vaccinations.

A lifetime dream come true – finally got to see The Stone Roses.

Bowie in Brixton.

Another trip to London, another boat trip along the Thames….

Toasting marshmallows in Dumfries.

T-shirt friends.

Scrubbing up.

This is going to end up costing me big-time….

Checking out an Iron Age crannog.

 

Time to let go

As I watched Poppy proudly connecting the “number monkeys” together, surrounded by her soon-to-be new classmates, I suddenly realised that I just have to let go. The beaming smile on her face during her first classroom visit said it all: she is beyond excited about starting school, and more than ready for all the learning challenges awaiting her.

I’d always given a little sneer at those mums who cried when their “babies” went to “big school”. I thought they were a bit pathetic, if I’m honest. I mean, it’s not as if they didn’t know it was going to happen. “Oh how is my baby going to school?” they’d post on Facebook. Well, because they’re four or five, and the law states that they have to – d’oh. But man are my chickens coming home to roost. Every time I go into what will be her primary school come August, I well up. Every time I think about her starting school, I literally have to fight the tears from my eyes. I bought her school uniform last week and got her to try it on…..you can imagine how that went.

I don’t ask myself “how” this has happened. For me, Poppy’s four years in this world have had a dramatic impact. They haven’t passed with the blink of an eye. They have been tough. In all honesty, they have been the hardest four years of my life. Bringing up a child is not easy. And bringing up a child on your own is certainly no picnic. I know a lot of my friends complain about their husbands being useless a lot of the time, but just having someone – just physically having someone – there to take the strain for an hour before bedtime, or half an hour in the morning so you can shower in peace, is better than nothing. And let’s not even mention weekends. So, yeah, I’m probably more aware than most of every passing month and year that got us where we are today.

My difficulty with her starting school is more a fear than an inability to understand how it’s come to this. Fear of the unknown, and fear of the known. Poppy is the sweetest, kindest, most good natured little girl I know – on a good day – and I worry so much that school will either change that, or take advantage of that. The thought of anyone picking on or hurting my little girl is unbearable. Last week she told me a little boy at nursery said she had fat legs and I’m not even going to admit what I wanted to say back to him. Instead, I told her that her legs weren’t fat, they were strong and healthy and why she was so fast at running. Afterwards she said: “I’m glad I told you mummy”, which just took my breath away. What I hope more than anything in the world is that she can always talk to me, and she can always tell me if anything is worrying or upsetting her. I guess that’s every mother’s wish.

After seeing her so happy and inspired during her classroom visit, I just have to accept that school is what she needs, and learning new things is what she craves. And even though it’s hard for me to “give her up” to the big wide world, I’ll just have to do my crying in secret and paint the biggest smile on my face when I wave her off on her first day at school.

A few years ago, my mum admitted she cried the whole two-hour car journey home after she and my dad deposited me at university in Edinburgh when I was just 17 years old. I mocked her ridiculousness.  It’s true when they say some things you just can’t understand until you’re a mum yourself.

The Day of the Holiday Vaccinations

The calm before the storm….

Saturday went pretty much as expected. The Lily soft toy bribe was a resounding success (score) and she was full of bravado all the way to the clinic. Part of me felt slightly optimistic about the appointment, while the other part laughed in the face of such ridiculous optimism.

The doctor seemed to spend an eternity talking us through the recommended vaccinations for Thailand, all the while I was aware Poppy was taking every bit of information in and getting more and more uneasy with every passing minute. Eventually he handed over control of the medical chair in his office and she was quite delighted at being able to move herself up and down like she was on some kind of fairground ride.

When we finally decided that we were all going to go for the rabies vaccination (she’s also scared of dogs, so this seemed like a no brainer), the doctor suddenly announced that this particular jab requires a course of three.

Our faces fell.

“You mean we have to come back again? Two more times?”

I could have cried.

And then it was time. I went first, which was probably a big mistake as I am not the best with needles myself and apparently my face gave off the opposite vibe to the picture of serenity I was trying to create for Poppy’s benefit.

By this point she was in the classic self-preservation/psychotic position, knees up to her chest, rocking back and forth.

“I don’t want to go to Thailand, I just want to go home!” she repeated over and over, tears starting to form.

My boyfriend was up next. His (genuine) lack of fear did nothing to alleviate the situation either. Her increasing panic progressed quickly from crying to screaming as she realised it was her turn next.

There was only one thing for it. I scooped her up, sat down with her on my knee, asked my boyfriend to help me pin her arm down to the table, and told the doctor to just stick the needle in her arm. She was screaming. And I mean screaming.

And then it was over.

“Did it go in my arm or in my leg?” she asked. *face palm*.

The doctor said that was the loudest screaming he’d heard all year. We paid a small fortune for the privilege and booked two further appointments.

Then we got Poppy her last bribe – an ice lolly – for being “so brave”, drove to her dad’s, kissed her goodbye, and went straight to the pub.

Who’s Lily then?!

Well, The Day of the Holiday Vaccinations (as I fear it will be forever known) is almost upon us. I booked us into a private clinic to get them done so that we could get a Saturday appointment, meaning my boyfriend can be there to help me pin Poppy down.

There was mild panic earlier in the week when he reported that the Lily Bobtail soft toy requested by Poppy as her vaccination bribe – which she had spied on our trip to London  – was no longer in Hamleys.

Our text conversation went like this:

Him: “May have to get Lily online.”

Me: “Oh no, are there none left?”

Him: “They had a tiny one called Floppy.”

Me: “Do you mean Flopsy?!”

Him: “Yep.”

Me: “Flopsy, Mopsy and Cottontail are Peter Rabbit’s sisters!”

Him: “Will try somewhere else tomorrow.”

Me: “Getting nervous now!”

Him: “About the jabs? Or about no Lily rabbit?”

Me: “No Lily.”

Him: “Who’s Lily then?!”

Me: “She’s Peter’s clever, brave friend!”

Him: “There’s no Lily rabbit?! I’m confused!”

With the prospect of having to go through this stressful scenario again, he took to Amazon and found one that would be delivered in time. It has just arrived and is almost the size of Poppy…..which she is either going to love, or is going to moan about because it’s not the same as the one she saw in Hamleys.

The giant Lily.

So I remain in my constant state of nervousness. Roll on 10.30am on Saturday when this will (hopefully) all be over….