Make mine a triple please...that would be triple A's I mean!

In occasionally rare moments of insanity I consider having another child. I am currently surrounded on all sides by expectant mothers. Many of the women that I was pregnant with the first time around are in various stages of their second pregnancy, including one of my bestfriends. Also Emily is soon to have a cousin as Gavin's sister is expecting her first child in August. But then I have nights like tonight, or in fact weeks like this last week, where I realise that I am not sure I have the energy for the child I have, let alone another one! 

Emily has been ill on and off for about the last four weeks and we have spent many long evenings and even longer nights, of horribly disturbed sleep that is reminiscent of the early days, fighting running noses, high temperature and persistent coughs. 

Tonight I have spent the best part of two hours trying to settle my daughter, I have given her cough syrup (that does not work), rubbed vics into her chest and back, administered ibuprofen, been thrown up on as a result of a rather violent coughing fit, wiped her nose about a million times, lay on her bed, sat on her bed, held her in my arms until I thought my back and legs would give out under her weight. I have been up and down the stairs so many times that I won't need to do my Davina DVD for about a month or any other form of exercise for that matter. 

I am so beyond tired that I actually have no idea where the energy to keep going is coming from. All I want is for someone to tuck me up in bed with bob the bear, read me a bedtime story and then I can fall asleep for about a week! And yet what is my daughter currently doing? Playing! What is she, the fricken Duracell bunny or something? 

Another child? I DON'T think so! Not any time soon anyway!

So if you hear me talking about another baby, if I so much as utter anything remotely resembling the sentence 

" But another baby would be so lovely" 

Please feel free to hit me over the head, repeatedly, until my senses have returned!

However as a final note I would like to add 'Congratulations to all those lovely expectant mothers around me'. You are all braver women then I can currently claim to be!  

Life - opera

So what do you do when your man is more of a drama queen than you? A trait, most men would argue, is normally reserved for women only.

Gavin, like most parents, is very protective of his daughter and her welfare. And whilst that is all good and fine and I am extremely happy to a) have someone else assisting me in helping to keep her alive - a challenge faced by most parents with a danger and inadvertent death seeking toddler and b) have a man that obviously loves our daughter with as much passion as me, it can at times be like living in the middle of an episode of Eastenders. And I much prefer my soap-opera's on a screen in my lounge, not actually just in my lounge!  

Take this afternoon for example. Having just shown his uncle around our house to discuss some work that we are hoping to have done. He comes back to inform me of the bad news! Not that his uncle cannot fit the new radiator where we were hoping, that the price may be considerably more than we had estimated or even that we would have to wait (what would seem like a millennia) to have the work done. 

No...He informed me that he and his uncle had been talking about the lack of ventaliation in our kitchen. And let me just set the scene, this is a kitchen that contains a gas Rayburn, fitted 16 years ago by the previous residence (namely my then married mother and father), installed by a corgi registered fitter, serviced every year by a corgi registered employee of Blakemore and Chell (local gas appliance specialists). So anyway, was I aware that if all the doors to the room were closed and someone was to fall asleep in our kitchen - as so often happens of course (I am rather partial to an afternoon nap on our kitchen table), that they would die of carbon monoxide poisoning? 

Or worse still that if child protection services found out that we had a child and were living in a property with an unventilated room. A room that contained a gas appliance that we had refused to have switched off  - because obviously we would stand and argue with a gas specialist if they told us to switch off a dangerous appliance, that they would take our child away from us as we would be deemed unfit parents?! And breathe...wow!!


After relaying this terrible tale to me, a story of potential death and neglectful parents. I looked up at him, sighed and said 

"There is ventaliation in the kitchen, the huge massive air vent in the bottom of the cellar door"

"Oh" he replies "well that's good to know" 


But the thing that really concerns me, is whilst he and his uncle were concocting this elaborate story of poison and protection services, they both failed to notice the air vent in the cellar door, right in front of them or came to ask me why there was no ventilation in the kitchen of the house that I have spent the last 21 years of life living in (on and off).

Just as I suspected, drama queen he might be but he is definitely still a man. Completely lacking in practicality and totally unobservant...ha, ha, ha!

If you love someone, set them free...

This week has seen a new first for myself and Emily. Her first day at nursery. 

Tuesday morning, Emily and I got into the car and drove to the aptly named 'Learning Mill', because this was definitely one of those life lesson that people talk about and not just for my daughter but for me too. 

Taking her into a room full of strangers. The noise, the sounds and smells, all alien to my daughter. Her nervous little figure, clutching my hand as I lead her across the room. Having to crouch down and kiss my daughter goodbye. Leaving her alone for the first time ever with nothing familiar and only 'Bob the bear' for company. Watching her as I left with this look of confusion and apprehension on her face. Racing away so as to avoid literally breaking down in front of a room full of people. My heart ached! My chest was tight and I could feel a lump rising in my throat. The second I made it through our front door, into the safety of my own house, I just cried. As ridiculous as it felt, I couldn't fight the emotion.

Logically I knew that she would come to no harm, that the place was designed around children, for children - for their delight. That the friendly staff would welcome her, make her feel at ease and treat her as kindly as any mother could wish for. The logic in my brain told me that she would be fine but the love in my heart was screaming at me, to run back, take her hand and lead her out of this strange place and into the comfort and safety of my arms. 

How contrary it can be, a mothers love! In order to save our children, in order to provide the best for them, sometimes we have to do the opposite of what our intuition tells us. Sometimes we just have to let them go, let them live and hope that the decisions we make are the right ones. Which of course in this instance it was. 

On returning 3 hours later I found my daughter happily drawing pictures with other children, all stood around a big circular table. And when she saw me, she did not throw herself into my arms, she did not cry with relief that her mother had returned to her. She just smiled, kissed me and with a nonchalant greeting of "Hi mama" returned to her drawing!

SWF...

Do you ever get the feeling that someone else stole your life and they are walking around wearing it? Like you have been single white femaled by an invisible counterpart, that exists in another universe and she is living the life that should be yours.

I have that feeling most days...

Things weren't always this way though, were they?

I sat in the park today, watching my daughter trying, with the help of her grandmother, to negotiate the slide the wrong way. And a group of high school girls caught my eye, so young and free that I had to ask my mother if I was ever like that because honestly some days I struggle to remember a time when my life was ever that simple. She assures me that I was and so I allow my mind to wonder and I begin to remember...

A time before all the madness began, when everything came down to the simply divine pleasures. Listening to Shola Ama, You Might Need Somebody, on repeat and singing along at the top of my voice. The exhilaration in watching as the hairdresser cut off my long tresses for a funky, short bob, rolling up my school skirt by at least an inch or two so I could show off a little leg but not too much, going fives on my last cigarette because my four best friends also smoked but I was the only one with enough dinner (lunch) money to be able to afford 10 Berkley Red. The night the boy that made my stomach somersault gave me his scarf and walked me home.

I allowed myself to drift away on a sea of nostalgia, momentarily lost in the 90's. Back then I couldn't wait to grow up and be independent, live my own life and make my own decisions. I wasn't going to let anyone tell me how things should be done, I was going to forge my own path and make the world stop and notice me! I was so full of passion then, so alive!

And now?

Most days, I just feel...old. My mother always laughs at me when I say this,

“How can you feel old at your age” she asks me.

I don't know mother but I do. I feel like someone sucked all the zest for life out of me. It's that woman I tell you, the one from the other universe, the one walking around with my life. It's her fault, right? Except I figured out that woman is just another version of me. And is it so inconceivable to imagine that I might be able to change my circumstances, change my outlook with a little bit of effort and some hard work? A positive attitudes goes a long way so I recall.

I know I will never get back to 1995 but that's okay, being a teenager once was enough for me and beside cigarettes are so expensive these day and, of course, extremely bad for your health. Another downside to getting older, eventually everything becomes bad for your health! There is, however,nothing to say that I can't bring a little of that free spirit into 2011. So stayed tuned blogger fans because as Bob Dylan would say, the times they are a changing.

When I get older...

Today my daughter placed her head on my lap and went to sleep, something she hasn't done in a while and I realised that no matter what else life throws at me, I know love...real love for this little person. This little person that grew inside me and filled my life with love, joy, pain and sadness all at once, the kind of which I had never felt before.

I realised again, the same thing that I have known ever since those two blue lines appeared in that little window, that I was changed forever. That my daughter would be forever mine and yet never belong to me but only to herself. That I would literally die to save her life and that I would be forever done for, beholden to her beautiful smile and lost in her deep blue eyes. The same eyes that looked up at me the first time I held her.

Becoming a mother, a parent, is the most exhilaratingly terrifying experience I have ever known and trust me when I say I have known real fear, pain and joy in the 28 years previous to becoming Emily's mother. But the older I get, with every year that passes the more I realise what is important, what matters and what just doesn't. Because in the end everything falls away, till all we are left with are the things that matter the most to us. Whether that be people, possessions, money, status or whatever it is we value. Given enough time we can forgive most any sins committed against us, whether that be the heartbreak we feel when a lover doesn't love us back anymore, our parents failure to go the distance together or that 'bitch' that made our lives hell for 3 years because we fancied the guy she fancied and because...well she 'just could' (I'm still working on that one).

Anyway my point is that life changes us, getting older changes us and you can't fight it, you can try but it happens to us all and it doesn't have to be a bad thing. You can stop caring so much about what other people think, realise that it should only matter what you think and what those closest to you, the important ones, think. So take comfort in your life lived, in your family and friends because that's what I am learning to do. When I am at my lowest, darkest, when the sadness takes a complete hold of me, I look into those beautiful blue eyes and I know, that when everything else has fallen away, I did a good thing...no a GREAT thing!

There once was a girl with a Strawberry curl...

Right in the middle of her forehead

And when she was good

She was very, very good...

It has probably not failed to escape your attention that my daughter has red hair and this has always been a source of great discussion among family, friends and even complete strangers. 

Take today for example, whilst being served in the chemist the woman commented on Emily and her red hair, informing me that her niece also has red hair. I smiled and responded in my usually way, something along the lines of

 "Yes it's lovely isn't it?" whilst patting my daughter head. And although people would have you believe that red hair is a dying gene, it would seem it is still a conversation starter. Although whilst in afterthought I realised that I may know the father of the niece in question, however it was early and I had forgone my morning coffee to rush myself and Emily to the doctors to deal with a suspicious rash that had appeared on both our hands. So in my caffeine starved, early morning haze, I did not make the connection, even when she told me the name of her niece. I blame lack of sleep (see 'Big girls don't cry' for more details) and my 'blonde' hair for this. Although lets be honest had I clicked am still not sure I would have shared this mutual connection with her, 

 "Right so that's £3.09 for the cream...oh and by the way, you don't know me but I think I might know your brother because he has a little girl with red hair too"...hmmm maybe not eh! 

Emily's red hair comes from Gavin's side of the family, his mother to be exact. I think she is extremely pleased to have some company being the only red head in the family prior to Emily's arrival.  So red hair, a dying gene? And why such a hot topic of conversation? 

Well according to Wikipedia, the source of all knowledge, red heads still constitute 4% of the European population and in Scotland 13 % of the population have red hair and around 40% carry the recessive gene. 

A history of red heads, as relayed from Hubpages, is that they have been feared, loathed, degraded, revered, adored and exalted. The ancient Egyptians believed that red haired animals and people were associated with the god 'Set', many of their Pharaohs had red hair, including Ramses who was the most powerful of all the Pharaohs. However they also regarded the colour red as unlucky and many red haired maidens were burnt to death to wipe out the tint.  What a fickle bunch we are those of us lacking the red gene!

Typically red heads are meant to have fiery temperaments and are prone to hot headiness and many songs have been written about red head. Mostly by men favouring the long red tresses, in particular Mr Springsteen who seems an extremely avid fan of the crimson haired lady...I won't repeat the lyrics of his song!

So no matter what you think, whether you ridicule reds or revere them it has to be said that the colour of their hair is certainly a topic of interest and I am now and have always been a huge fan of our auburn haired brothers and sisters. Particularly because one of my best friends is a red head, as feisty as they come and would have kicked my ass if I'd ever dared say anything against them...ha, ha, he, he!

Big girls don't cry...

So in a vain (possibly...no actually probably lame) attempt to psychologically prepare Emily for potty training and the transition from baby girl to big girl I have been slowly introducing her to various activities that I class as "Big girls...... (fill in the blank)"


So pull-up pants have become "Big girls pants", very similar to mummy's pants in that they go up and down and have an elasticated waist, not in the sense that they are nappy lined. I know I turned thirty last week but I am not quite in need of incontinence pants or adult nappies just yet!

We have also removed the lid from her Tommy Tippee cup, so she is learning to sip her juice. Invariable this comes with it's own set of difficulties, there is the chance of choking on the intake of too much juice. The fact that she has taken to coughing just before she takes a sip, therefore meaning she is more likely to inhale the juice rather than ingest it.  Also she does get rather over zealous at times and we end up with a certain amount of sloshing and splashing. However after pouring juice all over herself on several occasions she has started to comprehend the importance of slow, steady drinking and using both hands to hold her cup. Although even big girls still spill from time to time! Hot coffee on my new carpet...opps!


However the biggest and most important step in our journey has been the removal of her cot sides, the transformation from cot to bed. Allowing my daughter the opportunity to escape at will. We are on night three and so far we have only been disturbed once each night, which I think isn't bad going, considering some of the stories I have heard. I am yet to experience the sensation of being smacked in the head with an aftershave bottle in the early hours of the morning or find that my daughter has redecorated her bedroom with sudocrem and baby wipes. 

Although she has taken to crying as a form of verbalising her dismay at being left alone, inconsolable, heart-wrenching sobs only normally reserved for when she has seriously hurt herself, my daughter is obviously learning the art of manipulation. However timing, it would seem, is everything. She will wait until we have tucked her into bed, where she must now have both Bob (the cross dressing teddy) and her "book mama"...an old copy of Noddy, that of course she cannot actually read. So we tuck her and Bob and the book into bed, we turn down the light, say "night, night" about a hundred, thousand times, leave the room, close the door, wrestle with the ridiculously awkward safety gate that won't shut properly unless you jiggle it about in a certain way...the gate that I actually believe may be quite lethal if left in the wrong 'open' position, observing it nearly taking my daughter's eye out the other day. So you turn to begin your descent down the stairs and there it is...that moment right there, that is the precise moment that my daughter chooses to cry! *sigh*

So the next lesson I absolutely must teach my daughter, and very, very soon, is that "big girls don't cry..."

Well actually that's not strictly true is it? Big girls do cry too, especially when they have horrible, ghastly, ridiculously painful tooth ache!!! Grrr... please someone, quick, hit me over the head with an aftershave bottle and put me out of my misery...