Jenerally Speaking,

A letter to my children in 2040

Dear Master R and Miss O, 

I'm sorry. If you're still alive and well now, you're 27 and 25. Are things bad? I'm afraid, with the way things are going right now, they're very likely to be. 

I'm sorry, because right now, as I type this in 2020, I know. And I have known for some while. Back in 1995 I learnt about pollution and climate change in my Year 6 geography lessons. Lots of us did. I was frightened. Really, truly frightened. But I didn't know what to do. I was just 10. What could I do? 

Now and then, as I was growing up, I would remember that the planet was dying. No, not dying. Being murdered. Being deliberately murdered by a small group of people in order for them to become enormously rich. I'd remember and it would land on my shoulders like a mountain. I would feel depressed and hopeless and couldn't see the point of anything. But then I'd push it to the back of my mind again so I could carry on living. Most of us did.

What were your teenage years like? Was it hot? I imagine it was. The last couple of summers have involved heat waves which have pushed us from the garden to the lounge, to stand in the slightly cooler house, moving as little as possible and still sweating and uncomfortable.

How were the storms? They've started blowing with more energy recently. Our back door has been broken by a gust of wind. My car has needed repairing after I drove over a huge branch which had been blown down by Storm Dennis. The fences are going to need repairing again. I know that's nothing compared to what other people are facing. Floods have submerged homes and cars alike. And that's just in the Global North. 

How's Australia this year? We watched in horror as it burnt this year. The Amazon is on fire too. Even the Arctic Circle has experienced fires. Are koalas extinct yet? Do you remember koalas? 

Today, Master R, you did your homework. You've been learning about Ernest Shackleton, so your challenge was to design your own animal evolved to survive in polar habitats. You created a Snowtropolis; a bird with webbed feet and a hooked beak. Apparently it eats Arctic hares, can live on sea and land and is about the size of an Arctic Fox. We managed to talk you out of letting it breathe fire. Your creativity knows no bounds!

Is there anywhere left that your Snowtropolis could live? Are there polar bears? They're clinging on by a thread at the moment. I don't think they have long left. The ice is melting faster than even the most pessimistic predictions. Feedback loops are speeding it up. 

Are you hungry? I'm sorry if you are. I'm debating whether we should start stock piling food, but we can't stockpile food for the rest of our lives. And anyway, it wouldn't be fair. Other people can't do that. People in Global South are already suffering from famines. I keep trying to warn people here that famines are coming for us soon. These heatwaves are eventually going to cause the wheat crops to fail. And by eventually, I mean fairly soon. But folk look at me like I'm bonkers. Or look concerned, but then push that scary thought away so they can get on with their week. I don't blame them. It's terrifying. 

I'm also wondering if we should move to a house with a bigger garden, so we can grow fruit and veg in our own garden, rather than having it at the allotment. I love the allotment, but when the food shortages comes, as scientists say they will, we won't be able to protect our crops there. They'll be stolen before we're able to harvest them. 

Are people stealing? Is society surviving thus far? Are people managing to go to work and be civil to one another or is it all falling apart? I lie in bed and wonder how we'll cope. I wonder what will get us; the hunger, or the civil unrest... or some almighty storm, blowing down the house. I wondered the other night, as Storm Ciara whistled round the rooftop, whether we should build an Anderson shelter in the garden. The hobbit hole is going mouldy again. Maybe we should just replace it with something more practical. 

I'm so worried for your future. I am fighting for it, I promise. I've spent too long feeling the despair and grief, but not doing anything. Now I will fight. As much as I can fit it in around raising you and studying. I do wonder if it's worth spending three years studying to be a midwife. How long will I get to practice before the NHS crumbles under the weight of either the conservative government or climate and ecological collapse? Would it be wiser to just spend the next three years working for Extinction Rebellion full time? In 2040, if I'm still alive, will I regret that choice? 

Will it be enough? Are we doing enough? We are trying. I'm sorry if it hasn't been enough. I hope that now, things aren't as black as they are currently on track to be. I hope that Boris Johnson and Donald Trump have been consigned to the history books alongside such names as Adolph Hitler, as crazy nutters who somehow conned people into voting for them. I hope your leaders are forward-thinking people like Greta Thunberg and Jacinda Ardern. I hope countries have started working together, caring for one another rather than becoming increasingly isolated and suspicious. I hope people woke up in time and started living in a truly sustainable fashion.

Talking of fashion, is that over? Please tell me people aren't still making money from arbitrarily choosing "looks" that are key for a given year or season, and persuading other people to pay money for this fast fashion. Please tell me that clothes are made sustainably, patched up and re-purposed when damaged and then recycled in a circular system. And GDPR. Is that over? Do we measure our countries success based on how much carbon is being absorbed and how happy people are? 

At the moment, it's all hanging in the balance. I'm trying. We're trying. We're shouting at the top of our lungs that we need to CHANGE NOW. If we failed, I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry that you won't have the chance to live in peace. I'm sorry you're hungry. I'm sorry you're scared. You may not even get to live as long as me. I imagine you probably won't have children. How could you bring them into a chaotic, collapsing world? I don't regret having you. I never could. But I am sorry for what you're likely to go through. I will fight for you. 

With all my love, rage and hope, 

Mama

The Power of "Cool"

So these days, I have a seven-year-old. It's a bit of big deal, actually, because he was only a toddler a few weeks ago, as far as I recall. Actually, that's not true. His toddling years seem very, very far away in the distant past. But SEVEN, to me, is an old age. It's middle-childhood. It's the youngest age of child I've ever taught. I now have a child as old as children I've had in my classes. Quite a milestone. 

But being in middle childhood is HARD. I dimly recall myself, and more recently recall all the issues children in my classes encountered. Many of these issues boil down to one thing. The concept of "coolness". 

The first time Master R asked what "cool" meant, I asked what he thought, and he confessed he hadn't a clue. This must have been when he was five, I think. I explained that "cool" just means socially powerful. A person can make up any kind of bonkers rule about what you have to do to be cool and lots of other people will copy them so that that person likes them. And so all the other people who want to be liked by the first person will also like them. It's a conversation we've had several times over, as he's encountered more situations involving "coolness". I always reiterate that there's no such thing as being cool. People just want there to be, to have power over others. 

A while ago, he revealed that at school, children claimed to be cool if they rolled up their jumper sleeves into big wadges half way up their forearms. Yes, really. This, for a while, was the height of social sophistication. I told Master R how, when I was in Years 5 and 6 myself, it was considered cool to roll down your white, knee-high socks to form a huge doughnut around your ankles. It looked absurd, and was really quite awkward, because it made your socks bang together. To be cool was to risk falling on your face because your ankles had clonked together. 

I don't want Master R to feel like he has to follow these bonkers rules which socially powerful kids create to make themselves feel powerful and liked. I think he has a healthy level of scepticism about "coolness". A couple of months ago, apropos of nothing, he declared; "There are too many silly little boys at school who think they are cool." This sounded like a direct quote of a teacher in a disciplinary assembly, so I asked who had said that. His reply? "I did. I think it, Mummy." 

Bang on the money, there kid. But the trouble is, now he's finding that other children are challenging him and being unkind, using "coolness" as the weapon of choice. This week, someone in his class asked him "Do you think you're cool?" He replied that he didn't know. Of course, the other child said "I don't think you are." Words like knives. Because by denying someone else the title of "coolness" you're putting them down. Down as cleverly and subtley as you know how as a seven-year-old. But down low.

"You're not as good as me and I want you to know it. I want you to know absolutely that you haven't won my approval and until you follow my rules and behave as I think you should, you won't." 

Happily, Master R has no interest in this child approving of him. And to be perfectly honest, neither have I. But it hurts my heart that other people are hurting his heart. Making him question himself. Challenging him to doubt himself. Exerting pressure on him to be anything other than what he is. 

Master R, what you are is utterly marvellous. You are curious, thoughtful, articulate, caring, imaginative, stubborn and at times, utterly infuriating. I hope that stubborn streak will enable you to stand up to the self-claimed cool kids and let them know that they hold no social power over you. Because the only power anyone holds over you is the power you LET them take from you. 

On my Camera

I like to photograph you while you play. Firstly, it's a challenge to try to capture your fast, excited movements without ending up with blurry photos. I've been playing around creating my own custom settings to try to cope with this winter light (although I am considering a camera purchase in the not-too-distant future, so I can have a higher/bigger aperture). It's an improvement... but still a challenge.

Secondly, and far more importantly, because you change so fast. Only a few weeks ago I was photographing 1 year old Master R as he crawled and cruised around this lounge. Capturing his dimples, his cheeky smile and his laid back play. Days ago I was photographing newborn Miss O, snuggled on a crocheted blanket, pink and new.

But I must be mistaken, because here you are. My six-year-old. My dude with classes, floppy hair and only one front tooth, owing, not to your age, but to a disagreement you had with a bench at school. Oh the blood. Oh the hugely swollen lip. That trip to see the dentist so she could numb your gum with a bit of gel and wiggle that totally misplaced tooth out. Thank goodness the tooth fairy paid you double, for such a traumatic first loss. You'll be gappy a long while, I imagine. Your bottom teeth aren't even wobbly yet, so that adult tooth is going to take some time about growing through.

And this newborn baby of mine... she's quite old enough to invent games with you. She contributes her ideas readily, eagerly and passionately. Not such a newborn, I guess.

What I love to see is how differently you react to the world, but how beautifully your personalities work together. You're not polar opposites, but you are very different. Master R, you are the idea generator, when you're together. You invent the worlds in which you play, giving them names, meaning and rules. Miss O is happy to join you in those worlds, but she brings her own ideas with her, challenging you if you disagree and often declaring "Then I'm not PLAYING with you!!" when you try to refuse her suggestions. When you dig your heels in, she's quite likely to lash out physically, her negotiating skills tapped out. Then you come crying to me in indignation and sadness, and I have to play the peacemaker. Other times you collaborate with cheerful flexibility and I can smile as I listen from another room. Your loving compromises make my heart happy.

"Ok, O___, why don't we do this..."

"Yes, R____, what I good ide-yah!" (Because enthusiasm makes the word idea a whole syllable longer)

We had some flour out the other day, and the Chinese number kanji. I was dragged unwilling from my bed to come and "help" because you, Master R, were crying that you couldn't spread the flour out evenly to draw in it with the paintbrush. I'll be honest, drawing in any kind of powder or similar substance always looks great on Pinterest, but it's never really worked for us. You were frustrated that you couldn't get it to do what you want. We had a good go, and I think you were comforted by the fact that I couldn't get a clearer figure in it that you could. We preferred copying the kanji on paper with crayons. You could work out the numbers, first because 1, 2 and 3 are obvious, then because you realised I'd put them out in number order. We looked at the kanji for the animals in the Zodiac story, as you've been inspired by learning about that at school. You tried the Ox kanji but declared the rest "too hard". Your letter and number formation has improve a lot, but there are still some numbers you reverse, or letters to start at the bottom. You have to work to learn how to write those symbols, so I can see why a complex kanji was unappealing. Visual patterns aren't an area of strength for you. Jigsaws baffled you for a long time.

Miss O, you ignored the invitation to draw and instead painted yourself with flour. Why the heck not? The invitation to enjoy sensory play was right there. You love writing your name and doing pages of pretend writing, but on your own terms. Your fine motor skills are pretty advanced, and you're a natural visual learner. You had jigsaws nailed young. You just "see" where the pieces belong. Although you do still try to put edge pieces in the middle! You love to craft in the afternoons before we collect your big brother from school. Crafting and physical play; they're your go-to activities.

And freestyle imaginative games. You were pleased that the toilet roll order had arrived today and helped to open it. You demanded I tip it out and then you threw yourself bodily into the pile of 48 super-size rolls of Who Gives A Crap paper and tried to swim through it. Then you rang your "bell" and told me that when you rang it, I had to comply with various instructions. (Can I just mention what a hideous noise it makes when you bang those two pan lids together? It goes right through me and Master R, but you don't seem to mind, for all that you're highly sensitive about so many other things!)

We played for about half an hour with the toilet rolls. We build a staircase, a beach, filled a bath, made a bed... and you kept coming up with new ideas all the time and telling me what to do. "Pretend you saw me make you a lovely shiny bath." "Pretend you made a cot for me." "Pretend you saw a sad, lonely puppy on the beach." One-to-one, you are the boss of the games, and you love not having to compromise.You play your role earnestly... a sad puppy, a helpless baby, a baby pirate. You like to choose the baby role for yourself whether you're playing just with me, or with Master R. You like to be cared for and pandered. But then sometimes, you let him be the baby and you take care of his so thoughtfully.

You're so full of energy and zest. Whatever you do, you do it with passion. It amused your nursery teacher, earlier this week, to spot you tearing round the playground before school, chasing the older children with absolute confidence. Compared with the slightly hesitant, quiet child she sees in her classroom, the contrast surprised her. We chatted, and I suggested that it was a sort of bravado. That when you are in role, or performing, you feel confident and able to be loud, be brave, be sociable. You know how to play with children your brother's age... you've been doing it all your life as you found your age-peers to be not as interesting or advanced. But in the classroom full of children your own age, you're not sure of your role. You hang back to watch what the others do, so you can learn how to be in this new environment. I don't think your confidence in the playground is false... it's just a different social situation.

Oh Master R, you were so rightly proud of this stethoscope you created from Squigz. You got it absolutely spot on. And when I told you it was great, you agreed. No false modesty there. If you agree you've done something well, you agree, which I LOVE. We've tried to raise you to be proud of the hard work you put in, and it seems to be paying off. You told me today; "I was born to be a ninja," which is a bit fixed mindset, to be honest, so I said it was great you were working so hard in karate on your ninja skills. You agreed, but said: "Yes, but I had ninja skills even before I started." It's true. You've been doing amusing break-dancing/marshal-arts moves for several years now. That's why we enrolled you in dance and karate lessons... to see if we can separate the two skills!

Yes, you are each unique. You have different interests, ideas, favourites (except for that blasted pink bowl, which you have to argue and negotiate about every day), areas of skill and emotional temperaments.
And  what a great team you make. You go together like chips and mayonnaise.

Utterly different, but utterly complementary.

P.S. About the pink bowl though, arguments about which often result in both children sobbing with fury because, obviously, it is FAR SUPERIOR to every other bowl of identical size, material and strength. Miss O had a brilliant idea today. "Yesterday (she meant tomorrow) R and I can BOTH have the pink bowl. We can put the cereal in and we can have two spoons. Then a spoon for me, a spoon for R! We can SHARE!" She told me about this plan on the way home from nursery, then repeated it to Rachel later. Let's hope Master R is up for sharing his breakfast tomorrow!!

Our Holiday en France

Check me out! Not quite a month since we returned from our holiday and I've "already" got photos from the camera to the laptop and onto typepad. Ninja speed! 

Overall, we had a brilliant time together exploring la Vendée, although as with any holiday, there were stressful moments/hours/days and most of these for us centred around being lost or hungry and being unable to find our destination or somewhere which served food not composed entirely of dairy, which three out of four of us can't tolerate. However, I didn't bother to stop and take photos of my hangry face or my miserable, whining children, so we don't have any photos of the crappy moments to share! 

We were all excited when we packed up our car and headed to Folkestone to catch the train under the sea. 

I had a Giant Folder of Organisation, containing every document, map and piece of information we'd need for the next 9 days. Most thrilling for an organisational freak like moiself!

And we made sure we had plenty to keep the children busy in the back of the car. Retrospectively, crayons would have been wiser. We got MOST of the pen off her before we arrived in France, leaving just a faintly green tinge to her skin. 

I was really excited to see Master R and Miss O's faces when we got on a train in our car and then went into the darkness under the sea. What a cool experience! Unfortunately, due to a "no, you can't have diddy right this second now" tantrum, we brought out the borrowed tablets just as we started queuing for the Eurostar. I'm not convinced the children looked out the window for more than 3 seconds, despite all my enthusiastic narrating of what was happening. Standard!

Instead, they were transfixed. Ah well, Rachel and I had a stretch and a chat as we traversed the Channel Sea. (Can you say traverse if you're travelling under something?)

The rest of that day was spent driving through France. That evening we managed to find a roadside diner that we could have a basic burger and chip type meal, and pretend to be Ancient Gauls. Winner. 

The next morning, we woke up in our beautiful French gite and ate cornflakes we'd smuggled in, as we weren't due in the breakfast room until 9:15. We learnt that the French do everything much later than us. Sleep in later, eat later, sleep later. Everything later. Even changing time zone didn't help us out that much!

It really was a beautiful place to stay. The evening before, we stretched our travel weary bodies by running round the garden playing ninjas, and looking at the alpaca, sheep and goat that the host keeps. 

Then it was more driving! With the borrowed map of la Vendée I tracked our progress from one page to the next. I know, we had a SatNav too, but I wanted to KNOW where we were. Plus, Master R and I were drawing our route on a map we'd stuck in our summer holiday scrapbook (yes, I am THAT kind of mother), and the previous day's route had been vague, because I honestly wasn't sure where we'd travelled!

And finally, five hours later, we arrived at Saint Jean de Monts, on a cloudy but warm afternoon!

Sand! So. Much. Sand. Seriously, this beach is 10 times the width of Felixstowe. And the sand is so much softer. It is exquisite. We had a great run around, dipped our toes in the Atlantic Ocean and relaxed for a while.

The rest of this afternoon was really arduous though, as we'd skipped lunch and hoped to eat in town. But of course, all the restaurants were closed until the evening, so we decided to find our campsite. With co-ordinates which didn't work, an incorrect road address, a vague memory from Google maps of where it MIGHT be located and no roaming internet to check. We were lost and hungry for some considerable time before we finally arrived at our campsite. We may or may not have gone around one mini roundabout in the wrong direction. We may or may not have lost our tempers. The key point is we did get there in the end and we found sausages and sweetcorn to accompany our pesto pasta. We even made it to the splashpark to play and swim before bedtime. 

The next day we found the nearest beach, which, rather than being an 8 minute stroll through a clearly marked path, was a 20 hike up really high dunes on a path we couldn't find for about 10 minutes. Suffice to say we visited this particular beach just the once! See how exhausted Miss O was? She had a lovely 40 minute snooze in the sand to recover from the trip there. It was quite a challenge removing all the sand from her face afterwards!

Meanwhile, Master R and I communed with the sea... 

...  and dug a HUGE hole. We do love a beach day. And a wonky horizon. Oh, and it was on this beach that we were Selected For Time. You know, when someone chooses you as the most responsible person nearby likely to have and be willing to share the time. In French, and using Rachel's watch, because mine broke in January and I haven't successfully acquired a new one yet. I have tried, but I've returned two and given up. Anyway, I was proud that I was able to A: tell the time accurately and B: translate it into French. 

We visited lots of local attractions while we were there, and that was what the Vendée does really well, in my opinion. So many tourist attractions and each one exceeded our expectations. I don't know if that's because, being from South-East England, our expectations is that tourist attractions are painfully expensive and pretty crappy, or whether they are just particularly good in this area. 

This was the Dino Park in St Giles de la Croix (or St Hilaire de Riez... one of the two). I love having a go at some cave painting! Tried to keep it authentic!

Our hatchlings. 

Car based picnic. Every picnic of the week involved a baguette (we tried le tradition, le rustique and le normal), salad, crisps from a mega family bag we acquired at the Super U and some sliced meat. Sometimes some leftover pesto pasta. We did miss pork pies and scotch eggs, but we didn't go hungry.

The dino park had a great little play area with some fab inflatables (Miss O was too scared to climb in the giant caterpillar obastacle course, but got to grips with one later in the week at Youpla'land). 

In think this was later that day at St Giles de le Croix. We were thrilled to find a TWO STOREY carousel. Rachel and I managed to chose horses that didn't go up and down and only noticed once we were going round! Oh well!

We saw a fair few quaint docking areas in the local villages. 

The Ile de Noirmoutier was a great day out. We started at the Aquarium, where the sealion show was very entertaining (and looooong), but their narration was so fast I could only pick out every 10th word, so translating it for the children was more guesswork based on my own knowledge of sealions!

 We explored around the outside of the chateau...

... and, at Master R's request, inside too. It was very reasonably priced actually, and both children were free! Bonus!

The higher up you climbed, the better the views became:

And on the way back from Noirmoutier, we took "le gois" rather than "le pont". It was really thrilling, mostly because we were well beyond lowtide point, trusting the chef in the place we'd eaten lunch to know how late we could safely cross and all the signs make it seem really hazardous!!

But the sea was MILES out. Just miles of mud flats. I imagine when it comes in, in comes in fast. And the tall "safety points" along with way (basically a big ladder to a small platform) added to the air of danger!

We got a great view of the bridge we'd taken on the way there too!

My favourite day out was to the Biotopia which was in Notre Dame de Monts. Terrific interactive museum about the dunes and the forests of the area, then you followed and iPad through the different parts of the landscape to the coast and back, meeting animated creatures like butterflies and wild boars, watching videos and completing challenges.

It was awesome!

This ringsling came everywhere with us, because Miss O is very much into being carried even when she isn't necessarily tired, just for the comfort factor. I think my rainbow ringsling might have been out on hire with the sling library, so I used this instead. It was very long though. I had to tuck my tail in!

These two can't resist the lure of a good climbing tree. Little primates. 

These snails live all over the place... it was so funny seeing hundreds of them resting on plants and posts. 

Another day we went to Youpla'land, which was a big outdoor inflatable park for chiddlers. Master R surprised us by climbing up to the top of a huge slide and whizzing down. Usually, he is very cautious about any ride or equipment which might "go too fast", but he was so confident! It was complete role-reversal as he persuaded Miss O, who was very worried about it, to try it out. Every other time it's been the other way around!

Another surprising thing was that they loved playing the simple giant Connect 4 game. We played it over and over. Master R was beginning to understand the tactics, but Miss O's only tactic was to put one on top of his, and she's very resistant to taking advice, so she was frequently disappointed. Never for long though, because there were so many things to do. And a little train which ran every half hour. A bell would ring and all the children would run from all over the place to get a seat!

The golf course we visited that afternoon was the scene of the Most Incredible Moment of the holiday. On this tremendously challenging hole, representing the dunes on the local beaches, a hole which it took me no fewer than eleventy billion attempts to even reach the "green", Master R GOT A HOLE IN ONE! Unbelievable! 
Miss O quickly realised that golf is frustrating and difficult when you're only 3, so put herself in charge of the scorecard instead. 

On our last morning, we returned to the huge beach of Saint Jean de Monts to take in the sun, sea and sand. 

We built the most magnificent walled town we've ever attempted, inspired by the castle of Noirmoutier. Master R and Miss O were so patient and helped as carefully as their little hands allowed. 

How awesome is this?
Then we went for another ride on the ferris wheel. We'd gone on it already, but that was on a very grumpy morning during which we'd left both the camera and both phones in the little house. The children LOVED the ferris wheel. Miss O kept talking about "when things went smaller, smaller!"

Fabulous views. And a great place from which to check out all the restaurants with the zoom function!

One the way home, we stayed at this gorgeous little gite, overlooking the Seine. We had a hilarious surprise when the SatNav announced as we turned a corner "turn left and let's take that ferry!" (The SatNav is currently a male voice from New Zealand, which is fun. We've yet to work out what the "jandles, togs and chillibun" we're supposed to collect before we exit the car at our destination are!! We're thinking sandals, clothes and SOMETHING ELSE... Update: Rachel has Googled and it's a chilly-bin - a receptacle to keep drinks cold! In that case, I'm happy to report that we took those with us on each occasion that we exited the car!)

To our astonishment, our gite was the other side of the Seine, so after a quick chat with the ferryman (don't worry, I didn't pay him. Free ferry.), we did indeed, take the ferry! I have hilarious photos of our astonished faces, but they're on my phone. 

It was a beautiful old house, and we were in the attic room, up a secret staircase behind a locked door, which was utterly thrilling for the small people. (It was pretty thrilling for me too!) And the view! It was incredible. In bed that night, we collaborated on a story about the cute baby owls that live in the attic of the haunted house on the top of the opposite hill. The next morning, complaining that that story wasn't scary enough, we collaborated on a more thrilling story of how the Ninjago ninjas freed the trapped spirits and made it a happy, inhabitable place once more.

For me, one of the best parts of the holiday was probably the few lazy evenings we had. Just chilling in the empty camping space beside our little house. 

Much maniacal chasing, shrieking and giggling. 

Much, much colouring. We finished the colouring book we took with us and some of the pictures are so beautifully shaded we've put them in the "keep forever" box.

Rachel and I also managed to spend some time trying to master ludicrously complicated card games, and crocheting on the odd occasion the children went to sleep and a reasonable hour. 

Dear kiddiwinks, 

Thanks for being you during this holiday. I've made some great memories which will be with me for life. 

Master R, I hope you remember some of the things we did together. Maybe you'll remember watching me eat mussels with grim fascination. Maybe the rides on the ferris wheel, or the adventure round the castle. I hope you remember the fun we had exploring the dunes, building sand sculptures and splashing in the pool. You learnt to swim with your head out of the water, which you're so pleased about. And you can easily swim 5m underwater now, lifting your head to breathe. You played football with a French family staying opposite (and were deeply impressed by how skilled little Yannick, aged only 3, was). You said whispered "merci"s to waitresses and kept saying "people are going to wonder why I'm eating my necklace!", when your treat at the end of a restaurant meal was one of those edible necklaces. 

Miss O, I hope you're left with a "feeling memory" of going to a strange land where we lived in a little house and swam lots. You do keep asking when we can go back to our "little house", and I have to explain that it's a 10 hour journey away. Maybe you'll remember feeling shy when we arrived at the first B&B at the same time as three other people and all the adults around you started jabbering in fast French. Maybe you'll remember all the croissants and learning to like baguettes, which is incredible, because until this year you've never really eaten bread full stop. 

Happy holidays, kiddos. 

Being three

Dear Little R, 

This being three business. It's not all superheroes and Nutella. It's a bit here and there. A bit up and down. Recently, more down than up, if we're being honest. It's bloomin' hard, isn't it? 

There are so many things you want to do so desperately. And I say no to a lot of them. No, you can't watch a film today. No, we're not going to play MarioKart right now. No, you can't have pudding without eating your dinner. No, we can't play for two more minutes... it's shower time. No you can't stay in the shower... we have to pay for water. No, we're reading the book Miss O chose first. The list must seem endless to you. 

And what's more, there are all these instructions you're expected to follow all day! Come upstairs for your shower. Get your pants on. Share your book with Miss O. Do a wee before we go out. Get your shoes on. Come here so I can get your helmet on. Slow down. Speed up. Hold my hand through the car park. Wash your hands before dinner. Wait while I put the laundry out. Put your shoes away. Let me wash your face. Put your head in my lap so I can clean your teeth. On and on I go, telling you to do this that and the other all day long. How tiresome. I try to dress it up;

I offer you choices: "Will you wee now, or when we get to toddlers?"

I give you warnings to prepare for change: "Two minutes to play, then shower time."

I wish with you: "I wish you could shower forever. The problem is I need a shower too."

I empathise: "I hear how cross you are. You don't want to wash your hands. Washing your hands is so boring!"

But still we end up here:

You having a meltdown. Shouting, refusing to co-operate and eventually collapsing in a heap of depressed sobs, whines, begs and howls. Me, sitting with my head in my hands, at a complete loss for what to do. It sucks. Big time. 

I wish we could do everything you want, all day long. You want to do some awesome stuff. You want to be a pirate, a superhero, a vet, a Dalmatian, a bear, a dragon, an elf, a monster, a knight and a King. You imagine us forests, islands, hospitals, caves and boats. Miss O joins us as a puppy, or a princess who needs rescuing, or a mischievous fairy. I wish my enthusiasm for these games was as boundless as yours and I didn't feel compelled to go and attend to the washing up, or reply to a message on my phone, or even just gaze out the window at the leaves on the tree. I lose patience with imaginative play quite quickly. I start thinking about other things and dreaming up excuses for getting on with something I'd enjoy more. I get distracted chatting to Miss O about what she's doing, because she doesn't quite understand your games like you do, and I have to split my attention between the two of you. I'm sorry I'm not a more enthusiastic playmate.

I'm sorry I sulked when you "spoilt" the Hallowe'en treat I'd prepared the night before. I'd been so careful to choose interesting ingredients to mix up. I'd put little labels on the pots. I'd found find motor skill spoons and scoops. I'd prepared a little spell book with numbers and symbols you'd be able to read. I'd got this image in my head of us all brewing up spells with our stapled black paper witches' hats on. When I came back from hanging out the laundry, I was so disappointed that you'd mixed everything together. You're three. Of course you wanted to mix it all up. That was, after all, the point. I'm sorry I let you see my frustration and disappointment. Your little face was alight with joy at the spell you'd made. And you'd saved some sequins for me to add. You'd tried to wait. I asked too much of you. I'm sorry. 

We did enjoy playing spells for the next couple of days though, didn't we? We even invented new recipes to make slugs (yours) and ice cream (mine). You chose the ingredients and counted them carefully. Then we wondered how to separate all the ingredients again. We tried sieving, and that helped a bit. Then we wondered what would happen if we added water. You thought the pasta would float and everything else would sink. You were astonished when it all sank. Then you loved exploring and learning with a ladle, a colander and a spoon. You noticed the water had gone "blurry". I loved watching the fascination on your face and talking to you about how the dried ingredients were changing. 

We loved making your bat together. You cut the teeth yourself and stuck on two of them, then asked me to do the other two. You pass eyes to me and ask me to take off the back because it's so fiddly. You were proud to see yours and Miss O's hanging by our door. They're still there, actually, because I love how cheery and Hallowe'eny our house looks!

I love how outdoorsy you are. I love that you didn't want to bother with shoes, even though it was a nippy day. After such a long summer running round barefoot, you've found the transition to socks and shoes difficult. When you get home, you declare your socks "fweaty" and taken them off. I grumble about how many pairs of socks you get through. But when I check, your socks are actually a bit damp and unappealing. So fair doos. Mummy Rachel bought you some more, so we have enough to get through a really fweaty week. 

I think you're feeling a bit insecure at the moment. I think you feel Miss O is taking too much of our attention, now that she can make her demands so eloquently. I think that on top of starting nursery school and having to follow instructions at gymnastics, and ballet, and swimming is a bit much. You've lost confidence at swimming and say you are "a bit scared" of anything that requires you to let go of me. As much as I try to be positive and cheerful, it's frustrating and annoying when you refuse to follow the instructions, especially since we know you can do everything asked of you and more. You're slowly regaining a bit of confidence, but it's slow and hard work. I'm really making an effort to connect with you and spend special time together playing and talking without any distractions. I think you need to feel my love more. We talk sometimes about how love is bigger than crossness and it's something you sometimes say when I'm getting grumpy. "Loveness is bigger than crossness, Mummy, isn't it?" And I melt a little and remember you're still so young.

I'm sorry that being three is such a challenge. I'm sorry I sometimes get so wrapped up in how difficult parenting you is that I forget that you're having a hard time too. I've been assured that being four is easier, and it's not far off. We'll muddle through, little man. More choices, fewer demands. Less crossness, more loveness. 

The Longest Summer

 

Well hello!

I think this may have been the longest break between blog posts ever... except maybe when I was feeling awful early on in Master R's pregnancy. 

What a summer we have had! I honestly think it's the longest, summeriest summer of my adult life. Partly, I think, because we went to Ibiza in May, so the sunshine and warmth seems to have lasted forever. Partly, of course, that because today, the 16th September, is the first cold-windy-and-rainy-day we've had for some time. It looks like Autumn might FINALLY be planning to make an appearance.

We've had so many wonderful adventures during this long, long summer. Lots of them have been simple, garden based adventures. Cornflour, for example. That was a great afternoon of goo and fun. Actually, it turned into a whole week of cornflour, because I kept leaving the cornflour outside to dry, but we had a few showers that week, so it kept going gooey again, so I had to wait AGAIN for it to dry and become sweepable. 

Make your own beach afternoons, using the tuff tray, sandpit sand and shells collected during our real beach days. 

Random fill-a-jug-with-pebbles fun that you have to be under 5 to understand. 

Dinosaur land, which I put up some warm evening for Master R and Miss O to discover in the morning. There were tyrannosaurs on the pebble patch and herbivores grazing in the heather garden. There was even a tractor load of penguins trundling down the rubber/bark path. That ended up staying up for a week too, and much fun was had, with dinosaurs chasing one another, climbing mountains, making friends, traversing the bridge etc. I have relished having a garden that we can get more creative in. 

A little frog moved into the dinosaur tuff tray, actually. And yesterday, when we were watering, we discovered he is still living in the garden. I'm tempted now to turn our old ceramic kitchen sink into a miniature wildlife pond instead of a fairy garden. Just weighing up the pros and cons of pulling Miss O out of the pond multiple times each day!

We were eating cherries in the hobbit hole one day (Ok, I was. My children and soft fruit... kind of a waste of money and effort!) when Little R asked what the pips were. We talked about how they were seeds which could eventually grow into an entire cherry tree. Little R asked if we could plant them, so we washed them, dried them in the sun and planted them in a pot on the patio. We'll see if they germinate in the spring. 

I've been working, in fits and starts, on dismantling the first of four pallets. Turns out those things are REALLY well put together. Miss O adored the pallet and decided it was her own personal bench/bed/horse to play on, in and through. Many a happy hour pootling about. Naked, obviously. Who needs clothes on a day so hot?!

The rubber/bark path makes an instant digger world. Just add vehicles! (Then spend the evening trying to smooth out the rubber which is heaped up randomly.)

Painting has happened too, and not just the lazy here's-a-paintbrush-and-some-water-go-mad-and-paint-the-patio brand. Real painting with paint!

Standard. Boy child with self-painted toenails. Not bad for his first attempt!

There has been the odd wet-weather day. Maybe a couple of weeks in total. But it's been the warm kind of wet, so we've enjoyed plenty of wet adventures. On this one, Miss O was wearing her ONLY pair of shoes. Felt a bit guilty looking at her, soaked through to the skin, while Master R was snug and dry in waterproof trousers and wellies. Well, he was, until he weed in them.

Note to self though; children wearing plastic waterproof trousers will travel down wet slides at considerably increased velocity! Even with my friend holding his hand he zoomed down and smacked his face on my knee! Whoops! Miss O, meanwhile, did not succumb to pneumonia. I was in flip flops and shorts. It was August. Pah.

We searched for the Gruffalo, and found mouse holes, rabbit warrens, owl roosts and very tall trees. 

At West Stow, we counted THIRTY-SIX slugs in one area, which was fascinating. And Miss O demonstrated her intelligence and wicked streak when she decided that her big brothers hood was the perfect place to wipe her dirty hand. Genius child. At least he had his hood up - I think she'd have used his hair if not!

I just love outdoor adventures with my two. Gamboling about talking about leaf shapes, weeds, how plants self seed, why butterflies eat nectar, where rabbits might live and what that imaginary monster looks like. We've done plenty of that this summer. 

And at least once a week we've made it to one beach or other. We have ADORED our beach days. 

Just look at that sky, and the perfect sea beneath. This was our day with Chris in Aldeburgh. A perfect combination of windswept picnic, pebble gathering, ice-creams and...

... our first experience of model boating! They both loved it. 

We've jumped in waves, bobbed in a giant inflatable boat, swum and built many a pebbly sandcastle. 

We discovered a glorious hidden beach along the River Orwell and climbed trees. I had a wonderfully bruising (both to my ego and my buttocks) You've Been Framed moment attempting (and failing, obviously) to swing on a branch swing which was clearly designed for more nimble people than I POORLY CONSTRUCTED.

Miss O and I conducted some beach yoga (she did have her leg up too, the moment before Mum snapped this photo). Ahh, beach goodness. My beach cup runneth over. Unfortunately my photos runneth over not because Mum took most on her camera, and although I have a beautiful album of memories on paper, I do not have the digital files yet. 

We've had other outdoor adventures too. We've been gymnasts:

 

Giggly pirates:

Intrepid explorers:

Curious scientists:

And wildlife spotters:

Including some REALLY wild-life!

All three of them enjoyed the 3D maze at Thrigby, during our stay up in Norfolk:

And we've been farmers too, harvesting a bountiful crop of plums. 

We've made plum ice lollies, plum crumble and we still have more stewed plum in the freezer for later. 

Not everyone enjoyed the flavour fresh from the tree!

We've also been blackberry picking and we've been harvesting and eating lots of courgettes from the garden, where they have grown to gargantuan size. Happily, my children both like stuffed courgette if I use plenty of curry spices. "Curry courgette!" Little R calls it!

I haven't even included photos from our trip to the Dinosaur Adventure Park, or the BBQs we've enjoyed. There have been playdates, bouncy castles, library visits (Master R completed the Big Friendly Reading Challenge and received a certificate and medal), trips to the park and lots of paddling pool splashing too.

It's been an immense summer. Last night we enjoyed our probably-last outdoor dinner and now the rain is pouring down on my parched garden and we're trundling merrily into Autumn. Master R has begun his nursery school life and getting  into the routine of gymnastics and ballet, Miss O is enjoying some time alone with me while he's away and we're contemplating getting a rabbit or two in the nearish future, since it's been a year since Honey passed away, and Auntie Kirsty's rabbit is SOOO cute and made them both so happy. 

Life is good. 

 

P.S. Life is particularly good now I'm on anti-depressants to combat my  insomnia which had become HORRENDOUS. Not only do I now sleep, I'm in a much better mood every day! 

P.P.S. More on further garden developments and some exciting superhero costume sewing later. Hopefully. 

Two Birth Stories

I've been meaning to write these stories down for some time. The idea has come to the forefront of my mind because with Baby O's first birthday coming up, I'm thinking nostalgically about this time last year. 

I like birth stories. I like hearing them. I like reading them. I even like watching them on YouTube (and did a lot of this when preparing for Baby O's arrival). There is just something about birth. I'm fascinated. Hooked. 

Now, I did actually write up Little R's birth story, on the night before my 30th birthday, when I was six or so months pregnant with Baby O. I needed to get it out of my system before I started hypnobirthing classes and began preparing for a different birth. It was wonderfully cathartic, but it ran to 5,669 words, so I'm not going to put that whole version here. I've got it, saved for myself to look back on, if I ever want to. 

But I haven't yet written up Baby O's birth story, and I want to. Partly because it's important for me to have a record to look back on. Partly because I hope that Little R and Baby O will want to know something (if not all the squeamish details) about how they came into the world as they grow older. And partly because, having digested and enjoyed so many birth stories other women have shared online, I feel I should give back. 

	First Birth	Second Birth
Time from waters breaking to delivery	22 hours	3 hours 6 mins
Length of transition	7 hours	5-10 mins
Second stage	2 1/2 hours	10 mins
My feelings during	Depressed, trapped, pathetic, crushed, despairing, bewildered, failure, vulnerable.	Calm, controlled, collected, concentrated, excited, secure, vulnerable, connected.
My feelings after	Relieved, disappointed, self-loathing, envious, confused, depressed.	Euphoric, empowered, delighted, relieved, bubbly, content.

My First Birth

I'd been looking forward to giving birth since I was a child. Possibly since I watched my littlest sister's arrival at our home as a seven-year-old. I'm not sure, but I remember always being fascinated. I think though, throughout Little R's pregnancy, I still didn't quite dare to believe that I really would get to give birth and have a baby of my very own to keep. When asked about my plans for birth, I was quite vague. Not because I didn't have specific wishes and dreams. I did. I just felt a bit silly saying them aloud. I was waiting for someone (Who? The midwife? My family?) to laugh and tell me it was all just a pipe dream. So although we planned a home birth and I attended a birthing class run by the yoga lady I'd done antenatal yoga with, and I watched a few birth videos, I didn't really prepare as I could have done. It felt like wishful thinking. 

I was feeling quite impatient to go into labour so I could spend my maternity leave looking after a baby rather than sitting out doing deco patch with back ache (see here), so I was vaguely optimistic when one Saturday afternoon 39 weeks into pregnancy I had a bit of backache. And then some interesting Braxton Hicks during the evening. I kept my wonderings to myself, rocked on my birthing ball and hoped this was it. I awoke in the morning, disappointed that I clearly hadn't been in labour, because here I was the next day, still pregnant. Not so… my waters started to gently trickle, the Braxton Hicks were still there, fairly regularly and stronger than previously; so this WAS it! 

It was an exciting morning! We alerted my Mum, prepared the house and waited for it to kick off. I knitted. We watched some Bones. Mum arrived. We watched more Bones. Hmmm, I thought. This labour business is a bit slow and boring. The little contractions were regular but so so mild. I wished more pain on myself because I wanted to get down to business! We went for some walks and had several conversations with the midwife, during which I encouraged her to go about her day as usual because "nothing much was happening". I was really pleased when, during the later afternoon, the contractions because serious enough that I had to stop what I was doing and lean over the birthing ball. Then I started going hot and cold. I was shaking uncontrollably. I felt nauseous. "Great!" thought I. "Maybe this is transition!" Ha ruddy ha ha. 

Transition, during my first labour, was a seven-hour marathon of vomiting, excruciating contractions, non-stop nausea and increasing weariness. It just went on. And on. I wept. I tried various positions. I vomited every twenty minutes like clockwork. The only position I could tolerate during contractions was on my knees and my knees were getting redder and more and more sore. It was misery. At around 10pm I asked the midwife to come back. "Surely," I thought "with this much pain and vomit I must be getting close?" Imagine my despondency when I was told I was 2-3cm and not yet in established labour. Not. Yet. Established. 

That's when I got depressed. I considered various options. I could scream in rage. I could punch a wall (our walls are just stud upstairs, so I really could have). I could cry. I could beg for help. I decided against each option, knowing it wouldn't help at all. I writhed and fought the contractions for a while. Then, having thrown up more paracetamol and tried a bath (hideous!) I lay on the bed in a dressing gown and just writhed. I actually don't remember this part anymore. A few days after the birth I think I still could, but my brain has erased those memories. I was on the bed for 2-3 hours. Dreading each next contraction. I said to Rachel "I know it won't last forever, but it might last for another eight hours. Or more. It's just awful." I felt pathetic and apathetic. My dreams of me, all brave and glowing and full of womanly empowerment were in tatters. I didn't even want a baby anymore. I just wanted it to stop. And I hated myself for wanting it to stop. 

At around 1am, it all suddenly felt "different". I sprung from the bed to get onto my knees. Lying on my side was suddenly impossible. Actually, moving or holding myself up at all seemed impossible, during contractions. I thought I was going to poo myself on the hall floor (I didn't). I nearly fell to my knees and had to cling to Rachel. My Mum, having been there three times herself, recognised the pushing stage. I managed to have a whole conversation with a nice midwife at the labour suite between contractions and she assured me she'd send our midwife back. I leant over the bed, in the only position I could tolerate and realised I could feel the baby's head. "Oh shit." I thought. "That is big. This is going to hurt."

But actually, despite the long second stage, this was the bit of labour I enjoyed most. I knew the end was in sight. I was finally achieving something. Although Little R's head went up and down like a yo-yo, I could feel it was gradually getting closer and closer. I was no longer depressed, but I was definitely more focussed on getting the labour over than having a baby. Once his head was finally born I think I took a moment to remind myself that I was about to have a BABY of my own and at that point I think I felt rather happy and pleased. Then with a kick and a wriggle, out my baby boy arrived. Behind me, so I couldn't see him. I really regretted that afterwards. For a moment I just leant on the bed, relieved it was over, but quickly I spun round to see him. My boy. This was a big shock - we'd all thought I was having a girl!

I remember sitting down. I remember the midwives trying to hand me this slippery, partly-in-a-towel baby and me saying "I haven't got him! I haven't got him!" because he was too slippery and I thought I'd drop him. Then there he was in my arms, on my chest, staring curiously up at me. Curly haired, big eyed, and with the most peculiarly shaped skull I'd ever seen. I wasn't immediately in love. I thought "He doesn't look like me. But he is mine." I marvelled that I really HAD created a human being inside my body. I was fiercely proud of him, with his ten toes and fingers. With his floppy, bent-over ear and little bowed legs. He was all mine. I had made him. Love came later, and I can pin point exactly when. He was two days old and I was breastfeeding him on our bed in the evening. He fell asleep and I looked at him and realised he wouldn't be a newborn for ever. I cried, and begged him to never grow up. He was my perfect, perfect baby and I wanted to stay in that precise moment forever. 

But back to the birth. I didn't get my physiological third stage because of "too much blood" and "no clamping down". Despite the pain I'd just been in, the injection did hurt, and did make me feel sick (again). I didn't get to see the placenta, which I'd wanted to, but hey, I hadn't written a birth plan, so I can't complain. I did get skin on skin and a long breastfeed before he was weighed and injected. I was so proud that when he was put back in my arms, he stopped crying. I could stop a baby crying simply by my presence. Awesome. (I haven't retained this skill. In fact, now my children sometimes cry BECAUSE they see me. Sigh.)

In the days immediately after his birth, it was inconceivable that I'd EVER do that again. I was so disappointed in how pathetically wimpy I'd been and doubly disappointed that since I couldn't face it again, that'd be my only experience of birth. Of course, I realised I loved having a baby so much I'd have to do it again. But for over a year after that first birth experience, I felt sad, depressed and jealous whenever I thought about it. I talked (as you do) to lots of other new mums and we all shared our birth stories. What really got to me was that even though the experiences many of them had had were "worse" (longer, medically complicated, involved interventions etc), they seemed to shrug it off in a way I just couldn't. When I described my experience people would gush "Oh what a lovely experience - you had your baby at home. And no complications! Lucky you!" My reply was usually "Just because I was at home doesn't mean it was lovely. It was still labour." I was really, REALLY grateful that I'd been in my own home. The idea of getting into a car once that pushing urge had started and driving all the way to hospital on a cold January morning is hideous. I loved that straight afterwards, I was able to shower in my own shower, put my pyjamas on, slide into my bed and order a bowl of runny Ready Brek (because I still felt so ill it's all a could face eating).

The other comment that would upset me was "But you and your baby are both healthy. That's all that matters." No. That is not ALL that matters. Sure, it's the most important thing of all. Of course I am grateful and humbled  that I birthed a healthy baby. But saying that is ALL that matters negates my right to have a view of the experience. I read a really articulate article about this very issues once… it explains it much better than I could... I can't find the exact article I read before, but this article covers some of the issues. 

But just couldn't let it be. I spent hours googling "extended transition", "vomiting during labour" and various other phrases to try to find any other birth story that seemed to match mine. Any medical condition that would explain my extreme pain during what was apparently not established labour. I cried and cried some days. I just couldn't let it go. 

 My Second Birth

So then I got pregnant again. I put the birth to the back of my mind and got pregnant. Then I remembered and lay in bed many a night in a cold sweat, crying in fear. It would happen again. My body would freak out and I'd be pathetic and it would be awful. But I'd found out about hypnobirthing in all the googling, and heard good things about it from friends, so I decided that I'd try that. I was still 100% set on a home birth and I liked the idea of developing skills to help me cope with seven hours of gruelling contracting and vomiting so that I would be calmer and happier. That was my aim. Just to feel happy, in spite of the pain.

I started reading lots of books about birth. I laughed my way through some, because they seemed so stupidly optimistic. I wept through others. I raged at how the sacred birth has been medicalised by male doctors and interfered with so nobody knows how to do it anymore. I devoured information. "No information is bad information," I told myself. 

I started Wise Hippo classes with Jo, who was fabulous. Calm, knowledgeable and so supportive. I wrote a birth story for the future. The story I wanted. I found it really hard to begin with, putting down my wishes. But it was a good idea. I formulated ideas, then refined them as time went on. I started to feel much more positive. I started to actually look forward to giving birth. I was still worried that the first serious contraction would hit and I'd crumble, but I worked hard at my visualising and affirmations and meditation. We wrote a detailed birthing wish list, thinking hard about each decision. I started to sleep better than I'd ever slept in my life. WHILE PREGNANT. That, in itself, made the hypnobirthing classes worthwhile!

Then, at around 35 weeks pregnant, I got a cough. This had happened during my first pregnancy and lasted a couple of weeks, but man alive, THIS cough was nearly the end of me. It lasted eight solid weeks. Six weeks of which I was heavily pregnant. Now, I can't say for sure if I cracked ribs, but I did serious damage. I spent several entire days with all the muscles in my right side in painful spasm. Some days I couldn't move my right arm higher than my shoulder. Breathing was uncomfortable. Coughing was downright painful. Speaking without coughing was nearly impossible. I was a pretty arsed-off pregnant lady, that's for sure. And then I went overdue. WAY overdue. I wonder actually, if that was because of the cough. My body couldn't go into labour when I was so crippled and weakened. 

Some days I was desperate to go into labour. Other days I was apathetic. Other days I really didn't want to go into labour because I'd got plans, or was just feeling too ill. It was a hard, hard time. As my overdueness increased, the chances of being sent to hospital for induction grew higher. NOT what I wanted. I'd got my beautiful home birth all planned out and I was damned if all that hard work was going to go to waste. I refused the first stretch and sweep at term+4, because I felt my body was no way near giving birth so I thought it'd be a waste of effort and, at worst, might give me pointless and annoying contractions for a while. I wanted our baby to have a chance to arrive when she was good and ready.

At term+9 I agreed, because I'd had some good Braxton Hicks the night before so I felt close and I really needed to go into labour soon to avoid arguing with the medical professionals against chemical induction. The sweep was completely painless, I was already 2-3cm dilated and it seemed "favourable". I took Little R on a long march (he in his buggy) to the "far away park" and we played for an hour or so before I marched as fast as I could waddle home. He fell asleep, I popped him in his bed and I hung out the laundry. Then I got a GOOD Braxton Hick. Powerful enough that I felt the urge to pause and lean up against the garage wall. "Excellent," I thought. "Keep it coming. Come on body!"

All afternoon I had regular, strong Braxton Hicks. I timed them on my app. I played with Little R. I updated Mum and Rachel but said it was not urgent or definite now. I updated the lovely midwife who'd swept me so efficiently, that I thought she'd done the trick. I chewed my dinner that night very carefully, mindful that I might be throwing it all up in not too long a time. As I nursed Little R to sleep the Hicks/contractions got to 2 minutes apart and I felt really excited that this was IT. I went downstairs and rolled on the birthing ball while watching "Miss Congeniality 2" (we were working our way through all our comedy films because laughing releases oxytocin - we'd been watching comedies for WEEKS in an attempt at inducing labour). Slowly, the contractions got further and further apart. By 9:30 I was slumped on the sofa in a not-labour-condusive position, feeling pretty glum. I texted Mum that we were giving up and going to bed and I'd try to have a baby tomorrow. 

At 10:15ish we headed up to bed. I check some messages online, giggled, and got into bed. Ouch. As I lay down I thought either my waters had broken, or I'd just seriously walloped my poor baby's head on my pelvis. As I breathed through a much-more-business-like contraction in bed, Rachel came in and asked "contraction?" I silently nodded, doing my surge breathing. As the contraction ended I felt the telltale trickle of water and leaped out of bed. I hot-footed it as fast as a 41 week pregnant lady can manage to the bath, to catch the flow of amniotic fluid. I stood in the bath giggling, as Rachel grabbed the camera. At LAST. Our baby was on the way!

The minute those waters broke everything got more intense. I needed to concentrate, and be leaning-forwards-and-upwards during those contractions. We called the birthing unit (to my delight my friend Charlotte answered!), and Mum and set up the lounge as a temporary birthing space (we'd planned for Baby O to be born in the bedroom as Little R was, but didn't want to disturb Little R sleeping next door). Candles, hypnobirthing music and calm. Our lovely midwife (who I'd bumped into three weeks previously in the co-op, of all places) arrived to check that my waters really had broken. She couldn't decide whether to stay or go, because my contractions were very short. I said I was happy to be checked as long as I didn't hear my number (I didn't want to be crushed by hearing a low number as previously - this was part of my detailed birth wish list). She checked and I whizzed off for another wee while she and Rachel discussed my number (it was apparently 4, but she could stretch that to a 6). She still couldn't really decide what to do, because she thought I might suddenly go. I felt that this labour was progressing really fast, so I encouraged her to stay for a chat and a cuppa and see what happened. I was really happy to have her there and I wanted Rachel to have some company too, because I wanted to just be quietly inside myself. 

This labour went fast. I was working hard at my hypnobirthing. I wasn't in a blissful chilled-out trance. I was working hard to visualise my calming place and my muscles working in harmony, saying my affirmations, reminding myself that this was ok, and I'd get through it and there would be a baby at the end. As the pain increased I recognised it, but reminded myself that I'd survived my first birth and I'd definitely survive this. I was better prepared. The contractions felt shorter than the first labour. They peaked and then just drifted away. I had perfected the art of completely relaxing every muscle in my body during contractions. I didn't fight them. I let them be, and just lay still and calm, marvelling at how very strong my body was. My Mum arrived and I was content. Everyone was here. It was at it should be. We agreed that actually the lounge was a lovely environment, so we wouldn't move up to the bedroom. 

As it turns out, we wouldn't have had time. I started to feel really nauseous. Keen not to repeat the exhausting vomiting, I demanded my wrist bands and instructed people to press various pressure points I'd learnt about on my body. I was empowered! None of this I-must-be-quiet-to-appear-brave shite. I was calmly and politely telling my loved ones exactly what I needed. Instead of feeling alone and vulnerable, I allowed my vulnerability to show. Labour makes me nauseous and emotional. I went with it. After one powerful contraction, I stayed with my face buried in Rachel's neck, breathing slowly, not because I was in pain, but because I was so filled with strong emotions. I was so excited and weepy and… not worried… but aware that it was going to get more intense and more painful before it was over. 

Then I had two or three contractions really close together that were SERIOUS. The mooing began and I needed to twitch my hands. I can't quite remember what they were doing but it was important that my hands did that. I felt my body starting to push, but didn't mention it because obviously I couldn't be that far along yet! The I called for a bowl. I vomited once. I thought "Oh God, here we go again." But I kept calm. I'd survive. It'd maybe be shorter and faster. The next contraction was unmistakably pushy. I stood up for the next one, which was definitely pushy. Becky had a peek at what was going on and called for a second midwife to attend. If I'd been in thinking mode I'd have laughed and told her there was no time and the second midwife would make it in time. I could feel how keen this baby was to arrive. But I wasn't in thinking mode. I was in doing mode. 

Everything got quite busy. Little R woke up crying upstairs and Rachel whizzed up to settle him. Mum and Becky started laying down protective sheets. I whipped off my clothes because there was going to be no need for them (why get good clothes covered in blood? I'm going to be naked anyway - might as well start now!) I remember clearly standing amid this protective sheeting thinking "This is it! This baby is coming. This bit will definitely sting." I hung onto Mum and yelled for Rachel, because I was worried she was going to miss the whole event. We'd planned for him to be there for the birth, so his waking up was perfect timing. Rachel reappeared, with a sleepy and befuddled Little R. By the end of that contraction I could feel baby's head crowning. I was talking to Little R, who was behind me. Becky asked if I really planned to give birth standing up (in fact, I was on tippy toes, squatting - most peculiar!) and thinking that wasn't such a grand idea, I managed to get to my knees. I refused to let Mum go - I needed a person to hang onto. I held my baby's head with my hand and thought "It's so close! It's so fast!" I thought I'd keep a bit of pressure going between contractions so that head wouldn't disappear up again, but then, to my surprise, the baby pulled its own head in. Then clever Baby O twisted her head to a slightly different angle and pushed back down. It wasn't my pressure holding her head there. She herself was working hard to get out. My respect for the skills of babies skyrocketed at that point. Not that I had long to think about it, because the next contraction came and I helped to push her out. Man alive, that did sting. Much more stingy than the first birth. I think because the first time I was so pained and exhausted my nerve endings had died. This was a sting-fest. With just her very grumpy looking face sticking out, Baby O started making a little spluttering sound and I said "Don't breathe yet, baby!" She was such an active participant in her birth. Then with one final push, she squirmed out and I spun round the same moment to see her. My girl. My surprise girl because having had a boy, I couldn't imagine having anything else. Beautiful and pink and wet and perfect and all mine. All ours. 

She didn't cry, our Baby O. Everyone wanted her to cry, except for me. I could see she was breathing. A bit irregularly, but she was working at it. I scooped her up to my chest and stroked her arm. I talked to her lots. Much more than I'd talked to Little R. I was euphoric and elated and the words just streamed out of me like a river. I was confident and capable and empowered. I'd just birthed my baby better than I'd dreamed and hoped and I knew she was just fine. Rachel, who could barely see her, wasn't so sure until the crying started. And then my word, did she cry! For a baby who'd just been birthed so beautifully, she sure was unhappy about it. She went on and on. She really was herself from the moment of her birth. From before. Noisy, completely sure what she wants and determined to get it. And right then she wanted us to know she wasn't impressed. 

I still didn't get my physiological third stage. Same problem. Apparently I'm just a bleeder, no matter how many dates I consume antenatally. Oh well. I didn't mind too much. Becky did a sterling job all by herself, dealing with cord, baby, injection and a house rabbit running around the place. It was all funny, good-natured and relaxed. When the second midwife arrived I was feeding Baby O on the sofa, Little R was cuddling Rachel and Becky and Mum were staring in horror at the puddle of blood nobody had noticed slowly leaking off the waterproof mats onto the beige carpet. (NB: it did fade away after a LOT of cleaning). 

It was a lovely birth. Ever since, it has been my favourite memory to re-visit. If I can't sleep, if I'm having a bad day, I go back to that night and I'm superwoman. Instead of feeling envious of everyone else's birth story I feel guilty that other people might not have enjoyed giving birth as much as I did. 

 ***

So my two births. On paper, both similar and different. Both uncomplicated home births in the night. One long, one short. One soul-destroying, one life-affirming. One took me apart, one put me together again.

Thinking about it now, I am not sure if I would change my first birth if I could. It would undoubtedly have been better, less upsetting and faster if I'd done hypnobirthing the first time. But would I have appreciated the second, healing birth so much? Would I have learnt so much about birth and myself? It's been a learning experience, and I do love learning. 

Little R at Three

Dear Little R, 

Today you are three. 

Three years since this moment:

Two years since this:

One year since you were doing this:

Today you woke up early because your little sister had kicked me in the back while shouting merrily at the morning for ten minutes to make sure I was REALLY awake before filling her nappy, so I had to go and change her. This, apparently, was an appalling thing to do. So she screamed the house down, and you came rushing from your head, with fluffy hair and sleep in your eyes, to comfort her. What a wonderful big brother you are. 

You exercised restraint, when we explained that all your presents and cards were in the lounge, ready to be opened once everyone was up and dressed. You hurried through shower and dressing, and waited patiently while we sort ourselves out. At one point you declared "I just will go and peek...", cheekily leaning round the banister rail, but you didn't. 

You ran into the lounge to discover the new kitchen toy all set up with utensils and food and yelled "Wow! This is NICE!" We'll work on your range of adjectives, but it was such an innocent, joyful proclamation. Immediately you started "cooking" food for us. After a few minutes, the pile of wrapped presents beside your kitchen was too tempting, and you turned to tackle that. You lifted up the first one, carried over to Baby O and said "I think this one is for you, Baby O." We had to explain that unlike Christmas, ALL these gifts were for you. How pleased you were. You carefully unwrapped each surprise, exclaiming with glee and excitement each time. "Paddington bear!" "Oooh! Winnie der Witch books!"

We spent a happy morning trying out various new toys, reading new books and having lots of quite peculiar combinations of food. Fish and noodles. Bread sandwiches (literally - bread around more bread). Popcorn and chips. Excellent. Quite the Heston you are!

It was pouring with rain and very windy at points today, so we couldn't go anywhere outdoorsy. Instead we went out for a meal. Chicken, chips, salad and then ice-cream WITH CANDLES in. The ladies at Giraffe were very kind, writing your name in sugar paste and making your dessert special. You were a happy boy indeed. 

Afterwards we went to a nearby soft play area, something we seldom do, and you ran around for a couple of hours, in your element. Sometimes by yourself, chatting away to yourself, sometimes with one of us, other times befriending another small person.

Unsurprisingly, you fell asleep on the way home. And you're coming down with yet another cold (what IS it with the germs this winter?!) so you were in bed fairly early, after dinner, chocolate cake, Skyping your grandparents and splashing in the bath with some extremely rude rubber ducks (They kept FARTING in the bath, would you believe?! In fact, they pooed so much in the bath that you had to wash your face in duck poop. Hilarious and motivating!)

All in all, I think it was a fairly perfect day for a three-year old boy.

Here's to another year of excitement, Little R. 

We love you. 

P.S. You have declared that now you are three you are ready for nursery school. You thought we'd be going straight after lunch out. Ooops. Mummy had better get on that job!

Little R at Christmas

Dear Little R, 

This year you have enjoyed your third Christmas. And you really did get to enjoy it this time. You were at such a delightful age for this family-based festival and we've loved sharing the special traditions and moments together. 

Before Christmas, we go up to Norfolk to spend a few days with Grandma and Grandpa. We play with toys and games and relax. And this year, you spotted Grandpa washing Mummy's car early in the morning, so you went out to help. In your PJs, your bobble hat and your wellies. Why the heck not?! After a few minutes, you declared it a bit chilly and came in for your shower. Actually though, it was ridiculously warm for 23rd December! I was outside in a sleeveless t-shirt!

We love playing with Mummy Rachel's old toys, including these sticklebricks. Rachel and I collaborated to make this (rather impressive, if I do say so myself) train. 

While you, Little R, made your very own person! Completely independently! Two arms, two legs, a body and a head. Top marks!

On Christmas Eve, we open our presents from Grandma and Grandpa and give them theirs. You were excited about your crocodile board game, although after a few minutes play, kept declaring "I am bored!" I think you thought the point of the game was to find crocodiles often so you could scream. Unfortunately, the point is to get the boathouse. Which Grandpa did first. Your roadmap jigasaw and Grandpa Pig boat were BIG hits though. Your little face as you unwrapped the boat and asked "Is if for ME?!!", while patting your chest excitedly, was a picture I'll remember always. You adopted Baby O's new picnic basket too, and invited us for a picnic in this little cubby behind the dining table. Nearby knitted Christmas characters became unusual teapots and milk jugs! What an imaginative soul you are!

On Christmas day, after the thrill of opening stockings (Father Christmas DID get your letter and deliver lots of Thomas the Tank Engine characters as requested), we went to Grandma Fiona's house. This was a new tradition this year, since Grandma has moved house. Convenient for us, because the hour-and-a-half journey has been replaced by a ten-minute one! (Last year I was suffering with morning sickness and you were bored, so we were both wailing by the time we arrived at her house!)

We opened presents in the "posh lounge" on the middle floor and you were very pleased with your gifts and happy handing gifts to other people "Dis one is for your, Auntee Kirsty!" We shared family lunch and relaxed, playing with new toys and enjoying Christmas TV (last ever Downton - sob). On Boxing Day and the day after we pretty much repeated the same pattern. Get up, go to Grandma's, relax en famille. 

On the 27th we even fished out and wired up the Wii and giggled out our 6 year old Mii characters ("Hello, Jen. It's been 2407 days since your last Wii Fit session!"). You loved repeatedly reversing into walls driving on Mario Kart and cheered us on as we pelted round the track lobbing banana skins at one another. You even had a go at ski jumping on the Wii board!

By 28th, we had acquired batteries to go in your remote controlled Minion and you shrieked with mirth (you genuinely leant back, clutching your belly as you laughed!) as he started whizzing round the lounge shouting nonsense. You even fetched a banana for him. 

And you are loving using your beautifully handmade puppet theatre (bit of an improvement on this piss-poor hurried effort!). Your shows usually involve a selection of puppets and your Quetzalcoatlus (Pteradactyl) toy. Sometimes even Percy the green engine! Very creative. Lots of flying and rainfall.

I love to play with you, but I also love that you can now entertain yourself for quite long periods of time. You and I both received books about dinosaurs this year and you're keen to look through the pages and spot dinosaurs you recognise.

Today we got out Baby O's tuff tray for the first time and played with dry oats. She was intrigued, as were you. You mixed, scooped, made "pesto pasta" (you're going to love the birthday present Mummy Rachel is putting together right now!) and buried your feet in oats. Then, when we were finished, you helped to sweep up. With Baby Tommy strapped onto your back. Just like I do with Baby O when I'm hoovering.

You have a wound today, Little Man. We went for a wintery walk around Needham Lake, with you on your bike. It was great, because where the paths are far from the water you can whizz along as fast as you like. Unfortunately, whizzing along as fast as you like sometimes leads to you wobbling off and landing face first on the pavement. Ouch! You have gone to bed still sporting a very fat lip. The trials of being an active toddler!

Now, what I've REALLY enjoyed doing with you in the past few days is making thank-you cards. Usually, I just buy a job lot, because with Christmas and your birthday so close together, it's just too much to try to make cards as well. But this year, you got craft materials for Christmas (thank you Chris!). So we've been gluing and sequining and glittering...

... and I am VERY proud of the results!

We used dinosaur sitcker for some of the cards, for a bit of variety:

We've also used your new farm scene stampers to make some other cards, but they aren't quite finished yet. 

Yes, life with a so-nearly-three-year-old is good fun. You chatter constantly, have a huge imagination, take care with your creating and are working on the very important skills of sharing and empathy. Yes, you have meltdowns when you aren't allowed to do something (watch a film, play with a screwdriver), or are made to do something awful that you hate the idea of (do a wee before a trip out, eat your dinner). You shout "No!" or sometimes just wordless vowel sounds of rage. It's not pretty. But you get over your anger quickly. You sometimes apologise without prompting when you have shouted at us. And you run to fetch Baby O a tissue when her nose is running. In fact, you're usually first on the scene if she is upset for any reason. 

Watching your relationship develop is the best part of my life at the moment. You are fascinated and intrigued by one another. She looks up to you, and you look out for her. 

Thank you for a wonderful Christmas, Little R. 

Conversations with my boy... part 3

Oh my munchkin man. You are so many worlds of funny at the moment.

These are just some snippets from our life at the moment.

[By the way - you still can't manage tr, pl or cr, so it comes out fr. This causes particular confusion when talking about trains, planes and cranes (frains, franes and franes) and particular anxiety when talking about tractors and trucks (fractors and frucks)!]

Putting people in your BRIO train. The weeing is because on the way to and from London last week you delighted in using the toilets on the train.

"This driver does need a wee. And he needs a wee. They both need a wee. And this one. They ALL need a wee. It is a long wee." (I'm particularly proud you know that BOTH is for two and ALL is for three or more!)

Later:

"This frain has broken down! It has come off de fracks! I will get Terence." *You ran to get your Percy train from upstairs* "I'm here! Oh no! What have happened? Dis frain is stuck in ner mud!"

Even later:

"Come on coaches, come on up the hill! It's nice and steep! I'm going on speed! They did all frash to der ground. I going to put you to bed. I'm going up der hill and den down de hill and den I just wanted to go frough der tunnel, dat's all. What frains eat? Bedtime! Bedtime! And nen freakfast time. Yes, yes, yes, yes! Said the Connal (Controller - I think). Faster! No, cause dere's horses! Fast? Yes! The horses gone by! Hurray! And de shildren did jump in hees cab. Woopsie! Woopsie!"

And this was the noise his trains made as the went along the track: "BaNERner, baNERner, baNERner!"  I don't understand why, because I always say "chh-tss" or "ka-chug-a-da-chum".

Other phrases from stories you have used while playing: "I will get a tiny wee one" (This is from the three bears book we read this morning), "Back to Ninevah" (Jonah and the Whale) and "shut off steam" (Thomas the Tank Engine).

We had these strange conversations a few weeks ago. I struggled to maintain a straight face!

R: I wish I was cow.
Mummy: Why do you wish you were a cow?
R: Cause I could have dose two legs.
Mummy: Do you mean four legs for walking on?
R: Yes. I do. 

Later the same day:

R: I wish I was a cow.
Mummy: Why do you wish you were a cow?
R: Because I could moo.

While you were helping Grandma and I to make Christmas cakes, we heard a lot of "I am just licking dis!" 

At bedtime the other day, out of the nowhere, you declared: "I do wish I had MORE dinosaurs!" It should be noted that at the last Nearly New Sale, in September, we acquired (for only £5, might I add) a BINBAG full of dinosaur toys. Seriously - there must be at least 40 dinos of different species and sizes in there. You have played with them EVERY DAY since. We have borrowed a dinosaur themed books from the library (fiction AND non-fiction) and visited the dinosaur bones at the Natural History Museum in London. We have watched several episodes of Walking with Dinosaurs. It's fair to say that I am as, if not more, fascinated with pre-historic animals as you. But you really don't need MORE dinosaurs! (Ok... maybe a pterosaur or two. We have no flying pre-historic reptiles...yet)

After Toddlers on Monday, you were sad that I said you couldn't watch 'We're Going on a Bear Hunt' before lunch and started to weep:

R: I do want a minute of Mummy milk.

Mummy: Ok. One minute to cheer you up before I cook lunch.

R: Oh! Look! My tears did not come!

You're all kinds of scrumptious, Little R. My favourite moment of all in the last week was when, out of the blue, you wrapped your arms around my neck and whispered in my ear: "I do lub you." Gorgeous boy, I do lub you too.