Babies and holidays make an interesting cocktail

Someone extremely wise told me that travelling with babies is basically like being at home....with the possible upside of a better climate and the likely downside of major inconvenience humping caseloads of baby paraphernalia onto buses, planes and trains.

Having now braved our first flight and holiday to the much maligned Tenerife, I'd like to add some colour to the advice above.

Downsides first....

Packing was indeed traumatic. Given my ongoing issues with indecision and procrastination, selecting my daughter's S/S14 wardrobe (yep, that's spring/summer to the non fashionistas) provided hours of amusement leaving little time to consider my own travel essentials. Needless to say she has looked much better dressed and cared for than me on most days this last week. Judge me by my child's appearance please, not my own.

Similarly, I did not think all the practicalities through. Logistics, yes, but the reality..no. Far from being an opportunity for tanning and relaxation en famille, it has felt more like a bizarre extended boxing match where my husband and I tag each other into, and out of, the ring every hour to square up to daughter duty. Not that she's a nightmare, but her needs are rather at odds with our own; she loves shade, we love sun...she wants to play, we want to sleep. Rubbish combinations. Add in the stress of a resort populated largely by geriatrics, where everyone wants sleep and quiet..and you are the evil couple bringing a wailing munchkin to the adjacent sun lounger. Cue glares from men, sympathy smiles from women and a general feeling of parental incompetence. I now see why people with children holiday in places with more people with children. Solidarity in numbers.

On the upsides... "Ola sunshine!" Glorious heat on the bones. Husband time also rocks, as does father-daughter bonding time. Also huge gratitude for being looked after by the professionals. No cooking, no cleaning.  My lazy ass could not be happier. Basically it all adds up to me feeling a little more like me, and a little less like a walking dairy.

If I were to reverse the clock and give advice to myself with the benefit of hindsight I would make the following points:

1. Tenerife is NOT in the third world, it may be an island, but they have nappies, formula and babies too. In fact the third world also has babies..and they survive without much of the gubbins that I have been brainwashed to believe they require. It seems 70 nappies was a little OTT for 10 days.

2. Do your hotel homework. We were allocated a cot, microwave, kettle and changing mat. Massive result..except I'd already packed our travel cot and lost half my suitcase in the process. AND Bring travel wash. Overpriced hotel laundry services suck (€3 for a bib!! WTF!) But who wants to return home with a suitcase of vomity muslins?

4. Explore what the hotel means by 'babysitting service'. In our case it meant some half-cut crazy Spanish lady coming to sit in our room for a few hours (at great expense) whilst we ate in the restaurant downstairs. Soooo much easier to plonk her in the buggy!! (Massive love for McLaren-legendary piece of kit)

5. Don't scrimp on the room. Seriously. As a serial bargain hunter this is worth spanking money on. We started in a room too small to swing a mouse in, let alone a cat. Cot practically next to my ear = not relaxing. Short of putting the cot in the bathtub we decided that upgrading to a larger room would enable greater comfort and 'privacy'. Money well spent.

All in all, well worth the effort, but next time I'm packing less, winging it more and maybe bringing a grandparent or two!

Life is like a game of snakes and ladders...

Perhaps I'm looking at my former life through rose tinted spectacle, but I miss making progress. I also miss being in control, or at least the illusion of control! I could have sworn that even when life pre-baby (PB) was tough, being me meant living out that human instinct of 'onwards and upwards'. Thus even when faced with the interminable scree slopes at the top of Kilimanjaro ( feel free to imagine an alternative mountain of your choosing in Wales...if Kenya is a leap too far), where in the bitter cold at 5am you lose half of every step you take...somehow you still make it to the summit, the glorious dawn view a just reward for your efforts.

Am not sure how it's meant to work with babies,  but it doesn't feel like climbing a mountain. More like a giant game of snakes and ladders, where if you have a 100 numbered squares it doesn't matter how much progress you've made, be it reaching 28 or 97,....there is still that giant python lurking on the horizon, analogous to a perfect storm of teething or that latest stomach bug, ready to throw you mercilessly back to square 2. 

True you also get ladders in this childish game. You can celebrate your munchkin rolling from front to back for the first time (standing ovation please), your first glorious giggle ( which truly melts the heart), the arrival of the jumperoo (a.k.a circle of neglect) or a bonus 6hr stretch of unbroken sleep ( love those immunisations). These are indeed magical, amazing moments to be cherished. 

However it's all rather more like a game or lottery that I'm used to. My life is now less the meritocratic 'no pain, no gain' and more 'roll the dice and see what happens'. I miss being in control and I miss a degree of predictability, where if I plan well I reap the rewards.

Right now, if you don't plan well quite honestly you don't stand a chance...but it seems unjust that you can do almost everything right and then another variable leaps up to bite you in the behind. Thoughts on a postcard please.

The art of expression..of milk

WARNING if the idea of breast milk freaks you out, stop reading now. This post is not for the faint hearted...and generally involves me going on a rant about some literally close to my heart...my cleavage.

So... in pregnancy I was suffering under the allusion, or rather delusion, that the burden of relentless nocturnal feeds could be spread by expressing milk in advance. How sensible and obvious you'd think? Just  hook yourself up to a milking machine and hey presto a fine pint of gold top ready to be stored in the fridge for use whenever you've a) contaminated ongoing supplies with one too many vinos of an evening or b) when someone, ideally hubby, offers to take on a feed for you so you can sleep (Or party...are you seeing a theme?)

Errr wrong! Turns out that anything other than military planning and precision in relation to 'expression' will result in devastating consequences. Too soon after a feed and the tanks are still empty...so you undergo the 'cow being milked' scenario for longer than necessary AND feel like a failure when you achieve a measly few millilitres. Wait until later and you may be able to high-five yourself for your voluminous output and stockpiling abilities...but when your little one awakes ravenous and finds the cupboards bare you will suffer the wrath of the wailing banshee until you conced defeat and raid your precious stash.

Also there a fragile balance to be achieved to avoid discomfort. Surely giving over responsibility for a feed should be a pleasure? e.g. extra hours of uninterrupted slumber. Yet beware the missed feed and the arrival of shakira's "breasts like mountains"...think of the Rockies rather than the Alps! You also risk waking up in a puddle of breast milk, wondering who wet the bed...which is hardly the glorious extra rest you'd hoped for. Ditto the long awaited night out...the preparation goes as follows; milk expressed over preceding days (tick)...heels on (tick)...enjoying cocktails with the girls (tick)... only to be undermined by a heaving, leaking bosom at midnight and the need to rediscover hand expression in the pub toilets! Classy.

Whilst I'm ranting...I'm also convinced my milking machine has become less effective. Either that or my breasts are staging a protest against tyranny of the plastic pump. Admittedly I feel no love for expressing, therefore no oxytocin...but I'm not sure I feel massive love for my daughter as the empty stomach starts bawling at 3am..or 5am. (Unfortunately I'm not in the club where every breastfeeding session is joyous bonding experience...some sessions are painful..and dare I say it dull!)

So why bother? Well, because it offers a lifeline to freedom. Despite it being supremely tedious (sterilising the multiple tubes, bottles, valves and assorted paraphenalia) there is entertainment to be salvaged from the look of shock around the breakfast table as I model my latest attempt at hands-expression, and satisfaction to be gained from labelling little plastic storage bags for the freezer as 150ml, 15/11/13.( I am a sad Tupperware fanatic in my spare time!)

Sadly however the rumours are true. If I drink of an evening, I have less to give in the morning, if I eat poorly and don't take on a full meal, milk output is also reduced...boringly R&R equals more milk and more cream ( and yes you tell!). Mornings are better than evenings. One side seems more productive than the other.  Blah blah blah.

Of course I could just reach for the formula..and perhaps I shall...but then what would l have to whinge about?!

Do they do Debretts for babies?

Forget 'finishing school'...which I never went to by the way...I reckon there should be 'starting school' to get little ones off on the right foot when it comes to etiquette. 

Basically I reckon I'm already teaching my little daughter bad manners, things she'll have to unlearn if she ever wants to be accepted in polite society. At present her lively little bottom seems to have a voice of its own. She has extensive pitch and volume...and my husband and I find this hilarious! How could you not be entertained by those loud squelchy, wet noises ( that normally get blamed on the dog)? The fact that they emanate from the Moses basket at 3am...often rapidly followed by an 'aaahhh' noise of satisfied release is a source of endless amusement for me, I reckon it may be less so in future years as I'm left apologising for my daughter..rather than my husband/dog as the restaurant is evacuated due to suspected gas leaks again. Similarly, I currently greet every loud belch that is not followed by a tidal wave of curdled milk with a virtual high-five, back slap, fist pumping gesture rather than a tut of disapproval. All this will doubtless have to change in time unless I change my ways now!

However the thing that truly irks me are table manners. In polite society you really should be able to wield a knife and fork with competence. In baby world table manners surely equate to life at the breastbone. Why not start 'em young and make the most of these formative months?

For example: In the same way as you are told not to point your fork upwards (in case someone falls through the ceiling???!!)...I feel it should be rude to reach across the chest to the other breast and start twiddling. It is not a volume control button and it basically translates to playing with your food..which is naughty. Also head butting, pummelling with fists and general crying should be out whilst suckling..this will  doubtless translate to a temper tantrum at mealtimes, complete with screaming and elbows on the table.

Finally, and I'm assured this happens to all breastfeeders at some point, babies should be trained not to bite. Why?....because with or without teeth it's damn painful! (Although let me say thank goodness they are generally born without teeth, this is truly a triumph of evolution). So it got me to thinking, how on earth are you supposed to 'train' these little animals? I read somewhere you should unlatch then with the words "don't do that, you're hurting mummy." I say forget that..lve found a swift poke in the ribs to be most expedient. That'll soon learn 'em! An eye for an eye and all that! (Although please note I am note advocating premeditated corporeal punishment, it is simply an instinctive reflex action on my part).

Anyway, most development books, of which I've read zero, say that the first few months are vital formative days for getting their brains in gear. So whilst we're chanting endless nursery rhymes to stimulate their musical and vocal abilities..why not factor in a few manners, surely it can't hurt to get them started young on etiquette..and if it means I can get back to eating in nice restaurant sooner rather than later then that's an added bonus!

In my next parent life I want to be an Octo-rilla-roo-og

I have come to the conclusion that in my next life as a parent I would like to come back as an Octo-rilla-roo-og. WTF and why?..I hear you ask...

Well, based on absolutely no evidence or protracted thinking, and a mere two glasses of wine I have decided that only by combining the diverse features of multiple non human creatures will I achieve superhero style parenting abilities. In the somnolent, dreamlike state I often exist in during night feeds, I have conjured up my wish list of features and benefits...which goes something like this:

1. The 8 eight arms (tentacles) of the octopus: pretty obvious really, but I'd like to dedicate one arm solely to feeding myself cake, another to holding my daughter and the others to completing life's various chores. Right now I need a permanent laundry-folding arm. I'm also thinking the waterproof slippery skin(?) would come in pretty useful for its sick-proof, wipe-clean properties?

2. The family lifestyle of the gorillas: am thinking lots of help in looking after little ones. Easy access to advice, camaraderie, safety in numbers...AND gorilla babies are super cute. Human babies can be unpredictable, they have good days and bad ones in the beauty stakes, but ALL gorilla babies are adorable, all the time. Fact.

3. The pouch of the kangaroo: extremely useful. I'd like mine not only for childcare, but I'm also thinking it'd be a handy place to keep my phone, keys and wallet rather than the giant changing bag I now cart around which swallows all critical personal items and sucks them into the vortex of its cavernous pockets, never to be retrieved without effort and expletives. I'm also reliable informed that kangaroos have three vaginas. Yes REALLY. Useful or not? I'll let you decide.

4. The endless enthusiasm of the dog: for this part I have taken my inspiration from my glorious, faithful spaniel, Raffles. My logic is that any creature who can be so inspired by sticks, so interested in sniffing bottoms and so unfailingly happy to greet you at any time of day or night would also take immense pleasure in the endless cycle of feed, excrete, sleep, repeat that parenting entails.

So there we have it. I have doubtless missed some very sensible animals out, and my proposed mythical creature the octa-rilla-roo-og would definitely be W-UGLY, but right now, it seems logical to me...and more importantly far more competent than me...and that's what counts.

Smiles brighten up even the darkest day..and banish zombies

Today I have been in reflective mode...Mostly observing that it is amazing how that little curl of the lips, particularly if accompanied by a chuckle or gurgle can take lift you from the depths of despair into glorious sunny optimism.

Those magical, yet fleeting moments are what makes the other million gritty newborn experiences worth it. For every blood-curdling, air-raid siren style cry that demands immediate attention  at 4am (lest your little ones head turns into something resembling a weeping beetroot), there is a tiny smile of recognition that precludes automatic and eternal forgiveness. It seems be to hard wired into our prehistoric beings that streams of vomit, resulting in a code red..all hands on deck scenario, will be erased from our hearts after perhaps a life-affirming snugly cuddle on the chest or a gurgle of pure joy.

 I have been reflecting that these positive memories are like the performance enhancing drugs that got Lance Armstrong his Tour de France wins, enabling him to attain super-human levels of speed and endurance ( albeit illegally and shamefully); one must simply somehow mentally bank and log these wonderful baby moments and call them up when stamina fails and emotional zombie function kicks in. As a bonus there are no illicit dealers, cash or injections involved either!

 NB. Emotional zombie mode is...as it sounds..pretty scary. I look and act like the waking dead, capable of roaring with rage, weeping and even biting heads off without provocation in my quest to survive. Best avoided.

The zombie is also a fitting analogy because, as I have learnt from zombiepedia..yes really..and I quote directly, "a zombie is a person who has lost his or her sense of self-awareness and identity, and cares only for the destruction (and often consumption) of any human around, no matter what the circumstances, or cost to his or her self. They make up for this loss of intelligence in sheer numbers, as the state of zombieism is almost always contagious, and spreads like wildfire." (Hence perhaps why I am drawn to and largely socialise with other new mothers who can empathise!!)

Anyway, I personally feel like the old PMA technique, that's positive mental attitude... (first cited in that 90s washing powder advert starring Linford Christie. WTF!!..why do I know that??) is one I have underemployed in my armoury of weapons and coping techniques that I have thus far demployed in my fight against exhaustion and anxiety.

So next time I hit the wall, either literally or metaphorically, I am going to envisage a smile on my daughters face and for added fortitude I will be burbling a song from Annie (the musical...another 80s thang!)..."the sun will come out tomorrow, so you better hang on til tomorrow, come what may.' Hopefully you won't be within range to suffer my terrible singing, but I'm sure all around me would be grateful to see the zombie returned to its dark grave for good.

Full lyrics for below...so you can sing with me if you like... 

The sun'll come out, 

Tomorrow

Bet your bottom dollar
That tomorrow
There'll be sun!
Just thinkin' about
Tomorrow
Clears away the cobwebs,
And the sorrow
'Til there's none!
When I'm stuck a day
That's gray,
And lonely,
I just stick out my chin
And Grin,
And Say,
Oh
The sun'll come out
Tomorrow
So ya gotta hang on
'Til tomorrow
Come what may
Tomorrow!
Tomorrow!
I love ya
Tomorrow!
You're always
A day
A way!

Daring to defy social norms...dummies, nipple exposure and PINK

I feel I could rant for hours about the plethora of social norms I have been confronted with in my brief period as a parent. I am torn about which to mull over first...
1. We could take on the dreaded 'to dummy to not to dummy?' debate ( which I now see as complete nonsense..basically if your baby will take one, DO IT and make your life exponentially easier..and more peaceful)
2. The question of whether or not nipple exposure in public should be more embarrassing for me, or the 79yr old bloke stopping for coffee with his wife...it strikes me as strange that after all the years I have spent NOT exposing my breasts in public, I should now be so totally blasé about whapping them out at a moments notice.
3. the concept of the push present (which I suspect De Beers and other diamond sellers may be at the bottom of having already suckered us all in the diamond =love=engagement theory which they invented several decades ago)

Anyway tonight, having just spent a small fortune building little Ophelia's wardrobe for the next few months I'm going to start with my biggest bug bear. The great pink gender conundrum...

As most if you will know, I am not a truly girly girl...I don't really do make-up and I'm too lazy to manage a proper haircut. I have, however come to LOVE shoes and the odd mani-pedi...Yet I digress. My point is I do not wish to be forced to dress my daughter in pink in order that random cooing punters can correctly identify her gender.

Having been thorough the trauma of gender confusion myself (ie others were confused..NOT me) I do not wish my daughter to get off on the wrong note at the tender age of 8ish weeks.

My own experience was entirely my fault. In a moment of extraordinary  lunacy a made a hideous spur of the moment hairdressing decision, age 12, resulting in a  Celine Dion haircut when I was a boobless, brace-wearing adolescent. I spent months of self-loathing wearing short skirts and glittery eye goo to ensure I was not mistaken for a boy. ( Hence my hatred of hairdressers ever since and gaping holes in the family photo albums).

I do not want my daughter to be subconsciously scarred in the same way just because I find myself  more drawn to the blue spotty hoodie or safari prints than the pink frou-frou frills and flowers. Some pink and flowers are fine, preferably the more vibrant tones, but how are jungle animals more  masculine than feminine? Poor Ophelia has been 'guessed' as a boy way more times than a girl now, based largely on my choices of attire..hence the recent shopping spree. Is it bad that I have capitulated to considering a wardrobe rethink involving dresses and such- like...or should I revolt against the world of Alice bands and frills and let her be called a boy?