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?

The Vom-ometer and counting ones chickens

At 4am on Saturday morning my husband was woken with the sentence "she's done exorcist vomit again...you take her, I need to change!" Dazed husband dutifully obliged whilst I effected a full change of clothes and wet wipe decontamination... however when I offered him a wet wipe to clean 'exorcist' baby's face, he complained that this was a step too far for his morning comprehension and aptitude. All this after my 10pm assertion that I we hadn't had an exorcist moment for some days..and the suggestion she might have outgrown this phenomenon....clearly I spoke too soon.

'Exorcist vomit' is the somewhat extreme term that we have coined to describe the unpleasant sight, and sound, of milky spittle exploding simultaneously from multiple orifices on our daughter's face. With practice she is now attaining progressively new levels of volume and coverage. As a non-watcher of horror movies, I do not know how this term genuinely relates to the original film....my own experiences of emetics ( to provide the scientific term) being confined to university (and post university) alcohol induced chundering, a la Gap Yaaa footage.

Extraordinarily our daughter often seems remarkably calm after such violent expulsions, although a repeat offense this evening seemed to catch even her by surprise as she reached new heights in distance and scale, culminating in all white face mask that coated her little eyes and eyelashes. She appeared bewildered by the experience, but her baby soft skin and eyesight remain intact, possibly even enhanced...perhaps this is something I should patent and offer to the same crazy beauty salons now offering the fish pedicure? Masque du vomit au lait anyone?

Anyway to my fellow parents a few points of advice: firstly...beware the little tickly cough that precedes such eruptions. Secondly, hone your cat like reflexes so that you can save ideally her attire (one less outfit change and stupid vest to go over their head).. Or even better, jump far enough out of reach to protect your own clothes AND duvet cover. 

Finally, if all else fails, let humour be your guide and turn it into a game. I'd like to call it the Vom-ometer. I imagine it as that bizarre fairground attraction where those with brawn and biceps pay to wield a mallet and continually whack an oversize button, which rises up a thermometer heat scale to hit a bell at the top. Last night's 4am episode didn't quite reach the bell, it was somewhere in the amber zone. At 3pm today, where vomit cascaded over the kitchen floor, it reached the red zone...call it 8/10. Then tonight, fully cleansed post bath, (obviously) we hit the jackpot...ding ding ding...we have a winner. Full on white face, bed clothes, her clothes and all of mine. I can just imagine the crowd going wild and the fairy lights flashing. In my imaginary fairground world I'd be going home with one of those giant neon cuddly toys...but in reality I've got a larger pile of laundry and another shower to take. Lucky me.

Oddly grateful for Groundhog Day...on fast forward

As a long term lover of spontaneity, huge fan of the surprise party or the impromptu dinner party-turned fancy dress parade- turned late night dancing on the table epic bender...you'd think parenthood would suit me down to a tee with its unexpected twists and turns. However having spent the first few weeks on tenterhooks, never sure what the next 15mins would hold in store, and therefore unable to plan, I have reluctantly conceded that routine may in fact rule supreme. 

After weeks having to second guess when the hunger monster would next erupt from deceptively deep slumber with a bellow of ravenous rage, never sure when adorable alertness would tip over into cranky overstimulation, the fragile peace and predicability of a repetitive 3hr cycle is very welcome. 

The fact that it is only a 3 hour cycle makes it feel a little like Groundhog Day on speed. Forget a 24hour pattern, this is literally as simple as feed, change nappy, maybe a minor activity..then back to sleep again ( if I'm lucky..as sometimes this part gets missed). The highlight of this cycle is varying the 'activity' (which my reading of parenting bibles tells me should be 'age appropriate.') For a wee one this might be as simple as lying on the play mat staring at one of the numerous multiple-textured, uber colourful and focus-friendly objects suspended above her...however I like to aim for the double whammy of vaguely educational stimulation for her, AND mutual benefit for Mum.

Examples of today's activities include:

- pairing socks: useful for learning colours and shapes I like to think..although I'm hoping no one will notice I've paired the lonely yellow banded black sock with a pink and grey jobby as I'm fed up of both of them hanging around. Maybe one day they will be reunited with their respective partners, until then my husband's colleagues will be in for a treat if he dresses in the dark next week

- bath time: obviously a necessity following the daily ritual of vomiting on oneself and all surrounding objects or people

- cake eating and coffee drinking: essential for sanity..and I reckon it makes the breast milk taste better (am figuring she's now a huge fan of red velvet cupcake flavour)?

- walking the dog: exercise for me, fresh air for her= more sleep! Result.

- bouncer plus shower: she sits in the bouncer chair thing, I shower. Not sure if this is really age appropriate, but what she doesn't remember surely can't scar her?!

Groundhog Day on fast forward also has one amazing bonus feature which seems to occur once a day...although not at a regular time. My bonus feature involves being able to push the RESET button. By this I mean the opportunity to reset the stage ready for the next few hours; tidying up the scene of carnage that I have left in my wake all day, a catalogue of semi-completed tasks like hanging out washing, cleaning up breakfast or tidying away nappies... that have all been commenced but not concluded!

All I can say is alleluia for the reset button. It means my husband returns to a scene of relative sanity if not cleanliness...and I can generally end the day, ready to relive it all again a few hours later. It also means we live in dread of growth spurts that serve to disrupt our fragile peace...but I save my thoughts on the 'feeding frenzy' for another time!

Imposing cuddle charges

At the six week point in parenthood, I feel we are turning a corner in knowledge and experience. Much like some cash-strapped council demanding ever more delinquent and extortionate parking fines to regulate and deter the Saturday shoppers, as a savvy, sleep deprived parent I have started to conjure up increasingly wacky cuddle charges to mange access to my daughter and our home. 

Several friends warned me in the early days to enforce visiting hours and to 'name my price.' However the headiness of hormones and a vague attempt at 'uber-mummy' status (attempt now aborted) caused me to ignore the hard-earned wisdom of others and to relearn this lesson myself. (When is that ever not the case?).

Unintentionally at first I started making tentative requests like 'please could you pick up some milk?' but the generousity of close friends and family has shown no bounds. Fill my freezer and cook for six hours straight - done, sort out my holey tights and underwear- done, bring food and cook me dinner- done. Seriously?! For such voluntary selflessness I am eternerally grateful.

The correct grammatical terminology  escapes me as I write this at 2am (multitasking mid-feed), however I forget the very English figure of speech where one tentatively offers to do something, expecting a negative response? In this house there are no rhetorical questions. (As a cautionary note do bear in mind that at this point I have done little  obvious asking, it seems that the subtler arts of allusion and intimation are far superior than being explicit)

For my friends in City let me share my epiphany. It turns out that 'baby cuddles' are the new currency; forget gold, diamonds, oil and the now defunct BIT piece...snuggles with teeny defenceless infants are literally good dust so take note if the economy takes another nosedive. (I suspect this may be why parents have multiple children; exponential growth leads them to lose value over time so you have to recreate your wealth anew by having another one). This currency also works as well for retailers as parents; as a seller and marketer you can play both highly the effective 'cuteness' and the 'significant life event' cards simultaneously. BOOM, this then allows you to add an extra zero to your price tag and to bypass the usual frugal logic than governs purchasing. Kerching!!!

So fellow producers of newborns, take heart in the world of opportunity to unburden yourself of dull domestic challenges..and visitors, don't expect to be able to darken my door empty-handed or unwilling to pitch in. Gone are the days where I try to do it all, offers of help when made are now ALL rapidly accepted.

The beauty and art of burping

After years of being taught that burping is 'disgusting' and being chastised for euphemistically 'breaking wind'...motherhood soon causes you to reevaluate this long held social norm. I have now learnt that burping is both an art form and a science, and there is little noise more gratifying to a new mum than a good belch. This wonderful sound, particularly when delivered in a strong, loud timbre, heralds the possibilty of avoiding otherwise gut-writhing pain, often accompanied by the notorious milky vomit (more of which in a future posting).

(Please note that at this point I am writing about my daughter, not me. Whilst I did produce several extraordinarily loud and satisfying belches during labour...anything goes at that point and I'm not going to make a habit of it!)

So here we come to the joys therefore of mastering the Kama sutra of wind-removing poses in newborns, and the study of gently moving from one pose to another in the style of flowing ashtanga yoga, rather than the jerky movements of some battered fairground ride or roller coaster. The classic over-the-shoulder, pat, pat, pat routine of our own mothers, and as featured in most Hollywood movies is all well and good, but in my experience rarely yields the results of a combination sequence of poses. Think of It as a short dance routine if you will. Whilst my daughter and I may include the aforementioned over the shoulder pose (very much the missionary position or beginner level of the burping world) in our daily ritual, we generally have to work through, seated poses, lying poses and back to vertical again before our glorious, long awaited baritone burp is produced. High fives all round at this point!

I'm not going to go into burping science or indeed the plethora of potions that claim to assist in the removal of trapped wind. We have had little joy with these. Every baby is doubtless different and every parent-child duo will find their own individual solution whilst said parent impatiently awaits the maturation of his or her baby's digestive system and valves...however let me conclude by sharing my favourite pose, which I have heard called 'tiger in a tree.' (Super endearing when you look in the mirror, and often bringing a windy smile to my daughter's face). To achieve, envisage being on safari and looking up at a big cat in a tree, imagine the tiger/leopard/jaguar draped along a branch (your arm), legs dangling down and head turned to the side and you'll be there. At this point your can gentle stroke your kitty-cat on the back and await noisy results!

Ménage a trois...a la ferme ?!

Now I fear the title of the post may suggest something a little more racy and exciting than the reality of my husband and I sharing a room with our 5.5 week old daughter. So if you're expecting a saucy little story to digest on your way to work, you're going to be greatly disappointed. My ménage a trois a la ferme...or potentially au zoo, relates to the perceived location of our marital bed (currently adjacent to a noisy Moses basket)

At present as in recent nights my auditory senses, currently heightened by hormones and maternal concern, suggest that my daughter is taking us on a magical mystery tour of the animal kingdom in which she calls out to her fellow creatures in kinship and an attempt to identify her inner animal spirit.

According to my parents I have always had kinship with cats ( I like to think this is with the sleek and powerful puma, or the magnicificent tiger, rather than your average tabby!). I earned the nickname Kimbycat for my mewling sounds in the cradle and my ability to curl up and bask in any shaft of sunlight through childhood and indeed into adult life (although I believe I have now graduated to full on sun worshipping rather than pure basking). Ironic really that I hold such affinity to cats when I'm really a dog person and dog owner. ( YesI must mention Raffles, my dog-child here, still much loved if slightly neglected!)

So tonight, you and doubtless the great David Attenborough will be pleased to note than my animal education (courtesy largely of the BBC) has allowed me to identify the guttural grunting of the pig, the pitiful bleating of the sheep, some gleeful goat sounds, the aforementioned contented cat ( which perhaps she gets from me?)...then as we more from the farmyard into the more exotic greenhouse we get something like a tropical frog. No dog yet, (sorry Raffles), but then there are a few trickier noises to pigeonhole that I believe include a penguin, a dolphin and possibly a seal/walrus? Clearly she was tuned into 'natural world' in utero!

Just think, if only blogger did noises we could turn this into a veritable quiz game? Alas the game is for me alone however if you want to stop by Shrewsbury for a spot of animal listening, then be my guest, I'll happily take a night of silence for once!

"I'm not an ambi-turner" (Zoolander) ....nor ambidextrous (me)....but I wish I was

As it happens, ambi-turning (which I shall define as the ability to turn in either direction) is something I am capable of...as I'd imagine are most normal individuals. ( Derek Zoolander excluded). However being ambidextrous, which I am not, is something that would be so profoundly useful and life-changing as a parenting skill that I wish it had been covered somewhere on the national curriculum or at the very least on my NCT course. 

I am rapidly discovering the limitations to my breakfast menu, my wardrobe choices and my ability to fulfil basic physiological needs ( e.g. Go to the bathroom) where only one hand can be utilised in turn, the other being necessarily required to hold or soothe my 5 week old daughter and prevent her turning beetroot with rage crying. Or more likely to hold her upright and prevent yet another incident of projectile vomiting..which necessitates a further change of clothes for her and often me, (although milky-vomit stains are now considered a design feature of my wardrobe and a badge of  maternal honour). 

Seriously, I'm thinking there are several niches in the marketplace for the yoghurt pot that you can open one-handed, or the trousers you can don solely with your left hand without looking like you have ants-in-your-pants AND without dropping the precious creature who has finally fallen asleep cradled in your right arm. 

As a pure rightie,rather than a leftie (in a solely dexterous rather than political sense) I have had to forgo eating soup or yogurts or even drinking tea, following several accidents where the aforementioned items have ended  up on my daughter's head! Gloppy yoghurt probably forgivable, scalding coffee less so.

Now clearly there are other solutions to my problem, however I wish someone had simply encouraged me to practice ambi dexterity during my pregnancy. Then at this critical point in my existence, where quite honestly being able to make, and drink my morning caffeine fix feels like a life or death situation I would be a black-belt ninja left to right switcher...rather than a fumbling amateur who readily concedes defeat.

The lesson of this banal musing is therefore that one should practice using both hands for many everyday tasks, thus building crucial muscle memory pre-parenthood...or for the less budget conscious...invest in an au pair or third party to do stuff for you and provide you with multiple additional limbs!! Boom!!

Reluctantly revisiting Maslow's hierarchy of needs

Now I am no psychologist, but it seems to me that after years spent working on my own route to self actualisation, and to "fulfilling my potential" by focusing on the rewards that a successful career can bring, having a newborn leads to a rapid and somewhat reluctant reappraisal of where I am in Maslow's pyramid, and which needs currently 'dominate' my life. ( I am of course referring to Maslow's theory of human motivation, so please google it if you have no idea what I'm jabbering about)!

Clearly self actualisation can take many forms: my career may be on ice, and self esteem a little wobbly at times, but I have to remind myself that I am currently fulfilling my lifelong desire to be a mother...which is arguably harder than some of the challenges that have faced me in my commercial existence?! Please note the jury is still out on this point and I'm not alluding to putting yet another load of laundry on, or perfecting my nappy changing technique, although these are critical parenting skills.

To come back to psychology/philosophy, a newborn baby is naturally the purest expression of base physiological needs ( food, water, breathing, excretion, etc..although sex is probably less pertinent right now). However I had not anticipated how my own, usually complex motivations, which coexist at different levels of Maslows pyramid and have historically been dominated by 'self actualisation,' would also need to change. Sadly for my husband sex is probably less pertinent for me too, as just finding time to shovel food into my mouth ( other than the obligatory daily / twice daily slab of cake justified by breast feeding ) and to shower off the vomit odour is enough to dominate my waking hours for now.

I think perhaps this is why maternal self esteem often takes a bit of battering post partum as the establishment of a new way of life kicks in. 

Personally I feel hope is on the horizon, as pride in semi-competent parenthood (?), esteem and security from new friendships and routines, all arise gradually like the Phoenix from the ashes of a former life. If I was a gardener I might use the analogy that the green shoots of parental love in my proverbial garden, and buds of friendship are now in bloom and need to be nourished, just as the weeds of self doubt need to be eradicated and kept under wraps ( which is more than i can manage in my own tiny patch of scrubland at the back of our house).

And so it appears I have rationalised and argued away my complaints for another day. My definition of self fulfilment may be changing, but perhaps that's no bad thing? All views I welcome.

Love affair rekindled...temporarily?

Wondrous friends, you will be relieved to hear that that Ophelia has not yet been fed to the wolves and that our mother-daughter love affair has been greatly rejuvenated thanks to inventions and council from many of you.

Little did I realise what a bunch of wise and supportive sages I had amassed around me in the last three decades! Who'd have thought that years spent lollygagging around the more-or-less salubrious watering-holes of Watford, Cambridge, the Kings Road, Nairobi and finally Shrewsbury  would afford me such a rich seam of experience to mine and draw on in times of need. (The astute among you will note that the above order that reflects the progression of my life by location, not some bizarre geographical puzzle). A genuine, heartfelt thank you to you all for your kind words of solidarity and guidance to help get me past my desperate day.

On the upside, my lifelong thirst for knowledge is more than sated as every day brings fresh new learning for the novice parent. Admittedly my knowledge acquisition is geared to the rather more myopic and mundane queries of 'how to cut the nails of a newborn' rather than the greater unfathomable challenges of 'alleviating world poverty' however my world view has temporarily shrunk and such domestic deliberations e.g. 'how to get vomit out of suede' (a schoolgirl error of a wardrobe choice), and 'how to open a yoghurt one-handed' necessarily dominate my new world and command my attention at this time.

Somehow the cogs in my brain are still whirring, so as of tomorrow I shall start sharing certain new theories and philosphies I have been cultivating over recent weeks. Something to look forward to perhaps should you choose to check-in on my progress?

(As a footnote,  I wish to highlight that whilst I now know and understand that I am not alone in this, and that my experience is neither unusual nor isolated on the rollercoaster of parenthood... I am a stubborn and foolish creature and asking for help is not my forte. Please exert your right to remind me of this at frequent intervals.)

The lowest ebb

I believe that at some point it is only natural for new parents to hit the proverbial wall as cumulative sleep deprivation starts to bite. Whilst the concept of 'the wall' is something familiar to me from years of endurance sports, caring for a newborn requires a whole new level of mental and physical stamina. Am thinking something akin to a US naval SEAL? Fellow parents I salute you, as today for they first time my reservoirs of patience ran out...cue tears, swearing and dark, wild thoughts.

Whilst I had hoped that my first post of parenthood would be a positive one, it is only as I have logged my lowest morning in motherhood (so far!) that I have actually made time to blog in the hope that others may wish to share and support me in my moment of gloom. I suspect experienced parents may read this and smile knowingly, those at a similar stage will empathise with my pain (and joy) and those you have yet to tread this path will doubtless be grateful you are not in my shoes.

So today at nearly 5 weeks in age my darling daughter, Ophelia, cried almost non stop from 6am until midday..and then all evening too. It has hurt, my head, my heart, my soul and my auditory canal to listen and to feel powerless to alleviate her pain. We worked through the classic causes, huger, happy change, tiredness, overstimulation, temperature. Negative ghost rider..the pattern is full! Just when I thought we were successfully learning to communicate with one another based on me being about to effectively decode the decibel and pitch of each cry, plus read her little squirms and tongue movements... she has decided to turn rogue. I know this is a learning curve, but as a proficient linguist I find myself flummoxed by her new tones, and every trick to placate her failed. Today has seen me sing and swear, soothe and sway, and ultimately wander the streets of Shrewsbury in tears in the hope that movement would provide more than 10mins respite in which I might regain my equilibrium (never mind find time to eat or sleep).

Reluctantly tonight in the interest of sanity I have conceded defeat and brought out the dummy. Amazing how such a simple item can have such a profound effect. Silence at last reigns supreme once more... On which note, as I prepare for the marathon of night feeding, this zombie is going to bed. Rock n roll Friday night for me. X