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