I love this picture; to me this speaks of a new start. It is not obvious to anyone but me, but this was taken in my new flat (aka, my home). The only furniture is Wriggles' bouncy chair and a wooden crate pretending to be a coffee table; there are not yet any appliances like a cooker or washing machine, the walls are bare and I think this was taken before the official removal van and moving in day.
When Wriggles was born prematurely, I had not yet had time to sort out moving from a professional flat share into a more family friendly private space, as she came so quickly. I would have had 3 months further to play with if she had stayed inside but it was not to be. Unfortunately things became complicated as she came home on oxygen and so it was with trepidation, that I took her back to what resembled a student flat that I had to share. During the few months I was there, I became very desperate. More than anything, I ached for some precious privacy with my baby.
Finally, somewhere came up. Before moving in came around, we had the Intensive Care shenanigans which brought everything very clearly to me. Once we were out of the danger zone, the hospital felt safe. Although there were people in and out, it was more private and comfortable than my flat. It was bliss being able to shut a door and I dreaded returning home. Thankfully, when I did go back, it was merely days before I could move. My mum had come up while Wriggles was in hospital and stayed to help us move. She felt closed in on too, and we were so eager to leave to pastures new, that the day before the removal van was booked, we packed large rucksacks and laundry baskets of essentials like the kettle, biscuits, Wriggles' chair and milk, the sterilizer, toys for Wriggles, and an airbed, and got the metro over to the new flat and spent the day in a barren place. We must have looked like lunatics on the platform with binbags of belongings shoved under the pram and on our backs, like refugees. There were ladles sticking out of coat pockets, cushions stuffed in coats and teatowels worn like scarves. It was a cold and drab April morning, but we practically skipped up the road and ran into the bare and empty building. It was bliss. It was so quiet and secret, I felt like I could breathe again. It felt like playing house, proudly organising the few belongings in the bare rooms. We stayed for hours until the sun set and night began to creep in. Reluctantly, we left to put Wriggles to bed, spurred on the the thought of being there the next day. When we moved, it felt as if finally, seven months on from the birth, our life as a family was starting.
That first weekend there, my aunt, uncle and cousin came to help organise the flat. We still had no cooker, washing machine, sofa or chairs, so spent the weekend sat around on the floor, microwaving vats of soup my aunt brought over from her home in Cumbria to eat, inbetween putting up curtain rails and unpacking boxes. We pegged and sellotaped duvets and bin bags as curtains and sat on crates, got lost trying to find Homebase, lived off cups of tea and instant soup-in-a-packet and biscuits, and played and played with Wriggles who adapted marvellously quickly to her new palace. When appliances arrived, they sat in the middle of the floor for weeks like large traffic islands, waiting to the installed. I didn't care one jot. The disorganisation was laughable but yet heavenly.
Having my own space meant the world to me, it meant that finally I could establish a routine, do things as I intended to as a mummy, speak when I wanted to, and deal with everything in my own way. I could ask for help to deal with the depression that had engulfed me, safe in the knowledge that I was allowed to have bad days and that I wasn't under the watchful eyes of people, who had the best of intentions but would never look away. And so I began to find myself as a mummy. With furniture at last.
I spent my former life as an art student for 5 years previous to having Wriggles. One year doing a foundation course at my local art college and 4 years at universtuding studying Fine Art at degree level. Whilst there, aside from getting covered in paint, spending my student loan on double-sided sticky tape, coffee and cake from the Art Cafe (a dubious cubby hole selling homemade baked wares and mildly dodgy coffee and toasties to fundraise for the annual degree show) and downing gin in mugs, I discovered print making which I adored. I used it for my final show and though have not strayed near a printing press or screenbed since, I do collect and covet other printmakers work. May bookcase has rather a lot of art books and my drawers are jammed packed full of postcards, greetings cards and review snippets. I only own one genuine print, a lino print by Hannah Firmin, but when I win the lottery, my abode will be full of beautiful and coloured prints! What I love about print is the illustrative styles and combinations of colour and pattern. One artist I adore who brings this together beautifully is contemporary printmaker Alice Melvin. 
I love this bold tree print; it is a fabric from Swedish favourites Ikea. Not only is it affordable at £4.99 a metre but it is thicker than many cottons, so I have been thinking about attempting to whizz up some curtains. Note; "attempting" is key here. In theory, I know how to run up curtains having watched Kirsty Allsopp's 'Handmade Home' programme and internet tutorials, how I would actually fare is another matter. Oh and that time thing to. But I would like to! 
And while I'm looking at birds, I have utterly fallen in love with this owl in a teacup print by illustrator Heather Scott. Heather sells on Etsy and Folksy under Sparklehen. Her prints are vibrant and whimsical and I already have several bought over time. The teacup reminds me slightly of Alice in Wonderland, and the colours are perfect. Who wouldn't want to share a tea party with a stray owl?! Loons. And it's not strictly a room accessory but I'm sure Wriggles could make room for this crochet owl in her cot!
Being in a rented flat, it is too much faff to start painting and wallpapering, so these new-fangled wall stickers sound a good plan of transforming a wall and adding some colour. Keeping with an emerging woodland vibe, I saw these designs on Not On The Highstreet which caught my eye.
When Wriggles was in Intensive Care, I was lucky enough to be allocated a room in Crawford House, a 23-bedroomed house on the grounds of the hospital. As well as a variety of bedrooms, it had a lounge, kitchen, bathrooms and laundry room for families staying a while. All in all, I spent eleven days there: it felt a lifeline. However, knowing that I had a bed behind a private door, less than 5 minutes walk from my daughter and a telephone with a direct line to her bedside was a comfort. in fact, it was sanity saving. I knew from Special Care how sapping it is it return home night after night alone, how hard and expensive it is to go in and out and how home comforts mean nothing without your family. Crawford House kept me sane. It kept me on site so that if anything changed, which it would and very suddenly, I could be there immediately. It enabled me to have no limits to my time on the ward; if I wanted to stay into the early hours I could as it was safe to walk down the corridor, across the car park and into bed. No public transport. No drunks. No taxi fares. 
The houses have an 89% occupancy throughout the year, although in the time I stayed it was oversubscribed with a waiting list. The first night my daughter was in Intensive Care there were no beds but both I was reluctant to return home and the nurses were reluctant to let me, as she was so changeable. They snuck me into a spare cubicle on the paediatric ward we had been on previously under the strict premise that if there were any emergency admissions, I was bound for the all-night Costa Coffee. Thankfully the following day I received a call that a bedroom had become free. During my stay, some families were there throughout, others changed every few days. Some families came for operations, some for emergencies. I would estimate at least half of the families were those of a premature baby in the neonatal unit-were I have been just mere months ago. In fact, their latest project is for a large parent's house attached to a large neonatal unit in Cambridge. 'The Rosie Hospital' will help hundreds of families across the East of England and beyond, as sadly many babies are transferred sometimes hundreds of miles to access the medical care they need, often leaving parents uprooted and faced with a several hour long trip every day or an extensive hotel bill. 
