Water Play

This week I have found really hard, what with colds, an unwanted trip to hospital, mention again of fundoplication surgery which I am really not keen on, an increase in physio as Wriggles' muscle tone is playing up and her legs are getting more exaggerated which is not a good thing for inducing mobility and lashings of torrential rain. This afternoon, our friends came round which was a very welcome bit of socialisation with no medical strings attached and really helped to clear the metaphorical clouds looming above my head! Trying to keep on the good track this afternoon, I decided it was high time we tried out Wriggles' birthday present: a water table.

I found choosing presents quite hard for her second birthday; things that would fit in my small flat, things she would enjoy, things that would push her, things that wouldn't drive me off a cliff...things I could afford! She loves messy play and is a complete water baby, and in the absence of swimming while her stoma site heals, playing at the sink is the next best thing. Or better, a table on the floor with less scope to slip over. Also it challenged her legs as it was a perfect incentive to stay standing and bearing (some) weight.

We chucked in all the bath toys, some stacking cups with holes in, a stray ball from a ball pit, a nice pouring cup and filled up the sides. I tried to have one side with strongly scented bubbles and the other plain water with a bit of glitter ("DAAAAARRRRS!") which of course got mixed up in about five seconds flat.

 And then let her loose!

It was really therapeutic playing with the water, but mostly seeing how much fun she was having. My floor got an impromptu thorough wash, which to be honest is probably no bad thing. We poured, splashed, shouted, sang and had a whale of a time. Just what the doctor ordered.

Muuuum, I am NOT doing your washing up for you!

Breakthrough with extra ice cream

This weekend something amazing happened.

We were invited to a birthday party.

Now, this might be an everyday occurrence for many mums. But I have been spectacularly rubbish at making and keeping mum friends, my depression and anxiety cutting all ties with rationality and sending my confidence and voice deep down into a pit of despair, cutting off the sunlight. I would shrink from other mums, like a vampire from the dawn. Not at all because I didn't want to be their friend, quite the opposite, but because I would just panic. Why would they want to be my friend? I kept trying to go to baby groups, I would make myself because if nothing else my darling Wriggles has always been quite partial to "borrowing" other babies rattles and charming stranger's grannies. I don't know quite what has happened but somehow things turned a corner and bit by bit I began to talk properly to the other mums and remember their names and stop my jaw dropping the floor if they remembered mine (or at least Wriggles'-it's practically the same thing once you give birth). Then I plucked up the courage to accept invites to coffee and this week, exchanged phone numbers with not one, not two but three, yes THREE mums. And received a party invitation for my troubles.

After this feat of brilliance, I seized the day yesterday and went small-person-affordable-gift-shopping. I wrote (on behalf of Wriggles) a card and sealed the envelope in the hope that if I wanted to chicken out I might reason that that would mean a wasted card. This morning I wrapped up a copy of What The Ladybird Who Heard whilst fending off an energetic Wriggles who wanted to eat the sellotape, and tried to find a pair of leggings that didn't have any food down: a near impossible task. For someone that barely eats, all her clothes are covered in bizarre stains and trodden in crumbs.

As the time drew near I ummed and ahhhed. I felt nervous and began to look for excuses. I could see the opportunity slipping away and in a rare fit of decisiveness, grabbed the A-Z and tried to locate the party location. It was less than 10 minutes walk away. The sun had come out. I was running out of excuses. Wriggles had found a shiny box and was pacified. As long as she was still allowed to hold the box, she was happy to put her coat on. Now I had no excuse. Before the moment was gone, we left. As I walked along the road, thoughts niggled at my brain. Was I going to be the only unmarried one? Were their husbands going to be terrifying? I don't even know why these felt important things. I think the one of the hard things about mental health wobbles are the feelings of inadequacy it cloaks you in. I often have felt conscious of being babyfaced and a single parent and worry that it isolates me. In reality, it doesn't or at least hasn't so far. I have been pleasantly surprised that no ones gives two hoots if your house is magazine-perfect (mine isn't for the record, it is a scruffy flat) or Mr Darcy brings you breakfast in bed. Probably as so many mothers are battling through sleepless nights and chasing around after mad toddlers to rub together enough brain cells to care. It is so easy to forget the two things that unite most parents are their children and the helpless desperation to Get It Right whilst doubt and guilt gnaw at you every time CBeebies is switched on. 

The worries were all unfounded. We had a truly lovely afternoon, the babies all played (relatively) nicely and everyone was so friendly. I hope these are the beginnings of real friendships; even if they are not, I can't think of many ways better to spend a weekend that in the company of some Good Eggs especially when you get two types of cake and ice cream at the end.

Walking back home at 7pm (if you're going to party, you need to do it properly. I'm installing this in Wriggles from an early age) in the golden fading sun, I felt euphoric. It is such a small thing, but for me, such a big step. It felt like I had broke through a fog holding me back and hiding me from the world I crave to be part of, that I should belong to. It made me so happy to feel like I was grabbing life with both hands and loving it, rather than living in bad memories.