"Why?"

As a teenager, I grew up swiping my mum's Bridget Jones books and reading them, half hoping they were purely works of fiction (as a somewhat scatty hapless seventeen-or-so year old myself) and half hoping there really would be a woolly jumpered Mark Darcy out there as well as a mildly amusing job and good Urban Singleton friends to while away adulthood with. One of the bits that made me laugh was a scene describing Bridget being 'smug-married' at a party by her goddaughter. "Bridget, why haven't you got a boyfriend?" asks the little girl.

Today, Wriggles and I were having a rather nice time at a third birthday party for a fellow special care friend. I was on my turn child-watching in the thick of soft play, when one of Wriggles' fellow comrades turned to me, frowning. She looked over at the table where her baby brother was napping and the area for small people where very-wobbly littlest people were hanging out.
"Amy," she said. "Why haven't you got another baby?"
Oh dear, I thought.
It is bad enough when adults ask; number one reason is because I haven't got a partner. However, I suspected her parents would not thank me for an early induction into the complexities of life, reality and a sampling of biology classes to come. Wildly, I looked around for back up. Where is your own daughter when you need her?
"Shall we have another go on the slide?" I asked brightly.
Thankfully, she shot up the ramp like shouting at me to follow. So I did. You can't ask too many more awkward questions whilst screaming "wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!". And so that was that.

It did make me think though. Really, it was more funny than anything else. Although Wriggles' language is a little delayed still, her peers we know are at the stage where asking "but WHHHHY?" is their favourite past time and for all of them, it is obvious they are watching the world carefully and piecing together information to form the basis of assumptions, beliefs and security. I know she only asked me, because I was there at the time. Although most of the mums and dads I met when Wriggles was small are adding to their families, we were by no means the only one-child family at the party and certainly not within a social circle. I'm pretty sure I was the only single parent there, but that is a whole other ball game and I am secretly quite glad Wriggles has not yet got the words or inclination to ask why she doesn't have a live-in daddy like her friends do. I have no doubt it will happen, probably far sooner than I want or think, but for now I can pass off playground equipment as distractions and pull silly faces as answers. Damn this development thing.

I remember shortly after Wriggles was born, someone well-meaningly pointing out that by embarking on the ultimately probably terribly fufilling path of single parenthood, I was possibly sacrificing things further down the line, or would at least have a lot more obstacles than I might do otherwise. Of course, I don't regret it. I didn't know then and I don't know now how things might have turned out if I hadn't had a child then. Would I have ever had one? Statistically, it is very possible I would. But maybe I wouldn't; and faced with the reality of a small, wriggling bundle of half my genes I wasn't willing to take that risk. I had that chance now and it was unconventional and far from how I imagined, but who knows how life will really turn out? In many ways it hasn't been easy but I cannot imagine life without a child; my child. I suppose now she is reaching the point where equally things medically are settling down and life is becoming more relaxing (that is, more relaxing from a developmental point of view, not actually relaxing because she is a mad as a box of frogs) and also because this is the age where many people around us are having babies, and whether you are in that position or not, it does make you think about how your life is turning out and what it may do in the future: or not. When Wriggles started preschool back in September, there seemed to be babies everywhere and for a while it really hit home that there were very much just two of us and that that was not changing any time soon.

Quite aside from being a single parent, there is also the small question of her prematurity, the effects that have shaped the last 3 years and how that might come into play even if I was in a position to think about having a different family unit. Talking with friends who are contemplating providing a sibling, they are arguing out finances, bedroom quotas, having the patience for dusting out rattles and teething toys-understandably huge decisions after you get used to having one little whirlwind and all the practicalities and emotions they bring with them. When I think hypothetically, quite aside from all of that, I would want the blessing of a very good obstetrician to hold my hand and promise me I would never have to walk into a neonatal unit again, never have a terrible birth, never swim through the fog of skewed mental health, never have to visit and re-visit children's wards, outpatients and think about disability, however small. 

Also, Mr Darcy has not yet put in a permanent appearance.

I never imagined I would have one child on my own. I never imagined until I had that one child, that loving her so much would make me wish for another. I never imagined, as a teenager back then reading fictitious books that life could get really very complicated and that things that look so simple-finding someone you care for and managing a relationship-could be so fraught.

I'll let Wriggles and her friend discover that in their own time. Preschoolers birthday parties are neither the time nor the place. Particularly when there is a Hello Kitty cake to be eaten.

To Wriggles' Father

Unless you live in a cave, you must know today is the day before Father's Day.

Or maybe I just notice it more as a single parent, painfully aware we are missing one half of the parenting team my daughter should have.

Normally I barely register it, so used to it just being Wriggles and I. I am pretty OK with how things are; I've never known anything other than single parenting and it works for us, maybe selfishly but works for me. That is not to say the door is closed, that I have tried to shut you out, shut you up, blot you out. You know where we live, you just don't come knocking. And right now as gifts shops around the UK and the parenting world knows it is the cusp of Father's Day. Call it a commercial ploy, write it off; it doesn't stop it hurting when it rolls around though. Because up and down the country, families, little children, big children, partners of brand new children will be celebrating the man in their lives. And we are missing one; to be honest more than missing you we are missing what we could have had. And a part of me thinks that even if you turn out to be a reformed character in years to come, Father's Day will always be a reminder for me at least of your initial lack of enthusiasm. I hope you step up, truly I do. It makes me feel sick to think my Wriggles might grow up feel ignored, unwanted, not half as special as she is. So I hope you come back for her. I wish you would. Today the world seemed alive with dads. Doting, playful, exasperated, grumbling, adoring dads. Dads there in the thick of them. Some had partners, some were alone. But they were there.

I've just put her to bed. We had a rough bath time after she refluxed and was sick everywhere, crying her eyes out. Exhausted, she fell asleep on my lap as I mindlessly watched The Voice, more listening to her breathing rise and fall than a bunch of hopefuls. Over a hour later as she snored softly and my leg went numb, I softly put her down in her cot. Nearly 3 and she still sleeps deeply like a new baby, fists clenched and face screwed up. All those nights you never saw, the baby years you will never go back. That intimacy of a sleeping child. How did you not want it? Not crave it? My favourite mornings was waking nose-to-nose with a gurgling child, sweaty curls matted on her head. I know you can't always miss what you don't know, but I can't imagine how I wouldn't need that knowing I had a child. My shoulder is now wet with her dribble. I wonder if you'd think that was a bit gross. To me it's a badge of honour.

There is so much I want to ask you but far more so much I am afraid to. In all honesty, I don't think I want to know why you have chosen to withdraw. I am certain it wouldn't make me like you any more. Is it because you're not here, you can't see her and fully experience that love? Is it because you don't understand her disabilities? Is it because you simply never wanted children? Is it because of me, because you didn't love me and therefore don't love your child like you could? All fill me with fear mixed with the unknown it might be none of them. I cannot understand being the one that lives with her, knows her so closely. I can't do anything without thinking of her.

I'm not sure what you'll be doing tomorrow. I wonder if you'll miss her; think of her first thing and last thing. As you see your own father will you wonder what happened to your own fathering? Wriggles is too little I think to understand it all yet. She certainly is not wanting for loving men in her life, thank goodness. That is your loss at this moment in time. The potential for loving divided out between others. Humans are forgiving beings though and love is more complex than we'll ever understand. I know in time if you wanted you could have splodgy hand-printed cards, bent and dog-eared crafty items, hot breathed hugs. But you have to ask; a chosen and deliberate absence deserves nothing.

I will make sure she has a good day tomorrow as always. It will be a strange one. I might have to provide all family roles but it will never be my day. I am not a father. So until you reappear in our lives, her life, it is a day to effectively forget. Just another Sunday. 

Two Years On

Dear Me-Two-Years-Ago,

Hello, it's me from the future. I think you need some help; you're feeling very alone. You think you're grown up at 23 with a brand new surprise baby, albeit in an incubator and trying to Do The Right Thing. You will. But right now the weight of the world is on your shoulders, or at least of your world and that of the little girl in the neonatal unit. 

She's doing so well, isn't she? She's growing as she should be, she is breathing air by herself. But it's so hard to relax. So many ups and downs. Tomorrow afternoon you will try kangaroo care for the first time. I know it's scary, but it's the most special thing having the warm skin and the butterfly heartbeat placed against your bare skin. Try and enjoy the pure magic of it. Weeks down the line you will crave it, hang on to every second. I'm afraid in a few days she will start requiring oxygen again which she will not be able to manage without until she is 6 months old at home with you. Yes that's right, at home with you where she belongs. Your homes will change but one thing won't, and that is that by your side is her rightful place and it always will be.

I know you haven't come to that decision yet. Everything has been so sudden, so unexpected and so many factors are up in the air. You haven't yet sorted things with work. You haven't yet sorted things with her father. You are so far from sorting housing and finances. You have been told you have to wait until her 6 week head scan which is a few weeks off yet, to see if there has been any lasting brain damage or haemorrhages visible at this stage which may affect her development and if you feel you can manage if there is. Right now you are so badly trying to do right by her, you aren't letting yourself truly acknowledge how deep your feelings are. In the very near future you will realise that actually letting your heart rule over your head is not a black and white choice. Because sometimes your heart and head are in compliance, but it will take time for the fog of your shock to subside. Be kind to yourself, you are playing catch up in emotions what you would have otherwise had near 28 weeks to process internally. Love is the strongest of them all and will give you the power to achieve what else needs achieving. Don't be afraid to love and don't be afraid of the future. I'm not saying it will be easy, but once you have love on your side nothing is impossible. Fear isn't a failing.  Listen to people, but listen to your heart. No one else can tell you the truth but yourself. 

You're so worried about being able to provide for her if she is strong enough to pull through and come home. She will be; she may need some extra support which is a theme that will crop up again and again, but it is not as hard as it looks. You think that you ahve already failed her once so why wait to see if you do again: you haven't. 60,000 babies are born too small or sick each year in the UK. If you wouldn't call each of their mothers failures, why call yourself one? It was different, that was all. You're so concerned that you cannot give her what a richer or more traditional family set up could give her. If it helps, I'll show you a secret:

Does that look like a child lacking in joy? In curiosity? In happiness? In love? Children don't care about second-hand or third-hand, about whether the outing was free or cost money and any such prejudice is years off. You can cross that bridge when you come to it; I still haven't yet but I am less scared to now when it comes. But what you need is security and I'm telling you that you can and will provide that. It's so much more intricate than you think and yet so simple. This evening, that same little girl threw her arms around my neck and pulled herself into my lap presenting me with her favourite book. She snuggled into my neck at 8pm, sleepily. Every time I think that someone else may have had that privilege my heart nearly stops. Please let yourself feel, your breed of "rationality" is so far removed from your actual life that it will do you no good to torture yourself with your perceived shortcomings. You are a mother and that is enough. I could tell you all her favourite things, her quirks, her progress, about her funny faces, her noises, her likes, her dislikes, but I'll let you have that fun for yourself.

I can promise you will never ever regret it for a second. You may be tested again and again, you will know grief and sorrow and true fear but you will also know the greatest joys and the most wonderful feelings in the world.

With all my heart,

Me-Two-Years-On

xxx


A bit of background: in the days and weeks following Wriggles' surprise appearance I struggled with the idea that I could be any kind of a parent and provide for her and briefly looked to adoption or foster care, such was my conviction that I would never be able to give her the future I had once dreamt of giving my dream "first child". The further the process got, the clearer I began to actually feel things and realise exactly what I would miss out on, and how that dreams are just that: dreams. That we can create new and better dreams and try and find a route back to our old ones through a different path. And I am so glad I stopped trying to be so "rational" and realised that there is no such thing as perfection, except possibly your own child, who is thankfully only metres away from me asleep now!

Stuff (and nonsense?)

WHY is there so much STUFF and WHY won't it stay where I put it? How come I end up with clothes everywhere, socks stuffed into every crevice and a never ending trail of washing and dirty mugs?

Oh wait I know.....

...one certain wriggly toddler type, tearing through the house like a tornado and constantly demanding attention.

"Babies LOVE watching their mummies doing things around the house," my mum said confidently. Well, no one seems to have told my baby and a straw poll of friends with babies of similar ages suggests likewise, or at least if the above statement is true, my mum has got selective mum-amnesia whereby she means that either very little babies not into arguing like watching things like the washing machine or much older toddlers who want to help. Wriggles falls nicely in the middle, in the stage that cannot be left alone for a millisecond otherwise the soap dish ends up down the toilet or she is taking things out the bin, one by one. She doesn't always want me to play with her, but she wants me to be in the background hovering just in case or to show me her new achievements ("since when could you climb up onto the sofa...?!").

"It's a case of showing them who is boss."

Right. Yes, I can see that. Sort of. Except that while you are showing them who is boss, the washing still isn't getting done and you have gone from playing with the messy child to actively provoking arguments with them in the intention that it may buy you some housework time. Or am I going wrong somewhere...? 

I suspect that this is a phase like all the other tiring phases that will pass to be replaced with a new irritating/exhausting/delightful phase like every other time. The sort of phase where it would be really good if there was two of you (or at least two pairs of hands) and you could dredge up some energy from somewhere to either a) do the washing and b) care about doing the washing (washing is interchangeable with picking thing off the floor/hoovering/folding fold-able things/brushing your hair/making dinner that is not just cheese on toast/finding a matching pair of socks/returning phone calls/leaving the house). However much I tidy and try to organise, within days it is back to looking like someone has gleefully chucked things to all four corners or brimming with piles of things removed from floor level to high up....oh wait, that is what happened. 

Now just to find the strength to go back to square one and start all over.

3 weeks on

So, it has been three weeks since I hung up my work satchel and donned the (even more) food stained cardigan of a full-time SAHM.

Mostly, I love it. But even doing it for about 25 more hours a week than I have been for the last 14 months or so has been testing at times. I'll hands up admit that  have far to go in this mama process: every day is a learning curve. The difference now, as opposed to last year, though is that I can recognise that pretty much all mums of a similar stage feel similarly. Fleeting conversations at baby groups or in the park revealed a set of parents hell-bent on being the Perfect Earth Mother but at times struggling to read their baffling offspring and anxious of Doing It Wrong. Even without prematurity or feeding disorders, I appear to have become in possession of someone who knows her own mind and by goodness is she going to exercise it! At times, it is exhausting but also exhilarating. That is, when it is not really exhausting.

Things I have learnt so far:

1. Get out the house EVERY DAY. Without fail, unless one or both of you is poorly. Even in the rain. Suddenly the scales of trying to combine work-and-motherhood-perfection have been lifted. So many previous days off were spent in the house, alone, eyeballing the baby. No wonder I foundered. Butterfly minded small people need distractions and changes of scenery. Mamas need space.

2. Find a plethora of free and low cost things to diversify things you can go to regularly. This week we have been to the park, the beach, a free science museum with hall of mirrors and small soft play area for under 5s, a parent and toddler group and our usual signing class. We seem to be gingerly finding a routine of doing an activity or outing for one half of the day and being at home for the other.

3. Set a goal time to both be dressed. This sounds really silly especially with a nearly-2 year old, but I have found it helps. Unless we have to be out earlier, our goal is for at least one if not both of us to be dressed by 9am. Invariably, at 9:01am I jump into the shower whilst Numtums distracts Wriggles. It is not the end of the world if we are still in jimjams, and sometimes a lazy morning is just what is needed. Not every day though. Or it will drive me mad.

4. Socialise. Even if you think you want to be a hermit. It doesn't mean you are sidelining your child. My best moments this week have been when in the company of friends. Judging by Wriggles' giggling, I think she would back me up on this point.


5. Try to hang the washing out on the same day you have done it.

6. Ditto the washing up.

7. Even if you are tired, lunch does not = a packet of biscuits. There is a lot to be said for (very vague) meal planning. An area for definite improvement!

8. No one really cares if one or both of you is not wearing matching socks.

9. All mothers will occasionally loose their rag. It does not make you the devil incarnate. Breathe in and count to 10. Glare at toy Rabbit. Glare at small child if necessary-she probably has her back to you terrorising the bookcase again anyway. Stomp off to another room for a few seconds. Having an emergency chocolate tin really helps. Toddlers, it seems, were invented to try the patience of a saint. All this hard work of winding you up will be undone in an instant once they reach out sticky hands to loop round your neck.

10. Ignore all nosey bats. One mile in each others shoes and all that.

Tether

One of the cruellest things about parenting and responsibility is the accompanying guilt.

Why aren't I doing it right?

Why is [insert anyone from baby group] so good at this and I am not?

Why do the creatures we love so much try us?

Why do they press our buttons when we just want the best for them?

Why can't I do this?

When can I run away?

What is wrong with me?

Some days it is relentless in it's let up of internal criticism. Some days I just want to walk out the door and I run and run until my feet fall off. Some days I want someone 'proper' to take over.

Of course I don't.

The furthest I've ever run to is my bedroom; just metres if that. I won't even lock myself in the bathroom.

Some days I don't know if it is being "just a mum" or if it is a throw back to the days of NICU and the accompanying uphill struggle that has been oral aversion, recurrent admissions and a scary unknown future. I can't forget. I wish I could. But the pain is still there in the background, lurking. Waiting around the corner. Waiting for the light of my life to close her sleepy eyes when the grief will pounce and smother me until I can fight no more.

I thought I had this depression, this rememberance, these experiences under control. Somehow, behind my back they have broken free of their shackles and crept up to tap me on the shoulder.

I am so tired.

Today it was all I could do but to curl up in ball on the floor while Wriggles pulled everything off the bookshelf half-watching In the Night Garden.

I have no idea what Iggle Piggle did with Upsy Dasiy. My eyes were closed. My brain was numb. I felt nothing, saw nothing, heard nothing. I should have been awake, alive. I should have been playing with my precious child. But I couldn't. I selfishly couldn't find the strength to even sit up or mumble through The Very Hungry Caterpillar.

Why is it all so hard?

When can I move on?

When can I get it right?

When can I have happy moments all day and everyday?

If not for me, then for Wriggles. Please. She deserves it.

2 shoes - 1 shoe = cross mama

Oh dear.

My desperately-trying-to-be-perfect SAHM mantle is slipping. Forget slipping, it has crashed to the ground.

The day started off well. Miraculously we were both dressed, fed and watered by 9am and out the door for a playgroup session at our local Sure Start. We weren't even the last ones in. We played for an hour and a half, sung some songs and trundled off to the high street in our district to collect the new super-duper-high-calorie milk order and have some lunch. As a treat, we had lunch at a cafe and Wriggles had a good go at chewing the crusts of my sandwich as well as drinking a bottle of the new wonder milk. Although slightly over-cast, the sun warmed us and the air was clear so we walked up to the supermarket to collect some bits and pieces. The trouble started there. Not to be out-done by her toddler friends, Wriggles is far too interested in basically, anything other than napping, and is a little monkey to get down at the moment. I wouldn't mind, but without one she is a monster by 4:30pm and dinner, bathtime and bedtime goes down the drain as she is over-tired and answers only to the Bedtime Hour on Cbeebies. Her eyes were drooping as we started down the aisles and so I put up the cover of the pushchair so she could get some peace and drop off.

Wrong.

The next half hour was spent trying to persuade her that napping was infinitely preferable to trying to throw everything out the pushchair and pull things off the shelves. After a while, I gave up and sped round eager to leave. Everything done, in near record time, I suddenly noticed something wasn't right. There were two pink socks poking out the pushchair. 

We came in with two shoes.

One shoes, I removed swiftly and placed in my handbag as one leg is far more flexible and she can take this shoe off with her eyes closed. The other leg, is normally safe and my handbag was out of space. 

Well, safe no more. I will have to find a bigger handbag or some jeans with gigantic pockets. 

We traced out steps back round once, then twice, then three times. Wriggles smirked and giggled.

I could feel my annoyance rising. Not only were we now wasting time in blasted ASDA, there was a really irritating in-store radio with a infuriating simpering woman on it waxing lyrical about Smarties, there was poor air conditioning and Wriggles was now trying to escape and chuck things simultaneously. Clearly naptime was off the radar. After round 3, I gave up and stomped off to the tills then checked in with lost property and customer service. Nothing. 

Why I got so irritated I have no idea. The little shoes weren't very expensive, but they are the only pair we have with semi-decent soles and we are supposed to now be defying all traditional baby-feet advice and wearing something with some support and a grippy bottom to help her muddled-up legs. As I got worked off, I got yet more worked up at myself. Why did I care so much? Big deal, toddlers are contrary and throw things. We loose socks all the time, to the hoover or lord knows where. I am continually puzzling over my diminishing pile of pants and that doesn't try my patience. Still clinging on to hope of a nap, I bundled Wriggles into the parent room to change her and give her a drink before leaving. Again, common sense seemingly flew off in the air and whilst my back was turned for half a second reaching for something, she kicked over the open bottle of milk which went everywhere. And then I ashamed to say, I saw red. I don't know what came over me, but for a few seconds I was furious. I was tired, hot and stupidly the puddle of milk mattered more than my little girl. I snapped crossly at her and tapped her on the leg. Not a proper smack by any means, but my goodness regret coursed through my veins. Hot shame flew over me, berating me. You're one of THOSE mums, you can't keep your temper, you can't look after your own child, you should be ashamed of yourself. You're no better than the young single-mum stereotype. Why don't you pick up a smartprice bottle of vodka and stamp back to your council flat and sit there are swear and ignore your child! Better still, why not put her in nursery where proper adults can look after her. It's not like you're doing a good job. Trying to find some calm, I mopped it up and held her close and looked into her beautiful face as finally she stopped fighting and her eyes fluttered shut in my arms. Gently, I placed her back in the pushchair after a few moments of just being still and walked out, home.

I rarely loose my temper. In general circumstances, it takes a bit to get anything stronger than an "oh, SOD" out of me, far less a raised voice or anything physical. I know I'm quite critical of myself, but on the whole, I am a pretty laid-back flexible person verging on the indecisive and vaguely hippy. I like having a sense of routine but am far from lost without one, and 'make it up as you go along' could be my catchphrase. I don't loose it with Wriggles especially that often, and spent large chunks at present trying to remove her from the bin, stop her tearing pages from books or from stealing biros (honestly, I had hidden every last one high up and somehow she finds ones I never remember owning) and trying to scribble on the carpet. It doesn't rile me. It might make me do some deep breathing but not shout. I am used to recurrent refusal of food, things thrown on the floor and wasted. I walk away. So what the dickens am I playing at today?  I am putting it down to ill-child-syndrome. After a hospital admission, I am often out of sorts. Exhausted mentally and physically and stirred out from having to recount every aspect of the whole sorry story of the last 22 months and pouring over bad memories so that the on-call consultant can get the picture. We leave elated at being let out again, but on a state of high alert trying to remember that things are not going to go downhill. Not this time, not now. My emotions are magnified and my responses less measured and lacking in reason. I feel such a magnitude of responsibility and sometimes with no-one daily to turn to for reassurance, the desire to get it right gets to me and rips out my instincts, temporarily replacing them with someone I don't recognise. Of course, in time everything is back to normal and I am left wondering what I was making a fuss about.


As much as playing hospitals, the reality is that this parenting lark can be hard graft. Just when you think you have sussed out your baby and are proudly imparting advice to those slightly further behind, things change and you have a new personality, new sets of whims, new routine and new parenting attitude to learn and quickly. Mostly, Wriggles is a delight but some recent toddler-ish habits and less attractive traits are creeping in (sleep regression, pouting, the emergence of some tantrums, shaking her head to everything, wilful vandalism of toys, thievery of possessions and lack of concentration on erm, anything). Suddenly I need to clarify my position on discipline, work a new routine which suits us both as a family unit and find tactics to avoid these toddler-isms wherever possible. I have no problem her being herself, but I do not want to stand back in la-la-land watching while testing boundaries becomes deliberate bad behaviour. Granted, we'd have a fair way to go, not least because she is lacking in some understanding still, but I do not want to be in a helpless position because I could have done better at the time. I want to continue being proud of my daughter-and that we did it by ourselves, together.


My mum is an early years worker and I have grown up hearing complaints of parents just not doing enough and I so want to be one of the good ones. Not just for anyone else, but for Wriggles to give her the best start I can. I want her to know she is loved and safe (but not immune to discipline when needed!) and to continue being a pleasure in mixed company and a delightful figure who commands attention for all the right reasons. Of course she is going to test my patience and press my buttons: we are both only human. I think I just need more practise! As much as I am looking forward to a period of time spent the two of us at home, I am also nervous. What if today is a sign of things to come? What if I have got used to bundling her off somewhere else a few days a week and just can't do everything alone? In my heart of hearts, I know that is just parent-guilt speaking. That horrible worm that burrows it's way into your psyche, making you doubt every move you make and pointing out that so-and-so down the road does it better.


It is a little like having a newborn, or equivalent. Everyone says airily "oh it's so TIRING" and you nod politely whilst thinking "how can such a small and sleepy baby be so disruptive?". Then weeks later, you are shrieking "why didn't you tell me what hard work it was! I'd have stocked up on restful cucumber slices, Mozart and gin if I'd known!". Likewise, everyone alludes to the Terrible Twos whilst your cherubs sucks on their toy's ears. Surely they would never...? Oh yes they will. Even the nicest baby has his or her wilful moments. Even Mrs So-and-So down the road. Just because she says it's all fine and they never have a speck of trouble, that is no reason to fall for it. We are all eager enough to trade stories with a comic edge, but more reluctant to share anything that shows us off at our worse. I can't remember meeting up with mum friends or going to a toddler group where everyone trades in expletives and the worst time they lost their rag. Because we all do it. Or will do it. And short of reading your children wrong and being genuinely out of control, they are not the worse for it. After five minutes anyway. 


I left the smartprice vodka on the shelf. For this time anyway.

All in the Mind

The human mind is incredible.

 

It is such a sophisticated thing and the most sophisticated thing is, you can't even see it. You can see the brain yes, and really clever people with whizzy machines might be able to see cells and neurons but what does our mind, our thoughts, our intellect and personality look like? Does it look different if we are ill or sad?

Mostly, the mind is incredibly clever and benevolent.

Sometimes it is also incredibly cruel.

You only have to turn on the news to see what human thinking and consequently actions cause sometimes. It might be one person or a collective. It might be one spark or a long thought out plan. And less newsworthy, people out there every day struggle with mental health when their mind is not 100% their own. It might be fleeting; it might be lifelong.

After my recent wobble, I have been feeling so much better for having some time off work with Wriggles. It really helped me reaffirm myself as Alpha Mama (alright, then: a mama at least) and in that month, I did more mum-friendly and social things than I had in over a year. I returned to work as I knew then that redundancy was imminent in around 6 weeks and figured that I could do that, knowing there was an end. I hadn't given up the idea of continuing working if something else came up and I could find appropriate childcare and I was getting maybe a little cocky thinking I had put the worst behind me. Largely, I think the "worst" is behind, just the tough bit that is easy to forget is that there is no magic moment when your feelings go away in a puff of smoke. Nothing has to happen for them to creep back out again from where they have been lurking, but sometimes they sneak up unexpected and uninvited as if to remind you who was once boss.

I had a silly hour or so today. It wasn't quite a panic attack, but was unsettling to say the least. I had a rare few hours apart from Wriggles; we had a lovely lunch together (eaten: one fromage frais, a dollop of banana & custard, several rice cakes, the corner of my panini and some multigrain hoop-type-snacks) and I dropped her off at the creche. She barely looked up, having befriended one of the staff instantly. I kissed her, once, twice, needily three times and still she didn't flinch. Off I slunk, with my tail between my legs and my metaphorical ears wilting.

She doesn't love you.

The thought hovered in my head. I furiously brushed it aside.

She doesn't care.

She's just independent. And sociable and friendly and a toddler for chrissakes. They all go through mad phases.

You keep telling yourself that. How do you even know she realises you're her mother?

All babies know their mothers. She would have known my voice, my smell. She settled with me and fell asleep in my arms.

She was born early not long after developing those senses and lived in a plastic box for two months.

That didn't stop me loving her and telling her I loved her. And once she came out and came home, I didn't stop holding her and being as mothering as I could.

I'm not talking about what you feel. She wouldn't care if you walked away now. If you went and never came back. She'd be fine. She'd still smile and giggle and laugh. How do you know she would miss you?

How do you know?

Would she?

I wish sometimes there was an off-button to silence minds.

As anxiety and growing hysteria with a growing conviction I was unwanted swept over me, I could feel myself getting light headed and shaky. Walking past a window confirmed I was as white as sheet and looked peaky to say the least. I honestly thought I was going to collapse with the intensity and was terrified that after all the good work of being able to separate mad brain from normal brain that I was falling back fast into a barren and bleak pit of despair whereby I couldn't control my grasp of my little world.  

Thankfully, my more conscious and rational self came back not long after it had left and banished any such thoughts, focussing firmly on what was happening right that second (wandering round IKEA, a task impossible with a small noisebag) and the knowledge that soon I was going to be back with Wriggles and she would be happy with that.

And indeed, she was. I picked her and smothered her with kisses and she happily held my finger on the metro home. We "fed" her toy cat rice cakes on the way back and she squwarked with mirth. I was once more myself and let out a sigh of relief and contentment. Now, surrounded by my things with my daughter sleeping softly in the next room, I know all is well. 

A blip. 

A silly blip. 

Philosophically, you could debate the notion of love, relationships, parenting, nature and nurture but I know one thing: I have a very happy little girl and happy little girls do not stay happy without love. Little girls who do not care are not full of smiles and contentment. They do not blow kisses or offer to share dribbled-on breadstick. They might scream and try to climb in the bin and ignore all authorative "No"s and happily climb on anyone's lap, but that does not mean indifference or dislike.

I've got so many happy memories with her, and I hope she has too. I know memory is far less sophisticated in the very young, but I hope somewhere in there, there are recollections of moments prized. I'm not, in them by default as the only parent there day in, day out I hope but because I have earned my place and my reward of my daughter's affection as I have loved her to the ends of my ability and further every day, and done the best I possibly can by her. I may not be perfect, but I will bloody well try to be for her sake. (Allowing bin-and-toilet-climbing excluded of course. That will stay not permitted, however many tears it produces).

Oh No

Oh no. That time has come. The time to roll out and your best "NO" and really mean it. Every time. Continually. Even when you are shattered and just need some peace.

No.

No.

NO.

I'm practising but it appears to fall on deaf ears. Or works for say, two seconds before the culprit tries to resume whatever has attracted the no in the first place. Wriggles is now just shy of 20 months old, 17 months corrected and developmentally anywhere between 12-17 months depending on which consultant or professional is talking to you. 

She is an absolute titch and is commonly mistaken for having just turned one. This isn't a problem itself, the issue with being small is that when we are in group situations, everyone imagines that she is a younger more fragile baby and their hulking toddler is about to shatter her innocent peace. In the vast majority of cases, Wriggles is always the eldest and is just as likely to swipe whatever they are enjoying and not give it back. When all the babies were younger it didn't seem that important. All babies I have met operate under 'the grass is greener on the opposite side'-whatever your friend has is ALWAYS better even if it is exactly the same. Little baffling babies clonking rattles on each others heads and stealing each others socks is quite sweet. I feel though that me and Wriggles have got to the point where I need to enforce sharing a bit more militantly. In the last week she has tried to push another little girl and grab people's clothing to try and move whoever is in her way to what she wants. She is most of the time a very placid, sociable and sweet-natured little thing and it was a bit of a shock to the system to realise that like every other child, she also has a split personality whereby she can be a terror when she wants to. 

I hope I'm not being blind in that I am sure it is just a phase and not the beginnings of a selfish thug emerging. I am very conscious of the fact that she is and is going to be an only child from a single parent family. Both these things conjure up a stereotype of children who can range from precocious to unruly and have a complete lack of discipline. We all know that things are never this black and white and for every badly-mannered child from such a background there is an angelic one and that any child from any background can grow up into a nightmare that even Super Nanny would shrink from. I so want to get it right; she has been such a good baby so far I do not want to spoil things or her, and by default bring up someone who people will nudge and whisper about and hesitate over inviting to birthday parties.

Wriggles has always been quite bold and happy with rough and tumble. She is only now beginning to have a shy side which is normally only reserved for when she is teething and feels a bit rubbish. She is very much her own person and is resilient and knows what she does and doesn't want. Some things, like feeding, I have to tread carefully over and let time take it's course, but I am wary about applying this approach to everything. Over the last few weeks, I have been watching fellow parents with keen interest to see how they handle stressful situations. Obviously I only have insight into this in public and am only privy to what they choose to share, but it is useful to observe different styles. I have always had a make-it-up-as-you-go-along approach and as both Wriggles and I have been happy coasting along, have been lucky in that setting down a few ground rules and routine and otherwise being fairly laid back has not thrown up any problems. She does not always demonstrate a brilliant grasp of understanding, though is beginning to be more clear in this arena and of course by now I am able to second guess an awful lot and know her inside out. As there is just us in the house, I have for better or worse, a 'what's yours is mine' approach which has been good in building up her confidence to explore things and pique her curiosity which has helped development. Now she is a little older though, I think I am going to have to set out some slightly firmer rules about what is and isn't allowed and try and enforce the concept of sharing and patience. Having no prior experience of children, I have no idea if I am barking up the wrong tree too late or too soon.

All parenting tips welcome on a postcard!

Urgh

"Mummys aren't allowed to be ill." My Dad

They certainly aren't allowed to be ill when there is just one parent, an absence for 300 miles of family and your fall-back best friends are on holiday in London or Canada. Yesterday, I was caught utterly short by this predicament.

I have been exceptionally lucky and only be truly knocked out twice so far in my daughter's lifetime, but they are times I would really rather not repeat. When there is literally no one to step in, it is really tough. Not wanting to sound like a whinger, but surely if there was a benevolent force, single parents would be made immune to all bugs, viruses, lurgies and exhaustion at the pinnacle point of singledom?

Mixed Feelings

This week several things happened which I have very mixed emotions about. None of them are huge things and were all things I either half-expected or knew was going to happen.

Following a letter from the council telling me that in line with new government regulations my rent would be going up nearly £10 a week which is quite a lot in my budget, I have caved in and applied for some housing benefit. Although my flat is privately owned, it is council managed. The rent between two people would be quite reasonable, but as I am only one and not on a huge wage, any increases are more than usually unwelcome. I have thought about it on and off since Wriggles was born and I knew I would be a single parent, but with working part-time and topping up with tax credits, I have been proud that so far I have been able to manage and cover it all. It made me feel more independent and that I was doing something good for my family. With an increase though and none in my wages, it is just too tight and I need some help until Wriggles is older and I can work more. At present even if I took on extra hours, the cost of childcare will render these useless especially with no local family to soak up babysitting duties. Plus I would be (more) shattered. Although I'm relieved to have such a system available when people do just need a helping hand, I wish it wasn't me having to use it. I know it's not forever, it just feels like falling into another stereotype.

When I got back from doing this at the library, I found a letter I have been expecting since October. It is Wriggles' referral to Speech and Language, announcing a home visit in just under a fortnight.

De-Cluttering

I am having a clear-out or clear-up.
I have always been a perpetually messy sort and I am slightly ashamed to let people into my house.


I find sort-outs quite therapeutic too and a little trip down memory lane, finding parts of you that you might have forgotten about. I have a (very large) memory box where treasured birthday cards, postcards, rambling letters and funny post-it notes from friends go. I also have the only physical token of my albeit brief courtship with Wriggles' father, when on our first date after a few glasses of wine we decided to compare handwriting on a scrap of paper. Funny the things you keep. When after a while he disappeared into the ether, or at least, stopping calling me, I meant to throw it out. Now I'm quite glad, not because I have particularly sentimental feelings about or for him, but that there is some evidence that we at least met in a not-just-procreating sense.


Amongst my mountains of things, I also have like every parent, A LOT of baby items. It always amazes me how one small person can take up so much room and acquire so many things in such a short space of time. But acquire they do! And grow, relatively quickly. I now have amongst other things a baby-seat, a moses basket and rocker, a large pram, a sling, a slightly faulty pushchair and a baby bath as well as probably hundreds of clothes, ranging from premature sizes up until 6-12 months. Some is millionth hand already, but most of it is in pretty good condition. And it is taking up room. I have already sorted out some things which have gone into a memory box for Wriggles, and kept first tiny gloves and favourite jumpers, but I am still left with a multitude of things and no one small enough to use them. Recently I began working with Tiny Lives and their Nearly New sales that raise money to support the neonatal unit where Wriggles spent the first two months of her life. In the past I have donated and sold items that I had no use for, and now I am wondering whether it is time to clear out other bits and bobs that I simply have no use for anymore. Many things have had a lot of wear as Wriggles was and is, still a titch, so over the 17 months or 15 that she has been at home with me, she still uses many things more suitable for a 9 month old. 

Single

Being a single parent is...

Tough

Exhausting

Consuming

Full of late nights

Absent of lie-ins

Twice the amount of sick and runny noses

Anxious

Lonely

Expensive

Without holidays

Hard work

Fierce

An emotional struggle

A fight to be heard

A desire to do the best

Twice the work

Twice the rewards

(And a bit more)

Competance

An achievement beyond anything esle

Pride in bucketloads

Something I wouldn't change for the world.

I may have listed more negatives than positives, but each positive is worth a million times over a negative. 

Yes it's tough. Yes it can be lonely at times. Yes it really can be a struggle finanically. Yes it is demeaning and degrading to come up against people's preconceptions and judgements. 
But parenting full stop is not purely a barrel of laughs whether you are married, cohabiting, separated, estranged or alone. Parents should be celebrated, especially any who have ever had to struggle, like single parents. We make too many assumptions. Parents should have a hand extended not bitten off. 
What makes it worth it is the satisfaction of bringing up children and getting a cuddle at the end of a day. I know for me, after a tough day, a cuddle and looking into my baby's eyes affirms why I do it. Because I love her beyond anything, pure and simple, and I will walk through fire and ice for her wellbeing.

Head over to Netmums this week where it is Single Parents Week and show your support.

Single Mummy-dom on Valentine's Day

However much you may like to, it's pretty hard to ignore it is Valentine's Day. Unless you are a hermit living in the hills with only goats as company, you will at least have an inkling about a nauseatingly commercial day and that there are more people holding hands than normal.

I don't actually mind.

When I was a singleton, I was quite against Valentine's day. Well, that was if I didn't have plans involving a boy, in which case it was next only to birthdays and Christmas. It seemed a way of spinning out money and encouraging people to rub salt into the single person's wounds. I would do things with girl friends, in the tongue-in-cheek way. There was one quite lovely year at university where my friend Rachel and I went to the beach for a walk and then had dinner. We bought a cheap bottle of Cava and drank it out of mugs in our art studios and hunted out some half-price heart shaped chocolates. I can't recall but I imagine we then just got pissed in the pub later and ranted about men and how come they were so bloody, well, men-like.

Since having a child, I don't even have that. Many friends are married or in stable relationships. They have their chosen partner to be soppy with. Friends not quite at that stage are busy with enjoying life, and I see them less and less. Not deliberatley, but life moves on. I no longer have the freedom to dance the night away and join them in berating the latest dastardly catch over dinner. My trips out revolve around wherever has space for a buggy and doesn't mind a backdrop of shrieking baby. Also, I am a single mummy. My ex-partner has very little involvement and our lives though do cross over, are infrequent and though civil, not heartfelt. Don't get me wrong, I have days when I am bitter and slightly devasted that things did not turn out like the stuff of dreams, but most days I just don't care.

The thing is, I quite like my life on my own.
I have found true love. It might not be the stuff that is traditionally celebrated on 14th February, but something I celebrate day in and day out. And I haven't quite given up hope. At heart, I am still a romantic. I am cyncial that Mr Darcy will come riding through my front door, wet shirt and all, but it's nice to dream. Whether he does or not, I am at peace with being on my lonesome. Today is just another day. Do I wish someone had brought me breakfast in bed and some red roses? Yes. Do I wish that I had a loving partner by my side to share my highs and my lows? Yes. Would I say no to physical affection? No. Do I wish my child was brought into the world in true love as a union of two lovers? Of course. But, life doesn't always turn out how you expect it to.

And right now, I think I'll take waking up to a dribbly toothy grin.

A Confused Mummy

Today I am a confused mummy. Well,  most days I am a confused mummy but today I am struggling with some of my feelings.

I wonder what it is like to have an "average" baby.

I wonder if there is such an encompassing thing as an "average" or "normal" baby or experience of having one.

There are daily reminders that I have a premature baby who has had some struggles. She is brilliant and amazing and as feisty as the next temperamental feisty madam but as sole parent and carer I am feeling a bit swamped at times both with all the information I have to take on board and all the running around to appointments I still have to keep. Is this normal?! I frankly have no idea any more. 

Wriggles, or her new temporary nickname Noisebag, is a little over 16 months and 13 corrected. To date we are currently under neonatology, paediatrics, neurology (luckily her consultant paed doubles up as this to reduce clinics!), dieticians, physiotherapy and are awaiting the referral from speech and language. Thankfully we have now been released from community nursing, respiratory and social work, (which we were automatically under as she had spent a certain period of time in hospital so you automatically get a helpful form-filler-er, not because I am incompetent; at least that is the information I was given....). We also have to attend very regular weigh-ins as Wriggles/Noisebag still generally refuses solids or gags about 70% of the time and as I have had a few blip-y moments along the way, I have to report every now and then to the GP and Health visitors to affirm I have no intention of jumping off a cliff or do not wander about Sainsburys wringing my hands and howling for England. My HV has decided that obviously it has all come about because I do not regularly attend infant massage groups. I can tell her that I have no concern about my bond with Wriggles but am just exhausted from weekly hospital visits until I am blue in the face but she still keeps turning up at my front door with a grubby plastic doll and sunflower oil trilling about the benefits.

 At present, excepting the weekend, every day I am not at work, I am attending an outpatient clinic for Wriggles, ferrying around to appointments or pacifying a nude Noisebag in the community scales at the Postnatal Centre. Now time is moving on, we have started receiving invites for groups of "additional needs" children also, which gives me very mixed feelings. I do not see Wriggles as having additional needs. Lags/delays yes, I fully accept that, but additional needs? She doesn't need extra care or specific skills to look after her at present. She might be doing things at her own pace but so far there is nothing I think she won't do and as far as I am aware this view is shared by the doctors. It really is a hard one; obviously I wouldn't give two hoots if she did need extra care and help, as she is my star and I love her unequivocally. I don't want to seem selfish as I am very aware we are lucky to be in 'the system' and in an area where there is a range of activities for children of all stages and have some professionals that go above and beyond their jobs. It is great that there is help to nudge her in the right direction and iron out some bumps as they show up, really it is. Honest. I'm sure if we didn't get these opportunities then I would be on my soapbox grumping about exclusions and worrying frantically that she wouldn't catch up or ever eat more than a bit of mashed banana once a month.

The "problem" if indeed there is one and I am not utterly crackers, is that when we go to a "normal" Mother and Baby group, I still often feel like I am from another planet and when we go to a "special" group I feel a complete fraud. Throughout year one of having a little creature, I spent the first two months in hospital followed by three months as a hermit with a baby on oxygen in the winter months when RSV was rife and my road was closed off due to snowdrifts and ice. There was then a marvellous hiatus of a few weeks when I began to go out and about, had more visits from friends, began to wean her with success and began to address the impending return to work. Then we abruptly wound up in intensive care and spent the next six months being in and out and in and out and in and out and in and you get the picture. Thankfully things have calmed down after birthday numero uno and I have deliberately made two term-long booking at baby groups on my days off to make sure that we get out, socialise and do normal things between the dreaded appointments. We have been for coffee with mums and babies and began to find our feet on days off together and it is a teeny weeny bit scary but marvellous. Tentatively, I have even told the 'story' to fellow mums I see, against my HV's 'advice' that I will scare them off and they will avoid us-so far this has proved to be utter codswallop and no one picks friendships in this way, especially given that whatever has happened, what is happening now is that we all have increasingly chaos-inducing mess-making becoming-independent darlings/monsters/I-could-have-sworn-she-was-a-tiny-baby-only-yesterday's and all feel like a bit of a joke every now and then even with a beautiful house and a Mr Darcy lookalike husband. I just wish there were more days in the week, or that no one had to work, to be able to spend more time doing this and less time sat in the waiting rooms clutching medical notes. I miss the year I lost out on swanning around to groups and gazing into my baby's eyes as it feels like I spent a lot of it sat anxiously at a cot-side in hospital.

I know in my heart of hearts that most people feel like this. So many of us are torn between mummy duties and well, the rest of life. Faced with the media, literature and swathes of advertising portraying Perfection, all parents, all people stumble around trying their best and adjusting their ideas like crazy to find their own corner of reality.

The main thing is I have a very nice baby and generally, life is pretty good.

So my new New Years Resolutions are: 

1. spring-clean brain

2. stop grumbling
3. look forwards not backwards (you WILL trip over or walk into a proverbial lampost)

Growing up: Wriggles in Review!

It's that time of year again, spring cleaning my frankly horrific flat. In a delayed New Year state of reminiscing I have also been getting very nostalgic, not least as I've been boxed up grown-out-of baby clothes and coming across things still packed up from the last move, in April 2011. So to start the year off (again. Yes I do realise it's now 7th January not 1st) I am looking back at Wriggles' life so far and how we came to this point where we are.

The past 16 months have been very high and low. It has been a real struggle sometimes, so completely not what I expected with your first baby. I'm pretty sure this is true for every new family, but on top of this I have emerged with a wealth of medical knowledge and can hold my own in a doctors round. My mental "fog" is now much clearer than it has been. I'm not sure whether the past muddle has been PND, Post Traumatic Stress or a mixture of both, flitting smoothly from one to the other, but it has snatched memories I will never get back which makes me very sad. I am proud of where we are now: not least because I got here in the main part on my own.

As I have been clearing and sorting, I've been reflecting on what physically is truly precious to keep. Answer: not much. However there are some special things like any Mummy that I will treasure forever. Favourite tiny outfits; cot sheets that smell of baby, or at least baby scented washing powder... My most treasured possessions of the physical variety stem back from our time in Special Care. I do have things which mean a lot pre-Wriggles and more recent things, but the one thing I would be bereft of is a pink box (above). This was collected whilst in SCBU and the box and yellow diary were gifts from Tiny Lives, the charity attached to our unit that fundraises for life-saving new equipment and provides vital family support. 

In this treasure trove are the following: diary of our stay, Wriggles' hospital band, my hospital band, the information sellotaped to her cot, some prem-baby socks never worn, her blood pressure cuff, the photograph that I slept with all the time she was in (so it was the first thing I saw in the morning and the last thing at night), the probe which conducted her oxygen sats traces, her first dummies and her first (well not literally first; replica of) nappy.

It is so easy to forget how small she was. Born at 1090g (2lbs 5 and a bit oz) at just under 28 weeks gestation, she was not a lot bigger than my hand. Maybe head to toe she was two small hands long, maybe just under. She was, and this is crass to compare, about the size of a handpuppet. I don't know why it is so desperate for me not to forget, and we all know size isn't everything, but these physical reminders bring it back like yesterday. Our journeys make us who we are, and SCBU strongly shaped the early days of our lives and later ones two. Any ongoing issues now are put down directly to prematurity, so these objects from the 'beginning' are very precious for me. They make up for the absence of what I ideally wanted for my newborn. I do have some happy memories of SCBU, first cuddles, brief attempts at kangaroo care, days spent by the incubator, watching her grow and the privilege of seeing what would otherwise be a developing foetus but it is the stark reminders of the reality rather than the New Baby! cards which mean much more to me.

 

Images: 1. first dummy next to standard 0 months + dummy 2. first nappy next to newborn sized babygro, which finally fitted Wriggles somewhere between 4-5 months! 3. Look how far I've come!

My other precious object is not in the box because it is in the photo-album. It is the first picture ever taken of her, in NICU (Neonatal Intensive Care Unit) on the night of her birth shortly after she had arrived at the unit from a&e at a different hospital. She is battered, bruised and bright red. Her skin is see-through and still smeared with blood, only one eye had opened and there is a slight perferation to her chect. There are ECG leads on and a tube attaching her to a ventilator. It is not a pretty picture. But I love it. It gives me back what I wasn't there to see. I couldn't hold her hand but it does give me that piece of history to hold on to.

Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells

.......jingle all the way!

Christmas is nearly upon us and I am so excited for it. I have always really liked Christmas (who doesn't apart from Scrooge?) but since having A Small Person it has got a million times better.  It is like it gives you that extra reason to celebrate and deck the house in fairylights. Wriggles isn't generally that bothered with the whole shebang to date, but she does quite like trying to pull the Christmas tree ontop of her head. She is such a magpie (baubles, other people's watches, my glasses, tin foil, mince pie cases, teaspoons, forks, tin openers, the kettle, god forbid once a lunge for the breadknife........) at present as would quite happily spend all the time rolling in the decoration. I finally remembered I have fairylights today as popped them on the tree and it was a treat to see her little face light up. We have also been into central Newcastle to see the legendary deliciously over the top Fenwicks window display, which rendered her a bit nonplussed, and this morning went to the TinyTalk Christmas Party. I have spent evenings this week making her a Christmas tree fancy dress in the style of a novelty pinafore. It was something refreshing from mindlessly debating about whether to wash up and felt like a bit of an awakening of Old Me. BC (before child) I had completed a BA (Hons) in Fine Art and been part of a craft "mafia" and run an admittedly, mini business selling prints and textile good. I would spend regular Sundays lugging wares around craft fairs and inevitably spending all my profits on the cake stall.

I digress; Wriggles today looked as cute as a (festive) button and I am supposed to be packing to leave Sunday morning to battle the intrepid world of the East Coast mainline to spend Christmas with my parents and younger sister in Kent. I am apprehensive about 5 hours on a train with a busy-handed-and-minded baby who is beginning to discover her own mind, but looking forward to being surrounded by family as to me that is the essence of Christmas. The only thing I very mildly dislike about my life, is that I am quite far geographically from my family and being without a partner, it can get a little lonely at times. Day to day I am very content but it would be lovely to see them more often. I am hopeful that in the next couple of years I will be able to move closer, as I'm pretty certain my parents miss seeing Wriggles grow up week-to-week and I would not turn away some more support! Telephones are a godsend, but there is nothing like a face to face blether over a cup of tea. 

It feels as if this is going to be the first Christmas; last year she was "officially" two weeks old and very much a newborn smidge. She was on oxygen and full of the premature baby snuffle (think woodland animal in the undergrowth) and newborn bleat. She slept through quite a bit of Christmas Day and worried most guests who thought she looked very fragile. I was also in a muddle; partly the fug of being a new mum as she has been home a little over a month so i was in the thick of night feeds and erratic routine fatigue, and partly I was still reeling from the SCBU experience. My mum was very keen to show Wriggles off to all but it was simply to overwhelming for me (not to mention the terror of contracting RSV!). "I don't understand" my mum complained after I had a bit of a freak out after being surrounded by her very extrovert work friends who I did not know, "why aren't you PROUD of her? She's wonderful!" I tried to explain but couldn't make her see and to an extent, still can't. It isn't that at all; I am so proud of her it hurts. She is to me, perfect in every single way and more. Every time I hold her, I fall in love all over again. The simple fact is, that after the shock of the birth and hospital, my mind was the fragile thing not her. Whether it was fallout from the months previous, post-natal depression or post-traumatic stress I do not know and it is really beside the point now, but after the weeks and weeks of having to ask for permission to touch my baby, leaving her every night and breath holding after every step back, I desperately needed both time and space to establish the bond proper. In my last post I wrote about the first time we were alone, rooming in. After that blissful weekend, it was nearly five months before we got some space to ourselves as for various reasons I had to return to a flat-share as I was unable to move in time for discharge. I lived with a well-meaning but very challenging housemate in slightly complicated circumstances. It was a bleak time for me as I struggled to accept my daughter would ever love me and that I was a passable parent. I lived in constant fear she preferred everyone else and felt as if I was swimming underwater as the world went about it's business up above with no concern for me. 

This last year has been challenging, but when I look back we have both come on in leaps and bounds. I really could have done without the constant hospital admissions (Wriggles definitely could have done without them) but if I put those aside, I could be a different person from last year. Although I haven't put all my demons to rest, I now have a gorgeous 15 month old who is growing up fast. I have a clear idea of her wants and needs, and we (I think!) understand each other through the medium of raspberries, moos and quacks and errrrr some guesswork. We have a rough routine; I can tell you her favourite things (books; Christmas Hedgehog, stuffed donkey, making noise, Old Macdonald and Wheels on the Bus, peekaboo and spinning toys around) and pet hates (anything food related, wearing any hats apart from party hats, putting her coat on, wiping noses, the hoover), she knows her name and she knows and importantly trusts me. We are each others constants and I adore on weekends getting her into my bed first thing in the morning so we can sleepily come to nose-to-nose and she can blissfully poke my eye out. I can recognise the difference between a rational and irrational thought (mine) and I can ask for help, even if I don't always get it. I know that a bad day does not equal a bad mum and that I am doing my best, which is all I can do, and so far it seems to be working. I would love to say that anxiety is a thing of the past and I am a social butterfly but it is not true-yet! But it is better, far far better. I have had time now, especially since moving in April. It has meant the world and my personal sanity having a space I can call ours, just ours, and being able to establish a private routine and family and to be able to exercise choice on my part of what we do, when we do and who we see. 

This Christmas is a testament to how far we have come AND an excuse for a party!