3 Books

This lovely linky from A Mummy Too is about sharing books, a great thing to do anytime but what better time than the New Year to find new reading matter? It asks to share your 3 favourite books: from childhood, adulthood and parenthood. These are mine:

Childhood.

I grew up in a family that loved books. Our house was stuffed to the brim of bursting point; never mind wallpaper, all the walls of the downstairs living areas was lined with bookcases piled higgledy-piggledy full of books. Days out included trips to second hand bookshops and we had library cards from the word go. Both myself and my sister adored reading and constantly read, making this challenge really quite hard! Childhood books are so special, from picture books to learning to read to first fiction and then slowly more complex stories until the sort you want to hide from parents! After much deliberation, I have picked All About Alice written and illustrated by Penny Dale. It is a book I still have and would be upset to loose. I fully intend to by my very own Alice her own copy once she has gone through the stage of nibbling books for dessert. 

This is a simple picture book for younger readers and sums up beautifully the sibling relationship. Alice wants to copy every her big sister Laura does but takes it too far and Laura is very cross. However, it is alright in end (phew!) and they all dress up and go to play.

As well as being a gentle and familiar story that will appeal to many children especially those with a sibling, it is a beautiful depiction of every day life for pre-school and school age children. For the younger children who may be distracted easily, it works even without the narrative as there are pages on what Alice likes doing, teaching first words and simple counting. They are broken down into themes likes food, toys, and activities and work well as a stand alone feature.

Adulthood.

I am happy to try any fiction as an adult, but that I love best is slightly older writing. My favourite writers are Stella Gibbons, PG Wodehouse and AA Milne. I love the nostalgic prose they write, that sums up an era I never experienced in tandem with sharp wit, satire and a humour that appeals to me. The Sunny Side by AA Milne is "short stories and poems for Proper Grown Ups". I could have happily picked many of his titles but this is my most dog eared copy that still even with child gets lugged everywhere in hope of catching ten minutes, and is a wonderful introduction to his style.

'"In London, it is raining. Looking out of my window I see a lampost (not in flower) beneath a low, grey sky. Here we see oranges against a blue sky a million times deep. What a blend! Myra, let's go to a fancy dress ball when we get back. You go as an orange and I'll go as a very blue, blue sky and you shall lean against me."

"And we'll dance the tangerine," said Myra'

Parenthood.

My daughter at 16 months LOVES books, which makes me very happy. Next to stuffed Christmas Hedgehog and looking in the mirror, they are undoubtedly her favourite thing. She has recently learnt to "read" the right way up from front to back rather than upside down which I think must be very helpful! I always intended to read to her a bedtime, but after being Very Busy all day, she drops off like a light as soon as she is in her pyjamas so we read books throughout the day instead. (I'm not complaining)

Ten Little Fingers and Ten Little Toes by Mem Fox and illustrated by Helen Oxenbury is my favourite. It is a very simple rhyming book with lots and lots of babies, but the specialist one is at the end. It is a very gentle book with beautifully expressive fun pictures and is great for interacting for your baby, by counting said fingers and toes and looking at the pictures. There is nothing nicer than a baby on your lap looking at a book in a rare moment of calm quiet!

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.

Motherhood myths

So much for resolutions; I was fifteen minutes late for work arriving with unbrushed hair and sneaking my toothbrush in my handbag to quickly do en-route. I thought things were supposed to get easier as baby got older! My "baby brain" seems to be disintegrating at an alarming rate.

As life plods on and Wriggles grows up there appear to be a wealth of things creeping out the woodwork that you either don't get told about or get brushed under the carpet very quickly.

1. The birth of your child is the happiest day of your life

This is my personal bugbear as unfortunately Wriggles' birth was a very traumatic event for I think, both of us. It was one of the worst days of my life as I had no idea if my baby would survive let alone unscathed and according a midwife full of cheer, I was very lucky to still be there too. I gave birth alas with no medical assistance as it came very quickly and had to resuscitate my daughter prior to the arrival of the paramedics before being rushed to theatre myself. I only fleetingly saw her the day after, did not hold her for days and only got skin to skin at a month old. Some jolly day that birth was then.

2. Breast is Best

This is controversial, and I'm not actually disputing. It is best. I am convinced of that fact and stand in awe of mothers that breastfeed and express, whether for a day or a year or longer. It is a skill I never have had. What I do ever so slightly wish though is that formula was not referred to snidely by some people. As my child was premature, I don't regret (mostly) that she was fed on formula as it was a specific recipe designed to meet her needs she had missed out in utero. It also gave us the opportunity to take part in a medical trial, trialling a new formula for premature and low birth weight children which hopefully will make the road smoother for future parents. As a non-breastfeeder I can't comment on whether it was easier bottle feeding, but I suspect bar any physical pain and mastitis, feeding any very small 'want it noooooooooooow!' infant is very very very exhausting. Why do they want to feed excessively small amounts every fifteen minutes? Why 4am? Why?!

3. Mothers will instinctively know what their child wants and needs

Well, this is true I would say at about 6 months into it if you are lucky. Either that or I am incredibly unintuitive. Poor Wriggles. I found the early days like wading through a fog with a blindfold on, desperately fumbling with an unerring sense I might be doing it wrong and subjecting my poor child to misery. I doubt this was true, but it felt like everything was a stab in the dark and making a decision came down to a case of whittling things down. Every vomit seemed a damnation of my parenting ("Oh that'll be reflux!" trilled a GP only about eight long months later) and every exploding nappy up to the neck felt a punishment.

4. Cliches.

Most of the cliches are true and yet no one seems to appreciate it when you have had three minutes sleep for 4 weeks running, could pack a suitcase for a family of nineteen under your eyes and cannot remember the concept of matching socks let alone find any. Birth hurts but no one wants to hear after it happened, you love your child uncontrollably but people get bored after the ninth hour of you waxing lyrical about nappy contents and you do forget everything, not that your boss takes that as an excuse why you photocopied everything upside down... The worst one is exhaustion. Even that word does not sum up the real feeling of it when your limbs feel like a ton of bricks and if you admit it, you're likely to be met with a jolly "Oh it can't be that bad!". As you gravely grip a cup of super-strength coffee and dream of lie-ins (are they a myth?) the whole world appears to be tripping around on roses and yet you feel like death. Except you don't have time to.

5. Life is never the same

So this one isn't a myth. But you don't appreciate in until your life is upside down and doesn't appear to be re-turning anytime soon. In fact, it seems to have shifted to another orbit entirely without consulting you first. Once your newborn comes home with you, everything revolves around them, and rightly so. At 16 months, I have forgotten what life used to be like and it is only now I am beginning to think about reclaiming a tiny tiny bit of 'my' life back, far less doing anything about it yet. That might be next years new resolution. The practical details (no, I can't come to the pub at fifteen minutes short notice/take the baby to the restaurant and keep her quiet under the table/etc) and immense and overwhelming at time. Everything has to military precision otherwise it all falls apart, normally in public when favourite Mouse has got misplaced, you ran out of milk and your soup has been kindly upturned on your lap. I have a sneaking suspicion that my childless friends look on in wry humour, like I did I must admit, thinking that will never be me. I will have a perfect pink-cheeked baby who will quietly follow my instructions as we travel around going from coffee shop to quaint bistro... wake up! There are days when I really wonder what is worth what; is working work it, is trying to do a gazillion (I wish!) stimulating sessions worth it, it is really worth dredging around playgroup to playgroup to find one that doesn't make your toes crawl? (I did find two lovely groups for the record) As a singleton pre-child, you never imagine salvation to come kneeling in a draughty church community centre with hair sticking up and yesterdays food-stained cardigan still on and comparing notes on lack of sleep. But the flip side to this, is you never imagine the pure joy a gummy grin in the morning can bring, how a cuddle can pierce your heart and the privilege of watching a little person develop and become themselves in their own right. So apart from work, I haven't actually yet had a period of time apart from my daughter? Frankly I don't really mind yet. The hours I spend with her make up for it all. A little hand on my knee can miraculously melt away the frustration of the previous hour, like nothing else. Not even kitkats can do that...

 

Ready, Steady.....nearly...almost...get set....hold on a minute....

Wriggles is at the stage of development where she is teetering on the edge of many things. She is on the right track for many things but Not Quite There Yet. I am amazed at babies who seem to develop new things overnight without so much as previously hinting that they ever felt an inclination to bash boxes together or starting clinging on the sofa for dear life. Every milestone of Wriggles' is a proud moment that is the culmination of months and months of frustration and practise. She is ALMOST at the crawling stage, NEARLY using two hands together, GETTING THERE at the idea of being able to sit up from lying down, GEARING UP for speech...ish... Sometimes waiting feels forever as others move on quicker and sometimes it feels as if it all goes so quickly that each day is a bonus as my baby is very quickly turning into a not-so-baby anymore.

She is roughly 16 months old now, nearly 13 months corrected. She can now sit unaided, bash things together, blow raspberries, 'say' "mamammamama" "bababbabba" "gggagguuuu" and "llllllllllllllllalllaallaoooloooo" though none with meaning, wave at her reflection, kiss her reflection, blow kisses/do a fish impersonation (it is questionable), roll over from back to front, get up from front onto all fours and then get stuck and to be able to reach out to all inappropriate objects she cannot have. It is uncanny that babies are willing to go on intrepid adventures to try and nibble to plug cable but will not shift for a Proper Educational Toy.... We're still a bit at the stuck beetle stage of mobility but she is very good with a wooden spoon and a toy xylophone and cardboard box.

Today we had a really positive physiotherapy appointment. When discharged from SCBU, we automatically got physio as Wriggles had bad torticollis (sqwiffy neck) and pronounced plagiocephaly (shorn off head). As she was also born under 28 weeks and had a negligible history, it was also advised to keep up the physio once the torticollis sorted itself out. This turned out to be rather good as it was about then that the Great Hospital Obsession started. Shortly after PICU, Wriggles appeared to have forgotten her left side existed, rather worrying both me and the physio. Typically by the time we saw a paediatrician she had remembered and luckily has kept remembering. We have been very lucky in that the two community physios we have had have been wonderful and a credit to the NHS. They have easily been some of the most supportive and helpful health care professionals I have met and are willing to go above and beyond, and have helped me chase up referrals and access opportunities. Just prior to Christmas we had a developmental assessment with the paediatrics team which was so-so; it was nothing I didn't know, notably that all her skill areas carry a 'lag' (2-3 months behind average age of mastering a skill, but showing signs of getting there), her gross motor skills are 'delayed' (a more noticeable delay that may need attention) but cognitively and socially she is a bright button with brilliant hearing and sight. All in all, considering prematurity, a cardiac arrest and the ten or so admissions over the year, they were pretty pleased. At the next assessment, if her gross motor skills are not looking vastly improved they will arrange an MRI to determine if there is any long-lasting damage in the brain that may have occurred since the last brain scan carried out at 6 weeks actual. And I thought we had kicked the hospital! 

Watching my little girl grapple with a large inflatable toy today, I was astounded again by how much she has come on. Both at birth and after PICU, both the doctors and myself did not know what to expect. "No promises" they said. "We can't tell you she will be fine". Sometimes wait and see seems a horrid deadline of worry and anguish, but on days like today, there is no wait and see, just my baby and me. She seems relatively and miraculously unscathed. Albeit with a 'lag' and some 'delay' but I have no doubt she will catch up in time, just maybe not as fast as hoped. And on her terms-she is certainly a stubborn personality who knows her mind.

I think in the mean time I had better start baby-proofing the flat in earnest!

Harrrrrumph...............I mean happy new year!

Happy new year!

I so nearly managed a "perfect" day. After a blissful Christmas with my family in Kent, we all intrepidly boarded the East Coast mainline yesterday for a New Year at my northern abode. This morning everyone arose rested and ambled around in pyjamas playing with Wriggles and drinking endless cups of tea. At lunch Wriggles finished her two-week boycott of food and demolished not one, but two (TWO ladies and gentlemen) mini fromage frais and ate the corner of a board book for dessert. Mid afternoon, I bundled her up in new woollen leggings and coat and we made forth to the city centre to see an exciting parade.

Waiting for the metro, poor Wriggles was violently sick. She still suffers from reflux and has a over-sensitive gag reflex and not particularly eloquent oral skills, meaning at 16 months she is still prone to frequent forceful projectile vomiting with feeds and sometimes can be triggered by something so much as brushing her lips. I managed to stem some of the flow with her footmuff but she still succeeded in decorating a large portion of the inside of her coat and inner ear not to mention plastering her hair. I really hate reflux. Not just because it involves dabbling around in sick and wearing that popular around strained mums, 'eau de baby's stomach contents', but mainly for Wriggles' sake. It must be so horrid for her, I just want to wave a magic wand and make her a hundred times more comfortable. It also serves as a daily reminder of prematurity and on bad days taunts me. Rational-me knows it is not my fault but a medical condition that could still be there even if she had been a term baby. Irrational-me says it is all my fault and if I was a perfect mummy like I should be, it wouldn't be here tormenting my baby. It also panics me when I run out of baby wipes on a platform in gale force winds already late to meet my family due to misplacing of the baby's mittens.

We managed to make it in without little trouble, located the family, vetoed Starbucks due to a monstrous queue and found a place to watch the parade that was causing this fuss. Now unfortunately since Wriggles' birth, I have gone from a mild dislike of crowds to having panic attacks when in crowded places and/or stressful situations, or sometimes, Just Because. Cheers mental health. However, I have not had a full-blown one since her birthday in September when we went to a singing and music day (how not to appear a normal level-headed potential mummy friend at the local play centre) and later on that day, the post office.As I took up my spot, I could feel my airways tightenings, panic rising and tears springing up. It is not easy juggling a wriggly Wriggles (my sister had commandeered the buggy to house her shopping sale purchases; this baffled me. I literally cannot remember anymore shopping being anymore than a terse trip around Sainsburys and occasionally a slightly dog-eared jumper from Oxfam which is next to Sainsburys) and practising deep breathing whilst trying to stop sobbing and not appearing a lunatic to a) my family who seemed entirely unaware as were busy bitching about the taxi parked in front of their sight line and b) the general public including a picture perfect family stood next to us. When the parade finally went through, it seemed an utter let-down, possibly as I was wishing it to go faster so I could run off, and partly as Wriggles was far more interested in trying to wave at the two-year old little girl nearby and fend off a little boy who wanted to hold her hand (she will not hold hands with strangers. This is the only hint of separation anxiety; apparently I have shouldered the rest of it). The "Norse-themed mythical spectacular" featured dragons, morris men and mermaids as well as some 'wolves' which looked more like rabid lions on a bad hair day. Apart from that, it was extremely jolly I have been told from people more with it.

The rest of the evening passed without offence. The new year came and went; we all watched Cyndi Lauper in a bin liner on Jools Holland and watched some poor fireworks out  the kitchen window. Wriggles slept unaware of the year turning. I sat her down on New Years Eve and explained about the concept of years and celebrations to be greeted with a blank look and a biffed nose. It could have been worse; she is quite partial for biting noses when teething. Mostly this can be relegated to long suffering Mouse, Christmas Hedgehog and Wheely Hedgehog but occasionally she still goes for people's snozzles or Grandma's toes. New Year always feels such a anti-climax after the bustle of Christmas. However, the next day (post-lunchtime) feels like a fresh new start. Which I fully intend it to be. It is hard to believe my little girl will be 2 this year. This last year has been undoubtedly tough with it's frequent and frightening admissions to hospital. When counting up, we spent as much time in hospital as I do work; not a healthy balance to off-set nice time at home. But now we are crossing the magical boundary of most time ever out of hospital......Long may it continue! That is my new years thanks.I have spent a lot of the time of 2011 reflecting and regretting the sad moments, so want to stuff 2012 with as many happy times as possible. Bring it on!

My New Leaf:

*throw out holey tights (they do not magically self-mend and there is only so much nail polish you can apply to "disguise" ladders) and pair up to socks to avert odd-sock crisis on work mornings

* try to be slightly more punctual. 5 minutes late is acceptable. 55 minutes late is not.

*be nicer to nice people and self-I do try my best and that is all I can do

*be less nice to dastardly all-night-raving complaining crack-of-dawn-shelf-putter-uppers (where do they fit in sleep?) rude neighbours

*keep in touch more frequently with my grandparents

*worry less (hahahahahahahha.......................)

*dwell less on the past to create more for the future

*take a picture everyday of Wriggles so I don't forget this fast-moving time where she seems to learn a new skill/cause more chaos every day. I know I will treasure these times when she is a sullen teenager borrowing my shoes

*get involved with Tiny Lives, the local charity that supported Wriggles' SCBU and is a regional unit providing much needed support and funds.

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!

Books

One of Wriggles' favourite things are books. She cannot get enough. Recently she has begun to be able to turn the pages the "right" way as opposed to reading upside down and back to front. Lift the flap books are a winner although paperback books have currently had to be hidden as her other favourite activity is ripping.

I have always grown up around books and been passionate about reading and important it is so I am delighted she takes such an interest. I have read to her since she was Very Very Small (on coming home initially from SCBU aged 37 weeks gestation, I rather optomistically tried to read her Winnie The Pooh serials by AA Milne; I got stuck for conversation and she nodded off to my voice even when doing a squeaky Piglet and a vvvvvveeeerrrrrryyyyyy meeeellllllannnchollyyyyy Eeyore) and have been egaerly collecting books I loved as a child and new titles since. I have generously given her one whole shelf on my bookshelf but she is already encrouching on the shelf above.

As a student at university, I worked part time in the marvellous Seven Stories in Newcastle upon Tyne, a dedicated centre for children's literature. My job was to be an information point, read stories, lead craft activities related to the exhibitions, sing songs ("If you're happy and a puffin, waggle your tail......") and dress up regularly as a tiger who came to tea or whatever book we were promoting! I adore Seven Stories and am really looking forward to Wriggles being bigger to enjoy it. They have activities for little people to very big people and regularly have authors, illustrators and surprise guests such as The Very Hungry Caterpillar dropping in.

As well as enjoying Grown Up books, I have always had a soft spot for childrens books. They were a love of childhood, but also something I have a deep interest in. I am no budding author but my dream job would be illustrate books. I did an art degree and quickly discovered my favourite area was illustration and design. Sadly by this point I was halfway through a very anti-illustration Fine Art degree but I have pursued it separately. I did submit drawings for a budding author a few years ago but alas have never seen the fruits! I adore collecting images by illustrators though and leafing through texts and layouts. My favourites are Judith Kerr, Lauren Child, Lucy Cousins, E H Shephard, Quentin Blake, Dick Bruna, Catherine Rayner, Jane Hissey and Helen Oxenbury.

If you are a baby here are some recommendations by Wriggles

My Top Books.

*Ten Little Fingers and Ten Little Toes by Mia Fox with Helen Oxenbury
*Peekaboo Peter; a textured lift-the-flap jobby published by Warne, collecetd from Beatrix Potter's Peter Rabbit
*Quack, Quack Maisy by Lucy Cousins
*My Puffer Train by Mary Murphy
*any of the DK Peekaboo series!

Mummy's favourites to read:

*Guess How Much I Love You by Sam McBratney with Anita Jeram
*Alice and Anatole by Sam Childs
*The Tiger Who Came To Tea by Judith Kerr
*Penguin by Polly Dunbar
*Dogger by Shirley Hughes

Strictly a Strictly fan

I am a Strictly addict.

The first thing I do when I come home from work after taking Wriggles out the pushchair is to pop on BBC2 for a bit of It Takes Two . Not only are there the delights of sequins, Anton’s cardigan collection and oh, the dancing, I have a very soppy reason for feeling the Strictly love.

As I prepared to take Wriggles home from SCBU aged ten weeks, I got the opportunity of “rooming in” as it was confirmed she would be coming home on oxygen. They left the air challenges as late as possible but it was not happening; she just liked her 0.1 of oxygen and that was that. The other option was dealing with a bright purple baby-just so not in season! Saturday 13^th November, two months old exactly, I arrived bright and early (well early for lunchtime! I had bright intentions for being there for 9am ward rounds but had not counted on how long oxygen installation would take and tying up loose ends likes last minute panics of being without an adequate nappy supply, missing a changing mat and the onset of early winter bringing doubt on if I had enough miniature cardigans; nowhere near. She was in cardigans that would fit a 3 year old all winter) with my little suitcase for a weekend mini break at Room 1, overlooking Leazes Park and the ambulance depot. The room was little like a Travelodge but with a hospital-style television and oxygen. I was given a swipe card to whizz in and out and permission to utilise the kettle in the day room of the maternity ward on which the room were located. The only quibble I had was on the ward opposite my room was a poster proclaiming “Baby is better in than out!” and the image of a sick premature baby next to a frankly 6-month looking newborn cuddled up with his mum. It’s a fair point but I am yet to meet a mother of a premature child who delights in the fact their child was born early and did all they could to induce premature labour. Slightly an insensitive place to display such a poster, if you have to display it at all, given that the ward was next to NICU and all the parents from SCBU roomed in there prior to hometime.

Anyway back to rooming in and dear old Strictly! After making the bed and an all important coffee, I got to do the most exciting bit of all. I went through the doors into SCBU and very proudly got to wheel the cot containing my baby round to my room. It felt unbelievably intrepid to go to the great world of about 10m away, if that. But the sense of pride is pushing my baby, proclaiming ownership for one utterly beautiful infant, was amazing. A nurse helped hook her up to the oxygen that mysteriously lives in hospital walls and left us to it. Two long months and this was the first time that the pair of us had been alone together. Would I cope? Would she cope?! It was all too much for her so she had a nap. When she woke I successfully changed her and fed her (on my own!! Just me!!) and we settled down in the big chair to watch Anne Widdecombe pirouette dressed as a Christmas tree fairy. Being alone was a big deal for me. Obviously I knew she was mine, I had given birth to her after all, but with the overwhelming nature of SCBU and the nature of what I had been having to organise quickly in the last two months, it had not seemed real. I had felt like I was in a dream. The initial shock had worn off and I had been able to locate obvious love and some emotions, but I just didn’t feel like a mum, especially not her mum. That weekend I did. I was a parent. And not just any old parent-I was her parent. Her proud and irreplaceable parent, preparing to imminently take her home.

 I don’t think she was overly impressed with Strictly Come Dancing. I couldn’t even say with confidence she was overly impressed with me. But I had located my inner mummy at last and with joy welcomed the first night of many to come of hedgehog-like snuffling and night feeds and disruptions. Bliss!

This year she has slowly warmed to Strictly. Now I swear she lights up when the theme tune starts and she actually got quite excitable last weekend when Harry Judd started the charleston. Result!

More Grey Hairs

There has been a pause in any posting due to my little troublemaker deciding it is once again time to visit, as Grandma calls it, the H Place.

At the very end of September, Wriggles had a very minor sniff but nothing out of the ordinary. Our physio came out on Friday 30th and at the end of a session listened to her chest and was perfectly happy. She was a bit of a grump at bedtime but nothing more. However, as the night progressed things went very downhill, very fast. She could not settle and quickly developed a hacking cough. Calpol and inhalers and saline drops did nothing and the poor mite could not even take water if she wanted as would just cough, choke and vomit. All through the night I held her upright, rubbing her back. As the hours wore on, she grew palers, clammier and her breathing gew decidedly more laboured. She was vomiting consistently (delightful) due to the cough. In the early hours I had had enough. After beginning to bring up bile with fleck of blood, I rang NHS Direct in a panic who sent us along to a&e. Oh dear a&e! How I have er.....missed it. Since the weekend previous. Oh well. 

Mind you, it has been a while since a middle of the night dash. Unfortunately it was quite reminiscent of when we had the dash that culminated in the infamous PICU stay; whereby I bundled us into a taxi who was a driven by a chap called Maxell Onions (you can't make these things up) who drove the wrongway down a slip road onto a major A road and would go right every time his sat nav said left.......

Once there this time, a nurse eyed the invalid warily muttering "She looks quite short of breath". She effeciently whisked us around to the room that brings a chill to my spine: the snappily named 'resus'. Bays of resusitaires, with monitors, ventilators, emergency equipment for life-threatening occasions and such like. Wriggles, who was slightly less wriggly than normal, laid on a adult bed which of course dwarfed her ridiculously. She was quickly hooked up with ECG leads and an oxygen pulse monitor. As suspected, her sats were low and her heart rate was looking a bit silly. Bucket-loads of oxgen with nebulisers were administered whilst different medical staff ran around waving themometres, trying to take blood tests and piece together medical histories (that was the easy bit. One doctor walked in "Oh hello!! It's you two again...what are you doing here? Oh dear...." and was able to bring everyone else up to date). As the shifts changed over and breakfast dawned round, Wriggles was more normal-coloured and trying to eat the oxygen mask and was showing far more acceptable numbers on the monitor. Whilst they tried to work out whether to send us home or keep us in for observations, we got ready to go round to the Day Unit rather than take up space in a&e. 

Off we went, pushing the big bed along with an emergency oxygen cylinder Just In Case. We got through the first set of doors from a&e and suddenly the newly-stabilised patient deteriorated infront of our eyes. Within seconds she was labouring breaths again, recessing so much you could see all her ribcage and muscles and her heartrate shot through the roof. Casualty-style, we quickly all jogged into the second Resus room of the day. More oxygen, more nebulisers.............. This time, it took hours and hours for her to reach anything nearer stable. A blood-gas had them debating whether to send her up to High Dependancy straight away or to give her the benefit of the doubt.

At least that made the former decision easy: we were definitely staying in.

In total, we ended up in hospital for just under 3 weeks. As no definitive infection seemed present, the likelihood is that Wriggles aspirated something. There has always been a slight infection in her right lung on X-rays, but normally this is not the root of problems. After the initial weekend, where she was on oxygen and IV fluids, she was weaned off both. A team of paediatricians decided that the likely explanation was that due to her cardiac arrest whilst being ventilated for pneumonia aged 6 and a bit months, her swallow coordination is sometimes defective resulting in infrequent aspiration. Due to the fact she already has Chronic Lung Disease (Broncho Pulmonary Dysplasia) and a history of respiratory tract infections, they decided that this combined with her notorious solids aversion and reflux were all grounds to be fed nasogasterically for the forseeable future to allow her tissues to renew and her brain to mature. We were referred to speech and language who observed a one-off oral feed and agreed that this was a good idea. Just to be sure, they booked a fluroscopy (moving X-Ray, like a barium swallow) for the following week. In between this, Wriggles did catch a gasteric virus which put us in isolation. 

Once recovered, we went for the fluroscopy which confused everyone. There appeared to be no swallow problem. She did have a peculiar reaction to a puree but not one that showed any obstruction, aspiration or allergic reaction. The doctors shiftily withdrew to decide on a New Plan. No one quite knew what to do. The respiratory team had been so confident that they had discharged us from their care and handed us onto SALT, SALT now wanted to hand us onto someone else... They had just spent two weeks training me in nasogasteric feeds and setting up a community support plan with the view of ng feeding for the next twelve months minimum and not ruling out longterm PEG feeds. The respiratory team, neurological doctors, developmental paediatricians, physios, SALT had been sure of aspiration being the cause. Over the next few days we saw an array of paeds all with their own take on things. The inconclusive evidence looked shockingly to be.....drumroll.......it was all a result of prematurity complicated by pneumonia which was a most likely a complication of prematurity! Excellent. I could have guessed that myself without spending weeks in hospital undergoing a barrage of tests.

Oh, and she might have a milk intolerance. Or she might not. It could be the reflux.

So with that, we were released into the outside world again. Over the weeks, the seasosn had changed from people in shorts to people in coats, mittens and umbrellas. The air was chilled and afternoons suddenly grew dark.

So now we are back at home as normal. The ng tube, for the moment, is out. We are on high-calorie soya-milk and an continous antibiotics Just In Case. During hospital, Wriggles has perfected sitting unaided (what else can you do in a very small room you cannot leave in case you contaminate people?) and has developed a love of shredding important bits of paper and newspapers I have not yet read, and also discovered the joy of banging on cardboard boxes. I have returned to work and am trying to remember exactly how many marbles I had a few weeks ago because I seem to have less now... Almost a year ago in Special Care I believed, naively, that leaving dear old Ward 35 was the end of the premature experience. The birth and NICU/SCBU had left me in deep shock and for me, discharge symbolised a new beginning. Hope. A light. A world free of clinical procedures, antibacterial gel and feeding charts. A world where I stopped being a rabbit in the headlights and became A Real Mum. Wriggles would have soon reached term and no longer be 'a premature baby'. This began  to wobble when a week to discharge they decided she would leave on oxygen. But I still clung to this ideal of it being the fairytale end. 

Of course it isn't. I'm sure some parents do leave and leave it all behind in the hospital reception with the overpriced crisps and tacky cards. But it often feels as though we never escaped the world of prematurity. To look at, you would never guess she was a premature baby, far less a 27 weeker. But the oxygen followed by frequent admissions from respiratory "incidents" have been a haunting reminder of prematurity. Each seems to invoke the trauma of the previous. This last admission has particularly triggered the memories of PICU: the weeks in a different world, roaming hospital corridoors at night, the eerie quiet of the 24 hour Costa Coffee at midnight. If I think too much, I hear the hospital machines with perfect clarity. Of course, if the alternative was to not have my darling Wriggles, I would go through it all again with hesitation. Yes it has been traumatic. It has shook my faith in the world and a sense of right and changed my outlook of life. But equally, my darling daughter has shown me a kind of love and joy that I don't believe can be equalled. She is better than the tastiest biscuit and more fun that running down a beach in the sun. When she smiles at me, I can forget the things I've seen and hours at a bedside. At the end of the day, miraculously, she seems free of any condition and utterly perfect. I know time is a great healer; it will heal my memories and will renew the cells in her lungs and rest of body and build up her immune system to make her stronger. Time will ensure she grows up and grows strong, away from being a fragile, premature baby. A year ago, I could have put her in my pocket. Now at 14 months old, we are not quite out of the woods of the whole experience but I am dreaming of hope again.