Counselling

When you have a baby, one thing you do not normally associate is starting counselling sessions soon afterwards that are in direct correlation to these events. Then again, for too many parents "normality" is thrown out the window. When you have a sick or premature baby or a traumatic birth, the rule book is ripped from your hands and it seems someone is laughing cruelly. You have all the same tools as everyone else but something is missing that you cannot quite grasp. I imagine even the healthiest baby, smoothest birth and both fleeting of baby blues produces a confused, knackered, upset and bewildered parent. But tweak some factors a little more and it can feel like you are walking between nightmares and the best thing in the world. You know you are blessed, are grateful beyond belief, can tangibly reach true love...but that is only one half of it. And that fact casts you even deeper down a path of gloom, grief or blame. Sometimes all three.

I was first referred for counselling whilst Wriggles was still on the NICU. We were beginning to be on the home straight which adversely became the patch I began to fall apart. I could not fathom being able to care for my baby at home in the way the hospital did. I got nervous. I got emotional. I cried.  lot. When I was trained in resuscitation and infant first aid, I broke down completely because it was too close to home to the CPR I'd had to try on my minutes-old daughter before the paramedics arrived. Then it was confirmed we would go home on oxygen. The sky fell in. Any notion of being able to turn our backs on prematurity, run for the hills or grasp in the dark for any kind of normal baby-magazine like existence was snatched and I was going to the dragged kicking and screaming into the acceptance.

Initially, I was not overjoyed about being counselled. It seemed like another thing to chalk up to failure. You can't even just have a baby? What sort of a mother are you? That first session I was very mechanical. I had got to the point of facts, just facts. Name. Age. Date of birth. Feelings? No, feelings are tied away. Locked away and thrown the key into the abyss. I don't recall a lot, but I do recall the kind lady saying with clarity at the end "you need to allow yourself to feel."

But I couldn't. I would have the odd breakthrough crying sessions, I would tell our story, I would go through the motions, but it was like there was a solid wall. I was talking but there was nothing behind the words. I would not let how I felt about what I was saying out. It was too dangerous. There was a torrent of emotion somewhere that could quite possibly destroy me. Then after we got home, my daughter got sick and then we came home again, I went downhill very fast. It was like a swift plummet, being winded in the gut. I did ask for help then because the only glimmer of rationality left told me that if I didn't things could get ugly and I was the sole person responsible for my daughter and owed it to her.

I was even less overjoyed about the idea of taking medication. To have to be medicated for being a mother? Despite gentle professionals saying but a mother who has been to hell and back, it just didn't sink in. But I took them, thinking what had I to loose. To my surprise, they helped to dent the cloak I had surrounded myself in. They let in tiny chinks of light and slowly rescued some energy, some drive, some routine... Alongside this I also saw a very well meaning counsellor who patted my knee, passed the tissues and said "Oh goodness me, I couldn't have done that" a lot, and also thankfully stepped up sessions with my original counsellor who had importantly been with me the whole time. She has seen Wriggles at the point of being critically ill, in NICU, at home, playing-she had seen the highs, lows and mundane of our lives. And that went a long way, not least is gaining my trust. She had also had her own premature baby twenty years ago and didn't need telling twice about what followed. She listened to me, said some very wise things and never once told me I was a bad person.

Did she fix everything? No. Did she make things more bearable? Very much so. She embarked on a long quest to try and stop me blaming myself and inflecting blame, guilt, remorse and turning these things into long strings of anxiety and fear. She didn't put a full stop to it all, but she did greatly stem the tide and genuinely seemed to care that I wasn't putting myself in torturous circles. The day before Wriggles' second birthday, she turned up at my flat with a birthday present and card despite not seeing her for months. I was so touched that she remembered and cared enough when essentially we are but a handful of her clients. It is little things like that which slowly help pick back up the pieces and restore your sanity bit by tiny bit. Couselling may not be a magic answer or quick fix but it is a service I believe that all parents or family members in difficult situations should be entitled to as just reaching out can remove some of the bricks of your burden. Without it, I fear I would have fallen very low and very badly. I don't know how things would be now if I hadn't have had that chance.

I wish I could say that presented with the tools of good counselling, the caring arms of supportive friends and family and a good overview of CBT that I am completely all done with the past. But this little blog is testament that I am not. Nothing is that simple. Things may be a lot better but there is always one foot still in the past, stuck in a puddle of murky memories. And sometimes I slip and fall straight back in and need a helping hand in climbing back out. All too quickly, the tendrils of anxiety, paranoia and remembrance can curl round your being until you are caught fast in a trap of fact and fiction and have to unravel what is reaction and what is irrational. These last weeks I have been struggling again, feeling the fight ebb out of me. I guess the difference is that I know this isn't forever because things have improved before and will again; not that it makes things feel any easier day to day until we have ridden this out. The mind is a powerful tool indeed.

My Happy Place

Giving In

In July, I accidentally came off my antidepressants that I had been taking for over a year following a diagnosis of Post Traumatic Stress with secondary depression and anxiety. I had been feeling a lot better, was managing day to day life and my own feelings and so when Wriggles was rushed into hospital, asking someone to go back and collect them for me was not even in my top ten of priorities. In fact, it wasn't until pretty much the end of the stay did it occur to me I didn't have them. When we did get home, complete with NG tube, I was really a bit of a mess to actually register whether I should re-start taking them and was quite distracted by the fact that we had appointments and community nurse visits coming out our ears and that my mum came up for a fortnight to keep an eye on us (ie. to make sure I wasn't tipping the loony scales). I was so fatigued throughout the summer months from admissions, then surgery, then getting to grips with a gastronomy tube and then coming to terms with the CP diagnosis that the world was slightly spinning. Who wouldn't struggle? I got dressed (if mis-matched), left the house (because I couldn't bear to always stay in) and Did Things to try and amuse the toddler. We had some fun, survived the second birthday and then landed in hospital again and since then I have been struggling to bounce back. After a few horrid days, it all subsided and I wondered what I was making the fuss about. But since then, it has been creeping back up on me like a little dark cloud hovering over my head following me around and is not going away. I feel like I am teetering on a tightrope wire over an abyss, about to fall any minute into an untold pit. I can't switch off the worry, both irrational and rational, however hard I try. I can't relax or concentrate.

On Saturday, we went for a Halloween soiree (read: small gathering of 4 toddlers and cheese on cocktail sticks at tea-time) and I had a G&T. Because my previous medication didn't mix with alcohol, it had been virtually two years since I had had a drink with the exception of the day when I got the letter confirming CP where I drank enough rum to feel completely numb and send me to sleep. So, understandably, this one drink sent me a little squiffy. As I walked back at around 8pm with the Wriggly one in her pushchair dressed as a cat grinning madly, with firework displays going off around me, it felt like walking on air. I wasn't in ecstasy, just pleasantly cushioned with a warm and fuzzy feeling enveloping me. I didn't worry, I didn't obsess. And then the next day, it hit me. I used to feel like that at least the majority of the time. I used to feel like that pre-child. I used to feel that way when my PTSD and it's entourage was being effectively dealt with. I used to feel Alright, I used to feel Relaxed, I used to Smile without force. Maybe I didn't float everyday, but I didn't drag.

So I am giving in. I am going to plead with my GP to let me try medication again. I feel like I am struggling and I need a cushion to get me through this next bit. I have been patiently waiting for this 'low mood' to lift and it is doing nothing apart from drawing in closer. Memories, feeding tubes and hurt doesn't go away just like that. But if I could a little less like a zombie, that would be marvellous thank you very much. Please.

Sticking like Glue

The other day I wrote about my sleeping arrangements and my fear of being far from my daughter at night. 

I like to think I'm going to be a cool mum, but I'm having to face up to facts.

I am terrified of being apart from her.

It's not a desperation to apart exactly, more like a terror that something awful will happen and a completely irrational feeling of betrayal. She would be fine, after all, I worked 3 days a week between when she was 8 months and about 21 months. She is now more reluctant to part but is such a sociable thing. It's me.

I thought I had put Neonatal and everything that followed behind me. I received excellent counselling until very recently, took a course of Sertaline (a SSRI anti-depressant also used for anxiety and in my case PTSD) and then unfortunately this summer happened and we got a feeding tube, starting diagnosis and reunited with some of the PICU consultants although thankfully avoided their unit by the skin of our teeth. Right now, two years ago, Wriggles was in NICU and this anniversary period is a funny old time. Full of flashbacks and bittersweet pride. Sometimes I think I over exaggerate the past, and then find a scrap of something from the time and it hits me again like a ton of bricks. She was that small. She was that sick.This lunchtime I was looking at her first nappy size given to me by special care when we left. I was shocked how small it was, fitting in the palm of my hand. I remember her looking dwarfed in it. Curled up in a special nest in an incubator, small, so small, with a huge chunk of machinery attached breathing for her. Then a little white hat keeping the CPAP apparatus on so she could breathe with some help. The feeding tube in for weeks and weeks because she was gestationally too young to have developed the suck/swallow reflex. The weeks and weeks of one cuddle a day, at 3pm sometimes for less than fifteen minutes. Oh god.

When I went back to work, I made myself because as a single parent I felt I had a duty to provide as best as I could and also not to conform to stereotypes. I did enjoy aspects of my job, but after giving birth so much felt like clock watching. There were days I loved and days I hated. The worst bit every morning was saying goodbye at the childminder's. I never dawdled leaving the office, but pelted back as soon as I could. Since being made redundant, Wriggles' needs are arguably a little more complex. Aside from the feeding tube there is a greater understanding of why she gets so poorly, which in itself comes with more caution to be exercised. 

Since she was rushed to hospital late July, we have not been separated for longer than half an hour on a sparse handful of occasions. 

This weekend, I was supposed to be travelling for a weekend away probably involving some babysitting.

This evening I broke down and admitted how scared I am of loosing some control and not being within running distance of my daughter. I have not had a panic attack for a long time, but I sat here, dizzy, tears streaming, my heart racing and my throat tight and painful. It's too soon. 

My worry is, when won't be too soon? She is now 2 and it's not like we're going to be able to forget prematurity or hospital visits for a long time, such are her medical conditions and health. I don't want to become a paranoid overbearing parent, embarrassingly clinging to her trouser leg in the playground. I want her to keep her independent streak that makes her so her and that I cherish for her beautiful personality of her own shining through. I'm going to have to let go in small amounts at some time in the not too distant future, for nursery, then school and my eventual return to work. I'm going to have to trust other people to do their best by her, to learn her cues, to know her danger signs, her quirks, her needs. But not yet, not now. She is still my baby and I am still cocooned in the after-effects of scare after scare. I need to build myself up gradually and look back out into the light. 

I just hope these needs of mine don't step on her needs of finding out about the world without me.

Coping

I must admit today I was a little taken aback today.

I was speaking to a woman about a genuine housing issue, which we agreed on and then she came out with:

"You know, every time I come and look through your window it looks really messy and you seem very chaotic. Are you coping?"

I felt instantly hot.

And a bit like my mum had caught me doing something I shouldn't have.

Then I felt cross.

Is it not bad manners to go deliberately looking though people's windows when it is otherwise avoided?

Was she actually trying to help or was she being a nosey bat? Previous experiences with her and other residents experiences with her very much point to the latter. However innocent until proved guilty. Maybe.

"Is your Health Visitor helping?"

I gabbled some things and bade a quick goodbye, shutting my front door and smarting. I didn't need to look: I knew my front room was a mess. I have always been messy and struggled to stay on top of tidying up. Recently has been extra hard, as I have just felt my bones so heavy with exhuastion that it makes me feel a little ill. I'm really not deliberately slovenly but maybe I could try a bit harder. The trouble is, in the daytime as soon as I put something away, Wriggles will empty an entire box, and at night, all I can do is collapse. The one time I did try to have a proper evening blitz, Mrs Downstairs complained about the noise. Am I just making excuses for what has got out of control?

Ultimately, I know that I will tidy it spick and span by hook or by crook, whether by putting Wriggles in a high sided box or by irritating Mrs Downstairs. I will because it really is a mess. At the moment, the Wriggles friendly bits are not too bad (excepting all toys she has strewn about and untides as i go tidying) but even I won't let it get to the state where it is hazardous for her. But 'my' bits, are a little shameful. So naturally I am here writing about it rather than tidying. I do care. Sort of. But also, quite a lot of me doesn't.

Am I coping? Yes, I would say I am. Coping. That is all. I wouldn't say I am doing much more because clearly, I have things to get on top of before I can rise to the next level of whatever comes after coping. I know that I am not not-coping because not-coping is horrendous. Not-coping means not even noticing mess or not caring about anything. Not-coping means barely being able to move. Not-coping means not speaking to anyone but Wriggles or barely leaving the house. Not-coping means panic attacks and horrible thoughts coming thick and fast. So I am coping. I am able to keep not-coping at bay and get through the day. There is a start, a middle and a finish. Not-coping eclipses all time. My coping might look like someone else's not-coping, but I know for me, that is enough. After a much better time recently, I know I have taken a bit of a stumble suddenly again. But I know also I will pick myself up sooner or later. And that is coping: knowing there is not just a tomorrow but a day after that too.

When people, other than very geuine people close to you who would help in an instant, ask the dreaded "are you coping?" question, I find it a little irritating. Mainly, because exactly what are they going to do if you say no, no I'm not?

Would they for instance, find me a partner?

Would they pay for a cleaner?

Would they give me an extra pair of hands?

Would they find me more hours in the day?

Would they be able to answer the eternal question, of why toddlers empty things?

Would they iron all my fears out straight?

Would they remove my scars of bad memories that don't go away?

Would they teach my daughter to eat?

Would they wave a magic wand?

Would they take some of my tasks off me so I had a little less?

Would they give me just half an hour to help?

No, they would not.

They would look a little bit uneasy, like my Health Visitor, and maybe pat my hand. And then they would go and think thank goodness it's not me.

So I'll just keep on coping until I'm better than just coping. And in the meantime, I might even finish the washing up.

Music

I used to love and adore music. I grew up around music; my father sang and played multiple instruments, I had a folk upbringing being dragged from festival to music session to concert and back and one of my earliest memories is my mum, sister and I dancing like loons to Madonna on vinyl around the living room. I had my first teenage kiss at a gig. I spent my university days going to gigs constantly, standing in sweaty upstairs bars listening to the "next big thing" sipping rum and cokes and trying to rock a long shaggy fringe. I could dance til dawn with the best of them. I worked at music festivals and hung out at musicians parties. I was never without my iPod. Even for five minute journeys I slipped my headphones off and let myself fall into the world that transported me away. Music got me though some painful moments; though break ups, through let downs, through my father being desperately ill.

Then I had Wriggles and slightly lost the plot.

Music, once my saviour and emotional haven became something else. Music brought ever conceivable emotion out in me and heightened it all. It forced me to feel things I wasn't ready to feel. It made me connect to things I couldn't. It brought everything back, the good and the bad. It seemed to mock me with it's once-loved melodies whilst I sat there with tears streaming down my face.

So I stopped listening so much.

Music at baby groups made me cry. I have lost count of how many panic attacks I had listening to nursery rhymes or an acoustic guitar. Just when I had stuffed my feelings away and turned over a new leaf, it pushed them to the fore and I bit back howls.

My iPod collected dust. Sometimes I would dance to the radio on good days and Wriggles would giggle at me. I danced more and turned it up.

Instead, I sing nursery rhymes and children's songs. My own voice (tuneless, hardly musical) doesn't count and I can bellow my way through the day. As long as there is no more musical accompaniment other than a tambourine or a rattle, it's fine. 

Incy wincy spider climbed up the water spout...

And then the other night, I dug out an album I loved. As I put it on, the throat constricted and I welled off. But I didn't turn it off. It still hurt, but it also lifted my spirits to something which felt like ecstasy compared to lows of depression. It made me feel alive as a human being again, not just 100% a mother. Or maybe that should be 100% a mother which some added percentage of a person too. I still cry and it still hurts. There are many songs I can't listen too; songs that have no links or bearing with any of my experiences but for some reason still jog memories they have no association with prior.

I'm going to try though. Music is such a wonderful thing and I want Wriggles to grow up with the same fervour I did and hunger for songs and expression. Surely tears can't last forever. I am fed up of being scared and hurting.

An old favourite: Malcolm Middleton, Week Off

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.

Happy

This evening, I was baking cakes (it has to be plural as my success rate in the baking department is highly variable. Tonight it was mercifully two out of three), jiggling around wearing an apron to some favourite music and realised that I was feeling something I perhaps hadn't felt massively for a while when on my own:

Happy. 

Content. 

Not sad. 

Not scared. 

Not anxious.

Not regretful. 

Not guilty. 

Not remorseful.

Just pleasantly chilled and covered in flour.

When I am with my little girl, I am generally fine. It is when she goes to bed, that the thoughts come tumbling out one by one ambushing me until I feel like keeling over with the weight of it all. Everything becomes mammoth, everything becomes my fault. My strength drains away and I have no will. But tonight, I feel light. Light and fluffy and hopefully the cakes in the oven!

Some good moments from our week:

Hedgehog comes for a day out

Definitely NOT afraid of the big bad (stuffed) wolf

"Helping" sorting out for the Tiny Lives sale fundraiser for our NICU

Excuses

Of late, I haven't been blogging so much. Or rather, I haven't been posting as much. I have started writing most nights, but either words or paragraphs in, something pulls me back and I press delete or mark it in my drafts folder, which realistically never comes out again. It's not that anything particular has happened or gone wrong, I've just felt a bit "meh". After my month off work, I felt so much more settled and on top of the world. Since returning to work and accepting redundancy, I have been, to put it politely, all over the place and a bit sorry for myself. Partly, a parade of bugs that are never quite bad enough to keep either of us at home hasn't helped and neither has Wriggles' sudden toddlerdom of tantrum throwing or sleep regression!

When I started this blog, after reading others that either amused or inspired me, it was for me to use both as therapy to get over the bad memories and to make good memories. When it started, Wriggles barely ate and we had spent about four months constantly in and out of hospital between which I would go to work...only to be in hospital with Wriggles the day after or sometimes, hours. However, things were showing signs of improvement and I was hopeful that our journey might be looking more straightforward. Quite quickly, it became apparent this wasn't too be the case. Although things have been up and down since coming out of NICU, I've always been very aware how things could be more complex, more limiting. But a small part of me, the regular mum bit, not just the ex-neonatal-mum, has also been aware how much simpler things could have been.

A Day of Two Halves

If ever there was a day of getting out on the wrong side of bed, today was it. I only have one side of bed, but obviously today it was Wrong. 


I had a rare lie-in until 08:20 (thanks Wriggles!) but awoke in grouch-mode and it got worse and worse. I intended to get ready early and go out before 10 to take Wriggles to soft play before lunch in the hope of tiring her out a bit so she might re-take up napping in the daytime and thus start sleeping a bit more normally at night times. Partly due to the rain and mostly due to my ineptitude, we weren't both ready until gone 11. Wriggles was driving me up the wall, only content to throw everything off my bookshelf constantly ad shriek at me if I dared correct her from reading books upside down (not a deliberate attempt to spoil fun: she can and has for months read them the 'right' way and now her upside-down-and-back-to-front method is very rough, breaks the spine of all the books and thus makes the pages likely to fall out. She has developed superhuman strength and can easily destroy a board book) or suggest that she could do something, anything, other than book flinging either with or without me. I discovered I had missed a series of payments on things so had to do some organising and grovelling which is never nice, and finally wrapped up a parcel to post to a dear friend who is having a baby shower this weekend, which I cannot afford to go to (WHY do airlines charge practically an adult fare for infants who will after all, only be sat on your lap with no luggage?). There wasn't a proper reason for getting cross, especially with Wriggles who after all was only being a toddler, but I found myself getting increasingly wound up and stressed with everything. The washing up pile haunted me, reminding me that I was rubbish at doing things when I knew I should and I felt tired and a bit overwhelmed by just life.

By the time we left, it was pouring down but I could not stand to stay inside. I know from prior experience, being couped up with a full of beans Wriggles in destroy mode is not a recipe for a happy day. We had a nice hour where we go some jobs done, called in on our recently retired childminder who was delighted to see the Wriggly one and had some lunch . Then the trouble brewed again as I tried to persuade the baggy-eyed and yawning child to have a nap. Just five minutes (or preferably twenty if you're asking). She looked sleepy. She has until very recently, had a hour or longer nap after lunch to recharge her batteries. This has suddenly turned into a battle meaning by 5pm she is a whining and exhausted child and bedtime is frankly a miracle when it eventually occurs. We walked around the park. We walked around the park again. We had some top-up milk. We walked around the park some more. In the rain. An hour later, with a very frayed temper I gave up. 

It is very rare I am grumpy with Wriggles or tell her off seriously. I do employ "No!" at appropriate moments ("NO Wriggles do not turn the TV on or off/grab plug sockets/climb onto the toilet/throw your dinner on the floor") but partly I've never really had cause to tell her off and partly I'm terrible at it as I instantly feel terrible. I'm not talking about dodging discipline, but shouting for the sake of a bad or frazzled mood over something that doesn't warrant that level of reprimand. I know it was wrong to snap at her, but snap I did. What with working and managing everything on my own from baby things to finances to the sodding washing up (where, where does it come from!) when it gets to the end of the week, a hard week of sleep regression, a frustrating previous day at work, then to be honest I need Wriggles' nap as much as she does. Just to get fifteen minutes or so to me. Just to sit down without guilt and breathe a sigh of relief. Just to know that the whining will almost-probably be cut out later. Just to have a cup of coffee that is still hot. Just to stop being two parents rolled into one with eyes in the back of my head and enough patience to shame a saint, for a tiny tiny fraction of time. I was cross and I told her off. I'm not proud of it. At all. But it was that or burst into tears. Needless to say, it did nothing. With defeat and now over an hour lost, I gave up and chalked it up to my list of failings and headed into soft play. As I paid the entrance fee, I knew full well that she wouldn't last the two hours it gives you but by now we both needed somewhere neutral and shrieking friendly.


And actually it did the trick. I chilled out and relaxed especially as Wriggles clambered over me. Seeing her cackling away to herself trying to climb the wrong way up the slide reminded me why I love her completely. I helped her perfect her clambering skill, which I suspect I may regret. It was rather hot in there, and as time passed Wriggles began to concern me slightly. She was getting very sweaty and clammy; I removed her t-shirt and clipped her face back. She was still very hot. In horror, I watched a bright rash spread across her arms and chest. It was very red and very spotty. Whether fever or heat rash it was hard to tell. Gradually it faded as I tried to cool her down and my bed time it is as if it had never been there. It is horrible moment though when your heart leaps into your mouth and panic is suddenly everywhere! We came home without even and had a cuddle that put the world, or at least mine, to right.


This week has been a little ray of bliss in terms of Wriggles' feeding. We have tried:

• Mummy's sandwich
• Mummy's cake
• Strips of pitta bread
• Wafers
• A bit of buttered roll 
• A vegetarian sausage 

...which have all gone down relatively well. I'm not talking huge amounts, but just tasting and Wriggles voluntarily putting them in her mouth is such an enormous step. I decided to bite the home cooking bullet today and make some sweet potato chips. To my amazement, as I deposited some on the highchair, Wriggles abandoned the strips of toast she was dribbling on and took one. And put it in her mouth. This was a beautiful moment; it was the first thing I have made she has touched*. Obviously I am delighted she now will try toast and sausages, but was giving up hope of ever being able to nourish her myself! Alright, I know it was just a bit of essentially fried potato. I imagine I could have possibly obtained some from the frozen aisle as the supermarket. But I cooked it. 

It dawned on me that I am enjoying food times with Wriggles. For the last 14 months I have been very much trying to enjoy food times zen to a fine art, but enjoy it? No way. Would you enjoy your offerings refused for months and months? Every day, several times a day no matter what you do with it? Would you enjoy seeing your child make herself sick with distress because she caught sight of a spoon....no not her spoon, your spoon you intend to eat your yoghurt with? Would you enjoy finally revelling in her trust that fromage frais is actually yummy only to see her stomach contents cover the entire kitchen because of one little gag? No, thought not. Live with, yes. Accept, yes. Chill out about, very almost yes. Enjoy? No. But now, now Wriggles is trusting food enough to at least make sensory discovery and her own mind up and at best actually use her oral skills and digest it, now there is variety and her enthusiasm matches my own, now it is fun. Now if she just put on a little bit of weight so I couldn't play the xylophone on her ribs...!

Getting a bit cocky with the "climbing" malarky...

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).

Shock

I have suffered with mental health and I have known many other people around me suffer. Some have been classed as "severe" and complex, but it wasn't until the last few days that I saw someone truly on the brink. I have seen and experienced debilitating symptoms, breakdowns in communications and relationships, lack of interest and energy in anything and an acute feeling of helplessness and no future but now I've seen the next step when it gets worse. And it is chilling and sobering.

One of my closest friends has had complex depression for as long as I have known her and over the last six or more years has bounced from psychologists, psychiatrists, counsellors, medication and various forms of therapy. Somewhere she lost her footing and the last few weeks, and in particular, since last weekend had been very bleak. On Tuesday things reached a head and also information was uncovered about the extent of what has been going on, the depths of concealment so she didn't worry her loved ones and the ritualistic obsessions which have defined her existence and either accidentally or intentionally endangered her. Eventually she turned herself to the Crisis Team. It was expected she would be admitted to a psychiatric unit or similar care for a temporary period. Whatever she said to the doctor, she was released for the night and her parents decided to come and take her home. The next day was fraught with meetings and then the act of her leaving. It feels very disloyal thinking how she veered in and out of being herself and would flip within minutes to being full of clarity and understanding to being consumed with pure emotion and reaction and would become almost violent and child-like again. It took a long time to get her to leave her sanctuary of her bedroom, which although was understandable from her point of view, was also necessary for her to move forward. It took sedatives to calm her down and be released from panic attacks, before she was driven off down South.

Those of us close to her feel numb to the level of hurt she has felt and that we have not been able to wave a magic wand for her, and this must only be a fraction of what she has been dealing with in her own mind. To be tortured and imprisoned by thoughts is very sobering, especially when they impact on your physical actions and decisions and cloud your judgement from tiny things to much bigger things. It feels almost very surreal when the situation is real, but half of what the things someone says are not "real" except in the briefest of moments. It is very sad to see someone so vivacious, intelligent and talented felled by essentially thoughts. 

It is scary to have a glimpse of what things could have been like for anyone who has suffered from depression or anxiety. I held Wriggles so much tighter the day it all came to light and have done each day since, and been so grateful I turned a corner. And then wept a little inside, that my friend had not reached out for help or let herself lean on us, the way she has supported me. It is such a strange situation; we all felt so guilty for not realising sooner, not delving, not putting two and two together...but were two and two there? Hindsight is so clear but also mixes up the elements and clouds the reality. And whatever hindsight can throw up, the important thing is the here and now: this has happened, it is what happens next that is now important.


I miss her.


I miss meeting up with her. I miss sitting in coffee shops with her. I miss her coming round and playing with Wriggles. I miss the way Wriggles' face lit up when she was allowed to play with my friend's copious bracelet collection. I miss her gentle demeanour. I miss her humour and our funny jokes and memories together.


I so badly want her to recover and yet I don't know how to help her.


I'm not afraid to put my hands up and say I probably don't have a brilliant understanding of how and what she is feeling. I know how I felt but it isn't the same because my experiences were directly related to very specific experiences. I don't have experience of sedatives being used or the particular problems she has, I don't necessarily understand self-harming and even in my blackest times, I can't imagine being that close to the edge, because I have Wriggles. Who knows if I didn't? That thought conjures up an empty void that frightens me.

It was also a very strange split to see as a parent: partly, I was shielded from a lot of things that our other friends dealt with and saw as Wriggles needed me and partly it was a small leap to be in her parents' shoes. It would break my heart if Wriggles was that poorly and I was that helpless. It was really quite terrifying to even contemplate that her perfect, innocent and beautiful little mind might be sullied by other voices muddying it and planting vicious thoughts. 
I have felt very redundant as a friend. In the old days, I would have been in the thick of helping and doing everything I could; now Wriggles is my priority and that means that both practically and physically I cannot always do everything I would ideally like to. I am doing what I can and sadly, that is not a lot. We have been told she needs space and also time with her family who will for the time being be her primary carers again like when she was a little sick child. Their baby. Hopefully they will be enough so that she will not have to be sectioned, something I know frightens her hugely. I know they will do everything in their power and more and that is a relief to know that finally she is being looked after by the people who love her the best. I know as a parent that there is no stone you will leave unturned in the quest to make your child better, whether it be from tonsillitis or depression!

It won't be an easy journey but one that needs to be taken. This is one where you can't just get off.

To be or not to be?

Cheerful, that is.

I am currently signed off work to come to terms with and acquire adequate/successful management of my depression and anxiety so that I can juggle both single motherhood and working at the same time. After a slow-building but sick-inducing wobble very recently, I simply could not do both and with no family or back up, it was with both regret and relief that I agreed to forgo a small period of working to make sure I could mummy as best as I could, rather than fall apart and let my one year old take the consequences. I am already feeling calmer, more rational and more positive with regards to the future. This weekend was a stressful weekend, as Wriggles was poorly again, but I am proud to say I held my cool and even made us leave the house yesterday to go to a parent and toddler group we haven't been to before, and speak to strangers. You know what; I think we both even enjoyed it. A breakthrough. Before I could barely manage the duration of such a group without a panic attack or breaking down into tears either and running off (with Wriggles in tow of course!).

Today was a good day.
I had a productive appointment with the psychologist I see.
Wriggles and I went to an art gallery with an interactive pre-schooler section and listened to a story and then played with some blocks, a plastic tea pot and a colour mixing bubble lamp (honestly, that alone signifies a brilliant day surely?). 
We met up with my good friend and had lunch (ie. cake) in the cafe and Wriggles ate half a packet of Quavers (dietician approved. Salt content is soooo yesterday...when your child doesn't normally eat) and consented to having some spoonfuls of fruit and custard too. 
Afterwards we went for a wander in the sun and put the world to rights while Wriggles dozed in the pushchair, wrapped up in her pink coat and spotty socks.

Then I saw some people from work.

It was a bit awkward.

When you are sick and it is not a physical illness with obvious signs, how can you prove it? Answer, I haven't a clue. Answers on a postcard please. I felt a fraud. I know I am not, but I still felt one. Do they think I'm making it up or exaggerating? Do they think I just don't care? I worried and wondered if they would say anything to my seniors back at work. Silly, even if I was at working, Tuesdays are my day off anyway, why shouldn't I be out?

There is a real misconception that depression means a constant state of melancholy and wringing your hands. Depression can actually manifest in many other forms and is very changeable. You can have several good days followed by many more terribly bleak days. You can have several good weeks, followed by despair and isolation. Depression is not just unhappiness, it is more complex. Depression is always there in the background, but on good days it is not the defining factor in your day. It is possible to laugh and smile and do "normal" things. It is possible to make decisions and feel motivated. In fact, it is really quite important that on the good days, you really make the most of them. Sitting inside and feeling guilty is only going to enforce a negative cycle of behaviour. It can be a self fulfilling prophecy-I am depressed therefore I must act depressed therefore I will feel more depressed... in a nutshell, not helpful to you, people around you or people helping to treat you.
I know that this time off is imperative that I will be able to get on with life in all spheres soon. But I desperately needed this little break to slot my mind back into thinking mode and start feeling like I am "living" again and not just "existing". This time off is helping my focus, concentration, ability to make decisions, ability to prioritise and face up to things and think rationally. It is letting me manage things not let them manage me. It is reducing my anxiety and rekindling interest in anything other than hiding under the duvet. I have never questioned my feelings for Wriggles in the dark moments, if anything my love for her burns bright with a fierce intensity, but I could see my capabilities and my day-to-day devotion through simple tasks and attention slipping away as I would struggle with daily tasks, routine and getting things done that needed doing. I am clawing those things back now, and breathing in each moment as it happens. I am trying hard to be here in the present, not floating in the ether looking down.

But can you show people that in a brief meeting? How can you say that when people say "How are you?" and you reply on autopilot "OK, good thanks." Because anything more is a long and/or delicate conversation that is not really for fleeting moments.


I am revelling in feeling cheerful again. I am getting better, just not "cured" yet. I know my close friends and family understand.

I just hope other people do too.

The Compassionate Mind

In the past year when I have struggled I have briefly dipped my toe in Cognitive Behavioural Therapy to help change unhelpful thoughts and break the cycle of behaviour which ultimately spirals into feelings of acute distress and failure. When last week, I reached a falling apart point and realised enough was enough I started reading up again and finding some exercises to do at home to rationalise thoughts and reduce anxiety. One of the things I came across was something called the Compassionate Mind by Professor Paul Gilbert and Dr Michelle Cree. This has it's roots in CBT, and I found that the way it explained the workings of the brain resonated with me, and allowed myself to use compassion to shake off the feelings of failure, which ultimately is the idea. I have only the briefest of understandings of psychology and the biology of the brain, but found the way it talks about the primitive brain reactions with more modern thinking was useful into trying to understand how as a reasonably intelligent human being, you can be felled by pure emotion and allow reactions and feelings to run your everyday life, cutting you off.

Permission

Dear You,

I think we should have some serious words.

I know you've been having a hard time recently. Or rather, Brain has been giving you a hard time. If it is any consolation, it isn't your fault about Brain. It's nothing you've done or not done that makes her a bit unstable; it's nothing your parents did or something that happened, it's just that that is how you humans are made. Sorry. It's an evolutionary thing. Those cave-ancestors have a lot to answer for, they set a pattern of primitive reactions designed to protect and save you. Only things have become far less clear cut since then. That's where I came in, to reason and rationalise, to plan and remember. Brain got a bit boisterous and took over a bit. The default alarm went off. But I'm back now and I'm just going to do some spring cleaning if you don't mind.

*does some dusting*

Cardigan

Today I went to see the psychologist I have known since neonatal who has given me counselling and been somewhat of an extra helping hand for me. At low points in the past she has taken charge and sorted things out with my GP to kick-start more help and has offered in the past to help with things in a non-professional environment like watching Wriggles or doing some ironing. We get on well and I think she takes joy from seeing Wriggles growing up into the menace/delight that she now is. I told her how I had been feeling recently again, and we talked about ways to try and un-knot the knots that are stopping me in my tracks. She referred to them as "grounding" and a cross between meditative exercises and a comforting device. 

Letting Go

As silly as it may sound, I am afraid of letting go of the past. Despite the pain and disruption that neonatal and PICU have caused, I am scared of forgetting them and moving on. They are such an important part of our lives and whilst caused unimaginiable hurt, they also made me intensely grateful and changed the way I look at things now. They are so integral to Wriggles' journey and health, how can I just write the experiences off? How can I move on when they can loom so large?

Because things are different now.

Because this:

Is not this:

Lost

Part of the shock from having a new baby is that suddenly you go from being well, you, to 'Mum'. No one can remember your name except from the bills company and unless you are attached to your new bundle, people seem to seldom recognise and acknowledge you. Of course, part of this is lovely. There is a certain inner glow that comes everytime someone says "So-and-so's mummy" and you think, yes! Me! I am so-and-so's mummy! After all it is such an important job, why wouldn't you want to tell the world? But somewhere along the line, there are days when it grates on you. Days when you think that it would be nice if just once someone at least pretended they knew your name once. And then comes the guilt. Why would you want to do or be anything that is not 100% mummy?

Personally I think this guilt is nothing more than a reaction. Wanting something for yourself does not mean you are neglecting your child, as long as you are not dropping their care. Wanting to reclaim some of your personality or maybe even a hobby (there is more to life than folding tiny socks...? Really?) or a social life does not mean you are trying to shake off being a parent. I think a good parent is one who has a healthy sense of self; if you heap everything onto your child that is suddenly a lot of expectations for that child and at worst, a chance resentment might build up. of course we all have periods where this comes and goes, circumstances, mood and even mental health fluctuate. We cannot be perfect, or striving to be sort-of-perfect all the time.

For myself, having gone through difficult periods of neonatal and a sick child, I am beginning to feel this even more keenly. I don't want these times and grief to describe me or settle my identity. As a single parent, I want to be a strong person and a good mum. I want this blip in coping I am having to be nothing more than a blip. In these times, Wriggles become like a benevolent force or shield, saving me from seeking deeper. She is the reason that when I feel bleak that I do not feel like contemplating removing myself forcibly from the equation. She is like a rock in a turbulent sea to cling onto. I feel naked without her, like I am exposed and that there is nothing to look back to. She is undoubtedly the most important thing, but I want to be able to claw myself back without relying on her alone. I will always do it for her, but I need to have a stronger sense of self again. I know it is in there, just hiding. A bit lost. I am primarily Wriggles' Mama but I am also a young woman who has a range of interests, passions and dislikes. I don't believe that finding other things equates to losing some of her care or giving up some love, more that it stretches things to include more. Yes, I am changed since our experiences but this is time to stop just dwelling and start doing. I owe it to my daughter and I owe it to myself. I want to stop saying the right things and start doing the right things. Whatever they are...

 

Cuckoo?

Although it is more of an "acceptable" subject these days, mental health still holds something of a taboo. It is not one to be discussed lightly and can be a minefield of political correctness, ignorance and compassion. We're all guilty of claiming to be "depressed" when the washing basket is too full, "going mad" when it's been a bad week or five or "traumatised" over losing something but none of these really go anywhere near acknowledging how it really feels if you are genuinely battling with a mental illness. Mental illness sounds terrifyingly serious. It describes a huge umbrella of things in varying severity, many of which can be recovered from and escaped. I don't think anyone ever expects to become a sufferer or a loved one to succumb. Until you are gripped by one, it is very hard to fully understand being controlled by thoughts and emotions, many devoid of reason or rationality.

There can also be such a fine line.

When do the baby blues turn into postnatal depression? When does grief turn into depression? When does shock turn into post-traumatic stress? When does worry turn into full-blown anxiety?

I cannot speak for everyone, only from my personal experience. At present, I am currently signed off work for a small period following over a year of dealing with post traumatic stress, depression and anxiety. In the main, I have largely been able to control these with help from sertaline (a selected serotonin uptake inhibitor, or SSRI drug) and a course of counselling. There have been low points certainly but so far I have been able to juggle things even if that means really struggling. Lately though, the struggle has been getting harder. Motivation and concentration have gone out the window, and I have been exhausted. My mind has spiralled into a whirlwind of pure emotion, little based on fact. It's not something visible or that people can necessarily understand, which I have found the hardest part. It's easier to joke about loosing your marbles than it is so say "I really, really need some help."

I don't know whether the feelings started from a difficult birth and extended stay in Neonatal, but they certainly grew at an astounding rate shortly after discharge from Paediatric Intensive Care when Wriggles had pneumonia at 6 months old. Then I became quickly swamped, and whilst I could muddle through in the day, when Wriggles was in bed and separated from me, I became a mess. I couldn't eat, drink or sleep, let alone do the washing up. I would sit, glued to the sofa because I felt too leaden to move. I was in a perpetual state of hyper vigilance, waiting ears pricked for disaster to loom again, and would cry silent tears and become surrounded by flashbacks and nightmares of my daughter in distress. The relief after admitting how far things had come was huge. I was told it was a form of post-traumatic stress. Granted, it wasn't going to be the severity of soldiers from combat or people who have suffered horrific abuse or ordeals but in my little world, my family had been rocked as I had stared bleakly at the prospect of losing my child. I was started on sertaline and began counselling in earnest with a wonderful psychologist who had had a premature baby herself previously, which acted as an excellent bond and feeling of trust that she knew what I was going through. With support, the acuteness and rawness began to fade and I began to gain confidence and relax. Daytimes became better, where I could revel and immerse myself in Wriggles without inhibition and slowly I re-learnt to be "normal" at the end of the day and enjoy working. Unfortunately Wriggles had other ideas and an admission lasting nearly a month and enduring a mis-diagnosis of queried brain damage with an unsafe swallow triggered everything off again. I regularly would "hear" the noises of the ventilator and alarms going off and would burst into tears at anything. Thankfully, I was in good hands and able to get back on track with the healing process and shaking things off before a welcome break in the hub of my family over Christmas.

So what now, five months on? Where did I slip again when it was all going so swimmingly? Wriggles is 19 months today, it is just a year yesterday since leaving the hospital after our PICU scare and she is blossoming all the time. It isn't as simple as accepting things are better and consequently getting on with things. It isn't as simple as processing memories. I suspect that like everything, it needs time and these are relatively early days. I imagine also the sense of responsibility and physical demands of being the sole carer as a single parent have not helped, draining me of some energy and quickening the need for maturity and stability. Of course I wouldn't have it any other way, and I would do it all again to have my little girl with me. But once you have been gripped by the fear, it is all too easy for your brain to muddle up facts with emotions and responses with feelings and turn a vulnerable mind into a seemingly random generator of reactions. Depression and anxiety can be bred from post-traumatic stress, they can be there independently. It is beside the point how they got here for me, only that they are there and it is the physical symptoms of them which made me go to GP this week and resulted in some weeks off. It isn't as easy as pointing at a specific memory and saying, "yup, that one there. Zap it" as it is far more complex, especially as some upheaval and work-based anxiety is very much playing into this at present. It wasn't easy admitting it this time and agreeing to take time off. I have been encouraged to in the past but always declined partly for feeling it would be selfish. Yes, it is my responsibility to keep our heads above water financially. But it is also my responsibility to make sure I can care for Wriggles to the best of my ability to ensure that she remains the happy and healthy toddler she is. 

I am confident I can return to being myself, i just need to harness this blasted anxiety and stem the flow of overpowering emotions that come from memory which will enable to me to clearly deal with everyday worries rather than letting them get out of control and taking on exaggerated and fictitious fears. Much of the feeling is a peculiar form of grief and guilt. One blog I enjoy has put this into words better than I can here. It feels wrong to use the word 'grief' without reference to a bereavement, as I am acutely aware how lucky I am not to have had to deal with such and my heart goes out to all that sadly have. The feelings are similar though, and in my experience can stun you into a sense of separating from the rest of the world. Asking for help and admitting that I can't just lock a box of the past away has been one of the hardest things I have done, and I am not naive enough to think it will all just magic away and that there may be repercussions in how people tread in the future. But that is another day. For now, I am looking after Wriggles, and looking after myself *puts kettle on".

"Normal"

Yesterday morning I was idly listening to the...gulp...Archers omnibus, whilst chasing a newly crawling Wriggles around when I heard the storyline about a heart attack. Bloody Archers, first they have the premature baby storyline (reduced me to hysterical tears over the dinner table at Christmas just weeks after Wriggles reached 'term') and now one about hearts! A lump rose to my throat and I was transported back to the Intensive Care waiting rooms of my father and beautiful daughter within seconds, scared and tired in an empty clinical world.

I also fittingly read a discussion on "normality" after trauma and if you ever return to your former state or feel like you fit back in with the world. Can you, and are you, 'normal' again?

Grump

Today is a fed up day. One of those where there is no apparent rhyme or reason why but you just feel a bit pants. And that is me now.

Partly I feel a bit deflated after my family left after a weekend visit, and a little bit horrified at myself that within hours the place looked a tip again and I was lacking any energy or motivation to do pretty much anything. I had a nap on the rug next to Wriggles who battered my ear with a toy tambourine. She is very much trying to be on the move and has developed a system of pushing herself backwards on all fours and then sitting up, swivelling on her bottom and reaching for things before going backwards and getting stuck under the sofa/bookcase/dining chair again. It is lovely but a little bit of me misses having a baby happy to have cuddles and play all day together. I think as much of this is I simply do not know what to do with myself when she is blatantly happy amusing herself.

Partly I am a bit miffed that an attempt to try and come off/cut down on anti-depressants has ended with a huge fail and a big blunt realisation that if I want to be a good mummy, an interested daughter and friend, an attentive worker and a human being then they are my one option for the time being. I am lucky in that they suit me with no side effects and importantly, work, but part of me resents that without them I just can't function day after day. I become a big heap of bluuuuurggghggmf that can't sleep, eat or muster up any interest in anything whatsoever. Some days, that includes my daughter, and that breaks my heart.

Partly I am beginning (for the millionth time) to get naffed off with questions about dear Wriggles' development and effects of prematurity. It's a constant barrage of 

"Is she crawling/walking/talking/eating yet?" to which to answer is NO. Well apart from crawling; that is very nearly because she is very very clever. When I have to explain we have commitments to go to physio and still have regular consultant input as well as other services, people look at me as if I am mad. I am not an over anxious mother, I want to scream at them. I fully believe she will "get there in her own time" but the fact remains, there are some lumps and bumps to be smoothed out and the medical services believe they should be involved. Do you think I LIKE spending time in outpatients? Do you think I find it FUN? Do you think we go to things JUST BECAUSE? And how exactly do you know it will be alright in the end? Do you have a crystal ball? If so, please give it to me to give me some respite from a little bit of worry. It may all look easy peasy but nothing is straight forward. Our beloved childminder is retiring in the summer and I am looking at nurseries which has turned into a bit of an exciting game as Wriggles' comes under some "additional needs" due to not eating solids, having physiotherapy for gross motor skills and we are awaiting a referral for speech and language input also. She is being fitted for gaiters to help her legs and hips and will be assessed to see if her left leg may need a splint as it is a bit all over the place. Sometimes I feel like life is just waiting as I know the consultants have not ruled anything in or out regarding movement but I do know they are keen to book her for an MRI scan around her second birthday. And what a treat that will be. Now some time has elapsed people forget and say things that niggle me; preconceptions about prematurity, disability, mothering skills. Stereotypes about single parents on low incomes and their abilities to bring children up; "oh but we don't mean you". 

Partly, I am just grumpy today.