12 weeks outside

I find it very hard to think "biology textbook" about baby development now. Instead of all the 'your baby is now the size of a small-but-perfectly-formed-semi-ripe-mango business all I can see and think is what I saw in special care. As well as being truly terrifying, it is a privilege to see what would be a foetus, but now a genuine baby, grow.

From 27+6 weeks, I saw my daughter develop. Not entirely naturally: for the first near two weeks she had machines to help her breathe (ventilator then CPAP) and from 31 weeks she started requiring oxygen again so had two enormous sticking plasters on her cheeks to ensure the nasal cannulas stayed on. She also had a feeding tube, right up until the very tail end of week 36, in time for home at 37 weeks (well 36+6 just to be clever). 

At birth she weighed 1090g (2lb 6oz) and at term she weighed 2385kg (5lb 4oz). By full term on her due date, she weighed a very respectable 3.3kg (7lb 5oz). 

I can only remember that period of development in emotion now. In grief, regret, tears and heartbreak. And shock, pure shock like a thick blanket. No precious kicks, no scan photographs, no lingering over first purchases of baby grows. No decorating the nursery, no showing off a growing bump, no excitement of choosing names. All that was done in a very intense and stressful situation instead, in a clinical environment with doctors, nurses, physiotherapists and beeps, always the beeps.

Our milestones were suddenly very different. Ventilators, IV fluids, antibiotics, diuretics, vitamins, caffeine, oxygen, feeding tubes, phototherapy, hot cots. And cuddles and cares. Snatched minutes of the day allowed to touch and interact with your child. The bliss of having them close, of your lips and hot breath tickling their fragile thin skin, breathing them in deeply to remember until the next 23 hours later...
 

Breakthrough with extra ice cream

This weekend something amazing happened.

We were invited to a birthday party.

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

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

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

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

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

Celebration

Crack open the bubbly, dust off the best cutlery (wait, I don't have best cutlery. Better give the normal stuff a swizzle under the tap then) and find your silver teapots!

WRIGGLES IS CRAWLING!!!!!

In a week she has nailed crawling, clapping, shouting down a cardboard tube and attempting to copy song actions to 'Wind the Bobbin'.

I know how infernal it is when parents boast of their precious offspring's achievements and how grating it is after a bad day when you are seething having tripped over the millionth Mega-Blok but look, I am allowed a little smug moment. Alright, quite a large smug moment.

All milestones are precious and although having only had one child, I cannot say for parents of "straightforward" children, but it means so much. It's one little less thing on my mind. Having a premature baby, or one that is sick or different for want of a better word gives things a new perspective both for their lives and your expectations. It is not to say that parents of such children love them more or have a better appreciation than parents without this experience, but I do think they have an acute awareness of each little thing. We have been inundated with medical and developmental knowledge, far beyond the literature that is normally given to parents. We have seen struggle. We have had days when we have to contemplate that we might not see our children crawl; not because they can't but because they might not be there. We also might have to come to terms with the fact some of their abilities may be impaired, so every little thing is a joy.