From angel to diva.

We appear to have come to a whole new range of ways letting mummy know when she is not meeting expected levels of service.
Oh, yes, the tantrums have arrived. And there are no half measures here. Crazypixie now voices her disapproval at being offered the wrong piece of fruit or having her shoes put on by back arching, red faced, arm and leg thrashing screaming and if that isn’t proving effective she throws in some fake choking.
The first time this happened I thought she was having a seizure and acted accordingly. Bad idea, the ole positive reinforcement ensured that this will be part of our daily communication for the foreseeable future.
I understand that she’s trying to deal with a whole host of new emotions and so far this is her only way of coping with the frustrations of being thwarted. And it’s not as if she got her strong will from the ground, both himself and myself are the oldest in our families and are fairly opinionated and headstrong to boot. Oh, there’ll be fun when she hits her teens.
In the meantime tantrums have been restricted to home but we’re going to the supermarket this morning and I have a funny feeling I’m going to get my first taste of those disapproving looks from strangers.

Thinking small.

Himself is in the kitchen with crazypixie keeping her entertained by reading the local TD’s latest newsletter out loud in various ‘funny’ voices. I walk past every now and then muttering obscenities about the lying feckers (politicians, not wonderful family) under my breath.

It’s made me think about the things we grown adults do to keep our little ones occupied, enable them to fall asleep and prevent meltdowns.
In the past year some of the tricks we’ve learnt are:

• Kiddies Cd played at full volume in the car enables crazypixie to fall asleep. This particular Cd contain such classics as ‘I can count with my fingers’, ’10 elephants came out to play’, ‘Alice the Camel’, and most annoying of all, ‘One, two, three, O’Leary.’ There is no switching back to the radio once she’s asleep, oooh no, she can sense that and is instantly awake. We’ve emerged from the car after three hour drives totally stupefied and fit to strangle any happily singing kid that comes within our reach. But, hey, crazy pixie gets her nap and arrives at our destination all smiles and sweetness.
• ‘Row, row, row your boat’ sung a double chipmunk time will comfort her back to sleep at night. Sing too slow and she’ll scream the house down, hit her preferred speed and the thumb goes in the mouth, she rolls over and nods off. It usually doesn’t take more than half an hour, and if you rub her tummy clockwise at the right tempo things are speeded up.
• Giving away my credit cards to total strangers ensures the crazypixie stays amused during shopping trips. Whether in the sling, the buggy or a shopping trolley once I produce my wallet she has to have it (in the ‘I’m going to scream until I’m sick unless you give it to me’ way). Then she might chew on the leather for a while before she goes about getting it open. The credit and loyalty cards are the removed one by one and either flung on the ground when mummy has her head turned or handed to total stranger with a smile and a ‘ta ta’.
• Predinner meltdowns (when mummy hasn’t got her ass in gear in time to feed the hungry child) can be averted by pouring rice crispies onto her tray. She eats them individually so providing the window of opportunity for mummy to come up with some culinary delights.
• In desperation, when all the ‘row, row’ rowing has not worked she’ll happily sleep parked under the extractor fan in the kitchen. So environmentally friendly, I know.
  
  People (you know the finger wagging kind) might tut-tut that we are ‘ruining’ her and that ‘she’s the boss’ and they may have a point, but I’ve realised that we just have to do what we can to help her cope with her frustrations, and us with ours, and there are times when being parent involves thinking like a toddler.

We're done.......

At 13 ½ months my little girl is weaned. She hasn’t had a boobie feed since 7pm last Friday.

I must admit I have very mixed emotions about this. Part of me (lets call her Earthmum) is feeling the wrench of no longer having the same physical attachment to her offspring and is bursting into tears at every opportunity (not helped by the pregnancy hormones here). Another part (Foreveryoung) is dancing around the kitchen singing ‘my boobies are mine, mine, mine’ (to the tune of an old Michael Jackson song).
Earthmum was looking forward to the experience of tandem feeding and loving nursing her little darlings for as long as she could (probably calling a halt somewhere in their early teens).
Foreveryoung was feeling the toll of breastfeeding while seven months pregnant and wishing for two months of having purely decorative (if still monstrously large) boobs and getting more than three hours sleep at a time.
Ah, the conflicts of womanhood.


We hadn’t really planned to wean just yet even though for a while we had both been losing interest. In retrospect, I think my supply went about two weeks ago.
I had been hoping for night weaning so my exhausted pregnant self could catch up on some sleep. Last weekend himself settled her one night and my mum the next and she didn’t seem bothered or even look for a daytime feed (forgive the over justifications but I have a hyperactive guilt gland).
So it’s done…….
We’re finished…..
She’s growing up……
I’ll just have to deal with it…


Yesterday my GP, the doc who thinks I’m mad for breastfeeding during pregnancy and has serious issues around the whole tandem feeding thing, asked how the feeding was going.
‘Oh, fine,’ I replied……………..I don’t think I’ll give her the satisfaction just yet………

Uh, oh

I was just putting together a few thoughts on weaning, getting quite emotional as I pitter-pattered away on my keyboard, when I became aware of how peaceful it was....

Uh, oh...

It was one of those silences………..

You know the ones that mean she is quietly doing something that is very definitely a ‘no no’, if not downright dangerous. Here it usually indicates she’s halfway up the stairs (after some negligent parent forgot to close the stairgate again) or happily munching into the cat food.

Sure enough, my daughter, who was sitting no more than three foot from her oblivious mum was at least half way through a tub of Vaseline. It was all over her little hands, smeared on her clothes and the remainder, presently unaccounted for, is presumed eaten.

I can’t wait for the nappies.

She's human!

My little girl has grown up; it’s time to send her to work in the mines. Gone is my baby. Soon she’ll be borrowing the car and bringing home dodgy boyfriends.

Yes, we bought ‘big girl shoes’; the kind she had to get measured for, with real soles and almost requiring us to take out a second mortgage.

Crazypixie has been able to walk for quite a while but up until recently she considered crawling a much more efficient way of actually getting anywhere. But she has officially evolved from quadruped to biped; walking is now her main means of transport. She toddles ever more confidently from room to room and back again, and again, and again. She’s even bringing dada for walks outside, ‘out, ope door,’ she points while clutching her hat.

In a way it’s a relief, we had been a little worried. Not about reaching development milestones on time (arse to that) but rather that she may have been spending too much time with our cats. You see, not only would she crawl everywhere but she would inevitably be carrying some thing in her mouth. And when she would be faced with dilemmas like how to eat a yummy piece of banana stuck to the leg of the armchair while holding dolly in one hand and mummy’s rather naughty negligee (I’ll tell you that story another time) in the other, she would go for the cat solution – bend down and just lick it off. She also tends to roll over to have her tummy tickled (I get the raised eyebrows from the inlaws on that one) but at least she hasn’t picked up their hygiene habits yet (cats not inlaws).

So now our little pint sized person is not only walking, she’s walking fast, and silently. No more slapping of little knees on wooden floors to give away her position, methinks the mummy radar needs to be recalibrated.

Wait a minute, I’m sure we have a spare cat collar with bell somewhere…………….that would work, wouldn’t it?

Loving being a mummy.....

I've been tagged by Irish Mammy on the run so here goes:

Five things I love about being a mother

(off the top of my head, and in no particular order...)

The chaos
Finding shoes in the food cupboards, duckies in the toilet, tomato puree in the toybox, little socks scattered everywhere…..I love it! At 13 months old she’s taken over every corner of the house and our hearts.

Watching my daughter and my husband interact
It is the most heartwarming sight, and makes me love each of them even more. He does bath with her every evening, and I love to see them laugh together and enjoy each others company.

Knowing my pixie
I have the privilege of being the person who sees this little girl grow and develop day by day. There is nobody who gets to know her quite like her mummy.

My motherly body
I feel so different about my body and my womanhood now that I’ve given birth and that I’m nursing my child. It all feels right somehow.

It’s not about me anymore
I love the feeling of looking after someone else, of being so much more than myself – being mummy.

Just myself and himself........

Just had the loveliest afternoon with himself. With the recent run of sleepless nights and erratic pregnancy moods we hadn’t been getting much quality time together (hate this overused phrase but chilled out brain won’t let me come up with a better one). So we approached it as we always do; we came up with a plan.

Part A involved getting an afternoon together this weekend. Doting grandparents were brought on board, briefed and charged with the care of crazypixie for 5 whole hours!!
So we dropped her off, sat in the car, looked at each other and asked the inevitable ’what do we do now?’
We decided to head for a forest walk followed by lunch. Birds were nesting, primroses were peeping up in little pockets in the undergrowth, it was enough to bring a tear to my over emotional eyes. We held hands and just enjoyed being together.
We followed this with a walk on the beach, eating ice-cream in the sunshine. One of us would comment every now and then, ‘wouldn’t crazypixie love this?’
After all this we still had two hours left, so nothing for it but home to bed for a bit of loving.

What a wonderful afternoon, and crazypixie didn’t miss us a bit. I haven’t been this chilled in months.

And Plan part B is happening next weekend. We’ve enlisted doting grandparents help again and this time they’re taking over our parental responsibilities for a whole night. We’ve booked ourselves into a hotel, and are looking forward to dinner in the restaurant, a full nights sleep and breakfast and newspapers in bed.

With littlespud due in under 2 months it’ll be a while before we get this opportunity again; but we’re already planning for October………….

Thanks mum and dad………

Domestic goddess.....not!

Crazypixie is having a nap and I’m turning my back on all things domestic to escape online for a while. This is a very regular occurrence and partially explains why I’m such a disastrous housekeeper.
I love my home, and I love when it’s clean and organised. It’s just that I’m not very good at keeping it in that state.

I blame my mum, and she blames hers (as my daughters will surely blame me); she was brought up by the superhuman, ultra organised, spot-dust-from- two-streets-away woman that was my Gran.
So my mother’s rebellion lay in the chaos of our childhood home. In her defence it was a 4 storey thirteen room monstrosity of a house miraculously still standing despite dry rot, wet rot, rising damp, missing roof tiles and the penury of my poor parents in the 80’s.
Our bedrooms were our lairs. Huge spaces with open fireplaces and wooden shutters on the windows, epic wardrobes that would have been at home in a C.S.Lewis novel and wallpaper that could be peeled back to reveal the decorating trends of the 1800’s. My room was always knee deep in clothes, paper, paints, and stacks upon stacks of books. It was my mess and nobody bothered me about it.
I do remember cleaning alright; it was always just before my Gran came to visit. The panic would creep through the house; we’d be assigned a room or two each and then ensued three days of making the place presentable.

So, I never got proper training……………………..well, that’s my excuse (pathetic, I know).

Now, don’t be calling social services. I don’t do filthy. We keep, what I like to call, a basic standard of hygiene. It’s just that stuff builds up everywhere. Not helped by the fact that, of himself and myself, I’m the tidy one.
He is one of life’s hoarders. The attic is full, the shed is full, the two of us packed a four bed house and all its storage space even before crazypixie was born. Himself has his college books (just in case) in the attic, every old computer is saved for parts (you’d never know), there are bikes that we never use, bits of boats everywhere (a catamaran parked outside the sitting room window as I write - temporarily , you understand, until we get around to repairing it), spare paint and tiles for every room, lengths of counter top (someday it’ll be just what we need), at least two tents, air beds, hill walking gear, wetsuits, dry suits, oilskins, body boards, dozens of safety boots, hardhats and high vis vests. And then there’s the stuff bought for projects we haven’t got around to yet: copper piping, shelves, rolls of insulation and stacks of floor boards. We’ve only lived here 6 years and with the arrival of crazypixie you can add buggies, cots, and the EU toy mountain.

So, with a second baby on the way, himself has decided it’s time for a bigger house. I’m just going to nod and smile and leave him at it. In the meantime I’ll keep sneaking stuff off to the charity shops and do my best to ensure a few hygienically clean play spaces for the crazypixie.

We’re having a……………..

Girl!

Yes, I saw it with my own eyes. Well, the obstetrician pointed out the relevant bits that apparently resembled a ‘burger bun’ (we’re still debating what he would have called the corresponding male part, ‘hotdog’ maybe?). So we’re going to be mama, dada and the girls.

I’m just beginning to get my head around it. You’ll have to be patient with me today and understand that I have been accused, frequently, of over-thinking things.

I had never pictured myself as the mum of girls. I mean, I’m not exactly your typical girl myself; among my skills I can list currach building, single-handed sailing and the ability (presumably now lost) to knock back copious amount of beer. Now I do like to cook, and I even bake, but up until recently most of my friends would have described me as ‘sporty’ or ‘a tomboy’ or maybe even ‘wild’ (and other less favourable terms I’m sure).

But having a little girl has definitely changed me.

It began when crazypixie was a few days old. I lay in bed nursing her and I just felt so womanly, so connected to the earth (ok, it may have been more of those hormones, but hey, hormones are me too). I had this image of my daughter and I being part of an unbroken umbilical line of women stretching back to the beginning of humanity and before. I felt more in tune with other mothers, even my own, and began to really appreciate the wonder of my own body.

Yet, despite my earth mother moments I was adamant about not gender stereotyping my child. We were definitely buying into the pink princess thing. I bought her clothes in every colour but pink; sensible yet cute tops and trousers. The frilly knickers we got as presents were bundled off to charity shops She had a truck long before she had a dolly, and woo betide anyone who dared to comment on her ‘prettiness’ (‘alertness’, ‘brightness’ or ‘determination’ were all considered acceptable)..

She does take after her mummy in some respects; she loves swimming and being out on her bike and she’s a right strong willed little miss.
But she is teaching me lessons already. Yes, she is definitely her own person. At 13 months old she likes nothing better than to sit in front of a mirror brushing her hair, the cats ‘hair’ and everyone else’s. When visiting friends what toys does she go for first time, every time? Yes, the dolls. And wouldn’t you know it, the colour that best suits her complexion is pink.

So, I’ve chilled and become more philosophical. Friends are commenting that I’ve ‘gone soft’ but I think I’m just a lot happier in my own skin (and boobs).
Some of it has to do with being a mother to any child but the thought of raising a little girl has really encouraged me to look at my whole attitude to femininity and gender in general. My copy of ‘The Female Eunuch’ has long been gathering dust, but Friedan has been a recent bedside companion. At the risk of sounding totally self absorbed, I reckon my quest to understand my own identity as a person and a woman is a lifelong one.

I can only hope that I can keep my own issues in perspective and be the kind of mother that inspires her daughters to embrace their own identities and strengths, respect those of others, and question and work to improve the world they live in.

………………………….

Oh, I almost forgot: what was himselfs reaction to the prospect of having two daughters?
‘Oh my god, all your periods will synchronise and I’ll be in a house full of PMT.’
Ah, the male mind………..

Different the second time?

With the reality of having a second baby in two months time sinking in, my thoughts turned to a question I was asked recently. ‘What will you do differently this time?’
Don’t worry, I’m not going to analyse every parenting decision we’ve made over the past year. Well, I do that all the time but I’ll refrain from subjecting innocent blog browsers to my hypercritical self analysis.

There are a few obvious things though.

Firstly the birth……….
I don’t care if this baby wants to arrive two months late; I AM NOT BEING INDUCED UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES. Let’s just say that it was not the most pleasant 24 hours of my life and leave it at that.
This time I plan on waking up one morning to find that I’ve slept through most of the first stage of labour, that contractions are five minutes apart and it’s time to go to the hospital. Like my birthing CD promises, gentle surges will help my cervix to open like a rosebud and my baby, who is the perfect size for my body by the way, will emerge gently. Through it all I will remain focused, calm and in control. Don’t argue with me, this is the way it will happen!

Secondly, I will accept more help…
I may have mentioned the control freak aspect of my personality before. I think this may have played no small part in my three bouts of mastitis as I tried to be all to my wonderful new daughter. I will remember my limitations, and those of himself, this time round and gratefully accept all offers of help (it’s my catholic upbringing making me sound contrite , I can’t help it).

Lastly, less obsessing……
Ok this whole control thing is becoming a major theme, but last time round I was so obsessed with just making sure my daughter survived (she was perfectly healthy) that I may have compromised the enjoyment a little. Now I know the extra crazy hormones (as opposed to the average crazy ones) will take over but I’m going to work at keeping things in perspective a little.

What do you know, I feel better already. Nothing like a good ole self therapy session into the anonymous void of the blogosphere.
We will not only cope but it will be a wonderful experience. And one thing I know for sure is that crazypixie will be a great big sister.

Be careful what you wish for........

After a weekend of single-parenting by yours truly, himself arrived home, exhausted I might add, after a weekend of proving his manhood on the water. Immediately crazy pregnant lady (I’ve been possessed, and take no responsibility for my words or actions)) berated him for being absent during crazypixies terrible weekend of teething and sleepless, for not being attentive enough to his seven month pregnant wife, and for his existence in general. He then thanked her for all she was doing and offered to share the night shift. Thus ruining a perfectly good argument and underlining the futility of lying awake fuming…….

So, the plan was, he’d take the first shift and we’d switch at 1 am so we’d both get at least 5 or 6 hours sleep. Crazypixie dutifully fell asleep for seven and I headed to bed armed with chocolate biccies and book. This was going to be great.
Crazypixie woke at 8 and I hid my head under the duvet (shame on me) and himself went in. Now bear in mind that for the last three nights when she’s woken it has been at least two hours before I could coax her back to sleep, and then she’d only sleep for 40 minutes. Enter wonder daddy. Two verses of ‘row, row, row your boat’ and………..silence. So off he goes back downstairs to watch the grand prix.
I lie awake in the deafening silence, unreasonably peeved. Time for the relaxation CD and sleep. But, no. wakey time for the littlespud, and mummy’s bladder is as good a trampoline as anything. Several trips to the loo, and wee bit of bonding time with my baba later and it’s definitely sleep time now. Coincidently, just as the chocolate biscuits are turning out not to be such a good idea at bed time. Up and search for gaviscon………..damn, finished bottle last night. Nothing for it but prop up with pillows, ignore burning sensation in chest and repel thoughts of himself chilling in front of the television.
Sleep…eventually.

Awake again at 1. Himself arrives in and heads towards bed. ‘How was it?’ I ask sympathetically. ‘Fine’. She’d slept through so far. Hmmmmmmmm…

We decide to move her into her cot so we could both sleep in our own bed as opposed to me camping with her on the mattress in her room again. Bad idea. She wakes screaming.
Himself heads off to bed. I head to the nearest phone booth to turn in super human soother and nurse her to sleep.
She dozes off, but is sleeping so lightly that I dare not move even a finger. Re-enter chronic indigestion and bladder bouncing littlespud. Eventually though, sleep.

4:30 insistent little hands pulling up my top, the human soother is called into action again.
5:00 wide awake crazypixie attempts some sort of manual dental surgery on mummy.
5:15 crazypixie attempts to batter down bedroom door (mummy hides under duvet, feigning sleep, in the hope crazypixie may join in).
5:30 crazypixie reads mummy stories, while sitting on her head (mummy still feigning sleep).
5:45 crazypixie decides mummy need new hairdo. Mummy attempts a rendition of ‘row, row, row your boat’, but to no avail.
6:00 time to open all the drawers and empty the contents onto the bedroom floor.
6:15 mummy relents and takes crazypixie down stairs for brekkie and toys.

And last night is the most sleep I’ve got in over a week.

little did we know...

So there we were at midnight; himself, myself and the crazypixie, sitting in bed eating bananas and toast and laughing at how we’ve mellowed over the past year.

Pre-crazypixie we would look at other kids and parents and sagely (or so we thought) shake our heads, saying ‘we’ll never do that’. Our kids would only eat in the kitchen, have beautiful wooden toys (no plastic allowed) that would be passed down the generations, and they would never, never be snotty. Yes, I admit, himself and myself are both control freaks and perfectionists (who else would have us?)

Well, little did we know…

We’ve now learnt that a teething baby is a snotty baby and besides attaching a little snot catching trough under their nose there is no way to keep it under control.

We do have the wooden toys but we also have the plastic ones, but do seem to have avoided the worst of them – you know those that sing alphabets at you incessantly in an English or American accent. Guess which ones crazypixie prefers?
And, I admit, we have even, on occasion given her boxes of tissues and tubes of nappy cream (shock, horror) to keep her amused for a while.

As for eating in the kitchen, well that does happen most of the time but we have had a pizza picnic on the sitting room floor (the carpet will never be the same) and last nights midnight feast to lighten the tedium of another bout of teething was a welcome break from the norm - mind you sleeping in toast crumbs and banana mush is a tad uncomfortable so we may have to rethink future menus.

On the other hand I never thought I’d be breastfeeding a 13 month old, with the prospect of tandem feeding growing ever closer, not to mention carrying her in a sling while seven months pregnant. Nor had we imagined the strength of personality of our crazypixie and how we would have to work out ways to live together as opposed to us just imposing our ideas on her.
Yes, the past year has definitely been both a humbling and learning experience.

As a result, we so do not judge other parents anymore (well, a lot less any way). We know that they, mostly, are just some poor eejits like ourselves struggling to do their best for their little ones.

sleep deprived drivel

I need a sleep fix. Right now.

I’ve taken on the demeanour of a serious addict, my black ringed eyes look about furtively for places I could just catch a few minutes and I’m eyeing strangers wondering if I could leave my daughter with them for just an hour or so. I’ve tried calling in the family but obviously I’m failing to get across the seriousness of the situation and ,inconveniently, they seem to have their own lives.
I’ve tried just closing the bedroom door and leaving the crazypixie run riot in there as I doze, but the attraction of jumping on a sleeping mummy or exploring her nose has proved too much for my darling daughter and severely hampered sleep attempts.
I’ve been tempted to try the ‘drive til she sleeps’ trick and then catch some kip myself in a quiet carpark, but I don’t think I’d be safe driving today, and honestly someone could kidnap the poor child from the back of the car and I’d probably snore through the experience..
I’m not even beginning to let my mind venture to what I’ll do when we also have a newborn in June, but at this rate the crazypixie should have a full set of teeth by then (ah, is that sleep deprived optimism I hear talking?)

I swear, if himself comes home from work complaining about being tired………..