What’s a bit of shit between friends?

For those of you who’ve been “with me” from the start of this Blog; you will understand what I mean when I say that I’ve treated Potty Training as I viewed childbirth in pregnancy. It was an inevitability; positive, was probably going to be a bit messy and uncomfortable, but would bring with it amazing results. It’s 20.59; I’m on my second [large] glass of Sauvignon Blanc. I’ve been awake since 5.03am. We’ve got through 7 pairs of pants [well, boxer shorts actually, as I don’t think Fred’s a Y Front kind of dude], 3 loads of laundry, and only one shit on the carpet. My most used phrase of the day has been “Do you need the potty Freddie?”, followed by “tuck your willy in” [Fred, I sincerely apologise if you are reading this in years to come. You’re doing just fine, Mummy’s little prince!]

“The potty” is an all singing all dancing Thomas the Tank engine one. When excrement hits the pan it plays a lovely Thomas song, and Freddie shrieks with excitement “I’ve done a poo” he exclaims; although he doesn’t actually know the difference between wees and poos, and the only poo we’ve had today has most definitely been on the carpet. It reminds me of when I worked as a care assistant in a busy nursing home, and forgot to put the “pan” under Mrs X’s commode one night [only second to Mr X, asking me to “rub cream in my balls” as part of the bedtime routine ….]

I’ve imposed “lock down” for the past 36 hours … we have watched Postman Pat the Movie; we have painted pretty pictures, made minion cupcakes, played football in the hall, and eaten lots of chocolate buttons as a treat for “performing” on the marvellous potty. Tomorrow we must venture out … potty and all. Another milestone …

After the week from hell, this is my greatest achievement; even if I had to drag my 2.5year old to the shop on the corner for the aforementioned wine in his pyjamas!

Advertisements

The little things…

Yesterday it was a chocolate orange in Tesco Express, sitting nonchalantly on the shelf. I’m not a fan myself, but Dad loved them and always had one at Christmas, on Fathers Day and his birthday; a Dad tradition. And there it was staring at me, reminding me that he wouldn’t have one again … that I wouldn’t buy him another. I’m getting rather good at stifling the tears now, so managed to pay for my petrol without sobbing; but it was another stark, insignificant reminder of the finality.

This morning I was cleaning my car – which is quite a mission given my soon to be 2 year old and the clutter of toys and hats and coats and mud, and chicken shit encrusted wellies. Anyway, there in the footwell was the newspaper from Tuesday 10th January – the day Dad died. I’d bought it that morning as a friend and I were collecting holiday tokens. With everything that happened afterwards, I’d forgotten all about it … couldn’t bring myself to throw it away. The day when my “before” and “after” line was drawn … when things changed forever. I have a growing amount of paraphernalia from that day; little pointless things that now have so much meaning; Dad’s receipts from that morning, the medical packaging found at the allotment, the newspaper..

This evening it was marking a new height on Freddie’s giraffe chart in his bedroom. The last measurement had been made on 5th January, when “Gandad” was still alive. Another stop the clocks moment,of which there are plenty. My little boy is growing and his Grandad can’t see it.

And so it continues. I think the adrenaline from the past [nearly 6] weeks is beginning to leave me and a malignant exhaustion has set in. A dark realisation that the present; the now; is hard. There are simply no words to describe it [so why, you may ask, do I try?]. Sleep remains difficult, and often I’m woken with the deep pounding of my heart in my chest as my subconscious relives the events of that Tuesday. It seems cruel that even sleep doesn’t offer respite. This afternoon when I’d failed miserably at napping whilst Freddie was with his Dad; I found myself at the allotment, sitting on the decking, watching the chickens, beside the funeral flowers which are still looking lovely. Some mummy friends have joined forces in project allotment, and it is there that I feel closest to Dad … where he last walked, the air he last breathed. It was an unfinished project; and making a good job of it means a lot to me.

I have realised just how big a part of my life Dad was. I always knew it, and always appreciated it – but I hadn’t quite comprehended the huge gaping void now so obvious. I listen to old voicemails, just so I won’t forget his voice. I miss his phonecalls, his presence, his companionship. I miss watching him be Grandad.

If you’re reading this, Fred, in years to come – Mummy’s sorry if she has been sad these weeks; if you’ve caught her crying in the kitchen or lacking the amount of energy she usually has. I’m sorry for not knowing what to say to you sometimes when you still stand at the window waiting for your Grandad or “Gandads car”. One day, my darling, you’ll understand how hard it all is – but for now, know that your cheeky smiles and snotty kisses, are keeping Momma going…

“Baby likes milk”

My nails are painted royal blue ready for tomorrow’s wedding … our overnight bag is packed, and Freddie is all bathed and asleep beside me. Auntie Sarah, who cut Freddie’s cord, is getting married; my little cousin is becoming Mrs Watson. I’m hoping my little darling boy manages more than an hour between feeds tonight. 6 month growth spurt? We have a Vtech toy cow thing which says [amongst other things] “Baby likes milk” – to which Freddie always chuckles. Yes, baby DOES like milk. If only one could detach ones breast and hand it to baby for the night … and feed via remote control …

11921645_1810398229186607_2346209743951213719_nWe seem to be on a rollercoaster of firsts at the moment, and yesterday Freddie went in a baby swing for the very first time. He loved it! I can see I have a future in playgrounds for a good few years. I took him to another park today, and his little face lit up as I held him in the swing and pushed him gently. We also fed the ducks our stale bread, much to Fred’s amusement as the Canada geese came sqwaking along the lake. It’s these little shared moments which continually melt my heart. Every day there is something new; and the joy on his little face is just beautiful. There is nothing more perfect than a baby’s chuckle … especially when it’s YOUR baby chuckling at you. Poor child thinks he has a crazy mother!

I’m hoping the next first will be a gnasher. Little chap is chomping and dribbling for England … Bonjela, we love you.

Oh, and MY first for tomorrow is wearing heels for the first time since before Freddie was born … needless to say there will be some flats in my handbag. I shall be a lady for the day, although I’m convinced my lovely blue dress will have splatters of baby sick on it before the ceremony has begun! I’m also rather looking forward to a bath in the hotel. We only have a shower in my flat, and the last bath I had was in the birthing pool 6 months ago …

Of course, I shall blog about it all when we get back.

Mastitis, Baby sick and lots and lots of breastmilk

My Hungry Little Caterpillar

My Hungry Little Caterpillar

Having the time to blog is now something of a luxury. I’m sitting in bed with my baby beside me, all plump and satiated; having drained the milk of both boobies [and puked the excess down my cleavage and new nursing bra!] THREE WEEKS; how is my baby boy THREE weeks old. Time has taken on a whole new concept in the past weeks; as have day and night … life is simply and wonderfully revolved totally around Little Lord Freddie.

The week hasn’t been without its challenges; last Saturday I found myself at the out of hours GP with mastitis after a sleepless and painful night. Ouch. Serious ouch. It’s also quite hard taking a 2 week old baby to the out of hours unit alone …. whilst they give you a specific appointment, such as 10.47am [really? 10.47?], you still have to wait 2hours to be seen, during which you need to feed baby several times through agonising pain … and realise you need to change a pooey bottom but don’t want to lose your place in the queue. Fred and I were both most relieved when the prescription was printed and we could go home chomping on the antibbiotics. I very nearly joined him in the wailing. Aside from a sniffly nose, I’m feeling much better and the boobies aren’t sore anymore [thank goodness!] Incidentally I did find it funny that the doctor asked if there was any chance I could be preggers … erm, NO.

Breastfeeding is amazing … despite the mastitis … I find it the most nurturing thing you can do for your baby. I feel like the 9months he was in my tummy, I sustained him through my food and the placenta … and now he’s here, I can carry on nurturing him. The unbilical cord may have been cut, but Momma’s milk can feed him. And feed him well, as he weighed in at 9Ib this week! I can definitely tell he’s put on weight …. getting heavier to carry up the stairs in his car seat!

As for the lady bits, I actually braved taking a mirror to the brutalised bits, and [continued several hours later; baby and momma now fed and changed and ready to face the day!] – anyway, ladybits – not as mashed as I thought. Looking quite normal. The human body really IS amazing.

Still, in the small hours when I look at Freddie beside me; I wonder how on earth I created anything so perfect … and ow wonderful the world is with him in it. He’s mine, he’s really my baby boy …..