It's 9:38 in the Controlled Crying house, and currently silence reigns, only broken by the weak strains of Heart FM drifting over a still wet kitchen floor.
Mum is in the sitting room, an evening glass of wine keeping her company as she hurriedly taps away at her pet laptop.
Dad is in his study, expletives flowing as he realises his newly bought PC is a dud and the company has gone bust.
Baby is in her room, quietly snoring and trying to erase the memory of her first night of discipline, hoping her parents will have seen sense and will tonight revert to the 'soft-touch style' she has grown accustomed to.
Little does she realise that a new phase has started. Controlled crying. Seemingly simple in its concept, Mum wonders whose crying is meant to be controlled (and how many glasses of wine will assist in its successful delivery).
Baby's crying is heartfelt, desperate, pleading, angry. Certainly not controlled.
Mum's crying is heartfelt, desperate, pleading and sorrowful. Also not controlled.
Dad doesn't cry but feels desperate, miserable and tired.
As the day's smiles and toys are packed away, the night's wails and tools await.
Baby: Teething granules; check. Bonjela; check. Muslin, blanket and spare grobag; check.
Mum: Ear plugs and eye mask; check. Tissues; check.
Dad: Battlestar Galactica dvd and player, headphones; check.
Let the battle commence and the tears flow, a harmonious family life awaits, and maybe even a previously uncoveted Gina Ford gold star.
Tune in for more updates from this riveting new reality household series...
Friday, 11 January 2008
Sunday, 16 December 2007
Confessions of an errant blogger...
I know. I am a bad blogger. Never the most prolific even at my creative blogging height, I have now sunk to a new low of, er, none.
Even my husband has forgotten their existence, and my potential readership has fallen to three, depending on the availability of those particular family members.
Father Blogmas most certainly will not be popping down my chimney this year.
However, in my defense, I haven't stopped blogging entirely. I have a burgeoning folder of half-written posts; witty one-liners hanging in mid air; the unfinished baby-related anecdotes and exasperated mental meanderings of a sleep-deprived new(ish) mum.
Not to mention the many partially written posts that have never made it out through my fingers but still circulate in some shady part of my ransacked brain, only to emerge during bouts of insomnia, appearing as the support act to my fear of abandoning Iris to childcare, and a collapsing property market.
Also in my defense, m'lord, I have been sucked into a veritable maelstrom of babydom. Day-shift blurs into night-shift, with a two hour reprieve for housework and 'me' (well, 'tv and wine') time. One step forward soon mutates into five steps back, little islands of 'this isn't so hard', turning into rather larger land masses of 'oh, shit!'.
Excuses made, I bid you a very merry festive season, and hope to be back to my (ahem) prolific best very soon. Mum.
Even my husband has forgotten their existence, and my potential readership has fallen to three, depending on the availability of those particular family members.
Father Blogmas most certainly will not be popping down my chimney this year.
However, in my defense, I haven't stopped blogging entirely. I have a burgeoning folder of half-written posts; witty one-liners hanging in mid air; the unfinished baby-related anecdotes and exasperated mental meanderings of a sleep-deprived new(ish) mum.
Not to mention the many partially written posts that have never made it out through my fingers but still circulate in some shady part of my ransacked brain, only to emerge during bouts of insomnia, appearing as the support act to my fear of abandoning Iris to childcare, and a collapsing property market.
Also in my defense, m'lord, I have been sucked into a veritable maelstrom of babydom. Day-shift blurs into night-shift, with a two hour reprieve for housework and 'me' (well, 'tv and wine') time. One step forward soon mutates into five steps back, little islands of 'this isn't so hard', turning into rather larger land masses of 'oh, shit!'.
Excuses made, I bid you a very merry festive season, and hope to be back to my (ahem) prolific best very soon. Mum.
Tuesday, 30 October 2007
Tutti Frutti
Another floret of broccoli my love? Some mashed potato? What, another carrot? Baby giggles and a warm glow of pride as Iris bravely treads into the world of solid food fill my daydream.
A violent retch brings me back to the real world; thank goodness I opted for the plastic cover with my little girl's highchair.
Well this wasn't in the Government's guidelines - I waited until nearly 6 months, I breastfed, I bought Annabel Karmel and some overpriced gourmet ice-cube containers - my daughter however, is following her own set of rules, and unfortunately I can't quite make out what they are. Something about being a fruitarian and wanting to breastfeed forever.
So much for being a good cook - having been cajoled by hubby into a state of slightly smug complacency about my abilities in the kitchen, I was unprepared for the brutal honesty of a baby's unblemished palate.
Steamed vegetables, lovingly moulied - blaaaar, ick, sssppuggh - mixed with a little home-made fruit puree - eeeuuugghhh, retch. Desperation strikes; petit filou? sssplatt. Hipp Organic, Plum? Lick, lick, moment for thought - ssthhhwpp.
Iris has decided that Innocent smoothies are quite nice, yoghurt is ok, but vegetables and cereals are bad bad bad. Bibs make her cry and spoons have this strange effect of making her clench her mouth shut and adopt an owl-like turn of the head.
In my more tired moments, I do wonder whether Iris has inherited an 'am I fat?' gene from me, or has chewed one too many copies of Grazia in the bathroom and is aspiring early to the size zero phenomenon.
In my more sane moments however I am hoping that this is just the first 'phase' (of no doubt many) she will pass through on her way to healthy adulthood.
Right, just off to whisper 'food is good, food is good' to her while she sleeps....
A violent retch brings me back to the real world; thank goodness I opted for the plastic cover with my little girl's highchair.
Well this wasn't in the Government's guidelines - I waited until nearly 6 months, I breastfed, I bought Annabel Karmel and some overpriced gourmet ice-cube containers - my daughter however, is following her own set of rules, and unfortunately I can't quite make out what they are. Something about being a fruitarian and wanting to breastfeed forever.
So much for being a good cook - having been cajoled by hubby into a state of slightly smug complacency about my abilities in the kitchen, I was unprepared for the brutal honesty of a baby's unblemished palate.
Steamed vegetables, lovingly moulied - blaaaar, ick, sssppuggh - mixed with a little home-made fruit puree - eeeuuugghhh, retch. Desperation strikes; petit filou? sssplatt. Hipp Organic, Plum? Lick, lick, moment for thought - ssthhhwpp.
Iris has decided that Innocent smoothies are quite nice, yoghurt is ok, but vegetables and cereals are bad bad bad. Bibs make her cry and spoons have this strange effect of making her clench her mouth shut and adopt an owl-like turn of the head.
In my more tired moments, I do wonder whether Iris has inherited an 'am I fat?' gene from me, or has chewed one too many copies of Grazia in the bathroom and is aspiring early to the size zero phenomenon.
In my more sane moments however I am hoping that this is just the first 'phase' (of no doubt many) she will pass through on her way to healthy adulthood.
Right, just off to whisper 'food is good, food is good' to her while she sleeps....
Wednesday, 10 October 2007
Nappy chatter
Little did I realise the fascination that bowel movements would hold for me at this stage of my life.
Posh leather handbags, yes; manicures and pedicures, of course; the perennial appeal of Top Shop, oh yes, but poo?
This has particularly come to light in the last couple of weeks as my daughter has begun to discover the joys of her first fruit purees.
Iris' change in routine has now become a regular topic of conversation between my husband and me, particularly as we cuddle her writhing little self at night as her tummy tries to work out what on earth butternut squash is doing in amongst her regular tipple of breastmilk.
However I think I may have taken this mutual interest a step too far. Upon the arrival of a particularly challenging movement this morning, I felt compelled to share the news with hubby. Not fair, after all, for him to miss out through being at work!
Snapping off my marigolds, I rushed to the phone.
"Helloooo, it's me. So, the poo arrived! My god it was everywhere, I've had to strip the room and wipe down everything, you should have seen it..."
Keen not to miss out any details, I only noticed the silence on the other end once I'd finished.
"Er, are you still there? where are you?"
"Actually I'm just about to buy my lunch"
"Oh, sorry. Well, just don't go for any sticky looking dahl, ha ha. Oh...you have?"
Poor hubby - I forgot that life in my new mum bubble isn't always as scintillating to those in the real world as it is to me.
Thank goodness for the other new mums I'm about to meet up with - nothing like a good chat about bodily fluids over tea and a cupcake!
Posh leather handbags, yes; manicures and pedicures, of course; the perennial appeal of Top Shop, oh yes, but poo?
This has particularly come to light in the last couple of weeks as my daughter has begun to discover the joys of her first fruit purees.
Iris' change in routine has now become a regular topic of conversation between my husband and me, particularly as we cuddle her writhing little self at night as her tummy tries to work out what on earth butternut squash is doing in amongst her regular tipple of breastmilk.
However I think I may have taken this mutual interest a step too far. Upon the arrival of a particularly challenging movement this morning, I felt compelled to share the news with hubby. Not fair, after all, for him to miss out through being at work!
Snapping off my marigolds, I rushed to the phone.
"Helloooo, it's me. So, the poo arrived! My god it was everywhere, I've had to strip the room and wipe down everything, you should have seen it..."
Keen not to miss out any details, I only noticed the silence on the other end once I'd finished.
"Er, are you still there? where are you?"
"Actually I'm just about to buy my lunch"
"Oh, sorry. Well, just don't go for any sticky looking dahl, ha ha. Oh...you have?"
Poor hubby - I forgot that life in my new mum bubble isn't always as scintillating to those in the real world as it is to me.
Thank goodness for the other new mums I'm about to meet up with - nothing like a good chat about bodily fluids over tea and a cupcake!
Thursday, 13 September 2007
Me and my girl
I'm not sure if it's the change of season, or the approaching half year milestone that Iris will reach in less than a month now, but I have been feeling rather reflective of late.
As I look back at the last 5 months it really seems that we're a world away from those first apprehensive weeks of parenthood, with its gush of hormones and first ravages of sleeplessness.
Firmly out of the newborn and young baby stage, Iris now seems to me like a proper little person, morphing more into herself every day. I feel like I'm witnessing a da Vinci process, with my milk working as the metaphorical chisel, chipping away at her pre-formed self.
And it really is such an amazing process with new expressions, noises and movements emerging every day.
I think what I find most incredible is the shift from the pure, unconditional love and need of a mother and baby, to a more mutual emotional balance borne of actually knowing one another. I suppose this is a round-about way of saying that it feels like a relationship now, but one that is more rewarding and touching than I could ever have imagined.
And while we have been keeping each other busy recently - a week in Norfolk, baby cinema, trips to town and visits with Iris' many cousins, not to mention a heavy cold (Iris) and renewed sleeplessness (me) - the best moments have really been when we have just been hanging out together.
Just the simplest of things have become invaluable - a smile, a giggle, a cuddle - I don't think I can describe how happy it makes me, and how privileged I feel to be nurturing this new person.
Me and my girl, my girl and me - sigh. Right, I'll now climb off my chocolate box and give my rose-tinted sunnies a rest!
As I look back at the last 5 months it really seems that we're a world away from those first apprehensive weeks of parenthood, with its gush of hormones and first ravages of sleeplessness.
Firmly out of the newborn and young baby stage, Iris now seems to me like a proper little person, morphing more into herself every day. I feel like I'm witnessing a da Vinci process, with my milk working as the metaphorical chisel, chipping away at her pre-formed self.
And it really is such an amazing process with new expressions, noises and movements emerging every day.
I think what I find most incredible is the shift from the pure, unconditional love and need of a mother and baby, to a more mutual emotional balance borne of actually knowing one another. I suppose this is a round-about way of saying that it feels like a relationship now, but one that is more rewarding and touching than I could ever have imagined.
And while we have been keeping each other busy recently - a week in Norfolk, baby cinema, trips to town and visits with Iris' many cousins, not to mention a heavy cold (Iris) and renewed sleeplessness (me) - the best moments have really been when we have just been hanging out together.
Just the simplest of things have become invaluable - a smile, a giggle, a cuddle - I don't think I can describe how happy it makes me, and how privileged I feel to be nurturing this new person.
Me and my girl, my girl and me - sigh. Right, I'll now climb off my chocolate box and give my rose-tinted sunnies a rest!
Tuesday, 21 August 2007
Iris' big day out
Having avoided public transport and the hubbub of London for the past 4 months, the time had finally come last Friday for Iris to discover the world outside East Dulwich.
Slightly dazed from a night of sleeplessness spent foreseeing the many beartraps awaiting us, I got us ready.
New dress for Iris, new top for Mummy - check;
New 'about town' buggy for Iris - check;
New, more urban, changing bag for Mummy - check;
This was turning out to be an expensive adventure.
Our first date with the real world was at the Ritzy in Brixton for a nice soothing knit flicks session. As it happened, the Bourne Ultimatum at full volume may not have been the best choice. On the plus side, I actually got there on time; it was so loud the babies' wailing was reduced to a pitiful mime; hubby was VERY jealous.
On the downside, no breakfast and crucial cinematic moments missed due to wiping Iris' biggest poo ever off her, me and the seat (err, second row middle-ish in case you're wondering, and sorry if you didn't read this in time!).
Soothing session over, we attempted a trial run on the escalators at the Department store over the road, in search of a much deserved caffeine fix. Important lesson in not travelling up escalators backwards learnt, and also that Iris isn't keen on Cafe Nero.
At this point I'm feeling like the woman from the Sure ad, only without the Sure. My promise to visit hubby's work place in Euston now feels like a mad hormonal gesture. Nonetheless, my NCT pals see me onto the underground lift and we're off again. Having learnt not to travel UP the escalators backwards, I try out my luck going down. I now know anything backwards is definitely a bad idea. Several vertiginous and sweaty minutes later we're on the tube and off to Euston.
And actually it's not that bad - once familiar stations flash by while Iris snoozes and I try and remember what it was like to be carefree.
Before long we are at my husband's work reception. By now Iris and I are somewhat dishevelled, smelly, overtired and hungry. But we made it, and that makes me strangely proud. Our urban debut now over, my husband beams as he introduces our daughter to his workmates, and I realise what a privilege it is to be her mother and his wife.
Slightly dazed from a night of sleeplessness spent foreseeing the many beartraps awaiting us, I got us ready.
New dress for Iris, new top for Mummy - check;
New 'about town' buggy for Iris - check;
New, more urban, changing bag for Mummy - check;
This was turning out to be an expensive adventure.
Our first date with the real world was at the Ritzy in Brixton for a nice soothing knit flicks session. As it happened, the Bourne Ultimatum at full volume may not have been the best choice. On the plus side, I actually got there on time; it was so loud the babies' wailing was reduced to a pitiful mime; hubby was VERY jealous.
On the downside, no breakfast and crucial cinematic moments missed due to wiping Iris' biggest poo ever off her, me and the seat (err, second row middle-ish in case you're wondering, and sorry if you didn't read this in time!).
Soothing session over, we attempted a trial run on the escalators at the Department store over the road, in search of a much deserved caffeine fix. Important lesson in not travelling up escalators backwards learnt, and also that Iris isn't keen on Cafe Nero.
At this point I'm feeling like the woman from the Sure ad, only without the Sure. My promise to visit hubby's work place in Euston now feels like a mad hormonal gesture. Nonetheless, my NCT pals see me onto the underground lift and we're off again. Having learnt not to travel UP the escalators backwards, I try out my luck going down. I now know anything backwards is definitely a bad idea. Several vertiginous and sweaty minutes later we're on the tube and off to Euston.
And actually it's not that bad - once familiar stations flash by while Iris snoozes and I try and remember what it was like to be carefree.
Before long we are at my husband's work reception. By now Iris and I are somewhat dishevelled, smelly, overtired and hungry. But we made it, and that makes me strangely proud. Our urban debut now over, my husband beams as he introduces our daughter to his workmates, and I realise what a privilege it is to be her mother and his wife.
Friday, 10 August 2007
Ode to a shoe
Gleaming silver, sharp and high
you carried my weary limbs
in fine form, detracting even from my eye,
red and shrunken as it then was.
Resplendent shoe, how I love you...
Every girl's best friend, I was
lucky to call you mine, and shirk
awhile the dirty nappies and weight
of motherhood angst.
Resplendent shoe, how I love you...
Job done, you now reside back
in your cardboard home,
awaiting your next calling
to bring instant glamour and joy.
Resplendent shoe, how I love you...
[Sorry, couldn't resist a quick dip at the altar of my lovely new silver stilettos, and prose just didn't seem lyrical enough - sigh - right, as you were...]
you carried my weary limbs
in fine form, detracting even from my eye,
red and shrunken as it then was.
Resplendent shoe, how I love you...
Every girl's best friend, I was
lucky to call you mine, and shirk
awhile the dirty nappies and weight
of motherhood angst.
Resplendent shoe, how I love you...
Job done, you now reside back
in your cardboard home,
awaiting your next calling
to bring instant glamour and joy.
Resplendent shoe, how I love you...
[Sorry, couldn't resist a quick dip at the altar of my lovely new silver stilettos, and prose just didn't seem lyrical enough - sigh - right, as you were...]
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