The Corona Diaries

Words always find a way of spilling out of me. When there are people around they will pour gently, a soft babble in the background. I will talk to my kids and my husband and my colleagues and my neighbors and my friends and the dog and the cat and the mail man and the grocery store employees I know by name. More words will flow at the school gates and as I pass the people I know dotted around our tight knit community and the partners we serve at work. 

And it turns out when there are no people, when the world is on its head and we are all safely trapped in our own corners of the world, they gush. And after much writing of snippets and ideas and (fairly amateurish) poetry anywhere I happen to be, I find myself back here. A mere 4 year after I last poured my heart and mind and words out to the internet. A quieter, quarantine-permitted version of screaming into the void.

I looked back at a few posts before I started writing this, wondering if I ever really had a voice to call my own. Instead, I had to tell the poor, exhausted woman attempting life with two toddlers to suck it up because worse was coming. Here we are, on lockdown in our own house because of a global pandemic. When I say it out loud, I want to laugh. It's a hysterical laugh. The kind tinged with fear and laced with the unknown. The sort of laugh that says 'This is it. This is real and this is what is normal now and there are no emotions for this'. 

I indulge myself with these laughs every few days. A few moments to allow myself to feel the depths of the absurdity of the situation before I have to pull myself together. There are children to feed in the middle of food shortages (or is it supply issues? The food exists, I just can't quite seem to always get to it when I need it) and lessons to be taught in the midst of school closures. There are family and friends to catch up with from afar. There is work to do. There is so much work to do. 

The strangest things make me cry in all of this, the flipped coin of hysterical laughter. When I drive to work and the roads are empty apart from the desperate day laborers. When the sign outside the comedy club said "We Love You All. We'll See You Soon." When the home and decor section of Target was empty. Aimlessly wandering, sniffing candles and prodding at pillows now off the agenda. When the radio DJ says "we're all scared and we're all in this together and if you need someone to talk to you can send me a message." Too much kindness, too much emptiness, too much cruelty. Those are the things that bring me to the edge now. A different edge than I had before, simultaneously closer and further away than the one I used to have.

We have grown callouses talking about numbers of dead. Numbers of sick. Survival and sanity demand a thick layer of skin between us and the news of those we don't know. Our vocabulary has twisted and adapted with frightening rapidity. 'Stay safe' and 'stay healthy' are have replaced 'goodbye' or 'see you later'. Said with urgency, too. We mean it. 'Not you. Not you this time please' we hope to convey with those two little words.  We, all of us, veer between hope and despair. Optimistic mornings give way to pessimistic sunsets. Where we once had surety we now see fog. No one knows when schools will return or when we can go to the park again. When we will be able to go and sit in a restaurant as someone politely brings us drinks and choice after choice of food. No one knows when libraries will open and we'll be able to wander round, casually indulging in options. I miss options.

And so I finish up screaming into the void for this day. Day 17 of our new normal. Tonight is our glorious take out night. A night when there is a little less work. When I don't have to mentally catalogue what there is in our fridge and how long it will need to last. And at least I have this for posterity. A reminder that this was not a collective fever dream. That it happened and we lived through it. That we did the work and sometimes cried and sometimes laughed. And we were together. So very, very together.

Bookmarks

We've just had a long weekend. A glorious one, at that. I think one of my favourite things about living in the US is the unique cultural ability to bookmark seasons with holidays. Every new season is heralded in with a day off, helping those of us who didn't grow up here know exactly when and how to turn the page. It makes sense, in a country as geographically and culturally varied as the US to have set days where everyone comes together and agrees to move on to the next phase, whether it seems obvious or not. It's a way of maintaining a shared year.

This one was Labor Day. The basic equivalent of May Day in Europe, but with less rioting. Labor Day is the start of Autumn. This made absolutely zero difference to anything in Los Angeles, where the schools go back at the beginning of August and the heat only intensifies throughout September, the kind of heat that seeps up through the soles of your shoes and makes any activity seem beyond reason. And for the most part it was hard to see how it was the start of Autumn this weekend. The sun blazed in the brightest blue sky. We went to our local outdoor pool, floating and splashing then repeating. Husband and the kids made an epic den in the back garden, built around the outdoor table and chairs.

But something felt different. The tables and chairs will need to come in soon. They are starting to sink in to the grass, which is now peppered with leaves. The breeze made getting out the outdoor pool a little less pleasant than before. It's closed until next May, now. Tomorrow we're meeting some new friends at the indoor one. Target was full of Halloween decorations; leaf garlands and things that say 'Thankful' on them. So we attempted to mix the last of summer with the first of fall. New winter boots and tights for the big one and plenty of ice in our water bottles. Bike rides and baking banana bread (spotting alliteration is K's newest trick. She says "Hey! They all start with B!" and for some reason my head explodes every.single.time because how? How is she big enough to work that out? Is that normal? Her brain must be so busy all the time. It also is a testament to the excellent work of PBS. Ha.)

I got a new bike for my birthday. It's called Glenda after the bike in a book I happened to pick up at the library at the same time I went to the bike shop (The Sweetness in the Bottom of the Pie- highly recommended for anyone else who happens to like period murder mysteries...) but cycling around our neighbourhood has definitely added to the sense of change in the air. The freedom of flying down the street with the wind in my hair feels so achingly familiar. I can hardly explain it without descending into a slew of cliches, but riding a bike is exactly lie riding a bike. With every peddle I am riding every bike I've ever ridden in my whole life. From teaching myself to go without training wheels in our back garden, to the time my church youth group rode around Millport and all got so sunburned we looked like lobsters in their cages on the harbour. And yet now I have a trailer with two very loud passengers on the back. And the bike was to get me to places we all actually need to be, like school and the shops, whilst I wait for my license to be sorted out (this is a LONG and BORING story about visas and local DMV offices and it will end soon. I hope.) I've never cycled to get anywhere before. Riding a bike has been the ultimate in freedom to this point. But as autumn starts to draw in, I need to watch the clock.

And after 5 long years, I am so unbelievably ready for autumn. To not be so goddamn hot ALL the time. To use hot drinks and blankets and sweaters to make myself warm rather than having it forced upon me sounds so unbelievably glorious, I can hardly believe it's real. I am brilliantly, marvellously excited to draw the curtains and hibernate. This summer has been one of epic change for us all, and autumn represents the 'getting on with it'. Routine and structure somehow imply a sense of belonging, and as we establish ourselves more and more, roots spreading a little wider and a little deeper, the thought of a rest of sorts is so achingly appealing.

Labor Day worked its magic. This morning as I loaded the kids into the bike trailer, I added sweaters and jeans and pedalled through grey clouds and damp air. When the baby and I got home, we turned on lamps and lit candles and munched on the banana bread we made together yesterday, when the sun blazed and the heat from the oven felt stifling. Of course it won't last, it's not supposed to. We ease in to new seasons, rather than trip. But I'll take what I can get.

(Truly and honestly, 97% of my excitement about autumn is not having to shave my legs constantly. So there is that.)

Time

The purple bush next to our front porch vibrates constantly with the movement of bees. I keep thinking how nice the flowers would look in a vase on my dining table, but I can never bring myself to do it. We are the Chipotle of the bee world, it seems mean to take some of it away.

I sit out here every nap time, for at least a little while. Crickets chirp, cicadas buzz, click beetles... well, that's fairly self explanatory. But traffic hums in the background, too far away to pick out any one car, but close enough that I never feel alone. I am, deep down, a city girl. I dream of a decent garden so we can grow all our own vegetables again, fantasize about a coop of chickens with quirky names and fluffy hairstyles I can instagram, but when push comes to shove, I hate the silence. I need to know there are people around, as if somehow that can cushion me from feeling alone. 

We do have a milkman, though, in a nod to country living. He (or she, I have no idea) comes in the middle of the night on a Sunday and fills the box on the porch with milk and butter and blessed, blessed coffee creamer and it's all super organic and I feel so fancy. And also horrifyingly middle class, but I am learning to swallow those feelings down and accept that I AM horrifyingly middle class. And a bit old. We were watching 'Stranger Things' on Netflix last night and husband pointed out that these days we watch TV and have nothing left in common with the young adventurous ones. Because, really, Nancy. Stay away from Steve. He is the WORST. K's favourite movie is (god help us) The Little Mermaid and every time Ariel says "I'm 16, I'm not a child" I have to resist the urge to say 'oh PLEASE, of course you are.'

Now the baby is not really a baby (evidenced by asking him "Are you a baby?" and receiving a comical "Nooooo" as a reply, with the "stupid woman" heavily implied) and he takes long naps and the big one goes to preschool (and comes home sounding vaguely like Scarlett O'Hara) I find myself with time again. I have had no time, at all, for most of the last 3 years. Every second has been a challenge of balancing all the things that desperately need to be done with all the things that really need to be done but never including any of the things that I would like to do. I found myself saying "man, I need a hobby" last week, before remembering that I actually used to have a few, and writing in this tiny corner of the internet is one of them.

I suspect there will be less parenting babble, as the longer I do this, the more I realise I have truly nothing original to say. My general parenting philosophy now looks more like 'meh, whatever" than it ever did, which is saying something as I have never been particularly passionate or principled about anything when it came to the kids. Every one knows they are valued and loved, in this house. And that is about as high as I aim on anything. It is so easy, at the start, to feel like you have discovered a whole new universe all by your self, and to babble about it constantly because HOLY SHIT YOU GUYS, WHAT HAS JUST HAPPENED. And after many years of talking about who is eating what and 'what should I do about XYZ' I feel like I've simply reached the end of the road. Of talking about it, any way. As capable as the big one is these days, she still can only read a couple of words at a time thus I am required to stick around.

So what *do* I talk about if it's not the children? Who knows. Books, mainly. I am seriously struggling to finish The Nightingale, despite everyone telling me it's great and getting that general impression from it. Frustrating. It's the same way I felt about Kavalier and Clay. I really wanted to want to read it, but alas... I read a really good one a few weeks ago; the sort where I went back and read the end twice because it was so good and made me so happy without being saccharine. It had a really stupid title about Gravity and Birds (I sometimes wonder if there is some sort pinterest style name generating tool editors use in a bid to make their books exactly the right mix of 'female interest without sounding like chick-lit'- book friends?) but I enjoyed it none-the-less. We have an epic library here. The books are all shiny and new looking, in stark contrast to our beloved, but rather sad, local one in LA. (See previous paragraph on middle class/suburban guilt.) It also has a giant stone fireplace, with an actual fire in the middle of it, surrounded by squishy sofas. Sadly leaving the baby to sleep in the house while I head down there is frowned upon/illegal, so my opportunities for enjoying it shall be limited to 3 minutes of playing 'seat!' with another 15 minutes of screaming 'do not touch that. We need to go home if you touch that!' But still. The concept is beautiful.

On being "just"

My fingers feel stiff and awkward as I attempt to move them across the keys. It's been so long since I typed anything never mind a full blog post of swirling, grey thoughts, that it feels like exercise after all this time. This is probably a horrifying indication of the last time I managed any actual exercise.

There is a temptation to do a full recap of life since the last time I managed to write anything here, but given that I know everyone who reads it is a bit foolish. And yet... We are now 4. We are still in LA, but only for a few more months, before we head to Denver, Colorado to start all over again. That's about it. That's everything you need to know.

I posted a photo on Instagram yesterday with a long, blabbing comment about how hard I found December, and how I was ready to tackle January. There was something cutesy about painting my nails. I definitely made a passing comment about my expectations of a glorious Christmas being shattered. 

January saw my comments and laughed. Today is our first day back to normal of the new year, as husband worked for most of the holidays everyone else had. I was so ready and raring to go. I had totschool activities planned for K, who is learning letters and can count to 20 and is an absolute sponge, for good and bad. There was food to make and activities and games to play and the house was mostly clean but a few things needed done. 

Then there was a night with no sleep and raging temperatures and this morning; more snot and self pity than I care to think about. Then the inevitable "I have to work late" text. It's funny really, in the most ironic and least 'ha ha' way. Of course illness was almost inevitable, as I watched my toddler eat chocolate cupcake off the airport floor (the one we told her she couldn't have but the cashier decided otherwise) and aeroplanes are always the kind of hotbed for disease that make my normally laissez-faire skin crawl. I should not have been remotely surprised.

And yet here I sit, wallowing in a steaming hot bath of woe-is-me. Yet again, reality has quietly shaken its head at expectations, lips pursed and muttering a half-hearted platitude of apology, Which begs the question- should I just accept that things are inevitably going to be hard and a bit rubbish for now (at least until the kids are like, 8 and 6,) and embrace the good moments when they happen to pass by? Should I remain ever optimistic and occassionally (frequently) heartbroken? I have no answers to that.

There is, of course, the additional voices of guilt, desperate to make sure I don't miss them out too. The one that says "Jesus Christ, woman. Your kid has a COLD. A COLD. They'll be better by the weekend. Man up. Imagine they had something actually serious. Then imagine that parent sitting reading this pile of self-indulgent nonsense." This voice is often right and rarely welcome at any self-respecting pity party. There is the other one that says "Don't you know how lucky you are to even have kids? Right now there are people pouring their heart and souls into making that happen- think they'd say 'no thanks' if they got offered one with a cold and one that doesn't sleep? Course not. Get on with it." Often joined by her friend, who likes to make sure I know that no one on earth is interested in Mum Problems. Especially Stay-at-home Mum Problems. And I should try having some real problems.

So what's my point? I'm not sure I have one. Perhaps that being "just a mum" is an insult leveled at those of us who don"t leave the house to go to work every morning, and yet it is an astonishingly challenging hat to wear. On the one hand, I am unspeakably proud of what I do. It is something I enjoy. It is something I think I'm fairly good at (I am 2/2 at keeping early walkers alive so far, which is pretty impressive if I say so myself) and I HATE the way people look down on us, as if we are too stupid or unambitious or whatever else to have a life outside in the real world. We are not entitled to an opinion on anything outside the domestic sphere, and the only solution anyone ever has to offer to any problem is to go out and "do something with yourself", as opposed to all the "nothing" I do around here all day.

And yet at times like this, being "just a mum" feels every inch the insult as thrown at you. I have nothing else to talk about bar my own grumpiness. There is endless chores to be done and nappies to be changed and the walls are closing in on me. I can, of course, handle it. But I am tired of handling it and really want to enjoy it. I just need to decide if it's a matter of will or luck. 

But I do intend to try and write again. Mostly because I feel better after that little rant and let's face it, Instagram isn't really the place for it. It's for over-exposed pinterest projects. Everyone knows that.

Packing it up...

I realise this space is pretty neglected. I think that's probably the way it's supposed to be. To be so busy with real life that online life slips by the way side. And I am busy in the dullest, most boring stay-at-home-mom kind of way. My days are spent chasing the blur that is K, trying to keep her alive (a job that gets increasingly difficult with time, I must confess) and attempting to maintain some facade of normality- a clean(ish) kitchen, clothes without oatmeal on them, eating actual meals.

And I think here lies the problem with my sad, lonely little blog. On the one hand I am acutely aware that I don't really have much going on. Generally people don't want to hear about boring mum stuff. You hear that criticism all the time. Hell, I levelled that criticism at people: 'All they talk about is the baby.' And yet I have become one of those people. Because life is so incredibley FULL of her. My absolute basic needs are dictated by her. I sleep when she has a clean nappy, a full tummy, the temperature is right and she is not teething. The fact that my sleep will be dictated by the temperature of someone else's bedroom is insane to me even now, but before I had her I couldn't have possibly have got my head around what that feels like. So I have these discussions with other, similarly shell-shocked parents (I'm not saying mums here, because I hang out with a stay-at-home-dad called Steve most days) and find myself not saying anything to my other friends/this blog because I can't think what to say that won't bore them. It's hard. Because I crave non-baby conversation, but feel like I have nothing to add. I've started reading again, which jolting my brain back in to action. But even that, which has always been such a defining part of me, is only happening because K lets me (she is now napping for an hour plus at a time. I don't know what changed but there you have it.) But it's a start. A small glimpse into a world where Other Things happen. Maybe one day in the not so distant future I will have other things to talk about.

The flip side of this is that I want to talk about her a lot because, holy crap, she is awesome. And no longer a little baby. Going from pregnant to holding a baby was a bit of a mind-blowing experience, but going from a little blob that just eats and sleeps to one who makes decisions about what she wants to do next, who has a tooth and eats real people food and learns a new skill every.damn.week has been all the more incredible to me. We mark the time now by the things we pack away. The clothes, the baby bath, the swaddles, the play mat, the breast pump; all these things we depended on and used faithfully now surplus to requirement. It is the packing away that leaves me in awe. That we are passed this phase, then that, then the next. It is a constant reminder that in spite of ourselves, we are surviving. actually succeeding at this.

Of course this is insane, because, duh, the lucky babies grow up. But I had no concept of life beyond the first few months when I was pregnant. I had no idea what it would look like when she went on the swings for the first time, or chased after a ball, or munched on a spicy beef taco. The continual surprise of how much joy I get from these moments is staggering, and something I am so grateful for. And it's probably boring to other people because they don't see the tiny moments, don't know what it's like to feel like the non-stop feeding and nappy changing and moving gingerly will never end. I have repeated "This too, shall pass" to myself, and others, more times than I can count and yet I am continually surprised when it does.

So the blog will remain neglected. I'll write about books and exciting trips and all the rest of it soon enough, but I'll probably just enjoy things as they are for now. I don't want to bore anyone.

Earthquakes

It has been so long since I've written anything at all. Not that I've not wanted to, but we are now firmly in the trenches of parenting. So deep undercover that we've forgotten our real names and our families back home. Evenings are a blur of bath time, bed time and eating dinner; our blessed Dodgers and dear friend Vin Scully getting us through the hardest parts, then getting my trusty breast pump out (always, always 15 minutes too late) then trying to stay awake long enough to actually pump, finally collapsing in an exhausted, happy, if slightly bamboozled, heap.

I could make this post about the unbelievable battles we are having with sleep, but honestly, I'm sick of talking/thinking/dreaming about it. Basically, my 'she sleeps brilliantly' baby hit 4 and a half months and decided to be a dreadful sleeper. My awesome friend talks about the effect bad sleep has on your confidence in your parenting abilities here, so I'll just let her say it all, and will gladly accept any and all offers of 'but Lorna, you are a GREAT mum' anyone cares to throw my way.

I could make this post about how I now have a baby that EATS THINGS. Not just milk, but (really squidgy, pureed) things. This was a mini-meltdown situation for me as I had wanted to wait as long as possible but the kid was literally wrestling food out of my hands and was so obviously ready to eat that we just had to bite the bullet and start weaning a full month earlier than I expected too. At the same time, in an effort to save what remains of my sanity, husband started giving K a bottle of formula instead of breastmilk before bed. Partly in theory that it might help her sleep better (mixed reviews: jury still out) and partly because the constant cycle of feeding and pumping and being ON all the time was wearing out my boobs and my brain.

I could also make this post about the fact that she can now move. As in, be in one place, see something she wants in another and get to it. Not crawl, although it's coming soon, but still. Move. But this post is about none of these things, really.

Instead it's about earthquakes. We've had two decent sized ones in the last few weeks (months? Where the hell did April go?) Husband got nervous. Terrified of 'The Big One' and how the potential for bad things to happen is so much worse now we have K. I'm kind of a fatalist, and consider all these things future Lorna's problem.* I'm not so scared of earthquakes really. 'The Big One' might happen, but it might not, so why worry about it? And honestly, I just see earthquakes as a big giant metaphor. A metaphor for how our lives are steady and routine until one day they just... aren't.

This is the bit I missed when other people tried to explain having a baby to me: that you'll find your footing and feel safe and confident and secure, then a little earthquake. The ground will rattle beneath your feet and everything appears exactly the same but it isn't. And you have to figure out where you are and what just happened. By the time you've done that, the next one hits and it's time to start all over again. I never expected so many days/weeks of feeling utterly lost, of having the strange sensation of having absolutely no idea what K wants or needs. The plates shift under my feet, and I have to re establish myself all over again.

And K? She loves earthquakes. The whole world in a gentle rocking motion, just for her. Like her baby carrier, or travelling in the car. She doesn't understand tsunami risks or falling down buildings or the general feeling of unease left in their wake. Literal or metaphorical. She moves and shakes and expects us to keep up. Most often with a hearty chuckle, sometimes with dragon screams of frustration and rarest of all, thank goodness, pure blind rage. We are left rubbing our eyes, shrugging our shoulders and wondering if we'll ever catch up with her: read from the same page, sing from the same hymn sheet. And then one day we do, if only briefly.

The hardest part is realising that we've just had a shift. There are days of tears (mine) and frustration (mine, hers, his, Joanie's) whilst we realise that the ground has moved and we need to readjust everything. And I'm left wondering if it gets easier as they get older or do we just get better at sensing that the earth has moved, that we need to move with it? Who knows. For now, we're just rolling with it.

*Future Lorna must HATE past Lorna, she gets dumped with all her crap.

One Quarter

Three months have passed now, since the walk and the football game and the pain and the baby. A quarter of a year. And here we are, husband a little greyer, extra lines round my eyes, settling in like the tiredness I wear like a cosy jumper. And the baby. Fatter and happier and louder and angrier and so much more of a person with every passing day. And as she becomes more of a person she begins to own all those aspects of herself, or so I tell myself as she SCREAMS in protest that she's tired or hungry or it's Tuesday, goddammit. But now she laughs too. And one came with the other, and I wouldn't dream of giving up the 'heh heh heh' sound for anything. 

I often wonder what I'll remember about these days- the ones that I think of as new infant, not newborn. Newborn was an amazing glowy haze. New infant, well, it's a bit rougher round the edges. Higher highs, lower lows and everything in between. She either sleeps all night (our personal record is 8.5 hours) or wakes every two. Often on consecutive nights. She can smile and charm or be full of rage and anger and there is nothing to be done with either but ride it out. This season is lukewarm tea, the faintly musty smell of fat folds that need constant treatment to stop rashes spiralling out of control. Big juicy smiles that go from ear to ear, the 'heh' sound of amusement as we expend untold energy on The Wheels on the Bus or making the little lion roar. And crying crying crying crying. Big fat tears falling as if her heart might break, soft wet cheeks squashed hard against mine.

I started going to a 'Mommy group', in spite of myself. In some ways, many of them are not my people. They are vegans and concerned about the chemicals in the swimming pool and talk about things that are made of hemp, and I sit guiltily munching a ham sandwich and putting chemicals on my baby's bum then wrapping them in plastic. But there is a spectrum and I am grateful for someone to share the tired look in my eye and to hear them complain that no one warned them that breast milk shoots out like a water gun and watch their babies pee all over them and for someone to say 'I'll watch her whilst you run to the bathroom/get a glass of water/step outside in the fresh air and breathe'. It's ok that we are all doing things differently, because the reality seems to be that no matter what principles and dogmas they may have started with, everyone is just getting by. And honestly, hearing that is the most reassuring thing in the world. Some days 'getting by' feels like a collosal victory.

Other days, we do a whole lot more than get by. We had a visitor from home, and we went to the Sunday Morning Farmers Market in Santa Monica. (Somewhat hilariously, husband over heard a SUPER hipster guy complaining that this was a 'sham farmer's market- it wasn't real at all.' I would be shocked if this guy has ever been near a farm in his life, in his $500 hobnail boots and red fedora in 80 degree heat.) I was worried about a day out with a baby who has taken to screeching loudly and often at weekends, but she adored it and I ate chicken and waffles with one hand and she sat in the shade and watched the little kids ride on the ponies and pet the goats, then switched to gazing at the leaves overhead and we chatted in the dappled sunlight. I could sense the future then: of mornings full of adventures and new foods and funny animals.

And that's where we are, a quarter of a year into owning a baby. Owning this baby. It's hard and it's not: no more and no less. I hate when people say 'it's worth it' because of course it is because the human race would have long since died out if it wasn't, and I never really know what they mean by that exactly. It's joyous, most of the time. And every one needs more joy in their lives. The cost for ours in less sleep, in long days with crying all round, but it seems a pretty reasonable price to pay.

Onwards and Upwards

I have 4 or 5 posts sitting in my draft folder, mocking me for never being able to finish an idea, for not being able to come up with anything coherent or even sensible to say. Life has been interesting the last few months. We came to LA on a 2 year contract. A Post-Doctoral fellowship, same as everyone who wants to stay in academia does in a desperate hope that maybe, eventually someone will give them a permanent position. Sadly recession means less funding, less permanence. We have friends who DREAM of a 2 year contract, who never have any stability. This contract is up in July, and husband decided the best next step was to undertake a clinical residency. Basically, learning to become a physicist who plans radiotherapy for patients, who understands and checks the MRI and CT machines to make sure they don't turn anyone into a superhero* by mistake. The idea behind this being that he could maybe, eventually get a job in a big research hospital, but when there wasn't as much research funding kicking around, he could up his clinical hours and not be without a job.

This works pretty well at UCLA, where most of the staff is part clinical, part research. The residency is a set 'thing', and husband applied to 14 places throughout the US in the hope that he could get a few interviews and maybe a job offer. He wasn't terribly confident, but was hoping that he at least had a shot at staying at UCLA, where he knows everyone and generally is pretty useful. He was offered 11 interviews. He turned down 5 (for being somewhere he didn't want to go or for getting back to him too late). This was a confidence boost to start with. He went to 6 places, including the east coast and midwest during the hideous snow storms they've had there.

He was away fairly consistently for 2 weeks. I have a whole new respect for single parents. 5 o'clock would come, and I'd try desperately not to cry as the realisation that no one was coming to help hit hard. My sister-in-law tells me that in Denmark they call 5pm the 'wolfing hour' as the babies howl to welcome the moon. This makes absolute sense to me. K loves to welcome that moon. The main thing is we coped, K and I. I may have eaten pasta and pesto 4 nights in a row, but everyone was fed and clean and breathing and no one bled much, so I am claiming these trips as an overwhelming win. The stress was slowly building though, and for reasons I never expected.

Husband got offered a job. Not just any job, but one at a seriously impressive university. In a place people are desperate to live. In a place he was was desperate to live. The thing with places like that is that they are expensive. As in, we couldn't afford to live there expensive. He was still travelling. He had 4 days til he was home and the university were hassling him for an answer immediately and it was shit. Then came another job offer. And another. In the end he was still on the road and 3 different universities were hassling him to know RIGHT NOW where he was going to accept and his boss here was scrambling desperately to put together something that would make him stay.

We discounted two of the offers. San Francisco was too expensive to live in on one salary, and nursery fees would negate any money I could earn by going back to work. Chicago was -18C on the day he visited, so even though we have lots of friends there it was out. This left good university (which I won't name because we'd still like to keep the option open to go there eventually!) and UCLA. He had managed to buy himself a few days grace before giving them an answer. This left us 2 hours after he came home to discuss it and decide on his future, where to live, how we saw the next few years panning out. 

We love LA, but it's not the most child friendly place in the world. X is in a small-ish town, with public transport and lots of parks, but still a city vibe. It would have been lovely. In the end though, the compromises and the risk were too much. We'd have to pile into a one bedroom apartment since we couldn't afford anything bigger. I started going to a new moms group and a yoga class and am meeting people. Nice people. The thought of trying to find them again and starting over when K was 7 months old was kind of daunting. There are SO MANY kids around her age in our apartment complex, and there is potential for her to have lots of friends (and maybe us too, who knows.)

The decision, made in two hours during naptime after 4 days away and 3 inteviews and snow delays and willthiseverend was to stay in LA. With no firm offer (but a lot of potential) from UCLA, he turned down the other university. It was a bit of a leap of faith, but now it's done (with a firm offer from UCLA and discussions of a job after the residency is finished) the relief is palpable. The system for interviewing is a nightmare. The universities generally don't offer any financial assistance for you travelling all over the country (two of husband's did, which was a massive relief) so the whole thing costs hundreds of dollars (thousands, if you attend all the interviews you are invited to.) They are supposed to wait until February 17th to offer places, so everyone does it at the same time. This didn't happen AT ALL and left him in a really crappy position of being expected to accept an offer with no information on his other options, and at some places without even knowing salary or benefit details (quite important when health insurance is so vital and some of these cities are insanely expensive.)

I'm so proud of him. He is brilliant, which he now can see a bit better since he was 'in demand.' He made a tough choice with no time to decide and when he was sleep deprived and exhausted. We're getting settled into our apartment for the long haul. This is an amazing feeling. We'll be here for another two and a half years, which makes it the longest I've lived anywhere since I left home for university, the weekend of my 18th birthday. K will have her own bedroom and stability and we won't have to move house with a baby or find a new local coffee shop. We're going to paint the walls and upgrade some of our super cheap Ikea furniture and generally settle in a little, let ourselves breathe a bit slower and calmer. It's exciting in a totally different way.

The day husband got a firm offer from UCLA, he sent me a message asking if I wanted to go on a road trip somewhere this holiday weekend**. Then if I wanted to go on a summer holiday to Austin, Texas while he was at a conference. Then asking about booking flights home to the UK for the spring***. I could feel his relief seeping into these texts- planning new adventures. Different ones from what we had expected, or maybe even hoped, but exciting ones none-the-less.

*I joke, but the actual result of not doing that job properly is hideous radiation burns and death. Scary stuff.

**Instead we are going to Home Depot to look at paint swatches because we left it too late to book anywhere and I really want to start re-finishing some crappy inherited furniture and good Lord I am now turning into my parents.

***UK, we will be IN YOU come the end of April. Once I have finished eating Marks and Spencers sandwiches and eating a packet (or 6) of Salt and Vinegar Squares, I am up for hanging out with EVERYONE. Especially since this time I will not be crippled by morning sickness and can drink all the wine. And whisky. And tequila.

Tiny pools of light

I'm still in awe of people who manage to blog regularly with a baby. A newborn. That being said, K doesn't feel so new as she side-eyes me from her swing. She feels old and wise and simultaneously surprised but knowing about my decision to put her down from the spot she has occupied in the crook of my elbow all day. There are days (yesterday) where I feel like I could take on the world. K and I work in perfect rhythm, with perfectly timed portions of sleep and play and eating and I manage to clean things and my husband comes home from work to domestic bliss. There are others, like today, where I sit pinned under the weight of someone who has discovered how incredibly taxing it is to just exist- that things are not always comfortable or pleasant or fair and is simply going to sleep it off, with the occasional wail of unhappiness followed by a fart of such spectacular proportions that it wakes the cat.

There are other days that veer wildly between these extremes. We are starting to emerge from the depths of The First Cold, which perfectly punctuated The First Christmas and The First Full Month. To me, the more important memories are The First 18 Hour No-Sleep Marathon, The First Use of the Snotsnucker and finally, blissfully, The First Six Hour Stretch of Sleep. And none of these types of days have made me want to write. Not necessarily out of tiredness (although I'm sure there is a healthy dose of that somewhere in the background) but because I've not really felt like I've had much to say. Our main obsession is sleep, spoken in a coarse, jagged numeric code- last night was a 5-4-2, the night before a 6-4, the night before that 2-1.5-2. 

Night time has changed for me entirely. I am not good during the night. My left eye usually refuses to open. Literally, I pad between the tiny pools of amber light projected by the nightlights we had to panic buy when she was 3 days old with one eye firmly closed, like I've been sucker-punched. I no longer dream, the strange and vivid imaginings of pregnancy so long behind me I feel like they happened to someone else. Instead I jolt awake, brutally and forcefully as I remember I'm supposed to be looking after my baby rather than peacefully dozing. I guess this is the thing I have noticed most, that sleep is no longer peaceful. Night time is no longer something to be treated as a calm relief to the end of the day, but rather a gauntlet to run. Good night or bad? We have become superstitious in the manner of baseball players and football fans. The tricks that work are fastidiously upheld, those that don't cast aside without a second thought.

K now feels like mine. It took a long time to really believe, especially as I have held and bathed and cared for thousands of babies in my time. This one was no different until she was. I think it happened whilst I watched a David Attenborough documentary on Netflix (the Official Saviour of new parents everywhere) and it was 4am and there was no escaping that she was sick and miserable and just wanted us. It was simultaneously amazing and terrifying. I finally got round to reading 'The Fault in Our Stars' by John Greene last week and the idea that there is no way out of being parenthood now really gripped me. That regardless of what happens, whenever it may happen, I am K's mum, and there's nothing else to it. I can't tell if the terror outweighs the joy in that statement, but some ideas just need to exist, hanging in the back of your mind, waiting until you have the time (or the brain power) to untangle them.

I have become resolutely more British, and even more Scottish since K was born. Words appear from recesses of my mind that I couldn't have brought out if I'd wanted to before. I 'shuggle' the baby to sleep and tell her she's 'awrright'. I listen to BBC Radio, treating the traffic reports with the same reverence as radio plays on 4extra and the inane chat of the Drivetime show. Hearing tales of the A62 and gale warnings for Lochgilphead and crashes outside Basingstoke somehow makes the world more manageable. I knew where I stood in that world, at home where things were safe and we didn't live at the whim of someone who genuinely has no idea what she wants half the time.

This isn't to say that I wish I was at home, per se. After a particularly fractious day where husband was supposed to go back to work and didn't because things were so mental ,we went for a long walk, the top of K's head bobbing gently in her carrier. We talked about being home sick. And we realised that in reality nothing would have been any different if we were in Edinburgh except we'd be colder. Much colder, if we'd stayed in our beautiful yet drafty Victorian flat. 4am would still be 4am, Snotty noses would still be snotty noses and we wouldn't have any more idea what we were doing. And having that conversation by the orange glow of a beautiful sunset helped.

There have been many, many hilarious moments, lest this all sound melancholy, somehow. The cat is at the centre of most them, whether it is violently killing Winnie the Pooh, leaving a trail of dead soft toys in her wake near daily, or the day I found her traipsing around with the Snot-Sucker in her mouth, or jumping up to drink the water we use to clean up during nappy changes. K makes some of the most hilarious faces I've ever seen, and I'm genuinely sad they are rarely caught on camera. I hold the record for the most nappies used during one change- mortifiying for someone with my experience. She loves to be in the bath, and that is where I got to see her first real smile. 

This year is completely unknown for us. Husband has job interviews in a few different places and we don't have any idea where we will be come July. It's scary but exciting too. We decided we're still in for the adventure. We'll just bring K along with us. Famous last words, but how much harder can it be?

The Rules

I am a natural rule follower. Breaking them, even other people breaking them, causes me anxiety. Like, sweaty, uncomfortable have-to-leave-the-room anxiety. In so many ways, it makes life much easier for me. I don't always agree with the rules, but I always know which course of action to take: the one that will not get me in trouble. The natural rebels amongst you are horrified right now, I can tell. My husband (not a natural rule follower) puts forward arguments about Nazi Germany and dictatorships and why it's important to break the rules, and I know I can if I HAVE to but I'd really rather not, thankyouverymuch.

This has given me an interesting parenting dilemma. I'm happy to follow many of the 'rules' about parenting. K will get all her vaccinations at exactly the time she is supposed to because I trust the science and I trust the people who make the rules (in this case the American Association of Pediatrics, which has remarkably similar guidelines to the Royal College of Paediatricians, who I DEFINITELY trust.) I put K down to sleep on her back* and I have not yet introduced a bottle that will disrupt her truly excellent breastfeeding skills.

But I am breaking one of the rules. I am not breastfeeding on demand. Now this is not to say that I am starving my baby, trust me, this baby is gaining weight like a champ (and in fact had gained over a pound at her 2 week check-up) but feeding on demand just does not work for her. When left to her own devices, K will feed every 2 hours-ish during the day. This is pretty normal, but she just cannot handle it. The occasions when she has done this have resulted in miserable evenings/nights of inconsolable crying thanks to stomach pains- knees at her ears- as she screams. She is sick, bringing up whole feeds and flooding herself and everything around her (ie. me, her dad, her grandad, the cat, ohmygodIhavetochangeourbedsheetsat2am) in milk. Not even partially digested milk, just straight up, not touched her stomach, milk. It is a deeply unpleasant situation all round. Now when she goes 3 hours between feeds during the day, magic happens. She sleeps longer stretches at night. She is content, happy and laid back. She isn't sick at all.

It took me ages (and a bit of input from my mum) to figure out that this was what was going on, but now I have, life is easier. She starts making hungry faces at around the 2 hour mark (usually 2 hours 20 minutes, actually) and we distract her. It helps that she doesn't really cry a whole lot. If playing and cuddles aren't cutting it, I bring in the big guns dummy/pacifier. This almost always works to get us to around 3 hours (maybe slightly less, maybe slightly more) where she has a massive feed and is then satisfied to the three hour mark at her next feed. I do this dance maybe once or twice a day, she's mostly happy to go the whole 3 hours.

It is not what the rules tell me to do, but it is better for K. I'm trying to learn to trust my instincts more. This is hard for a natural rule follower. I'm not reading any parenting books. I do get the Lucie's List emails (which really helped us make sleep feel less chaotic, even if it didn't actually change anything) but I'm not reading anything else. We know the basics, we can google any issues that come up, and we are just trusting ourselves. Big adjustment, I love to read. But this is what works for us. Mostly, what works for K. And ultimately that is what counts.

I'd love to know what rules you plan on breaking/break/broke- no judgement here (unless you are not vaccinating your kid, in which case I'm heaping the judgement on. Sorry.)The main thing is, you are almost certainly not alone. So confess- I want to know what else I should ignore...

*mostly. If she is really vomit-y or choke-y (which she has been a few time) I'll swaddle her and prop her on a 45 degree angle. Which is what we do in the hospital so I'm pretty confident about it. Husband hates it.

2 hours

The baby has been asleep for an hour and a half. I'll probably wake her after 2 hours since it turns out she sleeps better over night if she doesn't sleep all day (go figure...)

In this hour and a half I have achieved the following:

• Christmas presents ordered for immediate family (sorry everyone else, I have officially used all my gift-giving brain power up.)
• Thank you card designed and ready for printing
• Made lunch and ate it
• Played with the cat
• Tidied up my living room and my bedroom
• Emptied the nappy/diaper bin/trashcan
• Multiple cups of tea made and finished
• Tracked down sender of beautiful yet mysterious baby gifts.
• Messed around on the internet (a bit)
• Written this (short, half-hearted) blog post

Old Lorna was seriously lazy. New Lorna is a machine. Caitlin Moran was right, the smartest thing a business can do is hire a new mum. They are frighteningly efficient...

Fortnight

It has been two weeks since I went into labour. Sitting in the same seat I am now, just having finished a roast chicken sandwich (that God himself orchestrated- I was protein-ed up for this delivery) the contractions started. They started at 4 minutes apart. No pre-amble, no work up to it. Just BANG- full blown labour. I was at the hospital 2 hours later, having sat in the bath for 45 minutes. My mum was getting antsy for us to leave. If we'd waited any longer we'd have needed an ambulance. 

Two hours after they started, I was at 5cm, waiting on the anaesthetist to give me my epidural. This was the single best decision I have ever made. If you are on the fence at all, I could not recommend the epidural more. It did slow my labour down a little, but given the breakneck speed it was at, this was no bad thing. I spent the last three hours of labour chatting with my mum, husband and nurse, and watching a cracking game of Sunday Night Football (Patriots-Broncos- was brilliant.) It was exactly what I had envisaged for labour. The hard work of the start meaning I got to really experience it, but relief when I was fed up. It was my ideal.

Pushing wasn't great. Basically, for reasons of anatomy (mine, not hers) the baby was never going to come without help. After 4 hours, they got the vacuum out and she was born in two pushes. There had been meconium much, much earlier but I wasn't worried (being a nurse served me well on so many occassions, I was always calm) and I was right not to be. Her apgar score was 9 when she came out. As good as any baby ever is. My husband went over to be with her whilst the NICU team checked her over, and she held his finger tight the whole time. He said half the team left straight away, the others had 'Christmas faces on' as they cleaned up a healthy, content baby.

Pushing out the placenta was the most satisfying part of the whole process. I never expected that. My doctor said 'Congratulations, you are no longer pregnant' as I pushed it out and I felt amazing. I needed quite a lot of stitches, but the epidural and the extra drugs they gave me made the whole thing quite good fun, chatting away to my doctor (who happened to be on call that weekend) and the camper-than-christmas nurse assisting her. I was relaxed and happy. I held her half an hour after she was born, when they'd finished with me. I could have pushed to have held her sooner, but I wanted my repair to be the best possible, and a squirmy baby wouldn't have helped.

Once I had her, the nurses left us all alone for 2 hours skin-to-skin. We let her feed (she managed 50 minutes. Seriously. 50 minutes.) We moved to the post-partum ward and we all slept.

Two weeks. She was officially born on a Monday, at 2.04am. A ridiculous time, I wish they'd just rounded it up to five past. To me though, she will always have been born on the Sunday night. Late, after a long walk on the beach and a leisurely lunch and a blurry afternoon of pain and a brilliant game of American Football and a late night of hard work.

I am no longer wearing maternity clothes or taking pain killers. Pregnancy is starting to feel distant. She can see us and the cat and her favourite toys- a Snowman rattle and a Zebra that makes farting noises. She is quiet and content- she rarely cries, but is constantly on the move. Her arms and legs are in constant motion, even when asleep. She feeds so well- figuring out the latch long before I did. She was back at her birth weight a mere 5 days after being born. She seems to be efficient in everything she does. No nonsense or time wasted. Her cheeks are pudgy and kissable and she is happiest when cuddled up with her daddy. Or Granny. Or Grandad.

She has constant gas, and spends most of her days upright as we try and help her shift it. She never gets distressed though, even when covering herself (and us) in vomit. Despite this, she sleeps amazingly well, waking me every 3-4 hours for a feed then dropping herself back off to sleep with gurgles and happy little noises.

I can't really explain motherhood after just a fortnight's experience. I know that if I think about her too much, about her mere existence in our lives, about the way my husband looks at her, about the fact that we were this lucky when it is completely undeserved, I want to cry. There is a constant undercurrent in the back of my mind, it goes 'luckyluckyluckyluckylucky' and I just let myself soak it in. 

The scary bits are still to come. Another paediatrician visit to check her weight tomorrow, where I'll find out if I'm doing enough to feed her and keep her growing. The responsibility feels overwhelming at time. It makes me want to grab a bottle so it will be someone else's fault if she's not where she needs to be. My husband goes back to work tomorrow, so I'll be on my own at night. My parents leave on Friday, something I can't really begin to contemplate yet. My mum has been incredible. She is my number one breastfeeding cheerleader, telling me I can do it, that it'll be easy and pushing me so that at just 12 days I managed my first feed in public. She's given me the tools though, and that's the best I can ask for. We'll be heading back to Scotland in the spring, taking a bouncing, chubby cheeked baby with us. Until then Skype will have to suffice.

So that is the story of Katherine Eileen Thomas, born November 25th weighing 6lb11oz, 19" long. Two weeks old (tomorrow).

On how you spend your day

I am in the mood for writing long, philosophical posts on the nature of Things at the moment. This is partially because my only plan for the day is cleaning, which I have absolutely zero enthusiasm for (my mum arrives in 2 days, which I'm certain will provide all the necessary 'motivation' I need) and partly because I am still ill, despite hard-working penicillin and steroids. The ear infection just won't clear, and I remain vaguely in pain all the damn time. I've gone from wishing the ear infection would just go so I can have the baby already to wishing the baby was out so I could really seriously blast the ear infection and sleep for a couple of hours in a row (I'm not fussy- two hours would do nicely. And probably optimistic if the baby is here...)

But I don't want to write about ear infections, or incidentally, about the Cystitis the cat developed over the weekend, meaning that first thing in the morning and last thing at night have become some sort of insane merri-go-round of medications. This made me think of my old job at Bankfoot, a respite centre for children with learning disabilities. I worked there for 18 months, and despite it being one of the hardest jobs it's ever possible to undertake, I miss it horribly.

I spent the morning reading blog posts, as I often do when I don't have to be anywhere early in the morning; cup of tea in hand, stacks of pillows around me in bed and Feedly making a good looking magazine spread on my Kindle. I read the words- your words, mainly, people who read the things I write, and spend the day mulling them over. The 8-hour time difference means I can rarely join in the discussions about them, the moment has passed and the article is old news by the time I get to it, but I think and think and think, imagining my responses. Today, I read The Little Pip talk about a Guardian article on Motherhood as the 'most important job in the world'* and found myself nodding along like mad with her response. Now I come at things from a fundamentally opposite viewpoint of the author, since I am going to be a stay at home mum, rather than a working mum. Her blog is predominantly about being a working mum, so often lots of it doesn't feel relevant to me. But the idea of parenting- in any and all of its guises- being a social relationship rather than a job makes my heart sing. 

I adored working at Bankfoot. I would accidentally turn up early and just start work. I'd stay late and not think twice about it. I would work for 12 hours, then sleep over and get up twice during the night to deal with things that came up and get up at 6am and work for another 2 or 3 hours before getting on a bus that would take me an hour to drop me off at home and then do it all again when I got a 'we're short staffed' phone call a few hours later. I worked a night shift, awake all alone for 12 hours, then got 2 buses, got lost and walked for 40 minutes straight after because I realised that one of the young people did not have his swimming kit, and he would miss out if I didn't get it to him by 10.30am.

That job, whilst it was most definitely a job- I definitely got paid for it- was completely underpinned by social relationships. My own tiredness, my own revulsion at the task at hand (and believe me, there was PLENTY to be revulsed by...) the bruises (including a black eye just days before my wedding day) and cuts (so many cuts) was always negated by the needs of the young people, by the joy I got from walking through the door and hearing the loud music and seeing the smiles or hearing screeches or roars of laughter. And it was hard. Harder then anything else I have ever done or ever will do. Whether that was watching a child self harm out of sheer frustration, getting a knock to the head from a stray fist that left me seeing stars, or even when I knew I was irritating my colleagues because I didn't agree with them about the best way to do something (they irritated me too at times. Those were LONG days to work under stress in such a small team.) I was never, ever sorry that I was there. I have never known hard work like it. But it wasn't just my job, it was a part of me. Or more specifically, those relationships, with the kids and the other staff, were.

Now of course being a parent is different because not only do you have tiny overlords you can have a great deal of fun with, but you made those overlords yourself. I guess I am thinking about how lucky I am to have had a job where it was so much more than 'just a job'. It sets up being a stay-at-home-mum in some ways. The thanklessness of so many of the tasks (we were certainly not appreciated as heroes at the respite centre. There was always something we were doing wrong. Usually many things. But that's another conversation for another day) mixed with the never ending propulsion to do them because they needed done and the person you were caring for needed you and JUST GET ON WITH IT. There is no glamour or glory in being a care worker. It's a minimum wage job (for many, not us, thankfully) with next to no qualifications required. There is no status, or 'pioneering' in it. It does nothing to forward the role of women in the wider world- I'm sure it would be considered positively anti-feminist to read stories and hold hands and clean up poo and be another woman in a care role but I didn't care and I loved every minute of it. It was the role that has had the single biggest impact in my life, and one I would go back to in a heartbeat, regardless of what others feel my degrees and education are 'worth'.

So what is my point? I don't have one really. I miss working there. I think it's prepared me for being at home. Most of the young people were non-verbal, so I'm used to not having 'adult conversation' for large chunks of the day- I had really great communication though. I know that changing a nappy is the most unrelenting, soul destroying thing you can do with your day, safe in the knowledge that you will have to do it all over again in a few hours. But I also understand the value in treating such a task as something important, a way to show the person you are caring for that you respect them. 

I imagine that it's in large part my personality, but in my mind EVERYTHING is better is you treat it as a continuation of a social relationship rather than a 'job', although I know life doesn't always work that way. Working in the bookshop at WH Smith felt like a series of social relationships through warm and affectionate interactions with customers. My insurance job did, until I was moved to the sales department and it suddenly didn't. So how I spend my day, from now on at home with a baby and a cat, is important to me, to us, to our family, but probably not anyone else. And that is really ok with me.

*Who says it is? Seriously, I get so confused with this constant supposed 'battle' between parents who have a job and those who stay at home so confusing. I don't know anyone else who will be at home with their kids. Literally everyone I know works. I have no strong feelings about any way of doing anything because a) I just don't know and b) honestly, don't really care. I swear newspapers just perpetuate it so this lady and contemporaries can write articles.

On being sick

I have been unwell. Really, properly unwell rather than the litany of colds, migraines (although I NEVER wish to underestimate the hideous power of a migraine, I'm lucky mine only usually last a few hours after the aura has appeared) and other crappy day-to-day illnesses that plague every day life. I have an ear infection. Well, two ear infections (ears infection would be more correct, I suppose, since it it the same infection spread across two ears, but it sounds clunky and unpleasant, like Culs-de-Sac.) It's funny how easily we trivialise traditional childhood illnesses, really. Almost every child ever has had an ear infection at some point, and happily munched down the the banana medicine that was kept in the fridge. I don't remember the sore ears specifically, though. I certainly wasn't hounded by them the way some kids are (I seem to recall my sister being a frequent attender for them) but Good Lord this has knocked me for six.

It's the relentless, grinding, aching pain that has shocked me. Do they hurt kids this much? On Tuesday I cried for 6 hours straight. This is not an exaggeration. Sobbed. It was horrendous. I had been awake since 2am, the doctor had poked at it and made it more painful and reassured me I'd start to feel better in 24 hours. She said it was bad, and there was an awful lot of pressure behind my eardrum, but hopefully it wouldn't burst. She gave me a massive dose of antibiotics I will almost certainly still be taking after Kick is here. I thought back to those grizzly, miserable toddlers I would see as a nursing student in GP waiting rooms, or in A&E during night shift, with exhausted, defeated looking parents and thought 'I know exactly how they feel.' And I meant the kids, not the parents. I couldn't imagine sitting in a waiting room with Kick feeling how I felt. It breaks my heart in advance to imagine her ever being that unhappy.

On the one hand, I know this is insane. Childhood illnesses are a way to build us up to be strong, healthy and adaptable adults. As a nurse I've seen kids plumb the depths of despair one moment then, after a dose of Ibruprofen, be running round the playroom like a banshee, only to crash again precisely 20 minutes before the next dose of medicine is due. On the other, this is not my patient, this is my baby. My girl, who I wish to protect from ear infections, chickenpox (they vaccinate against it here, thank goodness) and horrible bouts of diarrhoea and vomiting. Completely unrealistic, but there you have it. 

On Tuesday night, Kick stopped kicking. I'd barely felt her all day, but managed a 'count to 10' kick count on a couple of occasions, but at night there was nothing. I felt her once in 2 hours, and husband decided it was time to go to our Labour and Delivery ward. The on call doctor agreed, and fifteen minutes later we were safely in a cosy room, listening to our baby's heartbeat through the monitor with SportsCenter on TV and someone giving birth next door. We met our own doctor in corridor, even though she wasn't on call that night, who gave me a hug and lots of sympathy. She told me Kick was fine, but since I felt crap, she felt crap too. This is the point the guilt struck. And not really because my crappy illness had impacted on the baby (we both felt a WHOLE LOT better after an IV bag of fluids, which the nurse ran in record time and got us home an hour and 15 minutes after we got there) but because until that moment, I really hadn't really been thinking about the baby at all.

My own pain and misery was so overwhelming that I barely gave a thought to the baby. She wasn't moving very much, so I didn't have that constant reminder of her presence. The mild contractions I had been having every 30 minutes for 2 days had completely ceased. I felt less pregnant than I had in weeks. I was just me, and me needed a lot of attention, I didn't have any to spare for her. Thankfully husband was on top of things, and got into action. I remember wondering why on earth he was messing around with the hospital bag that sits packed in the corner of the bedroom. Then I realised he was putting all the last minute things in it from the check list on the fridge. I couldn't figure out why he thought we needed that, but eventually it occurred to me that if there was something wrong with the baby, she'd be coming out tonight and I would need the bag. It gave me a start, a reminder that my head was so focused on managing my own pain and discomfort that I'd forgotten why we were going to the hospital. 

I've not felt particularly maternal towards the bump. I don't think I'll miss it, I really don't think I'll miss having Kick inside, battering my internal organs whenever I drink something/go for a shower/pick up the cat/sit down and relax/it's Wednesday. I've not felt particularly 'bonded' to her, though I know some women are madly in love as soon as the see those little pink lines. I sometimes think  the miscarriage left tiny scars, near naked to the eye until the light hits them just right. Maybe this has been one of them- that distance between my heart and the wriggling lump that seems to enjoys loud music and the cat's purring. 

My head adores her, has transposed a personality onto her already. We talk to her like she is feisty and fiery and somehow larger than life. Everyone does, actually. Husband,  my doctor, colleagues from volunteering, even the nurse on the Labour and Delivery ward. And I wonder, did I do that? Did I create that personality for her based on the fact she kicks anything that dares to touch her? Is that just what babies do and I have invented a badass, passionate personality to go with it because I'm a wee bit like that and I secretly want her to be like me? Or do I want her to be more than me, to be less timid and less worried what people think? Do I think this will be how the world will be easiest for her, so I'm projecting it on to the outline under my skin? Maybe she'll be shy and quiet and considered and laid-back, and all babies kick and roll with such force they leave faint bruises on their mummy's bump. I don't know. But I know that being ill and letting myself get so dehydated and forgetting my hospital bag and somehow forgetting about the baby has shaken me up a little.

All day yesterday she rolled and kicked and stretched away to her hearts content, and I just let her and enjoyed it. I've mentioned a few times before on here that I have never been a huge fan of the kicks. I keep waiting for the bit when they calm down, like the book promises because she has run out of space. Kick makes her own space, at the cost of my insides. Increasingly my outsides too. I think at 38 weeks I just have to accept that the lull is not coming. And I'm really ok with it today. My girl is pushing and shoving and pulling to figure her way out, testing her muscles and trying to make herself heard amongst the voices she listens to all day long. And I still wouldn't say my heart is swelling and bursting with a mother's pride and love, but I can see how it will. And that is a pretty amazing cure for earache.

On Breastfeeding controversy

Another day when Breastfeeding hits the media (or more specifically, the internet*) The BBC reported this morning (as did all the major British media outlets) that there is a project taking place in South Yorkshire which incentivises breastfeeding for certain groups of women by offering them shopping vouchers. My twitter feed erupted in horror. I wasn't so sure. Here's the thing. I have a degree in Children's Health. I am well educated, come from a family where breastfeeding was the norm, most of my friends breastfed their babies for 6 months and I can afford to pay for private lactation consultants to support me, yet I am STILL far more terrified about breastfeeding than anything else labour, delivery and new motherhood will throw at me. I will do it because I feel like I have to, but I have absolutely no joy at the prospect, and it makes me feel a cold, hard nausea whenever I dwell on it too much. I'm the freakin' poster child for someone who should make this work, and yet I feel this way. So I started doing a bit of reading, thinking about my own experiences as a student nurse working with new mums in both highly affluent and extremely deprived areas, and a few key points struck me. 

I should point out, though I'd hope it'd be obvious, that I am writing a silly blog post talking about at a few bits of evidence found when looking at breastfeeding in Scotland and relating them to my own, very unscientific anecdotal experiences. Nor do I pretend to understand the whole picture, to presume to know what is and isn't an issue for a mum in an area of high social deprivation. I'm also not a statistician, so my understanding of some of these documents might not be perfect.  This really isn't intended to be an in-depth critique of the subject matter, rather a way for me to get my head around  my experiences of a complicated issue.

The first instinct of nearly everyone who read this story and commented seemed to be 'What a waste- much better to fund improved support services for breastfeeding instead'. I find myself thinking 'well, yes and no...' Part of the issue here is that the project is aiming to incentivise breastfeeding to six months- to me this means to encourage women who wouldn't have started at all to give it a go. Am I convinced shopping vouchers are the way to do this? Em, no, not really. But as projects like this show, a support network offering little 'treats' can help women, particularly young women, get involved. This report highlights some really interesting points about why (in this case young) women from areas of high social deprivation are particularly reluctant to start breastfeeding- When age and social deprivation were taken into account, just 4.4% of Scotland's youngest, poorest mums were breastfeeding at 10 days old. The national average was 47.1%.

This case study also shows that it's not necessarily that there are not support services available, but rather they don't feel accessible or appropriate to this particular group of mums. Whilst I'm certainly not arguing that more lactation consultants and specialists are required, I do wonder how many of the young women in Edinburgh from areas like Sighthill and Wester Hailes (two of the poorest communities) felt they could attend any of the city's Breastfeeding clinics, groups or seek peer support? Lack of transport, or available money for paying for public transport are automatic barriers. The breastfeeding group that takes place weekly in the Ikea Straiton cafe sounds simply marvellous to me, but I'm fully aware of why it would sound completely horrifying to someone else. The 2 hour long clinic appointment may also really help those who are having significant difficulty, but who will watch the other kids whilst they are there? And what if there has been previous Social Service involvement- do I want to invite that much intrusion? It's so easy to see why not bothering to begin with, or giving up after the first week or two seems logical for so many people. Especially when the general environment is not pro-breastfeeding. My mum breastfed me and my siblings- it was normalised in my house. I'm not actually sure there were even bottles in the house- I certainly don't remember any. If the normalisation you experience is of bottle feeding, then it would make sense to begin there or switch back to the devil you know as soon as there are difficulties, which almost everybody experiences in the beginning.

The idea that somehow all the public health messages about 'breast being best' are somehow 'not for them' actually resonates with me personally. Nothing turns me off a pro-breastfeeding message faster than someone starting a sentence 'I breastfed my child until they were two/three/went to school'. It's simply not the direction I wish to go in myself, and I find it oddly boastful, as if I am somehow supposed to congratulate them and hand over a shiny rosette. I know breastfeeding is incredibly challenging and breastfeeding for a long time is absolutely an achievement, but I can't help feel this alienates some women, particularly in the first few weeks when the idea of surviving just one more feed seems overwhelming. The talk of tiny increases in IQ points means very little to most in the real world, particularly if they were bottle fed and turned out just fine. As the case study points out, diseases like gastroenteritis and diabetes seem totally alien when you have a teeny newborn you are hell bent on protecting. Even knowing and understanding the research, I find myself dismissing the reduced instances of respiratory infection argument through my experiences of begging mums for just 20ml of breastmilk to pop down a tube in her Bronchiolitis baby's nose, or else they would have to have formula. With serious respoiratory infections tiny, specifically timed feedings were of vital importance. Sick babies in hospital with exhausted, stressed mothers make pumping a challenge.

To me, these points raise the question of the place of an incentivisation scheme. Or even better, a study to assess if such a scheme would be worthwhile. Do I think it has the potential to increase worry and stress in mums who are already struggling? Possibly, but I'm not sure they are the target audience for this particular study. And I'm extremely wary of how such a scheme can be 'policed' and by whom- maintaining involvement and building trust between health care professionals and those parents on the margins is so vitally important. Is it 'patronising and naive?' Well, money alone is, yes. As part of a bigger program of societal change, I would argue no more so than any other kind of incentivisation such as weight loss or smoking groups that offer rewards. Even if the young women themselves in the North Kilmarnock case study did not breastfeed for any length of time, a foundation has been laid whereby it becomes a little more socially accepted than it was before. The danger of all breastfeeding, and indeed all health promotion is viewing it as a target-meeting exercise rather than a longer process of changing things for the better.

*Well, my internet. Which is mostly filled with educated young women who either have babies, are expecting babies or might be thinking about it soon.