Barren Mare

Round trip

And so away I went for the weekend, two whole nights parted from Botany. On the day I left, she woke at the usual time of 5am and I brought her into bed for a nurse and a cuddle. She curled up in the curve of my arm, her little feet pressed up against my belly. When she woke up an hour later, she crawled on top of me, gave me a big hug and jumped up and down on my abdomen, wanting me to sing the horse song (which I duly performed with one eye still melted shut with sleep.) My parents arrived shortly thereafter to take over and let me slip away to catch my early morning train. I kissed the baby goodbye and quietly left while my dad plied her with her favourite breakfast blueberries. As I made my way up to the station in the grey murky light of a Scottish autumn daybreak, I felt like crying. 

The guilt feelings persisted for an hour or so during the journey north, and then I fell asleep with my head cracking against the window. When I arrived at my destination, I felt slightly revived and somehow, also somewhat detached from what I had left behind. I had lunch and a glass of wine without thinking about rushing home, or worrying about having to breastfeed. The afternoon took on a funny, formless sort of pace as I stopped checking my watch to see if it was snack time or nap time or bathtime. I slept late the next morning- very late- and read the Sunday papers while eating a bacon roll and watching television. Later, there was a long walk in the brisk sunshine, without a pram. I watched other children playing on the beach or running up and down the promenade and I thought- next time I can bring Botany. This time is for me.    

I didn't end up taking the pump after all, being totally unable to recollect where I had stashed all the bits. In the end, it didn't matter. I expressed by hand when I felt uncomfortable, and that seemed to take the edge off. My boobs didn't explode nor apparently did the supply suddenly dry up. When I walked in the door this afternoon, Botany looked up from her book and gave me the most enormous smile. Then she crawled over and stuck her hand straight down my top, which is her code these days for wanting milk from mummy.  And I obliged, of course, feeling very relieved to see her and to hold her and to rock in the chair, stroking her baby fine hair as she nursed happily for a long, long time. 

My mother was sitting on the nursery floor, with her hair mussed and tired eyes. 

"You look exhausted," I said. 

"I am," she said, "I am completely whipped. We had a great time, but my goodness. It's very hard work. She was such a good girl, but she just doesn't stop, ever," and she pointed at Botany lying on the pillow in my arms. 

"I know," I said "I did warn you the 5am wake up call is a particular killer."

"She's into everything! She just doesn't stop! She hardly napped! I don't know where she gets the energy," my mother said. "I don't know how she does it! I don't know how you do it!"

I'm not sure either, to tell you the truth. Sometimes I still feel massively daunted by this spirited baby, my parents' imminent departure, the tasks of parenting solo ahead, the gloom of the coming winter. I'm unlikely to have a weekend to myself again for a very long time. But I'm trying to learn to seize the moments of respite when they come- knowing now that I am all the better able to be a good mother for having had a chance to be good to myself, to give myself a bit of breathing space and to find myself restored.

Realignment

When the dust settles after a crisis, there can be such a strange, breathless calm.  All the endless energy spent shoring up the battlements, fighting the fires, rebuilding from the ground up after the siege- where does that go when suddenly everything comes to a halt, when peace is restored?  I'm glad to be getting back to a more normal state of being, but I still find myself waking up in the middle of the night, heart pumping in panic; until I remember where I am- safe in my flat with Botany down the hall.  I'm so used to be in constant chaos mode over the last several months, I hardly know what to do with myself now.  Time to get back to knitting, I think, an outlet for restless hands and a fretful mind. And dancing around the living room and cooking and catching up with friends and writing and lavishing affection on people I love.     

 

Botany has started sleeping through more regularly until 5am. It's not perfect, but I'll take it. Considering she goes down with nary a whimper at 7pm on the dot most nights, it seems not the worst trade off in the world.

 

There is the prospect of a weekend away on my own; my parents have offered to take her. Having been on hand for so many bathtimes and the odd bit of babysitting when I do need to go out, they have the bedtime routine down to an art form, and Botany will go to sleep without nursing down if my mother deals with it. My mother also regularly wakes up at the crack of dawn anyway so it wouldn't be a huge problem in that regard.  I am very daunted at the notion of being away from my baby for two! whole! nights! but at the same time, the notion of being able to sleep in as late as I want for the first time in over a year is proving very, very appealing. It also seems to me to be an important step to take, as part of the realignment of myself as an individual with my self as a mother.   

 

On a more practical note, I have no idea where all the bits of the breast pump have gotten to- I haven't expressed in months and months. On the rare times when I felt the need to do it just to keep myself from exploding (i.e. the first couple days when I was back at work), I just did it by hand. But I am wondering perhaps something more industrial might be required to cope with being away for two nights.  I have no intention of weaning by accident but I have no idea how much I'd need to express to keep things ticking along. At this point, I also have no idea how much Botany is actually consuming; much of the time she seems to be comfort nibbling rather than eating. Which is fine by me, but I would hate for her to latch on and discover that the well had run dry when she was in fact looking for some actual sustenance. If anyone out there has any tips or stories about leaving a nursing thirteen month old for the first time, I'd be glad to hear it.

 

The other breastfeeding issue is more cosmetic. Due to the  positioning of my bed and a number of other factors (like Botany's own preference), I somehow ended up nursing primarily on the right side for all the naps, early morning and nursing down at night. I do try to occasionally give the left side an outing for good measure, but the truth is I'm now mainly a one-boob nursing wonder. The result is a certain amount of lopsidedness. It's not so bad that people are pointing and staring at the imbalance, but I think it is noticeable. I wore a fairly tight sweater the other day and suddenly felt a little self conscious. I suppose it could be fixed with a certain amount of diligence in nursing on both sides, and I keep meaning to do it, but we're pretty set in our nursing ways now, Botany and I.  Again, if there's anyone out there with a similar issue, do share-if you set out to correct it, how long did it take? Or did you not bother? Or am I the only freak in the village?

13,870

I turned 38 years old yesterday (which, by the way, is not an invitation to wish me a happy birthday. But oh, if you must, then go on.) It was a lovely day, despite some indifferent weather and Botany being in a mysteriously foul mood most of the morning. She is desperately frustrated at not having mastered walking on her own yet, necessitating endless practice trips up and down the hall holding her hands up for balance. 

The doorbell went at 10am- flowers delivered, bright autumal splash of colour in the vase in my blue kitchen. Other presents, too- a new book to read, something new to sleep in.

My parents took Botany out in the afternoon to give me some time to myself alone in the flat, which I enjoyed immensely. I had a nap on my own ( that is, without a baby clamped on to my boob) for the first time in some months. Watched from the kitchen window as the squirrels chased each other around the back garden. For dinner, chicken pie, new potatoes, cake and ice cream, a delicious bottle of fizz. Laughing over the meal, blowing out my candles, heart lighter than it has been in ages.  Went to bed happy. Botany slept until 5.30am, a new record and woke happy, too.

All these new beginnings could have been dreadful and yet appear to be turning out so shiny and fine, I can scarcely believe it. I hugged my mother in the hallway and whispered, "Everything is going to be OK. We're going to be OK." 

And we are.

Crossed lines

Finally, the phone is fixed. It only took about three more phone calls, threats of cancelling the service and a technician to come out to uncross the line to get it sorted. Whew. I am quietly pleased to be fully communicado again in such a relatively short space of time- I even have sort of a groovy phone number (if you care about that sort of thing. Which I do.)

Now if I could only uncross the lines in my own freaking brain. Perhaps it is a hangover from moving stress (and indeed, the stress of the last several months), but I do feel a little off kilter at the moment. While Botany has now settled in beautifully to her nursery place, I seem totally incapable of getting with the program there. Every day, I make some small goofball error that nonetheless leaves me feeling like a stupid and incompetent mother. For example, I forgot to bring in Botany's packed lunch the other day and my mother had to run it down. I forgot to pack shirts in her spare clothes bag, which meant Botany came home wearing some random nursery top after a minor sickie up incident. I forgot to bring in more nappies, as requested, which meant the supply ran out she came home wearing some other random brand. "More nappies, please!" it said in Botany's log book, in bright blue letters and caps. 

I lost all the nursery paperwork in the move (temporarily at least) and had to ask for the pay reference for the third time in a vain attempt to finally get the banking details sorted out. During the move, I accidentally left my old, smelly stained manky cardigan in the shopping basket of the buggy and the staff thought it was perhaps a comfort blankie for Botany, fished it out and hung it up on her peg for all to see.

And then there is the seemingly never ending series of faux pas as I try to keep on top of the packed lunches. I seem to be forever violating the nursery food code. It's hardly rocket science, after all- no shellfish, no nuts, no strawberries, no rice. And yet today I was pulled up by a member of staff for having sent in prawn curry (Botany does love her curry). Shellfish! Whap!  There is also some dicta about bananas, but I've lost the sheet that lists all the food rules and I am too timid to ask about it at this point, so Botany never gets bananas in her lunch pail. 

I console myself by reminding myself that at least Botany is generally clean, well-fed and in good health. We both go to work and nursery on time, with something to eat in our lunch box (shellfish aside) and our clothes more or less on straight, the right way round and buttoned up. And I'm doing this on my own, after all, which should balance out the demerits on my score card. 

I was also about to boast the other day that the driving was going better- and it is- but there was a really, really embarrassing incident at this new junction yesterday. Being unfamiliar with the new road layout, I started through the light, then realised it was red, and that I was halfway into the middle of the junction with all the oncoming cars gawping at me like I was a complete doofus. So I stopped and went to reverse backwards to the spot I had come from, only the cars behind me were now looking at me like I was a doofus. By the time I got done cursing and grinding the gears, the light had finally changed, leaving me flailing to get my ass out of reverse and back into forward before it went red again. By which point random passers-by were looking at me like I was a doofus.

Botany, cover your ears, I said. She kicked up her little feet in her car seat, gave me a big gap-toothed grin and barked her favourite word, "CAT!". Then I found first gear, rammed my foot on the accelerator and we joyfully shot through the junction, along the road toward home, away away away. 

Update from amongst the cardboard boxes

We're moved! Whooty!  

The new flat is gorgeous, delightful, wonderful. When not doing the last of the unpacking, I twirl around the living room. I am happy. Botany seems happy. We have landed on our respective feet, large and small. I have a pantry and a linen cupboard; my delight knows no bounds.

The good news is the internet connection is up and running. The bad news is that they've assigned me someone else's telephone number; a crossed line which is proving very difficult to resolve. Cue an endless round of circuitous, tortuous calls to the help desk, the fault desk, the "we don't give a shit desk".  Finally, after the ninth call, some gnashing of teeth and a large glass of wine, I promised the anonymous voice on the other end end all manner of things- sexual favours, the spinning of flax into gold, hen's teeth- if only, please oh please oh please, it could be sorted out. This got his attention because I was suddenly no longer fobbed off to the fault desk, but instead advised that in fact, I did have my own number. Not the crossed line number.

"Great," I said, swigging wine from a glass bigger than my head in an effort to dull the pain. "What is it?"

"I can't tell you. Security won't allow it," he said.

"You can't tell me my own phone number? The one assigned to this account? Even though I have given you the account details and password? Not to mention promised...well, all manner of things?"

"That's right," he said."Can't tell you."

"So, how am I meant to tell people how to call me? How do I find out my own telephone number? Am I meant to divine it by mental telepathy? What the hell is going on here? Is your company on crack? WHAT IS WRONG WITH THIS PICTURE?" I squealed, then remembered I had to keep my voice down so as not to wake Botany. 

"Tell you what," he said, conspiratorially, "I'll assign you a new number. And I can tell you what it is right away! Only it won't work for 24 hours, and until we receive six skeins of gold woven from flax."

In a state of sheer desperadoes, I agreed. I very much doubt the new number will work, but we'll try again tomorrow. By then I may have concocted other means of begging, cajoling, wheedling- failing which, cancelling the whole goddamn thing and starting over. 

Still, my good spirits are only slightly dented, momentarily. Did I mention I have a pantry?  Squeeee!