Simon's advocate

I don’t understand it when people complain about the lauding of Susan Boyle’s great voice. You’re damned if you do in this knee-jerk reactionary world, and it’s a bit naive to blame the superficial nature of eyeballs. Television gives the counterculture what it wants (ugly people doing well in the media) and that demographic turns around and reinforces the very thing it’s fighting by insisting that ugly people only get recognition for being talented because . . . they’re ugly. Pardon me, but didn’t you just finish saying that the media is obsessed with good looking people who possess good looking voices? So what’s the problem here?

One thing North Americans don’t realise about the British (if I may) is that supporting the underdog is not only encouraged – it’s deeply embedded in the culture. They appreciate talent in whatever form it takes, and don’t get me wrong – if there’s an opportunity to see a pretty girl get her kit off, they’re all for it. But if it comes too easily to someone (and what comes more easily to a good looking person than good looks?) then they don’t want to know. Plainly put, the British public, like virtually anyone, takes notice of glamour, but when it comes to showing support, they will always back the underdog.

Quite apart from this, don’t for a second imagine that such support occurs inside a vacuum – most of us are smart enough to recognise when we are being manipulated, and many of us allow for this manipulation to take place willingly. How many of you have ever bought shampoo, a lip gloss or a nice pair of shoes? Anyone highlight a zit with a daub of poo or leave the house wearing their grandfather’s stinky sweater vest recently? Not even to make a point.

To be subversive is to first self-consciously allude to the rule to which you are making an exception. You cannot stand up for the ugly guy unless you own up to the fact that as a society, we allow ourselves to be had by the cult of beauty over and over again. The reason nobody is surprised when a beautiful person shows great talent is because the correlation is constantly crammed down our throats. Beauty is often just the icing on the cake – any cake – and it’s a dessert we’re more than a little sick of tasting, even if we can’t help ourselves at times.

We see that notion turned on its head to the extreme (and who can say that oddball Ms Boyle isn’t sitting on the opposite side of the spectrum from someone like Katy Perry?) and we can’t help but stand up and cheer. Even Susan Boyle recognises this. Why on earth do you think she came on the show? Paul Potts already blazed this trail back in 2007 and it’s opened the doors to celebrity for the less-than-sightly in Great Britain ever since. It’s the Paul Pottses, Susan Boyles and – most recently – Greg Pritchards of the world that bring us back down to earth and remind us that raw talent, which we perhaps more blindly admire, simply does not discriminate.

While you were sleeping

It seems my infant son is only happy to sleep if I am lying sleeplessly next to him. That’s fine, I tell him, I wasn’t using that last bit of sanity anyway.

I tell him this in my head, because if I said it out loud he would wake up and I wouldn’t be able to create these useless 4.00 AM comics.

This one is for friends and family back home.

Keeping my day job

Yesterday was Bruce’s birthday, and in spite of a cold shared between the three of us (and a few sleepless nights due to some nasty infant teething issues), we managed to make it out of the house and into the city to meet up with all our friends for a really lovely time at one of our favourite restaurants. I haven’t been in the company of childless adults for quite a while, so the fact that I ended the evening wearing a napkin on my head can probably be chalked up to that, or to the 1.5 units of alcohol I drank once the little man had fallen asleep. Or maybe I’m just turning into my father.

Against all odds, Hartley is still enjoying his afternoon nap without my distinguished presence, so I’m taking this opportunity to do a few small things that take very little time (in case he wakes up) and which I’ve been putting off (because they are nearly impossible to accomplish when he is awake). This is item number two (item number one was to sit back on the sofa and, reclining thusly, eat an apple), so hello there! I should really revert back to the lazy, list-making way of generating blog posts until I’m a bit more freed up, but it all flies out of my head the instant I put fingers to keys (see what I did there? Huh? Huh? Mhmm.).

Ah, there he goes. Well, here’s a comic I made that will probably only make sense to one of you. You can make your own comics too, just follow this link here!

To be continued

I wouldn’t use the term ‘schedule,’ though let’s just say that it’s become a trend for Hartley to fall asleep for the last 2 minutes of an outing, a nap which he will happily continue in his pram near the open back door so long as I can manage to get the entire operation inside without too much hassle.

Given the transient nature of baby trends, I am even more hesitant to decree this unexpected period of rest ‘me time,’ except that I need to start thinking seriously about writing – writing anything at all – before the urge is entirely discouraged out of me.

Lately I feel no impetus to turn every last detail of my life into a blog post. Partially this is due to the fact that I can’t seem to keep on top of processing the rapidly expanding details, nor locate a familiar frame of reference by which to pin them down. Partially I just can’t be bothered. My inner life is not so interesting anymore – at least not in the way you’d want to magnify, and Hartley’s inner life is mainly only interesting to me. Even so, I scramble for moments to myself to record what I can - moments that are quickly snatched away before an epiphany of any kind can resolve.

I read the headlines every day, and bits from the Guardian on weekends, but events only serve to illustrate how specifically focused my life has become and, as such, untranslatable. Motherhood is truly not of this world – we walk around duck ponds and grocery stores, form bonds of convenience and sing songs without a shred of dignity or cynicism. Conversations are always to be continued, and you continue them with about as many mothers as you come across until you are satisfied, except you are rarely ever satisfied.

See? It’s fairly nonsensical. You have to be there.

But that’s not to say I’m not having the time of my life, or that I’ve capped my pen and welded it shut for all eternity. There are plenty of people with children who write (you only have to type ‘baby’ and ‘blog’ into a search engine to see how many) and plenty of people with children who write (how often are works of fiction dedicated to children?), so I hold out hope that one day I too will fall into one of these camps.

So now that we got that straight. I have a grizzling infant to rescue.

On the fly

I’m typing this in my underthings, my clothing in a damp pile on the floor beside me, the two-for-five-quid tulips still wrapped in their grocery store plastic and dripping onto the hardwoods. I met Bruce from the bus and handed off Hartley, fast asleep in his pram, so that I could hurry away to M&S and then home for a bit of writing, and got caught up behind a large group of gangly teenaged boys wearing nothing but jumpers - smoke and dirty laughter and enigmatic snatches of improvised rap emanating off them - and boasting their indifference to the wall of rain that soaked those of us without umbrellas (just me and these boys, it turns out). Ergo, no time for decorum.

This afternoon Hartley and I made our way to Crouch End to meet up with the postnatal group, which has turned into a themed potluck lunch that someone agrees to host on a Friday, and which generates much emailing throughout the week about numbers and types of food and timings. It all sounds a bit mad and serious, and it is, at least until you get there, and then someone hands you a cup of coffee and you try to plunk your infant down on a play mat and two seconds later you’re joggling him about while he cries at the new surroundings and you’ve got your boob out and someone else is taking the coffee off you and handing you a biscuit instead and before you know it you’re all in the midst of feeding and distracting and calming but, more importantly, babbling about your babies and the week you’ve had. It’s strangely cathartic.

Apart from shamelessly exposing my breasts in mixed company, I’m learning more and more about my baby through the impressions of others, as our closeness sometimes obscures all but his most obvious qualities. Three main characteristics tend to crop up again and again: serious, intense, sensitive. I have tried my best to keep things light in my handling of him, and in my dealings with situations when he’s around, but it seems that nature has taken a stronger hold and, despite my best efforts, I am raising a child who shares my misgivings about the physical world and the people that inhabit it after all.

Morag suggested I try him on the baby swing, and after attempting to read the warning embossed on its side, Hartley proceeded to muddle over the purpose of this unlikely, swinging chair, first questioning its structural integrity and then simply frowning at the soft little toys that adorned its handle and which trembled gently just in his line of vision. He gave the vibrating sling seat and padded cloth jungle gym the same doubtful consideration and only seemed to relax once I’d taken him out of these and piled him, rather uncomfortably I would have thought, onto my knee. Nobody knows that Hartley has a wicked sense of humour, a great love of play and an abundance of affection for me and for Bruce and for his own toys, because he only displays these qualities at home. I suppose he’s just being honest.

Anyway, I meant to come home and write a good long post about something or other, but Bruce has already called from the bus and I could hear Hartley crying away in the background, so it won’t be long before they're here. I’m thinking I might have time for a two-minute lie down on my back in the middle of the floor, because a break in tradition is usually about as good as a holiday. Except I hear a key in the door.

Hartley: Three Months Old

Your children are not your children,
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but are not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

- Kahlil Gibran

The art of sneaking away with both hands free to type these missives is nearly equal to the task of writing them, as you’re much more savvy about naptime than you once were, and although my thoughts rest almost exclusively with you now (with the important exception of your father, of course), conjuring something intelligible from these with the spoils of motherhood still booming away in my breast is about as fathomable some days as building a church out of feathers and wind.



It occurred to me earlier this week that I could by now compile a dictionary of your sounds, the meaning of which, though they most certainly elude most others, speaks directly to my heart and makes me babble to you in tones that would have my nineteen-year-old self blushing with shame and burying her nose in a copy of Gravity’s Rainbow which, between you and I, she’s really only pretending to understand.

I didn’t know then that one day I’d become the linguist tasked with the important job of interpreting such obscure expressions as ‘owb’ and ‘aidoo’ which, as far as I can tell, are variations of ‘oh’, as in: Oh. I see you’ve got your face buried in my neck. Okay then. Lately I can’t seem to keep my face out of your neck, my lips off the soft skin of your belly and the slightly sticky soles of your feet, and even when you are asleep and I know that waking you would spell disaster, I can no more deprive your silky cheeks of kisses while you nap than I can keep myself from eating an entire bag of Sour Strawbs once they’ve been opened.



I think we must have reached the honeymoon phase of your infancy, because everything you do now – from those wide, gummy smiles that appear out of nowhere, even though you may have been shrieking with rage over the Springtime bumper on the Cbeebies channel only moments before, to the hysterical crying that could mean just about anything and that you do with such ridiculous charm that I can’t help but savor it a bit, even while I’m trying to make it stop – fills me with pure, unadulterated joy. You’ve come to associate me with such visceral integrity as well, and will often look up from a feed to consider my face and then offer me an unexpected peek at that lovely, shivering tongue of yours.



I have never felt so uninhibited, so given over to laughter and smiles as I have since I’ve known you, and you should know that this is a rare and wonderful thing you’ve inspired. Your lack of guile once frightened me, but I’m learning that although it renders you utterly vulnerable to the evils of humankind as I sometimes perceive them, it also reminds me of how beautiful the foundation of love and trust really is, and it fills me with awe when I think of how effortlessly these exist in you. I hope I will never do anything to bruise that inherent trust you have in me, or cast into doubt my love for you.



“Your children are not your children,” Kahlil Gibran famously wrote, and even though you are completely reliant on me, I know that this is true: that you do not belong to me in the most fundamental sense, even now. Your daddy and I are just the ones who are lucky enough to assist you in learning to be the lovely little person you already are. This is why, when you reward me with that enthusiastic grin of yours, I feel humbled, proud, and compelled to tell you Thank you, oh thank you! each and every time.



“You are the bows from which your children/ as living arrows are sent forth,” he continues, and although my trained eye must ultimately guide you towards “the mark upon the path of the infinite,” right now I am aiming that arrow straight back at myself so that I can feel the point go through me again and again. At least for a little while.



Happy third month, little boo. You’re awake again and I’m coming to see you.

All the web's a stage

And on Twitter, Hamlet faces a pretty major quandry...

Only this

Some prog rock meant to calm cot rage drones uselessly under the screams of two hysterical infants who lie beneath a strobing green play structure, Daliesque in proportion and sweetly butchering the Blue Danube at unhealthy decibels, over which Effy and I must shout at one another and, more pleadingly, at the babies, and I wonder what the neighbours must think but then realise that I stopped caring about that months ago.

Yes, months!

Two nuns walked into a bar

Yesterday I went for a pelvic exam and I'm pretty sure the gynecologist hit on me. I know that sounds like an April Fool's joke but this isn't something I find funny, and even though I talked it through with Bruce and we agreed that I might have misinterpreted her, the aftertaste of the experience remains unpleasant.

Even before she made the questionable comment as I undressed behind a curtain for my internal, I got the distinct impression that this squat, middle-aged Spanish woman was trying to flirt with me. The first words out of her mouth had to do with my appearance, and not in the 'you look well for having just had a baby' way that most people like to grace the post-pregnant. No, she said something along the lines of 'You look very smart, very nice. I like the way you look. It's effortless, I know, but that's why it works.'

I know - what a monster, Friday, she paid you a compliment - but within the context of the environment and what I was there for, it was a little inappropriate. I was a bit flattered nevertheless because at this point I wasn't under any impression that she was being anything but pleasantly chatty.

As the conversation continued, though, I started to feel like she was looking at me, I mean really looking, in a way that was almost leering. She asked me details about my life that had nothing to do with pregnancy or babies, all the while making eye contact that seemed rife with meaning, though I couldn't discern the message. I remember thinking to myself that I really didn't want this woman anywhere near my business, but then she was inviting me to the exam table and I was remonstrating myself for being so silly, because really. A sexual predator in gynecology?

But then, just as I'd pulled the curtain to, I heard her say "I really like your accent, Friday. I find it sexy." My head reeled and I thought, But surely she doesn't mean... I laughed nervously and said "Oh, really?" "Yes, I do, I find it sexy," she confirmed. And then she came through to do the internal, asking me about Canada while I lay trapped and exposed beneath a stiff, white sheet that had been washed and pressed a million times before, for a million different people. It was awful.

I waited until we were in the lift to tell Bruce because I didn't know how he'd react and I wasn't even sure what had just happened, if anything. He asked me if I wanted to lodge a formal complaint and I said I didn't. We tried to rationalise her behavior - inappropriate yes, but perhaps open in a way that bespeaks a certain European sensibility - insensitive but benign, without intent.

And realistically, why would someone risk their career on such a ridiculous stunt? She's probably just like that, in which case she's like that with everyone. If there was anything behind it, chances are I'm not the first person she's done that to, and hence she'd already be out of a job.

On the way home, I bought myself a new dress from Frocks Away ("Love the accent," the saleswoman said to me in passing, reinforcing my earlier conviction) which sort of saved the afternoon for me. But as I said, that whole experience still resonates unpleasantly, regardless of what she meant.

A day in the life of us

The clocks joined hands and took a spectacular, hour-long leap in fast motion so that we could enjoy a few drops more of sunlight in our evenings. To make the most of it, this morning I fed, changed, kissed and cuddled the baby and then bundled him up in the pram for a quick, invigorating walk through Cherry Tree Wood. I took note of a missed photo opportunity at the slow opening snack bar and came home to shower and discuss these matters with Bruce, who has more technical experience than anyone I know.

Having worked up an appetite, the three of us headed out for lunch, Hartley taking his inside the privacy of my blouse and a feeding bib Robin posted to us last month (a simple but ingenious solution that other mothers always marvel over) while we ate our burgers and chips in plain sight of everyone.

Then it was an exploration of a new path that took us unexpectedly to Alexandra Park, where a blond girl in a pink dress demonstrated just what Bruce was talking about earlier, in a copse of birches, a lighting umbrella winched into a tripod at her side. The path did not take us to the farmers' market as we thought it might, though in the end we made our way back to the road, following it down and around until we found a trail of sign crumbs that lead us to our intended destination.

At the market, we bought apples and pears, carrots, small potatoes still caked with earth, sirloin for our dinner, Californian sourdough bread, eggs, fresh garlic sausages, brownies, a handmade Afghan throw and ceramic platter and a strong, sweet latte to enjoy on the way home. We slung the Afghan over Hartley, stashed the groceries in the basket beneath the pram and headed out to catch a bus that would take us back up the hill. On our way there, we passed actor John Sim, who Bruce had to point out because I still know very little about famous British tv stars, though I'm learning.

After supplementing our exotic finds with some basics from Sainsbury, we headed home again, where Hartley continued to nap, thus allowing Bruce to read the paper in peace, and me to put a few more finishing touches on the 'nursery,' with photographs and colourful, good-quality wrapping paper.

One short cat nap later and Hartley roused us in the customary fashion for his dinner, after which we assembled a secondhand play structure of rattles, lights, music and dangling bits for him to lie beneath and swat at (accidentally for now and with more purpose when he's older). He kicked and cooed and finally played himself out, so I scooped him up and took him off to bed, where I am still, typing this all out while Bruce plays Resident Evil in the next room so that we can have a record of one very fine day.

And the light still dribbles off the purpling tongue of the sky - a feat of Spring for which we have those impatient clocks to thank.

This and that

It's a blustery, shitty day in London and I have cancelled plans with someone - partially because of this and also because I need to let her know that I am not her beck-and-call friend, that I do have boundaries even if she doesn't. I am all about the boundaries. Also, I think she may be somewhat crazy, so a little distance is probably for the best.

Bad weather aside, I've lately become obsessed with the idea of taking Hartley swimming. Even though young babies get cold quickly and can't handle much more than 10 minutes in the water, the preparation and clean-up that bookends the experience strikes me as a lovely way to pass some time. I must have been a water-wing in a past life or something, because I often have strong cravings for the smell of chlorine and the soggy atmosphere of a pool, even though I can't swim particularly well. But there are no classes nearby for mums and babies under six months and too many conflicting pieces of advice on when it's safe to introduce their young skin and systems to these elements and so I keep putting it off. I did buy him an incredibly cute little swimming costume though.

This month we are sorting out his passport in preparation for our first trip together, which we are taking at the end of May for our second year anniversary. We didn't really get to celebrate our first because I was suffering terrible morning sickness and anyway we had a house guest, so we want to do it up proper this year. We're still debating on where to go, because it needs to be baby-friendly and easy to get to without being too similar to what we'd be leaving behind. Prague, Belgium and the south of France have been tossed around as ideas, but we need to investigate these a bit more thoroughly. If any of you can think of a good holiday destination that fits the bill, I am open to suggestions.

A few weeks ago we took Hartley to get his BCG, which is this extreme injection for TB that first causes a sore and then turns into a small scar after three months. There hasn't been even a hint of inflammation at the injection site, however, and although I'd hoped this meant we'd gotten away with not having to experience this adverse reaction, my relief soon turned to suspicion, which a search on the internet confirmed: if swelling does not appear within 90 days, it means the inoculation might have 'failed', and hence we might have to go through that horrible experience all over again. So now I'm willing his sweet, chubby little baby wing to go all sore and red, which has caused a rather unpleasant disconnect.

Other than that, the three of us seem to be finally settling into a comfortable way of life. It's much too erratic still to call a routine, or even a pattern, but we've definitely got a handle now on what there is, at least for the time being. Never one to rest on our laurels, we are setting our sites on a distant goal that requires Bruce to learn to drive and me to take French lessons, though that's all I'll say for now.

Lining up the sitter

Spiritualized will perform their classic album Ladies and Gentlemen We Are Floating in Space live in its entirety at the Royal Festival Hall, London on Monday 12th October 2009.

Tickets go on sale this Thursday 19th March from 10am.

This very special show will feature a choir, string and horn sections and special guests. It is 12 years since the release of this album set the summer of 1997 on fire. Receiving massive critical acclaim, it was hailed as an instant classic, winning NME's album of the year in 1997 (beating Radiohead's OK Computer), and reaching No.4 in the UK charts.

Very excited to attend! My laptop is kaput, so more updates once we find a good replacement (laptop wanted - must be compatible with one-armed breastfeeders...etc.).

The good Saturday

Seven straight days of sun and you'll be home tomorrow.

Today's accomplishments

One freshly bathed infant with clipped nails coming right up!

If nothing else, at least Bruce will know that he can leave town without fear of returning home to a talons-wielding dirt smudge.

The baby's pretty clean too.

These old ghosts

Bruce will be on his way to catch his flight to Zambia, and as the bedroom grows incrementally dimmer, I have to consciously keep a rising sense of panic from taking over and making the evening far more unpleasant than it needs to be.

I enjoy my own company much more than I used to, but I have always struggled with being on my own for any real length of time (somewhat ironically, for many years this fear of being alone piggybacked a crippling agoraphobia, which made it nearly impossible to resolve). The familiar setting of home starts to take on a sinister quality and I begin to worry about security when I'm at my worst. At best I'm on autopilot, waiting out the isolation and not really able to concentrate on anything.

I keep having to remind myself that I'm the adult now, and that Hartley is relying on me not to fall into an obsessive stupor about it and lose control of the situation, so okay. Soon I will turn on some lights and the television, draw the curtains and double-check the locks and then it's business as usual until Bruce gets home on Sunday - Mother's Day in the UK.

I was going to take Hartley to the art cinema near East Finchley Station where they are holding a baby-friendly screening of Wendy and Lucy, and I still might do that, but he's been more difficult to settle today and lately all my little tricks have been failing miserably. I know there will likely be at least one other person there in an even worse predicament but I'm not sure that it's worth the effort of finding out.

I'm fairly certain I've got a friend coming to stay on Thursday, and Friday is my postnatal group which is set to spill over into lunch, but there are still some unsettling hours to get through tonight. Completely aside from my general dislike of incidental solitude, I really do hate to be apart from Bruce. I'm glad that Hartley loves (needs) to be held, in any case, as it's a comfort to me as well.

Hartley: Two Months Old

I don't think it's any great coincidence that just as I'm finally gaining confidence as a mother, you're starting to become a happier, more settled baby.

A few weeks ago, after finishing our first squirmy, awkward feed-dance of the morning, and as I was changing your nappy, you came out with a sound I'd never heard before - a short, piercing but decidedly happy squawk. Then you smiled at me with your whole entire face, as though I was your long lost friend and not that insufferable woman who is always trying to make off with your bottomless, ever elusive snack beneath her top.

Since then, you have been utterly delighted to see me each morning and will happily spend five to ten minutes after your feed squawking and cooing at the wardrobe (I'm still not sure what it is you find so fascinating up there) and generally filling me in on your thoughts about this, which I pretend to understand while I plant a million kisses on your fat little cheeks and neck and belly and feet. Even though you lose this lucidity and transition back into that introverted, serious child you've always been, I know I have that window now, and that every day is an opportunity to widen it a little more.


Lately I've been bundling you into the carrier and taking you out for as many different errands and events as I can come up with, because even though you struggle to keep from losing your cool at home, out-of-doors and in mixed company you somehow transform into the easiest, most laid-back baby anyone has ever met. This week I took you to see your first movie - The Young Victoria - and though all the other babies startled and cried out and kicked up a fuss in their turn, you were as quiet as a mouse until the credits rolled, which quite frankly is mummy's least favourite part of a good film too.

For a grumpy baby, you are extremely portable, and while daddy is hard at work in town, you and I are frequenting cafes with friends, going on short and long walks in your carrier or your pram, visiting the shops and generally living the high life in London, which my maternity package and the kindness of your overseas grandparents have allowed us to do this year. Having you here has given me a reason to want to do all these things, and when we hit our stride, I can say in all honesty that you make even the dullest task seem fun and fulfilling.


You're growing so quickly now, a fact I am made all the more aware of by the zillions of photos we take of you that make this progression plain. You're not only filling out bodily, but in awareness and in character too. The stuttering anaconda in you is fading, and while I love the little man that you are becoming, I am also deeply saddened by the loss of that tiny baby you once were. A while back I was watching an illegal download of Benjamin Button, and at the 2 hour 14 minute mark a baby is born. That baby looked and sounded so much like you in your first week of life that I burst into tears and replayed that part over and over again so that I could re-experience your infancy. It's the biggest paradox of my life, to see you grow and watch you disappear all at the same time.


I think that when you have a child, you actually concede to loving and letting go of six or seven different children. I haven't the faintest clue what you'll be like at six months or a year, or five years or sixteen. I only know that you are beginning in the same way that I once began, and that my role now is to help you make these transformations, to keep marking them in our history book and to always love you more today than I did yesterday, which is how your father taught me to love.


Happy two months, darling.

Lullaby for a fussy baby

Remember that album I was telling you about earlier? Here's a song from it that Hartley and I particularly enjoy.

I danced him around the room for a while this morning and now he's sleeping like a baby - which is to say fitfully, and with many demands for a nipple or a winding. We do love our mornings.

Plot relocated

Please believe me when I say that the hardest part about having a baby isn't the fatigue, losing your autonomy, having no time for yourself, putting your relationships and marriage on the back burner or being able to focus on nothing else in a 24-hour period except your baby, day after day, although these things are incredibly hard.

No - the really hard part is having to hear your heart's joy scream bloody murder all day long in a flat that looks like it has been leveled by the trampling feet of the four horses of the apocalypse because you are trying to reprogram him out of a bad sleeping habit that you yourself encouraged him to adopt in the first place.

I will say in our defense that it was the midwives and health visitors who made us feel like we were doing a good thing by letting our infant dictate his own routine, though as a certain baby guru wisely wrote: What does a baby know about good sleep practice? He's just a baby!

Is it better to try and break bad habits long after they have been formed in the service of getting through those first few weeks together? We'll never know, but after hours of feeling like we were torturing our first born and taking turns at fleeing to the bedroom for a good cry ourselves, I can definitely say that it might have been worth taking a stab at some sort of routine from the outset.

It didn't occur to either of us that we were jumping into things a little too quickly until I found myself wanting a cigarette for the first time in over two years and Bruce was ringing up his sister in desperation. She said that what we were doing was valiant but that we should abandon our efforts for the time being, at least until after Hartley's jabs (which I'm taking him to get done today and again on Friday) and Bruce's stressful work period (he's having to oversee visits and meanwhile tie up loose ends before his week-long trip to Zambia next Tuesday). Once things are a bit more stable, she's going to come down to help us get the flat organised and then hold my hand while I begin the traumatic process of training him to sleep on his own.

My mother-in-law is coming to stay with us for a few days, I think just to give me a bit of a break and also to offer support, as sometimes the side-effects of inoculations is fever and I've never treated a baby for fever much less heard of the prescribed medication.

Hartley turns two months old on Wednesday, and rather than things calming down, it feels like we've all taken two giant steps back. I think that's just how it is, though, and it's something I'm going to have to get used to. There are lovely new things happening too, don't get me wrong, but they're a bit buried beneath stress at the moment.

New things

I can still remember how my sister's [various] house[s] smelled 20-some years ago - like breast milk and laundry detergent - and I wonder if mine smells similar to this now. I sure hope so.

The boys are fast asleep in the next room, and we are trying this new thing where I don't feed Hartley any sooner than three hours from his last feed. This means that for the first time in nearly one year, I've enjoyed a single unit of alcohol (a glass of red wine). Various sources claim that by the time I've metabolised this, my breast milk should be free and clear of any trace amounts, though I guess the worst that could happen is Hartley sleeps for longer than he should. In any case, Effy says that I am allowed one glass of wine per month. I ran past her the 2-hour, metabolising theory and she said ONE GLASS OF WINE PER MONTH so okay. One glass per month, I geddit.

Yesterday our postnatal instructor had to shoot off early and entrusted us with the securing of her mansion. Just pull the door to when you leave, she said, and I tried to look like I would definitely not go snooping through her four or five bedrooms once she'd left. I didn't, and then Effy invited two other stragglers to our afternoon lunch date, so now I have another couple of friends. I am trying not to overthink this, so will stop writing about it here-ish. In addition to lunch dates though, I'm adding a weekly trip to the cinema for an infant screening, plus swimming, to our growing repertoire of things we do whilst in this mother-son death grip of ours.

In the spirit of not feeding Hartley every time he grizzles, we embarked on another first, taking Robin's suggestion of a shared warm bath. That ate up approximately ten minutes of potential crying time, which in unfed infant years constitutes about two decades. That also means that Hartley has been asleep without me nearby for an entire lifetime, which means I must be relaxed by now.

Okay, Bruce is awake and hungry, so Here Lies This Post:

Post, I hardly knew ye (19:57 - 20:11)

Love is...

... sleeping on a wet patch of infant puke so that he doesn't have to.

Music should be heard and not seen

The babe and I have resolved my gentle agoraphobia and we’re out and about almost every day now, Hartley strapped to me in a front-facing carrier, fulfilling social obligations like tea with a friend, a check up at the health visitor’s or our meet-up with the postnatal group.

At some point it dawned on me that I am really no different from anyone else– i.e. not especially brilliant, but nor am I lacking fundamental qualities that would make me any less adept at handling new situations among strangers, baby or no (it only took me 32 years).

And so I am ploughing ahead with my resolve to join play groups and swimming lessons (for Hartley), and the pram-pushing group and infant-friendly film screenings at the local cinema (for me, mainly). I plan to approach these intimidating scenarios in the same manner that I’ve become accustomed to, which is with the confidence to at least show up and if something doesn’t work out, to not push myself to do it again. If I end up looking foolish somehow (which isn't likely, as we're all too busy focusing on ourselves to worry about what someone else is doing, unless we are very petty, which I suppose some of us can be at times), well, it's not the end of the world.

Who knew that it would take having a baby for me to finally grow up myself?

Bruce has taken him to the comic book store and once again I’m faced with the same dilemma as last time, which is that one hour isn’t quite enough time for a stress case like me to unwind properly. I usually end up wasting about twenty minutes contemplating various projects I could embark on before embarking on about four or five, poorly (like so), and then standing in place to scarf down a handful of Easter chocolates before putting in a load of laundry without actually starting the washing machine, tidying half the flat half-heartedly, putting the memory card from our camera into the computer without looking at the photos, making a cup of coffee I don’t really want and then watching ten minutes of an hour long programme while I force myself to drink that cup of coffee.

Next I plan to lie in bed and familiarise myself with the first sentence of a new baby book meant to help me decipher what went wrong with our son’s sleep, namely that he won’t do it unless he is on top of me or in bed pressed up against my belly. I will read that first sentence over and over again until Bruce comes home and then realise that what I really wanted was a long, hot bath. Ah well.

Daddy's Home Movie

We'll be sending this along for Hartley's 'show and tell' one day (requires sound).

One turntable and no microphone

Back in my final year of University, shortly before I started the Friday Films blog, I took a class on creative writing to top up my nearly completed English Honours degree. The only thing I managed to write of any substance or import that semester was, as it turned out, a poem I’d knocked-off in about twenty minutes and which I’d thrown in with my week’s portfolio as an afterthought. I called it ‘How Dark Was This Night’ – a half-hearted tribute title to a film I’d never actually seen but which shared a similar theme, or so I imagined.

So when Bruce announced the recent release of a compilation album of original songs called Dark Was The Night - one that includes not one or most of but nearly all of my current favourite artists - I experienced a kind of full-circle serendipity that is probably best described with a single Latin expression I’ve no time to search for (Bruce is holding a growingly impatient Hartley in the next room), perhaps vainus familiarus or something similar. It’s like someone looked inside your head and made a compilation, he said, and I couldn’t have put it any better myself. The digital download format (the proceeds of which go to an AIDS charity called Red Hot) contains thirty six tracks, but we also plan to buy its trimmed back vinyl counterpart, it’s just that good.

If you’re wondering why the triple-vinyl acquisition, we’ve recently decided to purchase a B&O Bang and Olufsen sound system and have found one in pretty good knick that’s also being sold with its original speakers. I’m not an arrogant prick so I won’t even intimate that music sounds better on vinyl, always has done, because that is obviously a load of rubbish. But there’s something satisfying in the thoughtful interaction, and even mild effort, that record playing requires, and anyway we’re having a lot of fun compiling our wish lists and ransacking eBay in our attempts to find them.

You thought you could get away without having to read about my offspring but you would be WRONG. He’s seven weeks old today, and to celebrate (no, I lied – we were just very hungry and nobody wanted to cook) we took him out for brunch, where he sat sleeping on my lap like a good little sleeping thing while I tried not to drip hot porridge onto his head. We're updating Flickr with images of our little poser donning and sometimes rejecting the gifts that many of you so thoughtfully sent over the last few months, so get ready to click that badge in the right hand column. Or not, as you wish.

I wish these things could name themselves

Heaven knows he's miserable now

For the time being I have a snoring baby in a front-facing carrier, and although we’re indoors and still in our outdoors clothes, I thought I’d let him wake up on his own while I pottered about online.

This morning I fed him and changed him and got him ready for our very first postnatal class, which took place in a massive house about twenty minutes on foot from where we live. I thought I’d be freaked out at having to spend time at a posh woman’s house with posh mums, but it wasn’t like that at all. Everyone was very friendly and we all had so much to say that the class ran over by about a half hour.

I decided right away that even though she seemed a bit shy, I wanted to make friends with Morag because who wouldn’t want a friend named Morag? But after my positive first group experience, and topping this with an impromptu lunch with one of the other mums at a local cafe, I got to thinking: why stop there? I think I could probably befriend everyone in the class, so long as they had an hour to spare and a bus pass.

Gosh, when did I get so brave? It’s really out of necessity though. My new friend Effy said that by three months there’s no question about whether or not you should leave the house, as by then your baby needs so much stimulation and so little sleep that it will be impossible to entertain him at home all day on your own. So I guess it’s a good thing I’m finally starting to join in with this little community of first-time mothers.

All the things I used to be judge-y about and think were really lame are actually . . . well, probably really lame. But this is the world I belong to now, and if you don’t embrace it and get on with things, then you will have to be that cool, cynical person all by yourself in your lonely little flat with nobody to laugh about it with.

I am becoming very adept at these five minute posts. Sorry, but it’s quantity over quality until someone else is equipped to settle this screaming kid of mine. Bye!

Stealth update

Our boy turned six weeks old on Sunday. Supposedly this is about the time he will start to settle, if not in himself then at least into a routine. We shall see.

This weekend was brilliant, against all odds (I was sick and sleep deprived). We became really brave and took Hartley to an exhibit at the Photographers' Gallery in their new location off Oxford Street, which necessitated a trip on the underground and of course many stops along the way so mummy could buy soap and try on clothes and get caught up in all the fabulously expensive baby gear most stores have on offer (we conceded and bought him a wee American Apparel hoodie in navy, which he’ll be able to fit for the next ten minutes, and a few more sensible items at H&M).

In retrospect, the trip was a bit overly ambitious maybe, and we were like the walking dead by the time we got back to Muswell Hill (Hartley in disarray being carried in Daddy’s arms, scrap the baby carrier and warm layers, let’s just get home already), but at least I finally got to experience the joy of public breastfeeding, which we did over lunch, in a private change room at the department store and on the bus ride home. It wasn’t too mortifying, and the loud sucking noises caused an amusing stir among certain nosy onlookers.

And somehow, after a Sunday diet of pain au chocolat and chocolate and cheese puffs and more chocolate and pasta and chocolate sponge, I managed to drop another .5 lbs. I’m already nearly back to my pre-pregnancy weight with nary a stretch mark to be seen, so in truth, this childbirth experience was not without its mercies. I say this, but I’m still unable to put down my infant for more than ten minutes without paying a terrible price. Hence: hello and goodbye.

A real boy

Bruce is currently out on his first independent excursion with our son, which means that for the first time in six weeks I have the place all to myself. They’re only going down to the comic shop, so in lieu of inviting scads of local teenagers on Facebook to come over and trash the place, I’ve opted for the simpler pleasures of writing and sipping a hot cup of coffee. I’m sure there are other, better activities I could be engaged in that require both hands and the absence of screaming (showering, cleaning, sleeping, eating a messy curry) but I’m a creature of habit, so.

The day before last, Bruce took some banked time off work and we went out to have Hartley’s hearing tested (passed!) and also to register his birth. Lately we’ve been taking him out for entire afternoons, and so long as he is in his front-facing baby carrier, we’re able to board busses, browse the shops along the high streets, sit down to lunch and return home with nary a peep out of him.

He picked the registrar’s office in Islington (the furthest he’s been from home, in other words) to spark a debate about our little agreement, however, and Bruce and I regarded our screaming bundle in mute astonishment as he exercised his little lungs in the chilly air and passersby scanned our faces for telltale signs of a deviant or neglectful parent.

I always imagined that when my kid lost his shit in public, my Super Mummy persona would emerge and I would intuitively jump into action, which I was mostly right about, except the actions mainly involved grinning and shrugging and digging around impotently in the change bag for some magical hush potion, none of which solved the problem. Luckily he managed to calm himself down by the time we reached the bus stop, but it will be a dark day in North London when it’s for real and I am alone with him on some form of packed public transport during rush hour. Because he can really belt it out when he puts his mind to it.

Look at me here, an adult alone and in possession of two or more sex toys, a television and a cupboard full of hot drinks and what am I doing? Writing about the baby. It really is an all-consuming role, though, this parenting thing, and some days I wake up and wonder if I will ever again be able to eat breakfast and take a shower in the same morning, or watch an entire episode of Big Love without turning to Bruce and giving him the Is that the baby? look or, hell, go out for an afternoon or evening on my own.

But by then he’s already squirming and grunting and indicating that I should feed him or pick him up or change him already for heaven’s sake and I don’t have long to ponder these things. Though I finally understand what it was my mother was trying to protect me from all those livelong teenaged years. How on earth do teenage mums and single parents do this? Don’t answer that, I’m just being silly. I’ve come down with the flu again, which will add another challenge to the week ahead, as though I needed one.

Bruce just called to say that he was minutes from home, so I guess that’s time. I’m not sure when I’ll be able to write here again, though I suppose half the fun of having a blog is finding the time to write in it, yes?

Bruce bet me 50 quid this wouldn't work

What shall I spend it on?

Hartley: One Month

I can’t believe that it’s been a whole month since the three of us began this terrifying, wonderful journey.

If you’d told me back in December that, within a few short days of meeting the little human whose gestation caused me months of sickness and pain, I would discover a new and intense kind of love that would have me jump out the emergency exit of a plane at 60,000 feet without a parachute if I thought that it would save him from harm, I might have been a bit dubious.

But here we are, high above the earth without the customary safety features, and I finally understand that nobody is born with a maternal instinct, or perhaps all women are, but it is not something you can teach a person or prepare for yourself because it will not kick in until it has something (someone) to kick in for. And I’m holding on for dear life, except this time it’s not my own – it’s his, and I would fashion him a parachute from my own skin if we suddenly went plummeting towards the earth and there was no other way to save him.

Quite often as he’s falling asleep, he will throw his arms out stiffly and bring them trembling back to his body with a whimper, as though he is falling from a great height. I try not to visualise a thousand perils, an infinity of ways the earth could take him from us. I try to harden my heart, because it is much too soft now, almost liquid, and while it takes the impression of every hiccup, every sigh, every discontented chuckle and near-smile, it also traps the debris of imagined catastrophe, of extradimensional grief.

Fear and joy are two sides of the same heart, though, and he has brought us so much joy. He is the inventor of ‘rooty tooty’ and the Anaconda song (sung to ‘I Want Candy’); his soiled nappies and pouty-lipped wailing the cause for celebration and laughter; his wonderment fodder for our own renewed perception of the world, which has never seemed so incandescent, so furiously moving, so mutable and transient.

Our arms have found new ways of holding, of handling and doing - our bodies the very means of transport, of shelter and sustenance. From ourselves this incredible thing has emerged, and into him we continue to pour our entire selves, because he is here and we love him and can do nothing else.

Parenthood does not get worse before it gets better – it’s worse the moment you take off, and then over time, somehow, it does, mercifully, get better.

It has been one month since I first held your warm, solid, shivering body against mine and saw your strange, beautiful face through a fog of fear and exhaustion, Hartley (my darling, my insatiable anaconda), and you’ve grown more beautiful each and every day since. I love you very much.

Milestones

Hartley turned 4 weeks old today, and we are so proud of our little mite: for sleeping through a 3-hour-long shopping trip on Saturday - one that included three bus rides (and two quick jogs to catch said buses), a stop for lunch and several stuffy shops, including a spontaneous trek along the Broadway for coffee, jewelry and a much-needed bag of Percy Pigs.

I also managed to take him out for the first time on my own this afternoon, though I had plenty of assistance from Amy, who helped me dress him in his awful new winter clothes that he hates, got him buckled into the baby bjorn, saved me from perilous sidewalk slush and pot-holes, and generally settled us in for a brunch at the noisiest, kid-friendly restaurant this side of North London. Bless him, he didn't make a single peep, even though a much older baby one table over kept shrieking at irregular intervals, and seemingly for his own amusement.

This week, he has learned how to spend periods of time awake and content, and will either focus on elements of his environment, like our faces or his cot mobile, or listen intently to music we play him (Cat Power was an instant favourite). And although it's rare at this age, I swear that sometimes when he meets my gaze, he breaks out into a full-on, non-gas-induced baby smile. He was holding his own head up and sucking his tiny thumb at one week though, so I wouldn't be surprised.

It's a cliche to be sure, though I can't help but think that he is the most beautiful baby I have ever laid eyes on. Thank goodness for that, because he still does his fair share of screaming when he's not building his public reputation as a complete angel.

First in a series of one-finger-typed posts

Taking care of a fussy infant is seriously hard work - taking care of a fussy infant when you have a flu is seriously much harder though.

Some of you from the old journal may recall the harrowing tale of my brief stint as assistant to the tyrannical producer of a Hollywood film. I've been reminded of this undistinguished period the last few days simply because it dawned on me that the needs of my newborn son are only slightly more discernible than those belonging to that Worst Ever Employer, and his mood vastly less predictable. And if you ever find yourself comparing your child to the man who once threw a gold-plated pen at your head suddenly and without warning then you have my sympathies and I won't try and talk you down, as that ledge you're currently teetering on probably feels a lot more secure than the nursery you likely just fled from moments ago.

Yesterday, I finally managed to eat my lunch at four, scarfing it down within the precious few minutes between feeding him and when he noticed my nipple was no longer in his mouth, which, let me tell you, is cause for great hysterics in these parts. Sometimes he will fall asleep mid-feed and come unlatched and I can sneak off to relieve my aching bladder or refill my water bottle. If I take any longer than two minutes though, from the bedroom will emanate the most outraged squawk - one that directly translates as: HEY! YOU WITH THE CRACKED, SHREDDED NIPPLES! GET YOUR ASS BACK IN HERE, I WASN'T FINISHED WITH THOSE!

Because he is only small, he often forgets that actually, yes, he was finished feeding and so I have to latch him back on as you can't really argue with that kind of logic - the kind of logic that shatters glass and wakes the dead and temporarily deafens the neighbourhood dogs if you let it continue building its argument for too long.

As I've explained to people who have never given birth to such an inconsolable creature as Hartley, caring for him is a little like holding your finger on the trigger of a live grenade that you are not allowed to throw (though the council of Haringey might be a bit more lax about these things)- no matter how exhausted you are, no matter how much your arms ache from all the rocking and holding and winding and carrying, you can't for a second let go of that trigger or the consequences will be devastating.

And the only way to diffuse that bomb for a even short while is to plug it with breast tissue until it stops fussing and falls asleep. Even then, you must lie very still and try not to breathe too loudly, like so...

The Kindness of Strangers, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Wail

They say that babies don’t come with a manual, but that isn’t entirely accurate. After a few sleepless nights and senseless worrying about completely normal infant behaviour (sleeplessness, crying for seemingly no reason) I begged Bruce to order us What to Expect in the First Year. I suspect it will serve much the same purpose as that initial pregnancy bible, What to Expect When You’re Expecting, which I only referenced in times of extreme uncertainty or distress. It didn’t always help, but it does give you a momentary sense of purpose, and the fleeting impression that you’re in control - even mothers need security blankets, see.

My sister-in-law is over and I’m stealing a few moments to check emails, drink a cup of decaf and do a few basic things hands-free before they are once more filled with infant need. Starting Monday, the two of us will be left to our own devices when Bruce goes back to work, and rather than panic about it, I’m just going to go with the flow and do what I’ve been doing all along – feeding, changing, settling and then co-sleeping away those hours of down time when he needs nothing else except rest.

Last night at some ungodly hour, I tore open the poppers on the legs of a new little sleeper our neighbour gave us as a gift recently, and a massive black spider scurried out from inside it and across the covers. Rather than lose my shit as I’m wont to do around spiders, I scooped it up in a soiled baby vest, crushed it and tossed a shirt over the minor massacre, reaching instead for the adorable ducky vest that my excellent internet friend Lass sent through the mail (thanks Lass!) (Well I wasn’t going to put him in the spider sleeper, as it will henceforth be known - at least to me, and until I’ve washed it a few dozen times to be sure there are no remnants of spider or microscopic spider eggs).

*Also in the package from our kind Lass was an incredibly cool little bib that will come in handy when he’s older and onto solids, and some lovely burp cloths for when I’m able to fit back into the tops I actually care about (having breasts isn’t always what it’s cracked up to be, especially when they have the potential to win you the wet t-shirt contest you didn’t intend to enter).

I’m still amazed at how something as uncommon as a new baby - especially in the virile, ever-multiplying district of Muswell Hill - can inspire kindness in the most unlikely of people: namely neighbours we’ve never met or ones who’ve expressed no prior interest in knowing us.

But then it’s not until you’ve had one that suddenly, all the things that once pissed you off about crying, weird-looking potato-headed little people start to become the very things you grin your face off about, such as when you’re in a restaurant and someone’s offspring suddenly bursts out into a chorus of Waaaaah, waaaaah, waaaahs. Even in the middle of the night, there’s no denying that this is the happiest, most life-affirming sound you will ever know.

*photos to follow when His Sleeplessness properly wakes from his fitful nap

Getting to grips

You know how sometimes you go to a fair and see a ride and think to yourself, Hey, that doesn’t look so bad – in fact, it looks pretty tame and you get on and the ride starts up and it’s everything you thought it would be; that is until it suddenly shoots about a hundred feet into the air and tilts at a crazy angle that makes you feel as though the worn out old seatbelt could at any moment tear away from your hips and you’ll go spiralling over the heads of those poor sods queuing up for that other ride about twenty kilometers yonder and just then it starts to undulate in such a way that your stomach isn’t sure if it wants to explode or implode or maybe jump ship out your ass and you’re like, Actually, MOTHEROFCHRISTGETMEOFFATHISFUCKINGTHING! except that you should have thought of that earlier, because now it’s much too late and you know you’re going to have to suffer this horror for at least another five minutes?

Except that parenthood lasts a wee bit longer than five minutes, and involves something very small and vulnerable that you can’t help but love with your whole entire being, and he’s on the ride too except fortunately for him he hasn’t the wherewithal to retain bad memories and will root around on your chin, the edge of a cushion, a duvet cover or whatever because he hasn’t figured out yet that only mummies and not faces or inanimate objects have nipples, and for this reason you need to make sure that you stay firmly in the seated position because otherwise neither of you will make it through this thing alive.

Bruce and my dad have nipped out to Mothercare for a few essentials, and both our mothers are out there in the other room with our sleeping infant, who seems to have become more unsettled by this whole Being Alive in the World condition than he was last week. He refuses to nap until you feed him and then joggle him around a bit and then feed him again and then change him and then give him some gripe water and then joggle him around some more and then sacrifice a chicken when the moon is in the seventh house and then feed him – every two to three hours. But then he sleeps like an angel.

This mixture of love and concern, joy and sinking despair can be very overwhelming when you’re onto a third day where none of you have slept and you find yourself sniping at the very people who are there to help take him off your hands and your husband is stumbling around like the living dead and trying to get you to have a nap instead of chewing your fingers into little stubs or possibly saying something that will forever fracture the delicate relationship you’ve managed to foster with your parents who, might you add, have not yet clarified whether they’ll definitely help finance a whole year of maternity leave or whether that was just something they said and maybe even meant but only in the moment. Not quite yet.

Then this tiny mite starts to cry and I feel my stomach sink a little bit but I’m up like a hero and taking him into my arms and he roots around on my cheek and my chin and my nose for a nipple, stabbing his little face at me like a tiny anaconda and going Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah until I have him lying on his side in bed next to me, my boob out and in his face, and he tenses up and makes two fists which he pulls back like an angry little man winding up as if to say Why, I oughta . . . except that instead he stabs around at my breast with his whole face until his mouth finds a good latch and he gives an almighty suck that makes both of us go quiet.

And then there’s no denying that it’s all worth it somehow. I’m not sure why, but that’s the honest truth. Motherhood is so much harder than I thought it would be, and so much better too.

Batteries not excluded

Thanks to all of you who stuck it out for so long when things went silent here. I apologise in advance for the paucity in both words and depiction, as the experience of labour and ensuing baby-ness is more than I can adequately describe.

I had my first contraction at 8 p.m. on Friday 9th January (my due date!) and finally delivered our son on the 11th of January at 11:46 a.m.

My ‘natural childbirth’ scenario was deftly revised after 19 hours of difficult contractions, when my extensive list of birth plan thou shalt nots went swiftly out the window and I heard myself whining pitifully at the new midwife on staff, But Comfort said I could have both the Pethidine and the epidural! Thereafter I was sucking back as many different kinds of pills, gas, air and injections as the antenatal and labour wards had on offer.

Towards the end, it came down to whether or not my labour was progressing quickly enough for a truly natural childbirth, and even though staff and family maintained an optimistic outlook, doctors and midwives were meanwhile confabbing about the possibility of having to conduct the dreaded ‘c’ word, which is something no first-time mother should ever have to consider.

But my next internal determined that baby seemed to be quite happy where he was for the time being; meanwhile I was 9 cm along and so was instructed to push. It took only seven minutes of pushing before the doctor finally lifted a real, warm baby onto my chest and the room broke out into ecstatic mayhem, though the exhaustion and shock of what had just happened rendered me fairly numb.

We were in hospital for far too long recovering from our respective minor ailments, and during this time I struggled to fill the enormous shoes of motherhood, which require you to not only be there in body but in soul as well. It wasn’t until we escaped that chaotic environment for home, however, that the bonding process truly began to take place. Since then I have been perpetually buffeted by a feeling that I can only describe as love, though it’s much different from any kind of love I’ve ever felt before.



Bruce thought I’d be able to aptly describe the process of labour, and until last week, I was pretty sure that I could. But just as ‘period pains times a million’ barely touches upon the real experience of labour, so does ‘love for your favourite cat times a million’ poorly illustrate the overwhelming mixture of sadness and joy I experience every time I look down at his sweet little face and wonder how something so beautiful could possibly have anything at all to do with me.



I envision so many different scenarios wherein I fail him completely as a mother that paranoia infiltrates my dreams and turns me into a nervous wreck when he’s not completely at ease, asleep. Bruce has taken to fatherhood quite naturally and is very good at settling him when he cries at night and also at reassuring me that I’m doing a good job (though my only weapon against distress seems to be the boob).

He’s been in our lives for just over a week, which isn’t very long at all, though already he’s changed us profoundly - as a couple and as individuals. Things won’t ever be the same again, but I’m not sure that such comparisons hold any meaning for me anymore.



I will try to write here as often as I can, though babies really do take up as much of your time as everyone says they do. As scary and consuming as it is, though, I truly love this new role and can’t imagine wanting or needing to do anything else right now.

An event

This morning I woke at an ungodly hour to stumble to the toilet for something like the fifth time, when all of a sudden . . . POP.

A snap came off the maternity jumper I was trying to dislodge myself from.

And that is truly the only thing of note to have happened in this pregnancy since I last wrote here. Yes, well I’ll see your disappointment and raise you an agonising bout of acid indigestion.

When you take everything else into consideration (heartburn, pelvic dysfunction, carpel tunnel, insomnia), traumatising my reproductive organs by passing a live human being through them starts to feel like the lesser of many, many evils. Why it took me so long to recognise just how evil this particular proposition is likely to be, I can only guess (denial?).

I decided that in preparation for the big day, I would read birth stories to familiarise myself with the general way in which labour progresses. What I discovered is that these generalities don’t exist and that, actually, there are many, many different potential worlds of fear and pain to experience in the labour room, and even within the hours leading up to hospitalisation.

Bar none (okay, bar one), the consensus seemed to be that this horrific ordeal was really nothing compared to the joy of seeing that smushed up little face for the first time, and that Project Reproduction would be going ahead for a second and possibly even third trial just as soon as their mangled lady parts were up to the task.

Though to be honest, it’s a bit difficult to take heart when most of what you’re reading is along the lines of:

I begged my husband to claw out my eyes so that I’d have something else to focus on. In retrospect, I now wish that I’d asked for the epidural much sooner, and that I’d asked them to put it IN MY BRAIN. Like, THE WEEK BEFORE.

It was the happiest day of my life.

So a slight sense of panic now accompanies each new twinge or movement in yonder netherparts, and I’m trying my darnedest to tame this wild stallion of terror before I too find myself having to climb up the walls of an unfamiliar room wearing nothing but a backless gown and a grimace.

Last night, as I was falling asleep to the dulcet tones of a tech-head from Holland who was giving Bruce a video tutorial on how to turn our EEE PC into a touch-screen, radioactive, six-piece dinette set that can save lives and makes toast, I started to feel these wild undulations from the tip of my womb to the base of my pelvic bone and vaguely thought, I think it might be happening.

But it hasn’t, and now I’ve nearly eaten all the snacks out of my labour bag, which has been packed and ready by the front door for the last few weeks, though I'm starting to doubt its relevance. Tick tock, little one.

Not nesting, but baking

Nesting is a phenomenon common to pregnancy, though it’s one I’ve yet to experience. Bruce and I were watching an episode of Gilmour Girls (restraints and the promise of fried egg sandwiches can accomplish just about anything) wherein the character Lane alludes to a ninth-month cleaning frenzy. Bruce turned to me and said YOU! GET NESTING ALREADY! Because oddly enough, I feel not even the slightest urge to pull out all our dishes and wipe down the insides of cupboards, or attack our baseboards with a toothbrush. I know, right?

I am, however, becoming more prolific in the kitchen, and find that meticulously following a recipe from beginning to end accomplishes a feeling similar to what I imagine nesting might engender. I know it’s not exactly the perk he envisioned, but given that I somehow managed to skip the honeymoon period, cravings and happy hormones altogether, I think this is probably a good (and tasty) compromise.



We’ve got a lovely New Years Eve lined up, with sparkling juice and cheese roulade and gourmet jelly beans and DVD thrillers – a veritable smorgasbord of non-alcoholic activity, which I think I’d prefer to the champagne nightmare of sub-zero London even if the pregnancy wasn’t an issue. For years I’d been unsuccessfully trying to fool myself into believing that putting on a nicer outfit and paying more money to spend the night in a bar you frequent anyway somehow constitutes an event.

Speaking of events – last night we were in bed, deciphering the erratic Braille of my belly with a note of panic because we were certain that the baby had somehow flipped right around and was now breeched. This is not a good scenario in pregnancy, because although it’s possible to deliver a breeched baby naturally, more often than not they will opt for a c-section, which is somehow safer for mother and baby overall. Luckily we had an appointment with the midwife today and so hadn’t long to wait on that verdict.

She spent a long time feeling the contours of my distended belly, frowning and not saying much, until she pinched my abdominal area, where the head usually sits. “There’s usually a head there,” I said uncertainly, and she said, “Yes, it’s still there, and it looks like . . . it’s fully engaged.” With first pregnancies, the baby will drop into the pelvis and engage within the last few weeks leading up to the birth. Really what it means is that all systems are go, and D-day could come at any time, which we knew already. But at least he’s made a firm decision about which way around he’d like to greet the world.



If I don’t talk to you beforehand, I hope you all enjoy the transition into 2009. Send me a note or an email if you want to be included on the list of people who receive a puffy, red-faced photo of me and the little grub. Otherwise, I’ll report back here once we’ve all recovered and give you the real skinny on labour and motherhood, as I see it anyway.

Love,

Friday Films

Consider me converted

Mrs. Slocombe kindly sent us a baby-sized pair of Aussie essentials – Uggs! I’d been wondering how to get our little bundle of joy home with his extremities unfrozen and intact, and these nought to six month sized booties will work perfectly.

I must admit, I never joined in the Ugg boot craze which ten years ago saw legions of young girls compromising their length by cutting themselves off unflatteringly at mid-calf with what, at first glance, appeared to be misshapen loaves of bread.

But as you can see, the baby versions are far too cute to be believed, and I will be doing my fair share of obsessive feet-checking this winter to make sure he doesn’t kick one off when we’re out and about.

Thanks, Betty!

xx Friday (and Bruce)