Taking the plunge into professional parenting

In my mother's (and grandmother's) day, the average woman's path through life was fairly clear cut:

1. you got some kind of education
2. you worked for a few years
3. you got married
4. you gave up your job to have babies (if you could).

Some women returned to work eventually, often part-time for "pin money" once the kids were all at school, but there was little expectation of pursuing a full, rounded career. Such a circumscribed route may not have been exciting, liberating or even remotely fair, but at least you knew where you stood.

These days, our path through life is less well defined. We expect more, and more is expected of us. For those who choose to have children, paid maternity leave has greatly reduced the necessity to give up work entirely, or conversely, to return to work too soon. Employers are more aware of the benefits of retaining valued female employees and flexible hours are now more common (in some industries at least). Shared parental leave and changing social expectations mean men are increasingly stepping in to share the burden too, all of which are helping more women than ever before to grasp the financial and personal benefits that come from remaining in the work force. Things aren't perfect, but horizons are broader.

So why, in 2018, would a woman still decide to become a Stay-At-Home-Mum (or 'Professional Parent' as a friend prefers to call it)? While I can't speak for every SAHM in this regard, I can speak for me, as I recently handed in my notice and will not be returning to my paid job at the end of my second spell of maternity leave. Giving up work to care for your kids is often portrayed as a "natural" or "obvious" choice for Mums who can afford it (particularly by those from earlier generations) but for me, it was far from a given. Making my decision involved a lot of thought, trade offs between multiple different factors and no certainty that I was necessarily even doing the right thing.

Money

Most contemporary articles about working mothers assume them to be middle class with grand "careers". After all, surely you would only consider leaving your darlings behind if you had a huge passion for your work and/or a strong desire to climb the career ladder? I suspect the main driver for most is more prosaic however - money. No matter your social class money is, more or less, the primary reason we all work. If you can't pay your rent / mortgage / castle upkeep, then there isn't much of a debate to be had. In my case, when we did the sums, we realised we could manage if I stayed at home. Not forever, but for a year or two if we spent conservatively.

Many will say, "what a luxury!", and yes, we are lucky that we had a choice (though I would argue full time baby wrangling is about as far from luxury as you can get). However, in some respects, it was an illusion of choice. Returning to work would have entailed two sets of childcare costs (even when Duckling's at school, I'd still have had to pay a childminder / after school club), plus London commuting fares. Basically, I would have been left with about £750 in my first year - a pitiful return on the time and effort invested. Yes, that £750 would have been mine, to spend as I pleased (mostly on my crazy obsession with kids' clothes and groceries...). I would have felt less patronised by having to accept "housekeeping" money from my husband too. But sometimes pride has to take a backseat to pragmatism. I am still "working" and effectively "being paid" - just not quite in the formal way I once was (and my husband is most definitely NOT my boss).

The Job

Not all jobs are created equal when it comes to kid compatibility. While it is possible to work full-time and even travel for work when you have children (men do it all the time), you do have to have someone else in your life to do all the nursery / school ferrying, tea times, haircuts, doctor visits, swimming lessons etc. And you have to be fine with that other person doing it all too - which, whether because of social conditioning, your child's expectations or the maternal bond, can be really hard as a Mum.

Then there's the issue of 'keeping your hand in'. For some people, it is very difficult to take a break and maintain the appropriate levels of training, skills and knowledge needed to succeed in their particular career - I know someone working in IT (where the pace of technological change is huge) who not only returned, but actively cut their mat leave short because of this. Even in more stable jobs, a break of more than a year can really knock your confidence in your own abilities. This is definitely my biggest concern about being a SAHM - will an employer ever want me again after so long away? For some, the risk is too high.

There is also the matter of job satisfaction. Do you WANT to go back? Many women hate their jobs, and having a baby offers an excellent excuse to escape. When I went on my second spell of maternity leave, I was in my ninth year at very parent-friendly charity. I personally loved my job and the wider organisation I worked for, but I hated the endless commuting and the increasingly vitriolic political infighting within the senior management team I supported - some days they were ruder than my delightful threenager back home. I survived by keeping my head down and refusing to take sides, but from the moment I announced my pregnancy, I was counting down the days until my exit. I hoped by the time I was due to return things would have changed, but by chatting to colleagues, it became clear they hadn't; if anything the atmosphere had grown worse. So I decided to quit.

If I'm being completely honest, I wasn't just pushed by my current work situation though; I was also pulled by my pie-in-the-sky ambitions to be a writer. It's such a cliché (EVERYONE has a novel in them, right?!) but I knew if I didn't take a break from my regular "career" now, I'd probably never get another legitimate excuse to test the freelance writing waters, or to finish the six novels I have on the go. (I might need to stop writing about myself and start churning out more saleable copy before that can happen though. A work in progress during nap times...)

The kids (and my relationship with them)

I love my kids: that is a given. I also know that they love me - Duckling, very sweetly, tells me so all the time (when he's not calling me a 'Rubbish Potty Head'). As a parent, you create your child's equilibrium and help them to find their way in the world. It is a reasonable assumption therefore that spending more time together should benefit them.

Yet I find it very difficult to say "I've given up work because it's much better for the kids". While my gut (and a reasonable body of research) tells me a consistent parental carer encourages security and stability, and that childcare settings can increase stress levels in children, which can in turn cause later poor behaviour, there is also evidence that mixing with other kids in a nursery-type setting improves social and linguistic skills, and that working mothers ultimately provide a better role model - particularly for girls.

On balance, it is probably better for younger children (particularly those under two) to have their Mum or Dad as the primary caregiver for the majority of the time. Particularly for more closely attached, needy kids. Like Duckling. Yet despite knowing this, I still went back to work the first time, albeit part time. So did many other of my Mum friends. To state "being a SAHM is better for the kids," therefore feels like a problematic admission. Did I get it wrong the first time? Did all my friends?

Truth be told, I returned because I needed to. I was not one of those Mums weeping in the toilets on my first day back. Maybe because my darling son had broken me a little bit, I was actually quite elated to be free again, be earning my own money, and have the ability to eat lunch (and a NICE lunch, made by SOMEBODY ELSE), without having handfuls of food lobbed at me.

That doesn't mean I didn't feel guilty leaving Duckling. I was incredibly torn between what I needed (space, mental stimulation and adult company), and what he apparently needed (me, me and only me). I worried constantly that I was damaging him by sending him to a childminder. Even now, I still fret that his continued clinginess is because he can't forget that sense of abandonment when I left him for nine hours a day, three days a week from the age of 11 months to 3 years. Yet I think the space work gave me made me a better, kinder and more patient Mum, and after he'd got over the initial two weeks of sobbing (thankfully just in time to stop me caving in and quitting my job), it made him a little more resilient and sociable too. Today he speaks of his time there fondly, and insists on waving every time we pass the childminder's house, just in case she's looking.

Now Ducklingette is an entirely different kettle of fish. She is generally an easy-going and happy baby, who will potter about by herself for a whole hour without demanding much more than a quick cuddle. I don't love her any more than Duckling, but I do like myself better as a mother when I'm with her because she makes my job pretty straightforward. That will undoubtedly change as she grows up and discovers the word NO (she sort of already has), but the prospect of looking after her full time for another year doesn't make me worry that I will tumble into depression and burn-out. I'm actually quite looking forward to it.

As chilled as she is though, I still didn't want to hand Ducklingette over to someone else to look after when I didn't really need to. She is still very strongly attached to me, and in the middle of a separation anxiety phase that means I can't even pop to the toilet without tears. I know all babies have to learn to detach at some stage, and I feel awful I made Duckling do that before he was really ready, but does that mean I need to inflict the same on Ducklingette, just to be "fair"? That seems a little perverse. It's not like Duckling is now too old to benefit from me being around either - he's starting school in September, and I suspect the security of having me drop him off, pick him up and attend all his assemblies and concerts will help my somewhat sensitive little soul cope a little better with the unknown. So while I wish I could have had the mental strength to give it all up to be there for him 24/7 when he was small, it's still probably better late than never.

The other-half

If you don't have a partner, giving up work entirely is unlikely to be an option. If you do, then their salary is going to be a key factor in deciding how to balance things.

Stay-at-home Dads are everywhere round my way, and had the salary tables been turned in our relationship, my husband may well be looking after the kids as I type. But they aren't. In some ways, I am annoyed that there was so little debate to be had. Being a well-educated graduate and feminist, I felt on principle I should keep working full time, forging a career, insisting Drake scale back his long hours and crazy travel schedule to take on a more equal share of the childcare.

However, we wouldn't have been able to pay our mortgage had I done that. Nor does Drake have the equipment necessary for breastfeeding (and I'm damned if I'm going to give up early or faff about with breast pumps again like I did with Duckling.) I am also less wedded to my career than Drake is; as much as I would like to claim I was on a steady path to some director-level role, I would have needed to have ousted my boss, gained a tonne more financial and HR knowledge and gone full time to go anywhere in my last job, none of which were likely to happen anytime soon.

I also suspect, for all his protestations that he'd like to see more of the kids, Drake wouldn't really WANT to take on full time childcare, because, though he'd never give me the satisfaction of admitting it, he knows from my endless griping that it's bloody hard work. With all the meetings and travel, his job is hard too but I still maintain that a full day at the office is less physically draining and testing of patience than thirty minutes with the children. Which brings me neatly too...

Well-being and metal health

Is being at home with the kid(s) all day, every day, going to drive you crackers? Almost certainly, yes, it is, but do you have the social support and ability to carve out some non-kid time so you can put those crackers back in the packet occasionally?

I do know someone who didn't return to work because they absolutely LOVED being a Mum and couldn't think of anything they'd rather do - if that's you, I salute you. #notme. As noted above, I went back first time in part because I needed to regain a sense of autonomy and stability. With Drake away in Germany all week, I also dreaded becoming isolated. I'm naturally quite shy and a bit of an introvert and I find making friends hard. Nevertheless, I do NEED to get out, talk and socialise from time to time to stay sane. Having spent considerable energy convincing my new NCT acquaintances that I was pleasant, friendly and not too weird, I couldn't face having to do it all over again once they all went back to work. The ready-made social life of the office seemed like a preferable option.

This time around, I've been luckier - several friends have just gone on their second maternity leaves, so will be around for the next twelve months or so, and two others have just become SAHMs too. I still have to put in a conscious effort to organise meet ups and play dates, but it's easier than it was before. Drake is also travelling far less so I have company in the evenings, I get to chat to people at the nursery gate three times a week, plus I have a four-year-old who talks non-stop, and can be surprisingly good company when he's not pitching a fit about spinach or Thunderbirds. I am not lacking for social interaction.

Socially and personally, I am much more comfortable with my identity as a mother now too, and less wedded to that of a "professional". I'm no less tired and in need of personal space than I was first time - I'm just more used to the feeling and better able to cope because the memory of Life Before Children is now far more distant. My kids are my new normal, so accepting the temporary disappearance of paid employment is less of a wrench.

Childcare options

Are there grandparents or other relatives who are keen to look after the kiddo(s) for little or no pay? Can you afford a nanny? What about a good, local childminder or a day nursery?

For me, neither set of grandparents is in a position to be able to offer childcare. Day nurseries are also ultra pricey round my way, and I never felt entirely comfortable leaving Duckling in such a structured, busy environment at such a young age anyway. So for him, we opted for a childminder who cared for a few other kids, some of whom have gone on to be his best friends. I would have happily sent Ducklingette to the same childminder had I decided to return, but sadly she's about to retire. The thought of searching to find someone I liked and trusted as much in a similarly convenient location, who would happily do pick up and drop offs at Duckling's nursery school (he loves it and I don't want to move him) gave me palpitations. It was hard enough to find a suitable minder the first time, so this just added weight to the "stay at home" side of the scales.

Social expectations

Now, I could write a whole separate post on this one - and perhaps one day I will. But essentially, as a woman with children, you feel judged no matter what choice you make.

Going back to work? "Your poor children - they should be with their mother," or "Why would you have kids when you're not prepared to look after them yourself?" or "What kind of woman wouldn't want to spend all her time with her beautiful offspring?" or "Paid employment is a man's domain! We need your unpaid labour to sustain our patriarchal social structures! Get back to the kitchen, skivvy!"

Staying at home? "Cop-out! What a waste of a good education!" or "It's all right for some, with their rich husbands and posh houses, isn't it?!" or "Why aren't you 'leaning in' like women are supposed to these days?" or "Paid employment and ambition are the only recognised markers of success and value in our culture! Women's work is menial, worthless and piss-easy! You should be ashamed! Get back to a desk, layabout!"

Fretting about making a choice and being judged? "You're being stupid - you have to make the right choice for YOU and your kids. Stop worrying about what anyone else thinks you silly woman!"

But I do worry. Not so much because people are "judging me" (they can't judge me any more than I already judge myself) but because I want to do right by society and raise decent, productive members of the human race. That is, after all, the wider aim of reproduction - to keep our species alive and preferably refine it a bit in the process. The problem is that society does not entirely agree how we should do this and what it thus wants of us women. What degree of childhood security and stability are we willing to forgo in the name or female empowerment, personal fulfilment and economic productivity? Is it OK to assume that a mother's care for her child holds no advantage or benefits over, say, a father or nanny's care and rearrange our social structures accordingly? Should we celebrate a mother's role and the sacrifices she makes to ensure her child's welfare or encourage her to sacrifice less and be her own person first and foremost? Tough questions to which I have no clear answers. Society is really no frigging help at all.

Effort and Practicality

Which brings me to the final, rather more mundane, but no less important consideration. Practicality. When you weigh up all of the factors above, is the effort of returning to work actually worth it?

I spent a ridiculous amount of time "working from home" with a feverish, wheezing toddler on my lap during my first year back at work. I felt like a crap employee every time, but I knew I'd feel like an even crapper Mum had I let anyone else look after him (which, even if I'd had someone to help, he'd never have allowed anyway). Given Duckling's continued susceptibility to chest infections, and the recently added issue of a sister who has so far caught everything he's had and more, I KNEW a return to work would mean a return to panicking as I tried to manage 'unforeseen but painfully familiar circumstances' week in, week out. The fact both of them came down with an uber-cold a few days before I had to make my decision probably didn't help either...

The truth is, while it's seen as a virtue to try to 'have it all', it's really fucking hard work: you need a top notch support network, a good dose of luck, masses of energy, exceptional mental stamina and an understanding that there are no guarantees anyone will actually come out of it happier and more fulfilled - not you, nor your kids, nor your partner. In the end, even though I completely recognise there is potentially a huge amount to be gained from staying at work, I just couldn't face the complexity and effort when it wasn't 100% necessary. Perhaps that makes me lazy. I prefer to think it makes me realistic. There is no honour in running yourself into the ground. I WILL go back to work in some capacity - probably when Duckling is at school and Ducklingette starts at nursery, if we don't run out of money before that. I need to do something beyond finger painting and packed-lunch making to prevent total brain / bank-balance atrophy. But for now I am "just a Mum". I don't always feel comfortable admitting it, but you know what? I think it was the right decision. Weirdly, despite the drudgery, bodily fluids and requirement to answer eight hundred baffling questions a day ("Mummy, why is the carpet big?") I'm actually kind of enjoying it. Long may it last.

"There's a Fire at London..."

Duckling, like many three-year-olds is completely obsessed by fire engines, police cars and all things "memergency". I have lost count of the number of times I've been pulled into his emergency rescue games with cries of "Quick Mummy, there's a fire at London!" (I think this is his interpretation of Fireman Sam's catchphrase "Great Fires of London").

It is a very hard thing to explain to a three-year-old that fires are more than just 'exciting'. I tried a few months ago, when some neighbours down the road had a minor issue with a singed bedroom carpet, prompting the arrival of two fire engines in our street. He sort of understood, but mostly he just wanted to wave to the fire fighters.

Yesterday, the explanation of what had happened at Grenfell Tower was infinitely harder. He saw the pictures on TV as I watched the news. "Wow Mummy! That's a big building on fire! And lots of fire engines!" I explained that this was a genuine 'Fire at London', and after some confusion about it being in the building where I worked (London and my office seem to be largely synonymous in Duckling's mind) he grasped the concept that this was a building where people lived. He wanted to see more pictures. He wanted to see the fire and the fire fighters and the sad people. I showed him some pictures on my phone, then told him I couldn't show him any more as I was very sad too. He asked me why.

What I wanted to say was I was sad because so many people had died in the most horrific circumstances imaginable, leaving behind desperate parents, children, siblings and friends. I was sad that mothers had been compelled to throw their babies out of windows, or had faced the agony of losing their children in the choking smoke as they ran for their lives. That those who survived had just had all their earthly possessions taken from them, and would never, ever be able to return to their homes. And above all, I was sad that this tragedy had happened, today, in 2017, in a wealthy developed nation, not because of an unpredictable freak event, but because the prescient concerns of residents were ignored and safety was forgone for the sake of a few thousand pounds. That this whole awful, horrible disaster was so fucking avoidable.

You can't say all that to a three-year-old though. So I just explained that people's homes had burnt down, and some had lost their friends and family and that made me very sad because I could imagine how scared and upset they must be. "Oh." he said. "What if our house goes on fire? Would we be burned and trapped like the people?" I reassured him that our house was very unlikely to burn down, but if it did catch on fire, we could escape out of a window or down the stairs. "No Mummy. I would put out the fire with my fire stingsquisher! Ne naw ne naw!" he cried and zoomed off to build a towerblock and a fire station out of Duplo.

Three is hard. Old enough to understand and be scared, but not yet quite able to fully empathise and grasp the gravity of what a fire - particularly one on the scale of Grenfell Tower - really means. In a year, he will get it. Right now, I'm kind of glad that he doesn't.

The NMC and their ban on Independent Midwives

I am due to give birth to Baby #2 in just over eight weeks' time. Until early January, I knew that birth would most likely - and hopefully - take place at home, in a pool, with an Independent Midwife (a self-employed midwife who works outside the NHS) I knew well and trusted.  My midwife has looked after me throughout this pregnancy, and cared for me during my previous pregnancy and birth too. In an ideal world, every pregnant woman should have the opportunity to receive such comprehensive and consistent care. I can highly recommend it - it's brilliant.

However, on a practical level, the NHS cannot offer this: shift work patterns, organisational complexity, lack of funding and lack of midwives mean that continuity of care for most is just a pipe dream. The vast majority of women muddle through the system just fine. Some have a great experience. For others it's just OK, but they get a healthy baby at the end of it, so they count themselves lucky. For others still, pregnancy and birth can be a waking nightmare that leaves them with PTSD or worse. It is a bit of a lottery.

The female body is designed to gestate and birth a baby. However, that doesn't mean that things can't go wrong - we're designed to defecate too, but that doesn't mean nobody ever gets constipated. That is why we have trained midwives, obstetricians, and paramedics to help us through (with birth, not constipation, obviously. Although my midwife did have some handy hints about piles).

The issue comes when your care provider doesn't do the right thing for you and / or your baby. At the minor end of the scale, they may fail to consult you, mistrust your instinct or belittle your intelligence. This is pretty common, and as women many of us will be depressingly familiar with this kind of treatment so we may not even notice. At the more serious end, they may intervene when no intervention is necessary, or fail to intervene when they really should have done. This can lead to terrible outcomes.

People make mistakes. I've made plenty in my line of work and my Independent Midwife has probably made a few too. She is human and I am not naive. It is therefore reassuring to me to know that, should she get it majorly wrong, she has indemnity insurance that will pay out in the event her mistake leads to a life-changing injury to my baby, or worse my own or my baby's death. However, did I choose to go with her because she has that insurance? No. I chose her because I felt it was less likely there would be a terrible outcome with her caring for me: continuity of care has been shown repeatedly to improve safety and reduce risk. My choice. When I had Duckling, Independent Midwives couldn't even get insurance. I still booked in full knowledge of this, because a good, calm birth with a skilled, informed practitioner who followed evidence and trusted me to understand my options and the risks involved felt like a pretty good deal. It was a choice I paid for yes, so a choice I could only make because I am privileged enough to be able to afford it. I recognise that. But still, my choice, and indeed my right.

My right has now been taken away. The Nursing and Midwifery Council (NMC) has decreed that the level of indemnity cover offered by a plan specially set up by IMUK, the official membership association for Independent Midwives, is "not appropriate". Specifically, should a catastrophic claim arise tomorrow, they believe the insurance fund would not contain enough to pay out a full settlement immediately. Despite the fact claims usually take several years to process, by which point much more will have been paid in and the funds would be adequate. And it has been accredited as financially sound and Solvency II compliant, which is more than the NHS' own compensation scheme has been. And that the NMC's actions have been deemed unlawful as they themselves state that it is not their role to speculate what an appropriate level of insurance cover might be for non-NHS practitioners.

All 80+ Independent Midwives (IMs) around the country are covered by this insurance and they simply can't get any alternative cover - it took years of hard graft to get the current scheme working. Yet in full knowledge of this, with just three days' notice before Christmas, the NMC stepped in to ban IMs from offering care to their clients (or even being present) during labour and birth, unless they found cover elsewhere, apparently "in the public interest". I understand the basis of their concerns, but as I stated in my letter of complaint to them, I do not feel this is in my interests. My choice and my right have been taken away, and I now have no idea where my birth will be or who will attend it, which is more than a little stressful.

I have faith in the NHS. I think it's an incredible institution full of incredibly caring people. I genuinely believe they will do their best for me and I don't want to appear an elitist snob about having to have a baby the same way most other women in this country do. If I didn't have an informed IM as a sister, I'd no doubt have been NHS all the way with my first. Indeed, I am very glad and very lucky the NHS will be there (I hope) to support me now it looks like my chosen midwife can't. It will be OK in the end I'm sure.

But I'm certainly not as sure about that as I was before Christmas, when I could be reasonably confident that the woman who brought my son into the world (and stemmed my blood loss from a freak laceration, called an ambulance and nearly got arrested speeding after that ambulance on our way to the hospital) would be there to welcome my daughter. Plus I don't know how I am going to navigate my way back into a system I have been out of since my 8 week booking appointment. Nothing causes more of a spanner in the intricate workings of NHS bureaucracy than a set of patient notes in a non-standard format with uncharacteristically legible handwriting. I strongly suspect I'll spend far more time repeatedly explaining my entire back story to my assorted NHS friends than I will telling them about my contractions and how I REALLY can't take them anymore. And don't get me started on the battle I'm likely to have over internal examinations. I had no idea at any point in my last labour how dilated my cervix was because my midwife was experienced enough to know what stage I was at without poking about. I was just left to get on with it. Excruciating pain aside, it was great and I gave birth feeling entirely unstressed and unmeddled with.

The really worrying thing about this decision though is the impact it will have on women who didn't, like me, have a good birth experience the first time around (and it was good, even with the pain and the drama at the end.  I will get round to writing about it one day). Women who have been traumatised by the treatment they endured at their local hospital, who scraped together enough cash to pay for an IM, and now they have no alternative route for receiving care, would rather give birth at home alone than risk returning to a place full of awful memories and mistrust. Leaving these women stranded is not in their interests. Concern about possible long-term financial difficulties that would only arise were something very unlikely to happen does not excuse an action which puts women and their babies at very real and immediate short-term risk. The NMC's decision is not about women's safety or the competence of their midwives - their real remit as a regulator. It's about money. And it's sad that they have chosen to put the latter before the first two in the assumption that this is what matters the most. This could have been handled SO much more compassionately and sensibly.

So sort it out NMC.  By the time you do, it'll probably too late for me, but you owe it to the thousands of women who will need a choice in the future, and the dozens of caring, dedicated midwives out there who have bravely stepped outside the system to offer the level of support they feel women truly deserve.

___

To find out more about this issue, you can read the official IMUK and NMC press releases, plus a great post from Philosophy, etc.

You can also sign a petition to get the NMC to allow women their rights in labour.

The fabulous Wheeldon Trees Farm

I don't really do reviews and stuff on this blog.  It's just not my thing, and I don't think I'd ever be able to bring myself to do one of those "company sends you a product and you 'review' it" type affairs.  Mainly because I don't have enough readers so they'd never ask me to.  Boo hoo.

Every once in a while though, I'll come across something that's just brilliant and I want to sing its praises - not because they've asked me to, but to highlight what can be done if people really think about their product properly.  If it makes my life better, then I want to let others know.

This week's revelation was not so much a product but a place - our lovely little holiday cottage up in the Peak District. Wheeldon Trees Farm, just outside Earl Sterndale in Derbyshire was basically awesome. Unsurprisingly for a place that features on the Baby Friendly Boltholes website, it was super child friendly.  You could pre-book a list of bulky baby and toddler paraphernalia (change mat, bed guard, potty etc.) so you didn't have to take them with you.  There was a mini farm, complete with friendly chickens, ducks, rabbits, sheep and two donkeys ("a big donkey and a little donkey!  Heeeehawwww" as Duckling repeatedly pointed out), and you could pop out to feed them with the owner (or the lovely caretaker Nigel) each morning at 9.30: not too early, but no so late that you couldn't then head off to do things during the day.  There was a fully stocked pantry and laundrette, a small swing park, and a massive games room, that kept Duckling entertained for hours one rainy afternoon (and Drake and I didn't do too badly either - even if I did have to suffer the usual indignity of being whooped at both pool and table football).  The kitchen was fully stocked with equipment we actually needed (I have written before about the hilarious set ups in some holiday homes), like bag clips and graters and a salad bowl and a fully working potato peeler (the same IKEA one we have at home no less!). There were laminated maps and directions for local walks, detailing which were buggy friendly (just one, but it involved a pub, so we were happy).  And, best of all, you got biscuits and homemade brownies on arrival, and a little edible gift on departure.  Tragically, I'm still in my first trimester and unable to stomach anything sweet but Drake and Duckling gave them a thumbs up.

Even when something did go wrong - like the shower developing a random drip and somehow leaking into the kitchen below (amusingly just as Drake and I were heading upstairs for an "early night". Romantic!) it was dealt with efficiently and quickly and without any fuss.  At least it was when we reported it the next morning...

This level of service does come at a bit of a premium, I will admit.  But the cost was really nothing outrageous, and I'd far rather pay a smidge more for a holiday where there's so much to entertain my child that I actually get that rarest of things - five minutes to relax and enjoy myself.  Why can't more places put this amount of thought in?  I mean really?  Forget designer taps, robes and sharp edged, toddler-head-damaging furniture: I'll take practicality, cleanliness and comfort any day.  God, I'm old.  And middle class.

Anyway, the final day revealed just WHY it was all so well thought through.  Every visitor is asked to complete a questionnaire on their departure (and provided with a pen) which specifically asks them if there was anything more they could have done to make the holiday better.  Our resounding answer - nothing at all.  Except maybe 25oC heat and sunshine.  Possibly a bit of a tall order for Derbyshire in September, even for the wonderful Wheeldon Trees team...

Living with a frequent flyer

Drake spends much of his time flying back and forth to various European destinations.  Last year, it was Munich and Zurich; this year mostly Munich (though the trips have been a less frequent).  He tends to fly with a range of airlines, and is part of a loyalty scheme for all of them.  This means he has bucket loads of air miles, which came in very handy when we flew to Finland.  It also means he has "status" with some airlines - British Airways being the most coveted.  However, due to flying Lufthansa a lot this year, he was at risk of losing his Silver status with BA and all the lounge access, priority boarding and other perks that come with it. I know, I know, serious first world problem*. Nevertheless, this weekend, he did a slightly bonkers overnighter to Dusseldorf (one of the few European destinations with an airport-based Sheraton hotel, with whom he also has status) to earn himself enough points to retain his pretty Silver membership card.  So that's home, airport, plane, airport, hotel, gym, dinner, sleep, breakfast, airport, breakfast, plane, breakfast, home, breakfast.  All in under 16 hours.

I understood why he did it.  When you fly for work every week, it's decidedly less unpleasant if you get to eat little bowls of free nuts in the lounge, and don't have to wait for 25 minutes at check in or in the queue to board.  And he got an uninterrupted night's sleep and four breakfasts out of it.  But I still rolled my eyes and had a little bit of a "Do you HAVE to???" moment.  He missed the end of my Mum's family gathering to go to the airport for a start (it's possible he may have seen that as an additional benefit), he missed spending precious weekend time with me and Duckling, and he flew, on an aeroplane, just a couple of days after yet another one had ditched itself into the sea, killing all the passengers.

I have no fear of flying myself. I have a good grasp of probability and I deal with risk on a daily basis in my job.  I know that Drake is far more likely to be killed in a car accident on the way to or from the airport than he is in a plane crash. Yet still, I have to actively avoid thinking about what could happen each time he gets on a plane, or I break out in a cold sweat. It's not just the thought that he could die, it's HOW he would die. Asphyxiated, drowned, burned or frozen to death, or shattered by the impact of hitting the ground / sea. In all of these scenarios there is TIME. Time to realise what is happening,  time to think, if only for a few moments, "That's it, I'm dead. I'm never going to see my family again and they're never going to see me." Time to be utterly and completely terrified. Although knowing the ever-practical Drake, his last thoughts are likely to be "hmm, I hope Duck knows where to find my life insurance papers. Oh wait, she does all the filing. That's OK then."

There would be no-one to help, no emergency services to call, no chance of survival and in all likelihood, no hope of his body being returned. Seeing the photos of the debris from flight MS804 makes my blood run cold. To know that there are family members out there, looking at those pictures too, maybe identifying their loved one's personal effects, knowing their owner is never coming home... One couple were returning to see their three young children in Egypt after a month apart. The woman had just undergone lifesaving cancer surgery in France and looked set to make a full recovery.  It's too ironically tragic to contemplate.

So yes, I was not best pleased by Drake's decision to voluntarily fly to Germany this weekend.  I didn't tell him the full reason why - he would've just laughed at my apparent irrationality - but I did intimate I'd rather he didn't do it again anytime soon. Then I wished him a safe flight (again, he doesn't know but I superstitiously HAVE to wish him a safe flight, even if it's by text because I'm still asleep when he leaves) and watched him drive away. He made it back safe and sound of course. I just wish the passengers of MS804 had too.

* Technically it should be "developed / high income country problem", as the expressions "first world", "second world" and "third world" are anachronistic since the fall of the Soviet Union. I suspect my quibbling over the term may be a bit of a #firstworldproblem in itself though.

Have you had a good holiday? (Finland: Part 3)

"Have you had a good holiday?" Drake asked, gazing out across our sprawling garden at the forested shorelines and tranquil bays of the Gulf of Finland (thank you Airbnb).

"Not bad at all," I replied, as I simultaneously picked up a discarded pasta twirl from the floor, and righted Duckling, who was back bending his way out his high chair for the third time in as many minutes.

I wasn't lying. It hasn't been a bad holiday, by any stretch of the imagination. Both of the houses we've stayed in, in Helsinki, and here, out in the sticks, have been utterly incredible. Both are owned by architects and are lived for most of the year, so they're fully kitted out with all the mod cons you need for day to day living (though the current one is still lacking a potato peeler godammit). The Finns we've talked to have been reserved yet friendly, and sweetly surprised that we've chosen their beautiful country for a holiday. Duckling has been behaving brilliantly, the food and drink have been plentiful and delicious and the friends we're with have cooked, cleaned and been very understanding of us having a kid in tow (once I'd got over my slight first day offence at being told that they couldn't hack the slow pace of wandering a city with a child, and would be spending the afternoon on their own. Blunt, but at least honest).

But I am TIRED. It is a cliché, but holidaying with small children is basically the same old shit in a different place. Nappies, mealtimes, bath times, bedtimes, constant negotiation of transitions and removal of dangerous objects, endless playing with cars and Duplo, tidying up the destruction... It all still has to happen. Except it has to happen in less familiar surroundings, with more hazards, where all you desperately want to do is sit in a lounger, have a nice chat with your friends and soak up the silence and the view. Not chase after your two year old who is trying to throw himself down the steps to the beach again. Or help himself to yet another fistful of complimentary chocolates. Or beat up the bathroom door with an ornate horsehead walking stick. Or poke breadsticks into the Bang and Olufsen speakers when you've categorically said, seventeen times, that this is NOT acceptable behaviour.

The hardest bit is the inability to say any of this, because you're on holiday in a beautiful place with lovely people and to say you're not relishing every single moment sounds so damn sour and ungrateful. There have of course been some totally great bits, both with Duckling ("ooh, wow! Noisy!" He exclaimed as I showed him how to pop seaweed) and our friends (who knew 34 and 11 months was not too old to learn the full dance sequence to "All the Single Ladies"?). I just feel the beauty and the luxury of this place is wasted on me - old, tired, frumpy, grumpy and perpetually distracted as I am.   It has not been relaxing in the sense I once knew, and it bothers me that I am still dismayed by this, two years into motherhood. If I'm not used to it by now, am I ever going to be?

Probably not, is the answer, but at least it will make our first holiday sans enfants that bit more enjoyable when it does eventually come around. Except I'm sure I'll probably miss my darling(s) massively, and mope the whole trip. I am a really difficult lady to please.

My name's Duck and I'm not an alcoholic (Finland: Part 2)

OK,  so I have an admission that I am fairly sure is going to alienate a large portion of my readership: I don’t really drink much alcohol.

In the UK, not boozing daily is seen as a bit, well, odd. It is a great shared cliché confession amongst most mothers that the the prospect of a large glass of wine is the only thing that keeps them going from Operation Get Up to Operation Bedtime. And I get that, I totally do. Friday night is beer night in our house, and it's great. But every night? It's just not my thing.

So this week, a holiday spent with - how shall I put this politely - some seasoned drinkers, has been a bit of a challenge. I do enjoy a glass of wine, and I can actually hold my drink reasonably well.  If I really wanted to I could keep up; at least for the first couple of hours.  But there are just so many reasons not to these days.

I have not drunk regularly since university so my consumption abilities are definitely a little less honed than they once were. This means I am guaranteed to feel rubbish the next day - hung over, a bit paranoid about having said something stupid and generally miserable - and it's a misery that can last a good 48 hours sometimes. No fun when on holiday and dealing with tantrums.

Then there's the knowledge that I am responsible for another small human. What would I do if he suddenly fell ill or got injured? What would I do if I injured him because I was a bit sloshed, as in this scenario from last night: Me: "what happened to his head?" Drake: "I was spinning him around and, err, I got dizzy!" Me: "nothing to do with the three G&Ts you've had then?" Drake: "of course not!"  I don't want to sound sanctimonious - it was only a very small bump and I had had a beer and a "Vodka berry nice" too (our own Finnish invention - Koskenkorva vodka, frozen lingonberries & Schweppes Russchian), but it serves to illustrate why I don't feel comfortable taking charge of a child while tipsy.

I also still breastfeed Duckling when he comes into bed with us at night. I need to be alert enough to hear him when he wakes up, and not so drunk that I end up smothering him / booting him out the bed. Plus I need to avoid inadvertently inebriating him via alcoholic breast milk (though evidence suggests you have to be fairly paralytic for that to be a  possibility). And I haven't even mentioned the abuse of my liver, the weight gain, and the additional grey pallor that a hangover brings to my already haggard visage...

Alcoholism and binge drinking are genuine problems in the UK, but are often overlooked in people of my age and social class because they happen behind closed doors, rather than on the vomit spattered streets of your local town centre.  I know plenty of people who will happily polish off a bottle of wine between two (or sometimes one) most nights, and think nothing of it, even though the NHS recommends drinking no more than 14 units per week (around six regular size glasses of wine - or one per night with a 'rest' day).  They do it because they like wine, obviously, but also because it's completely normalised in British culture - particularly middle class culture - to do so. This in turn fuels mockery and teasing of those who choose to abstain or drink a bit more modestly, which I find really tedious. On the first night of our holiday, I just had a couple of beers and A Big Thing was made of this. I know our friends just wanted me to relax and let my hair down (and stop making them feel like lushes no doubt) but I still felt uncomfortable.  So on night two, I abandoned my reserve and got through three glasses of Prosecco, two beers and two hefty gin and tonics, which for me is a lot. And it was entertaining (I was introduced to Cards Against Humanity for the first time and spent the evening with tears of laughter rolling down my face), but I certainly felt it in the morning. It's depressing that I am so susceptible to peer pressure at the age of 34, but I can't help it - I don't want to be the only sober one in the room. They'll have me sniffing glue and shoplifting next...

I'm not some kind of a temperance zealot.  I am on holiday, so I am happy (and want) to drink a bit more than I usually do. I just don't want to feel like I am obliged to drink more than I'm comfortable with every night. I am thus going for an obviously-drinking-just-quite-slowly approach for the rest of the week and will be reverting to my more sober ways once back home, sticking to tea like the good girl prissy knickers I am. Herbal I'm afraid, as unlike alcohol, I genuinely can't tolerate caffeine. My next attempt to alienate my readership - "My name's Duck and I'm not a tea drinker" - is in the pipeline.

Sometimes things do go right (Finland: Part 1)

Pleasant surprises with children tend to be fairly few and far between, but every so often they materialise like an oasis in a desert, and you think "Hey, you know what? I've got this parenting thing nailed! This is actually fun!"

Today, we took a three hour flight to Helsinki, with our 26 monther and two friends who don't have children (and don't want them). Not they most obvious scenario for fun, but it was. Because it actually went WELL. I know, I know, I was shocked too.

Don't get me wrong, it wasn't 100% perfect. There was some "me run away!" action in the Duty Free, followed by the activation of an entire row of singing, dancing, instrument playing M&M figurines. And there was some short-lived insistence on pulling his Trunki himself, requiring a crowd of elderly Japanese ladies to play French skipping with the tow strap (thank God they were all on the ball and relatively spritely or it could have been broken hip central). But for the most part he was well behaved, very happy and very, very excited.

And this is the part that really made it fun - this was the first time we've been away somewhere with Duckling when he's been properly verbal, able to express how he's feeling and ask about what he's seeing. "Exciting Mummy!  Me go on aeroplane with Mummy and Daddy and Nick and Ella! To Sinland*!" he kept saying, usually followed by "we go on aeroplane NOW?".

On the flight he sat primly in his own seat with his little hands tightly gripping the arm rests (which we were NOT allowed to share) and feet jiggling about, repeating "We go now! We go up in aeroplane! We go fast! Neoooow!" And as requested, he stayed in his own seat until the seat belt sign had been switched off and he could clamber onto my lap to look at the tiny roads and trees and houses below. Then, most amazingly of all, he actually went to sleep on my lap and stayed that way for over an hour while I read a book. An actual book.  I had a dead arm for most of it.  But still, a book!

Landing went as well as take off with much "ooh-ing" over the bumpy touch down (we were earnestly instructed to hold onto his legs just in case he bounced out of his seat) and car hire, the drive to the (amazing) apartment and dinner at a random Korean noodle place all went smoothly too. Even bedtime was straight forward. It was weird.

In some respects, it's kind of a bit depressing that "not a total disaster" has become the new bar for "quite enjoyable." But I suppose that's just the nature of life with kids. You have to recalibrate your expectations if you're going to survive it in tact, and find your fun where you can. Fingers crossed the journey home defies expectations too. Though I fear they have now been set impossibly high...

*Sinland is Finland for reference,  though with the quantity of Finnish vodka we're planning to consume, Sinland may be quite apt.

Five minutes peace

After my run this morning I experienced one of those rare moments of being alone, in my own home, with nothing particularly urgent to do. Drake was at the swing park with Duckling (I'd popped by to say hi mid-run), and would be there for at least another five minutes.  The silence felt both golden and alien. As any parent will know, such moments are as rare as hen's teeth, and are to be savoured.

Except I did what I always seem to do in the brief, fleeting minutes of guaranteed peace I knew I had. I got overexcited about the endless possibilities open to me, flapped about and failed to accomplish anything. It went something like this:

Ooh! Five whole minutes! Maybe ten! I should really have a shower, but... I could write a blog post! Or upload all those photos to Flickr. Does anyone still actually use Flickr? No, I should be good and clean out the fridge.  Or should I put all Duckling's old clothes in the loft? No, wait, I should design the new kitchen! Where's that pad of squared paper? Bugger it, Drake's put it back upstairs. But my laptop's here... Do I have time to churn out another chapter of the novel?... No probably not. OK blog post it is.

Where's my phone? I had it like two seconds ago... Ah here!... Oh for Christ's sake, flat battery again! Right, charger... Charger?...

- Rummages down side of sofa -

Ah ha! How in the hell has it got this tangled up since yesterday? Drake is right, the 'snake pit of doom' is quite an accurate description for my side of the sofa...

- Swears at knotted charger cable before finally straightening it out -

Wait, what the hell?! How did the charger port get full of bloody sand? Damn it, must have been when Duckling shovelled half the playground sandpit in my lap earlier... How am I going to get this out? Pin? No cocktail stick would be better... Where are the cocktail sticks...?

- Much crashing about in kitchen drawers -

Located! Now if I can just tap one out of this little hole here...

- Cocktail sticks scatter all over floor as the lid comes off -

OH FFS! 

- Cocktail sticks are angrily stabbed back into their pot -

RIGHT!  Phone! You are out of there sand! Just a little flick there... Give it a blow.... Bit more flicking... Has it welded itself in there? ! Come out you bastard! COME OUT!

- Phone flies across room and violently disassembles itself on the floor -

GAH!

- Phone reassembled, charger forced in with a crunch* and phone switched back on. -

Right, I probably have one minute... Come on phone, load up... Load up.... Come on Blogger, load up.... Load up... Ooh, message! "Heading back, see you in a sec." Dammit!

- Door bell rings 15 times and small voice yells "Hello Mummy! Me go wings with Daddy, Mummy! Me see red woo woo!" -

And my five minutes peace was over, just like that. Items untangled / reassembled: 3. Meaningful progress achieved: nil. But hey, I did get a blog post out of it in the end.

*For those of you wondering, like I did, if the electrical current involved in charging a mobile would be enough to convert any residual sand to glass - no, it appears not. Disappointing I thought. Though good that I still have a functioning phone.

Why I am no longer anti-antibiotic

Duckling is currently taking his fourth round of antibiotics in the space of four months. The first was for a chest infection, the second was a prophylactic course to prevent an infection in his severed fingertip (bit unfortunate that one), and the most recent two have been for another chest infection (the first lot didn't totally clear it, so we're now onto the second).

Much is made of antibiotics being handed out "like Smarties" (though I'm not sure many doctors would advocate the liberal distribution of Smarties either) and how it leads to the emergence of antibiotic resistant bacteria, particularly where patients don't complete their full course. There is also increasing evidence that antibiotics - especially multiple courses taken in the first two years of life - can result in a higher incidence of asthma and eczema in children. The theory goes that they wipe out natural gut flora that have an important role in establishing and regulating the immune system. An unruly immune system can cause overreactions to normally harmless things - such as pollen and dust mites - and thus allergy symptoms. And this is just one impact of antibiotics that we know about - it's possible there are more that haven't been researched quite so fully.

Knowing all this, when I first embarked on motherhood I was quite determined that Duckling would never take antibiotics.  This was clearly a ridiculous aspiration, based on a misguided belief that I would have a child that never got more than a mildly snotty nose.  Two years and four rounds later, I have very much dismounted my high horse.  I realise that nobody takes / administers antibiotics for fun (have you ever tried getting a spoonful of sickly banana gloop into a two year old? Not. Fun.). They do it through necessity - or at least a predicted necessity.  Certainly some prescriptions may turn out to be overkill, but there is often no way of quickly and cost effectively assessing when infections are bacterial, or whether a person's immune system is strong enough to fight an infection on their own. Despite what the floggers of complimentary medicines might like to tell you, antibiotics, when taken for the right thing, do work, and work well. They have revolutionised modern medicine. They are not perfect - no effective medicine is 100% side effect free - but faced with a choice of amputation / death, or antibiotics, I'll take the latter thanks.

When faced with the choice between a doctor's visit with a mildly wheezy Duckling or a critical meeting at work, there wasn't any real decision to be made either (I'll save the story of how he demanded 'boobie' in the middle of my hastily arranged conference call for another day - though I will say passing it off as a request for 'blueberries' was a minor stroke of genius). The doctor listened to his chest, frowned a lot, then packed us off with a prescription for a new inhaler and some amoxicillin. Fourty-eight hours later some steroid tablets were added to the mix ('roid rage is such a joy in an already tantrum prone tot), followed by stronger antibiotics, a steroid inhaler and a chest x-ray at the start of this week.  I'll be honest, there was a moment at the beginning where I wondered if I'd encountered a Smarties peddler who was making a fuss about nothing, and whether I should just leave Duckling to fight things himself. A trip round Sainsbury's where he coughed so much he was sick quickly changed my mind though.  There is a fine line between laid back parenting and neglect.

I'd love a super healthy child who sails through life with only the occasional cold and a bit of mild puking, but despite two years of breastfeeding, and plenty of fresh air and soil eating, I don't have one of those. Maybe I will in the future when he's built up his immunity fully, but for now I have to accept he's a little bit vulnerable and balance the risks - not demanding antibiotics at the first sign of a sniffle, but not ignoring the developing wheeze either. Yes, he may have a higher risk of asthma with all this antibacterial bombing, but I'd say there's a real chance that asthma is what's making him need the antibiotics in the first place, so withholding them just seems a bit perverse.  I know there is a wider problem to society of antibiotic resistance, and that there is a chance his illness was just viral and would have gone away of its own accord.  I am not willing to risk my child's immediate health for either reason though.  For Duckling, this time, antibiotics seem to have kept him out of hospital, and for that I am very grateful. I am over my antibiotic snobbery. I just hope we still have some effective ones available by the time Duckling has his own kids (and to help ensure that, I will make sure he finishes the course, I promise).

Colonoscopy capers

After repeated doctor's appointments and a range of inconclusive blood and stool tests, yesterday I finally got the chance to receive a definitive diagnosis on my gippy belly issues, by way of a gastroscopy (camera into my stomach) and colonoscopy (camera up the bum. Lovely.)

For those of a squeamish disposition who don't cope well with Too Much Information, I would advise you not to read on. Neither procedure is particularly pleasant, though to be honest, the prep is the worst bit, if only because it induces symptoms far worse than those that prompted the investigation in the first place.  To be diagnosed and thus cured, you have to make yourself sicker - it's faintly ironic.

The whole thing starts with a couple of days of eating a "low fibre" diet - essentially the opposite of everything a doctor might normally tell you to eat. White bread, white pasta, white rice, butter, cheese, and no fruit, veg, nuts or wholegrains. Sounds kind of fun in theory, but it's a bit of a blood sugar roller coaster in reality.  Then, 24 hours before the procedure, comes a total ban on solid food and ten (TEN?!) senna tablets, the purpose of which is a bit unclear as you follow this 'gentle' laxative with two rounds of Picolax, which produces an effect akin to being washed out by a fire hose on full. Repeatedly. For hours.

Once I had accepted this was happening, it wasn't too bad. I just wish the evacuation hadn't kicked in midway through cooking Duckling's tea, necessitating multiple dashes between the loo (upstairs) and kitchen (downstairs) to avoid pan fires / put foodstuffs in bowls / stick on the Thomas the Tank Engine film / check Duckling wasn't choking or throwing himself or his dinner out of the highchair. Typically, Drake waited until Duckling was fed, bathed and in his PJs, I'd missed two knocks on the door, a call from my Mum and I'd angrily hung up on a "accident claim line" caller ("No, I haven't had an accident in the past three months but I bloody well will if you don't let me go back to the toilet!") before he came home. By this point the fire hose bursts had become a little more intermittent and I was in full story reading mode, so there was not much left to do.  He did kindly fetch me a mug of hot marmite water though. Mmm, delicious.

My night was fairly sleepless, though thankfully I only had one howling session from Duckling (who is sleeping terribly at present and was in bed with us by 2am) as I unceremoniously bundled him over onto Drake's side of the bed and rushed to the toilet. Nothing like pooping while a toddler wails "Mummy! Where you gooooo?! Boobie Mummy, boooooobiiiieee!" outside the door.  Come the morning, I  managed a few minutes extra sleep while Drake (who had kindly taken the day off to escort me to and from the hospital) took Duckling to the childminder.  However, being the practical multi-tasker he is, he had also booked in to have some scaffolding put up on the side of the house and a few blown window panes replaced. My lie in was therefore totally ruined by clanking and swearing outside the bedroom window, and the need to clear our windowsills of five years of accumulated crap. Plus the need to empty myself of my remaining crap.

Once installed in the hospital I was given the usual flattering bum revealing gown to wear (no sign of the 'modesty pants' my letter promised disappointingly) and entertained my nurse with some fainting as she put the cannula in for my sedative. I reassured her that I have notoriously low blood pressure and faint a lot (particularly after 24 hours of no food and major bowel evacuations) so it really wasn't a big deal, but given the frequency with which she subsequently checked I was still alive, I'm not sure she was convinced.  Then, when I had recovered my poise and my blood pressure had returned to something close to living, it was off to the endoscopy suite, where I was asked, for the fourth time, my date of birth and whether I had any allergies (none, apart from nurses with cannulas apparently), before being wheeled in to meet my consultant. Who if I'm honest, I may have a teensy bit of a crush on. Somewhat awkward when you know they're about to stick a camera up your bottom.  Glad I'd trimmed the hedge (front and back garden, just to be sure).

In the event, the endoscopy was actually more unpleasant than the colonoscopy, mainly because it involved some involuntary gagging and an odd banana flavour throat numbing spray. The sedative was nice, but it had largely worn off when it came to the colonoscopy, so I remained awake for the whole thing and watched the little camera go on its merry journey round my colon.  It was surprisingly interesting, even if I was faintly concerned a lurking conger eel or tunnel web spider was about to leap out at us at any moment. It's possible the sedative may have had more of an effect than I realised. 

In the end, nothing of any interest whatsoever was found, meaning the official, definitive diagnosis is: I have Nothing Serious.  Whether this Nothing Serious is a food intolerance, irritable bowel syndrome or something else remains to be seen, but for now, I am simply happy that I can get on with my life without perpetually wondering "but what if...?". And that I can eat normally again. Oh Soreen, how I missed you....

Surviving the annual haircut humiliation

As you may have gathered, I am not a lifestyle / beauty / fashion type blogger. I just about know my eyeliner from my eye shadow and my Primark from my Prada, but looking perfect does not feature high on my priority list - even less so now I'm a Mum.

Trips to the hairdresser always feel like a voyage into a foreign land therefore, fraught with the potential to show myself up as some clueless outsider, totally unfamiliar with the ways of the locals - you know, the ones who wear lip gloss, perfume, proper heels and bat-wing tops (my hairdresser today had fronds on hers that I was convinced she was going to accidentally snip off at any moment) and know about fashion. The unashamed, dedicated focus on appearance makes me feel uncomfortable and frumpy, even though I normally don't give much thought to how I look.  I never see the same hairdresser twice because I can't face the horror in their eyes when they figure out it's been a whole year since I last had a trim. It's ridiculous because I know I'm not really being judged, but I still feel as if I'm letting them down by allowing all their hard work to grow out and go frizzy, and convince myself they're going to label me as a failure to womankind and give me a shoddy cut.

So, as I sat down in the chair today, I told my usual fib about it being about six months since I'd last visited (ahem) and vaguely gesticulated that I wanted some hair cut off. As ever, this was not enough for my stylist du jour and a full beauty exam began: how much hair she should take, where did I want my parting, how many layers did I need, what shape should my fringe be, would I prefer the glossing or moisturising treatment, was the water temperature OK...  Mostly I just answered "err... I'm not really sure. What do you think?" like an unprepared amateur who would probably agree to a lime green mohican if someone suggested it was "on trend" right now.

Then came the lecture about how I should look after my hair (invest in a decent heat protector spray and always leave your home hair masque on for an hour covered in a hot towel girls!) followed by some twaddle about cuticle smoothing and hydroxy amino peptides (I may be paraphrasing). I wanted to shout "look, I'm out of my comfort zone here. Please just cut my damn hair!". But I didn't because my hairdresser was perfectly well-meaning and lovely, and was just doing her job - infinitely better than I ever could I might add (as Duckling's first haircut will attest. Wonky tufts are in for the under threes, right?).

It's not that I don't care how I look. I am a feminist and as such I dislike society's excessive focus on the perfection of women's bodies, but I'm also a realist and I recognise that, male or female, to get on in life it helps to look a few steps removed from a tramp (no offence to tramps). I do like to wear clothes that flatter, my wardrobe is certainly not empty, and I just about still care enough to put some concealer and mascara on before work. I just can't take the beauty industry seriously or get enthused about the detail of "glamour" because it just seems so shallow and unimportant in the grand scheme of things.  Plus looking permanently perfect must be damn exhausting. Hats off to you if you manage to pull it off - particularly if you're a parent.  Given the choice between an extra 10 minutes in bed, and poker straight hair, the bed wins every time for me.

All this said, I would be lying if I said I didn't give my new hair a little swish and admire it in a few shop windows on the way home. It IS undeniably nice to feel a little bit beautiful sometimes, which is why I still put myself through the uncomfortable process of going to a proper salon, rather than just going DIY.  Plus not looking like this all the time just makes me appreciate it all the more - I'm just glad nobody (not least myself) expects me to keep it up.

Hosting a 2nd birthday party: do you go traditional, modern or lazy?

Yesterday was Duckling's 2nd birthday, and as is required, we held a little party for him. Not too many people: just me and Drake, both sets of grandparents, my sister, brother-in-law and his cousin Gosling. Easy peasy, right?

Well I suppose in the grand scheme of things it wasn't really too much of a challenge. In the battleground of my mind however, it was all out war. The problem is, as much as I want to be a cool, tech-savvy, environmentally considerate 21st century feminist, years of patriarchal programming has burnt the 1950s housewife mantra "UNLESS YOU DO EVERYTHING YOURSELF, PERFECTLY, FROM SCRATCH, YOU ARE A FAILURE AS A WOMAN AND MOTHER" into my brain. Also, unfortunately I'm a bit lazy time poor. So this trio of competing factors led to much indecision when trying to decide how best to manage the toddler birthday party experience:

Presents:

1950s me: Nice wooden toys with wheels, well made, not too many, antique car-themed wrapping paper and curly bows, presented in a bag with Duckling's name on.

21st Century me: Gender-neutral (erring on the more 'girly', just to make a point), quirky, second-hand items ordered on eBay (nothing 'branded'), unwrapped to save the planet.
Lazy me: can't we just give him some Pom Bears (it's all he's actually asked for) and leave the grandparents to buy the cool stuff?

Victor?: None of them really. He got a brand new Peppa Pig bathtime boat, some (new) jigsaws, (new) clothes and a mini IKEA circus tent (new) from us, plus a slide and a scooter ("dooter") from the grandparents. All our gifts were wrapped (very badly) in tissue paper as I couldn't find any non-pink and frilly stuff in the five minutes I had in Paperchase on my way home from work. So while 1950s Housewife does get one point for the presents actually being wrapped this year, 21st Century Mum also scores for the gender-neutral nature of the toys, as evidenced by the fact that he fought extensively over every single one with his Cousin Gosling, a girl. "NO Gosling! Me dooter! Mine! MINE!". Oh and he did get Pom Bears too...

Cake
1950s me: A beautiful sugar craft rendition of an orange Duplo block, complete with individual mini Victoria sponges for the nobbly bits on top (what are those called?), all whipped up in an hour or two on Saturday evening.
21st Century me: Wonder if I could I could construct an entire party cake by scaling up my no-added-sugar baby led weaning banana muffin recipe?
Lazy me: Do they still do Colin the Caterpillar cakes in Marks?
Victor ?: 1950s me. Ish. It took me seven hours. The shape, to be fair, was vaguely reminiscent of a Duplo block, but despite half a bottle of yellow food colouring going into the icing mix, the colour was more of a weird psychedelic pink than orange. I ran out of time to do the mini Victoria sponges on top, so they were just lumps of leftover cake covered in very uneven icing, and because my oven bakes everything at 200oC regardless of what temperature you set it to, the cake had a massive burnt dome on top, which caused the finished article to be slightly less than perfectly cuboid... Basically, it looked like a Duplo block following an encounter with bottle of Pepto Bismol and blow torch. But it tasted quite nice, and it had sufficient structural integrity to support a candle, so Duckling got to do the blowing out bit. That's all that really matters, right?

Catering
1950s me: Homemade everything, down to the flaky pastry and filling for the sausage rolls.
21st Century me: hummus, unsalted popcorn, bean and quinoa salad, chia seed pudding...
Lazy me: Everything ordered online, including the carrot sticks.
Victor?: Lazy me, all the way. I make no apologies - Waitrose caters waaay better than I ever could. Although I did cut up my own carrot and cucumber batons. Actually, I lie, Drake did them as I was too busy swearing at the pink cake.

Decorations
1950s me: Bunting, banners, birthday confetti, party napkins, party bags and a bunch of bobbing "2 today" balloons outside the front door.
21st Century me: recycled paper chains, kids party classics streaming via the Apple TV, funky illuminations and a PowerPoint loop of family photos playing in the background.
Lazy me: A second-hand helium balloon passed on by one of my NCT friends whose son turned two last week.
Victor?: A mish mash. The second-hand balloon was very much in evidence, though I also found a Happy Birthday banner, napkins and some LED balloons in Paperchase (which only really glowed noticeably once we shut the curtains and turned out all the lights). The confetti was deemed a choking hazard, I couldn't get the b**tard Apple TV to work, and the PowerPoint and paper chains were just too much to organise in the six and a half minutes I had between cake completion and first guest arrival.  (Incidentally, I'm going to have to start telling Drake's parents to arrive half an hour later than everyone else. Even when travelling after lunch on a mild, sunny Sunday with no reported traffic incidents, they leave 90 minutes to make a 50 minute journey and consequently get here massively inconveniently early.  As an eternally late person, this drives me bloody bananas.)

In some respects, I am quite glad that I have such a schizophrenic approach to party planning.  My perfectionist streak balances out my lazy arse one, and both rein in my tedious desire to be some kind of uber right-on enviro-feminist (which let's face it, is bound to piss everyone else off, if only because a party is not a party without hyperactive sugar rushes and a bin bag full of carelessly discarded wrapping paper). Plus, it's not about me, it's about Duckling, and by next year he'll be much more able to articulate his desires. Still, for the sanity all concerned, I might try to dial down the cake ambitions in exchange for a slightly less random set of decorations and maybe a homemade potato salad.  Organic potatoes and homegrown herbs optional.

Health anxiety strikes again

Just for a change, I am going through a not especially fun time at the moment (this blog isn't just a moan outlet, honestly!). About a week before Christmas, I had a day or two of feeling really nauseous and bloated, with an uncomfortable stomach.  I put it down to a bug, as my Mum, sister and Drake all seemed to get the same thing too. We all recovered quickly and I enjoyed Christmas dinner, but my symptoms mysteriously returned a couple of days later and for a few weeks I felt mildly nauseous on and off and lacking any appetite.  Then the "loose motions" started (sorry if too much info). Just mornings, and sometimes evenings mostly,  with random twinges of pain around my abdomen, until yesterday when I felt properly awful and was on and off the loo most of the day.

The doctor (to whom I shall return tomorrow requesting further investigation) has called it as Irritable Bowel Syndrome, given that my blood tests and stool tests were normal.  I, being a bit of a worrier and obsessive Googler, have variously diagnosed myself with an ulcer, low stomach acid, excess stomach acid, parasites, Crohn's Disease, and cancer (a friend, my age, died of bowel cancer last year, so I am a little paranoid). What I do know for certain is that, not for the first time, I have a bad case of health anxiety.

I think the doctor is right and my problem almost certainly is IBS (it's very common, and there is family history), probably triggered by the mild virus I had and exacerbated by the stress of a new job, months of sleep deprivation and two hospital stays with Duckling in the space of six weeks. I'm pretty sure that giving up breastfeeding may have a lot to do with it too. I have not yet fully stopped,  but we're down to evenings and mornings only now, and it's sent my hormones into a tail spin - hot flushes, minor panic attacks, depression, weird sense of smell and taste, plus my first period in over two and a half years, which has been strangely familiar and alien at the same time.  I am a little sensitive to hormonal changes at the best of times (I will leave the story of my tumultuous time on The Pill for another post) so with everything else going on, I'm not that surprised that I'm suffering.  I just wish I wasn't, and that I could rationalise my way out of feeling so anxious about it all (which I'm sure is just making things ten times worse).

Poor Drake has seen me like this before (most famously on our first holiday together when I became convinced I had lymphoma and was slowly dying.  I didn't and I wasn't.) but still finds it hard to know how to help me. I had a bit of a sob on his shoulder yesterday along the lines of "what if this is actually something really serious and I leave you and Duckling behind???"  and then, "Even if it is just IBS, what if I end up feeling like I did today every day of the week?  How am I going to live a normal life when I can't be more than ten foot from a toilet...?!"  The answer to the latter question was discovered today in the form of Imodium - it got me through work without a hiccup, which is just as well as a minor blocked toilet tsunami had put all the bogs out of action on our floor.  Not my fault, honest guv.

On the bright side though, I've lost half a stone, so am finally back (and actually a bit below) my pre-baby weight.  Every cloud...  Sort of.

I have no idea where this whole experience is going to take me.  I am strongly hoping I'll be able to look back in a few months time, when I've been properly prodded and poked and I'm feeling 100% again, and be able to say "Well that was literally a bit shit wasn't it?!"  For now, I just have to stay calm, keep smiling and try not to get suckered into too many snake oil therapies online.  "Probiotic papaya enzymes you say?  Give me 50!"

2015: a year of parenting in review

So, 2015 is over and I thought what better way to reflect on my achievements (ahem) over the past 12 months than to draw up a little review of the year using a pretty pie chart. With a breakout box! Check me out with my mad Excel skills.

 

Here is, more or less, how I spent my time last year (I have tried to use honest values, though a few may have been mildly exaggerated for comic effect):

 

 



Well, what a year! On reflection, I am surprised by the amount I apparently slept.  Less so by the amount of time I spent breastfeeding.  To be honest, the "boobs out" wedge actually overlaps with quite a lot of the others (sleeping, daydreaming, moaning to Mum... Not the working one though - apart from the time I failed to button my blouse back up after a pumping session).  My mad Excel skills aren't good enough to represent such overlaps in pictorial form though.  All helpful tips from fellow Excel geeks gratefully received so I can rectify this for next year.  Not that I'll still be breastfeeding by next year.  Probably not anyway.  Or hopefully not.  Christ, someone please tell me how to give up...!

Ten things to expect when renting a holiday home

The Ducks are currently on holiday (sorry, vacation) in Cape Cod, Massachusetts. Not an obvious choice, I know, but it was the furthest place we could think of that would involve sunshine and beaches and balance maximum air mile usage (Drake has a bucket and spade load) with a survivable flight time (seven hours to Boston was only mildly hellish).  Plus the US is really child friendly. As is advisable for any holiday with small children, we're staying in a rented house rather than a hotel. The house is great - traditional shingled exterior, a stone's throw from the beach with a creek out back and a canoe! However, as with every rented house / villa / apartment I've ever stayed in (and I'm going back to my own childhood here), the photos and descriptions on which you make your choice don't quite tell the whole story. Here follows a list of Duck Family holiday home certainties:

1. You'll be slightly creeped out by the unfamiliar, mildly (sometimes very) shabby interior for the first day or two, and spend a lot of time with your feet tucked under you in case a hand reaches out from under the sofa and grabs your ankles or a bug runs up your trouser leg.
2. The kitchen will be stocked to the gunnels with a hodge podge of gadgets and gizmos that you don't even recognise, let alone need, but it will be devoid of several essential bits of kit that most people use every day. Our house this year has a crab pot and crab claw crackers (to be fair, we are in Cape Cod, seafood capital of the US), a Nutribullet, a capsule coffee maker with no capsules and no indication of what capsules it takes, three Tupperware tub lids (no actual Tupperware) and six chip 'n' dip bowls. It entirely lacks wooden spoons, a functioning potato peeler, sharp knives, a salad bowl, a proper chopping board, egg cups or any form of spatula.
3. At some stage, the house will be invaded by unwelcome wildlife. In the past we've shared our home with mice (twice actually), a swarm of harvest spiders, giant centipedes, ants, feral cats and, my favourite, a "ghost", which may or may not have actually been one of the rats that lived in the tree outside rummaging through our bins.  My Dad took us to the best places when we were kids...
4. There will come a point, usually three or four days in, where you sit out on a lounger at dusk, gin and tonic in hand, surrounded by chirping insects, and you'll say "why the hell do we live in the UK?" Then a moth the size of a sparrow will get stuck in your hair and you'll remember why.
5. The house will contain at least one fundamental design flaw / oversight that will bug you all week. This year it's the lack of a full length mirror anywhere, and a parasol so small that only one person can sit in the shade at a time.
6. Your welcome pack will contain local idioms or bad translations that make you laugh out loud. My all time favourite was in France, where the local restaurant guide suggested we eat somewhere with a speciality of "raw cow with truffle soil". I think they meant steak tartare with truffle oil, but we avoided that particular dish anyway, just in case.
7. Something will break or go wrong at some stage, often following a thunder storm that trips all the fuses. This year, it was a smoke alarm which woke us all up at 6 am due to a flat backup battery, then proceeded to beep intermittently for most of the morning until Drake found a loose wire and plugged the battery back in to charge. What a man!
8. However "child friendly" the blurb claims it to be, there will be at least one major hazard that you child will seek out within minutes of arrival. Like a sodding great river in the garden... Or the sharp, terracotta tiled steps my sister slipped on the first time she climbed them, necessitating a dash to a Spanish A&E for some chin stitches.
9. The artwork / décor / furniture will sit somewhere on a scale of "not quite to my taste" to "were they on f**king acid?!". Best ever = the house in Provence with a giant mural of The Cat In The Hat on the bathroom wall. That cat was no prude about folks in the nude... (sorry).
10. Whatever your initial misgivings, by the end of your stay you will have grown rather fond of the place and won't want to leave. I will almost certainly shed a little tear tomorrow when we go, though we do at least have a few more days in a hotel in Boston to round off the holiday nicely. Cue multiple accidental calls to reception, obsessive knocking on other people's doors and mini shampoo bottles emptied out on the carpet. Give me a rubbish potato peeler any day..

"I go boat in Mummy's doos?  Yes?" (N.B. we did not allow him to go out in the canoe in my shoes.  Or indeed at all...)

Poolside Revelations

Duckling and I had an ostensibly lovely day out at our local open air pool with some of my NCT friends and their toddlers today. The weather was genuinely perfect and Duckling had a ball splashing about and soaking everyone with his miniature watering can (not a euphemism - he actually did have a miniature watering can). The outing did reinforce a few post-baby realities though.

Firstly, meaningful conversation is virtually impossible with a toddler in tow, particularly one as curious as Duckling. I'm sure this is not a particularly great revelation to anyone else out there with kids, but it's something I never really considered much before Duckling arrived. I used to really love a good chinwag. No more. Most social interaction these days seems to be of the superficial exchange of pleasantries kind, simply because I no longer have the ability to give anyone my undivided attention. As a result, I'm often left unfulfilled at the lack of any meaningful connection with the people I care about, and with a fear that I've come across as terribly rude. My friend was halfway through explaining how her sister's father-in-law had unexpectedly died the previous day when Duckling decided to invade another group's picnic and steal their little boy's scooter (which was bigger than him, but he somehow managed to propel anyway). I had to leave her mid-sentence as I attempted to rectify the situation with profuse apologies and some cocktail sausage bribery to get the scooter out of Duckling's hands. Thankfully my friend and I had had the "toddlers turn you into rubbish conversationalists" discussion just ten minutes prior to this incident, so I don't think she was too offended. But I still felt bad, and never did get to find out what had happened to her sister's father-in-law.

Secondly, trips out never quite meet the rose-tinted frolicking you had in your mind. This isn't always the case - sometimes mundane events turn out to be actually quite pleasant. The really nice sounding ones often seem to fall a little short however. This isn't something that's unique to outings with kids. Even before I had Duckling, I was prone to setting my expectations too high and then being mildly disappointed by the outcome (particularly if it coincided with me being in a crappy mood or feeling unwell). The phenomenon is definitely made worse by having a child in tow however, in part because you're chronically knackered (and the effort of being somewhere unfamiliar just makes this worse), but also because you don't get any real chance to relax and be 'off duty''. Some enjoyment definitely comes from seeing your child's delight in the situation - and that is really lovely. If I'm being totally honest though, the last time I had a really good, properly fun time myself was when I went to a gig with Drake sans Duckling.

Thirdly, and this is more positive, I don't really care as much about how I look these days. This is kind of contrary to the usual "I hate my body now I've had a baby" narrative we're all supposed to follow, and admittedly, my self-image isn't quite up to a bikini (I alas have very extensive stretch marks all over my stomach), but donning my swimming costume today really didn't bother me. The fact I have a child with me tells everyone all they need to know about why I have a saggy belly and massive bum, and why I didn't shower and sort my hair out after getting out the pool. It's not that I worried much about my appearance before, but I did feel like I had to give some justification for my curvier bits or for any perceived lack of personal care. Today, the poolside was packed with similarly wobbly Mums and Grandmas - it was a great reminder of just how normal it is to look the way I do post-baby.

Finally, and most profoundly, I realised I am really bad at picnics. My friends had brought seemingly endless Tupperware containers of neatly chopped fruit, crudités and dips (in a specially designed box no less!), BBQed meats (in a cool bag, with ice blocks), tiny toddler sandwiches and yoghurts. I arrived with a all-day-breakfast sandwich and a bag of crisps in an plastic bag emblazoned with the name of the petrol station I'd stopped at to buy them. I had at least been organised enough to put a frozen cheese muffin in the rucksack for Duckling, but unfortunately it was still rock solid on arrival, so he largely ate everyone else's food, including the filling from my friend's bagel (thankfully she didn't notice), seventeen breadsticks and a grape stolen from one of the other toddler's mouths. I'm kind of surprised I'm so rubbish, as I quite like cooking and baking and over-catering in general. I think I am scuppered by a total inability to engage my brain enough to plan ahead these days, so when I discovered this morning that all the bread was mouldy and we were out of butter, the Esso "deli" was the only way to go within the given timeframe. Yet more evidence that I am not a yummy mummy I think.

Ordination fun with a child of one

This weekend the Different Duck household all went to watch the ordination of one of Drake's former colleagues as an Anglican Deacon. I am not religious, and knew next to nothing about the process so I was very interested to see what it would entail. Sadly I am still none the wiser, as I ended up on primary Duckling duty, the person being ordained being Drake's friend and not mine. Most of the two hour (TWO HOUR!) service was spent in the Cathedral's 'crèche' (essentially a side chapel with some carpet, a few toys and lots of bible stories) trying to prevent Duckling trashing the place. I learned a lot about child wrangling in those two hours, so thought I'd share some of my key tips for those facing the prospect of directing a rambunctious toddler through a solemn religious ceremony.

1. When your other half says "Oh no, there won't be any room for a buggy, let's carry him there," don't meekly agree. Cathedrals are sodding massive; there'll be plenty of room and you won't then arrive sweating like a pig with bruised ribs and small footprints all over your Sunday best. What's more, you'll have somewhere to put your child to sleep at nap time.
2. Don't even think about attending a major religious event if it runs over nap time.
3. Don't sit next to the aisle or other area along which official minister types will pass. Cassocks, shiny golden staffs and interesting shaped hats are all very, very exciting for the under fives, and they will want to reach out and grab said items / join in the procession / point and shout "WOW" (Duckling) or "WHY DOES THAT LADY HAVE A BEARD?" (the little boy two rows behind us referring to a priest in his robes).
4. In avoidance of main thoroughfares, by all means find an area where you can watch the service on a TV, but be prepared to explain, at length, why that TV can't be tuned to Ra Ra The Noisy Lion.
5. If you are not religious, bring your own reading material. Duckling quickly became obsessed with a book called "And God Made Me!". My attempts to add an epilogue explaining the fundamentals of evolutionary theory did not meet with approving looks from the other (presumably more pious) parents in the crèche.
6. Nor did Duckling's attempts to hook my breasts out of my top with cries of "Boobub Mama!!! BOOBUB!" Wear a polo neck if possible.
7. Take everything you need into the crèche area (a.k.a the nuclear bunker) and STAY THERE. Don't be tempted to pop out with child to find up a tissue / locate your change bag / see Daddy ("DA DA DA DADDY! DadEEEEEEEeeeee!") / actually follow some of the service.
8. Don't give your child anything that will make a loud noise when dropped on a stone floor. Soft toys good. Metal fire engines and toy cars bad.
9. Biscuits are your friend (thanks to Katie at Hurrah For Gin for opening my eyes on this one).
10. Biscuits are not your friend when there is chocolate on them and very holy people wearing white about.
11. If you are an atheist, pre-prepare your excuse for not taking Holy Communion. Do not get flustered and say to the priest "I'm so sorry, I'd love to, but I just need to go catch my little boy. I think he's done a poo."  Also, when someone shakes your hand and says "Peace be with you," the expected response is not, "Oh, thanks, I really wish it were today! Ha ha!"
12. If you're going to lose it, don't do it five minutes before the actual blessing and ordination happen. You can pass the toddler over to your other half while you calm down, but will just have to take them back again so other half doesn't miss the primary thing he came to see. This will cause the toddler to get in a grump because Mummy doesn't wear glasses and is thus not as interesting as Daddy.
13. However far your toddler pushes you, do not blaspheme. Cathedrals are echoey and everyone will hear you. And tut. Nobody will be fooled by your attempts to make your "For Christ's Sake!" sound like a genuine plea to Jesus either.

Hope this is helpful.  Peace be with you. Ahem.