When I was pregnant on the Snot Queen, I had very definite ideas on how my baby would be raised.
Co Sleeping did not figure highly in these plans.
In fact, it didn't figure at all. As far as I was concerned, our baby would be sleeping in a cot, in its own room, from day one. I had read Gina Ford, well, skimmed actually... okay, I read the introduction where I was promised a perfectly timed eating, sleeping, pooping, contented little baby and then threw it aside to be dealt with later when I got to the boring bits, i.e the rest of the book.
At the time, it made sense to me. Babies were brand new people unaccustomed to the ways and means of our world. It was our job as parents to train them in these ways. They needed cots and nurseries, black out blinds and white noise machines. Above all else though, they needed ROUTINE.
Yes, that great, oft repeated word from every baby book ever written and whispered into the sweet shell like ears of new mothers all over the western world. Routine, like Jesus and low fat cheese spread, would save us all.
What I hadn't planned on was a week's stay in hospital after the baby was born. A week where night after night, my new little citizen would scream the ward down if I so much as pointed her in the direction of her plastic bassinet. It was on or around the fourth night into our stay that one of the midwives suggested I take her into the bed with me.
A week earlier, I'd have looked at her like she was insane and reported her for negligence. Good Lord! I had enough trouble with the concept of the baby in our room, let alone in our bed!
It's amazing what a little sleep deprivation will do to those hard set ideals.
It was the best. Night's. Sleep. Ever.
For the rest of my stay, myself and the tiny being who would eventually become known as the snot queen, slept cocooned together in my fuzzy red housecoat. Day and night, her warm little body would lie curled against me, rising and falling with every breath.
Once home, she spent a few nights in a Moses basket next to our bed. She hated the basket though and as it was I would invariably doze off during the night feed and wake up with her still in my arms.
We tried a cot with the same result, thinking maybe it was space she craved. It wasn't though, it was us.
By the end of month two, "Our Bed" officially became "The Family Bed" and I became extremely well read on the subject of co sleeping and its many benefits.
I learned about how, with proper safety precautions taken, co sleeping was a great guard against cot death. Babies who cosleep spend less time in what is known as "Level III" sleep, a deep sleep stage where apneas are most likely to occur. As well, during sleep sharing, the infant's breathing and heart rate line up with the mother's and should the baby have an incidence of apnea, the breathing of the parents would stimulate the baby to take the next breath.
Also, babies who co slept, were found to have far lower levels of cortisol, a stress related hormone.
I experienced for myself how much easier it made breastfeeding and would often wake to find she had latched on and fed whilst I was asleep.
Deborah Jackson, my favourite parenting author of all time, wrote a brilliant book on the subject called "Three in a bed" which I can't recommend highly enough.
When I found out I was pregnant on number two, friends and family who were "concerned" about our sleeping arrangements started making helpful suggestions about how the Snot Queen would have to be moved into a bed of her own and how the new baby should really learn to sleep in a cot.
We nodded and smiled and listened politely to everything they said.
In the end, we got a bigger bed.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Because I'm Worth it?
It was what Oprah would call, "A defining moment."
It was early days in the love story that is me and J. We had just moved to Scotland together (as you do after five weeks together) and were looking at places to rent. The estate agent turned to us and asked what we did for a living. J listed off the field he was studying and named the company he had recently worked for before leaving Ireland.
Then it was my turn.
In the millisecond before I opened my mouth, I took a quick inventory of my life so far and this is what I came up with;
Age 15: I enter and place second in the Juvenile division of the Provincial Arts and Letters Competition for a Watercolour I'd painted.
That same year, I published two pieces in the largest province wide Newspaper in Newfoundland and also performed my work on Canada's National Radio Station, CBC.
Two months shy of my 18th birthday, I packed my bags and moved 1022 miles away to study at one of Canada's most prestigious Journalism schools.
Even though I never finished the course, I did spent an additional two years living and working in Ottawa where I starred in an Independant horror film, Jesus Christ Vampire Hunter. Yup that's me in the catsuit...
I then upped and packed my bags again. This time it was off to the wild, wild west where I spent five years living and working in the Canadian Rockies. It was also where I got my first ever job in retail. Within a year, I was promoted to floor supervisor, I was then put in charge of shipping and three years after I started, was given my own shop to manage. Not bad for a beginner!
I couldn't stay put though, and so in 2004 hatched a cunning plan to tour the World. May 2005 found me in Ireland with a one year working Visa in my hand and a few hundred Euro in my pocket. Again, I worked my way to a managerial spot in one of the first jobs I got.
I taught myself to play guitar and write songs, to paint and write and take beautiful pictures. I did the photography work on a friend's album and performed in countless theatrical productions. I campaigned against landmines and raised money for charity. I spent 12 years in the guiding movement and can tie knots and put up a tent like nobody's business. I can even cook chicken underground!
All of this and more went through my head, but this is what came out;
" Oh, I'm pretty useless! Ha ha!"
The estate agent gave me an odd look and then continued on explaining how the sitting room converted into a bedroom when you moved the couch and pulled the bed out of the wall. J was horrified, both by the sitting room cum bedroom as well as by my less then stellar self description.
Useless. Twenty Five years on this planet and I didn't have the confidence to say one positive thing about myself.
What's worse is that I didn't see anything wrong with the statement. I tossed it off with a laugh and would have forgotten all about it if J hadn't called me on it there and then (and for the next four years, seriously, the man won't let it go!)
What was wrong with me that I couldn't talk about my accomplishments? That I couldn't be proud of what I'd done? What was it that made me look at all of the pieces that made up who I was and come up with "useless?" Why couldn't I credit myself for anything?
Because I didn't have a degree. I didn't have any "qualifications" for the things I did. I had no training and therefore, no validation.
Yes, I could paint wonderful pictures that won awards, but was I an artist? NOOOOOOO! Artist's go to Art School silly! Doesn't Count.
I'd been published, surely that made me a writer? NOOOOOOOO! I dropped out of Journalism School and besides, I hadn't published anything in years! I hadn't submitted anything either because of that... Doesn't Count.
Well, I play piano and guitar and write my own songs, surely I must qualify as a Musician? Again, no. No Training? Doesn't Count.
Even the position I had earned, that of Shop Manager, I couldn't declare myself as, because I no longer worked there, so it obviously didn't count.
That was my way of thinking. I didn't have a piece of paper, so it didn't count. Therefore, neither did I.
I passed up a lot of oppurtunities over the years because despite having the skills, I never had the qualifications and because I didn't have the qualifications, I didn't have the confidence to say "Hey! I can do this!"
Or even to try.
I'm writing about this today because even though I've come along way since that day at the house with the Sitting Room cum Bedroom, I still have moments of doubt, moments that hold me back from doing the things I want most.
I am in the process of editing 250 pages of a manuscript I've spent the last year working on. I still have more to add, but the bulk of the work is done and I know that if it's published, it will do very well.
And therein lies the problem...
Getting my book published means selling myself. My still (technically) unqualified self who hasn't submitted anything for publication in over ten years.
It means sitting down at my computer and writing a few hundred words about how great my work is and how deserving I am of their time and money. Look at me! Look at Me!
It is Me vs. The Estate Agent times a million.
I'm scared shitless.
It was early days in the love story that is me and J. We had just moved to Scotland together (as you do after five weeks together) and were looking at places to rent. The estate agent turned to us and asked what we did for a living. J listed off the field he was studying and named the company he had recently worked for before leaving Ireland.
Then it was my turn.
In the millisecond before I opened my mouth, I took a quick inventory of my life so far and this is what I came up with;
Age 15: I enter and place second in the Juvenile division of the Provincial Arts and Letters Competition for a Watercolour I'd painted.
That same year, I published two pieces in the largest province wide Newspaper in Newfoundland and also performed my work on Canada's National Radio Station, CBC.
Two months shy of my 18th birthday, I packed my bags and moved 1022 miles away to study at one of Canada's most prestigious Journalism schools.
Even though I never finished the course, I did spent an additional two years living and working in Ottawa where I starred in an Independant horror film, Jesus Christ Vampire Hunter. Yup that's me in the catsuit...
I then upped and packed my bags again. This time it was off to the wild, wild west where I spent five years living and working in the Canadian Rockies. It was also where I got my first ever job in retail. Within a year, I was promoted to floor supervisor, I was then put in charge of shipping and three years after I started, was given my own shop to manage. Not bad for a beginner!
I couldn't stay put though, and so in 2004 hatched a cunning plan to tour the World. May 2005 found me in Ireland with a one year working Visa in my hand and a few hundred Euro in my pocket. Again, I worked my way to a managerial spot in one of the first jobs I got.
I taught myself to play guitar and write songs, to paint and write and take beautiful pictures. I did the photography work on a friend's album and performed in countless theatrical productions. I campaigned against landmines and raised money for charity. I spent 12 years in the guiding movement and can tie knots and put up a tent like nobody's business. I can even cook chicken underground!
All of this and more went through my head, but this is what came out;
" Oh, I'm pretty useless! Ha ha!"
The estate agent gave me an odd look and then continued on explaining how the sitting room converted into a bedroom when you moved the couch and pulled the bed out of the wall. J was horrified, both by the sitting room cum bedroom as well as by my less then stellar self description.
Useless. Twenty Five years on this planet and I didn't have the confidence to say one positive thing about myself.
What's worse is that I didn't see anything wrong with the statement. I tossed it off with a laugh and would have forgotten all about it if J hadn't called me on it there and then (and for the next four years, seriously, the man won't let it go!)
What was wrong with me that I couldn't talk about my accomplishments? That I couldn't be proud of what I'd done? What was it that made me look at all of the pieces that made up who I was and come up with "useless?" Why couldn't I credit myself for anything?
Because I didn't have a degree. I didn't have any "qualifications" for the things I did. I had no training and therefore, no validation.
Yes, I could paint wonderful pictures that won awards, but was I an artist? NOOOOOOO! Artist's go to Art School silly! Doesn't Count.
I'd been published, surely that made me a writer? NOOOOOOOO! I dropped out of Journalism School and besides, I hadn't published anything in years! I hadn't submitted anything either because of that... Doesn't Count.
Well, I play piano and guitar and write my own songs, surely I must qualify as a Musician? Again, no. No Training? Doesn't Count.
Even the position I had earned, that of Shop Manager, I couldn't declare myself as, because I no longer worked there, so it obviously didn't count.
That was my way of thinking. I didn't have a piece of paper, so it didn't count. Therefore, neither did I.
I passed up a lot of oppurtunities over the years because despite having the skills, I never had the qualifications and because I didn't have the qualifications, I didn't have the confidence to say "Hey! I can do this!"
Or even to try.
I'm writing about this today because even though I've come along way since that day at the house with the Sitting Room cum Bedroom, I still have moments of doubt, moments that hold me back from doing the things I want most.
I am in the process of editing 250 pages of a manuscript I've spent the last year working on. I still have more to add, but the bulk of the work is done and I know that if it's published, it will do very well.
And therein lies the problem...
Getting my book published means selling myself. My still (technically) unqualified self who hasn't submitted anything for publication in over ten years.
It means sitting down at my computer and writing a few hundred words about how great my work is and how deserving I am of their time and money. Look at me! Look at Me!
It is Me vs. The Estate Agent times a million.
I'm scared shitless.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Great Boobs of Fire
Well! It seems that breasts are to be the theme of this week's blogs...
What do you get when you combine a high fever, chills, mad dreams about Yes and No Campaigners for the lisbon treaty calling me out to a roundabout in the middle of the night to discuss the treaty's effect on parents, extreme thirst, aches, dizziness, nausea and oh yeah! GIANT ENGORGED BREASTS OF FIRE!!!!
That's right, mastitis.
The fun never ends...
What do you get when you combine a high fever, chills, mad dreams about Yes and No Campaigners for the lisbon treaty calling me out to a roundabout in the middle of the night to discuss the treaty's effect on parents, extreme thirst, aches, dizziness, nausea and oh yeah! GIANT ENGORGED BREASTS OF FIRE!!!!
That's right, mastitis.
The fun never ends...
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Night Weaning: Part 2
There are certain things that no one tells you about breastfeeding. Things you have to discover for yourself.
Like the pain you will feel when trying to night wean your toddler.
When after weeks of "success," they suddenly wake screaming in the night. Wanting one thing and one thing only.
The one thing you can no longer give them because you know that it will undo the weeks of work that have come before.
So you try to comfort them in other ways.
You hold their arching body and dodge their grabbing hands.
You sing and shush softly, softly.
You read books.
You offer cups of expressed milk.
Which would be grand were it hunger that drove them...
You feel frustrated.
Why don't they understand?
It will be there in the morning, afternoon and even in the evening...
Just not the night, anymore.
Why does it feel like a battle
you against them
someone must win
and lose
why does there have to be a loser
You feel guilty, because they are so little.
If it were just the one, it would be different. You would feed them whenever, wherever...
But there is another mouth to feed...
a smaller mouth that needs you more.
So you do what you have to
to keep them both going...
But you don't talk about it, much. Because it's hard to explain that you don't want to stop. That you love feeding both of your babies, that it's not a matter of weaning one completely. That isn't what I want. It just seems sometimes, like there are so many people out there wondering, "what is she doing? Why is she still feeding her toddler? When does she plan on stopping?"
To say that I'm having any difficulty whatsoever invites floods of well meaning advice, always with the same solution.
It's okay to stop you know.
But I don't.
Want to stop that is.
But that is the only answer anyone seems to have whenever I hit a bump in the road, which contrary to popular belief, is not that often.
God I've gone off track here!
But I feel a lot better now.
Thanks for listening.
Like the pain you will feel when trying to night wean your toddler.
When after weeks of "success," they suddenly wake screaming in the night. Wanting one thing and one thing only.
The one thing you can no longer give them because you know that it will undo the weeks of work that have come before.
So you try to comfort them in other ways.
You hold their arching body and dodge their grabbing hands.
You sing and shush softly, softly.
You read books.
You offer cups of expressed milk.
Which would be grand were it hunger that drove them...
You feel frustrated.
Why don't they understand?
It will be there in the morning, afternoon and even in the evening...
Just not the night, anymore.
Why does it feel like a battle
you against them
someone must win
and lose
why does there have to be a loser
You feel guilty, because they are so little.
If it were just the one, it would be different. You would feed them whenever, wherever...
But there is another mouth to feed...
a smaller mouth that needs you more.
So you do what you have to
to keep them both going...
But you don't talk about it, much. Because it's hard to explain that you don't want to stop. That you love feeding both of your babies, that it's not a matter of weaning one completely. That isn't what I want. It just seems sometimes, like there are so many people out there wondering, "what is she doing? Why is she still feeding her toddler? When does she plan on stopping?"
To say that I'm having any difficulty whatsoever invites floods of well meaning advice, always with the same solution.
It's okay to stop you know.
But I don't.
Want to stop that is.
But that is the only answer anyone seems to have whenever I hit a bump in the road, which contrary to popular belief, is not that often.
God I've gone off track here!
But I feel a lot better now.
Thanks for listening.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Run Away with Me
I am not a runner.
I hate running with a passion that sears my soul and makes my eyes hurt.
It is a cruel and unusual punishment which certain lycra loving members of the population, namely runners, insist on calling "fun" but which I can only label as "Torturous."
So why on earth, you may well ask, did yesterday evening find me decked out in a pair of torn off sweatpants, a puke stained T-shirt (Baby puke. My standards of cleanliness haven't sunk THAT low) and a pair of Dunnes finest runners as I left the house at a speed some might call a "jog?"
Because I'm crazy.
Because at some point each year, I am blinded by the glow of health and brightly coloured spandex that emanates from the pavement pounding members of the local running club and decide that I want to join their ranks.
Never mind that I hate the feeling of my lungs burning out of my chest.
Never mind that this tends to happen within 5 minutes of leaving my house.
Every year, I decide to go for a run.
Every year, it ends badly.
This year was no exception...
I left the house at around 7:30. The kids were fed, the dishes had been cleared back and there was still an hour left before baths and bedtime. I had downloaded three Michael Jackson Tracks into my phone and had my headphones jammed firmly into my ears. It was slightly misty, but I didn't care.
I was ready.
For safety's sake, I figured I'd walk down the hill and start my run at the foot. Being uncomfortably aware of the less then stylish state of my clothing, I chose to walk down the grassy slope that was hidden from the main road way behind a load of trees and hedges. I also wanted to rock out a little to "Man in the Mirror" and preferred a certain measure of privacy in which to do that...
To say that the ground was wet is an understatement.
Do you know how slippery grass and mud can get after a week of rain?
Midway down the hill, I found out as I fell flat on my back and slid on my arse to the bottom where I was greeted by every walker, jogger and evening stroller in town.
Still, I was not to be deterred and set off at a limp to the nearest trail. The first couple I met moved to the side to allow me to pass. The dry side. My side of the pavement was covered in a giant puddle. No bother! I'd simply jog around it.
Remember what I said about wet ground?
It was like running through a bog. I was soaked to the ankles. The fun factor was rapidly diminishing as was my enthusiasm as I yelled out a few choice words.
Two more slip ups and a near miss with a car later and I was officially done.
I decided to take a short cut home in an effort to end the humiliation a little bit sooner. When I reached the end, it was locked. With a defeated sigh, I turned and headed back the way I came. Midway home I was passed out by the local running club.
Salt. Wound. Rub vigorously.
By the time I finally trudged through my front door, I was soaked to the bone. My arms were numb with the cold and any exposed skin was turning a funny shade of pink.
As I peeled off my wet clothes and stepped into a steaming hot shower, I vowed with passion, "NEVER AGAIN!!!!"
Only time will tell.
I hate running with a passion that sears my soul and makes my eyes hurt.
It is a cruel and unusual punishment which certain lycra loving members of the population, namely runners, insist on calling "fun" but which I can only label as "Torturous."
So why on earth, you may well ask, did yesterday evening find me decked out in a pair of torn off sweatpants, a puke stained T-shirt (Baby puke. My standards of cleanliness haven't sunk THAT low) and a pair of Dunnes finest runners as I left the house at a speed some might call a "jog?"
Because I'm crazy.
Because at some point each year, I am blinded by the glow of health and brightly coloured spandex that emanates from the pavement pounding members of the local running club and decide that I want to join their ranks.
Never mind that I hate the feeling of my lungs burning out of my chest.
Never mind that this tends to happen within 5 minutes of leaving my house.
Every year, I decide to go for a run.
Every year, it ends badly.
This year was no exception...
I left the house at around 7:30. The kids were fed, the dishes had been cleared back and there was still an hour left before baths and bedtime. I had downloaded three Michael Jackson Tracks into my phone and had my headphones jammed firmly into my ears. It was slightly misty, but I didn't care.
I was ready.
For safety's sake, I figured I'd walk down the hill and start my run at the foot. Being uncomfortably aware of the less then stylish state of my clothing, I chose to walk down the grassy slope that was hidden from the main road way behind a load of trees and hedges. I also wanted to rock out a little to "Man in the Mirror" and preferred a certain measure of privacy in which to do that...
To say that the ground was wet is an understatement.
Do you know how slippery grass and mud can get after a week of rain?
Midway down the hill, I found out as I fell flat on my back and slid on my arse to the bottom where I was greeted by every walker, jogger and evening stroller in town.
Still, I was not to be deterred and set off at a limp to the nearest trail. The first couple I met moved to the side to allow me to pass. The dry side. My side of the pavement was covered in a giant puddle. No bother! I'd simply jog around it.
Remember what I said about wet ground?
It was like running through a bog. I was soaked to the ankles. The fun factor was rapidly diminishing as was my enthusiasm as I yelled out a few choice words.
Two more slip ups and a near miss with a car later and I was officially done.
I decided to take a short cut home in an effort to end the humiliation a little bit sooner. When I reached the end, it was locked. With a defeated sigh, I turned and headed back the way I came. Midway home I was passed out by the local running club.
Salt. Wound. Rub vigorously.
By the time I finally trudged through my front door, I was soaked to the bone. My arms were numb with the cold and any exposed skin was turning a funny shade of pink.
As I peeled off my wet clothes and stepped into a steaming hot shower, I vowed with passion, "NEVER AGAIN!!!!"
Only time will tell.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
No More Stuff: One month in...
It's been almost a month now since I started the "no stuff" challenge so I'm well overdue for an update. I'm also overdue for a "Great Weight Update" but after last night's Dorito Date and Todays Chocolate finger fun.... well, let's just say that hell will have to freeze over (or else it will have to stop raining here in the south of Ireland) before I go anywhere near the vicinity of a scale any time soon.
Now, being a rather "frugal" (cough - cheap! - cough) person to begin with, the thought of buying nothing (or close enough anyway) didn't exactly fill me with fear. Quite the opposite in fact! I was rubbing my hands gleefully at the prospect of having an excuse to shop for second hand bargains and to use my own creativity and ingenuity to make do with what I already have or just plain make anything I need.
I've had shoes posted to me from a mother who's daughter had outgrown them. I in turn, sent two pairs of the snot queen's old shoes to another mam. We've traded toys with friends, made our own fun and switched the tiny one over to cloth nappies. We've also sold or given away several of our un-needed items on rollercoaster.ie, a popular Irish parenting site.
I suppose the greatest realization that I've made is how little we actually need and how, with a little ingenuity, the things we want can be ours without costing the earth (in more ways then one!)
Now, being a rather "frugal" (cough - cheap! - cough) person to begin with, the thought of buying nothing (or close enough anyway) didn't exactly fill me with fear. Quite the opposite in fact! I was rubbing my hands gleefully at the prospect of having an excuse to shop for second hand bargains and to use my own creativity and ingenuity to make do with what I already have or just plain make anything I need.
I've had shoes posted to me from a mother who's daughter had outgrown them. I in turn, sent two pairs of the snot queen's old shoes to another mam. We've traded toys with friends, made our own fun and switched the tiny one over to cloth nappies. We've also sold or given away several of our un-needed items on rollercoaster.ie, a popular Irish parenting site.
I suppose the greatest realization that I've made is how little we actually need and how, with a little ingenuity, the things we want can be ours without costing the earth (in more ways then one!)
Ransacked: Part 2 - When babies are Quiet...
As you may recall, two weeks ago today our house was ransacked by tiny vandals. We thought we were safe, that they wouldn't strike twice. We were wrong...
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