Strongmen.

I am such an idiot.

For weeks I have been despairing that Roman hasn't been sitting up by himself. Well, tonight, when I considered what I'd write a blog about I was going through my pictures for inspiration (I had planned a whole blog on Motherly Guilt, because lately I have been feeling it a lot more now that he's growing up and the newborn phase is slipping through our fingers) and I came across a whole set I'd done with the red pillows my mum bought for the Baby when I was pregnant. They (the pictures) were cute but a lot of them I couldn't use because they were either out of focus, blurred or he wasn't even looking in my direction.

I am glad because they were a bit cheesy - I'd matched his socks to the pillows - but then I came across this:

I even remember at the time of taking the photo thinking; "Oh, he's sitting up himself." He sat like this for ages, as well and luckily I took a whole series of photos to prove it to myself.

I feel like such an idiot for letting this slip through my radar - sleep deprivation and two back to back viruses will utterly wipe your mind and rob you of your intelligence, it appears. So my boy can sit up by himself for more than one minute - yay.

He used to sit up for a few seconds when he was a couple of weeks old and has been lifting his head ever since Day One (His Birthday ;). I am in awe that I could produce such a strong boy - I am so weak it is unbelievable. I guess he has picked up Bryan's strong man genes...and here's the pictures of proof...

Bryan invented his own gym because we can't afford to throw money on a membership. In short, we're red necks at heart :). He could probably explain this set-up but it's basically a substitute bench press - I think. Like I said, he could explain it better than me.

As for me...well I like life in the slow lane. I was born to be mild. I've always been a fan of sitting my butt down and doing nothing exercise wise. Exercise and strength to me are like things you might read about in a fairy story.

I'm weak. What can I say? So between us three we have two strongmen - that's okay, they can bring in the shopping :).

First Tastes...

I think baby food looks like baby poop. I won't go into any more detail than that because it is pretty self explanatory right there.

However, Roman does not think it tastes like poop - or else I really hope he doesn't or we have one weird little man on our hands. He had his first tastes this week (Mum Confession: I slipped him the tiniest of tiny tastes of mango a few weeks ago. If he develops Crohns or Ulcerative Colitis then I guess I will blame it on this incident).

Carrot and potato.

I had a bit of a freak-out because Bryan (whoseneverlookedafterababyeverbeforeinhislife) didn't cook the carrots properly. They were mushy, but not mushy enough. I would say that I am pretty much a diva, but when it comes to my baby...I am a Godzilla Diva.

I don't get diva about a lot of things, but when I do...you better shut up, do what I ask or leave the room. I don't know where my diva outbursts were learnt - certainly not at home, definitely not at church and most certainly not at school. I think time and time again I got pretty sick of being nice to people so much and one day I think I spontaneously combusted and haven't looked back since. And I am glad. Because when I throw a hissy fit, things get done. Positive and useful things.

In my childhood home arguing was the order of the day. We were like a mini law society, each fighting our own corner and I absolutely thrived on that atmosphere - sounds like Social Services should have been called, but it wasn't that sort of arguing.

With Bryan I argue and he rolls his eyes (behind my back of course...imagine if he did it to my face, he'd have his head metaphorically ripped off his shoulders in no time). Sometimes, just sometimes he says something back and wins - it's rare but does happen - or there might be times where I even think he has a point to what he says. I can categorically state right now that this phenomenon has never happened with any man I have been involved romantically with - in my eyes the only smart thing they have done with their life is to date me. Don't I sound just catty? I say these things with a pinch of sarcasm and a huge dose of humour, naturally...but perhaps there's a smidgen of reality as well.

So, back to the carrots. I asked Bryan to cook them until they were like mush - very, very mushy mush. I know what I'm talking about because I've seen how mushy little people with no teeth need their food. So he cooked them and served them up. They were chunky. They were not mushy mush. I think I flew off into a rage - Bryan can tell you the exact details if you need to know - and this rage was all because of carrots. What the heck? I am out of control at times and I know. Bryan knows it. I think even Roman knows it.

Like a good husband does, he said nothing. Then he took the baby and slinked off to Tesco...I was still ranting as he left - I don't know who I was talking too, I was just mad as hell. While I was at home in floods of tears - eh, hello, again what the hell? The Good Husband (like the Good Samaritan, but better) picked up a few jars of baby food.

Also, it wasn't "mum's choice" and not because I didn't personally go along and select a couple jars of baby poop...sorry, I mean baby food jars from the shelves of our local Tesco. Mum's choice was to feed baby exclusively on breast milk for the first six months of his life - this is so unreasonable for so many reasons in our circumstances and I will just say we have a hungry man on our hands and leave the judgements for every one else to make because I am not listening.

Mum's choice was to buy fresh vegetables and cook them up and serve to baby. I know these baby food jars claim to have no preservatives etc. in them but I find it a little gross that mushed up veg has been sitting on a shelf for so long. Either way, the Boy loved his first solids (I try to pretend that doesn't remind me of poop) and he couldn't get enough of the stuff - literally. I didn't want to push his digestive system too much too soon so we only offered him a few spoonfuls at every feed.

I think I was so emotionally charged about feeding him his solids because it means a break in breastfeeding - it comes very welcomed, but it does mark another bitter-sweet milestone and is a reminder that he won't stay tiny for long. I was literally a mess that we'd "screwed up" his first feed. I wanted it to be perfect. I know that is a ridiculous expectation, but I can't help this need to make everything I do just perfect, especially when it comes to Baby Boy.

He of course didn't notice anything going on other than his nappy needed changed and his tummy was empty, so why can't I be more like him in my attitude towards life? Relaxed. Secure. Confident that maybe this time and a few other times after it that things really will be okay. Because it was and all it needed was a dose of Bryan and a jar of baby food to make things just fine.

To Do List

I just saw some upper body photos of moi.

And there are a few comments I'd like to make.

Firstly, I have just had a baby. I am the lady who has "just had a baby." But, honestly, if you saw these hideous photos - that will never make it anywhere but the Computers Recycle Bin - you'd think I was the lady who'd "just had triplets."

I've put on a bit of weight...okay, a lot of weight during my pregnancy. I think I gained three stone (that's 14lbs x3). Some of that may have been placenta, fluid and baby...but the rest (probably a good majority) is Mama Blubber.

Some might say I used to be obsessed about my weight.

At one point it ruled my life and there's no chance of me going back to those days filled with crazy practices like weighing out my food (boring) and keeping diaries about my weight/food intake/exercise/time spent sitting down.

It was so boring and draining living that life that I think I got a bit carried away with this life - where I just threw the towel in when it came to food. I stopped caring. I got pregnant and ate whatever I needed too, which felt like I was eating for a small army. It was enjoyable and I started to love my body.

Which is great, grand and fantastic. But carrying extra weight is not loving your body. So, tomorrow it's back onto an exercise regime and ploughing full steam ahead in a trial to get fit.

I'm not so much bothered about the weight as I am bothered about the things that come from being overweight; type 2 diabetes, heart problems, stroke and varicose veins. I don't want those nasties catching up with me when I could have fixed the problem in my 20s.

I am still a beautiful woman - I was very proud of my skin, legs, hair and face (even if I do say so myself!) in those photos and I know when I'm 65 years old I'm going to look back and wonder what all my fussing was about - so I don't want to start talking myself down when I could be enjoying these fabulous years!

If I have a daughter  I want her to have a positive image of herself and I know I can't do that when I think all these harsh things about myself. I want to improve myself for Roman, too. He deserves to see women as everything that they are and should be; strong, empowered and in control of themselves.

Operation: Get Happy With Self/Get Fit.

RObot

Four Months and counting...

From Bump...

To Baby.




Tuesday, 24th May marked Roman (middle names removed) Quinn turning four months old. I can't quite believe how fast our family has grown into this wonderful little unit that we have become. I absolutely love and cherish my role as a mother - I am so proud and I think I might burst!

I will keep saying this: my birth was amazing. I'm not sure I will ever find the words or description to explain just how amazing it was. From start to finish it went beyond anything I could have ever hoped for. I say that because we're met with a lot of negatives about labour and birth - a twofold event in my view.

Labour

It was a scary start because I wasn't sure of my journey ahead, but I remember feeling very woozy and crampy. I couldn't eat and only managed half a toasted pitta bread. I drank loads. I remember at the start of the journey that all I wanted to do was have music playing non-stop and no one was allowed to do anything aside comfort me (haha how reasonable of me!).

It got tougher as the day dragged on - but it didn't really drag. Time was speeding ahead of me and I kept asking for the time expecting it to be earlier and was surprised every time I was told it was later than I thought. I remember about half past three in the afternoon I just felt tired and wanted to lie down on the bed. Bryan joined me because the one thing I didn't want to be was on my own. He sat on the end of the bed and told me lots of small, whispering comforts that really pulled me through my discomfort.

I can't really remember contractions, but if you've ever suffered from a bad period then you're probably close to a contraction. It also felt like a really bad stomach ache, hence why I didn't want to eat anything. A few hours on the bed, these tightenings got stronger so I decided to end my labouring at home and put myself in the hands of the doctors and midwives at the hospital - a decision I broke down and made. I was scared to go to hospital and that's why I spent so long labouring on my own at home. A few people who'd had home births had told me things like; "It's probably better that for your first, you're in a hospital." I just didn't believe that. I made a decision that if I was going to go to hospital then I'd go at the point where they couldn't do too much to me in terms of drugging me up to hopeless hormones that just landed me a C-section.

I was very lucky to be blessed with such an amazing mum and parents-in-law. They didn't make a fuss or cause a scene or leap about screaming "You're having a baby!" (Which I might have been prone to do if it was my daughter or daughter-in-law, haha). They were all so calm and the whole drive I forgot I was in labour - apart from when we drew nearer to hospital and I really had to bare down with each spasm.

I was taken into triage and then examined. I was told I was 4cm dilated and had gone into "spontaneous labour." I was a week overdue and this basically meant my labour had started and was progressing. No need for the horrible induction - if you're two weeks overdue in the UK they medically start your labour - that I had been dreading and was booked for the 13th of February. I had visions of being stuck in hospital on Valentines Day - my first Valentines Day as a married woman, stuck in hospital.

Things got a bit hairy when they took my blood pressure and pulse - both were up so I was whisked down to the delivery suite. Every midwife or doctor that came into the room said I was "dealing with the pain so well." and "Breathing through each contraction so well." To me this felt like a gold medal because at home I'd really been struggling in the last few hours and began to think I was weak and pathetic. The midwife said I could have pain relief and I said I was fine - at home I'd been begging both my mum and husband for an epidural, ha!

So I continued breathing through each contraction and honestly was dealing so well with things, I even began to picture having the all-natural birth I had so wanted. This wasn't easy to cope with, but I honestly felt I could go for the non drug route. How wrong I was.

The midwife came in and explained that my blood pressure wasn't dropping the way they had wanted it too. That it was actually rising. That this might mean I have pre-eclampsia and all other manner of scary things. They said that giving me the blood pressure drugs wouldn't work as quick as they'd like it too so the next solution to help me out (and baby) was to go for the epidural. The midwife said she knew it was against my birth plan, but she really recommended it. I cried at this point because quite frankly the epidural scared me. My mum has had four, one of which didn't work...so I was terrified.

I sat with my mum and we talked about it. I decided to go for it because at this point I'd come this far labouring and I'd only opted for the epidural if I'd medically needed it. I was lucky that the anaesthesiologist was in the other room at the time I made my decision, because by the time I'd decided to go for it he was free for a chat. He was lovely and explained everything at great length. I signed the consent form and they brought through the trolley with the needle and drugs through. I looked at my mum and saw she was terrified - I told her it was okay to look away. And she did. It sounds weird but her scared face actually made me feel strong. I felt like I could do it, if she'd gone through it so many times, then I could do it this once.

The epidural was really strange. That's the best verb I can conjure up to explain it. It felt like they were cracking my back and kicking my tail bone all at once. It was freezing cold. It was strange having my head planted into a strangers arms and sobbing all over them - crying is such an intimate thing and I shared it with everyone in that room. Everyone in the room told me it was okay, that it would be over very soon. Once the needle was in place I felt better. I stopped crying. I sat up and did everything I was asked to do - I didn't want to mess it up and end up paralysed. Again, the specialist was so nice and made everyone feel at ease.

At some point my mum decided to swap over with Bryan (stupid hospital policy that I won't explain here because it will just make me upset and I might cry thinking about how much my mum missed). He was annoyed (just stating a fact, dear) that he'd been kept out of the loop for three hours. Three hours? It had felt like twenty minutes to me!

Also, at some point they'd broken my waters and set up a hormone drip to speed up contractions. In reflection of the events I don't remember a single medical person asking me if I wanted the hormone drip in - they just did it. At the time I wasn't phased, but now, when I think back it annoys me a bit.

After my epidural was in place I was feeling no pain whatsoever. I wanted to eat! (Ha!) But wasn't allowed because it might make me sick. Things were pretty non-eventful after the epidural, just some checks and some moving me about because baby had moved into a posterior position...and because I'm no good at explaining that, here you go:

"A less common position, known as posterior position, occurs when the back of the baby’s head, or occiput, is against the mother’s tailbone. This position often results in prolonged labor and is accompanied by greater back discomfort."

I hated having the trace monitor strapped around my belly - it was so tight and horribly uncomfortable, so they attached a monitor to the baby's head and took off the horrible belt restricting my belly's comfort.

I slept a lot (read: napped, woke up and got bored) and all in all the run up was very boring indeed. I was examined at three hour intervals and was progressing super fast. At one point I had dilated 3cm in half an hour - earlier in the night they had said that they usually allow for 2cm every half hour up until the transition (the before the head coming out bit). At some point my epidural had worn off and I could feel really strong contractions at this point - the kind where I couldn't talk and no one else in the room was allowed to talk when I had one haha. The student midwife (read: my guardian angel) said I should have gas & air. It was magical. I drifted off for ages on this stuff and in between puffs I kept singing, saying things to the midwives and my husband and generally making a fool of myself. Haha.

Birth

At 5.20am I was told that I was 10cm dilated. I couldn't believe it. Somewhere in the recesses of my mind I remembered that something happens when you reach 10cm dilated, but I couldn't put the pieces together in my drugged up mind (I wasn't really drugged, gas & air leaves your system very quickly). Then the midwife informed me I would have to come off the gas & air - I honestly felt like breaking down into tears. I also did not feel ready for delivery. My body was ready - I knew it was, but my mind was not willing to co-operate.

Before I knew it my husband was telling me he could see various facial features of our baby - at first it was the top of the head, then the ears and then he said the head was out and whoosh out came the rest of the body. All in all I spent forty minutes pushing. It truly felt like five minutes. Then my husband said; "It's a Roman!" in this really moving and excited tone of voice I will never forget.

I couldn't believe the weight of this boy on my chest. This precious, warm child cawing and blue - I have no memory of him being blue at all, but Bryan says he was. Then he was taken away. He needed oxygen and they took him to Resuscitation - which didn't freak me out whatsoever, I just knew everything was going to be okay. On the walk to Resus he started breathing normally and was brought back to me. I was exhausted and overwhelmed. I wanted my mum. I told Bryan to get her and the midwife told him she would tell my mum everything, that we needed to be together in that moment. I now know that was just a way of getting things done on their agenda and if I could go back in time I would have phoned her up - me in the delivery suite and her in the waiting room, barely metres apart yet separated by a stupid policy and staff agenda.

My mum was in the room after they spent three hours stitching me up. She took several photos of the new baby and was desperate to hold him. She called my dad and I remember being on the phone and wanting but not wanting to speak to him. I felt overwhelmed with so many weird and wonderful feelings. I wanted to tell him how I was truly feeling and I wanted him to swoop down and save me from all the madness going on around me.

Then my mum and B left and I felt this huge feeling of being alone. I had acted like I was fine with them going home and actually told them to go - what choice did they or I have? My brother needed to sleep because he was working that night, neither my husband or mum drive and I didn't want them heading back on the train/bus because they'd been here all night, sitting on hard chairs. I didn't want them to go, inside of me I was screaming for them both to stay...but I knew that was selfish and really silly. I'm glad they did go because all I did was sleep.

It was weird adjusting to the new boy. Breastfeeding was great at first, but went weird. His sleeping patterns were all out of sorts - some nights he'd sleep all the way through and some nights he would wake three or four times. I felt like a failure a lot, but I kept going despite these crisis's with my self-esteem. I plowed through it all.

And now, at four months old, he's the most delicious little man you could ever hope to meet. He sleeps exclusively in his crib (he has a separate daytime one). Our evenings are our own again. That little piece of freedom has given us all a happy family feeling. I am so blessed each and every day more that I get to spend with this One.

Feminism, but not as you know it.

Lately, I have been collaging a lot. I love it. I can never pick just "one good" photo because each and every one is just perfect to me (totally unbiased, balanced view there).

The Sugar Free thing is going fairly well - I have dramatically decreased my chocolate intake, which has made me a lot happier and feel fuller for longer.

It's surprising just how much I don't want

chocolate these days. Weird.

So this might be a fairly serious post because lately I have been doing some serious thinking...strange, but it does happen from time to time.

In my 365 of the Day I said something about how women have ended up taking on more these days - and I still stand by it. I was browsing (read: stalking) some "Mummy Blogs" last night and came across a Christian blog where one Mum talked about how 20-something year old young men find a woman's earning power more attractive than her ability to house-keep. I know, I sound like a soap powder ad from the 1950s, but I'm a Capricorn and we're apparently very traditional and house-proud, so I'll blame it on astrology if all else fails.

It kind of disgusted me. This fact. If it is a fact. Because I don't even know if it is, but say if it were, then it disgusts and doesn't surprise me at all in this "me me me" culture we live in. I can't really explain myself without going off into a million tangents, but here are some of my thoughts:

I think it's great that we, as women, have the choice and the ability to make the choices we want where before us plenty of women didn't have such a luxury of choice - things were silently expected, or in some cases and cultures not so silently expected. We can be women with careers, kids and mortgages and be juggle it all. We can be stay at home mothers. We can be anything we want to be, right?

But at what cost? It seems to me that as women we're taking on these massive responsibilities and we're ending up doing more work, more everything. I can't talk about these things without sounding horribly sexist, but I approach this internal debate with myself bearing in mind that we live in a very much patriarchal country with very archaic views (UK).

Where men are not taught in the home the same way as women are (excluding my household/upbringing where my mother had a balanced view for both sexes).

I think that there are many amazing role models out there. There are many women who can balance a job, children, a marriage and a home - and to them I really take my hat off. I don't have a proper job right now and it's really putting a strain on things, I don't mind saying that. For other reasons, my husband does not work - and I don't resent that. But I do wish there was some way we could role reverse things, so that I could be the one who stayed home instead of being the one who worries about looking for and then keeping down a job.

It's funny, but when I was pregnant people asked what my job was and were astonished when I said I didn't have one, that I was a student. Now no one bothers to ask me what I "do" because I'm assuming that they all assume I'm just a SAHM (Stay At Home Mum). But, to those that don't know him, Bryan is always asked without fail what he does as his job. What if he's the Stay At Home Parent? Which he is, even if not technically solely right now, he potentially will be.

Yet, it's assumed I'm the SAHM and he's the breadwinner. And all because of our sexes.

Now, I don't disagree that if this is possible that all couples should try to make a way of making it work - however, no point being a Miserable Mum who stays home just because she feels she has too. Some people need the challenge of a career and are actually better parents because of that. And some fathers are better Stay At Home's than some mothers, so whatever works for you.

However, now that I have had my Little One I crave for that SAHM role. I really do. For so many reasons, not least of all just to be with him. I want to keep on breast-feeding him exclusively for the next two months and I don't see a way around that (I do not express well at all). I don't want to miss a moment. I know that I can't be there for absolutely everything but I really don't want to miss important milestones - first word, first crawl, first steps. I would give up my hunger for education, for a career just to be with him. I think this would be my biggest lifetime achievement, if there was a way to make it happen...but clearly, there just isn't.

It makes me dislike those women who resent their children even more. The ones I have worked for in the past - where they couldn't wait to get away from their children and go off to dinner parties/book clubs/shopping/lunch/have their eyebrows dyed - oh yeah, that one was priceless! She said she was gonna be home in time for us coming back from nursery - which I helped out with in the morning - and was away all morning and afternoon having her eyebrows and eyelashes dyed.

And that's another thing - those idiots who spend fortunes on stupid stuff they don't need. Like acupuncture, or yet another sweater that will be thrown to the back of the wardrobe to join all the other sweaters they'll never wear. It makes me so mad that there are people out there like this - why aren't they spending that money on something that brings them and their children closer together? I don't understand these things and I probably never will because I don't have money and I wasn't born into it.

It all seems pointless if you're continually spending it on yourself - your time and your money. Especially when there are people like me out in the World who would do a lot to be in that position of SAHM when right now all I am is a nervous wreck about finding a job and being everything; mother, house-keeper, wife, organiser of everything dirty, worker. I am just starting to feel like as women we're maybe biting off more than we could chew and I'm sorry if that sounds outdated or patronizing...but it's how I'm feeling.

In My Wildest.

One of my fantasies right now: Nope, not being air-lifted then dropped into a huge vat of Fry's Peppermint Creams. It's sleeping through the night. A good, sleepy, uninterrupted naughty eight hours. Isn't asking for much, right? I mean a lot of people have on average about that every night, right?

Not parents. And the worst of it is this: I've heard stories of FIVE YEAR olds still waking up in the night - and we're not talking mopping brows/puke we're talking about the little "darlings" crawling out their pits and pestering their parents two hours after bedtime. Now, I wasn't a perfect kid. I used to have troubles drifting off to the Land of Nod myself when I was a kid, but at least I kept my problems contained to my bedroom.

I would literally lie for hours and listen to my sister snore in the bed next to me. Or sometimes I would go to our windowsill and try to read a book by the light of the street lamps - I should have another blog called "Memoirs of an Insomniac." And be given a gold medal. Made from Frys Peppermint Creams.

Every night I know I won't sleep more than two/three hours without being woken. Reason: one Master Quinn.

I don't get it. I thought after three months their sleeping was supposed to settle down? Or is this some kind of way I'm being punished for being an insomniac as a kid and pestering my parents? Now I wish I'd been addicted to sleeping tablets or tried lavender tea.

I keep telling myself that he keeps waking up because he is because he is breast-fed. Everyone else seems to think so, anyway. Experts (Google) and well meaning mothers is "everyone" in this case. And I believe it to be so myself because I have many friends who have recently put the bottle versus breast thing to the test - at least the test in my head.

Bottle-fed babes: sleeping soundly from 7-7, in their own beds, very content.

Breast-fed babes: awake till 7, sleepy at 8.30pm when they get their last feed on the sofa. Down to bed for 9pm, awake a little after 10pm, another feed, change, back to bed. Awake again at midnight. And so the cycle continues on a two/three hour schedule. Then wide awake at 8am.

So, as I have a breast-fed Little One, my schedule is the above mentioned. I'd love to be one of those parents who proudly exclaims things like; "Oh yes, my baby sleeps right through the night." Instead I'm a dark-shadow under the eyes bird nest for hair kinda parent. I'm tempted, for the sake of my sanity, to start bottle feeding him.

There, I said it. I have turned into a selfish cow because I've become a little sleep deprived and I am really craving sleep more than I ache for confectionery. If I could do some kind of deal with God where he let my baby sleep through the night for the next eighteen years in return for me not eating any kind of sweet thing, cake and every other piece of processed nonsense for the next eighteen years then I would definitely do some deal making.

I love my sleep, I would give anything to travel back in time and take it less for granted. All those lie-ins, all that delicious time I could have spent asleep I am now grieving for. And the naps I could have taken!

I'll just have to hold out until Roman's a teenager - I've heard they like to sleep a lot. And I have vague memories of being a lie-in teenager (Mum, you can step in and clarify that point).

Then the scales are tipped in that teenagers bring a lot of baggage to the table at that stage in their lives - so you're probably losing sleep worrying about them (Ha! With all those years of unclaimed sleep? I think not!).

So today I decided to do something I haven't done in a long time. I had a half hour nap. And it was very good. Very, very good.

Parents of newborns: if you get the chance, take your naps with them. In my case my husband was looking after our Little One while I napped - the way to a woman's heart is a husband who looks after Baby just as much as she does. The reason I say this? You never know when you might be kicking yourself for that unclaimed amount of sleep you could have had.