Weaning Babies and Thirsty Toddlers: Haberman anywayup® Cup Range #Review

The Haberman anywayup® Cup range claims to be ‘the world’s first totally non-spill cup’. Other features include a design which ‘protects growing teeth by allowing a flow of juice only when the child sucks and swallows’, easy-grip handles to suit little hands, and an emphasis on sipping, rather than guzzling. Six-month old Raffles is currently weaning, and she loves to grab things that make a mess, so let’s see how she got on with them.

We tried the Sip! Original 360 Toddler anywayup® Cup (RRP £5.95) first. The cup is designed to allowed toddlers to drink from anywhere around the rim of the cup, hence the name. The colours, orange and green, contrast nicely and immediately drew Raffles’ attention. She grabbed it with one hand and shook it for a while, desperately trying to cover herself in water. Unluckily for her, claim number one held up, and she was singularly unable to douse herself in lukewarm liquid. Nor was she able to prise the lid open, as it is very securely fastened.

As well as performing its main function superbly, it also worked as a teething toy, Raffles nibbling its rounded edges enthusiastically. This particular model is for ages 18 months+, so Raffles needed help getting it up to her mouth, but I have no doubt it will suit her perfectly when the time comes and allow her to transition from sippy cups to everyday beakers with minimum fuss.  The Original 360 Toddler anywayup® Cup is also available in red and orange, and blue and orange, and has a capacity of 210ml.

The next two models are for ages 6 months+ and are fitted with handy tapered nozzles which will allow Raffles to develop her drinking technique as she grows. The Moo! Cow Cup (RRP £4.95) was Raffles’ immediate favourite, possibly as its monochromatic design resembles her developmental toys, which feature lots of black and white contrast. The capacity is 250 ml, which is more than sufficient for Raffles’ current stage of weaning. Raffles has only been weaning for a few weeks but it didn’t take her long to master this sippy cup as it’s very easy to use.

The Tweet! Bird Cup (RRP £4.95) was the other model tested, and although the colours and shape didn’t hold Raffles’ attention as much as the previous two, this was perhaps the reason why she used it less distractedly and drank well from it. We loved the quirky design – the fact that the lid, when viewed from directly above, looks like a bird’s face. Once again, her urge to spill and cause havoc was thwarted by good old fashioned design efficiency. The Tweet! Bird Cup is available in green, pink and blue.

For the next few months, Raffles will be weaning like crazy so these cups will be absolutely invaluable. They are a perfect balance between style and substance – spill and leak proof, dishwasher safe (on the top rack), microwave safe (the cups without lids) and very stylishly designed.  Haberman is an environmentally conscious brand: all three cups are BPA free and all packaging is 100% recyclable. The only chaos Raffles will be able to wreak now is when she’s using them to whack her daddy over the head. He’ll be fine though – the cups are very durable and very light.
http://habermanbaby.com/non-spill-sippy-cups

We were sent these cups for the purposes of this post. All opinions are my own.

How The Unidentified Woman Stole Christmas: A Yuletide Tale

Without doubt, one of the bleakest days of my entire childhood was when my old-beyond-her-years, desperate-to-be-a-grown-up sister, sixteen months my junior, finally succeeded in persuading me that the avuncular Laplander, who I held in higher esteem than all others, was actually a distinctly average married couple from the West of Ireland. My parents, basically. And before anyone starts (my parents, basically), everyone is distinctly average compared to Santa Claus; he traverses the globe in a night, for goodness sake. For reasons unknown, my joyless sibling decided that almost-twelve (yes, what of it?) was simply too old to still accept the existence of a fictive being and gleefully set about systematically dismantling my childhood innocence, one beguiling myth at a time. Christmas has never been the same since.

During the week, my sister (the one who isn’t a mean illusion-shatterer) told me of a woman she knows who, exasperated at her ever-expanding letter to Santa, chose to underline the importance of frugality to her seven year old daughter by informing her that her presents were, in fact, paid for and delivered by her mother and not the rotund pensioner in the red suit. Christmas is expensive at the best of times and, as far as I’m aware, this woman is neither JK Rowling nor the wife of a Russian oligarch but way to kill the magic, lady.  Clearly of the mindset that a problem shared is a problem halved, the little girl wasted no time in circulating the unfestive news throughout the school playground.  Regrettably, as I wasn’t party to the difficult conversations that inevitably ensued between disgruntled parents and disheartened offspring, this festive tale must end here, unfinished, but, wouldn’t you know, I have waaaay more to say on the subject so don’t stop reading just yet.

I’m in no position to cast aspersions on another person’s parenting (I leave the house without nappies!) but this story has left me cold. Why anyone would want to accelerate the journey from carefree, innocent childhood to harried, cynical adulthood is beyond me. You might have guessed that I was inordinately fond of being a child. Unlike virtually all my friends, and my dream-crushing younger sister, I showed zero desire to be a grown-up. Indeed, there are some who’d argue (my parents, basically) that I’ve been admirably unwavering in my commitment to the cause. Gross misconceptions aside, there’s a lot to be said for indulging the wide-eyed wonderment of childhood. Precocious, know-all mini-adults have their charm until eventually, if you’re anything like me, you long to take them aside and implore them to “be a child!! And stop calling your parents by their names!!”

Back to Christmas. I’ll grudgingly concede that almost-twelve might be a tad too advanced to believe that an ageing, albeit highly industrious, master craftsman is capable of distributing hundreds of millions of presents to virtuous children across the world in one rip-roaring twenty-four hour period. Be that as it may, don’t demystify the wonder of Christmas for a still-believing seven year old girl because you want to teach her the value of money. As far as little children are concerned, budgeting is for life (and boring grown-ups), just not for Christmas. By all means, curtail her list but LIE, for goodness sake. Tell her Santa couldn’t possibly fit all those presents on his sleigh. Say he doesn’t like greedy little girls, if you have to. Don’t bluntly blurt out that he doesn’t exist. She’ll find that out for herself soon enough.

MERRY CHRISTMAS! x

Breastfeeding in Public: The Gospel According to Me

Farage has said something again. People are outraged. I don’t give a fish’s tit what Zippy-on-acid has to say for himself but it has given me reason to share my experience of breastfeeding in public.

1. Never assume

Forget any preconceptions you may have about the type of person who might object to your child’s basic need to be fed. As some of you may have found, it’s usually not the puerile schoolboys, tattooed hipsters or right-angled old men who will give you daggers across a cafe. Often the shrivelled auld strap from the age of seen-not-heard children and never-seen breasts is the one making you feel like you’re committing an act of gross indecency. She’d be livid if your baby was screaming the place down with hunger, but she’s also livid that your barely visible breast is out. In public.

2. It doesn’t matter where you sit

You’ll always end up in the hub of the activity. In a café? Well, the table by the till is the only one free. And now you’ve moved away from the till you’re next to the toilets. Finally you move near the door. Basically you become a magnet for foot traffic wherever you are, and when you leave and look back into the café, it’s miraculously emptied.

3. Ignore the looks

Don’t take it personally. The majority of people are merely curious about seeing a small human laying stiffly across your bust. Unless someone shoots you a genuinely filthy look, it becomes very easy to get on with your mammalian duties.  If you are unlucky enough to be on the receiving end of a frosty death-stare, kill your adversary with kindness by blowing a conciliatory kiss their way. Or a raspberry, depending on how mischievous you’re feeling.

4. Wear suitable clothes

Tight-fitting turtlenecks just won’t do. As well as taking ease of access into account, you also need to think about ease of concealment. Showing off your distended, glistening nipples  to strangers on the train for too long could land you on the Yahoo News homepage. Button-up shirts, and t-shirts with jackets over them are ideal, especially when you’re on the move. You can, of course, invest in some cleverly designed, double layered breastfeeding tops or dresses but I haven’t because I like spending my money on make-up and artisanal gourmet sausages.

5. Have a muslin square to hand

A moving train, a limpet full of milk, and winding can all combine to create a perfect storm of lacteous vomit, and there’s no telling where it might end up, or how far it will trickle. I’m sure this is veering into “state the bleedin’ obvious, why don’t you” territory but you must remember that I have, on more than one occasion, left the house without my daughter’s changing bag and, let’s just say, things got messy.

6.  Don’t look to Nigel Farage for breastfeeding advice

For God’s sake, just don’t. Sit wherever the hell you want. Although, mark my words, all the good seats will be gone. That’s just how it is.

Lapland, we have a problem

I HATE CHRISTMAS. Now that I’ve got your attention, I’ll lay off the histrionics and be a little more candid: I don’t hate every Christmas, I don’t even hate the impending one but I am indifferent to it. Inordinately so. My disengagement with the forthcoming festivities is so acute that it’s actually taken me aback. I don’t know how or why it’s happened but one thing is certain: I’ve been well and truly Grinchified.

Let’s put things into perspective: I once kept my Christmas tree up (unilluminated between February and October because otherwise: hello weirdo!) for fourteen months straight because I couldn’t bear to take it down. Not as out there as you’d think; basically a chintzy art installation enlivening the corner of your living room. Unconventional, maybe, but undeniably fun (ignore the fact that we’d anthropomorphised it to such an extent that entering or exiting the room demanded a cheery “Hello, Christmas tree,” “Goodbye, Christmas tree” every single time).

Bizarre peculiarities aside, you get the picture: I was a Christmas fiend. This time around, for the first time in years, I haven’t bothered to bake my fabled cake (key ingredient: an aniseed-flavoured Ibizan liquer). A few weeks ago I even mooted the idea of forgoing a tree altogether. I’ve purposely avoided Xmas 24 (previously unheard of), the Food Network (ditto) and the music channels. You can keep your Christmas joy and cheer, I simply don’t want to know.

So, what’s prompted this Yuletide volte-face? I can’t pinpoint any specific cause but here are a few theories:

• This year has already been eventful (illness, new baby) by anyone’s standards. Christmas involves so much *doing*. Could it be I just want a little peace and quiet? Hmm, maybe but I’m not convinced.
• Have I finally been smothered by the deluge of all things Christmas that inundate us from August on? Possibly. I mean, who the hell wants to hear Shakin Stevens when it’s 25 degrees outside?
• Consumerism. Hardly an original gripe but the whole thing has become so unbearably commercial. Don’t even get me started on Black Friday. What a swizz. People smashing each other over the heads to get their hands on a massive telly they probably don’t need equals a very sad Baby Jesus, indeed. That I probably acquired repetitive strain injury refreshing the Tesco page in my vain attempt to procure an obscenely reduced coffee machine is entirely beside the point.
• The ads. They tug at your heart strings while stealthily loosening the ones on your purse. That cuddly flightless bird? He’d steal your wallet, he would. No doubt about it.
• The neighbour from hell. In a neighbourhood that’s 75% pensioner, 24% young family, trust me to live next door to the hard-partying night-owl whose only purpose in life is to give me a nervous breakdown. He plays football. Indoors. At 2am. While shouting. And drinking. And singing. On a Monday. Or Tuesday. Or any other day. And he won’t stop. Even when I complain. Did I mention he’s about forty? Is it any wonder that festive cheer eludes me?
• It’s still November! Maybe I’ll have an epiphany come December 1. At the risk of contradicting almost everything I’ve just said, the signs are there: The Snowman might have already had a surreptitious viewing; I may have looked wistfully at the spot where a tree once proudly stood for more than a year. I might have enquired in passing about local Carol services. We’ll see.

Maybe this Grinchitis isn’t as season-threatening as I first feared? Could it be that rather than being apathetic about Christmas, I’m simply not ready for it yet? Perhaps I really have become an incorrigible old grump, more ‘Bah Humbug’ than ‘Jingle Bells’? Maybe I just need a good night’s sleep? Come back to me in a few weeks but, for now, enjoy the rest of your Advent Eve as I’m definitely not calling it. No way.

Thanks for reading! x

Who are you calling “wet”?

One downside of not drinking: what the hell do I blame the hat on?

Firstly, I want to apologise for my absence (I *know* you’ve noticed), I’ve had The Ear Infection To End All Ear Infections. Is it a coincidence that my ear implodes the week after I resolve to eschew all sugar-based treats? Science may say yes but I remain unconvinced. Fear not, my friends, I’m not here to exhort you to renounce your daily (was that just me?) chocolate fix. Rather, to commemorate Alcohol Awareness Week, I’m going to tell you why, as of 1/1/13, I don’t drink:

1.  Quitting alcohol is not for everyone but it was the right choice for me. No, I haven’t always been a paragon of temperance. Quite the contrary, in fact, and that’s exactly why I stopped. While heedless hedonism might have a certain louche allure when you’re in your twenties, who wants to be a thirty year old “fading party girl”? Why not drink in moderation, then? You haven’t met me. I’m very much an all-or-nothing kinda gal. Plus…

2.  …I don’t actually like the taste. It’s true, I don’t. Never did. I tried to. I wanted to. So many of my heroes were prodigious drinkers: Humphrey Bogart (alleged last words: “I should never have switched from Scotch to Martinis”), Dorothy Parker* (“I’d rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy”), Graham Greene, Billie Holiday…Me? After ten years I finally faced up to the truth: I like tea, coffee, hot chocolate, water, milkshakes and Capri-Sun. That’s it.

3.  I am not that weird. Most non-drinkers aren’t and the ones that are would probably be just as strange sitting at a bar cradling a large G&T. Try telling that to everyone I’ve ever met! “What do you mean you don’t drink?” I’m asked in disbelief. I just don’t. “What do you do if you don’t drink?” my interrogator inquires, eyes narrowing distrustfully. Why, I do everything you do, Nosey Nora…as long as I’m tucked up on my sofa by nightfall. I’m not joking.

4.  I am not boring. Okay, that’s a lie. *I’m* incredibly boring but I’m definitely in the minority. As far as I’m aware, most non-drinkers don’t have the same immobilising fear of being out after dark as I do. The majority of them will happily while away the hours doing whatever it is the more socially-minded amongst you do. Just because I’d gladly decamp to Eastbourne in the morning to play lawn bowls and join the local Ramblers’ Association doesn’t mean that my fellow abstinents would. Although, why on earth not?

5.  I am not a saint. Nor am I a zealous missionary intent on recruiting adherents to my cause. I don’t have a cause, I just don’t drink. I still stuff my face with gleeful abandon sort of like a female Depardieu (minus du vin obviously) or a pig. I still swear like a sewer rat would if he had the same combination of lungs, vocal folds and articulators as I have. Until recently I was vehemently opposed to conserving the world’s rapidly dwindling cocoa supply. Between you and me, I only stopped eating chocolate because I read it causes wrinkles, not out of any honourable sense of duty to the cacao tree. I’m quite awful really.

6.  I don’t need alcohol to have a good time.  There was a time when the prospect of a drink-free get-together would have stopped me dead in my tracks, paralysed with horror. “What will we do? WHAT WILL WE DO?” Turns out my fears were unwarranted. I am quite capable of engaging in reasonably compelling conversation fuelled by caffeine alone. I don’t need wine-oiled loins (nice image, that) to walk into an unfamiliar room. Everything I’ve ever done while under-the-influence I can do sober. Better. And, believe me, FAR less annoyingly.

7.  I don’t have hangovers, which is nice and more than convenient when you’re mother to the world’s clingiest (and loveliest) baby. Occasionally I overindulge on rich food to such an extent that I feel like I’m being repeatedly kicked in the stomach. I’ve had a disgusting chocolate mousse and almond cake hangover. I’ve crushed my soul from watching hours of trashy telly. I still have hangovers, they’re just not caused by alcohol.

8.  I’m intent on proving South Korea wrong. Not all of my “kind” are rampaging alcoholics, you know. Some of us are even capable of doing a day’s hard graft. Belee tha…

9.  I couldn’t drink even if I wanted to (heart condition etc etc) so it’s a good thing I don’t, then.

*Dorothy Parker was always good for a quip, here’s another:

“I like to have a martini,
Two at the very most.
After three I’m under the table,
after four I’m under my host.”

Thanks for reading! xx

Say NO to sexism: we owe it to our daughters

(Image : seeitsayitstopit.com via Google)

Ten days ago I had no idea who Dapper Laughs was. If the name still means nothing to you, here’s a quick synopsis: “comedian” whose show Dapper Laughs: On The Pull has just been decommissioned by ITV2 (back slaps all round for the people who commissioned it in the first place!) for being, well, a misogynistic pile of sexist drivel, basically. Act or not, and there’s quite damning evidence to suggest it’s the latter, his repugnant brand of “comedy” has no place in a progressive society that values its female inhabitants.

Well, rejoice, womenfolk, victory is ours: Dapper Laughs is no more. Don’t overdo the champagne just yet: we may have won this battle but the war is far from over. Just because I’m, erm, inquisitive, I decided to have a wee gander at Dapper Laughs’ Twitter page. 34.7K favourites. My initial thought was, “Jesus, you’re not very discerning,” quickly followed by, “I bet this loser favourites every last bit of praise he gets.” I was right, he does. So I investigated further. I wish I hadn’t. Mucho depressivo.

What follows are some of the more congratulatory tweets he received:

Downloaded @dapperlaughs Christmas Album. Funniest thing I’ve heard for ages. It got me #ProperMoist#FuckTheDoGooders

Why would anyone slate @dapperlaughs not only is he doing amazing charity work he is gorgeous.

I’m a woman, i watch dapper laughs show every week, and I love it, he’s a babe! Grow a sense of humour!

@dapperlaughs #Haters go back to your cave Bought the T, tickets downloaded the album #Charity #Funnyas #Fitas

calm the fuck down and go get @dapperlaughs album that way your helping the homeless and you get the comedy, some people have no humour

Really?! Just chill out and loosen up a people, it is just a bit of banter! Don’t like it? Dont buy/watch it!

Dispiriting, aren’t they? I can’t even blame them on spotty, pre-pubescent boys, who’ve barely talked to a girl, let alone had their first girlfriend. Although they’re there in their dozens. Nor are they the work of beer-swilling, groin-grabbing “lads”, still mourning the demise of Nuts magazine. No siree, though I suspect they’re there in their abundance if you look hard enough. No. All of the above were written by girls. Imagine that. Hoards of young women, sitting at home, composing fawning panegyrics in honour of their hero, a man whose brand of humour consists of telling a female audience member that “she’s gagging for a rape.” WTF? I mean, how do you deal with that?

What makes the above series of tweets all the more depressing is that some of them were directed at a female journalist who dared to criticise Dapper Laughs on Twitter. So much for the sisterhood, eh? Worryingly, they also appear to insinuate that being easy on the eye (their opinion, NOT mine) somehow absolves you from any kind of wrongdoing. Not to mention that any dissenting voices are accused of sense of humour bypasses. Honestly, it’s all I can do to stop myself banging my head against the wall.

I don’t know about you but I’m funny. Well funny. I’ve seen what I write, I’ve heard what I say: funny, funny, funny! Rape isn’t funny. Joking about rape isn’t funny. Supporting someone who does either: EXTREMELY UNFUNNY.  I’ve never thought of myself as particularly prudish (my native language is a charmingly idiosyncratic blend of English and Swearing and we all know that prudes don’t swear. They just don’t) but if I saw that my daughter had tweeted some tragic neanderthal that she was #propermoist (his catchphrase), I’d be beside myself.

I was a young girl once (I know, right!). Having fallen into just about every pit imaginable, I know what the pitfalls are. I know what I’ll be preaching to my daughter: don’t shave one of your eyebrows; don’t try to fix bad home dye-jobs with more bad home dye-jobs; don’t walk home alone at 4am every morning (eek); respect yourself; NEVER EVER EVER think of misogyny as being somehow trivial, okay or acceptable. Because it isn’t. It’s downright despicable and, like I said earlier, completely incompatible with a forward-thinking society that appreciates its women.

All is not lost. I’m going to give these misguided little fangirls the benefit of the doubt. Hopefully in time they’ll see the error of their ways. Until then, take heart in the fact that our daughters have role models like Charlie Webster and Jessica Ennis-Hill, two women prepared to put their heads above the parapet in the fight against misogyny, sexism and the objectification of women. But remember, our daughters (and sons) biggest role models are us, their parents. The fight begins at home. Only when we disabuse the plagues of sexism and prejudice will the last laugh be ours.

 

The week that was

The singularly most important thing that happened last week: Raffles successfully wore a hat. Show-off.

I’m writing this from the cafe downstairs because that’s what real writers do, isn’t it? Though I doubt many of Hemingway’s tours de force were penned to a soundtrack of insipid a cappella renderings of ‘What Makes You Beautiful,’ ‘Teenage Dream,’ and, somewhat incongruously, ‘Would I Lie To You?’ More’s the pity, eh. Anyway, let’s not beat about the bush. Here’s a list of seven things I learned in the past week:

1.  I think I quite like this blogging malarkey, you know. I’d be very interested to hear other people’s reasons for starting their blogs. Mine was quite simply a way of impelling myself to write on an everyday basis. Even though I haven’t quite managed to fulfill my daily obligations (my irascible scamp of a daughter is determined that I won’t hold a pen, or any digital equivalents, until after she’s left home), I am writing more than I have in years and, do you know, it’s bloody enjoyable.

2.  It’s THE BIGGEST BUZZ to receive positive feedback on something you’ve written. I think I can understand why fame goes to some people’s heads. I’m about five plauditory comments away from never making my own tea again; ten more and I’m hiring my own personal hair brusher (Dome Polisher, if this postpartum hair loss continues unabated). Fortunately, Her Upstairs is distinctly unimpressed by even the tiniest act of showy pomposity and will undoubtedly propel me earthwards if I exhibit the first sign of getting too big for my boots. Spoilsport.

3.  I have a very unbecoming jealous streak. How do I know this? One word: Blogfest. I hadn’t even heard of it until a few weeks ago and yet I spent a not inconsiderable amount of Saturday bristling that I wasn’t there. Me, who only started blogging just over a month ago. I swear these boots are starting to pinch…(Shoutout to my #notatblogfest buddies – a fine time was had by all).

4.  The Queen of Sheba (from hereon in, I’ll just call her Raffles, she’s confused enough as it is) has a beautifully hat-friendly head. I must admit I did breathe a sigh of relief when I saw that she looks just dandy with her head covered. You wouldn’t think it to look at me (at least I don’t think you would. Oh God, maybe you would. Could it be that everyone I’ve ever met has been so disinclined to stray outside the confines of basic common decency that they’ve neglected to mention my freakishly misshapen bonce?) but I have quite a generous-sized head. Hats that aren’t supposed to perch, perch. So unfair. Anyway, at least Raffles has been spared a similar fate. Small mercies.

5.  It’s not as horrific as you’d imagine when someone dribbles clean into your mouth or projectile vomits all over your head. I say ‘someone’, clearly I only mean my daughter. If anyone else did either of these things, so convulsed with rage I’d be that I’d literally never recover my bearings. With Raffles, though, it’s somehow okay. Cute, even.

6.  There are no depths of trashy television to which I won’t plummet. Ladies of London is the latest addition to this role of dishonour. If you’re looking for an inspirational portrayal of fabolous female friendship then, move along sister, you won’t find that here. If, on the other hand, catfights, bitchiness and depressingly savage competitiveness are more your bag then, pull up a pew. Though remember, I’m only watching it so you don’t have to. And because I’m ill.

7.  I’ll mutter this last one under my breath in the hope it goes unnoticed: that penguin, you know the one, left me decidedly unmoved. This, however. An actual deluge.

Have a good week! x

Great goods in small parcels.

Warning: This post couldn’t have less to do with Hallowe’en if it tried.

I think I’ve cracked the whole motherhood conundrum. No, really. Raffles is fast approaching six months and she’s still here, alive and kicking, Especially kicking. And scratching. And punching. And head-butting. And eye-poking. And hair-pulling. But, hey, what are a few troublingly feral tendencies between friends? The main thing is that she has changed beyond all recognition from a puny little waif who spent her first week in an incubator to the fizzing bundle of vitality who now thrusts her beaming face at me first thing every morning. I am positively jubilant at the progress she’s made. So why, when I should be rhapsodising ad infinitum on developmental milestones met and surpassed, am I beset by nagging feelings of mild trepidation?

Because of this (The Times’s firewall deftly circumnavigated, I’m sure you’ll agree), my friends. Another day, another study to scare the bejesus out of the, already harried, child-owning population. Don’t get me wrong, any research that aims to further the advancement of prenatal care is a fundamentally very good thing. But, God, the last thing we need is yet *another* thing to worry about. (P.s. Copy-editors, Big babies grow up to be healthier than little ones, really? Bit of a sweeping generalisation, there, don’t you think? We get that you need to create saleable copy but, come on, stop scaring us!)

There is good news: these new findings “may be the first step along a path to very early disease prevention in the womb.” All very promising but as Napoleon once said, “men are moved by two levers only: fear and self-interest.” I’m not a man but I reluctantly concede that the little fella may well have been on to something. What benefit is this new research to me, right now? Not much, I fear. Not as far as my beloved little Raffles is concerned.

Low birth weight is generally accepted to be 2.5kg (5lb 8oz) at birth. Raffles was 2.708kg at birth but dropped to 2.46kg in the subsequent weeks. For what seemed like an absolute age she surfed the line between the o.4th and 2nd percentiles. At one stage she hovered precariously below the 0.4th percentile. I shudder at the memory. Even now, while there’s no denying her petiteness, her strength is something that has to be seen to be believed. She’s like a tiny ox! And that is why I’ve decided to take all these findings (and these findings and these findings) with a very large pinch of salt.

I’m not disputing them, not for a second, nor am I going to steadfastly ignore them. I’d be foolish to, given my own history: low birth weight – gestational diabetes – heart valve disease. (Hmm, seems like I’m the very case study that corroborates the research). I had always intended to be militant with her diet and lifestyle (lucky Raffles!). I may not accept that her diminutiveness automatically relegates my daughter to a life of illness and disease but I firmly believe in mitigating the risk factors. But I would’ve done that anyway, even if she’d been a 9lb 8oz behemoth like her dad was.

It’s actually the scaremongering I take the most umbrage with: “Big babies grow up to be healthier than little ones” etc. In this instance, the fault lies squarely with the print media. Don’t generalise, don’t be so brusque. Consider your loyal readership, some of whom must include new mothers of smaller than average babies. They’re panicky enough as it is, they certainly don’t need it bellowed from up high that their tiny children are forever doomed. It doesn’t help anyone.

“Oi, who are you calling small?”

As for my Raffles, well, she continues to be hale and hearty. If this early robust vigour is anything to go by, she’s going to turn out just fine. Good goods, no scratch that, GREAT goods come in small parcels. Remember that when anyone tries to tell you otherwise.

Thanks for reading!

Maria x

What becomes of the broken-hearted?

Nothing puts a downer on a Saturday night quite like finding out you have ten years to live. Okay, finding out you have mere weeks before you shuffle off this mortal coil might be a tad more alarming but, still, who wants to spend their weekend contemplating their mortality? Not me, that’s for sure, and yet I did.

If you’ve read my earlier posts, you’ll be aware that I was recently diagnosed with a dragging bore of a heart condition called Mitral Valve Stenosis (with added Aortic Regurgitation for good measure). While I was pregnant this condition debilitated me to such an extent that I was unable to walk from the sofa to the loo without fighting for breath and coughing up blood. Delightful. Post diagnosis, and thanks to one measly little tablet a day, I am symptom-free. No breathlessness, no palpitations, no bloody sputum. So far, so healthy.

So why the histrionic opening sentence? Well, the thing is, I need to have an aortic valve replacement. This is a matter of when rather than if. The last five months of relatively good health, amplified in no small part by the presence of the redoubtable little Raffles, have lulled me into a false sense of security. I feel healthy. So healthy that I postponed my recent Transoeseophageal Echocardiogram (TOE – unpleasant camera swallowing) and CT Scan. My consultant didn’t seem unduly worried and rescheduled a follow-up appointment for March 2015. Urgent? Hardly.

Sadly, my blissful ignorance couldn’t last forever. Last Saturday, while spending a typically hedonistic weekend reading brilliant political memoirs I was sent lolloping back to earth with a resounding thud. Without giving anything away, I encountered someone with exactly the same condition as mine. Exactly, right down to the cause: childhood rheumatic fever. The ball was steadily rolling now. What harm would a little innocent Googling do? Answer: A HUGE AMOUNT. I discovered that the prognosis for Mitral Valve Stenosis post-surgery was ten years. That, as far as I could find, was the best possible scenario, too. I also learned that “around 1 in 50 people who undergo this type of surgery die from complications either during or shortly after surgery.” That last beacon of light was on the NHS website so it has to be right, right?

An hysterical Saturday night (highlights include piercing banshee-like screaming punctuated with mournful wails of “I’m going to die young!”) was followed by an uncharacteristically reflective Sunday morning. I revisited the fount of my woe, Google. Searching “Mitral Valve Stenosis Prognosis UK” (I find this last part oddly crucial), I saw the results were far less overwrought than the previous night’s. Mind you, I did avoid the Ten Years To Live If You’re Lucky (And You Definitely WON’T Be) quack-site like the plague. Sure, there was no denying the severity of my condition but there were also very definite reasons to be cheerful.

Would my consultant have asked if I was planning to have more children if she expected me to pop my clogs before they were in primary school? I may not be one of life’s blithe optimists (not a pessimist either, more an occasionally peevish centrist) but I don’t think she would have. That, by the way, is easily the most annoying thing about this dodgy ticker of mine. The fact that I need to undergo heart surgery before I have another child is a right royal pain in the arse. I know I should count my blessings and be content with my lot. I honestly couldn’t be happier with my little firebrand but maybe if she was a bit less superdeeduper I wouldn’t be so eager to see what a Raffles II would be like.

Let’s end things on a more uplifting note. In the days that have followed My Saturday of Anguish and Misery, I’ve become a lot more sanguine about the whole thing. I suppose I’ve even accepted it now. I’m not going to cancel any more appointments. I’m not going to ignore the fact that I’ll be having major surgery sometime in the future but nor am I going to fret about it either. What’s the point? I’m luckier than a hefty proportion of the population. Plus, I’ve started doing yoga. In the space of four days I’ve metamorphosed from a frenzied ball of nervous energy into the very quintessence of spiritual serenity. Well, almost. I’m definitely more at ease with myself, that’s for sure. I’m not going anywhere.

What becomes of the broken-hearted? They get better.

Me, now. I’m a very quick learner.

Enjoy! x

I have a dream**

My Raffles is five months old. Suddenly that hoary old chestnut “time flies when you’re having fun” has never felt more pertinent. I once heard someone summarise life as “Another day older and deeper in debt. Another day older and closer to death.” While I haven’t quite reached that level of party-pooperdom, I am increasingly mindful of the passing of time. Old Father Time needs to take his foot off the accelerator, I mean, what’s the hurry? Less depressing is the second part of our jaded cliche; fun, we’ve had heaps of it. Sure, the past five months may have flown by but they’ve been fun-filled.

Raffles, yesterday.

Before my magnificent little lady burst onto the scene with such tremendous aplomb, my maternal instincts, on a scale of one to ten, hovered somewhere between a ‘meh’ one and a weak two. My, how times have changed. Five months into my inaugural stab at motherhood and I’m revelling in my role as materfamilias. It’s been a million times more challenging than anything I’ve ever done before and my Raffles, for all her utter amazingness, can be a right little Demanding Donna when the mood takes her but I really wouldn’t change it for the world. She has enriched our lives to such an extent that we can’t remember a time anteraffles*.

Raffles, today.

“All very nice,” you bleat, “but what’s this all about?” WEEELLLLLL, it’s a post about the hopes and dreams I have for my daughter. I have millions. I just hope she can fit them all in. With the way time is zooming by, my baby will be thirty-five by the time this post is finished! Here they are:

Raffles, tomorrow.

— NON-NEGOTIABLES

1.  I hope my little girl grows up to be as beautiful on the inside as she is on the outside. Obviously, she’ll always be the Beauty of All Beauties in my eyes but, really, what’s a beautiful face without a beautiful character to match? Can a face truly be described as beautiful if the character is disagreeable? I don’t think it can.

2.  I hope she is tolerant of others, regardless of colour, race, creed, gender, sexual orientation, religion, age or origin. If she grows up to be in any sense bigoted, blinkered or narrow-minded then I have failed in the most abject way possible.

3.  I hope she is sensitive to the needs of others. I hope she is always willing to lend a hand to those in need of help. I hope she endeavours to include those who feel excluded. I hope she is outraged by every possible form of bullying.

4.  I hope she respects the opinions of others. I hope she never ridicules or embarrasses another person. I hope she treats others the way she’d like to be treated herself. I hope she is has immaculate manners.

5.  I hope she wants to be treated with respect, courtesy and kindess and is never prepared to settle for less. I hope has a sense of her own worth as a person. I hope she has enough self-confidence to be unafraid but not so much as to be arrogant or obnoxious.

6.  I hope she has a kindly disposition, laughs freely and loudly and is, above all, fair.  I hope she understands that it’s fine to feel sad. I hope she understands that crying is never a sign of weakness. I hope she never bottles up her emotions. I hope she always feels that she can talk to us about anything.

7.  I hope she has a strong work ethic. I hope she knows that ambition is never a negative quality. I hope she never tramples on others to fulfill her own ends. I hope she understands that ambition is not synonymous with cruelty or ruthlessness.

8.  I hope she is unafraid to take risks (within reason!). I hope she recognises challenging situations and how best to deal with them. I hope she is a good communicator. I hope she fights for what she believes in but keeps her grace under fire. I hope she understands that she doesn’t need to yell to get her point across. I hope she is unconfrontational, calm and composed.

9.  I hope she has loyal and loving friends. I hope that she reciprocates this loyalty. I hope she never takes anyone for granted and extricates herself from relationships where she is being taken for granted. I hope she never considers herself superior to anyone else (Disclaimer: it’s fine for me to think she’s better than everyone else in the whole world). I hope she is modest.

10.  I hope she loves what she does. I hope her job is her passion rather than a means to an end. I hope she knows that it is not necessary to take yourself seriously all the time to be successful. I hope she has a thrilling sense of fun. I hope she is healthy and happy for a very very VERY long time.

— NEGOTIABLES (and not at all my attempt to live vicariously through my daughter; no, seriously, that’s a really bad thing)

1.  I hope she loves to read. I have read to her voraciously since she was in the womb. I hope this cultivates an affection for books within her. I hope she understands that should reading be a problem for her, it is not the be all and end all.

2.  I hope she sees the joy in being able to speak a language other than her native tongue. I hope she appreciates my current attempts to teach her Italian. I hope she tells me where to go (“Affanculo, mamma!” but politely, please!) if I’m bombarding her with information she has no interest in. I hope she attempts something before deciding it’s not for her.

3.  I hope she is musical. I hope she can play an instrument, any instrument. I hope she plays first violin in the London Symphony Orchestra – NEGOTIABLE. I hope she tells me where to stick my bow (charmingly, please!) if she has neither interest in nor aptitude for said instrument.

4.  I hope she loves tennis. I hope she wins Wimbledon, although, if I’m being honest, I secretly hope it’s the French Open that she triumphs at. She can win both! She can win all four! I hope she hits me over the head with a tennis racquet (painlessly, please!) if I ever exhibit even the merest sign of being a “tennis mom”. I hope she forgives us for naming her after a tennis player. A male tennis player.

5. I hope she is a fervent and devoted supporter of both the Irish rugby team and Everton FC (who am i kidding? This one is TOTALLY non-negotiable). I hope she categorically rejects her dad’s appeal to support the England rugby team and Liverpool FC (NONONON-NEGOTIABLE).

6.  I hope she enjoys food. I hope she never hears the word diet. She certainly won’t hear it from me. I hope she doesn’t write off cooking as old-fashioned or unfeminist. Absolute tosh. I hope she is willing to try new tastes and sensations. I hope she never disrespects the food of cultures not her own. I hope she loves making her mum endless cups of tea. From the age of one.

7.  I hope she never gets tattoos. I hope she doesn’t call me a hypocrite for advising against the acquisition of said tattoos when I have four myself. I hope she never finds out that I have four tattoos. If she is intent on inking her perfect perfect PERFECT skin, I hope she opts for a fabulous design of her own creation rather than settling for the first Chinese character she sees. Amirite?!

8.  I hope she becomes a heart surgeon (I might have vested interests). Failing that a brain surgeon. Or a paediatrician. Or an endocrinologist. A GP maybe? A vet would be fine. Or a nurse. A behavioural psychologist perhaps. Or an architect. A barrister. A translator at the United Nations. A peace envoy. A diplomat. A first violinist with the London Symphony Orchestra. A tennis player. An Olympian. A historian. An economist. An acclaimed Shakespearean actor. A playwright. An author. Anything ANYTHING but a celebrity. I hope she never does anything because she wants to be famous. That list of occupations is totally negotiable as long as she picks either heart or brain surgeon. I’m kidding! I am. Yes.

9.  I hope she is sensible with money. Not so sensible that she’s miserly but not such a spendthrift that she constantly squanders her last few pounds. I hope she knows the value of money (unlike her careless mother). I hope she earns enough money to be comfortable but never does anything solely for financial reward. I hope she realises that although money does not necessarily mean happiness, it can make challenging situations more tolerable. I hope she saves for a “rainy day”. I hope she has very few “rainy days”.

10.  I hope she loves her mum and dad, even if he does have appalling taste in football and rugby teams. I hope she realises that they only want what’s best for her, however trite or hackneyed that may sound. I hope she is independent and unscared to fly the nest when the time comes (even though it will break her mother’s, already half broken, heart and after all I’ve done for you. This is how you repay me). I hope she finds someone who makes her as happy as she deserves to be (that’s THE HAPPIEST EVER, potential suitors, though you’ll have to get past her dad first. Impossible). I hope she knows that she is as loved as it is possible to be. I would say I hope she does us proud but she already has. I hope we do her proud. I hope she has the greatest life ever.

THE END

(Thanks for reading!) xx

*It’s Latin, maaan, and it’s definitely a word. Because I invented it.

**With apologies to Dr. Luther King.