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.

Me and my girl: we’ve grown attached

It’s recently been brought to my attention that I’m practising a somewhat controversial style of parenting. To say that I didn’t emphatically set out to be an attachment parent is an understatement of astronomical proportions. I had no idea I even was one until one of my frequent Googlathons led me to an article on Attachment Parenting (AP). One quick scan of the seven baby B’s of attachment parenting later and I’d conferred upon myself the title of Attachment Parent Number One. In all seriousness, the article confirmed that I’d inadvertently been following the basic tenets of AP all along. Who knew? Here I’m going to briefly touch on each of the seven baby B’s of attachment parenting and why they work for me:

1.  Birth Bonding

Raffles went to extreme lengths to get a minute’s peace from her over-bearing mum

Unfortunately my Raffles and I were denied the chance to bond immediately after her birth. I have a hugely irritating heart condition that necessitated immediate transfer to the cardiac ward.  Massive bummer. Raffles had a dusky episode in the hours after birth and spent the following five days in the special care baby unit. Just like her mummy, my little lady refuses to do things the easy way. These complications meant that skin-on-skin contact was minimal in the first few days. I know now that we’re more fortunate than most but I can tell you that no one on this earth felt as hard done by as I did in those opening days. Not being able to hold your newborn is a gut-wrenching feeling. I’m wincing now just thinking about it. As it happens, this prolonged period of separation didn’t have too much of a detrimental effect on the bonding process; Raffles and I took to each other like ducks to water.

2.  Breastfeeding

Okay, here’s where the fun really starts. Lack of skin-to-skin contact made breastfeeding somewhat of an endurance test. Who am I kidding? It was a nightmare. I couldn’t even express for the first two days, let alone breastfeed. When I did eventually start expressing, an hour’s hard labour would yield the grand amount of 2ml. Nothing but sheer bloody-mindedness made me see the process through. I was adamant my daughter would be breastfed; not because I disapproved of formula but simply because, prior to birth, I had said I’d breastfeed and I’m stubborn as a mule. Breastfeeding has definitely been the right option for Raffles and I. We both love it passionately. Well I do. Raffles hasn’t said she does in so many words but all her cues suggest she’s singing from the same side of the hymn sheet.

3.  Baby wearing

Most likely a direct consequence of the stormy start to our relationship, Raffles and I are now rarely apart. Practically never. When she’s not glued to me, she’s with Philip, beside me. I’m always with her. This isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, I know that. It probably wouldn’t have been mine either if that first week had been a little more straightforward. I suspect my extreme reluctance to be parted from my daughter might also be down to the lingering fear I have that my heart’s suddenly going to stop working. I’m being unnecessarily paranoid, I know, but God, when you have something as great as my little girl, you are LOATHE to be away from it. Anyway, I carry Raffles everywhere in this. As well as fostering mutual trust and closeness (well, indeed), it’s the most convenient thing ever if you’re forced to use public transport, which I am. A lot.

4.  Bedding close to baby

Right, this is probably the most contentious aspect of Attachment Parenting. I didn’t set out to co-sleep with Raffles. No way. Frankly, I was categorically opposed to the idea. Three nights of disconsolate crying in the moses basket later and I was tentatively entertaining the possibility. A week later and Raffles was a permanent fixture in my bed. That was over four months ago and she’s still there. I’m not going to lie, I was nervous at first. I was completely aware of the safety implications. It’s just so happened that co-sleeping is the right sleeping arrangement for us. Raffles sleeps soundly if she’s next to me. I sleep soundly knowing that she feels safe and secure. I do all in my power to minimise any undue risk. I don’t let her overheat. Pillows are nowhere near her head. She’s never perched on the edge of the bed. Obviously. Like I said, it won’t be for everyone but it’s what works chez nous and, trust me, there aren’t many things that can’t be improved by a good night’s sleep!

5.  Belief in the language value of your baby’s cry

I must say that, unlike practically every member of my family, I’ve never held much truck with the whole ‘they’ll cry themselves out’ schtick. When Raffles cries, I respond to her. Immediately. It just wouldn’t feel right to let her cries go unanswered. After all, she’s not doing it to be difficult. Well, not usually, anyway. When she’s happy and content, my little girl is a smiley bundle of giggles. When she’s sad, she cries. I don’t want her to be sad. Not now, not ever. I’m sure some people will think I’m intent on raising a petulant spoilt brat (hi mum!) but I disagree. I actually think Raffles is a happier baby because she knows she can trust me (or her dad) to respond to her when she’s upset. If she’s hungry, she knows she’ll be fed right away. If her nappy is dirty, it’ll be changed quicker than you can say “that’s your fourth wet nappy this hour!”. If she’s just feeling a little bit glum, she can count on bountiful cuddles. I know it sounds like I’m at her complete beck and call and, if I’m being honest, I suppose I am but I really can’t imagine doing things in a different way. Each to their own, eh?

6. Beware of baby trainers

I’m not really sure what baby trainers are. Supernanny and her ilk, maybe? I think we’ve established that I don’t fit in with the “cry-it-out crowd”. As far as parenting my daughter is concerned, I do tend to go on instinct. I don’t adhere to any strict set of rules simply because I find restrictions inhibiting and ultimately unhelpful. I listen to Raffles and take it from there. If that’s attachment parenting, so be it.

7.  Balance

This one’s a work in progress. It may not sound like it but I’m actually a pretty laid-back parent. The three of us are an exceedingly tight unit. We’re mostly cheerful. We laugh a lot. Admittedly, the balance is probably tipped in Raffles’ favour at the moment but as time goes on we’ll shift closer to a happy equilibrium. Probably.

“Baby training? Yeah, good luck with that.”

Childbirth: A dad’s-eye view (guest post)

Things rarely turn out as you expect them to. The birth of my daughter was a good example of being swept along by events, watching gormlessly as your tiny world bumps into a hospital full of others, none of them taking any notice of you. We arrived at St. Mary’s in Manchester at 08:45 on Tuesday 20th of May, loaded up like sherpas and weary from a train journey amongst rat-racers who had no idea my svelte, non-showing partner was about to have a baby on demand. The waiting room was full of expectant mothers, some with partners whose main concern was their phones.

The plan was to have one more check on Maria’s heart condition, and then to take her upstairs and have her induced. Could we take our bags up now, to save any undue stress and keep us as relaxed as possible before an uncomfortable first-time experience? No. Stay outside, sitting on bags, Dad. Read an effing book that you can’t concentrate on while Mancunians of all creeds and colours Gallagher-walk past you, complaining about each other. I wasn’t this unreasonable at the time, I must add. I was happily bobbing along with the undertow.

Upstairs on the induction ward, we sat in the day room while the bed was prepared. Smoking mothers in labour passed frequently on their way to the wind-blasted front entrance. Another started on a massive kebab, with extra onions. In one of six bays in an empty room Maria received An Examination, followed by The Gel. I shifted in my seat so much I created a commode. The die was cast and we were having this baby. I wish I’d remembered to have a lie-in every day of my life leading up to that point.

Two of the other bays were occupied a few hours after we arrived. One was Kebab Woman, the other was Low Pain Threshold Woman. The latter was in disbelief at Maria’s tolerance for pain and discomfort, and green with envy that we had the telly working. I didn’t see much of Kebab Woman before I had to go. It was Lockdown on the induction ward, and Lamb Samosa time for me. I went to my room in a Lenny Henry-free chain hotel and watched some Eastenders, and then a Philip Roth documentary. I’d just started to nod off when my phone rang. It was 23:45 and I was to come in immediately because a baby was determined to stop us from sleeping.

Walking through a hospital at that time is strange, like I imagine a tour of Alcatraz might be. I arrived on the delivery ward and found Maria in her own room. The sherpas had sorted the bags out, and new people were sorting her out. Two anaesthetists arrived to put us at ease, talk about football and maybe numb my partner all over.

Those two people (a warm, friendly and caring Scotswoman and an avuncular, teasing Man Citeh fan) were incredibly important for us, considering that by now Maria needed a heavily monitored emergency c-section. Imagine if they’d been utter knobs. But they weren’t, and that helped when Maria’s veins and arteries were being incredibly uncooperative and painful. Shortly after this mini bloodbath we were sent to the operating theatre. Maria went in to get her epidural, which went as well as the previous attempts on her wrist. I went to a side room to put on some scrubs and a hairnet. I also put someone else’s crocs on by mistake. I took them off, leaving a sweaty foot imprint. During this time I should have been thinking about impending fatherhood. Breakfast occupied me for the moment. So many possibilities. Occasionally Uncle Citeh walked past and teased me about Liverpool’s faltering title challenge. I grinned like an idiot.

It was time to go. I was led in like a man coming to see a car. There she was, lying on her back, ready to have the bonnet opened and her little puce engine pulled out, silently. Maria gave a weak little smile which broke my heart a little bit. She was worried and scared. I wasn’t, because I had a cast-iron inner confidence I haven’t had before or since that everything would be okay. The anaesthetists were testing her limbs for numbness while I was looking around the room, wondering why it wasn’t all brushed aluminium and dim lighting. It was bright and white, like the inside of a square egg. Optimum Numbness was achieved and the tide ripped us away for the next fifteen or so minutes.

The sheet went up (thank God for the man, woman or child who came up with that), and the professionals got to work. It was breathtaking to see other human beings simultaneously so nonchalant and so focused on something which was so out of the ordinary to us. With one big slice and a lot of hard tugging and pulling, they were in the process of hoisting my daughter into the world, and Manchester. During this completely normal procedure Maria’s blood pressure dropped dangerously low. She vomited. I thought of breakfast again. Lovely Caledonian Anaesthetist Lady calmed and reassured Maria. So did I, with a hand squeeze and some words. I remember telling her to stay awake, which would drive me mad.

‘Have a quick look!’ said the midwife, unexpectedly. She was holding a white, floppy, quiet Nicholas Witchell lookalike. This was Raffles, and she already had her completely unimpressed face on. ‘What was that?! Was that her?’ See? You don’t expect to meet your daughter like that, and utter those words when you do. It’s never how you expect.

Little Raffles was quiet. Completely. Maria asked why she wasn’t making noise. Was she okay? What’s going on? I didn’t know. Will she be alright? Yes. That I knew. She definitely would be okay. On cue, a massive lung-busting cry not much quieter than her current oeuvre. Would Dad like to see her before Mum does? Yes, I did all the work. I felt guilty, and still do sometimes, that I saw her properly first. She’s a mummy’s girl, and I’m daddy.

I looked down at her on that weighing scale, all puce and hot under lights that could keep a thousand awful meals warm, and I wanted to pick her up and cuddle her. But I’m quiet and shy, so I stood there like a lemon while the paediatrician and the midwife tended to her. I went back to Maria. She looked like she’d just had an emergency c-section. And then Raffles was brought through. The pain and worry vanished from Maria’s face. Raffles blinked slowly and started her career as chief cutie. I looked around and noticed how many people had been in the room with us. The ones not cleaning up were smiling at us arms folded, heads slightly tilted.

Our big happiness whale was thoroughly harpooned soon after. We were all split up. Maria went to the cardiac ward, Raffles to the maternity ward and I to the sans Lenny Henry ward down the road. It was surreal walking around Manchester at 05:30 in the morning, ringing my parents while my daughter was in a cot surrounded by strangers. The sheer speed of events meant my breakfast-deprived brain couldn’t process it all, so I decided to act ‘normally’. I flopped onto my stale marshmallow of a bed and slept for about two hours. I got up and showered and went down for my breakfast. Read on . . .

‘Can I order the continental breakfast, please?’ Three brown-all-over, cigar-like sausages; two shiny, cold fried eggs with peach coloured yolks; a triangle of hard grease with a bit of hash brown in it; some tepid, rubbery toast; a soft, damp croissant and two glasses of ‘fresh’ orange juice, with no bits. Things are never as you expect.

I walked to the hospital immediately after this repast, feeling pregnant myself, with a baby made from stodgy food. It was finally dawning on me what I now had. A wonderfully brave and strong partner with a cracking bust, and a strong little madam with a massive cry, big blue eyes and strawberry ginger hair. I’m luckier than I ever thought I could be. And I have good breakfasts.

Philip Taylor

About the author: Philip is a recent first-time father who likes breakfast, Liverpool FC and busking with a tambourine. He hates kidney beans and all hot drinks.

The kindness of strangers

“I am SHOCKED and APPALLED. Get thee to thine eyebrow threader STAT!”

Breastfeeding. I’ve already touched on how it proved quite the ordeal for Raffles (“La Tombola”) and I in the early, and indeed later, days. Thankfully, all issues (you name them, we had them) have finally been resolved and we’ve now arrived at a stage where we both enjoy it to a point that is probably verging on unseemly. At the risk of sounding like a thoroughly maudlin millie, breastfeeding for my daughter and I has become a truly gratifying experience; precious shared moments of tenderness. [Pause to allow for the disposal of sick bucket contents].

You may have deduced that I’m a fan of breastfeeding, then? If you haven’t, I’m doing something wrong. Fear not, however, I’m not here in my capacity as Capo di Tutti Capi of the breastfeeding Mafia. You’ll get no judgemental stares from me if I see your treasured little bundle quaffing a flute of formula. Honestly, I won’t even notice, so preoccupied will I be trying to stop my beloved Raffles from howling like I’ve just handed her a posy of nettles. Such an incident occurred today.

My little girl is amazing. She has the bubbliest personality of anyone (child, adult, pet) I’ve ever met. Her innocent little face, so devoid of cynicism and bitterness, makes my heart leap with love EVERY SINGLE TIME I see it. But, and there is a but, man alive, can she cry. That someone so diminutive (twenty weeks old, can still wear newborn size at a push) possesses a set of lungs so formidable seems miraculous to me. Raffles is not your average baby (see what i did there? I’ll get my coat).

You’re probably wondering where I’m going with this? (If brevity is the soul of wit, I’m one dour old gasbag). Today’s incident: Raffles and I, having expended way too many kilojoules of energy maraca-shaking and scarf-waving at music class, find ourselves in dire need of a coffee (decaf, sigh). No problem, we’re right next to a perfectly decent coffee-shop. In we go. It’s busy but not brimful and although our usual secluded booths are occupied, we spy a table in the middle of the floor. We situate ourselves right in the very heart of the room and then the fun begins: my angelic little nipper starts to bawl. The fizzing hum of conversation that had saturated the cafe with a gentle effervescence ceases immediately. Cups stop rattling, spoons don’t jangle, the coffee machine grinds to a halt. Apart from Raffle’s screams of unmitigated anguish, the silence is deafening. There’s no doubt about it, these are howls of hunger. If I’m to have any chance of restoring the peace, I’ll need to start feeding her, right here, right now, right in the middle of the room. So I do.

If you’d have told me a year ago that a mere 365 days later I’d be breastfeeding my baby in the hub of a crowded cafe I’d have likely had you committed. It’s not that I objected to breastfeeding in public. Well, that’s not entirely true. I’m loathe to admit it but before I had Raffles, I’d do everything in my power to avoid child-friendly establishments. Cafes were a place of relaxation, somewhere to indulge in a few moments of quietude while attempting to look as urbane as possible and not like someone who does in fact prefer tea to coffee. The presence of whining children, if I’m being totally honest, wrecked my pretentious, affected, CAFFEINATED coffee buzz. I realise I sound completely hideous but I promise I’ve changed. I’m all about cacophony and commotion now; the louder the better is what I say. Seriously though, I must stress that I was never opposed to the act of breastfeeding in public. Why on earth would I be? A feeding baby’s a quiet one after all!

Back to earlier, Raffles is being difficult. She feeds but pauses every couple of minutes to emit a series of serenity-shattering wails. Peace is never wholly restored. A few people are beginning to frown. (It’s quite possible that in my state of harassed desperation I imagined it but I’m convinced two elderly women shot me disapproving looks). Suddenly I have never been so aware of what I am doing. I am using my partially-exposed breast to placate an agitated baby in the middle of a crowded room. Failing miserably to exude an air of unflappable confidence, I turn beetroot-red in the way that only ruddy-complexioned Irish country girls can. I am well and truly flapped. And then, out of the blue, the heroine of our tale enters.

A sophisticated woman of fiftyish leaves her companion, walks over, and sits down opposite me. “I had twins, 6lb each. I breastfed both of them for over a year. It’s not easy sometimes,” she says. I want to weep with gratitude. The ice has been broken. People start chattering, the coffee-machine whirs back into life (useful for a cafe, no?), my face returns to a vaguely human colour. Raffles and I are instantly invisible (in a good way). We’re no longer the source of an unspeakable ruckus, just a mother and baby enjoying our preferred libations. All because this LOVELY woman noticed our very palpable discomfort and wanted to put us at ease. It worked. From that moment on, we both drank freely.

I did not know THAT

If I were to tell you all the things I knew about babies and motherhood prior to giving birth, this would be both the first and last sentence of this post. I’m sure some of you would have no problem with that whatsoever and frankly I don’t blame you. However, because I have the utmost of faith in the soporific qualities of my writing, I feel it’s my duty as a former insomniac to offer my services to those of you having difficulty nodding off at night. Read it and sleep, folks!
P.s. Because I like to enumerate, it’s another list; this time of all the things (purely pregnancy and baby-related for now) that no one ever told me about, primarily because I didn’t ask. Be warned, it’s in no sort of order at all.

“Call this crying? I’m not even getting started.”

1.  Babies have bad attitudes. Controversial maybe but true. Would you be friends with someone whose personality vacillated from chirpy perkiness to irascible peevishness to blistering fury and back to snuggly vivacity sometimes in a matter of minutes? I’m not sure you would. Imagine how tiring it would be? I’m all for glorious moments of unscripted spontaneity but honestly babies, do you really have to fly by the seat of your pants so much? Your unpredictability is exhausting. And the fact that you show such a blatant disregard for the feelings of others, well, that’s just plain rude. See what I mean? Bad attitudes.

2.  Babies have no shame. How else do you explain my then three week old daughter choosing to detonate the most noxious, putrid, ear-splittingly booming, volcanic eruption of a poo-bomb on a thronged rush-hour platform at Manchester Piccadilly? That her nappy failed to contain this faecal Vesuvius is almost beside the point. It’s the fact that she thought it was okay to do it in the first place.  This outrageously antisocial behaviour hasn’t even remotely dissipated in the succeeding months. Why, only today she farted straight in my mouth. Remaining completely unmoved, she didn’t offer even the merest hint of an apology. Honestly, animals have a greater sense of propriety.

3.  Breastfeeding does not come naturally to everyone. It was as alien a concept to my daughter as not farting in people’s mouths is to her. For weeks I existed in a cracked-nippled state of near-hysteria. She couldn’t latch on properly. I didn’t know how to latch her on properly. Neither of us knew we were doing it wrong. Like a pair of bumbling buffoons, we persisted with this pantomime until she lost too much weight and I near lost my marbles. I hadn’t grasped that the clue was in the name. It’s called breastfeeding for a reason; frenzied nipple-sucking just won’t cut the mustard. That we arrived at the stage where both my daughter and I fully intend to continue nursing until she leaves for university is testament to the ceaseless efforts of breastfeeding specialists we encountered along the way.

4.  Once you have a baby normal adult discourse swiftly becomes a thing of the past. What follows is a verbatim transcription of a conversation I had with a woman of similar age while I was dressing Raffles in the swimming pool changing rooms:

Woman (to Raffles): Oh my God, aren’t you just gorgeous. What age are you?

Raffles: *tumbleweed*

Me: She’s thirteen weeks.

Woman (to R): Thirteen weeks! My, aren’t you a diddy little dot. Were you premature?

R: [passive indifference]

Me: She was three weeks early.

Woman (to R): Three weeks early! You’ll soon catch up, yes you will, yes you will. Were you swimming today?

R: *rolls eyes*

Me: Yeah, we were in the baby pool. The water’s lovely and warm.

Woman (to R): Did you love the lovely warm water? Did you! Aww, I can see that smile, you loved the lovely warm water.

R: *yawns*

Woman (to R): I think it’s time for your nap. Is it time for your nap? I’ll let you get changed and then you can have a nice nap after your swimming. Bye, bye pretty girl, bye, bye…

R: [dismissive aloofness]

Me: Bye!

Woman: *exits silently*

Not once did this woman acknowledge my existence. Honestly, she didn’t so much as glance in my direction. It really was the oddest experience but, as I’ve since found out, not a unique one. No one cares about me anymore. Never mind my opinions, no one even asks me my name. It’s all about the baby. It’s nonsensical! I mean, who would you rather be stuck in a lift with? A cracking raconteuse with a mean line in sparkling wit (Me) or a dribbling whinger who can’t even gurgle coherently (Baby)? On second thoughts don’t answer that.

5.  Three words: postpartum hair loss. My jubilation at having evaded this unfortunate side effect of childbirth was markedly premature.  I had naively assumed that having reached three months post-birth with blissfully unmolested follicles meant my hair had simply forgotten to fall out. After all, I know lots of women who’ve given birth and I definitely don’t recall any of them going bald at any point. This hormonal hair loss, or effluvium postpartum if we’re being scientific, must be a myth. Fast forward a few weeks and my hairline resembles Steve McDonald’s on a particularly bad hair day.  To make matters a million times worse, my head is extremely hostile to any sort of covering. Hats, headscarves, rubber horse heads, they all look preposterous on me. I look better with a receding hairline. The things we go through for our kids, eh?

Me, yesterday. A good hair day.

Ode to an epidural

Firstly, let me lay my cards on the table. I am pro-pain relief in labour. I truly believe that epidurals are the mark of a civilised society; one of man’s greatest accomplishments. For that I make no apologies.

Obviously, once my defective heart was discovered at six months pregnant, the option of a natural birth went the way of the dodo. To be honest, I hadn’t been overly insistent on one when it had been a viable choice (although I did entertain the notion of a home-birth for about five minutes when I first realised I was pregnant. How endearingly optimistic I was). At five and a half months gone, however, a birth plan was nothing more than a trivial piece of parturitional jargon I’d resolutely ignored on whatever balled-up leaflet I happened to salvage from the bottom of my bag. I suppose you could say I was grossly unprepared, though in my defence, I was spending the majority of my time gasping for air.

That said, I was never one of those women (who ARE they?) who consider accepting even the mildest puff of gas during labour as an admission of defeat; as if you’re somewhat less of a woman, as I’ve seen it written, if you decide against, or are denied the option of, an all singing, all dancing, all natural, pain relief-free, vaginal* delivery. That’s the most ridiculous sentiment I’ve ever heard in my life. Don’t get me wrong, if you’ve managed to withstand a natural birth on sheer will alone, I have nothing but the sincerest admiration for you. I mean, ouch! But, please, don’t denigrate those of us who’ve declined, through choice or otherwise, to push. I’ll have you know that a caesarean is major abdominal surgery and also, in the ensuing weeks especially, really quite ouch. It’s not a competition; WE ARE ALL MAGNIFICENT!

Right, after that wild digression, where was I? Yes, epidurals. How amazing are they? You probably won’t be surprised to hear that after a less than straightforward pregnancy, childbirth was just as eventful for me: emergency c-section with bells on but that’s for another time. What I will say is that, apart from having my dear little lady placed in my arms obviously (I’m not a complete freak), the effects** of the epidural were the singularly most pleasurable aspect of the whole childbirth experience. The tingling, the numbness, the sheer novelty of having your lower abdomen sliced open and not feeling A DAMN THING! “Can you lift your legs?” “NO! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!” “Is it over already?” “OHMIGAWWWWWD!” “Where’s the placenta???” “That’s out too!” “WHAAAAAAAT? THIS IS AMAAAAAZING!!” I think you catch my drift.

Of course, me being me, there were complications. I nearly drifted into unconciousness at one point but I’ll talk about that at a later date. The whole point of this post is to marvel at the wonders of modern medicine. Whatever you choose you can’t deny that we’re lucky to have it. Don’t ever forget it.

*If you can say ‘vaginal’ without sniggering then you’re a better person than me. I’m clearly twelve.

**The actual administration of the epidural, well, that hurt. The ONLY reason I didn’t shed a tear is because I’m an extremely unpretty crier. I go a special shade of puce, snot abounds, really, it’s most unattractive.