Back to Reality

My days of mummy bliss are over, ten months of paid maternity leave whizzed past like a blur and it was time to face the fact that in this modern times, it is a luxury to stay at home to look after your own child. 

So last week, Isaac started to make the short journey to the bottom of our road, through a creaky iron gate and up the wooden stairs of Osborne House, a popular play ground for babies of working families in Hillsborough. When I gently lowered him on the floor, there were no screams of protests nor struggles to let go of my arms. He rushed off to grab a toy that has caught his eye so there wasn't even a goodbye kiss before I went on to catch the ten past eight tram to get to work by 8:30am. 

I spent my first day back desk-hopping and catching up with colleagues, boring everyone with my tales of motherhood. Someone commented that it must be weird being back after months of holiday. Holiday it certainly wasn't, I corrected, what with sleepless nights and long days chasing after a now mobile baby on top of keeping up with the housework! But another pointed out that I'm always posting photos of exciting trips and walks in the park, a perfect example of Facebook's reality distortion I admitted, as going out it the best way I know how to entertain a bored infant. 

While settling back at work, I hardly spared a thought about how my little man, who until recently had been very dependent on me, is coping in his strange new environment. I wasn't plagued with maternal guilt, that key emotion that is becoming a weird mark of being an acceptable mother, for leaving my son in the care of people who I barely know, whose names I am still learning to remember. 

But why should I be? Nursery is doing him a world of good, with plenty of interesting toys and activities to occupy him, in the company of other children with whom he will learn to share and socialise and in the care of well-qualified care workers who looks after them. When I pick him up at the end of each day, I am handed a report of how he has enjoyed his day. It is always fascinating to read how he is learning to forge a personality of his own, showing preference for particular toys and being caught smiling at his own reflection rather a lot!

This normality seems to be working for us. Like most British families, surviving in one salary is not an option, despite the cost of childcare eating up a quarter of our combined pay. But we are lucky enough that our jobs allow us to drop some hours so that each of us get to spend an extra day a week with our child and he only needs to be at nursery for three days a week. His dad, who has him on Thursdays, is relishing an extra day off to do his house chores and sort out the bills, tasks that normally take up most of his weekends. And on Fridays, which we have together, we still get to hang out with other mums and babies who we have become friends with over the past few months. 

It's early days of course, but my transition from being a career woman to a full-time mother to somewhere in between has not been too bad. There will definitely be challenging moments but I'm hopeful that we will be able to cope, and with as little anxiety as we can.

The Rise of Pram Pushing Daddies

The latest male fashion trend to hit our local shops and the city's high street is a pram, it doesn't matter what make it is or how big, as long as there is a baby inside. I've only noticed this phenomenon after we had a child when my husband started navigating the busy shop-lined streets of Hillsborough, occasionally stopping to let another father pass through. And it's not just during the weekends either. 

Just as women have been able to empower themselves through education and employment, so have men been able to assert equality when it comes to bringing up the children. In most British households, this shared responsibility over the child begins at birth, when the father is no longer restricted to pacing up and down the waiting room but is present at delivery by the mother's side giving reassurance and cutting the newborn's umbilical cord. This transition to parenthood is also well-supported by employers and the government where a two-week paid paternity leave is on the plate. 

Nappy changing and mealtime feeding is also taken in turns but our bedtime routine is pretty much a father and son bonding hour incorporating a bath, a story book and a bottle-feed while I put my feet up for a well-deserved break in front of the television or in the kitchen baking a cupcake.

On a trip to the local museum while my mother was here she was rather surprised by the number of men pushing prams, carrying babies on their chest or chasing after toddlers while their mothers are assumed to be at work. Not as many as in Scandinavian countries I reassured her, but it is comforting to know that employment rules in this country is also allowing men to share childcare responsibilities. 

With the man's traditional role of being the family's main provider no longer being the norm, more fathers have started looking after their children full-time and an increasing number are doing so part-time. An Equal Opportunities Commission Survey on new fathers found that "almost 8 out of 10 working fathers revealed that they would be happy to stay at home and look after their baby, while almost 9 out of 10 men felt as confident as their partner when caring for their child. In general, 7 out of 10 dads wanted to be more involved with caring for their child."

When I return to work after my maternity leave finishes, John will be one of those pram pushing daddies doing weekly shopping at the local shops, on Thursdays at least. 

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Kino Bambino: Of Screaming Babies and Cosmopolitan Mummies

Since I came to live in Britain, I could only count the number of times I have been to the cinema and it was mostly with friends. Paying for TV licence and having a BBC iPlayer on our telly meant we have a good selection of TV films, documentaries and drama series that we even struggle to find time to watch. On the rare occasion that John would take me out on a movie date, we would head off to Sheffield's 'arty' cinema, the Showroom, located in cultural heart of the city, opposite the train station. 

When our little boy was a few weeks old, we watched a British-Filipino film, Metro Manila, with my mother there. He slept through most of the film and only had to be taken out once when he woke up for a feed, so we managed to enjoy the movie without disturbing the rest of the audience. But at seven months, I would be lucky to get him to sleep during the day for an hour thus taking him to the cinema would be rather rude. So finding out that the Showroom has a special screening for parents with babies under one year old was rather useful. Called Kino Bambino, the latest films are screened with lower sound levels and the room is brighter than normal. 

A friend from a baby group has told me about it, she regularly goes on Monday mornings. This week, when a movie I wanted to watch was being shown, we went out to see it. 

We were amongst the first to take our seats and for awhile there were only less than ten of us inside but by the time the lights dimmed, nearly fifty parents have turned up with either a sleeping or screaming baby. Before I became a mother, any whimper from a child in a public place would have got on my nerves, but after months of living with a seldom quiet child, one certainly learns how to block off the noises. And so despite a congregation of whining infants, I have truly enjoyed watching the film. 

But not only that, I have also met other mothers who have become weekly faces at the cinema and realised how cosmopolitan Sheffield truly is. In our table, I've had interesting conversations with a mother whose husband is from Argentina and a mummy who is a native of Spain, and it wasn't just about our babies! 

Although I'm certainly not going to be a weekly cinema-goer, I'm still looking forward to the next time we would be watching a film. 

Image from web. 

Happy World Book Day!

It's never too early to foster love of books on little children. My mother said she started reading to me when I was still in her tummy and it definitely was one of the best gifts she has given me. 

When he was four months old, Isaac received his own library card at Hillsborough Children's Library along with a free Bookstart pack which contains two board books for us to enjoy.  Since then, our weekly trip to the library to borrow new books is something we both look forward to. It's always delightful to spend our afternoon playtime in the company of books with the colourful photos to look at and nursery rhymes to sing and act out. And at nighttime, his daddy also gets to read him his favourite book before putting him to bed. 

We're hoping that this early love for flipping pages would help enrich his imagination and make him want to explore more. 

I Said I Wouldn't Post Baby Photos

I can't remember when it began but for a few years now, my Facebook home page has been constantly flooded with photos of babies in 50 shades of drowsiness. I love babies and I delight at friends announcing the birth of their offsprings but certain acquaintances have found it amusing to post daily photos of their newborn children when I did not. And whilst it was easy to click 'Unsubscribe', the negative experience has also prompted me to make a public declaration that when I have a child, I will not be barraging my 'Facebook friends' with baby photos and anecdotes that would be bound to annoy them. 

Then I had a child and I certainly was in a dilemma. 

I love photography and my baby would most naturally become my favourite subject so the question of whether to post or not to post constantly grapple me. It doesn't help when a know-it-all mother declared this plainly truthful point: 

"Every time a parent posts a picture or recounts an anecdote about their child online, it is an invasion of privacy and a potential cause for peer embarrassment."

I could't argue with that. And to add to that, we don't really know where the images of our children might end up in the cyber world and how it could be used to harm them. It's a chilling thought. 

But because I now live far away from most of your family and friends, Facebook has become the most obvious way to bridge the distance and bring them closer to our life and what we have been up to. This potentially risky channel of communication allows us to feel a sense of togetherness that is difficult to experience otherwise. 

So in the end I reneged on my word of honour and ended up sharing photos of the little one. I drew the line when it comes to naked photos though (certainly that is a violation of a person's right to privacy would you not agree?) and I still try my best not to put a weekly photo shoot on (does a baby's face change so dramatically every week?). My family and some friends do get access to an album of unlimited photo uploads where I get to put photos of him eating his dinner, grabbing his toy or wearing a cute outfit, images the rest of the world wouldn't care about although sometimes they still end up in my mother or sister's Facebook accounts. And occasionally, like today, I also feel the urge to post photos of my amateur photography. 

P.S. Feel free to Unsubscribe or Unfriend me, I wouldn't feel offended. 

The Wonderful World of Weaning

There's been a constant buzz of activity in our tiny kitchen during the last few weeks - pans being stirred, hand blender being whizzed and food containers being filled up with different dishes for a growing baby to feed on. Cooking for your little one can be rather challenging, finding time to do it whilst looking after a mobile baby is not easy, but it can be cheap and rewarding. 

Official Department of Health guidelines recommend starting weaning at around six months old but at around 19 weeks Isaac was showing the classic signs of being ready to take solid food. We took the advice of my mother-in-law, a health visitor, and started him on a mix of baby rice or porridge from the box with a mixed variety of vegetables and fruits bought from the local green grocers and pureed using the hand blender (a Christmas present). 

Our child started off very greedy wanting to try everything and constantly asking for more but after three weeks and after going on two meals a day, he started getting fussy and irritable at meal times. I have read it was normal and just persisted, trying to make each meal time as fun as possible by putting him on his high chair and having meals with him. After a week and with more variety of food choices mixed together he started to open his mouth again and gobble everything like there is no tomorrow. 

Preparing his meals is not at all easy but I have allotted a day to cook them which falls on Thursdays when the library is closed, there are no play dates or swimming classes to go to and food shopping is done in the morning. Picking recipes from baby cook books borrowed from the library (Annabel Karmel and Gina Ford are a good start) and getting a free copy of Cow and Gate 5 Step Weaning Plan pack (which comes with free vouchers) made the job a bit less daunting. And with plenty of space in the freezer to help keep the food for longer, there is no reason why homemade baby cooking is not possible. Occasionally though when we are out and about, we do use ready made emergency packs that are as good and as healthy (albeit more expensive if resorted to every day). 

At six months we have already established three meals a day which includes fish and meat, complimented by breastfeeding four times a day and a bottle feed at night to keep him fuller for longer. The meal planners from the books also helped in creating a mixed and varied diet, a free Heinz meal planner can also be found online. I'm hoping that by helping Isaac develop a taste for healthy food now we will be making meal times a lot easier in the years to come.

The Lion King: A Magical Spectacle

Sat in the Grand Circle of the Lyceum Theater in London while waiting for the seats to be filled up, mostly by students on a day trip or tourists on a short visit to the British capital, I started to feel slightly apprehensive on whether the theatrical version of the Lion King we were about to see would live up to its critical acclaim. 

As a child, my siblings and I were obsessed with the 1994 Disney movie we kept replaying the VHS tape until the rented video nearly got broken. The coming of age movie theme and the memorable songs has made it until now my favourite cartoon film of all time. When I found out about the West End version, I've put it forward on our annual list of Things To Do and John booked the ticket for a day out in February. 

My husband and I are avid theatre-goers, preferring this medium to film, which made me feel more queasy about dragging him all the way to London with a late night train to catch that same day and a baby (who was left with his grandmother) to tuck in bed before midnight. But when the show opened with a bright orange sun rising over the African jungle followed by a procession of animals through the audience including a sizeable elephant, the child in me was reawakened and all cynicism replaced with awe. 

The show brought the African Savannah in all its colourful glory with a cacophonous cavalcade that took our breath away. The impressive animal puppets absorbed the human body into a whole Serengeti of stylised animal shapes, capturing the essence of the animals in the wild while nodding subtly to the human faces of Africa. It was a thunderous spectacle of live theatre with so much thought and detail that went into the choreography it was of little wonder that more than 10 years after its debut in London, even a mid-week matinee show can still command a full house. 

But it wasn't just the visual pageantry accompanied by African drumbeats that made the musical so popular, it also caters to different audiences who would leave the theatre with something to take. My special memories are the shared scenes between father and son, when Mufasa took Simba to the top of Pride Rock to marvel at the extent of the kingdom he would someday inherit and the lessons he attempted to impress on the curious cub. One particular line struck me, when the young lion repulsively pointed at the ugly vultures feeding on dead animals and his father told him that they are only doing what they are meant to do, that everything exists in a delicate balance called the Circle of Life which we would all do well to respect. That awareness is something our own child will also be taught. 

The Lion King is a definite must see, the West End version was nostalgic, breath-taking and soul-stirring, well worth the £45 (cheapest) per ticket  we had to pay. 

The Circle of Life: Image from weblink.

The Sun Rising: Image from weblink.

Sleep Comes Later

In our case, it normally doesn't come at all. 

The clock by my bedside table says it was barely eight o'clock in the morning when I was woken up from my shallow sleep. It wasn't John's kiss before setting off to work that did it but the wriggling noises that was coming from the cot beside our bed. In a few moments, the cryptic babbles started to get louder they couldn't be ignored. I stretched out of bed in disbelief, it was less than two hours ago since I've last been up after waking almost every hour during the night to feed and soothe a teething baby. I certainly didn't feel ready to start another day. 

I got up to look down on the four-month-old child with a cheeky smile who was very pleased to see me. It wasn't the first time, nor would be the last, that I would gaze at this beautiful creature who once lived inside me, this little piece of heaven on earth, with utter exasperation. And it mostly happens on Tuesdays and Thursdays, when my husband is on a long shift and wouldn't be home until after 7pm, a very long time before I would finally be able to have a bit of a break. 

I know I shouldn't be complaining, for most part of the year after giving birth I am being paid to look after my own child, probably the envy of most mothers. But sometimes going back to work suddenly seem appealing. 

My little boy is lovely, he coos and babbles, laughs at silly faces and loves to bounce on my knees. He loves it too much he doesn't like to be cuddled or sat down and there is only enough strength one can have to constantly carry a growing baby, especially one who refuses to sleep during the day.

So occasionally I let him cry, not for too long but enough to let him know he is not the boss of the house. That gives me some time to go outside and take a deep breath so that when I come back to the room I can give him a smile as I pick him up and try all forms of entertainment. It usually works although to be honest my preferred mode of dealing with a screaming child is to put him in the pram and wheel him out of the house to go to the park, smell some fresh air and listen to the quacking ducks by the pond. That calms him down like magic that by the time we come back he would be fast asleep and I can sit in front of the telly while sipping a warm cup of tea. This moment of quiet doesn't usually last long that often I find myself looking at the ticking clock counting the hours until his father, who has been up on his feet the whole day at work, can take over. 

No one said parenthood was going to be easy, but although we sometimes moan about its challenges, we would still choose it anyway. 

Monday Morning Baby Rush

Monday morning has once again found us rushing off from our house on top of the hill to the park at the bottom of our road to make it just in time for the Baby Massage class held at our local children's library.

It's amazing how a 9:30am start of the day can feel too early when you have a young baby in the house, especially after enduring another long and restless night. But meeting up with other mothers is a good enough reason to get out of the house, moan about our night shifts and compare notes about our baby's milestones. 

This four-week class is one of the perks of having a National Health Service, it is paid for by the taxpayers and run by a breastfeeding support worker. It has come very well recommended and the waiting list is long, I've been on it since September and has only been offered a place in December. But it's all worth it, with numerous benefits for both mother and baby including relief from wind, colic and constipation as well as relaxation but most importantly, it's an opportunity to bond with your child. Plus a chance to socialise and get to know other mums in the community too. 

There are seven other mothers pushing their prams to get to class on Monday morning and occasionally dads have dropped in too. I have just started to remember their names but I definitely know what their babies are called, its amazing how quickly you can pick up on those details. After the 30 minute session, we would have tea and coffee with sweets and share experiences, ask about other classes being run in the community and just relax. 

When you have a four-month-old baby screaming the house down during the day, any excuse to go out is a welcome one.

DIY Baby Toys

Some childhood images become engraved in the mind like photographs. My most vivid memory of a baby toy is that of my younger brother's bright red rattle that he was never without from amongst his baby photos. It was a possession so loved with astonishing intensity in spite its simplicity that years later I decided to find one for my own little boy and was disappointed to discover that they do not make them as simple or as cheap in the UK. In fact, they don't make any of them cheap here at all. 

In frustration, I started typing DIY toys in the internet and found a wealth of DIY projects using leftover fabrics and other materials readily available at home. Then by investing in a John Lewis sewing machine which only cost £35 and does the job, my mum (NOT ME!) made these lovely toys that her grandchild can play with and cherish. 

The Sound of Breathing

It was on one of those rare moments of peace and quiet in the house, when the baffling cries have been briefly muffled by the lure of deep sleep, that I came to rest beside the tiny life form that only a few weeks ago I had the joy of breathing out of this world. 

I listened to the sound of his steady breathing, in a way that one listens to the singing of the birds on the tree top or the gushing forth of the flowing river when they hit the rocks; sounds of which one cannot come up with meaning but which evokes a warmth of feeling that goes all the way to the heart. 

I could lie there forever, watching him sleep, listening to him breathe. 

A Natural Birth

"Deep within each woman, lies the Knowledge of how to give birth without outside interventions."

One cold January evening whilst having dinner in front of the telly, we watched animals give birth to their young in the wilderness of Africa. It was a process so beautiful and natural with no indication of excruciating pain that their human counterparts report to suffer in childbirth. I wondered then how these creatures manage to have the smooth and easy birthing while I, at 12 weeks pregnant, was destined to go through a painful ordeal.

Or was I?

Popular culture has often depicted pregnancy and the subsequent childbirth as an experience that would be enough to make any mother a saint (not that they are not, although I'm sure its not just because they've brought us out of this world). It was a belief I wasn't prepared to accept for after all, childbirth is a normal, natural healthy function for a woman. As an author pointed out, could "a God who had created the body with such perfection have designed a system of procreation that was flawed?"

This determination was fueled further by a chat with a friend who has gone through painless childbirths with all of her three children, the last one through Hypnobirthing, a practice that is becoming well-known in the UK. Although I was rather lazy in learning all the techniques, I have pored through the book and became adamant that I will deliver my baby without any pain relief medication and surgical intervention. I was going to breathe my baby out of my womb.

And that's exactly what I did. Two weeks ago, a day after my due date, the world heard our little man's first cry. It happened exactly the way I have hoped for: a natural, spontaneous birthing experience.

The contractions came at four in the morning, with rhythmic uterine surges and a constantly strong need to empty the bowels, signs that my mother has warned me about. They were uncomfortable but not painful and I started practicing my breathing exercises, imagining the gentle unfolding of the petals of a rose, whilst pacing up and down the room or sitting on a bouncing ball all the while recording the intervals and length on an iPhone app. I called the midwife at 7:30 am and was told to call the hospital when the contractions start to become more regular. I told John to go to work knowing that the first stages of labour could take up to 12 hours and the maternity ward is just across his workplace. The intervals became shorter and the contractions longer at around 2:00 pm and when I called the midwife again, I was told to contact the hospital when the pain became unbearable or when my waters break. I went out for a walk, chatted with friends in Facebook and made myself comfortable in the house. At 4:30 pm, I was still doing my breathing exercises and debating with our mothers on when we should be heading to the hospital when I felt my waters break. Even then I wasn't sure whether we should be setting off and decided to go to the shower where I noticed that lumps of blood were coming out and the urge to empty my bowels became stronger. My mother started to panic in fear I would be giving birth in the toilet. We decided it was time to go, by then I felt I was so ready to give birth anywhere.

The traffic lights were not against us that day, we got the emergency department of the maternity ward in record time. A midwife pronounced that I was fully dilated and was wheeled in to a delivery room where another midwife was waiting to help me give birth. John was called up in the middle of a clinic consultation to rush to the maternity unit and he arrived just in time to hold my hand and tell me how to breathe in and out. After 10 long exhales, I heard Isaac's cry and he was quickly laid down on my chest, a seven pound baby who has just spent nine months inside me. There was relief and there was pride, but most of all there was a feeling of being blessed a hundred times over.

John cut the cord while both our mothers looked on and hugged each other. He held our tiny bundle of joy, who was wide awake, alert and calm, while the midwife finished with my stitches. After our baths, we were told that we could go home that evening but we decided to stay overnight and finish with the baby's first checks the next day. After lunchtime the next day, we were on our way home, a young family who have been through a natural birth together, each one having taken up an important role in the process, and ready to take on the next challenge.