My goodness me, I've been remiss. Slovenly, even. I haven't updated here since August it seems, and it's now DECEMBER!! Where does the time go to ... well, where does it go other than to working full-time, having 3 children and running a home. Oh and trying to qualify to give Myers-Briggs feedback. I dunno, I clearly just sit on my backside all day, being slovenly.
In the short-ish time since my last blog, we've had the credit crunch, the world going into a recession, my shares becoming worthless, Obama elected as USA president, the Mumbai terror attacks, Somali pirates hijacking oil tankers, the appalling death of Baby P, MP's being arrested in Parliament, interest rates at their lowest since 1951 ... and so it goes on.
On a lighter note, there's been the usual talentless rubbish on X Factor (Alex is the exception), some lad from Eastenders becoming king of the Jungle, Dead Set being surprisingly good and my new addiction to BBC1's Spooks.
What's been happening chez Courtney?
Ellice continues to come out with pearls of wisdom, which I'll save for another blog. She's really into Amy Winehouse right now, especially 'Rehab'. I filmed her the other day singing the chorus, making all the right hand movements on the 'no, no, no' bit; hilarious, but at the same time a little disturbing watching a 3-year-old singing, 'They tried to make me go to rehab, I said no, no, no'. Funnier still, the baby (Charlotte) joins in on 'no, no, no', whilst waving her arm backwards and forwards. My Little Man is loving school and is in the Christmas school play as a 'pirate' ... hmmm .... yes, that's what I thought too! I can just see it now .. 'and the pirate brought the baby Jesus a gift of gold coins and a hoop earring'.
HWA has a bad back. Not just bad, it's demonic. It started as a 'mechanical' problem and I sent him to the physio, who beat him badly (or so he likes to tell me) and fixed things. Or so it seemed until HWA immediately began to suffer from sciatica. The type of sciatica that causes immense pain in the buttocks, back of the thigh and right down to the ankle. He's been not only in a lot of pain, but occasionally in a foul mood, as a result. So yesterday he was packed off back to the physio, who concurred with my diagnosis that HWA has a trapped nerve that requires untrapping. He hobbled back through the front door a couple of hours later, pitifully asking me to check his back for bruises. He sees the physio again on Friday, let's hope she doesn't beat him too badly.
And finally my mother has a new 'friend'. The less said about that right now the better - I'm very visual and I cannot cope with those images.
So, to ensure I actually do write the blogs I have planned I've made an early New Year's resolution (which is to keep my blog up to date). I now just have to make a second early resolution, about not being so darn slovenly ...
Tuesday, 9 December 2008
Friday, 8 August 2008
The Arrival of Charlotte Lauren
Charlie Chuckles is my gorgeous 16-month-old. Cutie curly locks, slate blue almond eyes and thick, dark, long eyelashes that Kate Moss would kill for. A beauty. She can also be a little horror and has taken to throwing herself around the floor, screaming like she's being murdered, when she doesn't get her own way.
Charlie wasn't planned. Ooooh nooo. She was the result of going on a family break and forgetting to take my pill. Yep, even sensible exec types do that too.
I found out I was pregnant just before my step-father died, so that whole horrible time of mourning was also a time for me where I had to keep a secret and deal with pregnancy sickness too.
Charlie's birth was traumatic, truly horrible. All that guff about, 'Ooh, it's number 3 so she'll just pop out, dead easy' was a LIE.
Ethan's birth was fine if a little traumatic (see 'Dream or Premonition'); the issues came an hour later. And Ellice, bless her, really did just pop out. Both with just a bit of gas and air.
But Charlie - oh God - horrible.
She was overdue and despite medical interventions she had no desire to be set free. So, I was told to ring the hospital when she was 14 days overdue and they'd take me in. Erm, no. They were too busy. Had to wait another day. I was whale-like, with a huge belly (people often asked me if I was having twins - thanks), I had gained 4 stone (too many pies), was experiencing pain in my hips and legs and just wanted her OUT.
So, the following day, I went in at 2.30pm to be induced: A pessary and a lie down and being told to wait.
Nothing happened.
HWA went home, bored.
My friend visited.
Eventually, at 8.50p.m. it kicked in and the contractions began. 'Thank the Lord for that', I thought.
The friend went home. HWA returned.
The contractions became stronger. HWA, bored again, went to sleep on my hospital bed whilst I moaned and groaned and pushed against the wall and gripped tightly onto anything I could lay my hands on.
Unlike the previous 2, the pain became very intense very quickly. Gas and air wasn't enough.
'I need some pain relief'', I wailed pathetically to the midwife. I have memories of her in a Stasi uniform, but think that may have been the gas and air. 'We promote natural birth in this unit', she barked back. Gulp.
An hour later and the pain was worse. Me: 'I really, really need some pain relief'. Stasi chick: 'Here's some cocodemol'.
HWA was still asleep.
2 hours on. 'I really, really can't cope anymore'. I lay on the bed (HWA was awake by this point). My waters broke. The midwife suggested the birthing pool for pain relief.
Now, my vision of a birthing pool was: a peaceful atmosphere; great pain relief; candles and subdued lighting; soft music. Me, looking gorgeous, smiling as the baby comes floating out.
The reality was: me with my hair sticking to my head and face; indescribable pain; me crying with said pain; me begging for 'something stronger' and vomiting in the pool.
This lead to an exit from the pool and a quick jab in the leg.
I don't condone drugs, but after that jab I really can understand their attraction. One jab of diamorphine and I was floating on air. The pain hadn't actually gone, it had only subsided a little, but the fact was that I didn't give a toss. I lay there, off my face, trying to chat to the people in the room. The contractions were terrible but I didn't care.
When Charlie's head finally popped out, we saw (well, the midwives saw and I heard them discuss) the reason for her delay and painful arrival - the cord was wrapped around her neck three times. So my clever little girl didn't want to come out because she'd throttle herself.
HWA refused to cut the cord. He'd done it once before and preferred to 'stay up top'. He then went to phone everyone:
'Al's had the baby'
'Ooh wonderful. Name? Weight? Length?'
'Charlotte Lauren. Erm ... dunno. Erm ... dunno'
She was 9lb 11oz, by the way, but still not sure he actually knows that.
YM
Charlie wasn't planned. Ooooh nooo. She was the result of going on a family break and forgetting to take my pill. Yep, even sensible exec types do that too.
I found out I was pregnant just before my step-father died, so that whole horrible time of mourning was also a time for me where I had to keep a secret and deal with pregnancy sickness too.
Charlie's birth was traumatic, truly horrible. All that guff about, 'Ooh, it's number 3 so she'll just pop out, dead easy' was a LIE.
Ethan's birth was fine if a little traumatic (see 'Dream or Premonition'); the issues came an hour later. And Ellice, bless her, really did just pop out. Both with just a bit of gas and air.
But Charlie - oh God - horrible.
She was overdue and despite medical interventions she had no desire to be set free. So, I was told to ring the hospital when she was 14 days overdue and they'd take me in. Erm, no. They were too busy. Had to wait another day. I was whale-like, with a huge belly (people often asked me if I was having twins - thanks), I had gained 4 stone (too many pies), was experiencing pain in my hips and legs and just wanted her OUT.
So, the following day, I went in at 2.30pm to be induced: A pessary and a lie down and being told to wait.
Nothing happened.
HWA went home, bored.
My friend visited.
Eventually, at 8.50p.m. it kicked in and the contractions began. 'Thank the Lord for that', I thought.
The friend went home. HWA returned.
The contractions became stronger. HWA, bored again, went to sleep on my hospital bed whilst I moaned and groaned and pushed against the wall and gripped tightly onto anything I could lay my hands on.
Unlike the previous 2, the pain became very intense very quickly. Gas and air wasn't enough.
'I need some pain relief'', I wailed pathetically to the midwife. I have memories of her in a Stasi uniform, but think that may have been the gas and air. 'We promote natural birth in this unit', she barked back. Gulp.
An hour later and the pain was worse. Me: 'I really, really need some pain relief'. Stasi chick: 'Here's some cocodemol'.
HWA was still asleep.
2 hours on. 'I really, really can't cope anymore'. I lay on the bed (HWA was awake by this point). My waters broke. The midwife suggested the birthing pool for pain relief.
Now, my vision of a birthing pool was: a peaceful atmosphere; great pain relief; candles and subdued lighting; soft music. Me, looking gorgeous, smiling as the baby comes floating out.
The reality was: me with my hair sticking to my head and face; indescribable pain; me crying with said pain; me begging for 'something stronger' and vomiting in the pool.
This lead to an exit from the pool and a quick jab in the leg.
I don't condone drugs, but after that jab I really can understand their attraction. One jab of diamorphine and I was floating on air. The pain hadn't actually gone, it had only subsided a little, but the fact was that I didn't give a toss. I lay there, off my face, trying to chat to the people in the room. The contractions were terrible but I didn't care.
When Charlie's head finally popped out, we saw (well, the midwives saw and I heard them discuss) the reason for her delay and painful arrival - the cord was wrapped around her neck three times. So my clever little girl didn't want to come out because she'd throttle herself.
HWA refused to cut the cord. He'd done it once before and preferred to 'stay up top'. He then went to phone everyone:
'Al's had the baby'
'Ooh wonderful. Name? Weight? Length?'
'Charlotte Lauren. Erm ... dunno. Erm ... dunno'
She was 9lb 11oz, by the way, but still not sure he actually knows that.
YM
Wednesday, 6 August 2008
Memories of my Father
Dad was funny. Sometimes unintentionally, but generally he liked a joke and a laugh. He called me 'Titch', because I was the baby. He continued to call me that until the day he died.
It was inevitable that he would die whilst I was still relatively young, as there was a big age gap between him and my mum. On the odd occasion he came to collect me from school, the other kids would say that my grandad was waiting for me. I was proud of my dad, so I made sure they knew he was NOT my grandad, but my very own dad.
Dad may have been 'older' but he was just as much fun - however this had consequences. He was doing handstands against the wall with me and my sister one day and he had a heart attack! I remember from that day on nothing, but nothing, that was fried or unhealthy was allowed in our house. Even the bacon was boiled (bleugh, what was my mum thinking! We had a grill!).
He'd been married before he met my mum, but his first wife died of cancer. He never thought he'd have a second chance at happiness until he met a very glamorous young thing called Jo, who astonishingly enough agreed to marry him despite the 30 year age difference. However, after a few years, the rather-obvious-to-everyone-else happened: She grew up and wanted to spend time with people of her own age, and they grew apart. I remember the day we left, kissing him goodbye as he lay in bed asleep, being 'shhhhd' by Mum and tip-toeing out of the house. We didn't see him for a little while after that and I was devastated.
Before he met Mum, Dad had almost 30 years as an adult, and so had done lots of things that didn't involve her, where she had no connection. He had been working since the 1930's. He didn't fight in WW2 as he worked in shipbuilding on the Tyne, which was seen as a critical occupation. He would tell me stories about launching ships on rotten vegetables as whatever they normally used was rationed or in short supply. Then he moved to Turner & Newall, where they did a lot of work with asbestos before people realised it was a killer. I guess luckily for him, because he was management rather than labour, he didn't end up suffering with Asbestosis. However, when we'd look at old photos of him and his work colleagues, he'd point at almost every one of them and say, 'He's dead'. And they hadn't died from old age. When I was a child, my one greatest fear was that he'd die - I guess I was conscious he was a lot older than other dads.
When I was about 10 (and not living with him anymore, so my mum couldn't say no to this), he decided to teach me to drive. We took his red Toyota Corolla down to the Riverside Park and I drove it, mostly in 1st gear, on the grass. I stalled it a few times and after a while he gave up (patience was not a virtue of his). But he was always encouraging me to try something new, to give it a go, even if I was afraid.
His favourite song was 'Simply the Best' by Tina Turner. He used to say she'd written it about him (he was very confident!) because that's what he was, the best at everything he did. I adored him.
Just before his 83rd birthday, he became poorly. He was in hospital for 3 months and lost 4 stone. Then they said he was getting better and placed him in a rehabilitation unit. He was released after 2 weeks. He arrived home at 4pm. By 8pm he was back in hospital, and this time it was apparent that things were really bad. The hospital staff placed him in Ward 18, and the first thing he said was, 'This is where they put cancer patients to die'. He became worse and lost more weight.
I went to see him on Father's Day, 1997. He wouldn't wake up - the hospital staff had overdosed him on opiates. However, he recovered ... well, a recovery of sorts. Three days later they called myself and my sister to the hospital to tell us that they had placed him on diamorphine and that 'the end' would be soon. So we sat with him, and my mum (from whom he'd been divorced for 20 years) held his hand and chatted to him. It was the first time I'd heard the 'death rattle', that laboured, rattling, shallow breathing and I hope it's the last. Horrific.
Eventually there was just myself and my sister left in the room with him. It was just after 1am and the nurses ushered us out of the room to take us to the 'family room'. They explained that when a person is dying, if their family are in the room they tend to 'hang on' for as long as possible as they don't want to die in front of them. They said they take the family into another room, as they had done with me and my sis, and generally when they 'go back into the room their loved one has passed'.
So we sat down. And I got to thinking: when I was little, there were lots of times I was afraid, on my own, in the dark. My dad was always there for me, he would never have let me be alone and afraid. Why would I leave him in that situation? So I grabbed my sister's hand and took her back to Dad's room.
He was obviously near the end now, his breathing was very, very shallow. I don't know what made me do any of this, other than I didn't want him to be afraid and alone. I took his hand, it was cold so I began to rub it. 'Dad', I said, 'We both love you very much but it's time to go. We're big girls now and we can look after ourselves. You have loads of people waiting for you on the other side, go and see them. We love you very, very much, but it's time to go'. I remember it was very, very quiet. He breathed in, and breathed out. In and out. I continued to talk to him, to reassure him. In and out. In. Then a very long Out. Then nothing. It was 1.16a.m. He was gone and he hadn't been afraid or alone.
YM
It was inevitable that he would die whilst I was still relatively young, as there was a big age gap between him and my mum. On the odd occasion he came to collect me from school, the other kids would say that my grandad was waiting for me. I was proud of my dad, so I made sure they knew he was NOT my grandad, but my very own dad.
Dad may have been 'older' but he was just as much fun - however this had consequences. He was doing handstands against the wall with me and my sister one day and he had a heart attack! I remember from that day on nothing, but nothing, that was fried or unhealthy was allowed in our house. Even the bacon was boiled (bleugh, what was my mum thinking! We had a grill!).
He'd been married before he met my mum, but his first wife died of cancer. He never thought he'd have a second chance at happiness until he met a very glamorous young thing called Jo, who astonishingly enough agreed to marry him despite the 30 year age difference. However, after a few years, the rather-obvious-to-everyone-else happened: She grew up and wanted to spend time with people of her own age, and they grew apart. I remember the day we left, kissing him goodbye as he lay in bed asleep, being 'shhhhd' by Mum and tip-toeing out of the house. We didn't see him for a little while after that and I was devastated.
Before he met Mum, Dad had almost 30 years as an adult, and so had done lots of things that didn't involve her, where she had no connection. He had been working since the 1930's. He didn't fight in WW2 as he worked in shipbuilding on the Tyne, which was seen as a critical occupation. He would tell me stories about launching ships on rotten vegetables as whatever they normally used was rationed or in short supply. Then he moved to Turner & Newall, where they did a lot of work with asbestos before people realised it was a killer. I guess luckily for him, because he was management rather than labour, he didn't end up suffering with Asbestosis. However, when we'd look at old photos of him and his work colleagues, he'd point at almost every one of them and say, 'He's dead'. And they hadn't died from old age. When I was a child, my one greatest fear was that he'd die - I guess I was conscious he was a lot older than other dads.
When I was about 10 (and not living with him anymore, so my mum couldn't say no to this), he decided to teach me to drive. We took his red Toyota Corolla down to the Riverside Park and I drove it, mostly in 1st gear, on the grass. I stalled it a few times and after a while he gave up (patience was not a virtue of his). But he was always encouraging me to try something new, to give it a go, even if I was afraid.
His favourite song was 'Simply the Best' by Tina Turner. He used to say she'd written it about him (he was very confident!) because that's what he was, the best at everything he did. I adored him.
Just before his 83rd birthday, he became poorly. He was in hospital for 3 months and lost 4 stone. Then they said he was getting better and placed him in a rehabilitation unit. He was released after 2 weeks. He arrived home at 4pm. By 8pm he was back in hospital, and this time it was apparent that things were really bad. The hospital staff placed him in Ward 18, and the first thing he said was, 'This is where they put cancer patients to die'. He became worse and lost more weight.
I went to see him on Father's Day, 1997. He wouldn't wake up - the hospital staff had overdosed him on opiates. However, he recovered ... well, a recovery of sorts. Three days later they called myself and my sister to the hospital to tell us that they had placed him on diamorphine and that 'the end' would be soon. So we sat with him, and my mum (from whom he'd been divorced for 20 years) held his hand and chatted to him. It was the first time I'd heard the 'death rattle', that laboured, rattling, shallow breathing and I hope it's the last. Horrific.
Eventually there was just myself and my sister left in the room with him. It was just after 1am and the nurses ushered us out of the room to take us to the 'family room'. They explained that when a person is dying, if their family are in the room they tend to 'hang on' for as long as possible as they don't want to die in front of them. They said they take the family into another room, as they had done with me and my sis, and generally when they 'go back into the room their loved one has passed'.
So we sat down. And I got to thinking: when I was little, there were lots of times I was afraid, on my own, in the dark. My dad was always there for me, he would never have let me be alone and afraid. Why would I leave him in that situation? So I grabbed my sister's hand and took her back to Dad's room.
He was obviously near the end now, his breathing was very, very shallow. I don't know what made me do any of this, other than I didn't want him to be afraid and alone. I took his hand, it was cold so I began to rub it. 'Dad', I said, 'We both love you very much but it's time to go. We're big girls now and we can look after ourselves. You have loads of people waiting for you on the other side, go and see them. We love you very, very much, but it's time to go'. I remember it was very, very quiet. He breathed in, and breathed out. In and out. I continued to talk to him, to reassure him. In and out. In. Then a very long Out. Then nothing. It was 1.16a.m. He was gone and he hadn't been afraid or alone.
YM
Tuesday, 5 August 2008
Gift of the Gab
I've mentioned before that my Twitter updates tend to revolve around work, my kids or the TV (ooh what an exciting life). I say 'kids', but it tends to be Ellice aka 'My 3-year-old'.
Ellice is 3 going on 23. She's waaay too logical for her age. And articulate. Ellice has always been a talker. We have video footage of her, aged 5 months, babbling away, 'Mama, dada, baba' and squealing with delight every time she said it. 5 1/2 months is early, I mean really early, for babble. Her first word, age 15 months, was 'Shoooe' (yeay, go mummy's girl!!) and she'd walk about with her favourite shoe in her hand saying it over and over again. Ellice was using Makaton sign language at 7 months - she'd ask for Barney (the annoying purple dinosaur) and 'more' (usually food). We didn't teach her these; she picked them up from her brother.
She showed me up for the slummy mummy I can sometimes be: she crawled into the kitchen, signed milk and pointed to the microwave (she wanted warm milk - and you shouldn't warm baby milk in a microwave ...).
The only time Ellice is quiet is when watching Dora the Explorer or when asleep. The rest of the time is constant chatter. In the halcyon days of relative peace, whilst she was still learning to talk, she would substitute her own versions of words which she couldn't pronounce. My fave was her name for Ethan: Eddy. We'd often hear her demanding, 'Eddy, push', she'd then appear on a Thomas the Tank push along, being pushed by 'Eddy'. This was never the other way around; she had him wrapped around her little finger.
Ellice constantly surprises us. We have a book of 'Ellice-isms':
Ellice is 3 going on 23. She's waaay too logical for her age. And articulate. Ellice has always been a talker. We have video footage of her, aged 5 months, babbling away, 'Mama, dada, baba' and squealing with delight every time she said it. 5 1/2 months is early, I mean really early, for babble. Her first word, age 15 months, was 'Shoooe' (yeay, go mummy's girl!!) and she'd walk about with her favourite shoe in her hand saying it over and over again. Ellice was using Makaton sign language at 7 months - she'd ask for Barney (the annoying purple dinosaur) and 'more' (usually food). We didn't teach her these; she picked them up from her brother.
She showed me up for the slummy mummy I can sometimes be: she crawled into the kitchen, signed milk and pointed to the microwave (she wanted warm milk - and you shouldn't warm baby milk in a microwave ...).
The only time Ellice is quiet is when watching Dora the Explorer or when asleep. The rest of the time is constant chatter. In the halcyon days of relative peace, whilst she was still learning to talk, she would substitute her own versions of words which she couldn't pronounce. My fave was her name for Ethan: Eddy. We'd often hear her demanding, 'Eddy, push', she'd then appear on a Thomas the Tank push along, being pushed by 'Eddy'. This was never the other way around; she had him wrapped around her little finger.
Ellice constantly surprises us. We have a book of 'Ellice-isms':
- Mummy, I've had a huge wee-wee, it was exceptional
- Baby Charlotte is in Mummy's tummy (that's how Charlotte got her name)
- After calling her 3 times with no response, ME: Why didn't you answer me when I called you? HER (indignant): Mummy, I was RELAXING!
- Wanting some hot doughnut from me, ME: No, it'll burn your mouth. HER: But Mummy, if it'll burn my mouth, it'll burn yours, and you're eating it. So pleasemayI (all one word, said very quickly) have some now?
- ME: Did you enjoy that? HER: Mummy, it was anmazing (pronounced as spelled).
- ME: Dora's on tv. HER: Mummy, I'm baking a chocolate cake. ME: But I thought you liked Dora? HER (telling me off): I CANNOT bake a chocolate cake AND watch Dora at the same time.
- But my absolute favourite was this week. I asked Ethan for a response on something, and Ellice said, 'Mummy, Ethan can't talk. He has DANCE SYNDROME'. Fab!! That's what I'm going to call it from now on.
Thursday, 17 July 2008
From the mouths of babes
I'm fed up with saying to HWA, 'For God's sake, don't swear when you're in earshot of the kids'. And to be fair it does only happen occasionally. However, that's when Sod's Law comes into play and it is of course the worst possible time for one of the kids to be in earshot. Well, actually, just Ellice as Ethan and Charlie don't talk ... yet.
When I work out of the local office, I like to drop off and collect Ellice from nursery. We have some great chats in the car; she tells me about her day in Scarecrows, about how Joshua Smith and Ben Jones accidentally killed the wiggly worms or wouldn't eat their lunch. She'll sing me the latest song she's learned (fave at the mo is a Spanish number). She'll tell me interesting facts she's learned that day ('Mummy, do you know what, Mummy? Seeds grow into flowers').
So imagine my surprise when she said, 'Mummy, do you know what Mummy? Daddy's screwdriver is f**ked'.
Me, thinking I'd misheard, 'What was that Sweetie, what does that mean?'.
Her: 'Daddy's screwdriver is f**ked. It means it's broken'.
Now, with Ellice, if you make a big deal about something she latches on to it. So all I said was, 'That's a silly word, it doesn't mean anything.'
'But Daddy said it when he was fixing the sink'.
'I think you mustn't have heard Daddy properly. Just say broken instead'.
'OK Mummy. Daddy's screwdriver is f ...erm .. f .. erm Froken'. She's clever.
Hmm. HWA was severely reprimanded, by me, using some choice language of my own. Obviously not within earshot of the kids, though.
YM
When I work out of the local office, I like to drop off and collect Ellice from nursery. We have some great chats in the car; she tells me about her day in Scarecrows, about how Joshua Smith and Ben Jones accidentally killed the wiggly worms or wouldn't eat their lunch. She'll sing me the latest song she's learned (fave at the mo is a Spanish number). She'll tell me interesting facts she's learned that day ('Mummy, do you know what, Mummy? Seeds grow into flowers').
So imagine my surprise when she said, 'Mummy, do you know what Mummy? Daddy's screwdriver is f**ked'.
Me, thinking I'd misheard, 'What was that Sweetie, what does that mean?'.
Her: 'Daddy's screwdriver is f**ked. It means it's broken'.
Now, with Ellice, if you make a big deal about something she latches on to it. So all I said was, 'That's a silly word, it doesn't mean anything.'
'But Daddy said it when he was fixing the sink'.
'I think you mustn't have heard Daddy properly. Just say broken instead'.
'OK Mummy. Daddy's screwdriver is f ...erm .. f .. erm Froken'. She's clever.
Hmm. HWA was severely reprimanded, by me, using some choice language of my own. Obviously not within earshot of the kids, though.
YM
Wednesday, 16 July 2008
Dream or premonition?
I remember having a very vivid dream whilst pregnant with Ethan.
We already knew he was a boy and had decided on a name. I hadn't had any 'tests' - no point, eugenics and abortion aren't for me.
In the dream, I am holding a baby's hands, 'walking' her into the garden towards a little boy. He is about 5 years old and is dressed in a red and grey school uniform. He has dark hair and his back to me.
'Ethan', I call, 'aren't you going to say hello to your little sister?'.
The boy turns to face me.
He has Down syndrome.
From that point on I had a 'feeling' that something was different about this baby, but suppressed this as it worried me. So, by the time my waters broke there were only feelings of excitement.
After a gas & air labour and an assisted delivery, my 9lb 5oz boy scored well on his Apgar. I remember the moment they handed him to me, wrapped in a white blanket: he was beautiful. He opened his eyes and looked directly at me. He had stunning almond-shaped eyes. And then I did a really strange thing - I looked at the palms of his hands. I knew I was looking for a crease and breathed a sigh of relief when I didn't see one. I still don't know where that came from - why would I do that?
So, I had 20 minutes of bliss. That 'bathing in new motherhood' glow. 20 minutes was all it lasted.
The nurse noticed it first.
'He's a bit floppy, probably nothing''. Then, 'He hasn't pinked up' - he was still a purple/blue colour.
Then she hit the emergency button on the wall. And that, as they say, was the end of life as I knew it.
Suddenly a team of nurses and a doctor surrounded my boy. They gave him oxygen. Nobody thought to tell me what was going on. They wheeled him out - quickly - on the oxygen machine.
A few minutes later the doctor returned.
'Were there any problems during pregnancy?' No eye contact with me.
'No'
'Did you have any tests, like an amniocentesis?'
'No'. Long pause. 'I think he might have Down syndrome'. There. The words were out. Did I really just say that? Why? Of course he didn't.
'We don't know. He's a bit floppy and blue. But don't worry about it'. Yeah, right.
She left the room.
So there I was, on my own, devastated, no explanations and no baby. I wailed.
Some hours later, after my husband had returned to the hospital and after the Paediatric Consultant has given us 3 possible diagnoses, we went to see Ethan in the SCBU.
It was a shock to see him lying in an incubator, wired up to machines with a feeding tube in his nose. He looked like a baby Sumo - naked except for his nappy, little folds of skin and fat on his chubby legs and arms. His little Oriental-looking face. Eh? An Oriental face? Now there was a clue we couldn't fail to miss, yet funnily enough hadn't noticed when he'd first been handed to me. Baby Ghenghis, I thought.
Anyway, back to the dream. I was reminded of this the other day when I was 'walking' Charlotte (the baby) over to Ethan, who hadn't long been back home from school.
He was in his red and grey school uniform and had his back to me.
'Aren't you going to say hello to your little sister', I said.
He turned to face me.
He has dark hair and Down syndrome.
YM
We already knew he was a boy and had decided on a name. I hadn't had any 'tests' - no point, eugenics and abortion aren't for me.
In the dream, I am holding a baby's hands, 'walking' her into the garden towards a little boy. He is about 5 years old and is dressed in a red and grey school uniform. He has dark hair and his back to me.
'Ethan', I call, 'aren't you going to say hello to your little sister?'.
The boy turns to face me.
He has Down syndrome.
From that point on I had a 'feeling' that something was different about this baby, but suppressed this as it worried me. So, by the time my waters broke there were only feelings of excitement.
After a gas & air labour and an assisted delivery, my 9lb 5oz boy scored well on his Apgar. I remember the moment they handed him to me, wrapped in a white blanket: he was beautiful. He opened his eyes and looked directly at me. He had stunning almond-shaped eyes. And then I did a really strange thing - I looked at the palms of his hands. I knew I was looking for a crease and breathed a sigh of relief when I didn't see one. I still don't know where that came from - why would I do that?
So, I had 20 minutes of bliss. That 'bathing in new motherhood' glow. 20 minutes was all it lasted.
The nurse noticed it first.
'He's a bit floppy, probably nothing''. Then, 'He hasn't pinked up' - he was still a purple/blue colour.
Then she hit the emergency button on the wall. And that, as they say, was the end of life as I knew it.
Suddenly a team of nurses and a doctor surrounded my boy. They gave him oxygen. Nobody thought to tell me what was going on. They wheeled him out - quickly - on the oxygen machine.
A few minutes later the doctor returned.
'Were there any problems during pregnancy?' No eye contact with me.
'No'
'Did you have any tests, like an amniocentesis?'
'No'. Long pause. 'I think he might have Down syndrome'. There. The words were out. Did I really just say that? Why? Of course he didn't.
'We don't know. He's a bit floppy and blue. But don't worry about it'. Yeah, right.
She left the room.
So there I was, on my own, devastated, no explanations and no baby. I wailed.
Some hours later, after my husband had returned to the hospital and after the Paediatric Consultant has given us 3 possible diagnoses, we went to see Ethan in the SCBU.
It was a shock to see him lying in an incubator, wired up to machines with a feeding tube in his nose. He looked like a baby Sumo - naked except for his nappy, little folds of skin and fat on his chubby legs and arms. His little Oriental-looking face. Eh? An Oriental face? Now there was a clue we couldn't fail to miss, yet funnily enough hadn't noticed when he'd first been handed to me. Baby Ghenghis, I thought.
Anyway, back to the dream. I was reminded of this the other day when I was 'walking' Charlotte (the baby) over to Ethan, who hadn't long been back home from school.
He was in his red and grey school uniform and had his back to me.
'Aren't you going to say hello to your little sister', I said.
He turned to face me.
He has dark hair and Down syndrome.
YM
Tuesday, 15 July 2008
Opposites Attract
I've been told that I'm presenting a poor image of HWA. And if all I do is moan about him (hey, that a wife's right!!) then what am I doing with him?
We are pretty different people. And therein lies the beauty of our relationship. He's yin to my yang; the shady place to my sunny place; the north slope to my south slope. I'm organised, he's spontaneous. I like a tidy and beautiful home, he likes a fun place to live. I like to order online shopping two weeks in advance, he likes to pop to the shops to see what he fancies. I like Big Brother, he likes 'World's Greatest Police Videos'. It works because we're mutually supportive of one another's differences and enjoy those differences. We have noisy thoughts and know what the other is going to say. Dynamic equilibrium.
So to be fair to him indoors, here are his top 5 positives:
We are pretty different people. And therein lies the beauty of our relationship. He's yin to my yang; the shady place to my sunny place; the north slope to my south slope. I'm organised, he's spontaneous. I like a tidy and beautiful home, he likes a fun place to live. I like to order online shopping two weeks in advance, he likes to pop to the shops to see what he fancies. I like Big Brother, he likes 'World's Greatest Police Videos'. It works because we're mutually supportive of one another's differences and enjoy those differences. We have noisy thoughts and know what the other is going to say. Dynamic equilibrium.
So to be fair to him indoors, here are his top 5 positives:
- He is a fantastic father, no doubt about it. The children adore him.
- He's great at DIY and all sorts of other manly pursuits, grrr.
- He's articulate and intelligent.
- He's funny and fun to be with.
- He doesn't moan too much when I spend a lot of money on a Vivien Westwood bag that I still haven't used.
BUT ... I reserve the right to moan about the picky little things that are really annoying, including giving me attitude and thinking the bloody tv remote belongs to him and him only.
Other than that, he's grrrrreat ......
YM
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