She'll be Wearing Striped Pyjamas

London Fashion Week is nearly upon us and so I feel it is as good a time as any to step inside the wardrobe - the maternity wardrobe, that is.

Before I had my daughter I did not consider myself a fashionista by any means, but I enjoyed getting dressed. I would plan outfits to suit occasions, sometimes going so far as to coordinate accessories and shoes.

But since she was born I have been enveloped by the uniform of the breastfeeding mother. Leggings, trainers and a stripy top, with a flap that opens to allow my baby direct access to her private all-you-can-eat buffet at any opportunity.

Occasionally, if we are going somewhere other than the supermarket or the Children’s Centre, and if she has deemed to let me have a few brief minutes to myself, I may wear a stripy dress, also fitted with said flap, and some mascara.

My earrings and necklaces are gathering dust - she frequently yanks my hair hard enough to warn me that jewellery is no longer an option.

Getting dressed in the mornings is much quicker and easier, and I’m long past caring about what I look like. But why do all maternity clothes have to be striped?

Are they marking us out? Like prisoners?

Meanwhile, the milk bar flap may be extremely convenient for my baby, but it has its draw backs.

In the first few weeks of motherhood I resorted in desperation to an online laundry service that collected your soiled garments from your door and returned them clean and folded.

When the doorbell rang, I halted the endless feed and staggered to the door with a bag stuffed full of baby grows and blankets, covered with various bodily fluids.

The delivery man recoiled in horror as I opened the door, but I assumed he was just shocked by my eye bags and bird’s nest hair, and I asked him when my laundry would be returned. My mind was focused on calculating how many outfits I had left to get me through, allowing for leaking nappies and sick spurts.

The man averted his eyes and made an awkward gesture towards my chest before muttering uncomfortably.

Looking down I realised that in my hurry to answer the door I had forgotten to close the flap and was now flashing the Laundrapp man.

I was far too exhausted to be ashamed and absentmindedly tugged the flap shut, only for mortification to gradually creep up on me as I awaited his return with my clean clothes.

Two days later when I buzzed him in, the Laundrapp man left my bag on the doorstep and crept away before I could cause either of us any further embarrassment.

Fashion is a closed door to me now.

On the few occasions I have attempted to pop into a clothes shop with the pram, I have found myself blocked in between rails, becoming increasingly entangled in garments, as I try to back up awkwardly. While young girls in outfits I wore the last time they were fashionable roll their eyes and push past me impatiently.

I’ve experimented with a few vest-under-shirt alternatives, but it’s easiest to stick to the trusted flaps.

All I ask is that the producers of these practical garments branch out a little on the design front. Maybe I’m being crazy, but how about spots, just for a starting point?

Any creativity and style I have left goes towards matching my daughters tights with her smocks, playing dress-up with my little dolly.

On a recent day out to a designer outlet store I didn’t even bother to admire any of the adult clothes, devoting all my attention to coveting the adorable little pinafore dresses with matching frilly knickers.

If I had any cash to splash it would go on Mini Boden or Bon Point these days. Though, I cannot quite justify spending £60 on a dress that will end up covered in dribble and God knows what else, and be outgrown in a matter of months.

As Anna Wintour sits front row at the catwalk shows next week, considering the latest in haute couture, I will be sitting in the laundrette, watching a rainbow of stripes go round and round, and praying my baby doesn’t wake up until they are dry.

Musical Notes

We have discovered a secret cult.

Every week in an unimposing church hall in Clerkenwell a group of parents and children meet to indulge in what is best described as a preschool underground rave.

Passed along the grapevine in hushed tones, “Have you been to Harriette’s?” Mrs H and the Sing-Along Band leads a session that, compared to your average mother and baby sing-along, is like stepping down the rabbit hole.

Sixteen weeks into motherhood, I have become accustomed to sitting cross legged in circles singing The Wheels On The Bus while my baby sleeps or scrabbles greedily at my T-shirt, oblivious of my attempts to get her to do the actions.

The most musical things had really got was when one rather showy mother sang harmonies to If You’re Happy And You Know It. Her vibrato efforts seemed more suited to an X Factor audition than the panel of tired mums and disinterested infants around her, and I found myself taking an intense interest in my baby’s drool as l pretended not to notice.

There is nothing subdued about Mrs H’s performances.

Parents arrive early to get a good spot, whispering excitedly about what might be in store, while musicians tune up in a corner and toddlers dash to the front in anticipation.

As the band struck up with their opening number I started to feel a little awkward that I didn’t know the words.

Suddenly the lights were dimmed, highlighting a ceiling hung with fairy lights and lanterns and the whole room began to rock and roll.

My daughter gazed in wonder as Mrs H began singing, dancing and leading her followers in merry abandon.

Parents swayed and jigged along while a delighted swarm of children bounced off each other to the music, throwing balls and shaking tambourines.

Mothers who looked like they might normally be the type to hover nervously around their little treasures, smiled as they peered into the mayhem, just to check their child had not been crushed in the stampede.

In one corner a father stripped down to a vest and bare feet as he became slave to the rhythm, whirling his children around by the arms.

When the carnival came to an end I stumbled blinking back into the street, my daughter fast asleep in her pram, where she remained out for the count for several hours.

We had a slightly less harmonious experience when some music students visited our baby group recently.

Promised children to “workshop”, three undergraduates, wrapped in ethnic prints they’d no doubt picked up on their Gap Year, arrived in the middle of play time with a double bass, a drum and a viola.

Looking bewildered at the motley crew of pre-walkers around them, they declared they were used to working with older children, before attempting to lead the babies in singing a lullaby in Japanese.

They didn’t seem to notice most of their audience could only just about grasp onto the bells and shakers they handed out as they explained the tempo was in 6/8, but appeared perturbed when their class did not manage to keep time accurately.

I was a little surprised when they insisted they world return at the same time next week.

But when we arrived for Baby Stay and Play, we found the troupe had demanded older children from Nursery and had commandeered the playroom for their performance space.

We mothers were all in tune with one another as we complained about being stuck in a small and dingy room next door, with a few toys shoved on the floor.

The Wheels On The Bus now became our protest anthem as we competed loudly against the students’ World Music.

Needless to say it was they who have been relegated to the store cupboard from now on.

Making An Effort

So, that’s the hoovering done for another week… Or so.  It takes several hours of mental preparation, once the beach of toast crumbs, sock fluff and cotton wool remnants that covers the carpet becomes unbearable. Then it’s a matter of waiting for her to nod off before creeping to the crib and then making a mad dash to the kitchen cupboard.

Of course she woke up within seconds and began whimpering, unconsoled by over-cheerful reassurances that, “Mummy is just doing a quick hoover”, while I frantically chuck toys and baby paraphernalia onto every available surface that isn’t the carpet. Fortunately the white noise satiates her and she appears to find observing my toil quite entertaining.

It probably would have been better to do it before we attempted baby massage this morning. The experience may have been pleasant for both of us if the floor had been less gritty and the knees of my leggings left less grubby. Not that they could get much more filthy.

But I felt she was owed some soothing relaxation after that mother kicked her in the head at Stay and Play yesterday.

There were no shoes involved, only a socked foot, and she didn’t cry in pain, just discomfort, so I reassured the embarrassed guilty party that it was, “fine”.

I didn’t really believe her excuse that she thought I’d already picked my baby up, but, overwhelmed by a feeling of relief that it wasn’t me who had clumsily stood on another woman’s child, I was quite blasé about the assault.

She seems fine today. But I am dubious as to whether she will remain as contented after her next round of immunisations this afternoon.

Apart from the impending jabs of doom, today is a chance for a rest after a busy week. We’ve already attended four baby groups, a hospital appointment and an exhibition and she hasn’t done any embarrassing primal screaming in public. She was even quite charming to the doctor during my appointment, despite an hour-and-a-half wait.

It’s a relief to make it home without someone urging me to look after my baby better.

I think she was only four weeks old when the woman in Waitrose forced me to breastfeed her before I left the shop.

We only popped in for bananas but she was bawling her head off once we reached the self-service checkout. I felt I’d damn well earned my free coffee, but the overbearing Nigerian assistant kept informing me, “"Your baby is hungry. Please feed your baby!”, rather than handing over my paper cup.

Despite my insisting we only lived round the corner, I found myself being led to the stools in the window and agreeing to feed her before we left.

It was only once we were settled in that I realised she had sat us right next to the cash machine. And it was lunchtime rush hour. So I found myself making embarrassed, excusing smiles at an entire queue of people while she chomped away oblivious.

But that’s all behind us now. I have worn mascara and combed my hair before I left the house every day this week. And no one has insinuated that I am neglecting my child.

A Week Of Firsts

Well, what a week. First visit to the dentist, first trip swimming and the first time we have been thrown out of a pub.

It’s a shame they waited until after we had bought our drinks to tell us they weren’t “baby friendly” after lunch time, so could we please leave. I wonder if we’d spent a lot more on food if we’d have been allowed to stay?

Now, I’ll concede that in my youth I may have, on occasion, been in a group behaving lasciviously enough to warrant being asked to keep it down. But I have never been kicked out of a drinking establishment before.

And it’s not like she was wailing or knocking glasses over or sucking noisily on a nipple. She was sound asleep. Maybe they thought she’d passed out…

Anyway, her first swim was a lot more successful. Although I did feel a lot less smug about my compact and convenient baby carrier when I realised people bring their buggies so they have somewhere to put their babies while they get themselves changed.

As I lay her on a towel on the floor and tried not to stand on her while I stumbled into my costume, I remembered all those annoyingly prepared girls at school who wore their bathers under their uniform for ease and speed

Worrying about how I was going to manage when it came to drying and dressing us both obliterated any possible concern about my decidedly un-‘beach body ready’ appearance.

I love swimming, and the excursion was probably a rather selfish one as I was dying to get in the water. Though I’m not sure how much I got out of the 10 minute walk around the training pool.

Each 56 pence minute proved worth it though. She loved the water, smiling as she kicked about and floated on her back and tummy. Take that Water Babies and your six month waiting list!

So I whisked her out before her gums began to chatter and the colour of her skin turned as blue as her swimming nappy.

After a speedy warm shower I wrapped her back up in her layers, and tried not to drip on her as I danced my awkward towel and Lycra tango once again, this time in a puddle of water.

Then I endured the dreaded torture of hauling on leggings over slightly damp legs so I could indulge her in a feed to ensure she was back up to temperature. But overall I think we both enjoyed the experience.

We were even less prepared for the visit to the dentist.

I just popped in as I was passing to make an appointment for a check up. I wanted to make use of my free NHS dental care for mother’s with babies under one, before the year whizzes by and I realise I’ve forgotten all about it.

“Oh, we’ve just had a cancellation”, the receptionist chirruped. “He can see you now.”

My stomach lurched. She was asleep in the baby carrier, strapped to my front. “Won’t she get in the way?”, I blustered. “I suppose I’m okay with it if the dentist is.”

He was okay with it.

The receptionist even offered to hold her. However, it seemed even more dangerous to wake her up and invoke the primal scream in a room near silent, but for the muffled sound of drilling…

So I filled in the form and sat waiting my turn, looking down at the top of her head, covered though it was by her bright woolly hat, envisaging a gleaming sharp metal implement piercing her in the fontanel.

Time seemed to drag forever, but eventually I found myself in the dentist’s chair, the whir of the reclining chair ringing in my ears as I fell helplessly backwards.

But all was fine. My teeth required no repairs and she remained fast asleep.

If only the public house had been as accommodating as the dentist.

A Blog Reborn

As a journalist on maternity leave with my first baby I decided to channel my creativity into a blog about my experiences of motherhood.

Seduced by the aesthetics of Tumblr I started there, only to realise it was not the right forum.

So I have relaunched Nursery Whines. But here is a link to my original posts in real time.

nurserywhines.tumblr.com

A Burden Of Guilt

It’s true. I fell over while wearing my daughter in the baby carrier.

I should probably begin at the end of this story, just to say that she is safe and healthy. But the marks on her face still send pangs of horror and mortification through me every time I look at her helpless little face.

We were walking merrily to a baby singing group on a bright morning when it happened.

As she has been able to confidently support her own head for a while now, I put her facing forwards for the very first time.

Looking back, as I rake over the steps leading up to the horrific event in my mind for the millionth time, I wonder if that decision could have been one that saved her from a far worse fate.

Revisiting the spot (with caution, and the pram) I can see where my foot caught on a trench worn across the pavement.

They say time slows down in these terrible moments, and I certainly found that to be the case.

As I tripped and felt myself flung forward, visions of my bloodied, screaming baby flashed into my mind before I hit the ground, like a gruesome premonition.

I thought to myself, “I must cover her face to protect her!” But some overriding instinct told me to put my hands down in front of me to take my weight and keep her from being crushed beneath me.

My knees and palms took the brunt of the fall, and then; bang! I felt her face fall forward and hit the hard, rough surface.

My hand cradled her face and I craned my neck to see her, as her screams began to ring out.

Somehow her crying was a reassurance to me. It let me know she was at least alive. Even though the harsh, howls of pain, so removed from her usual cry, tore into my heart with every syllable.

While the fall had been in slow motion, the time it took me to undo the carrier and clutch her to my chest seemed non-existent.

We both sat sobbing in a pool of blood and tears for what seemed like forever while I gasped, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Again and again.

Blood and tears and gravel covered her face. Her lip was swollen and bleeding and more blood oozed from the scrapes on her nose, while a huge red egg began to swell above her left eye.

Time now leapt forward by several years in my mind, and I dreaded what lasting damage had been done.

My leggings were shredded and both knees bleeding and ingrained with grit, but I didn’t notice that until some time after.

The kindness of strangers came to our rescue. People seemed to come to our aid from all different directions, leaving me throwing thanks and apologies in bewildered abundance.

We were taken to a first aid room in an office. An ambulance was called. We headed to A&E.

By the time the nurse was assessing her, she managed a smile through her tears and scars, and after hours of being observed she was diagnosed with a minor head injury and we were sent home.

Only a few scabs on her nose and a faint bruise on her forehead now remain. And she appears to bear none of the trauma and emotional scars that I have been left with.

She loved gadding about in the baby carrier but I doubt I will ever have the confidence to use it again.

The regret, the guilt, the terror, they are burdens I will carry forever.

“Don’t blame yourself”, everyone kept saying to me. But I do.