Mad Woman In Residence

Oh dear. We told everyone at Stay and Play we are moving house and they had a leaving party for us!

It was lovely, people brought cake, they made us a laminated picture montage of all the activities we'd done, they even signed a card.

But now our move has been delayed a week and I feel like we can't go back.

What would they think if we turned up again?!

Maybe they were relieved to see the back of us, what with me gabbling non-stop about not having done any packing and her spilling forth a tsunami of dribble all over the playmats and toys, with not a tooth to show for it.

Or they might think I'm some mad woman who makes up stories about moving house just to get attention.

They say two of the most stressful things you can do are have a baby and move house, and going out to different groups are part of what has been keeping me sane.

Ever since she arrived on the scene I have begun to feel slightly unhinged.

I have taken on the role of narrator in the crazy little pantomime that is our daily life.

Walking down the street, around the supermarket or in the disabled loo with baby changing facilities, I describe my each and every action to my daughter, all in a high-pitched and over enthusiastic voice. Sometimes even in song.

I point out the sights; "That building used to be owned by The Masons before they sold it to be turned into luxury flats. Masons look like regular men but they have funny handshakes and take part in strange rituals." Vital information for a four-and-a-half-month-old.

Or I discuss my personal agenda with her; "You must remind Mummy to fetch her new glasses from Specsavers and buy some milk, okay?!"; "Do you think Daddy would like pasta for supper? Or do you think he'll be fed up of it by now?"

And of course most often I use our one-way conversations to excuse myself to the people around us; "Don't cry darling, we've only got three more stops before the bus gets home and then you can have some food. It really isn't my fault we got stuck in traffic and I don't know why you're so hungry - I only just fed and changed you before we got on. I'd love to pick you up and cuddle you to keep you quiet but this bus driver seems to have some sort of death wish on corners and it would be very dangerous."

The latter begins in an attempt at a calm and soothing voice, becoming increasingly frantic and hysterical as we get stuck at yet another red light and she invokes the primal scream.

My reputation as the mad woman who talks to herself is probably sealed by the fact I now seem to find it impossible to stand still, and begin rocking back and forth whenever she starts griping, even though she is in the pram. I am pretty sure I have even found myself swaying from side to side in queues when she is perfectly happy.

This constant chatter with a person who can't talk back means I am immediately grateful every time any adult engages me in conversation.

But why, when you have a small child who can't speak, do people address every question to your baby?

"Hello, you're a sweetie, aren't you? How old are you?"

Seeing as I have already lost most of my social faculties you'd think I might snap back, "She is four months old, she can't talk."

But instead I dutifully enter into a bizarre, third person, sing-song conversation on behalf of my daughter.

And now we have officially 'left' Stay and Play I can't even have the same old chats about sleep patterns and weaning and remarking how much everyone's baby has grown in just one week.

We will have to spend the next two weeks sitting in the park drinking free Waitrose coffee and diving into a bush every time we see a buggy we recognise.

That should make my status as the local mad woman official.

The Liebster Award

I was recently nominated for the Liebster Award by generous Claire at The Pramshed. I had only been blogging for a month and I am still working out how it all works so I was very flattered, thank you Claire.

I had never heard of the award but Claire explained it all in her blog post.

It has taken me a little while to take my turn, what with juggling the iPad and a nursing,  wriggling four-month-old, at the same time as moving house. But I have finally managed it.

There are a few simple rules to follow:

1. Thank the person who nominated you and post a link to their blog in your post.
2. Show the award on your blog, or in your post.
3. Answer the 11 questions asked by the person who nominated you.
4. Write 11 random facts about yourself.
5. Nominate 5 – 11 bloggers that you feel deserve the award.
6. Create a list of new questions for your nominees to answer.
7. Once your blog is published, let your nominees know that they have been nominated and link them to your post for more details.

So here are my answers to Claire's questions:

When did you start blogging and why?

I started blogging when my daughter was three months old. I wanted to do something creative while I was on maternity leave and share some of the funny things that had happened to me since I became a mother.

What aspirations do you have for your blog?
I hope people read my blog and it makes them laugh. When I return to work I can show it to potential employers and say, "This is what I have been doing with my time off... As well as bringing up a baby."

Tell us about your perfect holiday?

My perfect holiday would be at the house in Ireland where we went every summer when I was a child. Reading books, playing board games with my family and taking my daughter swimming in the lake.

Describe yourself in 3 words?

Clumsy, spirited, nostalgic.

What 3 items would you take to a desert island?

Flint, an axe, and a notebook.

What bloggers inspire you?

I do genuinely admire  The Pramshed for its stylish professionalism, combined with honesty. I take inspiration from ThisMumsLife who has managed to create such a successful and engaging blog and still maintain her anonymity. I am inspired by PinkPearBear's  energy and enthusiasm, Chiswick_mum  as a fellow London blogger and SingleMumSpeaks for her wit.

What do you enjoy doing in your spare time, apart from blogging?

Watching films, going to proper pubs, walking around London, playing Scrabble. I can't wait until my daughter is old enough to go to the park and soft play centres, but I am sure I will soon discover why many parents dread these places.

What is your favourite chocolate bar?

A red Bounty.

What do you see yourself doing in 5 years time?

Being a working mother, possibly of more than one, hopefully with a home I feel proud to entertain in.

What is the best thing you have ever done?

I hate to be so trite, but it has to be becoming a parent.

Finally, what would your last meal be?

My mother's homemade lasagne.

These are 11 more things about me:

I write for a living.

I am the eldest of five children, which makes me loud and competitive.

I appreciate the music of the Spice Girls and Bob Dylan in equal measure.

I am Welsh and support Wales at rugby.

I have epilepsy, but it doesn't stop me doing anything except driving.

My favourite book is The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupery.

I have met Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie, but not at the same time.

My signature dish is risotto.

I have a birthmark in the shape of the British Isles on my right cheek.

If I could only eat one thing for the rest of my life I would choose avocados.

I love swimming outdoors.

Now I nominate:

@thelyricalmummy

@DHDaddyBlog

@BeautifullyMarked22

@SchoolrunmumThe

@mummyrules_uk

And my questions for these fab bloggers are:

1. What made you decide to become a blogger?

2. What are your aims for your blog?

3. Where and when do you most often find yourself writing your posts?

4. What was your New Year's Resolution for 2016 and how is it going?

5. Name your three favourite blogs and your reasons why

6. If you had a whole day all to yourself what would you choose to do?

7. What word do you use for the TV remote control?

8. What do you cook if you're having a dinner party?

9. As a child, what did you want to be when you grew up?

10. What do you say when you answer the phone to cold callers?

11. What are the top three items on your weekly shopping list?

Thank you again Claire for nominating me.

Nursery Whines

Town Mouse Moves To Suburbia

When we decided we were going to start a family, we also had to accept that it was time to move on from our studio in the City of London.

Ten years ago, when we arrived at the tiny rental flat in the middle of a spectacular thunder storm, carrying only dreams and expectations of life in the Big Smoke, it seemed the perfect roosting place.

We only had a few bags of clothes each and a room with a view, a futon and little else was all we wanted or required. And we loved it.

Almost a decade on, as I sit cross legged on the floor eating a bowl of pasta off my lap at the same time as trying to entertain my daughter in her baby bouncer, squashed up against a travel cot, I do wonder how we lasted this long.

No, that's not true. Looking out at Centre Point in the distance and knowing the whole of London is quite literally on my doorstep, I can see exactly why we are still here.

But D Day has arrived. After a year of scouring the suburbs for a nest big enough for three, followed by almost six months of waiting on tender hooks for the sale to go through, we are about to leave our home.

In the final weeks of my pregnancy, after things didn't quite go to the original plan, I lay awake panicking about how we could possibly cope bringing up a baby in our city pad.

But needs must, and after almost five months of raising my child an urban chick, I now feel fearful of leaving.

We have made so many new friends in the last few months. Okay, I don't know half the mother's names, only their babies', and it would now be far too rude to ask now, but our children have grown up together all their lives!

If we want to pop to a swimming pool, or a children's centre or a baby cinema, an art gallery or even a garden, we have so many to choose from.

Far from feeling trapped in our tiny room, as a new mother in the city I have felt so free.

Of course, compact living is not all convenient.

Trekking to the laundrette, as we have no room for a washing machine, has always been a drag. But staggering with two IKEA bags weighed down with dirty washing while pushing a pram would not be out of place in the Tough Mudder Obstacle course.

When we were young free spirits, inviting people round to a dinner of take away sushi on the floor seemed cool. But as we have grown older, our lack of a table has just made entertaining an embarrassing impossibility.

And I know many people share their bedroom with a young baby, but sharing our entire living space 24/7 means any time we decide to indulge in reading or watching television after 'lights out' only results in sleepless nights for all.

Yet we have muddled through thus far, all the while telling people we were crossing our fingers we could move to our new home soon.

But now that we finally have the green light, I don't feel so revved up.

How will we fair in the slow, easy going life of the leafy suburbs? Will we make new friends? Will we really make the journey back to the city regularly?

At least I can't worry that our new life will be boring. The number of rooms I have to keep clean and tidy just quadrupled. And I'm not doing a very good job at just one!

Pro Pram Rally Driver

I wouldn't have much time for video games if I wanted to play them these days.

In between feeding, changing and entertaining my daughter, I find barely enough moments spare to cook an edible evening meal and just about keep the flat from becoming unsanitary.

But if I was a gamer, I think my appetite for such thrills would be satiated by negotiating the streets and transport systems of London with my pram.

As a non-driver I had very little previous experience of steering, parking and three point turns. But after a crash course (sometimes literally) I feel I have earned Pro status.

Wheeling along London's pavements is very similar to how I imagine off-road driving to be. Potholes, bumps and haphazard inclines cause my pram to bounce around in all directions, as I try to dodge obstacles, puddles and people.

One road we have to use regularly features a series of bollards which are placed closer and closer to the wall as you progress, like an optical illusion, requiring real focus to traverse the pavement without colliding with at least one along the way.

Crossing roads can be a real challenge, with road-works meaning the designated crossing areas have been moved to where the pavement does not lower to meet the road. So we are forced to tip and tumble off sheer drops, before making a mad dash to haul the vehicle up the opposite curb before the lights turn green and the river of traffic pours forth once again.

Cyclists, with their sheer ignorance of red lights and tendency to whizz silently out from behind lorries and buses, are often far more dangerous a bullet to dodge than motor vehicles.

But buses can be pretty frustrating video game bosses in themselves.

I always knew Sadism must be one of the main qualities required to become a bus driver, because so many enjoy the sport of waiting at a stop when they see you running towards it, only to pull away at the last minute. But it seems they also love stopping on a Pelican Crossing just as the light turns green, ensuring you have no time to wheel a pram all the way around them and get to the other side in time.

And thank goodness for the old analogy of buses all coming at once. Because once you have a baby in your life, you wait for about a year, and then the first few buses that arrive at your stop are already filled up with buggies.

But you have to be patient and rely on the bus routes to the next level in this game. Cheats and shortcuts involving the tube are few and far between.

It's only once you are on wheels you realise how few tube stations have what Transport For London refer to as "Step Free Access". Which basically means they have managed to install some lifts.

Now, carrying your pram down a few steps is a pain, but it can be done.

However, the prospect of getting onto a steep escalator that seems to descend forever into the bowels of hell is terrifying just to consider, let along put into practice.

On a recent day trip I made it to my destination having balanced the pram at an angle in front of me as I teetered up an escalator. It was only when I reached the top, my heart in my mouth, it dawned on me that to go home I was going to have to go back down.

I spent the entire day feeling sick as I envisioned myself and my daughter lying smashed at the bottom underneath a tangled mass of straps and bent metal.

When it finally came to my return I approached the man attending the barriers and tears pricked my eyes as I appealed to him for help.

Now I have read about, and even experienced firsthand, my share of stony-faced, unhelpful TfL staff. But fortunately here was a rare exception.

The kind and generous gentleman explained that Health and Safety forbid him from handling a buggy with a baby in it, but if I carried my daughter he would take the pram. And he stood in front of us on the perilous escalator so I felt less doomed to tumble into the depths.

We won't be going on escalators again.

But when it comes to a daily round of wheeling the short journey home from the shop with a coffee in one hand, juggling the key and pushing the door open with my hip as we swivel inside, I believe I currently hold the top score.

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.