Touchy Feely

Partly, of course, it's because he's the second child.

And second children - although they get a rough deal in some respects - have one major intrinsic advantage over firstborns: they are treated with more indulgence.
I'm sorry, but it's true.

Standards slip, principles slide. In the tumult of daily life with more than one child to tend to, firmly held parenting ideas tend to get watered down: a biscuit is given more readily (please stop moaning for two minutes!), a bit of naughtiness strategically overlooked (I haven't got time to deal with this!), a cry for attention more indulgently received (oh, for a bit of peace!).

And yet partly, it's because it's him.
LB is a curious character. The more I get to know him (and it is about getting to know him - with all his qualities and foibles - and not just about "bringing him up"), the more I realise what an affectionate, sensitive boy he is.
Fits of shouting, when answered with a hug, seem to twindle to nothing.
An extra 5 minutes spent cuddling him in the morning do a happy boy make.
Keeping him tight on my knee for the first 15 minutes in new surroundings make him reassured and sociable: forcing him to join in immediately makes him howl.

Maybe because BB is so different - or perhaps because I am not a major hugger myself - it's taken me a while to understand his modus operandi.
But now that I've cottoned on, I'm adapting.
See, who knew that I could be the kind of mother who would allow her boy to sleep ALL NIGHT in her arms? (and by "in her arms", I mean literally snuggled as tightly up to my belly as he could possibly be without ending up back on the inside...).
BB never did this. Maybe he thought it was not allowed? More likely: he just didn't need to.

But last night, when LB firmly and vocally refused to settle anywhere else but snuggled up to me, I gave in. Something told me to go with this particular flow, and accept that it was something he needed.

And my instinct appears to have been right. Tonight, he's back in his own bed: no fuss, no tears.

There really is no parenting "manual", it seems. But finding the answers through trial, error and sensitivity are somehow more rewarding all round.

Upwardly Mobile!

It doesn't seem two minutes since I was making this announcement for the first time.
And already, it's LB's turn.
My little boy took his first, second, third, fourth, fifth (etc.) steps yesterday.
And, at not quite 16 months, that really makes him something of an "early starter" in our family.

Watching him hobble across the parquet - tracking our reaction with proud eyes - I felt the familiar, exquisite joy start to bubble up inside me.
And I knew with absolute certainty that it wouldn't matter how many kids you had: the spectacle of this first time would never be any the less moving.

Get an eyeful of that movement!

In between the walks... a little office work

Interlude

I was planning a heartfelt post about something that happened on the way to Rome, but somehow can't quite muster the energy for heartfelt this evening.

So instead, here is a little LB interlude.

After a few weeks of regular grouchiness, LB has suddenly blossomed into a happy, mature (well, you know, "mature" in comparison to - say - a 12-month old..), autonomous little boy... who can feed himself.

We look on as the sense of pride glows from all his features... and it is his evident delight that curtails our urge to clean up, wipe down, help out.
After all, as every parent knows, a happy baby is well worth a bit of mess...

LB: CV in Brief

Age: 13.5 months
No. of teeth: almost one!!
Skills: lopsided crawling (two arms, one leg)
Vocabulary: MAMAMAMAMAAAAAAAAN!
Character: STRONG, tempered by affection & cuddliness
Potential: huge

Party Season

No need to wait for the next Hello! magazine to hit the shelves: here are a selection of shots from LB's birthday bash.
My first attempt at hosting a birthday party: now that my initial reticence has been overcome, there may yet be many more!

One

FIVE days early

FOUR weeks, FOUR zombies...

THREE holidays

TWO brothers

ONE YEAR OLD!

Bedtime Story

I've just spent an hour stroking and cuddling and cajoling LB to sleep.
For the past few weeks, this long drawn out bedtime has been an almost nightly occurrence.
Maybe it's just one of those innumerable and vague "stages" that some babies go through.
Or maybe it's just him.

As LB's personality starts to emerge and take form - giving us little glimpses of the future boy, the future man he will one day become - I realise that he is a loving, affectionate child who enjoys nothing more than the company of others.
Whereas BB would be content to curl up and sleep with the briefest of "goodnights", his brother needs a long hug... caressing fingers on the soft pink skin of his belly... eye contact.

It takes a while for the penny to drop: these two boys are not one and the same. They came from the same mould, but a child is so much more than the sum total of his genes.
What's good for one is not good for the other.
We must adapt: struggle through the tiredness and the preconceived ideas to tune in to this little person who has come to live with us, trying to show us who he is.

A few nights ago, I told myself We have to teach him to fall asleep by himself. All this cuddling up together and extra time... We have to be firmer.

Tonight, I've spent an hour lying silently next to my almost naked baby, simply looking into each other's eyes - smiling, sometimes kissing fingers - as the light faded, night crept in and the fan whirred above us.
Some time later, I noticed that he had fallen to sleep.

And I looked at his little contented face and for the first time I thought: Maybe I don't have to teach him anything. Maybe he's the one who has to teach me.

Chickenpox: The Sequel

Forget Sex & The City, the sequel to "Chickenpox: The Movie" is now showing!
This exciting new film stars LB in the lead role!

This morning, I stumble out of bed at 8 a.m., take one look at LB's spotty face, remember that it's (another) national strike day and that there will be chaos on the roads... and my decision is made by 8.01 a.m.
LB will stay home and convalesce with Maman.
It will do both of us good ;-)

The Rough and Tumble

A few days ago, I read an interesting article in The Guardian that was not about the forthcoming British general election (incidentally, as far as I can tell, the words "interesting" and "general election" are a bit of an oxymoron, but that's another story).
To get back to the point, then, the article was about a 2-day life swap experiment: the parents of two girls switched places with the parents of three boys.
Aside from the funny bits, I think the point was supposed to be: girls and boys are different.

Sure, it doesn't sound so revolutionary put like that, but the point was cleverly made, and cute enough to make me read on till the end.

And, you know, it's tempting to dismiss all this clap-trap as easy sociological babble... but after you've spent a Sunday afternoon like the one I had - in the presence of five little boys, two of whom belong to me - you can't help but agree that there's a sizeable dose of truth in the clichés.


Little boys are physical beings.
They like to roll around in grass, and get dirty, and brandish swords, and fight, and kick balls around, and investigate, and prod and poke and taste and get dirtier.
They are not so into sitting around in a quiet circle and chatting.


Before I had my first baby, I really wanted to have girls. I think it's OK to admit that now, though it was hard to acknowledge at the time.
I even shed a tear or two when the sonographer first told me the shocking news that my baby would not be a girl. It wasn't so much that I didn't want a boy: it was just that I had no idea what I'd do with one.
I had always imagined me & future offspring drawing quietly together, or chatting, or trying on clothes, or indulging in quaint activities like embroidery - which is as crazy as it gets, because I don't think I've ever embroidered in my life.

I had no clue what boys did for fun. I was worried I would hate their kind of fun.

And now, nearly three years on, I love it.
I love the rough and tumble, the rolling in the grass and the dirty fingernails.
I don't even feel nostalgic for the dozens of Barbies who may well never make it out of hibernation in my Mum's garage and into the loving hands of my own children.

The article in The Guardian ends with an endearing - if slightly far-fetched - theory that "a mother gets the kids she is cut out to have".
It's a bit of a chicken-and-egg situation, but the idea is that "mums of boys" prefer the boy stuff, and mums of girls are better suited to the girl stuff.

And last Sunday, as I lay squashed and battered under a bundle of hysterical boys waving twigs, I thought that this might well be true.
Mums of boys are like tea bags: you don't know how strong we are until you fling us into a cup of boiling water (and batter us with a big stick)...

And as if further proof were needed...

... Delphine went into labour and gave birth the next day.

I told you it was a tiring morning.

The Camera Never Lies?

Delphine and I thought we had a great plan.
We took 3.5 kids (one is still on the inside - though only just...), gave them a room to play in, chucked in a vast quantity of toys, books and what might be loosely termed "creative materials", made a pot of tea, and sat down to have a chat.

Only, the morning didn't evolve as planned.

Apparently, kids don't always play together happily and autonomously.
They sometimes just get over-excited, over-heated and demand twice as much attention.

But the funny thing is... the photographic evidence of the ordeal makes them look like angels.

So, the camera being the camera, and memories being memories... I reckon that five years from now, we'll look back at these pictures and remember what a lovely, peaceful day we spent with our angelic boys.
Ah, how I love my rose-tinted glasses.

Thanks Delphine for the wonderful photos

What Goes Around Comes Around

My 32nd birthday kicked off at 2 a.m., with a bout of hysterical crying.
No, the crier wasn't me - freaked out at the thought of getting even older - but LB. Or rather, a scrunched up, angry, unconsolable version of LB.

The crying continued for a good hour, but I managed to be stoical. "You chose to be a mother", repeated my wise, inner voice. The voice of a well-adjusted 32 year-old woman?

Of course, there was a silver lining to this hysterical cloud.
Thanks to LB, I could completely empathise with how my own mother must have been feeling at the same hour exactly 32 years ago: tired, overwhelmed, shell-shocked and slightly annoyed with those friends who told her having a baby would be a fantastically amazing experience.

God has a sense of humour, doesn't he?

Sleeping Like a Baby

About ten nights ago, LB decided to stop sleeping.
He had been slowly chipping away at our parental sleeping quota since Christmas, but this seemed more radical: it was like he was telling us: thanks, but I'm done with sleeping now. Don't really need it anymore, thanks.
This, as you can imagine, is every parent's dream (I mean nightmare).

The worst part was, we couldn't figure out why.
Again, this is all about the illusion of retaining some semblance of "control" over our lives (which are, evidently, completely out of our control from the moment we decide to have kids). But the theory goes: if we can figure out a "cause", then we can take action and correct the situation, right?

So, the usual round of pained interrogations began: is he hungry, is he in pain, is he wet, is he constipated, is he anxious???... and so on ad infinitum.

In desperation, I turned to my Miriam Stoppard baby bible. The only thing I could find about unexplained waking at 6 months was.... an entire page devoted to "separation anxiety... particularly in babies whose mother GOES OUT TO WORK".
Ooh... bad, bad, bad working mothers! Scandalised as I was (I checked out the publishing date: nope, it didn't in fact date from the early 1960s, as the above paragraph might suggest...), well... I couldn't help but wonder.
Because, as mothers, our guilt quota is unfortunately several times that of other people.

Two sleepless nights later, I was certain. I - bad working mother - was the problem. LB had stopped sleeping because he was tense, anxious, scared and angry with the mother who abandoned him 3 days a week.
At 3 am I found myself whispering to him "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I won't ever leave you, I promise, I only go to work to pay for the house we live in, I don't really want to, you know!" (yep, this seems excessive, but try drinking a cocktail of 7 sleepless nights & 1 outdated, self-important Miriam Stoppard book, and see what state you end up in!).
He looked at me and smiled: I thought I glimpsed a little sympathy.

And then, finally, we confessed our distress to someone medical. Someone medical and sensible. And she suggested that maybe LB was just suffering from indigestion.
Indigestion.... Not deep physchological distress and separation anxiety... but simply, indigestion.

This makes sense, and things seem to be improving now we are treating this possible ailment.

Thank you, Miriam. You've been nice company, but you know, I think it might be time to return you to the very top shelf... I hope you won't feel abandoned...

Playing With My Feelings

Well, it's been another wild Wednesday, treading the fine line between motherhood and nervous breakdown...

From the moment we wake up, the boys conspire to wreak havoc with my nerves.
After two weeks of the runs, LB is constipated: a first hour-long crying fit occurs somewhere around 10 a.m.
He is eventually pacified with a vegetable purée and a generous helping of prune juice, but other than an endearing smile, no other movement occurs.

Later, BB has a high fever, and is packed off to bed with scarlet cheeks and watery eyes.
As he nods off, LB becomes hysterical again.
I mean, really hysterical. I have never had a very high tolerance threshold when it comes to prolonged crying and now, for the first time in our 6-month relationship, I have absolutely no idea how to calm LB down.

This realisation makes me panicky. I feel myself teetering on the brink of breakdown, so I do what any exhausted, scared, irate woman would do: I call FH at work, talk at him in a high-pitched voice, and beg him to come home.
He says he will.
Shakily, I say goodbye, turn to LB and, the second - the very second - I put the phone down, he stops crying. As though he has just flicked his inner "off" switch, just like that.
Not only does he stop crying, he grins.
I am baffled. He is 6-months old, for goodness sake: surely he can't have mastered the arts of emotional blackmail and manipulation so soon??

Minutes later, BB awakes from his stupor, and he too is miraculously revived.
So when FH pitches up, he is confronted with two perfectly contented children and one freakish wife who begins to look like a game-playing idiot.
"Go on, cry, show Daddy how hard you've been crying!" I coax LB.
Delighted grin.
FH looks at me with something resembling pity.
"Go out for a while if you like," he tells me, "you seem like you need a break."

In short, it's been one of those days.
One of those days I mentally file away in the "Two Kids Is Sufficient" folder. At the moment, that folder is just about as full as its neighbour, the "More Would Be Nice" file.

Losing It

I haven't cried this much in a long time. Every morning when I leave LB at crèche for his brief "trial period", I end up in tears. Practically ever member of staff has had their arms around me at some point since Monday.
I am walking along quite serenely, and all of a sudden, my vision is blurred by yet another veil of tears.
I have reached hereto unknown levels of ridicule.
I feel that there's only one baby around here, and I'm it.

Today, it's that Sunday-night-after-the-holidays feeling multiplied by a thousand.

On the way back from a very successful play date with his friend J., BB sreams and cries like a maniac because he doesn't want to go home.
There's a great gaping hole in the car from where I smashed it on Monday, BB is screaming, my hands are gripping the steering wheel and I say nothing. I have no words of comfort to offer BB, because truth be told, if I wasn't an adult, I know that right about now, I'd also be screaming and crying from the depth of my lungs: Don't make me go! Don't make me go!

Meeting the Future Head On

So, yesterday we embarked on “adaptation week” at the crèche. There are only two wonderful days of freedom remaining before my return to the grindstone: The Firm awaits with open arms, a full inbox and monthly payslips that unfortunately only find their way to my bank account on the condition that I at least show up in the morning. It’s tough.
Officially, of course, adaptation week is so the baby can get used to his new surroundings. But as I make my weepy way to crèche with LB clutched to my chest, I’m pretty sure we all know that the person who really needs to adapt is Maman.

I see it in the sympathetic eyes of the staff, and the understanding smiles the other mums shoot me as our heavy hearts pass by in the corridor.
Truth is, it’s not just the separation I’m sad about. It’s the whole lifestyle: this cosy routine / non-routine of milk and coffee and cafés and walks and pyjamas until 11 if we feel like it. It’s the way LB looks at me, that little thrill that – I admit – runs through me when FH and BB leave for the day and baby and I are alone again to enjoy each other, and life. It’s listening to the radio in mid-morning, and mid-afternoon, discovering topics I’ll no longer have a need for when my days are once again devoted to the values of The Firm… and all that that entails.
I’ll miss being out of the loop. The freedom that comes with motherhood: this freedom which, to my immense surprise, I’ve seen emerge over the past few months from what previously seemed like a constraint.

So what do I do?
I do what I always seem to do when under emotional pressure or sleep-deprived: I smash up the car.
Yep, you did read that correctly.
I smash up the car, just like that, on the way to the crèche.

I would say (and the car can confirm) that my feelings towards adaptation week are pretty clear, wouldn’t you?

Thank You Note

Dear Maman,

Just a quick note to say thank you for finally getting the message!
I've been trying to let you know for quite a while... and it was a bit frustrating that you never seemed to realise what I was saying.
I know that the books say I'm "officially" too young.
But I'm your boy, not the textbook baby, and you can see how big I am!
I mean, even those 6-9 month clothes are getting a little tight around the belly these days, aren't they?
Anyway, I 'm sorry that I've been so grumpy these past few days. My gums have been hurting and yes, my belly has been rumbling.
Thanks again, Maman. You really are the best!
Love from your little boy, LB xx

Cracking Up and Clamping Down

Sleep deprivation is one of the most effective forms of torture known to man.
99% of parents learn this frightening truth pretty early on.
The problem is, as time goes on, and your newborn starts to sleep through, you tend to un-learn this truth. Your expectations are raised. A night goes by, then two, then ten... and eventually you start expecting not to have uninterrupted sleep.

Mistake. For when your newborn - now metamorphized into a sturdy 4 & a half-month old - decides that uninterrupted sleep is no longer his thing... boy, oh boy, you are taken unawares.
It is oh so much harder to bear, believe me.
Pointless as it is, FH and I find ourselves seething at our twinkly-eyed baby, begging him to just please be quiet and sleep at 5 a.m.
He grins up at us and lets out an ear-piercing shriek that may be a sign of immense joy or immense frustration: it's pretty hard to tell in the 5 a.m. fog that's swirling around our heads.

When pleading fails, we turn to reasoning. An equally futile tactic, of course, but anything is worth a try at 5 a.m. on a winter's night.
Please just go to sleep, will you? It's not morning yet. See? It's only 5 a.m. Just another 2 hours, yes?
As though maybe our boy is so advanced, he can not only understand the notion of time, but agree to respect our agenda.

There is a lot of frustration and yes, some anger. Of course, all this anger is dissipated the next day, when we take our innocent-eyed baby into our arms for a cuddle... but the lack of sleep takes its toll.
A friend of mine admits that she and her husband mutually threaten each other with divorce every night around 4 a.m., when they get the nightly wake-up call.
Then they shrug it off the next day. They have to. We have to.

In the meantime, here I am at midday, still in my pyjamas. Thank goodness I foresaw it wasn't quite time to return to work yet.
Maybe I would have found the super-human strength to struggle into the office... but I doubt I would have remembered to get dressed.

Gut Feeling

If, like me, you are someone who makes decisions based 80% on gut feeling and 20% on rational thought (these percentages are approximate, not scientific, in case you were wondering whether there might actually be a calculator for working out this kind of stuff... ;-), then, like me, you may get a little apprehensive from time to time, trying to distinguish your gut feelings from other stuff (hormones, tiredness, emotion, fear, etc.).
Take this "returning to work" lark, for example.
As you may know, I was supposed to go back to work on December 7th. Consequently, LB was supposed to embark on his long and no doubt fruitful academic journey on the same date: he was due to start creche.

But as the time has been approaching, I have been feeling more and more that we are just not ready. And when I say "we", I really do mean both of us. At least I think I do.
This gut feeling of not being ready had been churning around in my stomach for a few weeks when I finally blurted it all out to my sister.
She listened, approved and told me I should do the necessary to make sure LB and I gain an extra month at home together.
I wept with relief at having my gut feeling confirmed by someone whose judgement I respect.
(FH didn't really get it. It's not his fault, of course, it's just that, well, he's a man: they tend to be more rational about this kind of thing).

So now it's just a case of making a small, reasonable-sounding appeal to creche, and writing a "brave" email to my boss (yes, yes, I know it would be better to call, but can one really translate the maternal desire to spend more time cocooning with baby into anything remotely professional-sounding??).

When it comes down to it, though, the stomach churning has stopped, so something must be right about this decision.
And LB and I will sit tight and trust our instincts until January...

LB Update

LB is now 2 months old.
At his check-up yesterday, he weighed in at 5.8 kilos, meaning he's gained a whopping 1.5 kg in just one month. The doc looked a little dismayed, until it turned out he (LB, not doc) has also got 5 centimetres longer. Phew: he's tall, not fat.

He now sleeps through about every other night. And even if he does wake at 4 am, it's just a case of swigging down a quick bottle, and back to sleep.

On a more subjective note, then, he's still very much in the running for the "Sweetest Baby Ever" contest.
In fact, he's so sunny-natured, patient and gentle that I'm starting to wonder how we managed to produce him. Maybe there was some mix-up at the clinic?
Even if that were true, there's no way we're letting him go now.

I have lots of vaguely interesting thoughts about the differences in the way we bring up first-born and second-born kids, but I'll save those for another, more intellectual-sounding post.
As you may have gathered, this post is rather more of the sentimental, maternal variety ;-)