Under The Hammer

The tailgate lifted for the last time; the shuttered metal door sliding down into place.  As the engine of the anonymous white van spluttered to life, twelve years worth of selected belongings pulled away from the kerb, destined for the local auction house. I momentarily allowed myself to mourn the possessions I had decided to let go of; the dining table and chairs we’d sat around until the early hours of the morning having drank too much wine and eaten too much food; the matching console sideboard that at time of purchase, had epitomised 'sleek design chic';  the gothic lamp that seemed to fit so perfectly in our first flat and the oddity of a mirror that seemed to reflect straight lines as wonky.  After taking a short moment to look back at the happy memories associated with items from life gone by, I shut the front door and refocussed myself on the task in hand. De cluttering at speed.

When the gavel hits the rostrum at the auction house next week, it won’t be the only hammer coming down on life as we know it.  Finally, after two years of planning, work will begin at Faulty Towers.  Foundations will be dug, scaffolding will be erected.  Builders will take up residence in what was once my home, spilling tea and leaving a trail of biscuit crumbs in between demolishing walls, lifting floors and pulling down ceilings. 

Getting to this point has been harder than I imagined. The project has morphed from a small toadstool to a giant mushroom of a build. Two years have been spent designing, redesigning, seeking planning permission, conservation area permission, consulting with structural engineers, party wall surveyors and building inspectors, as well as driving our architect slightly crazy.  Although we still have the mountain to climb, I already feel a sense of relief; that after so long in the planning, we’re moving on, that finally we’re going to stop procrastinating planning and start doing.

Since EB’s birth, I’ve watched no TV, I’ve read no books, I’ve spent considerably less time writing. That’s not just because I’ve had a baby. Every evening for the past two months, post dinner, Husband and I have sat at the kitchen table, working through builders tenders, looking at spreadsheets, cutting the budget this way and that, then meeting with the architect at 9pm at night once we’ve put two children to bed and hastily wolfed down some dinner.  It’s been a head muddling, stressful blur at times. But the end of this phase is now in sight, leading us as innocent idealists, to the start of the next.   On Monday next week everything will change; we’ll hand our house over to our builder for the next 10 months; putting our trust and our life’s savings on the line in the hope that we can realise our 'Grand Design'.

EB and I have left no stone unturned in this past couple of weeks in our search for a temporary abode. We’ve braved storms, snow and unwelcoming dogs in our quest. At times I considered a caravan in the back garden might become our only option, but finally we’ve found somewhere to live.  It might be a bit of a squash and a squeeze, hence the de-cluttering exercise, but, at the same time, it’s rather nice to think we’re letting go of superfluous stuff too. Perhaps we will learn something about ourselves in the next 10 months.  It will certainly be more about us than the things around us. How much does a family of four really need?
  

As I continue my mammoth purge this week and look at Pip’s mountain of toys, I’m continually struck by how little time he spends playing with them.  Role playing, making cakes, reading books, drawing, painting, playing on the computer/ watching TV, playing in the garden or at the swings - these are actually the things he does, and enjoys doing most, especially in the company of Mummy and Daddy.  When you streamline life back to it’s bare necessities, it seems you don’t really need that much.

I’m realistic that the next 10 months are going to be a roller coaster experience.  That at times we’ll be buoyed by the progress we see and at other times may resemble stressed, grey husks of our former selves, when the enormity of the task before us seems too much.  We’re in it up to our necks now, there’s no turning back.  All we can do is hold on to our hard hats and try to enjoy the ride.

If you are interested in our project, I plan to publish regular updates here. You can also follow me on Pin Interest to see where I’m getting my inspiration.

Have you managed a renovation project? All words of advice or wisdom greatly appreciated.

Balancing Act

It’s a balancing act, this motherhood lark. Some are able to walk the tightrope with accomplished poise, never falling off.  Others have the fine finesse of a trapeze artist, swinging gracefully from one situation to another; any fumbling disguised or forgotten in a triumphant final flourish. My mothering possesses neither of these qualities. In fact, the only thing it has in common with either of them is that right now, is it feels like a bit of a circus.

Amidst the mountains of washing, the brightly coloured trail of toys that frankly, I was too tired to put away the night before, and the cups and plates waiting to go into the as yet, unstacked dishwasher, I sometimes feel overwhelmed; that I can’t keep up.  My Big Top is a mess. Everyday life has become comedic, we lurch from one clown like skit to another. There are days when I feel that I am slowly losing my metaphorical marbles. One morning recently I picked up a jar of marmalade and tried to drink from it, thinking it was a cup of tea. That’s the level of madness that I’m at right now.

Millions of women have two children. Surely it can’t be that hard, can it? Sometimes it feels that way.  All I know is, after 8 weeks of waking every 2-3 hours each night, I can barely remember my own name let alone what to put on my shopping list.  This last week I’ve been house hunting, looking for a place to rent. During the course of a morning’s viewings I constantly had to check where EB was, that I’d picked up the car seat and put him back in the car and hadn’t left him sleeping in his Maxi Cosi in some uninhabited flat. My head felt so full of noise, I worried I'd have an 'out' moment and just forget him.

Sleep deprivation and general exhaustion are responsible for the fact my multitasking capabilities are off kilter at the moment; that the house looks a bit of a mess, that I’m slightly unorganised and that I certainly don’t look anywhere near the yummy mummy I’d like to be.  My mantra for 2013 was to treat myself kindly, so I keep telling myself that all that stuff doesn’t matter (right now). What I am finding hard though, and what does matter, is managing the dynamic between Pip and EB;  balancing my time with each of them and nurturing the relationship between them. That matters to me. A lot.

Pip loves being a big brother, he really does. He’s so proud of the new addition to our family.  He is very sweet with EB and very tactile - but alas, not very gentle.  Some days I fear that EB is in danger of becoming a human canon ball. Whoever invented the Baby Bjorn bouncy chair clearly didn’t design it with older brothers in mind. It’s OK, I tell myself, we just won’t use the chair when Pip’s around. Yet even a pat on the head from Pip seems to turn EB into a nodding dog.  Boom! Down comes a massive hand on to EB’s delicate crown.  ‘BE GENTLE’ I cry for the umpteenth time that day. I hate myself for it.  I know he’s only trying to be affectionate, but my pleas of gentleness seem to fall on deaf ears.  Big clown loves to play with little clown and sees nothing wrong with what he is doing. In the meantime, Mummy, the frazzled ringmaster, becomes increasingly stressed out.

Try as I might, I can’t seem to help Pip find the balance between showing affection and doing it gently. A number of weeks in now, I’m finding it increasingly hard to remain patient, to parent calmly and say;  ‘Well done, nice and gently, that’s right.’  It’s taking all my will power to resist the temptation to bark; ‘Do NOT do that to your brother. You’ll hurt him’.  If I reflect on it, it makes me sad. I don’t want to have to constantly be telling him off for not being gentle enough.  I don’t see malicious intent in his actions,  just the adoration of an over exuberant three year old, but managing it is turning out to be a full time job.

 

Inside my head I can hear the broken record of a mother with her needle stuck, continually repeating; ‘ Be Gentle’...'BE Gentle'...'BE GENTLE’.  I tell myself millions of babies have survived the rigorous demonstrative love of older siblings and it will be fine, but trying to balance protecting my youngest whilst not wanting to discourage my oldest from demonstrating his love seems so difficult. Who’d have thought that something so well meant would be a cause of stress? I’m hoping it’s just a phase, that it will pass soon. My new juggling act will certainly be much easier to perform if it does.

Lap Chat - On the Sofa with EB (6 weeks)

Look at you, holding your head up now, meerkat like, alert and checking out the world around you.  There’s such a lot to see, isn’t there?

What fabulous little legs you have. Those rolls of fat around your thighs are adorable. I love the contented roundness of you, of your barrel chest; the fact that even your bellybutton is rotund.

Your skin feels soft, smooth; completely unsullied and unscarred. A blank canvas of purity. There is nothing softer in the whole wide world. Mother nature is so clever. Man, with all his technology, cannot produce anything that comes close to the silken feel of your flawless skin.

Your eyes, like mill pools, are the deepest, darkest blue.  I can see myself reflected in them. They light up when you smile.   Your mouth contorts first; this way and that. You wriggle slightly, as if moving your body at the same time will help you coax it out. It’s strange, getting the hang of this smiling lark, isn’t it?  And then it comes, the circumzenithal arc across your face.  Your smile, a real smile.  Like an upside down rainbow, casting light all around.  It causes the shape of your eyes to change. No longer wide, open gazing eyes, now almond like. Crinkled at the corners. Smiling eyes.

Hey, I’m smiling now.  Your smile makes me smile.  In fact, I can’t stop smiling when you smile. I’ve smiled so much my cheeks are actually aching.  Is that funny?  Something seems to be amusing to you. Oh, you are adorable.  Have I told you that today?

Can you talk to me?  Go on, I know you want to. You’re trying so hard. If you keep trying, soon you’ll make a sound, I promise. Oh wow! You did it!  I love that cooing sound. You remind me of a little bird when you open your mouth and try to talk,  searching deep within for sweet, melodic notes.  What else can you tell me?  Tell me something else. I love the sound of your little voice. I promise I’ll treasure every sound, every word, even though I can’t quite decipher them all yet.

That’s a funny face; all screwed up. What’s wrong? You seemed so happy a minute ago.    Oh don’t cry, please don’t cry. We were having such a lovely chat. Mummy doesn’t know what’s wrong.

What’s that noise? A 21 gun canon salute?

Hold on; my lap feels warm.  And wet. 

Ah. Poo bombed. Again. I’m honoured. Really, I am.

You’re smiling now. Yes, I’m sure it is very funny.  Did you know that these are my best trousers?

I’ll let you off, for the second time (today).

It’s a good job I love you so much.

Looking Forward, Looking Back

I began 2012 with the hope that it would bring better fortune than it’s predecessor; 2011 had been a difficult year.  I approached cautiously, tip toeing gently, feeling my way,  with a silent but simple wish; let it be better. 

It was. SO much better.  Better than I could have dared to hope. 2012 was a wonderful year.  As the year drew to a close, Husband and I celebrated New Year's Eve at home with some close friends.  At midnight, EB, who had slept for the whole evening, was awake and in my arms, as we sang to Auld Lang Syne the emotion swelled forth within me.  The final much longed for piece of the jigsaw, a year ago previously only dreamt of, was now with us.  What a difference a year does make. 

At the start of this new year, there is no trepidation, no wariness.  I feel buoyant and positive.  I’m looking forward to walking bravely through the year’s calendar; through crisp white snow, hair frizzling spring showers, warming rays of sunshine and falling autumn leaves. I am looking forward to embracing each moment in the moment, not crystal ball gazing to the future, but living in the now and enjoying it.

This year, after two years in the planning, we will finally renovate our house and make it home.  This year Pip, my first born, will start school.  These two events on their own mean it will be a big year of change. Add into the mix the many other unknowns that are sure to cross our path and life is sure to be nothing less than exciting.

At the start of each new year I usually make resolutions. I’ve had varying degrees of success at keeping them, but truth be told, I let myself off the hook far too easily. This year I’ve decided not to make any. I’ve got my hands full adjusting to having a new baby and a major renovation project to manage. That’s enough. That’s not to say I don’t have lots of good intentions (curb the sugar habit) or aspirations (write out a proper plan for the novel I have half a plot for in my head), but, I’m not going to make them resolutions or hold myself to them. Given all the other things going on, I’d be putting unnecessary, needless pressure on myself, which won’t make me happy. This year I’ve decided I’m just going to ‘go with the flow’, treat myself kindly, do what I can when I can, and accept that sometimes, things can’t be done, and that’s ok.  If I get to the end of this year and we’re a happy family unit with a new (non leaky) roof over our heads, I’ll feel that I’ve done pretty well. Anything else will be a bonus.

End of the Year

And again, it's been awhile since I've posted.  I'm not even sure if that many people are going to read this since I've given up Facebook, which is where I publicized new posts.  But as I've stated in the past, this is still partly for my benefit, so I will keep writing.  One of my goals for the new year is to write more frequently.

The last post mentioned that we were moving on to IVF.  We did an IVF cycle over Nov/Dec.  It took a lot longer than I expected it to.  Between meds to start my period and then more meds and then multiple doctor visits until my follicles were ready, it was a long time.  It didn't work.

Leading up to the IVF I had this intense apathy regarding the whole thing.  That continued throughout the cycle.  I didn't really care about what was going on.  I think some of that was my way of coping emotionally, distancing myself from the up and downs.  I also did not have any expectations of success with the cycle.  When they called with the results, I was not shocked at all. Whether this was the cause or the result of my apathy, I don't know.

The only real emotion I had was anger.  I'm pissed that we spent $10k (out of pocket b/c insurance sucks) for NOTHING.  The only thing we got out of it was a couple of extra eggs that developed further after my implant and were frozen to use later.  I know this is good and a big deal, but considering the stakes of the intended results, it's a pretty crappy consolation prize.  I'm just so angry that we threw away money.

Which has led me closer to being ready for adoption.

At my support group a couple months ago, a couple came and talked about the foundation they had started to support couples going through domestic adoption.  (This was before we had even decided on IVF).  I realized after hearing them speak that I was nowhere near ready to consider that stage.  That has completely changed.  I feel like if we're going to be spending all this money, we might as well be putting it towards more of a "guaranteed" result.  I know adoption is a long and complicated process, but it seems a little more secure than all of these medical procedures.

I'm not completely there yet, but it wouldn't take much to push me over the edge.  However, I know, Joel is not ready.  The unsuccessful IVF round hit him a lot harder than it hit me.  He expected good news, I didn't. I try to remember that it's not just me this is affecting and this round really drove that home.

So now we need to decide what to do.  I've already decided we do nothing until after my next period.  I'm so sick of having all of these chemicals in my body that I just want some time to be normal.  My periods have been completely wonky (not that their timing was ever normal before, but once I got them, they were always the same).  After this we can either go to IUI (something we didn't try before, but we have to do 3 rounds if we want insurance to cover any IVF) or pay for our own IVF again.  I'm partially leaning towards paying for our own IVF.  I just see the IUI as being a step backwards in effectiveness.

Neither option really excites me.  But little does these days.

From Paper Birds to Tin Men

“I can make a paper bird” you said; ” I’m rather good at making paper birds.” That was nineteen years ago. I hardly knew you, but true to your word, you reached for a piece of paper and with the skill of an origami expert, created a little bird; a swan. Crisp, sharp and precise, the white bird sat on the desk between us.  You picked up a pen and drew a love heart on one of the wings and gave it to me. “For you.” I’d so hoped you’d give me the bird. I’ve still got it all these years later; in a memory box preserved for safe keeping.

Paper birds will always make me think of you.  For our first wedding anniversary, the theme was paper.  I racked my brains for weeks wondering what I could buy you, a thoughtful token, in keeping with the theme, to mark the occasion.  In a flash of inspiration, I looked back to the start and presented you with a book; ‘Bugs and Birds in Origami.‘  

Last Christmas you made lots of birds using brightly coloured papers.  We hung them from cotton threads in the conservatory.  I was so pleased with them.  “ They look wonderful.” I enthused, “Next year we will use gold and silver and glitter.”  Our new baby has meant we haven’t had time, but it doesn’t matter, because last years are still there, faded slightly from a year of sunlight, but still bright, cheerful birds. I feel happy when I see them.

This week we celebrated our ten year anniversary. We’ve passed the markers of cotton, iron, copper and wood and each time have honoured tradition with a themed gift. Never anything ostentatious, just a token, exchanged each year at the same small, candlelit Soho restaurant. This year the theme was tin, symbolic of flexibility.  Are we flexible? I like to think so.

Finding a tin themed gift was a challenge.  A baked bean can wasn’t going to cut it. I tried to take inspiration from the Wizard of Oz, but, somehow, tenuous links to the Tin Man didn’t seem quite right.  Thankfully you seemed pleased with your cufflinks made with tin sourced from an old Cornish tin mine. Thank goodness for your many double cuffed shirts, otherwise I wouldn’t have known what to choose for you. Even if I say so myself, the Cornish pasty design was inspired. After so many years of playing violin to your sob story of how as a student you were once so poor you couldn’t even afford a pasty, well; they seemed fitting and symbolic.

You are always so thoughtful when it comes to presents.  I thought you might struggle this year, but as ever, you came up trumps. What could be better for a woman with a serious cake habit and a penchant for pattern, than a set of designer cake tins?  Beautifully packaged, five Orla Kiely tins nestled one inside the other, each a different style. I love them. 

Exemplifying flexibility, we forsook our usual bijou enchanting restaurant and instead had lunch down by the Thames whilst Pip was at pre-school.  The air was fresh, the sky was blue, seagulls cawed ( how odd there were so many.). We sat looking out on the river from the glass fronted restaurant and EB slept peacefully the whole time.  The restaurant had a charming exhibition of prints depicting collective nouns. You know how I love a good collective noun, looking at them added to the specialness of the occasion.  If we want to be correct we should make your next set of birds in white paper. Then we truly would have a ‘whiteness of swans”.

Afterwards we walked home by the side of the river. The tow path was deserted. Just you, me and EB. We took some portrait snaps of each other, and joked about our additional crows feet and grey hair ten years on; the fact we’re shadows of our former youthful selves.  Everything seemed so still, so calm, the only sound the odd seagull or water lapping at the shore. Walking by your side always feels good.  Peace, happiness, love and some new cake tins. It was a perfect day. x

Baby Lag

I’ve hit the wall. The wall of tiredness. I.am.exhausted. Exhausted in a good and happy way, but never the less, downright shattered.  Feeding through the night is tiring business.  The last couple of nights have been particularly hard. EB seems to be ravenous from 3.30 am and then seems to want to feed, poop, feed, poop until the sun rises.  Struggling with wind he doesn’t want to go back into his moses basket either, just to sleep on Mummy, who he prefers to be sitting up so he can lay his head on her chest whilst she rubs his back.  At around 5.30am, Pip arrives in our bed and asks for his milk.  Trekking downstairs to a freezing cold kitchen extension that doesn’t have central heating is too much, so the microwave placed in the corner of the bedroom whirrs into action, and I pray the ping won’t wake EB, if indeed he is asleep.  At 6.30 am Husband gets up and starts to get ready for work, and so the day begins.

The beginning of my day is now very different. Bye bye luxurious hot shower. Hello to a new world; chucking on the nearest set of clothes, pulling my hair back into a pony tail, splashing some water on my face and a quick tooth polish before breast feeding a baby with one arm and trying to encourage Pip to eat his porridge with the other.  Then a rush to get out of the house and get both of them in the car without Pip being unforgivably late for pre-school.  All things that a million other mothers do every day with the polish of professionals, but frankly, things that this newbie is struggling to get to grips with.

By 2pm each day the failing winter light makes me feel as though it's night time.  Lights have to be on indoors.  I feel disorientated.  It makes the tiredness even worse.  Baby lag does indeed feel very like the similarly named jet lag. Yesterday I had to take EB to the midwife clinic. "Please confirm your name," the nice administrator asked at reception. I stared at her trying to compute what she had said. "Midwife" I said blankly.  "No dear, your name".  My brain felt foggy. I looked at EB and said "Mummy, can’t remember her name". I was only half joking. Finally, my brain clicked into gear again, working in tandem with my mouth and I was able to communicate.  The woman on the desk clearly thought I was bonkers.

Tea and cake are high on my list of coping mechanisms right now. As is fresh air.  It makes me feel human, I pray that it won’t rain all day on the mornings when it is precipitating heavily.  It’s no wonder they recommend Vitamin D supplements for post natal women and babies, getting enough sunlight in these winter months can be difficult if there is a monsoon hanging over west London.

Late afternoon and Pip’s bath and bedtime are the times of day I am finding hardest.  I want to spend time with Pip after picking him up from pre-school, to do something constructive; but the tiredness just saps at me.  Today wasn’t so bad, constructing a lego castle was time spent enjoyably for both of us whilst EB slept, but some days it isn’t so easy, particularly if EB is struggling with colic.  Likewise, bathtime/bedtime for Pip can go either way. If EB is asleep, then it’s just like it’s always been, we can cuddle up and have stories together. If he’s awake, and crying, then it’s hard, hard work. Trying to get a small boy out a bath and dry him whilst holding a windy, crying baby requires the arms of an octopus and the patience of a saint, and reading a story to the soundtrack of screams, is nigh on impossible.  Pip has been a superstar and hasn’t complained once, but I do feel sorry for him when his special time at the end of the day is compromised by a crying sibling and a stressed Mummy trying to be all things to all little people.

Post 8pm when Husband has returned home from work and Pip is in bed,  I soothe my aching, milk posseted self under a waterfall of hot water.  Something as simple as taking a hot shower feels so good by that time of day.   Thank goodness for the full freezer that makes preparing dinner a doddle.  Between my batch cooked efforts and trips to the local ‘Cook’ store, we haven’t had to worry about preparing much at all, which is just as well, as otherwise we’d be living on take aways.

Despite feeling more exhausted than I can ever remember feeling before, I am blissfully happy. That said, I am limping towards Christmas and grateful that some respite is in sight.    Husband will be at home for a good chunk of the holiday period to help out ( change nappies/ burp colicky babies/ play games /read stories) and has also been appointed head chef with the task of preparing a delicious lunch on Christmas day. Visiting Grandparents will hopefully also step up manfully to the challenge of pitching in and helping out. I’m looking forward to having the extra help and recharging my batteries.  Nearly there, only five more sleeps ( or lack of sleeps) to go.