G&T - almost 2-and-a-half M - 7-and-a-half months
I am obsessed with poo. And pee. And everything bottom-related really. Yes, we're potty training. Well, that's the idea anyway. Mostly, it's just me mopping up puddles and maintaining a falsely cheery face while scooping up crap. Quite simply, it's hell. I have no objection to the mess really. I have three kids under 3. Mess is the default position around here. It's just that I can see no hope of it changing. They're just not getting it.
I don't like to boast, but my girls are pretty clever. Well, OK, I do mean to boast a bit. They're little chatterboxes, often surprising people with just how much they can say. I've long since stopped counting how many words they have. They have language. I'd just read in a mag about how, by the age of 3, children should 'have about 300 words, and put them into three- or four-word sentences' when T wandered up to me. 'Mummy,' she informed me. 'Yesterday, you went in a car. I went on a choo-choo train with Daddy and Morris. This is Morris here,' she added helpfully, holding up her monkey. 'We saw elephants and rhinoceros and meerkats,' G piped up. Not words. Language. It's not just that they repeat things. They understand.
I assumed I'd start training the girls by about 2, but when they were 22 months, along came M. And two months later, we upped sticks and moved across the country. Life kept getting in the way, and all my efforts were a bit half-hearted. The potties have been around, and G even managed a couple of deposits a month or so back. But then she went through a bout of constipation, and the potty progress stopped. So I decided to take matters into my own hands, and ditch the nappies. They proudly carried their 'big girl pants' home from the shop, and went to bed delighted at the prospect of the day ahead. Come D Day, on went Peppa Pig and Princess, and... nothing. The whole day, not a thing in the potty. Puddles in the living room, the playroom, the garden (thank God for the hot weather and the ability to just let them run bare-bottomed outside), soiled undies and even one ill-timed present on our bedroom floor... They just couldn't be persuaded to use the potties. They sat on them frequently, but they remained stubbornly empty. At one point, I changed T, telling her, 'Never mind. Next time you need a pee pee, you can take your own pants off like a big girl and go on the potty.' She showed up five minutes later pants-free. I couldn't find them, there was nothing in the potty, and I have no idea if and where she'd peed. It was exhausting. Oh, and I also had a grumpy baby to deal with. Of course, she'd chosen D Day eve to wake up countless times and end up in our bed, shoving me off the edge and preventing any meaningful sleep. And of course, she refused to do anything but stand up holding my hands. By the time they were all in their cots, I was totally wiped out, despairing to their dad and seriously considering giving up. But I couldn't. Not after one day. They'd have never been sleep-trained or learned to feed themselves if I just gave up. So on to day two.
M helpfully slept like an angel, and I woke up full of positive thoughts and potty dreams. Twelve hours on? Nothing. Not a tinkle. It's not like I expected them to just wake up and calmy ask for the potty every time they felt the urge. I was fully prepared for accidents. I just expected something. Anything. Some progress. Some hope. I know they know what's expected. Where am I going wrong? Are they simply not ready, despite being so advanced in everything else? Or am I the problem? Perhaps trying to train two toddlers and look after a 7-month-old is too much. Maybe I just can't watch them as closely as I need to. Just one tiny little wee in my plastic nemesis, and it'll all be worth it. So tomorrow, I'm abandoning all my principles. Chocolate stars bought and ready. Let's see if bribery does the trick...
Thursday, 24 May 2012
Tuesday, 15 May 2012
Mum-nesia
G&T - 29-and-a-half months M - 7 months
Names, appointments, where I put my keys... My memory has always been a somewhat unknown quantity, failing me when I least expect. But even by my standards, my brain has completely short-circuited since having kids. Half the time, I can barely remember the word for crayon. But that's not what they really mean by mum-nesia. The trivia is expendable. As a mum, there are just so many things going on, your mind has to sacrifice something. What's odd is that the big things are gone too.
This week, I was reading Edspire's excellent blog (http://www.edspire.co.uk). She's a thirtysomething mum to twin toddlers, who's just had a baby, so you can see why I'm interested. Unlike me, she somehow summoned the superhuman strength to write blog posts just after the little one was born. It was fascinating to read about life with a brand new baby, the joy, the difficulties, the sibling jealousy. My first thought was to feel a little sad that I don't have such a memento of M's first few days. What a wonderful thing to be able to show your children in years to come. But when I thought about it, I realised I like my memories a little more fuzzy and sugar-coated. I loved M's tiny days. Simply loved them. There must have been hard days, but I don't really remember them. An excellent feeder from the start, she soon figured out night and day, and other than a little resistance from T when she realised this noisy little bundle was actually hanging around, her sisters took the change in their stride. As for the twins' first few weeks... They were so cute! My tiny little miracles with their squishy little faces, all pink and happy... Those rose-tinted specs are firmly in place. The brutality of the sleep-deprivation this time has taken me totally by surprise. When the twins were really young, I can recall complaining of exhaustion, and remember being stuck on the sofa, pinned beneath them for hours at a time. I can think of at least one tearful conversation to my husband, begging him to come home from work to help. But thinking about it is like reading someone else's story. They are just pictures.
Recently, I was sympathising with a friend in the throes of morning sickness. She was feeling sick from morning until night, begging for the relief of throwing up that never came. That was exactly what I went through, so I ooh-ed and aah-ed and dished out advice about peppermint tea and dry baked potatoes, but the truth is, it was difficult to really empathise. My mum-nesia has firmly kicked in there too. Before I fell pregnant with M, I remember discussing nausea with my husband. 'I felt a wee bit rough for a few weeks, didn't I?' I said one day over dinner. He nearly choked. 'A bit rough? You were a wreck for four months. You told me you wanted to die.'
But even having gone through it just as bad a second time, I still can't really remember it. And I don't care. Just like the scars and the saggy bits that make it hard to remember the toned midriff of my youth, the tough times don't matter when compared to the great ones. If I could go back, knowing fully how hard it all is, would I swap my girls for a bit more sleep? Hardly. Give it a few months, when M is sleeping through the night, and I bet I'll read this post and shake my head. 'I bet I wasn't really that tired... '
Names, appointments, where I put my keys... My memory has always been a somewhat unknown quantity, failing me when I least expect. But even by my standards, my brain has completely short-circuited since having kids. Half the time, I can barely remember the word for crayon. But that's not what they really mean by mum-nesia. The trivia is expendable. As a mum, there are just so many things going on, your mind has to sacrifice something. What's odd is that the big things are gone too.
This week, I was reading Edspire's excellent blog (http://www.edspire.co.uk). She's a thirtysomething mum to twin toddlers, who's just had a baby, so you can see why I'm interested. Unlike me, she somehow summoned the superhuman strength to write blog posts just after the little one was born. It was fascinating to read about life with a brand new baby, the joy, the difficulties, the sibling jealousy. My first thought was to feel a little sad that I don't have such a memento of M's first few days. What a wonderful thing to be able to show your children in years to come. But when I thought about it, I realised I like my memories a little more fuzzy and sugar-coated. I loved M's tiny days. Simply loved them. There must have been hard days, but I don't really remember them. An excellent feeder from the start, she soon figured out night and day, and other than a little resistance from T when she realised this noisy little bundle was actually hanging around, her sisters took the change in their stride. As for the twins' first few weeks... They were so cute! My tiny little miracles with their squishy little faces, all pink and happy... Those rose-tinted specs are firmly in place. The brutality of the sleep-deprivation this time has taken me totally by surprise. When the twins were really young, I can recall complaining of exhaustion, and remember being stuck on the sofa, pinned beneath them for hours at a time. I can think of at least one tearful conversation to my husband, begging him to come home from work to help. But thinking about it is like reading someone else's story. They are just pictures.
Recently, I was sympathising with a friend in the throes of morning sickness. She was feeling sick from morning until night, begging for the relief of throwing up that never came. That was exactly what I went through, so I ooh-ed and aah-ed and dished out advice about peppermint tea and dry baked potatoes, but the truth is, it was difficult to really empathise. My mum-nesia has firmly kicked in there too. Before I fell pregnant with M, I remember discussing nausea with my husband. 'I felt a wee bit rough for a few weeks, didn't I?' I said one day over dinner. He nearly choked. 'A bit rough? You were a wreck for four months. You told me you wanted to die.'
But even having gone through it just as bad a second time, I still can't really remember it. And I don't care. Just like the scars and the saggy bits that make it hard to remember the toned midriff of my youth, the tough times don't matter when compared to the great ones. If I could go back, knowing fully how hard it all is, would I swap my girls for a bit more sleep? Hardly. Give it a few months, when M is sleeping through the night, and I bet I'll read this post and shake my head. 'I bet I wasn't really that tired... '
Tuesday, 8 May 2012
Living the dream
G&T - 29 months M - 7 months
I used to love shoes. Mary Janes, slingbacks, sparkly, stylish, the higher the better. If I saw a pair I wanted, I'd think about them, visit them, try to convince myself I didn't need them... Then delight in the gorgeousness of my feet when they were mine. I was nearly six months pregnant with the twins when I went to a friend's wedding in a pair of sky-high Miu Mius. Yes, I was enormous and exhausted... but they were Miu Mius. These days, leaving the house is an irritation because it means removing my infeasibly comfortable pair of bootie slippers. Even if I do wrench them off my feet, nine times out of ten, it's only to put on trainers. My life these days is somewhat less than glamorous. Instead of fabulous footwear, I get excited about buggies and T-shirts with Minnie Mouse on them. The other night, I spent a good 45 minutes constructing an impressive multi-line Brio train track, complete with MegaBlok tunnels. My husband thought it was hilarious, pointing out that if, for once, the twins hadn't made an epic mess that I had to tidy up, I should perhaps, you know, relax. But the truth is, I enjoyed my engineering exploits. That's what passes for intellectual stimulation for me these days. The old me had a job with deadlines and responsibilities. The new me has wooden train tracks. The old me had novels and newspapers, the new me has Spot the Dog and nursery rhymes. The old me thought counting was working out if I could afford one more pair of shoes. The new me spends time counting how many odd baby socks I have that have inexplicably lost their pair (23 at last count, by the way. How? How? How???). The 25-year-old me would laugh herself silly at the sad old woman I've become. Well, no, actually she wouldn't. Whenever I find myself wistfully reading friends' Facebook posts about fab nights out or Tweets from one glamorous party or another, I remember. I had that life. I had an absolute blast at uni, making the best friends I will ever have, lived the high-life in London, working my dream job on a magazine, I partied, I danced, I was thin... And the whole time, there was a little thing missing. A baby. Or three. I always wanted to be a mum. OK, so my 25-inch waist is a thing of the past and instead of donning a tiny mini and a strappy top, I now consider myself dolled-up if there's no sick on me, but it's now that I'm living the dream. I laugh. A lot. My girls are such little comedians. In the past week alone, the twins have independently choreographed an entire dance routine to Spirit in the Sky, started copying my baby-food choo-choo and feeding one another, and decided that it's hilarious to replace the words of familiar songs (and my name) with 'Nunk'. And then there's M's adorable new-found ability to launch herself onto the floor and wiggle like a madman in order to reach something six inches away. Yes, it's tough having three tiny tots so close together, and glamour is not a word any sane person would apply to me, but I wouldn't change a thing. My little trio are so full of fun, I don't really mind that I'm not. I do miss the shoes, though...
I used to love shoes. Mary Janes, slingbacks, sparkly, stylish, the higher the better. If I saw a pair I wanted, I'd think about them, visit them, try to convince myself I didn't need them... Then delight in the gorgeousness of my feet when they were mine. I was nearly six months pregnant with the twins when I went to a friend's wedding in a pair of sky-high Miu Mius. Yes, I was enormous and exhausted... but they were Miu Mius. These days, leaving the house is an irritation because it means removing my infeasibly comfortable pair of bootie slippers. Even if I do wrench them off my feet, nine times out of ten, it's only to put on trainers. My life these days is somewhat less than glamorous. Instead of fabulous footwear, I get excited about buggies and T-shirts with Minnie Mouse on them. The other night, I spent a good 45 minutes constructing an impressive multi-line Brio train track, complete with MegaBlok tunnels. My husband thought it was hilarious, pointing out that if, for once, the twins hadn't made an epic mess that I had to tidy up, I should perhaps, you know, relax. But the truth is, I enjoyed my engineering exploits. That's what passes for intellectual stimulation for me these days. The old me had a job with deadlines and responsibilities. The new me has wooden train tracks. The old me had novels and newspapers, the new me has Spot the Dog and nursery rhymes. The old me thought counting was working out if I could afford one more pair of shoes. The new me spends time counting how many odd baby socks I have that have inexplicably lost their pair (23 at last count, by the way. How? How? How???). The 25-year-old me would laugh herself silly at the sad old woman I've become. Well, no, actually she wouldn't. Whenever I find myself wistfully reading friends' Facebook posts about fab nights out or Tweets from one glamorous party or another, I remember. I had that life. I had an absolute blast at uni, making the best friends I will ever have, lived the high-life in London, working my dream job on a magazine, I partied, I danced, I was thin... And the whole time, there was a little thing missing. A baby. Or three. I always wanted to be a mum. OK, so my 25-inch waist is a thing of the past and instead of donning a tiny mini and a strappy top, I now consider myself dolled-up if there's no sick on me, but it's now that I'm living the dream. I laugh. A lot. My girls are such little comedians. In the past week alone, the twins have independently choreographed an entire dance routine to Spirit in the Sky, started copying my baby-food choo-choo and feeding one another, and decided that it's hilarious to replace the words of familiar songs (and my name) with 'Nunk'. And then there's M's adorable new-found ability to launch herself onto the floor and wiggle like a madman in order to reach something six inches away. Yes, it's tough having three tiny tots so close together, and glamour is not a word any sane person would apply to me, but I wouldn't change a thing. My little trio are so full of fun, I don't really mind that I'm not. I do miss the shoes, though...
Sunday, 29 April 2012
An admission of guilt
G & T - 29 months M - 6-and-a-half months
Most days, I just can't believe my luck. Three beautiful, bright, funny little girls. I wouldn't change a thing in my life because it's all brought me to them. But I am struggling with something. Birth guilt. Ever since M was born, I've felt like a bit of a failure. Like I cheated. When I was expecting the twins, I made plans for as natural a birth as possible. No more than gas and air, lots of moving around and absolutely no epidural. I hated the idea of being out of control far more than the idea of the pain. Then a scan at 32 weeks showed my girls were breech, and with two in there, there was nothing I could do to turn them around. I was gutted to be told I'd need a C-section. In the end, I went into labour five days before the scheduled op, so we did the whole waters breaking in the night, husband finding a cab at 3am while I tried to get dressed through the contractions thing. In the taxi, the pains came with barely time to catch my breath between them. When I was examined at hospital, less than two hours from the first contraction, I was 6cm, G's bottom was starting to come out, and suddenly, the room went from calm to medical emergency as I was rushed into theatre. Until the spinal block went in, I hadn't had a drop of pain relief. Don't get me wrong, those contractions were mind-blowingly painful, but I could handle them, and by 5am, I'd met my girls. Expecting M gave me a second chance at a natural birth. She gave me a scare by turning breech briefly during the third trimester, but dutifully flipped round again, so we were all set. Then I started to get the false labours. With G and T, I'd had hundreds of Braxton Hicks, but they were intermittent, short-lasting, and I never mistook them for the real thing. This time, almost every night in the week leading up to my due date, the pains came, gradually getting closer together until I felt I had to write down the timings, just in case, only for them to tail off again. Teamed with watching two toddlers all day, I was exhausted. Finally, at 40 weeks and two days, I woke up at 3am with contractions coming every five minutes and getting worse. We headed to the hospital and, sure enough, in the cab, they got closer and closer. But the time we got there, they were two minutes apart and pretty intense. I was examined at 7am, fully expecting to be pushing my little girl out in time for breakfast. I was 2cm. Just 2cm. I was stunned. Just how long could this go on? The pain was already crippling, as though someone was trying to rip my insides out every couple of minutes. But worse was the fact that there was no respite. I'd hardly have time to muster a sob before the next wave of pain hit. At 11am, I was examined again. Please, 7cm at least... No, just 5. Oh God, I can't do this. They broke my waters to try to move things along. As they went and another contraction hit, I screamed like a woman possessed. The pain was indescribable. And I knew. I just couldn't do it any more. 'I need a break, chicken. I need a break,' I sobbed to my husband, over and over. He got the message. 'Are you sure?' he asked, looking into my wild, teary eyes. When I nodded, he took charge and, after a couple of missed attempts with the needle, the epidural went in, and the pain vanished. The rest of my labour was a positively lovely experience, chatting with three great midwives, periodically topping up the epidural... Until it came time to push. I just couldn't feel anything. The drugs hadn't had time to wear off. For an hour, we waited to see if M would move closer on her own, I threw up violently, then for another hour, I tried to push, with the midwife guiding me. But I couldn't feel a thing. In the end, a doctor was called in as M's heartrate was erratic, and a ventouse finally helped her out. She was placed on my chest, but before I had time to breathe, she was whisked away. Without a sound. I can barely even type the memory of seeing a little mask being put on her face. The midwife was fabulous, calmly telling me she was fine. But they're probably trained to say that. My husband was the real hero. As I sobbed hysterically, begging to have her back, he stood between us, reassuring me, saying he could see her move. In fact, he admitted later, he was terrified. She was totally still, and those two minutes were the longest in his life. Then the most wonderful relief as she let rip a wail, and was finally handed back to me. Just a little shocked by her sudden birth after so long stuck, she was fine. She is totally fine. Reaching every milestone, a happy, funny, loveable little angel. But I can't kick the guilt. I let her down. I couldn't push her out. I put her in danger. Turns out, I was topping up the epidural too much, thinking it was preventative, rather than responding to the pain. Having shunned the very idea of having one, I hadn't bothered to find out anything about them. And frankly, when it was going in, the surgeon could have been telling me I was signing my soul over the the devil and I wouldn't have cared. I guess when I was having the twins, the pain was easier to handle as I knew an end was in sight. I just wasn't prepared for the intensity of the agony second time round. I thought that either my labour would be as fast as with the twins, or it would be more like the textbooks. Ten minutes between contractions, then nine, then eight... Not seven hours of constant pain. So, I feel like I failed. Most of the time, I don't care. M is my little angel. It doesn't matter how she got here, she's here, and she's wonderful. It's more important that I raise her well, and each time she lets rip with a cheeky wee laugh, I know that I'm doing OK. It's just hard to let go of the memory of that tiny little mask. Perhaps I should take a leaf out of Daddy's book. I brought up the subject of M's birth one day, worried he'd nod and say: 'Yes, I was disappointed in you.' So, did he have any regrets? 'Yeah,' he said. 'You kept calling me chicken. It was so embarrassing...'
Most days, I just can't believe my luck. Three beautiful, bright, funny little girls. I wouldn't change a thing in my life because it's all brought me to them. But I am struggling with something. Birth guilt. Ever since M was born, I've felt like a bit of a failure. Like I cheated. When I was expecting the twins, I made plans for as natural a birth as possible. No more than gas and air, lots of moving around and absolutely no epidural. I hated the idea of being out of control far more than the idea of the pain. Then a scan at 32 weeks showed my girls were breech, and with two in there, there was nothing I could do to turn them around. I was gutted to be told I'd need a C-section. In the end, I went into labour five days before the scheduled op, so we did the whole waters breaking in the night, husband finding a cab at 3am while I tried to get dressed through the contractions thing. In the taxi, the pains came with barely time to catch my breath between them. When I was examined at hospital, less than two hours from the first contraction, I was 6cm, G's bottom was starting to come out, and suddenly, the room went from calm to medical emergency as I was rushed into theatre. Until the spinal block went in, I hadn't had a drop of pain relief. Don't get me wrong, those contractions were mind-blowingly painful, but I could handle them, and by 5am, I'd met my girls. Expecting M gave me a second chance at a natural birth. She gave me a scare by turning breech briefly during the third trimester, but dutifully flipped round again, so we were all set. Then I started to get the false labours. With G and T, I'd had hundreds of Braxton Hicks, but they were intermittent, short-lasting, and I never mistook them for the real thing. This time, almost every night in the week leading up to my due date, the pains came, gradually getting closer together until I felt I had to write down the timings, just in case, only for them to tail off again. Teamed with watching two toddlers all day, I was exhausted. Finally, at 40 weeks and two days, I woke up at 3am with contractions coming every five minutes and getting worse. We headed to the hospital and, sure enough, in the cab, they got closer and closer. But the time we got there, they were two minutes apart and pretty intense. I was examined at 7am, fully expecting to be pushing my little girl out in time for breakfast. I was 2cm. Just 2cm. I was stunned. Just how long could this go on? The pain was already crippling, as though someone was trying to rip my insides out every couple of minutes. But worse was the fact that there was no respite. I'd hardly have time to muster a sob before the next wave of pain hit. At 11am, I was examined again. Please, 7cm at least... No, just 5. Oh God, I can't do this. They broke my waters to try to move things along. As they went and another contraction hit, I screamed like a woman possessed. The pain was indescribable. And I knew. I just couldn't do it any more. 'I need a break, chicken. I need a break,' I sobbed to my husband, over and over. He got the message. 'Are you sure?' he asked, looking into my wild, teary eyes. When I nodded, he took charge and, after a couple of missed attempts with the needle, the epidural went in, and the pain vanished. The rest of my labour was a positively lovely experience, chatting with three great midwives, periodically topping up the epidural... Until it came time to push. I just couldn't feel anything. The drugs hadn't had time to wear off. For an hour, we waited to see if M would move closer on her own, I threw up violently, then for another hour, I tried to push, with the midwife guiding me. But I couldn't feel a thing. In the end, a doctor was called in as M's heartrate was erratic, and a ventouse finally helped her out. She was placed on my chest, but before I had time to breathe, she was whisked away. Without a sound. I can barely even type the memory of seeing a little mask being put on her face. The midwife was fabulous, calmly telling me she was fine. But they're probably trained to say that. My husband was the real hero. As I sobbed hysterically, begging to have her back, he stood between us, reassuring me, saying he could see her move. In fact, he admitted later, he was terrified. She was totally still, and those two minutes were the longest in his life. Then the most wonderful relief as she let rip a wail, and was finally handed back to me. Just a little shocked by her sudden birth after so long stuck, she was fine. She is totally fine. Reaching every milestone, a happy, funny, loveable little angel. But I can't kick the guilt. I let her down. I couldn't push her out. I put her in danger. Turns out, I was topping up the epidural too much, thinking it was preventative, rather than responding to the pain. Having shunned the very idea of having one, I hadn't bothered to find out anything about them. And frankly, when it was going in, the surgeon could have been telling me I was signing my soul over the the devil and I wouldn't have cared. I guess when I was having the twins, the pain was easier to handle as I knew an end was in sight. I just wasn't prepared for the intensity of the agony second time round. I thought that either my labour would be as fast as with the twins, or it would be more like the textbooks. Ten minutes between contractions, then nine, then eight... Not seven hours of constant pain. So, I feel like I failed. Most of the time, I don't care. M is my little angel. It doesn't matter how she got here, she's here, and she's wonderful. It's more important that I raise her well, and each time she lets rip with a cheeky wee laugh, I know that I'm doing OK. It's just hard to let go of the memory of that tiny little mask. Perhaps I should take a leaf out of Daddy's book. I brought up the subject of M's birth one day, worried he'd nod and say: 'Yes, I was disappointed in you.' So, did he have any regrets? 'Yeah,' he said. 'You kept calling me chicken. It was so embarrassing...'
Wednesday, 25 April 2012
Dreaming of dreaming
G&T - 28-and-a-half months M - six-and-a-half months
I love sleep. Love it. It is truly one of the greatest things a human gets to experience. Lying there, warm and snug, with a fluffy soft duvet, on a firm, comfortable mattress. I used to love getting into bed early, just so I could enjoy the luxuriant daze of slowly losing consciousness. Bliss... The last time I got a really good night's sleep was three years ago. Just when the twins started regularly sleeping through, I fell pregnant and it was back to the night-time toilet trips and bulky bump discomfort. All the more reason to get little M sleep-trained early. The twins were about one before we attempted anything other than rocking them to sleep in our arms. With two of them, you always worry they'll unsettle each other. In the end though, G decided it was time for a change. She began refusing to sleep on us, instead preferring to nod off in her cot. T was more of a problem. In the end, I spent a few agonising nights sitting by her bed at God knows o'clock, repeatedly lying her down until she got the message that I wasn't picking her up, followed by a few agonising nights sitting in the room at bedtime, waiting a seemingly interminable time until she went to sleep on her own. I gradually moved further from her until I didn't have to be in the room at all. I want to try the 'gradual withdrawal' method for M too, but my problem is again, T. The smallest thing has been known to throw her sleep off track, and force me back to training. If I sit in with M at bedtime, will T get too used to my presence? Besides, the twins are just too raucous at bedtime. They're in their cots by about 7.45, but can always be heard over the monitor singing, laughing or throwing their teddies at each other before silence reigns. Not exactly an atmosphere conducive to baby sleep. Especially when M adores them so much. She'll only want to join in, then where will I be?! So I tried the middle-of-the-night refusal to pick her up. But after two hours by the cot, she failed to see the fun any more, and screamed until I had to feed her just to stop her causing a riot. So I'm stuck in limbo, in an exhausted world, where my dreaming is largely limited to the daytime variety, as I imagine eight hours of uninterrupted peace. I do remember reaching a zombie phase when the twins were babies, but I'm feeling it so much more this time. When they were tots, I could at least collapse straight into bed when I'd finally got them down. These days, I have a day's worth of toddler chaos to rein in before I can stumble towards my mattress and grab what ever blackness I can. I'm so shattered I put T to bed the other night with no nappy on. And she's not potty-trained. I simply didn't notice I hadn't put one on. Thankfully, she stayed dry all night, and we only realised there was a problem when she informed her daddy in the morning that she was peeing on her trousers. Still have no idea how I did it. But I'm not really surprised. I'm living in a bizarre shadow world, where basic functions are all my brain can handle. Please, if anyone out there has any tips, help me... I want some sleep!!
I love sleep. Love it. It is truly one of the greatest things a human gets to experience. Lying there, warm and snug, with a fluffy soft duvet, on a firm, comfortable mattress. I used to love getting into bed early, just so I could enjoy the luxuriant daze of slowly losing consciousness. Bliss... The last time I got a really good night's sleep was three years ago. Just when the twins started regularly sleeping through, I fell pregnant and it was back to the night-time toilet trips and bulky bump discomfort. All the more reason to get little M sleep-trained early. The twins were about one before we attempted anything other than rocking them to sleep in our arms. With two of them, you always worry they'll unsettle each other. In the end though, G decided it was time for a change. She began refusing to sleep on us, instead preferring to nod off in her cot. T was more of a problem. In the end, I spent a few agonising nights sitting by her bed at God knows o'clock, repeatedly lying her down until she got the message that I wasn't picking her up, followed by a few agonising nights sitting in the room at bedtime, waiting a seemingly interminable time until she went to sleep on her own. I gradually moved further from her until I didn't have to be in the room at all. I want to try the 'gradual withdrawal' method for M too, but my problem is again, T. The smallest thing has been known to throw her sleep off track, and force me back to training. If I sit in with M at bedtime, will T get too used to my presence? Besides, the twins are just too raucous at bedtime. They're in their cots by about 7.45, but can always be heard over the monitor singing, laughing or throwing their teddies at each other before silence reigns. Not exactly an atmosphere conducive to baby sleep. Especially when M adores them so much. She'll only want to join in, then where will I be?! So I tried the middle-of-the-night refusal to pick her up. But after two hours by the cot, she failed to see the fun any more, and screamed until I had to feed her just to stop her causing a riot. So I'm stuck in limbo, in an exhausted world, where my dreaming is largely limited to the daytime variety, as I imagine eight hours of uninterrupted peace. I do remember reaching a zombie phase when the twins were babies, but I'm feeling it so much more this time. When they were tots, I could at least collapse straight into bed when I'd finally got them down. These days, I have a day's worth of toddler chaos to rein in before I can stumble towards my mattress and grab what ever blackness I can. I'm so shattered I put T to bed the other night with no nappy on. And she's not potty-trained. I simply didn't notice I hadn't put one on. Thankfully, she stayed dry all night, and we only realised there was a problem when she informed her daddy in the morning that she was peeing on her trousers. Still have no idea how I did it. But I'm not really surprised. I'm living in a bizarre shadow world, where basic functions are all my brain can handle. Please, if anyone out there has any tips, help me... I want some sleep!!
Monday, 16 April 2012
Cold comfort
G&T - 28-and-a-half months M - 6 months
Well, one week down, and I'm just about surviving life without my constant companion. M is all moved in to the twins' room, and our bedroom has been reclaimed as an adult-only oasis. Well, OK, so there is a little toy seepage. All right, toy flood from the girls' room, but we're getting there. Not that the first week of Mission Sleep Train has been entirely successful. I thought I'd be braver this time, you know, less squeamish about leaving my little one to cry. Having been through it all before, I realise a little crying never hurt anyone, and not rushing for every squeak is actually what's required for M to get a decent night's sleep. But I'd forgotten about the monitor anxiety. We were still using a baby monitor to hear the twins, but it pretty much got switched on at bedtime and ignored until our 7am wake up call. The first night I put M in there, I turned on the monitor, brought it downstairs... and my ears ached as I strained to hear every snuffle and snort, poised to leap up and run to her. I told myself it was because I didn't want her waking G and T, but if I'm honest, it's just that I couldn't bear the thought of her missing me. Of her waking up and being scared. Even typing that word - 'scared' - makes me well up, my protective mother instinct twitching, having to contain myself from rushing to her side. If a twin cries, their dad and I sigh and look at each other, willing the sound to go away and, if that fails, willing the other one to drag themselves up to attend. I love them just as fiercely as their baby sister, but they are fully formed little ladies, as a day of being ordered about, laughed at and wrapped round two chubby little fingers proves. If they really need me, they'll let me know. M doesn't have that ability yet, and I just want to wrap her in my arms and never let go. But, of course, I have to, and by day three I was beginning to relax, letting the snuffles go, and trying my best to limit our night-time interactions to only the most basic patting and shooshing. Then we got the visit every parent of toddlers dreads. The snot fairy. Suddenly, no one was sleeping. Our nights were filled with coughs, sneezes and mucous-filled distress from every corner of the room. At one point, I woke up cradling M in my arms in the feeding chair, having been left no option but to pick her up, to find Daddy sleeping between the cots with T snuggled next to him on the floor. Sleep training went out the window as we all just attempted to survive the days and nights in a sleep-deprived, snot-filled haze. But it seems everyone is finally breathing easier again, so now Mission Strong Mummy must begin in earnest. I will resist the urge to run at every sound, and keep night-time snuggling to an absolute minimum. Unless it's with Daddy of course. Though hopefully not on the floor...
Well, one week down, and I'm just about surviving life without my constant companion. M is all moved in to the twins' room, and our bedroom has been reclaimed as an adult-only oasis. Well, OK, so there is a little toy seepage. All right, toy flood from the girls' room, but we're getting there. Not that the first week of Mission Sleep Train has been entirely successful. I thought I'd be braver this time, you know, less squeamish about leaving my little one to cry. Having been through it all before, I realise a little crying never hurt anyone, and not rushing for every squeak is actually what's required for M to get a decent night's sleep. But I'd forgotten about the monitor anxiety. We were still using a baby monitor to hear the twins, but it pretty much got switched on at bedtime and ignored until our 7am wake up call. The first night I put M in there, I turned on the monitor, brought it downstairs... and my ears ached as I strained to hear every snuffle and snort, poised to leap up and run to her. I told myself it was because I didn't want her waking G and T, but if I'm honest, it's just that I couldn't bear the thought of her missing me. Of her waking up and being scared. Even typing that word - 'scared' - makes me well up, my protective mother instinct twitching, having to contain myself from rushing to her side. If a twin cries, their dad and I sigh and look at each other, willing the sound to go away and, if that fails, willing the other one to drag themselves up to attend. I love them just as fiercely as their baby sister, but they are fully formed little ladies, as a day of being ordered about, laughed at and wrapped round two chubby little fingers proves. If they really need me, they'll let me know. M doesn't have that ability yet, and I just want to wrap her in my arms and never let go. But, of course, I have to, and by day three I was beginning to relax, letting the snuffles go, and trying my best to limit our night-time interactions to only the most basic patting and shooshing. Then we got the visit every parent of toddlers dreads. The snot fairy. Suddenly, no one was sleeping. Our nights were filled with coughs, sneezes and mucous-filled distress from every corner of the room. At one point, I woke up cradling M in my arms in the feeding chair, having been left no option but to pick her up, to find Daddy sleeping between the cots with T snuggled next to him on the floor. Sleep training went out the window as we all just attempted to survive the days and nights in a sleep-deprived, snot-filled haze. But it seems everyone is finally breathing easier again, so now Mission Strong Mummy must begin in earnest. I will resist the urge to run at every sound, and keep night-time snuggling to an absolute minimum. Unless it's with Daddy of course. Though hopefully not on the floor...
Monday, 9 April 2012
Home sweet home
G&T - 28 months M - 6 months
Well, that's it. My baby has moved out. Little M's cot has been decamped to her sisters' room, and the Moses basket in the living room has been packed away. From now on, she'll go to bed with her big sisters, while I stay downstairs and miss her. Until it's time for me to go to bed, then I'll go up into my own bed and miss her there instead. It's brought back so many memories of the day the twins first moved into their nursery. Their move was perhaps even more stressful, as it not only meant being separated from Mummy and Daddy, but also from each other. Although they were still to share a room, they were moving into their own cots, having shared one since birth. Their dad and I worried for weeks about how they'd take to it, and in fact instigated an elaborate plan to ease the change. We kept one cot in our room, but built one in the nursery and, over the course of a week before the move, the girls alternated between rooms, with one parent and one child in each room. Then came the big day. Both cots were put in the nursery, the girls were put into bed and... a totally uneventful night. They were utterly unperturbed by any of it. Turns out we, or more probably I, was being a drama queen. And I know M will be OK too. In fact, separating from her should be easier. Until just after she was born, we lived in London, hundreds of miles away from most of my family in Scotland or my husband's clan in Yorkshire. It meant there were no ready babysitters and there was always a little adjustment period while they clung to me until they remembered who visitors were. It made expecting M a difficult time, first worrying she'd arrive before my mum came to stay on my due date then, even when Granny appeared, worrying that the twins would be stressed about Mummy and Daddy vanishing. Of course, when I did go into labour in the middle of the night, the girls were simply delighted when they had a whole day of playing with Granny and Aunty R, while I cared about nothing but getting that baby the hell out of me! But I'm glad that now, should I go into labour in the wee small hours (admittedly unlikely) none of us would bat an eyelid. My mum lives literally five minutes away and all three girls love being left with her or Grandad or Aunty S. They're always having far too much fun to notice their parents abandoning them. M has been looked after by Granny far more times in her six months than her sisters did in their first two years. Not only does that give Daddy and me more freedom to spend time with the twins, or even, amazingly, each other, but it's pretty good for Granny too. If I ever see anyone prouder than my mum when she strolls along pushing her little lookalike grand-daughter in her buggy, I'd be surprised. After raising the twins so far from home and coping with them alone and pregnant while Daddy was at work, my life now has transformed. And so has theirs. If I could give you one piece of advice, it'd be move back home. Nothing in the world is better than grandparents!
Well, that's it. My baby has moved out. Little M's cot has been decamped to her sisters' room, and the Moses basket in the living room has been packed away. From now on, she'll go to bed with her big sisters, while I stay downstairs and miss her. Until it's time for me to go to bed, then I'll go up into my own bed and miss her there instead. It's brought back so many memories of the day the twins first moved into their nursery. Their move was perhaps even more stressful, as it not only meant being separated from Mummy and Daddy, but also from each other. Although they were still to share a room, they were moving into their own cots, having shared one since birth. Their dad and I worried for weeks about how they'd take to it, and in fact instigated an elaborate plan to ease the change. We kept one cot in our room, but built one in the nursery and, over the course of a week before the move, the girls alternated between rooms, with one parent and one child in each room. Then came the big day. Both cots were put in the nursery, the girls were put into bed and... a totally uneventful night. They were utterly unperturbed by any of it. Turns out we, or more probably I, was being a drama queen. And I know M will be OK too. In fact, separating from her should be easier. Until just after she was born, we lived in London, hundreds of miles away from most of my family in Scotland or my husband's clan in Yorkshire. It meant there were no ready babysitters and there was always a little adjustment period while they clung to me until they remembered who visitors were. It made expecting M a difficult time, first worrying she'd arrive before my mum came to stay on my due date then, even when Granny appeared, worrying that the twins would be stressed about Mummy and Daddy vanishing. Of course, when I did go into labour in the middle of the night, the girls were simply delighted when they had a whole day of playing with Granny and Aunty R, while I cared about nothing but getting that baby the hell out of me! But I'm glad that now, should I go into labour in the wee small hours (admittedly unlikely) none of us would bat an eyelid. My mum lives literally five minutes away and all three girls love being left with her or Grandad or Aunty S. They're always having far too much fun to notice their parents abandoning them. M has been looked after by Granny far more times in her six months than her sisters did in their first two years. Not only does that give Daddy and me more freedom to spend time with the twins, or even, amazingly, each other, but it's pretty good for Granny too. If I ever see anyone prouder than my mum when she strolls along pushing her little lookalike grand-daughter in her buggy, I'd be surprised. After raising the twins so far from home and coping with them alone and pregnant while Daddy was at work, my life now has transformed. And so has theirs. If I could give you one piece of advice, it'd be move back home. Nothing in the world is better than grandparents!
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