Toddler Travels

It feels like an age since I wrote my travel post last June. It IS an age. Mountains have risen and fallen, stars have been born and died, and somehow Arthur has turned from a baby into a toddler, much as I hate to admit it.

 

This holiday has been slightly easier in the sense that we’ve come to my family’s caravan in the Lakes. We spent the first week in a lovely holiday place with extended family, which was great fun and awesome for Arthur thanks to all the attention he got. I’m going to talk about our second week at the caravan since that’s probably more true to most people’s holiday experiences, with no willing babysitters! It’s a place I’ve known and loved for fifteen years, and even though it requires a little jiggery pokery in the second bedroom to fit Arthur’s cot in, we make it work. There’s so much I love about coming up here, but honestly the sense of peace and oneness with the landscape is the best bit.. The “van” is on a working farm, with sheep, rabbits and cows dotted around and the work of the farm continuing around us. The view from the living room window is straight out over the fells to the best sunsets in the world, and I love nothing better than watching it dip behind the landscape with a glass of wine or beer. It’s different every time; sometimes gentle pastels, sometimes a blaze of riotous colour. If you’re lucky and it’s a clear night the sunset will give way to an inky black sky that will eventually put on the galaxy’s best light show; aka the Milky Way. But enough about the location; it’s time to talk about what we’ve done right and wrong so you can learn from our mistakes.

 

Let’s start with the bad news, shall we?

 

  1. Overpacking. Yep, despite the fact that toddlers really do need lots of crap, they really don’t need that much crap, especially when they’re in a new and exciting place. I also didn’t need this many clothes, even for two weeks. There’s a launderette near where we’re staying and it’s very easy to drop off our clothes and get them all nicely washed and folded for us. We could have done this holiday on a lot less. Our biggest issue on the way back will be TOYS. We’ve got enough toys and books for Arthur to open his own shop, most of which have been, ahem, picked up thanks to extremely generous relatives since we’ve been here.
  2. Sleeping arrangements: I don’t think we’d really got this organised properly before bedtime on the first night, which meant it was all a bit of a disaster. Lots of howling and a good old-fashioned three hour wake-up, which meant the whole family was in a complete grump the next day. We needed to rearrange all the furniture in the room to make it work, and it would have been much better if instead of trying to stick rigidly to bedtime we’d let Arthur explore his surroundings and enjoy the excitement. He simply wasn’t ready to go to bed, and forcing the issue made things worse. Lesson learned.
  3. Baby-proofing. Last time we came to the van Arthur was crawling and cruising all over the place, but his first steps were still a month or so away. We could build soft-play cushion forts and not worry about him. This time he’s opened every cupboard about 50 times, tried to climb up the shelves in the kitchen, pulled the fireguard down, learnt how to open the flipping doors, hidden one of his shoes in the fridge and on and on. Worst moment so far was when he opened the front door to the caravan and fell out onto the stone steps. Only my husband’s cricket reflexes stopped him from falling head first and hurting himself; as it was he just had a shock. The doors are well and truly locked as routine now, and the next time we come we’ll do a quick scout round to make sure everything is Arthur-proofed, which is a level up from normal baby-proofing, alas.
  4. We didn’t download any of Arthur’s favourite CBeebies buddies. ERROR.

 

The good stuff!

 

  1. Frankly, coming somewhere we know like the backs of our hands. No stress, no drama, just somewhere we adore. We don’t have to worry about finding out where to go or what to do (although we have researched local soft play places), we can just concentrate on enjoying it and taking each day as it comes.
  2. Baby waterproof clothing. The Lake District in April = wet.
  3. Being baby led. Sounds obvious, but we’ve worked out a way to get the most out of the holiday whilst making sure Arthur has a good nap each day that isn’t affected by travelling around too much. We get up early (as if we could do anything else), go and do something very local like a walk round the local park, a visit to the swings or a mooch round the shops. We head back to the van for lunch (making this a cheap holiday too), and then do something in the afternoon depending on what the weather’s like. It’s an incredibly chilled out way to do it, and it means we’re still getting to do plenty of stuff and feel like we’ve had some lovely time together. Figure out what will work around your own tiny tyrant’s needs and just do that; forcing whole day hikes or bike rides on an overtired baby is a bad idea. Well, I think so anyway.

 

Hope this helps if you’re planning a Spring/Summer holiday with a toddler or two!

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Sixteen Months Of Breastfeeding

This month has been harder. I’m flagging. We’ve had a massive, lengthy sickness bug during which Arthur was even refusing breast milk. That meant having to pump, which is my nemesis. We’ve gone from that to making up for lost time;pulling at my top, saying “Boob! Boob!”, tantruming if his needs aren’t immediately met. He’s even been attempting to latch onto my arm if I don’t comply straight away, or trying to pull my top down to get at them. The night feeds have gone back up, too. Less sleep again when I wasn’t getting a whole lot in the first place. Combine this with the hormonal changes from this up-and-down feeding and I’m feeling pretty tired and a bit low.

I’ve been getting a little more anxious about feeding in public, too. I don’t often have to nowadays, but there are times when it’s unavoidable. I was at a Christening as Godmother, and you can’t have someone shrieking “BOOOOOB” at the top of their lungs in church. So out they came, as soon as he started the top-tugging. Nobody minded, and as it happened the vicar was just at that moment extolling the virtues of motherhood. So I felt free to feed and be relaxed. Most of the time, though, you can’t help worrying what people think. Even a confident extrovert has limits; and I am British.

So why the heck am I still doing it? If you’d told me after month 1 that we’d still be doing this now, I’d have been horrified. I thought it would be six months and done.

Well, there are the WHO guidelines. There’s the convenience of knowing I have a nutritious snack for him whenever I need one. There’s the knowledge that it comforts him like nothing else can; I’ve noticed that in new environments he’s seeking me out for reassurance. There’s the fact that we’re on the milk weaning ladder and I might soon be able to offer him cow’s milk, so trying for formula now seems a little silly. Mostly though it’s the roar in the middle of the night. How the hell will I say no to that? How will I fight that instinct? There are still so many lovely moments still going on even though it’s hard and I’m not ready to stop yet. Someday soon he’ll be able to understand that it’s time to dial it back and eventually move on but right now he still feels very much a baby who needs his mum. Boobs and all.

A Tale Of Two Mothers

I want to tell you a story of something that happened to me the other day, on International Women’s Day.

I had to go to the Doctor’s with my son. It was for something and nothing, but as we were in the waiting room and Arthur was charging up and down another mum arrived with a huge double buggy. Arthur immediately went to say hello and inspect the buggy wheels, and I struck up a conversation with the woman.

She was Polish, I think, and had one little boy sat squirming on her lap. She indicated the buggy to point out her adorable three-month-old. Arthur, who had been causing trouble, was sat on my hip by this time and listening in.

“Your first?” Asked the mother with a smile. It’s a question I hate, but I smiled back and answered yes. “Ah, you will not be so worried about germs and dirt when you have two more! And next time you will have girl!” she laughed. I tried to smile and not to be too sad that she had mentioned that girl-baby that I know will never be. The one that has a name; two actually, as my husband calls her something different. I swerved and asked her if she had three children.

“Four!” she replied, brightly. “My oldest are 16 and 12, he is two and also the baby.”

“That’s wonderful,” I reply, meaning it with all my heart. All that love, all that homework, all those lives. Lovely. But I could feel it. My own story always demands to be told, no matter how much I suppress it, and I could feel it bubbling up now, as it always does. This woman, glowing with the pride of her brood, with eyes that were bright with love and exhaustion, was looking at me. It was my turn. I swallowed.

“I don’t think we can have another,” I said. “We tried for years and Arthur was conceived by IVF.”

I watched as those eyes widened in horror as she said “Oh, but you must! Just imagine if when he is older something happen to him” (here she made a noise and a sign against the evil eye) “what then? He need brothers and sisters!”

I had nothing. All I could do was clutch Arthur tightly to me and close my eyes for a minute. He was there, it was done, there was nothing to worry about. This sweet woman could have no way of knowing that she had just been the voice in my head at 3am, when I’m feeling most anxious and vulnerable. She didn’t know that. I tried again, weakly.

“ I can’t have another.”

There was a pause. “Well, perhaps not yet, heh?” smiled the woman kindly. At this point, thankfully, the health visitor came out to welcome her and I was alone with Arthur.

Later that day we ventured to the shops. I was still feeling pretty bruised after my encounter; despite the fact that we decided almost as soon as Arthur was born that we couldn’t go through IVF and HG again, it’s not a decision that rests there. I’ve been feeling it a little lately. We wandered into the local shop. I didn’t really need anything, we just needed to get out of the house. I was standing contemplating the baby shampoo when I heard a strong South East London accent say “Aw, he’s smiling and waving at me! Innee lovely! Look at those eyes!” I looked up to see a woman in her 70s smiling at Arthur. She asked me the usual questions; age, name, and then, with an urgency I recognised, she said “I couldn’t have ’em. Well, I had four but I lost ’em all. They said it was my womb couldn’t hold ’em in.” There was a beat while we looked at each other and I let that sad story, told so simply, sink in. “I’m so, so sorry,” I said. “We tried for four years and had to have IVF, so I understand a tiny bit of what you must have gone through.”

Her face lit up “And he’s here now!” She said, looking fondly at Arthur, reaching out a hand to him. “He’s here,” I said, realising how much that mattered. Here we both were in a corner shop in London, me and the baby who might never have been; who should never have been if it wasn’t for medical science and years and years of research. The mother with no children looked at him fondly again and said “And I bet you all make such a fuss of him!” Here she looked at me very seriously. “You do make a fuss of him, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I assured her. “He is very much loved.”

“Good,” she said, looking me straight in the eye. “I’m glad you had him, in the end.”

“Me, too,” I said, blinking back tears. “Oh, me, too.”

I saw her again the next day, telling her story to another woman with a pram. I thought how she must do this every day, so that someone else knows about her babies and knows they were real, that she carried them and carries them still. It did me good to meet both of those mothers; the lucky one with four children living and the one whose four children never were. We all have a story to tell, we all carry it with us. The miscarriages, stillbirths, the years lost to trying to conceive, or the years of childbearing and child-rearing and giving up ourselves for the children we love. None of it is easy, but I bet that if I asked either of those women they’d tell me they didn’t regret a day.

And neither do I.

To all the mothers and aunties of every stripe; Happy Mother’s Day.

Fifteen Months

(Please note that as ever I am only talking about my own experience. All mothers should do what they need to and what is right for them without reference to anyone else).

Today I’m marking 15 months since Arthur burst into our lives. Along with that is the milestone of another month of breastfeeding.

In one sense I’m amazed we’ve kept going this long. I look back at the pregnant me who was convinced I’d just breastfeed until six months and then miraculously Arthur would start eating well and drinking from a bottle, just like that, and I can’t believe how daft I was. It’s all been so much more complicated than that, what with allergies, bottle refusal and the fact he wouldn’t even have water from a cup until he was 13 months.

Even so, the strange thing is that most of the time I really enjoy breastfeeding. There’s so much written now about how painful and difficult it can be, and certainly we experienced a little of that during the early days. I never expected to like it.

The most difficult aspect of our breastfeeding “journey” has always been the fact that nobody else can help. It’s still a struggle, especially at night. When you’re on the third feed of the night and your back aches, your head aches, you can’t reach your water and your partner is snoring away blissfully whilst you inwardly curse them, breastfeeding is less than fun. Arthur’s sleep is something I wrote about in my previous post, and the one thing that will reliably calm him is boob, but it is tough.

Despite all of this I still want to continue. The day feeds are now a lovely point of stillness and repose, a chance for us to cuddle in days full of toys, learning, new words and zooming around everywhere. He’s started to feed more during the day, and I wonder if this is a way of getting some reassurance now that his little world is getting bigger all the time. When he had a tummy bug a couple of weeks ago I’m not sure what we would have done without breastfeeding as it was the only sustenance that passed his lips. I find it hard to imagine how I’ll parent without it.

So, how long will I keep going? Hard to say. Certainly to 18 months, probably beyond that. It’s not always easy, but it is always worth it.

Together

Sleep, sleep, sleep. I’ve spent so long thinking about it, worrying about it, trying to fix it. I’ve written several pieces for the blog about Arthur’s sleep and how difficult it’s been, but I’ve canned all of them. They all seem so moany, so ungrateful somehow. How dare I complain about this gorgeous boy, this boy I longed for for so long when he can’t help it and he’s only a baby?

The fact is that even the parents with that amazing baby who sleeps through the night from 6 weeks onwards will eventually come a cropper with sleep. Maybe it’s worse if you’ve had it that good to suddenly go back to multiple night wakings or (shudder) the 2-4am party. I don’t know; I can only go on my own consistently grim experience. Arthur has always been fine at napping and found sleep at night difficult. At his worst he wakes up once an hour (thankfully we haven’t seen those days for a while), at his best he’ll do one middle of the night feed then wake very early to start the day. Those nights have always been rare, but it’s been my mission to achieve that as a starting point. None of this “sleeping through” nonsense for us. I honestly think I’d be awake with crippling anxiety if he did that anyway.

Arthur is very advanced in a lot of ways. He’s been zooming about the place since eleven months, has amassed an impressive vocabulary for one so little (although he’s still to give me any kind of name consistently), can tell you where lots of body parts are and makes some impressive animal noises. He’s great fun. But he’s still only fourteen months old, which by any standards isn’t a long time to be in the world. He’s been poorly for pretty much the entire winter which has ramped up breastfeeding again, and now he’s old enough to ask for it he also understands when he’s told he can’t have it, and that makes him sad. For the last few weeks, in order to try and get him a bit of sleep we’ve given in and pushed him to sleep in the pram upstairs and left him there while we have something of an evening. The problem with that tactic is that he has to be transferred, and as any parent of a newborn knows that’s pretty hit and miss, never more so when the baby in question is a pretty heavy lump rendering stealth unlikely.

However, for the past two nights we’ve managed to go back to those heady nights of one short wake-up. I think I’ve figured out what he’s trying to say to us, why he struggles so much.

He needs to be with us.

We’ve tried him in his own room on and off since six months, but it’s never lasted. I’ve always thought that was just for my convenience; multiple night wakings for a breastfed baby are much, much easier if that baby is in the same room. For the last two nights, however, after his bath (and making sure I’d given plenty of milk feeds in the hours prior to bed), I’ve put Arthur in his trusty travel cot in our room and sat with him. He has books and his teddy; I have my book too. He complains a little, chats a little, picks his nose to make me laugh, reaches out his hand to me in protest. It’s adorable. I smile and ask him to try and go to sleep. More dancing. Then it happens. The key in the lock.

“Who’s that?” I ask him. A huge, beaming smile comes over his face. “Da-dee?” he asks. His Dad bounds up the stairs, two at a time, desperate to see his lad. They have a touching little chat, and Arthur demonstrates where his eyes, nose, mouth and ears are, sometimes getting them wrong on purpose with a little grin. After a few minutes, his Daddy kisses him and goes downstairs to make dinner. Arthur looks at me and cries, so I get him out of the cot and feed him.

He falls asleep. He knows we’re all home, together, and that’s what he’s been missing. That knowledge that his beloved Daddy has come home.

When we come up to bed he stirs a little but just rolls over. He knows we’re there and he’s happy with that. We sleep, all three of us together, just as families have since families began. I don’t wake and strain to hear him; I don’t need to. He’s right next to me.

He won’t be little forever, and when he’s older and more independent I can’t imagine ever regretting the nights he needed us to be together in order to sleep. I won’t get this again. Time to stop wondering how to fix what doesn’t need fixing. Time to start enjoying the process.

My London

I’m a Northerner born and bred, and yet last September I was able to say that I’d lived in London for as long as I lived up North. 18 years, to be exact. I used to hear the clichés from friends and family a lot. “I like London, but I couldn’t live there”, or “I’ve been to London. Never liked it. Everyone’s so rude, nobody talks to you.”

Well, having lived here for so long (I think now I can actually call myself a Londoner) I can tell you that the second thing is nonsense. Most people visiting London only actually go into the centre of town, shops and shows. You’re usually only going to meet other tourists there; so really, you’re not meeting that many Londoners. They’re all at work, you see. The other thing worth mentioning is that Londoners will absolutely talk to you. IF YOU ACTUALLY BOTHER TO TALK TO THEM. And despite popular belief they won’t edge away, or look at you like you’re mad etc etc. They’ll smile and pass the time of day just as they would anywhere else. Our next-door neighbours gave us presents when we got married and when Arthur was born. The lady a few doors down brought us a load of toys hers have grown out of. Since having Arthur I’m on nodding acquaintance with many more neighbours and have made friends in the flats opposite. It’s a community like any other.

If there is more of a reticence in a big city you can’t really blame us. We live a different way, with different worries and concerns. Over the past few years we’ve watched as our beloved cities have been targeted by extremists and our people killed on the same streets we walk every day. It’s difficult to keep being friendly to everyone you meet under that strain. After the London Bridge attack I really struggled to go back into the centre of town. Having a baby with me was probably the main reason. I have to wave my husband off to Soho every day for work, and if he can do it, so can I. This is my city, and it always will be; my Borough Market, my Strand, my Camden Town, my South Bank, my Angel. These are the streets where I became an adult, staggering out of pubs and clubs with my friends at university, catching the Number 12 night bus (highly recommended if you like watching a drunken bust-up), living at seven different addresses in Southwark, Islington, Hornsey and back to Southwark again. This is where I fell in love with my husband and married him, this is our son’s first home. I’ve conducted choirs and orchestras here, taken kids on endless trips, written and chatted in cafes all over the city. Private members bars, pubs, museums, galleries, opera houses, concert halls, parks, trains, tubes and buses.

I love this place. The view from Waterloo Bridge will always make me catch my breath in wonder, and my husband and I still argue about which side is best as we try to look at the view and the road at the same time while we drive across the river to visit our families. Ah, the river, Old Father Thames (or Mama Thames if you believe Ben Aaranovitch’s excellent Rivers of London series). It divides us into two halves, causing jocular debates about which is best, North or South. I’ve lived South more than North, but I’ve got a secret space in my heart for the trendier North, especially Camden where I had my first proper teaching job.

Despite all of this our house is on the market. It’s time to move on.

I always knew that if we finally did manage to have a child I’d want him to have a similar childhood to mine. It’s a personal thing; there are plenty of awesome kids I know being raised in this amazing city, and we could stay and do the same. It would be easier in many ways; moving is awful, and our home is lovely. It’s just that after my pregnancy when I went back to the North something shifted. There’s a longing for open sky, for walking boots and woods, and hills to explore in the fresh air. I never expected to feel that way. I thought I’d want to live here forever, but my pregnancy and becoming a mother has changed me. I can’t deny that. I’ve been rearranged somehow.

We visited friends outside of London last weekend. It was lovely, and although we didn’t do much exploring while we were there we did have time to exhale. Driving back into town through Wimbledon as the streets got narrower and the buildings taller, I felt the sky get smaller and suddenly I knew. I’m ready.

But you’ll always be my first love, London.

When your baby gets a little bit older you’re sort of expected to go back “to normal”. People stop offering help, and start expecting you to be back to the way you used to be. As if you had some kind of lengthy convalescence and are now back to full health.

The thing is, though, you’re not.

Your joints still ache from breastfeeding. Your back hurts. You get barely enough sleep to survive. Your body feels like it’s been rearranged somehow; it’s still not entirely yours. And that’s not even thinking about the psychological effects of having a baby; the lasting effects of PND or PNA, constantly worrying about the little person you brought into the world and love so much you’re bewildered and frightened by it. After a year has passed you’re probably trying to juggle work with parenting, and, if you’re a stay at home parent, you might be bored out of your brain. Whichever path you’ve chosen (or been forced into due to circumstances) you more than likely feel guilty. It probably gnaws at you.

Whatever you’re doing right now, at this moment, your little person is there, in the background on a loop in your mind as you worry about whether you packed enough snacks for tomorrow and whether that rash us just post-viral and whether it would be selfish to get your partner to take over for a couple of hours so you can meet up with your friend who’s going through tough times.

I don’t have any answers for you, I’m so sorry. I won’t trot out the cliché “you got this” because if you’re anything like me a) you find it annoying and b) you feel very much as though you don’t got this.

All I will say is that I’m pretty sure most women feel like this after having a baby, and that it takes a lot longer than twelve months to get over pregnancy and birth, especially if you’ve endured trauma in either or both. All I will say is it’s OK. You’re OK, or, if you aren’t, you probably will be soon. Try as much as you can to reclaim something you used to love; even if it’s just relaxing in the bath with a paperback. Cling to your mum friends, because they know. They really do. And this:

Well done.

One Year

It’s a little bit late, but I wanted to mark Arthur’s first birthday by writing him a letter.

Dear Arthur,

12 months. One whole trip around the sun. A year has come and gone since you burst into our lives, and it’s been tough, and wonderful, and awe-inspiring and hilarious.

Now you’re one there’s a lot happening with you. You started walking at 11.5 months, which was so exciting. I love watching you tearing around, investigating everything and pulling everything apart. You’re saying some words now, too. For a long while your favourite word was “Daddy”, even to the point of chanting it round Sainsbury’s. Your first proper word was “duck” but we haven’t heard it since. You say “Arthur!” tenderly as you recognise yourself in the mirror and give yourself a kiss. You’re also pretty good at “Wow!” and “Oh!” but my favourite word so far has to be “bauble” which has replaced all other words as you’re so pleased with it. No Mama, not yet. Why would you need it? I’m always here, after all. And I’m beginning to be concerned that you think my name is Boob anyway.

So, what else are you up to? Books. You love love love them. You’re never happier than when sat in a big pile of your books, turning pages upside down happily to yourself. You prefer to do this whilst listening to music in your bedroom. I didn’t get to that stage until I was at least 12, so well done there.

You’re funny. So, so funny, and you know it, too. Thankfully you still do your Roland Rat laugh, only now it’s accompanied by the cheekiest of grins, with plenty teeth. You love it when we chase you, especially if you notice the gate to the stairs has been left open and there’s an opportunity for some climbing.

You have so many amazing toys, but right now you’re not that interested. What’s more important to you is practising your walking, up and down, up and down the hall. You’re often carrying something as you go; a toy car, dolly, perhaps even the coaster I got from a wedding in Nice years ago. That’s a particular favourite. You’re sociable and loving and you adore other children, but Daddy and I are still your favourites.

Hopefully, as you enter your second year, I’ll be a bit more with it. It’s a tough gear to get into, parenthood, and I wasn’t always sure I was doing the right thing. I did my best, and that seems to be enough for you. As long as we get our sticky cuddles and kisses every time you toddle over to me, only to race off again, I think we’ll be OK. There’s a lot of fun stuff waiting for us this year. More talking, more playing, more holidays, more tearing about. Crayons, sticker books, play-doh and glitter. Trips to the zoo, trips to the seaside, chips and chocolate and apples and carrots. All of that and more.

I’m so glad you came along. I’m so glad we get to be your parents. I’m so proud of you. Keep being you, Little Droid. You’re the best person we’ve ever met.

Love,

Boob.


Arthur is nearly 11 months old. In some ways it feels as though my tiny baby disappeared in the blink of an eye, but mostly it feels as though he’s been here forever. In the blur and fog of the first year, it’s hard to remember what it was like before he showed up, perfect despite everything, and we lost ourselves to him. Now he’s almost a toddler really; pushing around the baby walker I found at a charity shop for peanuts, turning over all his toys with wheels to examine them intently like a baby mechanic, babbling as though he really wants us to understand him. 
I’m still breastfeeding. In all honesty, I thought I would have stopped by now but we’re dealing with a very specific set of circumstances. When I started to offer Arthur food five months ago (is it really that long?) he started to show signs of something called an IGE Mediated Allergic Reaction. Put simply, certain foods give him an alarming rash. Eggs, dairy, soy, citrus and banana are all off the table. I check ingredients obsessively, making sure he isn’t going to consume anything that will make him poorly. He can’t have any commercially available formulas as they all contain one or more of the things he’s allergic to.
In addition to this issue, Arthur won’t take food from a spoon. By necessity we’re doing ‘Baby-Led Weaning’ which means he hardly eats anything at all, and he also won’t take a bottle or drink water from a sippy cup yet. 
Breastfeeding is wonderful, a perfect cuddle, stillness in a busy day and a chance to check on Arthur at night. It helped us to get that elusive bond from day one, and I’ll always be so grateful that we were able to do it first time. But after such a long time of being my baby’s only real energy source, I find I’m tired. I’m starting to look forward to a time I can say yes to evening invitations, or to going out on the weekends for longer than three hours. I want to know that next year I’ll be able to organise some childcare without worrying that he’s not going to eat anything for hours. My hair and skin are suffering under the strain of my body providing nutrition for someone else for so long. My shoulders and back are always sore, as are my joints because of the relaxin that’s still being released into my system. Teeth make it very uncomfortable. I’m tired from having to get up at least once every night to feed, meaning I haven’t had an unbroken night’s sleep in nearly a year. My husband can’t really parent in the way I’d like him to (or the way he’d like to) because Arthur is still so dependent on me. It’s me he needs when he wakes up in the night, only me who can do bedtimes and first thing in the morning wake-ups. So, as a way of learning from my experiences, here’s what I’d recommend to other breastfeeding mothers in the early months based on my experience. Hope it’s helpful to someone!
Introduce a bottle and offer it consistently
At  5 months Arthur was able to take a bottle, and we’d offer it sporadically on the very rare occasions Will was parenting solo. To my regret we didn’t keep doing it, and by 7 months when we tried again he angrily rejected it. We’ve tried tonnes of different teats, all to no avail. He just won’t have it. I can’t help thinking that he might have found drinking from a cup a little easier if he’d realised he could actually suck from a bottle!
Introduce foods one by one and monitor for reactions
I had never even considered that Arthur might have food allergies. I blithely assumed he’d be just like me and be able to eat anything. If I had my time to do over again I wouldn’t crash straight in and offer everything at once the way I did this time, and I would (despite all current advice) start with the blandest foods, one at a time, which is what I eventually had to do on the helpful advice of a friend who’s been there before. It was hard to tell at first what he’d reacted to, and I didn’t even realise the rash was a problem until I raised it with my wonderful online Mum group. The only way to tell what was going on was to give those foods again, and I really think part of Arthur’s reluctance to eat is that he remembers those early reactions. I’d also (sorry, sorry BLWers) offer a spoon consistently every day. Even if I had done this there’s no guarantee, but I suspect Arthur might be a little further on with his eating and I might be able to leave him with someone else once in a while!
I know just how many women try to breastfeed and find it impossible, and I’m really glad and grateful for our success. Having said that, when the time comes to finally move on I think I’ll be glad that Arthur can be a little more independent. As we say in our group “This too shall pass”. Until then, my boob monster and I will keep plodding on.
Good luck with your feeding, however you’re doing it!

The Humble Travel Cot And Why It Is Awesome

I’ll admit it, I never expected our cheap Red Kite travel cot to become our son’s main bed. We had this beautiful inherited sleigh cot, snowy white and gorgeous and so lovely in the nursery. It looked like the perfect picture of a baby’s room you’d see on Pinterest or Instagram.

 

When we were ready for Arthur to move into a bigger bed at 4 months (he’s incredibly tall and was starting to outgrow our side-sleeper, plus my back was killing me), I had the idea of putting him in the travel cot in our room as we’d done at my parents’ house. It worked a treat. Once I’d got over not having him right next to me, we were golden. Still in our room, still next to us, just in his own bed with a nice extra mattress we’d bought for the purpose.

 

A month or so after that we decided we’d move him into his own room. How exciting! Getting our own room back! More sleep! Finally using that gorgeous cot!

 

Nope.

 

Firstly, we hadn’t reckoned on Arthur’s thrashing around. In his travel cot with the stretchy sides it was absolutely fine for him to roll over and over in his sleep, because there was nothing to bash him. All nice and soft and fun to make silly faces against. In the wooden cot he would repeatedly wake himself up with a limb stuck out the side, crying. Enter the ‘airwrap’ cot bumper, a safe breathable mesh to stop that happening. Great, worked for a few nights, but then Arthur started crawling, practising even when he was asleep. Now he was banging his little head into the solid end of the cot. And, yes, waking himself up.

 

After agonising over it for a few days (the cot! The beautiful cot!) we were resigned. Arthur crawls in his sleep, pulls himself up to standing and is generally a night time menace. To ensure that the sleep we did get was less punctuated by anxiety dreams about him maiming himself as we slumbered, we agreed to give up, take that lovely white cot down and let him sleep in his beloved travel cot.

 

As it turns out, it was a blessing. Arthur loves his bed, and is happy in there playing as I get everything ready for bedtime. He sleeps better (OK, it’s still not great but much, much better), and we’ve even bought another one to act as a playpen for downstairs when I need a break from chasing his little bottom round the living room. When we go away we take his actual bed from home, which is great for him. But the real dream is the weekend. We obviously don’t get a lie-in any more, but now we just bring Arthur’s bed into our room and let him play and nap in there. He can’t fall off the bed that way, and we still have a lovely time all together. And naps. Did I mention we all nap at the same time?

 

I’d say that’s worth retiring the beautiful cot for now.