You've probably read all about separation anxiety in the baby books that adorn your nursery shelves. Anticipated at around the 9-month stage, it can be full of misery and woe. We mothers suddenly experience a metamorphosis - we are no longer milking cows. Suddenly, we're a second skin - our departure from the room ripping a tiny piece of them away, making them howl in perceived agony.
Or so they say.
This is not the case with Frankie and I. I politely cough and give a weak nod when mothers with similarly-aged babies tell of their woes when they leave their kids. The dramas of daycare. The nightmare of nannies. I was expecting Frankie to go off the charts when I went to Bali on holiday - my first time away from her for longer than 5hours. I secretly hoped she'd scream the house down, rip the vinyl giraffes off the wall, tear the chest hair off her father in desperation and longing for her absent mum. Outwardly, I wanted her to be happy (or so I told my friends). "I just hope she'll cope OK without me around", I said, thinking that even if she did manage, her father wouldn't fare quite so well with the round-the-clock bottle sterilising, cooking, cleaning, washing, cooking, washing, sterilising...
Well, guess what?
In the 4nights that I was away, she slept through the night (ish).
She had the occasional "I am ready for dinner now" whimper.
She took the nappy-changing lying down.
My partner, Andy, emerged from the ordeal without a scratch (whereas I was still nursing teeth and claw marks all over my shoulder and neck).
The moment I arrived at the Arrivals gate of Sydney Kingsford-Smith airport, I was awash with Mother's guilt and certain that Frankie would be haphazardly dressed (with at least one sock missing) and probably stained with dirt and grime. But no, she was rosy cheeked and content; one might go so far as to call her placid.
I had feared that she would stare blankly at me and have difficulty trying to place my face. You know, the "I know I know you, but can't place you" face? This lasted all of 3 seconds, before she erupted into a fit of kicking, squealing, and grinning so hard her little dimple almost burst. I was overjoyed by her reaction -the pleasure radiating from her at my presence. But I was also slightly perturbed. How is it that the world didn't stop turning when I left?
As Andy shrugged a "she was awesome" response to my question regarding her behaviour, I felt rage surging inside me. Why did she save all her naughty energy for me? Why was I bone-tired and weary at the end of every day, in bed by 8pm with a good book and a medicinal glass of wine?
I can only gulp dryly at the possibility that Frankie's behaviour is, inexplicably, linked to my own. My anxiety feeding hers. My energy drives hers. Dear God, help me - I've created a monster. Frankiestien, shall we call her?
If she was Miss Magic for everyone that looked after her while I was abroad, then surely I am the variable in this scientific experiment of childhood behaviour? Bali has taught me that I need to look more closely at myself before labelling my daughter's own habits. "She is always moving" I say....well, this is a case of pot/kettle it would seem.
Tuesday, 24 July 2012
Thursday, 21 June 2012
It's obviously good for what it was intended for; long walks and treks in the great outdoors. But it is perfect for shopping (forget about steering your pram one-handed down narrow supermarket aisles with your plastic shopping basket precariously balanced in the other), nipping out to hang up the laundry, or even just freeing you up during the witching hour to get some cooking done while bubbalugs enjoys herself watching you go about your business.
Thank you Kathmandu. You rock my world.
More metrestone than milestone for Frankie's first steps.
Well, HELLO walking baby! This is a nice surprise for your mum. (OK, not so much of a surprise; Let's be honest, you've been threatening this for months now. So long in fact that I started to wonder whether you'd just lost your bottle? Ha, get it?)
So anyway - it is official - Frankie took her first proper steps just after she turned 8months. Since then, she's barely managed more than a couple - 4 steps max - without face planting into the carpet, or (ooops) concrete. Yes, my sporty child is now sporting battle scars for her efforts. I couldn't be prouder.
I wouldn't exactly call it 'proper' walking so much as I would call it a very fine impersonation of a drunk zombie. She starts by crawling along an item of furniture until she literally has nowhere else to go. She then turns her body around, takes one cautious hand after another off the sofa/coffee table and propels herself forward - both arms extended - stumbling towards what she hope will catch her and break her fall. Ceeeute.
I had no idea how very difficult a concept it actually is for our children to lift their feet up off the floor. If you watch them trying, it seems as though their feet are super-glued down, with any slight movement upwards shifting their whole center of gravity. It's incredible how one day, poof, this superglue dissolves and away they go...
I've yet to train Frances to do the walking gig on command I'm afraid, hence the lack of video footage for overseas Frankie enthusiasts. Soon enough, I hope.
Thought I'd keep you all in the loop. I guess this move to Coogee has been a winner all round... despite the initial teething and moving woes, Frankie has finally started to properly sleep for 11hours straight, AND she looks set to take to the stage in the next Step Up movie. Atta girl, Frank Frank. Mumma loves ya.
So anyway - it is official - Frankie took her first proper steps just after she turned 8months. Since then, she's barely managed more than a couple - 4 steps max - without face planting into the carpet, or (ooops) concrete. Yes, my sporty child is now sporting battle scars for her efforts. I couldn't be prouder.
I wouldn't exactly call it 'proper' walking so much as I would call it a very fine impersonation of a drunk zombie. She starts by crawling along an item of furniture until she literally has nowhere else to go. She then turns her body around, takes one cautious hand after another off the sofa/coffee table and propels herself forward - both arms extended - stumbling towards what she hope will catch her and break her fall. Ceeeute.
I had no idea how very difficult a concept it actually is for our children to lift their feet up off the floor. If you watch them trying, it seems as though their feet are super-glued down, with any slight movement upwards shifting their whole center of gravity. It's incredible how one day, poof, this superglue dissolves and away they go...
I've yet to train Frances to do the walking gig on command I'm afraid, hence the lack of video footage for overseas Frankie enthusiasts. Soon enough, I hope.
Thought I'd keep you all in the loop. I guess this move to Coogee has been a winner all round... despite the initial teething and moving woes, Frankie has finally started to properly sleep for 11hours straight, AND she looks set to take to the stage in the next Step Up movie. Atta girl, Frank Frank. Mumma loves ya.
Thursday, 14 June 2012
No friends on Ramsey Street
It's 4am and I hear yet another blood-curdling scream. The thick walls of my 1920's apartment provide little defense against the wails of my 8 month old baby. I throw back the covers with a sigh that gives way to a small gasp, as the chill of the winter dawn assaults me. All I can think is, my neighbours must hate me.
We have finally made the move from my parents' home into a place of our own. With our new found independence comes the sudden removal of some of the creature comforts that living with my parents has afforded us. A full home to ourselves, for example, on its own plot of land, detatched from the innocent ears of our neighbours. A home where our baby could cry to her heart's content without the associated stress of waking up the neighbours. Sure, I had to worry about Frankie's effect on my own parents, but it's a lot less of a worry when you factor in the unconditional love that grandparents have for her.
Our new home is - in a word - petit. It's far smaller by comparison to Frankie's last residence, and there aren't two whole floors of space for her to call her own. Gone is Frankie's entertainment space, her backyard, her front yard, her bedroom and her own private bathroom. Gone is the bath, for that matter! Suddenly Frankie finds herself 'stuck' - easily bored within the confines of our art deco abode.
I'm freaking out that the neighbours are one screaming-fit away from banging down our door and forcefully removing us with the aid of flaming torches and oversized pitchforks. If the relocation of our 8 month old wasn't a traumatic enough an experience on its own, try adding teething to the equation. She's now sporting 3 shiny new teeth, which certainly make her look cuter, but unfortunately doesn't win her any friends on Ramsey Street.
Having learned much over the last few weeks, here are my Top Tips for moving house with a baby
1) Paracetamol can be a lifesavour:
Only you will be able to judge whether your baby is traumatised emotionally by sleeping in a new house, or whether those screams are ones of pain. We tried good old-fashioned comforting to help ease any fears of a scary new house, but after a few hours of getting nowhere, we found paracetamol did the trick. Obviously, make sure it's baby paracetamol and your doctor ok's it first!
2) Stay with them for a while:
If your baby was sleeping reasonably well before the move, you can at least hope they'll return to the good-old-days eventually. Whilst you will tread the line of creating a bad habit for yourself in the future, show your baby you aren't deserting them in this new environment. That just like always, you're here for them. We found the whole "stay in the room with your hand on her tummy" thing worked for us with Frankie. But we have now gotten into the bad habit of bringing her into bed with us at 4am to get her to sleep longer until 6am. Our mistake, I know, but it's better than having her persistantly wake the neighbours at that ungodly hour.
3) Be nice to your neighbours
We didn't have the guts to knock on our neighbours' doors individually and introduce ourselves and our bubba girl, but by now everyone knows we are here. Kind of hard to ignore the pram in the entrance way.... We have, however, gone out of our way to talk to every neighbour we run into when we see them in the communal halls, and offer our apologies for the baby's fitful slumber. Luckily, everyone has been very kind and whilst they have certainly admitted to hearing her through the night, they seem to sympathise with our plight and get on with their own lives. Still, doesn't hurt to be uber nice, and offer them a cup of sugar when they need it in the future!
Wish me luck, as we continue on our mission to getting Frankie settled and secure in her new home.
We have finally made the move from my parents' home into a place of our own. With our new found independence comes the sudden removal of some of the creature comforts that living with my parents has afforded us. A full home to ourselves, for example, on its own plot of land, detatched from the innocent ears of our neighbours. A home where our baby could cry to her heart's content without the associated stress of waking up the neighbours. Sure, I had to worry about Frankie's effect on my own parents, but it's a lot less of a worry when you factor in the unconditional love that grandparents have for her.
Our new home is - in a word - petit. It's far smaller by comparison to Frankie's last residence, and there aren't two whole floors of space for her to call her own. Gone is Frankie's entertainment space, her backyard, her front yard, her bedroom and her own private bathroom. Gone is the bath, for that matter! Suddenly Frankie finds herself 'stuck' - easily bored within the confines of our art deco abode.
I'm freaking out that the neighbours are one screaming-fit away from banging down our door and forcefully removing us with the aid of flaming torches and oversized pitchforks. If the relocation of our 8 month old wasn't a traumatic enough an experience on its own, try adding teething to the equation. She's now sporting 3 shiny new teeth, which certainly make her look cuter, but unfortunately doesn't win her any friends on Ramsey Street.
Having learned much over the last few weeks, here are my Top Tips for moving house with a baby
1) Paracetamol can be a lifesavour:
Only you will be able to judge whether your baby is traumatised emotionally by sleeping in a new house, or whether those screams are ones of pain. We tried good old-fashioned comforting to help ease any fears of a scary new house, but after a few hours of getting nowhere, we found paracetamol did the trick. Obviously, make sure it's baby paracetamol and your doctor ok's it first!
2) Stay with them for a while:
If your baby was sleeping reasonably well before the move, you can at least hope they'll return to the good-old-days eventually. Whilst you will tread the line of creating a bad habit for yourself in the future, show your baby you aren't deserting them in this new environment. That just like always, you're here for them. We found the whole "stay in the room with your hand on her tummy" thing worked for us with Frankie. But we have now gotten into the bad habit of bringing her into bed with us at 4am to get her to sleep longer until 6am. Our mistake, I know, but it's better than having her persistantly wake the neighbours at that ungodly hour.
3) Be nice to your neighbours
We didn't have the guts to knock on our neighbours' doors individually and introduce ourselves and our bubba girl, but by now everyone knows we are here. Kind of hard to ignore the pram in the entrance way.... We have, however, gone out of our way to talk to every neighbour we run into when we see them in the communal halls, and offer our apologies for the baby's fitful slumber. Luckily, everyone has been very kind and whilst they have certainly admitted to hearing her through the night, they seem to sympathise with our plight and get on with their own lives. Still, doesn't hurt to be uber nice, and offer them a cup of sugar when they need it in the future!
Wish me luck, as we continue on our mission to getting Frankie settled and secure in her new home.
Friday, 25 May 2012
A poem for my daughter, Frances Leigh.
I tasted the salt of your tears before you did. I would kiss them away before they fell down your cheek.
I knew every groove, curve and bump of your head before it was dressed with its amber red locks.
I gifted you music through my lullabies. Sent you to sleep on the wave of my melody.
My body, your first source of food. My naked skin against yours, your first source of heat.
I knew you before you knew yourself. And I loved you before you were real.
You are my daughter, my blessing, my life.
I knew every groove, curve and bump of your head before it was dressed with its amber red locks.
I gifted you music through my lullabies. Sent you to sleep on the wave of my melody.
My body, your first source of food. My naked skin against yours, your first source of heat.
I knew you before you knew yourself. And I loved you before you were real.
You are my daughter, my blessing, my life.
Tuesday, 22 May 2012
Bit behind the eight ball. Say it with me now. "Ball".
On the day that Frankie was born, entering the world via the 'sunroof' option and being held up to me over the plastic screen, she has held her head high. Three minutes after her birth the midwife said to my partner and I that she had impressive head control for a newborn. And from that first day onwards, she's just gotten stronger and stronger.
Often this is to my personal detriment. How I wish for a baby I could have cuddled up with, rather than one who pushed off me to explore the world at the ripe old age of 4 months. Or how sweet it must be to have a child that you don't have to pull off the furniture she's climbed up onto at seven months of age. But there are perks too, and it is nice to see your little girl get progressively quicker and stronger in front of your eyes.
All this emphasis that she's placed on moving around has meant that she's not had the focus or energy for other stuff. Like speaking. And I wonder - what is this mad race she's embarked upon cost her in terms of her mental development? Or should I just be sitting back and chanting the mantra, everything in good time?
Frankie has only started babbling this last month. We got "dada" repeatedly for a very long time, which made her father all puffed up with pride, despite the fact that it was indiscriminantly voiced. Now we're getting a plethora of sounds; delicious in their melody and often interspersed with giggles. But as other babies are connecting their words to things and uttering some very impressive statements such as "dog, here", Frankie is still speaking jibberish.
I'm now experiencing for the first time what it feels like to be on the later side of developmental milestones. It's never been a factor before, because our wee athlete's been streaming ahead physically. And it's not as though I haven't been trying with her. I throw her a ball and say "Ball. Ball. Ball" She throws it back to me and I say "Mummy's ball. Mummy throws ball back to Frankie". And she's staring so intently at the ball, waiting for it to be thrown back to her that she literally drowns out my words. She plain old doesn't care. Frankie looks up at me with furrowed eyebrows and, whilst no words escape her lips, I know what she's thinking "hurry up and throw the damn ball, mum, or I'm gonna come right over there and get it myself."
Well, I'm happy with her however she develops. She's beautiful, and healthy, and delicious. So what if she is no great orator at 8months of age. Perhaps she's a writer in the making; more of a listener, less of a talker. Whatever the reason, she just isn't interested in words right now which is a good thing to some degree. It'll be a lot longer before I hear her say "NO" to me. And that's not such a bad thing....
Often this is to my personal detriment. How I wish for a baby I could have cuddled up with, rather than one who pushed off me to explore the world at the ripe old age of 4 months. Or how sweet it must be to have a child that you don't have to pull off the furniture she's climbed up onto at seven months of age. But there are perks too, and it is nice to see your little girl get progressively quicker and stronger in front of your eyes.
All this emphasis that she's placed on moving around has meant that she's not had the focus or energy for other stuff. Like speaking. And I wonder - what is this mad race she's embarked upon cost her in terms of her mental development? Or should I just be sitting back and chanting the mantra, everything in good time?
Frankie has only started babbling this last month. We got "dada" repeatedly for a very long time, which made her father all puffed up with pride, despite the fact that it was indiscriminantly voiced. Now we're getting a plethora of sounds; delicious in their melody and often interspersed with giggles. But as other babies are connecting their words to things and uttering some very impressive statements such as "dog, here", Frankie is still speaking jibberish.
I'm now experiencing for the first time what it feels like to be on the later side of developmental milestones. It's never been a factor before, because our wee athlete's been streaming ahead physically. And it's not as though I haven't been trying with her. I throw her a ball and say "Ball. Ball. Ball" She throws it back to me and I say "Mummy's ball. Mummy throws ball back to Frankie". And she's staring so intently at the ball, waiting for it to be thrown back to her that she literally drowns out my words. She plain old doesn't care. Frankie looks up at me with furrowed eyebrows and, whilst no words escape her lips, I know what she's thinking "hurry up and throw the damn ball, mum, or I'm gonna come right over there and get it myself."
Well, I'm happy with her however she develops. She's beautiful, and healthy, and delicious. So what if she is no great orator at 8months of age. Perhaps she's a writer in the making; more of a listener, less of a talker. Whatever the reason, she just isn't interested in words right now which is a good thing to some degree. It'll be a lot longer before I hear her say "NO" to me. And that's not such a bad thing....
Friday, 4 May 2012
Your momma's so fat.....
There was a time - when I was about 13 years old - when I used to laugh myself silly at American "Your momma" jokes. My particular favourite was "Your momma's so fat, she sells shade in the summer".
I never thought I'd become one of those jokes myself.
Today I went shopping with another new mum, whose daughter is the same age as Frankie. Now, this mum-who-shall-forever-remain-nameless is one of those mothers that makes the whole thing look easy. She is so in love with her child that it radiates out of her like heat from a Smeg oven. She holds down a full time job, is completing her MBA, cooks muffins that make you drool worse than your 7month old teething baby, and she looks great. Always.
So here I am with my amazing mum-mate, looking for a new pair of jeans. I stumble across some cheap ones that will do me well while I'm unemployed....(good ones are a luxury I can't afford until I reenter the workforce, you see). Anyhow, I pick up a size 10 by habit, whack them in my trolley and continue along my way.
I got home twenty minutes ago and tried these new jeans on. And I was left pondering one thing; when is someone going to invent a 'shoehorn' to help people fit into their jeans?
And then it dawned on me - they have! It exists! It is called a diet and there are literally thousands on the market out there.
I took my jeans off and they were stuck so tightly that I managed to remove my knickers as well. Looking down on my naked self in shame I couldn't deny it any longer. I need to lose some weight.
Goodbye Old Jamaica dark chocolate. Goodbye full fat milk and cheese. I shall henceforth go sulkingly forward with my celery stick and Americano in hand. I have exactly 8 weeks until a certain trip to Bali which will require me baring all in a swimming costume and I don't want to scare the locals.
I am not going to turn into a living, breathing fat momma joke. So help me God!
I never thought I'd become one of those jokes myself.
Today I went shopping with another new mum, whose daughter is the same age as Frankie. Now, this mum-who-shall-forever-remain-nameless is one of those mothers that makes the whole thing look easy. She is so in love with her child that it radiates out of her like heat from a Smeg oven. She holds down a full time job, is completing her MBA, cooks muffins that make you drool worse than your 7month old teething baby, and she looks great. Always.
So here I am with my amazing mum-mate, looking for a new pair of jeans. I stumble across some cheap ones that will do me well while I'm unemployed....(good ones are a luxury I can't afford until I reenter the workforce, you see). Anyhow, I pick up a size 10 by habit, whack them in my trolley and continue along my way.
I got home twenty minutes ago and tried these new jeans on. And I was left pondering one thing; when is someone going to invent a 'shoehorn' to help people fit into their jeans?
And then it dawned on me - they have! It exists! It is called a diet and there are literally thousands on the market out there.
I took my jeans off and they were stuck so tightly that I managed to remove my knickers as well. Looking down on my naked self in shame I couldn't deny it any longer. I need to lose some weight.
Goodbye Old Jamaica dark chocolate. Goodbye full fat milk and cheese. I shall henceforth go sulkingly forward with my celery stick and Americano in hand. I have exactly 8 weeks until a certain trip to Bali which will require me baring all in a swimming costume and I don't want to scare the locals.
I am not going to turn into a living, breathing fat momma joke. So help me God!
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