As of 10.30am, I am officially bankrupt. It's been coming for a long time really, and it means things are at least getting sorted. Huge layoffs are happening at work, and I may also be made redundant. The job market in the UK, as in the rest of the world currently, is problematic, but there is food on the table and baby Grace is smiling. My studies are slipping, motivation dwindling, but I'm still here, even if somewhat irregularly,
Yours, as broken as ever,
The Broken Man
Showing posts with label baby. Show all posts
Showing posts with label baby. Show all posts
Tuesday, 24 March 2009
Thursday, 26 February 2009
Broken
I am as ever broken. The forms for the bankruptcy still haven’t been filled and the letters keep coming and the phone calls don’t stop demanding money yesterday. Work is manic right now and I seem to be on a downward spiral. The studies are not going well. I get home from work at 7pm and try to collect myself, the flat is chaos and I don’t seem to have time to sort it out.
Grace is at the age, the grand age of 10 weeks, where what she needs is her mother. When I am left holding her even for a few mins she quickly dissolves into tears, and I wonder what it is that I can offer her. She is to young too know who I am, and even if she did I don’t know it would help. I crawl into bed late and get up early, and the sleep deperavation takes its tole. I need a shower, cant remember when I last had one, know I need to bath grace, and yet the time escapes.
Not coping
As ever,
The Broken Man
Grace is at the age, the grand age of 10 weeks, where what she needs is her mother. When I am left holding her even for a few mins she quickly dissolves into tears, and I wonder what it is that I can offer her. She is to young too know who I am, and even if she did I don’t know it would help. I crawl into bed late and get up early, and the sleep deperavation takes its tole. I need a shower, cant remember when I last had one, know I need to bath grace, and yet the time escapes.
Not coping
As ever,
The Broken Man
Thursday, 19 February 2009
On plants and gifts
Shortly after my daughter was born my mother presented me with a plant from my Nan. Or, rather, a basket with a variety of plants in it adorned with a pink bow. I have always been fairly straight talking with my mother and so expected it to come as no surprise when surveying this item I said “oh dear”. Of all the gifts that can be given plants are to my mind the cruellest. Cut flowers do not require substantial care; a potted plant, however, is a life time commitment of watering and reporting. If it is a plant that doesn’t particularly appeal to you this is an unbearable burden – in honesty even with plants I do find appealing the idea of committing to regular watering is beyond me.
Please note that this collection of plants was given just after the birth of my daughter, with the associated demands that this brings. If it was me rather the long suffering wife breast feeding I feel certain that I would forget to feed her, and I am rather fond of her.
My mother, instead of encouraging me to enter into a tirade explaining the finer points of my disapproval of the well meant gift, looked a bit crest fallen and told me she had chosen it. I felt this was an appropriate moment for back tracking and suggested that the plants were indeed very nice and that maybe it was the nasty pink bow that was putting me off. My mother explained that she had placed the bow on them.
Seven weeks on we have not completely emptied the flat yet – tonight is the final trip – and among the things that had not made it over yet was the aforementioned plant. This was not a deliberate attempt to kill it, but rather a result of the difficulties of transporting plants – and not liking it.
It was then with some surprise that I arrived home yesterday to discover the plant sitting on the windowsill in a bowl of water. I was shocked. Had I offended my wife in some way so serious that she would seek out this plant to punish me? No. My mother had helpfully gone to the flat and retrieved it.
I wonder what effect watering it with bleach will have?
On the subject of gifts, people did give us, or rather, Grace gifts at the dedication which was now over two weeks ago. As yet I have not sent thank you cards. I get home from work at 7pm at night and I then try to eat, sort out the flat, study.. thank you cards have become a little buried in this list. Yet I know people took time to choose them, and we are very grateful for them..but finding the time to say thank you.. I am attempting to block out an evening next week for it, but right now its not looking good.
Yours as ever
the broken man
Please note that this collection of plants was given just after the birth of my daughter, with the associated demands that this brings. If it was me rather the long suffering wife breast feeding I feel certain that I would forget to feed her, and I am rather fond of her.
My mother, instead of encouraging me to enter into a tirade explaining the finer points of my disapproval of the well meant gift, looked a bit crest fallen and told me she had chosen it. I felt this was an appropriate moment for back tracking and suggested that the plants were indeed very nice and that maybe it was the nasty pink bow that was putting me off. My mother explained that she had placed the bow on them.
Seven weeks on we have not completely emptied the flat yet – tonight is the final trip – and among the things that had not made it over yet was the aforementioned plant. This was not a deliberate attempt to kill it, but rather a result of the difficulties of transporting plants – and not liking it.
It was then with some surprise that I arrived home yesterday to discover the plant sitting on the windowsill in a bowl of water. I was shocked. Had I offended my wife in some way so serious that she would seek out this plant to punish me? No. My mother had helpfully gone to the flat and retrieved it.
I wonder what effect watering it with bleach will have?
On the subject of gifts, people did give us, or rather, Grace gifts at the dedication which was now over two weeks ago. As yet I have not sent thank you cards. I get home from work at 7pm at night and I then try to eat, sort out the flat, study.. thank you cards have become a little buried in this list. Yet I know people took time to choose them, and we are very grateful for them..but finding the time to say thank you.. I am attempting to block out an evening next week for it, but right now its not looking good.
Yours as ever
the broken man
Friday, 6 February 2009
Learning to be a parent
It seems, according to those who are part of my long suffering wife’s mum and babies group that children need to learn. And be awake. Often the babies in the group are awake and crying, with mothers desperately trying to keep them awake until its time for their nap. They comment that our daughter seems to be always asleep." Not always" we say, "just when she is tired."
On Monday, a group of the mums and babies go to baby massage. Tuesday is swimming with instructor. Wednesday is sensory day. Thursday the group meets. On Fridays there is baby yoga, and sign and sing. The long suffering wife asked me if I thought she was doing enough with our girl. Is she depriving her?
I looked at our now seven week old girl, snuggled up in a sling. "No", I replied. She likes to be cuddled, to sleep, to drink milk, to wee and poo. We talk to her, we read to her (sometimes children’s books, yesterday Martin Luther’s address to the German Nobility). Do I think that, surrounded in colour, sound and activity we need to go to a class which specialising in sensation? No. Does she need a massage? No, just a cuddle. Swimming lesson? I think she is a little young for that, she enjoys being in the pool - £10 an hour to tell her how she should be in it seems a little high.
People ask us “is she good”. I reply, "I don’t think she has a concept of Good and Evil yet. I have read her Nietzsche, asked her for an opinion on Eugenics, I have questioned her on whether she has established a firm ethical frame work, and whether she believes that good and evil should be determined by an external body, or whether it is the ability to act in accordance with your own convictions. Whether or not those convictions can in themselves be evil, and whether intention and action carry equal weight. She has not provided much response to any of these enquires. She did smile when we discussed ethical relativism, I am not sure if this is a good or bad sign." They look at me a bit confused, and tell me that their kids were very bad but are sleeping better now. Often, after hearing my difficulty in defining my daughter as good or bad, people suddenly remember somewhere they should be and have to leave in a hurry. That’s okay though. I don’t like people much.
We curl up on the sofa, and life seems very good indeed. My daughter looks so so happy..then she cries..and I put her in the sling again, and open up "Ethics" by Bonheoffer in the hope that we can clear this all up..
Yours as ever,
The Broken Man
On Monday, a group of the mums and babies go to baby massage. Tuesday is swimming with instructor. Wednesday is sensory day. Thursday the group meets. On Fridays there is baby yoga, and sign and sing. The long suffering wife asked me if I thought she was doing enough with our girl. Is she depriving her?
I looked at our now seven week old girl, snuggled up in a sling. "No", I replied. She likes to be cuddled, to sleep, to drink milk, to wee and poo. We talk to her, we read to her (sometimes children’s books, yesterday Martin Luther’s address to the German Nobility). Do I think that, surrounded in colour, sound and activity we need to go to a class which specialising in sensation? No. Does she need a massage? No, just a cuddle. Swimming lesson? I think she is a little young for that, she enjoys being in the pool - £10 an hour to tell her how she should be in it seems a little high.
People ask us “is she good”. I reply, "I don’t think she has a concept of Good and Evil yet. I have read her Nietzsche, asked her for an opinion on Eugenics, I have questioned her on whether she has established a firm ethical frame work, and whether she believes that good and evil should be determined by an external body, or whether it is the ability to act in accordance with your own convictions. Whether or not those convictions can in themselves be evil, and whether intention and action carry equal weight. She has not provided much response to any of these enquires. She did smile when we discussed ethical relativism, I am not sure if this is a good or bad sign." They look at me a bit confused, and tell me that their kids were very bad but are sleeping better now. Often, after hearing my difficulty in defining my daughter as good or bad, people suddenly remember somewhere they should be and have to leave in a hurry. That’s okay though. I don’t like people much.
We curl up on the sofa, and life seems very good indeed. My daughter looks so so happy..then she cries..and I put her in the sling again, and open up "Ethics" by Bonheoffer in the hope that we can clear this all up..
Yours as ever,
The Broken Man
Thursday, 15 January 2009
How it is....
The alarm goes of at 6.45am and I don’t want to get up. I sleep for another 15mins before dragging myself out of bed. Breakfast and off to work. Work pressure is high but I try to study in my lunch break. I make it home for 6.30pm and take Grace while the long suffering wife cooks. All being well by 7.30pm we have eaten. I then need to work on boxing up the flat and taking things over to my mother's. We are moving in under 14 days.
I have cancelled all the direct debits, cancelled the mortgague payment, cancelled all the bills – the letters will soon rain down on me, the final demands – but I haven’t got the money to pay the bills. Paperwork needs looking at but I haven’t the will or the time to do it. At 1am I crawl into bed, at 3am grace wakes to feed. At 6.45am the alarm goes of and I don’t want to get up. I sleep for another 15mins before dragging myself…and so it goes on.
It is the long suffering wife's birthday on the 27th. Grace’s dedication on the 1st. So much to do and right now all I want to do is sleep.
Last night the wife asked me how much I think her stomach will recover. If how it is now is how it is. She is doing the exercises from the physio – we are a long way off from where things will be but I see her struggling and there is no easy comfort I can offer. The long suffering wife was always going to struggle with a post birth body – she is a recovering annorexic on the wagon for some 10 years now. The tear of her stomach muscles though has made things so much harder, so much worse than they would have been otherwise. She has never had a positive body image and now I see her walking on a thin wire high above the world trying so hard not to fall, trying to cling on.
In a brief moment between feeds, between changed nappys, between packing boxes, between Grace with wind, I catch glimpse of my wife and daughter's eyes, brief moments, the merest hint of a smile and for a moment I lose myself in it and everything seems okay – and then I remember that there are things I need to be doing and so I drag myself out of my chair and continue the battle for survival.
Today I am struggling.
Yours as ever,
The Broken Man.
I have cancelled all the direct debits, cancelled the mortgague payment, cancelled all the bills – the letters will soon rain down on me, the final demands – but I haven’t got the money to pay the bills. Paperwork needs looking at but I haven’t the will or the time to do it. At 1am I crawl into bed, at 3am grace wakes to feed. At 6.45am the alarm goes of and I don’t want to get up. I sleep for another 15mins before dragging myself…and so it goes on.
It is the long suffering wife's birthday on the 27th. Grace’s dedication on the 1st. So much to do and right now all I want to do is sleep.
Last night the wife asked me how much I think her stomach will recover. If how it is now is how it is. She is doing the exercises from the physio – we are a long way off from where things will be but I see her struggling and there is no easy comfort I can offer. The long suffering wife was always going to struggle with a post birth body – she is a recovering annorexic on the wagon for some 10 years now. The tear of her stomach muscles though has made things so much harder, so much worse than they would have been otherwise. She has never had a positive body image and now I see her walking on a thin wire high above the world trying so hard not to fall, trying to cling on.
In a brief moment between feeds, between changed nappys, between packing boxes, between Grace with wind, I catch glimpse of my wife and daughter's eyes, brief moments, the merest hint of a smile and for a moment I lose myself in it and everything seems okay – and then I remember that there are things I need to be doing and so I drag myself out of my chair and continue the battle for survival.
Today I am struggling.
Yours as ever,
The Broken Man.
Monday, 12 January 2009
Tears after Bedtime
It seems that Grace has yet to learn how to vomit on demand. While this is a skill which most of us take in our stride, it seems that at 3 ½ weeks old there are occasions when Grace knows she wishes to be sick, but seems a little uncertain of how to go about it.
Instead of sitting down and drawing up a number of possible ways of carrying out this operation she tends to opt for screaming while sticking her tongue out intermitantly. As she screws up her eyes while doing so they look rather puffy and inclined to explode. It is not an attractive look, and as such my vocal daughter tries to avoid this model of behaviour when in company.
For visitors she sleeps, or stares wide eyed and bemused at some unidentifiable point in the room. When accompanied by the occasional smile visitors assure us that Grace is indeed very good, very lovely etc etc. They cuddle her and tell us how relaxing they find her. However, a certain time comes in the evening when the visitors have left and the vocal daughter feels she is able to drop the act.
If you can't be yourself with your family, who can you be straight with? As such she has developed a workable routine. First she pees and screams for a change. We change her. She then pees again. We affix nappy two. She then poos. We affix nappy three. She then requests food (failing to use “please”). After a short feed she indicates that she is bored and sleeps for three mins. This my wife mistakenly takes as an indication that she can stand up. Clearly this results in requests for more feeding.
Having finished feeding its time for the loo again. Discovering that this has not made her feel more comftable the vocal daughter informs us she has wind, this she does cunningly with a slightly different pitched scream while trying to knee herself repeatedly in the stomach.
10 mins or so of winding follows. Normally with nappy change. At this point the vocal daughter has a difficult choice..is it time to feed…or time to vomit? Sometimes unsure which to go for she will attempt a feed and give up to return to crying while sticking out her tongue. A state which she feels able to maintain for some considerable time before returning to the start of the procedure.
Yesterday I came in from a meeting to find the long suffering wife sitting on the sofa having been able to do little other than hold our vocal daughter as she expressed her discomfort. As the long suffering wife was unable to find a method for relieving the distress of Grace, she opted for holding her, while rocking slightly and crying herself, on the principle that, if you can't beat them, join them.
Fortunately for me the vocal daughter decided that she would indeed now vomit (just after I picked her up), and as such would return to a temporary state of calm. An extra pair of hands providing the exciting opportunity for the long suffering wife of having some extended leisure time (10 mins in the shower followed by a cup of tea).
I have of course explained at length to the vocal daughter that having informed me of her discomfort due to winding, cuddling, feeding or nappy changing, she does not need to continue to inform me of it. One short screech for each requirement is sufficient, after which a pause of at least five mins in which the need she has identified is addressed, would to my mind prove to be a far better system.
Despite careful explanations, and even on occasion’s diagrams and a pie chart, the vocal daughter has yet to grasp the finer points of my proposal. I suspect that I need to provide a flow chart for her to ensure that she fully gets to grips with my proposal.
Yours as ever
The Broken Man
Instead of sitting down and drawing up a number of possible ways of carrying out this operation she tends to opt for screaming while sticking her tongue out intermitantly. As she screws up her eyes while doing so they look rather puffy and inclined to explode. It is not an attractive look, and as such my vocal daughter tries to avoid this model of behaviour when in company.
For visitors she sleeps, or stares wide eyed and bemused at some unidentifiable point in the room. When accompanied by the occasional smile visitors assure us that Grace is indeed very good, very lovely etc etc. They cuddle her and tell us how relaxing they find her. However, a certain time comes in the evening when the visitors have left and the vocal daughter feels she is able to drop the act.
If you can't be yourself with your family, who can you be straight with? As such she has developed a workable routine. First she pees and screams for a change. We change her. She then pees again. We affix nappy two. She then poos. We affix nappy three. She then requests food (failing to use “please”). After a short feed she indicates that she is bored and sleeps for three mins. This my wife mistakenly takes as an indication that she can stand up. Clearly this results in requests for more feeding.
Having finished feeding its time for the loo again. Discovering that this has not made her feel more comftable the vocal daughter informs us she has wind, this she does cunningly with a slightly different pitched scream while trying to knee herself repeatedly in the stomach.
10 mins or so of winding follows. Normally with nappy change. At this point the vocal daughter has a difficult choice..is it time to feed…or time to vomit? Sometimes unsure which to go for she will attempt a feed and give up to return to crying while sticking out her tongue. A state which she feels able to maintain for some considerable time before returning to the start of the procedure.
Yesterday I came in from a meeting to find the long suffering wife sitting on the sofa having been able to do little other than hold our vocal daughter as she expressed her discomfort. As the long suffering wife was unable to find a method for relieving the distress of Grace, she opted for holding her, while rocking slightly and crying herself, on the principle that, if you can't beat them, join them.
Fortunately for me the vocal daughter decided that she would indeed now vomit (just after I picked her up), and as such would return to a temporary state of calm. An extra pair of hands providing the exciting opportunity for the long suffering wife of having some extended leisure time (10 mins in the shower followed by a cup of tea).
I have of course explained at length to the vocal daughter that having informed me of her discomfort due to winding, cuddling, feeding or nappy changing, she does not need to continue to inform me of it. One short screech for each requirement is sufficient, after which a pause of at least five mins in which the need she has identified is addressed, would to my mind prove to be a far better system.
Despite careful explanations, and even on occasion’s diagrams and a pie chart, the vocal daughter has yet to grasp the finer points of my proposal. I suspect that I need to provide a flow chart for her to ensure that she fully gets to grips with my proposal.
Yours as ever
The Broken Man
Monday, 5 January 2009
Back to Work
Back to work today and back to some kind of routine, at least for me.
So two weeks on, and what lessons have we learnt?
We have learnt that babies should not drink bath water. That thrashing around in the bath is not a baby's way of saying it is having fun but rather an indication that it is choking and would like to have a bit of a back rub and to spit up the bath water it has drunk.
I have also learnt that Grace is the third most popular baby name in 2008 (In England). This has, of course, left me feeling a little depressed that it’s the name we settled on - I have only ever known one person called Grace and so thought it was a safe bet.
Before the birth of my daughter, people informed me in a knowing way that you can't understand how it will change your life until you have a baby. That it will change the way you see everything and think about everything. That may happen. It may just be a delayed reaction on my part, but parenthood is as I anticipated. We do all the same things, go to the same places, we just have a baby with us when we do so. Admittedly, Grace seems to make herself the centre of attention, and serves as an invitation to strangers to say "hello" – for some reason particually in supermarkets.
While I am not a great fan of people, I have found myself prepared to listen to people telling me how beautiful she is, and I do feel rather splendid wandering around with her in a sling. I am always a little confused when people say “well done” on seeing her. Having a baby doesn’t seem like an achievement I can claim any great credit for. If she turns out to be a wonderful young lady, then I will be able to claim some credit in having brought her up well, but having merely succeded in fathering her, I feel no particualar claim to credit. People seem obsessed with telling me that she either looks like me or her mother, although I suspect that mostly, she looks like a baby.
There also seems to be a bit of a gender obsession. We do not dress her in great swathes of pink and bows. Instead she wears baby grows – mostly those from her aunt and an American friend as they are of a far higher quality than those we have got as hand-me-downs. As such, looking at her with a baby grow on, it is impossible to distinguish her gender. Yet people who refer to her as a "he" seem terribly embarssed when they ask her name and we reveal that she is indeed a she not a he. It does not create any offence on our part at all. If it bothered us we would dress her in pink as that seems to be the cue that makes the gender link for people.
As time goes on we may discover that Grace is a girly girl who likes nothing better than party frocks. Or she might prefer jeans. The choice is hers, and I have no particular desire to impose it on her from such an early age. Such outfits have far to many buttons for my liking anyway. Baby grows are a far easier option.
Ahhh.. I have just thought of one thing that came as a surprise..the number of nappies she gets through. Her record is currently at 16 in one day. We are using reusable washable nappies – which, also to our surprise, take 2-3 days to dry. This is creating a bit of a battle in trying to have enough nappies to get through each day..I did momentarily flirt with a disposable nappy when she ran out – it was a free sample – I put it on her...and, well, it was plastic and nasty in every way, and I couldn’t bring myself to leave her in it, and so it was out with the safety pins and a bit of cloth for an old style nappy as opposed to the Velcro pre shapped reusables.
Well that’s it for now.
Yours as ever,
The Broken Man
So two weeks on, and what lessons have we learnt?
We have learnt that babies should not drink bath water. That thrashing around in the bath is not a baby's way of saying it is having fun but rather an indication that it is choking and would like to have a bit of a back rub and to spit up the bath water it has drunk.
I have also learnt that Grace is the third most popular baby name in 2008 (In England). This has, of course, left me feeling a little depressed that it’s the name we settled on - I have only ever known one person called Grace and so thought it was a safe bet.
Before the birth of my daughter, people informed me in a knowing way that you can't understand how it will change your life until you have a baby. That it will change the way you see everything and think about everything. That may happen. It may just be a delayed reaction on my part, but parenthood is as I anticipated. We do all the same things, go to the same places, we just have a baby with us when we do so. Admittedly, Grace seems to make herself the centre of attention, and serves as an invitation to strangers to say "hello" – for some reason particually in supermarkets.
While I am not a great fan of people, I have found myself prepared to listen to people telling me how beautiful she is, and I do feel rather splendid wandering around with her in a sling. I am always a little confused when people say “well done” on seeing her. Having a baby doesn’t seem like an achievement I can claim any great credit for. If she turns out to be a wonderful young lady, then I will be able to claim some credit in having brought her up well, but having merely succeded in fathering her, I feel no particualar claim to credit. People seem obsessed with telling me that she either looks like me or her mother, although I suspect that mostly, she looks like a baby.
There also seems to be a bit of a gender obsession. We do not dress her in great swathes of pink and bows. Instead she wears baby grows – mostly those from her aunt and an American friend as they are of a far higher quality than those we have got as hand-me-downs. As such, looking at her with a baby grow on, it is impossible to distinguish her gender. Yet people who refer to her as a "he" seem terribly embarssed when they ask her name and we reveal that she is indeed a she not a he. It does not create any offence on our part at all. If it bothered us we would dress her in pink as that seems to be the cue that makes the gender link for people.
As time goes on we may discover that Grace is a girly girl who likes nothing better than party frocks. Or she might prefer jeans. The choice is hers, and I have no particular desire to impose it on her from such an early age. Such outfits have far to many buttons for my liking anyway. Baby grows are a far easier option.
Ahhh.. I have just thought of one thing that came as a surprise..the number of nappies she gets through. Her record is currently at 16 in one day. We are using reusable washable nappies – which, also to our surprise, take 2-3 days to dry. This is creating a bit of a battle in trying to have enough nappies to get through each day..I did momentarily flirt with a disposable nappy when she ran out – it was a free sample – I put it on her...and, well, it was plastic and nasty in every way, and I couldn’t bring myself to leave her in it, and so it was out with the safety pins and a bit of cloth for an old style nappy as opposed to the Velcro pre shapped reusables.
Well that’s it for now.
Yours as ever,
The Broken Man
Sunday, 21 December 2008
The Birth Story
I am sitting on the sofa with the long suffering wife as she winces in pain trying to feed -well okay succeding to feed. So here we go, the birth story.
On monday morning I was woken by the wife to be told that she thought baby might be on the way she was getting 'niggles' i dutufully took the day of work and we waited..and waited..nothing much was happening but my wife decided we had an urgent need for things from the shops, so of we went to tescos (of course not before i had just popped into PC world for a browse). On reaching the supermarket i asked what it was we needed and the wife looked at me a little blankly before suggesting we needed crisps. 24 packets of crisps later and we ehaded home for an uneventual time. Finally we turned in at midnight
Tuesday Morning
On Tuesday morning at 3.30am the long suffering wife woke me to tell me she had been having contractions - 4 of them 8 mins apart. It was game on. I phoned our friend in london who wanted to see a birth and she jumped in her car, also phoned the hospital to let hem know we where in very early stages. At 7am she arrived as did the midwife who gave her a check over and left us to it. Contractions continued speradically with the wife deciding she felt she could live with it. When it got to lunch time we went to the local pub for a slap up meal and then back home to more struggling. At 5pm we had another visit from a midwife and all seemed okay, and another at 10pm. By midnight the wife really needed some pain relife and we where honoured with a visit from the head of midwifery who made her first home visit in 15 years and was superb, the brought with them gas and air, but the wife couldnt get on with it. She was however suffering and had started saying she just needed it to be over, and looking at me with pleading eyes begging me to help her.
Wednesday Morning
By wednesday morning we where back ont he go with regular contractions and had another visit from a midwife, by now the LSW was really struggling and eventually climbined into the bath. She was suffering now, and really just wanted things to be done, she kept asking how much longer. Midwives came and changed shift in a blurr of half drunk copes of coffee. I poured water over the wife and she struggled through the pain. At about 11am they decided the time had come for her to push. She did with all her might and screamed and screamed in pain. After 30 mins of this they examined her and established she was only 6cm dilate and was just brusing herself with the pushing. Back in the bath and falling to pieces with tierdness and pain she sucked dry canaster after canaster of gas and air. By the end of the labour five bottles.
Finally when the time arrived to push she had next to no strength left, and the soft part of babys head was trying to come out first, not providing the force needed. It was two and a half hours from there to get baby grace out, and the wife suffered every minute of it.
When baby was born the wife was just at a point of complete exhaustion 5.56pm on Wednsday evening. She had no strength left and so we went - or rather i went - for the injetion to bring on the delivery of the plasenta and with it a blood bath.
Laying against my legs my arms around her she held our beautful baby girl and the world seemed a better place. By the time first feed had happened it was 10pm and at last we where left alone wondering what it is you do with a baby.
I took a minute for air and found my legs giving, i cried for two hours, the shock kicking in and my body just shaking. At last we curled up in bed for our first night together as a family, and bless her heart she did not stir till 7am. She made up for that this morning of course by not sleeping till 7am..she has some remarkable lungs....oh yes indeed.
I somehow managed to put my shoulder and neck, and so am feeling grouchy, not really a birth scar, but of course i like to complain. The wfe escaped with stitches and is doing well.
They say she tore her stomic mussles during pregnancy and didnt have any to speak of during labour, The she found thes trength to push astonds me. They say she will need some physio to bring about some repair.
Enough for now it must be time for sleep
Yours alseep
The Broken Man
On monday morning I was woken by the wife to be told that she thought baby might be on the way she was getting 'niggles' i dutufully took the day of work and we waited..and waited..nothing much was happening but my wife decided we had an urgent need for things from the shops, so of we went to tescos (of course not before i had just popped into PC world for a browse). On reaching the supermarket i asked what it was we needed and the wife looked at me a little blankly before suggesting we needed crisps. 24 packets of crisps later and we ehaded home for an uneventual time. Finally we turned in at midnight
Tuesday Morning
On Tuesday morning at 3.30am the long suffering wife woke me to tell me she had been having contractions - 4 of them 8 mins apart. It was game on. I phoned our friend in london who wanted to see a birth and she jumped in her car, also phoned the hospital to let hem know we where in very early stages. At 7am she arrived as did the midwife who gave her a check over and left us to it. Contractions continued speradically with the wife deciding she felt she could live with it. When it got to lunch time we went to the local pub for a slap up meal and then back home to more struggling. At 5pm we had another visit from a midwife and all seemed okay, and another at 10pm. By midnight the wife really needed some pain relife and we where honoured with a visit from the head of midwifery who made her first home visit in 15 years and was superb, the brought with them gas and air, but the wife couldnt get on with it. She was however suffering and had started saying she just needed it to be over, and looking at me with pleading eyes begging me to help her.
Wednesday Morning
By wednesday morning we where back ont he go with regular contractions and had another visit from a midwife, by now the LSW was really struggling and eventually climbined into the bath. She was suffering now, and really just wanted things to be done, she kept asking how much longer. Midwives came and changed shift in a blurr of half drunk copes of coffee. I poured water over the wife and she struggled through the pain. At about 11am they decided the time had come for her to push. She did with all her might and screamed and screamed in pain. After 30 mins of this they examined her and established she was only 6cm dilate and was just brusing herself with the pushing. Back in the bath and falling to pieces with tierdness and pain she sucked dry canaster after canaster of gas and air. By the end of the labour five bottles.
Finally when the time arrived to push she had next to no strength left, and the soft part of babys head was trying to come out first, not providing the force needed. It was two and a half hours from there to get baby grace out, and the wife suffered every minute of it.
When baby was born the wife was just at a point of complete exhaustion 5.56pm on Wednsday evening. She had no strength left and so we went - or rather i went - for the injetion to bring on the delivery of the plasenta and with it a blood bath.
Laying against my legs my arms around her she held our beautful baby girl and the world seemed a better place. By the time first feed had happened it was 10pm and at last we where left alone wondering what it is you do with a baby.
I took a minute for air and found my legs giving, i cried for two hours, the shock kicking in and my body just shaking. At last we curled up in bed for our first night together as a family, and bless her heart she did not stir till 7am. She made up for that this morning of course by not sleeping till 7am..she has some remarkable lungs....oh yes indeed.
I somehow managed to put my shoulder and neck, and so am feeling grouchy, not really a birth scar, but of course i like to complain. The wfe escaped with stitches and is doing well.
They say she tore her stomic mussles during pregnancy and didnt have any to speak of during labour, The she found thes trength to push astonds me. They say she will need some physio to bring about some repair.
Enough for now it must be time for sleep
Yours alseep
The Broken Man
Saturday, 20 December 2008
Update
I still haven't written the birth story out, i keep planning to, i start it, and i loose it.
Thank you all for your warm wishes it means the world. Well obviously not the whole world, that would be crazy, i mean how hard is it to post a comment (yes i havent done it for a while) but, the sentiment, the thingy expressed behind that other stuff, thats nice. Look i am trying to say i appreciate it and thats that, didnt want to get into this whole blah write up of dullness and make you all wish that in honesty you had stayed very clear.
Birth stuff - will write up soon promise - well no not promise - but will try ....It was 39 hours, and my beautiful baby was born weighing in at 9 pounds and half an ounce. She was delivered at home and mum and baby are doing well.
The first 24 hours we seemed to have the most placid baby in the world, however, it seems, she suffers somewhat from wind and is not a great fan of listening to her fathers advice that crying wont necessarily improve the situation. As such i seem to be rather lacking in sleep, something which has come as a bit of a shock to me. I mean really there is no need for all this crying buisness. There really isnt. And I have explained this to her, and she doesnt seem to take in my explanation at all. I know some people suggested that she might react in this way, but really for this to be the case seems untenable. Some major adjustments are required in the whole approach to this baby thing, and my Most Gorgeous Baby seems determined that its me that makes them not her.
The Long suffering wife is finding feeding difficult right now, and is unsurprisingly shattered. she did so well getting through the birth and is coping really well with the after effects on her body - more of that later maybe. She is however persevering which makes me very proud of her, i know how hard she finds it, but she is determined to do the best for baby.
As to birth plans etc, everything we wanted we managed to stick to except a natural third stage - she had the injection for the delivery of the plasenta on my instance as she had been at the pushing stage for 2 1/2 hours and was just wipped out, as it was the blood loss was higher than we had hoped for, but just low enough that we could still call it safe. I felt very guilty agreeing to the inhjection and pushing Long Suffering Wife into it, but she had just been going to long, and needed it to all be over. She earnt her name and made me so so proud - okay am crying now. Blah. Over emotional fathers, a very unattractive site.
More later - promise! Will post all info soon - just so tired right now - struggling with aching limbs, and the discovery that i might just have a heart.
And yes i know that complaining about aching limbs after LSW gave birth is crazy! Just telling it as it is.I can hear baby crying again so better go an retrieve her from the wife.
Proud and Broken.
as ever,
The Broken Man
Thank you all for your warm wishes it means the world. Well obviously not the whole world, that would be crazy, i mean how hard is it to post a comment (yes i havent done it for a while) but, the sentiment, the thingy expressed behind that other stuff, thats nice. Look i am trying to say i appreciate it and thats that, didnt want to get into this whole blah write up of dullness and make you all wish that in honesty you had stayed very clear.
Birth stuff - will write up soon promise - well no not promise - but will try ....It was 39 hours, and my beautiful baby was born weighing in at 9 pounds and half an ounce. She was delivered at home and mum and baby are doing well.
The first 24 hours we seemed to have the most placid baby in the world, however, it seems, she suffers somewhat from wind and is not a great fan of listening to her fathers advice that crying wont necessarily improve the situation. As such i seem to be rather lacking in sleep, something which has come as a bit of a shock to me. I mean really there is no need for all this crying buisness. There really isnt. And I have explained this to her, and she doesnt seem to take in my explanation at all. I know some people suggested that she might react in this way, but really for this to be the case seems untenable. Some major adjustments are required in the whole approach to this baby thing, and my Most Gorgeous Baby seems determined that its me that makes them not her.
The Long suffering wife is finding feeding difficult right now, and is unsurprisingly shattered. she did so well getting through the birth and is coping really well with the after effects on her body - more of that later maybe. She is however persevering which makes me very proud of her, i know how hard she finds it, but she is determined to do the best for baby.
As to birth plans etc, everything we wanted we managed to stick to except a natural third stage - she had the injection for the delivery of the plasenta on my instance as she had been at the pushing stage for 2 1/2 hours and was just wipped out, as it was the blood loss was higher than we had hoped for, but just low enough that we could still call it safe. I felt very guilty agreeing to the inhjection and pushing Long Suffering Wife into it, but she had just been going to long, and needed it to all be over. She earnt her name and made me so so proud - okay am crying now. Blah. Over emotional fathers, a very unattractive site.
More later - promise! Will post all info soon - just so tired right now - struggling with aching limbs, and the discovery that i might just have a heart.
And yes i know that complaining about aching limbs after LSW gave birth is crazy! Just telling it as it is.I can hear baby crying again so better go an retrieve her from the wife.
Proud and Broken.
as ever,
The Broken Man
Thursday, 18 December 2008
Thursday, 4 December 2008
How to Annoy Medical Personnel, Waiting, and No Smoke Without Fire.
How to annoy Medical Personnel
1)When getting blood results back, ask for the actual results not the doctors interpretations of them.
2)Inform the doctor that the slight elevation they believe exists is in your opinion within normal parameters, and is not significant enough to require a repeat of the same test a week later.
3)Refuse to attend an additional check up
4)Repeat when pregnant
5)Insist that the hospital doctors etc only speak to your partner and have them follow steps 1-3.
Waiting
Waiting for the baby to be born is very like waiting for a train to arrive while carrying a heavy bag. You don’t want to put the bag down if you are going to step on the train in a moment, but if its going to be a while you would like to go and get a coffee and a paper. Uncertain of whether it will arrive on time, early, or late, you find yourself standing paralysed on the platform, aware that in the time you have spent making the decision as to whether to get coffee you could have actually got it, and arrived back, but that now you are not sure if this will repeat itself or whether you really still do have time for coffee.
Of course, this is a bad analogy as I am eating antacids which I am washing down with coffee and there is nothing I have to actually put off, however the sense of uncertain anticipation is really exquisitely unpleasant. I know, I know, I should be going "yippy oh its all exciting", but I am so, so bored. You have read me whinging about this once already – you will, I know, be bored by this second blog on the same topic. Well, that’s how I feel, only more.
I don’t queue. I don’t wait. If people are late for a meeting I leave. If I am early for a meeting and would need to wait I will leave 8/10 times. I rarely meet people. I don’t do waiting.
I am so, so, so annoyed and cross and fed up and want to cry.
In case it isn’t clear – I have given up smoking. Not that it's having any affect on my mood. At all. ‘They’ say "no smoke without fire" – at last I understand. Not smoking makes you want to shoot people. No smoke – you want to fire a gun. This morning someone said ‘how are you?’ to me – foolish foolish reckless person…..
Yours as impatiently,
The Broken Man
1)When getting blood results back, ask for the actual results not the doctors interpretations of them.
2)Inform the doctor that the slight elevation they believe exists is in your opinion within normal parameters, and is not significant enough to require a repeat of the same test a week later.
3)Refuse to attend an additional check up
4)Repeat when pregnant
5)Insist that the hospital doctors etc only speak to your partner and have them follow steps 1-3.
Waiting
Waiting for the baby to be born is very like waiting for a train to arrive while carrying a heavy bag. You don’t want to put the bag down if you are going to step on the train in a moment, but if its going to be a while you would like to go and get a coffee and a paper. Uncertain of whether it will arrive on time, early, or late, you find yourself standing paralysed on the platform, aware that in the time you have spent making the decision as to whether to get coffee you could have actually got it, and arrived back, but that now you are not sure if this will repeat itself or whether you really still do have time for coffee.
Of course, this is a bad analogy as I am eating antacids which I am washing down with coffee and there is nothing I have to actually put off, however the sense of uncertain anticipation is really exquisitely unpleasant. I know, I know, I should be going "yippy oh its all exciting", but I am so, so bored. You have read me whinging about this once already – you will, I know, be bored by this second blog on the same topic. Well, that’s how I feel, only more.
I don’t queue. I don’t wait. If people are late for a meeting I leave. If I am early for a meeting and would need to wait I will leave 8/10 times. I rarely meet people. I don’t do waiting.
I am so, so, so annoyed and cross and fed up and want to cry.
In case it isn’t clear – I have given up smoking. Not that it's having any affect on my mood. At all. ‘They’ say "no smoke without fire" – at last I understand. Not smoking makes you want to shoot people. No smoke – you want to fire a gun. This morning someone said ‘how are you?’ to me – foolish foolish reckless person…..
Yours as impatiently,
The Broken Man
Tuesday, 2 December 2008
Panic, Post boxes and Re-adjusting my life
The long-suffering wife's hands and feet were itching yesterday. Big time. In an attempt to keep everything in the highest level of panic possible we refered to the medical books and diagnosed obstetric cholostatis, and the need for an induction. This resulted in a rush to hospital for a blood test, the result of which arrived a very leisurely 8 hours later. Hospitals are among the dullest places in the world. Blood tests seem okay; panic over.
With time to kill the wife dropped the bomb shell. She doesn’t want me to talk about post-boxes with our baby. Ever. She is somewhat concerned that I will explain why I don’t “do” postboxes and that this will be adopted by our child. Let me explain – first of all post boxes in England are red. They sit on the corner of roads, and are locked. Big red metal locked boxes. Into these boxes, people put cards, letters, cheques, communications, thoughts. Around collection time the metal box is full of thoughts, of half conversations, all just sitting there waiting. I don’t understand how someone can walk past one and not feel a little uneasy. The thought of metal red boxes, safes for people's ideas and hopes and dreams and fears – and gas bills, just sitting around innocently is a very odd thing. I feel a sense of awe to see people just walk past them as if it wasn’t strange. The thought of putting my thoughts in one, even protected by an envelope, of letting it sit there in the jumble of other people's ideas, is just to much for me.
Along with the fast approaching birth of our child is, of course, New Years Eve. More to the point, there is party on, an event, oh what an event, a London bash which makes me want to cry with joy, an invitation to a night of excess. So I think to myself – "why not go, it will be great." Okay I confess I won't be able to take the wife and baby – but I am sure she won't mind me going... and then I pause and I know she will, I know she will mind a lot and with that realisation I am deeply aware that a part of my life has ended as surely as another one is beginning.
Yours as ever
The Broken Man
With time to kill the wife dropped the bomb shell. She doesn’t want me to talk about post-boxes with our baby. Ever. She is somewhat concerned that I will explain why I don’t “do” postboxes and that this will be adopted by our child. Let me explain – first of all post boxes in England are red. They sit on the corner of roads, and are locked. Big red metal locked boxes. Into these boxes, people put cards, letters, cheques, communications, thoughts. Around collection time the metal box is full of thoughts, of half conversations, all just sitting there waiting. I don’t understand how someone can walk past one and not feel a little uneasy. The thought of metal red boxes, safes for people's ideas and hopes and dreams and fears – and gas bills, just sitting around innocently is a very odd thing. I feel a sense of awe to see people just walk past them as if it wasn’t strange. The thought of putting my thoughts in one, even protected by an envelope, of letting it sit there in the jumble of other people's ideas, is just to much for me.
Along with the fast approaching birth of our child is, of course, New Years Eve. More to the point, there is party on, an event, oh what an event, a London bash which makes me want to cry with joy, an invitation to a night of excess. So I think to myself – "why not go, it will be great." Okay I confess I won't be able to take the wife and baby – but I am sure she won't mind me going... and then I pause and I know she will, I know she will mind a lot and with that realisation I am deeply aware that a part of my life has ended as surely as another one is beginning.
Yours as ever
The Broken Man
Thursday, 27 November 2008
BOOORRRREEEEEDDDDD!
I am sorry to have to tell you this, dear readers. It will shock you to hear it. My wife is lazy. There, i have said it, its out in the open. She seems to be insisting on taking the *whole* gestation period of an average women before giving birth. I mean, seriously folks, do i look like someone with a long attention span?
Apparently it is not appropriate for me to attempt to "unwrap" my new baby early. I feel like my life is in a very strange kind of Christmas Eve twilight zone in which I get myself briefly over excited at the thought of presents and then feel worn out and drift off to sleep, waking to discover not that Christmas Day has arrived but that I have succeded in sleeping for a full two minutes.
In other baby news, we had a vistiation from the Head of Midwifery the other day to discuss our "particular issues". Despite fears that we were going to have to do battle with a dragon over a whole range of issues (e.g. in an emergency, if wife had to be sliced, i would not leave her alone in the hospital as she would then panic - hence if hospital insisted that i could not stay outside visiting hours we would discharge her) they were brillant! They accepted each and every one of our issues, and even gave us the top lady's mobile number in case we encountered any problems and needed her to tell people that she has agreed to meet our requirments. Hopefully of course it won't come to that. I am, at any rate, planning a pain free birth (for me, if not the long suffering wife) at home, where i can surf the net and read books in comfort whilst throwing in the odd soothing comment such as "there, there dear" and "ohhh that's got to smart".
In other news I did a web search today to see if I could find some more information on the problem of evil - the topic result for my search criteria was indeed an interesting starting point to any approach to the topic - unfortunatly however it didn't move my thinking on substantially as it was my own blog post!!
yours as ever,
Bored and Broke,
the Broken Man
Apparently it is not appropriate for me to attempt to "unwrap" my new baby early. I feel like my life is in a very strange kind of Christmas Eve twilight zone in which I get myself briefly over excited at the thought of presents and then feel worn out and drift off to sleep, waking to discover not that Christmas Day has arrived but that I have succeded in sleeping for a full two minutes.
In other baby news, we had a vistiation from the Head of Midwifery the other day to discuss our "particular issues". Despite fears that we were going to have to do battle with a dragon over a whole range of issues (e.g. in an emergency, if wife had to be sliced, i would not leave her alone in the hospital as she would then panic - hence if hospital insisted that i could not stay outside visiting hours we would discharge her) they were brillant! They accepted each and every one of our issues, and even gave us the top lady's mobile number in case we encountered any problems and needed her to tell people that she has agreed to meet our requirments. Hopefully of course it won't come to that. I am, at any rate, planning a pain free birth (for me, if not the long suffering wife) at home, where i can surf the net and read books in comfort whilst throwing in the odd soothing comment such as "there, there dear" and "ohhh that's got to smart".
In other news I did a web search today to see if I could find some more information on the problem of evil - the topic result for my search criteria was indeed an interesting starting point to any approach to the topic - unfortunatly however it didn't move my thinking on substantially as it was my own blog post!!
yours as ever,
Bored and Broke,
the Broken Man
Thursday, 6 November 2008
Cohen, long babies, tutorials and essays
For my birthday I was given a ticket to see Leonard Cohen. I am not one to get excited. A wry smile once in a while normally suffices. Yet I confess I am rather pleased about this forthcoming event (next week).It does however collide with a meeting of my tutorial group, and so on Tuesday evening just gone I phoned up my tutor and apologised in advance for my absence. I was informed that normally they would move the date if one of us couldn’t make it, but I had really not given enough notice. I am of course less than convinced about this, and more to the point, the tutorials really are not earth shattering events – while the chance to hear Leonard Cohen sing live – well that happens once in a life time!
Some examination of baby sites reveals that at birth my baby (well, all babies) are expected to be around 19-21 inches long. It’s a sentance that trips off the tongue fairly happily. It seems a reasonable length. Some people might even nod on hearing that figure and think to themselves, "yes, that sounds about right". To put this into perspective, however, a measurement can be made from the waist band of your trousers to your collar bone – on me this is 20 inches. So if I had a baby standing up inside me, it would in fact take up all the space in my stomach and chest. I would need to remove such things as my rib cage and my heart. Now I know its curled up, I am aware that its not standing up in the long suffering wife's stomach. I know it can't. Walking will take a while. It is however a little odd to think about, isn’t it? I mean.... If you had 20 inches of baby standing inside you it would have to kill you wouldn’t it? I know it can't. Look I'm not crazy. But seriously. If it could stand up….
In other news I have an essay due in on the 15th November. I have started it…just not done much on it. Now that I have started it I am realising that its not one I can just knock out in an afternoon. Hmm. If I don’t make it to the deadline – do you think they will accept an explanation of "I was busy thinking about babies standing up?"
Yours as ever,
The Broken Man
Some examination of baby sites reveals that at birth my baby (well, all babies) are expected to be around 19-21 inches long. It’s a sentance that trips off the tongue fairly happily. It seems a reasonable length. Some people might even nod on hearing that figure and think to themselves, "yes, that sounds about right". To put this into perspective, however, a measurement can be made from the waist band of your trousers to your collar bone – on me this is 20 inches. So if I had a baby standing up inside me, it would in fact take up all the space in my stomach and chest. I would need to remove such things as my rib cage and my heart. Now I know its curled up, I am aware that its not standing up in the long suffering wife's stomach. I know it can't. Walking will take a while. It is however a little odd to think about, isn’t it? I mean.... If you had 20 inches of baby standing inside you it would have to kill you wouldn’t it? I know it can't. Look I'm not crazy. But seriously. If it could stand up….
In other news I have an essay due in on the 15th November. I have started it…just not done much on it. Now that I have started it I am realising that its not one I can just knock out in an afternoon. Hmm. If I don’t make it to the deadline – do you think they will accept an explanation of "I was busy thinking about babies standing up?"
Yours as ever,
The Broken Man
Tuesday, 4 November 2008
Happy Birthday to Me
Birthdays are odd things, and I have been silent for a few days. Yesterday I went to the British Museum and spent my day looking at ancient artifacts – always a good way to feel younger – stand in front of something 3600 years old. It was all very nice -but - I am not sure it was magical. I was interested in the Museum, but I forget to put on a silly voice and do impressions of what the statues were saying to each other. I didn't take delight. I saw, I studied, I found things interesting. But I forget to be a child and just enjoy the magic.
The day got me thinking about the birthdays of my childhood and the birthdays of children I know today. Today, and in fact even when my younger brothers were “that age”, a move had been made towards bowling and films for parties. Now it seems not unusal for a whole gaggle of kids to head for the cinema or a fast food outlet to celebrate the passing of another year. The parties become increasingly competitive and who is and isn’t invited a cruel weapon in a war of friendships and who is “in” and who is “out”.
My family was not a rich one, and my mother wisely adopted what is now considered an old fashioned approach. We played musical chairs, and pass the parcel; we ate jelly and ice cream. Even at the age of 13-14. My mother carefully and cleverly spotted that retro held a lot of appeal,and as long as you knew it was a joke you allowed yourself to enjoy it.
I would far prefer to celebrate my child-to-be’s birthdays with childhood games than with tournaments on the wii or even the ever-popular bouncy castle. As ever, though, I wonder how much of what I wish for for my child is about what I wish for me. Maybe I will have a child who will want to spend their birthday staring at the stars, or ice skating, how much will I shape their desires and dreams, and how much will they change my views on the world?
In the next 6-9 weeks I am going to be a father, and as such I have resolved that it is important that I don’t grow up. It's important that I don’t become too responsible and let fun drain out of my life, because if I do, I might give the impression that being an adult means taking life seriously, that play is for young children, and that being an adult is about be respectable and dull. So for my next birthday, I will make sure I have time to skip, and I will have jelly and ice cream for tea.
Yours, older but no wiser,
The Broken Man
The day got me thinking about the birthdays of my childhood and the birthdays of children I know today. Today, and in fact even when my younger brothers were “that age”, a move had been made towards bowling and films for parties. Now it seems not unusal for a whole gaggle of kids to head for the cinema or a fast food outlet to celebrate the passing of another year. The parties become increasingly competitive and who is and isn’t invited a cruel weapon in a war of friendships and who is “in” and who is “out”.
My family was not a rich one, and my mother wisely adopted what is now considered an old fashioned approach. We played musical chairs, and pass the parcel; we ate jelly and ice cream. Even at the age of 13-14. My mother carefully and cleverly spotted that retro held a lot of appeal,and as long as you knew it was a joke you allowed yourself to enjoy it.
I would far prefer to celebrate my child-to-be’s birthdays with childhood games than with tournaments on the wii or even the ever-popular bouncy castle. As ever, though, I wonder how much of what I wish for for my child is about what I wish for me. Maybe I will have a child who will want to spend their birthday staring at the stars, or ice skating, how much will I shape their desires and dreams, and how much will they change my views on the world?
In the next 6-9 weeks I am going to be a father, and as such I have resolved that it is important that I don’t grow up. It's important that I don’t become too responsible and let fun drain out of my life, because if I do, I might give the impression that being an adult means taking life seriously, that play is for young children, and that being an adult is about be respectable and dull. So for my next birthday, I will make sure I have time to skip, and I will have jelly and ice cream for tea.
Yours, older but no wiser,
The Broken Man
Saturday, 25 October 2008
Soften (and Brighten) my World
I went Christmas shopping today - I'm trying to get most of it done before the baby is born, as I suspect there won't be much time afterwards. I didn't actually manage to find much, but I never do first time out.
However, as a by-product of the Christmas shopping, I continued my long-running search for soft baby socks. We have been given loads of clothes by people who have had children, but socks are the one thing we are short of. Personally, I prefer to be barefoot, and certainly wouldn't go down the pram-shoes/crawlers route, but being practical, this baby is going to be born in the depths of winter, and probably will need some form of sock to keep warm.
I have got a bit of a bee in my bonnet about things being soft and lovely next to the baby's skin - it's part sentimental, I admit, but part practical; Broken Man and I both have allergies, and I can't help thinking soft against delicate skin must be better than crunchy. So began the hunt for soft socks. I can't find any anywhere - maybe cotton does soften up after a few washes, but what if it doesn't? The terry towelling ones start off *really* hard and quite horrible. I found some today which were velour, and thought that, at last, my search was over - but, no, the insides were terry.
Broken Man has some gloriously soft bamboo socks, but I can't find any for babies. I was given some lovely "feather-feel" socks for Christmas last year which would be perfect - but they don't make them for babies.
I was getting very confused. I now have sleepsuits and babygrows in fluffy fleece, buttery organic cotton, silky soft velour and the most amazing furry material, so what's the problem with socks? I had a revelation when I got home and started hanging out some latest batch of baby clothes I had washed. Some of them were inside out, and I realised that (with the exception of the organic cotton) the insides felt nothing like the outside!
The whole thing is a vicious marketing scam. The shops know that we want our babies to feel soft and lovely, and they have made the outsides of their garments wonderfully tactile - without a thought for the baby inside them. It's purely for the benefit of the adult!
It's the same with colour. I know that babies don't really see colour very effectively - I believe they can see black, white and red, but I'm sure that someone will correct me if I'm wrong, so why are all baby clothes (as Broken Man puts it) "offensively pastel"?
I thought perhaps it was the choice of the lovely people who gave us the clothes, so I thought we might treat ourselves to one set of clothes in some nice bright shades that *we* like (as the baby clearly won't have a preferance!). Perhaps some nice bright purples, reds, turquoise....
Again it appears that the shops have decided that people like to see babies in pastels (or white), and the only places you can buy bright baby clothes are from designer and specialist websites, where you could happily pay upwards of £20 for one babygrow. My sister has swapped her designer handbag obsession for a designer babygrow obsession and has very kindly bought us a few - but I object to anyone wasting so much money on something the baby will wear for maybe a month!
I think I will start dying my own - I'm not going to be dictated to by Mothercare! :) And on the sock front, my lovely mother-in-law foolishly offered to knit some things for the baby, so I have bought some feather-feel "wool" and will be setting her to work!
Broken Man's Wife
However, as a by-product of the Christmas shopping, I continued my long-running search for soft baby socks. We have been given loads of clothes by people who have had children, but socks are the one thing we are short of. Personally, I prefer to be barefoot, and certainly wouldn't go down the pram-shoes/crawlers route, but being practical, this baby is going to be born in the depths of winter, and probably will need some form of sock to keep warm.
I have got a bit of a bee in my bonnet about things being soft and lovely next to the baby's skin - it's part sentimental, I admit, but part practical; Broken Man and I both have allergies, and I can't help thinking soft against delicate skin must be better than crunchy. So began the hunt for soft socks. I can't find any anywhere - maybe cotton does soften up after a few washes, but what if it doesn't? The terry towelling ones start off *really* hard and quite horrible. I found some today which were velour, and thought that, at last, my search was over - but, no, the insides were terry.
Broken Man has some gloriously soft bamboo socks, but I can't find any for babies. I was given some lovely "feather-feel" socks for Christmas last year which would be perfect - but they don't make them for babies.
I was getting very confused. I now have sleepsuits and babygrows in fluffy fleece, buttery organic cotton, silky soft velour and the most amazing furry material, so what's the problem with socks? I had a revelation when I got home and started hanging out some latest batch of baby clothes I had washed. Some of them were inside out, and I realised that (with the exception of the organic cotton) the insides felt nothing like the outside!
The whole thing is a vicious marketing scam. The shops know that we want our babies to feel soft and lovely, and they have made the outsides of their garments wonderfully tactile - without a thought for the baby inside them. It's purely for the benefit of the adult!
It's the same with colour. I know that babies don't really see colour very effectively - I believe they can see black, white and red, but I'm sure that someone will correct me if I'm wrong, so why are all baby clothes (as Broken Man puts it) "offensively pastel"?
I thought perhaps it was the choice of the lovely people who gave us the clothes, so I thought we might treat ourselves to one set of clothes in some nice bright shades that *we* like (as the baby clearly won't have a preferance!). Perhaps some nice bright purples, reds, turquoise....
Again it appears that the shops have decided that people like to see babies in pastels (or white), and the only places you can buy bright baby clothes are from designer and specialist websites, where you could happily pay upwards of £20 for one babygrow. My sister has swapped her designer handbag obsession for a designer babygrow obsession and has very kindly bought us a few - but I object to anyone wasting so much money on something the baby will wear for maybe a month!
I think I will start dying my own - I'm not going to be dictated to by Mothercare! :) And on the sock front, my lovely mother-in-law foolishly offered to knit some things for the baby, so I have bought some feather-feel "wool" and will be setting her to work!
Broken Man's Wife
Friday, 24 October 2008
Manners Maketh the Man?
Broken Man sent me a blog for today, in which he (apparently) tells you that I will be guest blogging tomorrow. Unfortunately he sent it to my work email and as I haven't been at work today, you will have to put up with me guest blogging twice! Sorry about that.
With Broken Man's "learning difficulties" (I'm still not sure why they call it that - he has no problem learning at all; in fact he's rather skilled at it, it's just the vaguaries of the education system which cause problems!) I am now used to living in a highly logical house. I always think the easiest way to describe the difficulties Broken Man has to new people is to suggest that until they know him better they treat him as a Vulcan. It seems to work, both for them and for him.
Anyway, today's topic of debate was "please" and "thank you". The fact that these are social niceties which oil the wheels of conversation is not enough for Broken Man. "Thank you" was pretty easily dealt with - his conclusion is that we are grateful for someone doing something for us, and "thank you" expresses that to them. But "why does the use of one word ("please") mean that someone has manners? Particularly since the word is clearly constructed *just* to show that someone has manners" That was an altogether trickier concept for us.
I had to agree - "please" really doesn't *mean* anything. It really is just something we have made up to show that we have manners. On the other hand, always with one eye on bringing up baby, I was getting more and more uneasy at the prospect of having to justify having a "rude" child because Broken Man was able to explain away the use of a social norm!
Eventually, after a long conversation with himself (and me, but I really didn't submit anything useful to the mix!) Broken Man came up with a way of making it work. "Please" offers an element of choice. It recognises that someone has the right to say "no", and is therefore a request, not a command. It's purpose is to differentiate between a request and a command.
I breathed a sigh of relief. We have an explanation we can offer the baby when it gets as far as talking. We have a reason for saying "please" and "thank you", because in our house, EVERYTHING must have a reason. I have some concerns about other people's "inconsistances" with this theory - quite how I am going to explain that when the teacher says "please put on your coat", she is actually issuing a command, not making a request, is something to worry about for the future.
For now, though, social disaster has been averted, and actually I quite like the idea of saying to a child something like "are you happy that X has given you/done this for you? If you are, the short way we say that is thank you" I think it's far better than the usual prompt of "what do you say?", which seems to require no understanding of the principle behind the word.
I have no doubt that we will come on to "sorry" another day - that's a whole new can of worms!
Broken Man's Wife
With Broken Man's "learning difficulties" (I'm still not sure why they call it that - he has no problem learning at all; in fact he's rather skilled at it, it's just the vaguaries of the education system which cause problems!) I am now used to living in a highly logical house. I always think the easiest way to describe the difficulties Broken Man has to new people is to suggest that until they know him better they treat him as a Vulcan. It seems to work, both for them and for him.
Anyway, today's topic of debate was "please" and "thank you". The fact that these are social niceties which oil the wheels of conversation is not enough for Broken Man. "Thank you" was pretty easily dealt with - his conclusion is that we are grateful for someone doing something for us, and "thank you" expresses that to them. But "why does the use of one word ("please") mean that someone has manners? Particularly since the word is clearly constructed *just* to show that someone has manners" That was an altogether trickier concept for us.
I had to agree - "please" really doesn't *mean* anything. It really is just something we have made up to show that we have manners. On the other hand, always with one eye on bringing up baby, I was getting more and more uneasy at the prospect of having to justify having a "rude" child because Broken Man was able to explain away the use of a social norm!
Eventually, after a long conversation with himself (and me, but I really didn't submit anything useful to the mix!) Broken Man came up with a way of making it work. "Please" offers an element of choice. It recognises that someone has the right to say "no", and is therefore a request, not a command. It's purpose is to differentiate between a request and a command.
I breathed a sigh of relief. We have an explanation we can offer the baby when it gets as far as talking. We have a reason for saying "please" and "thank you", because in our house, EVERYTHING must have a reason. I have some concerns about other people's "inconsistances" with this theory - quite how I am going to explain that when the teacher says "please put on your coat", she is actually issuing a command, not making a request, is something to worry about for the future.
For now, though, social disaster has been averted, and actually I quite like the idea of saying to a child something like "are you happy that X has given you/done this for you? If you are, the short way we say that is thank you" I think it's far better than the usual prompt of "what do you say?", which seems to require no understanding of the principle behind the word.
I have no doubt that we will come on to "sorry" another day - that's a whole new can of worms!
Broken Man's Wife
Wednesday, 22 October 2008
Spin me right round, Baby, right round
With a lack of other things to worry about right now (well other than essay deadlines, and debt) it seems that we have found ourselves in the baby direction game. For those who haven't played along before let me explain the basic rules.
For a “standard” delivery of a baby it is desirable to have the head come out first. If, for example, you tried to put the baby length wise…well it wouldn’t fit! Now babies move about a fair bit prior to birth, and some don’t get into the desirable position until a few hours before birth, however if they don’t get in the right position it’s a worry. And we do like to worry. As such, this opens up a whole world of fun in the form of "can you identify which way around the baby is?" Far more fun than any competition in which contestants get to guess how many sweeties are in a jam jar, this involves careful examination of your chosen pregnant lady's stomach, lots of proding and the occasional exclamantion of “hummm, that could be a foot…or hand…or maybe a head”. Prizes are awarded for both creativity in description of baby lumps, and sounding confident when identifying various body parts.
If you don’t have a pregnant lady of your own, may I suggest getting a doll, putting it in a black sack, filling the sack to bursting point with porridge, shaking the sack and then trying this identification process. To make the experience realistic I suggest that once in a while you get a friend to say “Ow” as you poke the sack, and to look panicked when you fail to declare confidently "yes, yes, its definitely pointing in the right direction!"
I wonder if I could make my fortune by making this as a game? Bonus points could be awarded for statements such as “its laying to the left so it must be a boy” or “you are carrying it low - got to be a girl”.
Do you think “Toys are Us” will be interested in the idea? Just remember – you knew me before I was a world renowned toy maker.
Yours as ever,
The Broken Man
For a “standard” delivery of a baby it is desirable to have the head come out first. If, for example, you tried to put the baby length wise…well it wouldn’t fit! Now babies move about a fair bit prior to birth, and some don’t get into the desirable position until a few hours before birth, however if they don’t get in the right position it’s a worry. And we do like to worry. As such, this opens up a whole world of fun in the form of "can you identify which way around the baby is?" Far more fun than any competition in which contestants get to guess how many sweeties are in a jam jar, this involves careful examination of your chosen pregnant lady's stomach, lots of proding and the occasional exclamantion of “hummm, that could be a foot…or hand…or maybe a head”. Prizes are awarded for both creativity in description of baby lumps, and sounding confident when identifying various body parts.
If you don’t have a pregnant lady of your own, may I suggest getting a doll, putting it in a black sack, filling the sack to bursting point with porridge, shaking the sack and then trying this identification process. To make the experience realistic I suggest that once in a while you get a friend to say “Ow” as you poke the sack, and to look panicked when you fail to declare confidently "yes, yes, its definitely pointing in the right direction!"
I wonder if I could make my fortune by making this as a game? Bonus points could be awarded for statements such as “its laying to the left so it must be a boy” or “you are carrying it low - got to be a girl”.
Do you think “Toys are Us” will be interested in the idea? Just remember – you knew me before I was a world renowned toy maker.
Yours as ever,
The Broken Man
Wednesday, 15 October 2008
Being A Dad
In the next 2-3 months I am going to be a dad. It seems like a normal sentence, one which could have been written by any of several billion people over human history. Yet as every expectant father knows, there is nothing in all that shared experience and knowledge that helps you feel even a little bit more capable or prepared for the task.
I have often “joked” here that we won't be doing the whole crying thing – I will have a chat. I will explain acceptable behaviour. Tantrums? No. That will not happen. This will be a civilised parenting experience. My world is a rational one. It has a methodology. It takes me from one point to another.
The emotional side of things I have never been great with in honesty. After saying “there, there” I am, in honesty, done. There is a set quantity (small) of responding to emotions that I consider to be unavoidable. I don’t want to sound cold...really…but people crying…it's all a bit dull in honesty…and loud crying..well that’s just bad manners.
So I picture myself at 3 am with a crying baby not knowing how to settle it..and I feel very, very lost and, well.... really rather broken.
Please don’t get me wrong. I am very excited by it all too, really I am. Just also terrified.
With every bit of breath in my body, with all that I am, I ask that God might guide me and transform me into a person who won't completely screw up my childs life.
Yours in fear,
The Broken Man
I have often “joked” here that we won't be doing the whole crying thing – I will have a chat. I will explain acceptable behaviour. Tantrums? No. That will not happen. This will be a civilised parenting experience. My world is a rational one. It has a methodology. It takes me from one point to another.
The emotional side of things I have never been great with in honesty. After saying “there, there” I am, in honesty, done. There is a set quantity (small) of responding to emotions that I consider to be unavoidable. I don’t want to sound cold...really…but people crying…it's all a bit dull in honesty…and loud crying..well that’s just bad manners.
So I picture myself at 3 am with a crying baby not knowing how to settle it..and I feel very, very lost and, well.... really rather broken.
Please don’t get me wrong. I am very excited by it all too, really I am. Just also terrified.
With every bit of breath in my body, with all that I am, I ask that God might guide me and transform me into a person who won't completely screw up my childs life.
Yours in fear,
The Broken Man
Tuesday, 30 September 2008
Toys
In the various bag loads of baby clothes and other items we have recived from friends, there was a bag of toys. Items of bright colours and plastic that make noises at the slightest provication. We are trying to avoid plastic - the research on it tells us to - yet surrounded by this multi-coloured junk i cant help but think we are depriving our child. What toys should we have is the question? Does our child need these brillently colour monstroserties? IT was the biggest argument the long suffering wife and i have had in a long time - i felt that to just hand them on - free cycle them - was a bit much. It felt cruel to decide that no these are not the toys that our baby will have. I am lost folks...HELP!
Yours as ever
Surronded in plastic,
The Broken Man
Yours as ever
Surronded in plastic,
The Broken Man
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