DIY Blonde Ombre
Don't worry, this is definitely not going to turn into a beauty blog! But just to have a break from the endless baby baby baby posts, I thought I'd write about my new hair.
I've had my hair lightened for about 300 years now - when I was a child it was very bright blonde, but as I got older, it inevitably darkened and I think my natural hair colour is kind of filthy blonde/mousey brown. The least coveted hair colour on the planet basically. Anyway for years now I've had an all-over high lift tint done, which lifted my hair to a really light blonde - I swapped over to this from highlights because it was so much cheaper and I never much liked the stripey effect you seem to get with highlights. But as I mentioned in one of my pregnancy update posts, when I got pregnant I noticed that my roots were coming through really dark. Like, almost black.
Then my hairdresser told me that she was going to have to change my dye formulation as my roots were so much darker than before, so the levels (not sure what the technical term is?!) she was using wouldn't be strong enough to get the same result. And despite her doing this I started noticing that my once-bright hair was looking a little... yellow. Like properly yellow. Eeeuww.
I decided that change was in order, spent hours googling ombre and balayage (I figured if I've got dark roots now then I might as well go with it right?! even if it is very 2013) and then I booked an appointment at Trevor Sorbie to have a complete hair makeover.
This was the kind of look I was after... But with straight hair. And a fringe.
Unfortunately, that didn't really work out. The colour technician (lovely though he was) seemed convinced that I would regret dyeing my hair darker, and so he only put in one or two shades below my existing colour and the result was (as you can see from below)... exactly the same.
Five hours, £200+ and a glass of complimentary Prosecco down and feeling deflated and a bit pissed off (yes I know I should have complained but I'm far too British for that) I decided it was time for that old mantra 'if you want something doing, do it yourself'.
I should add here: I have never dyed my hair myself. Unless you count copious Sun-In
And that's what I did. I did spend about five hours first saying to Oli 'Should I do it? Maybe I shouldn't? I suppose I've already cried once today (the baby is being 'challenging' this week) so it won't matter if I hate it. Will it?', but anyway. I watched a few Youtube videos of terrifyingly young girls doing it far more professionally than I ever could, especially not at THEIR AGE, then very unscientifically plonked L'Oreal Preference in Florida Honey Blonde all over the top of my head, combed it through the lengths a bit and voila.
It's not too bad is it? A bit more subtle than I wanted and it hasn't totally covered my roots as I got terrified of how dark it looked when the dye was on so I washed it off a bit early (it says to leave it to develop for half an hour but given it took nearly half an hour to actually get the dye on my hair in the first place, I'm not sure when you count the half an hour from?). So I may redo it in a week or so. But anyway, it cost £6.99 and I don't hate it. Result.
Sidenote: Just noticed there are loads of brackets in this blog. Kind of like I'm continually justifying things to myself. Weird.
Review: Tommee Tippee Perfect Prep machine
When we first realised that Chip was likely to be formula-fed, we decided that powdered formula was far too much of a terrifying faff, and so we just bought the ready-mixed stuff, which is sterile and super easy to use. But then as Chip's digestive woes progressed (she's lactose intolerant and normal baby milk gives her a bad tummy), we decided to switch to Comfort Milk
So what does it do? It basically makes making bottles up super easy - you fill it with cold tap water (which it handily filters with its built-in filter), select the quantity of feed you are making up from the large, idiot-proof dial, and stick a bottle underneath it. When it first arrived, Oli thought that it actually mixed the powder into the water for you, but alas, you have to do that yourself. You put a bottle under the dispenser, press the button once, and it releases a spurt of hot (not boiling water), which you then spoon your formula powder into. Give the bottle a quick shake, and then put it back under the dispenser, whereupon it finishes the bottle by filling it with the remainder of the water. The second lot of water is at a cooler temperature, so that the bottle is ready to drink straight away (no more trying to cool it down under a cold tap as you have to do if you make it up manually). The first lot of water is hot enough to kill any bacteria that might be present in the milk powder, so there are no worries about that.
As I said, Oli was not very impressed when it first arrived as he basically couldn't see much of a benefit versus using boiling water from the kettle. But I think he's been won over. This really is a super easy way of making up bottles and SO quick. They say it takes two minutes from start to finish - I've never timed it but it sounds about right. You can make bottles in advance to store straight away in the fridge too, if you're going out later (I know the official guidelines are to make each feed up as it's needed but the NHS seems to think it's OK to store them so long as you 'flash cool' them straight after making). It also works with any bottles, not just Tommee Tippee ones.
I'm so in love with it, in fact, that I'm considering lugging it to my parents' when we go and stay with them at Christmas - can't really imagine being without it now!
It's not cheap, but I got mine on Amazon and at the moment Tommee Tippee
So, it's not quite as exciting as a Nespresso machine
Some thoughts on baby books
I read a blog post the other day - at 4am, because 4am is the only time I manage to do much reading, as it's when Daph wakes for her (one-and-only now thank god!) night feed. And it struck a chord with me. It was a tongue-in-cheek post all about baby sleep advice - a collation of 'expert' opinions on how to get your baby into good sleep habits. It basically proved how ridiculous all the advice is, as it's all so conflicting and contradictory. You can read the original post here.
When Daph was born, I spent every waking hour devouring baby books in the hope of finding some magic kernel of info that would transform my confused newborn, who didn't seem to have a clue what a schedule was or how to stick to it, into a 'perfect baby'. I've read them all. From the strict Gina Ford
And let's not get started on Your Baby Week By Week
Anyway, I've read them all, I've digested them all, I've tried (some of) their tactics and I have come to a conclusion. Which I will share with you, in case you're pregnant or have just taken home your first terrifying bundle, because I think maybe it will help. It's simple...
Your baby will do what he/she wants to do. Whether or not you read the baby books.
Some babies are 'perfect' and sleep through the night at six weeks. Some babies breastfeed without any effort. Some babies only cry when they need something.
And other babies... other babies never sleep through the night - at least not until they're officially considered toddlers. Other babies think breasts are the most revolting feeding device known to mankind (that would be my little Daphne). Others cry at the drop of a hat, because they can, and because they feel like it.
When your friend tells you that her baby slept through the night at six weeks, naps like clockwork and wakes without complaint, and attributes it to Gina Ford, I say this: your friend was lucky. They got an 'easy' baby that likes routine.
I personally don't believe that baby books offer the first-time mother much, apart from reassurance and some ideas that MAY or MAY NOT help. I worry that the pressure of trying to stick to prescriptive advice just heaps more stress on new mothers (and fathers). There's no 'one size fits all' solution to looking your baby.
The things that have worked for us, if 'working' is the right word, are the things that have been instinctual. Like us realising that the one place that calms her down is her changing mat, and that (for whatever reason) putting her there when she has a meltdown immediately chills her out and stops the screaming. And realising that, despite the 'official' advice that she should always wear one more layer than us, Daphne is a warm baby who sweats and goes red when we truss her up in cardigans. And that Daphne will go to sleep perfectly well in her cot at night, but only if I'm in the bed next to her, because she doesn't want to be alone. And that that's fine, because she's only three months old and why the hell should she be left alone if it scares her?
There's SO MUCH truth in the saying: 'the trouble with babies is that they haven't read the books'. So by all means, read them, and if their methods feel right and work for you, that's great, but if not, don't beat yourself up thinking you have somehow failed. Your time might be better spent trusting your instincts, and listening to your baby, and TRULY BELIEVING that the best parents for your baby are you, and that the way you like to do things is the RIGHT way.
12 week baby update
Daphne is twelve weeks old today, so I thought it was about time I did a (not so) little update on how she's been progressing. It's actually phenomenal how much babies change and how quickly - I can now barely remember what she was like as a newborn. These days she's all chubby cheeks and fat rolls and thunder thighs - a far cry from when she was a tiny little scrap without an ounce of fat on her (in lots of her early pics she looks like ET - so much wrinkly skin!)
We took her to be weighed on Friday as we hadn't had her weighed since her last injections at eight weeks, when she was 9 pound 9. Before we went in we did a little guessing game on what she would be - Oli said 10 pounds 9 and I said 11 pounds 3. We were kind of stunned then, to be told she is a whopping 11 pound 7 now! She's more than doubled her birth weight and has leapt from the 2nd percentile at birth to the 25th for both height and weight. I'm so relieved and love seeing her looking so fat and healthy and how babies 'should' look.It also makes me want to stick two fingers up at the Breastapo because she's been formula fed for the past six weeks and is thriving more than ever. Even if she is starting to look even more like Phil Mitchell - I swear her beautiful eyes are disappearing into the world's roundest face with the world's biggest cheeks.
Other than her weight, Daph has changed a huge amount in her general alertness - she's now like a proper little person, with her own moods, and is both incredibly noisy and incredibly nosey. If we're out for lunch or whatever she absolutely hates being left in her pram - she's desperate to sit on someone's lap and look around at what's going on. She also now wants the hood of the pram down when we're walking along - I've realised she's completely FASCINATED by trees, as she stares up at them and coos every time we walk under one. It's so bloody cute.
In fact, everything she does is so bloody cute these days and she really does make my heart burst with pride every five minutes, turning me into the sappiest mother on the planet. The best times are first thing in the morning when she's always weirdly happy (something she definitely didn't inherit from me or her father), the times when she full-on chuckles at you for no apparent reason, the mania with which she greets being placed into her little bathtub (nothing makes her happier - she goes completely mental) and the smiles of recognition you get when you come into the room. Enough to make you weep, I tell you! And the noises are non-stop (this is cute except for at 4 in the morning when even the sappiest of mothers wishes she could banish the baby to another room). She coos, grunts, gurgles, 'talks', farts, burps... you name it, she does it. I never realised quite how noisy babies could be.
Physically she's getting stronger every day. She can hold her head up pretty much indefinitely these days, and her legs are capable of doing some serious damage to anything within kicking distance. When she's in the bath she goes batshit crazy kicking her legs up and down and flailing her arms around. It's quite alarming! She also now loves eating her fists (dummies get spat across rooms in favour of munching on an index finger or thumb) and rubbing them into her eyes when she's tired or has had enough of something.
The only downside to my little girl, actually, are her terrible colic sessions. Touch wood these have been better the last few days, but ever since she was about three weeks old she's cried and cried most nights. It's hideous, like some sort of torture. Sometimes she screams so hard that she goes purple, and her little bottom lip quivers and tiny tears come out of her eyes. It's almost impossible to believe that colic doesn't mean the baby is in pain when they behave like they're in total agony, but we saw a cranial osteopath who said that they've done MRI scans of colicky babies and the areas of their brains that are reactive during the colic sessions are those representing frustration and not pain. Anyway, we've been on a long old road with the colic and tried pretty much everything, so I will definitely do a post on that once we're through the worst of it. Everyone keeps telling me that when she turns three months the colic will magically stop, so we live in hope. As I said, the last few days have been surprisingly calm in the evenings, so fingers crossed...
Anyway, enough about the baby, what about me?! I decided that being fat was not something I could cope with for much longer and am now on a 1750 calorie per day diet in the hope of losing my baby weight slowly and surely. I have to say I've definitely picked the worst possible time of year to be dieting (all that Christmas food in the shops - sniff!) but it's been going quite well and I've managed to lose 5 pounds already in just under a month. I've been using the My Fitness Pal app religiously and have found it really helpful at keeping track of what I'm eating and, most importantly, thinking about what I'm eating, rather than shovelling stuff in my gob without considering it. I've realised actually that that was my biggest downfall - I'm such a 'whim' eater - if something's in front of me more often than not I'll just eat it even if I don't need it or really want it. Having to record everything I eat on the app really makes me stop and question it, and I also find being able to scan the barcodes of things childishly pleasing.
As well as being careful with my diet, I've continued doing long walks with Daph in the buggy as often as possible (although the recent grey weather has rather put me off these) and also started a new exercise regime, recommended, believe it or not, by my mum! It's called XBX (if you google it there's a few websites about it) and was developed in the 1960s for the Canadian Air Force (of all things!). It's kind of aerobics, I guess, with lots of yoga-ish stretches. The best thing about it is that it only takes 12 minutes per day and you don't need any equipment except a mat. I've only been doing it for a week but I can already feel all the muscles in my body getting stronger and more toned which is very satisfying. This morning I think I even saw a glimpse of my old waist returning. One can only hope.
The only downside of this particular exercise programme is that it involves some hopping on the spot at the end. The first few times I did the hopping, I - sob - wet myself. Only a few drops, but BLOODY HELL. So now, I'm finishing off my 12 minutes of aerobics with 12 minutes of Kegels - come back pelvic floor, I'm so sorry I never truly appreciated you before!
Review: Winter Garden at The Landmark Hotel
Look! Finally a post that's NOT about babies! Or my pelvic floor! Hurrah.
On Tuesday my friends Susie, Vicky and I went for dinner at the Winter Garden in the Landmark Hotel. It was Vicky's birthday and, as Susie had recently done herself a mischief (twisted her ankle badly) whilst walking along the Great Wall of China (no joke - respect!) our main criteria for the restaurant was that it had to be near to a tube station.
Now I don't often think of going for dinner in hotels, which is possibly daft as there are so many amazing hotels in London and I'm probably missing out on some real treats. So when Susie suggested the Landmark, which is slap bang outside Marylebone station, I was intrigued. (But mostly just grateful at the idea of dinner ANYWHERE without the baby screaming at me). She then mentioned that they have a £35 three-course set menu, which comes with a champagne cocktail...
When we first entered the hotel (yes it is the kind of joint where a be-hatted man in tails opens the front door for you), I was immediately reminded of Vegas. The scale of the Landmark is impressive for London - it's huge and grand and opens out onto a big internal atrium. It's in this atrium (overlooked by all the hotel rooms) that you will find the Winter Garden, complete with palm trees, and a pianist playing show tunes in a soft and unobtrusive manner.
It's all very posh and calm. And hotel-y. The antithesis of the usual trendy queue-for-hours-round-the-block-then-scream-over-the-music pop-up restaurant that is so popular these days.
In fact, I'd even go so far to say as it felt distinctly middle-aged, but maybe that's why it appealed. Yikes. What an admission.
The service was fab, not stuffy but attentive - they immediately seated us and took our coats. The set menu was way better than expected - no cheap options here, but decent starters such as smoked salmon and slow-cooked beef for mains...
The smoked salmon starter was delicate and tasty, served with sourdough and a generous dollop of horseradish. For my main, I had the seabass, trying to be healthy, and it was fab and not drowning in butter as it so often can be. I also appreciated the small portion size - men may not, but it felt like the right amount of food. I've been thinking recently how much portion sizes have started to get out of control - if you're having a three-course meal with bread to boot, you really don't need six potatoes to accompany your main. The one fondant potato on my plate was perfect and just right.
The other ladies went for the slow-cooked barbecue beef, which basically looked like heaven on a plate, and I was jealous. But you know, post-partum diet blah blah snore...
For puds, we all went for the chocolate fondant because, well, everyone knows from watching Masterchef that they're impossible to make at home, ergo you must order them when you go out. And it was just what you'd expect, chocolately and fondanty. In fact, the unexpected highlight for me was the pistachio ice cream on the top - bloody yum. And totally not in my diet plan but I decided I deserved it after missing out on the beef.
The waitress had got wind of the fact that it was Vicky's birthday (to be fair, she was carrying a rather huge bouquet of flowers) and just when we'd polished off our fondants, came over with a cute little cupcake complete with birthday candle. The pianist also started playing Happy Birthday in the background but no one sang along or clapped so it was lovely rather than cringeworthy.
We ordered some peppermint tea to finish and this came with a lovely little tray of petit fours. I like things like this. Maybe this is what makes me middle-aged now. But y'know, nice touches make all the difference.
All in all, I'd say that for £35 the set menu at the Winter Garden is a bloody bargain.
It's not the most exciting of destinations, and the ambience may be a bit better suited to the over 60s, but sometimes you just want proper grown-up food and to have a decent catch up with friends, in an unhurried and relaxed manner. And to be able to hear what they're saying without worrying that your two-hour table booking is nearly up. And sometimes you want to be in stumbling distance of the tube. And for all that, I'd say the Winter Garden is just the ticket.
A new identity
*slightly serious post warning*
It's official: I'm having a new-mother identity crisis.
As I said in my last post, when you have a baby and you go for check ups with health visitors or GPs or midwives, you get asked a lot about your emotional wellbeing. What they are really asking is: 'have you got postnatal depression?' Anyway, I am fortunate in that I haven't felt at all depressed since having Chip. I had a few days when I felt stressed and weepy but it was all quite logically connected to lack of sleep or her crying etc.
I have, however, been pondering a lot about who I am now.
I've recently started going out for dinner with friends again, without Chip (natch). The first time I went, on the way home on the tube I started yawning and wondering why on earth I felt so tired when it was only 10.30pm. And then, literally, like a weird bolt of lightning, I remembered that I had HAD A BABY, and that I hadn't slept properly since at least July and that - even more weirdly - I was GOING HOME TO A BABY.
I felt shocked and terrified all at once. And guilty of course, that I had actually FORGOTTEN I'd had a baby. I'd slipped back into my old life so easily. I mean, seriously, in those few sleepy moments between Clapham South and Balham, I had literally forgotten she existed. It was the oddest thing.
Since I had Chip, lots of friends with kids have said to me 'Do you hate it? It's OK to admit you hate it you know.' But I don't hate it. I actually love looking after her more than I ever thought possible. I've never been hugely maternal at all, and always regarded children as rather irritating. But this baby has me in the palm of her podgy little hand. The other day, when she did a massive poo, I found myself declaring with glee in that clichéd ridiculous baby voice, 'Oh Chippy, that really was a stinker winker!' which Oli found so hilariously un-me he wrote it down on the notes in his iPhone.
I am really quite surprised, and pleased, with how much love I feel for her, and for how much I DON'T resent her when all I've done all day is wash bottles, wipe up poo and listen to endless rounds of tinny classical music coming from the Baby Einstein play mat
However, although I adore her, and I really do quite adore looking after her, I never really realised how much my identity was tied up in my work and my independence. And so now, I'm a bit confused about who I am. I have a wardrobe full of beautiful client-meeting dresses, that are now useless (even if they did still fit, which they don't). I have eighteen Dior lipsticks in various West-London-appropriate shades, dozens of completely impractical Wolford tights, a lonely and neglected Prada tote, and a penchant for expensive meals out that I can no longer afford.
I hate the fact that I am no longer earning money. I had not planned to be having a baby with no job to go back to, and quite frankly, it's terrifying. My accountant told me to 'have a year off and enjoy the money you made selling the business' and not to worry about work for now, but that just made me irrationally angry. I've always worked! I'M A WORKER! For the last two years of my life my identity - and much of my self-esteem - was built around being a company director and all that entailed. I was proud of it and I enjoyed it. My life was pretty much all about my work and my friendships.
Not working is very strange, and I often get mild panic attacks in the middle of the night thinking that I should be doing something with this time 'off'. I read on someone else's blog that when you have a baby, it's OK for you to JUST be looking after the baby. You don't have to be trying to hold down a part-time job too, or finishing a long-neglected novel, or doing charity work, or whatever it is that you think you must do to somehow justify your existence as a SAHM. But it's still hard to give myself this time off. Even though I'm exhausted and probably working harder than I have done in ages - just in a very different way.
Oli wants us to move out of London, to get the sort of grown-up house with a driveway and - dare I say it - that one true mark of adulthood: AN OUTSIDE TAP. For Chip's sake, I am tempted. But for my sake, I am wary. My life - or the life that I am most familiar with - is based in London, in my storage-lacking, unbabyfriendly maisonette in the dodgiest part of SW19. It's so odd. Chip is ten weeks' old tomorrow, and in those short ten weeks the last thirteen years of my life have kind of been thrown out the window and it's almost like I need to learn to walk again. I need to find a new identity.
I am aware that women can't have it all. You never stop hearing it from the media. But this post isn't really about that. I don't particularly want to have it all. I just want to find out who the new me is, and what she wants. Without losing sight of the old me and all she achieved.
Hopefully in time, it'll all figure itself out. But in the meantime, I guess I'll keep buying Joules tops and flat shoes and Abercrombie hoodies and pushing my pram round the park like all the other mums. I suspect they're feeling much the same.
A (not so) little rant about infant formula
I'm typing this with a small person asleep on my chest, so apologies if there are any typos. I realised recently that I'd been ranting non-stop IRL to people about infant formula. Baby milk. Whatever you want to call it. So I thought I should rant about it on here instead.
Anyway, it wasn't something I thought much about before having a baby, obviously. I assumed I'd exclusively breastfeed - free, convenient and good for both of us! But then all sorts of unexpected things occurred, of which I'll write more another day. And so I found myself in the unfamiliar baby aisle in Sainsbury's, searching for something to feed my poor tiny daughter, who was so underweight when she was born.
First off, I was surprised to see that a 1 litre bottle of Cow & Gate ready-mixed formula cost £2.90. Everywhere. I went online but every single stockist sells it at the same price. Curious, I thought.
I was also surprised to see that you're only allowed to buy two bottles/cartons of formula at any one time (oh hello rationing! thought we left you behind in the 1950s). Also curious.
Furthermore, I was slightly horrified to see that on the packaging, it reminded me (in a manner not dissimilar to the warnings on a cigarette packet) that BREASTMILK WAS BETTER FOR MY BABY.
WTAF.
I am aware that breastmilk is (marginally) better for my baby. I do not need a carton making me feel (even more) guilty about it every single time I pour my daughter something to eat.
I did some digging into these curiosities and discovered there's an actual LAW about formula milk. Ostensibly to prevent those evil formula companies from encouraging you to formula feed over breastfeeding. However, to my mind it seems more likely that it's a money saving scheme for the government - they don't want to encourage those on benefits to use formula. Whatever their reasoning, it's certainly not in the best interests of parents.
If you're interested, the formula legislation basically says: a) you can't ever advertise infant formula (the ads you see on telly are for follow-on milk, which is for older babies and is OK, but note how they still mention that BREASTMILK IS BETTER); b) and on that note, it's a legal requirement that formula companies explain on the bottles that BREASTMILK IS BETTER; c) stores can never discount formula (basically it is price fixed), include it in 'buy one get one free' promotions or suchlike; and d) formula is not eligible for points on store loyalty cards.
Better still, in the legislation it says on the packaging you can't put:
• Pictures of infants, young children or carers (e.g. mothers or fathers). • Graphics that represent nursing mothers and pregnant women. • Pictures or text which imply that infant health, happiness or well being, or the health, happiness and wellbeing of carers, is associated with infant formula. • References to infant’s or carer’s emotions. • Baby or child related subjects (e.g. toys, cots or young animals) and anthropomorphic characters, pictures and logos.
The pathetic patronising pettiness (sidenote: angry alliteration FTW) of this makes me want to scream.
Basically the government wants to make it as difficult and unpleasant as possible for you to use infant formula. How fucked up is that?
I hate this legislation. I think it's dreadful and evil and unfair and makes poor mothers desperate to feed their children feel awful every time they open a bottle or a carton.
Infant formula was invented years ago to save the lives of babies whose mothers, for whatever reason, could not nourish them sufficiently with their breastmilk. It is a lifesaver, literally. Why is it being treated like a poison?
There are now some people making noises about putting formula milk on prescription. Few things have made me angrier than hearing this. What do they expect parents to do - wait till their babies are half starved to death before taking them, sick, to their doctor for them to 'allow' them to use an alternative feeding method?
Since having my daughter, I have been asked repeatedly by healthcare professionals about the state of my 'emotional wellbeing'. At every occasion I have wanted to say that my emotional wellbeing is fine, except for the cruel reminder every time I buy formula that I wasn't able to breastfeed and that if I had I would have been doing BETTER for my baby.
New motherhood is hard enough without being made to feel terrible every time you feed your baby. Plenty of women who want to breastfeed can't. They are not lazy or selfish. They are usually upset about it and emotionally vulnerable. This kind of propaganda is akin to mental torture.
#rantover
Eight week baby update
Daphne is eight weeks' old today! And to celebrate, the poor mite has been subjected to four separate immunisations - three of which were injections into her podgy little legs. With mighty long bloody needles. Unsurprisingly, she wailed her little heart out after, with proper tears streaming down her bright red cheeks.
Given that I cried years ago when we took the cat to have his bits lopped off, I decided it was best if Oli came with us to the appointment and held her while the nurse did the honours. We've been told she may now get a fever (even better huh, not only have we injected her with strains of meningitis, diptheria and rotavirus - wtf is rotavirus, sounds made up?! - among others, we've also likely made her sick). So she's dosed up on Calpol and we're hoping will sleep it off. I know that immunisations are for the best in the long run, but there's a real lioness instinct that takes over and makes you NOT want to deliberately infect your baby with things, or cause her pain. It was horrible. Worse still, there's more injections to come at 12 and 16 weeks. Sniff.
So at eight weeks old, Daphne is getting more and more like the baby I imagined, and less like the colicky newborn blob she was for the first few weeks. She finally started smiling last week at seven and a half weeks, after worrying me sick by not smiling at all despite it being an expected 'developmental milestone' for six week olds. In the midst of my panic about it (and late night googling of 'signs of autism') I spoke to the health visitor who said that she probably was smiling already but that we were missing it because Daphne. Cries. A. Lot.
According to The Baby Whisperer
I've decided it's all down to her being small - like small dogs, she has anger management issues.
Thankfully, once whatever it is that's pissed her off has been rectified, she's actually quite a happy, sweet baby. Her favourite place is lying on her back on her changing mat, staring up at the ceiling and having raspberries blown on her tummy and cheeks. Sometimes she even laughs. She loves baths and staring at herself in the mirror (narcissist). She loves Dire Straits and kicking her legs about on her playmat. She's becoming a real little character, and it is literally the best thing in the world watching her develop more and more each day.
She's put on shedloads of weight, and at her appointment today weighed 9lb 9, which is still small for an eight-week-old baby, but means she's jumped from the 2nd percentile (when she was born) to the 9th. She has a ferocious appetite and is definitely making up for lost time when it comes to building her fat stores up - I can't believe how chunky she is now when she was such a little scrap of a thing when she was born.
Sleep-wise, she's not TOO bad. There's no sign of her sleeping through the night yet, but she usually wakes at 3am and 6am for a feed then settles straight back to sleep, which is bearable, as she'll then sleep till around 9am. Weirdly, I find the tiredness isn't as bad as I imagined - somehow you get used to it, and most days I feel pretty OK actually. What I find harder to deal with is not being able to get much done - Daph's an attention seeker who hates being left alone, even to sleep, and most of my time seems to be taken up with attending to her various needs. For the last few days, all I've wanted to do is sort through my bras (random I know but true) but I have yet to find the twenty minutes to do so. There's always something else to do when she finally settles - whether it's cleaning the house, doing laundry, preparing her bottles, replying to friends, blogging (ha!)... sounds improbable that someone so small can take up so much time but now I've had a baby I completely understand how the day seems to vanish in minutes.
As for me - well, eight weeks on, I'm feeling pretty much back to normal. I stopped breastfeeding at six weeks (will do another post about that when I can talk about it without bursting into tears - suffice to say, it's been emotional and definitely the hardest thing about pregnancy, childbirth and new parenthood put together) and so physically I am feeling much more like my old self. In fact, just to prove how 'back to normal' I am, I even got my bloody period back, which seems very unfair. It was also horrendously heavy and gross and the last thing I needed, but I suppose it's a good sign that all my hormones are settling down. Even so! I feel very cheated that I didn't get a bit longer, and very jealous of breastfeeding mums who get months and months of freedom.
Weight wise, I'm a hideous 17 pounds heavier than I was before I got pregnant, which is definitely getting me down a bit. My thighs now touch (each other). The pregnancy water retention which makes cellulite magically disappear has dissipated leaving me with the cellulite of a sixty year old. Hell, even my bloody arms are fatter. Sniff.
I know they say it takes nine months to put the weight on so should take the same amount of time to come off, but somehow I sort of assumed once I'd had the baby, the weight would disappear quickly, as I've always been quite consistent in my weight and never really had much of an issue with it. And I know I shouldn't care about a few extra pounds and it's terribly vain of me but but but... Obviously not breastfeeding is not helping the situation (oh how I regret my smug pregnant cry of 'maternal fat stores' as I tucked into yet more ice cream), so I've started a moderate diet and am also trying to walk as much as possible. Thankfully pushing Daph in the buggy is one of the best ways to get her to sleep, so I am making a real effort to get out every afternoon and walk at least a couple of miles. Thank GOD the weather has been so lovely for early autumn - I'm dreading the days when it's pouring with rain or freezing cold and I'm stuck in the house, as getting out and about really saves my sanity.
I might even start going for short runs now I've had my sign off from the doctor, but finding time to do so will be a challenge...
And finally, I am sure you ALL want to hear about my pelvic floor. Well, as far as I can tell it's back to normal - I had a second degree tear and after the stitches fell out (?! still don't understand the technicalities of this - bloody weird) it has all healed nicely (thank GOD again - this was my biggest fear) and everything feels pretty OK down there.
In fact, I would say that physically I feel exactly the same as I did before I had a baby. Just, you know, (as I may have mentioned), fatter. My boobs seem to have returned to their prior state with ease and don't seem to be unduly damaged or altered by their six weeks of pumping. I escaped stretch marks and my stomach looks pretty normal, without any noticeably saggy skin (my linea nigra is still there but beginning to fade). So I know I'm lucky in many respects. I just need to lay off the god damn biscuits...
The Marcie saddle bag by Chloe
The problem with being stuck at home all day with a baby is that there's little to do in those precious minutes when your offspring sleeps. Apart from housework. I've been trying to read more, but being exhausted means my concentration levels are pretty shocking. The lure of internet shopping, therefore, is STRONG.
It's fine when it's things for the baby (I signed up for Amazon Family
So inevitably I've been spending a lot of time looking at clothes for me... No longer pregnant = hurrah! A stone heavier than before = not so hurrah! I've decided not to buy clothes to fit my new bigger size, as I AM DETERMINED to lose this extra stone. So if you can't buy clothes, what's left to do but buy a new bag?!
My friend Julia (also a new mum) told me that when her baby was born she got herself a crossbody bag, so that she could get to her phone and keys etc easily and keep her hands free. I conveniently translated this little nugget of information into meaning that a new handbag was an essential purchase for all mothers. And so last week, at one particularly low moment where I hadn't left the house for two days and the baby had been doing her usual screaming-at-me-with-impressive-force thing for more than an hour, I went on Matches and ordered myself the above beauty. The mini Marcie saddle bag by Chloé (side note: isn't Chloe a nice name?)
I even paid the ridiculous £12 delivery charge to have it delivered that very day. And it came on a motorbike and in a posh box. And it made me so happy.
The fact that I can barely fit anything in it is besides the point (that's the one advantage of the ginormous nappy bag I now lug around - all my extraneous extra crap can be stowed in there). It is a mint green thing of beauty, it has a perfect little slip pocket at the front and a perfect little slip pocket inside, and it has cheered me right up.
New mothers: you now have my permission to buy yourselves something ridiculously expensive and unnecessary. In fact, sod permission, it's an order.
If there was ever a time in your life when you deserve it, it would be now.
Disclaimer: handbags are my thing. I totally get that most people would consider this purchase nuts.
The truth about life with a newborn
Your washing machine will always, ALWAYS be on.
Even though you had a girl and thought you were safe, your baby will still wee on you at every available opportunity. Especially right after her bath, and especially when you've just wrapped her in a clean towel.
The bottles always need washing. Even though you're sure you just washed them all. Look! More dirty bottles! The dirty bottles cometh and keep cometh-ing!
Picking your newborn's nose is a) something you will do; and b) more satisfying than picking your own.
You will be terrified of your baby overheating. Your bedroom will therefore now be colder than an igloo's porch.
The first time your baby cries, it's like a million arrows piercing your heart. By week two, it turns into white noise.
You thought that once you'd had a baby you wouldn't care about your own appearance anymore. But you do. You'll be pissed off that you're fat. And pissed off that you have no time to do anything about it. And pissed off that biscuits are so readily available and CALLING YOU.
You'll rarely get out of bed before Homes Under the Hammer finishes. If you do, it'll feel like a massive achievement.
Percy Pigs = Percy Pick Me Ups.
You'll go so mad being trapped in the house that going for a long walk around your incredibly boring neighbourhood will cheer you up no end.
While on said boring walk, you will cheerfully sing aloud to your baby without caring that you look like a crazy person to passersby.
Cutting your newborn's fingernails will be the most traumatic part of your week.
You'll never watch a TV programme from start to finish again. But you won't really care either.
As soon as you serve up lunch/dinner, your newborn will decide that the world and everything in it is a truly disgusting place and launch an angry protest that will last at least an hour, by which time your food will be stone cold and your appetite non-existent.
You will secretly like the fact your baby smells of neck cheese. It will amuse you when you google neck cheese and discover 'the only cure for neck cheese is growing a neck'.
Neck cheese is impossible to remove.
Baby vomiting is not only spectacularly impressive for one so small, it also comes with no warning and can hit you in the face.
Burping your newborn will become a competitive sport.
Everything you own will have dried milk, vomit, wee or poo on it.
Episodes of colic will make you question your (once robust) mental health.
You'll know you have reached rock bottom when you turn to your partner and, through silent tears, whisper 'Why didn't we just get another cat?'
Everyone will buy you clothes that the baby 'can grow into' because they think everyone else will buy clothes that fit.
The (twisted) highlight of your day will be when your baby does a really huge poo.
If your daughter has a round face, she will look like Phil Mitchell when she does a huge poo. You will end up nicknaming her Phil Mitchell, and being full of regret.
You spend your whole time desperate for your baby to sleep. When she finally does, you'll be so shocked you'll then spend the whole time wondering if she's still breathing.
Everyone was right about how hard it is. And everyone was right about how much you love the little bugger anyway.