There's something about October

For many people, January or even September tends to be the month that marks new beginnings, or getting back to old routines. For me, it's all about October. I've been thinking about writing more lately and when a friend of mine posted an old Accidental Mummy post to Facebook the other day (the one where I was more excited about having a clothes dryer again than almost anything about our move to Canada),  I realized that while I have run our dryer hundreds (HUNDREDS) of times since moving back almost three years ago, I have not posted to this blog once.

Then I realized that the last time there'd been a gap in posting of any length was from October 2012 all the way to October 2013. So let's go ahead and call it a sign and get back to it, shall we? I probably only have a couple of years where I can write about this kid without him hacking into the site himself and deleting the bits that are embarrassing and/or some other kid finding it and posting on some as yet unknown social platform of childhood or adolescent horrors... Ok. Must stop. Thinking about anyone inflicting cruelty on my kid brings tears to my eyes. Every time.

So how to sum up the past almost three years? Impossible. To be honest I'm a bit miffed at myself that I haven't been posting. It's been an intense few years, back in the homeland and out of the mat-leave/part-time work/baby bubble. One thing we have done is keep track of some of Jack's most wonderful turns of phrase and dialogue in a good old fashioned notebook. Thank you Alex for the idea and for putting the blank book in my hands.

I look back at that post of October 2012, how impatient I was to "be where my kids were going to grow up", to the post of October 2013 where I was newly married, a few short months from moving to Canada and feeling a little unsure. Now it's October 2016. Jack has started JK and loves it, we live in a new house right around the corner from our rental that I mainly love (when I am not having panic attacks spurred on by suburban living). I'm still feeling a little unsure and I'm still feeling a bit impatient.

It's been wonderful being back home for all the reasons I thought it would be. And I've missed London like a limb for all the reasons I knew I would. It's been hard on our marriage, it's been good for our marriage. We've all had great days, we've all had incredibly crap days. Alex and I have both been unemployed, we've both started new jobs (this time both at the same time, just in the nick of time for moving into said new house!) we've traveled to at least one new Canadian city every summer, traveled back to London three times and hosted relatives from England at least twice a year. We have watched a LOT of Netflix.

I assumed we would have had another baby by now but apparently that's not in the cards. And I don't know about Alex, but for me that's hitting especially hard right now when Jack has definitively moved on from baby/toddlerhood and I'm moving swiftly toward the end of my 30s. When we last left him, Lord Yelly of Screamy Manor had established himself as a highly-vocal sort. Now he is a highly vocal sort with VIEWS and a social life and stuff. No more days of meandering about town with a sleepy baby in tow.

Although... re-reading those posts this afternoon about baby times for the first time this afternoon, I don't think I am fully remembering just how much screaming and pelvic pain and diapers and self-milking was involved. Or how little sleep. Maybe I should count my blessings that Jack is able to chill on his own with breakfast and Treehouse while Mommy "finishes her sleep"and enjoy all the pain-free yoga classes I'll get to enjoy for the remainder of my 30s and beyond.

Having Jack in my life has fundamentally altered my understanding of love and joy. I can only imagine that as we both get older, he'll just continue to do that for the rest of our lives.

Bubbles!

It was so foggy in London this morning I could barely see across the road. Cold misty wind was snapping down on us like sopping wet towels in a locker room full of giant angry jocks as we made our way to nursery. My 7a.m. mind was like, yeah, well. That is exactly I feel right now, too, London. Particularly as I'm waking these days to not only the cry of a two year-old, but very full-on work, an international move three weeks down the horizon to co-ordinate and pull off and, oh, the always hectic business of day to day life.

But Jack? He saw "Bub-uuuls!" Jack loves bubbles (obviously. he's not crazy, after all). And it took this morning's fog for me to realize that in addition to rain, snow, fake snow in the weird see-through snowman at the grocery shop and (my personal favourite) dust motes illuminated by shafts of light in our house, fog also qualifies as bubbles.

What a wonderful lesson. That nothing needs to be the totally perfect, very best, most universally-celebrated -- or even particularly pleasant -- version of itself to be adored. Just needs to be headed in the right direction.

Thanks, kid. I needed that. Also, I suppose I might consider dusting a bit more often. Once this fog has cleared, that is...

Full circle

There are a lot of things my 16 year-old self wouldn't believe for a minute if I rocked up from the future to fill her in. Smart phones, the pleasures of honestly just being oneself, and the fact that one day people around the world would unite in a shared pleasure of watching cats do stuff on the Internet. (The Interwhat? I might say. Isn't that that computer bulletin board thing Brad is always on?) 

But nothing would seem so unbelievable to 16 your old moi, fresh from her first European adventure and eager for a lifetime of more that she would end up with a husband and kid living right around the corner from her own house. To be honest, 36 year-old me is finding the whole thing rather hard to believe, too. At the very least, I would have thought that if I did indeed return from London that I'd at least settle downtown in some cool neighbourhood with a nice park and great cafes.

But it's true. I've been in town since Friday and today, after day two in the office at my new job (working with a woman I've been honoured to call my friend since well before my 16th birthday), I signed a lease on a four bedroom bungalow not two miles from where I grew up. It's behind the grocery store we used to shop at (much fancier than it used to be these days, I must say), a five minute walk to my office, the GO train and the Lakeshore.

Our house is on a street bordered with huge pines and deciduous trees quickly shedding golden and red leaves. Trees I swear must have grown at least 10 feet since I lived there, but maybe it's a reverse trick of age. Maybe trees are the one thing from childhood that seem bigger when you come back to them. The backyard is of park-like proportions when compared to our London digs (and indeed any Toronto, Montreal, Mexico or French digs I could ever lay claim to). I've been telling myself that however weird and unsure and freaked out I feel about leaving beloved London and making yet another new start, it's for the best. But it wasn't until when I saw Jack tear down that 200 foot stretch of lawn, through the leaves and past the trees, collapsing in laughter, that I knew it in my heart it was, too.

Storytime

One the greatest pleasure I've enjoyed as Jack's mom is reading together. There was a time when all I'd have to do is sit on the floor and he'd rush off for a book and back himself into the Mommy chair (me). But sometime over the past few months, the dynamic has changed. It started out innocently (and, might I add, adorably), with Jack reading to me as well. I'd read, he'd read -- matching the intonations and a few key words. Adorable, right? Then he started insisting that he read the book the whole time. His versions were generally much more dramatic than mine - shouting, pointing and banging on the book, which he invariably holds upside down. Still adorable. Arguably more so. 

The apex of the adorable was a few weeks ago, when I stopped giving him his nighttime bottle in the story chair and we'd read Goodnight Moon, with him saying "bye-bye!", "bye-bye!" to the comb, brush, bowl full of mush and Co. Then he'd kiss me goodnight and happily go to bed. Cute overload.

But then something snapped. Suddenly, I am not actually allowed in the story chair at all. Indeed, if I try to sit down, I am berated and Jack gets behind the bloody thing and pushes at it until I get out. On one hand, I admire this new independence... and maybe generosity? (I am allowed to sit on the toybox next to him and listen while he reads, after all)  But on the other hand, I'm like Dude, I invented this story chair. I was reading stories to you  before you even knew you had hands! Also, you read your books upside down.

I know that's not the right attitude. I know it's pretty awesome that he wants to clamber up there all by himself and read. It really does warm my heart. But I do miss the cuddly ritual of it all. And I miss reading! And that's why I said to him, when he wanted to re-read "Yawn" one more time tonight, "Ok, you can read it one more time, if you promise I can read you a story after." It didn't work of course (what with his minimal understanding of time), but it made me optimistic about years of storytimes ahead, knowing that at least for a little while, we'd actually fight to read them to each other.

I Dream of Dryer

I am sure I am not alone when I say that keeping a house clean while working pretty-much full time and raising a toddler is... a challenge. I have finally put a dent in the problem by hiring a cleaner to come in once a week to tackle the big ticket jobs like the bathroom, hoovering, surfaces and washing floors. This leaves Alex and I free for the daily tasks - doing the dishes and picking whatever toys, bits of food or pots of makeup Jack might have tossed on the floor that day. And the laundry. England, dear, dear, England, WHY must you derail my efforts to not dwell in our own filth by refusing to acknowledge the dryer as a useful addition to the household??!

Ask your average British person why most flats and houses lack dryers and you will get a horrified look and a comment about how EXPENSIVE they are to run. Besides, they will say, it's so much nicer to dry things on the line!  

To the latter point, yes. Fine. Taking air-dried laundry from the line on a sunny day is absolutely a pleasure I can get behind. However. I still have a problems with both points. First of all, dryers are a hella lot more energy efficient than they used to be in 1955 when the British apparently developed their aversion to the devices. I have actually looked into this and a reputable consumer review publication says it costs between £37 and £131 annually. ANNUALLY! Second, I don't know if they noticed this, but it regularly rains for days or weeks at a time here. And even if you "dry" things inside, the humidity means that it takes a good two days to dry. Case in point, it's been a rainy few weeks here, so the laundry I did last Friday is STILL OUTSIDE and the mountains rising from the laundry baskets in our bedroom are threatening to topple over and kill us in the night. Worst of all, my husband will be out of socks for me to steal soon. 

So I guess tomorrow, on my day off, the cleaner will clean and I will tackle the mountain (starting with Jack's clothes, as he can't really borrow socks from his Dad). And I will just pretend that racks of slowly drying clothing all over is just the latest in home decor.

There are a lot of things I'm looking forward to about our upcoming move to Canada -- being close to my family and friends, an exciting new job... but I think that at this stage, having a dryer might trump them all. 

A Day at the Park

If there's one thing London does really well (other than theatre and food and architecture and overall awesomeness, that is) it's parks. There are the famous ones in the middle that everyone knows about, but you'll also find a decent park or two in most non-royal neighbourhoods. Where we live in South London, we're lucky enough to be surrounded by three large parks, all of which have pretty awesome playgrounds. The only drawback is that whatever mascochist designed the two with the best playgrounds decided to build them at the very top of a massive hill. 

This is good news for burning off a few extra calories, but bad news for having a SUPER FUN DAY AT THE PARK with a toddler who craves both independence and lacks a sense of time/logic in equal measure. So our days at the park go a little like this: 

1. I wrestle a screaming Jack into his stroller so we can actually get to the park in less than an hour.

2. He quickly calms down due to my awesome toddler whispering skills and/or a banana bribe.

3. We arrive at the park and he begins frantically trying to undo the harness (crying again).

4. I release him and he charges up the path. Then down the path. Then up. Then down. This goes on for quite some time, as I try to coax him to continue in an upward direction to the SUPER FUN park! 

5. Since he can't actually see the park and doesn't understand even the near future, this doesn't work.

6. More running up and down the first 10 metres of the hill.

7. I finally pick him up (screaming again, of course) and carry his enraged, writhing body up the hill. 

7b.Joggers, people on dates and people reading books look at me like I am a kidnapper, or possibly a murderer.

7c. Other parents look at us with a fond and understanding smile.

8. We get to the park and all is forgotten. Jack has SUPER FUN for about half an hour.

9. Jack tries to steal someone's scooter/babydoll stroller. I stop him. More tears ensue. 

10. Repeat steps 8 and 9 at least once (each time his attempt at burglary is just a little more subtle and sly).

11. Time to go. Sometimes this just works and he happily leaves with me. Well, it did that one time. Mostly I  end up looking like a murderer again, but that's ok, because I am among my people.

12. Jack calms down again. All is well.

13. Jack decides to assert his independence and run, laughing like a madman, down the hill.

14. Jack falls on his face and cries.

15. Repeat steps 12-14

16. I wrestle him back into the stroller, or just as often we stroll back together the long way.

A day at the park might not be super relaxing as it used to be, but despite the tears and thievery and possibly being ratted out to the cops for child abduction by a well-meaning stranger? It is indeed SUPER FUN.

Yin and Yang

So I don't know about the rest of you, but my pelvic regions were pretty much shattered by the whole internal baby-carrying thing, followed by the external baby carrying thing, which apparently goes on for a long-ass time!!!

Despite the very kind and helpful Osteopath men suggesting you never carry  a baby on your hip...( riiiiiight - cause who needs hands?!), the pain persisted. And 22 months in - now that I have started running"again"- a friend suggested Yin yoga to increase the strength and flexibility of that particular region. Oh. My God. Do it. Just really... do it. It is so good. If you beg (or show a modicum of interest) I will tell you all about it.

If your pelvic bones protest activity that used to be normal. If you back is f*%*^ed, If you can't get the cardio you need because of any of the above, find these people. If you are in London, try  http://www.yinyogalondon.org/. Bonus, after all the long (three to five minute is the norm) poses are done, there are blankets, and grown-up nap times! Ok, technically you aren't meant to nap, but unlike work, you can do it without consequence (!!). Honestly  I was so excited about the potential nap I could not sleep.

Once again. If the above rings true, DO IT.

Win, win, my friends. Win, win.

Oh Hai!

Sorry it's been a while. Since Jack started nursery and I went back to work, it's just that I've been quite busy. I've finally written my novel, am training for my second marathon, started a masters in mathematics and am currently gigging with my new band, for which play lead guitar. 

Ok, that might be a slight exaggeration... In truth, I've been trying to balance the demands of maddeningly sketchy freelance work for the BBC, trying to get through a part-time PR course, going on job interviews, moving house, having a social life (or reasonable facsimile thereof) and spending quality time with my husband (oh ya! I got married, too!). Mostly though, I have been reveling in watching the best little boy (as he is in fact more boy than baby these days -- he has teeth and says stuff and everything!!) I know grow up. Also, I have been looking at more pictures of cats on the internet than I ever imagined I would (I imagined that figure would be none). Thank you, husband, for this and everything else you bring to our marital table. 

But I've missed you blog, so welcome back. We have three months till we leave wonderful London behind for the sunny shores of Canadia (more on that later) and I am planning on enjoying every moment to the fullest. Even the moments where I am wrestling a screaming toddler into his stroller after nursery... wondering when it became acceptable for them to apparently dose kids with PCP at snack time. 

I'll be posting regularly again, once I finish writing the original guitar score for the film I wrote and will be directing myself in. Ok, another lie. I guess I'll just start posting regularly again from right now. 

Picking up pieces

Well hello, dawn! I haven't seen you in a while. Well, not since yesterday at dawn, which actually feels like a very long time ago. Sleepless nights will do that.

Unlike yesterday, however, Jack has deigned to go back to bed for a little while. So I'm taking some time, for the first time in a long time, to have a tea and visit the old blogging machine. 

I suppose general busy-ness is largely to blame for my extended absence. I've been back to work three to five days a week, my Mom was in town... and there was also a little something a BBC presenter said to me last week. 

We were working on a pilot for HARDtalk. And instead of just letting me pretend to be JK Rowling like I suggested, she decided it would be more interesting to talk about my baby. She was asking how it was raising him so far from home. Did it break my heart? Not wanting to break down in tears on a BBC interview show (I can see how people do, now!) I kept it light, said how lucky we were that we'd been able to fly back and forth so often. I kept in the feeling that always "visiting" seems to be wearing on all of us a little bit, already. Then she asked me when baby number two was coming along -- and before I answered, said, oh, I guess when that happens you won't be able to fly home anymore! You simply won't be able to afford it. 

Point one, the comment was seriously rude. But I really don't care about that.

Point two is that the comment seriously hit home. In service of enjoying our son's first few months in this world as much as we can -- and in service of me not driving myself crazy/committing to further change when we're already dealing with enough change -- we decided to stay where we are for one more year. Enjoy this time and make a solid, considered plan between now and next October about where we're going to live, where and how we're going to work and when another little person might make sense. 

The presenter's comment hit home because much as I'm playing this as sanely as I can (I'm even drinking my tea in a Keep Calm and Carry On mug, for goodness sake!) all the uncertainty is driving me crazy. I want to be the house I raise my kids in -- or at least know where it's going to be and how I'm going to afford it. I want to feel fulfilled in my career or be further along the way to that. I want to feel that I can just go ahead and get comfortable after countless years pulling the ground up from under my feet as I go along. 

Ahem. So you can imagine how nice it was yesterday when, for the first time in a long time, I spent the whole day with my kid. Just us. London even pitched in with a sunny, Autumn day. We played, we walked, we cleaned  and grocery shopped (well, I cleaned and grocery shopped -- but he ate food and crawled around on the newly-clean floors), he showed off his new climbing skills, I showed off my new chasing skills and we just hung out "talking" to each other in his room. 

By the end of the day (having started well before dawn) I was completely shattered. But also so much more whole than I'd felt in a long time. If Jack has helped change my life this much for the good in nine short months, I'm sure I can handle changing it for the better again in 11. 

Cutting our teeth

As most of you are aware, I am not a scientist. As a first-time Mom, however, I am obviously an expert in infant development nonetheless.

So here is my latest scientific finding.  My kid doesn't have teeth yet because his brain has been too busy learning to crawl. I even have proof! There are five babies from our NCT group with teeth. None of them crawl. There are two who don't have teeth -- and they both crawl. See? Science.

I like to think this is because Jack wisely figured out that while food would come to him essentially pre-chewed for the forseeable future, I was probably never going to consent to carrying him under the table so he could gum our computer wires. (note to self: definitely get those wires out of sight before the teeth arrive!) In reality, it was probably just random. But the point is, the human brain can't learn to do everything all at once.

The unexpected side-effect of this scientific realization is that I've finally let myself off the hook for not "getting much done" during mat leave. It's ok. My brain was busy doing other things. Like learning to be Jack's Mom.

Now that I know my way around that department and he's able to be even the tiniest bit independent, I'm getting quite excited to sink my teeth into something new. I'm back at work two days a week and I have a little business idea percolating away in my brain. On Friday, I actually took Jack to nursery for a few hours after swimming lessons just so I could work on said idea and whip up some magazine pitches in service of getting back to doing work I love, instead of just doing the work that's available.

If the fountain of dribble streaming from Jack's face is any indication, he's getting ready for the next big development, too.

What she said!

I did not write this, but so wish I had. In honour of the latest stranger to tell me how to look after my kid (the receptionist at the osteo, on hearing I couldn't make the appointment due to the fact that Jack had been crying for three hours straight, asked if I'd tried feeding him that day. Lucky for her, it's actually impossible to rip a person's face off over the phone...) I give you this:
hello-stranger-on-the-street-could-you-please-tell-me-how-to-take-care-of-my-baby

Wake up call

The cruellest thing about starting work at 7a.m. in West London when living in South East London is that, in order to catch the 6:08 train, you end up walking past several coffee shops -- all of which are all shuttered.

It was dark this morning when, for the first time in seven months, I woke up at 5a.m. to an alarm clock. In a word? It sucked. Thanks to my tiny demanding human, the actual early wakeup was a lot easier than it used to be, but also thanks to that guy, leaving the house was excruciating. It took all the restraint I could muster not to wake him up for a cuddle (you're welcome, Alex!).

But here I am. Green tea in hand, hoping that Jack's feeling better than he has been for the past few days, feeling grateful that his Daddy is there to take care of him if he needs it and -- thanks to a very slow news day -- counting the hours till I can head home to cuddle my boys.

Fever pitch

Despite last week's tears, I'm happy to say I kept my cool Monday morning when I dropped Jack off at nursery to set off for my first day back at the BBC. My pass card wasn't activated, my computer login didn't work, but I got online and settled blissfully into the task of cooking up story ideas, writing briefs on naughty Tory ladies and investigating whether Alice Cooper does or does not have anything interesting to say (verdict: he does not). Is it bad that I took so much pleasure being back in the office? Maybe. But I've definitely taken greater pleasure in worse.

About an hour in, however, I got a call from the nursery. Jack was running a fever and they were asking for permission to dose him up with some Calpol. I granted permission, shook off the shaky feeling and got back to work. Two hours later, they called again. His fever had gone up and someone had to go get him. I wondered if maybe it was abandonment fever, but conceded that in all likelihood, it was a bug or teething. Lucky for both of us, Daddy was able to come to the rescue. I didn't see my sick boy until I got home around 7.

He's hanging in there. Still grouchy and lethargic, but a trip to the doctor this evening confirmed there's nothing really scary afoot. 

But I guess there was one person who had to deal with something really scary... The woman who, when I called this morning to say I couldn't make my osteo appointment due to the screaming babe, asked me if I'd tried feeding him. That was a poor, mother's-wrath-incurring statement. But lucky for her, it's actually impossible to rip someone's face off over the phone.  

Annnnnd... cue tears!

To be fair, I think I'm okay now. But despite getting up early for a big play and nice breakfast, going for a long hilly walk to help Jack nap and scare up all the endorphins I could for myself, dropping my boy off at nursery this morning was, in a word, horrible.

It's a perfectly nice nursery. An exceptional one, even. Just two months ago, when we were making plans to put him in two days a week, I was excited about the warm staff, sweet children and lovely amenities it had to offer. But somehow today, it seemed too dark, the staff smelled weird and the image that seared into my brain on arrival was little Rosie (it's her first week, too) clutching at the baby gate and wailing her little blonde head off.

Lauren, his main carer (the one I suddenly feel smells weird) was steely but, I suppose kind. She took him out of his pram and subtly shifted her body away when Jack reached his little arms out and I moved to grab him and run away. Then she started moving toward the baby playroom before I could even think of ways to prolong my departure and gently ignored the tears welling in my eyes. It's almost like she's seen all this before.

I was surprised (and not surprised) by the torrent that followed as I stepped out into the sunny, back-to-school crisp day. I've left Jack with my friends, with Alex and my Mom before. But I guess the wave of separation anxiety is to be expected anyway.

So what to do with my two hours of anxious freedom? One Mummy friend suggested I take a nap. I told myself I should do a long workout. But racing brains and queasy tummies are no friend of either pursuit. I am sort of tempted to Google "separation anxiety in babies". Or look through old photos of Jack (which, sadly, I sometimes do when he's asleep). But that's probably a very bad idea. I think instead, I'm going to turn up the music, putter around the house and get it tidy and organized for my boy's return. And my return to the world of grown-up work next week.

Seven

They say seven is a lucky number. And I can confirm I pretty much feel like the luckiest woman in town, wishing my little boy a happy Seven-month birthday. Hard to believe he's been in our lives for more than half a year and that this half-year-and-a-bit has unleashed more love (for the Bug, for my fiance, my family and for life in general) than I ever thought possible.

Tomorrow, Bug will attend his first settling-in day at the nursery at the top of our road and on Monday, I'll be heading back to work two days a week. I haven't accomplished even a fraction of the things on my mat-leave to-do list -- pitching articles, knocking out a novel outline, getting back into my skinny jeans or learning guitar -- But as I've watched my boy grow from a helpless, awe-inspiring little human to a hilarious, squirmy, smiling boy, my heart has grown at least seven sizes -- as has my ambition to be a woman and mother my son can be proud of and trust to take care of him. 

Happy Birthday, Bug. 

The early bird gets the Bug

I was a bit worried about this week of solo parenting. Sure, I'd have my evenings to myself, but how on earth was I going to take care of Jack from dawn till dusk AND apply for my masters, pitch parenting articles, figure out my master plan for going back to work, design a new career, do a nutritional and financial detox, get the house spotless and finish the few creative projects I've had on the go in one week?!!

Short answer? I wasn't. And I didn't. And as it happens, that was the correct answer. 

Instead, I spent my days on Jack's schedule. And come evening, I made easy dinners of middling nutritional value and enjoyed a glass or two of wine in front of the television (I can finally work it! Necessity breeds logic) and/or a good book. Jack and I even got my guitar out and tuned it one afternoon. Without my partner in crime, 930p.m. bedtimes became the norm, giving me the energy to enjoy every moment of the day with my son come 5 or 6a.m. (note: waking up crazy early is MUCH easier when you don't have to witness your partner slumbering away... but I will try to hang on to the joy of those early mornings on his return anyway).

As a very pleasant aside, despite the bathroom being borderline filthy, there are clean clothes for everyone and -- maybe due to my deep pleasure in being with the kid (and the depressive cost-benefit analysis of going back to shift work minus daycare costs) I've finally come up with an idea for what I want to be when I grow up. 

Hooray for letting things slide. And the rest sliding into place. 

Letter to a childminder

Dear Childminder Lady,

It was lovely meeting you the other day. You seem very competent and organized and the children in your care seem pretty happy. But -- and this is just a thought -- maybe keep your collection of ceramic ashtrays festooned with tiny Rasta men smoking giant spliffs upstairs? Or anywhere other than the kitchen window looking out on the garden you were trying to impress me with. It's not that it really made me doubt your ability to care for my son -- personally, I might find a collection of ceramic cats or Precious Moments figurines more disturbing. I'm not going with you mainly because you live too far away. But really. Seriously. Stoner-themed ashtrays in the nursery window? Come on. That's just poor self-marketing, darlin'. 

Sincerely, 

                                        Jack's Mom 

Independence Day

I woke up yesterday morning with a strange feeling. The feeling of being well-rested. After weeks of flirting with the idea of putting Bug to bed in his own room -- and actually keeping him there till morning rather than bring him in with us, we finally did it. And it was glorious. Alex was reluctant (so was I -- we like being with that kid a lot!), but after three days of 4:45a.m. wake-ups followed by what felt like hours listening to poor Jack trying to get comfy again in his cramped bedside basket, it was time. Our kid likes to roll. And snort. And whimper a little bit. All noises which are impossible (for me, anyway) to sleep directly beside, but through the monitor, are so muffled you can't tell if it's actually a baby needing stuff or you accidentally dialed an obscene caller on your cellphone from your pocket. Not that I have a habit of doing that, of course... that would be  rude on several levels. Ah, a room of our own. A direct path to my side of the bed for the first time in almost six months.

So rested and delighted in our new-found independence was I that I've even started the kid on his next foray into independence: eating food. Baby Rice (that's pablum in Canadian) didn't cut it, but this morning's addition of pear puree has the little guy well on his way to becoming a bigger one. Hooray for growing up!

Crash

Prior to Jack's arrival -- thanks to a hard-won knowledge of my mental wiring and the wonderful fact that both medical professionals and the media acknowledge the phenomenon -- one of the things I worried about most was Post-Partum depression. I took measures to avoid it -- eating well, getting rest and exercise, talking to my doctor, maintaining my network and planning ways to create a new Mummy-town world that would not just keep me from going nuts, but be fun as well. I don't know how much of the victory was my preparation and how much was lucky chemistry, but it worked. So I guess I was a little blindsided when last week, despite the NCT meet-ups and transatlantic calls, despite the healthy habits, wonderful partner and huge love for my kid, I experienced the crash.

I'd heard that cutting back on breastfeeding can cause a sudden depletion of Oxytocin (that's the love and bonding hormone, not the street drug Oxycontin,  or "Hillbilly Heroin" as it's sometimes called), but it hit way harder than I'd imagined. Provided I was within cuddling distance of Jack, I was fine. But wander out of the room or zone out for a moment and it was like someone was wringing my heart dry. I still had plenty of love and enthusiasm for hanging out with him, but when he went to bed I felt I had nothing left. Suddenly, all the things I'd accepted "for now" -- including the fact that Jack is, at least temporarily, growing up without the people who have known me forever and by extension love him almost as much as we do (and more selfishly, that they aren't able to be there for me) were unacceptable. I saw an NCT friend in the store with her mom and nearly burst into tears. The next day, when Jack was crying in the supermarket and a strange woman stopped, looked at me and told me it was going to be okay, she had kids herself and assured me I was doing a great job, I did burst into tears (discretely, of course. I'm in England now).

Despite the fact that Alex has always been an enthusiastic caregiver and bends over backward to make us happy, I suddenly felt I was in it all alone and I wasn't sure I wanted to be there. My son was just over five months old and I wanted a break. I wanted my people. I saw toddlers and ached with guilt, feeling a cold seep of dread rather than any desire to cuddle the little folks. I was honestly scared that maybe I just wasn't cut out for this mommy business forever, but forever it was going to be.

But then I'd look at Jack. And I'd remember the hormone thing. And I knew that despite the feeling there was a family of nefarious elephants lounging on my heart, we'd both be just fine. That I wanted to be his mommy forever and then some. A big, teary fight with Alex that, thanks to largely to his patience and my fondness for talking (and talking and talking) turned into a wonderful honest conversation about all of the above and then some sealed the deal that I was for sure really going to be ok.

And then, just when I needed it most, one of my people showed up on my doorstep from Canada (I was expecting of her of course, but it was good timing nonetheless). She cooked dinner and cleaned my counter tops (even behind the jars!). She took me out dancing and we spent a long sunny day in Greenwich, leaving Jack to hang out with his Dad. And I realized, not many of have the community of women in the same house or neighbourhood like we did in the olden days. But some of us are lucky enough to have them scattered around the globe and willing to come to you when you need them most. To check out your life and remind you it's real, it's beautiful and they're still in it.

Is it hard as hell living so far away sometimes? Yes. But having a loving partner, a beautiful boy and women who love me and get just as giddy about Jack as I do somewhere out there makes it a lot easier to accept and appreciate things as they are right now -- and ride out the things I know will pass.

Just Like Mom

Eight weeks into our cycle of holding NCT gatherings at each other's houses, it's my turn to host. And so, owing to a few factors (trying my friend Becky's delicious cheese scones on Jubilee Day, wanting to check and see if baking was any more fun as a stay-at-home mom, a nod to frugality and... well... mainly the desire to keep up with the other NCT ladies - most of whom baked something) I have just finished baking some scones. They look and smell delicious. But seriously? Not delicious enough to have spent my entire morning to accomplish nothing more than some baked goods and a spreding a fine layer of buttery cement over every inch of my kitchen. I concede it probably would have gone more smoothly had I had things such as measuring cups and spoons; the right flour; cookie cutters; and a rolling pin... rather than a scale, the internet and a pad of paper; the Internet and pad of paper and a scale; a tape measure, a baby bottle and some shot glasses; and a sports water bottle coated in flour... But I doubt it would have been much more fun. Actually, it may have been less fun.
Professional bakers of the world, I thank you. Thank you for allowing me to eat your delicious wares without ever having to do math, scrabble around my cupboard for the right tools, destroy my kitchen or need to know just how much butter I am actually eating.