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.