Snapshots

I like to think that this blog is read by more than 16 close family members and friends. In the spirit of maintaining the delusion, here are some things that you should know: The company that I worked for fired me when I was eight and a half months pregnant, leaving me in administrative limbo and (so far) unable to claim maternity benefit despite about a dozen appointments with the social security office. So I’m suing them. And Andy was diagnosed with testicular cancer when Daniel was three weeks old.

Here are some snapshots of life over the past couple of months.

Snapshot Number 1: Five Little Ducks

It seems that nursery rhymes these days are (have always been?) either scary (cradles falling from trees and so on) and/or sexist. Take Five Little Ducks. A seemingly innocent tale about baby ducks out for an afternoon swim with their mum. The sun is shining, the air is fresh and the rolling hills are green. But the little rascals disappear, one by one. Until Daddy Duck appears to call them home and order is restored. Mummy Duck is left feeling (I imagine) rather redundant and somewhat cheated; she made the effort to clothe and feed them, organise the transport for the day trip to the pond, ensure they were warm and dry (or wet, as the case may be) and entertain them. The ungrateful brats take to the pond and disappear over the horizon one at a time. Mummy Duck is frantic. Where could they be? The guilt! Are they safe? Suddenly Daddy Duck comes home from the office, gives a shout out ‘Quack, quack, quack, quack’ and ‘all five ducks come swimming back’ … from the nearby skate park where they’ve been hanging out with the cool older ducklings? How galling for Mummy Duck. A feeling to be endlessly repeated when she spends entire days devoted to their wellbeing, only for Daddy Duck to be rewarded with the smiles and giggles as he turns up for play time. Sigh.

Snapshot Number 2: The Day after Paddy’s Day

Today we found out that Andy will need chemotherapy. Two doses, three weeks apart. The oncologist tells us that he must first have some tests done, all routine, to make sure he’s fit enough for the treatment. She gives us some forms and tells us to make the appointments in person today. Unfortunately, for his cardiograph appointment, she writes the incorrect floor number on the form. We find ourselves walking up and down the same long corridor three times, fruitlessly looking for the room we need, knocking on the door of an empty office and phoning someone two floors away trying to explain who we’re looking for. He tells us to find his office and finally we do. I’m carrying Daniel in the sling, it’s really hot, I’m sweating and he’s grumpy because he is (tick the box) a) hungry, b) tired, c) in need of a nappy change, d) all of the above. This man redirects us to the correct room three floors down. Because the lifts take more than five minutes to arrive, we are using the stairs. After making the appointment Andy has to literally run off, as he’s still working and he has a class starting in 40 minutes, 45 minutes away. He hasn’t eaten since breakfast and he’s had some blood taken. I feel really bad for him. I find a toilet and end up having to change Daniel on the floor. He has leaked into his trousers and there is no replacement in the changing bag that Andy prepared (now I want to be really angry at Andy, but he has cancer so I can’t.) As it’s really hot anyway I decide to just leave the trousers off. There is no soap so I use the hand sanitiser I have with me. I walk down the stairs and to the train platform. It’s incredibly windy there and Daniel starts to wail. He’s never had much interest in taking a soother and prefers to suck on one of our fingers for a few minutes if he’s looking for comfort. I try this but he doesn’t want to, probably because it tastes like nail varnish remover from the hand sanitiser. I sit down on some steps and try to console him. He’s now screaming so much that he’s turning various shades of purple and red. About 60 people on the platform are looking at me with an about even mix of pity (I have children, I know what it’s like) and scorn (why can’t you shut up your screaming brat). Nothing I can do makes Daniel stop crying and there is no sign of the train. I think back to this morning’s appointment and an unreal sense of dread creeps over me again. Andy has cancer and he needs chemotherapy. I too start to cry.

Snapshot Number 3: The Dream Feed

Location: Bedroom

Time: 2:05am

The scene: baby gently stirring

Characters: Mom and baby

Scene I: Baby stirs. Mom decides to pre-empt any crying by doing a ‘dream feed’ i.e. plucking baby from cot while only semi-awake, sticking a boob in his mouth and sitting for 15 minutes while he eats and sleeps at the same time. Baby is plonked back in the cot while Mom nips to the bathroom. She arrives back in the room to the sound of an explosive poo. Nooooooooo! Pooing is NOT SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN with dream feeds. Cue nappy change.

Scene 2: Baby absolutely full of life on the changing table, smiling, making eye contact, cooing and generally showing all signs of wanting to play.

Scene 3: Baby plonked back in cot while Mom washes hands. Returns to room to baby crying, outraged at sense of starvation he feels. It has been absolutely HOURS since he has been fed. What kind of torture is this, he thinks.

Following dialogue ensues:

Baby: Feed me.

Mom: Oh honey, I fed you already, just a few minutes ago.

Baby: Bullshit. Feed me now.

Mom: Honestly sweetheart I did. It was a dream feed you see. You didn’t even wake up. If you think about it carefully you will realise that your tummy is full, all your needs are satisfied, and you’ll drop back to sleep right now.

Baby: LIAR. FEED ME NOW. OR ELSE.

Mom: (Sighing) Okay then, relax. You win.

Scene 4: Baby feeds for twenty minutes. Mom tries to stay awake by playing Candy Crush on phone (ensuring blinding orange glow is well hidden from baby’s eyes so as not to wake him up further). After what seems like HOURS, pops baby back in cot. Just settling down to sleep when noise of explosive poo number two rocks the room. Was there ever a more dispiriting sound heard at 3.10am? Sigh. Repeat changing table scenario. Sleep, eventually, for just over three hours. Sigh.

Here’s my Life in Numbers This Week from two weeks ago, when I started this entry:

Glasses of wine drunk: 4.5 (note the decimal point, that’s not 45, 45 is just a fantasy, a delicious memory of times gone by)

Number of times I’ve thought about living on an island in the Caribbean (again!), doing 20 cent tequila shots, diving every day, teaching yoga and never imaging that this would be my reality: at least three

How long the Five Little Ducks song has been on replay in my head: endless, endless, endless hours

Time I’ve had to myself: Does sitting on the bidet while brushing my teeth count? If so, two minutes x 3. (Note: I’ve brushed my teeth more than three times, I just haven’t always had the time to sit on the bidet while doing it. Sometimes I’m tidying away clothes/dishes at the same time.) Also, I’m not actually using the bidet … that would be multitasking on a whole different level!!!

Number of appointments I’ve had in both the social security and employment offices to try to sort out my maternity pay: three

Likelihood of receiving said maternity pay: slim to none

Number of times I’ve wanted to walk into the offices of the company that ended my contract because they didn’t want to bother paying me maternity leave, and thus leaving me in administrative limbo and without maternity pay: Just once. Every few hours, that is.

Number of doctor’s appointments that Andy has had: four

Three things that baby does that we find cute (WARNING: indulgent parent segment):

1. We use a square of cotton to cover Daniel’s baby bits when changing his nappy to avoid a fountain of pee hitting us in the face. His latest trick is to wait until you’re least expecting it, then grab the cotton cloth, whip it away, and pee frantically for all he’s worth, ensuring the spray covers as wide an area as possible. He follows this up with a cute, butter wouldn’t melt, smile. What can you do?

2. He’s becoming much more interactive, batting at toys and grabbing at things, sometimes trying to put them in his mouth.

3. He laughs! Oh my god, he laughs! He has tickles, and when you find them, or when you pull funny faces, he is delighted! His laughter is so pure, so genuine. It makes me want to make him happy all the time so that I can hear it again and again. (His) Laughter is indeed healing (for me).

Andy has already had the first of his two chemotherapy sessions. Only one more to go, and then hopefully we can start to put this difficult time behind us. Someone once said to me, years ago, that having a baby is really rewarding, but it’s also the most difficult thing you can do too. I honestly feel that if having a newborn was all that we had to cope with at the moment, then life would be very simple indeed.

A request: In the spirit of continuing my delusion that you’re reading this and we’re not actually related, do please add any comments below rather than on Facebook. Cheers!

Finally, I feel it’s only right to share the pain. Here’s a link to Five Little Ducks!