Driving home for Christmas...

I've just reached that point in the post-packing, pre-voyage maelstrom where every item of clothing in a 4 metre radius that isn't in a suitcase is going in the washing basket.  I know I'll heartily regret this on the 29th, when we come back from Liverpool with three suitcases full of washing and everything that wasn't warm enough for the frozen North in a tottering pile in the laundry room, but right now I could not give a dog's banana.  I've spent the last 48 hours washing, ironing, folding, matching and packing clothes for 3 people (to be fair, Mat owns just enough clothes to stop him being arrested for indecency so his part is easy, but Dom more than makes up for it).  The upstairs neighbours are coming to feed Mooch while we're away, so I've had to clean to "stranger standard," an elusive state which can only exist for more than an hour in a house that none of us are in.  If it was always this sparkly round here, I'd probably spend less time in the park escaping housework under the guise of committed parenting.

It's an unfortunate fact of travel that the most important items in your luggage are those that you can't pack until only your elbow remains in the house.  This means that at no point the day before you leave can you fully clear your brain and think, "I'm DONE."  Oh no, you have to have a tiny part of your mind reserved for not forgetting things that you use right up until the LAST POSSIBLE MINUTE.  Another unfortunate and sadly ironic reality of travelling with little people is that their stuff is so much more important than anything you could ever have forgotten before.  In my previous life, leaving my GHDs at home would mean a few days of looking like I look every day when I'm not trying to impress people I haven't seen for ages.  However, if I forget the baby monitors, I've sentenced myself to a week of jumping at every sound and sleeping on a knife-edge in case I miss a cry.  

Thankfully, it being Christmas and time for family means that at some point all of this frenzied activity will become worthwhile.  I suspect that point will arrive around the time I smell proper bacon and someone opens the tin of Roses.  In the meantime, my arse has just touched a seat for the first time in two days and my Chinese has just turned up.  I'm going to lose myself in sweet and sour pork and Gone With The Wind.  Feliz Navidad!

The cutest ornament on our tree.

In which I try very hard not to kick the laptop

I recently wrote a post about having a second baby, and how it's NOT GOING TO HAPPEN.  I published it, I viewed it from Google and someone else read it too.  I've just remembered something I want to add to it and found that it's gone and the only evidence that it ever existed is a draft form that misses 90% of what I wrote.  And of course, it was my favourite post so far.

Why it has reverted to draft, I don't know.  I think Blogger and I need to have some strong words.  In the meantime, let me summarise the post just in case you're waiting with bated breath to hear why I don't want another one:

I like the one I have and I live in a two bedroom apartment.  Having a second one would mean definitely changing the latter of these things, which I don't want to do, and may have an adverse effect on the former, which I don't want to risk.  So that's that.  More to follow.

UPDATE:  I re-wrote it.  It's nowhere near as good as the last one and I know I've missed something, but it's there.  And if you read in chronological order, you already know this because you just read it. I swear, it's like Dr Who over here.

When are you having the second one?

OK, I've been putting this off, because there is little as frigging INFURIATING as having to re-write something you already wrote once.  Especially when I don't know whether it was my own technical ineptitude that destroyed a nicely polished-and-published post and rendered it a half-finished draft, or whether it was Blogger being a twatbastard.  If only I knew it was Blogger's fault, I could stomp around, crash-bang-wallop a bit, compose snotty emails in my head about quality of service etc, and otherwise expend my righteous anger until I calmed down.  Instead, I have to admit it was probably something to do with the same bug that sends Skype mental when I try to log into it from both my phone and laptop at the same time, which means I have to settle for a quiet, unenjoyable seethe.  I'll never be able to write it so well again.  The deleted half has now taken on the qualities known in relationship terms as "the one that got away" - because it's no longer around, I've convinced myself that it was actually perfect and that all the funny stuff and good writing was in the half that got deleted.  Of course, the first one WAS much better, but you'll just have to take my word for it.  

Anyway, back to it.  The post about why I'm not having another baby.

I hear the second baby question all the time.  I hear it at least once a day.  I even sometimes hear it from other people, rather than as an annoying chorus in my internal monologue.  Mat occasionally mentions it and, when I refuse, resorts to putting pink headbands on the Littlest Cat and pretending that he was trying to keep his hair dry in the bath.  Daddy REALLY wants a princess, gender not important.

See.  I told you so.

I have many reasons for not wanting another baby, irrelevant as they may seem when I'm snorting cradle-cap from the head of a friend's newborn and wondering whether they'd notice if I breastfed their tiny one, just to remember how it was when the recipient of my milk couldn't and didn't do a headstand mid-nurse.  

*  If we were to have another, we'd have to move, for starters, and we only moved 6 months ago.  I'm not doing that again, not least because I found our apartment by accident and, despite the dragon landlady with the dead eyes, we would not find everything we have (big terrace, massive living room, lemon tree, view of Tibidabo) for the price we pay in the same area.  

This lemon tree is OURS (for the duration of the contract).

Tibidabo by day.
At night it lights up and is stunning.  I couldn't leave it.

*  We moved from a 3 bedroom place with a lovely landlord to a 2 bedroom under the control of a dead-eyed Maggie Thatcher-esque landlady, which might not have been the most sensible of ideas, but I couldn't stop myself.  I think subconsciously I was removing the mere possibility of having another baby... or I just wanted a place that didn't have everything the previous tenants hadn't wanted still hanging around in case it came in useful.  I have hoarder tendencies and the previous landlord was a fusspot who worried that people might ask for things back.  After 3 years living there, we were still finding single shoes that neither of us recognised.  I swear, if I'd ever dared investigate thoroughly in some of the cupboards, I'd have met Mr Tumnus.  I love love loved our old place, but we were outgrowing it fast.  The new one has much more space and storage, but less bedrooms.  It's perfect for a family of 3, no more.

*  Since I had Dom, I've coupled having a brain made of mashed potatoes with a resurgence of ambition.  I want to find a job I LOVE, one I'm good at, one I wouldn't mind still doing in ten years.  My current job, while easy and comfortable and stable, doesn't inspire me the way I want to be inspired.  I get that not everybody can do what they love, but I'd at least like to try an industry that I'm not bamboozled by.  I don't think that's a lot to ask.  All of my boxes are ticked - home, family, relationships, even finances are OK.  The only box I'm not fully comfortable with is the career one.  I'm tired of stagnating in a job I can do in my sleep.  Until I find my niche, I'm not dropping everything to attend to a newborn.  By the time I come round from the shock a second time, I could well be on the road to retirement.

*  I often worry about tempting fate, which means that the next thing I'm going to say strikes cold terror into my heart at the thought of what visitations of hell I could bring onto us just by acknowledging it, but we have a baby who sleeps.  He also eats pretty much everything we put in front of him, walked more or less when he was supposed to and is generally a textbook baby (if textbook babies were soft and squishy and full of personality).  He breastfed from the start like he'd been doing it all his life and I'd have barely known I was pregnant if it weren't for the changing shape of my body, so symptom-free were the first 30-odd weeks.  We've been too lucky with him.  What if we have another one and it's a nightmare?  Visions of vomiting non-stop for 9 months (while looking after a toddler), c-sections and a baby who won't sleep, won't latch and won't stop crying plague me when I consider pushing my luck by having another.  

*  Possible TMI - Selfishly (because the last point was so unselfish), I'm not prepared to give up on my sex life again yet.  While all the planets align only around once a month so that I actually feel like it, in the last few weeks a wonderful thing has happened and I've actually, finally healed.  Properly.  I don't want more stitches.

*  I also don't want to give birth in Spain again.  I'm planning a full post about Dom's birth one of these days, but in the meantime, I'll just say that the midwife was a bitch and the entire outlook of the medical staff needs to piss off back to the 1930s where it belongs.

*  Dom was a surprise, albeit a wonderful one.  This meant that we had very little time to plan for his arrival, and it certainly wasn't enough time that I could save enough money to take time off work when my maternity leave was over.  I refuse to put myself through the heartrending agony of leaving a 6 month old baby with strangers again, so until I can afford to take the first year off, I won't do it at all.  And given that we have debts that need paying off before we can even start to save, it's safe to say we won't be comfortable enough any time soon.

*  I feel like I'd miss out on Dom, and wouldn't be able to enjoy a new baby half as much as I did him.  I feel like the work would outweigh the fun.  I feel like I'm only enough mother for one.  

*  I'm English.  I live in Spain.  Getting on a plane with one little person is doable.  Getting on a plane with two is not going to happen.  Either all my family move here, or Dom remains an adored only child.

SO, I'm well aware that this may raise eyebrows and have people thinking that "the lady doth protest too much," but there you have it.  A comprehensive list of why my womb is not up for rent again.  Maybe ever.

Am I asking you to put your nipple in my son's mouth? No. Then shut up.

Littlest Cat is coming up to his first birthday.  This huge milestone means not only presents, deciding whether to have a party and finally having to admit that my baby is now a toddler; it also throws up a question which I feel that I've been asked incessantly lately:

"So, when are you stopping breastfeeding?"

I don't understand the obsession.  He hasn't suddenly grown a beard and started reading Kafka.  He's still a tiny little boy, who hasn't yet quite worked out how his legs work and who thinks my tuneless renditions of Baa Baa Black Sheep are the height of entertainment.  75% of his nutrition should still be coming from his milk intake, no matter how much he enjoys chicken curry or fish pie.  And the healthiest, easiest and cheapest way for him to get that milk is from me.

He does have formula - a bottle before bed to try to keep him full for longer and often formula milk in his porridge or when I'm working at night, as pumping is no longer keeping up with demand and I can only spend so much time away from my desk.  I'm not anti-formula and I'm a firm believer that mothers should do what suits them and their babies.  What suits us, right now, is mostly breastfeeding with a bit of supplementing as required.

Even Daddy (Un)Cool has got in on the boob-bashing, though I have a feeling he was just in an argumentative mood and would have said black was white if it annoyed me.  During a protracted and heated exchange of views last weekend, he told me that I was making Dom into a mummy's boy; that he feeds too often (because a poster in the doctor's waiting room said he should feed 4 times a day and Littlest Cat has been known to do so 12 times); that there is no longer any nutritional value in my milk because it looks watery and once Dom needed more than his usual amount at night; that LC bites me; that I should get my life back.  In response, I told him that:

1)  Babies who wean when they're ready rather than being forced to often show increased security and confidence;
2)  All babies are different - Dom doesn't "feed" 12 times and day but bobs on and off, and that number is highest when I've been in work all week and he wants the security and closeness of the boob.  On a normal day with plenty of fun and as much Mama as he can stand, he may feed 3 times;
3)  Appearance has nothing to do with content of the milk and it is still important for him to have a large amount of milk daily;
4)  The biting doesn't happen often, only when he's teething or I misread his signals and try to feed him when he doesn't want it, and I see it as a teaching opportunity; 
5)  THIS IS MY LIFE AND I'M HAPPY.

Ideally, I would like to feed until LC decides he's had enough.  However, I don't envision myself being so patient or selfless as to keep going if he wants to breastfeed until he's 3 or 4.  In fact, if I made it to his second birthday and was still feeding, I would be very surprised - I just want it to be me or him who makes the decision, not someone outside of the nursing relationship.  I actually think that it'll start to faze out after his birthday.  He already rejects the boob at bedtime in favour of his bottle, so I think he's starting to assert his independence a little.  And I'm starting to look forward to having my body back, though it's not a huge deal for me as there is one piece I'll never get back.  The tiny boy who currently rules my boobs will always rule my heart, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

It's oh, so quiet...

I really need to PUBLISH posts.  This is from the beginning of May!

Life has been ticking along nicely.  Littlest Cat has settled into nursery and no longer has heart-wrenching meltdowns when I leave him (though he does burst into tears every time I pick him up, in a bid to convince me that the lovely staff at the nursery actually spend all day pinching him.  He hasn't yet realised that I watch him happily playing every day before announcing my presence).  I'm back into the routine of being in work, which usually consists of spending three days a week embracing the fact that there is somewhere in the world where I know what I'm doing, unlike the four days at home where Dom changes the rules every 5 minutes and I'm expected to pre-empt his every whim.  Daddy Cool has successfully given up smoking without feeling the need to make everyone around him want to take it up.  All very calm and relaxed.

So, like a pair of masochistic lunatics, we decided to move house. 

We're moving from number 56 to number 10 in the same street, which I'm glad about - I love my area and I enjoy seeing the same people on the school run every morning.  My day wouldn't feel off to a proper start without seeing the old lady with the dog, the very pretty Armenian girl with the little boy, and the American dad who always seems a bit stressed (though this could be because he has the longest legs ever so is always walking at 100 miles an hour).

I still find it hard to believe that I'm not going to live in my little house-that-Jack-built.  I've moved a hell of a lot of times in my life (this will be move number 26 into house number 22, which is a lot when you consider I've only been alive for 30 years).  But this house is special.  It's awkward and falling apart and messy and has far too much stuff and too many people in, but I love it.

Oh, the guilt.

A wise woman recently said to me, "When you become a mother, you give birth not only to a son or daughter, but also to a whole load of guilt." A truer word was never spoken.
Take now, for example. I'm writing this over a decaff  in a coffee bar, having recently dropped the Littlest Cat off at nursery for the day. How many things in that sentence do I feel guilty about? Let's take them one by one.
1). The big and obvious one - my boy is in nursery. Why don't I have the money or the budgeting ability to be able to take a year off work? Why am I paying other people to look after my son?
2). I'm actually only writing this because I felt guilty about not having updated properly in a while. I really want to be playing Candy Crush Saga.
3). I put sugar in my coffee AGAIN. I think my days of taking sweetener are past. My waistline shows it but I don't care enough to stop eating or start exercising. It's not like I want a sex life - another source of guilt.
4). I shouldn't be sitting in a café at all. I have a million and one things to do before returning to work on Wednesday.
Which leads me nicely into...
5). Am I selfish for going back on nights? I'll see more of Dom, but Mat will have to start doing night feeds for 3 nights a week. LC, with impeccable timing, has gone from sleeping 9 hours, having a quick feed, and sleeping another 3, to waking up every 2 - 3 hours. So I feel guilty that Mat will be knackered in work, all because I can't budget enough to work part time hours during business hours and lose the night bonus. See how seamlessly that flowed back to 1)?
There is a surprise extra. Bring on 6) - I feel guilty because I'm sitting on my arse, sipping coffee and faffing about on my phone. And I'm enjoying it. I'm not sobbing for the Littlest Cat like I did last Monday morning. I'm relaxing and being silent and NOT singing "I Know a Teddy Bear" as I scald the mouth off myself gulping my coffee before the inevitable meltdown that follows the pram stopping for more than 30 seconds.
Guilty pleasure? Hell yeah.

Awake and grumpy

After being woken up four times by the Littlest Cat, I have no patience for Daddy Cool coughing, chewing his tongue and wanting to lie all over me. Get off and shut up! That is all.

All the things she (nearly) said

I haven't forgotten about this blog. I'm just low on time, energy and inclination at the moment. It comes in waves, so I will be back when the Littlest Cat remembers about sleeping all night and how nice it was.

To jog my memory when I do come back, I want to write about baby brain, routines (and why I'm scared to mention them), Facebook and going back to work. Also, if I'm brave enough, sex (stop sniggering).

All those in favour of cancelling the weekend, sign here.

I look forward to the weekends, I really do.  By Friday, Littlest Cat is usually sick of the sight of me and I'm ready to hand over a little bit of the 24x7 caring to Daddy Cool or our Rach.  However, I'm noticing that what I think is going to happen at the weekend rarely does, and in fact those two days can be the hardest of the week.
Now, I will fully admit that I'm a control freak, which probably doesn't help.  However, while I'm dreaming the modest mum dreams of a shower on my own, maybe a leg shave and a luxurious hair wash in my properly cleaned house with its empty laundry basket, the other occupants of the house are conspiring against me.
Take the hair washing, for example.  I put Dom down for a nap two hours after he gets up.  He only likes sleeping in his pram during the day, which is fine by me.  I keep his pram in the living room until after his afternoon nap, and he gets popped in there at the appropriate times and rocked to sleep (I know, I know, rod for my own back etc etc, but we'll sort out the nights first, then deal with the days.  I'm only human).  Once I'm sure he's asleep, I tell Daddy Cool, who is sprawled on the couch watching Discovery Max, to keep an eye on him and rock him back asleep if he stirs.  I tell him that this nap lasts anything from half an hour to 3 hours depending on how he slept the night before, but on no account is the baby to be allowed to wake up fully unless he has slept for at least 30 minutes.  Any less and he turns into a ball of whinge who cannot and will not be placated NO MATTER WHAT YOU DO.  I go and get a lovely shower, wash my hair and emerge from the bathroom 20 minutes later with grandiose ideas of maybe even breaking out the GHDs and straightening it once it's been dried.  The first thing I hear is Daddy Cool chatting.  "Oh, please no," I mutter to myself, before opening our bedroom door to find a giggling baby and a happy daddy, whose smiling face instantly shows a brief covering of guilt before he manages to cover it up.
"He woke up and wouldn't go back asleep," he says sheepishly.
"How long ago?" I ask, already knowing the answer.
"Ah, about 10 - 15 minutes..."
Great.  The baby slept for 5 minutes.  Is there some sort of secret way that I rock the pram that only I know about?  Does he have radar?  This never happens through the week!  Maybe it's because I use naptime to do productive things Monday - Friday, like dishes and washing.  Maybe he's been sent from an alien planet to make sure I never enjoy a pamper session again.
"But look!  He's in a lovely mood!" says Mat, anxiously checking to see if this is still the case.  Of course, it's not.  Thunderclouds are beginning to loom on the tiny brow as Littlest Cat realises that 5 minutes of sleep only feels like a proper nap for - well, about 5 minutes.  Now there is something wrong with him and he doesn't know what, but he would like the issue to be resolved, please.  Immediately if not sooner.  What he doesn't realise is that the problem is tiredness.  He's still tired - but definitely not tired enough to sleep again, oh no.  That would be far too easy.  I attempt distraction, blowing raspberries and hoping to stave off the faceache for just a few more minutes.  He's got just enough energy to vocalise his displeasure, and grizzles for the next two hours until his body clock tells him he's allowed to close his gorgeous eyes again.  Littlest Cat is a creature of habit.
Daddy Cool, his job done, lies back on the bed and closes his eyes - his subtle reminder that he is in work in a few hours and, having been awake for 60 minutes and spent a third of that time looking after the baby, has earned his own sleep.  I pretend not to notice and tell Dom that it's time for a nappy change, knowing that Mat can't resist the urge to offer to do things I'm already doing.  He thinks it gives him the same brownie points as actually doing things, without any of the pesky effort involved (more on that later).  I call his bluff.
"Go on, then, I'll dry my hair," I say, and leg it to the bathroom, hoping to make it in time to salvage something from the slowly frizzing mop on my head.   Too late - my fringe has already set itself in an odd shape that would not be achievable with a top stylist and 6 cans of Extra-Hold hairspray, there to remain until the next time I wash my hair.  This, of course, will be next weekend.  Thank Christ for thick, non-oily hair (actually,dry and straw-like, but let's count our blessings - it's not greasy) and bobbles.
Onto the cleaning.  I've already brushed and mopped before LC got up, so Daddy Cool takes great pleasure in scattering crumbs from his sandwich all over the living room.  Our Rach is 21, so is legally required to leave a trail of belongings behind her like a particularly well-dressed hurricane.  All thoughts of maybe doing the big jobs, like sorting out Littlest Cat's wardrobe (how can he have grown out of everything AGAIN?) or putting away my summer clothes, maybe clearing out the kitchen cupboards, are abandoned as I realise that everything I do during the week needs doing countless times at weekends, because having three adults in the house means that two people are thinking "I'll put it away in a minute," then forgetting to, and one (me) is silently fuming along, tutting and huffing and generally being a narky arse as rooms that were tidyish are slowly buried under mountains of stuff.  
Littlest Cat's grizzling reaches dangerous levels, so after a feed, he's back in his pram and I'm rocking and soothing, trying to get him to sleep.  This is when Daddy Cool starts to get ready for work.  This involves leaving the living room and bedroom doors open a lot, so that I consider just taping myself saying "Doooor" and leaving it playing in the hall which, apparently, we enjoy paying to heat with the energy that was meant for the living room (Spanish houses are built for summer, conveniently forgetting that other seasons happen. This combined with no central heating means high electricity bills to run a portable heater that is dragged around the house by the cable like a reluctant puppy).  It is necessary to his well-being that he only ever pushes a door handle down halfway, so every time he enters or leaves a room (approximately 8,000 times over a 20 minute period), his arrival or departure is announced with a loud click and Dom's eyes ping open.  He's running late, which means all pretence at being quiet is abandoned and my pleas to just keep it down a little elicit a stream of grumbles and grouches.  Finally, he leaves.  Littlest Cat is asleep, our Rach and her hangover are snoring on the couch, and I can start restoring my world to order.  Or, I can sit down and have a good old moan in Blogville.
I realise I sound like a right old grouch.  In fact - terrifying thought - I sound like my mum.  Like everyone's mum.  Every time I think "Am I the only one who can see things that need doing?" I'm transported back to when I was younger and lived with my mum and, later, with my aunty.  I thought I was being helpful by doing whatever was asked of me.  I'm sorry, ladies.  I now realise that the Holy Grail of motherhood is for other people to do things without being asked.  Otherwise, I'm just a nag.  What have I become?

The Adolescent Parent

This post has nothing to with teenage parents, or the parents of teenagers, so sorry if you've stopped by hoping for advice on what to do with a long-haired, spotty monster who lives in the room your baby used to occupy; or if you've found yourself in the terrifying position of becoming a parent before you've quite finished being a child. I'm afraid in the case of the former, you're several years ahead of me and I'll probably be asking you for tips one day. If the latter, then I hope you have support (real, pro-your-choice, helpful support). If not, send me a message or something and I can ask my friend Google for impartial advice or just be a sounding board. Sometimes it helps to talk to someone who's objective.
Anyway. I digress. The adolescence I'm referring to is a state of mind I've come across in myself where I started out with the kinds of lofty and inflexible ideals usually found in teenagers, only to find that in the real world, they don't quite work. (I don't mean to be patronising to teenagers there, I'm drawing solely on my own experience of being a bit of an insufferable know-it-all between the ages of 12 and about....well, it started when I was a teenager or as good as, so let's blame that. When it stops, I'll let you know). You might be familiar with the type - from speaking to and observing others I find that I was by no means as unique as I thought I was during those years. You know - "I'll never work for a big corporation/all possession is theft/meat is murder" etc etc. I know there are many admirable people who do define their principles as teenagers and manage to unswervingly stick to them throughout life, and I have respect for their tenacity (though I do think that sometimes a bit of flexibility shows a commitment to personal growth and adapting to your environment isn't necessarily a bad thing, but again, I digress. Please bear with me, this is going somewhere - it's just that it's 4:16 am and I'm not really sure where. How did I get here, again?)
Ah yes - adolescent parenting. Even before I was pregnant or planning to be (to be honest, I never planned to be, but there's a story for another day), I held very firm beliefs on how I would raise my child(ren). These beliefs were as set in stone as some of the beliefs I held as a teenager, and, I now know, just as incompatible with my own life and character.
An example. When I was about 22, I worked in a restaurant. There was a family who used to come in every Sunday lunchtime at 1 o'clock - mum, dad and The World's Best-Behaved Baby. I swear, they would walk through the door, TWBBB would smilingly greet his adoring public (mainly consisting of me and my boss), they would be seated, order some wine, wave a magic wand and the baby would fall asleep for two hours. EVERY WEEK FOR 6 MONTHS. At first, I thought it was a coincidence, but it went on and on happening. After ascertaining that they weren't drugging him, I enquired as to what witchcraft was this that they were so casually employing in public. Their reply? "Gina Ford."
I was fascinated, and swore to myself that, were I ever to reproduce, I would buy that book and do whatever that woman said. I was sold before they started in on the "he sleeps from 6pm - 8am every night, has 3 naps a day, is a developmental genius and his dirty nappies contain golden eggs" speech. My children were going to be Gina Ford-ed to within an inch of their lives.
Fast forward 6 or 7 years. I'm in the slightly surprising situation of being pregnant and happy about it. I duly get myself onto Amazon, order the baby bible, and wait with bated breath for it to arrive. When it does, I dive into it and emerge some time later, fearful and shaken. I don't like it. I don't think it will work for me. I find myself focusing on the reviews that bemoan the rigidity and lack of freedom for both mother and child, rather than the "laying golden eggs" ones. But I'm far from home, living in a different country to my family, and unsure how to be a mum without the book to tell me what to do. I resolve to see what happens when the baby is born.
The baby is duly born, as they tend to be. I haven't looked at Gina since.
I realise that I'm leaning a bit more towards attachment parenting. We don't co-sleep (Daddy Cool still smokes and is too much of a deep yet fidgety sleeper to risk it), though the Littlest Cat is still in our room. We don't use a sling, purely because the Littlest Cat very vocally eschews any form of carrying that doesn't require both hands and a genuine effort to be made on the part of his willing servants. But I'm breastfeeding, I'm reading up on baby-led weaning, I'm telling myself that Cry It Out and Controlled Crying is torture, I'm generally into the whole idea.
Then.
My return to work date looms. My angel baby suddenly stops sleeping through the night and starts refusing to go to bed after his bath. His long-established bedtime ritual of bath at 7:30, feed, cuddle, chat until sleep takes him, usually between 9pm and half past, stops working. One night, Daddy Cool is working a rare weeknight late shift, and LC just will not lie down without screaming. He falls asleep in my arms countless times, only to wake in full voice every time I lay him on the bed of nails that his bed has become. This goes on for four hours.
In desperation, I put him down and leave him in the Moses basket while I eat some chocolate and despair of ever sleeping again. I post a status on Facebook about wishing I still smoked, just to calm my shredded nerves. A couple of people comment, telling me to do the controlled crying method of waiting 5 minutes, soothing, waiting 10, soothing, etc. I argue. 5 minute pass while I disagree and explain my views on CIO.  I go back in, soothe my baby and realise I'm still not calm.  I quiet him and leave again to try to gather my thoughts. A minute after leaving for the second time, he is asleep.
Now I'm in a quandary. I don't like controlled crying!  Is that what I just did? But all of these people, people that I respect as parents and as human beings, are telling me to give it a go. What to do?
That's when it hits me. There is no right or wrong answer. Do what works - for me, for him, for us as a family. So I tried it again tonight. It worked.  There was no full voice screaming, because I wouldn't have been able to handle that.  It was more "Grumble and Whinge For A Few Minutes" than anything so dramatic as "Cry It Out", really.  It appears that my son actually prefers to be put down while drowsy and left to drift off to sleep on his own, rather than sung and swung and shushed to sleep.  How can he be growing up already?!
It may be coincidence. It may be a one off. Tomorrow, all the rules may change again, as they have constantly throughout this terrifying, exhilarating journey of parenthood. And that's OK. I'm learning that that's OK. As a person with very strong opinions, it is difficult for me to realise that a) I don't know everything and b) Adapting and being flexible is not failure - it's survival. It's evolution. It's OK.
I don't need to be ashamed of changing my mind.
What a revelation.

Who are we and why are we here?

So, here we are.  Another blog that I'll probably start and forget about in a few weeks.  I'm running out of email addresses to set up new Blogger accounts, as I don't want to link all of my "failed" blogs - out of sight, out of mind and all that.  If I have to look at them every time I log in, it'll expedite the giving up process and I'll just never log in again.

Anyway, why am I here?  Well, I recently became a mother for the first time, and am finding the process fascinating - I think most women do, judging by the sheer wealth of information online, in books, provided (often unsolicited) by friends and family...  Not only is getting to know my beautiful baby boy (born July 2012) absolutely amazing, but I'm getting to know a whole new me and undergoing some of the most rigorous changes I think I've been through since I was a baby myself.  This time, I want to at least try to document them.  Barefoot Mother has a lovely post on The Birth of a Mother, which I found enjoyable and beautifully thought-provoking.  I'm not sure about blogging etiquette, so I won't link to it unless I can get her permission in case that's Just Not Done, but Google can help you there, if required.

I read a lot about parenting styles, "attachment parenting," and what I think of as "the strict one," (the one that's not attachment parenting, basically - you know, advocates Cry It Out, parent-led routines, Gina Ford et al, all that jazz).  The name of the blog comes from what I've realised is my own style of parenting, and, if they're honest, possibly that of  thousands of other mothers and fathers out there.  Basically, it's a mix and match, learn-on-the-job, asking for and acting on and ignoring advice, following books and my head and my heart, crying more than the baby sometimes and occasionally feeling like I know it all and am perfectly qualified to comment on everyone else's choices, more often cursing people who feel like they know it all and are perfectly qualified to comment on everyone else's choices, muddling through, trial and error, forgetting my ideals and working with reality style of parenting.  I thought that might be a bit long-winded if I ever reach the giddy heights of someone actually typing my blog into a search engine, so I figured "inadvertent" would work.  Plus, my boy was a bit of a surprise, so there's that, too.  And there are no political implications to using the word "parent" rather than specifying my gender or role - it just sounded better than "mother" when used with "inadvertent."

This was our first family photo.  It still makes me cry.

So like I said, here we are.  Myself, the Littlest Cat (my boy Dom's first nickname - cute story or one that makes me look a bit daft - one day, I'll stick it here and see what the general consensus is), Daddy Cool (AKA Mat) and the Scaredy-Cat (an actual cat and not his real name, but his terror of people who aren't family prohibits me from giving his real details in case it somehow means he ever has to interact).  Our Rach lives with us for now, as well - my cousin and the sister of my heart.  Hi.  It's nice to meet you.  I have to go now, the baby just woke up.

Knackered and proud.

Not impressed at no longer being the baby.