What? That was a whole month? Already? All I remember is about three or four hours worth of screaming, all of which seemed to be happening at about three in the morning. I may have slept for the rest of it. Either that, or my brain isn't working properly because of sleep deprivation. Although that could just be the sleep deprivation talking. Apologies, one paragraph in and I'm already rambling. There's too much going on in my head to be coherent, and all of it is the equivalent of insane monkeys trapped in a cupboard and biting each other.
The baby's name is C, after some discussion. I realise that my stylistic use of capitals isn't terribly helpful here, but there you go. Even F took this on board after a couple of weeks - she's not much of a one for naming things, usually. Her rabbit is called Kanin ('rabbit' in Swedish, although BunBun in English at least), the baby doll C gave her as a getting born present is called Baby. "The baby must love me very much," she said, on getting this last item.
(She has also, in passing, picked up V's tendency to refer to stuff she's temporarily forgotten the name of as 'thingy thingy', as in 'hand me that thingy thingy over there'. F uses this for anything she doesn't know the name of yet, which covers a lot of ground. If I ask her what she's doing in our room after a long, suspicious silence, and get "I'm going to put the thingy thingy in the thingy thingy" as an answer, it doesn't really leave me much wiser.)
I vaguely recall the three months or so after F was born. These shadowy memories are only present because I wrote about them at the time, in this very blog. Without that, I'd have nothing. Unravelled care sleeves and nothing else. Quite a few parents of multiple kids told us during the pregnancy that having more than one kid doesn't make a big difference, it's not really much harder. This can be put down to the same brain damage, it's utter cobblers.
It's no more worrying, that's fair. I'm not suffering extra night terrors as I imagine roaming bears devouring my young, for example, in the same way I did when F was born. I have a rough idea of what's normal for an infant, which way up to hold it, how to change a nappy without barfing, that kind of thing. So I'm no more stressed than I was before.
I'm doubly exhausted, though, which helps nobody. V and I grouse and snap at each other as we lurch through the days, each sourly jealous of any rest the other gets (at least, I speak for myself here - V may be too tired to care). Everything feels like it's always your turn to do it, even if it's clearly not. This is particuarly irrational in my case when it comes to breast feeding.
C is sleeping in two to four hour bursts, mostly. Broken nights are tough. Getting pooped on regularly during them is even tougher. C can poo clear across a room, in a stream like a WWII flamethrower. She's sprayed me out in public. She's replastered the bathroom at 0400. I want to wear a butcher's apron when I go to change her, but I'm afraid it might send the wrong message as a parent.
She sleeps between us in the bed, she's made it very clear she doesn't like being alone. So I've been woken by a stream of milky vomit being deposited into beard in the middle of the night. It's a sadly depleted beard, I had to trim it for a job earlier in the month. This is a lucky escape, I think. It was rancid enough without yoghurt stalactites being added to the mix.
As F is now on her summer holidays, we can't really rest while C sleeps in the day, as we could when F was little. Instead, we cook unsauced pasta one more time because that's what F wants for lunch. Or pretend we're going to clean the house properly ever in our lives again, that kind of thing. Or sit on the floor and play Playmobile People Go to Hospital.
I do, at least. F is still very much the Pappagris. V isn't allowed to help, show affection or (sometimes) talk without permission. Actually, neither am I, but I'm also the go-to parent for any problems that might be ongoing. This is tiring, even if it's also endearing. V only gets the tiring end of that stick.
F is very fond of her little sister, at least. Hugs and kisses all the time, especially when C is asleep. Screaming Ambush is one of her favourite games right now, that's another great one to play with baby during afternoon nap time. C doesn't mind in the least, she's clearly interested in F already. She'll scream blue murder if I can't warm up a bottle in under two minutes, but F can bellow 'YAAAARGH' at her out of nowhere and she just gazes intently, as though filing it away for later use.
F's favourite bit at the moment is nappy change. She knows babies get angry when you change them, so she comes to help sooth C. Mostly by shouting "No!" at her to try and defuse the situation, but the intent is there. She's religious in her attendance, though, perhaps because of a renewed interest in bowel movements.
Yes, we're doing potty training again. Because we're bloody idiots, and not cleaning up enough crap at the moment, clearly. Some mild successes so far, after a limited start which needed three dress changes in twenty minutes. F has taken on board that grown ups don't wear nappies, but is quite cross about it. Doesn't see the point, maybe.
She insisted on following me to the toilet this afternoon to watch. "What are you doing now?" she asked. Well, I'm sitting uncomfortably whilst waiting to poo, thanks. How are you? And then came one of those dreaded questions.
"What's that hanging down underneath daddy's tummy?"
Say penis. Go on, daddy, say it. It's not a bad word, it's an anatomical label. Nothing to be ashamed of, not even yours, and a usefully clinical term in later life. May as well start with it.
"Er, well, it's a willy."
Not even 'my willy', you massive copout. Just somebody's willy, that happens to be hanging about under your paunch. It just wandered in here and hopped into your lap, did it? Or maybe you're looking after it for a friend. Idiot.
F considered this intelligence and then laughed. "Ha ha! It's funny," she said, and then wandered off. So much for pride.
At least the name has stuck with her. Names in general, in fact. Now C is offical nomenclature, she's started naming her toys. This has begun with her smurfs. She's called one of them Adolf. Okay, Adolf after Starke Adolf, the strongman in Pippi Longstrump, but all the same, it's not an auspicious start.
Tuesday, June 30, 2015
Wednesday, June 3, 2015
Mothers' Day 3/3
Sunday the 31st, B was born.
(B still stands for Baby, we're still at an impasse on names, which means F is currently right after all - she's being saying it would just be called Baby for months.)
Just to add dramatic weight to that, it was Swedish Mothers' Day. It was also Uncle J's birthday, F's Godmother L's wedding anniversary. Brooke Shields was born on this day, people, it has cosmic significance.
June 1st, we got the news through to F.
We did phone her several times on the Sunday. In Mormor's care, she'd gone out to Lek och Buslandet, a soft play area. We got to hear Aunty M asking her to come to the phone, and we got to hear the screamed response ("NO!") several times, and that was it. However exciting a new sibling is, it isn't a trampoline. There is no comparison.
But she did understand. We've been explaining it to her for ages, and she's interested and excited. If her priorities aren't quite ours, that's okay. She is only two and a half. Even so, she understood about the baby. When I woke her in the middle of the night on Saturday to explain that she had to go to Mormor's house now because the baby was ready to come out, she was confused.
"No, Daddy, babies must grow and grow and grow first," she told me, rather pityingly.
"Well, it's done that already, and now it's ready to come out," I said.
"Pop?" she said, because that's the sound effect we do at the relevant stage in her book. It's a good book, as kids' books go, but the pictured bursting amniotic sac does look like a cheery balloon. It's been hard to know how much F has taken on board, and not entirely reassuring to discover she thinks childbirth and Cheggers make the same noise.
"Yes, pop," I said. V threw me dark glances. "We're going in Mormor's car," I added, because F was still dubious about going anywhere with a man with such a poor grasp of the basics of partuition.
"Let's go!" she said brightly, hopping out of bed. She likes cars.
And then suddenly it was Monday afternoon, and I was waiting with her downstairs from the maternity ward. V was feeding B, and I was trying to prepare F for her first encounter with her new little sister. I'd done this in three stages, which I'd like to record here as a template for all parents:
When Fathers' Day rolls around again, I may go presentless.
"Here's your little sister," we told F, as V came out of the lift.
And she jumped up and down and laughed, and looked at B's tiny pink toes, and wanted to hold her hands and hold her up she could teach her to walk, and told us that babies could only sleep and eat and poop, and everything else she's learnt from her book. All retained, all understood, and all very happy.
V and B should be home before this post airs. I don't doubt F's joy will get patchy in places. Hell, I'm sure V's and mine will - I dimly remember the nappy-ridden early days of this very blog, and I am in no hurry to repeat them.
But we will, and we'll find something shiny and worthwhile in amongst all the crap, as one always does in life, and F will be helping us do it, just as she does every single day.
(B still stands for Baby, we're still at an impasse on names, which means F is currently right after all - she's being saying it would just be called Baby for months.)
Just to add dramatic weight to that, it was Swedish Mothers' Day. It was also Uncle J's birthday, F's Godmother L's wedding anniversary. Brooke Shields was born on this day, people, it has cosmic significance.
June 1st, we got the news through to F.
We did phone her several times on the Sunday. In Mormor's care, she'd gone out to Lek och Buslandet, a soft play area. We got to hear Aunty M asking her to come to the phone, and we got to hear the screamed response ("NO!") several times, and that was it. However exciting a new sibling is, it isn't a trampoline. There is no comparison.
But she did understand. We've been explaining it to her for ages, and she's interested and excited. If her priorities aren't quite ours, that's okay. She is only two and a half. Even so, she understood about the baby. When I woke her in the middle of the night on Saturday to explain that she had to go to Mormor's house now because the baby was ready to come out, she was confused.
"No, Daddy, babies must grow and grow and grow first," she told me, rather pityingly.
"Well, it's done that already, and now it's ready to come out," I said.
"Pop?" she said, because that's the sound effect we do at the relevant stage in her book. It's a good book, as kids' books go, but the pictured bursting amniotic sac does look like a cheery balloon. It's been hard to know how much F has taken on board, and not entirely reassuring to discover she thinks childbirth and Cheggers make the same noise.
"Yes, pop," I said. V threw me dark glances. "We're going in Mormor's car," I added, because F was still dubious about going anywhere with a man with such a poor grasp of the basics of partuition.
"Let's go!" she said brightly, hopping out of bed. She likes cars.
And then suddenly it was Monday afternoon, and I was waiting with her downstairs from the maternity ward. V was feeding B, and I was trying to prepare F for her first encounter with her new little sister. I'd done this in three stages, which I'd like to record here as a template for all parents:
- Bought her a Kinder Surprise containing a toy car that in turn contained a toy plane, both of which represented a significant choking hazard for a newborn
- Fed her the chocolate egg so she got hyperactive and then pooped herself vigorously
- Dropped one of her shoes on her face while changing her so that she got a fat lip
When Fathers' Day rolls around again, I may go presentless.
"Here's your little sister," we told F, as V came out of the lift.
And she jumped up and down and laughed, and looked at B's tiny pink toes, and wanted to hold her hands and hold her up she could teach her to walk, and told us that babies could only sleep and eat and poop, and everything else she's learnt from her book. All retained, all understood, and all very happy.
V and B should be home before this post airs. I don't doubt F's joy will get patchy in places. Hell, I'm sure V's and mine will - I dimly remember the nappy-ridden early days of this very blog, and I am in no hurry to repeat them.
But we will, and we'll find something shiny and worthwhile in amongst all the crap, as one always does in life, and F will be helping us do it, just as she does every single day.
Tuesday, June 2, 2015
Mother's Day 2/3
Room number ten in the delivery suite, Östra Sjukhuset, has seen some heavy use over the years. Much of it by us.
Some twist of luck got us back to the exact same place that F was born in, two and half years ago. I was looking out of the windows at the same tired portacabins that still seemed like a temporary solution for building works, with the same moss and permapuddles on their asphalt roofs. No sprinkles of light snow this time. The Gothenburg summer may be crap, but there are limits.
Once we'd got over the deja vu, installed V and spread our stuff over the chairs and window ledges, I went straight to sleep.
I'm a very supportive husband, okay? I wanted to help V relax, so I set a good example. If she wanted to squeeze my hand during her labour, I felt having hands as limp as a stress ball would be helpful. And okay, she might have been working full time through the labour to support our family whilst carrying another whopping baby, but I was tired too. I had to stay up late writing this blog, for example. About once a month. So I deserve my rest.
I'm only mostly joking, is the sad thing. I wasn't as stressed about this pregnancy, partly because it almost never quite felt as real. Some of that was about it being unexpected, some of it was knowing a lot more about what to expect. Some of it was even that I speak a lot more Swedish this time, and wasn't trying to guess if the midwife just said 'twins' or not.
And reading that back to myself, I just want to clarify that 'not being stressed' isn't the same as 'not being fussed' or 'not giving a stuff'. I gave a big stuffy fuss about it. I was worried and apprehensive and in partial denial about potential complications, and all the rest of the horrific gnawing worry that accompanies parenting. Or that is the entirety of parenting, if you want to be negative about it. At no point are you not worried. There is always something to fret over, some dark doom waiting to encompass you. Something real and plausible and all too nearby. I get that, I have the fear. I have it right now as I type, I certainly had it in spades in Room 10, a room only a single digit away from being filled with rat-in-your-face hats and uncomfortable truths about human nature and jackboots.
I just did all of that stressing while asleep. In a really uncomfortable chair that's given me a really bad back. I'm also a victim here, let's not forget.
V was amazing. She powered through labour in what felt like no time, and made it look relatively easy. Even compared to being asleep in a chair. I managed to wake up for the last couple of hours, and saw a lovely fuzzy purple creature arriving. She's got spiky red-blond hair, same colour as V, but no name yet. You never really know how worried you are until it all dissolves in a wash of love for your wife and new and existing daughters.
This was Sunday, a few days ago (this bag of news is entirely catless, the news that we have a second daughter arrived on Facebook before we managed to leave the hospital). However advanced F's iPad skills are, however, she can't use Facebook yet. So there was someone who was yet to find out.
Some twist of luck got us back to the exact same place that F was born in, two and half years ago. I was looking out of the windows at the same tired portacabins that still seemed like a temporary solution for building works, with the same moss and permapuddles on their asphalt roofs. No sprinkles of light snow this time. The Gothenburg summer may be crap, but there are limits.
Once we'd got over the deja vu, installed V and spread our stuff over the chairs and window ledges, I went straight to sleep.
I'm a very supportive husband, okay? I wanted to help V relax, so I set a good example. If she wanted to squeeze my hand during her labour, I felt having hands as limp as a stress ball would be helpful. And okay, she might have been working full time through the labour to support our family whilst carrying another whopping baby, but I was tired too. I had to stay up late writing this blog, for example. About once a month. So I deserve my rest.
I'm only mostly joking, is the sad thing. I wasn't as stressed about this pregnancy, partly because it almost never quite felt as real. Some of that was about it being unexpected, some of it was knowing a lot more about what to expect. Some of it was even that I speak a lot more Swedish this time, and wasn't trying to guess if the midwife just said 'twins' or not.
And reading that back to myself, I just want to clarify that 'not being stressed' isn't the same as 'not being fussed' or 'not giving a stuff'. I gave a big stuffy fuss about it. I was worried and apprehensive and in partial denial about potential complications, and all the rest of the horrific gnawing worry that accompanies parenting. Or that is the entirety of parenting, if you want to be negative about it. At no point are you not worried. There is always something to fret over, some dark doom waiting to encompass you. Something real and plausible and all too nearby. I get that, I have the fear. I have it right now as I type, I certainly had it in spades in Room 10, a room only a single digit away from being filled with rat-in-your-face hats and uncomfortable truths about human nature and jackboots.
I just did all of that stressing while asleep. In a really uncomfortable chair that's given me a really bad back. I'm also a victim here, let's not forget.
V was amazing. She powered through labour in what felt like no time, and made it look relatively easy. Even compared to being asleep in a chair. I managed to wake up for the last couple of hours, and saw a lovely fuzzy purple creature arriving. She's got spiky red-blond hair, same colour as V, but no name yet. You never really know how worried you are until it all dissolves in a wash of love for your wife and new and existing daughters.
This was Sunday, a few days ago (this bag of news is entirely catless, the news that we have a second daughter arrived on Facebook before we managed to leave the hospital). However advanced F's iPad skills are, however, she can't use Facebook yet. So there was someone who was yet to find out.
Monday, June 1, 2015
Mothers' Day 1/3
My family is over from the UK! And Malaysia. International clan, the Hoggs these days, so a full family get-together is a pretty rare event.
F was very pleased to meet her family from abroad. After the first rather suspicious meeting, where she said no a lot and went off to play alone, she was happily sprawled on her Uncle P's knee for an endless repetition of a tickling rhyme.
New one on me, that. New one on F too. She's just starting to get back into trying new things, after several months of adamant repetition of routines.
We had a big family meal out on Saturday night at a good steak place. F was excited about this until we got there and it turned out that 'eating at a restaurant' translated as 'sitting at a table being boring'. She almost liked the salad bar, because it was arranged a little bit like her favourite pick'n'mix sweet shop. But a lame version, where the broccoli wasn't even gummi. Only swift production of mummy's iPad saved the evening from becoming a tantrum.
And even then, her eyeline gradually emerged from Youtube videos about playdoh as she realised everyone seemed to be having fun without her. By the end of the night, she was running up and down a row of benches with Uncle D at one end, howling with delight. Swedes don't do howling babies in restaurants all that much, they're too reserved. The plaited family at the next table would have looked horrified, except that to display the emotion would have been to admit that something was wrong. So kudos to them.
We went home, put F and the super pregnant and tired V to bed, then I went out to the pub to meet most of the others and watch the cup final. Was it a cup final? I don't know, football isn't really my thing. Arsenal Villa were playing, I think, possibly against United. United Airlines? United Arab Emirates? United Nations? Google hasn't helped me here. Anyway, Fifteen seconds after arriving and greeting the others, my phone went.
V's waters had broken, please could I come home again.
F was very pleased to meet her family from abroad. After the first rather suspicious meeting, where she said no a lot and went off to play alone, she was happily sprawled on her Uncle P's knee for an endless repetition of a tickling rhyme.
Dot dot
Line line
Spider crawling up your spine
Tight squeeze
Light breeze
Now you've got the shiveries
New one on me, that. New one on F too. She's just starting to get back into trying new things, after several months of adamant repetition of routines.
We had a big family meal out on Saturday night at a good steak place. F was excited about this until we got there and it turned out that 'eating at a restaurant' translated as 'sitting at a table being boring'. She almost liked the salad bar, because it was arranged a little bit like her favourite pick'n'mix sweet shop. But a lame version, where the broccoli wasn't even gummi. Only swift production of mummy's iPad saved the evening from becoming a tantrum.
And even then, her eyeline gradually emerged from Youtube videos about playdoh as she realised everyone seemed to be having fun without her. By the end of the night, she was running up and down a row of benches with Uncle D at one end, howling with delight. Swedes don't do howling babies in restaurants all that much, they're too reserved. The plaited family at the next table would have looked horrified, except that to display the emotion would have been to admit that something was wrong. So kudos to them.
We went home, put F and the super pregnant and tired V to bed, then I went out to the pub to meet most of the others and watch the cup final. Was it a cup final? I don't know, football isn't really my thing. Arsenal Villa were playing, I think, possibly against United. United Airlines? United Arab Emirates? United Nations? Google hasn't helped me here. Anyway, Fifteen seconds after arriving and greeting the others, my phone went.
V's waters had broken, please could I come home again.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)