Wednesday 29 May 2013

Toes




'tis almost the time to crack open the toes,
Entombed for months in boots of winter woes,
The sun tried to shine,
My toes made me whine,
But thank God this is Blighty, where the rain's oh so mighty,
So my toes can grow mold if they likey!

A long winded way of telling you it's holiday time again so I'll see you next week.
No - they're not my toes - I wish, a photo of mine would have had you all running for the toilet!

Friday 24 May 2013

Heather

This one's for all the dog pamperers out there - be warned.

Grace had been rescued from a premature watery fate. A pupil at the school where my mum worked announced her dog had had puppies, and as her dad was a Neanderthal, he was going to drown them. Desperately, she begged her teachers to save them, which thankfully they did, my mum among the saviours. Thus began my affair with rescued dogs. I have never quite understood the concept of choosing and paying huge sums for a particular breed in much the same way you would choose a car or a handbag. I can understand a preference of breed, but for those lives to be reduced to a commodity has never sat well with me; but then I am a hopeless idealist.


In the wake of Grace's death, a rescue dog was what I needed to sooth my damaged heart; easier said than done when a puppy is the preferred. I began examining flapping bin bags on motorway carriageways in the weird hope that they might contain a needy life, but more often than not they revealed rotting human detritus as you would expect from a bin bag. Gladdened I didn't  encounter such animal cruelty, (the stories are abundant) I sent Bob along to Battersea Dogs Home to scout for a puppy, knowing I couldn't go within a six mile radius of the place and not come out without their entire stock. He returned empty handed and I felt the hole in my life grow to the size of the Mersey Tunnel. Eventually we found just the thing in an advert in the newspaper Loot (the Internet was still in its embryonic stage). Her story was a similar tale to Grace's as it transpired the family dog had fallen for a local rogue and been left with a kiss and a promise and six puppies in the oven. Before you could say "typical bloke", we were holding a tiny, black blob of fur who fitted snugly into Bob's palm.

We had to wait four weeks until she was old enough to leave her mum at seven weeks of age. I suppose I should have been wary when, after three weeks I received a phone call asking me to take our puppy early as she was "Disturbing the rest of the litter."
"How?" I asked.
"She cries all night long."
"And does that then make the other puppies cry?"
"Well, no."
"So you mean, she's disturbing you?"
"When you put it like that, yes, I suppose so."

I refused her request, believing a puppy should stay with its mum for as long as possible. The woman begrudgingly agreed but not before I caught her whisper to an unknown person, "I've got a right one 'ere!" We collected Heather one week later and as she chewed on my finger with her needle sharp teeth I couldn't imagine such an adorable creature ever disturbing me.

I had read a few doggy books since my haphazard rearing of Grace and now fancied myself as the Queen Bitch, so from that first night I was determined to teach Heather that her place was at the bottom of the pack and I was Alpha dog. I lined my bedroom floor with newspaper for the inevitable accidents and settled into bed after tucking Heather into her own plush cushions. Ha - how misguided the naive can be! She was up in an instant, pacing around the room while the newspaper crackled under paw. Then she shredded the newspaper, then she shredded my toe she found dangling from the bed. Before long, she became bored by the little sport to be had with the newspaper, and as my toe had been swiftly withdrawn, she began scratching and whimpering at the side of the bed. Within half an hour, I felt my self-appointed, elevated status fall to below that of a flea as I crumbled like a digestive biscuit. She snuggled into the crook of my arm and slept peacefully for the rest of the night with her head on the pillow next to mine where she remained until that fateful day in Percy Street.

She was nine at the time of her demotion to second in command after Chicken and was very gracious about her long drop down from her superior pedestal. By then, it had been impossible to miss that Heather was a special case in canine terms. She was skittish (jumping at the slightest noise), picky ("You don't expect me to eat that do you?"), unpredictable (running off in the park for no reason leaving us to rely on sharp witted strangers to grab her as we panted frantically behind her) and more neurotic than a junkie. She developed a habit of licking her bum incessantly, a habit which vexed me to distraction as her preferred spot for the pastime was our bed or the sofa so as to give her nose a nice soft cushion. Large wet patches were left in the wake of her habit quenching, instantly divulging her pursuits while our backs had been turned; that and the permanent ring of sodden fur around her bum like Californian surfers in a wet gel commercial.

We spent a fortune at the vet and tried every manner of cure from evening primrose oil to steroids, but we were always left scratching our heads at the heap of failed attempts. We even tried a homoeopathic vet who suggested a diet of raw meat that most dogs would bite your hand off to have, but not Heather; she dragged the raw slabs of liver from her bowl and left them lying in the middle of the kitchen floor as though Hannibal Leckter had been round for tea. The licking persisted and was joined by a new friend to add to her long list of  neurotic tendencies - a violent trembling brought on by loud bangs. Eventually, the bangs didn't have to be that loud, a clearing of a throat was enough to bring on the shakes.

But all of that barely scratched at my nerves in comparison to her barking. Her bum licking was only interrupted on her detection of an ant walking along a wall ten streets away when she would break into ferocious barks to demonstrate her displeasure at such cheek. Everything set her off in a frenzy of inexhaustible woofing. Have you ever tried getting, not to mention, keeping a baby asleep with a dog that bursts into violent barks every couple of minutes? As much as I loved her, I wanted to kill her! Something had to be done.

We called in a dog psychiatrist. Yes, a doggy shrink! Remember that herbal remedies, raw meat and hard drugs had not eased her symptoms one jot; so, clutching at straws, we explored the possibility that her issues were psychological and not physical. Believe it or not, it really helped. At the very least I learnt to love her again rather than focusing on the nuisance that she had become. Shrink lady helped us to see that Heather's neuroses were more than likely a result of our treatment of her. What? I was shocked; all we'd done was love and adore her; how could her damaged behaviour be our fault? It transpired that, in treating Heather as a human rather than a dog, she had become confused with her role in the family believing she was the Alpha, primarily adopting the role of protector, hence the barking. Shrink lady also believed the incessant bum licking was a manifestation of the pressure she felt at being the Alpha but with no real responsibility. Oh the guilt!

We were given techniques to help ease her burden by enforcing our role as Alphas so she could rest easy, with simple tricks such as making her wait for our command before she could eat. We were supposed to ban her from the furniture too but we found that impossible to impose after so many years and were forced to let that one slide. We were told to ignore the bad behaviour and reward the good, much the same as child psychology, so we ignored the trembling and bum licking and praised the silence. We were amazed at the results, particularly with the barking; that reduced to a manageable level before ceasing altogether. I began to build a little shrine to Shrink lady, complete with incense, until we realised she'd only stopped barking because she'd gone deaf. I didn't hold that against Shrink lady, I was relieved regardless.

The shaking definitely reduced due to our implementation of the ignoring technique making bonfire night a far more pleasant evening. Apparently, my comforting arms had been misinterpreted by Heather (being a dog) as confirmation that her fear was justified. Oh the guilt! Again! But I was amazed to see how quickly she was cured of that particular issue, unlike the bum licking which only abated marginally; I guessed that habit had become so deep rooted, nothing short of a chastity belt could have stopped her! (I did try a nappy once with no success - surprisingly!) I suppose you can't teach an old dog too many new tricks. Perhaps that was why I didn't stick to dogs.     

 
Heather 1994 - 2007
x

Thursday 16 May 2013

Socks

If you don't start at the beginning then you won't know when to end. Don't think too hard about that one, simply go back to Percy Street to start at the beginning.
 

There was a name that could strike more dread in me than extra time in a football match. Gina Ford. If ever there was a book to turn a neurotic mother into a fully fledged mental case it was her Contented Little Baby Book. I don't doubt its best intentions and I know it has proved invaluable to many mothers, but I am not one of them. I also know it has been a contentious issue since its first release a couple of years before Chicken was born, so here's my two penneth worth.

I am a character who strives for perfection, that doesn't mean I always attain it; sometimes it is as elusive as an olive at the bottom of a martini glass, highly deft at avoiding the cocktail stick, but I strive none the less. There is probably a label for my condition; OCD or obsessive compulsive or just plain control freak, the point is; I never knew I possessed such tendencies until I became a mum. In fact, I didn't even notice then; it was only with the benefit of hindsight and a near nervous breakdown eight years later that I began to recognise the signs. Poor Bob could incur my fastidious wrath for simply hanging the socks on the top rail of the clothes horse rather than the more practical bottom.
"What the f*** are you doing?!"
"I'm hanging the washing."
"No your not, you're creating a folding nightmare!"
"What? Oh, sorry, I thought I was helping."
"Well think again!"
And off he would sulk to leave me to hang the socks on the correct rail feeling fully justified in my behaviour. (Nut case!)

Clutter became my arch enemy. It seemed that no sooner had I cleared a space than it would be magically refilled once my back was turned. This always coincided with Bob's arrival home from work. His post, his shoes, his jackets hanging on the back of the chair, his body sitting in the chair! I had turned into one of those women comedians like Les Dawson made a fortune taking the piss out of. I had become the nag. My defence was; (and still is in this case) if he didn't make the mess in the first place then I wouldn't have to nag him. What I found strange though, was why this behaviour had not reared its fussy head before I had a baby. Bob would probably tell you he caught glimmers previously, but with work keeping us out of the house for the majority of time, the glimmers never had time to develop into floodlights. Or perhaps it was the sleep deprivation turning minor irritations into issues worth divorcing over, or, maybe Bob is a particularly messy bugger and it's all his fault after all!

The journey of self-discovery that becoming a mum initiated sent me reaching for a number of practical parenting books; of course, the one everybody was reading and apparently mastering was The Contented Little Baby Book. Lighting a fuse on a stick of dynamite couldn't have wreaked more destruction on my striving for perfection.

I read it from cover to cover and was enthusiastic about putting Chicken through the first routine. Chicken, however, had other ideas, and she hadn't even read it! I tried and tried to crush her free will (which she owned in abundance) and told her over and over that I was the captain of that will and she was very much mistaken if she thought she was. What a load of utter crap! Slicing through my own jugular with a butter knife would have been easier than getting her to eat at the designated times set out by Gina. I can't remember the specific times now, but I do remember clearly the feeling of abject failure when she would repeatedly and steadfastly refuse to feed for more than five minutes a time. Five minutes! Even with my atrocious maths I knew that was forty minutes short of Gina's ideal; and after her forty five minutes on the first boob I was supposed to offer her the second. The second? She'd barely touched the first! I was bursting with enough milk to rid Africa of infant famine and she was treating it like a snack bar! I took to pumping and freezing in case she found her appetite and needed a good binge, but she never did. I had boobs the size of footballs, a freezer full of milk and an inadequacy complex almost as big as my boobs. Of course I feared for her health and development as well to add to my fretful state, but she continued on her percentile despite her picky eating habits.

Her little and often approach to dining threw her nap times into an equal fiasco. I followed Gina's instructions to the letter and sealed up every last crack of light attempting to turn her room into a dull glow rather than the instructed pitch black and crept away. At first she was quiet while she digested the affront of my perceived power over her. Then I would hear the niggle as I stood pinned against the wall outside holding my breath as though she had supersonic ears and might be able to detect the heaving of my chest. As soon as I heard the full bellied scream I was in there faster than you could say defeat. I know, I know, I know! I know you're supposed to let them cry and they'll settle themselves, Gina told me - but when? When they're at university? I left her for a whole ten minutes once and it nearly ripped my soul in two. There are too many babies in the world who have to shed too many tears and my baby didn't have to be one of them. So what if it meant I ate my dinner with only a fork using one hand? So what if it meant I had to walk for hours as the only way of getting her to sleep during the day? So what if it meant I couldn't shower unless there was another adult to hold her? So what if my friends stopped coming because I smelt like a builder's armpit? She was a baby for such a short time and I didn't feel she should spend any of that precious time crying on my account. She's ten now, and has been sleeping through the night in her own bed since she was six months old, only coming in to us if she's not feeling well. My attempts at trying to put her down for her afternoon sleep seem like pointless pinpricks of memory now.

In summary: a lot of feelings of inadequacy resulting in nagging arguments with Bob could have been spared had I had faith in myself from the beginning. I never deemed myself army material, so why did I believe I could adhere to a routine so strict it could send a Sergeant Major running for his mummy? Peer pressure perhaps? Everybody else seemed to have the perfect Gina Ford baby, why didn't I? I found motherhood the most daunting and scary thing I had ever attempted in my life and I didn't feel qualified to handle it, so I turned to a book that professed to have all the answers. How silly; the human species has been amongst one of the most successful on the planet, surviving and thriving since long before the written word with only faith and instinct to guide them. However, embarking upon motherhood armed with the knowledge that a wet nose was a sign of good health and anal glands need periodic squeezing - no wonder I didn't trust myself! Oh why didn't I stick to dogs?

Thursday 9 May 2013

Blancmange

Would you start War and Peace in the middle? Pride and Prejudice two chapters in? Would your first introduction to Phillip Pullman's Dark Materials be The Amber Spyglass? Of course not; so be sure to start this story at the beginning with Percy Street. Don't be shy.

 

Even though I lacked the faith to trust my maternal instincts implicitly, I found them impossible to silence. With their own personal wisdom they deemed themselves authorities on parenting and laughed in the face of scientific research and experience. I was as powerless as blancmange when faced with their might so I allowed them to rule my roost fully with only the occasional attempt at mutiny. This was one such attempt.

With the fear of cot death looming nightly I knew Chicken should have been laid on her back in her cot, however, I found my instincts were completely at odds with this instruction. Perhaps this was due to the permanent rivers of mucus seeping gently from her nostrils. It seemed to defy logic to lay her on her back giving the snot nowhere to go but down her throat. I needed to find a way of keeping her on her back but at an angle which would allow the snot to run freely without forcing her to ingest it. A battle ensued between my instincts and the advice of the experts.

After a fair amount of head scratching, I began building a ramp using rolled sheets to provide a gentle incline. This raised her back, neck and head marginally above the flat to a 10 degree angle. I lay Chicken on my contrivance and stood back to assess the results. She was barely floating above the mattress. I was a long way from satisfied the incline would keep the snot from choking her (or so I believed). I stuffed a cushion under the sheet - still not enough. I rammed a pillow - not quite there. I folded a blanket into a neat square and added that to the mountain - "That should do it," I said to Chicken finally satisfied. I placed her carefully on my contraption and retreated downstairs for my dinner wondering whether I might be able to patent the design.

Half an hour later I ascended the stairs for my first check of the night. I found her curled up on her front at the foot of my invention. I hadn't factored in that she might move! Nothing short of handcuffing her wrists to the bars of the cot would have kept her in the position I had contrived for her! I gave up. That was when I blatantly ignored the next bit of advice given to all new mothers - don't sleep with the baby. But how could I not? All attempts at dispelling my fears that she would drown in her own mucus had amounted to nothing; so I made myself the mountainous incline on which she could sleep, giving me the perfect vantage point from which to monitor her snots and ensure they were leaving her freely (all over my t-shirt!). Genius! My instincts were well and truly appeased, however, the same couldn't be said of Heather.

Heather had been sleeping in our bed for nine years. When I say in our bed, I mean literally, in our bed - under the covers, head on pillow - the lot. She had everything short of a pair of pyjamas (I'm not from Beverley Hills!). I called Bob who had been taking an eternity to brush his teeth. "Get Heather off the bed will you?" I can still recall the panic in his eyes as he said, "But surely the bed's big enough for the four of us." The big wuss! 
I pointed out that the bed was a modest standard double, not a queen size, and let's not forget - "SHE'S A DOG!"
"But she doesn't know that!"
"Oh shut up and get on with it!"
It was a small wonder that I ever managed to become pregnant with such a potent contraception between us! Anyway, we tried to relegate Heather to the floor. Ha! How utterly ridiculous (came the response in her eyes); of course it should have been us who were relegated to the floor - were we insane?

With the demeanour of apprehension he pulled back the duvet and began to gently coax Heather into her own luxuriously padded bed which had been redundant for most of her life. He started by patting the cushions enticingly while giving her an expectant grin. She barely opened a sleepy eye. He then began a sales pitch worthy of the QVC channel, "Ooh Heather, come and look at this, it's so cosy and soft - come on, come and see." She didn't even raise her head. Recognising the tactic as fruitless he rushed from the room and returned squeaking a plastic pig. This got her attention. She sat up with her ears on full alert, ever ready to kill an offending squeak; but she was suspicious. She knew bedtime didn't usually involve her squeaky toys and she remained steadfastly glued to the bed; but - she was sitting up. I seized my chance and gave her a shove with my foot. She landed unceremoniously with a thump on the floor and immediately turned to leap back up. Before she could motivate the muscles needed to propel her, Bob grabbed her collar, pushed her into her bed and held her there as though she might fuse with the cushions if he kept her pinned down long enough. She lay under his hand with a troubled and guarded expression.

"My arm's getting pins and needles, d'you think I can let go now?" Bob asked after 45 minutes. I was engrossed in a repeat of Dallas on the telly and had almost forgotten he was there.
"Does she seem settled?" I asked.
"As settled as she'll ever be. I'm going to release the pressure and see what she does."
Heather felt the release of pressure and acted upon it as a caged bird reacts to an open door. She sprung from Bob's grip and landed on the bed in one swift movement where she slumped down with a huff glaring at Bob.

Bob gave a defeated shrug and ventured to join Chicken and me under the duvet. "Oi! You're not giving up!" I said. He let out a long sigh, grabbed his pillow and a blanket from the cupboard and headed downstairs to the couch. Heather lazily lifted her head and gazed with mild interest at the new turn of events. She then looked at me as though to say, "You should have stuck to dogs."

Thursday 2 May 2013

Mustard

Why I didn't stick to dogs continued. To catch up with my story of inadequacy, ineptitude and insanity while learning to be a parent you'll have to read the blog archives starting with Percy Street. Go on, you know you want to. Now, off I go again.........


The unfamiliar smell we brought back to the house from the hospital didn't go unnoticed by Heather. She leaped and twirled with glee to see Bob and I, while skillfully averting her gaze from the smell. Soon, curiosity got the dog and she began casting furtive glances her way until she could stand it no more and embarked upon a sniffing campaign to rival the finest perfumeries in Provence. Chicken was asleep in her car seat while we kept a watchful eye, we were keen to include Heather in the momentous occasion so as not to incite jealousy.

The hands and feet were first, then a gentle snuffle around the face before she found the source of the most tantalising smell - the bum. She kept her nose pinned against the area while she took the stink deep into her olfactory bank with an air of suspicion. To Heather, poo was something to be rolled in, but she seemed to know instinctively that rubbing her neck on this thing would not have earned her a reward. Although, it didn't stop her trying to sneak the odd dirty nappy for the occasional between-meals snack!

Chicken's delivery had been aided by a ventouse - a suction cup of sorts which gently latches onto the baby's head and teases it out (for particularly stubborn babies who don't fancy the look of the outside world). That all went well, however, what I wasn't prepared for was the effect this would have on her still soft and malleable head which easily contorted into the shape of a peanut. A peanut wearing a black wig. Along with her torso resembling an overly blown balloon with her arms and legs springing from it like pipe cleaners; she looked more like the results of a child's exploration into the craft box than a baby! Of course to us she was a perfect specimen of the human race, but I could understand, that to the un-smitten eye, she looked more like Bert from The Muppets!


Within a few short weeks the peanut reverted to a more pleasing Malteser, allowing me to focus on other, far more troubling issues. In my fragile state of mind (still deeply suspicious of my maternal abilities) I successfully managed to send many a nurse on the NHS Helpline running for their prescription drugs. "Is her umbilical cord supposed to be black?" "She's got a snotty nose, can she still breathe?" "Is her poo really supposed to be the colour of Dijon mustard?" I even made them listen to her breathing down the phone line when I feared a slight tickle in her throat could have been whooping cough. Each call was met with the same response, "I'm sure she's fine but if you need reassuring then take her to your GP." I roughly translated this as, "Sod off you loony tune and get a grip!" Now, don't get me wrong, I have the utmost respect for the NHS Helpline, they were always patient with me even though I deserved a verbal bollocking because I was a loony tune!

It was while submerged in this nuttiest era of my life that I chanced meeting an old friend for a coffee; nowhere too ambitious, but she was a single friend and I was keen to show her the joys of motherhood, especially as her response to my pregnancy had been, "but you hate kids!" I wanted to assuage her concerns with a display of blissful contentment. I felt the occasion demanded attire less trampy than my adopted look of late and scoured my wardrobe for something suitable. The day was warm so I picked out a pale pink shirt with a repeating rose pattern and a cream skirt.

Chicken was lying on her play mat pretending to watch Eeyore bounce up and down while playing along with the charade that mummy was competent and sane. I was already tetchy as I hadn't dared try to be human in the three weeks since her birth and I was beginning to realise why. My shirt only just managed to button over my three sizes larger boobs and the zip from my skirt was threatening to either burst at the seams or eat into my flesh. I was uncomfortable - make that extremely uncomfortable, but it was either that, maternity clothes, or Bob's jeans. I suffered in silence.

I was just about ready to leave and scooped Chicken up from the mat. As I did I put my hand on a damp patch on her bum. Please don't let it be poo, please don't let it be poo. It was poo. Well, you know how a baby's poo is runny with the staining determination of gloss paint? (You can see where this is going can't you?) It had soaked through her one and only posh baby-grow all the way up to her neck. Bollocks! I threw down my industrial sized bag bursting with half of Mothercare's stock and ran up the stairs to the changing mat. I slipped off her clothes and nappy while muttering to her that her timing was all off if we were to convince my friend that we were naturals at this parenting game. She wasn't amused. I watched intrigued while her expression took on a look of deep concentration. What is she doing? She soon enlightened me when a fresh river of poo shot from her bum and began racing towards the end of the mat and the hapless me. I dodged it more nimbly than Muhammad Ali! I bet you thought it was going to get me didn't you? Fooled you!

Feeling empowered by my lightening reflexes, I changed her quickly, sped out of the door and soon arrived at the cafe. After the customary double kiss and her introduction to Chicken, we sat down for our coffee and catch up. The conversation soon faltered when she asked me, "What's that on your forehead?" Smiling, I touched my forehead to feel for the distraction. My fingers came away mustard yellow. I couldn't believe my eyes - I had poo on my forehead! At that precise moment, Chicken decided she was hungry after all that pooing, and let out a yell that could have curdled Dracula's blood making my boobs stand instantly to attention and send a rushing gush of milk to the distressed infant. Unfortunately, everything happened too quickly for me to get Chicken in position in time and I had forgotten to put in my breast pads. The milk leaked through my pale pink shirt with the rose pattern like a burst dam, just as the button holding it all together finally popped under the strain exposing my ample flesh to the cafe. It was then that I cursed our choice of seat in the window as the gentleman pensioner, innocently walking by at the time, was treated to rather more than the usual promos of coffee and cake and nearly tripped over himself trying to escape. I looked at my friend whose expression was excruciatingly filled with pity as she said, "Why didn't you stick to dogs?"