Family

In Sickness and in Health…..

18/11/2013 by MrsSavageAngel Leave a Comment

This week has been a funny old week. Oscar’s been poorly.

Woah, I hear you shout, stop the presses, child in “gets sick” shocker!

Yes I know, I know. Children get sick all the time. Their noses run at the slightest thing; a cold, the cold, teething, frustration at being unable to get the lid of their click and click box. I hadn’t really thought about it until a few weeks ago, when a young and childless relative of a friend pointed out that every child round the table had a disgustingly runny nose and that none of us were particularly bothered about this. It’s just one of the facts of young childhood, you know like carrot puree or tantrums.

Anyway my point is children get ill. Oscar’s had a myriad of colds and even one bout of sickness bug, which may or may not have been RotaVirus. But he hasn’t ever been really ill. You know the kind of illness that has a proper name, or requires drugs other than Calpol (liquid paracetamol and every mothers best friend). I’m not really sure why this is. We go out almost every day. He mingles with other children at various groups. He drinks their drinks and eats their food. He came up to me at Toddler group a couple of weeks ago happily munching a chocolate biscuit, which I didn’t give him (I hope another adult gave him it from the coffee bar and that he didn’t just pick up a discarded one from the floor – or worse take it out of another child’s hands! How embarrassing!) He’s just a fairly robust little chap. I think this may be a trait he’s picked up from his dad. Despite being a smoker, Ben hardly ever gets colds and has only been really seriously ill once since I met him (Glandular Fever, 1998). Oscar has never had an infection, or needed antibiotics or ended up in hospital (quick touch some wood!)

This week, Oscar got Croup. Yeah I know, I didn’t really know what it was either and everyone in Ben’s office thought it was some kind of Victorian disease that urchins got from going up the chimneys. Actually its a virus that affects the windpipe and larynx. Only young children get it as their pipes are so narrow anyway (so for example if I catch the same virus I’d just likely have a sore throat & cold). In children it manifests in a mean cough and somewhat laboured breathing. (It can also result in such narrowed airways that the child needs steroids or adrenaline administered in hospital but I’m told this is only in extreme cases). What it is however is scary to see. It started on Tuesday, we went to the docs on Wednesday (who diagnosed croup, gave me a leaflet about the condition and told me to call an ambulance if Oscar was to turn blue!) and by Friday it was awful. I knew it was awful because the child, who when he’s tired or ill wont get sleepy but more hyper, sat on my lap, under the blanket, with his head on my chest and nearly fell asleep. That evening he coughed so hard he threw up all his milk.

When I had a few minutes I mentioned it on FB and once again a huge number of people came to my side, with offers of advice or solidarity. My neighbour offered us a loan of a humidifier, which we took her up on, other people offered to go out and get things for us. Another friend text me and explained the process they’d gone through when her son had croup. I was overwelmed with kindness and would like to say a big THANK YOU to you all!

As it turned out, Friday night was the worst of it. He hardly slept and Ben was a star with him, both through the night and then getting Oscar up at 5.30. By Saturday lunchtime I was starting to get a bit nervous as his chest seemed to be straining awfully hard. I text a paedeatric nurse friend for advice. She offered to come look at him. Then he ate his tea. First proper meal he’d eaten all week (scrambled eggs and tiny bits of toast) and it was like a new child had emerged. I cancelled the friend’s visit. How could it go from that to this in such a short time? Bloody kids!!!!!!! Scaring the bejesus out of me one minute and wanting to play blocks the next!

Our instinct as adults, as parents, is to protect our children. We spend hours researching illnesses and discussing safety measures and that’s brilliant. We should be knowledgeable about something so important. So it goes against nature to take a step back and remember how resilient a child can be. They have to be, they’ve had to survive this far.

He’s still sounds like he smokes 60 a day and has the ubiquitous runny nose, but my boy is doing grand. And I know this wont be the last scare he’ll give me. I know I’ll look back and think, “sheesh, remember when I got upset about that bout of Croup? That was jack compared to this!!”. But I have to remember he is a resilient little bugger and for that I am grateful.

Now, where’s that bottle of Calpol….

Different but the same….

11/11/2013 by MrsSavageAngel Leave a Comment

Recently I’ve been looking for something to do with Oscar that isn’t just about him running around. Don’t get me wrong – Oscar is a child that gets a lot from running around, but I am keen to exercise his mental abilities as well as his physical capabilities. When I heard Lana, a friend from toddler group and a qualified teacher, was setting up a pre-school maths course we were keen to give it a go. Ben was super keen – I think he’s trying to temper my somewhat language based background with his more science based one (he’s always going on about how he can’t wait to “do a science” with the boy). So we signed up to a course with Top Banana Learning and had our first session last Wednesday.

BJ721_-_Abacus

The idea is to introduce children to the concepts and language of maths from a really early age and I have to say he’s loving the counting based song and stories we’re sharing with him at home. Wednesday’s class was great fun (who doesn’t love a pirate themed counting game?), really well planned and executed with real enthusiasm. The only thing I wasn’t expecting was that Oscar was the oldest child in the group by about 6 months, if not older. It doesn’t sound like much but the differences were clear. He wanted to run around and look at everything, while the younger children sat or crawled slowly. I feared for their little fingers and despite being a completely average size for his age he loomed over the younger ones like a giant. What I wasn’t prepared for was how this was going to make me feel. I felt like I was back at Baby Sensory which, for me, was not a good experience.

When Oscar was 6 months old we did a Baby Sensory course. Baby Sensory is a fantastic concept and enables the youngest of children to develop their senses in a fun way. Although there was a real mix of ages in our class, once again, Oscar was the oldest and physically very advanced for his age. He was crawling around and curious about everything. The other babies lay or sat, engaging with the session, Oscar – not so much. He had mobility and he was going to use it. But rather than just letting him get on with it I felt he should be joining in, should be enjoying watching the activities, should be this, should be that. Baby Sensory started to stress me out to the point where I dreaded going. I felt like my son was different and I felt like other parents were judging him and me. Its hard to explain, but I felt like they thought he was “naughty”, because he wasn’t doing what everyone else did. The odd thoughtless comment didn’t help and people took to calling him things like “crazy”, “trouble” and a “lunatic”. Affectionately I’m sure but it was awful, I was awful. I became embarrassed and ashamed. When I tell people now how he crawled at 6 months and walked at 10 months I’m so proud, but at the time I just wanted him to be “normal”.

When I think about those few months I still feel ashamed, but now in a completely different way. I am ashamed of myself, that I ever thought my son wasn’t “normal” (what ever that is??). I should have just been proud of him and ignored the comments. Doing things at a different pace is what children do. You can read all the books you like, but as a first time parent you are never going to understand this until you go through it. Why would you? It occurred to me just the other week that despite the seemingly millions of different schools of thought around parenting, children will all do the stuff they need to do eventually. Some will just do it differently to others. Faster, slower, sooner, later, some will thrive at this, others at that. Different but the same, the same but different.

So Wednesday’s group didn’t make me feel bad because of what he did, but because of the memories and the shame it evoked in me. Talking to Lana afterwards I couldn’t help but well up a tiny bit. I didn’t realise how fresh it still was. So she kindly suggested we try the Friday group. We did. He wasn’t the oldest. He didn’t always join in, but then neither did any other child. He seemed much calmer (or was that just me projecting?). We left much happier.

So I think we’ll keep going to the Friday class. He really did enjoy it. He’s taken to walking up and down the bath, pointing at the tiles, while Ben counts them for him and his new favourite book is One Ted Falls out of Bed (a counting book by Julia Donaldson). Maybe maths will be his “thing”. Maybe it wont. Whatever. He can be as “different” as he likes and I’ll be proud of him.

In memory….

21/10/2013 by MrsSavageAngel Leave a Comment

When I was a little girl, my biggest dream was to go to Disney World. Now remember, I was a little girl loooooong before Disneyland Paris had been thought of. No I dearly wanted to go to Florida to experience the magical kingdom. A friend of mine went when I was about 9. I remember thinking, “how does she ever think about anything else, ever?” when she got back. Disney was the zenith of life experiences as far as I was concerned.

My Nanna, that is my maternal grandmother, used to play the pools every week when I was a child. And every week she told us that if she won, she would take us grandchildren to Disney World (of course there were only two of us when she started promising this – she must have been a bit nervous once it was a promise she was making to six of us!!) I truly believe she would have kept her word and I willed her on every week, sometimes choosing her numbers for her. She never won, but far from disappointment, it left me with a great memory of her.

My Nanna died in 2004. She had been incredibly ill and it had been hard to see her so frail, struggling for air as she tried to speak. She had always been this strong matriarch, quick to scold, but even quicker to cuddle. When she died, I read the bidding prayer at her funeral. I cried along with everyone else. I was sad. But then I got on with my life. It wasn’t until one drunken night in 2006, that it properly hit me that she’d gone. I cried so much and so hard Ben practically had to carry me home. She was gone and that was that.

When she died, we found out that she had left a small amount of money to each grandchild (there are six of us). I was shocked as I had no idea she had any money at all, but very touched. I then learnt that the money was in a trust that would only mature once the youngest grandchild turned 21. At the time I was 25, nearly 26. I was furious! I felt that she had snubbed me, treating us as a homogeneous lump of grandchildren, rather than individuals. And as the youngest grandchild at the time was only 12, and we had very little contact with the family now that Nanna was gone (a very loooong boring story I assure you), I fully expected never to see that money again.

What I didn’t bank on was the diligence of my second cousin John, who as an IFA, was managing the trust. This week he managed to contact us through his sister, who is friends with my sister on FB (thank goodness for social media huh!) to tell us that the trust has now matured and we are owed our inheritance. Having not thought of it for years I was completely shocked. Its not a huge amount, but as someone without an income it’s means I can do things like get a haircut and buy some boots. It’s made me very happy! It’s also made me very reflective.

I have been thinking about my childhood and my relationship with my wider family. Some memories are painful, some are awesome, but all of that adds up to be my history. Its unique and its mine. It’s made me feel sad (for the umpteenth time) that Oscar doesn’t see his grandparents as much as as I did. But mostly its forced me to apologise to my Nanna. With time (and age – come on lets not beat about the bush!) I understand things differently. I now understand, that she just wanted us all to be treated fairly and equally. Of course she saw us an individuals! She wanted each and every one of us to receive the same treatment at the same time. She was doing what was best for us.

I’m so sorry Nanna.

I wish I could tell her what she means to me and what I think of when I think of her. I think of the empty boxes she would save for me so I could play “shops”. I think of the day she let us draw all over her formica topped kitchen table with pens. I think about “my” room in her house. I think about her garden, whose path I used to run up and down and up and down, swinging myself round the washing line pole. I think about her love of massive and I mean MASSIVE hanging baskets, which she had made specially every year. I think about her stews and her mash. I think of her pinnies (half aprons) which she would always wear, made of well washed soft cotton, perfect for wiping a mucky face, or tears away. I think of her kitchen – the domain of the women, whilst the men stayed in the lounge. I think of going to Pete the greengrocer over the road with her, and being so proud that they knew her name.

I think how sad it is that she never met any of her great grandchildren and how much I know she would have loved Oscar. I don’t have enough to take him to Disney World (not yet!) but I do plan to buy him a gift from her money. Something that one day, we can take down together, and I can explain who it came from and who she was.

I think she would have liked that.

Christmas? Already!

14/10/2013 by MrsSavageAngel Leave a Comment

A couple of weeks ago, I started to write a great big ranty post about the long commercial run up to Christmas, having seen mince pies in the shops in September. I wrote so much, then lost my thread. I couldn’t work out what to say next. I was stumped and I had no idea why. Then, last week, I realised what my problem was. I couldn’t get indignant about the run up to Christmas because, actually, I love it! I love everything about the festive season, including the insanely long retail run up. I am one of those people. Sorry.

Last Sunday we went to a local garden centre (I know! I live the dream!). We walked through the store towards the onion sets, when I saw the Christmas decorations were out. I swear I may have even squealed, as I ran away from Ben and Oscar towards the glitter, shouting “I’ll see you later” without even turning my head. I had no plans to buy anything, just to look was enough for me. In October. I could not have been happier.

So anyway, since then, I’ve been wondering just why do I love the Christmas season so much? I say season as it’s not just the one day that gets me, but the planning (I love a good list as Ben will tell you) and the preparations. For me, I think it’s partly the aesthetics of the season (everything is just so much more beautiful at Christmas) and partly the the traditions. I love the the familiarity of old traditions, but I also love the excitement of creating new ones.

Ben and I were a family of two, for nearly 14 years and in that time we developed a couple of our own Christmas traditions. For example:

Decorating the tree before 12th December – kind of one I borrowed from my mum, but the tree must always be up in time for my birthday on 12th December. Decorating it usually involves me getting giddy with excitement and an argument about the lights. One thing it does not involve is tinsel. Despite my yearly protestations, Ben refuses to have tinsel on the tree – he thinks it looks tacky. And I married this man?

Starbucks list writing – we always used go to Starbucks to write the Christmas present list in about mid November. You cant beat a notebook, a cosy corner and a large Toffee Nut Latte to fill you with generous spirit.

Christmas chutney – making and giving chutney started one year when we were super broke, but still wanted to give presents to family and friends. It went down so well I’ve done it almost every Christmas ever since. I try and do a different recipe each year and October finds me looking through my Preserves and Pickles book. Chutney is culinary alchemy!

!cid__9FBE3D2837FA9D48850F8F60D8FD43C9@iqcloud — Chutney Choosing

Buying a new decoration – when we started out we had no Christmas decorations and very little money. We bought some cheap basics and a couple of really nice decorations, with the understanding we’d add to our collection as the years went by. Thankfully the red and silver cheap basics have now gone, but the mismatch of colours and styles grows every year and I love it. We often try to buy the decoration(s) from somewhere we’ve been that year. I’ve got a Welsh dragon from Swansea, a wooden Christmas Tree from Paris, a silver Alamo from, well, the Alamo (San Antonio, TX) and a patriotic state of Texas wearing a Santa hat from Dallas!

1338_53278405615_330_n — And you thought I was joking?

These are Savage Family traditions pre-Oscar or BtB (Before the Boy), but the question is how will things change now we have him, particularly as he becomes old enough to understand what the hell is going on? I’m so excited to create new traditions with him and for him. So for example I plan to buy him a Christmas Tree decoration every year, so when he leaves home he has a box of decs ready and waiting. When he’s old enough we’ll let him choose it (however awful it may be – kids have weird taste!), it will go on the tree that year and then be added to his collection. But what else will we do? I’d love to do something that has a particular smell. Scent can evoke such a hugely powerful memory and I’d love him to be able to smell something as an adult and be reminded of awesome family Christmases with us.

Then I guess we have to address our Christmas Mythology? Will we call the big man, Santa or Father Christmas? Will we leave Sherry & Mince pies or Whiskey & Flapjack (the best way to my husbands heart by a mile!)? Will I tell my child that if he gets out of bed and sees Father Christmas that he will take all the presents away, like I was told, to keep me in my room? Do we tell him anything at all? I think Ben would be quite happy to debunk the myth fairly early on. But I want to create just a little magic in Oscar’s life while he still believes. My most precious Christmas memory from my childhood was standing at the top of the stairs aged 5, with my mum and my brother, while my dad went downstairs to “see if Father Christmas had been”. He pretended to have walked in on The Big FC and I heard them have a conversation. I was beside myself at the top of the stairs, partly because my dad was talking to Santa and partly because I was scared Santa would take the presents away, having been ‘seen’. It was pure magic.

So yeah, yeah I’m getting carried away and I’d love to be this perfect mummy who creates the most memorable Christmases ever. But chances are Oscar’ll have a blast whatever I do. What kid being given new stuff and sugar doesn’t? I’m definitely excited about “doing” Christmas with the boy though, teaching him the familiar and developing the new, as the years go by.

One day, I just hope he’ll turn to his other half and say “because we never had tinsel when I was growing up, that’s why!”

Yeah, this is mine…

10/09/2013 by MrsSavageAngel Leave a Comment

I’m not a closed book kind of person. Most of my friends would agree (I hope) that I’m fairly open with them. I think I’m happy to share most things (although I sometimes find it hard, we know that!) However I have been overwhelmed with the ease at which I have been able to share my birth story. Oscar’s birth was a deeply personal and intimate experience in my life and yet I have been completely open about it, often with completely strangers, offering up information I would never have dreamt of sharing before I had him. And do you know why? It’s because everybody does it! As mothers, we seem to wear our birth stories like badges of honour. And what’s wrong with that?

So if you’ve heard this already I’m sorry – but here it comes again!

My pregnancy was pretty text book really. I didn’t have morning sickness, although I did spend a few weeks feels nauseous ALL BLOODY DAY! Morning my arse! Anyway that cleared up at 10 weeks, and everything else was pretty standard.

I was under a consultant from day one, partly due to my high BMI, partly due to my epilepsy, so was monitored fairly closely. I never had any problems and the gestational diabetes and larger than average baby everyone kept predicting, never materialised. Take that obstetric generalisations!

It was at a routine midwife appointment at 35 weeks, that they noticed that my blood pressure, which had been falling throughout my pregnancy had suddenly shot up. This lead to a week in hospital and much worry about suspected pre-eclampsia and whether this baby would make full term. An NCT friend had been diagnosed with severe pre-eclampsia the week before and had to have her baby delivered by emergency C-Section at 35 weeks, so I knew all too well how serious this situation could be.

I could write a whole post about this experience, but as this a birth story, I’ll leave that for another day. Suffice to say that after a week of trying, the hospital managed to stabilise my BP with drugs. I practically cheered as we left, with my tiny baby still safely tucked away.

I went home and started maternity leave. I tided, I hoovered the ceilings, I slept on the sofa. I had a week of peaceful time and I loved it.

At the end of that week I had a routine appointment with my consultant, the wonderful and no nonsense Lesley Roberts at RSCH. She took my BP, looked up at me, and said “I’m sorry Lisa, you can’t go home today”. I burst into tears. I was taken back up to the same ward I’d just escaped, given more meds and resolved to try and get this sorted. When they checked me they said I was no where near ready to give birth, so wouldn’t attempt an induction. However, my BP would just not play ball and kept rising, spiking in the middle of the night when I was asleep of all things!

I felt so frustrated. This baby was 38 weeks gestation, plenty cooked enough and here I was taking more and more drugs that seemed to do nothing. Eventually, a canny midwife saw just how frustrated I was and took me aside. Quietly, she told me that if an induction was really what I wanted, then the next time I saw the doctor I was to cry. Simple as that. So, I did as she said and do you know, it only bloody worked! It seemed getting emotional worked where being rational had failed. I was given a pessary to start things off.

I wont bore you with the next two days, as very little happened. I got some twinges, like very mild contractions, that then stopped. On day three they decided that if they could break my water I’d be able to start a proper Scyntocinon induction. Only, they didn’t tell me this is what they were doing. I thought it was odd that they gave me a gas and air pipe for an examination. Ahh then I knew why! This wasn’t an examination! It was the most painful thing I have ever experienced. They were right, he was still really high up and to reach him felt like I was being ripped apart. I went into a zone, where I felt like I put myself on a shelf and could only hear every third word being said. It was awful and amazing all at the same time. Then I heard her say ‘no’ she couldn’t do it, so I took myself of the shelf. Then she said ‘oh hang on’ and I felt a whoosh as my waters broke. Finally we were getting this party started.

I was hooked up to the drip and given an epidural, as induced labour can come on very hard and very fast. Although not in my case. I was there for 24 hours and he moved a centimetre. Seriously! I knew it was looking dodgy when the midwife suggested at 3 in the morning that it was best not to eat any more. I think we could all see the writing on the wall. The induction I’d cried for had failed. It would be a C section now. I was a tiny bit gutted as I really wanted to go through the whole process we’d talked about at such length in my NCT group, but actually I just wanted this baby with me and my BP to settle down. Our safety was more important than any beautiful ideal image at that moment and I have never regretted that.

At 9am on 2nd April (yeah I know – I think Oscar hung on for fear of being born on April Fools Day!) it was declared that an emergency section was needed and I was in theatre within 20 minutes. I remember the table I was lying on was at an angle so I felt like I was going to fall off. I remember the anaesthetist running ice down my shoulder to see if the spinal block had kicked in yet. I remember Adele and Otis Reading coming on the radio. I remember feeling like I was being jumped up and down on but feeling no pain (which was weird in the extreme). I remember hearing him cry before I felt them lift him fully clear of me. I remember crying and crying and crying with relief. That he was here, that he was strong and that I’d managed to do it. This body I had so much hatred for had kept him safe.

They weighed him and gave him to me, but I couldn’t see his face so had to give him to Ben, so I could take a proper look. He was just so beautiful.

Then they took him away for tests and I started to feel sick. I managed to shout out in time and the quick thinking anaesthetist whacked some anti-emetic in my line. I felt better, but my mouth was unbelievably dry. I was given ice to suck. And then I started to pass in and out of consciousness. I was told after I was in surgery for two hours. I thought I’d been in there less than half that.

Next thing I knew we were back in the delivery suit and beyond happy. All the worry was gone, he was here and he was really strong. Much smaller than anyone had expected at 6lb 6oz, but perfect. 10/10 on both APGAR tests and cute as a button. Although I do recall thinking – blimey hasn’t he got enormous thumbs! He still has today, along with his huge feet!

And that’s my birth story. Obviously I could go on and on. About my time in hospital after the birth, about how my BP practically dropped over night, about the trouble we had with feeding. But I think I’ll leave it there. For now.

427885_10150772195690616_1316519718_n — Me & Him