Eccentric Seal

This trip origionally started life as a visit to see my parents in Colchester. But I soon realised that given the very long train jouneys involved, it would make sense to break the jouney in London. Which then meant catching up with London friends, which in turn meant extending the trip by a few days to fit it all in. Leaving us with this ludicrously ambitious 7 day itinary: Day 1: Travel to London by Virgin Pendalino- stay the night at my sisters place Day 2: Natural History Museum with Dad Sis and London Pals. Take the train back to parents place in Colchester with Dad Day 3: Chill out at Mum and Dads place Day 4: Colchester Zoo Day 5: Travel back into London, chill at sisters place Day 6: Olympic Park with my sister and London pals Day 7: Pendalino  back to Glasgow My travelling companions were a 2 and a half year Jimmy and a five week old Kirsty. Just so you know, I had intended to write some observations on the galloping pace of gentrification in London and the excelloration...

Maternity leave is over. Five mornings out of seven, I get up at six, feed Jimmy his milk and banana, wash and dress while he’s still eating and leave, shutting the door behind me; by 7.30 at the latest. I don’t think about him at work. I even try not to think about work when I’m with him. I just concentrate on doing one thing at a time, to the best of my ability.  It’s easy because I enjoy almost everything I do. I live a good life. A man’s life really. I shut the door behind me and go off to argue with tribunal judges, write training materials on the bedroom tax, talk to other adults and eat lunch while reading the paper.   I enjoy the security and pleasure of a family life without any cost to my career or my sense of self. I reckon if I was a stay at home mum, I’d want a husband like me. One, who helps in the mornings, gets home for the bedtime routine and still does a hand’s turn around the kitchen. Nick  doesn't  always agree. There are certain thin...

23 rd to 27 th of June was apparently breastfeeding awareness week. This is the kind of information you become party to in the Mumsnet Bloggers Network. Some bloggers have used this as an opportunity to post about their own breastfeeding experiences- so I thought I’d have a go. A little late, but still…. Jimmy was born by cesarean section: a little scrap of life, just 4lb 2oz, whisked away from me before I could hold him. I was bouncing off the walls from morphine, and shaky from some really dramatic blood loss when I was asked for permission for the nurses to “just give him his first feed” of formula. This I happily did, taking the “just” at face value. It wasn't like that of course and Jimmy ended up spending a full 10 days on SCBU (Special Care Baby Unit). He wasn’t even drinking formula in the end.  He was so little that any kind of sustenance made his blood sugar jump about like a metronome in an earthquake. They fed him glucose through a dri...

When I was pregnant I went along to NCT classes and got to know a small group of very nervous, very middle class people with whom I had nothing in common, except the fact that we were all having babies at about the same time. There was an effort to all stay in touch afterwards, for mutual support I suppose. So once the babies were born and the menfolk were back at work, we women began to meet up once a week. Typically we would attend some god awful baby themed event, (which the babies were indifferent towards at best) followed by a few hours of fascinating baby comparison and analysis in someone’s extremely tasteful living room. I didn’t last long. There were a few reasons for this First, they all seemed to live places completely inaccessible by public transport.  Second, I find babies on mass are slightly unnerving and sinister (the dozens of baby eyes peering out of the dark at baby cinema will live with me for a long time!) Third: Even in the short time it too...

People who know me may remember the times when I used to bring my baby to meetings with me. The seal pup has been to anarchist bookfairs, conferences on Scottish independence, planning meetings, public meetings, meetings to wind up failing leftist sects, meetings to decide the content of workshops, meetings to deliver the content of workshops. I’ve even taken him to day long meetings in which I have discussed social reproduction, in the abstract and at length, while demonstrating the reality of said social reproduction even as I spoke, positioning him on a breast or jigging him about on a hip. And through all these meeting, baby has smiled and amused himself quietly with linky toys and slept peacefully in my arms and everyone has said “What a good baby” and I have been smug and complacent and thought how easy it is to combine motherhood with activism. Well, that's all gone now.  Baby still loves meetings. He’s always happy to be taken to a meeting. It’s just t...

Its Monday, and I decide to go sort out this social services thing once and for all. They were supposed to visit on the ward and I’m so glad they didn’t. Not back on Friday, when I was all hospital gown and disorientation; Far too vulnerable. I will go and see them, instead. I still have the outfit I came in wearing, 4 days ago. I put on the trousers and boots, along with my “going home” top and the cardigan with the brooch on. They are just ordinary trousers, in a size 14. It seems incredible that I wore them the day I gave birth. How could I not have noticed something was wrong? Social Services have their office one floor down in the outpatient clinic and I breeze in, in this painstakingly put together outfit and the hospital tags still on my wrists. Susan MacDonald is a kindly looking woman in a very “public sector” jumper. In other circumstances she could have been a colleague or a friend.  She says “You’re looking very good so soon after a cesarean  ...

Finally its morning. I haven’t slept or eaten in 24 hours. I haven’t got pajamas or soap or any charge left in my mobile to ring someone and ask for these things. I have a handbag with a folder of documents, a note book and a final demand for council tax. I have a lovingly packed hospital bag sitting in my spare room, 6 miles away. Thank god for the bedside telly. If I keep it tuned to Saturday Kitchen, I can anchor my thoughts to something harmless so they don't bother me so much as they drift about. I still have to deal with the raggedy strung-out -ness of (I assume) low blood sugar though, and I’ve just been told there’s no chance of anything to eat until breakfast time. Breakfast turns out to be a small bowl of cornflakes and a bread roll which does nothing much for my hunger but a great deal for my mental health. I wait to be unhooked from my catheter and walk, shaky as a new foal, to the shower cubical to wash with borrowed soap and dry with ...

I call my Mum to let her know she has a grandchild. “When are you going to have the next one then” she jokes and I laugh. “If it’s going to be as easy as that: I’ll have another one tomorrow!” I am hopped up on Morphine and feel fantastic. Even vomiting into a cardboard cup while simultaneously hemorrhaging all over the sheets, feels good. I look down at the red stain, spreading like poppy petals over the bed and wonder how it got there. I look at my husband’s pale face and can’t think what he looks so worried about. Jimmy is upstairs getting checked out and having his first feed. This is to turn into a 10 day stay in Special Care but I don’t realise this yet. When they say they “Just need to check him over” I take it at face value. Just like I took it at face value when they “Just wanted to consult a doctor about this scan. I expect to have to start caring for him any second and even begin to wonder how it looks:  Me lying here on drugs, strangers ...

In the days that follow, I work out what has happened. It looks as though the hospital didn’t properly log our change of address and appointment letters have gone out to our old place. I relay this to the social worker when she next calls. She sounds sceptical. “So, that’s what your saying has happened?” I cut her off “That’s what I think has happened. I can find out for sure when I go in for my scan.” The scan they have finally booked me in for. The one that should have happened months ago.  I agree to pop down to the social services office afterwards. I research child protection procedure, to better understand what will happen next. I talk to people about it, especially other mothers and especially other mothers who have been investigated themselves. There is a predictable class divide. Middle class people tell me there’s nothing to worry about, it’s just a mistake and of course it can all be smoothed out. Working class mums tell me to be fearful, to p...

The light from the generous bay window is shining in onto a dozen anxious couples perched on mismatched sofas and chairs, more indicative of wealth somehow than matching ones would have been. Various clutter including a child sized viola case and sheet music has been pushed into a corner to make room for us and a jolly woman in Birkenstocks has just asked us to brainstorm sources of help for new parents. We are at an NCT  class is Glasgow's West End.  “Imagine you’re at the very end of your rope” says the Jolly Woman “Who would you go to for help” It’s a sobering thought. I have worked at the CAB, however and I pride myself on knowing what to do in most situations. I think I would know what to do. In my mind I am thinking “Sure Start Centre, GP, Health visitor, Social Services” Following my usual strategy for group activities, I do not leap in straight away with the answer. More polite to let everyone else have a go first, I think. I am immediately glad of th...

1. If he’s a bit sleepy but not actually asleep, he can go to sleep by himself in a cot, without being kept awake by the existential terror of being alone.  2. He can amuse himself for short periods of time by looking at shadows and trying to work out what they are 3. He can bat objects about with his hands 4. He can almost roll over 5. If you put him on his front he can do a sort of action man commando crawl- except without going anywhere. Then he can cry with frustration until someone picks him up.

0.00:  The living room. Changing bag, nappies and spare baby clothes are strewn about the floor. Husband is plugged into facebook. I am dozing under a blanket on the sofa. Baby has woken up in his moses basket, covered in cold wee and protesting this loudly. Husband does a nappy change as I gradually awaken, and hands me clean baby for 30 minutes of vigorous nipple sucking. 4.00:  Baby wakes needing changed and fed again. Husband changes. I feed. Discuss whether it is worth dragging our sorry carcases upstairs to sleep in a proper bed. If so, this will be the first time we’ve made it that far in three days. Decide to sleep in bed. Carry baby and moses basket upstairs and settle baby. Brush teeth and get into PJ’s. Husband sleeps. I sit awake faffing with I-Phone. Finally sleep about 5.30 8.00:  Baby wakes.  Note visit from health visitor is due today. This requires house work. Also, should make baby presentable. Take baby to bathroom and dunk...

Breastfeeding involves up to 15 minutes attempting to get a latch and you aren’t sure if the baby’s making the mistakes or you are. Getting little hands through little arm holes in vests is really really difficult. You fail to manuover a (ridiculously overlarge) pram around a tight corner and end up doing some kind of elaborate three point turn while a queue of other pedestrians build up behind you. You have no idea that getting (still ridiculously large) pram on the underground is going to be a problem until you are standing at the turnstile unable to get the pram through, hearing the platform attendant telling you to fold it up and knowing that you will never be able to work out how to do that. You spend your time thinking “is he too hot?, is he too cold?, if I put a blanket on he’ll definitely be too hot though, hang on, is he still breathing?” It takes you three days to get around to writing a blog post about being a new parent.