Coke too

So we get to the pub. Even before we sit at the table, we have both checked our mobile phones. Of course, we have no reception. Either of us. Of course, we don’t because we’re not paranoid enough already. No reception on the phone guarantees one thing – that we will check our phones incessantly for the next two hours… because that will improve the amount of reception we have.

But its fine because they have the phone number for the pub too. And the phone apparently works as the landlady is just using it. Excellent, we can relax. WHat shall we have to eat? Hmmm, three courses seems like it might take a while to arrive- the pubs busy and the food is freshly cooked so, you know, lets just go for starters and main course. We agree and the waitress takes our order. I glance around the pub and take a sip of coke. Hmmm, landlady still on the phone but you know, hey, she’s working tonight so how long is she going to be. I check my mobile phone again – still no messages, and no reception.

We chat … about our son. I’m sure we used to talk about other stuff but he seems like the natural point of conversation. And the first course arrives after what feels like an age. Hmmm, delicious. I appear to have finished mine in a nanosecond.

And the landlady is still on the phone. Jesus, sweetheart, this better be some sick relative or a long lost cousin. You’re supposed to be working.

The main course seems to be taking a while. Tap tap tap. Hmmm, has time slowed down? 8:24pm. Have we really only been here an hour- it feels like… oh…. forever. Tap tap tap. I wonder how he’s doing? If he wakes up, it usually about now. I hope he’s not screaming or upset. Perhaps we should phone and check. Hmmm, perhaps. Still no reception though. And the stupid, lazy landlady is still talking incessantly on the phone. What if they’re trying to get through and can’t? What if they tried and couldn’t and are now on our way to A&E? They would have stopped off here… unless it was an emergency.

Oh my god.

What have I become?

Better half talks rational sense into me. We finish and pay. And leave. And I only drive slightly over the speed limit to get home.

Turns out, he’s fine. Hasn’t stirred. She checked on him (again) ten minutes ago and he’s sleeping… like a baby.

I feel ridiculous. And I have indigestion. And as it turns out, a great babysitter.

Coke

SO, we’ve decided to go out. It was Better Half’s idea and we’re not going far. But we are going – just the two of us, for the first time… without the wee man. Even writing that sentence, my heart is pounding slightly and I feel a bit nervous. My brain goes in to over drive. What if he wakes up and screams and the babysitter can’t comfort him? What if the babysitter is deaf and can’t hear him screaming and he gets so agitated he hurts himself? What if the babysitter falls asleep? or has the tv on too loud? What if he needs to go to hospital and the babysitter can’t drive? WHat if the babysitter can drive but doesn’t have a car seat in the car? What if she drives like a loonie? What if A&E is overcrowded and there are no doctors who can see him? What if its meningitis? Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.

I can’t go.

I can go. I need to stop being ridiculous. It’s only the pub in the next village. It’s less than a mile. We’re driving so we can get home if we need to. I’m not drinking. This is probably a mistake because I’ll mainline Coke (the drink, not the drug) all night and end up bouncing off the walls AND paranoid. Awesome combination.

So we put the wee man to bed and then wait 45 minutes in case he wakes up again. He doesn’t. We write down our mobile phone numbers in big simple numbers, as well as the pub phone number, and the name of it’s landlord and leave them one of the pubs business cards so they know the address and what it looks like if they have to drive there in the dark. And we tell the baby sitter how to work the sterilising machine, the bottle warmer, the dvd player, the sky box, the kettle, the baby monitor; how to lock the back and front doors; how to unlock the back and front doors; where the teabags, milk, sugar are kept; who our neighbours are; and on and on until she looks at us with cross eyes.

And then we leave the house. And leave our darling tiny bundle with the first aid qualified, non deaf, insomniac babysitter with the clean driving license and the baby seat. To be continued….

Amazon woman

Damn you, Amazon. Damn your ease of use, especially with only one hand on a smart phone. Damn your wide range of enticingly named and reviewed books. And damn you for your One Click, financially fatal, way of purchasing.

Amazon, in short, you are leading me to financial ruin in the early hours of the morning while feeding bimp. By purchasing kindle edition books that I don’t have a hope in hells chance of ever actually having time to read. But they sound soooooo lovely. And I’m a book addict, with a sleepless bump, a wifi connection and a smart phone.

I’m doomed.

Attachment Theory

Attachment Theory is a psychological theory about parenting styles and how small children react and adapt to them. The child’s behaviour as a response to the caregiver’s parenting style. This is an awesome website that explains it in basic terms Attachment Theory.

This explains the behaviour of the child to the primary caregiver. It explains perhaps why young babies get separation anxiety when the mother or father or whoever is not nearby.

It doesn’t however explain why I behave like an idiot when I’m away from him. Abandoning him at nursery or going back to work. Just traumatic. For me. He, well, he barely notices my absence, especially at nursery- look at these new exciting friends to play with, look at all these toys, look at this lovely person who is going to feed me new food and let me wade elbow deep through flour and water and sand pits, look at how tired and how deeply I sleep, look at how covered in crap my clothes are by the end of the day.

And I know this is good and I know this is healthy for him – to socialise, to play with other children. And he is obviously happy when he goes there and when I pick him up. But it is the hardest thing I’ve done and all I can think of is every generation of women before me looking at me and saying- how can you outsource rearing your child in that way? Why would you pay someone else to look after him?

And there are lots of reasons why you could and perhaps should and lots of reasons why you shouldn’t or won’t. Some of it is necessity – earning an income being one rather important one. Some of it is psychological – a short mental break for me, a chance to socialise and adapt to being around others for him. But whatever the logical arguments are, I feel like I have a chasm in my chest when I walk away and leave him there. And the further I go away from him, the more I notice it and the bigger it gets.

First day back

Sorry for the lack of posts. I’ve been contemplating my return to work and then actually returning to work so its been a tough few days.

And by actually returning to full time work, the number of posts I write is going to reduce, simply through lack of time.

I’ve still so much to talk about though so fear not, its not going to stop completely.

Thank you to everyone who got in contact to say good luck. Day one done.