Uh-oh!

Appropriate it seems that on the day Grace masters the linguistics of 'uh-oh!', I find myself peering down a 13 week long tunnel to what will be my first road race... Without dwelling on the nitty gritty of this milestone, if you set me off with the start gun now, I'd be stopping in a little under two miles. Rounded down, I make that a good 4 miles short.

Uh-oh indeed.

Now for those who know me well, running is something one does only to catch the ice-cream van as it pulls away with my chocolate oyster still tucked nicely in his refrigerated tuck-box. I am not a runner. Nor am I particularly interested in exercise or fitness in general. I like my food and lots of it. Generally I dish up healthy family eats as we have a marathon runner and a toddler at the table. And as much as I love to eat healthy food, I like my portions big, and I like a free rein to nibble away at something 'naughty' like chocolate, ice-cream, chips and dips, or whatever the fancy might be.

Step forward the new Heather.

(Yeah right!)

Instead I send her substitute to the podium. Fitness mad, burning calories like crazy and training training training to get a personal best when taking part in Jane Tomlinson's Run for All in York, 13 weeks from now on August 4th.

(The personal best won't be hard, it's my first).

I also want to shift this baby-weight (*read combination of baby-weight and over-indulgence weight*) once and for all. I can't blame it on the baby forever, she's weighing in at 1 stone 8 pounds herself, roughly what this Mummy needs to lose. Holy crapola!

So what's the plan Stan? Well, Stan says I need to kick my butt into gear, set a weekly goal and jolly well stick to it come hell or high water. So here it is. I'm going to start running again TOMORROW. Watch this space for proof. I'm aiming to run 3 days a week minimum and although this will be short distances to begin with (starting at 1.5 miles again), I will be working this back up in the right direction slowly. I'm also sticking with Jillian Michael's 30 day shred DVD which is giving me 20 mins intense work out every night before bed. I'd also like to commit to one swim this week and one yoga session just to mix it up a bit.

I have my weigh in tonight. I've been pretty much on it this week, stuck to plan, eaten moderately, and only tucked into the biscuits once and even that didn't really tip me over the syn count too badly. I'll check in with an update soon, wish me luck!


Let the fitness training commence!

You can stick it here!

Making the hundred metre dash from the car park to the Dentist's in pelting rain, I arrived at the counter dishevelled, wet and a little hoarse for clutching a squirming toddler under my arm. We're early, so I have time to catch my breath, straighten my hair and practice sucking in my muffin top before prancing up the stairs to see Mr Lane, Rick, my long-standing guilty pleasure of a Dentist. We're on first name terms.

We go back eight years me and Mr Lane, then the new graduate, nervously fumbling around in my mouth with his blue rubber gloves on. I looked forward to the visits. I'm now on a 12 month recall and I found myself sucking in air as I step into the room to see the last year has not been kind to Rick. Instead of gazing lustily up into perky young eyes while he prods around the corners of my mouth with his rubber pinkies, I am transfixed by the gloriously middle-aged hairs sprouting precosiously out of his slender nose.

I'm more than a little miffed. My guilty-pleasure is no more.

Instead of lingering in the chair for one last poke, I hop up quicker than you can say 'married', and beckon for Grace to come to sit in the chair. Her feet appear stuck to the floor with toffee dropped by the last patient no doubt. No amount of coaxing can move her closer to the Hairy One, so we coax her with a sticker.

It's her first time.

For me it's rubber, for my daughter apparently it's stickers. The bate works and she points to her chest, gesturing, 'you can stick it here'.

She won't smile for him, but she does do a little lion-roar when he makes the trade which shows off her pearly whites. He's happy with that, he says come back in six months.

I'll remember the day Grace first visited the dentist. I realised it's not only the dentist that has weathered over the last 12 months, it is us too. Matt the Husband has just pointed out that he too has nose hairs. Soon his ears will grow,  his forehead will rise and he too shall become older. As for Grace and me, we girls aren't getting any younger.

I can't believe my little girl has endured her first visit to the dentist, albeit without a smile on her face...

Coffee love

On a wet and windy Wednesday I wake to the sound of a toddler coughing. Sounds very chesty. She's ok, just a bit subdued so I prep her with Calpol and Tixylix and pack her off to nursery with not one but three Mr Rabbit's and a dummy permafixed to her chops. Comfort in soft-toys.

She's clingy when I drop her off. The first time since moving up into the Imps Room that we've had no tears and I wonder if today she just doesn't have the energy? I know the feeling. I wave goodbye, she ignores me sulking, and I leave feeling decidedly unloved. It's me with the separation anxiety today.

I've had a bad back these last few days so I've not been able to pick Grace up for a cuddle or give her much attention as just moving has been so uncomfortable. I'm missing my baby girl. I'm going to treat myself to a soothing cup of coffee. Like a big hug.

The Forbidden Fruits of the Vending Machine

I am weak. Metaphorically speaking.

I can arm wrestle the best bloke in the office with my left hand, but ask me to say no to chocolate or a packet of crisps after I have just scoffed a slimming world syn-free lunch, and I'm there with skates on. Super fast ones.

I'm sat at my desk, stuffed, having eaten a huge portion of leftover stew, an apple and a banana. I'm not hungry. I'm not even that bored (that comes later in the week generally). I do not need more food.

Consider then the reality of me wearing a pre-baby bikini in a body that is carrying 21 pounds of excess weight in just four short weeks. Postage stamps on watermelons. The prospect should send me screaming to the salad aisle. Why then, do I find myself excavating my purse for coppers to stop my body-brilliant plans dead in their tracks by shopping for the forbidden fruits of the vending machine? It's like I want to fail.

I started up running a few weeks ago, getting out three to four times a week for two miles. Not far by any stretch but enough to get my weight loss moving in the right direction. I've been so excited about getting back to my weight pre-Grace, even signing up for Daily Mile which tracks calories burned and miles run.

I started running to lose weight, not to fund more eating. What am I to do?

Eat chocolate. It's great for the soul.

I'm clean

Fifteen months after being referred to the doctor by the Health Visitor for post-natal depression I've been signed off. At my appointment yesterday I felt such a weight lift off my shoulders knowing I would no longer be taking support from Citalopram to help me navigate the hardest job I've taken on in my life.

It's such a shame that there is still so much ignorance of post-natal depression (and depression in general) - you'll have heard the ads on the TV and radio encouraging us not to judge those of us who suffer with it. I was therefore amazed to be sat in the waiting room at the doctors a while back to bear witness to unabashed ignorance alive and kicking, and from NHS staff. A real kick.

Minding my own business waiting for my turn, I'm half listening to the conversations of others, as you do. Tuning in and out to snippets of something and nothing. Then I focus:

"I don't get all this fuss they make over post-natal depression." said one Receptionist to the other. She's in her fifties.

"Me either. In our day we just got on with it, didn't we?"

"We did love, we did. I mean, you have to don't you? No use crying and feeling sorry for yourself."

I couldn't believe it, and to talk about it in full earshot of the waiting room. Hell, my blood was boiling and I wanted to get up and go and have a little word in their ear telling them to mind the topics of conversations they choose to have with no regard. I didn't. Instead I bit my tongue and mentioned it to my GP. I can't blame them - they're only talking about what they know. It just frustrated me.

PND for me was nothing to do with crying and feeling sorry for myself.

1) I felt I failed in childbirth - first I was induced and then I hit inertia at 4cm and had an emergency caesarian some hours later.

2) I felt I failed in breastfeeding - the one natural thing I could do for my newborn, and I couldn't. I was pushed from pillar to post by various people, the midwife, the health visitor, the breastfeeding support line. None of them diagnosed thrush in the nipple to be the cause of the excrutiating pain and it was only by chance I diagnosed myself and got treatment from the GP. By which time the skin on my nips had sloughed off completely making breastfeeding utterly impossible. I lasted 10 days and I still remember the nightmare of this experience clear as day.

3) I gained a beatiful child, perfect in every way. I lost my identity. My career. My routine. Unchartered territory that left me feeling resentment and dispair.

So next time I hear someone missing the point about PND, I won't be a shrinking violet and say nothing. I'll be up at that reception desk in a shot to put them straight. And so should you.

I have a new life now, a different identity, a new routine and it's far more fulfilling than my past life. Having Grace is more rewarding than anything else I've encountered and the rewards I get from being a Mother trump my old life hands down. Totally. After all, my Outlook Calendar and To-Do List never gave me a 'cuggle' or gave me a look that says simply 'I love you'.

Do you pass the Bic Test?

Casting a sideways glance at myself in the mirror last night, I realised enough is enough. I have less than four months until I shall be bikini-clad on the beach in Turkey and the thought of this currently puts the fear of God into me like nothing else. I have thighs wobblier than Smart Price jelly and my tummy, now that's in serious need of some work. Put bluntly, there are enough folds in my pouch that I could discretely nurture a small wallaby, possibly two.

So I go for a jog this morning, me and my belly. Just a short run in the dark with the dog before work. Apart from walking most of it, I'm out of puff and my hips are aching like I'm done a marathon in the bedroom with an A-lister. It's a start I suppose and I leave the house for work feeling enthused and proud of my efforts.

Arriving at work, still stiff and suffering, I'm starkly reminded of what I am striving to achieve... my workmate Ali is sat at her desk with a flat midriff and pert boobs. My boobs went south a long time ago, and while Ali claims her 50 year old twins are pert enough to pass the Bic Test I'm left feeling dismayed that mine would fail without a second thought. Now the Bic Test I'm told, is a marker for a pert chest - if you can hold a biro under your boob, it's sagged. Ali reckons she has a 100% drop rate. I'm jealous. Never mind carrying one pen, I could probably manage a whole pencil case, worse still my handbag. I'm mortified. I've got 15 years on Ali and yet her tits peer out of her top like she's just had implants and follow me round the office like the eyes on an antiquated portrait on the wall of a stately home. They're always looking at me.
Taunting me. Look at me!

I'm off to cry into my tea.

And biscuits.

Poopageddon

Hands up, who let Grace gobble all the satsumas? Grace has just crapped in the bath while she was having her hair washed.

Getting into the festive spirit, Grace has released her own version of deck the bath with bowels so holy. Totally grossed out, I'm only marginally less peeved to see the dog has wet herself on the sofa. And she was doing so well (I think we were up to "my name is Daisy and I've had 28 dry nights...")

I'm quietly grateful that Grace has the trots now and not on Christmas Day when my Turkey cooking skills might have been called into question.

I've given up trying to get a urine sample from Grace - she's much happier, save the look on her face when she farted and followed through, and there is no longer the smell of ketones on her breath.

I must confess the title of this post is not home grown - I read a parenting blog by a mother called Megan in the USA, where she very comically recalls the time her toddler pooped in the swimming pool at an exclusive hotel. The joys of being a parent are endless it seems!

Anyway, drama over, I'm getting comfy on the dry side of the sofa, Grace is in bed sleeping with a rumble-tum gut, the Husband is in the bathroom cleaning out the aftermath, and soon I shall be sinking a bottle of beer to rekindle the Christmas cheer that flew out the window, albeit briefly, when Grace and Daisy-woof conspired to wreck the illusion of peace.

A wee problem

"You want me to go wee wee in a parachute? No chance"

and with that, she took Mr Rabbit and her cup of water up to bed.

Ketosis

Poorly Grace lately. No sooner has she recovered from her ear infection, teething and a snotty nose with strings to rival a large orhestra, Grace has developed something else.

Very smelly wee. Very - eugh!

Drinking lots and her breath smells of ketones - a sweet smell which can indicate abnormalities in her metabolism. Anyway, we've been given a plastic device from the Doctors that looks reminiscent of a Parachute to get a wee sample.

Fun tonight me thinks!

RUBBISH. In capitals!

A week off work together as a family. Brilliant autumn sunshine, crisp mornings and claret coloured sunsets set amidst Thetford forest. Sounds wonderful, doesn't it?

My back went on Sunday morning, before we even left home. I was carrying Grace on my hip doing jobs in the kitchen, as you do and I could feel my lower back start to give way. Calling Matt the Husband to take Grace from me, he carried on what he was doing, reminding me that one time I carried her 'all the way round the garden centre without any trouble'.

Never mind that was four months ago when Grace the sack of potatoes was many pounds lighter.

A comedy scene, my back gave way almost on cue, I'm on my hands and knees in the kitchen, searing pain. And Grace still clinging to my hip while Matt the Husband retracts his neck and asks what he can do to help.

Fast forward till teatime, we're done in A&E. I'm doped up on Valium to relax the muscle spasm, a handful of painkillers with the promise that the old ruptured ligament injury from 16 years ago when I was but a youthful teen has popped again and I'm in for a rough ride. Joy.

I hobbled to bed that night, bent in half like an old man, unable to stand up straight, and slept like a log. Valium is my new best friend. Monday morning and a four hour car ride to Norfolk and I'm more crooked by the time I get there than Salman Butt the Pakistani cricketer. The rest of the week is much the same, the only difference being I ran out of valium and my sleep is more sporadic. Matt the Husband says he knows 'something' that will help me sleep with a wink and a twinkle in his eye. I tell him shagging Fat Bastard from the Austin Powers movies would be more appealing. You get the gist of our week.

Grace is a sweetheart, walking with one hand for support now and surfing the furniture like a pro. This is easy at my parents pad - they have enough chairs in the sitting room to rival an inner city doctors waiting room.

I'm all out of words for now. I've been sat for too long and I need to stand up and stretch out. I'm walking upright again and it's feeling more comfortable. It's a ligament that connects pelvis to spine that's ropey. Lucky me :0)

As for Matt the Husband, he's been kissing arse all week. He's just told me loves me, handed me a bag of Haribos and a can of pop. He knows the way to a womans heart.

"You're a good Husband", I tell him.

"Thank you", he replies. He's relieved to have been forgiven for his part in this injury that stuffed up our week off.

"You haven't seen this blog I'm writing yet". I tell him.

Blues and Twos

Grace and I can now tick off 'ride in emergency vehicle' as one of our 100 things to do before we die.

TICK.

We arrived at A&E under our own steam with Grace presenting with a non-blanching petechial rash on her face which was gradually spreading. Based on her presentation there, we were whizzed across to the Childrens Assessment Unit at another hospital by an Ambulance going full pelt with flashers and sirens. She's been fine in herself as such, just nursery said she was cranky which is unusual for Grace and of course the rash (which they didnt notice in the dull lighting, twits). So I wasn't overly worried as meningococcal meningitis tends to present with other symptoms as well as a rash and she was just too perky to be poorly really. That said, the ambulance trip did put the wind up me a bit as I didn't really see the urgency - I would have quite happily have driven myself over from one hospital to another.

Nothing unusual on clinical ex apart from raised white blood cells indicating infection and the Paediatrician supposes she has a viral infection working it's way through as her lymph nodes and tonsils are all on the big side too. Assuming the rash doesn't spread or any other symptoms crop up, we were free to go home. Great service from the Hospital Staff although it did seem like an endless wait in a room with no mobile phone reception (with Grace asleep in the cot) for the results of the bloods to come back - an adventure lasting 7 hours no less.

One interesting little revelation - the Doc heard a definite systolic heart murmur again - when apparently we got the all clear from the PDA last year when she saw the Cardiologist at the LGI. Odd - and something to pick up with next time we see Dr Jones back home.

So sleepy Mummy and Gracie bear today after our night time escapade. She's sleeping it off with Mr Rabbit, rash still in situ, while I work the grindstone.

Thank heavens for the NHS. Very lucky we are in this country - grateful indeed x

Gracie Bear flat out in the Hospital waiting for blood results...

Mummy's little pin cushion

To vaccinate, or not vaccinate. That is the question.

Seeing as Grace was leaking like a watering can in the bath tonight, it was evident that we elected to go ahead and we didn't really think twice about it. So much controversy over the alleged link between the MMR vaccine (measles, mumps and rubella) and autism over recent years has led to pocket outbreaks, the latest to hit in Wales earlier in the summer. Since the links to autism were largely quashed the uptake of the vaccine has increased to an average 90% across the UK while protection only really exists if 95% of the population have it. In some areas (e.g. Wales), uptake of the vaccine is much lower leaving the risk of measles outbreaks which can be fatal in young children wide open. (In fact according to the BBC and the Guardian, they had an outbreak as recently as June with 30 reported cases).

Quite worrying for me is the Leeds PCT and Wakefield PCT only have 84% and 75% for both first and second dose uptake in the area - way below guidelines for safe immunisation practice. Inadequate information might be to blame, not so much about the MMR controversy, rather immunisation protocols themselves. We last saw our health visitor when Grace was 6 months. Around her first birthday I then had a letter inviting us to attend for the 3 jabs - no information was provided over for what or the reasons behind it. Yes I'm the first to google, background read and generally gen up on things so I know the low down - but evidently around 25% of our neighbours don't. And I doubt they're wittingly putting their children at risk. I did have a quick look in the 'red book' that records her health and development but I found it sorely lacking in the kind of info I wanted.

So yes, Grace has gone to bed like a bear with a sore head. She'll be fine, she's Mummy's little pin cushion - and I'm glad we made the decision to immunise.

Any thoughts?

Captain Conjunctiva!

Grace has had a run in with Captain Conjunctiva and woke up this morning looking very pirate-like. Eyes sealed shut with lots of gunk slapped on with a glue stick sent in the night from Pirate Itis. Plenty of oo-arring in the bath under rough seas as we bathed the crust off. Not much more to say on the matter, apart from plugging a childrens book written by Preston Rutt, a chap I was in a drama group with in my teens - have a gander, it's a great story available from Amazon.

Snuffle, Crackle and Pop!

Not cereal by any means. A poorly baby. Runny nose, chesty cough and the trots to round it off nicely. Poorly Grace has a chest infection and a viral bug in her gut as well. Again, Calpol is our friend, and that is followed a close second by Amoxycillin given to us by our kindly Doctor who took pity on us for the fact that Grace had done nothing more than want cuddles for the last 24 hours straight. Not even milk has raised a smile and she's at the point now where she's not producing any wet nappies. NHS Direct have been great since giving us advice on getting fluids into a reluctant baby, and we haven't done too badly with that so far. Having said that, she's not taken any milk at bedtime so we may be in for a sleepless night. Wish us luck... or I should say wish Matt the Husband luck - he does the night shift, bless him. Night all x x

Heart Murmur

Dear little Grace,

We had a follow up appointment with the Consultant at Pontefract Hospital this week. He wanted to listen to your heart again to see if the murmur that was present at birth is still audible. He confirmed it is, although he did say it is quite quiet so it may be that whatever defect is causing the sound is starting to correct itself naturally.

Your ECG trace was normal which is excellent news at it means the electrical activity of your heart is functioning as it should be and the defect is not having any effect on this measure. We now have to wait for a referral to see the Cardiologist at the Childrens Hospital in Leeds for an ultrasound scan which will tell us what defect is present. At the moment he thinks its either a PDA (Patent Ductus Arteriosus) or a VSD (Ventricular Septal Defect), both being a hole in the heart. I'll tell you more about those as and when we get a diagnosis.

Overall though he was really very pleased with your development, commenting you were thriving - gaining weight very well and being quite advanced for your age - we're very proud.

So keep on growing big and strong, and remember that your Mummy and Daddy love you x x x