Better than sleep

Browsing the new Mummy books B.L. (before Louis), I remember being horrified when I read that most new parents miss out on between 600 and 800 hours sleep in the first year of their baby's life. Imagine how horrified I'd have been had I'd known then that that figure was actually conservative. I reckon I'm down at least double that amount, if not more. 

Which probably explains the anomaly that the past 360 or so days seems to have aged me far more than they've aged Louis. He only looks one year older; I look.... no, I won't go there. But despite time marching swiftly on, I'm less worried about the coming 12 months than the ones just gone and it's all down to something our friend Colette said during our recent trip to Geneva. (And yes, the Geneva anecdote justifies the pics.) 

She told me that as a new second-time Mum she actually felt older than she'd felt for the past couple of years hanging out with their four-year-old, Noah. Yup, unlikely as it sounds, apparently once you get through the early parenthood stresses it's possible just to relax and enjoy being a young family. With that in mind, bring on the next 12 months. That said, I really can't imagine losing out on another 1,000-plus hours sleep.

En famille by Lac Leman

Bebe plage

Il marche aux quatre pieds - straight into the lac

Walking boy

A young Colette and Noah

Seeking a Third Way

The box says it all

If Barack Obama can do it in the White House, then why can't I in Louis' (alright, alright, my) bedroom? I'm talking about finding a Third Way, a path between left and right, or in Momspeak, a compromise between the ultra liberal, baby-led approach to parenting, and the rigid, cry-it-out-they're-only-a-baby option. Specifically, I'm seeking a Third Way between the frankly unsustainable 24-hour drinking culture that Louis regards as the norm and the frankly unpalatable alternative of a hysterical baby who refuses to fall asleep on his own, no matter how long I leave him alone in his crib. 

The problem I have, as regular BWB readers know all too well, is that Louis is not one of life's natural sleepers. And that's putting it mildly. Even as a newborn, he was barely sleeping 12 out of every 24 hours. Now, at nearly 11 months, he's down to about eight hours a night - and that's only when he treats himself (and us) to a mini lie in. He's barely sleeping two hours at a stretch, which is taking its toll on us all. When he wakes, as he's due to round about now, it isn't playing he's after, but me and as much liquid refreshment as he can slurp. 

Ask anyone (or any book) how to cure him of his nighttime Mum addiction and they'll all say the same thing: I have to leave him alone, to cry, until he realises I'm not coming back and learns to settle himself back to sleep. The common term for finding this baby epiphany is "breaking him", the idea, I guess, being "to break" him of his need for me and my milk supply. Or "to break" him of his habit of using me as his sleeping crutch. But what if I don't want a broken baby?

The problem I have is that I refuse to believe that the only way to teach him to be a man in such matters is to leave him to cry. He hates it, I hate it, end of story. I know all the theories: leave him for progressively longer stretches, popping in in between times to reassure him he hasn't been completely abandoned. You can do this from the doorway or next to his crib but one thing you're not supposed to do is to pick him up. Stick to this brutal regime and, all the books/blogs/websites/parental confidantes merrily assert, it will do the trick. 

But what if I don't want to? What if I simply can't? Can't endure his hysterical cries for more than five minutes at a push that is? What if I want to find another, more humane solution to our plight, a so-called Third Way of parenting that transcends the liberal/fascist Mummy party lines that so many of my co-Mummies seem to follow? 

Well, I'm six weeks into my concerted attempt to find that illusive Third Way. I can do all the back patting and head stroking I like, but as soon as he's anywhere near his crib, he's utterly miserable. He can even be fast asleep on my shoulder, only to wake up the second I lean over his bed. Which means that so far my mission is failing miserably. Where Obama is managing to cross the Democrat/Republican divide, I seem to be stuck in the lefty lactivist camp of feeding on demand and hang the consequences. 

Any suggestions welcome. As long as they aren't just to shut his bedroom door and buy some better earplugs. 

Louis juggling

So, this weekend marks a year since I stopped working. Hard to believe. I'd ask where it went, but I guess the giant baby trashing our house instead of jiggling about in my tummy pretty much answers that one. Scarily this means I have to go back to work all too soon. (I never did take that redundancy cheque.) Which inevitably poses the thorny question of what to do with Louis? 

With Louis-sitting volunteers pretty thin on the ground and nannies a no go because they earn more than me, the options appear to be nursery, nursery or nursery. Or at least they did until we actually went to visit one. I'm trying not to rule it out in my head in case we end up having to dump Louis there, but let's just say I'm less than enthusiastic. Even DJ was barely lukewarm: he took particular umbrage at the fact the nursery styles itself as offering "family solutions". 

What to do? One other possibility would be DJ attempting to juggle his shifts so that one of us would always be home with Louis. Pros to that scenario: no nursery and a whole heap more cash to spend on nappies each month. Cons: DJ and I would be like ships in the night - quite literally. It would be tough, but, as a post on the New York Times parenting blog this week shows, we'd hardly be breaking new ground by sacrificing our time for the sake of Louis. Blogger Lisa Belkin calls the scenario (as highlighted in an article in The Oregonian) "the complex dance [of] modern parenting". 

With nurseries costing up to £85 a day (and that doesn't even include nappies), many families have no option but to seek an alternative when it comes to working out who might look after Junior. You'd think the Government might like to help out a little more - after all, the taxes I pay on my salary help to plug the gaping hole in the public finances albeit in a minor fashion - but apparently not: the childcare vouchers they provide towards the cost will barely cover Louis' lunches. 

As for company creches, dream on. The fact that there are barely any women in senior roles in the media hardly helps but then again most professions are just as bad. Only today a Mum I know told me quite how badly her request to work part time had gone down with her employer, Barclays. And companies wonder why they get stuck just employing men?

Hanami in SE1

We missed many things leaving DC. Friends obviously but also the onset of Spring. And in DC that means just one thing: cherry blossoms. The city goes crazy for hanami - the Japanese love affair with all things floral, especially the cherry blossom that bursts forth on the trees lining the Tidal Basin. (The trees were a gift from the mayor of Tokyo in 1912.) DC being DC, it takes its hanami homage very seriously: there are parades, sushi celebrations, kimono fashion shows and more. Luckily the trees played ball and the blossoms coincided with the designated National Cherry Blossom fortnight - I hear some years they are a little less obliging. 

Now Bermondsey is no Washington and Reverdy Road is hardly the Tidal Basin but it does boast some pretty spectacular cherry trees of its own (not sure of the origin, but am fairly certain they weren't an official gift from the Japanese). Spring is a little later in London than DC so the blossoms took a little while to get going, but were all the prettier for the wait. We've apparently missed a trick though: hanami is traditionally a time for an all-day or all-night party beneath the blossom. I hardly think Bermondsey's St George's Day celebrations will pass muster. Next year perhaps.  

Happiness is a baby called Louis?

An unspoken new Mummy rule makes it okay to moan about the odd aspect of Motherhood but not okay to bemoan becoming a Mum. The former is essentially a prerequisite of any playdate, the latter suggestive that you might be suffering from the dreaded PND. 

Yet, as any new Mum knows, this Mummying lark is no picnic. Sometimes it feels like I've spent the past 10 or so months merely obsessing about one worry after another. Will he want to breastfeed? Will he want to stop breastfeeding? Will he like his buggy? Will he sleep in his crib? Will he ever sleep through the night? You get the drift. Just about the only things that keeps you sane are those ray-of-sunshine moments that punctuate the angst: the smiles, the "Ma-mas", the giggles, the cuddles, the milestones. 

Daddy J's take on it all is that parenthood is all about extremes. The highs are higher but the lows are lower. And you can find pleasure in the simplest things. Who knew a bath could be so much fun? Or you could be so pleased just to make it out for a coffee? 

As the first year anniversaries approach - I stopped working a year ago this weekend, we moved house nearly a year ago, Louis's first birthday is just around the corner - I can't seem help looking back at what life used to be like. And then wondering if I'm happier with the one I have now. Or not. According to a piece in last week's Times stating that kids won't make you happy I'm not. And apparently it's only going to get worse: researchers at the Paris School of Economics found life satisfaction rose during pregnancy and year one of parenthood only to plummet for the next four years. 

The article concluded: "Children give us many things - raising them can be both rewarding and meaningful - but an increase in our average daily happiness is probably not among them." The author claims we "should celebrate" that fact but declines to explain how. I guess that's why ultimately there's no roadmap to being a parent. As with our roadtrip, presumably the journey will be worth the effort but I guess a few wrong turns are inevitable. And with that, I'd better go and try to calm an irate Louis who at 10.30pm sounds like he's had enough of his crib for one night.