Moofing the tumbly, and other nonsense…

I’m not ashamed to admit I love babytalk.  Saul, Fig and I have a whole repertoire of our own family terms for things, which I know is completely normal and everyone does it – I guess the depth of the madness is judged not by the fact that we do it at all, but by the silliness of the words invented.  We have our favourites, and our most-used.  Pretty early on, Fig’s mouth became his moof.  This quickly became a verb: when mummy kisses him, thus putting her moof on him, she is moofing him.  See?  There’s grammatical logic.

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Windypops!

There is nothing that has broken my heart so much as seeing my little Fig screaming in pain with trapped wind.  He pulls his legs up, then stretches them out and arches his back; his little face goes cherry tomato red and the tiny white knuckles of his clenched fists punch furiously at the air around him.  He cries and yelps, then it eases for a moment and he looks at me accusingly before it starts again.  This can go on for a long time.  Hours sometimes.  The pain often wakes him, and he can be inconsolable, and impossible to settle again.  I stand or sit holding tightly onto this little being who fights me as though I’m causing the tummy ache.  My own helplessness has brought me to tears on more than one occasion.

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Who and why am I?

Oh my Lord, another baby blog!  Is there anything at all that ‘Baby, cradle and all…’ can possibly add to the genre that doesn’t already exist, probably in a better written and more informed form?  Well, no, very likely not.  But there are one or two things that are different about my experience as a first-time parent, that might be useful to some people.  Firstly, I am old – nay, ancient – for a first-time mum.  I am 44, nearly 45.  Secondly, I thought I’d never have a baby, as I had a serious case of fibroids.  For those of you that don’t know, a fibroid is a benign tumour that forms on the inside, outside or within the walls of, the uterus.  They are very common, and can range in size from that of a pea to that of a grapefruit, but often are not a massive issue.  Mine, however, were.  For years, they had caused me excessive bleeding during my periods, extreme cramps, and almost hospitalisation levels of anaemia. I had also, despite trying, never been able to get pregnant.  I had an operation to remove those on the inside of my uterus, but that had no effect on my ability to conceive.  So I then had a huge operation to remove the rest – I was in theatre for four and a half hours, and six fibroids were removed, two of them the size of oranges.  I was off work for six weeks, which led up to Christmas 2015, and things went back to normal in January.

Except they didn’t.  Because in February – yes, that soon – I fell pregnant.  My partner Saul and I couldn’t believe it.  The operation had worked, and despite my age, I had managed to conceive.  We were so happy.

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