One

 

 

Oh dear - I'm really not very good at this at the moment! Time just seems to disappear. Laurie a month and 15 whole days ago you were one. Rufus opened most of your presents for you - because just like when he was one you didn't really have any idea what was going on.

We organised a beautiful party and naming ceremony for you and invited everyone we love - and I missed all but an hour of it. While everyone was having fun in the beautiful sunshine I was in bed having spent the night up with an upset stomach. I pulled it together to read your naming ceremony and hold a fragile court from a deck chair while trying not to wretch at the smell of the pulled pork, coleslaw, homemade trifle and Pavlova and beautiful birthday cake.

Happily no one remembers their first birthday so I don't think you'll be cross with me. It will be a funny memory and the fact that I wasn't there doesn't for one moment detract from your special day. I still managed to make a few people cry - just like at did at Rufus' naming. And as ever I meant every word. I know that thanks to the bouncy castle (and my very weak I've-been-vomiting-all-night voice a few people couldn't hear me) - so here it is again for you all and of course for your little Laurie.

 

Laurie Peter Jones – Naming Ceremony – 28^th July 2013

In this past year we have welcomed Laurie into our little family and into our hearts. We all wondered if those hearts had enough room left for another little boy – but they grew to meet you and you’ve found your own little space in our world.

You’ve grown from baby Laurie into Laurie – our youngest son and Rufus’ little brother.  And your name is very important. It is how you first came to know yourself as separate being. We chose your name, Laurie, with love and we hope it affords you a long and happy life. It means victory and of course we hope you will always be victorious.

The most special thing for us has been watching the love between you and Rufus grow. The way your smile lights up your face when he comes home; the way you have to cuddle him every morning and how Rufus says “well done Laurie” in a tone that might just have the slightest undertone of sarcasm. I will never forget the fear and excitement I felt when Rufus came to meet you for the first time, or the look of delight and pride on his face as he peered over the edge of your cot and saw his baby. We love you both so very much – even if we are grumpy sometimes.

As parents we brought you into this world and we will do our utmost to help to guide through it. A poet called Mary Oliver finished one of her poems with the words: Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life? And that’s the question we are here to ask Laurie today. We want him to live his precious life how he wants to, but we want to let him know that we will always be here to help him if he needs us. Laurie we will make the same promises to you that we made to Rufus:

We promise to always be here for you, to listen when you talk and to guide you through life’s joys and hardships.

We promise to respect and support your choices and nurture your dreams. We will share with you our talents and strengths and guide you away from our weaknesses.

Most importantly we promise to love you forever.

So far Laurie’s life has been all about our little family of four – but now he is one it’s time for him to start taking his first steps into the world. So we have asked you all here today to help us set him off on that journey. Everyone here will have some impact on the sort of person Laurie ultimately becomes. We all share the responsibility of shaping him into a person and we’d like to ask all of you to pass on your love, knowledge and wisdom to him as he grows up.

We have asked that some of our friends take a special role in Laurie’s life – as “guide parents” if you will. James and Aimee and Dellie and Matt who have shared our parenting journey so far and who understand that sometimes some outside help is just what you need! And our old friends  Rebecca and Nick who are just starting out on this mummy and daddy thing but who we know will be fantastic parents too.

We’d like to ask the six of you to make one simple promise to Laurie – and that is to always be there for him in those moments when we as his parents aren’t able to help and guide him.

Perhaps the most important person to make a promise to Laurie today is his big brother Rufus. Rufus, big brother’s have a big responsibility. Long after we are gone and are watching you both from the stars, we need you to continue to love and look out for Laurie – to cheer him up when he’s sad and cuddle him when he falls down. Because as Alfie would say – he’s your little brother and you’re his big brother – and you’ll go on being that forever – even until you’re grown up.

Finally, of course, we would like to say some thank yous. As ever to our families for their unfailing love and support and the much needed respite care they provide for us and the children.  And to our friends with babies – we couldn’t do this without you lot keeping us sane. We hope to share our highs and lows with you for many more years to come.

I of course would like to thank Tim for being a wonderful Daddy. For letting me have another year “off” on “holiday” playing with the children. And for always looking after us.

There’s just one last thing to do and that is for us to wish Laurie well in his precious life.

 

There was something else that was missing from the day - aside from me - and that was a lovely speech written by our friend James - one of Laurie's guide parents. He didn't feel that with me being poorly and everything being a bit crazy that he could read it out. But when he showed it to me I was so touched that I wanted to share it with you all anyway. So close your eyes, go back to Mum and Dad's garden and the smell of pulled pork and imagine Jimbob reading this out in his very best speech making voice:

"Myself and Aimee are so happy to be here today celebrating Laurie's naming day with him and all of you.

"With parents like Tim & Beck, Laurie will have many more days like this - days where he is  surrounded by love, laughter, good food and good people.

"My wish for Laurie is that he grows up to have the strength and humour of his mum, the quiet determination and peaceful nature of his dad, but most importantly, none of their horrendous taste in music.

"I hope Laurie looks back at this day, and realises he is blessed to have so many people surrounding him who love him". 

 

 

I would like to say the hugest of thank yous to my family and Tim for stepping in and taking over to make sure everything could still go ahead without me. You're all legends and I love you all very much. xxx

 

Three

A few weeks back (actually a month ago - whoops) the boy was three. There was an outside party - inside - because it looked like rain - which he loved. And an actual birthday - which he didn't. His new orange bike is still sitting lonely and un-ridden. He loves the fact it's orange - he just doesn't want to ride it.

Birthdays are funny things. So much anticipation, excitement and expectation. And then you're three - and actually you don 't really care about having a bike. You wanted one because your friends have one. You asked for it to be orange because it's your favourite colour. But when it came to it you just didn't feel like pedalling or steering or even sitting on it. Instead you just want to snuggle on the sofa and read a book. 

Lesson learnt for mummy and daddy - forget big presents, go small and buy the big things as they're needed. Happily he loves the tent we sweated blood (literally) to make him and naps in it everyday.

The tantrums haven't miraculously disappeared as hoped. But they're definitely less frequent. He has suddenly decided to let on that he can count though which is a huge step forward. I mean, we knew he could, we'd catch him at it when he was playing by himself. However if we asked him to count with us it was one, two, six, nine, 17, eleventyseven........ Now he actively wants to learn his numbers which is good because I was fearing he'd inherited my inbuilt distaste for anything remotely numerical bar being able to work out how much I save if Boden are doing 30 per cent off.

We're working on manners. Trying to enforce "please" and "thank you" and "may I haves" over "I want it noooooowwwwww" in that ear piercing whinge that makes you want to run into another room and scream into a pillow. But like all things parenting it's two steps forward and three steps back.

He speaks beautifully when he takes the time and he can melt my heart with some of the adorable things he says. "Mummy I really do love you", "Mummy I miss you when you go away" and "Mummy when I have to get married I'm going to marry Granny."

Sometimes he's just too clever "Mummy I don't want to eat your delicious meatballs" and "Yes, Yes Daddy I know, I know you've told me a hundred times"! How do you even attempt to come back from that? Apparently it's only going to get worse.

10 months.....

.....And I'm a little bit heartbroken. Laurie has had his final breast feed. I always thought I'd be happy to give up. After all it can be a bit of a chore and nursing bras are indescribably disgusting. 

But when it came to actually giving him a cup of milk instead of snuggling up for our bedtime feed I needed to cry quite a bit. I didn't then and there of course, but later I did, once he went to sleep, hardly noticing the change and probably very pleased that he could actually hear Daddy reading Winnie the Pooh for a change.

Breastfeeding is this hugely amazing thing that I'm so thankful I was good at and able to do. I'm not evangelical about it, it's not for everyone, but it worked for us. I feel so proud that not only did I build my boys inside me, but I kept on building them - just me (and a lot of Green & Blacks) for six whole months. Even when I started to wean them I knew if they didn't eat as much as they should they'd be ok because I could feed them everything they needed.  

Stopping is so bittersweet. I am beyond happy to have my body back after all I feel like I've been pregnant or breast feeding for the last four years. But I will miss looking down at my sweet little baby, stroking his soft hair, feeling his little hand wrap around my finger for an extra bit of comfort, watching him relax, seeing him get fixated on the stitches of my jumper as he feeds, and that beautiful, dozy, milk-drunk state and the big cuddle at the end.

Letting go of that final feed was to give him his first true bit of independence - he doesn't physically need me anymore - and that's just heartbreaking. With Rufus I was more stoical. We were already planning to have another baby so it seemed less of a wrench. This time it's not just breastfeeding I'm saying goodbye to, it's babies. Laurie is my last baby, and while I'm happy with that decision it still makes me sad. I'll never feed another baby. That part of my life is over. I'm saying goodbye to my babies and becoming the mummy to two boys instead.

I know they need me still in so very many ways but that special thing that was just us, that no one else could do is gone and I'm grieving for it more than I thought I would. 

I'm trying to hold on to my baby in other ways and cherise every moment. Like when he crawls into my lap and tries to pull himself up face to face. When he's too tired to get there he lies his head in my lap for a rest, and I stroke his hair and scoop him up so he can tweak my nose and pull my hair like he wants to.

Or when he wakes up from a nap and just wants to lie on my chest for a minute and hear my heart beating. 

I know this is the first in a very, very long line of letting go's and I don't imagine for one minute it gets easier. I'm just trying to remind myself that wherever they are, whatever they're doing and however old they are they'll actually always be my babies inside and I'll always be their mummy - inside, outside, shouting from the rooftops. 

Eleven

Rufus two years and 11 months (but also eight weeks, 10 months, one year and four months)

 

 

Laurie nine and a half months (but also six weeks, four months and seven and a half months)

One summer, long enough ago that I don't really want to work out exactly how long ago it was, I took a women's writing course at UCLA. I got to sit in one of those desks with a table attached to them which would be an utter nightmare if you're left handed (although I'm sure they do left handed ones these days). I got to see where they filmed Buffy every single day because I lived right there on campus, I got to watch "soccer" games and go to Santa Monica on the bus. And I got to read a whole lot of American women's literature.

That was the first time I read Eleven a short story by Sandra Cisneros. At the time it was just another story in a long old list to get through before I could do yoga under the pine trees, go to Jamba Juice or sit by the pool. The second time I read Eleven was last week on a blog I came across and this time it hit me in the stomach and rang bells in my ears.

There have been times recently when I've found myself silently screaming in my head "Rufus - you are not a baby stop acting like one." Or "Laurie, for goodness sake you're nearly 10 months old not 10 weeks old go to bloody sleep."

I've been on a quest for more patience for all but about two of the years I've spent in this world and Eleven might just be helping me get some. I'm trying to remember the words of wise old Sandra every time my silent or sometimes not so silent screams well up in my mind/throat. I try to think that  when Rufus wants to hang off my leg it's just because actually my tall, lanky, gregarious almost-three-year-old boy is still somewhere underneath the shy little 10 month old who didn't like to leave my side. And that when Laurie wakes up in the night it's because he's still a little bit of that chunky, curled up newborn boy who just wants me to cuddle him and sniff his head which curiously always smells like biscuits.

And I try to give myself a break too, because sometimes I'm still the 21 year old me who makes me cringe when she speaks,  or the petulant two year old me that just wants to keep all the toys to myself and not share with Rufus when he's being horrid. I'm still the 28 year old me who desperately wants to lie in bed on a Sunday morning only to drag myself for a pub lunch and an afternoon nap. And I'm sure Mr Jones would agree that for at least one week a month I am very much my hormonal 13 year old self who hated boys and everything they stood for.

And he's off

Laurie started crawling last week. Well I say crawling, but it's more of a tummy based heave, not dissimilar to what I'd imagine a WWII soldier dragging himself from the trenches with a sniper wound to one leg would look like. He's getting around anyway. Swiping Lego, breaking up puzzles, pouncing on the cat.

Rufus is less excited than the rest of us by this achievement, he stands and watches him and then says, in voice with just a touch of sarcasm : "we'll done Laurie". Every time I expect him to add: "you can sort of crawl, how totally not amazing, now sod off and leave my Lego alone." But luckily he hasn't.

Laurie has also reached nine months. This next stage is my favourite, nine to 18 months is when little people appear, walking, talking, laughing and being fun. I have three months left and I'm back to work. Which is sad because I know the best bits are coming. But then he'll be two and I'll be desperate to have others to share the tantrums while I sit eating cake in the semi civilised world of the office.

Laurie reaching nine months has also prompted the start of the "when are you having number three" chat. As a mother of boys I'm always asked if I going to try for a girl. Like that's even possible. Like if it were I wouldn't have ordered one in the first place - mainly because I had no idea how lovely boys are.

I have momentary panics when I flash forward 10 years and my house is full of teenage boys. That smell of lynx deodorant that never quite does it's job, combined in a heady mix of feral hormones, dirty sock and gawky too-big bodies. I'm not sure I want tribes of their friends lounging on my sofas playing video games and farting into the cushions. And I'm quite frankly terrified of what I might find in their bedrooms. Though actually it's already started - I was making Rufus' bed the other day when I noticed a mark on the wall - upon closer inspection I realised it was a collection of bogies. When confronted he said "I was making you a picture mummy!"

Sometimes I think it might be nice to have some girlyness amongst all that testosterone. I'll miss the fripperies, the hair clips, the bracelets and My Little Pony, crafting afternoons and tutus with stripy tights. But do I really want to swap lynx for impulse? Hormonal boys for PMT and I-hate-my-mum tantrums? For door slamming, boy angst and nail varnish in the carpet? Probably not.

I adore my boys and for now I get to be the centre of their world. What makes me sad is that one day they won't be mine anymore. Some girl will come and steal their hearts away from me - and while I hope they'll be happy I know I'll be a bit bereft. Without a girl I won't get to plan another wedding or be mother of the bride, I'll have to work hard to make friends with the women who are breaking my heart but hopefully making my sons happy. And I will try hard to keep them close without stepping on toes.

But still all of this couldn't entice me to have another baby. For one, it could be another boy to break my heart a bit more. Because you can't help but love boys, they're so cuddly and sweet and far less independent than girls. They seem to need their mummy more. For two, I don't think my body nor my mind could cope with another pregnancy. The sickness still haunts me and my stretch marks and crepey tummy are a daily reminder of the perils of being that fat again.

No. I'm done. My family is complete. I await the stench of lynx with open arms and imagine myself at 40 in bed with a book while daddy takes them to play some form of sport in the rain and all the mum's of little girls are sat in a cold ballet
studio.

Just please someone take me shopping so I don't suddenly decide that it 's ok to live in track suits and not own accessories.

Mirror, mirror

I would like to say that I never swear in front of my children. I'd like to say that I never say anything inappropriate - but I'd be lying.

A very wise woman (an English teacher I might add) once told my sister "Rachel, if you mean f&@k say f&@k." And this is advice I've hung onto for years. After all there are moments when only the F word or one of its close bed fellows will do. Like when you stand on yet another Lego brick; or stub your toe on that damn baby walker.

Sometimes I have the presence of mind to mutter it under my breath, or hastily change it to a "flipping heck" if the children are truly in close proximity. But sometimes I (actually that should be we - I'm most certainly not alone in this) don't quite manage it.

Sometimes I wish my car had one of those sound proof screens like taxis have - and not just for the sake of concealing my road rage. Imagine being able to see them whining but not be able to hear it? But alas Rufus now believes that anyone driving a white van is called an idiot, that it's ok to refer to old people as biddies (I'm so sorry world) and that muttered expletive are must in traffic. Oh the shame of it.

Thus far we have been lucky - Rufus has only demonstrated the extent of our potty mouthed vocabulary in private. I was, thankfully, the only witness to him throwing his bunnies on the floor and shouting something that sounded very much like "f&@k it" (daddy!!!)

I would be utterly mortified if he did it in public. Though clearly it's in our blood. Reportedly at a similar age I knocked my fork off my high chair in a restaurant and stood up and shouted "bugger, bugger, bugger". My paternal Grandfather apparently, and understandably, wanted to crawl under the table. We laugh about this oft repeated anecdote now, but at the time I'm sure judgement was rife.

So I'm trying to temper the language. And my tendency to overdramatise my speech. When Rufus started telling me he "hated" wind/potatoes/petit filou without the fruity bits at the bottom, I /we decided that I should start to dislike/not tolerate/not be a fan of things/people instead.

They pick up on everything these children, even when you think they're not watching. At least they copy the good things too. it cracks me up when he grans a wet wipe at the table, jumps off his chair, climbs up Laurie's highchair and says "look at the state of you Laurie - you grubby baby". The he gently, but in effectively, wipes his face. And I smile because that's what I do.

I love seeing little bits of everyone who cares for him moulding him and helping him create his own personality. lets just hope he chooses the best bits and learns when it's appropriate to swear. we just have to remember that he's always watching and there's no where to hide.

Comparethebaby.com

Rufus at 8.5 months

Laurie at 8.5 months

 

Before I get down to the actual subject of this post I just wanted to let you all know that I am now officially insane. How do I know this? Because I just put cat food in the draw of the washing machine. This has almost happened on several occasions in the past two and a half years but I've always caught myself just in time.

This time, instead of laughing to myself about the fact I'm slowly going mad while swapping my scoop of fetid cat biscuits for one of  washing powder (there are separate scoops for each - in case you're wondering - it must be the scooping action that gets me confused).  Today I actually stood there and watched my hand pour an entire days worth of Royal Canin into the draw before I realised what I was doing. Now despite washing and scrubbing there is a curious bouquet of 2 year old Fairy Non Bio (don't judge me - when did you last clean out your washing machine draw?) and cat biscuit wafting from my fingers. I just hope none escaped into the machine.

Anyway, madness aside. I seem to spend a lot of time comparing my children. I probably shouldn't - after all "all children are different, blah, blah, blah, blah" - but I can't help it. First time round I really had no idea what to expect so I spent my entire time comparing Rufus to every other child. Was he cleverer than everyone else's baby? Was he more advanced physically? Did he eat better, sleep better, speak better....?

Even though I know Rufus and Laurie are different, and will be different, I do spend a lot of time trying to remember when Rufus did this, that and the other until I quite frankly bore myself. I know Laurie has always been a better sleeper. He slept through the night when he was 12 weeks old - though it's only recently that he's become reliable about it. Rufus didn't sleep through until he was around seven months old and that was only under severe protest. But on the other hand Laurie is a less reliable sleeper during the day.

Laurie is bigger - and always has been. At six weeks he weighed what Rufus did at 12 weeks. At six months he matched a nine month old Rufus pound for pound. (but the health visitors still panicked that he was below his line!)

Rufus crawled at seven months. Laurie is now eight and a half months and he doesn't crawl but does somehow manage to get himself wedged under sofas or squished against cupboards. His movements are imperceptible, sloth-like, but obviously there. To be fair there is a lot more of him to carry around and I'm sure it won't be long.

They are both similar in their clinginess. We're going through the "mummy isn't allowed to leave a room without me stage" which is denoted by that particular groany whiney noise that makes you want to tear your hair out just a tiny bit. Once Rufus could crawl he just followed me so I'm counting the days and hoping that Laurie will be the same.

Laurie cried less in the beginning - much less. But now I'd say he cries a similar amount to Rufus at his age. Everyone says what a happy smiley chap old Laurie is and that they never hear him cry. And bless him on the most part he is quite jolly. But his cry is awful.

When he was about six weeks old he would smile if I rolled my r's and purred like a cat. Pretty soon afterwards he learned to do it himself. "He's a genius" I exclaimed (obviously). Now he has taken that talent and worked it into his cry. When he gets mad he does this awful high pitched, whirring, purring noise that gets to you at the very tip of your last remaining nerve. Mr Jones cannot stand it. I can just about block it out. He sounds just a little bit like that incredibly obnoxious and annoying Crazy Frog. Urgh,

I do feel guilty about all these comparisons. Most of my conversations with Mr Jones begin something like "When did Rufus.....". I'm also more impatient this time. I can't wait for Laurie to understand more so that he can really start to interact and play more with his big brother. When Rufus was a baby I could never see how he was going to become anything other than a helpless little thing so every milestone left me floored. This time I take them for granted, anxious for the next one, aware of the fun that is coming when he gets more independent and a little be more astute.

Sometimes I feel awful that I'm wishing time away, I tell myself to stop comparing them and just to take them in as they are right now. But when one is throwing a tantrum and the other is grumbling on the floor about to ramp up into the crazy frog unless I pick him up I do think - blimey is it bedtime yet.

NB - it took me a week to finish this post. You'll be happy to know that no cat food made it into the washing machine drum and the clothes came out unscathed.

New Year's Resolution

So yes it very nearly the end of February - well it was when I started this - and now it's March. But I'm trying.....

Anyway most of us have stopped thinking about our New Year's Resolutions. But not me. This one has been plaguing me since mid December when I decided that I was going to resolve to blog again in the New Year. More specifically, to blog about my new little boy who has been woefully neglected in these pages. Happily however, it is because he hasn't been neglected in the physical world that I haven't had time to talk about him in the digital one.

But that doesn't stop the guilt. Doesn't stop me thinking about the fact that by the time his big brother was almost seven months old he'd been the subject of hundreds of his mother's rambling posts, had his entire life discussed down to how many hours he'd slept and what he'd had for dinner. I have no excuse other than the fact that I am now to mother of two beautiful, energetic, intelligent and yes - very demanding - boys. My house is full of mud, dust, piles of washing (clean and dirty), unmade beds and various duplo works-in-progress.

Now though I want to try and make amends. Because in the future Laurie might stumble upon this blog and think that I loved him less or something equally horrific and very untrue. But also because in years to come - when my boys have abandoned me for football pitches (please no!), girlfriends and lives in which I am no longer the centre of their universe I might like to remember a time when they really needed me and I got to squeeze them and kiss them whenever I wanted to.

So Laurie, this is for you - and for me, for posterity. And Rufus - don't worry - I'll be writing about you too.

I worried a lot about having another baby. Would I be able to love another child as much as I love Rufus? (Yes, of course). Would I be able to cope with the demands of two children? (Most days - with a few tears, random singing, a bit of shouting - tsk, and some top notch negotiating). Would I cope with being pregnant? (I must have done but amid the puking and the eating of many, many packets of love hearts I don't really remember that nine months.)

What I was most terrified about was giving birth. As soon as I got pregnant I started to worry about it. Second time round you know what you're in for. At first I was gung ho about trying for a natural birth and "doing a proper job of it this time" - as someone so helpfully commented. But after an afternoon of painful Braxton hicks I remembered how terrifying labour was. How despite my best intentions I truly am rubbish at dealing with pain. I knew that hyponobirthing and essential oils weren't going to help me. And no one could promise me I wouldn't do 27 hours again and then still end up with an emergency section.

So after a lot of thought I decided to book in for an elective section and end the misery of pregnancy a week or so early. (I couldn't bear the thought of going overdue either). I had a moment of peace - and then the panic started again. The consultant had given me a booklet that basically told me how likely I was to die if I had a second section. The risk is small and not much greater than a natural birth. But the idea stuck in my head.

When I was pregnant with Rufus is never occurred to me that something might go wrong. That something might happen to me or to him. Second time round it was all I could think.

I was so frightened the day before Laurie was born that I sent the following email to my family - I'm posting it here because it was important and I think Rufus and Laurie should see it in the future, and to show all those people who think a section is the easy way out - that actually it's just as scary:

Subject: Just in case

 

No one will be more scathing of this email than my husband, the eternal optimist – and even I feel much less inclined to write it than I did last week – but I feel that if I don’t write it now I might be tempting fate.

Lovely as it is to know that we’re having a baby tomorrow, I am still slightly terrified that something might go wrong. I’m not worried for myself, but for everyone I would be leaving behind, especially my little boy. I’ve read the stats, I know the odds are largely stacked in my favour – but as we know my life long fear of being on the cover of the Daily Mail I just want to put this provision in place – just in case it all goes a bit wrong.

The legal bit - So in the hopefully very unlikely event that anything should happen to me – and then shortly after to Tim  – as previously discussed with the relevant parties but not written down. My sister Rachel Anne Speechley is to be the sole guardian of our children. Our “estate” is to be used in their upbringing and to support Rachel in bringing them up as best she can.

 All being well we’ll all be fine and I’ll be home by the weekend with a new baby – but if I’m not I’d like to say the following:

 Tim – you are perfectly capable of bringing up our children. You’re a great daddy and would do a marvellous job without me if you had to I’m sure. And everyone will be there to help you. 

But of course – me being me – I need to leave some instructions. Anything I say in regards to Rufus obviously applies to the second one too – but I don’t know it yet so I can’t be specific.

I want my little boy to have every opportunity available to him. He is never to be told that he cannot do anything. If he wants to be an astronaut he can be one, if he wants to be a soldier (even thought it would break my heart) he can be one. I want him to be told that he can do anything, even if it seems impossible, he only has to work hard and do everything he can to make his dreams come true. I want him to always know that we’ll support him in every possible way we can to achieve his dreams.

That said I don’t want him to feel pressured to do things he doesn’t want to do just because he should or because that’s what a good middle classed boy should do. I want him to go to the best schools/universities for him – the one that suits his personality, skills and needs – not the one that everyone else is sending their children to or that other people think we should send him to. It has to be perfect for him.

I need someone to read to him every day, to foster his love of books and words and encourage him to discover his imagination and creativity. Computer games are fine – but I want him to know what it is to love reading and writing and drawing and creating things.

 I want you to tell him that I love him  every, single, day for the rest of his life, without fail and to give him endless cuddles. I also want you to tell him that I never imagined how much he could change my life and how much I could love him. He is amazing and even though I get grumpy with him when he ignores me and he makes me very tired I wouldn’t ever want to be without him. He is so clever and talented and special and I really couldn’t bear the thought of not seeing him grow up. So if anything happens to me tell him I’ll always be his mummy and I’ll always be there for him even if I’m not physically here. I’ll always be watching him and helping him in any way I can from where ever I am.

Michael Buble will always be our soundtrack and Everything is our special song – so please help him to remember me.

Finally tell him that I’m sorry – sorry that because he is so perfect I just wanted to have another perfect baby too and I pushed my luck for wanting two, when really he would always be enough.

 Of course this will all be totally irrelevant and everything will be fine. Sorry if this has upset anyone – but I just needed to say it – just in case. I love you all very much and couldn’t be a good mummy without any of you.

 

Big hugs and I love you all forever.

Rebecca/Beck/Becca/Mummy

PS – Simone is to do the flowers – no carnations! I want you to play Michael Buble, Mariah’s Theme (Rainbow Album), Count on Me (Whitney Houston – Waiting to Exhale), Army of Two, Wish for you (Faith Hill). I want to go to the ever after in a nice comfy pair of PJs (boden have some nice ones in their autumn catalogue) – just in case you have to stay in what you’re wearing for all eternity – figured I should be comfy. And Eddie is to come with me. All this to save any arguments about what I might have wanted.

After I'd made everyone cry for a few hours Mr Jones took me to the Olive Branch for dinner - in case it was my last ever meal. And after a fairly sleepless night with no food or drink we went to the hospital for my section.

I couldn't have been more thankful that I was first on the list. The staff were amazing and calm and efficient. I felt slightly detached and disbelieving of everything that was happening. While I sat on a trolley in the operating theatre and the doctor was putting in my spinal (Mr Jones wasn't allowed in at this point - I have no idea why) the midwife supporting me said that I was very calm. I remember saying "My last birth wasn't at all calm and I'm determined that this one will be." And it was. Even when the spinal didn't work and they had to give me an epidural everyone was calm. The surgeon rambled off to find an ipod dock so we could have music (very cheesy music). And even when they had to get big old Laurie out with forceps it was all very calm. And that is why I think Laurie has always been a calm and happy boy. Relaxed and chilled and easy going. He didn't have to try and fight his way out for hours like his brother. We went in and got him and he's gorgeous.

I might be wrong but I think the difference in their births might explain a bit about the differences in their personalities. Rufus was always so tense, even his limbs were scrunched and taut for weeks until he finally relaxed. Laurie was so chilled he just slept. I had to wake him for feeds and use cold cotton wool to get him to come round. Rufus I walked to sleep while he screamed. Laurie would just drop off. But they're both very amazing.

One month old

So it would seem weekly updates aren't at all possible with two children - not in my life anyway. Laurie is now a month old and very gorgeous - much like his brother. There has been much dispute as to whether they look alike (they do - in so so so so so many ways - but I'm just their mother - what do I know??). Their personalities are totally different though.

Rufus was always a stressed out little man - everyone said he was an old soul, he'd been here before. Laurie on the other hand is very chilled. He likes a good sleep and sometimes even has to be coaxed to feed because, well, sleeping is just so much more fun.

For this I am very thankful because it means that he's slipped into our lives without too much hassle, which for Rufus has been ideal. There have been a few tantrums, Lego has been thrown (and confiscated), and I have been asked to "feed him like a baby - from your boobies mummy"(!!) but all in all we're coping. We've even managed three whole days and two whole nights all on our own this week.I'm quite proud of myself.

Time will tell whether out chilled out little man stays that way. I've already told him he's going to have to get a bit more assertive or else his brother will run rings around him. That said he can throw a good fit - if he's hungry and I happen to be in the middle of something else he'll quickly produce some impressive purple faced screaming until he gets his way.

Meanwhile I'm trying to come to terms with my very wobbly mummy tummy - it really wasn't this bad last time.

Once there was a girl....

.... who used to write a blog about her wedding, then about being pregnant and then about having a baby.

Then the baby turned into a boy and started to walk, run, shout and generally make blogging a whole lot more difficult - especially when you throw in a bit a work too.
Then she got pregnant, threw up a lot, and had another little boy.

Laurie Peter Jones - born 26th July 2012 - 8lb 13oz. Perhaps - in between juggling two boys I might find time to blog about his first year too?!

Camping

We've been back a week [make that two since I started writing this] - I've just about thawed out.

We did survive and we did get to sleep.

I put up the tent with a bit (read a lot) of help. Mr Jones arrived after the tent was safely up - I'm thinking this was a good thing - it was stressful, divorce proceedings may have been entered into.

I ripped my skinny jeans in the process and spent an entire evening with my bum hanging out until Mr Jones arrived with another pair. Fetching. ALso probably a sign that I'm not skinny enough to wear skinny jeans??

The boy went to sleep without the aid of a blackout blind and total silence and with just a little bit of singing from me. He slept until 6.20am on Saturday morning - pretty impressive given that Mr Jones and I got a maximum of 4 hours sleep due to a combination of bone chilling temperatures, noise and an errant airbed that pinged one of us off the edge everytime the other one moved.

We managed not to get grumpy until Sunday morning - when it really was unbearably cold and wet and the boy was beyond grouchy and I was sick of my clothes living in a damp pile on the floor. If I ever go camping again I'm going to take one of those collapsable clothes rails from argos - or am I missing the point? It's only one step on from the toaster we took this time - what? there was electricity why not take a toaster? Some folk in the tent next-door-but-one had a 32" flat screen tv and Wii - you think I'm joking, but I seriously am not. (Really what is the point in going camping if you take your TV?)

I'm sure everyone else thought we were perfectly awful, but I was rather proud of us for surviving the weekend. We clearly are not campers. I think I'd find any holiday where you're required to build your own house before you start a mite stressful. Perhaps I'm more suited to one of those yurt things on the south downs with the cast iron beds and the en suite bathrooms. Or actually if I'm honest I'm just terribly boring and would actually like to stay in my lovely house and hang out in the garden. I wish I got it, I really do.

That said, we did enjoy time with friends and it was lovely to see how much our littlies have grown and how comfortable they all are with each other.

Aside from the knowledge that we aren't the camping kind, we learned that the boy hates wellies, but loves rain storms. He is fascinated by cars and has a penchant for brake dust (carcinogenic - no?). He doesn't like having a bath in the shower and still loves kissing Miss Scarlett.

We'd probably do it again at a push - but only for a weekend.

PS there are pictures but writing this has taken me two weeks - the pictures might take longer.

Quick question

Does anyone have a car that has properties similar to those demonstrated by Mary Poppins' carpet bag? I thought camping was supposed to be footloose and fancy free? Thus far I have filled the hall with "essential stuff" and I haven't even packed any clothes.

Believe it or not

We're going camping at the weekend - yes you read that right - I, Mrs Jones, of Stamford, her of hair dryers, four walls, feather duvets and Dualit toasters will be sleeping (or not) under canvas for a whole weekend.

If that wasn't enough we'll be joined in this escapade by no less than seven - SEVEN - one year olds - small boy included. We are going to a campsite somewhere in Derbyshire. It has wifi and hot showers - this is all I know. I'm thinking ingnorance is bliss.

We have borrowed a tent and a whole load of other stuff. I am preparing myself for 48hours of sleeplessness - tents it seems don't have blackout blinds. I will be relying on fresh air to knock out the boy come 7pm on Friday night. Thinking positive and humming kum bay ya.

I think the reason that I dislike camping so much is because I feel I should really love it. I like being outside, I like nature and trees, I like looking at the stars and watching the sunrise, I love the smell of bacon frying on a cool crisp morning and eating fish and chips in the chill dusk.

But the thing is all of that is a lot more fun if you know you can snuggle up on a comfy mattress under your duvet with your memory foam pillow and loo within barefoot walking distance. Being periodically pinged off of an airbed while cocooned in a sleeping bag with straight jacket tendancies doesn't have much romantic appeal. Add in dampness (why is camping always so damp??) and all I can see is horror.

But then maybe this time will be different and I'll finally get it? I am seriously hoping for good weather. I shall struggle to be jolly in a wet tent. I may take some bunting to make myself feel at home.

No big deal

Sometimes you wait for what seems like forever for something to happen. You expect there to be a build up, an inkling that it's going to begin but then it's just there, smacking you in the stomach at 8.10am and making you cry.

This morning, at 8.10, the boy stood up and walked across the sitting room. Steps, five of them, all by himself, with no encouragement whatsoever.

I jumped up and down and clapped and cheered and tried to stop the tears rolling down my cheeks. He bent down, put his hands on the floor and turned to look at me with a face that said "Alright love, calm yourself down." Disdain, from a 1 year old.

You can come back now

After six weeks of following me around, taking afternoon naps and occasionally doing a bit of DIY, Mr Jones has returned to the world of work. He left on Monday for the other side of the country and won't be home until Saturday. We miss him.

At times during his six weeks off I asked what on earth we are going to do when we retire? Being in each other's pockets 24/7 was not as idyllic as it sounds, especially with a small boy in tow. But now he's gone again and while I like the fact that when I tidy the house stays that way for at least two hours longer than usual, it is a bit lonely without him.

The small boy misses him too. Yesterday I got out the photo albums I made him for his birthday - full of pictures of his first year. We got to a picture of him and daddy in the bath and he pointed at it and looked at me quizzically. I turned the page and he turned it back again and again. When we were finally allowed to move on we got to a page full of picture of him and his daddy and he just burst into tears, which quickly turned into sobs. He was looking at me and pointing at the pictures with the most forlorn expression. In the end I had to put the pictures away and take him out for a walk to calm him down.

Now we are counting the sleeps until daddy comes home - only three more left. We can't wait for cuddles.

Today I decided to pretend that I'm seven again...

so I fell over, twisted my ankle and grazed my knee. I wasn't really pretending to be seven - I'm just a clumsy cow.

I now have a very sore ankle and a gross looking knee. Weirdly I'm quite looking forward to having a scab. I haven't had a scab in a looooong time. This is probably a good thing - I don't think you're supposed to have scabs at 31.

Perhaps it's a mum thing - to remind me just how painful it is to graze your knee for the inevitability of all sorts of minor injuries once the boy decides to finally get up and run.

I've never had nice knees and as they've spent the past six months or so crawling around on hard floors they don't look much worse with a scab as an accessory. In fact it tones in quite well with the bruises on my shins and by friday the leg hair that I haven't had a chance to deal with will have thatched over it nicely anyway.

A birthday in pictures - taken by Stu

1. "Mummy - I got a trike"

2. The small boy chatting through his own naming ceremony

3. Making everyone cry. I made the bunting - with marvellous step by step instructions here

4. That cake, with that icing - made by Auntie Rach - he can have a kids cake next year when he gives a fig. You can get the recipe here.

5. Blowing out the candle

6. Mr Jones trying to lead the boy to the dark side....

7. The boy showing Daddy that babies don't do chocolate - they like strawberries

8. With Pops in the rain

9. Teddy at the after party

10. A little something to say thanks for coming

11. Having some down time watching the rain

This time last year

It was as hot as it was yesterday and we had all the windows open trying to keep our tiny new born baby cool. This year we've has all the windows open trying to keep our so-big-can't-believe-how-much-he's-grown boy cool. This time last year I spent a lot of time sleeping on the sofa (when I say a lot I mean a lot of 40 minute chunks). The boy slept (didn't sleep) in his pram/moses basket in the sitting room. We went to bed at midnight in the hopes that the nighttime wouldn't last as long. In case you're thinking of trying it - it doesn't work. Next week last year I started to go to bed at 5 mins past Rufus in a desperate attempt to get that hallowed and restorative four hours.

I can't believe that was all a year ago. We watched a lot of tennis - I think I saw every game - c-sections are a good excuse to be sofa bound in front of Wimbledon. This year I think I've seen half a match so far and that wasn't live. This year is much more fun and a whole lot less scary - unless there is a tantrum in the offing. Oddly tantrums happen less when the boy and I are alone. Perhaps he'll be an actor if his career in interior design doesn't work out - have I told you about his upholstery fabric fetish? He gets that from me *so proud*

Terrible twos my a*&^!

Some almighty wobblers have been thrown in this house of late. There have been arm flailing, foot stomping, back arching, fist shaking, lie on the floor, scream, shout and cry trantrums issuing forth from that angelic (looking) little boy.

For all his gorgeousness I sometimes wonder if there isn't something just a little bit hellish living inside him. I was rather proud of myself for teaching him to sign to me that he was "all done" with his dinner, or a particular game - until last Tuesday - when he spent the entire day waving his arms in front of him everytime I got within three feet - "I'm all done with you Mummy!"

He has taken to swiping things off of bedside tables in a bid of frustration, throwing remote controls, hairbrushes and toys and getting stoppy if we don't get him a banana fast enough.

This morning I had the audacity to try and take his sleeping bag off as he made a break for the edge of our bed - the tantrum that ensued was so violent that only Buble could calm him down. We googled in despair. Apparently it's quite common - the "terrible twos" it seems are a bit of a misnomer - they don't necessarily start at two, nor do they cease on the morning of their third birthday. I'm hoping that we're just getting it all out of the way early.

Trying to reason with a one year old is nigh on impossible, distraction rarely seems to work and cuddles make him worse. Daddy it seems is flavour of the month - Mummy is akin to ear wax. I've tried all sorts to regain his affection only to be met with a palm in the face - "talk to the hand Mummy". Mr Jones has recommended practicing general disdain mixed with a tiny smidge of contempt - maybe the small boy is like a cat and is irresistibly drawn to people who'd really rather be doing something else. We'll see - I hope I get my cuddles back soon.

Those granola bar/ flap jack thingies

You know the ones, the ones that were in the boys party goodie bag - it seems they were a bit of a hit. The recipe has been asked for. I will oblige - but do forgive me if they don't turn out quite the same because it's one of those a bit of this a bit of that recipes and it's different every time I make it. But the good news is it's always yummy and the boy always eats it.

You will need:
80g butter
140g maple syrup (if your baby is over one you could use honey. If you're being old school you could use golden syrup and sugar - but I went with maple syrup because I can convince myself that it's "natural, healthy sugar")
130g porridge oats (Sometimes a bit more if you've been heavy handed with the syrup)
35g dried dates soaked in boiled water for 5 minutes and then blitzed with enough water to form a sludgy, gooey paste
About 80g of dried fruit chopped up - try apricots, prunes, dates, raisins, cranberries, dried apple - whatever is in the cupboard.
A few tablespoons of a mixture of pumpkin and sunflower seeds
25g dessicated coconut

Melt the butter in a saucepan with the maple syrup, mix in the date paste. Mix up all the dry ingredients and stir into the saucepan. Try not to eat too much of it. Press into a baking tray (no need to grease it) and bake for 15 minutes at 180 or until golden on top. It will still be soft when you take it out of the oven but it will firm up as it cools. Once cool cut into bars making sure to break off lots of crumbly bits to eat yourself.