Sunday 28 February 2010

Gifts Galore - by Theo


On a visit to meet Rosie's future-best-friend Emily, she was presented with "Rosie's Walk", a beautiful book, though it be a while before our DD - that's dear daughter in Mumsnet slang - will be appreciating the thought that went into its selection. It joins such classics as "Peepo", "Splosh Splosh" and "Crime & Punishment" on the shelf for her later enjoyment, along with several charming stuffed toys, including a safari skittle set from some Senegalese friends, which Daddy will probably have more fun playing with!

We - or rather Rosie - have been showered with gifts. It's overwhelming. We feel extremely grateful and not a little embarrassed, not least because our past record of generosity towards friends' newborns has been rather less abundant! But the packages and cards keep coming from England, Spain, France and even Ireland.

Several friends have raided their nieces' wardrobes to present us with bags overflowing with beautiful clothes. We probably aren't going to need to buy Rosie any clothes until she's 4, though for the moment only a very beautiful top from an American expat friend actually fits her (she's still on the small side), so she often looks lost inside floppy-legged baby grows.


We feel very fortunate to have such thoughtful and generous friends. Indeed it's wonderful how many people have been over to visit, helping prevent cabin fever from setting in. Rosie is one very lucky little girl.

Thursday 25 February 2010

How To Make Friends In Madrid By Kate

It's easy - just wear a baby.
Spaniards are generally baby fans anyway, but combine that with a novel mode of infant transport (a wrap sling, in this case) and you've got a winning way with every passing stranger. It doesn't just work on Spaniards too - the Chinese shopkeepers were similarly captivated by the sight of Rosie nestling in the lilac sling as I enjoyed a stroll along Calle Jose del Hierro and a little light shopping.
Today the weather relented long enough for my vague plan to actually put some proper clothes on and get out of the flat for half an hour, to harden into resolve. So Rosie was duly wrapped up in her too-big clothes, topped off with a perfectly-fitting hat (thanks Anne - she bought us an outfit suitable for a premature baby - the only items of clothing that don't comically hang off little Rosie's minute frame at the moment), swaddled her in a fleece blanket and popped her in the sling.

We drew curious stares from passers by as soon as we hit the street. A young girl we encountered in the pharmacy was fascinated and almost dragged her mother up the street to get a better look at this curious little bundle tied to my chest.
The Chinese woman in the gift shop cried out in delight as soon as we walked in and admired the sleeping Rosie with gratifying enthusiasm. Next, she had pointed us out to another customer, a dad with his little boy - the latter utterly fascinated, as the little girl had been. They came over to chat and gaze at Rosie, who continued to snooze peacefully, unperturbed by all the commotion.
Next, Rosie and I were stopped at the pelican crossing by an elderly man's curiosity about the lilac-clad bundle sticking out of my duffle coat. Before I had even said a word he asked me where I came from - baby-wearing marking me out immediately as a foreigner. I told him England and he nodded approvingly.
"Good country", he said. I wondered what countries wouldn't have got his seal of approval.
The next place where Rosie became the centre of attention was the supermarket checkout. The two female customers ahead of me visibly melted when they caught sight of her snuggled against me, as did the checkout lady. While they cooed over her ("Que bonita!"), Rosie slept on, completely oblivious.
As a first solo outing with my daughter, it was pretty successful. So much so, I'm now planning a more ambitious project. To take her across town on the metro to visit a friend. In the purple sling, of course.

Monday 22 February 2010

Motherhood so far By Kate

I've never been the maternal type - despite adoring my various nieces and nephews, I always fitted the "glamorous auntie" persona better than the nurture-intensive alternatives. I only ever had a few mildly broody moments and nothing approaching babyhunger. It was getting together with Theo that turned me on to the idea of creating a family, hence why I left it until the eve of my fortieth year to test out my own fertility. Before that, I'd resigned myself to remaining childless and while that was a source of some regret, the regret was fairly small.

So I'm as surprised as anyone at how I've taken to the whole business of being a mum. I'm not saying I'm especially good at it or anything like that, but it feels very right, somehow. I hear of so many first-time mums describing their shock at the change in their life and the guilt and anxiety that comes with it, but I haven't felt anything like that. I feel incredibly privileged to have the care of this little person and I'm enjoying sharing my life with her. Having a husband who is incredibly affectionate and supportive definitely helps and although yes, the broken nights are tiring, it all feels very worthwhile, somehow. I'm sure there will be times when I will feel like tearing my hair out or running away, but one month in, I'm loving it.


Thursday 18 February 2010

the hardest thing about fatherhood (so far)

Nappy changing - easy. Keeping on top of the growing piles of washing up and laundry - can do it in my sleep (which is just as well, as that is often when it gets done). Carrying baby daughter in sling - no probs. Dealing with Spanish bureaucracy - I'm practically a professional.

No, the hardest thing about being a Dad, thus far, is being left with Rosie while Kate is in the shower. Invariably Kate only manages to get a shower after feeding Rosie and expressing milk, which usually only leaves 30 minutes until the next feed. I don't begrudge Kate this time at all, in fact I wish I could give her more personal time, but nonetheless I spend those 30 minutes praying for her to hurry up and hoping Rosie wont cry.

When she does cry it's heartbreaking for me. There's nothing I can do. I don't have breasts and because of the whole nipple/teat confusion, bottle feeding is now banned. If Rosie wakes up crying with hunger I have no solution for her. Soothing, cuddling, nappy changing, rocking, singing,philosophical debate, music, full on circus troop with bells on - nothing distracts her from her hunger. It kills me that all I can do is wait for Kate.

Sunday 14 February 2010

Just popping out to weigh the baby... -by Theo

Can you do this in England? Will Boots weigh your baby for you?

One thing that bemused me at the hospital was one of the nurses telling us to take Rosie down to a pharmacist and weigh her. "Can we do that?" I wondered. "And why a pharmacist? Why not a fruit and veg shop? They've got scales!"

Yes we can is the answer - one of a the three local pharmacists within 2 minutes of our house (there's loads in Spain, all independent) has baby scales that are free to use. According to our pharmacist friend Ana (below with her boyfriend Jon) this is really common in Spain. Who knew?Anyway, we've been a few times and it's all good news. Rosie weighed 2.52kg (up from a low of 2.1kg) on Friday. Must be the drastic feeding measures we've been taking....

Thursday 11 February 2010

improvising and investing - by Theo

When it's come to sorting out baby gear for our PFB (precious first born) we've been at two polarities - the no-cost improvisations and the expensive investments. What's weird is that areas where we'd thought we'd have to spend money, we haven't, and one key area which we weren't expecting to cost us anything has turned out to be the most expensive of all!

On the one hand bath-time and bed-time have been advertisements for ingenuity; both her bath and her bed are transparent storage boxes of different sizes which we'd purchased for about £3 back in the summer to help transport our stuff to Spain. Obviously we don't keep the lids on! Her bedding has largely been a combination of tea towels, pillow cases and shawls Kate doesn't use, while her changing mat is a towel over a bin liner - works just fine. Plus we've discovered that olive oil is the ultimate moisturizing lotion for fighting nappy rash, one less thing to buy! We're using washable nappies, so I'm doing lots of laundry but at least there's no landfill. And thanks to the generosity of so many family and friends, in England and Spain, we've yet to have to buy a single item of clothing for our darling daughter! Thanks everyone!
Total spend = about €6 on a couple of extra tea towels and some more olive oil.

However, when it comes to feeding it's been a totally different story. On instructions of the medical staff we purchased nipple guards, bottles and formula (in order to supplement Kate's breast milk). Naturally we then had to buy a microwave steriliser. These have all now been sidelined since Kate started seriously expressing breast milk for storage - the original hand pump we bought was in danger of giving Kate RSI, so I was then dispatched to buy an electric one. A breastfeeding cushion also turned out to be a decent investment and the bottles were superseded once Kate found out about lactation aids - a cunning device whereby the supplemental milk is siphoned directly into Rosie's mouth as she breastfeeds by a tiny tube from a bottle which hangs beneath Kate's chin, St Bernard-style. Kate's like a walking advert for Medela! Actually the whole contraption, with tubes taped down to Kate's nipples, is kind of kinky; I have photos, but I fear publishing them here (or anywhere!) would be grounds for divorce!
Total spend = €355! And we thought breastfeeding was the cheap option!!

Of course you can't put a price on love, and Rosie's worth this a thousand times over.

Nipple pinching, ear-tweaking and chamomile tea By Kate

I never thought I'd have my nipples squeezed and stomach prodded by so many complete strangers, but that's life in a post natal ward, I guess. After Rosie's sudden entrance into the world by emergency cesarean she and I spent four nights in room 11-14 at Hospital La Paz in Madrid, which was quite an experience.

Given the limited nature of my Spanish, my communication with the nurses and orderlies was a bit hit and miss at times, but you couldn't fault the quality of care. We weren't in a large ward, but a room we shared with one other woman and her baby
(plus the inevitable legions of friends and relatives), which had its own en-suite bathroom. Our babies were with us pretty much throughout, just occasionally being taken off for baths, jabs, tests and so on. Most of our immediate needs were provided - an unending supply of nappies, cleaning materials and clean hospital gowns for both of us. And best of all, our partners were allowed to stay the night - although they had to sleep in reclining chairs.

Rosie and I were given a lot of well-meaning attention (although, when it came to establishing breastfeeding, some of it was misguided - but I didn't know that at the
time) and my (and Theo's) learning curve when it came to nappy-changing, baby bathing, cord-cleaning and general care-giving was steep, but satisfying.

While we were in La Paz, we shared our room with three other families - baby Martin with his mother and English-speaking father (very helpful when I needed translations in those first couple of days!!) and their forty or so visitors; Marie, who had just had premature twins by C section, and her twenty or so visitors (but she was with me for less than one day, so I expect the number went up) and baby Arturo plus his Peruvian parents and their thirty or so visitors. What was very touching about the parade of visitors was how much fuss they made of little Rosie as she and I watched the comings and goings with great interest. "Que rica!!" they cried, "Que preciosa!" It was all very gratifying.

Daily entertainment included the doctor's round - a neat, brisk, cheerful man with a nurse acolyte who would waltz into the room and check each patient as follows:
"Have you peed?" (yes)
"Have you pooed?" (yes)
"Breasts okay?" (yes thanks)

"Any pain?" (not much)
"Baby feeding?" (yes)
"Take good care of your babies, Ladies, take care of your babies!"
And that would be it until the next day.

Another part of the hospital routine that made me smile was the relaxing hot drink before bed time. Except usually the inhabitants of the ward had already retired by the
time it turned up. It would be around midnight and the lights would be out, husbands peacefully snoozing in chairs, babies dozing and snuffling in cots or their mother's arms and mothers trying to grab some precious shut-eye before the next feed... Suddenly the tranquility would be rudely interrupted by a blaze of florescent lights and the clanking of a trolley as two nurse orderlies marched in and offered us hot milk or chamomile tea, followed by another with her selection of "calmantes" (pain-killers). I would usually take the chamomile just to calm the sudden rush of adrenalin brought on by the abrupt break in our serenity.

The nurses and orderlies varied in attitude from sweet and smiley (including one who
would try out a few words of English with us) to no-nonsense efficient, to borderline rude. Some were reasonably patient with my limited understanding of Spanish, others considerably less so. Thank god for our bi-lingual visitors, who helped explain a few crucial things.
One standout character was Nurse Bossy (not her real name) - a middle-aged nurse in the no-nonsense efficient bracket who oversaw our care of Rosie. She did many useful things, including show me the best ways to change a nappy, clean an umbilical cord, bath a baby and see off a touch of jaundice. She was frighteningly rough in the way she handled tiny Rosie, but my daughter didn't seem to mind - like most babies, she could sense a person's confidence and was reassured. I resolved to stop treating my baby as if she was made of porcelain.

Nurse B was also determined to get Rosie feeding and putting on weight - Rosie was far more interested in sleeping than eating and consequently lost 6 per cent of her birth weight in the first two days.

I was encouraged to breastfeed - something I was keen to do - but unfortunately, Rosie just wasn't interested. Nurse Bossy tried various techniques to encourage Rosie to sup at my breasts, including different positions, ear-tweaking and foot massage (both stimulate the suction reflex), but at best, Rosie was managing two weak sucks before dropping off to sleep - not very helpful.

Eventually, Nurse B told us to get nipple guards and like magic, Rosie began to suck. It wasn't surprising, really as she'd been given formula from bottles in the time she'd been apart from me after the C Section and hadn't had the chance to use the magic first hour of life to make skin-on-skin contact and find and latch on to the breast. She was, as the breastfeeding experts put it, "nipple confused" - latex teats on bottles were her experience of obtaining food, so my flexible, fleshy things just didn't cut the mustard. Not surprising the nipple guard found favour, it was very similar to a bottle teat. BUT at least it got her taking the colostrum I was producing and then my milk, when it came in on the third day.

We were put on a two and a half hour feeding regime consisting of unlimited breastfeeding and a regular 20ml top-up of formula from the bottle. By day three, Rosie's weight-loss had stopped and soon she was gaining her grams again. Unfortunately, the nipple-guard/bottle regime merely made the nipple confusion worse, so I had my work cut out to get Rosie to take the breast. But that's another story.

On the whole, I have to say Hospital La Paz was extremely good and looked after Rosie and me very well - even the food wasn't TOO bad, especially given Spain's general lack of experience with vegetarianism. The downsides of being in hospital were the heat - even the warm-temperatured Hispanic inmates found the ambience sultry, to say the least - and the lack of opportunity to sleep. Catnapping during the day was almost impossible with the endless comings-and-goings of nurses, cleaners, visitors, doctors, paediatricians, meals etc. etc. and night-time sleep was disturbed by the two babies; their parents (some of whom snored bloody loudly) and of course, the sweltering heat.

All in all, it was a relief to go home. I was lucky and recovered quickly from my C section, sore abdominals soon subsided and my incision seemed to be healing well. I can't help laughing in a hollow way about all that rubbing in of cream to avoid stretchmarks. Well, it worked, I don't have any stretch marks, but there's not much I can do about the 5-inch scar just below my bikini line, or the fleshy ridge of "overhang" above it. As souvenirs of the birth go, I much prefer our gorgeous little Rosie.

Wednesday 10 February 2010

Bloody British Bureaucracy

So, having finally won my battle with the Spanish bureaucracy - registering Rosie's birth and getting paternity and maternity benefits for Kate and I - after only three trips to Social Security, one to the Register Civil, one to the Post Office, one to the Health Centre and another to a translator's office, my skirmish with the British Consulate begins. As annoying as the Spanish paperwork had been, at least it hadn't cost me anything.

€117 - That's how much it costs to register Rosie's birth with the British Consulate.

This isn't mandatory - we can apply for Rosie's passport (€95) without registering her - but if Rosie ever wants to enjoy any of the benefits of British Citizenship (the NHS, education, etc) it needs to be done. Merely registering her, however, wont be enough; upon return to the UK we'll need to prove she has been registered and for that we'll need a certificate. A snip at €75, plus €13 for delivery.

Of course registering her was never going to be straightforward. I had the form all filled out plus our marriage certificate, hospital papers, our passports, Rosie's Spanish birth certificate, both our short form birth certificates and Kate's long form birth certificate. What I didn't have was my long form birth certificate. Apparently they need it because it gives the details of my parents - the fact that these are also on Rosie's birth certificate and our marriage certificate was neither here nor there. Ironically, had I been Spanish, my details wouldn't be needed - Rosie could still be registered as British using Kate's papers alone. But I am British. So they need my long form birth certificate. A mere £25 and 5 working days; a bargain really considering the prices of the other bits of paper paying the rent for the British Consulate's panoramic views at Torre Espacio.

Tuesday 9 February 2010

Las Abuelas - by Theo

In one of the pre-natal classes we attended with our midwife Maite, she drew two large columns on the board, one for the men and one for the women. Then she asked the guys to suggest problems that new mothers would face in the first few weeks following birth, and asked the women to do the same for new fathers. At one point Maite wrote, in huge block capitals, sprawling across both columns "Las Abuelas" - the Grandmothers. Clearly in Spain the attentions of the Grandmothers during the first few weeks of their precious grandchild's life is something new parents anticipate with dread and trepidation!

Rosie's early arrival threw everyone into a state of shock, perhaps none more so than her Grandmothers, Cathy (maternal) and Diane (paternal). Prior to the birth they had both been talking, calmly and rationally, about coming over during Easter week to visit. However once Rosie's arrival in the world became reality this calm pre-planning went out the window as they both scrambled to get over here asap - they would have come while we were still in the hospital if we hadn't stopped them!

In the end they came last weekend. My mother, Diane, and my sister Hermione (Rosie is her first niece... or nephew!) flew over on Friday and booked themselves into a hotel around the corner. Kate's mum Cathy flew over on Saturday and took up residence in our spare room. Suddenly we had babysitters - Hurrah - and Kate and I were able to take 2 hour siestas while a small army of attendants bathed, changed and comforted Rosie while we slept. My Mum and Hermione flew back on Sunday to their busy schedules, but Cathy is with us until tomorrow and is currently filling our freezer with delicious things. Really I don't know what our fellow parents in the pre-natal class were worried about; thank goodness for Grandmothers!

I'm now waiting for the Grandfathers to show up - I've got some DIY I want their help with!

Thursday 4 February 2010

teta, pis, kaka


As our slightly crazy midwife put it - teta, pis, kaka; that's our life at the moment. Not much else going on. Ok, a hell of a lot of laundry, especially as we're using washable nappies, and shift sleeping, but everything revolves around feeding Rosie, changing Rosie and washing Rosie.


It's not all bad though - we're quite enjoying it, getting to know our little one. We've had some visitors as well - David and Nataly came around last night with takeaway pizza and beer, which was very welcome. AnneTerese is still here, though she's moving out tomorrow to an au pair placement. My mum and sister are arriving tomorrow and Kate's mum on Saturday. Kate staples came out and she's healing well, and the Spanish paperwork is nearly done. It's all good.

Tuesday 2 February 2010

A Night Of Firsts by Kate

At first I blamed the nut roast we'd had at lunchtime. Shouldn't have been so greedy, I told myself as I took the Metro to Mendez Alvaro where I'd arranged to pay a social call to our former flatmates and pick up some post. While I sat chatting to Pete, I got fidgety. No position seemed comfortable. And I had an urgent need to visit the loo. Bloody nut roast.

After a while I made my excuses and headed back to the Metro. The discomfort was now moving into pain territory. Then it struck me - was I having contractions? Surely not, I had four weeks to go and these were awfully close together and now feeling rather strong. Braxton Hicks, I thought, those "pre-labour practice contractions" I had been told to expect.

Once on the Metro I was finding it hard not to groan and grimace as we trundled back towards Pueblo Nuevo. I was haunted by a recent Metro Madrid advert, which depicts a woman in labour and helped by strangers on the trains as she heads towards hospital to have her baby. I tried not to think about it.

The walk from PN Metro station to our flat seemed interminable and a couple of times I had to stop, trying to remember the breathing techniques I had been practicing ready for the birth. I'll be fine when I'm in a relaxed, familiar place, I thought. A fit of chills shook me, then as I waited for the lift in our building, I felt burning hot. What the hell??

I finally got inside and when Theo saw my face and asked if I was okay I did allow myself a grimace. "I think I'm having contractions", I said. He tried to rub my back and help me but suddenly I couldn't bear to be touched. I moaned on the sofa, trying different positions, but no relief. Then another urgent need to visit the bathroom. Once there I realised I was discharging some blood.
"I think we'd better go and see someone," I told Theo and tried to breathe through another contraction.

With admiral presence of mind, Theo threw supplies into a hastily improvised hospital bag (just in case) - something I'd been intending to organise this week, but never mind - and led me to the car. I felt calm, but couldn't pay attention to anything except the contractions, which seemed to be coming at one minute intervals. Theo, meanwhile, battled with the spaghetti of roads and disappearing signposting that marked the route to Universitario Hospital La Paz - a dry run was something else we had been planning to do in the next week or so.

When we arrived, we explained the situation and I was led away for examinations and monitoring. A very jovial middle aged medic checked by cervix "Only 2cm", she said, "I don't think you need to start pushing yet." Ho ho ho. My contractions were monitored for fifteen minutes then another cervical examination. Despite my imperfect understanding of Spanish, I detected slight consternation. I was now 3cm.

"The problem is," I said, "Is the baby's head is here - she is sitting on her arse." The consternation increased and I was scanned. Yep, I was right. At that point, they obviously made the decision to take our baby "out the window" - although I could only surmise this from the way I was being stripped of clothes and jewellery and given a hospital gown to wear and asked when I had last eaten or drunk anything. Nothing since the nut roast, I assured them.

Then Theo was suddenly beside me. "Are we having her now, then?" I asked, just to make sure.
"They're going to give you a caesarian", he said
"Oh, okay." Another contraction to breath through.
"I love you!" Then I was wheeled away. Watching the passing strip lights above my head I could only think how surreal it all was. I felt completely calm - had done since the beginning, in fact - but couldn't quite take in that I was about have a baby.

In the theatre, the kindly but efficient medical team prepped me for the operation. It was a most odd feeling as the epidural took effect and all sensation in my legs disappeared. Thankfully, so did the pain from the contractions, which was a mercy.

A green curtain was stuck up so I couldn't see my abdomen (although the effect was slightly spoiled by the fact that I could see perfectly in the reflection cast on the highly polished monitor arm above me. I tried not to look.)
"Can I touch my baby afterwards?" I asked. I couldn't remember the Spanish for "hold". Yes, they assured me.

I felt myself being shaved, then something pushing into me, which must have been the incision. Then hands were inside my belly and I felt the baby being physically pulled out, her head finally away from the underside of my rib cage. Very, very strange, but not in the least painful.

A moment later, "The baby's out!" and with startling suddenness she was lifted above the screen for me to see. I was speechless. The only word I managed was an awed "Oh!!" before she was taken from my view. Next the pushing and pulling as they stitched up my wound. "I've just had a baby!" I thought.
"Congratulations!" They all cried.
"This is surreal", I said aloud. The time was 00.15.

The next moment, a little bundle was carried to my head, her face towards mine.
"Little kisses for your baby," said the medic holding her. I complied, the surreal feeling growing. Then she was gone again. I still felt calm, especially as they assured me she was fine. Also, a dawning sense of wonder. I couldn't really take it in.

Soon, the stitches were finished, and trailing a drip trolley, I was wheeled out to the corridor where Theo met me.
"You're amazing", he said.
"Is she alright?" I asked.
"She's perfect!!" he said. Then he told me I was being taken to the intensive care unit on the fourth floor for overnight observation and our little Rosie would be monitored on floor eleven. We would be reunited in the morning. He had been told to go home, but he would come back at the earliest possible time - around ten. He kissed me and I was pushed into a lift up to Planta Cuatro.

Up in the ICU, I was checked and monitored and only here did I suddenly become aware how everything hurt. I requested more pain relief. They gave it to me after pressing painfully on my abdomen. Boy, that was agony.

So, hooked up to various drips, catheters, auto-blood pressure-machines, ECG monitors and gawd-knows-what I tried to get some sleep. Actually, I felt pretty relaxed, but sleep was impossible with machines continually bleeping and the blood pressure sleeve around my arm tightening uncomfortably every half hour. I kept thinking "I've had the baby!" and started to wonder what she was like. All I could remember was a pair of blue eyes and a shock of fuzzy dark hair.

As the clock ticked slowly on, I contemplated my situation. I had never been a hospital in-patient before. Never had anything approaching major surgery. Never been inside an ICU. And - oh yes - had never given birth. And now I was a mother, apparently. Another first.

By morning, I was getting impatient to be with Rosie. I had been watching the clock since I had arrived and now I could hardly contain my impatience as they gave me a bed bath and started unhooking me from the various tubes and wires. I was missing Theo, but all I could think about was meeting my daughter.
"Any pain?" asked a nurse. "Yes," I said. She shoved me in the abdomen. Ouch.

Finally, they began wheeling me away. I was taken up to the eleventh floor and into a room where a woman and her husband and baby were already ensconced in one corner.
"Congratulations!" They said.
"You too!" I replied. And then I heard wheels approaching the door. They belonged to a mobile cot which was pushed over to my bedside. In the cot was a tiny, pink baby - our baby. For a moment I just marvelled at her. Then, despite, the pain in my abdomen, I leaned over and took her from the cot and into the bed with me. I just wanted her in my arms. I smelled her and gazed at her in wonder. This was our daughter. The feeling was indescribable.

Then, twenty minutes later, Theo arrived. We embraced and he joined me in my fascination with this tiny new person we had made. Our family. Now we are three.