Block by block by Kate

It's a fun moment for a parent (especially one who's a teeny bit anal about tidiness...) when their baby moves from wanton destruction and emptying every container within their reach, to putting items into a receptacle and some basic construction.

So Rosie's favourite activity has shifted from completely turfing out Mummy and Daddy's underwear drawers; the bottom drawer in the kitchen and the flannel drawer in the bathroom, to pulling everything out then putting some things back in again. It's a small but significant progression and one I'm very keen to encourage. The drawers still look like a small grenade has gone off inside them when Rosie's finished her rearrangements, but let's not be fussy.

And although Rosie is a good deal off attempting, say, a reproduction of the Taj Mahal using her coloured building blocks, she can at least erect a reasonable tower now. Eight blocks is her current record before the edifice comes tumbling down thanks to a carelessly misplaced elbow or some unfortunate design flaw.
Needless to say, as her parents, we are suitably impressed and are already considering the architecture as a possible future career. Nothing wrong with laying the foundations early.

Three years ago today

..and what a wonderful day it was! 3 years on we still can't believe our luck, especially now we've got this little one...

Tricycle! Tricycle! Tricycle! - by Theo

A while ago the lovely Rebbecca and Fermin scavenged a push-a-long tricycle for little Rosie. It's taken her a little while to get big enough to sit in it comfortably and for the weather to get nice enough, but recently we've started venturing out with her riding it like a pro. Well, not really. Steering is an alien concept and thus she occasionally has us going in circles or veering into a random stranger's ankles until we lean over to correct her. But hey, at least she's holding onto the handlebars! Plus it's a great excuse for Kate and I to attempt a passable Freddy Mercury impression. All together now: "she wants to ride her tricycle, she wants to ride her trike...."

sunday sombras - by Theo

Rosie is a fab baby to take out and about to exhibitions, provided we time it right. In the past we've had a great time with her at the Caixa Forum, where she became delightfully engrossed by the Press Photography Exhibition, a selection of contemporary Turkish paintings and the usher's mustache (to be fair it was practically a work of art in its own right). However on another occasion I found myself weaving an odd circle through Atocha train station while trying to both admire the photographs in a MSF sponsored show and keep a steady pace so that Rosie would continue sleeping in her buggy.

Sunday's timing was spot on. After Rosie's morning nap we swiftly headed out, meeting our friend Anne at the Museo de la Ciudad near Avenida de America to see a (free) exhibit of Spanish photography between 1944 and 1954, entitled Sombras (shadows). Not actually a thematic link between the photographs, but rather the title of a photography publication extant in that period.

[Rosie trying to explain the finer points of metaphor in composition while I babble on inanely about the ickle-doggy.]

Popping Rosie in the sling, we toured the exhibit, my attention somewhat distracted by my charge - especially when she persuaded me to let her crawl about the marble floor, something she did with great gusto. She did show some interest in the exhibits, particularly those of dogs and children (a recurring theme with Rosie) but I can forgive her for not being all that grabbed by them. Given that the period in question was such a politically volatile time in Spanish history - the civil war still a recent painful memory and Franco unsure whether the victorious allies of WWII would choose to liberate Spain from the fascist yoke or not - there was little reflection of that in the arrangement of the exhibit. There could easily have been. Some of the most engrossing photographs were social portraits - of monks, of fishermen, of peasant farmers, young children fetching water or dressed up for a fiesta. Very little information was offered about either the photographers or their subjects, which was a shame as it would have taken very little to have invested a bit more life in the exhibition.

After a drink on a sun-drenched terrace, we treated ourselves and Rosie to pizza, which she gobbled down with enthusiasm before - timed to perfection - she nodded off for 40 minutes as I walked back to Pueblo Nuevo in the warm March sunshine, waking up just 5 minutes from our door.

Won one, lost one By Kate

We got lucky first time with Rosie. She was the result of one of the four in five pregnancies that ends with a baby. Second time round that luck took a holiday.

Instead of expecting a brother or sister for Rosie early in October as we had thought, we discovered from our first scan that we weren't expecting a baby at all. Our embryo had stopped developing at just over eight weeks and no heartbeat could be detected. A missed or "silent" miscarriage. The radiologist's mouth tightened into a line of regret. "Es un aborto," she said, "Lo siento."

We were stung by disappointment and slightly stunned, but took the bad news calmly. "Ah well," I said to Theo as I climbed off the scanning table, "That's that, then." It would explain why I had been experiencing so few pregnancy symptoms, especially during the last fortnight or so. Everything had come to a full stop.

When we got home, the tears came. Although I was already counting my blessings (better to lose a pregnancy early on; I know I can carry a healthy baby; I know I can get pregnant fairly easily; maybe a slightly bigger gap between children would be better; at least this takes the pressure off our return to the UK etc. etc....) it was still a sad loss and some grief was inevitable. Theo comforted me, as best he could. For him, the initial disappointment had rapidly changed into concern for my well-being. Cuddling Rosie helped me too.

But now we had to turn to the practicalities of the situation. Our radiologist had told me to go to hospital either today or tomorrow...but was vague about the details. A bit of research online told me most of what I needed to know and a friend who'd been through the same thing a few years before told me the rest. I would need a medical procedure called ERPC (Evacuation of the Remaining Products of Conception), once known as D&C (Dilation and Curettage). A straightforward operation performed under general anaesthetic. Bearing that in mind, we elected to go the following morning in the hope that I would be home that same evening.

Accordingly, we arrived at Urgencias Maternidad, Hospital La Paz at nine o'clock the next morning. Theo had taken the day off work so he could look after Rosie and support me as much as possible. We signed in and I was taken off to be scanned again. The staff were kind and friendly (a couple of the younger medics even attempting some reasonable English) and although none of them offered sympathy, they put me at my ease.

I had done the right thing by not eating any breakfast, although the news that I had had a few mouthfuls of water was greeted with some consternation. Eventually they judged I hadn't had enough for it to be a big problem. I was told to remove my clothes and jewelery, then put in a wheelchair and taken to a small ward for two on the fourth floor. It all felt strangely familiar as the room was identical to the one I had stayed in for five days after having Rosie. Except this one couldn't come close to the view we had had on the eleventh floor and the circumstances couldn't be more depressingly different.

Theo and Rosie came to give me a hug and bid me a temporary farewell, then I was joined by an older woman who was given the other bed as she waited to have a bladder operation. I smiled politely and did my best to keep up with her Spanish, using my own imperfect command of the language to explain why I was at La Paz. She nodded sympathetically and told me (I think) that she had also had a miscarriage. But she now had three healthy adult sons to her name, so not to worry. Although she suspected the miscarried baby would have turned out to be a girl and that made her feel sad. I nodded sympathetically in my turn.

A couple of nurses came in, gave me some forms to sign, then popped a couple of pessaries inside me to "soften things up" for the coming procedure. I was then left to relax in my bed and read.

An hour and a half later, it was time to go. My bed, with me in it, was wheeled down to the operating theatre. Outside it, I was asked the same succession of questions by five different people (No, I hadn't eaten since last night, Yes I'd drunk a little water this morning, but not much etc. etc.) Bafflingly, one junior anaesthetist asked me in broken English about the importance of the decision I had made. Confused, I replied, "Es un gestation interrumpido. Es un aborto. Este operacion es necesario, no?" He agreed it was. I think he had been under the impression that I was aborting a live fetus, for some reason.

The operation itself went without a hitch. The most painful part was having two needles inserted into the back of my left hand for the various drips, but the rest was plain sailing. The medical team helped me onto the operating table, stuck my legs in stirrups, tested my blood pressure, sluiced my nether regions with shockingly cold antiseptic then inserted a nozzle in my mouth...and I promptly passed out.

The next moment (probably about twenty minutes or so later) I came round trying to push this strange foreign object out of my mouth with my tongue. When I opened my eyes and saw various medics gazing down at me I remembered where I was. I felt amazingly refreshed and realized this was probably the first time I had slept really deeply since I had had Rosie, more than thirteen months earlier.

"What luxury," I said in Spanish, "Can I have some of that stuff to help me sleep at night?" They smiled and I was wheeled back to the ward, still attached to the drips, and was left to snooze off the effects of the anaesthetic for the next couple of hours.

Rosie and Theo returned to find me well-rested and reaching the exciting climax of my novel. It was then a matter of hanging around until a doctor could be persuaded to check me over and discharge me. Eventually one bustled in after Theo used the simple expedient of waving Rosie meaningfully at the nurse receptionist and saying the baby would need to go home for supper and bed very soon.

I was told I could breastfeed Rosie that evening provided I expressed the first lot of milk to get rid of any lingering anaesthesia. Then I was given an information sheet telling me what to expect over the next few weeks and what symptoms to look out for in the event of an infection. After that I was free to change back into my clothes and go. Which I did.

It was the next day that we discovered I hadn't only left the remains of an embryo behind me at Hospital La Paz. Unfortunately my wedding ring had slipped from the plastic folder where I had thought it would be safe and was most probably well buried among the hospital refuse by now.

I am very hopeful that a new wedding ring and a new pregnancy will both be forthcoming before too long. After all, you've got to try and be philosophical about these things sometimes.

Stay at home Dad - by Theo

When Kate and I first met she was a Senior Broadcast Journalist at the BBC, earning a tidy if not extravagant salary, while I was a freelancer with an overdraft, only managing to feed myself because I was living rent-free in a student hall of residence. It was therefore a matter of simple economics, rather than any true altruism on my part, when I suggested that should we ever have children, I would be more than happy to be a SAHD (stay at home dad) while Kate brought home the lentils. (No bacon please, we're veggies).

"Not on your life", was Kate's reply. Despite being a feminist, Kate was in no way enamoured with this women-empowering option (though I'm sure she was pleased to have the choice). As she put it "You're my pension plan, so you'd better start earning one!" So, sure enough, when Rosie arrived, I was back at the chalkface after my two weeks paternity leave had expired, while Kate slipped seamlessly into full-time motherhood.


However, last week, I finally got my chance to find out exactly what things might have been like had Kate taken up my offer. Kate had to suddenly go into hospital for a relatively straightforward procedure - nothing life-threatening, just one of those things best done sooner rather than later - and I was left holding the baby. Thankfully, I have an extremely understanding boss who had no objection to me taking the day off work - I think the fact that he's also a father helped - as with barely 24 hours notice we had no way to make other arrangements for Rosie, who has never been in non-parental care for more than a couple of hours (usually spent asleep).

Kate was admitted at 9am and though we had thought she might have to stay the night, she was discharged at 7pm, everything having gone smoothly. This was a huge relief, not just because it was great to have Kate home again, but also because I'd been dreading having to put Rosie down for the night by myself (well, not being able to lactate puts me at something of a disadvantage). As it was I was still pretty knackered, having done all Rosie's meals, both naps and her bath, all nappy changes as well as feeding myself (beans on toast) and doing the laundry and washing up.

It was wonderful spending so much time with Rosie and she really was a little angel, not complaining as I switched her from buggy to car seat to sling to high chair, but by the end of the day I appreciated Kate like never before!

Back to the barricades... By Kate

I married a feminist. Or a pro-feminist, if you will. Theo nailed his colours to the mast good and proper when he said he would be happier if I kept my surname, rather than adopt his and then exploded at the registrar when she asked, for the purposes of the marriage licence, what our fathers' professions were.

My own feminism had been rather in abeyance in the years since I flirted with radicalism while at university. Sure, I knew the pay gap between equivalent male and female jobs still existed, that motherhood had a tendency to impoverish those who gave up a paying job to care for their children and I would react with fury to any report I came across relating to rape.

But feminism wasn't something I thought about all that much, if I'm honest, until I married Theo. And even then it was usually him who raised the topic.

All that has now changed as I watch my baby changing into a little girl. The realisation that my daughter will have to live in a society where true equality between the sexes is still submerged in depressingly antediluvian attitudes, awash with warped female body shapes and swilling with pornography has made me sit up straight again. I don't want this for her.

I don't want my daughter to be subjected to moronic shouts of "get yer tits out" as she strolls down the street. I don't want my daughter to become one of the 3.4 million and rising (according to a recent government report) women and girls in the UK to be a victim of rape. I don't want my daughter to grow up with the idea that skinny waists and unnaturally inflated bosoms add up to an aspirational silhouette. I don't want my daughter to be paid less than a man doing the same job as her.

I want my daughter to confidently hold her head up high, unafraid to take on the world. I want her body to be the way she wants it to be and no one else. I want her to be proud of who she is and never let anyone else do her down.

Women may have more options than they had forty years ago, but there's still a way to go. And if I can, I'll do my little bit to try and get us there. Because Rosie - and all the other girls - deserve better.

it pays to recycle - by Theo

Just around the corner from our flat is a recycling place, a Chatarreria, which buys paper and metals. I remember noticing it when we first moved in. As we're practically religious when it comes to observing recycling, I figured we might make a few cents selling our paper recycling to them, though to be honest I've never even been over to inquire what they pay. We haven't needed money that badly to make the effort, and neither, to begin with, did it seem the general public did either. Occasionally during our first year here I might see an old lady turn up with a few carefully tied bundles of old newspapers on her wheelie trolley, but otherwise they seemed to get little by way of walk-in trade.

However over the past 6 months there seems to have been a different shift. The first time I spotted it was a quiet Sunday morning, I was on nap duty and I watched with quiet amazement as a young chap, maybe 24, pushed a shopping trolley up to the paper recycling bank, push his arm in and grab out great wodges of magazines to fill up his trolley. Now I know that, thanks largely to Chinese demand for raw materials, the market value of scrap metal has shot up massively over the last few years (and indeed I have seen people rolling up to the Chatarreria with trolleys of metal pulled from skips) but I didn't realise there was much value in second hand paper. Clearly, however much they get for it, it's worth it. Whether it's just because I've been looking for it or people genuinely are on the paper hunt more than before, but I now see them everywhere. The paper hunters range from solo operators, pushing trolleys of various descriptions around the street, raiding the big, public recycling bins, to van loads, who drive around working in teams.

Well, in times of crisis I guess any bit of paper can serve for cash.

Sleeping In Motion By Kate

Followers of this blog may recall our daughter's reluctance to sleep during the daytime unless she is in motion in some way. Successful strategies have included being walked in the sling, chauffeured in the car and being pushed in the buggy. Apart from the middle option (which we rarely use), it's all good exercise for Mummy and Daddy, but it can be a bit tiring. Not to mention inconvenient if we want to get something done or really bloody inconvenient if the weather is being unhelpful.

I had started to fantasise about an invention which could be attached to the buggy and simulate the motion of us pushing it around the streets of Madrid. OK, perhaps without the dogs barking, the over-loud motorbikes and the passing tantrumming toddlers.

I had even gone as far as discussing the idea with Theo's dad, a highly practical man and an engineer by trade, he immediately took a keen interest in the idea of developing a prototype.

Then some kindly person pointed out that such an invention already existed, nay, had even featured on the popular TV show Dragons' Den and furthermore, was available via an Ebay seller for the discounted price of £35.

I didn't hesitate. My Paypal account was duly raided and a Baby Dream Machine (for such is its name) was put in the post.

We call it the Trusty Buggy Trundler and it works a treat, as you can see from the clip below (although beware motion sickness). Rosie nods off within about ten minutes of the thing being started up and generally stays asleep until we turn it off again. Genius!

the birds and the.... er... - by Theo

One of my favourite walking routes for Rosie's morning nap is the park of Los Molinos, about 10/15 minutes stride away on the posher side of Arturo Soria. A lovely landscaped park that was once the property of a noted local architect, Rosie and I have become such a regular feature there that I'm now on "buenas dias" terms with several of the dog walkers there - one even apparently knows if he's running late if we're leaving as he arrives!
Over the past couple of weeks the park has become increasingly beautiful as the blossom has made an appearance, and with it the photographers. Several of the walks are completed surrounded by fruit and nut trees in full flower, and the scent is delightful.


So, as temperatures hovered in the early twenties last weekend I suggested to Kate that we head to the park before Rosie's naptime to give our now confidently crawling little girl a chance to try out her skills on grass. She was less than impressed - occasionally putting out a hand as if to test the water before quickly withdrawing it at the strange texture. She was quite taken by some falling blossom, stroking the petals gently, but generally she was, as ever, far more taken with her shoe.
Still, it was a lovely afternoon, fresh but warm in the sun with birdsong and the heavy smell of nectar all around. It was only as we left that I realised what was missing. In all my visits to Los Molinos I have yet to see a bee or, for that matter, a pollinator of any kind. Sad to think that all that beautiful blossom may never bear fruit.