Joe César by Theo

Well, what a contrast with Rosie's birth: whereas her entry into the world was a late-night, adrenaline filled surprise that happened in what seemed like the blink of an eye, her little brother Joe's entry proceeded calmly along planned lines and simply involved a lot of waiting.

Despite Kate's desire for a normal birth and despite a mountain of curry, pineapple, aubergine and a fair amount of certain activities thought to promote labour, Joe did not arrive by his due date. So Kate was promptly booked in for another cesarian. Arriving at Southmead at the appointed time (7am) the only thing we had to contend with this time was boredom - there were three scheduled operations that morning and Kate's was the third. So we settled down to a hefty dose of dystopian literature: Kate reading The Hunger Games and Brave New World for me (which I soon finished). Having hoped I'd be back to help Elena out with Rosie by lunch time, we were slightly miffed not to be called until past 12pm.

Dressed in scrubs we were guided politely into the operating theatre, feeling mildly like extras from Green Wing. The all female team were brilliant, and also very funny, maintaining a witty repartee throughout while also complimenting Kate on her choice of birth music - a folky mix of Rokia Traore, Kate Bush, Sufjan Stevens and the like (though not The Like). Kate couldn't see any of the proceedings, but I could (in the reflection of the light stand) so I saw the moment his hairy head came out followed by his crinkly, red 8.5lbs body. Magical.  

The team popped him almost straight onto Kate's chest and the sound of her heartbeat calmed him straight away, another magical moment. He promptly peed on my hand when the time came to take him off - starting as he means to go on I suppose. In the recovery room he started feeding straightaway, having not been away from his mum for more than five minutes - two other huge differences from his sister's early hours. She and Elena were promptly fetched from home to come and visit the new arrival.

He's called Joe César: Joe because we like the name, and have a several good friends of the same name; César - pronounced the Spanish way (Thesar) - in memory of our dear friend, sadly missed, César Jalon.

Look out, baby about - by Theo

As I had a week off work for Semana Santa, we decided to take the opportunity to head up to France to stay with Cathy and Jean. Rosie was again a superb passenger, not complaining too much and after an early start (7am) on the Sunday we made it to Ste Croix around 6pm with quite a few stops along the way.

Usually I find it very relaxing to be at Cathy and Jean's. It's a pleasure to get out of the city into the beautiful countryside around their old farmhouse and forget about marking or lesson planning for a week. Plus Cathy is an excellent chef and I'm always amazed at how she manages to pull 5 course meals together in a matter of minutes from seemingly nothing. At least one upside of Kate not being pregnant was that she was able to join in with the booze and unpasteurized cheese.
But this trip had a slightly different feel. Jean is sadly not in the best of health and therefore wasn't his usual busy, bustling, ebullient self, which cast a slight pall over the week, although he was still able to guide me (his card partner) to a bulote whitewash over the ladies' team, and join us at a delicious barbecue lunch at Alex and Dawn's, whom we had met the previous summer. However the biggest problem when it came to Kate and I really relaxing and unwinding was our darling daughter; she's just far too mobile nowadays.
When we visited at Christmas Rosie had only just started crawling; it was easy enough to sit with her on a rug while she tentatively moved around. Now, she's on the verge of walking and, with the aid of a helpful hand or her trolley, which we discovered goes off-road, she zooms off everywhere.

Mind you, she still objects to crawling outside (which we're pleased about) so regular shouts or moans from her require Mum or Dad to pick her up and move her to her desired location, indicated by pointing and her ubiquitous new word "dyim" (meaning = there, not there, this, not this, that, not that...).
Indoors she was happy to crawl about, although low steps, uneven surfaces and easily openable cupboards meant Mum and Dad (and Nonna) had to be ever vigilant. Not that we aren't vigilant at home I hasten to add, but this was a whole new level of watchfulness, a Def Con 2 of baby minding, if you will. All this meant that by the end of the day we felt much like our darling daughter - completely exhausted.
Not that she used the holiday to enjoy luxurious lie-ins. Oh no. After lulling us into a false sense of security the first night by sleeping through, Rosie got progressively more wakeful as the week went on, until three in a bed from 4am became the norm.

Still, it was wonderfully refreshing to be out of the city for a few days and spend time with Cathy and Jean - and for Rosie to enjoy some grandparental devotion, which never goes amiss. Now we're all back home enjoying some post-vacation recovery time.

364 Days on the curve By Kate

The eve of Rosie's first birthday is an ideal time to reflect on what I've learned in the last year. It's certainly been a steep curve in many respects - harder than I thought it would be, but easier as well.

So, in no particular order, since becoming a mother I have learned:

-that I am not especially grossed out by my daughter's poo-filled nappies.
-that I can function cheerfully (most of the time) on an average of five hours of broken sleep per night.
-that honey is banned in the first year because it can give babies botulism.
-that olive oil and chamomile tea applied to a baby's rear end can help see off nappy rash.
-that babies often sleep better at night if they've had plenty of sleep during the day and worse if they haven't.
-that the details of my daughter's excreta could be such a source of endless fascination.
-what a "snotsucker"; a "sleep regression"; "cruising"and "a good latch" all mean in parental context.
-that I can talk for hours about the minutiae of our day together, even if we haven't really done anything in particular.
-that I now find conversations about other people's children genuinely interesting.
-how nippy I can be when manoeuvring a pram or buggy.
-that I have hitherto unknown reserves of total silliness when it comes to making faces/noises/doing dances etc.
-that I never knew just how strongly my heart-strings could be twanged by another human being.
-how much I would enjoy it.

She is the passenger - by Theo

Before we left for Cathy & Jean's, a 1000km journey, which, sticking to Spanish and French speed limits, is about 9 hours, Kate started a thread on Facebook which got a swift and speedy response. She asked how Rosie, on a scale of 1 to 10 with 1 being the infanta Jesusina (no crying she makes) and 10 being the sister of Satan, would cope with the trip.

Most respondents figured we'd get an hour of quiet reflection followed by 10 to 11 hours (allowing for stops) of the kind of hell on four wheels usually reserved for Chevy Chase movies.

But it turned out that Rosie is basically the world's best infant passenger (in our humble opinion). Sure, she whinged a bit, but no more than she would have done out of the car, and thanks to Kate's tireless entertainment efforts Rosie napped, ate, laughed and chortled most of the way there, and most of the way back. Hurrah!

And she's off.... By Kate

Rosie's been on the point of not-quite-crawling for weeks now - then, over the last few days, with a bit of help (room rearrangement to facilitate free movement) and a few confidence-knocking head-bashing moments, she suddenly realised she could get herself places instead of wailing for Mummy or Daddy to help her out.

The world - or at least our flat - is her oyster.

Let the baby-proofing commence.

The Mortal Enemies of Naptime by Kate

How many miles (kilometres, sorry - we are on the continent, after all) have Theo and I walked in the name of Rosie's precious daytime sleep? We've certainly got to know the roads around our barrio very well and have also pushed a snoozing Rosie across the very heart of Madrid, passing such landmarks as Sol, Plaza Mayor, the Ventas Bullring and the Retiro Park. As long as we're properly attired for the weather, don't need to empty our bladders and Rosie co-operates by actually nodding off reasonably quickly, then it's an enjoyable way to get a bit of fresh(ish) air and exercise.

But it's hardly what you would describe as a relaxing stroll. Nope. The savvy pushchair navigator has to be constantly alert to all the circling hazards that can kill a nap without a second thought. They are many and various and include:

1) Stopping the pushchair. Getting the timing right at pedestrian crossings is a tricky business and Theo and I have both been observed running full tilt to catch the green man, walking v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y to avoid stopping at the red, or doing figure-eights or back-and-forths on the braille pavements to keep that essential forward motion going at all times.

2) The changing weather. Manic re-positioning of the parasol to avoid sun rays hitting Rosie's reposing eyes; enveloping the buggy in the rain cover (or indeed removing it); hastily improvising wind-breaks with bits of string and bulldog clips... all of this without stopping (see point 1).


3) Sudden sharp noises. During the deeper part of her sleep cycle, Rosie can sleep through pretty much anything. But when she's moving from one cycle to the next, typically at the half-hour mark or thereabouts, any number of sonic interruptions can effectively assassinate the remaining nap. These include:
*dogs barking
*toddlers throwing tantrums
*vehicles tooting (junctions are dangerous - Spaniards tend to be very impatient with cars that don't move forward the instant the light turns green, or preferably, a second or two earlier)
*air-brakes (buses are the worst culprits)
*emergency sirens
*roadworks
*chatting Spaniards (they tend to talk VERY loudly)
*chatting Africans (they tend to talk EVEN MORE loudly)
*mopeds and motorbikes
*baby-loving passers-by ("Que cosita!!" They shout at our sleeping daughter, ignoring our pleading expressions as Rosie's eyelids start to flicker alarmingly)
*buskers (I'm a music lover, but I could cheerfully kick a hole through any accordion threatening my baby's sleep. It usually is an accordion.)

Any of the above can send us skedaddling down side-roads, sprinting across parks, executing 180 degree hand-brake turns with the buggy - or any means necessary to avoid Rosie being woken prematurely.

Which is why an hour and a half of successful sleep from Rosie while out and about tends to feel like a mission as we set out and imparts a glow of satisfaction when we return with the snooze quota fulfilled. But it's no wonder that after the initial stampede to use the loo, we buggy-navigators need to sink gratefully onto the sofa with a calming cup of tea. Those walks are almost always fraught with incident from the most innocent-seeming sources. Strolling has never felt so adventurous.

fussy eaters

I've cooked for a fair few fussy eaters in my time. Mentioning no names - you know who you are! ;-) - there have been those with self-imposed regimes, the vegans and manic-organics, and others whose various, often quite bizarre allergies (or, possibly, phobias) forced me to rather drastically change my culinary habits. None quite top my darling daughter however.

It's not so much the fussiness that gets me, more the unpredictability. Just three weeks ago she couldn't get enough of some of my culinary creations: pear, broccoli and chickpeas flavoured with clove; red lentils, squash, ginger and garam masala; puy lentils, coconut, leek and sweet potato; carrot, coriander, roasted pepper and lentils. Rosie would happily gobble down up to three ice-cubes worth, perhaps followed by some natural yoghurt. Finger food, however, held zero interest to her, with the possible exception of the fun game of throwing something on the floor so Mummy and Daddy have to pick it up.

That's all changed. For the past couple of days the roles have reversed. Even the normally rapturously received greek yoghurt has prompted whingeing, while many previously favoured purees are now given the hamster cheek treatment: she'll keep accepting food, but rather than swallow it keep in in her cheeks until it reaches a critical mass where upon, with no small ceremony, it is expelled, bib-wards. However, she has now developed a serious interest in finger food - cheese on toast, pasta, roasted veg and mango are all top treats as far as the little tot is concerned.Babies. There's fussy buggers. But we love ours!

babytalk - by Theo

Consonants are the easiest for her. "dadadadadadadad" or slightly less frequently "mamamama" - I'm wondering whether it was babies that named parents, just as we name them. Other consonants such as 'p' and 'k' also appear, and Rosie seems to have a good handle on the tongue click, which will come in handy if she ever wants to learn Zulu. Occasional vowel-laden yodeling matches are great fun, getting some call and response going - goodness knows what the neighbours think of this.

Of course capturing it all on film is easier said than done. Rosie is captivated by the camera and easily distracted by it, though mostly in a "shiny-thing-wanna-put-in-my-mouth" kind of way. Luckily, although she's started to pull herself upright, crawling is still a couple of weeks away, else there would be no keeping her hands off it.

The Battle of Sleepy Corner III By Kate

More than eight months have passed since I last had an unbroken night's sleep. Actually, that's inaccurate. Given my bladder's propensity to require emptying at some point overnight (especially during pregnancy) I can't actually remember the last time I had an unbroken night's sleep. No, a total of around seven hours (with a minimum 4-hour stretch included) is the elusive - but vaguely realistic - dream I've been chasing. So is there dark at the end of the tunnel?

The answer is a cautious "possibly". After several months of Rosie managing little more than two hours of sleep before waking up and calling for me, something had to give. Her wakefulness (and therefore mine) was getting worse and her ability to resettle without part of my anatomy clamped between her lips (specifically, a nipple) was non-existent.

I decided she would have to learn to nod off without my assistance. So I tried the gentle ways of encouraging sleep sans breast: patting her tummy gently and saying "shh..."; picking her up to soothe her then putting her down again (and repeat ad infinitum); gently unlatching her after she had finished feeding but before she had fallen entirely asleep and putting her down.... and it all made her worse. Angry and distressed to the point of hysterical. Of course, the moment I put her to the breast, she would calm down. But then we were back to Square One.

So I took a deep breath and put Rosie down to sleep after her bedtime feed, kissed her goodnight and left her to it. I listened outside the bedroom door as she wailed in protest, poised to go in the moment her cries sounded like they were becoming truly distressed instead of frankly frustrated. They didn't. Instead, they became increasingly intermittent and after 25 minutes, she was asleep. She woke again a few hours later and again I waited to hear if she would get seriously upset. She didn't and once again, fell back to sleep. The third time she awoke, she didn't make any noise, just fidgeted a little, then fell asleep again. The fourth time she fidgeted for a long time, then fell asleep. By the fifth time it was almost 6am and my milk-engorged breasts felt like a pair of rocks strapped to my chest. This time I fed her and at the end of the feed she allowed me to put her back down for more sleep without protest. This was progress indeed!

The next night followed a similar pattern.

On the third night, I put her down to sleep at bedtime and left the room. Ten minutes later I asked Theo if he could hear anything. He replied in the negative, confirming my suspicions. She had fallen asleep without a murmur.

Three weeks later, it's rare Rosie makes any kind of a protest at bedtime. Even if she's wide awake, she's generally able to get herself off to sleep without Mummy (or specifically, Mummy's breasts) being involved. And it's had a huge impact on her overnight wakings. In general, twice a night now, instead of a minimum of five.

Not only that, but Rosie has now been moved into a cot (after co-sleeping with us since birth) - a change she took with equanimity - and then into her own room, so Theo and I would no longer disturb her with our fidgeting/snoring during the night. Rosie's sleep pattern has remained the same - not perfect, but a hell of a lot better than it was. As for me, I can't sleep because I'm finding it strange not to be able to hear and feel my baby sleeping (or not) beside me. But even that's improving.

So why have her naps gone to pot? Half an hour is the most she can manage in a static situation.

In answer, we've had to resort to The Magical Sleepy Pavement. It seems the only way Rosie will stay asleep for longer than thirty minutes at a time is if the wheels of her pram are thrumming the ribbed paving of our barrio. So now Theo and I take turns to slowly walk the streets while our offspring takes her siesta.
On the plus side, the weather is still good here and it's a fine way to get out of the flat and have a little gentle exercise. I just don't want to think about the onset of winter.

Rosie and the Boys

She may be only 7 months old, but Rosie is definitely developing an eye for the fellas.

Previously Rosie had disdained to notice Ollie, Bianca and Stefan's little boy, but on a recent visit (for a delicious lunch and swim) she couldn't keep her hands off him. Ollie accepted this female attention with a certain louche Gallic cool that he clearly gets from his Dad. He didn't even seem to mind when Rosie decided his feet were clearly a tastier looking option than the puree Mum and Dad had brought with them.

Rosie is obviously developing a foot fetish. Oh well.

Not content with hitting on her own age group, Rosie has also taken to making eyes at older men, marital status be damned. Here she is flirting with Fermin on a recently pool and picnic trip, although according to his wife Rebecca he has this affect on most women. Naturally, I didn't leave Kate's side...

WOMAD UK - with baby By Kate

OK, we cheated a bit. For the first time in the history of our attendance at WOMAD we didn't camp. But when you've got a six month-old baby and a handy guest room at parents/in-laws fifteen minutes drive away, it was a no-brainer. Plus I'm not a huge fan of camping in any case. It's kind of fun up to a point, but when you're a light sleeper who invariably needs to get up for a pee (or three) in the night, you can basically rule out much in the way of useful snoozery. Not that I get huge amounts of that at the moment anyway, but why make it worse?Accordingly we rolled up in Delilah the Delica early on Friday afternoon armed with sling, baby ear defenders, a picnic rug and a hopeful weather outlook. It was clear from the outset that Rosie was intrigued - no, make that fascinated - by the sights and sounds of the festival. As we walked onto the site her head bobbed from side to side, eyes bright with interest as she took it all in from her comfy position tied to Daddy's chest. Theo, meanwhile was doing his best impression of a pack horse, also wearing a backpack with various items (rug, changing mat, umbrella) hanging off it. I carried my flower pattern backpack and felt a teeny bit guilty about it. But only a teeny bit.
Duly wristbanded and clutching a festival programme, we headed for the Big Red Tent, Ipercussonici and the first potential obstacle to everyone's enjoyment. Would Rosie consent to wear her ear defenders so we could enjoy the raised decibel levels without having to clamp hands over our offspring's shell-likes to prevent possible hearing damage? The answer, thankfully and slightly surprisingly, was a resounding Yes. In fact, so successful were the defenders, that Rosie proceeded to feed then sleep quite happily while wearing them during the loud desert grooves provided by Toumast at the Open Air Stage. She napped in the first of several improvised nests we made for her on our rug (with the help of a colourful, highly sequinned parasol we'd purchased from one of the festival stalls) while we indulged in a half of lager and a bit of hip gyrating to Toumast. When Rosie woke up, she charmed everyone around us with huge grins as we danced with her (still in the ear-defenders) and generally Got Down. One woman even came and took our photograph, so enchanted was she by our beaming baby daughter. It was the best possible start to the weekend.The rest of the day was punctuated by more shows (most notable of which was that provided by the French lounge-core outfit Nouvelle Vague and their inspired renditions of various punk and New Wave classics) and a meet-up with Theo's sis, Hermione and spouse Richard and our mates Stu and Sam. In the end we stayed until almost nine o'clock (*thrills*), so comfortable did Rosie appear to be with her role as Official Festival Babe. We caught a bit of Chumbawamba, but were too far from the stage to really hear much, so took our leave.On Saturday we arrived at the festival slightly better prepared than the previous day - we bought a few cans of lager and cider. We also found a superb spot at the edge of the Open Air Stage which gave us line-of-sight and sound with both that stage and the neighbouring Siam Tent. As the two alternated their shows, it meant we could remain comfortably in position and simply re-angle ourselves to take in one or the other. Probably the highlight of the day performance-wise was a German outfit called LaBrassBanda - yes, a brass band. They were fantastic. Rosie's favourite (if her smiles were anything to go by) was Angelique Kidjo and Orchestre National de Barbes, seen by us in Madrid last year, were as endearingly entertaining as we remembered them. It was also good to see locals Phantom Limb in action with Yolanda in fine voice as they ran through their country-tinged set. We caught Imogen Heap's first couple of numbers, but Rosie wasn't especially grabbed and was clearly getting tired by that point, so we made a graceful exit.

On Sunday we had it down to a fine art and managed to catch Sounds of West Africa (did what it said on the tin - very well, too); the Sierra Leone Refugee All Stars (infectious uptempo music, totally belying the misery behind their formation); Mayra Andrade (sultry Samba-style songs - perfect for a sunny Sunday afternoon), Orchestre Poly Rhythmo de Cotonou (good, lively stuff) and the legend that is Rolf Harris.

He was a lot of fun, a consummate performer. Rosie, however, was unimpressed, preferring to sit in the sling firmly clamped to my right breast and doze throughout his set. The rest of us enjoyed it though. The Sarod player Soumik Datta was the last show we watched, hanging out agreeably with Patrick in the Arboretum as the expertly plucked strings sent out their rhythms and melodies from the Radio 3 stage. We ate a healthy festival meal of pie and mash followed by chocolate brownie, then reluctantly took our leave.
We came away two shirts (Theo) and one parasol (me) richer, several pounds poorer, amazingly clean (ah, the bliss of not camping...) and with a baby who, if this was anything to go by, is shaping up as a committed festival enthusiast, just like her parents. As long as it isn't Rolf Harris.

The Battle of Sleepy Corner II By Kate

It seems it's a culturally specific thing to expect (and need) an unbroken sleep overnight totalling around eight hours. And that infants are expected to sleep unbroken for around 12 hours (or more) - often alone in their own rooms. Societies without these kind of expectations don't tend to report as many "baby sleep problems" as a result. Such problems, it seems, are more related to parental expectations. Which is all kind of reassuring, although it doesn't make me feel less knackered after yet another night of Rosie's multiple awakenings.

On the plus side, Rosie isn't a big cryer on the whole (fusser, yes) and whimpers rather than shouts when she wakes up. More often than not, she goes back to sleep fairly quickly once she's had a feed (or a comfort suck, or a modest libation, or a quick thirst-quencher). She mainly sleeps from around 7pm (give or take half an hour) until 0700 (ditto) - waking up at intervals that vary from up to 5 hours in the first part of the night (very rare, it's usually 3 or so) followed by every 45 mins - 2 hours, usually diminishing as the night moves into morning. She also fidgets a lot, which tends to indicate that she's either a) about to wake up or b) isn't getting back to sleep as easily as she (I) would like. On these occasions, combinations of dummy-tapping and tummy-patting usually help her relax, but it can take a while. I would love to learn how to do those things while still asleep - but it takes skill that I don't possess. Mind you, I have fallen asleep with my hand resting on Rosie's tummy once or twice. It's not that comfortable, even though she sleeps beside me in her baby nest. The blood has a tendency to drain down my arm, which is inconvenient.

So the negative side is that Rosie wakes up a minimum of 5 times a night and she is generally a lot faster at getting back to sleep than I am, so 5 hours of fragmented sleep (having retired by 9pm) is usually the most I can hope for.

Actually, I've discovered it's perfectly possible to function on that kind of sleep. After ten days of insomnia when I was getting perhaps 2 hours of broken sleep, I now consider 5 hours to be a fairly decent amount.

So what's to be done? Rosie has a bed-time routine and she naps okay during the day generally. She's breast-fed on demand and even when it's not a feed she particularly needs when she wakes up, it's still generally the fastest way to get her nodding off again. Experiments of not offering her milk and fobbing her off with a dummy have proved disastrous, so I'm inclined to go with the line of least resistance for now.

When will it change? Who knows. Some babies obligingly sleep through the night when they're only a few weeks old. Others do so to start with, then throw a curve ball at their pleased (smug) parents by ditching that habit in favour of waking up loads when they get a bit older. One theory is that babies tend to sleep through when they hit a certain weight (11lb, 13lb and 14lb have all been quoted to me) another is that they do so when they get to a certain age (6 months), yet another is when they start on solid food. All of these (apart from 11lb) are milestones Rosie has yet to reach. However, call me pessimistic, but I suspect Rosie will sleep for longer stretches in her own good time and I would be (very pleasantly) surprised if it's anytime soon.

Meantime, I've been ignoring the advice to sleep when Rosie sleeps during the day. Mostly I can't do it anyway and lay there feeling more stressed about the issue than I otherwise would. Instead I try and do something vaguely useful - some writing, or a bit of housework (the few bits Theo hasn't done). I actually feel better if I've achieved something for myself than if I'd managed a power nap. And I tell myself that when Rosie's bigger I will look back at this sleepless period and wonder at how quickly it passed. And finally, I remind myself that my sleep deprivation is not only shared by countless other parents, but it's also culturally specific. So that's okay, then.

when is a chair not a chair? - by Theo

When is a chair not a chair? Well, when it's a baby gym of course! I came home from work one day to find that Kate had improvised a little baby gym for Rosie by tying toys to the underneath of one of the dining room chairs. Rosie then lies underneath on the lovely quilted blanket my Auntie Debbie made for her and, voila, baby gym. At first she just stared up in wonder, but after a few days she started to grasp the fact that if she bopped things with her hands they would move - it's been invaluable for keeping her entertained!

Incidentally, it's no longer as morbid as it looks - the bear is now hanging by it's foot rather than its neck after I pointed out how unsuitable it was for a baby!

Going airborne By Kate

Okay, so I admit I am petrified of flying. In the past, the only thing that would get me inside a jet and up in the air was a generous dose of Valium. Given the choice, I would rather travel any other way except off the ground. But sometimes it just can't be avoided. An important family wedding and work-related time-constraints meant flying between Madrid and Bristol was the only sensible way to travel on this occasion. Unfortunately, because I'm breast-feeding, Valium is out of the question. Oh, and did we mention that we would also be bringing a 16 week-old baby, somewhat prone to over-tiredness and not always inclined to feed to order? I viewed the coming expedition with something akin to terror. A shame, as that rather overshadowed the pleasant anticipation I felt about attending Hermione and Richard's nuptials, but there wasn't much I could do about it.

So I duly dosed Rosie with a little infant paracetamol to hopefully help ease any pressure-change headaches, timed her penultimate feed so she would be ready for the next as we took off, put her in the sling and joined Theo, plus bulging rucksack, backpack and baby-bed, in a taxi for Madrid Barajas. Rosie fussed a bit in the taxi, which didn't bode well. I gritted my teeth and told myself it would all be over in just a few hours time.When we arrived, the man at the check-in desk cheerfully assured us the flight was on schedule. He was wrong. With sinking hearts we watched the red strip blinking on the departures board. Damn.
With Rosie still in the sling I set off on an extremely tedious walk involving repeated circuits of the boarding area. She was disconcertingly awake. My plan involved her at least having a reasonable nap so she wouldn't go into the long dark tunnel of overtiredness on the plane and be impossible (or at least, very difficult) to calm down.

It worked - eventually. By about the fifteenth circuit, Rosie had got bored of the lack of scenery and nodded off. I kept walking.After an hour, our plane came in and we lined up to get on board.

At this point Rosie woke up and let me know she was hungry. That was a nuisance, to put it plainly. The Flight Plan had involved her feeding during our ascent (and descent) so the swallowing would protect her from the discomfort of the pressure changes. But Rosie was threatening to make A Big Noise if her hunger wasn't satisfied and soon. I hesitated for a moment, then sat on a window sill while Theo kept our place in the queue and allowed her to start to feed. As it happened, she had to curtail her eating almost immediately as we were called to board. Fortunately, the distraction that involved meant she forgot to protest too vigorously about her interrupted meal.Once ensconced in seats near the front, we fiddled with the infant seat-belting arrangement and got ready. We didn't have to wait long. With my flight-fear adrenalin shooting through me I felt the jet lift off and Rosie was able to resume her feed. Whether it was the calming hormones released by breast-feeding or my overriding concern for my daughter, I soon forgot to panic as we climbed to 38 thousand feet.

Once we were up and Rosie had finished feeding she started to fuss. "Here we go," I thought with sinking heart. As Rosie's wails started to reach a crescendo, a kindly member of the cabin crew took pity and suggested I take her into the galley area. With Rosie swaddled, dummied and hugged close into my chest I stood looking at the neat rows of aircraft snacks while rocking and shushing Rosie in my arms. Whether it was by these efforts, or the effect of the sound and motion of the plane, it worked. Within five minutes she had fallen asleep. I let out a breath and returned to our seat. Rosie then obligingly slept for the rest of the journey.
In fact, I had the devil's own job to rouse her sufficiently to get her to feed on the way back down - I joggled her and massaged her feet and ears in an effort to encouraging some sucking, feeling increasingly desperate as the pressure began to build up in my own ears. Just as I was on the point of giving up, Rosie suddenly got the idea of what was required of her and started to drink. Behind us another youngster started screaming. Rosie remained calm, sleepily sucking every few minutes as we flew over the Clifton Suspension Bridge and finally came into land.

Back in the sling, Rosie went straight off to sleep again as we collected our baggage and went out to our little welcoming committee of Theo's parents.

In fact, Rosie proceeded to calmly sleep her way through the car journey to Cirencester and after a brief awakening for a nappy change and feed, had a pretty decent night of it - as Theo and I gratefully grabbed some snoozing ourselves. Now I could look forward to the wedding.

...of which more in a later blog...

Having had one flight that was so much better than I could have hoped, I wasn't optimistic the second one would pass as tranquilly. It was bang in the middle of "evening fuss time", never an easy part of Rosie's and my day.

After an unsuccessful attempt at getting Rosie to sleep in her baby bed in the airport (we were ridiculously early - one of Theo's annoyingly over-efficient habits!!) I put her back in the sling and started doing circuits of the refreshments posts in Bristol's new terminal. The pattern at Barajas was thankfully repeated and after a while Rosie took a decent nap while I stopped off to chat to a couple of former work colleagues, who were awaiting a flight to Amsterdam and a pair of friendly middle-aged women who were about to go to Budapest.

Once again, we sat near the front. I almost blew the take-off feed when Rosie wanted to start supping ahead of schedule then, when I tried to buy a bit of time, roared her displeasure. Luckily (and this is a first) I managed to persuade her back on the breast where she obligingly stayed until we had reached our cruising altitude. So far so good.

Rosie was a bit too wakeful to be encouraged to sleep again so Theo and I distracted her with a nappy change on the spare seat in our row, then by waving a teddy at her and generally passing her back and forth between us until she started to fuss in her familiar "I'm tired now, Mother and Father" way.

Not feeling too hopeful, I swaddled her and repeated the dummy/rocking/shushing routine, this time in my seat. After ten minutes she was asleep. I felt cheered and distracted myself from my own flying anxiety by cuddling her, generally admiring her, feeling a bit pleased with myself and wishing I didn't have a streaming cold.

Once again, Rosie was very sleepy when I tried to get her to feed going down and once again she took a few swallows just at the critical moment. I wished I had someone to breast-feed me as the congestion I was experiencing with my cold meant my ears and head were feeling like a plunger was being gradually and painfully applied to them.

In an almost carbon copy of our previous landing, Rosie remained placid and dozy while we grabbed our stuff and put her back in the sling ready to head for home. I, meanwhile, had gone deaf. But given my fears - on my own account as well as Rosie's - I have to say that I passed the too least stressful flights of my life. Valium? Huh. Looking after a sixteen week-old baby is a far better way to get airborne without damp palms.

Prams, dummies and detachment

A baby you can put down to sleep is a marvellous thing. But strangely, over the last few weeks I've found myself missing those early weeks when the only place Rosie wanted to be was in my (or Theo's) arms or at my breast. Despite having a few precious hours to myself to read, write, do a little housework or grab some sleep, I felt a little bereft. I fully accept that the main function of a parent is to ultimately teach your child to be an independent being who can sally forth into the world brimming with confidence and (hopefully) bonhomie. But under four months of age is a bit early for that sort of thing.

Facing a plane journey back to the UK made me realise why I was feeling this way. We were stressing because it wouldn't be practical to take our pram along. The stress was because it had become the one sure way of calming Rosie if she was "going postal" and a magical way of swiftly rocking her into sleep. How the hell would we manage without it? Sometimes in the evening she gets so agitated that she won't even take a calming feed as a prelude to bedtime. Pram rocking had become the only way to soothe her.

That went hand in hand with the dummy. I gave her one after realising she loved to suck for hours on end, but my nipples just weren't up to the job without doing inconvenient things like bleeding. But swiftly Rosie got hooked, until going off to sleep without her mouth being plugged with a silicone or latex approximation of a human teat was out of the question. Not such a problem, perhaps - except the damn thing would inevitably tumble out of her mouth as she dozed off, immediately waking her up again - which in turn would awaken ME as she mouthed frantically for the lost pacifier, whimpering loudly.

I decided I would have to wean Rosie from her dependence on the pram as a soother and the dummy as a necessary sleep aid.
In the end, the former was surprisingly easy. With the help of Dr Harvey Karp, I tried the 5S calming technique on Rosie - swaddling her, holding her on her side, shushing manically and loudly in her ear while energetically rocking her. After a few tries I have to say it now works like a dream and I can transform Rosie from a scrunch-faced, inconsolable screamer into a relaxed and dozy baby inside a couple of minutes. Unfortunately, the 5th S stands for sucking, so the dummy comes back into play if shushing and rocking doesn't complete the job. But she doesn't seem to mind it being removed once she's quiet and sleepy.

Operation Remove Dummy has had its successes, but it's still too useful a calming tool to abandon entirely. However, strategic removal of the damned thing (known as "The Dreaded" in our household) shortly after Rosie's dropped off seems to be helping the situation and she seems to be able to settle to sleep without always having The Dreaded stuffed in her mouth. I've taken to feeding her more often as a way of getting her back to sleep and overnight, it's much more effective than offering the dummy. Tiring for me, yes - she's currently waking up about every two hours. But at least she tends to go straight back to sleep afterward instead of wailing for The D.

But the main benefit of all that is I feel I've got my cuddly baby back. I actually prefer rocking Rosie to sleep in my arms or feeling her drift off at my breast to manically pushing the pram back and forth or shoving a piece of latex in her mouth. Once again I can comfort and calm our daughter, instead of relying on other pieces of machinery to intercede. Today she slept on my lap for almost an hour as I sat on the sofa holding her. Yes, I couldn't get anything else done. But no, this time I'm not complaining.

New parents and the First Weekend Away By Kate

It was with a mixture of pleasant anticipation and dread (OK, probably slightly more of the latter) that Theo and I embarked on our expedition to Caceres in Extramadura to take in the sights and sounds of the WOMAD festival. It's been held in the city for the last nineteen years and as well as boasting quaintly picturesque streets and plazas as a perfect way to set off the festival stages, the added attraction is that it is completely free. Theo and I went last year and had a wonderful time watching some fantastic world music being performed in the May sunshine. So we decided to make the journey again this year, but with an obvious alteration to our entourage: we had a baby in tow.

Because of a long-winded problem involving our car insurance which I won't go into now, we elected to take the train from Atocha Station in Madrid to Caceres. Accordingly, we boarded two buses on Friday morning (one at a time) carrying a gigantically stuffed-full rucksack (Theo) a flowery backpack with essentials for the journey (me) and pushing a pram containing our Precious First Born (Theo, mostly).

Stage one went well. We got to Atocha horrendously early and although Rosie remained awake for the journey from our flat, she sustained a cheerful countenance. We killed some time by having a cuppa in a cafe - with a waitress who was so slow fulfilling our modest order (orange juice and a Colacao) we started to fear we might never get our drinks before we had to go.Getting on the train with our baggage was challenging, but we managed it and after Rosie decided she didn't want to stay in the sling (she tends to protest if whoever wearing the sling isn't in constant motion), we put her in her car seat/pram seat where, following a feed, she obligingly fell asleep (with a little help from a muslin providing some strategic tenting). Rosie slept for well over an hour, awoke and enjoyed looking around the train carriage and watching the passing scenery, then after another snack from Mummy, dozed off again in her seat. We felt cheered - this was proving to be an unmitigated doddle!Rosie only woke up again when we alighted at Caceres station, but was quite content to ride in her pram to the hotel where, once ensconced in room 608, with a clean nappy and another feed inside her, she took another nap. Our spirits continued to rise. A well-rested, contented baby was nine-tenths of the battle for winning an enjoyable weekend. Anticipation started to win over dread.

Our first hiccup came when we sallied forth to check out the festival under suspiciously brooding skies. Theo decided we should keep Rosie in the pram, despite my disappointment at not being able to be a proper hippy mum and have her in the sling (plus I was dubious about negotiating narrow, deeply cobbled streets and crowds). But after only ten minutes, it started to chuck it down and our unwaterproof pram and lack of rain cover suddenly seemed like a bad idea for baby transport. In the shelter of a doorway, I hastily donned the sling, popped Rosie inside and stuck up a brolly. After ascertaining that the rain and wind (which was gusting pretty strongly and called for some serious jockeying of our bucking umbrellas) had momentarily postponed the WOMAD entertainment programme, we turned tail and retreated back to the hotel to dump the pram in the dry and make a second attempt at our trek into the historical centre of Caceres.This time we were more successful and actually managed to catch bits and pieces of some of the acts, do a little shopping (purchasing some Indian-style head-wear made by our friend Rosie) and eat some home-baked pizza while Rosie (our offspring, this time) was snugly tied to me in the wrap. Impressively, she proceeded to sleep through an incredibly loud Spanish ska band in Plaza Mayor, only waking to the more modestly-volumed folk ensemble, Spiro in Plaza St Jorge (which also featured a Bristol acquaintance of ours, Jon from The Wraiths).But all good things come to an end. Rosie started to lose patience with her situation after a few hours so we rushed back to the hotel while she wailed loudly at us to hurry up because clearly she was about to starve to death.We constructed a tent over Rosie's babynest in our room and after a feed and change, she was content to go off to sleep with minimum fuss. By now it had stopped raining, but there was a distinct chill in the air and although Theo and I both offered a babysitting service to the other, none of the acts was sufficiently captivating to tempt either of us away from the warmth of the family bosom (which must be mine, I suppose). We did the rock'n'roll thing and had an early night.Saturday dawned dank, overcast and, well, crappy. Rosie gave us an unwelcome alarm call in the form of a spectacular poosplosion, which leaked out of her nappy and went....everywhere. After dealing with the excremental crisis, we took it easy in our room, munching on fruit and croissants while reading and babyminding until afternoon came and we decided to venture out again. This we did, to find almost nothing going on, so after scrutinising the market, downing some food and having our photograph taken while chatting to trilingual Eduardo (Spanish, English and Hindi...oh, and he was also busy learning German) with his strapping 9 month-old daughter, Anouk, we went back to the hotel.

Back out again and this time we took part in a dance workshop led by an exuberant Kenyan band - something that Rosie seemed to enjoy (or at least, tolerate) in the sling with Theo. He was also voxpopped by Spanish TV and made a pretty decent fist of it, in my opinion.After some veggie curry, the rain returned in earnest so we took shelter under a stone archway, gave Rosie a feed and rather glumly surveyed the situation. The downpour, depressingly British in aspect, showed no signs of abating. Although it was only about 7.30pm, we decided we'd had enough. Perhaps without the responsibility of a three month-old baby, we would have shrugged off the inclement weather, downed a few sidras and kept ourselves warm by dancing to some of the more lively bands. But Rosie was showing signs of getting fed up and the charms of the meteorological conditions had long worn thin. Back to the hotel, then.This time Rosie was more cantankerous about bedtime, despite our attempts to mollify her with a relaxing bath (which she enjoyed) and it took much swaddling and un-swaddling plus several attempts at feeding and pacifying before she finally gave in to sleep. Unfortunately, she then woke up wanting a comfort feed every two hours after that, so by morning I was feeling somewhat jaded, to say the least.
We packed up and took a cab to the station, deciding against walking once we had observed the horizonal rain outside. And guess what? We were three quarters of an hour early, so once again we holed up in the station caff with orange juice and Colacao while Rosie gazed in fascination at the screen pumping out Spanish MTV above her head.

The train journey back to Madrid was nowhere near as easy a ride as the one to Caceres. Rosie fussed and cried and having had her routine disrupted for three days now, had obviously decided enough was enough. In desperation, I fed her while standing up in the train corridor, hoping the white noise and motion would help calm her. It did. She finally consented to get some sleep in her chair and we breathed a sigh of relief. It was not to last. Another poosplosion abruptly woke her out of slumber and Theo and I had the joy of changing a baby, whose lower half was liberally coated with her own excrement, on a train seat. Thankfully, teamwork won the day (and Rosie, thankfully, treated the whole thing as a grand escapade put on for her own entertainment) and with the judicious use of babywipes and travel changing mat, we had the situation back under control.

Unfortunately, that was when Rosie's patience, such as it was, ran out and I spent another half hour trying to calm her down (including a second breast-feeding sojourn in the corridor) and persuade her back to sleep. Ironically, it was as we waited in the press of passengers to get off at Atocha that she finally consented to doze off. Impeccable timing.

So, what with one thing and another, it was a relief to make it back home. All things considered, we figured we'd mainly got away with it from Rosie's point of view. She could have been much less tolerant of the venture but as it was, only the minimum of time was spent baby-calming and we were impressed that we'd managed to keep her generally good-natured throughout. No, the main drawback of the whole affair was the miserable, un-Spanishlike weather. But you couldn't blame that on the baby.

The First Twelve Weeks... By Kate

Twelve weeks just shot by in a blur, where did they go? Rosie, it appears, swallows time along with her milk - in copious quantities.They do say that after three months, things start to get easier - or at least, the frazzled new parents start to feel their way out of the early fog of baby-centred bewilderment. The scrunched up little red-faced newborn is filling out and - all being well - smiling, cooing and gurgling in a most beguiling way. Rosie is certainly doing all that. But she's also starting to assert her personality too.

Where once I could instantly calm any fussing or crying with the simple application of breast (mine, preferably) into mouth (hers, generally), that's no longer the failsafe option. Which fills me with no little dread at the prospect of taking her on a plane to the UK next month (okay, as a phobic when it comes to flying, I'm already dreading it anyway). I've resolved to make sure we sit beside someone Spanish rather than someone British - they are usually much more tolerant about infants. But two hours of solid crying would test anyone's endurance and now her early newborn muted-digital-mashup-which-passed-for-crying has evolved into the kind of lusty yelling that proves her lungs and voicebox are both in excellent working order - well, it's not just the person sitting next to us I'm concerned about.

Anyway, back to the positive stuff. A vague bedtime/overnight routine has emerged, meaning she generally sleeps from around 1930 until 0930 with approximately four wake-ups for feeds in between (variation can still be within an hour and a half or so). Even better, Rosie's early sleep-decimating wind eruptions have now subsided, meaning both she and I get a better dose of shut-eye between hunger pangs.In other news, her feeding continues to improve, although it's a frustratingly two-steps-forward-one-step-back process, with all the fun of cracked nipples to prove it (lanolin cream, thou art my saviour) - with any luck, she'll get the hang of it by the time we start to wean her onto solids.

Nappies - well, I won't go into great detail about their contents, but let's just say where we used to have something deposited from her lower intestine at every change, we now go from one extreme to the other. Along with that is the fun of the dambuster (a major pee-leak - usually happens overnight for Mummy's extra entertainment during the 0300 nappy - and everything else - change) or the poosplosion. Vomageddon, on the other hand, has become a pleasingly rare ocurrence since a few veritable eruptions in the early weeks. Oh, the happy days of being showered by your offspring's bodily excretions - it gives parenting that truly authentic (for want of a better word) feeling.

The best stuff, though, is Rosie's alertness. She has truly entered the age of distraction and wants to look at everything. Watching her gazing around in wonder at the amazing visual qualities of our flat is a continual delight. Best of all are the face-splitting gummy smiles she bestows on us when we greet her in the morning or change her nappy. Now, that's what really makes parenting feel special.

a brief discourse on the art of baby-calming - by Theo

There's no predicting our daughter. Sometimes she sleeps wonderfully, anywhere, for hours at the time. On other occasions none of the things Kate has picked up on the internet or at the local right on baby shop - bouncing chairs, molded mattresses, peke-moe sleeping bags, pacifiers, muslins - do the trick. Not even our lullaby playlist (lots of Joe Volk plus others) always works, though at least it gives us something to listen to while patting and shushing her - another not-always-successful tactic. Sometimes Rosie just wants to be rocked.On the knees is good - witness my Dad doing it like an old pro (well, I suppose he is!). Or in the sling, or just held to your chest and rocked. Or in the pram - we're wearing lines in the floor from running the wheels back and forth. However we manage it, some serious contortions are required to maintain a calm and dozy Rosie on the one hand, and to satisfy our own needs on the other. We've both become quite adept at one-handed eating.
However this morning I was faced with a different conundrum. Rosie had been very wakeful over-night, so Kate had had hardly any sleep, so after the 7.30 nappy change I decided to get up, and take her in the other room so hopefully Kate could get some more sleep. The mattress didn't work, nor the bouncy chair, nor daddy's shoulder - pram time. After 30 minutes, during which I managed to eat a couple of spoonfuls of soggy cereal, Rosie was nearly off to sleep. Nearly. Not quite. It was a crucial stage. A pause in the rocking would have led to a wide-awake and possibly very annoyed baby girl. Unfortunately it was at this stage that my bowels started making extremely urgent demands of me. Hmmm. What to do? I couldn't leave her - she might yell and disturb Kate, thus rendering the last 30 mins of rocking redundant. Taking her in the bathroom would be tricky but possible - but the bright light might also wake her.
Given the delicate nature of some of our readers, I'll spare you the full details of my candle-lit toilet visit. Suffice to say I doubt it will be the last time I feel like a contortionist while trying to keep Rosie asleep.

The Battle of Sleepy Corner by Kate

Well, no one can accuse me of being taken by surprise by the sleeplessness of new parenthood - I thoroughly expected a fair number of zzz's would elude me and have generally tried not to get stressed about getting a good deal less than my favoured seven hours of sleep in every 24. My stint of early shifts for the BBC had given me insight into sleep deprivation, including the useful knowledge that it's perfectly possible to function reasonably well even without sufficient snoozing. Of course, when I did the earlies I generally had weekends off and they let me have five weeks holiday per year. None of that comes with the Motherhood Contract.

Feeding a newborn baby is a round-the-clock deal and if you're breast-feeding, you can't easily let someone else step in for a shift. OK, you can milk yourself into a convenient bottle and get your husband to take an overnight shift, but there's no doubt that being physically on the breast is part of what soothes babies - well, our baby anyway - and allows me to get her back to sleep again when she's had her fill. It's also a time of precious closeness, so despite the fact that the precious closeness comes at a price and tends to take place in the hinterland between consciousness and unconsciousness, it's still a valuable thing.


No, the real killer is not the feeding - not even the amount of time it takes to feed (around 40 mins, usually), plus burping (5 to 10 mins) plus the nappy change (up to 20 mins because of the gas-releasing tummy massage and leg-cycling it includes) and then resettling (up to 30 mins usually). Yes, that means each feeding session tends to last around an hour and a half. No, the really tough part is Rosie's inability to sleep peacefully because of her insistent digestive system.

For one so tiny, she produces impressive quantities of intestinal gas and releasing it is clearly an uncomfortable experience that leads to a lot of grunting, straining, fidgeting and squeaking. Advice to avoid SIDS says that babies must sleep on their backs, but this is the worst position when it comes to letting rip the kind of farts required to take the pressure of her infant tummy. That means we might get half an hour of peace before the squirming and vocalising begins - and unfortunately, despite gentle efforts to assist (lifting her legs up etc), Rosie's wind situation has been responsible for waking her - and me - at indecently short intervals, almost since she was born.

So, a multi-pronged attack has been necessary. I acquired a baby sleeping bag for extra snuggliness and something she can keep on so the transition between cuddling with me and being in her bed is less severe. I got a specially-designed moulded baby sleeping cushion so Rosie can have her legs raised if she's on her back or can safely sleep on her side (which she seems to find much more comfortable). I also invested in a monitor/sensor for extra reassurance that her breathing is OK when she's on her side (it vibrates gently to stimulate breathing if no movement is detected after 15 seconds and an alarm sounds if there's still nothing after 20).
That's the physical weaponry. I've also got stuff from the pharmacy to help her digestion - basically, essence of chamomile, fennel and anise - and have been avoiding certain foods which may make my breast milk more flatulence-producing (brassicas, pulses etc.). And there are the tummy massage/leg bending moves at each nappy change (a most impressive amount of wind can be produced by those - far more satisfying than a piffly post-feed burping session).

The good news is, we've just had two nights where she managed to sleep for four hours at a stretch without waking - huzzah! The wind was still happening, but it seemed to be at a level she could cope with without actually waking. The other thing is that I seem to be able to tune out most of her mid-sleep symphony and only come to at a more wakeful melody. It's amazing what the difference between 2 and 4 hours' sleep can make to a person. I feel almost energised. Still, we may have won a skirmish or two, but I'm not going to declare victory in the overall battle. And I'm not even allowing myself to think about winning the war.

Cats or Cars? - by Theo

What's a good analogy for having a young baby? Cats and Cars, is what I've come up with.

Babies sleep anywhere, any cradle, any chair, often in the most uncomfortable looking positions. Any stranger's lap will also do, apparently. In this sense, babies are just like cats, even to the extent of the sudden startles or strange mewlings they make while deeply asleep - extremely cute during the daytime, rather trying at night when you're trying to get some shut eye yourself. Sometimes they want to be cuddled, sometimes they don't - there's no second guessing them. They have this totally selfish, innocent integrity; they are out for no 1, and blow the rest of you. They make a mess in the house and feedings are unpredictable - after complaining about their hunger they occasionally turn their noses up at the proffered food. Like cats, they also scratch, which I hadn't realised - those little nails can wound! Biting soon to come, I imagine.

In another sense though, babies are just like cars. They need fuel, maintenance, cleaning and there's a seemingly never ending stream of paperwork to be completed. Plus there's the regular, nerve-wracking check-ups and mechanical examinations; you're pretty sure nothing is wrong, but even so you dread the worst, get seriously concerned when the senior mechanic... sorry doctor... starts pointing things out to a junior colleague and breath a huge sigh of relief when the words "all fine" are uttered. Like at Rosie's hip scan on Monday. Plus, as with car ownership, having a baby means you suddenly become fair game for everyone's two-pennies worth on how to care for it and what route to take. The amount of advice that comes the way of parents is astounding, confusing and contradictory - there is no consensus. Most of it we reject, some of it is clearly dangerous, a lot belongs to the rubbish-dump of bad medical thinking, but all of it taken together would be enough to make a less arrogant... sorry, confident, father doubt themselves and their instincts. Like the pediatrician yesterday telling us that carrying Rosie in a sling was bad for her. "How do you think parents carried babies before prams were invented?" was my riposte, to which she had no reply.

Of course, unlike cars, you can't choose your baby. Not that we'd change anything about our lovely little mini!