Wednesday, 2 May 2012
Food Glorious Mess
Having missed out on looking after little LHG the weekend before last, Giovanna brought him round promptly at quarter to nine on Saturday morning for another day of grandparenting.
‘What’s he having for lunch?’ I asked her, as she unfastened his pushchair straps. 'There’s a jar in the bag,’ she replied, ‘but he can probably have what you’re having.’ ‘I’ve got linguine left from last night,’ Apparently that was okay, as he’d already tried onion, garlic, tomatoes and lamb. Unusually, I’d added a tiny bit of fresh chilli (not in my father’s original recipe). He hadn’t had a go at that, but since I assured her it was only a little bit, Giovanna decided it would be okay.
Ten o’clock came, and with him yawning his head off it was an opportunity to try out the new travel cot (half price at a well known baby store!). I popped him in and went off to the bedroom to brush my hair. His plaintive wailing soon had me back in the room, comforting him and carrying him back downstairs. Perhaps he wanted some milk first, before a nap? I gave him to his Pa and went off to the kitchen to make a bottle. I’d just stuck it in some water to cool it down when Pa stuck his head round the door to say that LHG was fast asleep in the cot. Pa obviously has the magic touch.
It didn’t last long. Forty minutes later, the beginning of a moaning cry filtered down the stairs. I went up to find his nibs standing up against the cot, his bottom lip protruding as a single tear fell down his cheek. He had that accusing, how dare you leave me look that babies do so well.
With lunch time approaching, I left Luca with Pa and went out to mush up the linguine. Ever enthusiastic about food, Luca opened his mouth eagerly for the first spoonful. His mouth worked up and down slowly, scrunching his nose up. Mm, not sure about that. He refused the spoon twice before giving it another go. This went on until he grabbed the spoon off me and starting digging into the bowl for himself. He got the handle end into his mouth, but still managed to get some food. I went and found another spoon to speed up the process. By now he’d decided the funny tomatoey stuff with bits of pasta in was more than okay.
So, Nonna’s pasta was a hit. And little LHG is starting to feed himself. Oh, but the mess! He had it all over the tray, on his hands, up his arms, round his face, on the edge of the table against which he was sitting. Time to invest in a bigger bib, methinks. One of those plastic catcher bibs my children used to wear. Though I doubt that’ll even be big enough.
Thursday, 12 April 2012
Be careful what you write...
As some of you will know, a couple of years ago I was commissioned by The Daily Mail to write an opinion piece called Why I Don't Want To Be a Grandmother. Much of it revolved around the fact that many grandmothers these days end up minding their grandchildren, and although I wasn't averse to grandmother-hood in itself, there was no way I wanted to be a child-minding grandmother.
Guess what? You know what I'm going to say, don't you? As of last Friday, I have become a childminding Nonna! Only for two days a week, but let me tell you, a day childminding is harder than a week writing. I already knew that, of course, after all, I brought up four children. But I'd forgotten just how hard it is keeping a baby entertained for several hours.
On Friday, I only had dear little LHG for four hours, but I was bushed! Pa offered to look after him on his own the following day, being a Saturday, so I could do other things, though in the end we shared the job.
LHG is of an age now where he wants to be constantly occupied. With no siblings to amuse him, it's down to poor old Nonna and Pa to come up with games. It's amazing how long a baby can be entertained by someone stacking up blocks or beakers for them to knock down. How does that not get tedious after twenty goes?
I remember C being the same as a babe, being the oldest and on her own. You get to a point where you wonder if you ever had a life before their birth, so all encompassing are their needs. Ironically, having two or more children is easier than having one. At least, I found it so. When Peter, Giovanna and Jack, each came along, they had older siblings to play with. Peter in particular would sit for hours in his bouncy chair watching C play. Very laid back. He hasn't changed!
Pa, despite volunteering his solo services, had clearly underestimated how tiring it would be looking after LHG. By 4 o'clock in the afternoon, both he and his grandson were soundo together on the sofa!
That evening we sat in a stupor in front of the TV, fit for nothing but watching a DVD of New Tricks (heaven!).
As for my Daily Mail article, like more than a third of the things they commission, it never saw the light of day.
Maybe they knew I'd have to eat my words!
Guess what? You know what I'm going to say, don't you? As of last Friday, I have become a childminding Nonna! Only for two days a week, but let me tell you, a day childminding is harder than a week writing. I already knew that, of course, after all, I brought up four children. But I'd forgotten just how hard it is keeping a baby entertained for several hours.
On Friday, I only had dear little LHG for four hours, but I was bushed! Pa offered to look after him on his own the following day, being a Saturday, so I could do other things, though in the end we shared the job.
LHG is of an age now where he wants to be constantly occupied. With no siblings to amuse him, it's down to poor old Nonna and Pa to come up with games. It's amazing how long a baby can be entertained by someone stacking up blocks or beakers for them to knock down. How does that not get tedious after twenty goes?
I remember C being the same as a babe, being the oldest and on her own. You get to a point where you wonder if you ever had a life before their birth, so all encompassing are their needs. Ironically, having two or more children is easier than having one. At least, I found it so. When Peter, Giovanna and Jack, each came along, they had older siblings to play with. Peter in particular would sit for hours in his bouncy chair watching C play. Very laid back. He hasn't changed!
Pa, despite volunteering his solo services, had clearly underestimated how tiring it would be looking after LHG. By 4 o'clock in the afternoon, both he and his grandson were soundo together on the sofa!
That evening we sat in a stupor in front of the TV, fit for nothing but watching a DVD of New Tricks (heaven!).
As for my Daily Mail article, like more than a third of the things they commission, it never saw the light of day.
Maybe they knew I'd have to eat my words!
Saturday, 31 March 2012
Moving On
I see nearly three months have gone by since I last posted. Dear, dear me. It’s a jolly good job that Nonna is more attentive to suo nipote (her grandson) than she is to this poor blog about him.
As you can imagine LHG has grown apace since I last posted. When he hit the six month mark at the beginning of February he certainly had reached three times his birthweight as I predicted in an earlier post.
Thankfully the piling poundage is now slowing down, what with him being so active. He’s just managed to work out how to get from a sitting position to one in which it is possible to crawl, after a few weeks of getting one of his feet stuck. But he hasn’t quite got the hang of what to do next. When he attempts to move, he ends up sprawling on his tummy and moaning in frustration, pushing out his bottom lip as he displays ‘the saddest face in the world’.
It seems far more likely that he will walk before he works out the crawling thing. Already he loves to be led along by the hands as he attempts to lift one foot after another, all the time grinning away. With something to lean against, he can even stand by himself – for a time. Which is why our hands are always there just behind him, ready to catch him as he topples. Not daunted by his mini spills, standing on his own two feet seems to be his favourite thing. Apart from the ‘bouncy bouncy’ game in which he’s jiggled up and down, eliciting a peal of giggles from him.
Thursday, 5 January 2012
Christmas And The Family That Just Grow'd
Last Christmas with Giovanna in the early stages of pregnancy, little LHG had the prospect of spending his first Christmas with two uncles and an aunt on his mummy's side, along with his Pa and Nonna.
This Christmas, well, talk about Topsy, that cliché for things that 'just grow'd' at a rate beyond what you thought possible. Now, through his Uncle Peter, LHG has acquired a sort-of aunt (Aunty K) and a sort-of step cousin (Cousin B). Through Aunty C he now has a sort-of uncle (Uncle S), along with a further three sort-of step cousins (who thankfully for clarity's sake, don't come into this particular story!).
I say 'sort-of' as no weddings have taken place, but then, how many do these days? Things are more complicated now than they were forty years ago and we have to create new definitions of 'family'.
But this isn't a thesis on modern family dynamics. Getting down to practicalities, a growing family makes Christmas a whole new ball game. To put things in proportion, let me just mention that, as a child, there was invariably only me and my parents every Christmas and Pa's family yuletide wasn't much bigger.
With Uncle Peter spending the day time with Aunty K's parents, there were eight of us this year to unwrap presents, including little LHG, who arrived with his mummy and daddy just after 9.30.
Hurrah, present opening and champagne cocktail guzzling could begin!
We have a tradition amongst the Burgi (our family joke plural of Burgess) that the youngest collects the presents from under the tree and they're given out in age order. The tender age of our newest member along with the Ben Nevis of gifts precluded both of these customs. What we did preserve was the ritual of opening only one present at a time so each could be appreciated before moving on...
...Several hours later, with lunch cooked and eaten in the middle of it all, we finished. Not only were there presents from the eight of us to the eight of us, but there were some from at least half a dozen other relatives and friends. Even the two dogs, belonging to Aunty C and Uncle S, had several gifts. Dear little LHG definitely had the record for the most pressies. I guess people just love buying stuff for a new baby. Giovanna had been particularly excited about this before Christmas, and I had spent hours on-line looking at different toys with learning potential (once a primary school teacher, always a primary school teacher!).
LHG, with his love of tearing up paper, soon got the hang of unwrapping. With a couple of naps and feeds, plus lunch in between, he finally got through his stash at 5pm.
Time for a break, dessert (we never manage it after the turkey) and a snooze, before the whole thing kicked off again at 8pm with the arrival of Uncle Peter, Aunty K, Cousin B, and their doggie. Imagine it: eleven of us, plus three dogs, sitting in the living room, already crammed with a big Christmas tree and the already opened presents. And cheese and biscuits.
Little LHG went to his other grandparents' the next day, to do it all again, but their family isn't quite as big as ours - yet.
Actually, I think this ultra big family Christmas thing might become quite fun, especially for little LHG. But the 'one present at a time' custom might have to be revised...
This Christmas, well, talk about Topsy, that cliché for things that 'just grow'd' at a rate beyond what you thought possible. Now, through his Uncle Peter, LHG has acquired a sort-of aunt (Aunty K) and a sort-of step cousin (Cousin B). Through Aunty C he now has a sort-of uncle (Uncle S), along with a further three sort-of step cousins (who thankfully for clarity's sake, don't come into this particular story!).
I say 'sort-of' as no weddings have taken place, but then, how many do these days? Things are more complicated now than they were forty years ago and we have to create new definitions of 'family'.
But this isn't a thesis on modern family dynamics. Getting down to practicalities, a growing family makes Christmas a whole new ball game. To put things in proportion, let me just mention that, as a child, there was invariably only me and my parents every Christmas and Pa's family yuletide wasn't much bigger.
With Uncle Peter spending the day time with Aunty K's parents, there were eight of us this year to unwrap presents, including little LHG, who arrived with his mummy and daddy just after 9.30.
Hurrah, present opening and champagne cocktail guzzling could begin!
We have a tradition amongst the Burgi (our family joke plural of Burgess) that the youngest collects the presents from under the tree and they're given out in age order. The tender age of our newest member along with the Ben Nevis of gifts precluded both of these customs. What we did preserve was the ritual of opening only one present at a time so each could be appreciated before moving on...
...Several hours later, with lunch cooked and eaten in the middle of it all, we finished. Not only were there presents from the eight of us to the eight of us, but there were some from at least half a dozen other relatives and friends. Even the two dogs, belonging to Aunty C and Uncle S, had several gifts. Dear little LHG definitely had the record for the most pressies. I guess people just love buying stuff for a new baby. Giovanna had been particularly excited about this before Christmas, and I had spent hours on-line looking at different toys with learning potential (once a primary school teacher, always a primary school teacher!).
LHG, with his love of tearing up paper, soon got the hang of unwrapping. With a couple of naps and feeds, plus lunch in between, he finally got through his stash at 5pm.
Time for a break, dessert (we never manage it after the turkey) and a snooze, before the whole thing kicked off again at 8pm with the arrival of Uncle Peter, Aunty K, Cousin B, and their doggie. Imagine it: eleven of us, plus three dogs, sitting in the living room, already crammed with a big Christmas tree and the already opened presents. And cheese and biscuits.
Little LHG went to his other grandparents' the next day, to do it all again, but their family isn't quite as big as ours - yet.
Actually, I think this ultra big family Christmas thing might become quite fun, especially for little LHG. But the 'one present at a time' custom might have to be revised...
Thursday, 1 December 2011
Prog Rock Baby
Dear little LHG, at nearly four months old, is going through that time in his life when
he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself.
He’s alert enough to take an interest in all sorts of things, but not mobile enough to
be able to sit up on his own and join in. Imagine how frustrating it must be to rely on
someone else to prop you up so you can do stuff. He’s just started to have some
hand control, taking a swipe at toys in the hope they do something. Often he’s
rewarded with a squeak, a rattle, the manic neighing of a plastic horse or a twee
voice asking, ‘What’s the weather like?’ On these occasions, his eyes widen and his
mouth opens in surprise.
He loves noise, creating it and just listening to it. And if there’s one thing that can be
(almost) guaranteed to calm him down when he’s ratty and can’t settle to anything,
it’s music. Giovanna only has to put on a track by Beethoven, Mozart or some other
classical composer and he’s instantly quiet.
‘I expect you to be able to play this when you’re three,’ she told a mesmerised LHG
the other day, referring to Rondo alla Turca (the Mozart piece played by Mrs Hurst in
Colin Firth’s Pride and Prejudice, for those of you who are fans - and who isn’t?). A
little ambitious maybe, but his mummy, daddy, aunty and uncles and two great
grandads are (/were) either musicians or musical, so why not?
Of course, while Giovanna wistfully imagines him playing wonderfully complex
classical pieces on the piano, Daddy JW and uncle Peter might have other ideas.
JW is a drummer who teaches youngsters to play. Uncle Peter, a rock guitarist who
also dabbles in electronica, has his nephew earmarked as the next Jimi Hendrix.
And LHG himself is showing early signs of interest in prog rock. In the car, crying fit
to bust at the indignation of being put in the car seat, a burst of Genesis or Yes will
relax him and he’s comatose for the rest of the journey.
For the moment all he can manage is a tiny plastic maraca, and I’m always afraid
he’s going to whack himself in the eye with that. Still, it won’t be long before he can
hit Daddy’s drums with a stick. Then we might all be regretting any musical
ambitions we had for him!
he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself.
He’s alert enough to take an interest in all sorts of things, but not mobile enough to
be able to sit up on his own and join in. Imagine how frustrating it must be to rely on
someone else to prop you up so you can do stuff. He’s just started to have some
hand control, taking a swipe at toys in the hope they do something. Often he’s
rewarded with a squeak, a rattle, the manic neighing of a plastic horse or a twee
voice asking, ‘What’s the weather like?’ On these occasions, his eyes widen and his
mouth opens in surprise.
He loves noise, creating it and just listening to it. And if there’s one thing that can be
(almost) guaranteed to calm him down when he’s ratty and can’t settle to anything,
it’s music. Giovanna only has to put on a track by Beethoven, Mozart or some other
classical composer and he’s instantly quiet.
‘I expect you to be able to play this when you’re three,’ she told a mesmerised LHG
the other day, referring to Rondo alla Turca (the Mozart piece played by Mrs Hurst in
Colin Firth’s Pride and Prejudice, for those of you who are fans - and who isn’t?). A
little ambitious maybe, but his mummy, daddy, aunty and uncles and two great
grandads are (/were) either musicians or musical, so why not?
Of course, while Giovanna wistfully imagines him playing wonderfully complex
classical pieces on the piano, Daddy JW and uncle Peter might have other ideas.
JW is a drummer who teaches youngsters to play. Uncle Peter, a rock guitarist who
also dabbles in electronica, has his nephew earmarked as the next Jimi Hendrix.
And LHG himself is showing early signs of interest in prog rock. In the car, crying fit
to bust at the indignation of being put in the car seat, a burst of Genesis or Yes will
relax him and he’s comatose for the rest of the journey.
For the moment all he can manage is a tiny plastic maraca, and I’m always afraid
he’s going to whack himself in the eye with that. Still, it won’t be long before he can
hit Daddy’s drums with a stick. Then we might all be regretting any musical
ambitions we had for him!
Tuesday, 15 November 2011
999! Or how you never stop worrying.
You get to a point in your life as a parent where you think you've seen your children successfully through their formative years, that they've survived all the little disasters that beset them during their childhood.
There was the time little LHG's Uncle Peter climbed the ladder leaning against the wall at the top of the stairs. Our stairs were in the living room at the time. I saw him, his face a picture of total shock, tumbling down, gripping onto that ladder. He was none the worse for his adventure, but it was a heart-in-mouth moment. (Actually, Peter's heart-in-mouth moments would fill a blog on their own!)
Then there was the time Uncle Jack fell over in his classroom, catching the edge of his eyelid on the corner of a desk. He still has a little scar to mark the moment.
I can still vividly recall the day I got a phone call from the mother of Aunty C's friend, H. They'd been to the swimming pool and were now at casualty. C had slipped off the side of the pool, hitting her chin on the edge. That could have turned out really badly, but she got away with a few steristrips taped across the ensuing gash.
Mummy Giovanna spent most of her childhood with grazed knees and scuffed shins.
I could go on and on.
But just when I assume those days are behind me, I get a phone call from Giovanna, telling me she's fallen down the stairs with little LHG in her arms. Furthermore, Pa and I are twenty miles away in London and her partner, JW, is at work.
Panic, panic. 'What happened? Did you fall on top of him?'
'I slipped on the stair and ended up on my back and he was on top of me, but he might have bumped his head over my shoulder. I don't know. What shall I do?' she gasps. 'Should I go to hospital?'
'Are you okay?'
'Yes.'
I can hear LHG crying in the background.
'See if Aunty K's in,' I suggest, referring to Uncle Peter's partner, because she has a car.
Pa, overhearing the conversation interrupts. 'Tell her to call an ambulance. Better than messing around waiting in A & E.'
I pass this on. You can't take any chances with a baby. 'Ring us when you know what's happening.'
We're in a restaurant at the time, having lunch. I'm wondering whether to go home. Would it be overreaction? Oh why has this happened today when I'm not in the village? I feel tearful.
Fifteen minutes go by. I ring her. The paramedics have arrived and are checking them both over, out in the ambulance. They take them to hospital because they haven't the right equipment to check a baby(!). All is fine: they're just shaken up.
I still spend the rest of the day thinking how it could have been very different.
The fact is, you never stop worrying whether your children are safe, and when you become a grandparent, you get new little people to worry about.
Such is the life of a Nonna!
There was the time little LHG's Uncle Peter climbed the ladder leaning against the wall at the top of the stairs. Our stairs were in the living room at the time. I saw him, his face a picture of total shock, tumbling down, gripping onto that ladder. He was none the worse for his adventure, but it was a heart-in-mouth moment. (Actually, Peter's heart-in-mouth moments would fill a blog on their own!)
Then there was the time Uncle Jack fell over in his classroom, catching the edge of his eyelid on the corner of a desk. He still has a little scar to mark the moment.
I can still vividly recall the day I got a phone call from the mother of Aunty C's friend, H. They'd been to the swimming pool and were now at casualty. C had slipped off the side of the pool, hitting her chin on the edge. That could have turned out really badly, but she got away with a few steristrips taped across the ensuing gash.
Mummy Giovanna spent most of her childhood with grazed knees and scuffed shins.
I could go on and on.
But just when I assume those days are behind me, I get a phone call from Giovanna, telling me she's fallen down the stairs with little LHG in her arms. Furthermore, Pa and I are twenty miles away in London and her partner, JW, is at work.
Panic, panic. 'What happened? Did you fall on top of him?'
'I slipped on the stair and ended up on my back and he was on top of me, but he might have bumped his head over my shoulder. I don't know. What shall I do?' she gasps. 'Should I go to hospital?'
'Are you okay?'
'Yes.'
I can hear LHG crying in the background.
'See if Aunty K's in,' I suggest, referring to Uncle Peter's partner, because she has a car.
Pa, overhearing the conversation interrupts. 'Tell her to call an ambulance. Better than messing around waiting in A & E.'
I pass this on. You can't take any chances with a baby. 'Ring us when you know what's happening.'
We're in a restaurant at the time, having lunch. I'm wondering whether to go home. Would it be overreaction? Oh why has this happened today when I'm not in the village? I feel tearful.
Fifteen minutes go by. I ring her. The paramedics have arrived and are checking them both over, out in the ambulance. They take them to hospital because they haven't the right equipment to check a baby(!). All is fine: they're just shaken up.
I still spend the rest of the day thinking how it could have been very different.
The fact is, you never stop worrying whether your children are safe, and when you become a grandparent, you get new little people to worry about.
Such is the life of a Nonna!
Friday, 14 October 2011
A weighty subject
I don't know what's in the milk Giovanna's feeding little LHG, but it's clearly gold top.
Every week since he was born he's been putting on nine ounces, on average. His mummy now feels confident enough to miss the odd week's weigh in. 'Look at him,' she said when I questioned this wisdom. 'He's clearly not wasting away.'
She has a point. In fact, we're starting to worry that he might have the opposite problem. They say you can't overfeed breastfed babies, and I'm sure they're right, but even so. Babies are meant to double their birth weight by six months and triple it by a year. The way he's going, he will have slightly more than tripled it by six months.
Warming to this theme, Uncle Peter, a bit of a maths nerd, decided to calculate how much he'll weigh by the time he's forty if he keeps putting the same amount of weight on. He apparently calculated the answer as 133 stone! However, having re-calculated this sum, and realising he was putting LHG's original birth weight into the equation, I estimate it to be 83 stone. Not so bad then!
Of course we're just being silly. Babies don't continue to put the same amount of weight on, especially when they start moving.
And even if LHG is three times his birth weight by six months, I'm not going to worry about it. If the health visitor shakes her head and tuts, Giovanna will be ready with two little cards, both over 50 years old, to prove a point. They're the baby weighing cards of the OH and his twin brother, LHG's Great Uncle M. They were 7 pounds a piece when they were born. Seven pound twins, I hear you exclaim! Oh yes - and there lies a tale for another nonna blog. But by six months, they were 21 pounds each. Triple their birth weight. Right chubby little soldiers they were.
And what did they grow up to be? Six foot and skinny. So I'm not going to stress about all those pounds LHG is piling on, and neither is Giovanna. Especially as LHG's daddy, JW, is 6 foot 3 and skinny...
...and eats for England and never puts weight on. Sigh. there's no justice in the world!
Every week since he was born he's been putting on nine ounces, on average. His mummy now feels confident enough to miss the odd week's weigh in. 'Look at him,' she said when I questioned this wisdom. 'He's clearly not wasting away.'
She has a point. In fact, we're starting to worry that he might have the opposite problem. They say you can't overfeed breastfed babies, and I'm sure they're right, but even so. Babies are meant to double their birth weight by six months and triple it by a year. The way he's going, he will have slightly more than tripled it by six months.
Warming to this theme, Uncle Peter, a bit of a maths nerd, decided to calculate how much he'll weigh by the time he's forty if he keeps putting the same amount of weight on. He apparently calculated the answer as 133 stone! However, having re-calculated this sum, and realising he was putting LHG's original birth weight into the equation, I estimate it to be 83 stone. Not so bad then!
Of course we're just being silly. Babies don't continue to put the same amount of weight on, especially when they start moving.
And even if LHG is three times his birth weight by six months, I'm not going to worry about it. If the health visitor shakes her head and tuts, Giovanna will be ready with two little cards, both over 50 years old, to prove a point. They're the baby weighing cards of the OH and his twin brother, LHG's Great Uncle M. They were 7 pounds a piece when they were born. Seven pound twins, I hear you exclaim! Oh yes - and there lies a tale for another nonna blog. But by six months, they were 21 pounds each. Triple their birth weight. Right chubby little soldiers they were.
And what did they grow up to be? Six foot and skinny. So I'm not going to stress about all those pounds LHG is piling on, and neither is Giovanna. Especially as LHG's daddy, JW, is 6 foot 3 and skinny...
...and eats for England and never puts weight on. Sigh. there's no justice in the world!
Thursday, 22 September 2011
Family stories
My friend Catherine has given me the most gorgeous present.
It's a book entitled Dear Grandma, from you to me and it's full of questions that LHG might want to ask me at some point in his life. I can write the answers in the book and give it to him when it's complete. What a lovely idea.
Now LHG is particularly fortunate to have a Nonnna who knows more about her family than most do about theirs. In turn, I am lucky to have had relatives who've told me a great deal about our predecessors. Some elderly cousins remain who still have much to tell. And, like Walter de la Mare's phantoms, I have always been a listener, lapping up the stories of my large family from my mother, father and my Welsh great Gran, among others. The wife of a second cousin of mine has spent years putting together a vast family tree for one half of my Italian side, gathering stories from various members. In my possession is a family tree for the other Italian side, compiled over fifty years ago after a cousin died intestate. My father was interested enough to ask for it after they'd finished the case.
It always amazes me when people don't even know the names of their grandparents, let alone anything about them. I pointed out only last night to a writer friend, that the name of her character, John Jenkins, was that of a great great grandfather of mine (the father of the aforementioned great Gran). How many people would know that? All the knowledge I have has been invaluable in finding out even more from ancestry sites. If you have no family knowledge, where do you even begin?
I have lots to tell little LHG. So much so, it won't all fit in his Dear Grandma book so I'll have to make sure I keep a record of the all censuses, birth, death and marriage certificates, and everything else I've amassed.
It's a book entitled Dear Grandma, from you to me and it's full of questions that LHG might want to ask me at some point in his life. I can write the answers in the book and give it to him when it's complete. What a lovely idea.
Now LHG is particularly fortunate to have a Nonnna who knows more about her family than most do about theirs. In turn, I am lucky to have had relatives who've told me a great deal about our predecessors. Some elderly cousins remain who still have much to tell. And, like Walter de la Mare's phantoms, I have always been a listener, lapping up the stories of my large family from my mother, father and my Welsh great Gran, among others. The wife of a second cousin of mine has spent years putting together a vast family tree for one half of my Italian side, gathering stories from various members. In my possession is a family tree for the other Italian side, compiled over fifty years ago after a cousin died intestate. My father was interested enough to ask for it after they'd finished the case.
It always amazes me when people don't even know the names of their grandparents, let alone anything about them. I pointed out only last night to a writer friend, that the name of her character, John Jenkins, was that of a great great grandfather of mine (the father of the aforementioned great Gran). How many people would know that? All the knowledge I have has been invaluable in finding out even more from ancestry sites. If you have no family knowledge, where do you even begin?
I have lots to tell little LHG. So much so, it won't all fit in his Dear Grandma book so I'll have to make sure I keep a record of the all censuses, birth, death and marriage certificates, and everything else I've amassed.
And when he's grown up, maybe I'll tell him the other family stories. You know, the ones you don't put into a child's book...
Tuesday, 30 August 2011
Shopping with baby
With LHG a little over a week old, Giovanna and I decided to take him on his first shopping trip to the Big Shops. She only needed nursing bras, I wanted to pick up a some shower spray and a magazine. How hard could that be?
Well, for a start, I have no idea how a person, let alone one who's not long given birth, would cope with that pushchair on their own. It took two of us to fold it down (when we'd worked out how to do it!) and put it in the boot of the car. It barely fitted, despite the boot being a decent size, and we had to detach the body from the frame. Individually, each piece weighed a ton, so I can't imagine how anybody would lift it normally.
Sadly, LHG was clearly not enamoured of his pushchair. No, not nearly as good as being held in someone's arms. The only thing it was good for was carrying the shopping. Did you know that every shop is set out as a slalom for pushchairs and prams? I had been ignorant of this purpose till I started to negotiate them. And when your pushchair has a will of its own (and boy, does this one have a will of its own), places like Lakeland become scary. I don't remember it being this hard with a pram all those years ago. Imagine trying to steer a toddler as well.
With LHG getting worked up, we decided it was a good point to stop for lunch, With the two of us enjoying a sandwich and a cup of coffee, it would have been an ideal time for him to tuck in himself. So what did he do? Fell asleep, little mouth open, away with the fairies.
Later, with Giovanna trying to find nursing bras in her size, he awoke once again. She carried and jiggled and rocked while I searched, then I carried and jiggled and rocked while she searched for this illusive size. Finally, with only two such bras in existence it seemed, we headed for the till. LHG was not only screaming by this point, but smelly. I headed off for the baby change rooms while Giovanna parted with much cash (have you seen the price of nursing bras?). My grandson hates, abhors and detests having his nappy changed, so by the time Giovanna turned up, he was in full, red-faced screeching mode. She sat and fed him while I escaped to buy my magazine.
Four hours after we'd set off, we arrived home, exhausted. Unlike a lot of babies, LHG doesn't fall asleep in the car.
A few days later, we repeated the shopping experience with Great Grandad TC and my step mother-in-law, Great Grandma C. After a couple of hours of pass the baby, the grandparents went ahead and started whispering to each other. Were they sorry they'd ever started on this shopping trip? Were they planning their escape? No, it seems they'd come up with an idea. While I danced and jiggled with LHG, they took Giovanna to look at baby slings. She chose a simple, fabric one. He snuggled in and was out like a light.
So far it's been a great success.
Well, for a start, I have no idea how a person, let alone one who's not long given birth, would cope with that pushchair on their own. It took two of us to fold it down (when we'd worked out how to do it!) and put it in the boot of the car. It barely fitted, despite the boot being a decent size, and we had to detach the body from the frame. Individually, each piece weighed a ton, so I can't imagine how anybody would lift it normally.
Sadly, LHG was clearly not enamoured of his pushchair. No, not nearly as good as being held in someone's arms. The only thing it was good for was carrying the shopping. Did you know that every shop is set out as a slalom for pushchairs and prams? I had been ignorant of this purpose till I started to negotiate them. And when your pushchair has a will of its own (and boy, does this one have a will of its own), places like Lakeland become scary. I don't remember it being this hard with a pram all those years ago. Imagine trying to steer a toddler as well.
With LHG getting worked up, we decided it was a good point to stop for lunch, With the two of us enjoying a sandwich and a cup of coffee, it would have been an ideal time for him to tuck in himself. So what did he do? Fell asleep, little mouth open, away with the fairies.
Later, with Giovanna trying to find nursing bras in her size, he awoke once again. She carried and jiggled and rocked while I searched, then I carried and jiggled and rocked while she searched for this illusive size. Finally, with only two such bras in existence it seemed, we headed for the till. LHG was not only screaming by this point, but smelly. I headed off for the baby change rooms while Giovanna parted with much cash (have you seen the price of nursing bras?). My grandson hates, abhors and detests having his nappy changed, so by the time Giovanna turned up, he was in full, red-faced screeching mode. She sat and fed him while I escaped to buy my magazine.
Four hours after we'd set off, we arrived home, exhausted. Unlike a lot of babies, LHG doesn't fall asleep in the car.
A few days later, we repeated the shopping experience with Great Grandad TC and my step mother-in-law, Great Grandma C. After a couple of hours of pass the baby, the grandparents went ahead and started whispering to each other. Were they sorry they'd ever started on this shopping trip? Were they planning their escape? No, it seems they'd come up with an idea. While I danced and jiggled with LHG, they took Giovanna to look at baby slings. She chose a simple, fabric one. He snuggled in and was out like a light.
So far it's been a great success.
Tuesday, 16 August 2011
At last!
No, it hasn't taken another 11 days for Blodwyn to be born, though it seemed like it at the time.
We returned to the maternity department at 6pm, as instructed. JW's mum was there to meet us. I had a text from the OH at 7.45: Hope u r not on 4 another long night. So did we.
I recall at some point JW coming to tell us Giovanna was 5cm dilated. His mum and I sat in the corridor, mostly on the wide window sills, the three (!) chairs provided being monumentally uncomfortable. Apart from which, they were occupied much of the night by sleeping fathers-to-be. Why were they there, I wondered. Had they had enough of nothing happening or did they just not want to be at the business end of the birth?
Several women walked down the corridor to admissions, huffing and puffing, Most did the return journey, disappointed, some hour or two later. With the maternity department full, these women were doomed to roam the grounds or go home, only to repeat the experience some time in the near future.
Every now and again new mums would appear, being pushed in a bed to a ward, new babe in arms. One or two were even walking! For a while, one father-to-be paced up and down the corridor, mobile phone glued to his ear, giving several relatives updates on the situation. Finally, someone poked their head around the door of one of the wards and called him. He sprinted excitedly down its length. He and his partner appeared in the corridor with their new sprog later on. JW's mother and I were still waiting.
Around 10.30, we were allowed in briefly to see how Giovanna was getting on. Sitting on the bed, she was sucking in the gas and air like she was an industrial vacuum cleaner. And it was her second tank. 'Remember what I told you about Christine?' I said. She nodded limply.
Many years before, a friend of mine had almost gone to sleep overdoing on the gas and air. It was when she heard the midwife proclaim, as if from far away, 'If she keeps on with that, it'll be hours before this baby's born,' that she finally put the mask down and got on with it.
Giovanna, undeterred by my cautionary tale, stuck the tube back in her mouth (no more masks!) and resumed her Dyson impression.
I sent a text to the OH, explaining she was 7cm dilated. His reply? Should be soon then. You wouldn't think he was a father of four.
At quarter to eleven I received this text from Aunty C: I think I'd have asked them to cut it out by now! Lest anyone think her heartless, I must explain that she's a vet, and a farm vet at that. All the same, I'm rather relieved Giovanna didn't give birth ultra quickly the weekend before when C was visiting!
Around 4.30am, Giovanna appeared in the corridor, no babe in arms, being moved to another ward for the final push. But she was going to need a little help. She didn't register us at all, JW giving a brief explanation as he trotted behind.
Little else was happening in the corridor by this time, apart from a grandfather (the only one we saw) sitting on the uncomfy chairs, having a quiet quarrel on his mobile. I think it was with his wife.
A little after five, I noticed it was getting light. By now JW's mum and I had got a second wind. I felt like I'd never sleep again, though by this time I'd slept only three hours in the previous 74.
Six o'clock in the morning, Saturday 6th August, and finally JW appeared to greet us with the happy news. LHG had been born just after 5.30, all 8lbs 9oz of him, screaming his annoyance at being extracted with forceps from his cosy room.
JW's mum ('Nana') and I popped in to see our grandson. Giovanna looked remarkably well considering what she'd just been through. I think at some point I said, 'It's not called labour for nothing,' though she'd clearly worked that out for herself.
Nana reckoned LHG was the spit of JW as a newborn, whereas I was convinced he looked like his Uncle Peter and Uncle Jack. Ah, that's grandmothers for you!
We returned to the maternity department at 6pm, as instructed. JW's mum was there to meet us. I had a text from the OH at 7.45: Hope u r not on 4 another long night. So did we.
I recall at some point JW coming to tell us Giovanna was 5cm dilated. His mum and I sat in the corridor, mostly on the wide window sills, the three (!) chairs provided being monumentally uncomfortable. Apart from which, they were occupied much of the night by sleeping fathers-to-be. Why were they there, I wondered. Had they had enough of nothing happening or did they just not want to be at the business end of the birth?
Several women walked down the corridor to admissions, huffing and puffing, Most did the return journey, disappointed, some hour or two later. With the maternity department full, these women were doomed to roam the grounds or go home, only to repeat the experience some time in the near future.
Every now and again new mums would appear, being pushed in a bed to a ward, new babe in arms. One or two were even walking! For a while, one father-to-be paced up and down the corridor, mobile phone glued to his ear, giving several relatives updates on the situation. Finally, someone poked their head around the door of one of the wards and called him. He sprinted excitedly down its length. He and his partner appeared in the corridor with their new sprog later on. JW's mother and I were still waiting.
Around 10.30, we were allowed in briefly to see how Giovanna was getting on. Sitting on the bed, she was sucking in the gas and air like she was an industrial vacuum cleaner. And it was her second tank. 'Remember what I told you about Christine?' I said. She nodded limply.
Many years before, a friend of mine had almost gone to sleep overdoing on the gas and air. It was when she heard the midwife proclaim, as if from far away, 'If she keeps on with that, it'll be hours before this baby's born,' that she finally put the mask down and got on with it.
Giovanna, undeterred by my cautionary tale, stuck the tube back in her mouth (no more masks!) and resumed her Dyson impression.
I sent a text to the OH, explaining she was 7cm dilated. His reply? Should be soon then. You wouldn't think he was a father of four.
At quarter to eleven I received this text from Aunty C: I think I'd have asked them to cut it out by now! Lest anyone think her heartless, I must explain that she's a vet, and a farm vet at that. All the same, I'm rather relieved Giovanna didn't give birth ultra quickly the weekend before when C was visiting!
Around 4.30am, Giovanna appeared in the corridor, no babe in arms, being moved to another ward for the final push. But she was going to need a little help. She didn't register us at all, JW giving a brief explanation as he trotted behind.
Little else was happening in the corridor by this time, apart from a grandfather (the only one we saw) sitting on the uncomfy chairs, having a quiet quarrel on his mobile. I think it was with his wife.
A little after five, I noticed it was getting light. By now JW's mum and I had got a second wind. I felt like I'd never sleep again, though by this time I'd slept only three hours in the previous 74.
Six o'clock in the morning, Saturday 6th August, and finally JW appeared to greet us with the happy news. LHG had been born just after 5.30, all 8lbs 9oz of him, screaming his annoyance at being extracted with forceps from his cosy room.
JW's mum ('Nana') and I popped in to see our grandson. Giovanna looked remarkably well considering what she'd just been through. I think at some point I said, 'It's not called labour for nothing,' though she'd clearly worked that out for herself.
Nana reckoned LHG was the spit of JW as a newborn, whereas I was convinced he looked like his Uncle Peter and Uncle Jack. Ah, that's grandmothers for you!
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