Thursday 10th June.
10 am Stay And Play. So tired. Limbs aching. Feels like underwater. Speech and language therapist introduces herself.
“Any concerns?”
It’s one of those days when if someone asks how I am I would burst into tears. She has a friend with five who said that the transition from one to two children was the hardest. She has three. She says with three it is still relentless. But by then you are used to relentless.
“I remember,” she says, and then admits “Well, I don’t remember, it’s all a haze.”
Back home, I put Baby Sister to bed, make lunch for me ‘n’ Big Sister and wash the dishes. It’s now 2.15pm. Baby Sister will be awake again soon. I need to sit down and have a coffee, maybe more Paracetamol. My breasts are too full of milk, and all of me is aching. I’m looking for coffee on the shelf, but I can’t find it. It must be finished. Is there a spare one in the cupboard? God I hope we haven’t run out of coffee! I look back at my mug on the worktop. The coffee jar is there, already open, teaspoon at the ready. This is an example of how tired I am. Brain. Not. Functioning. At. Maximum. Capability.
I hardly slept last night, and yet nobody kept me awake. Baby Sister didn’t wake until 6.30am but I was fitfully drifting in and out of sleep like when you’re feverishly ill. I had strange, hazy half-awake dreams.
Saturday, 7 August 2010
Thursday, 5 August 2010
Pop Goes The Weasel
Wednesday 9th June.
Baby sister has lulled us into a false sense of security. For more than two weeks she has slept through the night, I thought I was beginning to function better. My short term memory was returning. The first time we woke last night was when Big Sister called out,
“Daddy, I am finished sleeping. I am ready for my breakfast, can you get my breakfast?”
A brief and sleepy argument ensued about whether it was breakfast time but The Doctor persuaded her that it wasn’t. We slept again until 4.30am when Baby sister began growling. Baby sister has discovered how to growl very recently. It is very cute, and she finds it lots of fun. It’s not funny at 4.30am. I tried to soothe her back to sleep by talking to her, she growled more. I peeped into the hammock, she was wide awake, laughing and really enjoying growling like a little teddy bear. As she wiggles, the hammock bounces up and down. Sluggish and grumpy, I get her out to feed her. This will usually make her sleepy. It must be why as adults, we are recommended trying warm milky drink when we’re having trouble sleeping. A subconscious hangover from babyhood?
Baby sister finishes her milk but is still smiling and apparently still wide awake. I return her to the hammock. At least she has stopped growling, and eventually she sleeps and so do I. Only a few weeks ago it was completely normal to be woken twice, once by Big Sister, once by Baby Sister. But now, out of the habit I am irritable, sluggish, with aching limbs. The next day I realise that perhaps I will still live in the hazy world of night shift workers for some time yet. Can’t string sentence together.
Big Sister says “I’m going to draw a cloud, with two points to show where I have been.”
You’ve been in the clouds have you?
“Yes, a long long time ago. I floated up there, in my parachute.”
Big Sister is playing hospitals. Teddys and dolls are being tucked into bed on the sofa. They are offered a nice cup of tea from the tea set. I’m doing the dishes and we’re listening to nursery rhymes on the iPod (through the car stereo, that is our 12v sound system). Pop goes the weasel.
“Up and down the City Road, in and out The Eagle
That’s the way the money goes, pop goes the weasel!”
“This song is all about The Eagle Pub!” she says. This is our First Date Story:
After getting in touch on ‘Friends Reunited’ The Doctor and I met in The Eagle Pub, on City Road, unaware that it featured in the popular nursery rhyme. Kind of nice to be reminded of our first date now, whenever we hear that childish tune. It is the topic of much debate as to what exactly is a weasel. To “pop” is to pawn. A weasel could be a tailors instrument, but I doubt that he would pawn a tool of his trade. More likely that a man would pawn his coat (rhyming slang - weasel and stoat) for a night down the ole Eagle dance hall.
4pm. Both kids are grumpy. I’m guessing they’re bored and take them for a walk to the water point because we’ve run out of water. Baby Sister is in the pushchair and Big Sister is carrying the empty water barrel, which is huge for her, but light to carry when it’s empty. She has memorised some of the boat names on the towpath here now.
“That’s Marie!”
The sun shines through the trees making a dappled pattern on the paving slabs. Big Sister stops at the foot of a tree to collect pebbles. When we get to the tap its’ encased in a sort of box which makes it impossible to fill a water barrel unless you have a hose pipe. We return home and they are both grumpy again. Now we’re late for tea and they’re both tired and hungry. If I’m not meticulous with my time planning it all goes pear-shaped. Luckily The Doctor comes home quite early and takes a hose and barrel to fill at the tap.
Somebody has got an incredibly long hose pipe, from their boat to the tap. The Doctor follows the hose to the boat it leads to, intending to ask to borrow it. There are five hoses joined together! This means they don’t have to move their boat to the water tap to fill their water tank. It turns out he kind of knows the bloke, it’s a Dutch barge. They can’t move because a coot has built a next in one of their fenders (a tyre). I accidentally met Barge Mum for the first time yesterday. She stopped to chat, seeing that I have young kids and she has a baby. It turns out she’s a friend of a friend, and we’ve been meaning to meet. She asked how it is with these two on the boat. I don’t know how to describe it, so I hesitate, then I say,
“Yeah, it’s fine.”
She is moving onto land soon, because she’s had a baby; six weeks younger than Baby Sister.
Baby sister has lulled us into a false sense of security. For more than two weeks she has slept through the night, I thought I was beginning to function better. My short term memory was returning. The first time we woke last night was when Big Sister called out,
“Daddy, I am finished sleeping. I am ready for my breakfast, can you get my breakfast?”
A brief and sleepy argument ensued about whether it was breakfast time but The Doctor persuaded her that it wasn’t. We slept again until 4.30am when Baby sister began growling. Baby sister has discovered how to growl very recently. It is very cute, and she finds it lots of fun. It’s not funny at 4.30am. I tried to soothe her back to sleep by talking to her, she growled more. I peeped into the hammock, she was wide awake, laughing and really enjoying growling like a little teddy bear. As she wiggles, the hammock bounces up and down. Sluggish and grumpy, I get her out to feed her. This will usually make her sleepy. It must be why as adults, we are recommended trying warm milky drink when we’re having trouble sleeping. A subconscious hangover from babyhood?
Baby sister finishes her milk but is still smiling and apparently still wide awake. I return her to the hammock. At least she has stopped growling, and eventually she sleeps and so do I. Only a few weeks ago it was completely normal to be woken twice, once by Big Sister, once by Baby Sister. But now, out of the habit I am irritable, sluggish, with aching limbs. The next day I realise that perhaps I will still live in the hazy world of night shift workers for some time yet. Can’t string sentence together.
Big Sister says “I’m going to draw a cloud, with two points to show where I have been.”
You’ve been in the clouds have you?
“Yes, a long long time ago. I floated up there, in my parachute.”
Big Sister is playing hospitals. Teddys and dolls are being tucked into bed on the sofa. They are offered a nice cup of tea from the tea set. I’m doing the dishes and we’re listening to nursery rhymes on the iPod (through the car stereo, that is our 12v sound system). Pop goes the weasel.
“Up and down the City Road, in and out The Eagle
That’s the way the money goes, pop goes the weasel!”
“This song is all about The Eagle Pub!” she says. This is our First Date Story:
After getting in touch on ‘Friends Reunited’ The Doctor and I met in The Eagle Pub, on City Road, unaware that it featured in the popular nursery rhyme. Kind of nice to be reminded of our first date now, whenever we hear that childish tune. It is the topic of much debate as to what exactly is a weasel. To “pop” is to pawn. A weasel could be a tailors instrument, but I doubt that he would pawn a tool of his trade. More likely that a man would pawn his coat (rhyming slang - weasel and stoat) for a night down the ole Eagle dance hall.
4pm. Both kids are grumpy. I’m guessing they’re bored and take them for a walk to the water point because we’ve run out of water. Baby Sister is in the pushchair and Big Sister is carrying the empty water barrel, which is huge for her, but light to carry when it’s empty. She has memorised some of the boat names on the towpath here now.
“That’s Marie!”
The sun shines through the trees making a dappled pattern on the paving slabs. Big Sister stops at the foot of a tree to collect pebbles. When we get to the tap its’ encased in a sort of box which makes it impossible to fill a water barrel unless you have a hose pipe. We return home and they are both grumpy again. Now we’re late for tea and they’re both tired and hungry. If I’m not meticulous with my time planning it all goes pear-shaped. Luckily The Doctor comes home quite early and takes a hose and barrel to fill at the tap.
Somebody has got an incredibly long hose pipe, from their boat to the tap. The Doctor follows the hose to the boat it leads to, intending to ask to borrow it. There are five hoses joined together! This means they don’t have to move their boat to the water tap to fill their water tank. It turns out he kind of knows the bloke, it’s a Dutch barge. They can’t move because a coot has built a next in one of their fenders (a tyre). I accidentally met Barge Mum for the first time yesterday. She stopped to chat, seeing that I have young kids and she has a baby. It turns out she’s a friend of a friend, and we’ve been meaning to meet. She asked how it is with these two on the boat. I don’t know how to describe it, so I hesitate, then I say,
“Yeah, it’s fine.”
She is moving onto land soon, because she’s had a baby; six weeks younger than Baby Sister.
Slugs and shipwrecks
Monday 7th June.
A bad night’s sleep. I dreamed of slugs trying to crawl on me, they come out at night in the kitchen. We evict them each evening but still find slug trails under the bed in the morning. I imagine a silent advancing army of slugs, yet their wiggling slimy trails suggest more that they did a merry dance, silently mocking me while I sleep.
Baby sister fed at 6.15am. I’m so tired. The Doctor takes care of her until 8am so that I could sleep some more. I left the dishes. Packed laundry for the launderette. Made packed lunch. At park by 11am. Big Sister happy. Baby sister having lunch. By the time we get to launderette and shops both kids are happy, fed and sleepy. This means I can go to a couple of shops, and do useful errands. Then head to Kensington to the Pirate Ship Park (Princess Diana Memorial Playground). Big Sister wakes up in her favourite playground! Surprise! Breastfeeding Baby sister; Big Sister does a wee in the sandpit and requires a complete costume change.
The trick is to keep all three of us happy at the same time, like three happy spinning circus plates. The pirate ship has run aground, shipwrecked on a children’s sandpit. Palm trees and random rocks are scattered beach-like. There are sunshine paddling pools and man-made rock pools. Big Sister concentrates hard on moving sand from one place to another, slowly, deliberately building a little pile: And I cannot help her, “because Mummy, it is dangerous and not for grown-ups, just for children.”
A brilliant and happy surprise when we got home; The Doctor is home early and doing the dishes as we arrived.
Later, in the still of the night, The Doctor is reading a Carl Sagan book, and I’m breast feeding by a twelve volt night light, listening to the comforting sound of summer rain, pattering on a steel narrowboat roof.
A bad night’s sleep. I dreamed of slugs trying to crawl on me, they come out at night in the kitchen. We evict them each evening but still find slug trails under the bed in the morning. I imagine a silent advancing army of slugs, yet their wiggling slimy trails suggest more that they did a merry dance, silently mocking me while I sleep.
Baby sister fed at 6.15am. I’m so tired. The Doctor takes care of her until 8am so that I could sleep some more. I left the dishes. Packed laundry for the launderette. Made packed lunch. At park by 11am. Big Sister happy. Baby sister having lunch. By the time we get to launderette and shops both kids are happy, fed and sleepy. This means I can go to a couple of shops, and do useful errands. Then head to Kensington to the Pirate Ship Park (Princess Diana Memorial Playground). Big Sister wakes up in her favourite playground! Surprise! Breastfeeding Baby sister; Big Sister does a wee in the sandpit and requires a complete costume change.
The trick is to keep all three of us happy at the same time, like three happy spinning circus plates. The pirate ship has run aground, shipwrecked on a children’s sandpit. Palm trees and random rocks are scattered beach-like. There are sunshine paddling pools and man-made rock pools. Big Sister concentrates hard on moving sand from one place to another, slowly, deliberately building a little pile: And I cannot help her, “because Mummy, it is dangerous and not for grown-ups, just for children.”
A brilliant and happy surprise when we got home; The Doctor is home early and doing the dishes as we arrived.
Later, in the still of the night, The Doctor is reading a Carl Sagan book, and I’m breast feeding by a twelve volt night light, listening to the comforting sound of summer rain, pattering on a steel narrowboat roof.
Rudely interrupted
Sunday 6th June
A good day in the park, with friends; people with children. Sandpit, paddling pool, Big Sister was happy all day. So I was too. Out of the boat I cannot see the laundry and the dishes that I’m not doing. Is this the answer? Get out more? Do less laundry and dishes?
Sunday tea time we were running the engine to charge the batteries. We do that most evenings, unless it has been a particularly good day for the solar panel. I was spoon-feeding Baby sister at the table when a teenager knocks on the window. He has a mini motorbike, about two foot high. He signals for me to open the window to talk.
“Have you got some petrol?”
No, we run on diesel. (Can’t he see I am feeding a baby?)
“Well can I borrow some? Just to get somewhere?”
Well how can I get it out? We’re running the engine! (Doesn’t he realise I am in the privacy of my own home, looking after my children?)
“Oh right, Ok.” He leaves.
A good day in the park, with friends; people with children. Sandpit, paddling pool, Big Sister was happy all day. So I was too. Out of the boat I cannot see the laundry and the dishes that I’m not doing. Is this the answer? Get out more? Do less laundry and dishes?
Sunday tea time we were running the engine to charge the batteries. We do that most evenings, unless it has been a particularly good day for the solar panel. I was spoon-feeding Baby sister at the table when a teenager knocks on the window. He has a mini motorbike, about two foot high. He signals for me to open the window to talk.
“Have you got some petrol?”
No, we run on diesel. (Can’t he see I am feeding a baby?)
“Well can I borrow some? Just to get somewhere?”
Well how can I get it out? We’re running the engine! (Doesn’t he realise I am in the privacy of my own home, looking after my children?)
“Oh right, Ok.” He leaves.
Little Venice Tourist Information
Saturday 5th June.
Big Sister and The Doctor are talking about The Jungle Book Disney film. The Doctor explains that Mowgli lives in India.
“Does he live with my uncle?” asks Big Sister. (My brother spends half the year in Goa.)
Little Venice Tourist Information:
I’m doing the dishes and a man peeps through the window and asks, which direction to Camden? There is a sign post behind him, ‘Camden 2 1/2 miles’. Later, I’m pegging out the washing, a group of teenage girls ask,
“Where is the boat trip to the zoo?”
Just past the bridge on the right.
“Is it far? Do you think we will make it in time? When does it go?”
I think they go regularly.
People think I am local here. The irony being that as I live on a narrowboat and move every two weeks I am never really local anywhere.
I did a laundry load today while The Doctor took the girls to the park. It took about one hour from start, to pegged out; much quicker than yesterday. Perhaps multi-tasking is not the way forward?
Big Sister and The Doctor are talking about The Jungle Book Disney film. The Doctor explains that Mowgli lives in India.
“Does he live with my uncle?” asks Big Sister. (My brother spends half the year in Goa.)
Little Venice Tourist Information:
I’m doing the dishes and a man peeps through the window and asks, which direction to Camden? There is a sign post behind him, ‘Camden 2 1/2 miles’. Later, I’m pegging out the washing, a group of teenage girls ask,
“Where is the boat trip to the zoo?”
Just past the bridge on the right.
“Is it far? Do you think we will make it in time? When does it go?”
I think they go regularly.
People think I am local here. The irony being that as I live on a narrowboat and move every two weeks I am never really local anywhere.
I did a laundry load today while The Doctor took the girls to the park. It took about one hour from start, to pegged out; much quicker than yesterday. Perhaps multi-tasking is not the way forward?
Sunday, 1 August 2010
A Typical Day?
4th June 2010
A Typical Day?
The day started in the sunshine, playing shop in the park: I’d like to buy some juice please, I said to my two year old shop keeper. What flavour juice do you have?
“Ummm. We have orange flavour, and we have curry flavour.”
I bought both.
Multitasking: dishes are soaking in the sink, twin tub just finished cycle on back deck, cooking baby’s lunch on hob, (why is baby crying? just checked nappy). Quick visit to supervise Big Sister sat at table making collage, I cut up blue tissue paper for the sky. I am an art teacher, cook, laundry woman, etcetera. All to the absurdly jolly soundtrack of popular children’s song, The Dingle Dangle Scarecrow.
Today I’m trying a new routine. Meg suggested taking Big Sister to the park, first thing. The idea is if I let her run off some steam she’ll be happier for the rest of the day. 9 am we were in the park. Baby was supposed to be napping in pushchair, but wasn’t. By 12.30pm Big Sister has moaned through the morning’s collage activities and now whining and refusing to eat lunch. I’ve been multitasking like one of those circus people that spins plates on sticks, and my tension snaps.
“If you don’t eat lunch you’ll feel ill and grumpy mid-afternoon just like yesterday!”
I remove lunch from table, put Big Sister in front of TV, return to twin tub wash that I started two hours ago. Am now unreasonably irritated by towpath passers-by who stop to ogle and point at my mini washing machine on the back deck. I want to shout at them. William Blake pipes up in my head,
“I was angry with my friend, I told my wrath, my wrath did end,
I was angry with my foe, I told it not, my wrath did grow.”
Go to bath to fill bucket for rinse cycle and baby wakes up crying. It’s a poo. This is what Naomi Stadlen calls being “instantly interruptible”: I feel like I’m doing too many jobs at once. Meg says that I’m trying to do too much. But how else are the dishes and laundry gonna get done?
What Mothers Do Especially When It Looks Like Nothing
2pm. The washing is finally spun and hung on rotary washing line on back deck. I put a bucket of water with bath toys on the back deck as an activity for Big Sister to play with – it’s a lovely sunny day. But she still wants to watch TV. Baby sister is on the back deck in her play chair growling at soft toys. It’s nearly time for her next breast feed. It’s awkward stepping across the open deck boards across the engine with buckets of water from the bathroom to fill the washing machine. The machine’s cable runs over the deckboards and down to the invertor next to the engine below. So I plug in and charge the food blender while the deck boards are up, ready to mash baby’s dinner later4. Finally replace the deckboard, which is heavy steel and I am nervous about dropping it on my bare feet. The dishes are still in progress. I put more in to soak. I persuade Big Sister to eat lunch (now cold) by promising another trip to a park.
Baby sister is blowing raspberries. She’s just discovered how to do this and does it a a lot. It makes her laugh; me too. I’ll just change her nappy and we’ll go to the park I promise.
“Mummy, I need a poo!”
Well go to the bathroom.
“Mummy COME!” She is standing on her stool by the toilet.
I leave baby on bed, nappy off. Why can’t you pull down your own pants?
“I want YOU to do it.”
Back to bedroom, finish nappy change. Back to bathroom, wipe poo. More shouting. Pack bag with spare clothes in case of spontaneous wees out and about. Can’t find portable nappy kit. Bring washing machine in off back deck. People on towpath stare at my laundry on the washing line. I feel like I live in a goldfish bowl. A very busy goldfish bowl. All boaters used to have a strict code of behaivour and manners.
"No one ever stepped on to or crossed another person's boat without first asking to do so, and when tied up side by side with the butty nearest the towpath, if anyone from the motor wanted to go ashore they were obliged to step across the butty hatches, and this they did while staring fixedly ahead, as even a fleeting glance down into the cabin would have been the height of rudenesss. They never liked to tie up where the towpath was a popular place for people to walk, because often they were so rude as to lean over and stare right into the cabins, which was very unpleasant for tthe people inside." (Eily Gayford.)
The amateur boatwomen: canal boating 1941-1945
Unlock pushchair, lift onto towpath. Insert baby. Load saddlebags with rubbish and recycling.
Big Sister has removed sandals that I just put on her and is now playing with water bucket activity that she refused earlier. We leave the boat. I can smell nappies and rotting food and really notice how much waste we produce when we have to get rid of it ourselves. Big Sister asks the name of each boat we pass: Kismet, Ellie Rose, Moondreams, Summer Breeze, Marie, Cheddleton, Tank Girl. We post the recycling into the correct bins and Big Sister enjoys this. We are at Little Venice General Waste Facility. “For general domestic waste only. If these bins are full contact British Waterways. Do not leave bulky items, oil, etcetera.”
I speed-walk to the park, pushing double pushchair, wearing trainers, an idea to get fit. The park is in beautiful Porchester Square; Georgian terraces and leafy dappled sunshine on primary colours of climbing frame. Breathe. Relax. Laugh and play with Big Sister. I must be doing something wrong. I must slow down.
So: Doing the dishes, the laundry and keeping two children fed and happy is an over ambitious plan for the day. Do I really have unrealistic expectations of myself? Meg (who has two the same age as mine,) says,
“You’ve got to remember, we’re in the eye of the maelstrom right now!”
Get home and find nappy kit in bottom of pushchair all along. Make pasta dinner while Big Sister sleeps in the pushchair on the towpath. Big Sister wakes up, The Doctor comes home. Big Sister calls me over, sleepily, “Mummy...” I go to her, bend down and she says,
“DON’T TOUCH ME!”
Blend Baby sister’s pasta into mush, lay table, sit both girls up. Big Sister doesn’t want dinner. The Doctor bribes her to eat by promising strawberries. Bed time hour is manic, everyone tired, everyone washed, dressed, baby in hammock, Big Sister in her room. The hammock hangs in the living room with black out blinds and Fisherprice lullabies. I clear the toys off the back deck and bring in the washing from the line. Lock the pushchair to the back deck with a bike lock (last pushchair was unlocked and stolen from back deck). Come indoors. The Doctor is cooking dinner, Big Sister calls me into her room and points at her chest.
“Mummy, is this my treasure chest?” I adore her. She’s too hot to sleep. ‘Reads’ a book, throws it out of bed, it thuds onto the floor.
The baby wakes up and cries. I soothe her back to sleep, bouncing the hammock on its spring. She’s clutching her small, floppy, fluffy, white bunny. Tired moans, closes her eyes. Gripping my finger tightly in her clenched fist.
Dinner is ready. The Doctor turns off the kitchen lights, the blackout blinds are down. Together we lift the hammock and sleeping baby from the living room into the kitchen. She hangs there peacefully bouncing a little. We eat dinner on our laps in front of the TV. Relaxed, we smile at each other; so tired. I have a mental ‘To Do’ list, post and paperwork to read, emails to reply. Instead, I show The Doctor a phone video clip of our toddler in the park. We get the bed out early, 9.30pm ish. Unfold the futon, make it up with sheets and duvet, tea, coffee, chocolate, read books in bed. Check Big Sister, peaceful, sleeping, flower shaped plastic night light. Baby sister is sleep-breathing in the kitchen. There is a distant babble of chatter from the posh waterside pub across the cut. I catch sight of a gliding goose family, goslings all in a row. Tonight, as I got her ready for bed my eldest daughter asked,
“Why are you happy Mummy?”
Because I’ve got a lovely family, I said.
A Typical Day?
The day started in the sunshine, playing shop in the park: I’d like to buy some juice please, I said to my two year old shop keeper. What flavour juice do you have?
“Ummm. We have orange flavour, and we have curry flavour.”
I bought both.
Multitasking: dishes are soaking in the sink, twin tub just finished cycle on back deck, cooking baby’s lunch on hob, (why is baby crying? just checked nappy). Quick visit to supervise Big Sister sat at table making collage, I cut up blue tissue paper for the sky. I am an art teacher, cook, laundry woman, etcetera. All to the absurdly jolly soundtrack of popular children’s song, The Dingle Dangle Scarecrow.
Today I’m trying a new routine. Meg suggested taking Big Sister to the park, first thing. The idea is if I let her run off some steam she’ll be happier for the rest of the day. 9 am we were in the park. Baby was supposed to be napping in pushchair, but wasn’t. By 12.30pm Big Sister has moaned through the morning’s collage activities and now whining and refusing to eat lunch. I’ve been multitasking like one of those circus people that spins plates on sticks, and my tension snaps.
“If you don’t eat lunch you’ll feel ill and grumpy mid-afternoon just like yesterday!”
I remove lunch from table, put Big Sister in front of TV, return to twin tub wash that I started two hours ago. Am now unreasonably irritated by towpath passers-by who stop to ogle and point at my mini washing machine on the back deck. I want to shout at them. William Blake pipes up in my head,
“I was angry with my friend, I told my wrath, my wrath did end,
I was angry with my foe, I told it not, my wrath did grow.”
Go to bath to fill bucket for rinse cycle and baby wakes up crying. It’s a poo. This is what Naomi Stadlen calls being “instantly interruptible”: I feel like I’m doing too many jobs at once. Meg says that I’m trying to do too much. But how else are the dishes and laundry gonna get done?
What Mothers Do Especially When It Looks Like Nothing
2pm. The washing is finally spun and hung on rotary washing line on back deck. I put a bucket of water with bath toys on the back deck as an activity for Big Sister to play with – it’s a lovely sunny day. But she still wants to watch TV. Baby sister is on the back deck in her play chair growling at soft toys. It’s nearly time for her next breast feed. It’s awkward stepping across the open deck boards across the engine with buckets of water from the bathroom to fill the washing machine. The machine’s cable runs over the deckboards and down to the invertor next to the engine below. So I plug in and charge the food blender while the deck boards are up, ready to mash baby’s dinner later4. Finally replace the deckboard, which is heavy steel and I am nervous about dropping it on my bare feet. The dishes are still in progress. I put more in to soak. I persuade Big Sister to eat lunch (now cold) by promising another trip to a park.
Baby sister is blowing raspberries. She’s just discovered how to do this and does it a a lot. It makes her laugh; me too. I’ll just change her nappy and we’ll go to the park I promise.
“Mummy, I need a poo!”
Well go to the bathroom.
“Mummy COME!” She is standing on her stool by the toilet.
I leave baby on bed, nappy off. Why can’t you pull down your own pants?
“I want YOU to do it.”
Back to bedroom, finish nappy change. Back to bathroom, wipe poo. More shouting. Pack bag with spare clothes in case of spontaneous wees out and about. Can’t find portable nappy kit. Bring washing machine in off back deck. People on towpath stare at my laundry on the washing line. I feel like I live in a goldfish bowl. A very busy goldfish bowl. All boaters used to have a strict code of behaivour and manners.
"No one ever stepped on to or crossed another person's boat without first asking to do so, and when tied up side by side with the butty nearest the towpath, if anyone from the motor wanted to go ashore they were obliged to step across the butty hatches, and this they did while staring fixedly ahead, as even a fleeting glance down into the cabin would have been the height of rudenesss. They never liked to tie up where the towpath was a popular place for people to walk, because often they were so rude as to lean over and stare right into the cabins, which was very unpleasant for tthe people inside." (Eily Gayford.)
The amateur boatwomen: canal boating 1941-1945
Unlock pushchair, lift onto towpath. Insert baby. Load saddlebags with rubbish and recycling.
Big Sister has removed sandals that I just put on her and is now playing with water bucket activity that she refused earlier. We leave the boat. I can smell nappies and rotting food and really notice how much waste we produce when we have to get rid of it ourselves. Big Sister asks the name of each boat we pass: Kismet, Ellie Rose, Moondreams, Summer Breeze, Marie, Cheddleton, Tank Girl. We post the recycling into the correct bins and Big Sister enjoys this. We are at Little Venice General Waste Facility. “For general domestic waste only. If these bins are full contact British Waterways. Do not leave bulky items, oil, etcetera.”
I speed-walk to the park, pushing double pushchair, wearing trainers, an idea to get fit. The park is in beautiful Porchester Square; Georgian terraces and leafy dappled sunshine on primary colours of climbing frame. Breathe. Relax. Laugh and play with Big Sister. I must be doing something wrong. I must slow down.
So: Doing the dishes, the laundry and keeping two children fed and happy is an over ambitious plan for the day. Do I really have unrealistic expectations of myself? Meg (who has two the same age as mine,) says,
“You’ve got to remember, we’re in the eye of the maelstrom right now!”
Get home and find nappy kit in bottom of pushchair all along. Make pasta dinner while Big Sister sleeps in the pushchair on the towpath. Big Sister wakes up, The Doctor comes home. Big Sister calls me over, sleepily, “Mummy...” I go to her, bend down and she says,
“DON’T TOUCH ME!”
Blend Baby sister’s pasta into mush, lay table, sit both girls up. Big Sister doesn’t want dinner. The Doctor bribes her to eat by promising strawberries. Bed time hour is manic, everyone tired, everyone washed, dressed, baby in hammock, Big Sister in her room. The hammock hangs in the living room with black out blinds and Fisherprice lullabies. I clear the toys off the back deck and bring in the washing from the line. Lock the pushchair to the back deck with a bike lock (last pushchair was unlocked and stolen from back deck). Come indoors. The Doctor is cooking dinner, Big Sister calls me into her room and points at her chest.
“Mummy, is this my treasure chest?” I adore her. She’s too hot to sleep. ‘Reads’ a book, throws it out of bed, it thuds onto the floor.
The baby wakes up and cries. I soothe her back to sleep, bouncing the hammock on its spring. She’s clutching her small, floppy, fluffy, white bunny. Tired moans, closes her eyes. Gripping my finger tightly in her clenched fist.
Dinner is ready. The Doctor turns off the kitchen lights, the blackout blinds are down. Together we lift the hammock and sleeping baby from the living room into the kitchen. She hangs there peacefully bouncing a little. We eat dinner on our laps in front of the TV. Relaxed, we smile at each other; so tired. I have a mental ‘To Do’ list, post and paperwork to read, emails to reply. Instead, I show The Doctor a phone video clip of our toddler in the park. We get the bed out early, 9.30pm ish. Unfold the futon, make it up with sheets and duvet, tea, coffee, chocolate, read books in bed. Check Big Sister, peaceful, sleeping, flower shaped plastic night light. Baby sister is sleep-breathing in the kitchen. There is a distant babble of chatter from the posh waterside pub across the cut. I catch sight of a gliding goose family, goslings all in a row. Tonight, as I got her ready for bed my eldest daughter asked,
“Why are you happy Mummy?”
Because I’ve got a lovely family, I said.
Police visit Little Venice
3rd June 2010
Little Venice
Two policemen knocked on the boat. Baby sister was in a car seat on the back deck. Big Sister was indoors watching cBeebies. They wanted to check if the baby was ok?
“We didn’t know if anyone was about!”
I’m just making her lunch!
“How old is she? I’ve got a three month old,” (shows photo).
I bet you’re not getting much sleep then.
“Actually, I’ve got seven!”
Crikey. I said.
Little Venice
Two policemen knocked on the boat. Baby sister was in a car seat on the back deck. Big Sister was indoors watching cBeebies. They wanted to check if the baby was ok?
“We didn’t know if anyone was about!”
I’m just making her lunch!
“How old is she? I’ve got a three month old,” (shows photo).
I bet you’re not getting much sleep then.
“Actually, I’ve got seven!”
Crikey. I said.
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