Change

A few years ago I was employed by one of the many subsidiary companies of one of the big banks. I was in the Small Change Team. Contrary to how that sounds, I didn't spend my days counting coppers, though it may have been more use if I had. Alas, no. The Small Change Team was supposed to implement process improvements and whatnot, to make the business more efficient and cost less to run.

Eventually, the powers that be decided that the best change they could make was to make eighteen of the twenty-two members of the Change Department redundant. Including me.

No worries, it was a terrible job, and I miss it not one iota.

But it did introduce me, formally, to people's perceptions of change, which is sort of interesting.

Change is inevitable. We all know that, no matter how much we may dislike it (and some people dislike it a lot), change will happen and we are largely powerless to do anything about it.

Next week will see a big change for me, my wife and my baby.

My baby, who is already over nine months old. How did that happen? I have a photo blu-tacked to the cupboard next to my desk at work. It's Cam, just hours after he was born, wrapped in hospital blankets, cradled in the bend of my arm, tiny and screaming. I am looking down at him and smiling. It's a dangerous photo to have in the office, because every time I look at it I remember the swell of emotion fuelling that smile on my face, and it makes my eyes well up with tears.

My life changed that day, and it has changed every day since.

But, next week is a biggy.

Mrs L returns to work, part time. I reduce my hours at work, meaning a day at home with Cam each week. Mrs L's parents will look after him for two full days each week. The final day of care will be taken care of by a local nursery.

For me, this is a positive change. I'm not a great fan of my job, but I am a great fan of spending time with my son.

For my wife, I suspect, it will be harder to get used to the idea. Maternity leave hasn't been the soft-focus, warm and fuzzy utopia she may have liked it to be, but she's happy and comfortable being at home now.

We are immensely lucky to have Cam's grandparents close at hand. He loves them and they love him. They will provide him with the same care and attention as we would. Plus, they're a whole lot cheaper than a nursery.

The most important person in all of this is the cheeky faced little boy who now welcomes me home from work every day with a beautiful chuckle and an excited wave. Somewhere in that little head he'll be processing the changes and deciding how to deal with them. Will he feel it's acceptable for both me and my wife to leave him with other people on a regular basis? Will he still feel as loved, as cherished, as central to everything that we think, feel and do?

Nine months old and he'll be going through his first big change (well, there was a pretty major one when he was born, but he seems to have coped alright with that), and we're the ones putting him through it.

I'm nervous. I think we all are. Next week feels important and exceptional. But, soon enough, it will just feel normal.

Thanks for reading.

Cam's War

Sometimes, when he cries, I wake with a jolt. As if I am Frankenstein's monster, my bed is the operating slab, and his cry is the immeasurably powerful lightning strike. Fast asleep to full alert in the 0.014 seconds it takes for the sound to travel from his mouth to my ear.

A fully alert brain doesn't translate to a fully alert body. Several full seconds pass before my limbs and joints can be convinced to join in the party. His lungs are now in full swing, gulping in air and converting it to pure anguish. The sound of being alone, of waking up to a world still so new to him that his brain needs to recalibrate every morning, but mostly the sound of doing battle.

His invisible enemies torment him through the day and through the night. They wriggle, they move, they prod and push, though they don't yet protrude. Dentin Soldiers: milk teeth. Waging war on our tiny boy, whose only defences are copious saliva, chewing on his own hands and those heart wrenching howls of agony.

By the time my recalcitrant hips have been coerced into action my wife is already up and soothing him, the soft shushing is designed to comfort, but to my ears also holds notes of concern and helplessness. What use are we to him? What relief can we give? All the quiet reassurances that he's okay mean nothing to him, or to the tiny incisors moving ever closer to eruption. We can not lull them to sleep any more than we can him. I stay in bed. We are zero help whether we are one or two.

Distraction proves impossible. He is lifted and embraced, held tight in my wife's arms and snuggled to her chest. Rocked and swayed. Regardless, the screams continue, the tears roll and leave their salty trace, the limbs thrash.

He comes into our bed, nestled between us to prevent the rolling over he has recently perfected. A moment's peace as his brain once again recalibrates to his new position, then the crying is back. Was it a moment or an hour? I'm not as alert as I thought. How long have I been asleep and allowing my wife to bear the brunt of this? Too long. Now it is my turn. I pick him up, offer him what I can: the sound of my voice, my finger to chew, my arms and chest to hit in frustration.

My tired brain is convinced he has filled his nappy. We return to his room and begin the changing process. There is no poo. But while I'm changing him from one clean nappy to another he is smiling. We play a little and all seems right for a few minutes. I sense a change which could mean this part of the war is over. I reinsert him in his 2.5 TOG cocoon and lay him back in his cot. Awake but calm I leave him. He is yawning. I am yawning.

Battle recommences within an hour. Feelings of pity and concern for him mix with a notion that we must be doing something wrong. Surely we ought to be able to help him? There is some trick we are missing and we are failing him by doing so. Whatever it is, we can't work it out. So he gets our best shot: 5ml of sugary analgesia poured into his gaping, angry mouth.

I'm given the go ahead to return to sleep. I need to be able to function to some degree when I go to work tomorrow. Today. In three hours. Doggedly, my wife continues to sit with him, singing a lullaby over and over. A statement of her love for him which carries through the air and sends me to sleep.

My battle is over for tonight.

Wake Up

Kobe Bryant, American basketball superstar, is sat across the table from me. Idly sipping his drink and holding a dog eared cardboard folder in one hand. The folder contains details of his financial situation which, for some reason, I am trying to get him to tell me about. Perhaps I want to feel envious. He starts speaking, and the thick Jamaican accent gives my subconscious the tip off it needed to realise I’m dreaming.

In the background, a coffee machine is beginning to make that rushing, roaring sound that means someone is about to get their caffeine hit. Only it doesn’t tail off. It gets louder, and louder, and louder, until it’s drowning out everything else. The sound fills my ears and starts to make me feel uncomfortable.

I’m no longer paying any attention to Jamaican Kobe Bryant. Which is very rude of me, even if he is only a figment of my imagination.

The noise keeps on getting louder, and then I’m awake. The noise continues. It’s outside the house. The world is ending or something. My brain isn’t fully engaged, so rational thought isn’t on the agenda just yet. I stumble to the window and throw open the curtains, letting in the light of a beautiful summer morning, completely forgetting I am wearing nothing but my pants. The street is full of people looking up. Higher than my window, thankfully.

Then, I experience a real life, very Bristolian version of the opening scene of Star Wars. Instead of an Imperial Cruiser passing overhead is a hot air balloon, basket full of people dangling perilously beneath it, surveying the world below them, having a bloody good time by the looks of it.

Balloon. As seen from my bedroom window this morning.

 I found the whole thing very exciting. A massive balloon (actually, there were five or six) flew directly over my house and woke me up and I was excited. It was a treat. It was a great start to the day. I rushed to take a picture and discovered that my dexterity when half asleep has significant room for improvement. I hung around a little longer at home in the hope that some more were on their way. It set me up for the day in a way that an alarm clock could never hope to match.

It was particularly welcome because I’ve not been feeling my usual bright and breezy self recently. It was just a small thing but it reminded me of how much a small thing can have a big impact on how you feel. It allowed me to abandon my usual cynicism and misanthropy for a moment and to feel good about what wonderful things the future may hold for Cam.

While the feeling lasted my mind went on a joyous randonnée through the myriad of experiences I hope that Cam, Mrs L and I will share. I pictured the wonder I hope to see on his face the first time he sees something which really captures his imagination. We’re a little way from there yet; it is only in the past few days he has started to reach out for his Freddy Firefly.

Today’s wake up was a rare good one. I’ll be holding onto the memory of it for as long as I can.

I hope you’re having a good day, and that your wake up call this morning was a good one. Thanks for reading.

Smile

A smile is a wonderful thing. A smile from the right person can put you in a good mood for a big chunk of a day. Back in the mists of time, when I was single, a smile from a girl could last a whole day.

But smiles are tricksy. Like hairy toed hobbits hiding magical rings. A smile can be so many things, mean so many things. A smile from an adult is a complicated thing. It may be happy, of course, but it could contain regret, it could be rueful, it could be patronising, pitying or prying.

My own smile is stereotypical British, all overbite and crossover. I hate it. I had orthodontic work when I was younger, fixed braces and then a retainer. The retainer gave me a quite spectacular lisp. I decided that I valued my diction above aesthetics and wore the retainer sparingly. One of my life’s regrets.

If anyone’s got a spare £6,000 kicking around and fancies letting me use it to get braces again, drop me a line. I promise I’ll wear the retainer this time.

Luckily for me, Cam doesn’t seem to hate my smile. Most mornings, before I head to work, I smile at The Creature and The Creature smiles back. A big, beaming, gum-filled grin. Like I said, a smile from the right person can put you in a good mood.

Baby smiles are like the pure, uncut, 100% Colombian version of the smile. They are pure joy and innocence. They spread across their tiny faces, starting at the mouth, spreading into the wrinkled nose before finishing their journey at the eyes. They are reciprocal and self perpetuating.

The first time I saw Cam smile I was almost overcome with excitement, it was beautiful, and so markedly different to the trapped wind induced grimaces which had come before it (the difference was the eyes) that I found myself welling up. Thankfully, on that occasion, he didn’t decide to copy what I was doing.

What’s been making you smile today? Share your thoughts in my comment receptacle and spread a little joy.

By the way, consider yourself lucky I haven’t included a link to that awful song “Smile” by the Supernaturals here. I’ve gone for a picture of a smiley baby instead.

Thanks for reading.

Soppy

DISCLAIMER: The following post is short, badly written and won't make you laugh. 

I just had a bit of an emotional outburst.

I'm all sorts of soppy, me. You may be coming to that conclusion of your own accord, but let me save you the bother with the following tale:

Our little guy is always happiest when he's being cuddled, rocked, walked around, but this evening he was really unhappy with any attempt at putting him down for a moment.

Which is why I found myself pacing our living room, him held close in front of me with his eyes wide open, me sweating profusely, the stereo playing the Beatles.

We did that for about half an hour, something I'm now quite used to. As time goes on his eyes usually start to roll around in their sockets. We call it his Gizmo impression (you know, from Gremlins?)

Tonight, his Gizmo impression had been going for about ten minutes when "Here Comes the Sun" started playing. He dropped off to sleep while it played. At the same time, tears of happiness started rolling down my face. I have these moments every now and then, where I am just overwhelmed by the strength of feeling I have for that tiny boy. 

It doesn't last long, a matter of seconds, then I'm back to normal (which is to say, all gruff and manly, obviously. Like a cross between a bear and a bad tempered crocodile. Grrrrrrr.)

He let me put him down to bed too, and half an hour on he's still sleeping. I should cry more often.

Made me cry. For I am a wuss.

The One That Got Away

I’m very lucky. I don’t have a lot to be sad about. My life doesn’t tend to be filled with spectacular highs, but I take that, because it’s balanced with not having many of the terrible lows which so many other people seem to face.

But this post is about a time I was sad.

One of the first posts I ever wrote here was about finding out Mrs L was pregnant. It was a wonderful moment, an emotional moment.

Just a few weeks after that emotional moment, we had another one.

Mrs L was outside in the garden, while I was inside getting ready to go and play basketball. It was a pleasant, warm late summer evening and we were happy.

Then, Mrs L was walking through the house, very quickly, heading for the bathroom. I could see she wasn’t okay. This wasn’t a usual trip to the bathroom. The word I’d been fearing for the past six weeks was suddenly all I could think of.

Miscarriage.

I stopped getting ready and sat down, waiting to hear the bathroom door open again. Instead, I heard crying. Soft, persistent cries that seemed to offer nothing but confirmation of my fears. I ran up the stairs and found the bathroom door unlocked, I asked whether I could go in.

Sat, shaking, sobbing was my beautiful wife, face contorted into an expression of pure anguish. I’ve never seen a face so honest. I hope I never have to again. She had bled heavily. She still was in fact. She was apologising through the sobs, already trying to take the blame for something she could never have done anything to stop.

We sat there and hugged each other tight for what felt like a long time. I had never had occasion to be shellshocked before, but that’s how I felt. No tears for me. No tears. Just a feeling of loss, a feeling of emptiness. I tried to imagine how much more powerful those feelings must be for my wife, but I know I never could.

It was Mrs L who pulled herself together first. Began to take the first steps toward getting on with what we had to assume was a pregnancy free life. It was out of hours, so a call to NHS Direct got us redirected to an out of hours doctor. After hearing the events that doctor said that, yes, it was a miscarriage and to expect bleeding for a while and that would be that.

I’m as certain as I’ve ever been of anything that a man’s experience of miscarriage is nothing compared to a woman’s. Nevertheless, I felt completely numb. For weeks I wasn’t bothered about anything else. All I could think of was the little baby that no longer was. My little boy or little girl, gone before I’d ever had the chance to meet them.

We hadn’t even told anyone we were expecting a baby, deciding to wait until the twelve week milestone. All that meant to me was that I couldn’t talk to anyone about the miscarriage. That was hard. I’m a sharer where emotions are concerned, and I had no-one I felt it was okay to talk to about it, aside from the other person who already knew.

Another month passed and Mrs L was still experiencing all of the symptoms of a first trimester pregnancy. It seemed to us a cruel reminder of what could have been.

Actually it was because, whatever had happened, there was still a foetus in there. Our little Creature-to-be trying to tell us that not everything had been lost on that horrible day. A positive pregnancy test and a hastily arranged scan confirmed it.

We were told that it could have just been a bleed from the placenta, but there was a chance it had been one of a set of twins we lost.

I’m not sure why I’m so sure it was the latter. I am though.

I think about it a lot.

I couldn’t be more grateful for the beautiful baby boy we have now, but I will never ever forget the one who got away.

My thoughts go out to anyone who has ever experienced miscarriage. Every baby is a miracle, whether they make it or not.

Thanks for reading.