Part 2: Chubby and Proud!

Back to that quote I mentioned:

What is healing but a change in perspective?

The change in perspective I had was this: I realised the deep hurt I carried around because I never felt thin enough was something that had to go. It was too heavy a load to bear - and besides, I have Layla to consider: her own health and self-esteem/body-image. If she saw me cringing, year in and year out, in front of the mirror and constantly whining about my body, it could only have a negative impact on her.

My glorious days as a 28 year old single woman (I nearly said 'girl'!) and how fabulous I felt about every inch of myself shone deliciously in my heart and I realised it did not merely have to be a memory, but that I could make it a reality again (minus the singleton status, of course!) What caused me to head back down this bleakly treacherous path after such a fabulous blooming? Motherhood. I hate to admit it, but being pregnant and a new mom was devastatingly different to how I had always imagined it would be. And, I think that maybe I may have even been angry with my body for betraying me during the birth of my child: firstly, having to be induced with Sintocinon because Layla was in distress and had literally shat herself in fright, and then not dilating more than 2cm and hearing my as yet unborn child's heart stop and having to be rushed into surgery for an emergency C-section.
My pregnancy saw me carrying huge amounts of water - both in my womb and in my body, with once-petite ankles as swollen and shapeless as an elephant. (I was actually going to reference my late Norwegian great-aunt again and her lace-up shoes over which her ankles bulged, but felt a bit guilty. The necessity to accurately portray the immense fatness of my ankles prevailed, I'm afraid...) At 5 weeks, I glibly announced to the world that it seemed as if the morning-sickness curse had passed me by, but come Week # 6 and I was cuddling that toilet like there was no tomorrow! The GP announced his complete conviction that I was carrying twins. (I didn't tell him how, since I was a little girl, I had always prayed to not EVER be 'blessed' with them! Apologies to my identical twin sisters, Mandy and Julie.) I proceeded to vomit all the way through my pregnancy, having to dash out during teaching, or - most memorably, having to frantically stop the car on the side of the road in Milton Keynes on my way to do nursery shopping at IKEA to cover my boots and jeans in the peach yoghurt I'd just eaten to quell the nausea! Driving past the white-washed spot on my way back, I can actually remember my cheeks burning with humiliation!

(Sheesh, I DO get distracted, don't I?) My hands were so bloated that I couldn't wear my engagement ring - or any rings, for that matter! And none of my pretty pumps fitted my feet. Most disappointing? Asking Craig to please pick up a pack of size 16 panties at Tesco because - well, it's obvious, isn't it?! Boobs I could proudly flaunt at 34DD ballooned into 38F monstrosities, complete with wildly itchy skin, bright blue veining and, quite literally, a life of their own. (Lunchtime - time to feed my precious Layla something yummy! Part 3 coming soon: I know I got sidetracked again - but I've got to keep you hooked and coming back more, don't I?!)

Teething pains...

With the weather turning a glum, cold grey, my usually bare feet about the house are decidedly icy: time to either turn on the heating or haul out last winter's slippers! Whenever I speak to my dad (he's in Cape Town), he is guaranteed to ask me about the weather. Even slap-bang in the middle of the Cape Winter, the weather is usually irritatingly better than here in Northampton. Perhaps this is why my dad always asks me? A little thorn to remind me that east, west, HOME is best!
Layla's top front two teeth are pushing their way down through her sore, tender little gums - and the Calpol I gave her earlier doesn't seem to have made so much as a dent in her loud, sporadic agony. Poor baby :( All I've managed to do today is look after her, run a load of washing (which is still in the machine) and do the dishes (but they're still not packed away.) Since the last time I wrote, I've had a dramatic shift in perspective after an older and wiser friend's kind warning to 'treasure these moments' with Layla. She made mention that she herself has to remind herself of this sentiment when contemplating, not her navel, but finding a gun to forever silence her husband's decibel-crunching snores! (I've had to promise keeping her safely anonymous in case her contemplation turns to action one sleep-deprived midnight!) But it is so, so true. These precious children of ours grow up in leaps and bounds we can never hope to keep up with! I can hardly even remember how tiny and fragile Layla was as a newborn - when teething and crawling and starting solids all seemed impossibly far away into the future. When we were in South Africa, I found the very first photograph ever taken of Layla on her late granny Sally's cell phone. Craig's hand is on the photo, giving Layla the look and size of a tiny doll - and not the chubby, robust newborn I expected! She was so thin and almost scraggly, that her skin hung off her like an old, too big jersey. And that shock of raven hair! So much like her daddy that I kept on dreaming in my post-labour snatches of sleep that they'd made a mistake: that she was a boy! For weeks after she was born, I wanted to snip off a lock of her soft black hair to keep forever, but suddenly the weeks were months, and all that hair disappeared... Thank goodness for photographs!
And here she is, all 14lb and 7.5months of her: delicious, incredible, amazing! Holding her in my arms in the middle of the night, exhaustion suspended by the miracle of her. Could I love her too much? Her soft apple cheeks, long and strangely straight eyelashes, and a mouth that can be all soft and pouty - and then stretch into the widest, biggest smile I've ever seen... It's hard to believe she is my daughter. My flesh and blood. Made only from love and desire and chromosomes...

(As an aside, a friend told me on the weekend that my blog entries are too short and leave the reader wishing I had given them more... Two reasons I probably cut myself short: I don't want to bore you, and Layla usually needs me JUST as the writing starts to get juicy... Any ideas or tips?)

Vixen

Almost dry, my always efficiently short nails are painted the colour of dark, ripened cherries - the first time I've found the time and the energy to paint them. Toenails too! A minor miracle.

Upstairs, I can hear Craig brushing his teeth, and I suppose I ought to head to bed myself. But it's just been one of thosedays... when, as a mom and wife, you lose sight of your heart's little daily desires in folding clean washing, still warm and smelling of the late summer sun... in the soapy suds in the kitchen sink... It was a long day where the groceries got done ETCETERA, but my little studio space remained empty. Where can I find more time to paint? How can I magic more time into my day to write? Hmmm... even a solitary bath by candlelight (or moonlight) would be heavenly (and I'm trying not to feel guilty thinking about it...) Baths now are: Craig and I in the bath with Layla at 5pm, her plonked in her bright yellow bath seat, while plastic wind-up turtles and rubber fish find their way into all sorts of places I've not had visited in awhile. (Sigh)

Layla's probably going to wake in about 30min from now. I am awake every hour at night still with her. Teething pain, and its tummy pains (and resultant giant nappies at 4am we both have to wait for before she'll head back to sleep again for only another hour...) Some have counselled me to let my darling child 'cry it out' - but my heart is too soft: DAMN - she's awake. Better go.

Hush little baby, don't say a word...

At the rude sound of the alarm at 6.30 this morning, I was instantly transformed into that belligerent, abusive 4 year old I apparently once was when it came time to wake up and go to school. Generally a sweet-tempered child (I think?) waking up was not one of my favourite things – and my poor dear mother tired of the cross little girl who kicked and lashed out at her to be left alone that she sent in My Father. Surely he wouldn’t tolerate these waking tantrums?
Sweet birdsong the music on the fresh morning air, it looked to be a perfect summer’s day – except for the dark stormcloud of a little girl that needed waking for preschool. As if it were yesterday, I can still feel my eyes clamped so determinedly shut that they may as well have been superglued closed with my desire to stay asleep. Even the duvet is something still so tangible, so real, that it is billowed softly around me like the warmest hug – but in walks my dear dad to end this perfection. He is irritatingly chirpy so that I want to sling him an evil look from my heavy lids but am too lazy to do even that! I remain locked in my sleepy cocoon in the vague hope that he’ll disappear. But no, he sits down carefully on the bed. Lovingly and gently shaking my shoulder and saying, ‘Come on, Lees, time for school.” Grrrr… and I can even hear a sunny smile in his voice which only fuels my four year old fury some more.
“It’s a beautiful day! Wake up!”
Nothing.
“Open your eyes, my darling.”
Nada.
“Lees, just have a look at me!”
This went on for some time, and I knew I could only be a little shit for so long before incurring some serious parental wrath. Wrenching my eyelids apart and twisting round from under my duvet, lo and behold, but what did I see? NOT my father! But a strange man grinning at me like a mad clown in his 1980s white safari suit. The fright lasted only a second, before the laughter spilled from in great big gusts, making me forget all about my quest to sleep in! Daddy had shaved off his omnipresent moustache!! And now his embarrassingly bare, smiling upper lip had me in stitches that to this day I could never, ever forget.

Staying on the subject of dads, let me tell you about my darling Craig and how he kept me up for a hefty chunk of the night with his turbulent, sigh-filled tossing and turning. At one point, I found myself poking him repeatedly in the ribs and threatening him with my most menacing, midnight voice, each word punctuated with a stabbing finger: “If (poke) you (poke) DON’T (harder poke) keep (poke) still (poke)…” and here I realised I was trying to intimidate him with something I’m sure he couldn’t care less about in his slumbering state: I was going to get out of our bed and go sleep in the spare bed in the spare room – until I realised I was too much of a coward to climb under those stiff, icy covers!
Our conversation this morning: Craig smiling, his eyes crinkling with being happy I was up with him – and me, haggard and unrepentantly grumpy, like a starving, mangy lioness waiting in the shadows to spring savagely upon her prey!

Lisa: “So, tell me, WHY were you so fidgety last night? You kept me awake, you know.”

Craig:(Sheepish look ) “I dreamed the baby was here already and she was crying and crying. WHEEEEEEHHHH, WHEEEEEEEH.”
I turn my nose up in a disgusted sneer at what he thinks a baby sounds like.


Craig: “And every time she cried, I turned around and knew that you’d get up to see to her.”

Lisa: “Nice one, Craig. Great stuff.” My arms are folded in an exaggerated display of horror and derision.


Hell – and Craig’s a naturally paternal kinda guy. Imagine what other men must be like!? Oh well. It’s just a dream. The reality is this: Layla Rose will be sleeping in our room for the first few weeks of our life what with my mom and his folks visiting: and he will NOT be able to simply turn over when she cries: he will be wide, wide awake, and I shall have my revenge.