the first days - sleepless

*This was written three years ago - but I never got around to posting it. Recent research I've been doing around birth and breastfeeding (although a millennia ago in Constantinople) for one of my Master's subjects had me going through old birth posts and I realised this one got lost in the newborn haze.

More tired than I ever remember being, I push the perspex crib containing my hours old baby and follow the midwife from the birth suite to my room. It's the small hours of the morning and I'm woozy, confused after the birth. She hurries on ahead and I lose her. The corridor seems to stretch forever and I didn't see which door she turned into. I stand still, lost, wondering if I should just start peering into all the rooms. It seems so much effort. I'll just stand for a moment. 

After a time the midwife returns for me, and I follow her into a room with two empty beds.  I park my newborns' crib beside the bed next to the window and fall onto it. Every cell in my body seems weighted towards the floor, gravity pulling me earthward. 

My labor was quick, but I hadn't slept for twenty hours prior, the patch up after the birth took hours and the official documents say I lost three litres of blood in the somewhat traumatic post-birth. The one that involved the doctor shoving her fist into my innards without anaesthetics. That one. 

I am so tired. I ease into the pillow. The blissful crisp sheets. I love the familiarity of the hospital bed, the mattress protectors, the special easy-clean pillows. Bliss. I am sooo tired. 

But although I've carefully placed my baby next to me, she's looking away from me. Obviously I want to drink in her tiny, perfect face as I finally tumble into sleep. 

Slowly, I jolt upright and stumble around the bed to move her to the other side so I can see her face. (Not that her little ear and soft black hair isn't perfect either.) 

Uh oh. The movement sets my post-birth blood gushing faster. I feel it seeping beyond the bulky maternity pad. Reluctantly, I head to the bathroom and yep, it's gone through the mega-pad, onto the oversized undies and stained my pj bottoms. 

Weighted, robotic, I stumble out to find clothes in my suitcase, a bag for the stained ones, and jerkily change. By the time I'm clean, my baby is stirring, her little mouth pursing for milk, I pick her up - so tiny, so light - I savour her newborn smell. In bed with me, she drinks eagerly. 

Holy hell. That hurts. With my first baby the afterpains weren't that bad. With number four it's intense cramping. I breathe through it as she feeds. I admire the perfect line of her lashes, her tiny fingers, her little nose, her dark hair. 

The feeding increases the bleeding. And damn it, after I put her down again I need to change again.

When my little one falls back into sleep I  return to the bathroom. I need new clothes again. This time I use two pads. I stumble back to bed. I'm hungry sooo hungry. When's breakfast? I check my bag.

In hormonal craziness I have vegan chocolate that tastes horrific. Why? Why would I do that. I also have yogurts that I forgot to refrigerate. I eat the horrible vegan chocolate as I'm dizzy with hunger. 

Surely breakfast is soon. It's light(ish.) Morning approaches. 

I should sleep. I know I should sleep. But I'm so hungry. That three litres of blood won't replace itself out of nowhere. 

I distract myself with taking photos of my wonder baby. The most beautiful baby in the history of babies. With the exception of my first three. 

I watch the changing light of the dawning as it falls so gently on my newborn. 

She is so different from my first three babies. They were all large and very fair. She is small(er) and has dark hair. I wonder if she'll grow up to have dark curls. (Spoiler: she rapidly becomes blonde. My dreams of a little dark haired child are thwarted - my children are variations on a theme when it comes to colouring. Grandkids. I'm putting in my order for red hair and black hair.) 

Everything she does seems miraculous. She flexes her fingers and it seems momentous. Her face contorts into something resembling a smile as she sleeps and it seems like the first sunrise. 

Breakfast arrives. 

My Beloved arrives. He looks worse than I do. He doesn't have the pink donut I requested but he does have a hot chocolate from the mum's kitchen around the corner of the ward.

The kids are off to school and all is good. He leaves.

Something is wrong. My baby is crying soundlessly. She's a funny colour. I pick her up. I assume she's hungry although she's just fed and I even remembered to burp her. I put her on my shoulder and pat her back. The crying eases. 

I return to the familiar pattern of feeding, eating, getting changed, feeding, burping, feeding, forgetting to burp, everything is brought up, changing, re-feeding, burping. 

I am so tired my eyes keep falling shut, but every time I am half asleep something happens. A nurse arrives to check my blood pressure, a nurse arrives to check my baby's blood sugars, my baby wants more milk, I need to change my pads. 

The ward round doctors enter my room in a mob.

This is not the way I wanted my husband's bosses to see me for the first time. Puffy and splotchy with half-concealed blood-stained clothes in the open suitcase beside my bed. The shower I had after birthing seems aeons ago, although it's less than eight hours. They talk words and go. 

The nurses check my blood pressure, they do stuff to check my iron. They check my baby's blood glucose. 

I can't take in enough. My brain feels as if it's been put into slow motion. It takes me awhile to work out what people are saying. 

I concentrate on my baby. 

The nurse comes in again. 

My baby is again crying silently and oddly. I'm about to pick her up when the nurse motions me to stop. She gets out her watch and looks at the time. I think she sets a timer. 

My baby is having non-breathing episodes. 

I can't quite get my head around it.

My baby is taken away for monitoring. 

I slowly find my way through to the infant intensive care room. It is not so very far away, but blood soaks through the two pads and stains the seat when I'm feeding her, carefully, because of the cord attached to her.

I try to clean the blood up, moving slowly, and cumbersomely. It takes a long time. 

Sugar. I need sugar. Caffeine. I need to stay awake, aware. I'm scared to sleep. 

Stuff it. On my return I start wearing my baby's nappies. 

My parents arrive, bringing supplies. Already I need new clothes. I brought a suitcase and thought myself silly. Not so much. 

My older children arrive while our littlest one is still in the nursery. I guide them through and they study her with awe. For some reason my son is wearing a face mask, as you would for snorkelling, but I don't ask. 

We sit and watch. She is so beautiful. Her skin soaks up the light. It is so strange to see her placed on her tummy, the crib at an angle, when we spend so long never placing babies on their tummy. 

My wonder-child is returned to me by nightfall. I stay up most of the night, nursing her, watching. Afraid her breathing will stop. I read - a fantasy book about a heroine who saves her world against all odds. 

A nurse brings hot chocolate and I gulp down the much needed sugar desperately. I dare not fall asleep. I cannot stay awake much longer. 

The next morning my Beloved drops by before starting his shift - again he looks worse than I do. And I am still wearing nappies and have not slept in... o I can't work out the numbers. He has spent the night putting up the new trampoline. As you do. The kids are not coping well with me not there. 

Again, in the morning, my parents walk to the hospital with changes and necessities. They hold my little wondrous one while I have a quick shower - I have been too worried to leave her for more than the time needed to stumble-trip to the loo. Being clean feels good. Washing away the blood feels good. I am still clumsy, ponderous, sleep hazed. My darling is all that is perfection and I am so scared my concentration will slip, that I will sleep and she will stop breathing. 

Later in the day my things are gathered up and I am wheeled through to a much larger, single room, although the last room contained only me. (A far cry from the ward I was in with my first, when there were four - or maybe six -of us in a room and another mother's children ate my breakfast). This room is so light and airy and I feel very spoilt. Although I did not enjoy everyone and their side-kick descending for ward rounds (and let us be clear, as a general rule I dislike obstetricians) - this almost makes up for it. 

I spend another sleepless night in this new and airy room, obsessed with the changing light as it embraces my little one, so new to the world. I dare not sleep - I watch, besotted. Her tiny hands, her movements still those of one who has been held in fluid for all of their existence. 

This is the last time it will be just me and her - I savour it, willing the time to slow. This is the time apart. The honeymoon as I learn her face, her addictive newborn smell, the rightness of her weight in my arms. 

All to soon it is time to leave the hospital and return to the chaos and rush that is life beyond the hospital walls. Tomorrow I will be doing the school run and listening to stories and being pelted with hugs and demands and injustices needing to be immediately adjudicated. 

I still haven't slept. The world is blood and milk. 

But my wonder-baby is all that is wonderful and I rejoice that she is mine and I am hers. 

The first break... (My Extravaganza has broken her leg.)

I always assumed that Adventure Boy would be the first to break a bone.

I also always assumed it was just a matter of time before it happened. The way he climbs it seems almost a given that somehow, sometime, something (and not just property) is going to break.

So it's a massive shock that it's my little Extravaganza who is the first of my tribe to break a bone.
I've never broken a bone and it's breaking my heart that my little brave one has gone ahead of me into an unknown of pain and danger.

Two nights ago, after school, the kids asked if they could have a picnic at the nearby playground with their friends from down the street. The playground is only about ten houses away, but it's out of sight, and near a main road so Beloved and I said no. 'Cos we're cruel like that. There was pleading, and we compromised that we'd all go, including the overgrown-newly-castrated pup.

Turning off the oven, grabbing a beaker of coffee we'd just made, we set off, Beloved carrying Giggle-Bear and me being pulled along by the Wolf-en-pup. The kids from down the road had a backpack of carrots and mandarines, a water bottle and cups and we set up at the playground. Giggle-Bear ran around giggling, the kids made themselves soar into the sky on the swing, and then moved onto the flying fox.

It wasn't a particularly high flying fox. In the last month we've been on a heap of much bigger and more impressive ones and Beloved and I were sitting on the bench cooing at Giggle-Bear playing with the water fountain and then climbing into the kangaroo-rocker and not paying so much attention to the bigger kids, except to occasionally step in to help negotiations over turns.

And then I heard The Pain Cry. You know the one. The one that says this really, really hurts.  
And I looked over to see the Extravaganza lying under the flying fox with her legs curled around, and howling. So I ran over, checked for any obvious injuries, then carried her over to the bench for Beloved, the med intern, to check her out.

As she continued the in-serious-pain crying, I asked if we should take her to emergency and Beloved gave me the look reserved for over-anxious mamas.

"She's really sore, hon. Normally she just picks herself up and gets on with things," I pointed out.

She's one of the bravest children. She's quite likely to tantrum over a perceived injustice, but I have to be careful when she gets new shoes as she'll walk with bloody blisters without a comment. This time they could probably hear her at the hospital.

We asked what happened and it turned out that when Adventure Boy had launched off on the flying fox, the Extravaganza had grabbed onto him, whereupon he'd let go because she was too heavy and they'd both toppled to the ground, with her underneath.

So Beloved checked her toe movement and got her to press against his hand and she could do everything, but she was still in pain so Beloved put her on his back, I grabbed the Wolf-en-pup's lead and Giggle Bear's hand, and to the accompaniment of high pitched wails, we headed home.

The howls did not stop. Or decrease. At home Beloved checked her foot again. "So her ankle seems alright," he commented.
"Yes, love. But what about this big bump on her leg?" I asked.
"Ah. Yes. That. Let's take her to ED."
There was much howling for Mummy and tight clutching and, despite this meaning Giggle-Bear would be left with Beloved - and also howling for Mummy, I was elected to take her in.

By the time we reached the hospital, the Extravaganza's tears had eased off, and she was able to get her legs in under the pram arms. We were seen straight away by a kindly nurse, and taken into a cubicle where the nurse took a history, checked her air saturation and weighed her.

Very soon after arrival, we were seen by a very young doctor, who took the history again, listening as I explained she still couldn't bear any weight, and how she fell. The extravaganza by now was calm, her eyes still bright from crying, but otherwise composed. The doctor decided that at her age an extra dose of radiation would be bad, and that she didn't need an Xray. Another young doctor came through to confer, maybe from Canada, maybe from South Africa. I wasn't sure. Anyway, he agreed that she didn't need an x-ray and she'd heal by herself, and happy that my little one didn't have anything seriously wrong with her, I put her back in the pusher and we hurried outside to phone to be picked up.

Beloved was heartbroken - while he'd been dropping us off the Wolf-en-pup had eaten the lasagne we'd cooked for dinner. It had been going to be his first meal of the day, work just being too busy to eat.

The following day, the Extravaganza still wasn't bearing weight on her sore leg and it had swollen up, although she was pretty happy, and her usual talkative, cheerful self.

In a very stressed phone call from a hellish day at the hospital, Beloved insisted I take her to the GP for an X-ray referral. Obediently, and a bit tired of carrying the Extravaganza to the toilet, to wash her hands, from couch to bed from bed to couch, dropping her off at her Grandpa's while I dropped Adventure Boy off so she didn't have to walk, I made the appointment, squeezing it in before school pick up.

This doctor also told me that it was probably a haematoma - a bruise, and I stressed she hadn't put any weight on her foot since the night before, and the doctor gave me the referral. The thought of braving an X-ray clinic with all three kids, two of whom would need to be carried, was too much. I decided to wait until Beloved finished work, and let him take her in. He was three hours late finishing, but came out, put the Extravaganza in the pusher, grabbed the coffee I'd got for him and the smarties for bribes, and went in again. And very soon I got the text.

Bone snapped in half. Heading back to ER. Don't wait. 

The Extravaganza'd been laughing, giggling. There'd been little sign of bruising, although I'd thought her leg had felt warm, and it was definitely swollen.

On their return, many hours later, the Extravaganza in plaster up past her knee, Beloved showed me the x-ray. It was blatantly clear even to a layperson like myself. As well as a break diagonally across the middle, there was a long hairline fracture going up.

My stoic girl had been just too stoic. She had been so uncomplaining about all their prodding, just nodding 'Yes, that hurts. And that hurts. And that hurts. Yes, that hurts,' that they hadn't realised how bad it was.

Yes, the Extravaganza is a girly girl. She loves pink and her dolls, fairies and makeup. But that doesn't mean she's not adventurous, that she's not brave. Beloved said person after person did a double take from her smiling face to the x-ray.

My brave and darling Extravaganza. She's finding the itching of the cast hard to take, and still hasn't gotten the hang of her crutches.

But I'm so proud of her.

And feeling trepidatious.

I do believe we've entered the Years of Broken Bones.

Sunrise by Sea

Early, while my children still slept, I left them tenderly slumbering under the watch of my parents, and slipped out of the house and down to the shore.

When I was younger, I had an agreement with myself that every year at midwinter solstice I would go swimming at midnight at this, my most loved beach. I think I kept it up for more than a dozen years, although when I was out of country my swim might be a little late, a little early.

Since the children came along it hasn't happened, a combination of location, energy and will.  An early morning walk is as close as I tend to get to that old exhilaration of sea and night and bitter cold.

There isn't the same passion to prove myself, to test boundaries and reach for something further. I miss that intensity, those moments of intoxication-by-nature, but three wild, wilful and wonderful sleeping children seem a worthwhile swap.

It's a different kind of magic, and there's always a gentler side of the sea to explore, a greater appreciation for the quiet moments of dawn, alone by the shore.

The Tactile Years

I type this now in the rain-laden breeze of an open window while my little one nurses and I perch my laptop on the edge of my knees. My babe plays with her toes and studies the grey sky beyond.

And I think: these are the tactile years.

The years with babies, with toddlers, pre-schoolers, with little ones who know no boundaries, who have no idea of 'personal space'.

These are the years when touch is most present, when I am nearly always attached to another being, or dealing with another's fluids, and often both at once - the warmth and heft of a child on my hip as I scrape a nappy, often while negotiating with another child.

These are the years when it is common to have my babe in a carrier at my chest, one little hand in my larger one, and another small being hugging to my leg, while I also carry a school bag and my own bag. When I shower it is more likely than not that my little one will be curled to my shoulder, one hand behind her back to catch more of the heart of the spray. On the loo I am lucky if only one child and the puppy decide they need to be within sight of me.

My littlest, Giggle-Bear, has learnt 'hug' and her small, smooth arms are often around my neck, her cheek to mine. My drama-queen, the Extravaganza,  adores hugs and kisses and comes for them often during the day, launching herself into my lap, often squeezing in beside the baby, and even my oldest boy still holds my hand as we walk to school, still needs big hugs for little upsets and still pads through to our bed in the early hours of the morning.

I am so used to the feel of small hands in mine, of the weight of a small one in my arms that I find it hard to believe that there will come a time - soon - when they won't be there. That ahead lie decades when my little ones are big and I won't wake to find small warm ones curled against me, when my sleeping baby's face, so entirely beautiful, so entirely perfect I could stare at it for hours, won't be the last thing I see before sleep and the first thing I see on waking. Despite all my best intentions that she, my littlest, my last, would be sleeping through in her own bed, she sleeps the night in the curve of my body and screams blue murder if the milk is more than a few centimetres away. Unerringly she wakes if I leave her to go to the loo or let out the puppy. During the day if I try to leave the room she toddles after me to hug at my knees, "Up! Up!"

It's hard to comprehend that the day will come when small feet won't knead at my hip, small fingers won't explore my teeth, when arms won't be up-stretched to me with wide, joyous smiles and bodies suddenly descend upon my back with a stranglehold.

With (God willing) more than half my life before me, I find it so hard to take in that I am coming to the end of these, the sweetest years. I watch my little one nurse, the small poke of curved tongue just above her lower lip, the flutter of her lashes, her pudgy fingers holding possessively to my top, her big stretch and reach and lunge for the other side and the whole rearranging. I cup her foot in my hand, checking it's warm enough - cool but not cold. She flexes her toes.

I have spent so long waiting to get to these years, and they have flown so fast, are over so quickly. I have not been the mother I thought I would be, that I wanted to be, and it has seemed all to often we have lunged from one (minor) disaster to the next, but I already know that I will spend the rest of my life looking back on them with longing, chaotic as they've often been.

Now,  when my days are fully of blowing raspberries on bellies, smooching necks, dropping kisses, I cannot imagine being without the constant touch. (My little one begins exploring my teeth - they fascinate her. A phone rings - Eh! she tells me, then heaves a sigh.)

Thoughout the day so often my littlest is held by my heart, her head just below my chin, all silky gold hair and milk-sweet scents. I drop kisses absently, then with awareness. This time is precious and so quickly fleeing. As she falls into sleep her head drops to my shoulder and I stroke her hair, gently close her eyes more fully - for she often falls asleep with them not quite shut.

These are the years of touch and fluids. Of holds, kisses, hugs, but also of milk and poop, stripping beds, cleaning up vomit, wiping noses, reaching into the toilet to retrieve lego that's gone for a dive (arm safely encased in a plastic bag). These are the years of head-butts and hair-yanks, of eye-stabs and sudden nipple-bites and I never imagined it was possible to be elbowed so many times in so many places in one day. But touch is the constant.

I have forgotten so much - impressions remain, but looking back on the day to day of the past six, nearly seven years, so much has been forgotten.  I think of all the moments, like this one, that I've forgotten and I promise myself that now, in the close of them, the last of my baby years, I'll hold tighter to them, record them better.

But the thing about the tactile years - it is the touch, the softness, the sweetness, the lightness, the delicacy, the warmth, the smooth cool, that can never be properly captured, recorded. The complete happiness of reading stories with a child to either side and a babe in arms, warmth and vivid personalities surrounding. Of smooching in at a delicate neck as a babe or toddler contorts in giggles, the casual cupping of a head of silky hair as my babe is carried, carrying a toddler in a towel through to their bedroom to dress them for bed.

These years are fleeting are they more precious as they are so fleeting? It is so easy to think of all the things that will come later, the time and space that will free themselves when my little ones are that bit more independent, but these are the years that will never come back, in all the decades to come, these years of tenderness and touch will never return.

Savour. 

Littlest: Five Months

Our dearest Little One, 

You are just passed five months now and the sweetest little armful of cuddles. Your little fingers and toes are all plumped, you have chubby little cheeks and the most delightful giggling gurgle.

You are sitting up now, with a tiny bit of propping and are very proud of your achievement - although you still prefer it when someone helps you stand. You continue to be our little drool-a-tron, soaking through four or five bibs a day and at least a couple of changes, but there is yet no real sign of teeth, although you busily gum everything you can lay your searching little fingers on. You explore our faces, stick your fingers in our mouths and feel our teeth, try to gum at our noses, lunging at them with your victory grin. 

Is it wrong that my heart gives a little stutter when I see you playing with one of my books as you sit in my lap as I read, your tiny fingers busy exploring the cover, the pages, you pause for a quick taste - hmm, fantasy book- then look up with a grin. 

This morning Poppet had you on her lap while she strummed Sprocket's ukelele and you were in heaven - to be with one of the big kids and a big sound-maker. I don't think you believed the world could get any better. Except of course for the milk. (She says smuggly...) Luckily Poppet's song this morning was cheerier than last nights - this morning it was all about brothers and sisters, last night it was all about death. "Everybody dies. Everybody dies, Everybody's born, Everybody dies, Everybody dies. But God lives forever..."

I have missed you this last week - I've been sick, first with gastro, then a leurgy, and we stayed at your Nana and Grandpa's while I recovered. You're getting quite blase about the trains going past their house, which used to enthrall you, but your Grandpa taught you how to high-five (which greatly entertained me as growing up your grandpa would not allow us to use any 'Americanism's and was quick to remind us to use proper English. Again, slightly entertaining coming from a Glaswegian.) You thought it was wonderful that there was a game you could play and, with great effort, and not a lot of co-ordination, you would slowly move your hand up to meet his.

The week before we had a perfect week by the sea, again with your Nana and Papa, with some of the most beautiful blue-sky weather and you put your little feet in the sand and we lowered your little toes in the water and you studied the waves with fascination.

Increasingly you have no patience for being inside. You want to be outside, studying sky and trees and hopfully coming upon passers by to practice your grins on and coo as they comment on your big eyes and cheery dissposition. You'll just about stand being inside if Poppet or Sprocket are about, but if it's just your Daddy or I you soon lose interest and want to be outside. You howl if your brother and sister leave the room and I don't follow them. You have very clear ideas about your place in the world, and basically it is with them. Preferably outside with them. 

I am a little worried that the slightly larger age gap will mean that you will be forever trailing after them, but hopefully you and Poppet will be able to play together - if only as queen and lady-in-waiting... If your adoration continues I suspect you will have nothing against playing lady-in-waiting... I can easily see your sister as Titania and you as one of her attending fairies...You are talking lots at the moment, oohing and aaahing and making strange indescribably adorable little gurgles and squeaks. They are incredibly sweet sounds and I will miss them when you begin to talk. (I would swear you say 'hello' and 'Lily'... but I am a little biased!)

We are starting to pack up to move, Little one. There are boxes all through the house and I am jettisoning things daily. It is strange to think you'll have no memory of this, your first home. The roses, the blosssom, the all-on-top-of-each-other squeeze. I find it hard to believe that it's only sixty days until we fly up north for the forseeable future. You are still so wheezy the doctor has put you on ventolin - I hate seeing your little face beneath the spacer - but I so hope that it will clear up when we move. Your Daddy hadn't had asthma since he was a kid before we moved to the valley.

Little one, I didn't think it possible but we love you more and more each day, and each tiny millimetre of you is pink and white perfection. I think I drop a kiss on you at least once every hour, because it is just impossible not to. Your smile lights up our lives and no one could fail to laugh when you laugh. We love to watch your eyes take in the world, look from place to place and back again, to see your fingers feel out the world, to see you pull at your brother's top to get his attention, hold to your sisters fingers. I love to watch your sleeping face as you sleep-feed, the delicate sweep of lashes and soft-tinted busily sucking lips.

Each day you interact more and more and you are so eager to be one of us, to be up and about and one of the pack, your gigles and exuberant grins of triumphant when you succeed are such a delight.

Our Lilli-Pilli, our Littlest we're so glad you're you. We're so glad that you are ours. 

Librarian Queen Mummy - Returning to 'Work'

"Are you going to be a doctor like daddy?" we asked Poppet recently, as she played with her daddy's stethoscope (carefully sterilised). 

"No! I'm going to be a Librarian Queen Mummy like Mummy!" my Poppet exclaimed. 

While my heart did a little giddy flip at the sweetness of her, my work is also something I've been thinking about a lot recently, as I've started back doing a shift a week, sometimes more, sometimes less, depending on how swaps work out.

This is the earliest I've started back at 'work' after a baby and I feel incredibly blessed that it all works so perfectly. I'm doing very short shifts and my parents are happy to make the 6 hour round trip to look after Littlest while I'm away during the week, while on my weekend shifts my beloved mans up and takes on the three wee ones solo (Flatteringly, he does look a little frazzled when I trip gaily up to the front door on my return, rested. recharged and eager to hug my beaming, filthy delights.) 

Financially, I'm not entirely sure if it evens out - just look at the time involved on my parents behalf - that's a combined twenty of their hours for my four hour shift, not to mention train tickets etc. Yes, they get to spend uninterrupted baby time... but that's a massive commitment, which I'm very grateful for and I fully understand would not be an option for everyone. 

What it comes down to for us is keeping choices and options open.

Yes, my Beloved is nearly finished his degree, but life and fate are capricious - you just never know what's going to happen. It's not a 'life is capricious now', life and work have always been capricious. 

We, in (most) of the west, finally have some kind of backup, but I still think it's good to be prepared. 

Keeping my skills relevant, my references relevant, as well as my Beloved's, is something we believe is important as a family, even if I never work full time again - although the likelihood is that I will.

So I'm waking in the middle of the night to express milk, trying to remember to put in breast pads (the wet-patched-chest look isn't the most sophisticated around) giving my dusty work shoes a quick once over with baby wipes and back in the paid workforce again, if only very casually, and only till Christmas. 

My beloved is spending quality, one on one, time with the kids and my parents, remembering how hard it was for my mum to re-enter the workforce after a long child-raising break, are making the mammoth journey.

I'm so very grateful that my work is so flexible (short as my shift is one of my supervisors told me I'd be welcome to bring Littlest to feed, or have her brought to me. Luckily Littlest is taking happily to the bottle... although there was that one time when Sprocket drank her milk and she was a wee tad hangry when I returned...)

I'm returning from work loaded up with books about childhood, motherhood, mothers negotiating childhood in todays world and the nature of work in todays world. (This time I'll return them on time, honest. Ish.)

My brain is slowly fluttering back into action - not that this is a result neccesarily of returning to work - more a confluence of happenings. 

I'm curious about how other mothers negotiate paid work and work in the home, their choices about when to return to work and when to give it away and what motivates/motivated you.