The mother of all colds

Just when I think it's over, another bout of sickness invades our home. First it was the husband who spent a good three days holed up in bed. Then the baby fell ill with a hacking cough that turned into a fever and a permanently runny nose. Two weeks later I thought we had the all clear but no, my eldest succumbs too, with a cough that keeps her up all night and a hollowed, washed out complexion that could rival the Corpse Bride.

And what about me? Well except for a sore throat and a permanent sense of exhaustion, I seem to have escaped unscathed. However, I also suspect that, like most mothers, I have been far too busy to be ill. Anyway without donning my feminist cape again, I wanted to share my number one all-round remedy and aid for those dreaded winter bugs. This juice is delicious, wholesome and packed full of goodness. My husband and I are addicted to it, my daughter won't touch it (but we are trying to convert her) and the baby guzzles it down. Take my word for it- if you are feeling depleted- this is nectar.

Beetroot Power juice:

In a juicer juice:

3 large beetroots.
3 large sticks of celery
3 large carrots
2 apples
A thumb sized piece of ginger

Enjoy!

(serves 2)

Snakes and snails and puppy dog tails.

Is this what little boys are made of? Not according to their mothers of course. If you ask most mothers, little boys, just like little girls, are made of sugar and spice and all things nice and maybe, even possibly, with a layer of sweet frosting slathered on top.

I have been wondering whether mothers favour their sons more than their daughters and whether this is ultimately the reason for certain behavioural patterns that continue well into adulthood. Like what exactly? Well… like men leaving wet towels and clothes on the floor, snivelling and moaning with a cold as if on death’s door, avoiding housework and cleaning at all costs (because their mothers always did it for them)… and as for the women folk, well most women could easily be categorised as SUPERWOMEN: they are domestic goddesses, baking delectable delights, cleaning and tidying and organising, all this whilst getting a PHD in nagging. Why? Because this is exactly what our mothers’ did.

The big difference between then and now is that most women these days aren’t content to simply bring up the kids, bake a brownie and polish the silver. Most of us are also career women and we strive to be the best and do the best we can. By contrast, there are also many men out there who have become domestic gods in their own right. Not my husband mind, although luckily I have landed a man who was not mollycoddled by his mother and can- thank heavens- cook delicious meals, change nappies and do the housework. That said, he still prone to leaving towels and clothes strewn across the floor and collapsing into to bed every time he is afflicted by a cold. Perhaps some things will never change…. (Especially if I continue to pick things up after him and nurture his oh so terrible man flu).

A good friend of mine once said ‘women are their own worst enemy.’ We were living in Argentina at the time, land of frequent machismo, where women are often idealised as angelic homemakers or terrible vixens. My friend was referring to a male friend of hers and his overbearing, indulgent mother. Apparently, it was the mother’s fault that her son had turned out to be a complete philanderer. No woman was ever going to be good enough for him (in the eyes of the mother). I didn’t think much of it at the time but ten years later, as the mother of both a daughter and a son, I find myself going back to that moment and wondering, with a sick sense of dread, whether I am making the same mistakes as a truckload of mothers before me. Will I favour my son more than my daughter?

Right now it is probably too early to tell, my son is still a baby after all and yes he does get a massive amount of cuddles and kisses but largely because he is tiny and learning to walk, the recurrent bumps and falls and woes need to be reassured somehow. My daughter gets kisses and cuddles too, however, despite feeling like I am doling out equal amounts of love between my children, I have become aware of hard I can be on her.

I know I am not the only mother behaving this way; this topic has come up in conversation with many friends in recent months. A mother of a girl aged eight and a boy aged five, knew without any doubt that she was harder on her daughter than her son. She said it good naturedly and without any sense of guilt (or maybe she had dealt with the guilt already and was sticking with her parenting because she didn’t know any other way).

A few mothers have described how their daughters (usually first born) were less affectionate and loving than their sons. ‘Just you wait’ they said ‘little boys are so loving!’ But is this only because so many daughters can sense their mother’s disgruntlement and judgement, even from an early age? This disparity of affection has not been my experience, my daughter has always been warm and loving, gifting hugs and kisses with an overwhelming generosity. If anything, I have been the less generous one, too impatient with work and tiredness to reciprocate her tender demonstrations of love. My daughter always picks me up on this lack of affection or sympathy. Quite often, when she hurts herself or bursts into tears, I will bark at her impatiently. Will I do this to my son when he is older? Or will I mutter ‘there, there’ and kiss it better?

When I became pregnant with my daughter (aged 23) my mother told me, in no less subtle terms, that my life was over. And not because she was angry at my unplanned pregnancy but because, I soon realised, this was what she must have felt like when I was born. It was a bitter pill to swallow. I now know that she did not mean that having me was a mistake or that she had not loved me (far from the truth- she was a doting and loving parent) but that her life as she had known it was over, and that her future would hold nothing but domesticity and drudgery. She never got to study or work or live a life that didn’t involve catering to the every need of her children and my very non-domesticated father. Luckily most modern women have moved on from this trap of domesticity. And if not, then quite often it is because they themselves have chosen the housewife role (usually after working for years and hating every minute of it). For some women the arrival of motherhood is a blessing in more ways than one. They have chosen to be at home and to enjoy it.

These days I am fortunate to be able to divide my time evenly between home and work. My children have a mother who is very present and not at all distracted. But I have digressed from my original question: do I treat them both equally? The answer, quite honestly, is that I don’t know. I am aware of my tendency to expect great things from my daughter: fabulous behaviour, good manners, academic brilliance etc … I like to think that I will want the same things from my son but what if I don’t? What if I excuse his laziness, laugh at his messiness and applaud his womanising, all in the name of love? I shudder just thinking about it.

What's in a name?

After our summer holiday, the cat welcomed us back with love (or as close as she gets to demonstrating affection- scratching at the bedroom door in a desperate attempt for a snuggle on the bed, followed by nips at our ankles as punishment for leaving her with only the neighbor to feed her). Our cat's name is Pepper. I think her name suits her sometimes moody personality. For a while both my husband and daughter wanted to call her Frisbee (as a kitten she could leap sky high) but I thought this name was verging on the absurd. Pets, like babies, don't get a look-in when it comes to choosing their own names (although people can always change their names later in life) and so it falls upon the adults to be clever but kind and choose a name that doesn't ridicule them in any way. I don't think 'Pepper' is ridiculous but her vast array of loving nicknames might just be: Pepsi, Peps, Pepperpot, Pepperami, Pepperley, Pepi le Pue.... Occasionally I catch her staring at me with disdain and I wonder, if she could talk, would she berate us for addressing her with all these silly names?

I've been thinking a lot about names: first names, nicknames, pet names, children's names and the obsession some of us have with choosing the most perfect, inimitable name possible. Last month the Office of National Statistics published their latest list of the most popular children's names in the UK. Oliver and Olivia came out tops followed by the the usual plethora of popular British names: Harry, Jack, Charlie, Sophie, Emily etc, etc... which are all lovely if (dare I say it) a little ordinary. Most parents I know live in horror of giving their child a convential name, instead they seek out the unusual; a name that is unique, cool and definitely not to be found on the top 100 list. It is not an easy task despite all the resources: baby name books, websites, novels, films, records etc... it is actually quite tricky to score high on originality and good taste when choosing a child's name.

When my daughter was born, I was so taken aback at actually having a baby in my arms that the act of naming her got a bit sidelined. She was nameless for a good six weeks. My husband had wanted to call her Lux, a great name but so close in sound to my sister's (Lex) that I wasn't convinced. I then set my heart on Lila, which held all the wrong associations for him (he knew a Lila who was... well, a bit rough round the edges) We argued and argued some more and in the end we compromised by calling her Lila Lux, a name that people have always loved.

When it came to our son, I conceded that having got my way with child Number One that my husband could choose whichever name he wanted. One night I discovered him and my daughter plotting away after her bedtime stories. They had come up with a name for the baby: Elvis Zorro Alvin. I don't know if it was the blissful fog of pregnancy but strangely I wasn't completely horrified. I did however tell them that they would have to choose one name out of the three and that whatever happened I would decide on his second name. They chose Elvis. His second name is Cassady.

The name caused controversy amongst friends, family and strangers and occasionally still does. My sister laughed when she heard it and told my daughter we couldn't possibly name our baby 'Elvis' as it was a 'joke' name. My father-in-law was incredulous and wondered how he would be able to push a pram around with a grandson called Elvis nestled inside (oh the shame!) I was more bemused by the fact that he envisaged himself doing a whole lot of pram pushing (he lives over 100 miles away).

People either loved the name or were shocked about our choice. We didn't name our Elvis after Elvis Presley although there is no denying that we are Elvis fans (but not in that stalkerish let's light a candle at Gracelands sort of way) We simply loved the name and knew that there weren't many Elvises around so our son wasn't going to feel like any old Tom, Dick or Harry (pardon the archaic phrase).
After the first round of criticism and as I neared the end of the pregnancy, we kept our mouths shout when people asked that tiresome question 'Have you thought of any names yet?' We hadn't changed our minds, we had just got sick of hearing unwanted advice. Elvis was named an hour after he was born; he was always going to be Elvis despite what anybody else said.

Now when strangers hear his name their response is mostly a polite and baffled silence. We get a few laughs and talk of 'Well do you have a back up just incase?" Incase what? Incase Elvis and his classmates realise that he shares his namesake with somebody famous who died over thirty years ago? I have a feeling that his generation will be far more precocupied with whatever starlet is at the top of the charts or whichever footballer or actor happens to be famous at the time. Fortunately for Elvis, he has not been hit by the ugly stick (ok I know- all mothers think their children are fabulously good looking but since strangers keep making comments about his good looks I'm assuming I'm not being self deluded). For this reason and many others, I have a feeling he will more than live up to his rather spectacular name.

                                                            
                                                            The lovely Elvis Cassady

wanderlust

As much as I love London I am often besieged by powerful moments of melodrama where I imagine myself running off into the sunset and moving, lock stock and barrel, to another country, preferably somewhere hot and exotic and with little semblance to the city that I love/hate/love/hate/love/hate.

My relationship with London is a bit like a love affair with drugs or junk food or your first ever obsession: it makes you feel so good that you are literally soaring but it also has the tendency to drop you from a great height, leaving you feeling worthless, small, an insignificant little speck.

I was born in London but didn’t live here until my twenties. More than ten years later it feels like home. Sometimes the sense of familiarity and belonging is so strong, so powerful that it leaves me a little breathless and I wonder if I will ever be able to escape its grasp. I say ‘escape’ as if I am being kept prisoner like Rapunzel in a concrete tower, but nobody is holding me here against my will.

I love London for many reasons. I love the old, gentrified buildings, the graffiti, the multi-ethnicity, the constant source of things to do, the fact that you can eat any type of food: pad thai, cream teas, dhansak curries, soya lattes, wheat free brownies, sushi, dim sum, samosas, dolma, roast dinners. I love London for its dirty nights out and its summer park days. The walks on the Heath, the drinks in Soho, the coffees on Portobello; the house parties that end at 8 am.

The things I hate: January, February, March, the cold, the rain, the ugly concrete architecture, the rudeness, the anger (angry bus conductors, angry drivers, angry people waiting in queues), the traffic wardens, the surveillance cameras that seem to watch our every move.

But…I love where I live in west London. The sense of community here is really strong; the kids play out on the street, the adults talk and often invite each other in for cups of tea. Everybody looks out for one another. I know this isn’t normal; the last place I lived, the neighbours didn’t even look at each other. Of course once you venture away from my street, it’s not all jelly and ice cream. This is still London. At the mini market nearby there are thirty strong gangs hanging about. They like to throw bottles at each other and occasionally stick a knife in when they feel the need. Unsurprisingly, I don’t want my children growing up in the midst of all this angst and teenage strife but if not here, then where?

When I was little, one of my father’s favourite topics of conversation began with the question: 'If there was a plane waiting to take you anywhere in the world, where would you go?' As children and later as adults we would play this game with feverish anticipation. It fed my imagination, my wanderlust. My parents are modern nomads, gypsies my husband calls them, because they have spent their lives going to and fro, occasionally settling down for a bit but always to moving on to somewhere else, to something better (or sometimes worse) but always something new. My husband is fascinated by this life in perpetual motion. What drives them?  Do they never get tired of travelling, of living out of a suitcase? Of course they do, I see it in their weariness, in their frustration at misplacing things between ‘here’ and ‘there’. But ultimately the downside is justified by the huge rewards: a life of permanent sunshine (no melancholic Februaries for them), the chance to explore, to reinvent, to experience things outside the norm.

I can’t remember the answers I gave to my father's question over the years. Right now I would feel torn to give a straight response… there are so many places I want to visit, countries and cities I have only been able to dream about since I became a mother and took up permanent residence in London: Tokyo, China, Mexico, the Greek Islands, the Grand Canyon, the northern beaches of Brazil…

I was lucky to travel a lot as a child, the memories of these journeys still flash through my dreams and thoughts: the mayhem of Bombay’s shantytowns, the sight of barbecued grasshoppers in Bangkok, the smell of jasmine in Bangalore. As a teenager and then as an adult I carried on making these journeys, first with friends and then on my own. I spent months backpacking around South America and because I spoke Spanish and looked the part, people often mistook me for a local. I rarely felt like an outsider. This journey was the pivotal moment in my life; it changed everything. Now, whenever I feel low or confused or unconfident, I remember the charged sense of adventure and gustiness from that time and I tell myself that I can do anything…

Would I go back to South America? Well yes, in a flash, but would I live there? I wonder if I could cope with the stress of being the only bilingual person in the family. Would my husband and children learn the language with ease or would they flounder under the pressure? I have witnessed first hand what can happen in such a scenario: my father never learnt to speak Spanish and so my mother became his translator.

I have imagined living in other places… Australia, Goa… I romanticise about what life would be like. But is that all it is, a wishful fantasy? I am full of admiration for people that take off and begin a new life somewhere else, their courage and confidence is inspiring. It is never easy leaving ‘home’, your comfort zone; homesickness is a haunting wound and I have been injured by it often… I spent most of my childhood feeling homesick for one place or another. But now I have no regrets, I’m glad we moved and travelled and started anew. It made me adventurous, resilient, spirited.

I hope my children get the chance to feel this way too. I also know that I will never properly fall out of love with London. Like a beloved ex lover, it will always remain cherished. So, until my wanderlust finally takes me somewhere else for good, all that remains is to keep dreaming about far-flung places. In that spirit, I'd like to know: if you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go?

A Mother's Guilt

The other day whilst hanging out the washing I spotted my burly, tattooed neighbour doing the same thing. He looked at me- a little shamefaced- and said: ‘A woman’s work is never done’. He then proceeded to give me some excuse as to why it was him and not his wife who was dealing with this particular piece of housework. This got me thinking about the endless number of things a woman, in particular mothers, have to accomplish on a daily basis. Somehow my mind then drifted onto the subject of guilt, in particular a mother’s guilt…. Us mothers are prone to being frequently consumed by guilt. But you do wonder, what the hell have we got to feel guilty about?

We love, we nurture, we cook, clean, tidy, wash laundry, pay bills, organise schedules, parties and holidays and then on top of that most of us go out and work too. And where are the men in this pretty exhausting picture of domesticity? Mmm… But you know what, this wasn’t intended as a critique of what men do or don’t do in the home and anyway, supposedly we should be feeling a little bit better about this because men are now shaped as the perfect, modern 21st century male: they too work, cook, clean, tidy, wash laundry, pay bills, look after the kids and organise the family diary, however not necessarily all in the same day. Enough said.

So, back to a mother’s guilt. We feel guilty for going off to work (and leaving our children behind), guilty for not working (and allowing ourselves to become ‘kept’ women), guilty for spending money on ourselves, guilty for eating too much cake and chocolate, guilty for being ill and having to lie in bed, guilty for going out partying (and having to look after your kids the next day. Note to all non-parents, believe me when I say that you have not experienced a monstrous hangover until you have kids- there is nothing like a massive dollop of guilt and a screaming child to make it a hundred times worse), guilty for not going out (you are being boring and neglecting your friends), guilty for not giving your only child a sibling, guilty when you do have that second child and you don’t spend enough time with your first. We feel guilty for shouting at our kids, guilty for not feeding them enough vegetables, guilty for ignoring babies when they cry at night in the hope they will sleep through, guilty when you discover that said baby is in fact teething and desperately needed a cuddle, guilty for going to the gym (your membership is absurdly expensive) guilty for not going to the gym (the weight is piling on), guilty, guilty, guilty….

You get my drift; there is no end to a mother’s guilt. And to all those mothers out there who do their daily tasks without so much as a sigh, a moan, a need to bitch about it to someone else, I really and truly salute you.

Can you have your cake and eat it?

Cake… it’s a bit of an obsession of mine. My adoration of cake pinpoints the only addiction I have: sugar. It is my one true vice. I gave up drugs, nicotine and caffeine a long time ago and although from time to time I will have the occasional tipple, I never crave it like I long for a hit of the sweet stuff. Cakes, chocolate, pastries… Of the homemade variety preferably, none of the dry, processed kind (although occasionally a dark chocolate digestive will hit the spot if nothing else is to hand). I love food, cooking and most of all baking and I come from a circle of friends and family that love it just as much… if not more. My husband blames his weight gain on the baking marathons that sometimes take place in our respective homes (I on the other hand think it is because of his general greed and love of KFC). Well… maybe he has a point. We do bake A LOT. His sister is a baking legend in her own right and her book Eat Me! is a homage to all things sweet.

But like all addictions I battle against my love of sugar. I know it is doing me wrong. In the rest of my culinary life I am a bit of a purist and a health freak. I am a Gemini so perhaps this is how I justify this massive contradiction. I hate junk food, especially fast food and supermarket ready meals. My daughter has never eaten at a fast food outlet and claims to hate McDonalds (oh dear the brainwashing actually worked) but because of my sugar addiction I think she has one too. I am wracked with guilt. At the same time I let myself off because I think, well, what is a childhood without sugar? Something pretty miserable… no penny sweets to fill your paper bag at the corner shop, no chocolates to nibble at whilst watching your favourite tv show, no ice creams on super hot days, no birthday cake… no birthday cake!? What would life be without birthday cake?

Of course sometimes you can have your cake and eat it. There is such a thing as a sugar free treat, or something close. After Lila was born I experimented with recipes like these. I made flapjacks sweetened with dried fruit and bound by soya milk, sugar free banana bread, bran muffins sweetened with date puree. At that time I was going through a general de-tox. Post birth I experienced a lot of health issues: mouth ulcers, bloating, stomach pain, achiness, tiredness, recurrent infections. I felt like my body was under attack. My doctor referred me to a rheumatalogist to check that I didn’t have a serious autoimmune disease. This was a wake up call. I examined my lifestyle and corrected all the things that I thought might help my body heal itself. I gave up caffeine, alcohol, wheat, dairy, sugar and red meat. I found a low cost therapy centre where I was able to have acupuncture and reflexology treatments. The acupuncturist said my stomach was full of fire and it made sense. It was as if my digestive system, my entire body, was at war with itself. The stress of Lila’s difficult birth and a poor pregnancy diet (due to morning sickness coupled with the lazy, basic cooking skills most of us have in our 20’s) had resulted in me feeling terrible most of the time.

The dietary changes and complementary therapies helped, as did not doubt a few other major factors: more sleep, becoming happier in my relationship, going back to college and cementing the beginnings of a career. I was cured. I have not had another mouth ulcer since.

But slowly over the years, despite staying true to most of the changes, sugar has slowly but surely crept back into my diet. What can I say? It is my one addiction. I have not been totally cured. Every now and then I test myself and try and abstain from all things sugary. I usually last a couple of weeks until it lures me back into its sticky sacharine grasp. So what? You might ask. Is sugar that much of a problem? Well yes. Unfortunately. It really is as toxic as Nutritionists claim. And there is no point in kidding yourself that it is just the cheap, white stuff that can be destructive: raw cane sugar, muscavado, honey, fructose... all of these are just as bad. They will all set your insulin levels racing and possibly lead to major diseases: diabetes and heart failure (not to mention tooth decay). Doctors and Nutritionists are now also discussing the link between sugar and cancer. There are some who believe that in years to come we will view sugar as we now regard tobacco: as a highly addictive and harmful substance. 

Yes I know, alarming stuff but also something of a nuisance, because ultimately who wants to give up their teatime treats? The other problem with sugar is that it is hidden in almost everything we buy from the supermarket: sauces like ketchup, mayonnaise, soy sauce, cereals, yoghurts, bread, pasta sauces, fruit juices. The way I see it: savoury things should be savoury and sweet things sweet. There is no need for sugar in your dinner but in pudding, well yes, that is something else (and if you can make it naturally sweet then all the better still).

It is possible that I could curb my sugar addiction if I wasn’t so in love with baking. There is something decidedly therapeutic about baking a cake, especially when it’s a good one and people find it moreish. I find any excuse to bake: birthdays, anniversaries, Valentines day, cupcake sales (my daughter’s first business). People love it when you bake them something; it makes them feel cherished. And yes in this day and age there is something terribly emotional about chocolate and other treats. We eat them to make ourselves feel good.

Elvis is now six months, another six to go before his first birthday. I will have to unearth my old recipe books with the no sugar recipes I gathered when Lila was little. I need something decidedly sugar free, because at least until Elvis is older and becomes aware that mummy hides chocolate in the cupboard, he can live in blissful ignorance of that old devil called sugar.

In the meantime, for those of you who are wavering between junking in the sweet treats or never giving up at all, here’s a few of my favourite sugary and sugar free recipes:

Nigel Slater's Orange and Honey Polenta Cake

(not sugar free but wheat free for any gluten intolerance)

220 g butter

220 unrefined sugar

300g ground almonds

3 large eggs

150g polenta

1 tsp baking powder

Grated zest and juice of 1 orange

12 cardamon pods

For the syrup:

Juice of 2 lemons, 2 oranges plus 4 tbsp honey

Oven at Gas Mark 4

Crush cardamon pods to release seeds and grind the seeds until fine.

Beat butter and sugar until creamy

Add ground almonds then eggs

Add polenta and baking powder

Add zest and juice

Line a bread tin with baking parchment. Pour in mixture and bake for 30 minutes. Turn to Gas 3 and bake for a further 25/30 minutes.

For the Syrup:

Boil lemon and orange juice. Dissolve honey. Skewer holes in baked cake and pour syrup over top.

Cousin Joy's Banana Bread

Courtesy of Amanda Johnson via her cousin Joy in Miami- delicious and so easy to make- I make this at least once a month.

1 and quarter cup wholewheat flour

1 cup unrefined sugar

125g butter

2 eggs

half tsp bicarbonate of soda

4 very ripe bananas (chunked not mashed)

50g dark chocolate broken into pieces.

Optional quarter cup walnuts or pecans.

Mix all dry ingredients..

Mix all wet ones in another bowl.

Combine.

Bake for 1 hour in a lined bread tin at 180

Deluxe Muesli Yoghurt

This is my idea of the ultimate breakfast but you can eat it any time of a day as a good pick me up.

Plain (unsweetened) yogurt

Homemade muesli (I use oats with sunflower seeds, chopped almonds, dessicated coconut and raisins)

Chopped banana and/or orange

Pureed apricots to drizzle on top.

To make the pureed apricot you need a large handful of unsulphered dried apricots. Soak these in water for ten minutes. Afterwards boil in water for 30 minutes. Blitz. This puree is also great on its own with yoghurt.

Pancakes 

Use a trusted pancake recipe (plain flour, milk, eggs). I tend to make the measurements up as I go along but they never fail to come out great. You can replace wheat flour with buckwheat flour and dairy milk with soya milk if you want your pancakes wheat and/or dairy free.

Instead of slathering the pancakes with Nutella or sugar and lemon, try the following:

-Cooked apples with cinammon and creme fraiche.

-A little 70% dark chocolate melted and mixed in with greek yoghurt. 

-A drizzle of Maple syrup... one of the less toxic sweeteners around but still try and go easy on it (as much for the sugar value as its outrageous cost!)

 Enjoy!

Birth Stories

My daughter, born at the Royal Free Hospital in 2003, arrived two weeks late. The natural birth I had planned at the Edgware Birth Centre was annulled when I went ten days past my due date. Late babies are considered a ‘complication’ and so I was referred to the Royal Free where I was promptly booked in for an induction. I had very little idea of what this meant other than they would artificially prompt my baby to be born and that the whole process would be quick and not- I was assured- hugely different to a normal labour. It was anything but. I arrived at hospital on a Monday and was examined by a string of doctors and shifted from one room to another for a total of five days. I was tired and stressed and cried a lot. I was reprimanded by a midwife, who warned me that if I carried on the way I had been, I would end up with a caesarean. My husband felt helpless and quite often angry. By the third day I was so exhausted that I went home (against the wishes of the hospital staff) to try and get some rest. I knew this baby wasn’t ready and I was certain that the doctor’s repeated efforts at inducing her were becoming more detrimental than effective. When she did finally arrive, after countless gels, injections and the artificial rupturing of membranes (but no Caesarean- had I behaved like a good girl after all Mrs Midwife?) we were made to feel lucky because at least she was healthy.

My stay in the maternity unit left me feeling weak, undernourished (the hospital food is another element of the NHS that is leaves a lot to be desired) and as if I had been completely undermined by most of the staff.  Stories like mine are regretfully plentiful. Back in March I read how the author, Maggie O’Farrel, found herself at the hands of an incompetent team who left her haemorrhaging and close to death. Like me, O’Farrell gave birth to her first child eight years ago at the Royal Free hospital in Hampstead, an occasion that was marked, not by the euphoric, joyful emotions that childbirth should bring, but instead by fear, anxiety and pain. The moment in which she undergoes her emergency Caesarean is described in terrifying detail: the doctors rummaged inside her like ‘people who had lost something at the bottom of a suitcase’. O’Farrell returned to the Royal free six years later for the birth of her second child, only to find it as mismanaged as her first. Despite her obvious trauma, she is quick to talk down her own experiences as inconsequential compared to parents who have lost babies. Perhaps she is right to- loosing a child must be one of life’s greatest tragedies and yet there is nothing remotely marginal about O’Farrell’s experiences. Her life was endangered at a time when it should have been safeguarded and nurtured. There should have been no risks involved. O'Farrel was having a baby, not a triple bypass surgery. People have babies (and often by Caesarean)  every minute of every day… so why are we not able to handle this reality in the UK?

Cases of negligence are rife in hospitals across London. I have spoken to women who have sustained birth trauma (physical and/or emotional) at hospitals such as St. Mary’s (Paddington) Queen Charlotte’s and Chelsea (Hammersmith) and Barnet. My sister’s experience at St. Mary’s is one such case. Her son was born in 2005, premature and unable to breathe due to a congenital condition called choanal atresia where the nasal airways are blocked  by body tissue.The doctors tending to his birth acted with efficiency and speed, rushing the baby to intensive care and in effect saving his life but it was the after care of the parents that was badly handled. Soon after her labour, my sister was abandoned in a wheelchair in the corridor, forgotten by the midwife who was supposed to be caring for her. She was alone and distressed, separated from her husband who had been told to go home because  ‘visiting hours’ were over. Eventually she was wheeled to the postnatal ward where she was forced to  wait for news of her sick baby whilst listening to the other mothers’ cooing with delight over their newborns.

Stories of maternal neglect also make regular headlines in the press. Last year, a mother died from a cardiac arrest after she was induced at Queens Hospital in Romford. Sareena Ali suffered a ruptured womb, which led to massive organ failure. Doctors were then forced to carry out an emergency Cesearean but the baby was stillborn. According to her husband, Mrs Ali was in agonising pain before the cardiac arrest but his desperate attempts to rouse attention were dismissed by the “uncaring, incompetent” midwifes. Five women including Mrs Ali have died at this hospital in the last eighteen months. An independent inquiry is now being held.

These are shocking stories. We are not, after all, living in a third world country. How is it possible that women are still enduring birth trauma or at worst, facing the possibility of death? Of course, we have to accept that any birth can take a sudden, dramatic turn. Complications can arise- erratic foetal heartbeats, large babies, breech babies, but surely we have the medical expertise to deal with such problems?

Of course amongst the ‘horror’ stories there are also many tales of positive hospital births. I have friends who gave birth at St. Mary’s, Barnet and the Royal Free amongst others and were impressed with the high level of care they received. My sister went on to have her second child at the Royal Free in 2010 and did not have a single complaint about the care she received before, during or after the birth of her daughter. These women chose a hospital environment for their first, second or third babies because they knew they would feel safer there. For many people a hospital is the natural environment in which to give birth.

Regardless of how or where we decide to give birth, there is I feel, a principal element behind what is so wrong with maternity care in this country: the profound lack of communication and sensitivity between the medical teams and their patients. Parents are often left feeling misinformed, confused, helpless and ultimately let down by the very people who are supposed to be supporting them. The repercussions from such negligence can be detrimental, affecting the bond between mother and baby or mother and father and also possibly triggering the onset of postnatal depression or PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder).

Antenatal care is often also poor in the UK, with many women seeing a completely different midwife at each check up and for as little as ten minutes on each visit. Then there is the problem of the ‘rigid’ birth plan.  Expectant parents are encouraged to write down a birth plan without ever being warned of all the possible outcomes. Women become fixated on a specific idea (particularly that of a natural birth) and are then left feeling worthless and incompetent when the birth does not go according to their expectations. I have spoken to many mothers who felt hugely disappointed by their first birth experience. They all shared similar views and emotions: they felt anger towards the staff who had misunderstood or mistreated them but they also blamed themselves for not being more active in the choices made during labour. As a consequence many of these women were then struck by guilt, self-doubt and postnatal depression.

For months after my daughter’s birth, I felt anxious, paranoid, depressed and haunted by my ‘decision’ to have the induction. I also blamed my husband for allowing the induction to go ahead. At no point had I considered that I would not have the type of birth I had so neatly laid out in my birth plan. This may sound naïve but nobody prepares you for the myriad of eventualities that might come your way. Now I realise that a single birth plan is inconceivable. I wish that somebody had had the foresight to talk me through every eventuality. Isn’t this what prenatal care is all about? As a result parents are entering the moment of labour completely uneducated and unprepared. Some people may argue that nothing can prepare you for the mysterious miracle that is birth. But as miraculous as it may seem, it is no mystery! Doctors and midwifes have been delivering babies for centuries.

Last year my son was born at home. Unlike O’Farrel, I knew that I could not have another baby in a hospital environment. Not because I had any wish to martyr myself with the act of a natural, pain free birth (having taken drugs for headaches, flu and period pains most of my life I was not about to dismiss the value of drugs when necessary!) but because I knew that I would labour much better if left to my own devices, without a string of doctors, midwives, other patients or even student doctors (yes, first time round I actually had a group of trainees gawping at me during one of my more miserable moments!)

I spoke to as many mothers as I could and trawled the Internet in the hope of discovering stories that would give me the strength and confidence to have a baby with as little medical interference as possible. I visited local birth centres and researched the possibility of a home birth. I knew that this time round, I would wait the full two weeks after my due date. I was even prepared to go for longer if I felt that the baby’s health was not going to be compromised. I was aware that in countries such as France women’s due dates are set around the 41st week mark instead of 40. This time I would not be bullied into booking an induction. 

I decided to have the baby at home, encouraged by the wonderful midwifery team at the St. Mary’s Birth Centre. From my first appointment I was made to feel confident and in control of my own pregnancy and the forthcoming labour. My midwife came to visit me at home every week for the last two months, staying for as long as I wished her to. She brought with her remedies, laughter and much wisdom. I have many friends who wished they had received such friendly and loving care.

My decision to have a home birth was met with a wide range of conflicting emotions amongst family and friends. Many were shocked, particularly my father-in-law who felt we were putting ourselves in danger. My parents remained silent and I knew this meant they were worried. At least three close friends (all with children) were horrified that I would be willing to witness all the blood and gore of childbirth in my own living room. Anther good friend asked if, please, would I not reconsider and get myself to hospital when the time came.

My son’s arrival into the world was a profoundly positive experience. Of course like most births it was not without its moments of drama. I panicked when the contractions sped up massively and our midwife was still not with us. My husband saw his (not so happy) future flash before his eyes when, for a couple of painstaking seconds, the midwife couldn’t locate a foetal heartbeat. In the end our baby boy arrived safe and well, into the hands of my husband who immediately passed him to me. Our daughter, woken by the commotion, came downstairs to meet her baby brother. After his birth we all sat snuggled on the sofa (the very place he was born) in a cocoon of love and wonder. Our midwife took photos, made us tea and left us to it.

Six months later and I am still full of amazement at how smoothly and gently my son was born. I felt euphoric for weeks after labour and have not been plagued by a single moment of self-doubt or depression. 

Of course many of you will be thinking… But what if? What if our son had not been breathing and the midwife had been unable to resuscitate him? What if there had been a major complication and the ambulance arrived too late to save me or the baby. What if? What if? All these questions point to the principal problem that we face when dealing with birth in this country: Fear. Scaremongering. We have been brainwashed into feeling anxious and frightened about giving birth.

We need to take action in order to educate and empower ourselves so we can move towards creating a nation full of positive and active birth stories. We- mothers, fathers, doctors, midwifes- are intuitive and talented beings, capable of making sure that our babies are delivered safely and holistically whether it be in a hospital, a birth centre, at home or if nature intends, on the seat of a taxi or the floor of a shopping mall. Our bodies are designed to bring babies into this world. There should be no fear, no horror involved.

For further reading please see:

www.homebirth.org.uk

http://www.independent.co.uk/life-style/health-and-families/health-news/british-maternity-wards-in-
crisis-2261403.html

http://www.thisislondon.co.uk/lifestyle/article-23913235-writing-brought-my-baby-to-life.do

www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2010/oct/01/pregnant-for-10-months).

In the beginning...

I moved to London at the tender age of 19, eager for the bright city lights and all the excitement it promised. The next four years were a whirlwind of parties, boyfriends, part-time jobs and studying for a degree (when I remembered to). In my final year I finally buckled down and worked furiously, glued to my laptop, writing long essays on the conquistadors, south american novelists and spanish cinema. I suddenly got the academia bug and every assignment marked as a 1^st felt like a leap towards a starry future.

I love books: reading and writing about them, but at the time I was not entirely sure how this was going to translate itself into a job… publishing? Journalism? Writing a novel? In any case I never got that far because right at the end of my degree I met and fell in love with my partner and within a few months I was pregnant with our first child. It wasn’t planned- of course not- I was 24 and as naive as a babe in the woods . I hardly knew what I wanted but somehow my body was plotting against me, my hormones were racing, my clock set firmly; I swear I could feel my body willing itself to fall pregnant.

This first pregnancy was a mixed up time. I was excited but also incredibly scared, worried about giving birth, being able to look after a baby, making money (or not making any as was the case at the time) and fearful that the relationship I was in would not survive the pressures of parenthood. 

We did survive, although not without a rocky, turbulent start. We might not have come this far not without the guidance of an amazing counsellor and the support of friends and family who made us open our eyes and realise that it was not enough to just love or desire, we also had to understand, support and empathise with one another. Our difficult times did not reflect the love we felt for our daughter, she was born three weeks late, as if she sensed that maybe the world outside was not a perfect place but when she arrived she was perfect in every way. Little Lila Lux. A pretty chortling baby who was full of love. She is now eight and as beautiful as she was then but also kind, thoughtful, clever and strong willed. She is a big sister to Elvis Cassady, who arrived during the very cold November of last year.

Many people wondered why I had left it so long to have another baby. There were lots of reasons: work and money, a year after Lila was born I trained as a massage therapist so I could work around her schedule and the crazy, erratic hours of my musician partner. Yes I know- massage probably seems like a world away from academia and novelist dreams, but I was really fascinated by alternative therapies and knew that I would enjoy bringing a little bit of peace and wellbeing into peoples lives. I worked hard at it and within a couple of years I was running a successful business. Neglecting it felt like an impossibility both for my own sake and that of my family: massage = dinner on the table. 

 A few years ago friends of mine began to have babies… suddenly I was not the only one with horror tales of sleepless nights, tears and projectile vomiting. At first I was glad to be on the other side. I was a veteran, a survivor of that killer first year when sleep deprivation renders you close to useless: you wear your pyjamas to the supermarket, cry for no apparent reason and stare glassily at people when they try and engage you in conversation.

I had hit my thirties and I knew I was happy. I was in a positive relationship, my child was a happy-go-lucky thing, easily appeased and incredibly loving. I was going out again, not in the all-night, burn-the-candle-at-both-ends way of my twenties but I was having a lot of fun. My business was doing well, I was writing and studying in my free time. But then… my body started ticking again. It began yearning for another baby. I put it off for as long as I could, making the usual excuses: we wouldn't have enough money without my massage income, we didn’t own our own house (or a big enough home!), my husband was in the middle of changing career...

But in the end the heart won over. Welcome to the world Elvis Cassady. Unlike Lila, his birth was a smooth and easy transition. He was born at home with no medical interference- it was what I had always wanted. My husband held him and cried, after two girls (his eldest from a previous relationship) he was overjoyed to have a little boy.

I suppose we now have the complete family (until my hormones rage again?) As soon as I had Elvis people asked if I would have another… Whoa there!!! Isn’t two enough? But babies are wonderful and slightly addictive. We can’t get enough of them and fortunately for me it is as if the rest of the world (or my small corner of the world) has caught on. Amongst my friends there are first and second babies springing up everywhere. I was often lonely when Lila was little but second time round it’s been a different experience: like one big, giant, baby club. And yes I’m glad I left it so long…

Being back at home has given me time to think about the things that matter, the things that make my heart grow fonder… but I have been pondering about the random and the trivial too. I have also begun to revisit old pieces of writing, amassed in little notebooks over the years, which I am finally releasing into the wild.

I am busy (nappies, no sleep, feeding a family and the washing machine that never ceases to turn) but not distracted by work or that nagging feeling of trying to make something of yourself (which comes, I think, from living in a city hung up on talent and success). For once I can focus on life as it is. I thought I would share some of this with you….