It's raining, it's pouring

Bleak, bleak weather. We had hoped to be able to have a nice day out in Richmond Park. No such luck - it is so miserable outside you are tempted to keep the blinds drawn. As we are held hostage inside the house by the rain, I wonder how this Sunday could be turned into something less than an absolute disaster.

First and foremost, the boy is his dad's responsibility for today. That should make things easier. Having sorted that out, I wonder what I should do. I could bake - something nice and tea-timey like a marble cake. Trouble is, I am too exhausted. I could crochet - the granny squares I have been intending to work on would be just the right stuff for a day like this, but I am too spent. I could read, or watch a nice documentary on iPlayer, but words and shots swim before my eyes in a blurry haze and I have trouble staying on top of the plot.

I think I know exactly what I will do - sleep.

What was I doing even thinking about the other stuff?

Lady Rose and Mrs Memmary

I must confess, I have become addicted to the collection published by Persephone Books. All the works are forgotten pieces, mostly the creations of women who failed to reach the heights of Jane Austen and Charlotte Bronte. Reprinted by Persephone, these works have found new lives, new audiences and newer lights thrown on them - what is one woman's drudgery is another's liberation.

Lady Rose and Mrs Memmary by Ruby Ferguson sits nicely alongside the other Persephone titles. It is a gentle reminder of an age gone by, of the cruelty of social change and of the grace with which a life may be lived. Ultimately it is a novel about choices, about choosing, or not, to exercise them, and about living with the consequences of one's decisions. That Ruby Ferguson urges the reader to go no further from the point of no return is truly endearing. Of course, what happens after that plea is heartbreaking, but the author's way of leading up to the end is quite exceptional. While I suspected that there could be no other end, I still cried when I got to it.

Would I recommend it? Certainly. I daresay it is not going to be every one's cup of tea with it's old world ways, but I quite enjoyed reading it.

Balance

In conversation with

a weed by the bank

of the still river

running deep,

balance, of thoughts,

emotions, perspectives

and priorities

discussed, thrashed out

came to the conclusion

that precarious is

life's balance -

I wish I could make it better

for you and for me,

mostly for you,

that would make me happy

and mend my balance,

but as I watch

you

fight with yourself,

my precious love,

I lose all my own sense of

balance,

willing myself,

to be God,

hating myself,

because I can't.

Views and opinions

We are wasting a lot of our precious time these days. We are following the debates/discussions/tamasha baazi surrounding the Indian elections on television. After watching politicians skirt around issues for the nth time, and listening to analysts churn out the same old over-used and redundant arguments, I started wondering, how much do opinions and views really matter?

Having gone through a significant change in life recently, I am of the opinion that views correspond to one's particular station in life - you cannot appreciate the green-ness (or lack of it) of the grass till you really get to the other side. Therefore, one is entitled, as life progresses and newer experiences are encountered, to revise opinions, change views, and generally become more tolerant of both white and black. There is always something very strong going for grey.

In keeping with this particular line of thought, may I announce that I now truly sympathise with/understand the following:

1. New parents struggling to cope with babies, who incidentally are much more demanding of one's time and attention than I ever previously appreciated
2. New parents who appear completely absorbed in their own worlds and have no time for anything other than feeding/nappy changing/checking out the colour, consistency of baby's poo, etc - I now realise that there is no time for anything else
3. Women who are torn between family and career - it's one hell of a dilemma
4. Women who realise that there is no right or wrong choice for number 3
5. That you can be a feminist and like knitting and/or baking, crocheting, sewing and other crafts
6. That marriage does not necessarily have to end in a power struggle
7. That loving someone is not equal to losing the battle of the sexes
8. That it is ok to be in doubt, and not necessarily have an opinion on everything
9. That as long as your actions don't hurt anyone, it is ok to pursue whatever it is that makes you happy
10. That it is ok to feel like you might just die of happiness when your little one smiles at you

It seems like a long eye-opening journey. This bank holiday weekend, with it's unexpected, unplanned happenings, has ultimately been a very kind one. I can't say I've sorted it all out in my head, but it is definitely a start.

Agghoo!

This is our new favorite word. It has to be said with the right amount of enthusiasm, with lots of spit bubbles and rolling in the back of the throat. You can get it almost bang on if you also throw in some super excited arm and leg shaking. Almost I say, because try as you may, you cannot say it the way its creator N does.

Agghoo is our new discovery. We are saying Agghoo for everything nice - the orange flowers on the pillows, the bookshelves with their zillion colours, the bed post, the changing mat, the TV and the black and white drawings on the sofa. And sometimes when we are immensely happy, we even say it, with a shy smile, to mum and dad.

And that's when the fun starts, when mum and dad go Agghoo Agghoo throughout the weekend!

My cup runneth over

There is only one feeling in this world which makes you dissolve in delight. And that is when your baby opens his eyes in the morning, looks at you, recognises you, and smiles his biggest smile for you. What happens to you when you are hit by the impact of that smile is indescribable. All I can say is I am the happiest I have ever been in my life. It is now two months since N was born. The sun is out, trees have new leaves and pretty new flowers. And my eyes are looking at the most beautiful little baby. My life is full of kisses and cuddles and cooing and shy giggles and excited hand and leg movements and squeals of delight! Wouldn't trade it for the world! :-)

The F word

It is used in hushed tones in the circles that I move in these days - best avoided, used with caution and with almost an apology, lest you think the speaker is being unkind or even rude. I am referring to the much feared, much maligned taboo, formula milk.

The NHS has its own agenda and preaches the practise of breastfeeding like gospel. I have nothing against breastfeeding, I am appalled at the blatant discrimination against mothers who chose not to, for whatever reason, and against babies who are formula fed.

I say that this discrimination exists because I have been on both ends of the divide. I started out as a new mother, desperate to get breastfeeding going, but failing miserably. I got some help from the health service but soon they decided that it was a lost cause. The body language, the tone of voice, the choice of words left me and my family feeling that we had no hope in hell. Suddenly we became just another number in their registers waiting to be ticked off.

That's when, desperate and in tears, I called the National Childbirth Trust's breastfeeding helpline. And yes, I pressed the panic button. What that chat with the breastfeeding counsellor did for me that night I can never forget. She gave me hope, she gave me tips, she told me not to give up, she said I could do it if I was determined enough - she said it is never a lost cause - and that is what I guess I needed to hear.

Next morning, A and I packed little N into the car seat and drove to the baby cafe. There, experienced breastfeeding counsellors help struggling new mums get the technique right. And that morning, on the 10th day after his birth, N had his first full meal from the breast. I cried in joy and relief as other young mums cheered us.

Now at the weekly meetings with the health service N and I are extolled as an example of how well a baby fed only on breastmilk does. Our health visitor knows not only our names but also our address. Why she even hugs us! We are no longer just a number in the register.

I wish it didn't have to be like this. Why were we left to fend for ourselves? Why did the health service give up on us when we needed them the most? What if I hadn't called the NCT? How many other new mums just give up in desperation and pain?

And what about those who just cannot breastfeed? Why are we made to feel so horribly wrong if we give formula to our babies? Why does everyone behave as if you are letting your child down in some unspeakable ways if you are unable to breastfeed?

Just another one of the innumerable ways in which women are made to feel smaller, lesser, guiltier. And it is not even accounted for as discrimination.