On Having a Child In Hospital

On Having a Child In Hospital

This week has officially reduced my background level of “tired”, to a new low of “barely functional”. 

On Saturday, while I was on a little mama date with Olive and my friend at a local food show, Alfie rode down a hill on his bike, ran out of talent, grabbed a handful of front brake and turned himself into a human cannonball. 

I'm reliably informed that nobody thought anything of the fall - Alfie himself was sure that he would be fine if only he were allowed to have a drink of orange juice - but Keith very wisely decided to go and have him checked out anyway. 

By the time they reached the Urgent Care Centre, Alfie wasn't quite so sure that all was right with the world. 

By the time I spoke to Keith, he had revised his position again, and was wailing; but the story I was told, made heavy use of the words “suspected”, “broken”, and “fine”.

So, as the mother who isn't prone to panicking over suspected anythings, I carried on mooching round the food show with my friend, before catching a bus to engage my first born in some casual teasing.

Lesson The First: Use an appropriate level or urgency when telling your life partner that there has been an accident.

By the time I arrived at the Urgent Care Centre, I was greeted by a very pale and quite boy, who was waiting for an ambulance ride. Apparently, there was now less suspicion and more certainty: Alfie had broken his femur.

Now, I want to preface the rest of this story by saying that Alfie is my utter hero for the way in which he dealt with his first hospital visit. He’s a pretty independent and stoical child, as these things go, but his composure and strength over these few days was breath-taking.

That said, he is also a six year old boy, who had broken the biggest bone in his body.

Lesson Two: Seeing your child on drugs is scary.

The ambulance that arrived to blue light Alfie to hospital, also heralded his first experience in hard drugs. 

First up, ketamine, which quickly turned his pupils to yoyos, and his attitude to something approaching the habitually drunken uncle who sits in the corner of family weddings and occasionally pipes up with a few choice nuggets of Anglo-Saxon before retreating back into an internal monologue.

Having arrived at hospital, the doctors cracked open the morphine, just to ratchet up the party. I’m glad they did, because the things that needed to be done to Alfie were best done with a side order of oblivion.

I stood by his bed, talking a constant stream of drivel just so that he would hear my voice, while his leg was put into traction. He, in response, would close his eyes and drift off, only to come round a few seconds later in a full scale panic, kicking and thrashing about, until I was able to talk him down again.

It is singularly terrifying to be caught between the maternal drive to comfort your child, while knowing that they are out of reach of both your words, and of reason. 

Lesson Three: Self-care is vital

There is an old saying that you can’t pour from an empty cup, but I was shocked at how quickly my ability to support Alfie was compromised. Something as basic as not eating properly, or sleeping a full night, hell, even something as small as not having open access to hot drinks, add up fast; which I learned to my cost once we moved to the children's ward.

Admittedly things weren't helped by the fact that I had accidentally sent my wallet home with Keith, or that Alfie wouldn't let me out of his site for even a moment, or that we were living in rooms with no access to daylight, but I see these as marginal influences against the endless emotional onslaught of looking after an acutely sick child, in a room full of other acutely ill children, all fighting their own battles against pain, and fear.

It took me a while to grasp it, but the reality is that I did my child no favours by running myself into the ground. There was no value to me being the martyr who didn't take breaks to eat, drink or read a chapter of my book. And despite everything my ego wanted to believe, Alfie was just fine while I was away.

Lesson Four: Responsibility is daunting

In the few days we were guests of our local hospital, I felt like I was on one long episode of Mastermind. For your specialist round, you have chosen Alfie Batsford's Lifelong Ability To Walk, your time starts ... NOW. The questions came at me hard and fast, and I was against the clock. I felt very young, very ill prepared, and I found myself looking around for someone to adult; a more adulty adult than me, someone with quiet wisdom, who wasn't motivated by a singlular desire to throw ANY-DAMN-THING at the situation that would a) stop my child hurting and b) not leave him with any long term consequences. 

Perhaps in some ways, the rapid pace of the decision making was a blessing, because it stopped me from endless agonising; and being the less squeamish of our partnership, I was definitely the right choice to be with Alfie. Still, there is still that seed of doubt; a small voice that says "This is for real. This matters. If you get this wrong, you will have to live with this forever. You will have to account for your actions". That isn't a world that I am used to living in, where I dwell, there is usually the chance of a do-over.  

Lesson Five: You are enough

While I was mired in self doubt about what the hell I was doing, I received some wise words from a friend who has far more experience than I do, when it comes to supporting a child in hospital:

Stay strong and don’t let him see you cry. All he knows is that you are a rock, he needs you to steady his nerves, do anything you can. Do explain to him what is going on, honesty will help later on. Ask him if he has any questions for you, not just the surgeons. He will be able to communicate much better with you than any others.

Which was exactly what I needed to hear, but found nigh on impossible to do. I tried really hard to pretend I wasn't upset, but it turns out that I'm not that good an actor, so all I was left with, was honesty.

Things came to a head when I walked with Alfie into surgery, and he got very upset at having to remove his treasured pounamu. 

In reality, I think that for both of us it was simply an excuse to vent the tension of the previous 24 hours, because we went from "fine" to floods of tears in an instant. He was crying, and I was crying and I could. not. stop. 

Instead, I opened my heart to him and said "I'm upset that you are upset, Alfie. I know that you are going to be fine having this surgery, but it makes me super sad to see you cry like this." Which I don't see as a raging success on the "being a rock" front, but it was pretty much all I had in me to say, at that point. 

My friend was right about knowing my child, and communication, though.

When one of the nurses confused Alfie with her “on a scale of one to ten” pain ratings, I helped him translate it by using my hands.

When Alfie was feeling low and wallowing in self pity, I helped him find the motivation to pick himself up with the threat of having to be under the care of a particularly “bossy nurse” for another night.

When he was using strange words to describe how his tummy felt, I advocated for him to the nurses until they got an ultrasound, and realised he had over 300ml of pee in his bladder, and a ton of bruising stopping it coming out.

And when we were alone, his body held against mine, and I heard him quietly whisper "I love you mum", I knew that all the millions of ways that I beat myself up as a parent counted for nothing, because my presence, my support, and my love, were all my son needed from me.

I wanted to write this as a way of capturing the feelings and thoughts of my first time as a helpless bystander. There are several mums (and dads) I know who could, I'm sure, add a lot of other thoughts to my rookie experiences. I just want to say to each of you, that you are truly superheroes. Being a hospital parent is un-fucking-believably hard, and you guys rock it like it ain't no thing. Now, more than ever, I am in awe of you all.

Thursday, 26 May 2016 Comments: 6

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Meat Free Monday: Entertaining

Meat Free Monday: Entertaining

This is not a post for vegans, this is a post for people who are lumbered with/ overjoyed to be catering for vegans, and would like to look amazing. 

Introducing more vegan meals to the family, is a part of my gradual move from vegetarian to vegan. For my own sanity, it needs to be gradual, because while the move away from meat being an easy one – don’t ask, it involves Edwina Curry, a bacon sarnie and a major epiphany – I find the idea of never again eating seafood utterly fucking terrifying.

I'm also horrendously bad at planning ahead when it comes to meals, which it turns out is rather important when it comes to having some of the go-to ingredients for vegan cooking. No mind, I'm an ex Girl Guide, so below are three very forgiving recipes, complete with my notes on how I mangled them.

Pulled Pork with BBQ sauce

Our friend was coming over for a BBQ, and having seen the endless shares of that BBQ jack fruit video on social media, I was keen to give it a try. Unfortunately, when it came to actually do something with a tin full of anaemic fruit segments, I couldn't find the video for love nor money, so I tracked down something that seemed to follow similar lines.

To cook the jack fruit, I used this recipe from The Minimalist Baker:

2 20-ounce cans young green jack fruit in water (NOT in syrup or brine)	I had a single tin – no idea how big – and it was plenty for my dinner and lunch the next day
1/4 cup BBQ seasoning (2 Tbsp brown sugar + 1 tsp paprika + 1 tsp garlic powder + 1/2 tsp salt + 1/2 tsp pepper + 1/2 tsp chili powder)	My version, based on what I had in the cupboard: (1tbsp Muscovado sugar + 1tsp paprika + pinch of salt + crack of pepper)

Method:

1. Drain tin and cut the cores off the segments. In reality, I’m not sure if you NEED to do this, unless you are a super stickler for that “shredded pork texture”. 

2. Throw the BBQ seasoning and jack fruit in a pan and sauté. Make sure you get lots of crispy bits on the outsides, which will probably happen as soon as you turn away to refill your wine glass, because that’s what sugar does when you’re not looking. 

3. Dump a mugful of water into the pan, and stir to “deglaze” the pan/ save the pan from sugary death, and then turn down to a simmer. Feel free to get on with other things at this point, but keep an ear out for the water evaporating, and the sugar bonding permanently with your pan, and top up with water until the jack fruit is fall apart soft, the sauce has once again reduced, or you get bored. 

4. Use a fork or a spatula to squish the segments so that they splay out into pork like fronds. 

5. Spoon over a few tablespoons of the BBQ sauce of your choice (we used Jamie Oliver’s one) 

6. Stuff into the bready receptacle of your choice, and watch indulgently as the vegan in your life shovels it into their face with the grace, and restraint, of a starved wolverine.   

Koftas and shiitake mushroom curry

I made this recipe in response to Keith’s demand that I “make something special” with the purple cauliflower we got in our weekly veggie box. Jeez, way to heap on the pressure there, chief. I was scanning through one of my go-to books, and I came across a Paneer Kofta recipe that gave me an idea.

I amended the sauce recipe from Anjum’s recipe thusly:

50g cashew nuts	I only had almonds, because for some reason we only ever have almonds, so I used those instead.
8 tablespoons vegetable oil	I used waaaaaay less than this, 2 glugs at most.
3 black cardamom pods	Green cardamom pods work just fine
2 large onions, sliced	That’s one onion too many for my household
25g root ginger, grated, (peeled weight)	Check
4 fat garlic cloves, peeled and grated	Double check
4 large tomatoes, quartered 2 tablespoons tomato puree	I used a tin of chopped tomatoes instead.
1/2-3/4 teaspoon chilli powder	With my children?!? Nope!
1 rounded tablespoon ground coriander	Triple check
1 3/4 teaspoons ground cumin	I used 2tsps, because I love cumin
1/3 teaspoon turmeric	I can’t be bothered with 1/3 tsps, one whole tsp is my minimum
2 teaspoons garam masala	I may have gone big on the garam masala.
salt, to taste	Oops, forgot
5-6 tablespoons double cream, plus more to serve	Not very helpful for a vegan, so I used a tin of coconut milk instead
1 rounded teaspoon dried fenugreek leaves	I don’t have these. I don’t know anyone who does have these.

Method:

1.Put the almonds in a dish and cover them with boiling water for 15 minutes

2. Put the onions, garlic and ginger in a food processor with a little water and blitz to a paste 

3. Add some oil to a pan and cook gentle until the onion stops trying to murder your senses 

4. Add the spices and cook until they become fragrant. You know they are ready when members of the family put their head round the door “just to see what’s going on”, even though they ate lunch 30 minutes ago and can’t possibly still be hungry. 

5. Add the tinned tomatoes and soaked almonds to the food processor and blitz until smooth 

6. Add to the pan and cook for 10 minutes. 

7. Add the tin of coconut milk, slap a lid on the whole deal, turn the hob down to “barely a bubble” and leave to mellow for as many hours as you have in the day. If you manage to make this the day before it will be even better.

In order to make some vegan friendly koftas, I wanted to keep it simple to let the cauliflower come through, sing, of whatever else TV chefs say about wafty vegetables. I found a super easy recipe at The Almond Eater which only needed a little adaptation:

1 cup uncooked quinoa	There is no quinoa in my house. Couscous worked very well instead
2 cups water	You only need 1 cup of  boiling water with couscous
1 cauliflower head	Mine was purple. Because special.
2 garlic cloves	Check
¾ cup gluten free breadcrumbs	Mine were full gluten. Extra on the gluten in fact, because that’s what I had.
2 tbsp flour (preferably all purpose, whole wheat or oat)	Just plain flour. Sorry. Will do better next time. Am not whole food goddess just yet.
	5 dried porcini mushrooms

Method:

1. Chop the cauliflower into vague florets and put them in a pan of water to par cook. 

2. In a food processor, turn the dried porcini into powder (I was close, but I got bored waiting) and add it to a bowl with the couscous and boiling water. Cover and leave for 10 minutes. 

3. If using actual bread, put in food processor and turn into breadcrumbs. Add to bowl. 

4. Drain cauliflower allow to cool a little, put in food processor with garlic cloves and blitz to teeny tiny bits. Add to bowl. 

5. Mix the bowl contents around for a bit. It will look like it will never stick together, and will fall apart as soon as you try and cook it, so sprinkle the flour over (and keep mixing through) and then start squishing the mix together in your hands like a toddler holding a hamster. Keep going until the whole thing turns into a cohesive and stiff mass. If it’s too wet, add a bit more flour and keep hamster killing until it feels firmly bonded. 

6. This is where I go old school: get a wok, or a deep pan, or a deep fat fryer and get it heating up. Sorry to the healthy people out there, I'm over the "lightly fried and then baked" method of cooking, if you're gonna be a bear, be a grizzly. Don't even get me started on oven baked chups.

7. Roll the mix into golf ball sized meatballs and drop into the hot oil in small batches. 

8. Eventually you will end up with a platter of cooked cauliflower balls and some creamy sauce. Combine, serve with rice or flat bread and enjoy.

Chocolate and Fig Cookies

In the interests of full disclosure, I will admit that the other members of the family were a lot more impressed with these cookies from The Minimalist Baker than I was. I have certain expectations when it comes to cookies; they have to be a certain texture and because of my lack of forward planning of such staples as almond meal, I think I strayed dangerously close to land of cakey texture. I think if my mind had been expecting baked cake bites instead of cookies, I would have been set.

1 cup dates, packed and pitted (soaked in warm water for 10 minutes, then drained)	I used 1 cup of dried figs instead and they worked so, so very well
1 medium ripe banana (~1/2 cup mashed)	I may have under bananad. In hindsight, this was a big error.
2 Tbsp salted creamy peanut butter	I used Fix and Fogg's chocolate peanut butter. Next time, I will use a little more.
1 cup almond meal (ground from raw almonds)	This is where I ran out of talent and had to use normal self raising flour instead. I hang my head in gluteny shame.
1 cup rolled oats (gluten free for GF eaters)	I put these in raw, as they recipe suggests. Next time, I think I will toast them first.

Method:

1. Set oven to 180oC and pray oven is having a good, even, cooking day.

2. Put soaked-and-drained figs into a food processor and turn into fig-fetti.

3. Add banana and peanut butter and combine.

4. Add the flour/ almond meal and oats and pulse until the whole lot comes together. If, like me, it comes together suspiciously easily and doesn't look like the dough above, you need more banana.

5. Take out a muffin tin, spray with oil and dollop a good tablespoon of dough into each muffin dimple.

6. Bake for 15-20 minutes until golden and firm. Turf onto cooling rack and leave to cool.

7. Set aside expectations of cookies, and instead enjoy the rich flavour and virtuous texture.

Saturday, 21 May 2016 Comments: 0

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When Breastfeeding Comes to an End

When Breastfeeding Comes to an End

I've been dodging this post for a few weeks now, but at 2 years and 11 months there is no denying the fact that Miss Olive is well on the way to self weaning.

It wasn't like she was nursing very much: For the last year we had been down to a single bed time feed, but then at some point, she decided that a cuddle was just as good and simply ... stopped asking.

Mind you, Olive hasn't fully committed to life after weaning - she is only too happy to fall back on the comfort of nursing when she has a sore puku or an especially irksome day - but the onus is usually on me to offer. 

This was a time I wasn't sure would ever come, and my boobs are officially in mourning. 

For the last five years they had found a real purpose in life - beyond looking stellar in a low cut top - and now it's on the verge of being taken away. In one fell swoop, they have gone from Angelina Jolie, directing Unbroken, and going on a humanitarian missions to Africa, to Angelina Jolie hacking on the 90s interwebs with Jonny Lee Miller, despite being acutely aware that the world has moved on from the days of "Zero Cool".

And it's not like I would claim to have been the world's most successful nurser. It would be a fair comment to say that the only measure by which my abilities could be called successful, would be if the measure of success were sheer bloody mindedness.

But for all of that, I can't help but feel more than a twinge of sadness that my time as a nursing mama is coming to an end. And like some hackneyed, soft focus, emotionally sound-tracked, "let's look back at your best moments" TV segment, I'm going to take this moment to recap the three biggest achievements of our nursing journey.

1. Mastered a Supplemental Nursing System

When I first started using an SNS, I felt a like a one man band. Feeding at home required several sets of hands to juggle a soggy newborn, while unclipping tubes, poking bits in mouths, rubbing jaw lines, dealing with unexpected vacuums, clipping tubes back up before the baby got water-boarded, all while ignoring the damp cold cord round my neck, and the chilled milk resting on my chest.   

If we were out in public, add onto that list installing the SNS under my clothing and latching on the baby, without giving the old couple at the next table an eyeful.

I say that because the only time I have ever had a negative experience while using an SNS, was in the early days of feeding in public. I was sitting at a cafe, and had very impressively managed to hang the SNS round my neck, and tape on the tube entirely by feel. I was about to take Esme from Keith, to latch her on, when I looked over, to see the old lady at the next table, with a mouth like a bulldog chewing a wasp. To this day I have no idea what her complaint was, but I very much enjoyed flashing her my widest grin as I latched my baby on in expert style.    

Those were the days before I figured out how to feed lying down, which meant shivering through night time feeds, from the "comfort" of the bedroom chair, while my babies were toasty warm in their blankets. After that came the winter where I had nailed nursing in bed, but hadn't yet figured out that the way to avoid cold shoulders, was to invest in an old fashioned pyjama top, which came pre-installed with a perfect access system, known as buttons.

I've come a long way from there. Two children, two videos and several articles later, using an SNS feel like second nature to me now.

2. Survived a major nursing strike

If nursing has taught me anything, it's that the mechanics are the simple part; it's the emotion that gets you. I've had my fair share of emotions in feeding all of the children, and with Olive, the darkest times were during her five day nursing strike, at the age of ten months.

Five frickin days, man! I don't think I have ever pumped so hard in my entire life. I had to, it was the only thing that stopped me falling to the floor and wailing like a toddler who got triangle toast instead of squares. Besides the tears I admitted to at the time, there was a lot of self pity, and a metric fuck-ton of wobbly lips going round that week. 

I threw a full blown pity party and forget to send out the invites. I was Googling shit like "depression after weaning" and "mourning and grief after breastfeeding". I mention this now, not to mock my former self, but because when someone with a normally unshakable sense of purpose decides it's time to sit in a corner and eat worms, you know that person needs a warm hug and a stiff drink.

Well, former self, here's your Jameson and Ginger. And a hug.

But this is what I mean about breastfeeding being an emotional journey; when you have overcome a tough start, you reach a point where you feel like you can finally be proud of your body. I paid my dues to those tough newborn days, and I'm entitled: I've earned my stripes, I've proven my credentials, where's my damn Easy Street?!?

Of course looking back, it's no surprise that soon after the lows of that week came the excruciating lows of blocked milk ducts. If I had been in a slightly less emotional place, I would maybe have eased up on the pumping a little sooner, and saved myself several awkward conversations with colleagues about why there appeared to be foliage in my bra.

3. Normalised breastfeeding for my children 

I'm gonna skip straight past the part where I have to explain that I've only just managed to convince Alfie that he won't be required to step up to this particular parenting challenge. Hey, we have a non traditional set-up over here, I'll forgive him the confusion.

The girls, on the other hand, have got their technique nailed, and are turning into nursing pros. And not just their babies either, oh no, these days they have progressed to dinosaurs, puppies, ninja turtles, or anyone who stubs a toe.

And this is where I start using words like "legacy", because now that I am the official owner of a grey hair, I like to think about the way in which these parenting choices of ours will manifest as the children grow. 

I sometimes wonder whether any of them will have children of their own, and whether I will one day sit around our table watching Esme sneak a sip of tea while dodging her nursing toddler's foot, or pass Olive a piece of kitchen paper to wipe pasta sauce from her nursling's head.

If those things come to pass they will be a blessing. 

If they don't, I'll be content to know that none of my children will ever be that old bulldog-wasp lady when they see a mother nursing in public. I'll be happy knowing I was that mother who fed her children as best she could; imperfectly, with a ton of help, but passionately, and with love.

Monday, 16 May 2016 Comments: 0

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Letting Go of Expectations

Letting Go of Expectations

Today was an exciting day in my house: Having been offered an unexpected chance to buy some tickets to the sold out RNZB production of The Wizard of Oz, I decided to surprise Esme, who has something of a penchant for the theatrical. 

The timing was awkward, Keith having a long standing tattoo appointment, but he somehow managed to convince a friend to come and watch Alfie and Olive so that I could have my moment of mother/ daughter bonding.

It was a sentinel day for me; the moment when I could share my long forgotten passion for dance with my offspring, the moment - I hoped - when I could finally share my memories of days spent as an obnoxious child dancer with the same rose tinted fervour women usually reserve for retelling birth stories.

The day started well, I managed to get the house cleaned without actual bloodshed from the children, and Esme even agreed to wear the outfit I had picked for her; one which managed to be colourful, while also restricting the number of contrasting patterns to single figures. 

We lunched, we left, we parked. 

I eventually tracked down the lady with our tickets before our overpriced ice creams had entirely melted and we followed the other homeschool families up the stairs to take our seats.

After the third flight of stairs, I was a little concerned, but kept smiling, because four year olds can smell disaffection like a shark smells blood.  

By the time the next usher said "all the way to the top" my smile began to falter and I realised that we were, in all seriousness, right at the top of the fucking theatre. The very back row. Any further back, we would have been peering through a skylight and strapping ourselves down in anticipation of a stiff breeze.

Have I ever mentioned that I'm not great with heights?

Esme still had no idea what she was going to see, but she was playing along with my excitement with a level of cynicism rarely achieved by one so young.

She even took the small matter of not being able to see the stage in her stride and cwtched up on my lap, leaning forward far enough for the children in front to feel her breath on their necks, and for me to give myself a mental high five for multi-tasking this parenting win/ ballet watching/ upper body workout like a BOSS.

Thirty minutes later, sweat starting to bead on my brow and all feeling gone in my legs, I looked down as my daughter turned her adoring gaze towards my face. This was it! We were finally on common ground, bonding over a love of dance. Sure it might be hard to juggle dance classes for her, but we would find a way for her to embrace her passion.

"I'm bored"

Don't panic Tash, keep a cool head, she just needs some help understanding the story: She's never seen the film so she might be lost. Leaning forward I started to whisper a kind of subtitling into her ear - heavy on the emoting - to try and pull her back into the action.

She turned back to me and, with pity in her eyes, placed a finger on my lips and repeated "I'm bored, mummy".     

"Are you going to keep telling me your bored for the whole of the second half?" I asked, fixing her with my my most no-nonsense mum face.

"Yes" she replied, staring back at me from under a furrowed brow.

I admire a good threat, so a few minutes later, when the lights came up for intermission, we made our excuses and left.

I spent the walk back to the car sobbing quietly into the depths of my soul, distraught that my moment of connection had been so callously ripped away. Which is to say, it took me the 15 minute walk back to the car (and a little of the drive home) to unpack the fact that today should never have been my moment of connection in the first place.

If I had wanted to see the ballet (which I did) then I should have bought a single ticket. If I had wanted to give Esme a treat, I should have asked her what she wanted to do. I took a punt that she would enjoy the ballet and I was proven very and extremely wrong,

That's on me.

Esme wasn't under any obligation to enjoy the ballet, any more than I'm under any obligation to enjoy yet another episode of Peppa fucking Pig. As ungraciously as that realisation came, I'm glad that she was able to be honest with me and that the whole afternoon didn't turn into a battle of wills to convince her that the best moment of her life was coming along with the next scene change.

Next weekend, Keith is taking her our for some father/ daughter time. Make a note buddy, Esme may not have inherited my love of dance, but she has inherited my hatred of surprises. I wish you luck.

Saturday, 7 May 2016 Comments: 2

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