beckity

2011 didn't start off too well. I was lying on a camp bed on the floor of a children's hospital ward as the fireworks screamed all around. I got a 'bonne année' from the mummy of the baby in the next cot, and the nurses popped champagne corks in the corridors, but I wasn't too thrilled about this new year. Baby Elsie was red and sweating in her cot, overcome with a fatigue I wasn't used to seeing, and I was sick with worry about this little creature who had only been alive a few precious months. Those sleepless nights in the hospital gave me plenty of time to worry about another central figure in my life. I thought about Mum; in between chemo, the prospect of a transplant and difficult months of recovery ahead. We spoke on the hospital phone; words of encouragement about Elsie doing little to calm my distracted mind. Elsie recovered, the hospital non the wiser for what had brought her in. We continued to get used to our new roles as paren

She knocks the tower over, triumphant squeals despite the fact that this is not the first, not even the tenth time this has happened in the past few minutes. She toddles over to the scattered blocks and I scan the shelves for something else. Elsie may not be bored of the build-tower-topple-tower-build-tower game, but Mummy needs something new. Spotting the perfect thing to draw my little girl away from her beloved blocks, I bring the bird to my lips and give a short sharp blow. The bird lets out a squawk and Elsie turns her head quickly, letting the blocks fall to the ground and allowing herself to be drawn to this new game. She comes over quickly, head tilted slightly, the edge of her mouth drawn upwards giving away the anticipation she feels. I bring the bird back to my mouth and blow into the wooden whistle again, seeing her face lift as the magic repeats. Soon her hand is out, reaching for the toy and I hand it over explaining what to do. ‘Just like bubbles’ I explain, as she p

She looks over to the box, filled with its furry bodies, legs and ears poking out of the top, a muddle of genderless animals waiting to be cuddled. She toddles over and, not seeing what she wants, starts pulling at the limbs, flinging the teddies to the left and right as she searches for Teddy, her special bear. Once he has been located with a triumphant ‘Eddy!’ she clutches him to her body with an arm, left hand holding on to a fluffy ear, right thumb locked firmly in her mouth. She wanders into the hall and catching sight of herself in the mirrored cupboard door, pauses a moment, watching herself cuddling the bear. She seems to like what she sees and gives herself a grin, even takes out the thumb in order to see her whole face. A sideways glance as she moves away and she’s on to the next thing, trailing Teddy behind her.

I got three presents for Elsie's birthday. When Elsie started at nursery, she was miserable. She cried when she was dropped off, she cried when the nursery staff put her on the ground to play, she cried when she was picked up and she was clingy and nervous at home. The first two weeks were not fun. Slowly though, slowly it improved. First I noticed the changes at home. Instead of needing to see us at all times, Elsie started toddling off to other rooms while we got on with other things. She cried less, clung less. Next the reports from the nursery staff changed. She stopped crying when they put her down to play and seemed more settled. On Elsie's birthday I went to pick her up as usual. Generally when I show up, Elsie has been put in a highchair and is watching the other children, tired after a long day, her thumb in her mouth and the other hand clutching her doudou. On her birthday for the first time, I looked into the room and saw her before she saw me. She had her doudou i

One minute the biscuits are on the table, the empty pot lying discarded by the beaker. The next, she's scooped the biscuits into the pot, the top is on and she's shaking them like a rattle. Impressed, I congratulate her on her genius and pick her up, out of her highchair. When I set her down on the floor she sets off at quite a pace. Straight into the wall.

I cut half the mango into baby-hand sized chunks, and use the knife to push them into Elsie's bowl. 'Mango?' I ask her, as she follows me out to the dining table. She looks up expectantly, so I scoop her up, slotting her legs into her highchair holes and her arms into her long-sleeved big. She leans towards the mango, and soon has a chunk in each hand, the juice dripping off her chin and a look of content concentration as she chews. I bring the other half from the kitchen and take a bite. It's a good ripe one. For a moment the two of us share a happy quiet moment. Suddenly, Elsie stops chewing, drops one of her chunks and points her finger at my hand, and the remainder of the mango. 'Elsie', I start, 'this is Mummy's mango. It's exactly the same as yours, just not cut up. You eat yours and if you want some more later, I'll give you some.' Her mouth pouts, but she follows my pointing finger and takes a fresh chunk from her bowl. I put mine

In Brussels shops and on the streets The people point and stare Oh Elsie, what are we to do About your crazy hair? It sticks straight up, no brush or breeze Persuade it to lie flat And you just smile out at the world Despite being laughed at It doesn't bother me at all I think it's cute as hell Your eyes and smile so beautiful A punk with no hair gel I just hope all that sniggering Does not upset your mood You're not defined by how you look That pointing is just rude Hold up your head, ignore them all Keep your happy face Be proud of it, that fuzzy crown That takes up so much space And if it starts a complex, chick We'll all be here for you With kisses, love and, if you want Some shrink therapy too

We walk past the Italian restaurant at the end of our road and the waiter putting out tables, the nice one, waves us a friendly bonjour . I check the road and thank the driver who stops to let us across, steering the pram around the various parts of machinery that the guys working on the train extension have left strewn about. As I approach the corner pub, the lady who is always either working or drinking there spots us, and comes over 'Eeeeelsie! Eeeeeelsie!' she calls. 'How are you today?' She meets Elsie's solid stare with a smile and remarks on her hair. Again. We move off and wish her a good day. She got a wave from Elsie yesterday, but my little girl doesn't seem to be in the mood today. We pass the mini supermarket and I look out for the checkout girl but don't see her. Yesterday I left Elsie with Marek to pop in for some cold beers. The shop was full and the girl was stressed. When I said hello, she looked at me and asked where the little one was

She looked at me and smiled. 'I think you might want her to walk more than she wants to herself!' My jaw dropped and I almost let go of the baby's hands. My little one had a look of gleeful concentration on her small face and was pulling me along, tugging at my fingers as her little legs trundled on, each foot taking one wobbly step at a time. Let's think about that. Hmm. If I had a baby who would sit and play quietly with toys, wouldn't that be preferable? If I had a baby who could be put down with a book and left to turn those pages over and over, satisfied with her own company, wouldn't I just let her get on with it? If I had a baby who would take the cues from the time we turn her onto her tummy and follow her little push ups with attempts to move herself around, rather than turning onto her back and screaming, wouldn't I leave her to sort herself out on the floor? Do I like spending my time bent double, trying to stop Elsie ramming herself into shar

Please remind me, if we ever do this whole baby thing again, that I thought Elsie was a miserable sod for most of the first eight months. Just so I'm prepared. Don't get me wrong, I love that little moaner to pieces, but she has always been, shall we say, insistent. Her personality has shone through pretty much from day one, and she has always made it clear when something is not to her liking. Loudly. The midwives in the maternity ward were openly impressed by the noise that those little lungs powered in the first few days of Elsie's life. After hours of being thrust against closed bones by drug-induced contractions, she didn't have the smoothest entry into the world. Even so, her ability to go purple and apparently stop breathing out of pure rage, became notorious. I remember physically shaking and wondering what the hell I should try next, as she woke from a nap on one of those early days and snapped back into continuous heart-breaking cry mode. I always felt she wa

'Come on, let's go and see how she's doing...' I nodded and followed him into the baby's room, quietly slipping through the door and peeking over into her cot. She was breathing calmly and steadily, her body turned to one side and her bedtime rabbit clasped tightly in one fist. Her long lashed eyes were tightly shut and in the darkness we could just make out her rounded cheeks, lips slightly parted, a look of pure innocence on her sleeping face. Marek smiled and turned to leave, but I couldn't resist a closer look. As I stepped towards her, she suddenly sighed, started and turned towards me. I couldn't see if her eyes had opened but I quickly slipped out, hoping she'd settle back without properly waking. My plan didn't work. I heard a wimper, a little cry and then what sounded like a thumb being sucked, a rabbit pulled in closer and muffled sounds of an upset baby moving around trying to find a comfortable position in which to go back to sleep.

The baby was eight weeks old when we heard the diagnosis. We'd got through the worst of the sleepless nights and breastfeeding troubles, and were slowly surfacing after having been chucked overboard, nappies and teddy bears swirling in the churning waters around us. I remember her voice as she told me. A calm overtone almost covering the tremble. When she suggested I sit down, I didn't, not immediately. I held on to that moment just for a second. I knew I did not want to hear what she was going to say and I consciously allowed myself to feel that anticipation, enjoy the few moments I had left not knowing that someone so important to me was so fragile. If any of us could have taken away any of the pain that was to follow, if we could have swallowed the poison that coursed through her veins in the next weeks, borne the rashes and sickness, shivered with her fevers, we would have. I was sheltered from the worst of it - told to focus on this new life who depended on me, not to

I don't know when you learned to do it; stick your tongue between your lips and blow out, a twinkle in your eye and excitement in the squeal that followed. It got a good reaction in Poland, when you were sitting proudly in your highchair, charming your grandparents with your concentrated chewing; stuffing handfuls of whatever you were given into your mouth. A pause, a swift look to check all eyes were on you, and then a big pthhhhhhheew! Food sprayed all over the table, shrieks from the assembled company, with your Daddy and me trying our best to look stern and not give into the sniggers that threatened to break out. Pleased, your face split into a wide grin, happy that you could provide such entertainment. When you finish a feed, and your head is on my shoulder, I sometimes feel a tickling high up on my arm. Your lips vibrate on my skin and slobber drips slowly. A low hum crescendos into an abrupt 'bah' as you lift your head and experience the sudden breaking of contac

The concentration draws her eyebrows in over her eyes as she turns it over gently in her hands. First it goes one way and then she flips it over so the label appears. Her eyes widen and she grunts in satisfaction as she sees what she was after. She grabs the label and brings it towards her mouth. I catch her eye and she studies me solemnly, sucking on her prize. Sometimes I catch myself making expressions that I recognise from her own little face. Or a sudden look of Marek's brings her to mind. Her face is as familiar as my own mirror reflection and yet changes almost daily. Her round cheeks and dark features echo my own, but her eyes are her Daddy's. She is unique, herself, our daughter.

As I pushed the pram over the rough ground, I breathed in deeply and smiled to myself. This is what I had imagined, those days last year when the belly was pushing at my waistband and my feet were swelling. The sky was blue, the sun was shining down on us and a smattering of t-shirt clad youths were spread over the grass, making the most of the beautiful weather. Elsie let out a sudden cry and I frowned. That wasn't in my hazy daydream of spring. I looked round the pram hood and saw her looking out, big eyes taking in the springlike scene, thumb hovering ready for when her eyelids grew too heavy. She was ok. I carried on, zigzagging along the park's many paths, trying to slow my legs to the pace of someone who has nowhere to go. This doesn't come naturally. I always walk as if I'm on my way to work, or late for a meeting. A man stood, juggling five balls and I watched as he kept them all airbound. I noticed the other mums, and dads, silently pushing prams or chatting

Dear Elsie, Before you were born I had this idea that I'd mutate into a full-blown mummy blogger; unable to contain myself, documenting every little change and development that my darling child went through. You are five months old, and that just hasn't happened. There are countless photos and a youtube channel, but very few blog posts have gone up with you as the star. One reason is that there just hasn't been time. It's incredible how days disappear in minutes, weeks merge into each other and before we know it, you've notched up another month. The other reason is that I don't feel up to the task. Everyone knows that blogging about your offspring is dull, unless it is done with considerable skill and wit. That is daunting. You are the most precious thing I have, and I don't want to do you a disservice by reducing your magic to tired cliches. Having said that I'm afraid that the months and years will pass and we'll forget the littl

I eyed the pump with a mixture of distaste and resignation. It had sat in its box for the last couple of months, but taking it out again brought it all flooding back. Elsie took almost a month to learn how to breastfeed. Before she was born, I had this vague notion that breastfeeding was a natural process that therefore came naturally . Ha. Ok, so I'd heard of cracked nipples and other monstrosities but assumed in my naivity that these minor discomforts would be brief, or not affect me at all. I'd put my baby to my breast and she'd feed. Right. The caesarean got us off to a shaky start. As I was wheeled to the recovery room, the baby was handed to me and she lay on my chest as tears and the corridor's bright lights blinded me. Daddy was left holding the baby as I was examined and almost an hour passed before I could join my new little family. The days in hospital, blurred by morphine and lack of sleep, were punctuated by midwives who encouraged us, squeezing and