Diary of A Norfolk Broad (Chapter Three)

Fast forward to January 2004. I am now pregnant and waiting for the birth of our daughter. I say this not because of any confirmation of this fact at my previous scan, but because a woman I have never met before who is claiming to have special powers in this area has assured me that it will be a girl. She knows this from spinning me round quickly (well as quickly as a nearly nine months pregnant woman can be spun around), and on studying my rear for a moment or two tells me quite definitely that its girls' names I need to be thinking about, and forget the boys'. She is clearly a bit mad, but then again she might be right? I settle on Daisy or Molly.

On 10th January my son is born.

It is a bit of a shock really - the sex of the baby, not the birth.

I ask the midwife, "Are you sure?""

"Absolutely", she replies.

I ask the Artist to check.

"Definitely", he agrees with a very proud look.

So that's that. The witch got it wrong. Perhaps if she'd looked at my front rather than my back she might have got it right.

Son number two is gorgeous and sweet, and son number one adores him. Apart from at night when we all hate him. That may sound extreme but it is a fact. The Angel baby by day becomes a Devil baby by night. There is just no reasoning with him and the frustration of

a) not enough sleep for me to be a rational, loving mother

b) a baby who is not hungry, not wet, not ill and definitely not sleepy

c) haunting tales of babies who sleep through the night and have to be woken for breakfast

make me unable to deal with devil night-baby in a patient earth-motherly manner. The worst thing I find is that kindly well-wishers offer such gems as, "I'm sure he'll grow out of it", or "Have you tried ......?"

Yes, trust me, we've tried everything; from controlled crying to stories, songs, tapes of stories and songs, shouting (not guaranteed to improve the situation but sometimes necessary for our sanity) and still nothing works. The funny thing is, he did grow out of it, so to all you sleep-deprived, guilt-ridden, frustrated parents, hang on in there, because generally these things do have a way of sorting themselves out. By all means try everything, because not is worse. But remember that babies, like most adults, do not like to be told what to do. Encouragement reaps the best results. You will see that I am right. Perhaps not now, but read these words in twenty years time and you'll see the funny side. Sleep deprivation is bad for most things but good for blurring the memory.

The Angel-Baby is now four - time really does fly!

Diary of A Norfolk Broad (Chapter Two)

On a cold, damp November day in 1999, one Artist, one Essex Girl, a baby and two cats suddenly found themselves on the A11 heading for a new life in North Norfolk, leaving behind an old one in East London.
The removal men had arrived at our flat bright and early, and within an alarmingly short amount of time, had transported our entire life into the back of two box vans. There was barely even time to say good-bye to our home of five years, our first proper home together. It's impossible not to get sentimental, and in those last moments when the flat still belonged to us, five years of memories flashed through my mind; the day we moved in, proudly showing off our new home to my parents and cooking my first meal for them in our enormous kitchen, bringing home our newborn son from the hospital, the friends we shared happy times with, the birthday parties - everything.
I'm sure everyone goes through this last pang of sadness, wondering whether or not they are doing the right thing, but especially so if they have left their nice, comfy jobs to start a new life, and are taking a plunge into the deep unknown. Sounds a bit dramatic I know, but believe me, at the time it all felt a bit dramatic. Worse still, if our plan for a better life didn't work out as planned, there was no going back. Every two seconds property prices in London were going through the roof, so that by the time we'd locked the front door, walked to the car and turned the key in the ignition, we were priced out of the London market for ever!
Anyway, onwards we go.
Did I mention that it was a cold, damp day? And that was just the inside of our new house. I wonder if there is a Bad Fairy of House Moves? A little imp who thinks it could be fun to break the pump in the boiler? Or a real hoot to make sure that the television aerial doesn't work either, so that at ten o'clock at night, stressed and exhausted, nestled among the leaning tower of our life in boxes, about to tuck ravenously into fish and chips in the paper (because we couldn't find any plates), we decide to switch on the television only to be greeted by a hissing blizzard on the screen.
We shrugged philosophically (ok, so we swore a lot and I cried a bit), finished our food, went to bed, and the next day unpacked, started our new life, and waited for Spring to come.
There was a kind of fantasy about escaping from London and living in the 'Sticks', I think; one where the sun was always shining, the hens were pecking about vast garden (we never did actually get around to buying the hens, but we thought about it - a lot), while baby and me tended our vegetable plot with the Artist locked in his studio creating masterpieces which were going to sell in London for a fortune, allowing us an even better life, as living in (or near) the country is so much cheaper than living in the city isn't it? Apart from when we go to the supermarket which I expect is the same.
Yes, life in the sticks was going to be fabulous.