A Stitch in Time.

My mother was educated by nuns. There is a lot than can be said for such an education, not all of it positive, but one thing is for sure: the woman can sew. Nuns, apparently, do not stand for sloppy stitching.

I, on the other hand, can not sew. I mean, I can replace a button, and I can mend a spilt seam, something I have had to learn thanks to my penchant for buying slightly cheap clothes. But I cannot knit so much as a scarf. I have never embroidered a handkerchief, taken up a pair of trousers or even customised a t-shirt. Well, there was that one unfortunate incident with some tie-dying, but perhaps we had better brush over that. The follies of youth and all that jazz.

Some people never learn...

The thing is, I have had an accomplished seamstress at my disposal for my whole life. I have worn countless outfits lovingly designed, fitted and executed by my mother. I have had a golden dressing-up cloak made out of some curtains, a voluminous petticoat, a skirt so lavishly and wonderfully beaded that everyone asked me where I bought it. I have had mini skirts, maxi skirts, long dresses, short dresses, jumpers and trousers. I have had pincushions, handbags, pillow cases, cushion covers and scrunchies. Soooo many scrunchies. But at thirty years of age I had never made any of those things myself. I had never sat at a sewing machine and felt anything other than abject terror and the absolute belief that in this particular battle between woman and machine, I was destined to lose.

What is this? What does is mean? What the heck are feed dogs??

When I was looking for suggestions for this year of new challenges, several people proposed making an item of clothing, but only my mum was clever enough to add a caveat. The challenge would only be complete, in her eyes, if I WORE what I made, outside the house, at least three times. She knows me well enough, you see, to know that if I thought I could get away with not wearing whatever I made, I would be in danger of not putting the required amount of love into the project. My mother believes that love is the key ingredient of all things, most especially cooking and sewing. With every year that passes I become more convinced that she is right.

An early example of an outfit made with love.

So, on my latest trip to my mum's place in Spain, I travelled armed with some fabric that I liked and an idea for a skirt. I armed myself too, with a big dollop of patience. It was perfectly possible that the sewing machine was going to try and take this opportunity to vanquish me once and for all. Tears of frustration were likely to well up several times, and that teeny tiny nun that sits somewhere in mum's psyche might just make an unwelcome appearance. She's always watching, you know...

Mum later confessed that the first wave of fear and doubt washed over her when I asked if we seriously intended to attempt to make the skirt in one day. In my mind this was a week-long undertaking, in mum's it was going to be done, dusted, and hanging off my hips in four hours. As usual, mum was right.

As regards providing a decent story, I'm sorry to say that there was remarkably little drama involved in the whole thing. At one stage my zig-zagging became wildly erratic and mum was forced to ask me what on earth I was thinking, but that's the closest we came to any kind of disaster. This is what I had to do: (Sequences shortened...)

1. Make a pattern.

 

2. Cut the fabric. Gulp. Mum says: "Use the whole length of the scissors." I find it impossible to cut with anything but the tips.

3. Pin stuff. 

Pin stuff to other stuff. 

Then unpin it. 

Then pin it again. 

Turns out I have relatively elite pinning skills.

4. Sew various things together and then iron them. Ironing, it transpires, is a fundamental part of the process.

Ironing one half of the waistband.

5. Listen to and follow instructions. I'm good at that,  I've had plenty of practice.

6. Sew elastic into the waistband.

Probably more concentration than I have ever previously dedicated to a piece of elastic.

 7. After sewing a zig-zag stitch down the sides of the waistband, thread some thin elastic through it to create a ruching effect. That's the technical term for it. Ruching.

Please note, dog featured is NOT a feed dog.

8. Baste the hem of the skirt. Having marked the desired width of the hem with an iron, I roughly stitched all the way round to hold the hem in place when finishing it off with the sewing machine. Amongst mum's many pearls of wisdom was this one: you can baste a hem without ironing it, if necessary. But you must never attempt to sew a hem without basting it first. I wonder if this is a metaphor for life. Probably not.

Basting. It's different to what you do to a chicken, apparently.

The other kind of basting. The more delicious kind.

 9. Sew a hem on the sewing machine. Turns out this is difficult. Top tip: Don't stare at the needle. Look at where you want to go instead. My driving instructor used to tell me the same thing about large, oncoming trucks.

It's really easy to concentrate with someone STARING OVER YOUR SHOULDER. Not.

10. Finally: Iron it, hang it up, and look darned pleased with yourself.

The finished product!!

There you have it. It really wasn't that difficult. It certainly wasn't as impossible as I'd made myself believe. It required being a little bit brave when it came to pushing down the foot pedal. It required concentration. It required remembering to breathe. But what it required above all things was the will to do it, and to do it properly. Such is the lesson that keeps coming back to me on this journey. Undertake all that you do with purpose. Undertake all that you do with love.

Make it with love. Always.

That would have been a nice note to end on, except that I KNOW you haven't forgotten that my mum had also insisted on me wearing the skirt in public. She'd specified three times, but I have to say that between it being extremely comfortable, and also really quite pretty, and the fact that I was secretly a little bit proud of myself, I ended up wearing it about five days in a row. Actually, she had to ask me to stop wearing it so that the other people in her building wouldn't start thinking it was a uniform of some kind. Here's the skirt on parade:

Outing one: The skirt gets ready to go for Chinese. Spring Rolls, Crispy Chilli Beef and a Lemon Fanta, thank you very much.

Outing two: The skirt goes dolphin watching in Gibraltar. Hello dolphins!!

Why would you NOT want to see a picture of dolphins? Dolphins are amazing, even if they can't sew.  Fact.

Outing three: The skirt messes around in the park.

I will never be the seamstress that my mother is. I strongly suspect that I will never knit anything, let alone a jumper as truly awesome as the fluffy white clouds further up this blog piece. I am unlikely to ever embroider anything for fun. But I will probably use a sewing machine again. In fact, I quite fancy a long version of the skirt, and could even be said to be quite keen on making it myself. Who knows, I might even make something, one day, that someone else wants to wear. That would be a fine thing, I think.

Eight down, twenty-two to go...

Hup Hup and Away!

Occasional weekend cycle rides take me to the outer circle of Regent's Park, where along with enjoying a peek at the giraffes, I have often craned my neck at the crazy people learning flying trapeze above a whopping great net. You can probably guess what's coming next...

Heights are not exactly my thing. Sweaty palms, mild dizziness, a dry mouth and a racing heart are par for the course on bridges, aeroplanes, cliffs and roller-coasters, the last of which I avoid at all costs. I regularly have to have stern words with myself to keep this anxiety under control, so putting myself somewhere high seemed like a fair challenge for my 30@Thirty.

Gorilla Circus runs outdoor classes throughout the summer, and for the royal sum of £23.50 pretty much anyone from the ages of eight to 78 can have a go at flinging themselves off a very narrow platform some 40 feet off the ground.

Not sure I wanted to go alone, and having been informed in no uncertain terms that my beloved was not interested, I called on my trusty friend Julia. Seeing as how she conned* me into doing a triathlon, and has now somehow hoodwinked me into signing up for a FREAKING HALF MARATHON (what is wrong with me, will I never learn?) I figured she wouldn't have the nerve to turn me down. It was, however, something of a Phyrric victory, as she predictably took advantage of the fact that we were meeting to squeeze in a training session for the run beforehand. Needless to say that when we arrived at Regent's Park at 11am my face was still the same attractive scarlet colour as my trousers.

*OK, she didn't actually con me, but she did promise me there would be lots of old people on ancient push bikes, which there weren't.

There were ten people in the class - eight girls and two guys - all of us beginners. There were three instructors, the main one of whom, Debs, was wearing something very sparkly and circus-like under a vest top and exercise trousers. Score.

We commenced with one of those consent forms that inspires terror and makes a particular point of asking for an emergency contact number. I love those things. Then, before the warm-up, there was a safety briefing consisting of three essential points:

1) Don't walk under the net.
2) All will be well if you do as you're told.
3) If you walk into one of the ropes, or the metal stakes buried in the ground, you've been warned, and we will laugh.

The warm-up comprised a lot of arm-swinging and shoulder-rolling. I am happy to report that both Julia and I passed that test where you have to swing one arm forward and one arm back. Things were off to a promising start. Next came a quick demo on the low bar, where we were shown the correct grip; Thumbs go under the bar, unlike in gymnastics, where thumbs go above the bar. We were then shown the move of the day, the 'Knee Hang' which does exactly what it says on the tin. It involves bringing your legs up through your arms, hooking your knees over the bar, pointing your toes, and releasing your hands. Simples. Of course, if you're not a super-fit athlete with abs of steel (which I am not, by the way, just in case you had the wrong impression) it ain't so easy to do this from standing. So we were given an elegant heft by Debs, and assured that once swinging it would be a lot easier.

Next came the safety belts, and a quick explanation of what happens up on that platform. Up until this point, I had managed to pretend that the whole platform bit wasn't going to happen, but evidently it was. Julia had somehow managed to volunteer to go first (over-achiever that she is) and therefore provided us all with an elegant demonstration of the position to assume up there. This is it:

So, left hand clinging for dear life to a pole on the platform, right hand reaching out for the bar, which is being held by the person whose other hand is holding on to your belt and stopping you from plunging to a certain and painful death. I mean, dropping gently into the net. I tried not to think about this too much.

A demonstration preceded our first attempts, and was useful not just as regards seeing the moves in action, but also in order to see how instructions are called from the ground. One of those achingly cool young dudes* who looked like he was probably born attached to a surfboard was in charge of keeping the trapeze moving should you not be a natural swinger, and also slowing your descent.

*The fact that I just wrote the words "young dudes" makes me hang my head in shame. When did I get so old??

He called the instructions too, and they go something like this:

Ready (this means, bend your knees).
Hup! (this means, jump gently from the platform, keeping your arms straight).
Legs over, hook the knees.
Hands off, nice big reach.
Hands back up.
Legs off.
And swing forward, swing back, tuck and release. (This means, do a backflip off the trapeze. I kid you not).

This what these instructions mean when you don't follow rule number two, above (all will be well if you do as you're told).


Ready (this means, stand immobile for several seconds, until the person holding on to your belt reminds you to bend your knees).
Hup! (this means, bend your knees a few more times, as if you're going to jump, but don't. Finally, find your bottle, jump).
Legs over, hook the knees (this means, try several times to get your knees over the bar. Maybe fail).
Hands off, nice big reach (this means, if you managed the above, take your hands off. Take your bloody hands off you chicken!)
Hands back up (self explanatory, and a very happy moment. Pretty much everyone managed this bit).
Legs off (reverse the legs up bit, probably with about as much elegance).
And swing forward, swing back, tuck and release (this means all sorts of weird and wonderful things, including tucking your knees up but forgetting to let go of the bar, letting go too soon and landing on your face, or swinging bank and forth several times and then just hanging there like a lemon).

Lemon + Trapeze = bit of a tangle

Anyway, perhaps I'm getting ahead of myself here. What happened after the demo was this. Julia climbed the ladder, and my palms started sweating.

Julia climbs

Julia then followed the instructions like an absolute pro, jumping from the platform almost without hesitation and hooking her knees over with serious style, first attempt, her ponytail streaming behind her in the wind. All she needed was the sparkly leotard... Why-oh-why did I have to bring the high-achiever along? When it came to the backflip dismount however, she proved herself human after all, managing an interesting if not entirely orthodox move I like to call the 'what exactly am I supposed to be doing now? Or right, here's the net.'

Then someone else went, and as they started, I had to climb the ladder for the first time. 

Is that a spot of rain, or my aura of terror?

This is where it all went a bit hazy, as my initial gung-ho attitude started to suffer from a serious case of vertigo. The ladder seemed to go on forever, and when I finally got to the top, things were significantly worse. Standing on a platform about two feet wide, I had to have one of those stern talks with myself. What was going to happen to me, for goodness sakes? At the very worst I was going to look a bit stupid before I fell into the very bouncy net. And yet, and yet... 

Clinging on for dear life.

You have to put your toes right to the edge and then push your hips forward over the abyss. You have to have absolute trust that the instructor has you by the belt, and that you're not going anywhere until you choose to obey that Hup! and launch yourself into the unknown. You have to control your breathing, and tell yourself to be brave. You have to - and this is really difficult - LET GO of the pole and put both hands on the trapeze.

That's the worst moment, hanging there, fighting every instinct that tells you to lean the hell back and climb down the ladder. Waiting for an instruction that you're just not sure you can obey.

And then, with a dash of courage, you're FLYING. You're actually flying through the air, almost as if you knew what you were doing. The rush, for me, was instantaneous, even though I was concentrating with all my might on following the instructions. Even though it took me two attempts, I got my knees hooked, I took my hands off, I reached, I put my hands back, I unhooked, and, miracle of miracles, I swung forward, swung back, tucked and released. Yes, backflip-tastic. What a feeling!

Alas, the fact that it took me two attempts to get my knees hooked meant that I wasn't allowed to try for the move where you are caught by someone else on a second trapeze. Guess who was? Please note the devastating lack of a star next to my name:

Julia performed the catch with her usual aplomb, to great cheers from the assembled crowd (me), a superstar to the last. I was disappointed in myself, but on my final attempt managed to get my knees over first time, thus ending on a high, and with that niggling feeling that I might just have to go back and have another go. And, frankly, my backflips only went from strength to strength.

Awesome instructors. Note sparkly circus attire.

I highly recommend fighting the fear and having a go at flying trapeze. I may have been afraid, but I always knew that I was in safe hands, and that the instructors weren't going to ask me to do anything genuinely dangerous. And, as always, obeying the Hup! - which comes in many forms over the course of one's life, it seems - reminds me that I'm alive. Just remember:

Seven down, twenty-three to go...

Under the Knife, Over the Moon.

When I was nine years old, I stood at the business end and watched a baby being born. My mum was acting as birthing partner to a friend, and - being my mum - had decided that it would be "educational" for me to watch. Unsurprisingly, I remember the whole experience vividly. I particularly remember that there was a lot of waiting about, and then a LOT of screaming, and then some poo. I definitely remember the poo.

A picture of a moses basket, in place of a picture of poo.

I also remember the head crowning, and seeing the baby's shock of black hair emerge, and the mother crying as she held her new daughter in her arms, both of them naked. These are memories that will stay with me forever. What I don't remember is feeling much in the way of emotion. I was curious, but there was no horror, or fear, or happiness. It wasn't my mummy screaming, and it wasn't a new sibling for me, so, frankly, I was a pretty cool customer about the whole thing.

Twenty-one years later my friend Lisha asked me if I would be her birthing partner. I am godmother to Lisha's (almost) five-year-old son Enlai and was, I think, the first person to know that Lisha was pregnant with a much wanted second child. We bumped into each other in the reception area of our workplace and she sneaked something out of her pocket and showed it to me under cover of her raincoat. It took a second for me to realise that it was a positive pregnancy test.

Enlai didn't come into this world easily. Lisha tried for a natural birth over and over again, but in the end they had to perform an emergency C-section. She was drugged to the eyeballs and pretty distressed by the whole experience. So I knew, when she asked me to be there with her this time, that she was trusting me to be strong and calm for her, whatever happened. Needless to say I was honoured, and more than a little scared.

After some toing and froing as to whether to attempt a natural birth again, a friend of Lisha's suffered a serious prolapse during natural labour, comprehensively deciding the question. Elective C-section it was. I was glad. The elective surgery meant that we would have a time and date scheduled for the birth, allowing Lisha to be fully prepared, and saving me from being rudely awoken at some evil hour of the morning. It also saved me from the poo. So, you know, wins all round. But I confess that I also felt it would, in some way, be less of an experience. Having been at the business end of a natural birth, surely a Cesarean was going to seem cold and clinical?

On Tuesday, July 24th, 2012, I was up at the crack of dawn. I met Lisha at her flat and we walked the sunny half hour to St Mary's Hospital in Paddington. Not only did Fleming discover penicillin there, but it was the birth place of Prince William, so we were already in auspicious company. On the walk we chatted about the office and Enlai, and worked up a good appetite for breakfast. This was unfortunate since Lisha was nil-by-mouth and there was no way I was going to tuck into my picnic with her sitting there watching me with those big, hungry brown eyes. Surely that would have been an instant birthing partner fail?


Upon arrival, we were shown to a waiting area, where we encountered a couple with approximately one hundred pieces of matching Louis Vuitton luggage. OK, perhaps I'm exaggerating, but it was a lot of fancy luggage. I wonder what they thought of us, firstly being two women (are they lesbians? Is the pregnant one a surrogate?) and secondly with our raggle-taggle selection of bags and cases. Our dignity was preserved solely by the fact that Lisha had had the presence of mind to apply some make-up, and that - in a rare moment of pampering - she'd had her toe nails painted scarlet.

Lisha's pedicure saves the day

Lisha was third on the morning's list, meaning we had a long wait ahead of us. Mrs Louis Vuitton was going first. Debbie, the midwife, took Lisha through a whole heap of paperwork (Lisha's notes, drug form, anaesthetist form, allergy form, consent form, form form form) and then left us. Several other members of staff popped by over the next couple of hours, to check things over, and to tell us that we still had a while to wait. I must say now that the staff were universally friendly and helpful. Some of them did look momentarily confused when they asked me who I was and I replied with a deadpan "the father", but I think they knew I was joking. I have heard horror stories about surly midwives and uncommunicative doctors, but I am happy to say that we encountered none of these.


We did, however, encounter a good dose of boredom and increasing hunger. I gave Lisha a massage, no doubt adding further fuel to the rumour that we were lovers, and we commenced a game of Scrabble on the ipad. About an hour and a half after she was wheeled out, Mrs Louis Vuitton was wheeled back in to the recovery room, a look of pure elation on her face. "Ten years ago" she said to the midwife, "I thought I'd be dead by now. But here I am, holding my baby." Her words were so heartfelt I could almost forgive the suitcases. No matter how tacky someone's choice in luggage, they may have suffered all sorts of things that you have no clue about. We then found out that Mr. Louis Vuitton had fainted during his wife's initial injection, which gave us a good giggle and further warmed us to the pair of them. It transpired that they'd been convinced that they were having a boy and had prepared accordingly. The midwife kindly provided a book of baby names, which seemed to entertain them even more than their new daughter.


Anyway, mother number two, who wasn't as yet in the recovery room, was waiting for her partner to arrive at the hospital, so Lisha was next. Hooray! We were both delighted at being unexpectedly bumped up the schedule. "Lunch soon, thank God" said Lisha. Good to know we had our priorities straight.


So, here comes the first of my firsts for the day. I got to put on scrubs. Please see below for an awesome picture of awesomeness, where I totally look like a DOCTOR. I was deeply happy with this unexpected event, as I'd been predicting a plastic outfit of some kind, which wouldn't have been nearly as cool.

Lisha did not look quite as snazzy in her bottom-exposing gown, though the disposable hat did lend her the look of The Girl with a Pearl Earring.

We were now in theatre. The anaesthesiologist's assistant asked me if I was going to faint like Mr LV, and I said no. At which moment my legs got very shaky and I started to feel a bit dizzy. "Cold and clinical" suddenly felt very, very real. It dawned on me for the first time that I was in an operating room about to accompany my friend through a serious and potentially dangerous operation. To diffuse my nerves I switched on the camera and started snapping. Which made everything feel a lot better. Here's Lisha waiting for her epidural, looking very cute, very brave, and very small. Please note the glimpse of sexy embolism stockings in this season's must-have forest green.

The anaesthesiologist's name was Mo, and he explained extremely clearly that putting in the epidural was 90% position, 10% skill. This meant that it was down to Lisha to arch her back "like an angry cat" and be incredibly still whilst he inserted an incredibly long, thin needle between two of her vertebrae. If it were to fail, they'd have to try either above or below the original area. Lisha was given some pain medication through the cannula already inserted into her hand, and a very cold spray to clean and numb her back. Nonetheless, I saw the size of the needle, and the length of the very thin tube that was inserted afterwards. Lisha didn't move a muscle. "Cold and clinical" was already a million times more of an experience than I had been expecting, and my respect for my friend soared as I watched her breathe through her anxiety, pain and nausea.

Goya's angry cats, ready for their epidurals...

Next there was a slight wait as the medical staff prepped themselves for the operation, and the epidural took effect. A fabric screen was erected just below Lisha's chest, so that all either of us could see were the heads of the doctors and nurses bustling around her stomach. Mo and his assistant stayed up at the head end, administering various different things via the cannula as the procedure begun. Lisha gripped my fingers pretty hard when a buzzing noise indicated that her lady garden was being shaved. I resisted the urge to make a joke about vajazzles. Lisha did not.

As we doctors call it, 'knife to skin' happened at 11.09. For the next ten-odd minutes, Mo kept us distracted by talking about films and superheroes. At 11.22 the doctors told me to get ready with my camera. I had a moment of anxiety thinking that the camera might suddenly fail me, and then the blue screen was suddenly dropped and there was a baby emerging from Lisha's body. I tell you now that only once before in my life have I experienced the sudden, uncontrollable, prolonged rush of adrenaline that hit me at that moment. This was how it felt:

I'm not ashamed to say that I was gasping for breath, my heart thudding in my chest, tears welling in my eyes as that baby was born. It was the feeling of a lifetime, beautiful and overwhelming. The halogen bulbs shone down on him as he came into the world, lighting his path. I am so honoured to have been there, and to have captured the moment forever.

7lbs 12 oz

Alas, there is no picture of Doctor Jojo cutting the umbilical chord, but I assure you that I did cut it, and it felt like wet leather and spurted some very red blood. Nice.

What else can I tell you about this amazing experience? There are lots of things, like how we returned to recovery to hear Mr and Mrs Louis Vuitton still trying to decide between the names Elizabeth, Phoebe, Daisy or Adriana. Or how it was still a good couple of hours before Lisha got her much deserved lunch of a cheese and pickle sandwich and a hot chocolate. I could talk about the fact that the baby barely cried and took to the breast like a duck to water, and how Lisha and I eventually resumed our game of Scrabble. I could tell you about the insanely annoying new mother up on the maternity ward, who spoke loudly on the phone for at least three hours solid, sometimes on speaker. I could tell you about the first meeting between Enlai and his new baby brother, which was full of tenderness and care, because that's just how Enlai is. I could tell you how I changed the baby's first nappy (there was poo after all, you see), and narrowly avoided being baptised in wee. I could tell you how I felt as I held his little innocent body in my arms, or how I watched Lisha fall in love before my very eyes. I could write for hours, and in fact, I already have. It's three in the morning and I've lived the journey again from my sofa. I suspect I will relive it many more times over the years, as I watch the brothers grow and fight and play and laugh.

I wrote a poem for Enlai's christening, and I hope that one day inspiration will strike and I will be able to write one for his brother. But for now, Lumen Esperanzo Rooney, this is your poem:

Let there be light. 

Thank you, Lisha and Lumen, for sharing this birthday with me.

Six down, twenty-four to go...