Milking it

And so the learning curve continues. Another appointment and weigh-in with the nice lady at the child care centre showed stable weight - not ideal in a 2 week old baby. So a new regime was instituted. Automatic milking machine hired, installed and duly put into action - a quite fascinating process, which may not be much fun for the milk provider but provides a certain amount of titillation for her husband. Thereafter, breast feeds supplemented with expressed milk and formula as required. Two days of pumping later, weight up by a hundred grams, and a further hundred at today's weighing. Back at birth weight. Marvellous.

Meanwhile, la nouvelle grand-mère arrived on Wednesday to meet her first grandchild. The family threesome set off for the airport to meet her, and got as far as the garage round the corner. Failure to freewheel and a grinding noise at first led me to suspect an old problem, seized brakes, but with passersby pointing at the front offside wheel, it eventually dawned that we had a flat tyre. It being lunchtime our friendly local garage was closed, but fortunately I only had a couple of minutes to demonstrate my total lack of competence in tyre changing (which I put down to inexperience - first puncture in 30 years of motoring) before la bienheureuse spotted someone in the garage. Of course, asking French workmen for help in their lunch break is often a risky exercise, but a sweet smile convinced the nice mechanic to change the wheel for us.

Dodgy spare thus installed in a matter of minutes rather than the hour it would have otherwise taken we set off and arrived at the airport only about half an hour late, to introduce la belle-mère to her petite-fille. One way introduction, as la petite slept through the whole adventure. However, she woke up later and immediately ignored the stranger in favour of a good suckle. As well she should, but they've got to know each other since. Amidst the full time job of feeding, nappy changing, bottle washing, pumping, cooking and shopping, sightseeing for la belle-mère this week has been restricted to strolls along the river with the pram in the glorious sunshine we had during the first few days of her visit. Spring is here even if it's raining now…

Family home

Two weeks, a lifetime. Our first few days as a threesome went fairly well, though la petite hadn't read the book about newborns not being able to stay awake longer then ninety minutes or sleep less than sixteen hours a day. Stress levels rose somewhat during the latter half of the week - feeding & sleeping pattern became a bit more random. Like all enfants, la petite coquinette seems to like playing up during the evening, just when her parents are dying on their feet. Then the weighing at the local centre on Friday suggested negligible weight gain since leaving hospital. Could all be due to differently calibrated scales, but questions still chase themselves round a parent's head: is she getting enough milk, is she sucking properly, is she getting enough sleep? etc, etc. Such are the preoccupations of debutant parents. Judging by the quantity of pee and poo production, there can't be much wrong with the feeding technique. On verra…

Today patterns have been rather more regular, so maybe we're getting there. The star of the show even slept through the lunchtime visit of a pair of amies de la bienheureuse. More gifts to add to the avalanche.

Life beyond the little girl wonderland seems somehow less tangible, but goes on. I went out on a chilly Saturday evening to watch les Gones fiddle away on a 1-0 lead, against the 10 men of championship rivals Rennes for the last 20 minutes, and duly concede a last minute equaliser. The punters were not happy. Much like my mood six hours earlier while attempting to watch a dodgy stream and look after baby at the same time. Still, a draw after being 2-0 down didn't seem quite as bad as it might in other circumstances.

And in the wider world yet, local elections took place in France yesterday, resulting in a strong showing for le Front National. Mainly due to mid-term discontent with the government, and the second round next week should put them in their place, but inquietant all the same...

Patient routine

Five days in hospital for the new mother and daughter, five days of climbing up and down les Pentes de la Croix Rousse for the new father. My routine was fairly fixed. Get up, have breakfast, brisk half hour uphill walk in glorious sunshine to the hospital, rest of day getting to know the new arrival, walk back home again in the evening (minor deviation from routine on Tuesday, with an evening in the pub to watch the brave boys in yellow beaten by the Barca ball-hogs. Least said about that the better). The routine for mes deux bien-aimées was more varied, with la petite calling the shots; her and sundry midwives, students, baby care auxiliaries and doctors. Principal aim of the week: both parties learning l'allaitement. The path to complete mastery was far from smooth, and rather painful at times for the food source. But, with the help of a kindly auxiliary specialising in nursing, the pair of them got it more or less sussed by the end of a week of largely sleepless nights.

La bienheureuse recovered well from the operation, la petite coquinette's glugging technique was good enough to start putting on weight again, and on Saturday both were given the all-clear to go home. Via a stop at the pharmacy to collect sundry prescriptions, and another stop at hospital administration to collect birth certificate and livre de famille, la petite famille were finally fully reunited at home sweet home early on Saturday afternoon. From here on in, we were on our own…

New life

A lot can happen in a week. A new life begins and two other lives are transformed. Notre fille finally made her appearance at 7 minutes before 7 in the evening on the 7th of March, and kept us in suspense right until the end. A day earlier, la bienheureuse reached 10 days past her due date, which meant packing a bag and heading for the hospital. More tests and monitoring followed before she was shown to her shared room. After a largely sleepless night (room mate apparently won the snoring contest) the big event was set in motion early the following morning. By early afternoon contractions were strong enough for her to be taken up to the birth rooms on the 3rd floor. While I waited anxiously, an epidural was installed, and then we waited together. Finally, in the early evening the midwife deemed it time to push. Half an hour of hard labour later la petite coquinette was still being shy so the doctor was called. The doctor and about ten other assorted medical staff. An attempt at mechanical extraction (with me once more ejected - procedure deemed too upsetting) failed, so a cesarean it was.

Ma bien-aimée was wheeled away and I was consigned to another anxious wait, fortunately short. Barely ten minutes later I was called to set eyes on notre petite merveille for the first time. And I got to cuddle her while sa mère was stitched back together again. But at last, la bienheureuse got to hold sa fille for the first time. And treat her to a first tétée. Finally, they were both wheeled away to their room and I staggered home, emotionally and physically exhausted at the end of a long but ultimately miraculous day.

No action

Excitement about having a TV crew in the street outside proved ill-founded. Having reserved the parking both sides of the street the length of the block for the whole day, three large vans full of equipment eventually turned up in the afternoon. Technicians got out and then sat in the back smoking and watching the world go by for the next three hours. Eventually a flurry of activity: equipment unloaded and carted off. Less then an hour later everything was packed up and the vans were gone. Seems any filming that took place was in the street around the corner. Much ado about nothing.

Excitement about the new arrival continues unrequited. Five days past due date and still counting. Another checkup at the hospital this afternoon. Everything in perfect order, even the blood pressure of maman, with la petite treating the monitoring machine to one of her gymnastic specials.

Something that was resolved last week was the mystery of the missing parcel. Three visits to the nearest branch of the post office failed to throw up any trace or clue of how to find it. Last throw of the dice: try another branch further away. Nice lady there scans the bar code on the slip left by the postman and immediately tells us the parcel is at another branch, even further away. Why the fonctionnaires at the first branch couldn't have done the same, only they know. Faith in La Poste partially restored. Grumble.

And while I'm at it, another grumble. This morning I felt like a man missing all of his brain rather than just the more useful part: our internet connection went down. First time in a couple of years it has to be said, but the problem was that the phone is on the same cable connection, which meant using a mobile to call the hot line. After nearly half an hour of expensive waiting, the call was eventually answered. The man on the other end diagnosed the problem as either a faulty modem, or a problem with the network in the building. Then came the good news: the first time a technician could come round to sort it out was next Tuesday.

A week without internet, unthinkable! Fortunately, you've guessed it, the connection reappeared half an hour later. Faith in Numericable partially restored.