This is my daughter a month ago. It’s been seven weeks of hard work in this house. Broken legs mean children who can’t walk, which means constant bending and lifting and carrying. Not much fun when you’re already lugging a big old baby bump around.

The cast came off twelve days ago and, up until last week, my four year old refused, point-blank, to put any weight on her leg. “I don’t want to ever walk again Mummy,” she said proudly, as I urged her to get up and walk. “You’ll have to carry me forever and ever. Walking is stupid.”

A hospital physio appointment and another X-ray confirmed what we already knew: our daughter’s leg had healed perfectly – she wasn’t walking because she was scared (and stubborn). No amount of cajoling would persuade her to give weight-bearing on her leg a go. Even the promise of a whole pound for her jobs jar.

And then, a breakthrough moment…

This was a HUGE deal. It happened last Friday and, honestly, I could have cried. FINALLY! Some progress.

Since then we’ve been to the beach where yet more weight was put on her foot as she jumped around with me in the sea. We’ve been to our local swimming pool twice and spent an hour practising walking and kicking in the baby pool. And then, today, the biggest breakthrough yet – a session with the peadiatric physio who Frog already knows (my daughter has hypermobility syndrome so occasionally has physio when we get a flare up of aching joints).

This woman is a magician, I swear. In a one hour session she managed to get my head-strong four year old from gingerly wobbling on her toes to placing her full foot flat on the floor. We left with another session booked for later in the week and a walking aid on loan, which is already proving a big success.

It feels like we’re finally rounding a corner. The past two months have been physically tough and emotionally challenging. Broken bones and kids are always going to be rough, but add pregnancy and my daughter’s hypermobility to the mix and it brings a whole new element to the word “challenge”.

Anyway, we’re now at my parents’ house for a night – possibly more – to do more physio, paddling pool splashing and pottering.

I even found half an hour to get my snazzy camera out (which, up until recently, I’ve been too intimated to use!) and have a play…

With the (self-proclaimed) Northern Love Machine off work for the summer holidays and a child on the way to having a fully working leg, things are looking up.

Happy days.

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We fell through the door and took off our hats and scarves. My three year old requested CBeebies and a cup of warm milk and I duly obliged. Half an hour later, we were still there, snuggled up on the sofa, bathed by the warm glow of Mr Bloom and friends. 

I would have been there an hour and a half later too, if I hadn’t made a promise to myself a couple of weeks ago. Life is a bit stressful at the moment. With Christmas just around the corner we still don’t know where we’re going to be living come December 25th, which is kind of scary, especially when you’re a planner as I am. So I made a pact with myself recently to try and do as much as I can in the afternoons with Frog, to forget the stress. Immersing myself in mum duties seems to be working, so far.

It’s amazing how distracting a three year old can be. Reluctantly turning off the TV and donning wellies, coats, hats and gloves, we went for a wander to the end of our road. I was sure I’d spotted a tiny entrance to a public footpath when I was parking the other day.

Sure enough…

It’s amazing really. We’ve lived here four months and I’d never noticed that path until a few days ago. We followed it for a minute or so.

It led here… Beneath us was the stream we discovered a couple of weeks ago. The path threaded around the side of a steep hillside, with views right across the valley, overlooking the edge of Dartmoor.

This has been just behind our house all this time.

We stopped to sit on a bench and chat about what we could see – amongst the fields there was the place where Frog does swimming lessons, some hamlets tucked just behind town and rather a lot of sheep.

Then we did some hill climbing. Recovering from the terror of seeing my three year old almost hurtle down the sheer face of a very steep Devon hill, I realised I wasn’t feeling stressed any more. And the stinking cold didn’t feel quite so stinking.

I even felt happy enough to indulge my camera-mad child and take a couple of Dartmoor Selfies (that’s totally a thing by the way – Dartmoor enthusiasts will be doing “Dartmoor Selfies” from here on in, guaranteed).

The outdoors wins again. Thank you outdoors.

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First day of pre-school, back when it was sunny.

“Why are the leaves on the floor Mummy? Why isn’t it snowing yet? Why do snails have a shell? Why do dogs poo on the ground? What is that flower? Can I have some cake now?”

Walking my 3 year old to pre-school is to endure an unending barrage of questions, many of which I don’t have time to answer before the next inquisition hits me in the face. From the colour of the sky to the reason she has to go to pre-school in the first place, Frog wants to know it all. And I mean ALL.

“When you have another baby Mummy? Why Daddy not have baby? Can Daddy have a baby? I want a rabbit. Can I have a cat? Oh I wish and I wish and I wish it would snow! Why can’t it snow NOW?!”

Pre-school is a ten minute walk down a steep hill. I often manage to cut the journey to five minutes when I’m walking alone to collect Frog (often running late. Scrap that – always running late). In the mornings though, we leave half an hour before we need to arrive, because the journey takes so long.

We have to stop to examine every leaf. Every snail shell. Every spider web. Every flower. We have to stop to wave at every car that goes past and listen to every cow mooing in the field. Every doorstep needs to be jumped on and every kerb needs to be paused at, even if there are no cars around.

Walking a 3 year old to pre-school is the greatest test of my patience yet.

On Friday the walk was a bit different. It was rushed, in the buggy, with tears and shouting. It was in the eye of a huge tantrum that spat us both out and left 3 year old and mum exhausted. That day the tantrum meant we only had ten minutes to do the journey, so there was no meandering to look at the spider webs and snail shells.

It made me realise, as much as I find myself gritting my teeth and swallowing back a tense “Come on, we’re going to be late!”, I’d far rather the slow walk and incessant questions. It’s a little bit of normality that I missed this time last year, when I was already out of the door for work at 4.30am. Some of our best chats take place between 8.45am and 9.15am, even if they are completely and utterly random. The walk gets me started for the day and marks an important place in our Monday to Friday routine.

So next time my 3 year old stops to stroke a dandelion leaf or poke a stone with the toe of her boot, I’m going to remember that these ordinary daily moments won’t last forever. Before I know it she’ll be running out of the door with a piece of toast in her hand, ready to catch the school bus on her own.

For now, I’m going to try and treasure the slower pace and make the most of the questions. Even if they are taking place in the pouring down rain while my fringe is getting wet.

***

I’m linking this post up to The Ordinary Moments over at Mummy Daddy Me Makes Three. 

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It wasn’t huge on the scale of things, but it’s been niggling in the pit of my stomach for a week now.

After being told back in February that Frog’s walking delay was NOT due to hip dysplasia, we had a letter telling us otherwise. After the countless appointments we’ve been to and the blood tests and the physio sessions, this was a setback. And a confusing one at that.

The letter was written by a pediatrician we have yet to see, after he thought that we had failed to turn up to an appointment (we hadn’t, but that’s another story). It was a very pleasant letter, forwarded by our GP, but the sentence at the top of the letter had me in tears.

Problem: Mild hip dysplasia, joint hyper-laxity, mild developmental delay

Lack of sleep combined with confusion just opened the flood gates. And then the tears turned to anger. I went through all the possibilities in my mind, constantly coming back to the one that I most feared. There’s been a mistake. I misunderstood. My two year old does, actually, have a dislocated hip.

The thing is, we have never actually been sat down and told what she is constantly being referred for. The GP originally referred her for suspected hip dysplasia. Given that she was 19 months at the time and still not walking, it seemed like the most obvious answer.

But she was x-rayed and examined and – although a bit clicky – the hip was given the all clear.

So then she was referred to a physio for the flexibility (or hyper-laxity, hypermobility, bendiness – whatever you want to call it). But the specialist nurse requested to see us again, to check progress. By this time (I lose track amongst all the appointments) Frog was actually up on her feet. She’d just turned two and was a wonky walker, but a walker all the same.

But she was sleeping lots. Some nights, there would be up to 17 hours of deep sleep. This concerned the nurse and she ordered blood tests.

Blood tests came back negative of anything scary and again we heaved a sigh of relief. But still the nurse was concerned. And because she’s thorough and wanted to erase all questions, we were referred to a pediatrician.

Or so we thought.

It was then that we received this letter out of the blue. And I started to wonder if the initial x-ray had been re-examined and a problem had been found. I asked my buddies Jane and Emma if they knew what “mild” hip dysplasia meant. I vented steam by writing cryptic, angry posts on Facebook.

I made lots of phone calls, was put through to various different people and was kept on the line waiting a fair few times.

And then, after a week, I got the call I’d been waiting for.

“She doesn’t have hip dysplasia. It was a mistake. You shouldn’t have had that letter. We got our wires crossed. Really sorry.”

I’m too relieved to be cross at the admin error – or whatever it was.

My bendy girl has jumped through yet another hoop. Which is quite fitting really, considering she’s recently learned how to jump and actually take off from the ground, even if it is only a millimetre.

The post What the doctor said appeared first on Mother's Always Right.

Nothing unusual about that for August – except the toddler isn’t actually naked. She wears not a stitch all over her body, but her feet are adorned with a pair of socks and some heavy duty boots.

A good look, I’m sure you’ll agree.

The thing is, my two year old is still wobbly when it comes to walking. At 26 months, she only fully mastered the craft of getting up on two feet before her recent birthday. She has hypermobility issues, which means she is very bendy, making it hard for her to balance properly.

Added to the bendiness are her wonky flat feet, punctuated by a complete lack of instep, meaning she walks with her feet splayed out, putting a huge strain on her ankles. With no shoes to keep them in place, her ankles touch the floor.

So it was with a huge smile that I let her remove her clumpy hospital Piedro Boots this weekend. These beauties may keep her stable, but they do nothing to keep little toes cool in the heat. And they certainly don’t complement nudity.

Every day that Frog is up on her wonky feet, her ankles grow stronger. Every day that she takes another step and runs to chase something, her hips gain strength and she increases in confidence. In the last couple of days she’s started jumping and it’s hilarious to see her attempt to take off, only reaching the dizzy heights of success (about 1 centimetre off the ground) on some occasions.

Frog’s physiotherapist has advised us to keep her in the Piedro boots for a little while each day, to take the strain off her ankles and give her hips and knees the chance to get stronger. But it’s also important she doesn’t rely on these boots to walk all the time.

So toes out on the grass and in the paddling pool occasionally are encouraged. As are other types of shoes with a bit less ankle support.

We’ve found these Skeanies boots good for days relaxing at home, when Frog’s ankles are ready to do a bit more work on their own, but not quite in the mood to go solo completely.

Plus, they’re really rather pretty and go with a lot of her more girly outfits. (Although, obviously, not the long socks with shorts. I have no idea why my toddler continues to rock this look.)

Frog also has a pair of hi-top trainers from Next, which she LOVES. The bargain price of under £20 means I also love them. The support is just about right for her hypermobile ankles when she’s ready for a break from the hospital boots – plus, they look utterly cool.

And the trusty faithfuls – bought nearly 6 months ago but which STILL fit – are these purple Ricoste Boots. After an entire evening searching every corner of the internet I finally found a pair in a minuscule size 4.

With her tiny feet, Frog has had to forego many of the mainstream boot brands on the high street up until now, but I literally cheered when I came across these beauties. They’re the boots that eventually saw her get up on her two feet and, for that, I’ll forever have a soft spot for them.

Unfortunately for my diva child, it’s likely she may struggle to walk in heels when she’s older. We’re told her flat feet are so extremely pronounced that she may have to wear special insoles right through adulthood. It’s not clear yet if it’s something she’ll grow out of. But, for now, her favourite boots (mine) are still out of bounds.

***

This is not a review post as such, but I was given the Skeanies Boots for the purpose of a previous review.

The post Why my daughter will never wear heels appeared first on Mother's Always Right.

Ballet was a big part of our Saturday morning routine throughout my childhood. The walk along the leafy Bristol streets, hand in hand with my mum, chattering away. The smell of new ballet shoes and the excitement of visiting the dance shop with all its multi-coloured tutus. Sitting in a freezing church hall practising “good toes, naughty toes” before getting onto the fun stuff – the jumps and the routines.

Parenthood has a habit of bringing all the best bits of our own early years into sharp focus. I can still hear the rip as my friend shredded my pink tutu, made lovingly by my mum, during one of the many shows we put on for the adults (who were probably incredibly bored at the time but did a great job of hiding it). I can still feel the scratchy net, deliciously puffy and rigid against my skin, as I proudly pointed my toes and imagined myself the lead role in Swan Lake.

As I got older, dance continued to be a big part of my life.

I gave up ballet for a while and started jazz. I joined a contemporary dance group and rehearsed for hours during weekends. I danced and danced and danced.

And then I stopped.

It was around the time I had to make my decisions about which subjects to continue with at A’Level. I chose not to take up dance and to focus on the other things I loved – writing and journalism. And just like that, those early Saturday mornings and scratchy lycra and freezing cold church halls were gone.

But I remember them fondly.

So it was with a sense of regret I listened to the words of my toddler’s physiotherapist recently. “As she grows up, it’s a good idea to encourage her to take part in sports like swimming and cycling,” she said. “Although her flexible joints are likely to make her quite good at things like ballet, those kinds of activities might place too much stress on them and cause her pain.”

Instantly, the idea of walking hand in hand with my own daughter to ballet lessons, watching her line up alongside the other children to perform “good toes, naughty toes”, tying her hair back into a bun with grips and hair nets… all those images went out of the window.

The thing is, I’m aware Frog might not even like ballet. She loves swimming and reading and music. She loves drawing and digging for worms and jumping in puddles. She loves the same kinds of things most two year olds do. It’s not like she’s pirouetting round the living room or performing arabesques across the garden.

But one day she might. One day she might turn to me and say, “Mummy, can I do ballet?”

And I’m not quite sure what I’ll say to that.

Perhaps her hypermobile joints might not cause her discomfort, in which case ballet – or any kind of dance – is a possibility. As she’s just a toddler, it’s difficult to predict if her hyperflexibility will hold her back as she grows up or if she’ll catch up with her peers when it comes to physical milestones. After all, she’s only been walking a couple of months and she’s already running and jumping.

It’s an unknown, like most things parenting related.

For now though, I think we’ll content ourselves with just wearing the tutu. And reading in it. And spilling baked beans on it. And pretty much never taking it off.

After all, the tutu’s the most important bit about ballet. Right?

***

This post has been written for this week’s Gallery, where the theme is Sport. Head over to Sticky Fingers to read the rest.

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I chased my daughter around a shop this afternoon. I watched as she let go of my hand and made a dash for the tills, running behind the counter, before playing peepo in an empty changing room.

It was beautiful.

A week tomorrow my baby girl turns two years old. And it is only now that I am beginning to see her as the toddler she has been for the past six months. The speaking, singing, mischievous toddler. The non-toddling toddler who is no longer of the non-toddling variety.

Every day brings a new step towards freedom. Every day rewards my girl with the promise that she will beat the hypermobile joints and flat feet that have held her back so long. Every day her legs catch up a few paces with her quick mind, proving that dogged determination is the key to happiness and satisfaction.

She’s not sprinting, or hopping, or skipping yet. But she can let go of supportive hands that once kept her upright. She can make a dash, unhindered, to her own choice of playground equipment. For the first time in her life, she doesn’t have to shout “SWING!” to let us know what she wants. She simply walks towards it.

Amazing.

And she has reached this stage with practically no physio and no special boots. Just constant frustration driving her forwards, backed up by cheers of encouragement from everyone who knows her.

I embrace the physio sessions, soon to begin, with a new sense of eagerness. If she can do this without the imminent physio and piedro boots, what will she achieve with them?

I feel positive and excited. I’ve never felt this way before about my child’s physical milestones.

For the first time, I can watch my daughter chasing freedom without my heart breaking. I can watch her chasing freedom, because I know it won’t be long before she finally catches it.

The post Chasing freedom appeared first on Mother's Always Right.

But not this week.

Because yesterday I filmed a little video. And after all the posts I’ve written about my non-toddling toddler’s struggle with walking and hypermobility, the frustrations and questioning looks, the worry and negativity… I wanted to put something positive here.

This is what determination looks like, in the form of an almost 23 month old little girl with wonky feet and uber flexible limbs. This is what not giving up looks like.

And I’m so bloody proud.

The post Not giving up appeared first on Mother's Always Right.

I’d been told my nearly 22 month old daughter had an “issue” with the joints from her hips downwards and she was, to put it simply, too flexible to walk.

We sat there, our family of three, on hard plastic chairs next to a picture of everyone’s favourite donkey Eeyore, and tried to decipher the medical jargon tumbling into our confused brains.

Your. Child. Has. A. Problem.

Your. Child. Needs. Treatment.

We were in shock. We’d just had to pin our screaming, terrified child down to be X-rayed. We’d just had to explain to her that the light from the machine wouldn’t burn her, desperate to console her sobs of “HOT HOT HOT!”

And now this.

But, as the strip lighting in that sanitised room flickered, we began to feel elated. She didn’t need an operation. There was no major issue with her hips. A pair of special shoes and some Physio and she’d be fine.

Then we booked the Physio assessment and we slumped again.

Three months. Three more months of tantrums and tears at not walking. Three more months of watching my formerly confident, outgoing child withdraw into herself, as she becomes aware that she’s not like the other kids. She can’t jump into the swimming pool. She can’t dance along to the music. She can’t walk.

So, when this happened earlier today, I was (perhaps understandably) in tears…

The post The one where my non-toddling toddler toddles appeared first on Mother's Always Right.

Hospital waiting rooms - a good source of books

I didn’t sleep last night.

I was too busy tossing and turning in bed, mulling over the various different things that could mean my toddler isn’t toddling. Why is it that things always seem so much worse in the dark?

Today’s hospital appointment – both dreaded and anticipated – wasn’t particularly pleasant. The X-ray which I was hoping to avoid did actually happen. The consultant examined Frog’s gorgeous hips and sent us straight to the room with the “special camera”.

It turns out, as much as Frog loves having her picture taken, she’s not so keen on the “special camera”.

In fact, she rather loathes it. As the light turned on she screamed “HOT HOT HOT” as her father and I pinned her to the bed, desperately singing The Wheels on the Bus in an attempt to stop her escaping the X-ray Monster. Pleasant is not a word I’d use to describe those 5 minutes.

But, once some raisins had been retrieved from the bottom of my bag, and Frog was safely out of sight from the “special camera” our spirits started to lift.

The consultant examined the X-ray and uttered the words I’d been hoping to hear for the last four months: There’s no serious issue with her hips. They’re not dislocated.

I could have cried with relief right there – black mascara running down my face – but I was too busy listening to the next bit.

But there is a problem. She will need treatment.

It turns out Frog is exceptionally gifted in the flexibility stakes. She could put any ballerina or gymnast to shame, apparently. The thing is, Frog’s flexibility is what is causing the mobility issues. In short, she’s too flexible to walk.

An examination from the doctor showed her feet turn almost all the way around, so that she could be facing forwards while her feet face backwards. Not something you need when you’re trying to negotiate the simple act of standing up without holding your mum’s hand.

Frog also has a clicky hip, caused by a dogdy ligament, caused by the flexibility issue. Her knees swivel around like some kind of fancy chair featured on the latest BBC talent show The Voice. Her body is a bit like a pipe cleaner, with no locking system to keep every joint in place, where it needs to be.

So, the bottom line is, although she’s approaching 2 years old, Frog is unlikely to walk any time soon. She needs special shoes with more support around the ankles (although where I get these is anyone’s guess) and she needs lots of physio treatment.

She also needs to go back to see the lovely consultant after her 2nd birthday to double-check there’s nothing more sinister behind her refusal to walk.

There are three months sitting between us and that first physio appointment.

I’m going to use that time wisely, to search for a special pair of shoes and a large supply of patience.

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