I never got to meet my maternal grandmother Iris; she had passed away while my mother was pregnant with me. My family would talk about her with such affection and no one could say her name without smiling. She became this ethereal figure in my childhood with her portrait at the top of the stairs and photographs of her around the house. To me she seemed beautiful inside and out. I was enchanted by her wide eyes, auburn hair and graceful pose. I got to know her through her belongings: china ornaments, jewellery, embroidery she had worked on, art she had created, and her clothes that I wore, which had come back into fashion. It’s amazing how much you can sense from someone’s belongings, seeing what they loved and enjoyed. It wasn’t the same as knowing her, but these things meant a great deal to me. Her gentleness and love of art and nature was passed down to my mother and then to me. So when we were thinking about naming our baby girl, Iris was my first choice, and Grace was another favourite that both P-J and I loved, for no other reason than its elegance and beauty.
She tucked her little body against mine. Right away she seemed to fit, finding a position that suited and that was the one she was going to stick to, resting against my body upright with her head on my shoulder.
‘You did it!’ P-J said and then kissed me, smiling and holding on to Iris’s tiny hand. She had lots of dark brown hair and I held her close for as long as I could in the kitchen. The day to meet our little Iris Grace had come sooner than expected. She was born a few weeks early in September 2009 at 7 pounds 3.5 ounces with brown hair and blue eyes. I will not pretend it was easy, but I never regretted the decision to have a home birth, not for one second. My midwife was incredible and I trusted her completely. I was never frightened or worried, but I did need space and quiet. I moved around the house, into the pool, out of the pool, up the stairs, down the stairs, lying quietly alone. I wanted the music on, then I needed it off. I followed how I felt and what my body was asking for and everybody tried their best to keep up with my wishes. I know it can’t have been easy for my midwife, the second midwife and P-J who were up with me all through the night. There were moments when they were worried as I hadn’t eaten for so long and I was exhausted, but I didn’t want to eat – I couldn’t. I just wanted to zone out at times and let my body rest with no interference, summoning the energy that I needed.
While I was with the midwife P-J had Iris in his arms and I shall never forget the look on his face: it was as though the two of them were in their own bubble. When I shut my eyes I could hear P-J whispering.
‘Hello. How are you doing, Iris? How cool are you! You are simply wonderful and everything is going to be great. Your mummy is here; she will be fine soon. Don’t you worry, little Iris, I’m going to keep you safe. Everything is going to be OK. We are going to have the most wonderful adventures in life – you just wait and see.’
I rested until I had the energy to move into the next room and on to the sofa. My comfortable nest, complete with blankets, tea, treacle cake and Iris in my arms, provided so much comfort. I laughed at the tiny hat that was a gift from the midwife. My little elf was content. She slept and I rested, then it was time for her first visitors, her delighted grandparents.
My father took Iris in his arms and it was clear that Iris made quite an impression on him immediately. He settled in an armchair with my mother kneeling at his side and they both looked at Iris adoringly and they couldn’t stop smiling. ‘Careful of her head; support her here,’ my mother said as he passed Iris across for her to have a cuddle. It was a wonderful feeling looking at my parents holding their first grandchild. I knew that no matter what happened she would be loved by her family that surrounded her.
After Christmas, which was magical and totally exhausting all at the same time, we had Iris’s christening to plan. But Iris’s sleeping patterns were becoming less predictable and much harder to manage. As each week went by, that side of life gradually slipped out of control. Just getting her to sleep in the evenings was a mission; she would only settle with me and on my shoulder while I walked around listening to music, or rest on me in the rocking chair. Keeping her asleep also seemed impossible. She would wake after an hour or two and cry until she had the warmth of my shoulder again and the movement coupled with music. It was an exhausting process because by the time I got to sleep after settling her it seemed like I was being woken again. I couldn’t believe my luck when Iris fell asleep in her christening gown as we walked with her to the church from my parents’ house. She was tired from a restless night and for once that had worked in my favour: she slept peacefully for the whole ceremony until it was time for her part when she bravely let the vicar splash her forehead.
Afterwards close family and friends all came back to my parents’ house opposite the church to have some lunch. Iris was uncomfortable so I changed her into some of her soft clothes but still she didn’t like being held by anyone else apart from a few key members of the family. She loved the song ‘She’ll Be Coming ’Round the Mountain’ – it was the only thing that seemed to keep her calm while she was downstairs with everyone around – so we all sang that to her, and then she needed to have some space away from the hubbub. The more I saw her act like this around others the more I would worry. She didn’t enjoy company like other children and babies that I had photographed. She was very interactive at times with us and could hold eye contact – she laughed and smiled, even tried to copy – but these skills seemed so inconsistent, almost in waves of being social and then distant. At those times I felt like she was drifting away. Like in a daydream but more powerful, she would have a sad glazed look in her eyes and didn’t seem to notice what was happening right in front of her. There were times when we would worry that she couldn’t hear us properly because she didn’t react to sudden noises or if we came into the room, but again that was so inconsistent that it really didn’t give us anything concrete to go on. When I expressed my concerns to doctors I was told at six months it was far too early to be concerned and that she was a happy, healthy baby. I was just tired from the lack of sleep that all parents experience and there was no need to worry. My anxieties eased with these words and I felt a little embarrassed for even bringing it up. With so little sleep you start to doubt every move you make and the assurance put my mind at rest for a while.
By around seven months all her dark brown hair had fallen out and was replaced with a much lighter blondish brown. By eight months she had said ‘dada’ and was using various sounds. She was hitting all the various milestones, maybe a little off on some, but nothing that would cause alarm. However, the sleep issues continued.
‘Tomorrow will be better,’ I whispered to Iris, her body clinging to mine as we rocked in the chair. We had been through a succession of long nights and difficult days for weeks. The sleep deprivation was really starting to take its toll and many times out in the car I had to stop because my eyes hurt so badly from the light. I had even resorted to having both sun visors down and wearing two pairs of sunglasses. It attracted strange looks but I was beyond caring. I would open the window for fresh air, paranoid that I was going to fall asleep at the wheel.
Hour after hour passed and Iris fought sleep like a night warrior, determined with every part of her body to stay awake as I willed my body to stay awake for her. During the day I had become used to the dizzy spells and the nausea brought on by what felt like a permanent and extreme state of no sleep. But as I rocked Iris to her favourite piano music I realized that this could not go on for ever. Something had to change because all our methods were failing. I was only surviving because of my support network: my wonderful mother dropped off cooked meals and sandwiches almost daily and P-J did trips to the shops while I edited wedding photographs and sent out quotes, trying to get some work done in the few precious hours while Iris was asleep during the day.
Tuesday's Child, acrylic, June 2013
Iris’s body slumped across to one side and I felt her breathing becoming more even; she was finally drifting off to sleep. Now the transfer: a delicate operation. Firs
t, rising from the comfort of the rocking chair without the dreaded squeak; moving her body in a smooth motion over to the French bed; and then rolling her over on to her side – all the while keeping her blanket over her. I waited for a little while longer, putting off this defining moment. I kissed her and then started to cry, trying not to but unable to control it. Why was this so hard? Why couldn’t she sleep? I knew this wasn’t normal. This wasn’t what everyone else was going through with their children. I knew something was wrong, and the desperate hopelessness of the unknown hurt from the inside out. It ached. We were spiralling downwards. While everyone else seemed to be rising from the newborn sleep-deprived days, we were sinking. I could hear my mother’s voice in my head: ‘It will pass. This is just a phase – one stage and before you know it things will have moved on.’ Then my own voice screaming in my mind: ‘It isn’t passing! What am I doing wrong?’
After Iris’s first birthday her behaviour seemed to become more exaggerated and her sleep problems were increasingly noticeable. Her interest in books was intense. Before she could even turn the pages properly with her fingers she was using her feet lying on her back. She would spend hours looking at her books in this way and then once she had full control of her fingers she was fully immersed. If she was looking at her books, a whole funfair could be going on and she wouldn’t even look up. It was as if she was linked, connected in some way that was so powerful that it created an impenetrable orb around her.
One morning I was editing photographs with Iris playing in my office. The clock on my computer told me it was time for Iris to have a feed. It made me think. Iris had been content playing with books on my office floor for hours with unbroken focus, looking at each page, turning them with her feet and hands. My first feeling was incredible pride that my baby had such amazing concentration skills that would rival a six-year-old, but then the realization came that this wasn’t a six-year-old, it was my baby girl.
Suddenly it felt like I could hear everything: the hum from the computer, Iris turning the pages, my own heart. It was beating fast and I felt strangely cold: something wasn’t right here. Iris hadn’t wanted my attention all morning. I had been singing nursery rhymes while I worked and she had been so happy looking at the books that it hadn’t occurred to me that she didn’t seem to mind if I was there or not. She was in her own world, a different world, consumed by the books and the colourful pages. She hardly ever made an attempt to talk any more. After her ‘dada’ at eight months old she had made a few other sounds, but since then she had been gradually more and more silent as the months passed. The lack of speech was frustrating as we knew she was capable of making the sounds; it was as if she had a complete lack of interest in doing so. I became very good at understanding Iris through her body language and by watching her eyes, which alleviated some of the frustrations. Well-meaning advice from others made me feel that it was my fault for doing too much for her, for anticipating her needs and wishes. When she wanted something she would try to get it herself but if it was out of reach I would help. But perhaps these were chances to try to get her to communicate verbally. What everyone else didn’t see is that I had tried many times, but it would cause Iris so much distress that I was unable to handle in my sleep-deprived state. It’s all too easy for others to see fragments of time and make judgements, but really it’s the parents who know. That uneasy feeling that I had all those months ago returned in a quick and powerful surge. What was happening to her?
From the age of four months Iris had had another pastime that she dearly loved as much as her books and that was Tom and Jerry. She would watch these cartoons for as long as she could. By the time she was over a year old we had the complete set of old Tom and Jerry cartoons. They gave her so much pleasure that I didn’t see any harm in it. I knew her gentle nature well enough to know that she wasn’t going to take the cartoons literally, but many found her deep interest in something so specific worrying. She would laugh hysterically at the jokes and her legs and hands had a life of their own, completely connected to the action on the screen. It was almost as if the excitement was on a different level than we feel.
Music had a similar effect. While she listened to music her hands would be out in the air, her little fingers twitching, moving and feeling the music. It was as if her senses were heightened, so acutely at times that it was an electric state of euphoria. She was able to concentrate for hours at a time with unbroken focus and we saw the same reactions when she watched the wind in the trees, or other movements in water and nature. Watching her while she was like this was bewitching: a child so young connected in a way that we could only imagine. I had no idea what it meant or why it was happening, but we could see and feel that she was experiencing life on a different plane to us. Sometimes the profound way that she experienced the world was like a destructive force. In social situations, with all the chat and movement, she became either distant or distressed, crying uncontrollably, and if she wasn’t removed from the situation she would quickly get very agitated and angry. Her attention to detail and her ability to see a vast amount in a short space of time was also troublesome at times. As soon as she came into a room she was able to take it all in and if I had moved a book or a toy from where she had last left it she would notice and became anxious. She looked to the place where the item once was and would make her way over to it, then putting her hand to the spot she would start to cry until it was back in its place. If she couldn’t reach the item it would become even more confusing as she cried and got more wound up until I eventually figured out what had been moved. Certain items had to be left in their exact position on the floor; if you moved them even a centimetre, she would know and move them back. These distinct wishes weren’t only limited to her toys and books; she was insistent on what clothing she could tolerate – soft cotton bodysuits, T-shirts and baggy comfortable bottoms were fine, anything with complicated buttons, zips, too much detail or labels were not. Tights, socks and shoes were like torture, and you could forget dresses. Most of the time when we were out people would mistake her for a boy, but that was the least of my worries.
The customary weeks for mothers filled with play dates and toddler groups came with heartbreak for us. I would bundle Iris’s favourite toys and books into a bag, shutting my eyes and wishing that today, for once, our outing would go well, that Iris would enjoy herself like the other children could, and that she wouldn’t hide away behind the piano lining up crayons in order. I would wish that I would be able to take my eyes off her and turn round and see her smiling. Oh how I would wish that, but no amount of wishing, crossing fingers or hope would change the outcome.
Instead, once again, I would find myself back in the car after another disastrous attempt at enjoying ourselves. Iris would get desperately distressed when a child came close to her and then spend her time hidden away under the piano, obsessing about a tiny mark on the carpet. I would have to take her home. How many times could I do this to her? She was only a year and a half old. One day, after a typically gruelling session, I made a decision. She obviously hated it and the experience was making me feel terrible. I promised her that I would stop; I would not make her feel like that again and that somehow we would figure this out. I thought about all the outings we had tried, how I had somehow in my sleep-deprived state been persuaded to sign up to a whole term of a baby gym, and how Iris was fixated upon anything but the fun equipment that was in front of her, how she would find minuscule imperfections in the play mats and with her face centimetres away from them inspecting them in great detail while the rest of the group circulated the room, having fun on the balance beams, slides and trampolines. When she wasn’t obsessing over such minor details she was over by the tennis-court net, figuring out the intricate way the net was formed. She would do anything but be engaged in the group’s activities. Circle time was a particularly tortuous affair that always ended in us leaving early, with Iris screaming down the corridor and out of the front doors of the building. Yet as soon as we were outside she would s
top crying and peace resumed. She couldn’t wait to return to the safety of our car and make her escape, and I was starting to feel the same way.
I couldn’t bear the looks from the other parents – at first pitying glances and then frustration that we were disturbing the group. It was like being an outcast for something that I couldn’t even name and didn’t understand. All I knew was that we didn’t fit. We didn’t seem to fit in anywhere that was your typical toddler experience. Even the playground parks were arduous affairs. While other children happily slid down slides, were pushed on swings by their mothers, played in the sandpit or spun on the roundabout, Iris would be inspecting the nuts and bolts that held the playground equipment together. She had very little interest in being on the different apparatus: she was in pursuit of knowledge, wanting to find out how it all worked. Each time we visited the same routine would commence: she would return to the exact same pieces in the same order and work systematically around the park, gesturing to me where she would like to go to next. I did have some success with the swings but it had to be one particular swing and other mothers just didn’t understand why it was so important for them to move their child on to the next one so Iris could use her favourite. There was a reason her attention was so fixed on that swing and it was a simple detail: the joins in the chain loops were smooth, whereas on the other swings they were rough, and Iris liked the smooth ones better against her skin. I began to take her to the park in less busy times to secure her swing and I found that she was more relaxed with fewer people around, so we did many early-morning visits to the park. Our only adversary at that time of day was the street cleaner that made its way through the park, but its presence was short-lived and Iris could see that it would be leaving soon. She would bury her head into my jacket and I would protect her ears from the unwanted noise.
Iris Grace Page 3