Category Archives: Humour

9 things I have learned in my first school term

08 Thursday Dec 2016

Posted by in Humour, mental health, Parenting, School

≈ Leave a comment

img_4908-jpg-cat

Well, we’re a term in and the Big Small Person has settled admirably at Infant School. But she’s not the only one getting an education – the start of school is something of steep learning curve for parents too. Especially this one. So I thought I’d share a few things I’ve learned in my child’s first term…

 

  1. The book bag is an official channel of official communication

I mean, who knew?? It comes somewhere on the Official List of Communications between Letters, Email, and Carrier Pigeon. No b*****d has ever shared this list with me.

The book bag must be checked everyday for important paper messages hidden amongst the other random crap your child decides to bring home (see no 6). It is never, ever used for books. Fool. Apparently this is something other people just know ‘naturally’, but it took me a good month to catch on because I am completely clueless.

 

  1. It’s more expensive than it looks

Were you looking forward to a financial break when your first born hit full time mainstream education? LOL! Sweet. Now not only do you have to figure out the before school/after school/childminder/friend-swapping/play-dating/school club/holiday care drop-off and pick-up MADNESS, you have to pay through the nose for them, too.

And you will also spend a small fortune in loose change for non-uniform days, bake sales, harvest festival donations, school trips, and other random bobbins. All of which must be supplied direct to the office in envelopes you don’t own and can never remember to purchase. No, you cannot just write an upfront cheque at the beginning of term. Nor is there a Direct Debit option. I asked.

If you are the owner of a baby, take my advice – stock up on your stationary, and start saving your small change now.

 

  1. You won’t have a scooby do what they do all day

Yep, this old chestnut. But it really is a violent contrast after nursery, where you get to shoot the breeze with the staff about your darling little one at some length – and even get a written daily report of their consumption, bowel movements, play pals and activities.

At school you get 15 mins facetime with the teacher each term. It’s weird.

You will also get nothing out of your child. Literally – “nothing”. Or “nobody”. Or “Mummeeee, stop asking me all of these stupid questions! I don’t want to talk about this now!” (Uh huh, the attitude turns up a good notch, too).

I’ve even tried all the inventive questions you’re supposed to ask, about what their teacher said to them today, what made them laugh, what was so-and-so doing at lunchtime etc etc.

Nada.

Occasionally bits will slip out accidentally as they are trying to keep you talking at bedtime, or when playing schools with teddy bears. But that’s your lot.

This is a well documented phenomenon, but suddenly being completely blind to 35+ hours of your kid’s life is pretty damn discomforting. The only thing more discomforting is actually getting more face-time with the teacher, because it means your kid has been a little turd. The long journey from the collection point into the classroom when you are called in after school is your new Walk of Shame. The old one was waaaaay more fun.

 

  1. The school gate is a whole nother level of social anxiety! Yay!

Dadonthenetheredge, my greatest supporter/detractor, has a word to describe my behaviour in social situations, especially new ones. That word is ‘intense’.

The school gate is not a good place for ‘intense’.

Having run the gauntlet of Mummyland groups, and nursery, (plus, you know, school, university and work) you might think I would have developed intensity-dampening strategies, or at least the ability not to care.  Neither of these have yet occurred. Instead I simply continue to be just slightly inappropriate, incomprehensible or, at best, inconsistent, and then obsess about each interaction after the fact.

But this isn’t your own, personal, run-of-the-mill social anxiety. Oh no no. Because this is school. This is the beginning of your child’s real social life. The impressions and connections they make here will colour and shape their lives as they move with their peers through the education system over the next 14 years. So now you get to have social anxiety on behalf of your CHILD, which is a billion times worse. Why weren’t they invited back for a play date? Why didn’t they get that party invite? Why didn’t so and so want to sit with them at lunch? What did they do? What did YOU do?

You obviously want your child to make friends at school, and that means EXTRA pressure to ingratiate yourself with parents – or at least make the effort to appear normal – lest your own personality foibles impair your child’s social success.

My intensity does NOT do well under pressure.

To counteract this, I have taken to putting on real clothes (as opposed to maternity yoga pants) and actual make-up for pick-up time, so I appear to outsiders to be a functioning member of society. I also chant my ‘Do not be intense and weird’ mantra under my breath, plant a maniacal fixed smile on my face and try not to look too dead behind the eyes.

I’m pretty sure it’s working a treat.

 

  1. The administration is EPIC

Oh God. The admin.

It started with a school letter before school even started, littered with so many dates, rules, meetings and events I literally couldn’t make head, tail or any other random anatomical sense of what was going on – and subsequently missed half of them.

This is why I know F-all about PTA activities or phonics. Probably.

This initial and epic four A4 sides of dense communications was followed by an actual list of dates, not, it turns out, exhaustive. (I missed Children In Need non-uniform day for instance – exactly the kind of shite which tortured and haunted my own childhood. Insert flashback).

Let me make it clear that I am a grown woman literally afraid of her own post, and who considers his willingness to act as my personal secretary Dadonthenetherdege’s most attractive quality. In fact I count post as one of my natural foes, alongside spiders, Baileys (although I didn’t know this until I was 16 or so), PE, and deadlines. ***Shiver***.

So having to deal with the sheer breadth and girth of correspondence on behalf of the Big Small Person has been… somewhat challenging. I mean I’m barely keeping my own sh*t together, here.

You are not, by the way, allowed to SHARE the administrative burden. Schools will accept only one contact per child. This has annoyed and alarmed Dadonthenetheredge, who – for some reason – mistrusts my organisational capabilities. Which in turn makes me unjustifiably indignant. (Not enough to actually organise myself, though, needless to say.)

And it is not just the paperwork via book bag, for schools have now gone 21st century on us, and have a dastardly system of texts, websites and apps they can also bombard you with. I once received 6 text messages in one day. And there are 3 billion websites to sign up for and remember passwords for. The general school website. The payment app. The event booking app. The homework site. The specialist maths site. The class page. The phonics site. Oh, and then the FB parents and class pages. And the emails. From school, after school club, and activity clubs.

I was going to expand on this list for comedic effect but I’m too busy hyperventilating having typed it out.

Only today, on visit to the school office with various tardy permission slips and envelopes of money, the nice Office Lady tapped me consolingly on the shoulder, reminded me of another form I had forgotten, and told me she’d put an extra copy in my book bag because she knew I wouldn’t read the email.

We’re not even at the end of the first term in a pretty big school and this woman knows me by name, knows my child by name, and knows about my post allergy and gaping administrative blind spot. I spend considerably more time with her than with my child’s actual teacher.

Far from being embarrassed, I’m actually hoping that by Year 1 I can take her in correspondence from home about banking, insurance, mortgages and all the other crap that melts my tiny brain, and she might help me sort the rest of my life out too.

 

  1. Your child was NOT a prolific artist at nursery.

Although I have seen some evidence of actual learning, as far as I can make out, (which isn’t far, see no 3) the Big Small Person spends most of her time at school scribbling on, cutting out, then sticking, stapling or paper-fastening bits of paper together (I had no idea paper-fasteners were still a thing), and finally bringing them home and insisting they be preserved for posterity.

There is no way posterity can cope with this volume of ‘creativity’. Certainly I can’t.

The Big Small person hadn’t reached 2 before I had learned to coo adoringly over every painty splodge that came home from nursery and then surreptitiously discard them in the recycling (well buried – to do otherwise is a rookie mistake new parents only ever make once).

I’m not a monster – I keep seminal pieces in a memory box under the spare bed, but if I did not cull we would literally be living around stacks of child-art like those people you see in Channel 5 hoarding documentaries.

I actually think disposing of these items behind her back is a kindness, and I’ll explain why. My own parents recently cleared out their loft, and in a visit to Sheffield bought with them boxes of pictures by me, proudly adorned with my name and age, and returned them to my keeping.

There is nothing that expresses rejection quite as eloquently as giving back painstakingly crafted, personalised gifts you no longer have any use for. THIS IS NOT OKAY PARENTS. I actually think they may be trying to break up with me.

Either that or they’re getting old and don’t give a f*ck about other people’s feelings anymore. I can’t wait for this stage of life – see no 4.

 

  1. I am a rubbish, rubbish, teacher

Speaking of my parents, I remember the horror of being taught to drive by my Dad, who would insist that my inability to consistently reverse around a corner was wilful incompetence, rather than chronic spacial unawareness and general ineptitude. I swore then I would be a model of patience and tranquility when guiding my own children.

Turns out, not entirely unexpectedly, I was a) wrong, and b) a bit of a knobhead. This seems to have happened quite a bit as my pre-child preconceptions have been replaced by cold, hard, post-child realities.

Perhaps it’s the sleep deprivation, possibly it’s genetics, conceivably it may be the Big Small Person’s natural instincts to press each and every one of my freaking, c*ck-wombling buttons.

Whatever it is, I find I simply cannot keep my temper when the little sh*t claims it can’t read the word ‘cat’ by the end of a book about cats, heavily illustrated with cats, where we have painfully sounded out and read the word ‘cat’ at least 10 f***ing times per f***ing page.

AAAAAaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrggggghhh!

If you are reading this and you are a teacher, I take my hat off to you. It is not my forte, and I am far more like my Father than I had realised.

Could be the beard.

 

  1. It’s quiet

I sort of knew this one was coming, which is why I overfilled my first few weeks with activities to stave off my new reality.

And then one day it was just me and the Small Small Person, and I didn’t know what to say to her.

Because for so long I’ve had the Big Small Person filling every available conversational space (and most unavailable ones) with speech, squeaking, squawking, or screaming. Sometimes ALL AT THE SAME TIME. (She may not be able to read, but by God, the kid can communicate).

In many ways I’ve enjoyed the one-on-one time with the Small2, who has been basically dragged round after her sister for her entire life, but she’s still not much of a conversationalist. I’ve had to relearn the art of the parental monologue, which never came particularly easily to me in the first place. (For the uninitiated, this is where you basically talk to yourself all day to encourage your offspring’s oral development, receiving nothing, indecipherable nonsense, random tantrums or the occasional repetition from your partner in ‘dialogue’).

Since the Big Small learned to talk I had clearly forgotten this horror, and have often wished for blessed silence, and even for the opportunity to actually monologue again (or frankly to say anything that might be heard and heeded). Be careful what you wish for. Because now I realise I miss the noise terribly.

 

  1. The days are short

Luckily it turns out that 9am to 3.30pm isn’t actually very long. Certainly I can’t seem to achieve anything terribly worthwhile once I’ve fitted in Small Person meals, snacks and naps. If we’re lucky we’ll get to the shops, park or a playgroup, but that’s about it. I’m still getting used to having my days curtailed and restricted in this way, but I’ve not yet forgotten to pick the Big Small up – I’m told this will happen eventually.

Fortunately the nice Office Lady already has me on speed dial, so I will be able to dash madly across Sheffield, apologise profusely to the child, ply it with guilt-chocolate when we get home, and tearily and dutifully check the book bag for correspondence (like a proper parent). #secondtermgoals.

 

Mumonthenetheredge

Five things I learned on a trip to Yorkshire Wildlife Park

22 Thursday Sep 2016

Posted by in Humour, Parenting

≈ Leave a comment

img_4578-jpg-wallabie-big

I wish I could start this list with number 1 being ‘To manage my own expectations of family days out’ but I’m afraid it’s a trick I’m yet to learn. I’m an obsessive planner, and I like my fun to be organised. If there isn’t an itinerary I’m basically not going to enjoy myself, okay? Unless you feed me alcohol. Not really zoo compatible.

Small children, are, of course, allergic to planning. And mine essentially seem to enjoy being miserable precisely when I’ve gone to most effort to ensure we’re going to have an awesome brilliant day of memories. Knobheads.

Add this to Dadonthenetheredge’s own natural barriers to wearing remotely suitable clothing or footwear for any given activity, and his inexplicable hostility to having his down time mercilessly driven to within an inch of everyone’s lives, the day was fraught with risk from the outset.

Fortunately, every time I do persuade Dadonthenetheredge and the small people to embark on a glorious family outing, I do learn something from the experience. Sometimes the things I learn are even vaguely useful for the future. So I thought I’d share five things I learned at Yorkshire Wildlife Park.

  1. Weather forecasts are wank

Look, all I ask is that people at the Met office please predict the very future with some degree of puffin-twonking accuracy. Is the act of efficient and effective prophecy really, really that difficult? Zip it, meteorologists, I don’t want to hear it. You told me it wasn’t going to rain until 3. I therefore do not expect the heavens to open at 11.

In hindsight leaving the waterproofs in the car was a rookie parenting mistake. Which only made me crosser. Lesson re-learnt. It doesn’t matter how heavy the bloody picnic is – add them to the sodding (sodden) bag.

1.5 Related to 1, it turns out my cag in a bag isn’t as waterproof as I had hoped.

Ggrrrffttt.

  1. The zoo paradox IS REAL

Obviously you don’t want to go to a zoo where the animals are trapped in tiny cages, rocking and miserable. This will trigger not only your own personal discomfort and impotent guilt, but possibly awkward conversations with small people.

Yorkshire Wildlife Park is not like this. It is a conservationist type of zoo, with large enclosures stuffed with environmental enrichment.

By which, of course, I mean many of the animals are far, far away and obscured by logs/trees/mounds/ditches so you can’t bloody see them. Certainly if you are under 5, you don’t have the mental or optical focus to look at and appreciate tiny slivers of distant wildlife through copious foliage. Sorry, enrichment.

While most of me knows that this is OBVIOUSLY what’s best for the animal, the rest of me wants you to dress them in tutus and make them dance for my children’s amusement.

Ta na! The zoo paradox.

  1. It is not furry in a wallaby pouch

This is sort of the opposite of the zoo paradox. This is what happens when you get too close to the animals, which you can also do at Yorkshire Wildlife Park. You can actually go into the enclosures with the lemurs, and with the wallabies.

I have always loved marsupials – I mean what’s not to like? Those cute fluffy little babies peeping out from their pouches, safe and snuggly in their little furry homes, always hugging their Mummies. Sooooooo cute!

No.

I have now stared at point blank range into the pouch of a wallaby (when her baby had hopped off elsewhere) and I saw things I’ve not seen since I first battled to insert a tampon, with the aid of nothing but pubescent flexibility and a Holly Hobbie hand mirror.

Yep. Basically it’s a pink fleshy vagina in there.

Now look, I’m not in the least little bit offended by vaginas. I’ve got one. I rather like it. It’s so far proved to be both useful, and indeed rewarding. But I have always questioned the aesthetic of the design (not to mention the inadvisable proximity to the waste outlet), and it was the SHOCK more than anything else. I mean, who knew??

What’s more, this one looked somewhat raw. I’m not sure what the baby had been doing in there, but it made me very glad that once the Small Small Person was out, I didn’t have to stuff her back up there for safekeeping. (There are occasions, however, when she’s so incredibly clingy and pawy I have to question whether this isn’t actually her end goal).

It was a reminder that there are in fact some advantages to the zoo paradox, because in reality animals (like children) tend to be pooier, fleshier and generally ickier than one supposed when one was able to maintain a decorous distance.

This may not be one of the day’s lessons that will come into much use in the future, but basically if I have to have my rose-tinted, marsupial-loving illusions shattered, so do you.

  1. Slides best beasts (if you’re under 5)

It turns out my delightful children couldn’t give two flying fuck-a-roonies about any of the wildlife, so it’s a bloody good job that Yorkshire Wildlife Park anticipated this and is well equipped with other small person entertainments. Most of these are slides, and most of them are pretty awesome. (Apart from the one that gave me a friction burn on my arm. YEOUWCH).

In the end I was forced to try and go with the flow (not my forte) and to forget that my local park, also endowed with slides, doesn’t charge the same entry fee. Instead I shifted my focus to attempt to get as many pictures as possible of my disinterested offspring in the vicinity of wild beasts as proof for later life that we enjoyed family days out together, dammit.

  1. Beware of baboons

Some of the fabulous slides at Yorkshire Wildlife Park are hosted in a frankly brilliant play centre. (We spent some time here because of the arse-bombling rain. See no 1). Forget your primary-coloured plastic-padded climbing frames; this is a wooden wonderland with tunnels, ropes, swings, bridges and fake grass. It’s basically like a giant zoo enclosure itself.

This feeling is intensified by the fact it shares one glass wall with the baboon enclosure next door. The problem is, their enrichment is SHIT in comparison with the play centre. (This is the first and only sign of animal cruelty/baiting/torture in the whole Park).

Judging from the icy death stare levelled at me by one baboon inhabitant, they know they’ve been shortchanged. And believe me, friends, they are NOT HAPPY. There was not just death in the depths of those eyes: there was the promise of vengeance. Annihilation. DOOM.

I don’t know if you’ve seen Plant of the Apes. (To be honest I don’t know if I have). But I’m pretty sure this is how it starts. If those baboons ever make a break for freedom, Doncaster is fucking screwed.

The beady-eyed evils I received so unnerved me that I finally surrendered to the moaning of my ungrateful family and consented to let the ‘fun’ end ahead of schedule. We left. Hastily.

Look, all I’m saying is that now summer is mostly over I’m going to let my personal body hair grow out for a bit, and save up the blue and red face paint for my arse cheeks, just in case the worst should happen.

I can only suggest you do the same.

 

Mumonthenetheredge

Home Judgement Teacher Visit

06 Tuesday Sep 2016

Posted by in Humour, Motherhood, Parenting

≈ Leave a comment

Has anyone else with a new school starter got one of those Home Judgement Teacher Visits this week? These are a bit like the Home Judgement Midwife Visit you get when you’re pregnant, basically to check whether your abode is fit for infant/Small Person occupation.

Anyway, the Home Judgement Teacher Visit is now a THING, which I gather happens across the country, not just in Sheffield on the Nether Edge.

I’d convinced myself I was totally fine and cool with this, until I remembered that I’m pretty much never totally fine and cool about ANYTHING, and that my visit takes place VERY SHORTLY.

Oh, I know it’s all about smoothing the transition for my child, etc etc, but I STILL feel like I have to frantically prove my worth as a parent.I have therefore found myself making the following To Do list for today, by way of preparation. Feel free to use it yourself, if you too have to endure a Home Judgement Teacher Visit this week.

  1. Reduce debris and increase visible floor-space by creating skyscraper piles of miscellaneous crap.
  2. Apply hoover to newly exposed carpet.
  3. Fail to find air freshener and spray old perfume around house instead.
  4. Open windows to reduce lung-clogging, boudoir musk.
  5. Run baby wipes over toilet and check bowl for residue/s.
  6. Ban everyone from further toilet use.
  7. Realise Big Small Person may wish to show off its room, and throw everything into wardrobe.
  8. Inform Big Small Person large monsters now live in wardrobe and they MUST NOT OPEN IT.  
  9. Make a note to deal with this fall-out before bedtime.
  10. Locate educational jigsaw-type toys from the bottom of toy box, and assemble neatly on table.
  11. Attempt to prevent Big Small Person from throwing these novel items around in excitement.
  12. Attempt to prevent Small Small Person from eating them.
  13. Run dishcloth over both children in lieu of flannel, which keeps inexplicably going missing (Baby?).
  14. Ignore complaints they now smell of old cabbage.
  15. Consider spraying children with perfume.
  16. Change stained clothing and make futile request that children not dribble, draw or splodge on themselves for at least the next two minutes.
  17. Park them in front of TV in desperate attempt to achieve 16.
  18. Locate remote to switch TV off as soon as doorbell goes in case of screen-time based judgement.
  19. Promptly lose TV remote.
  20. Check for teabags and fill kettle.
  21. Try and find biscuits which aren’t made by Organix and don’t taste of cardboard.
  22. Dig through miscellaneous piles of crap for child artwork, to display on fridge.
  23. Battle magnets for a wasted 20 minutes, swearing under breath and getting a bit of a dab on.
  24. Brainstorm list of Qs for teacher, including what to take on the first day (PE kit? Does this involve plimsolls or bare feet? Change of clothes? Snacks?)
  25. Consider how to broach the fact the Big Small Person still refuses to wipe it’s own bum, and my own personal fear of skid marks, (the biggest worry for all new-starter parents after nits and worms).
  26. Frantically try and get the Small Small Person to nap, so it’s not too much of a dickhead and allows adults to momentarily converse.
  27. Do final sweep of the living room for cat sick, errant slut-Barbies (why do they all end up looking like this??), and stray cheerios.
  28. Dismiss the idea of medicating social anxiety with wine before lunchtime.
  29. Repeat, repeat, repeat: I shall not be intense and weird; I shall not be intense and weird; I shall not be intense and weird.

I mean, what could possibly go wrong???

Good luck, folks.

Mumonthenetheredge

9 things I have learnt about breastfeeding

03 Wednesday Aug 2016

Posted by in Breastfeeding, Humour, Motherhood

≈ Leave a comment

IMG_4237.JPG world boobs

This week, in case you missed it, is/was apparently World Breastfeeding Week. (Go Le Boobs!)

I personally met this news with relatively mixed emotions, as I am reaching the end of my own breastfeeding journey.

Yes, as the Small Small Person wobbles into toddlerhood, her interest in the boobies is waning day-by-day, and things are definitely getting generally emptier and dryer. (Apart from my throat and eyes, which need no encouragement in getting fuller and wetter).

I’m going to miss it. A lot.

So I thought this was as good a time as any to share with you 9 things I have learnt about breastfeeding.

 

  1. FED is best

I had one baby that I was determined to breastfeed. It tried to starve itself, got hospitalised, and I ended up bottle feeding it. I then had one baby that I swore to bottle feed from the word GO. I mix-fed for a bit, and then ended up exclusively breastfeeding it.

Meh. I know this: Breast is not best. Fed is best. Whatever is getting you all through the day is best.

And aren’t we bloody lucky that some genius out there invented formula so if and when things go tits up, so to speak, your baby can eat, and grow and thrive?

2. It’s hard.

Nope, harder than that. And IN SO MANY DIFFERENT WAYS.

When I first thought about breastfeeding in an NCT class more than four years ago, I thought I knew it would be painful etc, but that I was strong and tough enough to power on through it.

Ha ha ha ha ha! I was so cute. Stupid, but cute.

The bleeding nipples. The thrush. The mastitis. The hot and cold chills, the hallucinations, the sweats. The bullshit cabbage thing. All of that. But then also the fact it’s a knack – a physical trick of coordination – that for someone who can’t throw, catch or even hold a pen properly – was never going to come particularly easily or naturally.

Instinct? PAH! I have no instincts. If I’d have been born in a time where people needed basic instincts I’d have been strangled at birth, or I’d have eaten the wrong berry, cuddled the wrong sabre tooth or fallen off the wrong cliff. And the baby IS RELATED TO ME. By, like, birth.

Basically, neither me nor the Small People had a Scoobie Dooby Do what we were doing. I expected the babies not to sleep. I expected them not to want to be put down. I had no expectation at all that they would not eat.

Which brings us to 3.

 

  1. There is no right way to do it.

Nobody else will tell you this. When things got hard, you see, I sort of expected there to be actual answers, and for people in the medical profession to give them to me. You know, in order to do the best for me and my baby and stuff.

NOT SO.

In fact I received so much conflicting advice from the endless rounds of midwives, health visitors, healthcare workers, Doctors and breastfeeding support workers, based on so many different organisational, social and personal agendas, I – a relatively intelligent and heavily educated woman of some maturity and experience – couldn’t make head nor tail of it.

Here, you try.

– No, love, use the cradle hold.
– Don’t put your hand there.
– Support the head.
– Make sure she can move her head.
– Don’t put your fingers there!
– Use the C shape.
– Support her back!
– Try the rugby hold.
– Try it lying down.
– Don’t lie down! You’ll suffocate her!
– Make sure she’s got breathing room – press down just by the nipple to create a space.
– What are you doing? Get your hand out of the way!
– She’ll eat when she’s hungry, let her sleep.
– What? Why haven’t you fed her? Wake her up every two hours to feed her!
– Every three hours.
– Every four hours.
– Three hours from the last feed.
– Three hours from the end of the last feed.
– Three hours from the start of the last feed.
– Four hours from the division of the last hour of sleep you got, plus the number you first thought of.
– Feed her on demand.
– Babies don’t starve themselves you know!
– What do you mean she won’t drink anything?
– Your latch looks good to me.
– She’s not latching properly!
– Wake her up by tickling her feet.
– Wake her up with a cold cloth.
– Try an ice cube.
– What are you doing with that ice cube??? They don’t do that in Guantanamo Bay!
– Pump after every feed.
– Pump before every feed.
– What are you doing pumping before a feed? She won’t get the foremilk!
– Pump until you get to the hindmilk.
– Foremilk and hindmilk isn’t really a thing anymore, love.
– Why are you still pumping? It’s time to feed again!
– Keep it in the fridge for six days.
– No! Are you mad? Freeze it for six days, and keep it in the fridge for 24 hours once it’s been opened.
– 12 hours if it’s steralised.
– Take away another three hours.
– She’ll take as much as she wants.
– You’re not feeding her enough!
– Try a pipette.
– Don’t use a pipette! Try a feeding cup.
– Don’t tip it up so much – she’ll choke.
– She’s not getting any like that is she? You need to tip it further.
– Don’t obsess over the millilitres.
– What do you mean you’re not counting how much she’s had?
– She needs at least eight feeds a day.
– She’ll let you know when she’s hungry!
– If you use a bottle now you might as well give up – it’s a slippery slope.
– Why aren’t you topping up with formula after the breastfeed?
– Before the breastfeed.
– Halfway through.
– Just mix pumped breastmilk and formula in the same bottle.
– Don’t mix milks! Are you mad??
– Have you tried a Nuk/Nimby/Dr Browns/other expensive brand?
– You need a latex nipple.
– Boil the water first and refrigerate.
– No – the formula powder has to be made with boiling water to get rid of the bacteria!
– Let it cool on the side.
– Don’t leave milk on the side! Put it in the fridge!
– You’ll have to throw it out now.
– Let’s look at this latch again.
– Try flipping your nipple in.
– Not like that.
– No, wait for her to open her mouth!
– Open her mouth for her.
– Always bring the baby to the breast.
– Always bring the breast to the baby.
– Support the breast with your hand.
– Don’t lift the breast!
– Try and catch her bottom lip.
– She might have a tongue tie.
– There’s no evidence of a tongue tie.
– Try nipple shields.
– Nipple shields are the work of the devil! You’ll just end up on bottles!
– It’s not thrush.
– It’s definitely thrush.
– Go and see your GP about the thrush.
– Ask your midwife about the thrush.

Etc. Repeat to infinity.

Confused yet??? Well I was. Until I figured out that despite all the research and the science and the medical professionals etc, you basically just have to apply common sense and do what feels right for you and your baby.

Which sucks, as nothing feels right because you’ve just had a baby and three nights/weeks/months/years of ZERO sleep.

Big fun.

 

  1. It’s easy

If you made it through the above, this might seem nonsensical to you. But once you’ve cracked it, there’s no denying that breastfeeding really is very convenient.

The first time around, I spent a lot of time trying to figure out what was wrong with my formula fed baby to stop her crying. Or desperately trying to make, warm or cool bottles in time to stop the crying.

Second time, I just gave my breastfed baby a breast. Sad? Boobie. Wet? Boobie (and then change). Overtired? Boobie. Wind? Boobie.  It solved all problems, always. And life was much calmer and quieter as a result.

I’ll give you that it’s a bit of a tie. I’ve done all the night feeds, and all the early mornings. I’ve missed weekends away with friends and any opportunity for a real lie-in. But the fact remains, overall, it IS easier.

You’re programmed to have a sleep cycle that matches your infant (ACTUAL science, people), and for me that meant that getting up and getting out of bed didn’t feel as deathly as it did with baby number one and the bottles.

Literally, with the first baby, I was homicidal for the first five minutes of being awake, then suicidal for the following five minutes. And then just depressed forever.

Forget all the shit about having the baby weight sucked right out of you etc etc – the big sell pro-lactivists ought to be pedalling to women is this – you’ll find it slightly easier to get up and go back to sleep in the middle of the night.

And sleep – after your baby – will soon become THE  most precious thing in your life. (For approximately the next 5-10 years).

 

  1. Breastfeeding with big boobs (conversely) SUCKS

Having dragged my double Gs around for a good two decades (there isn’t enough alphabet left to explain to you what happened to them when filled with milk), and having spent years spending upwards of £30 on each ugly bra with two inch shoulder straps, I naively thought they would finally come into their own when it came to the real life work of boobs.

Nope. Turns out that that all the extra fatty tissue gives you no lactating advantage whatsoever, and can in fact get in the way.

The logistics themselves are challenging. The sheer ratio of boob to newborn head (approx beachball:apple) is a physical nightmare. The nipple angles and positioning of baby involves both contortion and a lot of propage.

Plus, it is completely impossible to breastfeed discreetly. You are not flashing a sliver of mammary here, you have to drag an entire boob clear of your clothing in order to get your nipple pointing in a direction that’s vaguely latchable.

There’s a word for this process.

And that word is Flollop.

No one want to have to Flollop out a boob in front of their father-in-law. It’s undignified, to say the least.

That of course meant a lot of time sneaking off to the car/bedroom/back room, or planning my day around places with enough cushions, camouflage or other breastfeeding women to feel vaguely comfortable.

Of course it was really terrible for a extro-introvert like me to have to go off on my own all the time for baby cuddles, Facebook time and naps. Awful. Terrible. I don’t know how I got through it, really.

 

  1. Pumping rocks

One of the things that ended my breastfeeding journey with the Big Small Person was how utterly gross I found the process of pumping. Seeing my nipple pulled into an inch diameter and rhythmically sucked two inches down a tube, was not how I thought of my breasts or wanted to see them.

It was ugly, and it was graphically reminiscent of a school trip to a Dairy when I was about 7, which I also found pretty disgusting. (In fact to this day I can’t drink milk and think about udders at the same time. I bet you can’t either. Try it and see).

I also went with a cheap handheld version which only did one boob at a time, which cost 40 minutes I didn’t have in between the two hourly feedings, and which had to be spent with my baby cuddling someone that wasn’t me.

Second time around I hired a hospital-grade pump which did both boobs at once in under ten minutes, I got over my udder phobia, set my alarm for two nighttime pumps on top of nighttime feeds, and I built up my milk supply until demand and supply finally evened out.

Pump up the jam, baby. Or milk. Whatever.

 

  1. Everyone has an opinion: Ignore it.

Breastfeeding provokes strong, strong opinions. People will share these with you, whether you wish to hear them or not. Some will be pro. Some will be anti. All will be influenced by their own personal choices and experiences. (They often will wish to tell you about these, too).

I am opining about breastfeeding in this bloody article.

My very best advice to you is to stop listening – hell stop reading – and do what you want, where you want, how you want.

This is harder than it looks (are you still reading???) because you’re tired and weak and want definitive answers that don’t exist, and the people telling you stuff are often medical professionals and friends or family that you respect and want the best for you.

I’m yet, for instance, to have a conversation with my (lovely and supportive) Dad that doesn’t include the phrases ‘You’re not still breastfeeding that baby are you?’ and ‘It’s time to knock it on the head, love’.

I’ve found it incredibly hard to articulate to even my husband – even to me – why winning at breastfeeding the second time around was so very important to me. And how much it’s meant to me all these months on to be able to do that for my baby.

Because 8.

 

  1. It’s wonderful

Yup, I’m going here, despite no 7 on this list. Sorry, not sorry.

I have loved, loved, loved being able to breastfeed my second daughter.  

The fact is that breastfeeding is an incredibly easy way to bond with a baby – the skin-to-skin contact, the pleasure/pain of the love that you can literally feel ‘let down’ and swell your breast with milk, the instinctive need your baby has for you, just you, and the succour and comfort only you can provide.

It is not by any means the only way to bond with a baby, but it’s instant and it’s easy and it’s amazing.

You can definitely also bond with a baby over bottle feeding. You get the same eye contact, the same closeness, the same reward for satisfying a need, and the same milk-drunk, floaty-eyed bliss and gratitude.

If I have one regret about breastfeeding it’s that Dadonthenetheredge didn’t get to spend as much time with this baby, in the long, dark, terrible/wonderful hours of the night, the hours your souls touch each other.

Just you, your baby…

…and your smartphone.

 

  1. Smartphones are the real key to breastfeeding success

What THE FUCK did breastfeeding mothers do at 3am in the pitch black with a baby stuck to their boobs, chronic sleep deprivation, and burning isolation, self-doubt and hormones?

These must have been dark, dark times indeed.

Now we can all Google ‘green poo’, laugh at the passive-aggressive dickheads on Mumsnet, cry at the news, read trashy books, and Facebook our friends.

Happy World Smartphone Week, everyone!

 

Mumonthenetheredge

I am Sue

22 Friday Jul 2016

Posted by in Humour, Motherhood, Returning to work

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

IMG_2466.JPG Sue

It was the early 2000s, and her name was Sue. (It wasn’t).

She was somewhere in her mid-thirties, with young to middling offspring she would gush over at any given opportunity. She was always hovering somewhere between dishevelled and mutton-dressed-as-lamb, and alternated between brash and beleaguered. She laughed too much, contributed too little, and spent a lot of time talking about her age and her weight. (And other variously inappropriate personal – and occasionally gynaecological – details).

She liked to hark back to past projects and achievements, and seemed resistant to change – surprised by it, even. She may once have been good at her job, but the office largely humoured her and stuck her where she could do least damage. Like a mostly harmless but undeniably grating mascot.

Back then, in my early 20s, she didn’t impact on me very much. I may have felt fleetingly sorry for her, before dismissing her as irrelevant to my hard-working, hard-drinking, rather hard-nosed existence. She was alien. Other. Older.

She struck me, with some degree of hindsight, as a woman on the cusp. There was an unattractive air of desperation and disconnection – a whiff of lost, or loss, or something. There was something brittle about her, confused. Barely contained emotion framed by heavy-handed, clumping mascara.

And because it was clear to me she was in imminent danger of teetering over some invisible edge sooner or later, I steered well clear of the fallout.

I didn’t even recall Sue, if I’m honest, until today. Because I saw her for the first time in nigh on 14 years.

In the mirror.

Because, I realise –

I am Sue.

It happened this morning. I was trying desperately to find clothes suitable for a hot day in the office, and eventually squeezed into a circa 2010 New Look skirt slightly too small for my postpartum body (although my leftover ‘baby weight’ in now more accurately ‘toddler weight’) and teamed it with a ubiquitous black top. On which the toddler promptly, and inevitably, deposited toothpaste which wouldn’t scrub off with a bastarding baby wipe.

To make myself feel better about this I threw on a jazzy scarf and some ancient lipstick. As I did so I planned how I was going to regale my colleagues with amusing weekend tales of small people shenanigans (for the adult interaction, cheap laughs, and momentary validation). And I got a good look at myself in the mirror.

And there she was.

I am Sue.

The resemblance was uncanny – and unquestionable.

I am the slightly inane, slightly insane, slightly manic, slightly depressive, slightly irreverent, slightly irrelevant, under-achieving, over-sharing, out of phase and out of practice, middle aged, middle-of-the-road woman I pitied in passing when I first started my ‘career’.

Middle is in fact a very appropriate word. Because that’s what I spotted in Sue and recoiled from – that cusp, that in between – that displacement. Being neither one thing or another, and not enough of either.

Stuck in the middle with Sue.

Because now I too find myself somewhere in the middle, in between competent and incompetent, functional and dysfunctional, too much and too little, comic genius and crazed bag-lady, 1950s housewife and Melanie Griffith’s Working Girl, creative and random, young and old, thin and fat, mother and worker, professional and personal, good parent and bad parent, asleep and awake, me and – someone I don’t recognise.

Sue.

Now I’m the one that’s interjecting too loudly, crying too quickly, misjudging social/professional cues, getting sidelined, humoured, possibly even pitied. Definitely avoided. I’m the one with waning skills, conflicting priorities, impaired logic, bursts of absurdity. I’m the one slightly flailing, frequently self-deprecating, often bumbling, out of date, and out of sync.

At some point I stopped being one of the young office crowd, a whipper-snapper with oodles of potential  – and I became a part time and part mum-zombie, mid-level manager going nowhere fast, juggling children and work with a spectacular lack of multi-tasking skill, being fast outstripped by the younger, hungrier and better.

I am Sue.

And I’m as surprised about it as she was.

I’m not a exactly sure when Sue arrived, but I very much suspect motherhood was the catalyst. Little shits.

During this special time, some people find themselves – come into their own. Others find Sue.

If I could go back now, I’d be a lot kinder to Sue, because I’ve since walked a mile in her kitten heels, dragging whining children and double my original arse behind me. And I’d give my smug, superior, emotionally detached, well-rested, unburdened and unlined face a well deserved slap.

Now, I think Sue and I would be friends.

We’d probably go to the pub (after bedtime, obvs), giddily excited to put on our glad rags, get pissed on half a bottle of Chardonnay, guffaw in ever-increasing decibels, end up crying about the Disney alligator baby, dance on a few tables because life is too short, declare each other our best friend, and be home to snore at our exasperated spouses by 11.30.

(I personally would of course follow this up with days of social anxiety and personal shame, dissecting every word and move as I gradually and painfully recall them, ‘cos that’s how I roll. Sue probably does too).

I don’t know what actually happened to real Sue, who I think eventually got muscled out of the office, but I like to think that she went on to something better. That she found her feet again, her place outside the limbo of ‘in between’. That she got some proper rest and proper perspective. That she bought some new make-up. That she found appreciation for her humour, her experience, her post-traumatic share-response and her unique sense of fashion. That she shed the extra stone she always complained about. And that her kids grew up knowing how fiercely and stupidly she loved them.

I’d like to tell her I’m sorry for judging her. I’d like to tell her that I get it now. I’d like to tell her that I am Sue, too.

I would like to think that probably, at some point, every one of us has looked in the mirror and seen Sue – and marvelled at how she got there.

If you’ve ever had a Sue, or a Sue moment, if you’ve ever lost yourself in between – in the middle of life, priorities, pressures, if you’ve ever struggled with your role, your identity, your purpose, if you’ve ever looked up and suddenly realised you’re someone or somewhere you never thought you’d be – let me know.

Maybe it was motherhood that sent you to the edge, stuck in the middle, arrested your development. Maybe it was something different but equally wonderful/traumatic. Oh, maybe you’re not carrying the extra pounds, and maybe you’re still mostly competent at your job. Maybe you’re better dressed.

But if you’ve ever caught a glimpse of her, walking past a shop window, please channel your inner Tony Curtis and comment ‘I am Sue’ here or on Facebook.

I don’t need details if you don’t care to share them.  But this week I do sort of need to know it’s not just me.

And Sue.

Mumonthenetheredge

Holiday take-homes

23 Thursday Jun 2016

Posted by in Humour, Motherhood, Parenting

≈ 2 Comments

IMG_4039

I remember when the things I took home from a summer holiday included a tan, a few souvenirs, a taste for sangria, a satisfying stack of well-read novels, and a Europop earworm.  

HAH!

Those were the days, and boy are they loooooong gone. Post parenthood you get to bring home over-tired children and a shit load of holiday washing. In fact you’ll be tied (or sellotaped) to the bloody washing machine for perhaps the rest of your natural life.

So after the epic pack-a-thon, here’s the full list of our collective take-homes from a week in the sun.

Big Small Person

  • An unprecedented tolerance for water on the face
  • Complete (over)confidence in jumping into the pool
  • A vehement conviction that dipping one’s face into the surface of the pool constitutes ‘swimming under water’
  • Rampant desire for a swimming pool in the garden at home
  • Absolute certainty that 21.30 is the ‘new’ bedtime
  • Doubt in the omnipotence of the sacred Glo Clock (Noooooooo!!!!!!!!!!)
  • Nut-brown knees
  • An aversion to socks, or footwear that doesn’t make a flip flop sound when you walk
  • A new hat
  • A fan, purse, mini dream-catcher and various other tat for amusement and parental peace purposes
  • A strong predilection for the consumption of chicken nuggets, chips and ice cream at every single fucking meal.

Overall thoughts:

Holidays are brilliant!!!!!

 

Small Small Person

  • A deep set and unshakeable belief that anyone other than Mummy is UP TO NO GOOD and BODES ILL FOR BABIES
  • A runny tummy
  • Sleep regression
  • An aversion to all types of food, including former favourites
  • Newfound hatred of inserting one’s body in bodies of water OF ANY TYPE
  • New flirtation skills, reserved only for foreign waiters
  • A mild concussion having thrown itself off the bed onto the ceramic floor in a temper tantrum
  • An unhealthy obsession with the Big Small Person’s flip flops.

Overall thoughts:

No. Produce Mummy now or suffer the consequences.

 

Dadonthenetheredge

  • A nice, even tan after hours in the pool with the Big Small Person
  • Top ‘fun parent’ status
  • A deteriorated relationship with the Small Small Person, who is broken
  • Two books read cover to cover
  • Fitness levels kept up with daily jogs or swims.

Overall thoughts:

Meh. Not enough booze or sex.

 

Me

  • A limpet baby
  • A feral pre-schooler
  • Chronic sleep deprivation
  • Alabaster/cornbeef skin, having spent holiday inside or in the shade
  • A deteriorated relationship with the Big Small Person, having barely seen it for a week
  • Bottom ‘boring pool-side parent’ status
  • Zero books read
  • An extra 15lbs
  • Something of a grudge against Dadonthenetheredge
  • Backache, from constantly holding limpet baby
  • Nipple ache, as primary point of limpet attachment
  • Expertise as wiggling the same damn three toys in new and exciting ways in desperate attempt to distract limpet baby from limpetism
  • A disinclination for human contact having been ‘touched out’ by limpet baby
  • Homicidal hatred of the four baby books that came on holiday (yes, including Fox’s Socks)
  • Ongoing heart palpitations, having watched suddenly un-sticky un-limpity baby fall straight off the bed
  • Intimate knowledge of the symptoms of concussion and cerebral contusions following extensive and obsessive internet research
  • Astronomic data roaming charges (see above)
  • Sparkly new neurosis around ‘secondary drowning’ (look it up and join me!)
  • A fervent appreciation of routine
  • Overwhelming gratitude for alternative sources of childcare
  • A mountain of fucking holiday washing
  • A gazillion and three midge bites (approx)
  • A possible drink problem
  • A strong desire never to leave the Nether Edge ever, ever again.


Overall thoughts:

Never again. Pass the wine.

 

I could go on, but I’ve got far too much washing to do – and then leave languishing in unsorted piles for the rest of eternity.

Toodle pip.

 

Mumonthenetherege

 

Packing for a family holiday – in 171 easy steps

03 Friday Jun 2016

Posted by in Humour, Motherhood, Parenting

≈ 1 Comment

IMG_3991packing

I’ve always wanted to be one of those women who could throw a toothbrush and a spare pair of pants into a handbag and just go somewhere. I’m not. Packing sends my anxiety to new, heady levels. This has only been exacerbated by having children.

Now it’s as least 3.5 times as stressful, as I’m packing for 3.5 people (the .5 being my husband, who can pack clothes but obviously can’t locate sun hats, trunks or towels without assistance – and certainly doesn’t consider the ins and outs of travelling with, clothing, feeding and entertaining two small children in a strange place and climate for seven whole days).

Fortunately I’ve developed a foolproof system, and I’ve compiled a comprehensive guide for other anxious packers in 171 easy steps.

  1. At least one month in advance of holiday, start compiling lists. Lots of lists.
  2. Wrestle suitcases out of loft, as husband/partner will continue to put it off as it’s ‘too early’ to start packing.
  3. Assemble on spare bed.
  4. Dust.
  5. Try to persuade cat suitcases are not a new cat bed.
  6. Start assembling essentials for each person in piles.
  7. Have protracted and traditional argument with husband about what will and won’t fit in the car.
  8. Wrestle big suitcase back into loft with passive aggressive huffing.
  9. Attempt to fit beach towels into small suitcase.
  10. Show husband suitcase full to the brim with only towels.
  11. Make him wrestle big suitcase out of loft.
  12. Look smug.
  13. Debate the pros and cons of taking the buggy vs taking the sling. Come to no conclusions.
  14. Repeat over next three weeks.
  15. Search entire house for sun cream.
  16. Find sun cream in tool box or other random location.
  17. Read article on FB about the dangers of out-of-date sun cream.
  18. Discard sun cream.
  19. Purchase new sun creams for all family (UVB and UVA) at shockingly extortionate prices – significantly eating into holiday spending money. 
  20. Add sun hats to pile, even though none of your children will keep them on for more than 30 seconds, due to rare but near fatal (presumed from the screaming) allergy.
  21. Remove hats frequently for fleeting glimpses of British sun.
  22. Develop constant fear you will forget them.
  23. Ambitiously purchase baby sunglasses, because sun protection allergy definitely won’t extend to eyewear. Definitely.
  24. Remove cat from suitcase.
  25. Argue with larger child about why they cannot wear their favourite item of clothing (which has never been favoured before) as it’s been packed for holiday.
  26. Yes, you know they can see it in one of the piles on the spare bed.
  27. Put fingers in ears and sing ‘La la la’ to drown out incessant whining.
  28. Give in and plan a billion more more holiday washes. Fuck it.
  29. Ask larger child to pick some toys to take with them.
  30. Explain that not all toys will fit in suitcase.
  31. Ask, very calmly, why we might need 5 babies, 7 barbies, Tinkerbell and co, plus 37 stuffed toys for one week in a villa.
  32. Repeat step 31 x infinity.
  33. Secretly rationalise toys in the dead of night.
  34. Get caught out by child who is running daily inventory of toy pile.
  35. Explain that the nylon Elsa dress and cloak may not be suitable beach wear.
  36. Remove cat from suitcase.
  37. Open wine.
  38. Pack medical kit for emergencies.
  39. Debate whether to take Calpol and/or Nurofen.
  40. Take both.
  41. Pack the thermometer.
  42. Order extra ear hats for thermometer from internet (you have never needed these before but you never know).
  43. Realise new ear hats are inexplicably the wrong size.
  44. Remove cat from suitcase.
  45. Get caught packing medical kit and then get asked for princess plasters incessantly for four days, for mythical injuries.
  46. Pack night light.
  47. Congratulate self about remembering a night light.
  48. Research universal plug adaptors for your destination.
  49. Discover none are compatible with your night light, or monitor.
  50. Remove cat from suitcase.
  51. Pack an outfit for each child for each day.
  52. Plus beachwear x3 (wash one / wear one / dry one, as child will not let slightly clammy lycra near its person).
  53. Add extra evening and beach outfits.
  54. Add jumpers, just in case of post pool or evening chill.
  55. Pack more vests, in case air conditioning is mental.
  56. Scrap enormous pile and start again.
  57. Be extra strict with necessities.
  58. End up with the same pile.
  59. Remove cat from suitcase.
  60. Pack sun tent.
  61. Realise sun tent is not as compact as you had hoped.
  62. Dither over how many nappies/swim nappies to take.
  63. Explain to husband that you understand they have shops in other countries, and babies. And nappies.
  64. Explain to husband in graphic detail the results of a poonami disaster if you run short. In terms of a) washing, b) grossness, and c) your own mental health.
  65. Take out some nappies.
  66. Wake up in the middle of the night in a panic.
  67. Restore nappies.
  68. Attack top layer of clothes in suitcase with sticky roller to remove cat hair.
  69. Pack three packets of wipes.
  70. Remove two.
  71. Add two more packets.
  72. Remove cat from suitcase.
  73. Explain to husband that it is not your job to keep track of his swimming trunks.
  74. Ransack house for swimming trunks.
  75. Force husband to shops to buy new swimming trunks.
  76. Find original swimming trunks three days later stuffed in baby’s vest drawer.
  77. Remember you have yet to pack books, crayons and rainy day entertainment.
  78. Look at bulging suitcase and weep.
  79. Open more wine.
  80. Wrestle suitcase into bathroom scales to check weight.
  81. Remove three vests and pray.
  82. Weep some more.
  83. Consent to remove travel stair gate.
  84. Remember pool stuff in middle of night and set alarm reminder.
  85. Add goggles and floats to suitcase.
  86. You haven’t packed books for bedtime. These turn out to weigh more than gravity – all if it.
  87. Threaten to get cat put down.
  88. Attempt child friendly explanation of ‘putting down’.
  89. Explain to children that Mummy is just a bit stressed and didn’t mean it.
  90. Rescue cat from suddenly over-affectionate children and place out of grabby hand reach on top of suitcase.
  91. Ignore triumphant purring and try to shake suspicion this was part of cat’s nefarious master-plan to sleep on suitcase all along.
  92. Weigh suitcase again.
  93. Wonder how the fuck it gained 2kg over night.
  94. Remove randomly added toys.
  95. Ban everyone from the spare room on pain of death.
  96. Remind yourself not to kill husband who is asking two days before you leave when the last wash is going on.
  97. Remove cat from suitcase.
  98. Pack kid friendly cups, plates and cutlery.
  99. Pack the one shape of pasta your kids will consent to eat, for emergencies.
  100. Pack two jars of sacla pesto, also for emergencies, as your children can taste other brands without even fucking eating any.
  101. Put some shreddies into a sandwich bag, as it’s the baby’s favourite breakfast.
  102. Take some out.
  103. Put some more in.
  104. Painstakingly Count out 15 shreddies for each day.
  105. Try not to kill child when it insists on having the pink cup for lunch, which is packed, under the cock-wombling sun tent and medical kit.
  106. Remove cat from suitcase.
  107. Empty car CD holder and fill with DVDs.
  108. Not that one, as apparently you must watch it right now.
  109. Let baby put DVDs in and out of plastic sleeves as novel new game, that it will scream blue murder over if you attempt to halt.
  110. Fear DVDs now covered in fingerprints will not play in villa DVD player, or indeed anywhere else.
  111. Calculate cost of replacing all Disney films.
  112. Apply medicinal tea to calm palpitations.
  113. Locate wine for later.
  114. Try and distract baby with sun tent.
  115. Realise you can’t now fold sun tent back into a fucking circle, let alone fit it back into it’s arse-twonking bag.
  116. Weep.
  117. Subdue homicidal rage as husband asks why you’re getting so stressed about packing for a week’s holiday.
  118. Add 0.5 tog sleeping bag.
  119. Remember air conditioning.
  120. Add 1 tog sleeping bag.
  121. Add bed sheet in case cot mattress at villa is disgusting.
  122. Berate self for OCD. Remove sheet.
  123. Replace.
  124. Remove.
  125. Gather socks and muslins at random.
  126. Halve.
  127. Add one for luck. Of each.
  128. Maybe one more muslin.
  129. Pack washing powder, as may not be available in foreign parts, and child will not wear clothes if they ‘smell funny’.
  130. Consider fabric conditioner.
  131. Dismiss as ridiculous and possibly leaky.
  132. Cram toilet roll in front pocket.
  133. Remember the cagools, just in case of freak weather, and the horror of being stuck inside with children and not enough toys.
  134. Open more wine.
  135. Admit you may have become obsessed and overwrought about packing.
  136. Weep.
  137. Remove the fucking cat from the fucking suitcase.
  138. Dig out your own summer clothes.
  139. Try on.
  140. Realise everything is at least two sizes too small and not compatible with breastfeeding.
  141. Weep.
  142. Wine.
  143. Pack toiletries and make-up a week in advance, as the one thing you can fully control and achieve, and finally cross off your list.
  144. Become increasingly annoyed at having to rummage through toiletry bag for everything.
  145. Unpack it.
  146. Pack sandals and beach shoes for everyone.
  147. Add plastic bags for wet stuff.
  148. Remember travel change mat.
  149. Add fashionista huge beach bag.
  150. Remove as takes up too much room.
  151. Replace with Tesco bag for life. (Glam).
  152. Remove cat from suitcase and throw out of front door.
  153. Overhear larger child threatening to put the baby down.
  154. Experience remorse.
  155. Wine.
  156. Remember you have yet to face the challenge of packing the hand luggage and airplane entertainment.
  157. Weep
  158. Consider whether to take glo clock and decide it’s not essential.
  159. Wake up at 3am to pack chargers.
  160. Get woken again by child explaining that while the sun hasn’t yet come up, they just need to add a toy to the suitcase.
  161. Pack glo clock.
  162. Sit all children and self on seriously strained suitcase in order to do up.
  163. Listen to husband bitch about carrying suitcase downstairs, asking ‘what the fuck have you got in this thing?’
  164. Resist sharing detailed lists of exactly what you’ve got in there.
  165. Brace for the ‘it’s never going to go in the car’ speech.
  166. Suffer ‘what have I forgotten?’ paranoia all the way to the airport.
  167. Panic over whether stuff will fit in hire car at the other end.
  168. Abandon buggy in car and take sling. (One of three. Obvs.)
  169. Throw toddler style tantrum punching and kicking husband’s suitcase, in lieu of actual husband, when he inevitably asks at the airport, ‘what do you mean you didn’t pack the x?’
  170. Avoid the disapproving stares of other travellers for the rest of your journey.
  171. Have a HAPPY FUCKING HOLIDAY!

MumreallyreallyREALLYONTHENETHERFUCKINGEDGE