Category Archives: Motherhood

The pre-school bucket list

08 Friday Jul 2016

Posted by in Motherhood, Parenting

≈ 4 Comments

IMG_4158.JPG bucket list

Four and a half years ago the most wonderful, frustrating, amazing and perplexing person I know came screaming into the world.

She’s still screaming now. She is alternately giddy with joy, then mired in anguish – all within seconds. She feels each emotion at a hundred and ten miles an hour. Navigating the highs and lows of her day routinely leaves me reeling, baffled and exhausted.

So basically that means she’s your average four year old.

And that, I have realised, also means I’ve had her for more than a quarter of the time that she’ll actually be mine.

BOOM.

Now the screaming is no longer an external noise pollution. It’s in my own head, and my own voice. It reverberates around my skull, from temple to temple, and the roar of it buzzes loudly in my ears.

Yes, in just a few short weeks, my baby goes to school. And that four years has gone by in the blink of an eye.

Obviously, I have known this was coming. But it has arrived rather faster than I thought it would – and like so many parenting milestones it’s hit me a great deal harder.

Already I can see this complex little person is less and less mine everyday. And that hurts. She is more and more hers, more the product of her friends, her nursery teachers, her favourite book and tv characters. She is being shaped by all sorts of people in all sorts of ways – and my influence is well and truly on the wane.

Like most four year olds, she mostly knows best. She would prefer to experiment rather than take my word for something (often ending in the aforementioned screaming). Pretty much any authority is automatically ranked higher than Mummy. She doesn’t listen. And I am afraid, I am so afraid, that she is hurtling down the path to not hearing me at all. School will only speed that process up ten fold.

But school or no, the fact is I am no longer the centre of her universe, solver of all problems, comforter of all woes. (I’m more the spoiler of fun and dictator of broccoli). And that’s only going to get worse as her confidence and independence grow.

That is, of course, the natural order of things, and of course it makes me as proud as punch to see her flourish and find her feet. It is also a very real tragedy. It’s a tragedy I’m sure other parents of 2011/2012 babies are facing too.

I for one am not ready.

It’s not actually the baby I’m pining for. I don’t really want to turn the clock back. I love watching her develop and learn. Every stage of her life has been my favourite – the one right in front of me. (Apart from the screaming). No, the only thing that’s not grown into its potential is ME.

My real sticking point is the thought of the mother I thought I’d be and never was.

Suddenly, I’ve been swamped with all the things I haven’t done and said I would, and all the things I said I wouldn’t do but have done anyway. I’ve been busy. Stressed. Preoccupied. Frantic. Frazzled. Impatient. Imperfect. I’ve shouted. I’ve diverted. I’ve minimised. I’ve rushed. I’ve broken promises. I’ve broken down. I have not done enough, given enough, been enough. I’ve failed – often.

And all at once, it feels like it’s too late. I’ve squandered those precious years we had together, and the treadmill of real life has caught us up.

Because school is the beginning of a whole new chapter for her, a trajectory that will take her through education and into the world, away from me. So however much the logical part of my brain tells me she’s still mine evenings, weekends and holidays, that she is still going to need me for many years to come, the rest of me is gut-deep, goddam sure this is an ending.

The pangs I’m suffering are really pangs of withdrawal, because however selfishly, I loved being someone’s hero. Someone’s everything. Someone’s sun and moon. It’s addictive. And that time has passed. And I didn’t do it right. And I didn’t see the end coming.

But the truth is, she was never really mine was she? She was always hers. From the very beginning. I just got lucky enough to borrow her until she got bigger.

Letting go isn’t much of a choice. The separation has already started to happen without my say so. And now I’ve got to face a different stage of parenthood – one where I have gradually less influence and importance. It will still be my job to help her find her own way, and help her find the very best of herself. I can still be her hero, maybe, sometimes – but only when she needs me to be. Only from the sidelines. Only on her terms.

Now, parents of the class of 2016, we get to watch them as they grow. We get to watch them fly – even if it’s in the other direction. We get to catch them when they fall. We get to love them, even when they’re not in our arms anymore.

All we can hope, really, is that the connection we’ve built is strong enough to bring them back when they need us. An elastic band that can stretch to give them freedom, but snaps into place when they’re scared, sad, confused or conflicted.

All I can hope is that I haven’t fucked it up too much.

And in the meantime, I can frantically spend the summer paying into that pot of connection, and filling in some of the gaps that are haunting me. Doing some of the things I thought I’d do as a Mummy.

So this, friends, is my pre-school bucket list. Let’s see how far I get before September. Your ideas and tips appreciated.

1. The craft project

There will be glitter. There will be the regrets, swearing, and daily hoovering associated with glitter. There will be glitter found in personal crevices, on work shirts, and in the litter tray for weeks to come. But by God, there will still be glitter.

Look out Pinterest, here I come.

2. Science

I’m not one of life’s natural scientists. But there will be diet coke. There will be mentos mints. There will undoubtedly be a lot of cleaning up.

3. Water play

We do some water play, but not enough. This is probably because it takes a lot of setting up – finding the right attachment for the sprinkler, adding buckets of hot water to the paddling pool so it’s not too cold, assembling children in swimwear, applying suncream to exposed body parts, preparing towels, and digging out appropriate plastic pouring vessels.

This will be followed by approximately five minutes of play, and then demands to go inside and watch the telly. But I will do it. I might even invest in some water guns. And I will take smug pictures for Facebook of my children looking momentarily happy.

4. The great outdoors

The biggest barrier to the great outdoors is Dadonthenetheredge, who prefers to receive his UV light in the form of iDevice glow. People’s legs will hurt. Their shoes will pinch. The sun will be too sunny. The rain will be too rainy.

But we live a stone’s throw away from some of the most beautiful countryside in the UK, and we will go out and bond in it whether anyone likes it or not. There will be stick sword fights. There will be picnics. There will be paddling. There may even be den building, but probably in the back garden.

5. One-on-one time

I don’t spend enough time one-on-one with the Big Small Person, because the Small Small Person came along and rather got in the way. While their burgeoning relationship is lovely, the impact on my relationship with the BSP has been huge, and not 100% positive.

I miss our games (apart from bucket list no 7), our chats, and playing with things small enough to fit in an esophagus. I miss focussing on her. So I plan to pack the baby off somewhere and concentrate – without distractions or goals – on just my big girl and whatever she wants to do.  

6. Wrestling

Too often when the Big Small Person hits silly, I know she’s moments away from hitting crazy freaking meltdown. And I try and end the silly to prevent it. No more. There will be tickles, there will be wrestling, and yes, there will probably be tears before bedtime. But before that there will be giggling.

7. Imaginative play

My own personal hell, in which I’m not allowed any independent thought or action, and seemingly cannot EVER follow the instructions I’m given to the satisfaction of the three foot Director/Despot of the game. Also I am required to do the character voices (to the exact script and stage direction given) in public places. More on this another time. Just know that I shall grit my teeth and endure more of it instead of hiding in the kitchen pretending to make the tea.

8. Baking

I never baked anything other than potatoes before the small people came along, and since then have I’ve only begrudgingly extended my repertoire to include cupcakes. These sessions have been few and far between, though, as I cannot bear to witness either the mess or the incompetence. I will get over this.

I will let flour cover the kitchen, children, me and the cat. I will not intervene when most of the mixture is mixed straight out of the bowl. I will not show impatience when the mixing takes FOREVER. I will remain calm when people won’t take turns. And I will watch cheerfully as egg shell shards are dropped into the bowl and children cover themselves in slimy salmonella. I may even let them lick the spoon. (OK, that might be going a step too far).

9. Movies/theatre

Again, one related to the Small Small Person. We’ve not done enough of this sort of thing because it’s not really baby-compatible. And to be fair, also because the Big Small Person has an exceedingly low threshold for ‘mild peril’. But there will be popcorn. There will be dark. There will be cinematic or theatrical magic. And there will probably be a lot of soothing and assurance that everything will work out alright in the end.  

10. Not shouting

There will be a day. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow. But soon. Ish. Where –

I.

WILL.

NOT.

SHOUT.

Even if I’ve asked people to put their shoes on three billion times. Even if we’re late. Even if the small people are trying to exterminate each other. Even if I’ve asked someone not to do that less than two seconds ago. Even if the prospect of bedtime is still distant.

Wish me luck.

And let me know what’s on your bucket list, too.

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

 

The Great Vulva Dilemma

20 Friday May 2016

Posted by in Humour, Motherhood, Parenting

≈ 8 Comments

IMG_3304.JPG vulva

To vulva or not to vulva?  That is the question.  And it was first posed to me by a wonderful (and somewhat boundaryless) friend of mine some 10 or more years ago, in the middle of an open plan office.  Now that was a Tuesday to remember. 

At the time, she was debating what to call her small child’s lady parts.  (‘Lady parts’, by the way, was never any sort of contender, on the grounds of being offensively euphemistic, unattractively po-faced, and alarmingly Kenneth Williams).

When it was my turn to face the dilemma, I was actually quite surprised to find that a decade on there was STILL no appealingly benign opposite of the universally used ‘willy’ to describe the rude bits (not rude – don’t want them to grow up with a complex!) of the female small person.

Oh, there are plenty of contenders, and after a quick survey of both friends and the internet, popular names appear to include the following:

Foo Foo/Foof

Sounds like a poodle.  Could get confusing in middle class parks like Millhouses.  

Moo Moo

Old MacDonald has just taken on a whole new meaning in your toddler’s mind.  

Choo choo

Seriously? A train analogy? Into the tunnel we go? No. I don’t have time to go into all the different kinds of wrong this is. Get your coat.   

Wee Wee

Okay, stop with the twee double wording now.  And it’s not just for weeing!

Tuppence

Personally, I’d like my daughters to put rather more value on their vaginas than this implies.

Lady parts/bits

See above. Euphemistic. The idea is not to make the female genitalia something to be ashamed of, or squeamish about. (I’m also ruling out the phrase ‘down below’).

Privates/private parts

Yes, it’s important for children to know their genitalia is private, but defining it solely by its privacy is not quite right… That’s not the first thing I want my daughters to think about this very important part of their bodies.  I want this associated with happiness, pleasure and pride, preferably before privacy.    

Snooky

?????????
Just.
No.

Coochie

A slang term that seems sometimes to have derogatory connotations – avoid.  (Also never say ‘coochie coochie coo’ to a baby).   

Mary

This could lead to some very dangerous Nativity-based questioning. Happy Christmas to you if this is your term of choice.  

Minnie

As in mouse? Confusing and icky-cutesy.  

Fanny

Leaving aside the American confusion, this is still rather unsatisfactory, and even slightly unsavoury. Smacks of bad 70s comedies – a la Mrs Slocombe’s ‘pussy’.  

Pussy

No. I’ve also automatically discarded anything else blatantly rude.  (Grandma, btw, insists on calling cats by this name, which takes rigorous re-programming whenever the big talking child returns from a visit.  Pussy-CAT, darling.  PUSSY-CAT).  

Vagina

Good word, but slightly inaccurate. If we’re going to go with biological fundamentals this word refers very specifically to, well, the vagina. It’s not the right word for the whole kit and caboodle.   

Front bottom

Sooooo confusing!  It’s not in the least like a bottom, with completely separate functions, and if they want to avoid years of Canesten ahead of them they need to learn to distinguish between the two and keep them hygienically separate.  Front to back, kids, front to back.

Anatomical accuracy in this most sensitive of areas is actually quite important.  Not least because your child – and you – really need to be able to understand and describe whether an itch or irritation is around the vulva, in the vagina, the clitoris, the inner or outer labia etc etc.  This could be the difference between a water infection, thrush, foot and mouth blah blah blah.

China

I see where we’re going here.  Fine china, vagina – cockney rhyming slang. Easily broken and must be handled with care. Only get the best stuff out when you’ve got guests round.    Never put it in the dishwasher.  

Va-jj

Also no. This is Sheffield, not Essex.  

Flower

It’s enough to make Cbeebies Mr Bloom blush!  It’s not a bloody plant, however pretty or fragrant. Neither is it perennial. And heaven help the female small person helping Granny with the gardening.

Vulva

This is pretty much what we’re left with after dismissing everything above.  

Let’s say it together. Vulva. Vul-va. Vulva. VULVA.

Try saying it out loud and seeing what kind of reaction you get from those around you. (Possibly avoid this if you’re at work). Let me know how that works out for you.

So……

What, you may ask, do we say in Chateau Mumonthenetheredge?  

Despite my ambitions to be ‘right on,’ sisters, I’m afraid that I still baulked at the idea of my small person telling Grandma in a pre-schoolers shriek (presumably somewhere nice and public like a supermarket aisle or nice and quiet like a library) that her vulva was itching.

Oh, I know it’s the right word. I know, I know.  But I just couldn’t do it!  

So we say ‘bits’ in our house.

It’s not ideal. It IS euphemistic. I’m not 100% happy with it.

But as long as my daughters are happy with theirs, I suppose that’s all that really matters. (Turns out in one case she’s very happy with it – but that’s a WHOLE other blog…. I haven’t had enough wine yet.)

Now this isn’t a new debate, and I’m sure you’ve had or seen versions of it many times before.  But it will continue as long as we have no satisfactory conclusion, and actually, I’ve got a very special reason for posting it here.  

What Sheffield has in common with Shakespeare – besides alliteration – is a talent for making up words from scratch in order to fill senseless semantic voids.  (Two quick and well documented examples include ‘nesh’ for those too pathetic to deal with a bit of Northern chill, or ‘jennal’ for those paths between terraced houses or at the end or between streets).  

So come on Sheffield, what do you call ‘bits’?  And what new word could you invent to fill this really very unfortunate vocab gap? Here’s the criteria for the challenge.  It’s got to be:

  • Accurate
  • Unoffensive
  • Friendly
  • Positive.

Do your best. Or worst! I for one will thank you for it.  

Oh, and if you enter on my Facebook page (www.facebook.com/mumonthenetheredge) before 3 June 2016 there’s a £10 Mothercare voucher up for grabs too!

 

Mumonethenetheredge

Can we all just calm down about breastfeeding?

04 Monday Apr 2016

Posted by in Breastfeeding, Motherhood

≈ Leave a comment

IMG_3719.JPG calm down 2

When it comes to breastfeeding, everybody has an opinion. And it’s invariably a strong one.

Jamie Oliver, Katie Hopkins, Donald Trump, Adele. Barely a week goes by without a breastfeeding scandal – from Claridge’s to Primark – and a following PR scramble. Everyone’s wading in, and waging war. There are in fact very few issues which seem to inspire more rabid or random evangelism – in myriad directions.

I for one think that mums would be much better served if things were a little less emotional and everyone Just. Calmed. The. Fuck. Down.

Because do you know who’s right in the middle of the combat zone that’s been created around breastfeeding? Ordinary women trying to muddle their way through and do the right thing for their babies and their families. All the while being told – loudly – what they should/shouldn’t be doing and thinking. By everyone and their nanna.

Now obviously, in the whole history of calming down, no one un-calm has ever been soothed by being told to ‘calm down’.  Quite the opposite – it is in fact a red rag to a bull. And that’s kind of the point. Because if you’re reading this and your gander is already up about being told to ‘calm down about breastfeeding’, you are part of the problem.

Look, I don’t really care if you think it’s disgusting – and that it’s your right to say so because you’re ‘just being honest’.

I don’t really care if you think it’s amazing – and you’re standing up for all of womankind by saying so.

Whoever you are, you are allowed to be passionate. You are allowed to have had experiences – and to have used them to form an opinion. You are NOT allowed to forcefully inflict that opinion on other people, or pursue it to the exclusion of all debate, reason, or – and this is key – sympathy. K?

So YAY, it’s a full house of breastfeeding crazies in tonight! Let’s have a bit of a roll call, shall we?

David

When the respectable ladies in David’s family feed their babies they go off into another room or discreetly cover themselves with a shawl. These flop it out floozies should try having a bit of class – a bit of dignity.

Maud

Maud has had six children, and all of them were formula fed, and they all turned out alright. (Apart from Charlie who was always a wrong ‘un). So that must be the right way for everyone to do it. End of.

Wendy

As a child of the 60s, Wendy knew it was her body and her right to get it back again after the baby was born. Formula was a scientific breakthrough that freed the boobs from their oppression by the MAN.

Bob

Bob thinks breastfeeding is unnatural, because boobs are really for sex, aren’t they? And it makes him uncomfortable to be confronted by them nourishing an infant, and therefore be confronted by his own complex lust and mother issues.

Kelly

Kelly thinks that if people don’t want men looking at their boobs they shouldn’t breastfeed in public. I mean, eeeew. Who wants to see that when they’re out shopping? They’re just out for the attention. Her Billy would kill her if she was flashing her tits around like that all the time.

Peter

Peter thinks this is a family restaurant, and babies aren’t part of families. For God’s sake – there’s bloody kids here who are getting an eyeful. It’s not decent.

Jane

Jane thinks her daughter is making a rod for her own back – if you ask her that baby needs a bottle. Then maybe he’d sleep through. Just breastfeeding him and cuddling all the time is going to spoil him – he’ll learn to expect it whenever he’s sad or hungry! Imagine! She’s said it once and she’ll say it again. And again.

Adele

Adele tried to breastfeed but struggled, and was made to feel really bad about giving up by people constantly pushing the ‘breast is best’ message. Now she’s at war with the lactavist nazis and their strong arm (boob?) tactics.

Laura

Laura found breastfeeding really easy and could do it in two minutes flat without baring any skin at all – so she doesn’t really understand why all these other women are making such a fuss about it. It doesn’t need to be in your face does it?

Sally

Sally found breastfeeding really hard. Her nipples bled more liquid than they lactated. She had mastitis four times, two abscesses, and three billion blocked ducks.  And if she managed to power through the pain to successful breastfeeding, everyone else just isn’t trying hard enough.

Vicky

Vicky thinks that formula is EVIL POISON, and that mothers who feed it to their babies should BE REPORTED TO SOCIAL SERVICES. She suffers from a CHRONIC OVERUSE OF CAPITAL LETTERS in all typed communications.

Hester

Hester knows the law and she knows it’s her right to breastfeed where and when she wants to – and she is poised and prepared to fight for that right every minute of every day. When her baby is hungry she’ll feed it anywhere. And really, if you’re going to be shy about it you’re probably not cut out for motherhood at all.

Rebecca

Rebecca is constantly outraged about breastfeeding mothers being discriminated against.  It’s outrageous. She shares and comments her outrage on social media every day, and her facebook feed is populated more by pro-breast memes than by pictures of her own kids. She knows all the ‘breast is best’ stats and she isn’t afraid to use them. Continuously.  

Joy

Joy did breastfeeding the right way. Everyone else should do it her way too. In fact she might even become a peer supporter so she can make sure everyone else does what was right for her.

Jamie

Jamie’s wife breastfed all 38 of their kids with irritating ease, and it’s just so natural and convenient he thinks the government should make everyone do it as a matter of course. Or even policy. Because it’s obviously exactly the same for everyone.

 

This is a pretty crude list of characters – but you probably recognise some of them. And here’s the thing: the Vickys, Sallys and Hesters are just as bad as the Davids, Bettys, and Peters. And every single one of them really does need to calm the fuck down.

David et al – it’s just a bit of boob. 50% of the population have them. It’s not the end of the world. It’s 2016. Women are allowed to leave the house (they even work! and vote!) Babies are allowed to eat. (It’s kind of necessary for the continuation of humankind). Sometimes they have to eat out of the house. Would you really rather share a public space with a screaming infant or a hint – a mere hint – of mammary?  Try looking the other way, or covering your own face with a modest shawl. This is the law, people. The ship has sailed.

Jane, Wendy, Maud, things have moved on. There’s been some science. If you really care about the issue, read up on it.

I’m delighted you found breastfeeding so easy, Laura, and that your wife did, Jamie. Lots of people don’t, though. Lots of people – for whatever reason – CAN’T. Lots of people simply can’t do it discreetly either – especially if you’re trying to check a latch or have a thrashy nosey baby bent on peekaboo.

I’m sorry things were hard for you Sally – it’s amazing you got through that. Well done. But please don’t compare your pain with someone else’s – no one wins that competition. Carrying on might have been the right choice for you, but it might not have been for the next woman. It might have pulled her under. And guilt tripping her for using formula – or for feeling shy – (Vicky, Hester) isn’t helping either. There are actually very few of us who actually relish flashing the father-in-law.

The fact is that it is the attacks and responding counter offensives from BOTH reactionaries and revolutionaries that is creating such a hostile environment for breastfeeding. One that’s pretty damn alienating for your average mum. You know – the one who’s struggling. The one who’s just trying to do the best she can. The one in no fit state to join either a fight or a club.

I know that the anti-boobers are annoying. But shouting back isn’t helping. Try thinking about them like your toddler – however ignorant and irritating they are they really can’t help it, and getting into a slanging match is not going to be productive. These are not rational beings. The minute you shout, you lose. Just let the tantrum/emotion work its way out. Ignore them. Because fighting back – going into bat for the titties full tilt and full volume – pulls you down to their level. You’re the grown up here – act like it.

Let’s forget the fictional characters and concentrate on a real life, Sheffield, April 2016 example.  The example that inspired this blog.

I met up with an old friend the other day. Jan is about to go off on maternity leave. She had PLANNED to breastfeed. But when at her antenatal classes she’s started asking questions about mix feeding and formula supplements, she was shut down. Unceremoniously. She was told that if she introduced bottles she’d ruin her chances of breastfeeding. End of discussion – cue standard ‘breast is best’ spiel.

She left classes so perturbed by this boobing militance, she’s now actively planning NOT to breastfeed. Because, as she put it, ‘I just don’t think it’s for me’. She left those classes seeing breastfeeding as a ‘scene’ that she’s just not part of, and simply can’t reconcile with how she sees herself, her body, her life and her family.  With her unbending refusal to intelligently discuss options or practicalities, this ante natal tutor has stopped a previously breast-willing woman from even giving it a go.  

Feelings around breastfeeding run high – I know this because I’ve attempted it twice and felt so, so strongly about it both times.

The big small person didn’t drink milk. It was a nightmare. I wanted desperately to breastfeed but I – we – couldn’t make it work. She lost weight. I lost sanity. I sobbed with relief when a kindly GP finally told me it was time to throw in the boobing towel (or muslin). And when I regained some (not all) of my mental capacity I swore I’d never let anyone put me under so much pressure to breastfeed again – not even me – and especially not to the detriment of my baby’s health. And like Adele I told everyone who would listen NOT to listen to the Bloody Boob Brigade. It made me feel better. It made me feel less guilty.

The second small person, however, changed all that. She LOVES the boobies! It took us some time, persistence (and yes more tears) to get the knack.  It also took a lot of help from various lovely support workers, and a bit of formula and bottle feeding until supply and demand evened out. But we did it. And it’s pretty damn magical. I get it. I want to tell people how special it is, how that bond feels. How important it was to me this time to finally win at breastfeeding.

But this time, do you know what? I don’t. I don’t wax lyrical. I don’t opine. It honestly turns out to be really quite easy. Do you know what I do? 

I LISTEN.

Let me give you a news flash, friends. We do not support women – or indeed anyone – by pushing them. We do not support them by withholding information. We do not support them my doggedly pursuing a personal crusade – for or against. We do not support them by limiting or stigmatising their choices.

Let’s stop being militant. Let’s stop talking in absolutes. Let’s stop judging. Let’s stop justifying our own choices. Let’s all calm down.

Let’s start discussing, and LISTENING.

If someone had stopped to listen to Jan, they might have found out that the multiple miscarriages before this precious first baby have taken a toll on her relationship. They might have found out how keen she is for her husband to be able to help with feeding as part of their healing and grieving process. They might have found out that his job is uncertain, and she wants to keep her feeding options open as she doesn’t know how soon she’ll have to go back to work.

If only there had been a little more information, a little more empathy, and a little less agenda, Jan might have felt she had options beyond the bottle.

We have clearly not got this right. How about some stats and facts? (Thanks Rebecca!) According to the NHS Infant Feeding Survey 81% of mothers start off breastfeeding their babies at birth. Six months down the line, only 34% are still doing any breastfeeding. And the number of mothers exclusively breastfeeding at six months is just 1%.

If we want to improve the stats we’ve got to improve support – at a time budgets are being slashed to the bone, and beyond. We are not going to do that by being blinkered and belligerent. We are not going to do that by making breastfeeding a battlefield. It doesn’t need us to take a strong stand anymore – right now it needs us to take seat and a chill pill.

Pro-boob evangelism is just as damaging as anti-boob sermonising. Let’s try being just plain old pro-people. Let’s try a bit of moderation – a bit of consideration. Teaching without preaching. Advocating without alienating. Enabling without expounding. Informing without influencing.

Nobody likes being told what to do. But everybody – everybody – likes to be heard. Even Bob. (And he really does need some help).

All WE really need to do is to stop yelling.

 

Mumonthenetheredge

I like BIG PANTS and I cannot lie

13 Sunday Mar 2016

Posted by in Humour, Motherhood

≈ Leave a comment

IMG_3508

I like BIG PANTS and I cannot lie
You other mothers can’t deny
When a girl walks in with a little string
You roll your eyes and sigh –

Your arse would gob-ble up that thong
Can’t sit in it for very long
It’s gonna chafe and it isn’t safe
‘Cos elastic ain’t that strong.

Gut not as flat as it used to be?
Skin wrinkled and all wobbily?
Let’s not bicker ‘bout an outsize knicker
‘Cos it’s now the new sexy!

No time or cash for Vicky’s Secret
If it’s mini you can bloody keep it
You young thin varmints have your tiny garments
Big’s best – you cannot beat it!

I’m not bitter or the least unhinged
Your pant choice shouldn’t be infringed –
I’d just like to see the world feel free
To be all snuggly-minged.

Little pants are really just a fad –
And they don’t support a Tena pad.
Plus the lace does itch on your c-scar stitch
And drives you batshit mad!

In the end you’re gonna just say ‘fuck it’,
And reach for an enormous bucket –
That can suck you in up to your chin
And has a nice wide gusset.

They’d make a splendid parachute
And never be described as ‘cute’ –
Just like Granny wore and you always swore
Would never touch your glutes!

I like BIG PANTS and I cannot lie
Though your partner’s gonna wanna cry –
If it’s not com-fy then it’s not for me
Pre-mum pants can go fly.  

It’s time, ladies, to expunge
The horrors faced by your poor clunge
It’s what you’re owed having been re-sewed
So let’s all take the plunge!

BIG PANTS are part of being a mum
A kindness to your vag and tum –
Just let it go and make it so
And don’t shortchange your bum  

Big enough to make a national flag –
They’ll hold up all that excess sag
Plain ol’ cotton over your whole bottom
Added chastity and anti-shag!

In the end they kind of smooth your line
Not a heinous fashion crime –
Five quid a pack and you’ll not look back
Be a panty philistine!

Doesn’t matter if they reach your breasts –
There’s no one to be that impressed
Tuck ‘em in or out that’s your own shout –
Now it’s time we all confessed:

WE LIKE BIG PANTS AND WE CANNOT LIE!
And as much as we’d like to try –
We’re far too knackered to be undercrackered
In pants that don’t rise high.

Mumonthenetheredge

Or you can also call me Ms Hics-a-Lot.  (You know, because of the wine.  And Sir Mix-a-Lot. OK, never mind).

Postnatal depression and Pottery

08 Tuesday Mar 2016

Posted by in Motherhood, Postnatal depression

≈ 2 Comments

IMG_3465.JPG pottery

Life metaphors have always struck me as invariably silly.

Life isn’t in the least like a box of chocolates. If it was, who the f*&% is eating all the caramel swirls – answer me that?  Greedy bastard.  And if life gives you lemons, you can’t really make lemonade unless it also happens to have conveniently gifted you sugar and carbonated water/baking soda.

Neither is life that much like a roller coaster. In my experience there isn’t that much hanging upside down in the company of screaming teenagers on a school trip – but maybe I’ve been doing it wrong.  I’m not even convinced by Shakespeare’s all the world’s a stage. If it was a play there’d be way more intervals – I really need more intervals.

Nope. What life is really like is one of those paint-a-pot shops.

Bear with me, as I extend a metaphor beyond all tensility, sensibility, or indeed probability.

You often don’t get that much choice in what kind of pot you get, or time to plan your approach. It might be sturdy earthenware, or delicate China. An intricate teapot or a comedy cat. And it’s your responsibility to make something of it in the very short time  allotted to you before the next group booking.

Sure, you get to decorate it as you wish, but only using the colours and tools immediately available to you. The colours don’t always come out as you planned. It’s hard to get the detail right. You make mistakes. You can use a wet sponge to try and rub them out, but you’ll still be able to see them once it’s been through the kiln – so you’re probably better off just adapting the design as you go along.  Sometimes there’s someone to offer you advice, but mostly you’ve got to do it all yourself. There’s invariably someone next to you doing something better.  And in the end, you may or may not be pleased with the results.

So each and every one of is a pot, lined up on the shelves of life, stretching as far as the eye can see. Some of us will be displayed pride of place up front and centre. Some of us will be half hidden behind a spider plant.  Perhaps we get to choose the pots we want to be arranged next to – possibly those with similar patterns.  Some folks are happy to be on the highest shelves, others lurk in safety near the bottom rungs.

Sometimes, just sometimes, pots get broken. Maybe they were already fragile. But when the pieces shatter, they will never be put back in quite the same way.

There are two natural enemies of pottery, the first (obviously) is bulls, the second is small children.  And it’s having children that broke my pot wide, wide open.

I think most of the mothers I know would admit to a few cracks postpartum.  Some may have been relatively minor – hairline fractures.  Others weren’t.  Some had ugly, raw gouges.  A few completely smashed.  I don’t know many that came through the process completely intact, as before, without tarnish or at least a little fading round the edges.  And mostly, we don’t talk about it.  We fall apart in private, and show our best side to the world.

There is a very bad habit, in our modern world, of just chucking out and replacing broken stuff without even trying to fix it.  Simple consumerism – the pursuit of perfection, maybe.  And if we don’t write it off as irreparable, we still don’t ever think of it or use it in quite the same way again. Slap it back together with a bit of superglue or gaffa tape, stick it in the little loo where no one will really see it. Hide it. Move on.

When my pot broke, I did pick the pieces up, eventually. With a bit of help. But it wasn’t water tight anymore. (Hell, I spring leaks from various orifices every time I sneeze unexpectedly or watch a bloody John Lewis advert).  But it’s still standing. I’m still standing.

We have never bottomed out the veritable melting pot (see what I did there?) of mental health in the UK – something that affects an estimated 1 in 4 people at some point in their lives.  It is not just a women’s issue; mental health is very much an equal opportunities affliction.  Oh we pretend to understand it, to sympathise, to be PC.  But in reality we mostly just avoid it, medicate it, wait for it to go away. Stigmatise. Blame. Roll our eyes.

Pull yourself together.

Everyone’s got problems.

Try looking on the bright side.

Change the record.

I don’t need that kind of negativity.

Other people do this all the time.

He’s no fun anymore.

She enjoys wallowing.

Why can’t she just get over it?

Why can’t he just be grateful for what he’s got?

You’ve probably thought one or more of these things about one or more of your acquaintances over the years.

Then it happens to you.

And you can’t make the effort. You can’t face the day. Even getting out of bed feels so HUGE a mountain to climb you can hardly make your limbs obey you.  That heaviness pervades your body, your mind.  You can’t bear to see people, nor to be alone in your own echoing, fickle, foggy head. You obsess over details, become overwhelmed by minutiae, anxious about every little thing.  You can’t make decisions.  You can’t think, plan, engage.

Life is reduced to a series of motions you go through but can’t feel, and emotions you feel but can’t sort through.  There is an unrelenting ebb and flow of panic and lethargy, hyper-reality and detachment.  All you can do is grit your teeth, put your head down, focus, try, fail, repeat. Over, and over and over again.

The battle to maintain structural integrity, to keep up a flimsy shell of functionality, to hold all your pieces together – it takes all the energy and concentration you can muster.

For many women, postnatal depression is their ‘intro’ to mental health issues.  Crazy 101. And it’s pretty fucking scary. And the only thing even scarier than all that is the aftermath – what happens when the fog lifts and you finally put your head up again.

She’s delicate.

He’s weak.

She’s a flapper.

He’s lost his edge.

She can’t cope.  

He’s changed.

She’s a dramatist.

A neurotic.

Overwrought.

Unstable.

Damaged goods.

You’re put in a box that people won’t let you out of again.  It’s like they can’t see your pot anymore – they can only see the cracks.  Like that’s what you’ve become. That’s all you’re worth.

This is not always so.  Elsewhere in the world, survival and experience are embraced.  Kintsugi is the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with lacquer dusted or mixed with powdered gold.  It treats breakage and repair as part of the history of an object, rather than something to disguise.  It even highlights the cracks and celebrates them as something actually adding to its value.  

And that, folks, is why life is REALLY like pottery.  Kintsugi.

Because you are not damaged or ruined.  Whether you are a sufferer or a survivor, you are uniquely beautiful – not despite your scars but because of them.

If I know anything from watching two whole episodes of Time Team on the History Channel, it’s that broken pieces of pottery are what archaeologists will find thousands of years from now.  It’s how we all end up – at the very end – dashed on the ol’ rocks of life.  Dug out of a trench by a future Tony Robinson.  What story will your pot tell, I wonder?

The golden veins that hold my pieces together are a map of love – the only thing that can really heal or seal the cracks.  And as I sit here on my shelf, gradually collecting dust, they glint in the afternoon sun. Blinding flashes of hope.

 

Mumonthenetheredge

 

Resources:

PANDAS – The pre and postnatal depression support service

MIND – The mental health charity

Sheffield Light – a small Charity run by volunteers providing support across Sheffield to families affected by perinatal mental heath illnesses, including postnatal depression and anxiety.

Fired Arts – the craft cafe at 957 Ecclesall Road, Sheffield S11 8TN

Planet Pot – ceramic cafe at 102 Hangingwater Road, Sheffield S11 7ER

 

A grumpy guide to Mother’s Day gifts

05 Saturday Mar 2016

Posted by in Humour, Motherhood

≈ 3 Comments

IMG_3437.JPGmothersday

This is a blog about being a Mum, so Mother’s Day obviously requires the obligatory Mother’s Day blog – in the form of a guide to Mother’s Day gifts.

***Grump warning.*** I’ve never been much of a Mother’s Day fan, because it is:

a) a cash cow blatantly invented by the nefarious greetings card industry, and

b) it sneaks up on me, sends me dashing madly to the nearest vendor to procure a shit card, which (in my purchase-induced relief and smugness) I subsequently fail to actually post, making me appear like the Bad Daughter.  (This never seems to happen to my sister.  Bitch.)  

I may have thought – fleetingly – that becoming a mother would imbue the day with new significance.  This didn’t really happen.  In my house I think we’re all pretty happy when the motions of presentation and gratitude have been duly gone through, and we can all just get on with our day.  

  1. Breakfast in bed

This seems like a good idea but is in fact rubbish.  I have no desire to eat cold toast or soggy cornflakes after they have been arranged on a tray and transported up the stairs.  I like my toast hot and my cornflakes crunchy, and goddammit these are the only things that make my life worth living at 6.30am.  I have one breakfast rule, and that is that once the milk hits the flakes I will not be available for comment, toilet trips, containment of spillages or any emergency short of ACTUAL FIRE until they are gone.  If this cannot be achieved the WHOLE DAY WILL BE RUINED.  For everyone.  

Tea is also out because of the scald risk to the baby, who appears to think steaming mugs are in fact the baby holy grail.  And I have no desire to have crumbs in my bed, which I frankly cannot be arsed to change and will therefore be getting stuck between my toes for the next two months.  

  1.  A lie-in

Theoretically amazing, but practically disappointing.  Whether you like it or not, you have now been trained to wake up circa 6am, and you will never be able to go back to sleep.  This will be particularly true as the family breakfasts noisily and ineffectually downstairs, creating a scene akin to a warzone, all the while yelling and shushing each other.  

They will be collectively so proud of this achievement you will be expected to express gratitude for at least the next week.  So not worth it.

  1.  Flowers

I HATE flowers.  I don’t have any appropriate receptacle for them, nor an appropriate surface to display them that isn’t covered with kid paraphernalia and IS safe from grabby baby hands.  I also can’t arrange them, so they’ll never look as nice as they do in the packaging.  They will die slowly in a corner looking sadder, saggier and more colourless by the day, in a vicious parody of my own body.  I find this singularly depressing.  They also take up an inordinate amount of room in my already bulging-at-the-seams wheelie bin when I finally get sick of looking at them and chuck them out.  

  1.  Pot plants

Look, I can barely keep the two children alive, let alone something that can’t even scream when it needs sustenance.  Don’t make me a murderer.  It’s a very bad example to set for the kids.  

  1.  Chocolates

Sorry, I don’t like chocolates either.  Oh, I like CHOCOLATE, I’m not crazy.  It’s just that I’d rather have it in a plain old Dairy Milk bar or a nice milk chocolate digestive.  I don’t want it in little hard lumps that don’t taste like the cheapo stuff I’m used to, and have been contaminated with various other flavours and textures I could cheerfully live without.  Don’t get me wrong – I’ll eat them – but I’ll be wishing they were chocolate digestives and resenting you just a little bit for making me consume unnecessary calories I’m not even enjoying.   

The best thing would be for the husband to buy HIMSELF a pack of chocolate digestives, and just leave them casually on the side so I can gradually consume as I happen to pass, blame him, and not have to confront my own greed.  

  1.  Perfume

This is the olfactory version of polishing a turd.  I’m wearing tracky bottoms, my hair’s a mess, I’m in the midst of a hormonal breakout, I’ve been up since 4.30am and I still haven’t made it into the shower.  My base scent is eau de spit-up and sweat.  No amount of expensive smelly is going to mask any of these facts.  

  1. Stuffed toys

I grew out of stuffed toys at around 13, and I do not understand why they are considered appropriate Valentine’s or Mother’s Day gifts.  There are more stuffed toys in this house than I can shake a stick at already, and I am expected to know the exact location of each and every one of them at any given moment, when the bigger small person suddenly remembers their existence (for the first time in a year) and cannot live a second longer without their immediate presence.  The last thing they need is MORE company.    

  1.  Handmade cards

I’m not a monster – these are, in fact, acceptable Mother’s Day gifts.  I know they’ve probably been made in a production line by Sue at nursery (who may have spelt something wrong and has almost certainly misused the apostrophe) and I know that they’ve probably been cursorily decorated by a completely random child.  They’re still cute.  

However, I do also reserve the right to chuck them in the bin at some point in the future.  I hadn’t realised what prolific artists small children are, and apart from a few seminal pieces of developmental significance I literally can’t keep everything.  Most of the miscellaneous piles of crap around my house consist of ‘art’ and every now and again I just have to CULL.  

  1. Bling

Now we’re really getting somewhere!  Just make sure both husband and children have special bling training, and plenty of direct hints.  Possibly magazine cuttings and a mood board.  Otherwise you’ll end up with something shit you’re then forced to wear constantly by the children in order to prove your love for them.  

  1.  Alcohol

Also good.  Remember, this isn’t sophisticated bottle of red to share with the hubby time.  This is the time for pink, sparkly quaffing pop!  Mmmm.  Mummy juice.

  1.  Afternoon nap

Ah hah.  The pinnacle of Mother’s Day gifts!  Yes, have lots of lovely family time together, celebrating your excellent Mothering work.  And then get rid of them.  Send them out with Daddy with strict instructions not to return for a good two hours, when they can come and wake you up and have lovely mid-afternoon cuddles in bed.  

Miraculously, this precious rest and time to yourself may in fact turn you into the mother they (and you) always wanted you to be!  At least for a few hours.  Win win win.    

 

Mumonthenetheredge

The girl who has it all

01 Tuesday Mar 2016

Posted by in Motherhood, Postnatal depression, Returning to work

≈ Leave a comment

IMG_3330.JPGgirl

This is a blog about postnatal depression, the danger of comparisons, returning to work, and a girl who has it all.

We’ve all known one, at one stage or another.  If you’re honest, you probably know one now.  She’s that bit prettier than you.  A bit cleverer.  A bit thinner.  A bit more confident.  A bit more sorted.  A bit more successful.  A bit of a better mummy, perhaps, without all the shouting and threats.  A girl who has it all.

Personally, I’ve always made a point of making friends with these people.  Sure, at various stages of my life I’ve found myself in the unenviable role of ‘ugly sidekick mate’ or even found that I’m being used, which is always a fairly unpleasant experience.  But mostly I’ve found that I’m being inspired, that I’m learning, gaining energy and experience and expertise from some of the wonderful women I now count as my friends.

I’ve since heard that saying that ‘If you’re the XXist person in the room, you’re in the wrong room’.  I rather like it.  I certainly don’t worship perfection, but I do love being with folk who make me spark – even if I’m lit up only by their reflected glory!  I’ll take that and happily bask.

There is one girl who has it all who, unusually, is no longer my friend.  Her name (for the purposes of this blog) is Rachel, and we used to be colleagues and pretty good pals.  She’s gorgeous, brilliant, perfect boyfriend, blah blah blah.  She moved quickly up the ranks  because frankly she’s got an awesome strategic mind, and she’s just better at shit than I am.  And that was okay.  In fact, I was – and still am – kind of proud of her.  I was even prouder to be counted as her friend.

Postnatal changes

Rachel became my boss, and it worked well because we still sparked off each other.  And then I had my first baby and she had her career and we didn’t cross paths that much.  That’s when it changed, or I changed, or something.  Maybe it was different priorities.  Maybe it was my postnatal depression and the sleep deprivation, which fuddled my brain.  Going back to work I wasn’t as good as I was, and I didn’t have the hours anymore to throw in and make up for it.

Like so many return to work mums, I struggled to remember who I was in the workplace and how to fit it all in.  Suddenly I was easily overwhelmed, unfocused, and so, so tired.  Certainly too tired to chase the promotions that would have kept me Rachel’s peer.  I told myself that prioritising my child and staying part time (and low down) was the best thing for my family.  In hindsight it probably was.  I wanted to have another baby anyway, so why not get on with that?

So I tried to get on with my work and get pregnant to boot.  But life doesn’t often adhere to a schedule.  I’ll happily own I didn’t deal with my subsequent health issues and fertility struggles very well.

There is something of a statute of limitations on sympathy, especially in large traditional industries like mine, where it is easy to be anonymous.  Another number.  As I went in and out of hospital for various treatments it inevitably waned.  Rachel took a step back and left me to deal solely with my new line manager – someone ambitious and inexperienced.  As my only contact with the organisation, they played things by the book (to the excruciating letter), and all the good will, hard work, relationships and experience I’d built up counted for nothing.  I felt abandoned – particularly by Rachel.

Colleagues not friends

In the months of nastiness that followed, when my marriage nearly broke down, when I was being prodded and probed and scraped and inflated and doped up on hormone drugs, Rachel never ONCE asked me how I was doing.  I’ll be honest – that really, really hurt.  The girl who had it all didn’t need to have my crap dragging her down.  She was above me, not just in terms of hierarchy but above my messy life and pesky emotions.  I’d mistaken us for friends, and she made it super clear we were only ever colleagues.

As a newly over-emotional, and long-term passive aggressive type, it goes without saying I found this very hard to deal with, and it’s taken a long while to gain any perspective.  Just as I need other people to light me up, when I’m left alone I dim.  And for some reason this was the catalyst that threw me into one of my very darkest places.   

Looking back now, though, what did I really expect her to do?  What choice did she have but to follow procedure with my immediate boss?  Duh.  Perhaps I was too fragile to approach in a work setting.  And perhaps she had shit of her own to be dealing with, and I wasn’t there for her either.  When she did start to make personal overtures, I was too sad and too angry to be able to respond.  I see that now.  And what’s more, I also see that maybe to Rachel – to anyone on the outside – I was the girl who had it all.  

Having it all

I don’t think it ever feels like you have it all, you see.  Even if you’re the luckiest bugger in the whole world.  Most of the time, I remember to be really, really fucking grateful.  Eventually, I got my second baby, and that IS a miracle.  And I get to work part time to spend time with my babies, because I’m not the main breadwinner – and there’s some real luxury in that.

Sure, I don’t have a career.  But in reality I’m not even sure I want one – certainly not the one I essentially gave up on.  Perhaps I once defined myself too much by my work, but I liked being good at something.  So who the hell am I now?  It’s a question I think a lot of new mums find themselves asking.  Several years down the line I still don’t have an answer.

I certainly don’t want to repeat the mistake and become someone who defines themselves only by their children (not least because I think that’s a lot of pressure to put them under).  Half the time I’m not even that good at being a mother.  It’s not easy.  It’s not 100% gushy-wonderful either – anyone who says different is a bloody liar and you should cut them immediately from your acquaintance.  Happy families is fucking hard, HARD work.  And it’s difficult to feel thankful about it when you’re up to your elbows in poo.

Every day, motherhood continues to expose my latent (and brand shiny new!) mental health issues – as well as some personality traits and personal failings that frankly shame me.  I’m not as patient as I thought I was.  I’m not as quick, or decisive, or incisive.  I’m often at the mercy of the most intense emotions I’ve ever experienced – love, anger, grief, worry, guilt – that I struggle to contain, and then to remember why I’m feeling them in the first place.

I said to one wonderful women (who is a friend that definitely has it all in terms of positivity), that becoming a parent kind of broke me.  I’m not the contained, self-assured and poised person I once was.  I was worse.  She told me she thought it had actually set me free.

All that of course, made me a very different person to work with and be with.  (Hell, even I don’t recognise me sometimes).  Added to the monotony of the ongoing drama, it made me just too different from Rachel.

Comparisons and contrasts

So what why is it – given all the crappiness along the way – it was the experience of being dumped by a girl who had it all (whether this was reality or not) that so stuck in my craw?

I think the crux of the matter was the sheer contrast of her life to mine.  From being peers on a very similar trajectory our life paths suddenly diverged, and while she was the girl who had it all – despite everything I had – I FELT like the girl who had it all taken away.  

Her life was on track – mine was careening off the rails.  And it shouldn’t have been.  I should have been happy. I WAS happy about my baby, but I was also unhinged by being a mummy – and guilty about failing to love every second.  And then it all started to get almost farcically worse when I tried to be a mummy all over again.

Look, I don’t think any of my shit is any better, worse or stinkier than anyone else’s.  But after having children – when I should have felt how much I had gained – in reality I felt like I lost.

I lost a huge part of me, certainly my clarity and my sense of self.  That confidence and assurance that characterised Rachel was far, far out of my reach.  I lost my career, which at one point was very important to me, just as Rachel’s took off.  I then lost what was (to me) this important friendship.  Next I continued to lose control of not just my emotions and mental health but of my physical health as my body let me down, of my reproductive choices, my vision for my family, and very nearly my relationship as a result.  I felt like a victim of circumstance – and Rachel felt like a woman who would never be so weak as to let even circumstance make her a victim.

Obviously nothing is that simple, and nobody’s life is perfect.  Everyone you meet has problems and issues under the surface you know nothing about.  And yes, you might even be their girl who has it all.  

Maybe when one of YOUR ‘girls who has it all’ has a family, she’ll manage the whole thing effortlessly.  Maybe she’s already a Mummy and she seems able to continue with her life pretty much unchanged and unphased.  But maybe, just maybe, she’s finding it hard too.  Maybe she’s struggling to be grateful every day. Maybe she’ll find that the job suffers, or the relationship, or even the mind – like so many of us.  Maybe she’s come out the other side a little bit different.

And maybe, as my positive friend points out, maybe that difference isn’t worse.  Maybe it’s actually a little bit better.  

Today I’ve realised I’ve stopped comparing my life, my choices and myself to anyone else.  I don’t feel like a victim anymore.  I don’t feel like I’ve lost anything anymore, either.  Oh don’t get me wrong, I’m still not in any semblance of control, here.  I haven’t found myself or had some sort of epiphany (sounds exhausting and I’m still waaaaaay too knackered for that sort of thing).  But somewhere along the way I have finally found the power in what I’ve acquired.  

At last, I’m recognising not just my children as gifts, but also the change having them has wrought in me.

Crying at the 10 o’clock news

I did crack when I had children, but what was released in the process – awakened – I wouldn’t put back to sleep if I could.  I wouldn’t go back to being so absolute or so pragmatic – to being someone who didn’t regularly cry at the 10 o’clock news (and who rather despised those soft-headed enough to do so).  Yes I have plumbed new depths of despair and wretchedness, but I think I needed to do so in order to feel everything else.  On the other side of the same coin are the thundering swells of love and joy that have literally stopped my heart beating.  I have never known anything like it, and I wouldn’t give it up for the world.  

I AM better.  And now I can consciously CHOOSE to feel like a girl who has it all myself, even if the ‘all’ is not what I ever expected.  And you know what?  I think maybe I’m getting better every day.

Maybe I’m even stepping away from the (Nether) Edge.  

 

Mumonthenetheredge