First Child

You're nearly bankrupt, you can't move in the nursery because it's so full of stuff.  Lots of stuff. Stuffy stuff. Important stuff.  Necessary stuff. Baby stuff.

You've read all the lists and you have every possible variation of everything your baby could ever need.

You buy an entire wardrobe in gender neutral, then you find out the gender at 20 weeks and suddenly you buy a whole new other wardrobe in pink or blue.

Your pram has better specifications than your car and your changing bag is so advanced it comes with an instruction manual.

Your birth plan is a work of literary art, pure exquisite fiction.

You have your hospital bag packed from 24 weeks.

Your pre-pregnancy clothes are still in your wardrobe.  You genuinely believe you'll be wearing them again soon. Ha!

You've already planned the first month of your life as a mum with a multitude of lunch dates etc.

You're not even overdue and you've already got lip burn from pineapples, ring sting from curries, your husband thinks it's his birthday and you're walking down the stairs sideways.

You spend the majority of your pregnancy planning and decorating the nursery, that they won't sleep in.

You remark how they'll never sleep in your bed.

You sterilise everything.  Every time they suck their own fingers you're tempted to sterilise them afterwards too.

You waste half your life devotingly pureeing organic vegetables and freezing them in ice cube trays.  They'll enjoy these for about oh, a month or two if you're lucky.

Your child will never eat crisps, chocolate or sweets until they're seven.

Weaning and potty training take over your life, the books say they should be doing it NOW so they will.  Even if you both end up in tantrums and tears.

You're panicking because baby isn't playing by the rules, they're not abiding by the schedules the books told you about.

Your baby eats dirt, you sterlise it's hands, mouth and tongue than contemplate ringing 999.

You painfully record every oz they drink, every nappy they wet, every poo they shoot out.

You can't understand why the HV, a health official, is giving you advice that goes against everything your head/heart is telling you.  But they must be right, right?  After all, they're mini gods.

Your child is silent, you have visions of ambulances.

Second Child

You panic.  How the fuckity fuck are you going to manage with two.

You worry that you simply won't have enough love for two of them.

Your first born is the centre of your universe and you can't fathom how this will change.

You find out that now this isn't your first pregnancy, your MW doesn't want to know you until much later.  She's keeping it casual.  Your wee and blood feel unwanted.

You have your hospital bag packed from 32 weeks.

You look at all the junk you thought you needed with your first and yet never did need at all.  You replace it with a whole new load of stuff you never got last time but you'll absolutely need this time.  Honest.

Your first still sneaks into your bed during the night.

You have a vague idea of where the nursery is, it's that room you dump all the unused baby stuff in.

You're so incredibly tired yet your child no longer naps.  You try and bribe them with sweets, crisps and chocolate oh and tv, to sleep just for a little while so you can close your eyes.

You realise baby will eat food when it's ready, sleep when it wants to and you don't have to call 999 if it doesn't shit for a few days.

Your baby won't eat the organic crap you've bought.  It's living on cheese spread butties and skips.  You figure at least it's eating.  Right?

Baby wears more baby grows than outfits because life is too short to put a newborn in tights and shoes and dresses.  Besides, they'll only puke on it later.  Or worse, shit through it.

Your baby eats dirt, you call the gp instantly and google for hours.

Your child is silent, you wonder which walls it's decorating this time

You discover, your love doesn't become divided, it multiplies.

Third Child

You're still wearing maternity clothes from last time, and nursing bras.  Whaa? They cover your jelly belly and they're comfortable.

You've forgotten what makeup is, you haven't pee'd alone in years.  You only manage a shower every other day if you're lucky and dry shampoo is your new best friend.

You're nearly 30 weeks and you haven't bought a thing.  You haven't the energy to wade through the loft yet either.  It's okay.  You have ages yet.

You're tempted to buy your own wee dip sticks as the thought of going to the antenatal clinic with two little ones in tow is excruciatingly torturous.

You realise the baby doesn't give a shit about colour schemes, besides they'll be sharing a room with a sibling anyway.

You're co-sleeping.

You remember at some point, before labour, that you really should pack your hospital bag.

Your birth plan is more along the lines of 'shit happens.  In case of emergency give drugs'

You realise you only really need clothes, nappies, somewhere for it to sleep and something to take it out in.

You don't care what gender it is, a vest is a vest albeit pink with flowers.  No need for new clothes.

You don't even contemplate a pram, you know you'll only get back half of what you paid and will only use it for six months before you admit that it's too big, too heavy and a bloody nuisance and get a stroller instead.

You don't even think about weaning until it's stealing half your lunch.

Potty training will happen at some point before they go to school, you'll wing it.

You're an expert in anything for a quiet life.

You don't even own a steriliser anymore.

Who cares if baby prefers the dogs chew toy to it's own.  It will build up a healthy immune system.

You catch your baby eating dirt and contemplate not bothering with lunch.

You regret not doing those Kegal exercises.

You realise bribery is a very important parenting tool.

Your child is silent, you put your feet up and figure it will yell if it needs you.  You'll send an earlier model to look for it, eventually.

You leave a 'gone fishing' note out for the HV because you're sick of anecdotal none research based 'advise' that is quite simply a big bag of dicks.

You parent by instinct.

Fourth Child

Oh Fuck.

It will be okay.

Honest.

Your birth plan is along the lines of 'will try and squeeze the birth in when I have time.  Please catch the baby'


You're excited at the prospect of labour drugs regardless of whether you need them and dream contemplate asking for Gin in your IV.

You request to stay in hospital for a few days as you need the holiday.

You sneeze and wonder if your waters have gone.  They haven't. Oh.

You have a list of days where you've banned labour from happening due to school assemblies, birthdays and the like.

The pregnancy flies by, you simply don't have the time to relish it.

You have tits, nappies and a sling and a whole lot of love,
that's about all you need for this one.  Right?

You remember to shove a nighty, knickers and some pillow pads of doom in a bag, whilst your first contraction hits.

You have no idea where you'll eventually put it, you're sure there's a spare drawer/corner/cupboard somewhere in the house....among all the shit children's stuff.  It's not like it will be out of your bed anytime soon.

You're winging it baby.

What's one more after all?

The Beginning Of Body Image

As Mothers of girls, we often fear the effect the media has or will have on our daughters sense of self worth and body image yet often through concentrating on the big bad villainous media we overlook a girls biggest influence; their Mother.  Long before they are aware of the media, the way they see the world is shaped by what they see and be it play or academia children learn through replication.

How often has your child heard you complain you're fat? How often have they sat down to eat and seen you either not eat or eat something entirely different?  How often have they heard you talk about carbs or calories? Perhaps your child sees your daily ritual of applying make-up before you leave the house?  It's so easy to bitch about celebrities we see whether they've lost weight or put on weight.:

The point is, long before they are exposed to The Media we may have already unknowingly taught them that:

* It's 'wrong' to be fat
* We should diet
* We need to be slim to be accepted
* Certain foods are forbidden
* If we're not slim we're lesser or ugly
* That we should restrict what we eat
* That we need to wear makeup to be 'pretty'
* That we only feel good when we're slim

I'm overweight, a lot.  I feel ugly inside and out most of my life.  Yet, I still ensure I don't hide reality.  The children will use the loo and chat to us whilst we're in the bath.  They know what real bodies look like.  I think it's important that we appear unashamed of our bodies.  That they see that muffin tops, toe dusting boobs, stretch marks etc are all normal.

Has your daughter ever seen you shave your legs?  Do you tell her 'It's what grown-ups do' or do you tell her that personally you don't like the hair on your legs so you choose to remove it.  One gives the message that it's expected and something grown-ups should to do, the latter suggests it's a choice and personal preference.

When I grew up it would seem my mother was permanently on a diet and rarely ever left the house without make-up on.  Even to this day The Husband is endlessly amused how she'll reapply her lipstick before she leaves the house, if she goes to the loo, on the bus etc.  She put me on my first diet at age seven.  Every time she washes her hair she'll then start the time consuming task of drying and styling it meticulously.  Even when wearing jeans she still looks coiffed.  Do you say 'I just need to put my make up on' instead of 'I'd just like to put some make-up on?' They both send out very different messages.

Putting the fact I'm a mentalist aside I'm also probably a slummy mummy.  I wash my hair and let it dry itself.  I only put make-up on if the mood strikes.  I either slum it in jeans and hoodies or else look like a psychotic clown of gothy death.  Hopefully Thing Two will learn to wear whatever she wants, whatever feels comfortable and that the only person she needs to dress for is herself.  I want her to know that she doesn't need make-up or false nails or a tan to be beautiful.  I want her to know that she is enough.  That the only thing she should be or needs to be is herself.  I want her to know the importance of healthy food and exercise yet to realise it's also fine to curl up on the sofa and eat chocolate and ice cream.  I want her to realise that a size 0 isn't 'the norm'.  I want her to learn to love all that make her so irresistibly her, like the little bump on the side of her nose or the missing top tooth that has taken 5 years to even think of reappearing.

I want her to realise that the outside is not a reflection of the inside.  An apple can look perfect yet still be rotten inside.  That there is no perfect.  That it doesn't exist, it's all subjective.

I want her to look beyond the skin of others.

I want her to accept that it's okay if somebody doesn't like her, it's not about her it's about them .

I want her to be comfortable in her own skin.

It's not just about the girls though.  Never underestimate the effect your own body image has on your son too.  You are their female role model, you are what teaches them what a woman is and in their mind how a woman should be.  How you present yourself can determine how they judge other females.  You are their point of reference.  The messages you send out about yourself can directly influence how they view females  and can form the basis of what they expect and accept as being healthy and normal.  You are their first point of reference, their default image to womanhood.

You know you're a mum when.... #2

Following on  from an old post, I bring you 'You know you're a mum when.....#2'

* In order to not share your posh ice cream you tell the children that they can't have any because it's Canadian and only adults can have Canadian things (then consequently ask yourself how  you ever became so desperate that spontaneously making up such nonsense is the norm?)

* The Spawn are playing in the garden and you're tempted to lock them out there (just for five minutes...honest)

* You glance out of the out the bathroom window at your little darlings playing/fighting blisfully an have to fight the urge to throw water at them.

* Your will power is weak.  You throw the water anyway....and laugh.

* You excuse yourself to go to the loo for a shit, the shit bit is important it as ensures no little people will follow you.  You spend 10-20 blissful minutes sat on the closed bog seat messing about on your phone... alone.

* You bar the kids from the kitchen whilst you're cooking when really you're just seeing how much chocolate an biscuits you can stuff into your mouth in the time it takes the oven to heat up without having to share any of it.

* You genuinely consider putting Gin on your weetabix.

Eight years

So it would appear that I am the mother of an eight year old as of yesterday as Thing One celebrated his eighth birthday. Quite where these eight years have gone is somewhat of a mystery and yet I managed to squeeze in two house moves and another two pregnancies and a miscarriage in that time which makes me sound rather busy, very unlike me.

By journal rights I should dedicate this entry to my beloved big little dude and bore you all shitless with tales of the last eight years and exercise your scrolling finger with copious amounts of photographs that would make any womb purr of him as a baby and toddler, you know before they turn into pesky children back when they were jolly well cute and far easier to carry.

Alas you are spared due to having no access to photographs of his babyhood on my phone. I will however return, so think of this as a page holder for Thing One's entry.

I do often feel considerably guilty that through being the eldest of three we often forget that he is still only wee himself and possibly expect far too much of him and understand far too little. He is our beloved prototype. Granted he's also a little sod, a tremendously advanced sanity assassin who drives us to the very brink, daily. Yet I wouldn't change him for the world. He is perfectly, him.  He is bloody hard work yet I suspect I am rather hard work myself.

It's okay. You can put the bucket away now.

How the fuck I have survived eight years of motherhood with considerably little alcohol is quite frankly beyond me.

I feel beastly old and tired yet It's more then worth it.

Maybe when the teenage years strike I'll be an alcoholic... or a dribbling incoherent mess.  I don't much like teenagers. They give me an awful case of the fears.

Easy banana bread.

The rain returned and washed away the childrens smiles turning their mood greyer then the heavy pregnant clouds. This summer holiday malarky sucks.

I rather stupidly had a silly notion of sympathy and felt Sorry for them. More fool me.

I should know by now by the large 'vacancy' sign hung where my sanity used to reside that I should ignore any and all thoughts of a remedy for Thing One and Thing Twos boredom when they are together. What can I say? Childbirth ate my brain.

So despite vowing to never, ever, under any circumstances including the end of the world to bake with both Thing One and Thing Two, together. Don't get me wrong they're utter darlings, regular little sunbeams....who just happen to be a tag team of deadly sanity assassins with namely yours truly being their target.

I'm usually a solitary baker. I like it that way. I like element of control and the transient moment of stolen alone time.

So, I agreed to bake some easy peasy banana bread with Thing One and Thing Two. I must admit, it was the lesser of two evils, the greater being attacked constantly by the pox ridden ninja boob junkie that is The Toddler.

Generally in past ventures into baking, in some futile attempt to limit damage to everyone I strategically pre-weigh out ingrediants blue peter style. Today in an uncharacteristic moment of being text book motherly I let then write out the recipe, weigh out the ingredients, mix the ingredients and I refrained from gagging then and duct taping them to the walls. Just

I did however manage, rather impressively, to nearly flood the kitchen. Arse.

I would bore you with baking photographs but the Blogger app keeps eating my posts.

Is it vodka o clock yet?

I watch you when you are sleeping

I love to watch The Toddler whilst he's asleep, inhaling his very essence.  I want to commit every single detail to my memory and store it in a draw in my heart.  I could stare for hours at the soft dimples of his knuckles in his pudgy little hands, dirty fingernails scruffy from a mornings play.  I wish I could count every crease, every hair, every indentation.  The rise and fall of his chest mezmorises me; a lullaby. I drink the sound of his breathing and the sighs that punctuate the beautiful silence.  I resist the urge, barely, to run my fingers through the golden tangles of his hair or to stroke his pinked cheeks.  I stare in marvel, unable to comprehend that he's part of me, this perfection, is part of me and me of him.  That I created him.  I grew him.  I nurtured him. I birthed him. This amazing being he is.  I look at him and my heart stops, I can't breath and for that moment, i don't even want to.  I'm incapable of looking at him and upholding the fact that he was once inside me, this whole complete beautiful human. One day he'll be a grown up, a man with stubble on his chin, thick hair on his legs, broad shoulders and hands that dwarf mine.  Until then......I shall watch him whilst he's sleeping and protect him from the world.

I never truly understood  love was until I had Children, I still don't understand it....it gets deeper every day though.  Impossibly so.

Love letters from a daughter

The other night, whilst all the children were asleep I wrote Thing One and Thing Two a note.  At school the next day, Thing Two wrote me a reply.....

 

 

 

Reflection and appreciation.

No matter how much they test and try us throughout the day, watching them when they sleep and seeing their exuberence when they wake means all is forgiven and the day starts anew, the slate is both clean and pure again as our heart takes a jump and a flutter and grows again, each day getting bigger with more love.



& when we look at them we feel alive, this is real life.  Our life.

No matter where it takes us, the twists and the turns I can't ever regret any of it for it has brought me here, to now and with my three babies, there's nowhere else i'd rather be. This is the meaning of life.

This is love.