An Eye for an Eye. (An Eye Related Post.) …Eye.

My son permanently sleeps with one eye open.

I assume this isn’t because he doesn’t trust me and his father not to steal his worldly possessions from out under him (snot encrusted Spot the dog puppet, nah your alright you keep it) while he dozes, or because he doesn’t trust me not to do a runner during the periods he tentatively grabs 14 winks (I have to be honest, I have considered it) but because in fact his palpebral portion of the orbicularis oculi muscle covered with skin on the superficial, anterior surface and lined with conjunctiva on the deep, posterior surface; (eye lid) is, according to his father, a little bit like his mother.

Lazy.

(I’m not going to try and deny it, I am, I hold my hands up. I am lazy. When I get chance that is, in between putting eight washes on a day, bathing the dog, cleaning up poodle poop, cleaning up baby poop, washing the dishes, hoovering the carpet 26 times an hour (spam me Dyson, spam me!) Drying the dishes, making a bottle, frying fish, slow cooking curry, ironing baby clothes, putting on another wash, dancing to Thomas the tank engine, reading Thomas the tank engine, making Thomas the tank engine pasta, coaxing the monster to eat, making a cup of tea and forgetting to drink it, getting my head around going back to work (for a rest!) Overcoming post natal depression and putting another wash in for good measure that is. Yeah-Irish one, Lazy is what I am. Most definitely Lazy. Grr…)

Anyyyywayyy, back to the point.

Addison has always slept with one eye open. Ok, maybe open is a slight exaggeration of the event, perhaps a jar, Addison sleeps with one eye somewhat a-jar would probably be closer to the truth here.

However, unlike most freaky night zombie types who sleep with the whites of their eyes on show, snoring like a bear and resembling the living dead (Irish One – sexy!), when it comes to Addison you can absolutely still see his pupil bobbing about underneath his lashes and occasionally, just occasionally, if he falls asleep on the sofa and I am tip toeing around ‘pretending’ to clean, I would swear blind he is watching me.

Yes. My son sometimes falls asleep watching Upsy daisy messing about with Iggle Piggle on the tele. Should we move on? I’m an honest mother, who on occasion will allow this to happen as I’m sorry Supernanny, spending 25 minutes coaxing him down for a nap when he is overtired, is impossible when the dog walks in from outside with shit dripping down to his doggy ankles. I am not American (much to my disappointment), I cannot afford for you to visit me and show me the ‘technique’ and unfortunately my poodle isn’t known for having the best digestive anal tract. Explosive would be a word I would probably use here, and if I had the choice between Jo frost and Ceaser Milan, unfortunately for us, I would have to choose Ceaser.

(Oh to be the leader of a pack, that is my dream. Any pack will do.)

But anyway, back to the point.

When I was a kid, me and my best friend Kate used to live in each other’s pockets, our mothers wouldn’t hesitate to tell both children off for being disrespectful, if need be, and on the odd occasion, should we behave atrociously we would receive a healthy smack. (Big deal. I mean, I won’t smack Addy, because times have changed but back in the day? A smack was really not a big deal. Which is probably why we were such little gits, but anyway.)

One Friday afternoon as we arrived home from school, both of us excited over the 48 hours of freedom about to follow, her mother called us in to the kitchen.

‘Kate’ she said ‘Aunty Barbara bought you a new cabbage patch poster, I put it up earlier for you, go and have a look.’

We absolutely loved the cabbage patch kids so both of us thundered up the stairs breathlessly anticipating our favourite dolls cavorting and smiling down at us from the small amount of wall space belonging only to us.

(Just while we are on the subject of stairs, do you remember those stairs with the gaps in between them, just big enough to hang your legs over so you could dangle upside down? She had those types of stairs in her house and I was always so jealous. Until, that is, on one fateful Sunday, her mum had come rushing down the stairs dressed up to the nines and heading for church. We, also dressed in our Sunday best, had grown a little bored of waiting so had decided to partake in a small game of stair gymnastics. He mother unfortunately failed to notice, in her haste, my precariously placed shins holding me up from the other side, and proceeded to stand directly on to them and fall four feet on to a concrete floor flat on her face (farmhouse flooring, outfit ruined, hat flattened.) Meanwhile I was also horrendously concussed after falling heavily directly on my head due to the shock of having her Sunday best stiletto pierce my shin bone and was lying on the floor in a heap cursing the day church was invented. (I hated going to church.) The bollocking, and subsequent remodeling of the staircase, ensured we never played stair Olympics again. Shame really.)

Anyway, arriving in her room that fateful Friday, unharmed, animated and eager we were appalled to find, it wasn’t actually a cabbage patch poster.

It was a garbage pail kids poster.

If you don’t remember the difference, I seriously urge you to check on Google, or Bing, or Wikipedia, or even ‘Toys that should never have been made.com’ and feel our genuine horror for yourself.

This horrendous doll, grimacing down at us, was elegantly placed in the midst of a large dustbin tip, with a huge gash down the side of its face, and stiches holding it’s head together. In the background, 3 other garbage pail dolls were dressed in black, injuries adorning every inch of their bodies and were looking decidedly annoyed, at no doubt being rejected from the cabbage patch. (With good reason!!)

How anybody could have confused the two, still to this day, is beyond me.

After an hour of begging her mum to take it down, the requests falling on deaf ears due to the impending visit from aunty Barbara later that evening, we were forced in to heading back to her room and changing out of our school clothes and in to our ‘weekend attire.’

‘When aunty Barbara gets here girls, be sure to shower her with thanks, these posters aren’t cheap.’ Was her parting shot.

Thanking Aunty Barbara through clenched teeth however, was not the problem.

The problem in fact was that the Garbage pail dolls seemed to be focused on us no matter what corner of the room we were pressed ourselves in to.

Their hollowed out dark circular eyes would follow us no matter where we attempted to hide.

I got changed behind the bed, repeatedly checking they couldn’t spot my naked torso, and kate, in the wardrobe, constantly calling out for me not to open the door.

‘I won’t!’ I had shouted back ‘I couldn’t anyway, I am half naked and they are still staring at me!!’

Horrific.

Also back when torture really was only being allowed one biscuit after dinner, whenever we were ordered by our parents to ‘clean this pig sty up before I pick all your toys up and throw them in the bin’ (yeah right) we would always clean up in slow motion.

Like what we had observed the gorgeous women, falling for their gorgeous men doing, in the many TV movies we weren’t supposed to be watching.

This became our tradition. Any mundane task that needed to be completed, we would complete in slow motion, pretending our hair was blowing in the wind and collapsing in to giggles every five minutes.

Picture two nine year olds washing up while humming Harold Faltermeyer’s one famous track (the tune from Top Gun) and you have yourself a winning combination. (Albeit a slow one.) I really do wonder how her mother didn’t kill us from frustration.

This brings me nicely back to my point, eventually.

Yesterday morning my son fell sound asleep, after a morning of creating havoc, one eye energetically lolling about, on the living room sofa in front of Chuggington, while I was busy lazily washing up last night’s dishes from the casserole The Irish one made, and I didn’t eat.

(What pointed remarks? I have no idea what you are referring to, I really don’t.)

As I wandered back in from the kitchen singing the Irish one’s praises and not for one moment cursing the day we chose a wine rack over a dishwasher (what were we? STUPID?) I realised that I probably needed to do some quiet underfoot damage control before he woke up.

Sod it, I thought, looking at him asleep, on eye focused directly on to me, reminding me of times gone by spent with my eldest friend, I will clean up in slow motion, it’ll be quieter.

I was busy texting Kate advising her of just how far over the edge I had fallen, giggling to myself like an idiot, and imagining Tom Cruise aiding me to clear up all manner of boy toy type paraphernalia, all the while my little angel, was fast asleep beside me.

Much later, after I had successfully managed a decent bru, he woke up, got everything back out again, played all afternoon and I forgot all about it.

This afternoon, however, as I motioned for us to clean up before either of us fell arse over tit on a discarded Buzz light-year, Woody doll or heavily made up Jessie doll (marker pen, 3 minutes not watching. Carnage) Addison began to behave in the most peculiar way.

It took me a few moments, staring at him, feeling the colour drain from my face, the full horror of the situation taking a while to sink in, to decipher that he was in fact, cleaning up in slow motion (!!!!) collapsing in to uncontrollable giggles every time he moved an object.

There is no way, at the age of 18 months, he has ever watched Top Gun (much to my dismay), so what the Flying fu…???

I have clearly birthed an evil genius.

I am genuinely quite perplexed.  (As well as thrilled he now seems to be more interested in cleaning up after himself. (Maybe he could teach his dad a thing or… what??? I’m just saying is all? Jeez. Touchy.)

But yeah, from now on?

No more sleeping on the sofa.

If he unwittingly saw me cleaning up slowly, laughing to myself like a maniac, he has definitely witnessed me doing ‘Coleen Nolan’s disco burn’ and much like the garbage pail kids, that is one thing a child of his age, should never be subjected to.

From now on though, for the sake of my sanity, I will be the one sleeping with one eye on open for business.

You can just never be to sure with these little ones.

That’s if I ever get the chance to sleep again, that is.

You are a potato, but I love you.

‘If there was one thing you could have done differently or better in the lead up to having Addison, what would it have been?’ Shamoo the pregnant whale asked of me while trying to maintain the serious look in her eye and struggling not to lose her cool as she slowly and repeatedly sunk in to the sofa before floundering around in an attempt to free herself.  She literally looked like a harassed and fed up, beached, sea mammal. It was like Free Willy dinner theatre.

‘I would have used a condom.’ I replied looking up, considering ringing Greenpeace and trying to surreptitiously un-stick discarded bogey, that seemed to be welded on, from my right eyebrow.

‘No, Lexy, come on,’ she puffed, beginning to lose her cool and blinking like an escaped mentalist as sweat poured down her forehead and began to pool in the suitcases under her eyes  ‘stop trying to make me laugh and be honest, I am not in the mood for jokes, I need help here!’

It is at this point I stopped picking the remains of Addy’s crusty nostril lining from my face and looked up at my oldest friend aghast. Make her laugh? Not in the mood for jokes? What is funny about that? I wasn’t trying to be funny! Can she not see what I am being forced to do in a public place here? She may be struggling to stay afloat on that sofa but I am struggling to stay afloat in life for god sake!

‘Lou darling, I am sat in front of you picking Addison’s crusty nose droppings from my eyebrow! I had full conversations with at least 6 people this morning and the whole time I have had lumps of baby snot stuck to my face! Which part of ‘I would have used a condom’ do you find amusing?’

We both glared at one another for a second in a stubborn truce, before collapsing in to giggles at the absurdity of the situation. Pregnancy and motherhood is magical alright. It magically transforms you from woman to potato in one fail swoop. (Round, dense and covered in crap – just in case you couldn’t figure it out.)

‘Do you want me to ask behind the counter and see if they have a spare JCB or tractor lying around to help winch you from that sofa?’ I asked fighting hard to hide my amusement at her predicament

Before you start to think I am a total bitch here, I am honestly not being overly harsh. We have a love hate relationship. The entire time I was pregnant she referred to me as Madam Hippo in a comedy French accent. She would dance up to me, taking the Mickey, her lithe body twisted and contorted in to all sorts of amazing angles, while I sat like a Christmas pudding on the sofa, she would poke me with her finger ‘does madam Hip-po need a mud bath to cool down?’ she would ask before shimmying away in a cloud of thinness cackling like the cow bag she is. Seriously. I am just getting my revenge.   

‘Oh go on then,’ she laughed, her belly wobbling while with every giggle ‘and while you are there ask them if they can find you any deodorant, you smell like a skanky tramp!’

Excellent come back, she is a sly minx. She goes for my weak spots. I knew I should have showered at 3 o’clock that morning during the 8 minutes of peace I had while Addison slept soundly. Stupid of me really to instead, try and get some sleep myself. Addison is also a sly minx and also goes for my weak spots. I often wake up with tiny toy cars wedged in my mouth or raisins tunnelling their way down in to my inner ear, Co-sleeping has its benefits but sleep definitely isn’t one of them.

After we had moved from the sinking sofa and were sitting comfortably, well as comfortably as we could manage with an 8 month old bump sharing a table with us (basically meaning I was pinned up against the hard tile wall, with the table so close to my chest that my underwire has been made completely redundant as the table was was now fully supporting my saggy boobs, unable to breathe never mind move my elbow enough to lift a cup, and meanwhile she was slouched in front of me, her legs raised comfortably on another chair out in front of her and stretching and yawning like a new-born deer) she once again asked me if there was anything I would change or do differently.

‘So come on,’ she said seriously knowing there was no escape for me now ‘give a girl some decent advice…’

I couldn’t escape and she knew it, but her being my best friend, she also knew it wasn’t a question I could have answered nonchalantly and without thinking.

‘Can I come back to you on that one?’ I asked seriously, ‘You have 5 weeks remaining before you turn in to a loaded potato wedge and I am assuming you don’t mean the I would have bought more muslin cloths type advice, although I would have, so can I have a think about it and come back to you?’

‘Yes’ she sighs dramatically as I stretch my neck forward and just about manage to lick the top off my cappuccino  ‘shall we go? I feel claustrophobic here.’ (!?!)

Lying in the bath last night trying to wash the smell of tramp from under my armpits and remove teething poop from my behind my tonsils, I began to rattle the question around my brain.

I can honestly say, I don’t think there is anything I would change, other than the obvious winning of the lottery, smaller hips and a night nanny, because my experience has been my experience and even with the at times debilitating post natal depression chasing me through every stage of his first year, I have managed to relish and enjoy those special moments between me and my boy. I have learnt more in the last year than I have learnt in my entire life, and every day I literally learn something new.

Like yesterday as an example, I went for a ‘private’ check up at the Dr’s surgery. Due to nursery being incompetent and a total let down, I ended up having to take Addison with me. Having a female type examination is bad enough without adding to the mortification, a playful toddler who is intent on looking up the dr’s skirt while mummy is lying on the table legs akimbo. The busy, irritable Dr ended up plonking him, with an evil glint in her eye, on to my stomach, mid check, and asking me to ‘keep an eye on him here, I won’t be a moment.’  

Thus meaning that while she is digging around down there, attempting to find the lost treasure of Azerbaijan, Addison is attempting to stick his strangely huge fist, up my nose while at the same time, trying to prise my mouth open with his paddle feet, so he can play his brilliant fun new game, which involves him spitting directly in to my mouth.  

Bad planning? I think so. Smear test from hell? Definately.

Lesson learnt? Absolutely.

No woman is an island, BUT some women, (me) are multi-tasking goddessess. (Whether we like it or not.)

So, Louise, in answer to your question, no. There is nothing I would do differently, other than finding a child minder for my smear, but yes there are a few things I would do better if I could turn back the clock.

I would spend more time planning and less time worrying about planning. I would eat more, try to laugh off the tiny errors I made (don’t puree sprouts with banana, the banana won’t mask the taste) and look in the mirror a lot less in the early days. Nothing good came of it. I would rely on my friends a little more, accept their help and definitely not watch the WSPCA advert during a bout of the ’baby blues’, as I ended up giving an entire months maternity pay to a three legged donkey in Sudan.  I would accept my ‘potato’ baby brain status and allow extra time in to my plans for the numerous trip ups, mess up’s, spillages’, embarrassments and accidents I cause on a daily basis.

And that is just in week 1.

So Louise, I hope this kind of answers your question, as I now have to run; I am off to the Priory for an assessment ahead of the intensive day patient treatment starting for my post traumatic shock from having a baby. (Joking. Kind of.)  If I can be of any more help, please don’t hesitate to ask, and maybe some of my readers can help a little more than I have?

Is there anything you would do, dear readers, be it as simple as buying more crisps for the early days or smaller baby gros’s for the 8 stone baby you thought you were having, who turned out to wiegh 6 pounds, or something as monumental as moving house, making sure you have petrol in the car for when the contractions start or hiring Brat Pitt as a butler, that you think may help Shamoo on her quest with the baby orca? Any advice is welcome.

My old enemy, post natal depression is perched on my shoulder waiting to strike me down again so I really should be going. I can feel him there grinning evilly getting ready for his entrance in to my heart, but little does he know I am ready with a big wooden spoon and a week’s worth of exercise and positive mental meanderings to bat him away with.

Be gone be gone you demon of stupidity! Soon you will be vanquished for good!

If I manage to not head butt the Dr, inadvertently grope the receptionist’s bum or maim a passing goat somehow and do manage to end up feeling a little more human, I will keep you posted.

Click click, spoc spoc, may the spud be with you.

Don’t call me Mum. (The Journey.)

‘A woman with a child rediscovers the world. All is changed – politics, loyalties, needs. For now, all is judged by the life of the child… and all of the children’ – Pam Brown.

Yes thanks Pam.

Anybody who has ever had a bump the size of Albania bulging from under their t-shirt will be able to attest to the fact, that when you are visibly pregnant you seemingly and against your will, become public property.  

If you don’t believe me, I absolutely recommend you take a small dog, or perhaps a bean bag, and shove it up your jumper and head to the shops (Maybe not a small dog, the whimpering and squirming may put you off your stride) to test the theory.

Having a rather large bulge just above your nether regions (and I don’t mean a hiatus hernia) in simple terms, must just give the impression that you are simply desperate for everybody to come over and touch it, and/or offer you unwanted and mostly unwarranted advice.

Out of nowhere you go from not showing and having a romantic little secret, to showing and having every man and his dog run their hands/paws over your growing uterus while offering you words of wisdom and tiny pearls of poo. (I call them pearls of poo, because a lot of the advice I heard off strangers while pregnant, really wasn’t advice at all, it was poo. Pearl sized poo.)

Don’t reach up or the baby will be strangled on the chord… (Really, Aunty Pat?)
Try not to eat so much… (Rip, Sarah.)
There is no such thing as a due date… (Huh? I think you will find there is old woman!)
Don’t call the baby a stupid name… (We like Radiator Leak Doyle, what business it is of yours?)
You are huge, are you having twins?.. (SLAP!)

The list is endless, but the one which I heard, interestingly enough, from people who both knew me well and were mothers themselves (so I felt I should listen and believe them) was;

 ‘Motherhood will change you.’

‘What?’ I would stutter ‘why does everybody keep saying this to me? Do you think I need to change? You don’t think I’ll be a good mum as I am now? How will it change me?’  Was usually my nervous, insecure, blimp like and panicked reply.

‘Mwahahahahahaha’ they would cackle as they threw their heads back with evil glee ‘you will see! You will see!’  And with that they would sweep their flowing black capes from out behind them, with all their children clinging on for dear life and disappear in to the night, like terrifying visions of the ghost of Christmas future.

In fact I heard this phrase so often, combined with its partner in crime; You will feel a love so overwhelming you won’t remember life before him, that Leading up to my due date (that didn’t exist) I actually became rather worried that as soon as I had given birth, my memory of life pre-pleb (as we had nicknamed the bump) would be completely wiped out, and I would wake up as an entirely different person. Bette Midler maybe, but with a bigger nose.

Lifting my half numb legs, an hour post birth, up on to the bed that was to be my home for the next seven days, and with the little ferret parked in a plastic basting tray next to me, all wrapped up and looking like a cute prune, I began to worry, that other than being a little bit teary, absolutely knackered and in a huge amount of agony, I still felt like me.  I was officially a mother now, wasn’t I supposed to be a changed person?

Now, don’t get me wrong. I had just had a baby, so of course I was over the moon, overwhelmed and overweight, but other than the obvious changes to my anatomy, including far too many stitches and a drain, I had to be honest, I didn’t feel any different, and upon further examination, I could still remember my life before birth too. What was wrong with me? Wasn’t I supposed to have forgotten my entire life leading up to this moment?

‘Would you like some tea and toast?’ the floating head of a midwife appeared from behind my curtain and kindly asked me in a soft, sleepy voice.  

‘No, but could I please have a strong black coffee, a bag of square crisps and a pillow?’ was my reply.

Definitely still me then.

Maybe I will feel different in the morning, I thought to myself after spending an hour and a half trying to have a wee. Maybe you have to sleep on it.

We hadn’t been home for long before I was feeling intensly sleep deprived and hugely grumpy. Visitors came and went and for a while I wondered if The Irish One had started a guest house without telling me. I just wanted to shower, to sleep and then sleep some more.

(Wouldn’t it make more sense if the visitors came at least a month after you are home?  Because seriously, the last thing you want when you are having to walk like Jon Wayne and every second step makes you screech like a banshee, is a coach load of distant relatives traipsing through your house and man-handling the goods, you know?)

But anyway, moving on, The Irish One was constantly professing to me, his love for Newborn Woo. He was a doting daddy and it pissed me off. (I can’t explain this. It just did.)

‘I know,’ I would mumble, irritated, from underneath the duvet (the guests had got bored of me whacking my breasts out while they were trying to drink a brew and eat us out of house and home, and had finally buggered off) ‘I know, yes’ I would repeat as he droned on about knowing the meaning of true love ‘I love him too, but don’t tell me he is awake again, is he? He isn’t is he?’ I would panic, terrified the next round of nipple torture was about to start.

‘If you feel like that about him waking up to see you,’ he said pointedly, removing his (ginger) head from inside the moses basket, ‘Maybe it is time to stop breast feeding! He isn’t taking enough anyway and you don’t seem to have any coming out, so what harm can it do? Let’s give him a bloody bottle.’

‘Shut up!!’ I raged back! ‘How dare you!’ The pressure I felt to succeed at everything was immense. I resented his insinuation that I was failing. As it was, I am not sure that The Irish One even knows what the word insinuate means, never mind having had the energy or inclination, at that time, to follow it through! He was just worried about me, but I was too scared to see it.

Did I feel different when the decision to stop breast feeding was made? Nope. Stopping breastfeeding just confirmed my failure status. I had gone from probable failure to failure absolut with one sweep of a plastic teat. (The lanosil, is still in the fridge as a constant reminder of what could have been. I can’t be arsed to take it out. It’s next to the Jam that has been there since 2002. Some jobs I just never get round to.)

I was officially a crap mum, who could remember her past, and (shock horror!) even missed the easy going way it used to be!! I would have killed for an hour in front of the telly uninterrupted! I also wasn’t sure I was any different at all, other than my inability to hold my bladder when I sneezed, or stop eating mayo by the ton, motherhood hadn’t changed me at all!! And Yes I loved my son but (are you ready for this?) it wasn’t overwhelming!! (MONSTER!!)

I loved him because he was mine, sure. I loved him because he was gorgeous and I loved him because he was cute, and sweet and tiny. I loved him because he was my son and I had to love him didn’t I? 

I felt like I had to love him because if I didn’t who else would?

This is extremely hard for me to admit, and I have tears rolling down my face as I write this. Not because I still feel the same, but because nobody told me this could happen, so I thought I wasn’t normal. I beat myself up, and I broke my own heart. I became convinced I didn’t love him enough and there was something wrong with me.

Every new mother I spoke to would go on and on and on and on about how much they loved their child, and how easy it was, and how natural it felt to them, and how they had whipped up some mange tout while expressing breast milk in to a pre warmed bottle, while cooking a roast for their husband and then pleasuring him while changing a nappy. The pressure for ‘motherhood to change me’ and for my love for him to be ‘overwhelming’ was too much.  It hadn’t happened overnight. So I was officially a horrible, nasty, selfish freak of a person.

The health visitor arrived 8 years later, after many calls from the Irish One reminding her I still existed, to examine ‘A.J’, as she infuriatingly kept calling him, and to check on me.  She obviously had a thing about abbreviating and changing names as she surprised me by calling me ‘Mum’ while examining him. I was caught off guard and somehow ended up blabbing that I had stopped breastfeeding because of the pain. She shook her head in disappointment and said ‘That’s a shame Mum.’

Who me? I thought? Don’t call me mum! That doesn’t sound right. It doesn’t fit with me yet. I don’t feel like a mother or a mum. I can’t even breastfeed right can I? I am not his mum. I am just the person who cleans up poo, spends 40 minutes of every hour chasing an elusive burp and who will never again, drink a hot cup of tea.

My name is Lexy. Not ‘Mum!’

‘Do you feel depressed?’ she asked in response, using a totally inappropriate sing songy voice.

‘Me?’ I asked, while wiping sick of my filthy t-shirt with yesterdays knickers, ‘No! Not at all! I can’t believe he is here! He is amazing! Isn’t he beautiful? I love him so much. I think my heart may fall out. It is just overwhelming!’ I cooed while staring at him in pretend awe.

She left happy enough, after clearly ignoring all the signs, and the next time I saw her was 7 months later, when she was knocking on my door, because my Dr was concerned, I may be a potential suicide risk.

Addison had been very poorly for a good while, and I was exhausted from fighting with Dr after Dr to get them to listen. I wasn’t suicidal. I was just knackered and pissy, but nevertheless she left happy that day too. She hustled in, and hustled out. She didn’t want to help. One day I will write her a letter and tell her to get a job as a clown. She would be much better suited to a role with barely any responsibility, and her lipstick was always all over her face anyway, so it would make for an easy transition.

He is my son, and nothing will happen to him on my watch, I would profess to the Irish One during the endless days in hospital, all the while mistaking love for duty.

It was 3 months on from Allergy-Gate (as I now call it) when Addison was 10 months old and still had a grizzly bottom, that I finally snapped.

‘I bet you can’t remember life before him can you?’ My aunty Kathleen gushed at a family gathering ‘He is just simply gorgeous isn’t he? Isn’t it an overwhelming love? Motherhood just changes you completely don’t you think?’  

At the time, in fairness, Addison has just shat up his back for the third time in a three hour period and I wasn’t in the mood for a gushing, drunk relative, no matter how well placed her intentions were.

‘Actually Aunty Kathleen,’ I said bluntly, ‘Yes, I do remember life before him; it was only 10 months ago for Christ sake!! I had a baby, not a lobotomy!! I remember life before him, very well in fact! I used to get some sleep! And while we are on the subject, yes he is cute, and yes I do love him, but is it overwhelming? The only thing which is overwhelming to me currently is the need for a lie in!’

She stood glass in hand, staring at me, like a rabbit caught in headlights. (She has big teeth.)

‘And as for motherhood changing me?’ I raged in her face ‘the only thing different about me, is I am four stone heavier and my nails are constantly caked in crap!!’ And with that I flounced out of the room in search of the changing bag. (And a big glass of wine.)

It felt such a relief to finally be honest!  Although, thinking about it now, I should probably ring my Aunty Kathleen at some point and apologise.

My first Mothers day was possibly the darkest and most painful day I have experienced since having Addison.

‘Don’t give me that sodding card!’ I screamed at the Irish One, holding my beautiful boy ‘I am not a mother!!! I am just a babysitter!!! This is nothing to do with post natal depression!! This is because I am a freak!! I don’t love my son enough!! I can remember what happened before he was born!! I don’t feel changed!!! I am still Lexy!! I am not a mum!! I am a letdown!! A failure!! I hate you, I hate myself and I hate mother’s day!!! Just piss off and leave me alone!!

It was awful for everybody involved.

And then something began to happen, much like the phoneix rising from the ashes (you godda love the drama!) I slowly began to enjoy waking up at the crack of dawn and seeing my son’s face, instead of it being a chore, I began to enjoy the moments we spent laughing and watching him grow.

Instead of waiting for the light to switch on at the end of the tunnel, I began to run towards it. It happened naturally. My self-hatred slowly began to thaw and in its place something else arrived.

Hope.

Last night, exactly four hours before we were due to leave for the airport, on a holiday we have been looking forward to for months, Addison was sick. He was clinging on to me for dear life and burying his head in to my shoulder.

‘We are going nowhere.’ I told the Irish One instinctively ‘There is no way I am putting my son through this journey when he is feeling this poorly. I am absolutely gutted, but he comes first.’

Strangely, and without even properly thinking about what I was doing, I put my feelings of disappointment over a missed trip, to one side and got on with the job of cleaning him up and consoling him. He was broken, and it was my job to fix him, just like I had done all those times before.

And then, even stranger still, while walking in to the Dr’s office this morning, thinking about how I should have been landing in Spain and hugging my dad, I pulled my son to me, inhaled the smell of his head and was hit by a bolt of lightning. (Not literally, but if you had seen my hair you may have thought this was the case.)

The only thing that mattered was Addison.  I loved him more than life itself. The love I felt was; dare I say it?

Overwhelming.

‘Are you his mum?’ The locum asked while feeling his tummy for swelling.

 ‘Yes,’ I grinned back proudly, while kissing his forehead (Addison’s, not the locum’s) ‘Yes. I bloody well am.’ And against my will I puffed my shoulders out.

My boy is beautiful! And he is all mine!

I walked back to the car, dancing on air, clutching my son’s small head, to my bursting heart.

So as it turned out, motherhood did change me. It made me a better person. It just took me a while longer to feel and recognise those feelings. Yes I can still be a grumpy moose, but I am making progress.

I loved my son, I did. I just didn’t bond the instant I saw him. I loved him, but it wasn’t overwhelming from the first instant we met.

I see now, this doesnt make me a freak. This is just my journey. Everybody is different.

It took me a year to see what it is all about. It took me a year to recognise something I knew all along.

I forgive myself for that. (Except based on the fact, I did always love him, I did always care for him and I did always ensure he was happy, safe and fed, I am not sure there is actually anything to forgive myself for…)

If I was to see a pregnant woman in the street now, I would be unlikely to approach her and jump in to motherhood 101, but if she struck up a conversation with me, my advice would probably be;

‘Don’t pressure yourself in to feeling anything more than you do, in the moment. Everything you feel, at every step of the way, is unique to you and no matter what happens, the bond will grow and emotionally, so will you. Everything will turn out alright… oh, and good luck…. and join Twitter.’

‘When you are a mother you are never really alone in your thoughts. A mother always has to think twice, once for herself and once for her child.’ – Sophia Loren.

Now that, I can finally agree with.

This time next year…

As I was spooning coffee granules in to Addison’s bottle and formula in to my coffee mug this morning, it dawned on me just how mentally and physically drained I am feeling.

I glanced up at the calendar on the wall to see a beautiful photograph taken this time last year of a tiny little Woo lying in his pram wearing a pair of shades and clutching a teething toy for dear life. I remember that day as clear as if it was only yesterday, we had barely slept and with The Irish One just about to return to work I had decided, after another full night of no sleep to try and shed some of the much unwanted baby weight and take little baby Addison for a walk in his pram. The sun was shining, my stitches were a itching and I pulled on my pre pregnancy jeans full of hope.

We are going out today little one! Just you and mammy!

After 17 outfit changes, one strop from me, a minor strop from Addison and a bit of excitement off Doodle we finally managed to leave the house. We were like the three amigos, one with a full nappy, one covered in baby sick and one walking on all fours. (I could be either of those last two.)

We walked to MacDonald’s (the Holy Grail), where I bought a coffee, let Woo have a daydream and Doodle a bit of a sniff  and a roam around a discarded burger. I hung around outside wondering what to do next not accustomed to having all this time to do nothing (and everything) by myself and slowly began my new commute home.  

Not being in work was unsettling. Watching cars drive past, full of people with places to go and people to see, I looked down at my sleeping new-born and down to my happy poodle and thought there must be something wrong with me. I should be enjoying this time off shouldn’t I? Why do I feel so lost? Why do I feel like something is missing? My son is beautiful, the days are our own and life has slowed down (and sped up) at a new pace.

I will get used to it, I thought to myself pulling my jumper down over my empty bump ashamedly and shuffling back up across the road.

This time next year, I will be slim again; I will have had a full night’s sleep and Addison will be able to toddle along with me. This time next year, I thought to myself, all this learning and adjusting will be over and I will be settled in to the mammy role properly. This time next year, I will be just getting back to work and Addison will be making friends at nursery. This time next year will be perfect and all these worries I have now I will be able to look back on and laugh.

We continued on home with the thoughts of an afternoon of sterilizing on my mind. We were just reaching the last bend and I was breathing like an elephant from all the exertion when Addison coughed up half his previous bottle and nearly choked. My rush to get him unwrapped and upright, caused me to fumble with the brake on the pram, drop the dogs lead and spill a half empty cup of steaming hot coffee, all over my hands, down my front and on to my exposed flip flopped toes. Racing for the lead, holding the tiny baby and trying not to cry, I thought to myself, this time next year this will all be a distant memory.  

This time next year is my light at the end of the tunnel.

Fast forward back to this morning and here I am spooning Starbucks instant Via, full powered coffee in to my sons breakfast bottle.  Yes I have learnt a hell of a lot this year, I think to myself turning around and walking full on, in to an open cupboard door and nearly knocking myself out. I have learnt a hell of a lot.

The first thing being that maybe the fuses have blown in the tunnel.

• I have learnt to never EVER take for granted anesthetic. (Stitching round two? Sans numbness? Not so fun!)
• I have learnt to never underestimate the power of hormones (especially in relation to objects not nailed down.)
• I have learnt that not eating, means zero energy and minimal weight loss (and a pan au chocolate binge at the end of the day.)
• I have learnt to beat myself up over the smallest failings.
• I have learnt to beat myself up, over beating myself up over the smallest failings.
•  I have learnt that blue carpet will not hide white baby sick, no matter how hard I scuff it with my toe, as the doorbell rings.
• I have learnt to do what my gut tells me and only take advice if I absolutely believe in the advice myself. (Nothing wrong with him you say, give him proper milk, you say?)
• I have learnt I am not the perfect mother as she doesn’t exist.
• I have learnt to not pick arguments, but save myself for the hum-dingers.
• I have learnt having a baby is a massive strain on your relationship but you can get through it. Together. (But keep a spade on hand, just in case.)
• I have learnt the words to every single Bear in the big blue house episode, and now, most of Toy story 1 and 2 too.
• I have learnt that it is ok to cry. Just try not to do it at the supermarket quite so much. (Now I know why the check-out girls see me coming and grimace.)
• I have learnt to trust in myself, in those I care for and ignore those who‘s only purpose is to criticize, condemn and complain.
• I have learnt that no matter how much I screw my eyes closed and pray, morning still comes 20 minutes after I have shut my eyes. And then every half an hour on the hour until 6am.
• I have learnt that making a rod for your own back, is hard, but well worth it for those special moments I have enjoyed cozying up with my favourite boy.
• I have learnt patience. (Slowly.) And
• I have learnt,  that no matter what, I am always right. (Ahem.)

This time last year I was waiting for the light to be switched on at the end of the tunnel, and in many ways I am still waiting now.

But one thing is for sure. I am a different person this year to who I was last year. Yes, I am still a bumbling, grumbling, dizzy, overweight, unfit and struggling mother who is still trying to learn to function on minimal sleep and maximum hormonal imbalance but I am also beginning to understand, this time next year is a whole year away. Why not try to relish the here and now a little more? Why not try to accept present circumstances, a little more.

It is as I go to put the murky brown bottle to my sons mouth, and take a sip of piss yellow soya tea, that I laugh out loud and look down to see my little boy looking up at me, his eyes too, shining with laughter.   

‘Mammy,’ he seems to say ‘you are a goose, and you will still be a goose this time next year! Now go make me another bottle…’

And off I trot, but not before kicking the dog’s water bowl in to the door and drenching the car seat waiting in the hall.

This time next year I will be asleep, I think to myself hopefully, right before slipping arse over tit on the water, and nearly braining myself on the radiator.

This time next year I will be asleep.

How to expect what you are not expecting.

There should be alerts.

There should be bells and whistles. Sirens and drum beats.  

At the very least there should be warning signs.

There is already?

No, i don’t mean, the ‘oh congratulations on your pregnancy’ type  slogans

‘Here is what you can and cannot do for the next nine (ten) months’ type pamphlets.

 I’m talking about the full on, honest, ‘trespass at your own risk, drink this bleach and your insides won’t be clean and sparkly, you’ll be dead’ type, easy to read picture and cautionary tale- warnings. Skull and crossbones, that type of thing.  

 ‘Don’t eat MacDonald’s, accept pain relief and avoid un-pasturerised cheese’ aren’t useful at all!

They are completely redundant! Like locking the gate after the bulldog has bitten the priest in the ball sack. (True story. And yes. He did take the lords name in vain. But i can’t say i blame him to be honest.) They are like taking your tarmac stained boots off after you’ve trodden it all the way across the new carpet. (How my friend’s husband isn’t dead right now, i really don’t know. The Irish one would be digging his own shallow hole. Brand new cream carpets! Tarmac – everywhere!)

I’M TALKING PROPER, HONEST, EASY TO UNDERSTAND WARNING SIGNS. 

I’m talking the kind of warnings you see on sign posts while waiting to board a great big scary rollercoaster. The ones you look at while you are waiting in line, and meticulously read, looking for some sort of get out clause. Or if you are a lover of roller coasters, the signs you read over and over again, while working yourself up in to a ‘woohooo i could have a heart attack, this ride is gonna be amazing’ frenzy. (I used to be the latter, now i mumble about how i have weakened pelvic floor and toddle off to the bathroom. Well, have you been on a bouncy, spinny, upside down ride since giving birth? I have. It was NOT pretty. Let’s just say i told people i had been on the log flume…)

Pregnancy, birth and motherhood is often described as ‘the biggest rollercoaster a woman can ride’ right? So why not?  Why not give appropriate forewarning?

Your doctor should provide adequate signals and information!  They could have them on the walls in the family planning clinic. They could swing over your head as you walk in to the gynae’s office. They could be stuck in pamphlet holders on your consultant’s reception.

Some bint in a smock could hand them out on the pregnancy test and condom aisle in Morrison’s. ‘Here you go love, just so you know. What to expect if you do, or if you are in the situation where you are with child, for the next 1-35 years. Thanks very much love. Have a nice day.’

I’m not talking any mamby pamby, watery, slowly break it to you type warning signs, here. I’m talking honest, straight forward, hard hitting, no beating around the bush, type signs informing you of the ride you are about to take;

by taking off the condom/ stopping the pill/ getting drunk/ allowing him to take his wellies off in the bath. – Delete as appropriate

Here are some examples of what i feel, the Side effects and cautions could be.

Do not ride – If you have a bad back. (As after labour you will affectively be crippled from the neck down. Walking around carrying a 23 pound boy with a snotty nose as well as having to push a trolley full of the Irish ones sausages and potatoes will ensure no sofa will ever be comfy again, and you will forever more inadvertently shout ‘oof’ every  time you bend down to pick up a discarded dummy. And yes, those jeans are a bit tight but yes again, you did just show the 68 year old man behind you the rather long crack of your arse. Perhaps tomorrow you should go back to the leggings….)

Do not ride – If you have a tendency to be dizzy. (As after birth you will no longer be dizzy, you will automatically find yourself, against your will or say so, upgraded to dozy bloody mare status. You can blame the Iphone all you want for sending messages such as;

• ‘I can’t wait to taste your cock’ to an old family friend. (Cooking, i can’t wait to taste your cooking!) or,
• ‘You are one hot mammal’ to a heavily pregnant  and slightly paranoid about her weight gain, friend. (Mama, you are one hot mama!) or even,
• ‘My hot cock tastes yummy’ to over 1000 people on twitter, (Chocolate, my hot CHOCOLATE tasted yummy!)

But ultimately you will only have yourself to blame. You were dizzy and you ignored the signs. You were already a bit dazed and you still embarked on the motherhood rollercoaster. Now you are just a dozy cow.  And yes, maybe the Iphone is a bit pervy, but seriously, at least something is. When was the last time you even had sex? )

Do not ride – If you have high blood pressure. (A mild nuisance can no longer be categorised as a slight irritant. A cat meowing outside your bedroom window at 11pm before birth, may have been considered cute. You may even have worried it was hungry and fetched a bowl of milk. Post birth, you will not care about being ‘an animal lover’ or even contemplate helping the neighbours call the ‘rspca.’  You will be looking for a shotgun. You will be fashioning a sling shot using a pair of old knickers and a heavy dirty nappy. (You can make anything when you are a mother.)

‘Wake the baby, cat? And feel the wrath of mother in a blind, red, furious rage!’

Do not ride – If you are a control freak. (Nothing will be routine ever again. EVER. Even your lists will change minute by minute. You may follow Gina ford (Swear word in our house) but on occasion you will not meet her standards. The house will be a mess.  No, you can laugh all you want. You can tell me you have OCD all you want. The HOUSE WILL BE A MESS. Even when it is tidy. Your trained nose will smell poo. And the cleaning starts again. IT NEVER ENDS.

Were you in control of your emotions before? You thought you were. But you got on the ride. Now you are out of control. Whether you like it or not. Now you are a snivelling, howling, hysterically laughing, sobbing, balling, shouting, walking round in circles heap of un – ironed baby grows.

Oh and there is a milk ring from the bottle on the tv stand. (Just letting you know!)

Do not ride-  If you suffer with memory problems. (What was i just saying? No seriously! What was i talking to you about? Damn it, it was really juicy! I haven’t seen you for ages. I wanted to catch up but i can’t finish a sentence. I just walked in to the kitchen for something. Er, hang on. What did i need?  I’ll just pop back in to the living room that will remind me. Oh yeah , feed the dog and put the kettle on for a bottle. No problem. So what was i saying? Oh yeah. If you have memory issues you are screwed. As after birth, when you are tired and… Was that the door? No? Ok, so yeah when you are… what was i saying?  Hang on. I’ll remember. Just let me give the dog a bottle and feed the baby some Pedigree chum.

• Have you seen my book? It’s in the fridge? Well what the hell is it doing in there?
• Do you know where my boots are? They are on the bed? Why the hell are they on the bed.
• Have you seen my eye liner? It’s in my hand? Oh yes, so it is.

I am not joking here. Auto-pilot is a fucker.

Do not ride -If you are not ready. (Hahahahahahahahahaha. When are you ever ready? I thought i was ready. I planned, i nested, i prepared. I was SO READY!! I was wrong. I was NOT ready! But then, are you ever ready to never sleep again?  To hold a tiny anus open to help find trumps? To pick your Childs stomach lining from between your toes?  Are you ever ready to constantly smell like an old sleeping bag? You know the smell. Musty, with a mixture of puke.)

Do not ride – If you enjoy sex. (Anal stitching is somewhat of a deterrent.)

Do not ride – As some effects may be too intense for some adults. (Anal stitching. Even the midwife cringed.)

Do not ride – As may be frightening for some people. (Tearing afore mentioned anal stitching. My Screams made the neighbours call the police. They thought i was being ‘maimed with a blunt hatchet’ (true story.)  

Do not ride – If you suffer from claustrophobia, agoraphobia, oooegraphobia (fear of eggs) or irritatingmanaphobia (phobia of irritating men.)  I may have made that last one up. (and the one before. But seriously, if you are scared of eggs, don’t do it. Kids love them scrambled! Awful, just awful!)

You ignored  ALL my warnings? You got on the ride anyway???

Well, in that case.

Please keep arms, hands, shoulders (knees and toes, knees and toes) in the vehicle at all times. Do not try and disembark said vehicle while carriage is still moving.  You will only cause unnecessary rocking of the proverbial boat.

Should you feel a little depressed, a little sad, a little guilty, and a little confused please seek help.

Should you feel like doubting yourself at every turn please try not to. You are amazing.

If you feel like crying every second day. Please seek help. You are not alone.

If you feel like knocking your other half out, please remove all sporting equipment from the home.

If you did not bond with your baby immediately, you are just like me. He is my world, now.

If you still wear maternity pants on occasion because you enjoy having a warm tummy, ahem… what? I have no idea what you mean? These are just my stretchy pants!!

If you sometimes feel you aren’t good enough. YOU ARE.

Is your child happy? Then you are more than good enough.

Are you struggling to be happy? Confide in somebody.

WARNING: ALL RIDERS DO SO AT THIER OWN RISK. THE ESTABLISHMENT TAKES NO RESPONSIBILITY FOR ALL CONSUMING LOVE, COURAGE ONLY A MOTHER KNOWS, PATIENCE ONLY A MOTHER UNDERSTANDS AND A FEELING OF CALM AND BELONGING, WHEN YOUR CHILD SMILES AND GRABS YOUR FINGER, ONLY A MOTHER CAN’T HELP FEELING PROUD OF.  

You made a baby. You are a superhero. (Would batman endure hours of labour, nipple torture and a forced episiotomy or anal tearing, and still smile at the end of is all? No he bloody wouldn’t. Batman is a frigging wimp. Bang! Pow! Wallop! My arse…(Literally.)

If you wish to ride again? (You are a mentalist.)

I am SO going to ride again***! 

 

*Park attractions are currently closed for routine maintenance.

*No they will not open tonight.

*In other words;  I have a bad back, I am a control freak, I get motion sickness, I am not ready and Ohmygod I suffer from Irritatingmanaphobia, so youve no chance. (Not for another 2 years anyway….)

Made to make your eyes water.

Seven months ago at this very moment, I was watching the Irish one spread mustard on a home made, ham sandwich while trying to huff, puff and focus myself through a never ending and incredibly painful contraction. I had been in labour for 55 hours and was only 3 cm dilated. While I was busy losing the will to live, the Irish one was merrily spreading Colman’s on a ham butty.

This pretty much sums up the Irish one. Even in times of trouble, the man has to eat. And no, not just a corner shop bap. He has to eat exactly what he has a craving for. And it has to be made by him. This is one of the many perils of falling in love with a man who can cook. (The other peril, is when you are being force fed Coddle. Never heard of it? Its probably for the best.)

The one thing I should probably clarify however, is how supportive the Irish one was during labour. Mustard or no Mustard. He was nurturing and caring, he held my hand while I was muttering all manner of expletives, and he understood when, high on gas and air, I began to call the drip doodle. (The drip going in to my arm. The Irish one is not the drip in this scenario. I love my poodle and I obviously missed him, so I named the drip after him. The drip in my arm. Not the Irish one. Make sense? I would NEVER call the Irish one a drip… honest.) So in summary, he was amazing. In all fairness, I couldn’t have done it without him.(The Irish one, not the drip.) That better love?

If I was to write about my ‘birth story’ it would take me forever (not only because most of it is hazy but because it went on forever.) I could, if I had a few years to spare, give you an hour by hour blow of what happened and I am sure it would make for good reading, it was dramatic, it was funny and it was painful, and yet, writing it all down seems pretty pointless. As you already know how it ends.

Seven months later here I sit, eyes held open with matchsticks, while a beautiful and healthy baby boy sleeps beside me. (Yes I know I should probably be asleep too but I have never been able to sleep while he sleeps. If I am asleep? And he is asleep? Who can check he is breathing every two minutes????)

This time last year – at this very moment (and I know this because I keep a diary, and I was reading it this morning.) I was 5 months pregnant and staring in to the unknown like a woman possessed. Looking back now my little meanderings, seem so funny and unimportant in the grand scheme of things. But at the time they were monumental! As well as howling with laughter at how idiotic I sounded, it really made me see just how much has changed in a year.

So much in fact, I thought I would share a few of my more ridiculous nuggets;

The meanderings of a 5/6 month pregnant drama queen. Written 4/11/2009.

1. I am not sure what to wear for labour. I think I am going to go and buy a nightdress from marks and Spencer’s. I definitely do NOT want everything to be on show and yet I want to look half decent. Yes I know I will be in labour but I still want the Irish one to fancy me afterwards. Hope I don’t have to spend too much money. (Brilliant! Him fancying me afterwards was the last thing I needed or wanted in reality! With five stitches holding my arse together I wouldn’t have minded if he had never felt the urge ever again! And as for not having everything on show? Did I mention the five stitches holding my arse together?)

2. I love being able to eat again. It is so weird to think, everything I eat my baby is trying for the first time. I wonder if when I feel sick it is because the baby doesn’t like the taste of something? (I am clearly a mentalist.)

3. We have the 20 week scan a week on Wednesday. I wish I could have a scan every week. We are trying to decide whether to find out or not. The Irish one thinks it is a girl, but I know it is a boy. I just do. But sometimes I think I am just convincing myself of that because I would like a girl. I only want a girl so we can watch the princess films and I can buy pink things. Plus how do you clean a little willy? I know it’s a boy. As long as the baby is healthy, that is all that matters. Healthy and cute! (So there you have my complete honesty! I was hoping for a girl at the time. Now I wouldn’t change him for the world and I cant imagine myself with a girl! Funny how times change! I learnt how to clean a little willy pretty quickly!)

4. I wonder if The Irish one will propose while I am pregnant? That would be nice. (Nope!)

5. We can not agree on any names. I like Sam and Sebastian for a boy, and Sienna for a girl. He likes random names. I figure I should be able to choose seen as its me who has to go through it! (Told you I was a drama queen! Turns out the Irish one chose the name, as 2 minutes before I went in to labour I went off Sam and had a bit of a meltdown.)

6. I am definitely going to breastfeed. Apparently you can lose all your baby weight by breastfeeding. My friend told me you can burn 1000 calories a day. Which means I don’t feel guilty about all these bacon sandwiches! (Yes those are the right reasons for breastfeeding Lexy. Because you lose weight. Not because it is best for the baby or anything!? Also I couldn’t breastfeed in the end. I was gutted and although Woo did very well on formula – and still does, I am still a happy size 14/16.…. And no where near as selfish! Honest.)

7. I worry about doodle. I love him so much. I hope I still get time to spend with him and that he likes the baby. I will have to watch the dog whisperer and get a few tips. (Doodle is fine. Woo is fine. Cesar Milan was busy.)

I could continue to regale you, but these were the funniest. I wonder if this time next year I will look back at today’s entry about how I know my boy will be a well behaved toddler and laugh?

Here’s betting I probably will.

Oh and just to finish off nicely, here is how my birth story ended. (There is a new born baby on my chest but i felt it a little too personal a moment ,to include. I hope you understand.)

 

But can you see the mustard on the windowsill?

Drip!

The ‘perfect’ mother.

I am desperate to breast feed but I am struggling.
I shouldn’t give up? Breast is best?
My milk hasn’t come in at all yet the health visitor said.
So he is feeding on fresh air.
My nipples are bleeding and cracked.
I am in agony.
I should pump more and suck up the pain?
Its my fault. I’m a crap mum.
I should have had the perfect experience. Like you.
I should have prayed every night to the tit gods.
I should have learnt about scientology.
I should have re in forced my nipples with wrought iron.
I should have howled in pain like a banshee and continued to feed.
I am such a crap mum.
If only I was perfect!!

Which formula is the best?
We use SMA? The Midwife suggested it.
I should be on Aptimel? That’s better?
Aptimel has got more vitamins in it? SMA is bad for them?
He seems to be thriving on it. He is alert and nearly taking 7ounces.
He is such a good boy.
I should have read each and every label and made an informed decision?
Its my fault. I’m a crap mum.
I should have bought a cow and freeze dried its milk organically. Like you.
Not a lot of cows in Eccles.
But we could have had one in the spare room I suppose.
I could have saved up. Built an extension.
We could have had a cow farm!
I am such a crap mum.
If only I was perfect!!

We are only on 1 night feed now! We are really pleased.
He should be sleeping through?
I should try bath, massage and bedtime?
Addison hates the water. Screams blue murder
He just wants a feed. Little love.
He is overtired? I should make the bath a relaxing environment?
It’s my fault. I’m a crap mum.
I should have swam the channel in preparation. Like you.
I could have grown webbed feet if I had tried hard enough.
Turned in to a mermaid and lulled him to sleep.
I should have built a pool next to the cow farm.
I am such a crap mum.
If only I was perfect!!

Have you started weaning? It’s fun! He is always hungry!
Ive started too early? I should have waited?
He is way too young?
But he seems to love Cow and Gate rice pudding.
He likes soft carrots too. Always a bit worried about choking though!
You would NEVER give your child pre packed baby food?
It’s my fault. I’m a crap mum.
I should have gone to culinary school. Like you.
I have a phobia of eggs. They terrify me.
I could have written to Paul McKenna. I could of inspired him to write a new book. I could have befriended Delia.
I could have learnt to cook without eggs while milking the cow and doing the front crawl.
I am such a crap mum.
If only I was perfect!!

He is six months today! He rolled over. I am so proud!
He should be sitting up? He should be standing?
He is falling behind?
He seems to hate tummy time though. Loves being on his back.
Such a playful little bunny.
I should be encouraging him more?
Its my fault, Im a crap mum.
If only I had gone to the gym more during pregnancy. Like you.
I should have bought new trainers.
Ignored my dodgy knees. Put a bit of effort in.
Addison could have been running the four minute mile by now.
I could have ridden the cow, at the side of the pool, while flipping an omelette and wearing new trainers.
It’s my fault. I’m such a crap mum.
If only I was perfect!!

It is all my fault.
I am a terrible mother.
I don’t try hard enough.
I don’t make enough effort.
I am not perfect enough!!

I must try harder.
I must… I must…  I must….
Stop comparing myself to others.

My son is six months old.
His name is Addison.
He does not sleep through.
He is not reading war and peace.
He is on formula.
He likes rice pudding.
He hates the bath.
He likes ‘The bear in the big blue house.’
He likes to be cuddled when he cries.
He laughs when he hears the dog bark.
He is on his own time.
He sleep talks.
He is proud of himself after a big poo.
He is happy.

I am 31 years old.
My name is Lexy.
I am not married.
I like programmes like ‘Drop dead diva.’
I breast fed for a short time only.
I am scared of eggs.
I am over weight.
I beat myself up a lot over many ‘failures’.
I love my son.
I would do anything for my son.
I will be a working mother.
I am dreading it.
I am proud of myself every day.

I love my son.
I love my son.
I love my son.

I am trying my best.
I am doing my best.
I am trying my best.

I am not perfect.
I am not crap.
I am Addison’s mummy.

The miracle of birth? Yeah, ok.

 Picture the scene. It’s Six forty five on a Saturday morning. The house resembles a subsidiary of the Eccles and Hulme tip. It is a bomb site. It literally looks like we were up all night with six thousand of our closest friends and their newborn babies enjoying an all night sit in feeding rave. There are three milk bottles on the arm of the sofa, slowly beginning to curdle. There are sleep suits and vests, miniature trousers and jumpers and dummies and wipes, tea towels and bibs splattered in every direction of the once tidy room. Man sized socks stuffed down the side of the fire place (I’ll kill him). Towels directly out of the drier sit forgotten in a pile on the kitchen work top, there are dog biscuit crumbs all over the once-blue but now grayish spit up stained, living room carpet. It’s like the dog feels too good to eat in the hallway and insists on carrying his tiny bone-shaped biscuits, one at a time, in to the living room and munching them on the carpet where he can watch the show. His version of a doggy TV dinner, if you will. The show, of course being a bedraggled and smelly overweight woman, her hair tied back with a pair of old knickers, sitting like a creaky kneed elephant on a crusty old sofa. The baby’s breakfast is all over her top, she sits squinting through one contact lense (didn’t have time to put both in) while clutching a cup of coffee like her life depended on it, and a squirming baby. Mickey mouse is on the TV in the corner dancing and prancing around inviting his viewers to ‘come inside, its fun inside’
‘Oh bugger off’ she mutters under her breath.

 Because really? What does Mickey know?

 It’s me, by the way, as if you hadn’t figured it out. Im the overweight dumbo wannabe, currently sitting on the sofa with Addison, watching Mickey Mouse attempting to locate his club house. Addison evidently loves Mickey and is kicking and flailing about like an over caffeinated octopus. I got up at 5.45 this morning, with the intention of getting some much needed house work done while the baby slept, but find myself, like I usually do, sat catatonic on the crusty vomit stained (once magnificent) sofa, staring avidly at nothing in particular while devising a few choice places Mickey Mouse can stick his clubhouse, and reminiscing on what I thought motherhood was supposed to be like. Back in the ‘innocent and naïve’ days.

 I’m not in a bad mood. I’m just exhausted. Being awake at five forty five on a Saturday morning is not what I signed up for. Leaky boobs, fat thighs and sleepless nights is not what I signed up for. 3 stone overweight, losing hair from my head like an oversized malting Alsatian with creaky, broken knees is not what I signed up for. All my beautiful clothes being stretched to within an inch of their lives, walking round with more muffin top than a Greggs outlet while my size 10 jeans slag me off  behind my back (I hear them every time I reach for my leggings) is not what I signed up for. I need to contact the motherhood union and explain in no uncertain terms this motherhood lark is not as easy as countless celebrities promised me it would be on the covers of glossy magazines.

 And I have help. (I mean in the form of my other half, not an army of servants. And he is actually, as much as I hate to admit it, really rather good! Don’t tell him I said that.) It really makes me wonder how single mummies do it. Fair play and utmost respect to each and every single mother out there in the ‘mummy club.’ You are unsung heroes. Really you are. It also makes me wonder how teenagers manage. There is no way at the age of 17 I could have done this. Every time I see a young teenage girl walking down the road I have to fight the urge to run up to her and scream in her face ‘DON’T HAVE SEX!! JUST DON’T! YOU WONT ENJOY IT YET ANYWAY! HE WILL NOT ‘LOVE YOU MORE’ AND YOU COULD END UP LIKE ME! LOOK AT ME! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD LOOK! (This is the point I would whip out my flappy belly and destroyed flower for all the world to see) ENJOY YOUR LIFE! FORGET SEX!’ but the sad fact is a lot of young people in my area get pregnant and have babies so they can get housing and not end up on the street. That is the country we live in, but Im not getting in to that.

So what did I sign up for? I signed up for a gorgeous basket ball bump, 10 months of people treating me like the queen, a perfectly short and painless labour, a perfect little pink bundle which slept right through, any weight I had put on would obviously drop from my chubby arse immediately, leaving me waif like with gorgeous thick, full hair. I would also clearly have the perfect little girl who I could dress in pretty pink outfits and show off while the paparazzi, so amazed at the beauty of my bundle, would swarm around me, making me millions and we would live happy ever after. (I always wondered what it would be like to be famous and this was my daydream after all.) But alas, I am not famous. At all. Unless you count that one night at the Chinese karaoke where I fell off the stage and exposed my breasts to an entire room of cheering and slightly drunken business men.

 So imagine my surprise when I did not have the perfect basket ball bump, but instead I piled on fat everywhere! I piled on fat in places I didn’t know existed. On a bad day, up until the 32 week stage and depending on what I was wearing you were hard pressed to even see the bump I had so desperately wanted to show off. (And then came 32 weeks and I began to resemble Mr. Greedy.)  And then the labour. Oh god, don’t even talk to me about the labour. My waters broke on Thursday the 2^nd of April and 65, yes sixty five hours later I still hadn’t managed to push the little monster out. I can’t talk too much about this. I truly believe I am still suffering with some sort of post traumatic stress disorder. I do remember though at the time, legs spread, gas and air in hand, 63 hours in, shouting at my other half ‘I have present traumatic stress syndrome. I do. I need some counseling NOW!. Never mind a doctor, Get me a therapist!’ to which he had had the audacity to reply that he understood. Really? REALLY?

A close friend who recently admitted she is pregnant, asked me while we were having lunch last week, what labour felt like. Now this is dodgy ground. I remember asking this of many mums when I was pregnant. I remember thinking, if they told me I could prepare myself mentally. But the stock answer always seemed to be ‘you’ll be fine’ or ‘I can’t remember’.

At the time it really wound me up. I felt like there was some sort of conspiracy! I wanted to yell ‘I can handle the truth just tell me!’ But I have to admit, when my friend asked me, I finally understood why I had been lied to. Because honestly? You don’t forget that pain. You may not be able to describe it, but you don’t bloody forget it. I just couldn’t do it to her. So I muttered, (looking everywhere but in her eyes) ‘It’s not that bad. And it’s really quick in comparison to the REST OF YOUR LIFE, you’ll be fine, I can’t really remember. Just enjoy being pregnant.’ which may have been a lie but in my mind was a lot kinder than ‘It’s absolutely horrific and excruciating. The stuff horror films are made of, imagine your worst nightmare, double it and while you’re at it try to imagine shitting a watermelon out of your bum hole, ring sting included.’ Or as my cousin summed up six hours post birth last week ‘if the pain had got any worse I’m sure I would have died’  (In this instance I feel the truth would definitely not have set her free)

 I also signed up for a girl. So when Babywoo finally decided the time was right and made a bid for freedom, I was shocked to see, she’d had the nerve to show up with a willy! I had a boy! No pretty pink outfits for me. Football, mud and worms, that’s what little boys are made of, that’s what I was destined for! Bloody football, mud and worms.

 But oh god he was gorgeous. A squirming mass of gorgeousness lying in my arms, grabbing my finger and staring up at me.  The absolute most amazing, breathtaking moment of my life was seeing him for the first time. My other half and I had discussed prior to my labour starting, do you think you will cry when you see the baby for the first time? The response he had given me was ‘Me? Cry? I haven’t cried for years, I doubt it.’ Enter stage right a blubbering lump of mush who goes by the name of daddy. (or ‘dick head’ on the odd occasion too.) He was crying like a little girl. He cried more than I did! The midwife had to shout his name twice to remind him to cut the cord.

 So I suppose it’s not all bad. I suppose this motherhood lark, albeit one great big challenge (banana crisis included) is hugely enjoyable. And I suppose the weight will drop off eventually. And I suppose if I have to, really have to, I can smile my way through the sleepless nights and the five forty five on a Saturday morning get ups.

But I do wish sometimes magazines like HEAT and OK! would stop printing these stories of what motherhood in an ideal world is like, then maybe I would have been slightly more mentally prepared. Although saying that, I suppose if they did, the human race would die out. Because I suppose you have to go through the crap you didn’t sign up for to truly enjoy the moments you did sign up for.

Like tomorrow we are going swimming for the first time and I can’t wait! Addison has just gone down for his nap. Ive had a shower, tidied up a bit and feel a little more human. My other half and I are sat admiring him while cuddling up on the sofa. He’s hugging me with such lovely closeness. The mother of his baby. I’m the mother of his son! How special am i! It’s nice to get some mammy and daddy time too sometimes. We are so lucky. A happy, healthy, beautiful little boy and I…….what’s that ? Sex?

 You have got to be kidding!

The Mummy Club.

At school I was the kind of girl that always, without fail, was picked last for any type of team sports. Hang on; I feel I need to labour this point. I was the kind of girl that got picked last for any kind of team sports even at my own birthday party. If there was ever any clubs invented and assembled by the popular girls in the school or even the popular girls in my class, I was never ever part of them. Not through lack of trying either, let me tell you. I endured the initiation tests and humiliation routines endlessly but unfortunately for me I was just never cool enough. I was the girl the ‘cool’ guy in school would call and take the Mickey out of. (I put cool in inverted comma’s here because this ‘cool’ guy is called Tony and last time I saw him he was still living off mummy and daddy and is a complete loser. So from here on in I will refer to him as the tool guy. Because really, what a total tool! Not that Im still bitter…..)

So basically I was the girl all the other girls would look at and think ….well that’s just it! They looked at me and didn’t think. They didn’t think at all.

I wasn’t big, (not that, that should matter) I wasn’t dressed badly, (not that, that should matter) I wasn’t short (you get the picture.) I wasn’t unfit or unhealthy with smelly feet or stupidly tall. My boobs weren’t enormous; I wasn’t so flat I could make a wall jealous. I didn’t say stupid things in class, I wasn’t the joker, and I wasn’t super intelligent. I was just blah. Non-descript. My nickname wasn’t ‘sexy Lexy’ as I would have liked. Oh no. My nickname was ‘Lampy.’ Because with my thick brown hair cut in a bob (thanks mum) and my bony physique I looked like a lampshade. I shit you not. Kids can be so cruel.

Thankfully things moved on after I left school, I got rid of the bob and I made a life for myself. I met a few boys, some idiots and one finally I decided to keep. Had a few jobs – some boring others that included dressing like a huge mouse and dancing in parades. I lived in a few cities – some crap, others that included showing your boobs for beads at certain times of the year. I had a few drinks, some soft; some that made me go a bit crazy. I have been fat, I have been big, I have been thin, I have said stupid things, I have been the joker, and I have had smelly feet. Courtesy of wonder-bra, my boobs have been big, small, hard, soft, and at times free (I blame New Orleans for that one), but still I have never ever been part of a club. The slightest inkling of a club or ‘clique’ forming around in me in my adult life and I would run for the hills.

 Even now the word club fills me with a sense of dread. Clubs are for cool people. And although I have been many things. Im not sure I have ever been truly cool.

However, and this is a BIG however, I realised this morning as I was crossing the road, (after almost dying pushing the pram up a slight incline) and as two other mothers were coming the other way, I have undeniably, like it or not, without realising, become part of a huge great big sodding club!

And you know what?  It’s actually not that horrendous.

There is, in my opinion, still a hierarchy. I realise this by what some refer to as the ‘mummy once over’. For those still pregnant, you will come across this once you are pushing a pram. It can be quite odd, quite annoying, but also quite funny. It goes a little like this. Feel free to correct me or add nuances if need be.

Mother stranger crosses paths with another Mother stranger.

Look up, try and keep it casual.

Slight eye contact but only for a second.

Slight, but not too forward acknowledgement of situation.

And GO!

Quick glance at;

• State of mother. (Outfit, hair, shoes, general ‘coolness’ of other mother. Is she getting as much or as little sleep as you? Is she relaxed, happy, flustered?)
• Pram. (Is it cooler? comfier? Cosier? More expensive? How many wheels does it have?)
• Weight loss. (Belly particularly – this tells you if you are doing well or not, then boobs, face and finally ankles – if you can see them! (NB I find the other woman ALWAYS wins on this…)
• And finally.. Baby. (How old is baby? (This helps with earlier weight loss summation.) Is it a he or she? Is he or she cute? Cuter than your baby? (You always win this one so don’t worry!) By this point a lot of women have to turn to look. And when this happens, and you see it out of the corner of your eye. You deserve a smile to yourself. You aren’t going mad.. it did actually happen and the fact you didn’t turn means you’ve won…

 And carry on walking casually…  

And now for the results!….

 At the top end of the hierarchy you have Yummy. The head held high, beautifully clad, immaculate mothers with smiling babies. At mid way down you have the average head held height, averagely dressed, made an effort with a splash of make-up with sleeping babies, mothers. And then you have, well…. me. The mother who is still a bit podgy round the middle, dressed in the first thing I grabbed before leaving the house (sometimes I get out to find random garment is on inside out), no makeup (because after the night ive had it would only slide off my face) and a baby covered in this morning’s breakfast. (He will only sleep in the maxicosi and wiping his face wakes him up. Ok? OK!)

 There is a catch though. And it’s a fabulous catch! The difference with this hierarchy is its interchangeable! You can move up and down on a daily basis. This basically means at any given time, you could be right on top! Smiling for all the world to see! Look at me! Look at me! I made it out and I look half decent! But it also means no mother can act too smug. Because the mothers at the top also realise, that tomorrow is a new day. And depending on how tonight goes….tomorrow you could be back in the slummy category. Which is why, when you do find yourself at the top of your perch. Enjoy it! Tomorrow is likely someone else’s turn!

 I find it to be a club where you can exchange knowing glances, be overly expressant – and that’s ok! Chat to people you have never met about nipple torture and stitches and teething solutions. The state of your bladder, your stretch marks and your wieght loss. About how annoying/helpful or downright horny the man in your life is. (Already! I know! What am I a fair ground ride?? Give it a month for god sake!)

 The one rule of the club, I have gathered, is honesty. There is no point lying to another mother, as chances are, she has been there and will see through you immediately! If you feel like crap, admit it! That’s ok apparently. The Mums seem to be supportive of one another. If I admit to wanting to run away and hide when he cries, that seems to be ok too. When I admit I was a little freaked to find I was having a boy, that seemed to be ok. When I admitted, in tears, to not bonding the second I saw him – that was ok too. I was thanked for my honesty! It’s like having a huge network of random strangers, all going, or having been through the same or similar things. All sharing, laughing, spouting crap and understanding one another.

 So when an old (single) school friend of mine recently visited and insisted ‘you must be so bored now you just sit around all day, on your own, with nothing to do but a baby’ I just smiled, because I have thousands of friends now. Maybe even millions. And they understand, like me, that statement couldn’t be further from the truth. I am not on my own and I am not bored!  I am part of a club. A club she may one day join. But a club, finally I am cool enough to be part of.  The mummy club! And Im dead happy. Cos you’re all lovely!

Bumping in to an ex. Social suicide of the third degree..

I don’t care what anyone says.
Bumping in to an ‘ex’ is a certified nightmare.
They should issue you with an award. An ‘I bumped in to my ex and survived’ award. Or a t-shirt. Remember those t-shirts? ‘My family went to Skegness and all I got was this lousy shirt’?

Well I may start printing ‘I bumped in to my ex and all I got was an evening of over analysing’ t-shirt. Although Im not sure I would have anything it would go with, to be honest.

 Every woman (and maybe even some men) at the end of any relationship, regardless of how long this relationship lasted, will make themselves feel better with a casual ‘next time I see him ill make him regret it.’

Take Josie in Big Brother. ‘Big Brother, when I get out of here I am going to have my hair done and lose 2 stone and I’m going to smooth him right over’.

 We have all done it, we have all thought it, and I bet most of us have said it. Whether you are the dumper or dumpee is irrespective. Next time you see this person you will be, feel and most importantly look fabulous. (and thin! Thinner than I have ever been.)

 Unfortunately for most of us mere mortals the law of sod sees to it that this rarely, if ever happens. I am yet to meet a woman who can tell me in all honesty she bumped in to her ex and was certain ‘he regretted the moment he left me, let me tell you’ Although we know this rarely is the case it doesn’t stop us repeating our mantra, post dump.

 As I’ve mentioned. Bumping in to an ex is horrific. So why does the law of sod taunt us so?
Why can’t we bump in to the Fecker that cheated, the Fecker that never called and the Fecker we lived with for 2 years who ‘didn’t believe in marriage’ but has since met someone who changed his mind and had him gallivanting up the aisle quicker than JLO, when we look our very best?  Im not sure about you, but I have days when I wake up, get dressed, slap on my Morrison’s eyeliner, look in the mirror and know the wardrobe gods have been on my side. You stop, double check it’s actually you you’re in fact looking at and think , jaysus. I don’t look half bad today. How did that happen? Those days, albeit infrequent are the days when bumping in to an ex would be almost manageable. Almost.

 But, alas, then there are the days you fall out of bed late. Tie your greasy hair up with a pair of old tights, (ok an old bobble if tights are a step too far), rub last night’s foundation back in around your nose, use your spit to quickly eradicate the panda eyes. (We’ve all done it; don’t even bother to deny it.) Pull on last night stained top and the ‘these will do another day’ jeans. Run to your car. Forget your keys. Run back to the house. Run back to the car. Forget the baby. (Painting a picture here, bear with me.) Run back to the house, run back to the car, sniff your armpit, wish you’d put deodorant on. Get in the car, realise your right boob is leaking, get out of car, pour half a bottle of water over your chest to hide one leaky boob, get in the car, drive to destination swearing at tardiness, get baby out of car just in time for baby to spit up on your right shoulder, pick up changing bag upside down but realise too late, just as nappies, wipes and trusty hemorrhoid cream roll all over the car park, put baby down, turn around to pick it all up and….…BANG!! There’s fecker 2. In all his glory, a shocked, but slightly relieved and possibly victorious expression on his face. He looks good and the Fecking Fecker knows it.

 ‘fuck’
‘Hi lexy’
‘Hi Fecker 2’
‘How’s things? (Code for – bloody hell love, what have you been eating? Ever heard of a shower?)
‘Grand. I just had a baby which is why I look fat. I’m not fat. I mean, well I am. But only because I just had another man’s baby. A gorgeous man…(silence)…With lots of money. And we are so happy. Really very happy. I also got a new job…(silence) .. and won the lottery. So yeah I’m really happy…….you?’ (FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKKK)
‘Im well Lexy. Clearly regretting leaving you, and marrying a goddess who dances on the west end.’ (Because let’s face it, the new woman never works at ASDA)…

 On this particular evening you come home and appreciate your gorgeous Irish Fecker. And then ring your best mate for post-ex analysis. Your first words?  

 ’He well regretted leaving me. Let me tell you.’

 It may be a lie. (There is no ‘may’ about it.) But It feels better.

 And who needs that Fecker anyway? I got myself a new Fecker. I mean, man. And I always look gorgeous and thin and fabulous for him.

Mostly.