Never mind halloween! Try motherhood.
Hot dog hot dog hot diggety dog is the theme tune of my life at the moment. Even when it is not playing out of the television, (which is rare) it is playing out of my Iphone, as it seems to be the only sound my son wants to hear. He wants to hear it when he is playing (Code for; Drooling.) When he is trying to sleep (Code for; Trumping.) When he is having a trump (Code for; Shitting his kecks) and most recently? When he is the bath. (See previous code. Unfortunately the bath also seems to loosen his bladder.) Hot dog works better than a dodi, Hot diggety dog, works better than a soother, and sadly for me, if you’ve got ears its time for cheers, at the moment works better than a cuddle. (Can I borrow a tiny violin?) Come what may, no matter what manner of mood my seven month old angel/monster is experiencing, the moment those opening bars ring out, he is in heaven. He goes quiet, his ears prick up, his thumb goes in his mouth and he is at peace. Hot dog hot dog hot diggety dog, is his drug of choice, if you will.
Meanwhile I am in hell. Actual hell.
Well, ok, not actual hell. But a little bit like hell. It’s not Brahms symphony is it? Which is what I hoped he would like! Which is what I expected him to like! Nor is it Kylie and Jason. (I have tried that too. I have also tried a bit of 90’s house. He clearly needs to be taught to appreciate good music….)
Hot dog hot dog hot diggety dog.. CAN YOU HEAR THAT??? I need to check the CD player in the spare room hang on…. Nope. Its off. Which can only mean one thing. I’m turning in to a full on mentalist. The house is at peace. The baby is finally asleep. And yet for some godforsaken reason, I can still hear THAT BLOODY SONG!
A friend of mine recently endured an extremely long labour, in which I have to say, she was a pillar of strength and tranquility. (I wasn’t there but if I imagine her like this I don’t have to shudder every two minutes in sympathy. Shuddering is knackering and god knows I am knackered enough!) While she was in labour, and I was checking her Facebook wall every 6 minutes for updates, it reminded me of my labour (cue multiple shuddering followed by a shot of brandy) and all of the expectations I had of motherhood, that looking back now, make the hot dog dance seem like small tomaytoes. (I think that is an American saying. Just go with me here. Ill get to the point in a minute I promise.) It reminded me how excited I was about these moments I had built up in my mind, moments only motherhood would bring, if you catch my drift. By the time my 65 hour labour started, I was already a mother. In my mind. I already had the perfect little boy. In my mind. I already knew it all and loved it all. In my mind.
Me and my little boy would wander through my maternity leave with ease. We would be a happy couple visiting the shops. (I would not faint with exhaustion in the Trafford center showing my fat arse to the world and wake up with a polo mint shoved in my mouth and clinging on to a random woman’s shoe. I apologise to this woman. I can see now how clinging on to your leg for dear life and laying my head on your boot and begging for ‘five more minutes sleep’ made you a little uncomfortable. I am also sorry for the drool. Mine. Not the baby’s.)
Me and my little boy would be best friends. (If any of my best friends threw up on me as much as my little boy does I would be seriously considering calling either bulimics anonymous of Alcoholic anonymous. I would also be considering reducing the friend status from best friend to ‘If you are sick on me one more time I will take you out.’ As in, outside, for some air. Not with a shotgun.) But my little boy doesn’t need air. He just happily empties his guts all over my finery (new look’s best) and carries on having a look around.
Motherhood would be a pleasure, my weight would drop off and each passer-by would gasp with delight at how beautiful he was and how positively skinny I was. (Have I ever told you about the five stitches in my arse? That certainly took the immediate shine off motherhood. Don’t get me wrong, I love being a mummy but I could have done without the ‘I’m just going to stick my fingers up your anus’ during my post birth happy haze phase. The shine was stripped from that particular moment fairly quickly let me tell you. Especially when I saw the glint in her eye. And yes, people do stop and stare, but unfortunately is it usually because I have a wet patch on my left tit. Or Addy has thrown up all over my face and his face, and somehow I haven’t noticed. (If I am in a shoe shop, he could probably throw up in my eye and I wouldn’t notice. Bad mother? You decide.)
Although he was born with a willy, my son would love everything girly. Including Beauty and the Beast and The Little Mermaid. Which funnily enough are my favourites.(Look Addy, look! Tale as ooolllldddd as timmmmeee, Its princess Aurora, look Addy look!!WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!! Look Addy, look! Its Sebastian the crab, look isn’t he funny!!!!WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!! Look Addy look! Its Paddington bear! Mummy’s favourite! No Addy! No! Don’t eat the book! Addy please stop being sick on the book! Addy noooooooooooooooo! )
Hot Dog Hot Dog Hot diggety Dog… Seriously can you not hear that?
My little angel would look just like me, and we would dress in colour coordinated tones and giggle at secret jokes. We would be the perfect partners in crime! (If matching sick stains count here, I have this one nailed. Other than the looking like me bit, and the secret giggles bit. He is the image of his father and he laughs at thin air. Usually when I laugh, I am rocking back and forth. Repeatedly. At high speed.)
My son would be absolutely perfect in every single way.
That last one I do have nailed. Because even with the chronic drooling, trumping and pooing in the bath. I will love him forever, I will pick him up every time he falls and I will cuddle away his tears for the rest of his life. Those are the things I did expect, I suppose, the moments I have ended up enjoying and experiencing. (I don’t mean I enjoy seeing him fall here either… just to clarify.)
So is Motherhood everything I expected? No. It is much more than I expected. It has changed me in ways I couldn’t begin to describe. This coming from a woman who ‘was never having a baby’ as she ‘wanted to focus on her career’. Is saying something. Yes he is regularly sick all over me. Yes I could regularly give the bag lady a run for her money and yes sometimes I suffer with post natal depression, but I wouldn’t change who he is, or who I have become, for the world. It is not what I expected. It is so much better. I have made some lovely friends, can understand the meaning of true love and am appreciating every unexpected day.
And with that final thought (god I’m like Jerry Springer now too!) I better go. I have to wash the Bolognese out of my eye lashes, wash the sick off the dog and hey! If you can’t beat the man in your head, you may as well join him..
Grab your boots and your sandwich and join the paraaaaddddeeee….
Also – as a footnote – Congratulations to my gorgeous and very brave friend Jacqueline, on the birth of her little boy. He is gorgeous. He is stunning. And if anybody can do motherhood with style… Its you my love. Welcome to the ‘mummy club.’ You are going to fit right in… xx