No sleep til Brooklyn

I've been motionless for a full fifteen minutes, propped up on my pillows, my baby asleep face down on my chest.  It's 3am and this particular night feed has spanned two and a half episodes of Mad Men.  I'm feeling the tiredness in my marrow.

I gently lift one of her arms and let go.  It falls like a dead weight and I know that she's out cold at last. I lean across and turn off the iPad before edging her down into the nook of my arm.

I reach over and remove the hot water bottle from her bedding.  Slowly and oh so very carefully I start to roll to my left so that the arm cradling her rests on the bed next to me.

The first part of the manoeuvre is complete and I hold the position for a minute to make sure she hasn't stirred.  My back is aching while my weak post partum stomach muscles protest at this unnatural stance.

Now the crucial bit, make or break.  With excruciating care I inch my left arm from under her body and cover her with the warm blanket.  I sit up relieved I can finally go to sleep.

But two wide little eyes, as big as saucers, are staring at me from the blankets.  "No sleep til Brooklyn, mum" they're saying.  "No sleep for you."

What doesn't kill you...

There’s no getting away from it, the first three months of my son’s life were utterly miserable for all concerned.  What I’d expected and hoped to be a magical and special time turned out to be heart wrenching and soul destroying.  Why?  Because my son had lactose intolerance.  Except we didn't know it; we just knew that he was in a lot of pain.

He cried all the time.  All the time!  Not just an hour or so here or there, or even for three hours a day at least three days a week for  three weeks - the randomly plucked definition of colic.  ALL THE TIME!  It was just awful.  He was clearly in so much pain and discomfort, squirming and shrieking as he tried to pass wind, pulling his little legs up to his chest.  I carried him in the sling, pacing up and down the corridor of our small flat for hours on end.  I made up at least six different songs to sing as I paced, the process of which kept me sane during those long, lonely afternoons, although I’ll concede that I must have looked anything but.

I’d go out and meet other mums, at coffee shops, post natal pilates classes, baby sensory groups, you know, the standard newborn meets.  And more often than not their kids would be chilling out as we did our stretching or coffee slurping.  Not Brendan.  And I felt envy and resentment.  And failure.

The only thing that seemed to soothe him was to breastfeed, so when he wasn't crying he was hanging off my boob.  And of course I was dutifully drinking and eating lots of dairy, completely unaware that I was exacerbating the issue.

And he just didn’t sleep.  He woke up every 45 minutes at night and I resorted to sleeping with him in a sling, propped up on a mound of strategically placed pillows, all too aware of the cot death warnings: DO NOT SLEEP WITH YOUR CHILD IN YOUR BED! And so I didn't really ever sleep.  I just dozed fitfully.  My husband and I were broken, communicating in angry monosyllables, competing about which of us was the most tired, or had it the hardest.  We even threw bread at each other one morning… our lowest point, now known in family lore as “bread-gate”.

I lost count of how many times I sought help from healthcare professionals.  To a man (and woman) the doctors would start their consultations with the question “are you a first time mum?” and when I answered with a yes, they would stop listening, dismissing me as an over anxious mother.  “It’s just a bit of colic” they would say, ignoring my protestations.  One doctor even asked me to lie Brendan down on the bed.  He immediately started crying.  “Now pick him up” she said.  I did and the crying stopped.  “He just wants a cuddle, that’s all” and she shooed me out of her office.  Diagnostics at its best?!  All the more depressing as I’d specifically asked to see a practice partner.

The health visitor was no better.  She stopped listening after I’d told her we’d been topping up with formula, looking at me like I’d kicked a puppy.  Had she not been so intent on judging she might have made a link between the cow’s milk that the formula is derived from and his gastric discomfort.  But no, I was dismissed again, like a delinquent teenager who didn’t know what was best for her who only had herself to blame.

Day to day life felt like a hideous car crash.  We were on the edge of reason.  I went to the doctors to ask about post natal depression and even then I wasn't really listened to.  “Go and get a night in the spare room.  If you wake up feeling a bit better tomorrow, you’re probably just tired.”  And I WAS tired, too tired to protest that of course I was fucking tired, that the tiredness was killing me, that I felt like an utter failure because I couldn't get my baby to stop crying and everyone was telling me that there was nothing wrong with him. 

Eventually we were summoned to my son’s eight week check-up (which was four weeks late).  By luck a newly qualified GP was being trained up by a senior partner.  After they’d done all they needed to, they asked me if I’d had any issues or questions.  “Well he cries all the time.  He’s in pain and no one can tell me why.  It hasn't stopped, it hasn't got any better.  If anything it is getting worse.” 

I expected to be dismissed again but perhaps she heard the desperation in my voice.  Or the defeat.  Or maybe she was just a really good doctor.  She asked me if I had eczema.  Yes I did.  Hay fever? Yes, that too.  Asthma?  Yep.  She prescribed a hypoallergenic formula and told me to give it a couple of days and see if anything improved.  

And it did. Completely.  Unbelievably.  Enormously.   

A doctor that really listened, three questions that I’d never been asked before, and a box of magical  powder that changed all our lives.  Why that took three months, I don’t know. (Although each one of those boxes of powder costs the GP between £30 and £50 and if I was cynical I might think that had something to do with it.)

So my fundamental message is this: if you are a first time parent, or a second time or third time parent, and you think there is something wrong with your baby, trust your instincts.  Don’t stop asking.  Don’t be fobbed off.  Don’t be dismissed or undermined.  Stick to your guns.  You are almost certainly right!

And remember... what doesn't kill you only makes you stronger!

Breastfeeding... laid bare.

“FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU…”

I stop and check for the whereabouts of my son.  He’s in the next room.

“…UUUUUUUUCK SHIT FUCK SHIT FUCK SHIT CUNT FUCK SHIT CUNT CUNT FUCK SHIT MOTHER OF BOLLOCKS FUUUUCKKKKK!”

I’m breastfeeding and my daughter is latching on.  Her legs are kicking as if she’s taking a run up and she’s clamping down like someone getting started on some corn on the cob.   In short, it fucking hurts and it doesn’t feel either wholesome or lovely. 

My daughter is a week old and we’ve spent that time figuring out between us how she going to get the good shit from mama’s boobs.  And not for the first time I’m left staggered at how woefully inadequate the equipment for this task is.  Another black mark against the theory of intelligent design!

No one tells you how hard it is to get breastfeeding going, how it doesn’t happen overnight, how utterly painful it is and how neither you nor your baby really have a clue what you’re doing.  This time I’m ready to surrender to the process, to go into lock down in the bedroom, box-set ready with the iPlayer and Sky Go downloaded onto the iPad.  I'm surrounded by nipple cream and breast compresses as I watch films I haven’t seen in the years since my son was born like Twelve Years a Slave and Philomena (although given my hormone levels these might not have been the best choices).

Most of this has been happening in the small hours, when she cluster feeds between midnight and five in the morning.   I watched the entire first season of Enlightened in one twelve hour period trying not to give way to feeling trapped and resentful.

We’re getting there.  The worst of the soreness is healing and this time round I know it won’t last forever.  I repeat my mantra “this too shall pass” over and again.  And then I’m reminded that once it passes it will pass for good as we won’t be having any more children.  And I try even harder to let go of the pain and resentment I feel, pinned in my room, the jaws of doom clamped round my mammaries. She pulls away for a breather and I brace myself as her little legs kick again and she takes another bite of the sweetcorn.  As hard as it is, this is a privilege I won’t have again.

  

Tales from the post natal ward part 1: Dinner Lady Wars

The dinner lady from Cedar Ward bursts through the double doors and strides up the corridor.  She comes to a stop in front of our dinner cart, chin out, hands on hips.

"Have you taken our serving spoons?"

Sue, Maple Ward's dinner lady, ignores her and turns to me.

"What you havin' love?"

"I said, HAVE YOU GOT OUR SERVING SPOONS?"

Sue looks at me and makes a show of rolling her eyes before slowly turning to her rival.

"Yes, I've got your serving spoons.  Someone took mine so I took yours."  She holds her gaze and shrugs.

"You just took ours?"

"Yep."

"What am I supposed to use, my hands?"

"Not my problem dear.  I don't really care."  She smiles.  It's a touch sinister.

And she really, really doesn't care.  At all.  There is not one single solitary centremeter of her face that cares in the least what Cedar Ward will use to dish up.

"Er, right then, I'll... um... yeah"

Cedar Ward's dinner lady shrinks under her gaze and retreats back down the corridor.

"Miserable old witch," chuckled Sue.  "Now what you havin' love?"

"Macaroni please, Sue."

Sue is not to be messed with.

How clean is my house?

I appear to be nesting. 

It is a curious instinct, especially for someone like me who subscribes to the idea of a “clean enough house” and to the philosophy of “the least amount of effort for the most impact”.  For example we very rarely iron anything.  Instead we do what we call the “hot and fold”: we put the clothes in the dryer and fold them the second they come out.  That way only my husband’s shirts and work trousers need an iron, and he takes care of that himself. 

Sure, sometimes this means I dry the same load more than once, in much the same way as I (ahem) occasionally re-run the washing machine with a bit of extra softener.  But the bottom line is the laundry gets washed, folded and (nearly always) put away… eventually.

Don’t get me wrong, I DO clean.  I just don’t clean obsessively.  Or with any enthusiasm at all.  In fact I find it useful to invite at least one person round for a coffee each week to give me a hook around which I loosely hang my efforts.  Even then, there’ll be something astray… a basket of washing, the dishes stacked waiting for me to empty the dishwasher, piles of crap on the bottom step waiting to be taken up to various bedrooms.  But living is a fun AND messy thing and too much cleaning and tidying can get in the way.

And yet here I am in an immaculate kitchen.  The dirty washing basket is completely empty (the last load currently undergoing the “hot” part of the “hot and fold”).  The spare room is ready for my mum a full five days in advance of her arrival.  The tupperware drawer has been sorted out.   The shoes are organised on the shoe rack under the stairs.  My son’s craft box has been overhauled (he has a craft box?  Who knew?).  I've even gaffer-taped one of his jigsaw boxes as it was splitting a little.   And from where I’m sitting I can see that one of the doors on the dresser is open… it is really bugging me.

I should probably take a picture.  We don’t plan on having any more children so I imagine that this is the cleanest this house will ever, ever be.  In a matter of days the nesting urge will leave me for good and the catastrophically messy business of looking after a toddler and a newborn will begin.  So to those of my friends who enjoy a really really clean house, now’s the time to visit, because after next week, well frankly anything goes round here!

Cutting through the lavender oil

The yoga teacher padded gently round the darkened room, careful not to disturb the small group of pregnant women lying peacefully on their left hand sides (for pregnancy has its own “side” you know, and it is most definitely the left one).  I lay among them, my head resting on a pillow while a cushion between my knees helped to ease the ache in my hips.   Soothing music completed the scene and you would be forgiven for assuming I was indulging in a moment of deep relaxation.  But you would be wrong as I was in fact trying very hard to not to jump up and declare “WHAT A CROCK OF HORSESHIT, LOVE!”

For she had just uttered what in my view are unforgivable words (*insert meditative-soft-spoken-namby-pamby-bullshit-whisper here*):

“Your bodeee is perfectleee designed to give biiiirth to your babeee”.

Well, you know what love, it isn’t.  I know, I know... it’s comforting to think that evolution got it bang on, but one look at the size of a baby compared to the size of the average vagina and you should really have all the heads up that you need.  Babies are MUCH bigger than fannies (I mean the English fanny, not the American one obviously).  Ergo: design flaw.

That’s not to say that your birth won’t be straightforward, as long as we define “straightforward” as “at least very hard, probably a bit scary, possibly traumatic in parts, and definitely not at all what you expected”.

And therein lies the crux of the issue: our expectations.  Like so many before me I sought out an antenatal class before the birth of my son because I wanted to prepare myself.  I opted for the NCT, blindly following a middle class trend, and while I made some amazing lifelong friends, I felt incredibly let down by it once I’d given birth.

Sure, there were some priceless moments, like watching my husband put a nappy on a doll while five other blokes heaved sighs of relief to have dodged that bullet.  But mainly, looking back, the classes didn't prepare me for all the births that could happen, but only for the birth that I wanted. 

I carried phrases such as “we don’t like to describe labour as painful, but more like hard work” around with me like a comfort blanket.  Hard work is fine, right?  I can put my shoulder to it with the best of them.

“Take some lavender oil to help you relax, some arnica tablets to help you heal, and don’t forget to make ice cubes out of honey water to suck on at home”.  Paints quite the picture of wholesome loveliness.  Yeah, I'll totally buy into that!

I wish that someone had sat me down and told me the truth.  Told me gently, perhaps, but at least told me.  That it might really, really fucking hurt, that I might lose my shit and scream and panic, that my baby might struggle and that I might not emerge out the other side with my foo-foo or mind completely intact.  And, crucially, that this was all completely normal and okay because only some of us have the birth we hope for.  Many, many of us don’t.

As it was I was totally unequipped for what happened and spent many tearful months afterwards coming to terms with my feelings.   I’m pregnant again and a midwife I saw early on (and who recognised the trauma I still carried) told me that she worked with a great many women who had hugely unrealistic expectations.  Part of her job had been to help them deal with post traumatic shock and feelings of failure following difficult deliveries and she felt very angry and frustrated at the misconceptions fuelled by many classes like the one I attended.  She retired the very next day and so I never got to benefit again from her experience during this pregnancy.

 

But if I could have bottled her knowledge and experience I would have given one to every woman I was lying alongside that evening.  Because in just twenty minutes, with facts and statistics as well as kindness and empathy, she gently undid so much of the damage that had been done and I left the room feeling a weight off my shoulders. 

And the yoga class?  One whiff of that horseshit and I was out of there.  For good.

Turd Rant

My first job today was to clean up dog turd.

What sheer unadulterated joy.

Ten minutes into a lovely walk yesterday my son trod in a turd. About three seconds after treading in the aforementioned turd, he had a strop, caused entirely by the turd, inasmuch as we had to stop having fun feeding the ducks in order to deal with the turd.

No two year old in their right mind wants to stand still by a lake full of ducks while they have bread in their hands just so that their mum can remove a turd from their shoes, and so the turd migrated, via the medium of a tantrum, to his trousers, to my hands, to the buggy and to the rain cover.

We walked home, a sorry, turdish state. Or rather I walked home pushing a buggy containing a very miserable child.

And a turd.

Upon arriving home I set about the task of removing turd covered clothing and cleaning turd covered skin. I abandoned the turd covered buggy, rain cover and shoes in the garage and tried to cheer up my disappointed child.

Alas, my turd covered buggy and my son's turd covered shoes are key components in our daily lives and they could not be ignored forever, and so armed with a bucket and sponge I set about removing this turd from our lives altogether.

Whilst deturdifying my buggy I had time to compose a message in my head to the owner of the dog whose turd my son came into direct contact with. It goes something like this:

"You utterly selfish revolting and hideous human being.

You are a lazy, antisocial cretin with no consideration for others with whom you share your community. It is not okay to leave turds where people can stand in them, least of all children who might think "oooh, what's that" and scoop a bit in their hands to make a mud pie, or who might kick a football right through it and then head that ball, or who might simply just stand in it with really thick tread shoes.

Maybe, like me, you don't like the idea of cleaning up turds. In which case my friend, the solution is simple. Do not own a dog.

Perhaps I should allow my son to crouch down in front of your front door and return the favour. Or maybe I should empty the contents of his nappy bin outside your house.

Or should I just walk up to you and punch you in the face with my turd covered hands? I'm pretty sure a jury of my peers would totally understand.

Please, next time, just take a second to think about all the places that turd might end up. And then do the decent thing and clean it up.

You knob."

There, I feel a bit better now.

Armageddon

I'm messing with the plasticine even though my son has moved on to playing multi-story car park with the television stand.   There is an actual toy multi-story car park that we paid good money for less than a meter away from him, but never mind.

I'm busy making a pizza with the red, yellow and green bits when I sense a quietness come over the room. I look up to see Brendan standing stock still, knees slightly bent, a car in each hand.  His face is turning peuce as he braces himself.

I sigh quietly.

"Are you doing a poo poo?" I ask.

He smiles and points to his crotch.

"A doo doo," he confirms and goes back to his game.  The smell hits me.  Oh dear Christ!

I sigh again, more deeply this time, and rue the fact that my husband isn't here to negotiate with.

"Come on then," I jump up, "let's change your nappy."

No response, although the fleeting sideways glance suggests he understands me very well.

"Come on, upstairs, clean bum!"

I take him by the wrist and his whole body goes limp and then squirms in protest, releasing more of the offending odours.  Oh sweet Jesus that's bad!

He pulls this way and that as I pick him up and take him upstairs.  My eyes water.

He's calm now and so I set him down on the floor of his room as I prepare for a shocker: extra wipes, oh and a spare vest... just in case...

While my back is turned he has spotted the books on the shelves.  I hear the armchair creak and spin round to find him standing near its edge, wobbling precariously as he reaches up.

"ON YOUR BOTTOM!!" I cry, my standard instinctive response to his current furniture climbing phase, only this time I regret it instantly as he launches himself backwards onto his full bum with a resounding thud. He's safe, but at what cost to his nappy's defences?

I lay him on the changing table as he looks up innocently.  He hums Twinkle Twinkle to himself as I prepare myself for Armageddon. It doesn't disappoint.

Daybreak at the mothership

My eyes are sealed shut and I sense the movement of his warm little body as he starts to stir. He moves a quarter turn as he squirms, his feet in my rib cage, his head in his dad's armpit, making his grumpy morning noises as if someone is forcing him to wake up. I assure you, no one is!

I can see daylight through my eyelids but I cling to the hope that he'll drop back into sleep, although this has never happened before.

His movements grow as he flips onto his belly and then up on to all fours. He turns round, kicking me in the chin and using his dad's face to steady himself.  I know this because I hear the grunt from my husband.

A shadow looms over me and I feel a string of wetness land softly on my cheek: his dribble. I know he's watching my face closely for signs of life.

I open my eyes and he smiles in delight as he pushes up on to his knees.

"Eyo lully" he says. I can't help smile too even though I see 5.30am on the clock.

"Hello Brendan". Not much more than a croak.

In an instant his knee is in my groin and his sharp little elbow stabs my boob as he crawls over me. I steady him as he swivels round to jump down from the bed with a quiet thud.  I've shut my eyes again.  My husband has gone back under.

The duvet shifts as he searches under it to find my hand. He grips my fingers in his hot little fist and I open my eyes again. Pointing to the stair gate he starts pulling at my arm with an insistent moan.

"Okay okay, I'm coming".

I throw on a jumper and he holds my hand as he counts his way down the stairs.  We turn into the lounge, his face lighting up as he beelines for the toy garage.  Always his first port of call.

I stagger to the kettle, yawning.

And so our day begins.

The world is my coffee table

I see his expression change as it dawns on him that I'm actually going to stop him from standing on the coffee table.  What a dreadful mother!  Climbing onto furniture is ace, right?  So why on earth would I ruin his whole life like this? Tsk, where's that Childline number when you need it?

His little face shifts from triumphant wonder to confusion to utter desolation in as many beats as I stand over him wearing my stern face.

His first strategy is to squeeze his arms as close to his body as possible so that I can't get my thumbs under his armpits.  I suppress a smile at this stubborn pose and manage to wedge them in somehow.  Foiled, he resorts to the "dead weight drop", relaxing every single muscle in his body at once (except for his vocal chords) to plummet directly towards the sharp corner of the table.

But I'm ready for him.  I brace myself and hold him firmly around the chest with both hands. Outmanoeuvred again, he opts for the "twist-twist-scrunch" followed by a quick "plank of death" and finishes his salvo with the "ball of fury".  He nearly breaks free but I hold fast and lift him from the table. He senses defeat but tries one last "plank" and head butts me in the face.  

He reaches a vocal crescendo that ebbs away to silence as his lungs run out of air.  I carry him away from his Everest, face frozen in his wail until a deep breath is sucked in to prepare for another tsunami of sound.

The only place to put him is on the floor and so I lay him down gently taking care he doesn't bang his head. He kicks me in the boob.

I go to the kitchen to seek refuge in a cup of tea.   His sobs die down to nothing and I sneak a peek into the room.  He's pointing out of the window and sees me looking.

"Tree!" He shouts with glee! "TREE!"

And with that the coffee table is forgotten.

Plane Spotting

"Lay!!!" shouts Brendan, almost falling over himself as he comes to an abrupt stop in the middle of the zebra crossing. He's pointing to the sky.  "LAY, LAY," he screams in delight while I manhandle him to the pavement.

I crane my head upwards while he jumps up and down, his finger pointing desperately.  "LAY, LAY, LAAAAAYYYY!!!!"

At last I see the plane, its tiny fuselage glistening in the distance, a small shape in the sky that his hawk-eye spotted easily.  If he wants to be a pilot one day, I'm pretty sure he'll pass with twenty twenty vision.

We continue towards the park:

"Dar!" He points at a car.

"Dar!" He points at another car.

"Axi!" He points at a taxi.

"Dar!" He points at a bus.

My son, who can tell the difference between a car and a taxi, but not between a car and a bus. I smile.

I pop him in the swing and start to push.

"Loon!!!" He exclaims.  I look around trying to figure out what he's telling me.

"LOON!!!"  He looks at me for confirmation. I'm stumped.

And then I see a crescent in the sky, the thin sliver that I showed him the day before.

"Moon," I say. "Yes, that's the moon. Well done Brendan."

We carry on swinging and I see a group of teenage boys just outside the playground. One spits.  Another has his hands in his pants cupping his privates.

I look back at my son and wish he could be this age forever.

A Mother's Day Muse

I've been doing this mothering malarkey for nearly eighteen months now.  Before Brendan was born I had so many ideals about what sort of mum I would be, and what I would and wouldn't do.  Here are just a few of them that might make you smile.  

1.  I'd have my baby in a lovely birthing pool with maybe just a drop or two of lavender oil and a touch of arnica (you know, just in case).  I'd listen to the playlist I'd put together on my iPod called "birth chill".  My child would float up to the surface and break through the water all perfect and lovely. The midwives would tell me how remarkably composed I'd been throughout and I'd be discharged just a few hours later.  I'd go home looking serene and calm.  

2.  Breast feeding would be a life affirming experience. I'd be a natural and so would my baby.  Of course it wouldn't hurt at all, I mean why would it? Oh, and I'd never, ever use formula.

3.  I'd be running again within three months of giving birth.  I'd lose the baby weight within six.

4.  My son would sleep through the night by the time he was four months old. I'd try not to be smug.

5.  I'd take the opportunity to write a novel while on maternity leave.

6.  I'd bake every day.  In fact I'd really indulge in my love of cooking and have amazing and diverse food ready for when Dave came home from work.  Having a baby wouldn't impact on our sex life, either.  I mean my body confidence would be tip top and he'd sleep so well, right?

7.  I'd do up the flat while my baby napped.  I'd learn to sew and make matching curtains and cushion covers for our bedroom.  I'd also make most of my baby's clothes and maybe a dress or two for me.

8.  I'd buy reusable nappies and only ever use disposable ones on long journeys.

9.  I'd dig the camera out and take experimental photos of London while my baby slept in a sling.  I'd win photo competitions with my amazing shots.  People would look on in admiration.

10. I'd never have cause to feel guilty as I would balance everything perfectly and would never doubt myself. 

11. My child would never watch children's television.

Funny, right?

But while maybe only the tiniest hints and suggestions of the above ever actually came to pass, I don't think I'm a lesser mum for it... just a very different one than I'd envisaged back in those naive pregnant dreamy days.

Happy Mother's Day you mothers! Pats on the back all round don't you think?

Here comes the Sun

Yesterday I felt the sun on my back and had that feeling that we all experience when we sense its warmth for the first time. Whatever you're doing, whether rushing to get somewhere, taking the bins out or strolling round the park, it makes you pause for just a second and go "oh!" in pleasure.

If you're on our own you'll just smile and turn your face up to the sun. If you're with someone you'll probably say something like "ooooh, Spring's just around the corner now!" You might even get a bit carried away and take off your coat before putting it straight back on again as soon as you're in the shade. It's not that warm after all!!!

But for parents with toddlers this moment carries extra significance on one major level that impacts our day to day lives in the most fundamental way: leaving the house with your child stops being the most giant ball-ache ever!!!

Because the simple act of weather proofing your child is one of the most difficult, stressful and frankly exhausting aspects of parenting. And here's why:

Just before you are about to put your child's wet weather onesie on he grows at least three more pairs of limbs. He also chooses to keep these limbs in perpetual motion, moving them as if he's doing head shoulders knees and toes while dancing to Gangnam Style all after eating the bag of Haribo you thought you'd hidden really well. You'll then play the really fun game of "I put your hat on, you take it off again" for at least five minutes before trying to get both mittens on simultaneously so that he can't pull the first one off before you get the second one on.

By this time you'll be so hot and sweaty that you'll need a glass of water, which you'll drink while he stands by the front door screaming to be let out. You'll rush round grabbing snacks and drinks and then look frantically for your door keys (which are always in your pocket aren't they?). You'll put on your own coat, hat, scarf and gloves and then you're finally ready to go... at which point your child looks at you innocently while he fills his nappy with a giant poo.

And so yesterday I felt the sun on my back, and I said "oh!" And then I said, "thank fuck for that!"

Soul Food

I am a little hungover!  In ordinary circumstances this would be an utterly horrific prospect, as we all know that hangovers and toddlers should never ever mix!  (They're a bit like matter and antimatter in that respect.)  Which is why I'm pleased to tell you that Brendan and I are currently 34 miles apart!  He's at home playing with Brio and his dad, and I'm sat around a fabulous kitchen island somewhere in Ascot nursing an effervescent multivitamin drink!

This weekend has been in the diary for some time, with the words "do not double book" underlined in red.  It's a sort of pre-hen weekend, which sounds rather indulgent, but why the hell not?  For one reason or another my school friends can't make the official weekend of gallivanting and so what better excuse to have a warm up can there be?

We all headed to my friend's place, after she'd packed off the hubby and kids to the inlaws for the night.  We popped some bubbly and so began and evening of catching up, laughing and reminiscing.  Oh and somersaults, but we'll gloss over that...

At 10pm I succumbed to a terrific yawn that seemed to originate from my very soul.  My friend looked up with concern and I waited for her to insist I go to bed immediately and make the most of a night away.

"Laura", she said instead, "we are NOT going to bed at ten!"  She looked around the flagging group. "Right, that's it.  We're going out!!!"

"Out???" I exclaimed. "You mean outside out?"

We all looked at her with barely concealed fear.

"Yes, outside out.  There's a club by the station.  Get your shoes on girls, let's see what it's like!"

"Oooh," we started warming to the idea, "yes let's go out.  Remember when we used to do that? But I haven't been out for ages, and I'm wearing snow boots with pom poms. Will they let us in? Are we too old? Surely we're too old to go out?"

And so we went out, to a somewhat ropey club by a station (you can just imagine, right?)  The bouncer let us in free of charge, we downed a shot (classy) and launched ourselves at the empty dance floor.

We did the best we could with what we were given.  The DJ had a penchant for "garage" (or were we just in someone's garage?) which doesn't lend itself well to a bunch of vodka fuelled women in their late thirties who'd probably do better with a bit of Madge or Duran Duran.  But we regressed quickly to the good old days, and danced for a solid three hours.  And while as each hour passed I rued the loss of a good night's sleep, the belly laughs, the retro-chic moves and the drunken walk home holding hands and giggling more than made up for it.

Old friends, music and dancing... Maybe not restful but food for the soul nonetheless...

My Hero

Sitting here at 6am, and I'm already an hour and a half into my day, courtesy of an extra-super-special early wake up call from Brendan - aw, thanks son!

Anyway, as my semi-human, gargoyle-esque form is huddled on the sofa, hoodie up over my head, sock shop heat holders on my feet, and a cup of industrial strength tea slowly working its warming way into the depths of my sleep-deprived soul, I can't help but thank the special man in my life for his continued support during these trying times:

Fireman Sam.

For his teeny tiny retro stock animated self is doing what I am struggling to do right now: entertaining my child. And not only is he a super-amazing-fabulous babysitter, but his community spirit is endless as he pushes Fire-Fighter Penny round Pontypandy in a charity bed-push before rescuing the sponsorship money from Bella's bonfire. (Oh Bella, how I love your italian accent).

I think we could all learn from him. Pontypandy is full of half-wits and morons (a Canadian mountain ranger who causes avalanches by laughing, for example) and yet he goes about rescuing them all from mountain wells, broken ladders and burning bins (ooooooh!) without completely losing his rag and transferring to Cardiff Fire Service in a huff!

So I'd like to dedicate this entire blog to him. He's cool and calm and always there for me (at the touch of my Sky Plus button). Fireman Sam, you really ARE the hero next door!

A Stolen Moment

I want to get Brendan's haircut. We've only trimmed it once and it was one of those DIY "bowl cut" classics that we each have pictures of from our own childhoods. It also really wasn't very much fun at all, and so today when we heard that swimming was cancelled, I decided to take him to a barbershop that had been recommended to me by a couple of local mums.

Brendan doesn't have a nap until well into the afternoon and so I hoped that setting off straight after breakfast would mean I'd catch him at his brightest, and subsequently there would be less screaming, howling and general trashing of the place.

As we approached the barbers I peeked into the buggy to find him out like a light, completely sparko, despite him sleeping through the night for the first time in weeks. This NEVER happens. Brendan could have the most disrupted night's sleep on record and still keep going, like an irritable Duracell bunny, until gone lunchtime.

To be honest I have come to rely on that, to make sure we're home for his nap time so I can do my chores in peace and then enjoy a little bit of "me-time" with a cuppa. Ask any mum or dad: "me-time" is the Holy Grail of parenthood and there are days I'd gladly swap a kidney for just five minutes more.

At first I was thrown and more than a little miffed that I'd be losing out later. "Nooooooooo!" I thought with increasing hysteria. "When am I going to find my P60? What about the ironing? I need to book Brendan's appointment with the ENT specialist! AND WHAT ABOUT MY "ME-TIME" FOR CRYING OUT LOUD???"

Then I realised my son had given me a little gift. If we were at home right now I'd be up to my elbows in laundry and admin while Brendan snoozed away unawares. Instead, I'm seeking refuge from the snow in the Hilton lobby with a lovely pot of English Breakfast, some posh biccies, chillout music and my iPad. Bliss.

Keep sleeping, Son!

Welcome to the Mothership

It has been over fifteen months since my son Brendan was pulled and dragged into the world in the early hours of a surprisingly warm September morning. Fifteen of the most amazing, terrifying, fulfilling, and frankly mental months of my life.

When I was pregnant I planned to keep a diary of my experiences of motherhood.  I imagined myself sitting at the dining table with my new-born swaddled in a Moses basket next to me. I'd be sipping a hot mug of tea (decaf obviously) whilst pouring my thoughts and feelings into my laptop like a little stream of precious nectar.  My baby would coo and snuffle.  I'd look at him and smile, and he'd gurn a gummy smile back before closing his eyes and falling into a perfect sleep.

Okay, okay, you can all stop laughing now.

Because as it turns out motherhood is really rather hard. At the beginning you're lucky if you manage to find your way out of your "at home clothes", which to be honest barely fit you anyway.  Later, when sleep deprivation has a firm grip on you, you can't even fill in a repeat prescription form at the doctors, let alone string together a sequence of words that forms a coherent and meaningful sentence.  Leaving the house just once a day becomes a goal, rather than a matter of course.

You and your partner will communicate in monosyllables... that's when you remember to communicate at all.  Eventually a fault line will give and you'll have the most phenomenal argument about breadcrumbs and kitchen worktops and you'll throw slices of toast at each other before slamming some doors and waking up the baby you've just spent three hours trying to get to sleep.

And so my laptop gathered dust (along with everything else in the flat) while I focused on  coping, and as the weeks and months passed I coped better and better.  I got into my stride a little, tackled the cleaning (every now and then), the laundry (every damned day) and ventured forth with Brendan into the big wide world of baby sensory groups and NCT coffee mornings.

I met some amazing women and recognised the same look on their faces as on my own. I laughed with them, cried with them and on a couple of occasions got blind drunk with them.  We all coped together, convening throughout the week to share our daily anxieties and joys.

Fast forward fifteen months and here I am on a train to the office.  I work part time now and have re-entered the real world relatively successfully.  And still I've yet to write a single word about it all.  Until now.

And so I hope you enjoy my musings, little snippets of my new reality.  If you've got kids I hope you find something to relate to. If you haven't yet, probably best to ignore everything I say... It's a doddle, really!