Lesson 57: Things that never happen in Soapland (with babies and toddlers)

Real-life shizzle that is largely neglected in Soapland. Corrie scriptwriters take note...
 

During soap births, there is no mention of a placenta. Where the fuck is the placenta? Whether the baby pops out in the back of a car, or in a phone box, or in a hospital bed clearly not soaked in amniotic fluid, once the cord is cut the placenta is forgotten. The 'newborn' baby (who is always miraculously clean, at least 10lb and never has a cone-head or forceps bruising) is handed over and everybody gets on with their day. I blame soaps entirely for my ignorance around this, and my look of bewilderment when the midwife asked if I wanted the injection to get things moving afterwards. What do you mean there's more? Unsurprisingly I also didn't know that the placenta could fail to deliver and get stuck. Yes that happened.  

Recovery from childbirth is immediate in Soapland (after a quick waddle and wince). There is no mad dash to Dev's to stock up on maternity pads or six weeks of avoiding car seat lifting post-section. That said, who needs a car seat? They don't venture further than the 500 square metres surrounding the house.

The baby never has reflux. Colic is mentioned in passing, as they all head off for another child-free drink at the Rovers (don't worry though as Sophie Webster must be babysitting). Nobody says 'Fucking hell have you seen the sofa? There are pools of vomit in the cushion creases again' or 'Why are his neck folds so cheesey?' 

Baby? What baby? Pic via What's On TV

Nobody is sat on the sofa with their boobs out, but everybody is armed with a bottle and steriliser from day one, which I find surprising. In real life, some people bottle feed, some people breastfeed. Of course this isn't real life (the residents of your average street don't enjoy every hot drink in a café and every cold one in a pub, or 'The Bistro') but still, surely amongst the bottles somebody could be sat eating their Roy's Rolls sarnie with a baby on the boob? No?

Soap toddlers rarely behave like arseholes. You never see Lexi lying on the floor of the Minute Mart screaming, or Lily Platt lobbing her Ella's Kitchen snacks at David's face. In fact, where the fuck is Lily Platt? I expect she's upstairs in one of the many bedrooms or bathrooms that Gail's two-up two-down must be hiding (with Sophie Webster supervising, obvs). Sometimes these soap children hold onto an adult's hand and stand quietly whilst a conversation about adultery or pre-mediatated murder of a family member goes on around them. Where are the 'Mummy, mummy MUMMY' interruptions and demands for Star Wars Angry Birds on the iPhone?

Equally, these kids only ever come out with boring stuff. Like 'can you read me a story?' as they blatantly look at the camera crew and wonder who the fuck the stranger is masquerading as their dad. They never shout 'knickers poo poo bum bum head' or ask Siri what the fox said ("Fraka-kaka-kaka-kaka-kow!" if you're wondering).

Clearly I have too much time on my hands because despite all of this, I bloody love the soaps (except Hollyoaks, because that was an omnibus reserved solely for Hangover Sundays, and they died in 2012).

I'd love to hear your own analyses of kids in Soapland...

The Unmumsy Mum

 

 

Lesson 56: Eating out with (small) children

"Let's go out for lunch!" I declared the other weekend.

Mr Unmumsy looked nervous. "Is that really a good idea?"

"Probably not. But it might be fun. Let's risk it."

Bless us. I love our optimism. Three years (and two children) into the parenting adventure and we still have selective memory. I wonder if it's an evolutionary tool? Perhaps, alongside other traumatic childcare memories, we are programmed to gloss over horrific restaurant encounters to ensure we don't all stop at one child. I mean we very nearly were a One and Done household (out of choice) and that would have been fine too, but our gut feeling was always to have another one. In for a penny and all that...

So when we deliberate over having lunch out, we tend to recall with fondness the time the baby slept in Café Nero, or the time we actually finished a pizza because we had bribed the toddler into submission and induced an Ice Cream Factory sugar coma...[side note: does anybody else view 'unlimited drinks/ice-cream' as a challenge? I could barely function after my fifth Pepsi re-fill and second bowl of ice-cream topped with budget dolly mixtures, but I felt that somehow Martin Lewis would have been proud of the food per fiver I'd achieved].

Thank fuck for crayons

But eating out is a bloody mission. Best case scenario is you've packed everything you need in the change bag, the baby is having an actual nap (not on your boob), the café or restaurant is quiet, the food comes out quickly and you have a fully charged iPad or smartphone (loaded with toddler apps, naturally). And, dare I say it, I'm sure a dummy is a must-have at such times. Neither of our boys would take a dummy, and we often encounter 'oh you must be so glad they don't have dummies' comments as though we have achieved something by raising children dummy-less. In actual fact I have often observed the 'life-saver' testimonies of dummy fans and thought 'I could use my life saving right now.'

Worst case scenario for a meal out is that all small children are awake, you have forgotten the raisin boxes and other appropriate bribes, the iPad has crashed, the restaurant is busy and the toddler needs a poo. This is essentially what happened last time we had lunch out. Small children cannot be expected to sit still. I get that. But Jesus. Entertaining two children under three whilst sat around a table in the middle of a busy pub should be added as the final fucking challenge on The Cube. I engaged in no actual conversation with my husband outside of 'I'll have him for a bit so you can finish your sandwich,' 'He's been sick on your shoulder,' 'Can you take him for a poo this time?' and 'Where's the bloody Angry Birds app gone?' To top it off, we paid £40 for the privilege.

Cracking out the emergency crisps

But I know the next time we toy with the idea of lunch out we will forget the spilled drinks, the shouting, the burnt fingers, the protest planking over not being allowed to eat ketchup (on its own, with a sharp knife).

And I think this amnesia is probably for the best.

I don't want us to become a family who doesn't even try. If nothing else the legacy of the table covered in crayon, sick and two thirds of our uneaten meal shows we tried. A+ for effort. And a baby and toddler meltdown outside of the house is still preferable to one inside of it, in my opinion. Not just because the public arena prevents me from shouting "For God's sake will you PACK IT IN! Right, no more treats ever again!" (as I find a treat and put Scooby Doo on) but also because these moments are the things we will laugh about in years to come. And, if truth be told, they are the things I will blog about.

The Unmumsy Mum

Surviving Soft Play

Getting through a soft play session is all about mental preparation. You need to be prepared for the shit that is about to get real. 

Psych yourself up like you are going into battle. You are going into battle. And remember that whatever happens, it can't be as bad as another rainy afternoon in the bloody living room.*

Upon entering the building, your senses will be overloaded. The sights, the sounds, the smells. Kids will be charging around like monkeys on speed. You will initially feel like you are drowning in a sea of screaming Hello Kitty leggings and snotty noses, but after half an hour your eyes and ears will become quite accustomed to this annoying orchestra.

The whinging and the screams of 'joy' merge into a steady background hum, interjected only with panicked shouts of, ‘do you need a wee?’ and, ‘IF YOU CAN'T PLAY NICELY WE'LL GO HOME!’ (this threat is never upheld because you have still not asked your friend about the text from that bloke at work, or drunk your now tepid coffee, so despite your children hating each other they will enjoy this play date if it kills you). 

Your socks will be wet. Mostly this will be Robinsons fruit shoot residue and/or Aptamil Hungry Baby spillage, but you should know that at other times your socks will be soggy because you have stepped in piss. Or vomit. I was first on the scene at a Category One Soft Play emergency once, when a newly 'potty-trained' toddler shat on the slide. This could happen. Be strong.

Trips to soft-play centres will remind you why you largely dislike other people's children (and sometimes, if we're being honest, your own). Nothing is more infuriating than the bigger boys and girls who insist on hurtling through the baby area. It says Under 5s, you prick. 

Understand that the owners of soft play hell labyrinths need to make money. It is a business, not a safe-haven for mums who’ve lost the will to live in their living rooms. You will therefore be encouraged to buy overpriced paninis and jugs of weak squash. And boiling hot tea, which you will try not to spill on the feral children running between the Play Zone and Tumble Tot areas.

'Children must be supervised at all times' state the Rules of Play. Unfortunately, some parents can't read. Or they have misinterpreted supervision to mean letting another child's parent manage the situation, while they sit on a plastic chair generally not giving a fuck. It is not your job to keep lifting little Sammy over the squashy steps, or telling Bigger Boy Billy to stop elbowing everyone in the head. Do these people think you come here in the hope of taking charge of all the kids? You must glare at them and ask loudly 'where are your parents?' Everyone has to suffer. That's the rules. Having said that, I received one of my favourite ever comments when a mum of two slightly older children noted she had done her fair share of soft-play running around (after everybody’s children) when hers were little so had earned the right to kick back with a hot chocolate and Heat magazine. ‘I’ve served my time,’ she said. This gives me hope for the future.

Don't wear low rise jeans. You will end up crawling through the Mega Maze to collect your crying child with half your maternity knickers on show. 

It goes without saying that your children won't want to leave this noisy hell hole. There may be tears and/or protest planking in the ball pool. ALWAYS make sure you have backup unhealthy snack bribes to entice them back to the car. And wine in the fridge, obviously.

*If you go in half term, or with a hangover, it's much worse than an afternoon in the bloody living room. It's total carnage. Just stick Megamind on..

About Mummy's blog...(a letter to my boys)

To my lovely boys,

If you have found this, you must be making your way through the rest of the blog.

Arghhhhhhhh.

First things first, I hope you are reading this as teenagers, because you will notice I *occasionally* use words I discourage you both from using at home. I have always felt that writing down the words in my head, exactly as I think them, adds a certain authenticity to my writing.

It's just unfortunate that sometimes the first word in my head is cockwomble. Or twat. These are still not appropriate words to call each other at home. You are never too old for that Time Out chair.

I am not really sure how I feel about you reading all of this, though I have always known that posting anything online would put it permanently 'out there.'

The internet is crazy and scary and wonderful all at the same time. When I was your age I wrote diaries. With a pen and paper. I know that makes me sound ancient. I guess I am ancient compared to you two. I grew up in the 1990s with the Spice Girls, and tamagotchis, and hair mascara, and taping the Top 40 off the radio (remind me to show you what tapes are). I’m not going to tell you what was in those diaries (post-millennium they mainly detailed nightclub flirting with your father) but you can stop cringing, as I burned them so you will never have to suffer that embarrassment. Anyway, I digress. The point is that the blog became my modern-day diary. And rather than writing it in scented gel pens on carefully selected notepads from WHSmiths (which I hid under my pillow) I started writing them online.

 

For all to see. For all to share. For all to judge.
 

In March 2015, the month I am writing (you two are three, and six months, and a bloody handful), the blog page went mad. It took off. I started receiving hundreds of comments for every post and new messages every single day. I got recognised by strangers (yes really) and offers of writing jobs started coming in. It was all massively exciting but at the same time I got myself into a bit of a panic. Because, my little puddings, you two were at the heart of it all.  
 

So I want to set a few things straight. Right here, right now. Not because I have to. But because I’d like you to understand why I wrote so candidly. 

On the darkest of sleep-deprived days when one of you was screaming and I was irritable and the house was a bloody war-zone I wanted to read about somebody who felt the same. Somebody who would reassure me I wasn’t going completely mad. Somebody not afraid to admit that it can at times all just be a little bit shit.

That was the blog I needed. So I searched for it, but found nothing that was quite right. I’ll write one, I decided. And the blog was born.

I made a vow to myself very early on that I would document parenthood as I found it. Not how I wanted to find it. Or how I wanted other people to think that I found it.

But how it was.

I frantically typed post after post about pregnancy, birth, about life at home with you, trips out with you, and all that was between.

Type, upload, share. Type, upload, share. It was therapeutic.

It wasn’t ever really for anyone. But people started to read it. Just a handful of people at first, and then a handful became hundreds and hundreds became thousands…until I realised it was very much out there.

“I’m being too honest” I told your dad. “I don’t think I can do it anymore.”

And then I started taking stock of all the messages. All the comments. The tweets. The emails.

And I realised HOLY SHIT the blog was doing something.

Thank you, they said. For making me feel normal. For picking me up on a particularly bad week. For giving me the courage to admit ‘this week’s been crap and no I’m not enjoying every second.’ I received some pretty intense messages from other mums (and a few dads). About their lives, their battles with Post Natal Depression, their continuous feelings of failure and their resignation that they were very much alone.

'It’s just me’ they thought.
 

It wasn’t just them.

It was at this point that it became clear to me that ‘putting it out there’ (the blog I mean, stop wincing) was actually less risky than not doing so. I’m not saying I’m Florence bloody Nightingale for parents but hey some parents have found comfort in my honest words. And I have found comfort in their comfort.

So yes, I did call you tossers when you were toddlers. And possibly a cockwomble once or twice (sorry).

And yes I did sometimes cry and reflect longingly on days spent working full-time. I cut my maternity leave short both times (hey, at least I was fair) because the truth is I found full-time motherhood too hard.

And yes I did wonder why it wasn’t all rainbows and cupcakes. Why I was bored with park trips and baby groups. Why I couldn't cherish every second. Why other people’s kids never made me broody (always snotty, why so snotty?)

But the blog was never the full story. It was my very honest account of the moments I felt compelled to write about. The moments I came to appreciate others would want me to share. 

There were so many other moments we shared. As a family. Undocumented moments I chose not to write about. The fantastic fun we had, the cuddles we shared as I read you stories, the fact the two of you and your dad made me laugh every single day...

Because the truth was, there were a thousand and one other parenting blogs describing the blessings of motherhood. There were blogs where everybody wore a Christmas jumper and nobody shat through their sleepsuit and everybody smiled all the fucking time. I know this because I read them. And there should be space for all types of blog to co-exist (who doesn't love a Christmas jumper?) but in my darkest hours of motherhood the ones I stumbled across didn’t add much value to my life. I needed something else. I wanted to reach out to the mums and dads doing the 3am night feed by documenting my despair at doing the 3am night feed.

And the good bits…well, you know those bits for yourselves. Those are our memories. I don't always post them on Facebook and Instagram (#myboysmyworld) but you are my world. You really are.

I don't always feel like I am cut out for motherhood but I've always known nobody could love you more. I hope you have grown up knowing that too.

Please put your dirty clothes in the washing basket and do your homework.

Love you always,

Mum

xx

Lesson 54: Sod's Law for Parents

Eight ‘bloody typical’ moments guaranteed to happen in your parenting life:

1) Randomly bumping into somebody you know will occur when, and only when, you look like shit. You will also be accompanied by snotty and unruly children (‘yes these are mine’). Sod’s Law states that if said someone is an ex-boyfriend (or girlfriend) you will look exceptionally shit. Like a dog’s dinner that has been rained on.

This law is particularly painful if you knew that person in your life pre-kids, because it’s possible they will hold a memory of your tamed eyebrows and/or your legs without leggings. The one day you do make an effort (wrestle into skinny jeans/slap on some BB cream and lip balm) there will be no such old flame encounter.

2) The zip on the Gro bag/all-in-one snowsuit/pram hood will break or get stuck at a time when your baby's crying has gone off the scale (or, as we like to say in our house, when he has “gone savage”). You will be left trying to fix a broken zip underneath the chin of a crying and kicking beetroot-red baby. Upon experiencing such zip-breakage, I challenge you not to shout ‘you good for nothing piece of shit, I’m complaining to John Lewis!’ (You will never do this).

3) Your children will only 'sleep in' on the days you need them to get up. Saturday morning with nowhere to be? Oh they're awake at 4am, jumping on the bed shouting ‘BUNDLE!’ and telling you they have wet pyjama bottoms. And can they watch Ben 10? But when the Thursday 6am alarm goes off for the child-minder run...they are in a sleep coma. Yep. 

4) The same sleeping misfortune happens in the car. You can be driving for an hour hoping  your child will drop off so you can listen to the radio, but he will maintain a constant whinge until you are five minutes from home. You will then find yourself sitting in the car outside your house, drinking in the silence whilst at the same time thinking this is another sodding NOWO (Nap Of Wasted Opportunity). If they just napped in their goddam beds you could put some washing out. And watch Judge Rinder. 

"A nap in my cot, you say? Oh that's funny!"

5)  The moment you are trying to leave the house, everybody (baby/toddler/husband) needs the toilet. You will spend a ridiculous amount of your life muttering ‘for fuck’s sake' whilst angrily getting another nappy out. For this reason, you must allow a forty minute margin of error to any target departure time. Of course when you finally are all out the door (and strapped into car seats, or the pram) the baby will squeeze another one out. Or be sick. By this point you will deny all knowledge and drive to Sainsbury’s.

6) The family lurgy will strike when you have a night out planned. Your ONE NIGHT of freedom to drink gin and dance embarrassingly to songs you don't know (whatever happened to N*Sync?) will die a germy death before you even get to dig out a Going Out Top. Probably for the best as that Topshop number you wore in 2009 is unlikely to be a great fit over your yellowing maternity bra (no you are no longer breastfeeding, but underwire and padding just seems so fancy these days).

7) Friends will get have Hen Dos, 30th birthday parties and general organised fun activities when you are eight months pregnant. If you stay at home, you will sit on the sofa drinking raspberry leaf tea and watching The Voice, feeling depressed. If you go, you will be fat, sweaty and sober (and will have paid for the privilege). There is no winner here.

8) If you do brave a G&T (or four), an otherwise sleep-trained baby will be up half the night. Eight month sleep regression? Meh. How about the ‘Oh look, Mummy and Daddy are trying to enjoy a normal adult evening the stupid bastards’ sleep regression. They just know.

 The Unmumsy Mum