Cherish Every Moment? No. My Advice For Brand New Parents

I was asked last week what advice, if any, I would give to brand new parents. I couldn’t help but think back to myself as a new mum. It made me feel a bit sad.

The New Mum Me was a bundle of self-doubt. She wasn’t doing anything right. She wasn’t cut out for it. Her baby deserved better. She was failing. The New Mum Me once stood in the shower with her fingers in her ears, crying, trying to drown out the sound of the nursery rhyme CD which in turn was drowning out the sound of the screaming baby she could not settle. When her husband returned home she could only recall the 5 minute neglectful shower (she was sure this had emotionally scarred their baby for life) and not the 9.5 other hours she had attentively fed him ‘on demand,’ cuddled him and whispered to him that he was the most perfect thing she had ever seen. 

Very first pic as a mum. Terrible quality I'm afraid, I wasn't blogging then ;-)

So, with the magical wisdom of hindsight now bestowed upon me, I think I would tell brand new parents the following:

You are not obligated to cherish every moment.

It’s true that you will ‘never get this time again.’ It’s true that it will all ‘be over in a flash.’ It’s true that one day you will wake up and wonder where the time has gone, why you wished the days away, how it is possible that your baby will soon be heading out into the Big Wide World (reception). At 2am, however, when you’re not sure if the wet patch in the bed is leaked breast milk or leaked baby excrement, it is also true that you will quite justifiably wonder what the actual fuck has happened to your life.

Nobody cherishes every moment. Some moments are magic. Others are shit. On a sleep-deprived/‘cluster feeding’/nothing-stops-the-crying type day it is quite possible that the moment ratio will end up at 80:20 in favour of shit. Social media will never reflect this shitstorm because social media is not real life.

There is no shame in asking for help.
Asking for help is not a sign of weakness. Quite the contrary, it is a sign of strength. To be struggling and to admit that you are struggling demonstrates a kick-ass determination and fierceness in your ability to look after your baby. 

There is also no shame in putting your own needs above the needs of domestic chores. Of course we all know that the liberally-offered ‘sleep when the baby sleeps’ nugget of wisdom is a bit of a joke (are you going to hoover when the baby hoovers, too?) but sometimes sleep is the most productive thing you can do with thirty minutes. Do not feel guilty about sleeping. If and when you have subsequent children you will kick yourself for not maximising naptimes the first time around (as you find yourself at the beck and call of a toddler who wants you to watch his Ninja Turtle kick for the gazillionth time).

Have faith when people tell you that one day it will all be worth it.
You might want to smack them in the face. But they are right. The New Mum Me who broke down in the shower couldn't see it. She was yet to feel her heart jump at the sound of her baby's giggle. She was yet to feel the overwhelming pride of watching him have a go at writing his name before looking up at her as if to say, 'I did it, Mummy!' 

If you're reading this as a brand new parent, I want you to know that there are magical moments to come. And some shit ones, too, which you are absolutely not required to cherish.

That's what I wish I had known.

The Unmumsy Mum

An Alternative Fireman Sam Script

[Dilys Price is chatting to Trevor Evans inside her shop]

Dilys: Oh Trevor, I’ve been having dreams about you and what we could get up to on your bus.

[Trevor, clearly uncomfortable about her sexual advances, is saved by the shop door flying open. Fireman Sam enters dragging Norman Price in by his ear]

Fireman Sam: I’m afraid Norman has been up to no good again, Dilys. I found him skateboarding between cars down at the harbour, he almost caused a pile-up.

Dilys: Norman Price! What have I told you about skateboarding between cars? You silly boy.

Norman: Sorry mam.

Fireman Sam: Sorry isn’t good enough this time, Norman. I’m afraid I’m going to have to have a word with your mum in private. Go to your room.

Norman price: You can’t tell me what to do, you’re not my father!

[A knowing look is exchanged between Fireman Sam and Dilys. Norman’s face turns even paler than normal as he clocks Sam’s hair colour and starts reflecting on all the historic unwarranted patience Sam has displayed whenever he has been a total bellend]

Norman: Mam? Say something!

Dilys: It was one night, Norman. Strip poker got out of hand at the Floods’ house and Sam and I… well, Sam and I made you.

[Fireman Sam winces at the memory, it is plain to see he had his beer goggles on that night but doesn’t want to upset Dilys by labelling it a mistake]

Fireman Sam: We thought it best not to tell you, Norman. It has been tricky keeping it a secret. Both Station Officer Steel and Penny have voiced their suspicions, mostly because you have set fire to yourself and the rest of PontyPandy a gazillion times and yet still I have refrained from joining in with the others when they call you a dickhead.

Trevor: [coughs loudly] I think I should get going...

Dilys: Oh Trevor, please don’t be jealous of the night of naked passion Sam and I had on board Jupiter. It’s you I love.

[Trevor exits, leaving Dilys with her head in her hands]

Norman: I can’t believe I didn’t know that the bravest firefighter in PontyPandy is MY DAD. Are you going to pick me up and take me out in your fire engine every other weekend?

[Fireman Sam’s phone rings]

Fireman Sam: Hello? Penny, what’s happened? [cartoon squeaky phone voice from the other end] I'll be right there... I’ve got to go, Dilys - Mike Flood is stuck on a roof again and Elvis has made the situation worse. I honestly don’t know why anybody finds the ineptitude of a brainless firefighter so endearing - Elvis is a bloody liability. Let’s pick up this conversation again later, Norman.

Norman: Okay dad.

[Fireman Sam leaves the shop, vowing to never have drunk sex with a randy shopkeeper again].

The End.

Paid Posts, Free Stuff and Gut Feelings

This isn't my usual type of post, which is ironic considering it has its roots in my reluctance to stray from my usual type of post. Clear as mud? Allow me to explain. 

I have always known that people blog for a wide variety of reasons. Because they have something to say, because they have something to sell, because they love writing, because it helps to pay the bills, because there is every chance they might get a whole heap of free shit.

It's the latter two motives, the bill-paying and the free shit, that I have been thinking about for the last couple of months. Mostly (and in the spirit of this blog’s honesty) I have found myself wondering if I am missing out by refusing to entertain the idea of sponsored posts and brand collaborations. In fact, I have been told several times that I am indeed missing out. That I could earn a substantial amount of money from ‘paid posts’ (we’re not talking a few squid to spend on the annual messy-night-out dirty burger here we’re talking whole extra income territory).

But (and it’s not an insignificant but) it feels a bit like I’ve been offered a job I don’t want. Quite simply, it’s just not my cup of tea. And after much to-ing and fro-ing with a number of different people via email, I reached a pretty major conclusion at around midnight last night. I couldn’t get to sleep and I realised it was because I felt uncomfortable. Not physically uncomfortable, like when your knickers are a bit small and you can’t adjust them without looking like you’re touching yourself, but uneasy uncomfortable. And just like that, a decision was made (I am really very sorry to all the brands/companies who received an email from me at midnight last night with a polite but firm Thank You But No Thank You).

I woke up this morning feeling like a weight had been lifted and I wanted to share this with you because I think it’s important that you know exactly what you are seeing on my blog and social media pages. (I appreciate this is by no means the most interesting thing you’ll read on the internet today and if you’re already bored allow me to suggest BuzzFeed’s ‘Can You Guess Who These Powerpuffed British Politicians Are?’).

So, here’s some upfront honesty from me about paid posts and free shit.

Paid Posts
I have never been paid money to promote a product on my blog or social media pages. I have obviously been paid to write articles/features for others (writing is my job these days!) but I’m talking about being paid by brands i.e. ‘we’ll give a few smackeroonies to post a link/blog about our exciting new highchair.’ (Not quoting an actual email there, obviously, though it’s not far off). After last night’s moment of clarity I’ve realised that despite tempting offers my stance on this hasn’t changed, however I should add in the disclaimer that if somebody offers me a million pounds I will pose naked on their highchair with nothing but the brand’s logo covering my modesty.

Free shit
I have been given free stuff, which is in itself a kind of payment for the potential future sales generated by me having the free stuff and my followers seeing it.
My rules are as follows:

• If it’s something I would have bought or used anyway, or something I genuinely fancy getting my mits on after admiring it from afar, then it’s all good (i.e. if I needed a highchair - which I don’t by the way I’m just sticking with the highchair example - I might accept a free highchair in return for telling people where I got the highchair when they inevitably message me to ask me where I got the highchair). I may post a pic of the highchair. I am unlikely to ever post ‘WOW look at my amazing highchair it has CHANGED MY LIFE’ on Instagram (but you never know). There will also be no ‘Reasons I Love This Highchair’ or ‘The Unmumsy Clan Test the Highchair 3000’ blogs because I don’t do reviews on this blog. That doesn't mean I won't do reviews for 'work' just not here.
• I will never agree to casually dropping a key branded message into my post. In other words, I will not be told what to say (i.e. ‘Having such a great day because the easy-wipe highchair tray is designed around the modern messy family’ – you get the picture).
• More often than not I will tell you where we've stayed on holiday (if I don’t I’m only met with ‘where did you stay?’ comments). Sometimes we will have been invited to stay in return for a mention and sometimes we won’t. If I love it, I’ll probably tell you I love it because you might love it too. I will never accept money to tell you that I loved it.

In a nutshell, you quite rightly trust that what I post and share is ‘real’ and my gut feeling tells me that  this is how it should stay.

The Unmumsy Mum
PS This honestly wasn't an arse-about-face way of bagging myself a new highchair, we've got one.

PPS This is not a dig at other bloggers who are paid to promote stuff on their pages. This is just what works for me.

PPPS I wouldn't pose naked for a million pounds. I look better with clothes on.

The Secret Diary of an Eighteen Month Old

05:00
Started shouting at full volume to make sure everybody woke up startled. Dozed for a bit. Resumed shouting. Can't make out the exact conversation from Mummy and Daddy's room but it seems to be a disagreement over who should get up. Why wouldn't you want to get up? Who wants to lie in bed when you're awake?! Adults are weird.

06.30
Got carried downstairs. Mummy always smiles at me, kisses me then tells me I stink. Every day. Yes I do have a 'stinky bum bum.' It's hardly a surprise, is it?! She then changed my nappy before I was allowed my breakfast which made me cross because I spied my big brother tucking into his cereal. I kicked Mummy when I had poo on my foot and it left a stain on her trousers. Surprisingly, she said that this was 'just great.' Phew.

07.30
Daddy left wearing his smart trousers and shirt. Where does he go every day? 

08:30 
Tipped the toy basket over. Didn't fancy anything in there. Mummy tried to simulate car racing on the floor with tiny cars but she does it all wrong. Got cross at Mummy's toy car ineptitude.

09:30
Felt a bit bored, so I messed with the telly again by pressing all the buttons on the remote (major LOLs watching Mum trying to sort it out as she mutters that rhyme about the duck's cake).

11:00
Went to the park. I'm confused about what I am supposed to do here, because Mummy always tells us that it 'will be nice to run around!' but then seems agitated when we run around. She is particularly agitated when I run to the edge of the climbing frame where they have the pole from Fireman Sam, and keeps trying to move me back to the bit where there are railings on all sides. How boring is that? Eventually, after lots of sighing I'm removed from the climbing frame altogether and as she attempts to wrestle me into the pram I assume the stiff-as-a-floorboard position to illustrate my unhappiness with the situation. Sitting imprisoned in the pram isn't 'running around' is it? The protest did at least secure me some yoghurt raisins.

12.30
Ate my lunch really nicely. This lulled Mummy into a false sense of security about my independent feeding capabilities (groundwork for teatime, see 17:00)

13:30
Mummy picked me up and cuddled me on the sofa with my brother to read a story. They said I could 'join in' but then the pair of them got cross with me when I wanted to hold it and turn all the pages myself. Once again, I have no idea where I stand. Nobody understands me. I just want to turn all of the pages.

14:30
Started feeling a bit tired so cracked out the 'I'm tired' signals (pulled my ears, rubbed my eyes, did the glazed-over stare and the sucky-mouth thing like when I'm chewing Mummy Pig's foot). Became un-tired when Mummy put me in the cot. Did the sad moany noises so she felt guilty while she sorted out the washing. Turned up the volume to shouting after I heard her tell my brother that I would 'settle down in a minute.' We all went back downstairs again. Mummy doesn't know why she bloody bothers.

16:00
Went over to see what Mummy was doing on her computer. Pressed some buttons. This was not well received. She turned it off.

17:00
Stuck a whole hand in my spaghetti hoops. Lobbed the spoon. Cried because the spoon was on the floor and my hand was covered in hoops. When Daddy got home, Mummy was scrubbing spaghetti hoops off the skirting board. She told Daddy I had 'been like this all day.' Erm, that's not fair. She forgot to tell him about all the fun we'd had on the climbing frame and reading a book, for a start.

18:00
Received my daily telephathic notification from the Toddlers' Union that the Witching Hour had started. Treated everyone to a constant snotty whingey tone until Daddy said he 'couldn't bear it' and put me in my PJs.

19:30
Made sure I fell asleep in my best angelic pose - one hand up by my cheek and a slight smile seems to be a winner. Pretty sure I heard them both whisper, 'Love you sweet pea' so it definitely did the trick. Will commence the shit storm at dawn.

Mother's Day Without Mum

'Are you doing anything with your mum for Mother’s Day?’ Oh god.

This question, when asked in general office conversation, used to bring on a kind of anxiety sweat and leave me wishing I could morph into Flat Stanley and escape under the door. Usually, a simple, ‘Nah, not much!’ would cover it and I’d swiftly make an ‘urgent’ phone call, praying the discussion would shift to last night’s Coronation Street by the time I had finished. The problem was, any level of truthful natter would have opened an uncomfortable can of worms. It turns out ‘My mum’s dead, actually,’ is not a workplace crowd-pleaser.

It’s not that I mind talking about it – I was fifteen when she died (the big C) and after you’ve said ‘she died’ enough times it becomes quite matter-of-fact. It just doesn’t feel that matter-of-fact for other people, who invariably feel the need to say that they’re sorry/they didn’t know/it must be so hard, to which it is customary to respond that it’s fine/it was a long time ago/you’re not upset. And by this point the YouTube clip of the Ninja Cats which has been providing belly laughs all morning has been turned off as a mark of respect, as tumbleweed crawls towards the photocopier.

One time, the casual question thrown my way was, ‘Help settle the debate Sarah – do you bother with Mother’s Day flowers for your mum or do you agree they’re a rip off?’ Oh dear. Think think think.

‘Erm…well, supermarket flowers aren’t always as pricey, and you have to expect some mark-up on these commercial days.’ Phew, awkwardness averted. (Much less awkward than the factual, ‘I don’t buy her flowers every year, just the years I’m taking a bunch to the spot we scattered her ashes.’)

The late '80s, with my mum and sister

To be honest, when February rolls around and all the ‘show her she’s really special’ Mother’s Day advertisements start popping up I have always had a bit of an internal groan. I stopped groaning in 2012 when I became a mother and, for the first time in a decade, Mother’s Day shifted from being a day I yearned to hide under my bed to a day I finally had a part in. Yet while Mother’s Day is easier for me since I have had the kids, the day-to-day feelings of loss and sadness at not having Mum here have greatly intensified.

Being a mum without mum here is hard. Four years into the parenthood adventure and practically-speaking I’m doing all right. I get through most weeks just fine - though it has to be said I’ve significantly lowered the bar on what ‘just fine’ means (sometimes the bar is on the floor). I have a great network of family and friends to help with the day-to-day logistical challenges, and not having Mum here to do the preschool run and take the kids to the seaside isn’t problematic.

It’s just sad. 

Last year we took Henry (three at the time) to London as a treat. We live in Devon, so the chaos and buzz of the capital blew his tiny mind in all the best ways and made for a pretty special trip. I was probably extra keen to take him to London because I have been holding such fond memories of the time my mum took me to London in the summer holidays (my sister had gone camping, my Dad had gone fishing, and London was a trip for just the two of us). The frustratingly sad thing about the exclusivity of our trip is that I no longer share the memories with anyone. My awe at seeing the Cirque du Soleil, the entire day we spent simply hopping on and off double decker buses… I have racked my brain trying to remember where we stayed, where we ate dinner, whether we went to the Natural History Museum or not. I will never know these things. 

Of course the biggest tragedy is that Mum never knew she was a grandmother. She never saw her daughters become mothers and she never got to stand in a draughty church hall proudly cutting the world-famous chocolate-button birthday cake she would lovingly have made for her grandchildren. They are missing out, too. Sometimes, when we’re heading off on a day trip and I get that familiar ‘Oh god, we’ve forgotten to pack something important’ feeling, it dawns on me that I have lived with a similar feeling for thirteen years. 

There is always something not there that should be there. Mum will never not be missing. She will never not be missed. 

Conversations about Mother’s Day no longer make my cheeks flush red or leave me staring at the floor. Sometimes, I embrace the commercialism and buy an overpriced bunch of flowers to take to her beach, though I’m just as likely to do that on her birthday, or on Boxing Day, which is the day she died. Sometimes, I wish she could join us for our Mother’s Day carvery but I don’t spend the meal absorbed in those thoughts because I invariably spend it picking up the food Jude has lobbed from his highchair and encouraging Henry to sing the Farty Bum Song at a slightly reduced volume. It’s one Sunday in the year when I relish a bit of pampering as payback for the tiny humans I birthed.

It’s all the other days, the ordinary days, which remind me what has been lost. For me, for Mum, for the boys.

Doesn’t cancer have a lot to answer for?