Lesson 26: What's in a (baby) name?

Choosing a name for your baby. The fun bit. 

Except when it's not fun. When in fact it is fun-less. Devoid of all fun. Actually rather bloody tedious. 

In early pregnancy, baby names were my favourite topic of conversation. Now, with less than three weeks to go until due date, I am sick to the back teeth of deliberating names. 

Don't ask me if we're 'all sorted for names yet'. We don't even have a credible shortlist. 

I feel like I should add some context and justification to this post. Well, quite simply we made a dramatic error of judgment this time around. An error I want to warn all other parents-to-be about.

We started discussing our name ideas with other people. 

This is, I've realised, a fucking stupid thing to do. 

Sounding out a few name ideas with family over dinner, friends over coffee, or strangers on the bus, is like decision clarity suicide.

You may think that you don't really care what other people think. You may even say this to each other as you deliberate names yet again before falling asleep. 

But you will care. And the opinions of others (parents/friends/colleagues/strangers/Tom/Dick/Harry) will start to cloud your judgement. 

Until you are not sure if you like certain names anymore, not sure if you want to like other names but don't, and not actually sure you will ever decide on the sodding name. 

Last time, we picked our son's name almost immediately after the 20 week scan. He would be Henry. 'Henry it is' we told people. And Henry it was. General consensus seemed positive, but mostly our assertiveness that the name had been selected put a stop to any of those comments. You don't slag off a name that is a certainty. We loved it, everyone else either loved it or pretended to, and we still love it now. Happy days.

This time, upon discovering we were expecting another boy, we had no such sense of name confidence. There was no certified front runner. This one would take more deliberation. 

And that should be the fun part. Behind closed doors, the baby name book comes out, along with the random suggestions and slight disagreements on names with your other half (by slight disagreement I mean "100% no. No way. Ever. Not EVER").

If ever there was a can of worms not to open outside of this private family sphere, it is the can of baby name ideas. The wormiest can of all.

The prompt 'so what names are you considering?' should come with the health warning 'you tell me them all and I'll slate each one to varying degrees, and then suggest a whole host of unrelated names I like better.' 

What people seem to forget, neglect to understand or just ignore is that your name 'ideas' may just become THE name. Granted, our suggestions this time have not been as concrete as Henry was. But they are names we are seriously considering. 

Despite this, comments on our rather sketchy shortlist of names, have included:

'You can't call a kid that!'

'Oh god, really?!'

'Well that's one way to ensure he is gay/bullied/has a complex!'

'Not keen on that one!'

'You'll think of something different'

And the less offensive but equally annoying:

'Wouldn't you prefer something nice like...'

'We had _____ on our list, you could use that if you like?'

Lastly, my personal favourite:

Absolute silence. 

YOU ASKED!  I was providing information. I didn't ask for your opinion. If you don't like the name, smile, nod, hell just tell me it's interesting, unusual, quite old fashioned, not a name you hear everyday...

Don't piss all over my name parade with your unhelpful authority on the history of all good names that ever existed. 

I'm so confused now. 

I have heard so many comments about our top three or four names (well, this week's top names), that I am struggling to separate my own feelings on the names themselves and the feelings shadowed by the patchwork of unwelcome opinion. 

I'm not having any more children after baby Anon arrives in a few weeks. But if I did, I would never discuss the name with anyone other than my husband. This time around it is too late for me to un-hear the chorus of the name mafia (though I am trying).

Lesson 26: Have a baby, name it, and then introduce said baby to the world and his wife complete with a definite name. Job done.

The Unmumsy Mum

Lesson 25: Nesting is A THING

There are many pregnancy phenomena, myths and general opinions I find fairly questionable. The old wives' tales about girl or boy ("All that sickness - it'll be a girl!"...well screw you, it's another boy), 'Baby Brain' (pretty sure my brain is just more occupied and therefore less focused), the pregnancy 'glow' (see Lesson 18 for my thoughts on this, though I could just be bitter....)

There are, however, other documented pregnancy quirks which are proving amusingly accurate. One of those is cravings (I'm crunching my way through four trays of ice cubes every day), and the other undeniable pregnancy-induced behaviour is obsessive cleaning. OBSESSIVE.

'Nesting' they call it. I fear the term is somewhat misleading. Nesting to me conjures up images of making a comfy sleep space to keep my offspring warm. Not pulling out the fridge to bleach behind it.

I guess I am nesting if the agreed objective is to disinfect the nest. Clear it of all clutter, dust, grime and odours. And leave behind the soft scents of Cif Cream (original) and Windowlene. 

GOOD GOD cleaning products at the moment. I CAN'T GET ENOUGH. They smell so good. My kitchen worktops get sprayed and scrubbed at least three times a day at the moment. And that is the most ordinary of my cleaning activities.

Skirting board bleaching.
Cupboard disinfecting.
Door washing (yes all internal doors have been Cif Creamed and wiped. Mmmm Cif Cream....)

37 weeks pregnant and I keep getting asked if we are 'all set.' Well granted on paper we are - the hospital bag has been half packed, the Maxi Cosi has been dragged down through the loft hatch and I have just finished work.

But inside I'm screaming: NO!! I HAVEN'T FINISHED CLEANING. 

I haven't pulled the TV stand out to dust behind it and germ-bust the floor. I can see dust. I want so badly to address the situation but the stand plus TV is too heavy for me to shift (I've tried twice). Definitely a weekend joint activity - yes, he's a lucky husband. 

I haven't washed all the cushion covers yet. Clearly I can't bring new life into a house with unwashed cushion covers. 

I can't let others loose on the fridge. Last pregnancy, The Husband bunged a leftover lasagne dish, slightly leaking, into the fridge. This time, boiled eggs have been left uncovered. In both instances I CRIED. Then got the Flash kitchen out.

I am not being irrational, am I? It all feels very rational. It is instinctive. I really NEED to clean.

I hope post-birth I will be able to walk down the cleaning aisle in Tesco without attempting to sniff how citrus fresh the products are. In the meantime, you can leave me to my Cif, Flash and Cillit Bang, and try not to worry too much that Barry Scott's declaration of 'Bang! And the dirt is gone!' continues to be my biggest turn on.

Lesson 25 : at times enjoyable, at other times worryingly all-consuming, nesting is some serious shit. Be prepared. 

Lesson 24: Woeful Weddings

Yesterday, we had the pleasure of attending a good friend's wedding. The whole day. At a lovely venue with great weather and great food. Glorious.

Only it turns out our toddler is not a big fan. Of sitting down for longer than two minutes, of eating actual food (not confectionery) and of talking at any volume less than shouting.

During the vows, he shouted 'Farty Pants' and 'WHERE'S THE WEDDING?' Hubby had to remove him. He missed the wedding.

During the amazing sit down meal he ran between posh tables hitting strangers with his balloon sword. I'm blaming the magician/balloon man for this one, what's wrong with making a giraffe?

During the speeches, he reached Toddler Boiling Point and started whinging at a concerning volume. We had to leave the room for a Time Out. I missed the speeches.

Do I look like I enjoy weddings?

And throughout all of this, at least once every twenty minutes he declared 'I need a wee!' and 'I just need a poo' which obviously we took seriously. And obviously he mostly didn't need anything. Except a thick ear.

He didn't want to be in the photos. 

He demanded ketchup for his meal and wiped it on the sleeve of his Dad's new shirt. 

He cried when we refused to let him have a second bag of sweets. 

And twice he escaped onto the roof terrace to 'hide.'

If this is how annoying we found our own child throughout the day, I can only imagine how irritating he was to others. Particularly to the poor unsuspecting (but oh-so-lucky) childless people who cannot fathom the impossibility of making your child behave.

We were those childless people attending weddings a few years ago. God they were happy times....and it is fair to say that disrupted speeches, drowned out vows and a smack in the face from a ketchup covered balloon terrorist would have been our worst nightmare. 

Of course, this still is our worse nightmare. But now we are committed. And responsible. More's the pity. 

So you see I was quite looking forward to attending said function as our family unit. He can be charming. He had a nice shirt on. But realistically, had we wanted to enjoy the day, we should have got a babysitter. 

Next time I will get a babysitter, sit peacefully drinking prosecco and if the mood takes me shoot disapproving glances at the unruly children causing noise disturbance (just kidding, they'll have my full sympathy).

I don't care if that is not the Done Thing. It is, without a doubt, the kindest of outcomes.

Lesson 24: Wedding and kids. Urgh. LEAVE THEM AT HOME*. Unless you have a cooperative one. In which case, you could take yours along as a beacon of hope and tut at the disgraceful behaviour of children like mine.

The Unmumsy Mum
[*I know that's not always possible, I'm just bitter because I was wiping a bum during the speeches].

Lesson 23: Potty Training is Rank

I've always been bored to tears by status updates and progress reports from potty training parents. 
"George has gone four hours without a nappy!" 
"Eva has just asked to do a big poo in her potty!"
Yawn.
And too much information, thanks all the same,

Well, today is Day 4 of no nappy for The Toddler and I sort of get the proudness. I'll admit it, the highlight of my work day yesterday was receiving a text from said toddler's Granny to inform me he had successfully sat and shat on his potty. I was elated. High fives all round for the toilet training team of coaches. 

So far so good, bar a few accidents as rightly expected.

However, I feel it is necessary to point out the reality of this proud milestone journey:

Potty training is, to all intents and purposes, really quite rank. Sure wees are all good. Wee accidents resulting in soaking shorts and shoe puddles are part of the package. No dramas. 

But nothing prepared me for the day I would be faced with a fully formed human turd in a plastic pot. 

Granted that is where it is meant to go. A poo in the potty - fantastic! 

But Jesus Christ. HOLY MOTHER OF GOD.
The smell. The sight. The sound. 

Never before have I displayed an external reaction so at odds with every bone and sense in my body. "Such a clever boy! Well done my darling!" I beamed, whilst physically urging on my way to drop this longed for potty deposit down the toilet (cue more urging, an immediate requirement for a toilet brush/bleach and having to open every downstairs window). Then you have to run after a small person who is charging around without having yet been wiped. Use your own imagination for the challenges this brings. Mainly to previously un(skid)marked furniture.

4 days in and I am coping better. I have been told I would have been better encouraging a transition straight from nappy to child's toilet seat (duly noted for Baby Two's turn), but having already encouraged the fateful potty I feel I am committed to seeing it through. At least until he is more confident.

So my wonderful and bright boy is doing exactly what has been asked of him and I am proud. Truly I am. I am just also starting to realise that nappies weren't so bad...and that I have more of a tendency to gag at smells than previously thought. 

Lesson 23: Potty training is pretty gross. If you have a weak stomach, maybe skip the Plastic Poo Pot bit and migrate straight to the toilet. 

The Unmumsy Mum

Lesson 22: Everyone does it (NCT that is)

NCT groups represent everything I used to imagine life as a parent would be. Largely because they are so very middle class. I don't think that's a sweeping statement (you'll tell me if it is) - NCT groups bring together middle class strangers and plonk them together at summer picnics on Cath Kidston blankets, in John Lewis cafés with rows of iCandys parked up... 

Perhaps the last bit is a slight generalisation, but I feel I am liberty to comment because if I could afford it, this would be my life too. 

Everyone does NCT. My sister, my best friend, my work colleagues. It is what you do. To me, prior to having Boy One two years ago, NCT was how mums made friends. I planned to sign up straight away. 

Except when I fell pregnant first time around my nearest NCT 'hub' was over 35 miles away. So I decided to go it alone.

Effectively, I decided not to buy myself a new friendship group. I hope that doesn't get taken the wrong way - if anything, at the time I would have paid good money for a guaranteed Mummy Wolf Pack.

But it wasn't to be. And instead, I had to make friends the old fashioned way. I had to force myself to go to  antenatal classes, coffee mornings and Bouncing Baby groups (really not my scene) with other parents. There was no circulation of group contact details, no new network of similar due dates, no automatic organisation of a Group Reunion. 

I had to strike up relationships with strangers who had their own friendship groups, ask them for their numbers, and initiate play dates. I had to make eye contact and small talk and hope a glimmer of common ground would blossom into a friendship, when sometimes all I really wanted was to stay on the sofa and watch Homes Under The Hammer. It was bloody hard work. 

The realisation of having to face Bumps and Babies again.

I have spent two years wondering if I missed out. When my sister/best friend/colleagues/world and his fucking wife describe their NCT Friends, it all seems so easy. You go to the antenatal classes (posher than the 'bog standard' NHS ones an NCT Attendee informed me), and then BOOM, you become a network, you wait for each other to drop a baby and then you become friends for life. 

I'm well aware it doesn't work out this way for all groups. I occasionally hear of 'nightmare NCT friends' and 'the odd one from our NCT group', but above all else I have witnessed (with some jealousy) endless schedules of happy NCT gatherings, birthday parties and all round good support. Whilst I plodded off to another random group in the hope I would find some pals. 

And pals I did find. Not a ready-made group, but a very select number (okay two pals if you must know), who I clicked with straight away. My sort of people. Not people I wanted to like because I would have to meet them monthly and force my husband to bond with their husbands. People I genuinely did LIKE. A harder journey but I have no doubt that we will be friends for life. 

Now preggers for the second (and final) time, I have since moved to an NCT area (not too far away but unfortunately quite far from those special friends) so I am back to square one and have again been faced with the NCT conundrum. 

I don't really need the posh classes this time. I've already passed a small human out of my body and Expressed With The Best Through These Holes in My Chest (god love the Fiat advert). So I put my name down for an NCT Refresher Course. 3 evenings, and the Holy Grail of a reunion (and allocated network) post-birth. To be honest, with a toddler in tow, I could do with the Rent-A-Friend service. Anything to not have to start running again on the making friends treadmill. 

And then I got the email. Bang smack in the middle of a nightmare week of our car going wrong, the kitchen ceiling leaking and the death of my uninsured iPhone via a 40 degree spin cycle, I received registration instructions. And a bill for over £100 (£140 I think it was, there or thereabouts). 

I won't bore you with our financial situation, but in a nutshell whilst this is completely unaffordable for us at the moment we do not qualify for any 'help' with fees. On paper, we have an almost respectable income. In reality, we now buy the thin toilet paper that scratches your arse and the shampoo that looks interchangeable with washing up liquid. 

So I phoned the nice NCT lady and told her she could take me off the list. Farewell Mid-September Exeter baby friends. It was nice almost knowing you.

Hubby has been brilliant. He said we could work something out if it is really important that I do these classes. But it just doesn't sit right with me. 

I don't even want to do the sodding classes. I would be paying £140 or so purely for a new group of friends. Whichever way you look at it, this is expensive for Forced Friendship Fun.

Last week at work, an NCT advocate casually expressed the following when I explained I wouldn't be signing up: 'Such a shame, at least with NCT you know the sorts of Mums and Dads you will be mixing with, if you know what I mean!' 

Well I do know what she means. And despite longing for a network of buddies I don't want to be a part of The Elite. Variety is the spice of life, and I will happily take my chances sharing classes with the other sorts of mums. Some of whom may not be with the Dads. Some of whom may buy substandard toilet roll. Some of whom may just become genuine friends for life. 

So wish me luck as I plod on with my non-NCT journey for the second time. I'm sure I will envy the odd NCT group BBQ or Country Farm Park outing stumbled across on Facebook. I'm sure I will have to drag myself to breast feeding groups (if they keep calling it nursing I'm leaving). I'm sure sometimes I will fail to tear myself away from Homes Under The Hammer. But mostly, I'm sure I will be just fine. 

The Unmumsy Mum