My Sometimes Secrets

Sometimes I 'wash' the baby with a wipe rather than giving him a bath.

Sometimes I tell strategic lies to my toddler. Like 'the bakery is shut.'

Sometimes I hide behind the fridge door and eat dairylea triangles and/or Chocolate Orange. 

Sometimes I put the baby in his bouncer in front of Baby TV. For 20 mins (an hour).

Sometimes I make up excuses to leave the park early because I am SO BORED with swing-pushing.

Sometimes I say 'yes' or 'definitely' in answer to a question from the toddler I wasn't listening to. Then I feel guilty so I let him have chips for tea. Just chips.

Sometimes I cry because I find being at home all day every day so bloody hard.

Sometimes I look at the front door and think how glorious it would be to open it and walk out into the fresh air on my own. 

But sometimes, I remember I married my best friend and made two beautiful boys. 

Sometimes I remind myself that it all came good.

The Unmumsy Mum

Lesson 33: Second Child Shortcuts

'We'll treat them both the same' we said. Pah ha ha. As second children ourselves we should have known this was an outright lie.

When I was pregnant with Boy Two people were very quick to advise 'you'll be so much more relaxed this time round. It'll be a breeze in comparison.'

Relaxed, I've discovered, is parent-code for slack. 

I feel it necessary to put it out there that I was not exactly precious with Boy One. But I did at least attempt to do things properly. You know, like they say. Whoever they are. 

And Boy Two? Well, not so much. But you know what, I don't feel bad. Because I've realised much of what we practiced with Boy One was so bloody unnecessary. 

Nobody cracks out cotton wool and water for nappy changes second time around. Because, ladies and gentlemen, you will use WIPES. You know, those baby wipes designed for use on babies' bottoms. 'As kind to skin as water.' There is no need for water. Wipe away my friend.

As first-time parents, we expressed grave concern at every slightly damp spot on the sleepsuit shoulder. We analysed every nappy noise, and where there was doubt, changed him anyway. Even at 3am when he had drifted back to sleep...because a screaming baby was obviously less of an issue than a slightly shitty nappy...

With our current bundle of joy (now ten weeks) the 'grey area' nappy noises are ignored. Unless we can smell something. Even then, in the sleep deprived early hours, I have been known to turn a blind eye (and ear and nose). 

We used to change Boy One into another outfit at night. As in, his daytime babygrow would be changed into a bedtime one. We clearly had too much fucking time on our hands. Or too much surplus space in the washing machine. Our rule nowadays is simple: if it is dry and largely stain-free, it stays put. Admittedly, last week we reached a new parenting low when we used the hairdryer to give the sicky wet shoulder patch a quick blast...whilst the baby was wearing it...

And then there are all the rules. You know, the stuff you are supposed to do. Or not do.

With Boy One: 'He shouldn't really be in his car seat for more than a couple of hours. We best get him out.'

With Boy Two: 'He's asleep. Leave him. LEAVE HIM'

With Boy One: 'Let's give him another bath and a little massage with some of that nice lavender stuff'.

With Boy Two: 'He doesn't smell, exactly. Let's just give him a wipe.'

With Boy One: 'I'll read to him as it's his bedtime feed' 

With Boy Two: 'Stick Baby TV on will you; I'm having a shower.' To be fair the other day they were doing a counting song - it's practically a lesson.

Last time, we aimed for a feed/sleep routine. Some days, we paced the living room for up to an hour to 'stretch out the feeds.' On Wednesday this week, when the whole family was really rather poorly, I breastfed Boy Two pretty much every time he cried (every time he moved). No stretching out of feeds that day. In fact, I fed him into a stupor. Milk comatose. And sometimes, I give him an unnecessary top-up feed so I can do the washing (watch Made In Chelsea). Needs must. 

And then there's the crying. Boy One was picked up at the slightest grizzle. Which, to be honest, meant he was never bloody down. What could be wrong with him? Poor baby. I am not a fan of controlled crying (in general) but Boy Two is, regrettably, sometimes left to cry. It is more uncontrolled crying. As in, his newly potty-trained brother is shouting that he needs a poo, there are no clean muslin cloths in the house so the washing pile can no longer be ignored, the kettle has been boiled and re-boiled ten bloody times and I will have that sodding cup of tea if it kills me...

For Boy One's first Christmas, we overspent. For Boy Two's upcoming first Christmas, we are being realistic. He will be 15 weeks old, unable to yet sit up, quite probably no interest even in the wrapping paper. He does not need a fucking stocking. 

So you see, we haven't been treating our second child the same. Occasionally, I do have a pang of guilt. But mostly, I reckon it will do him good. I'd put money on him being more laid back as a result. 

Boy One will always be our 'precious firstborn' because he made us a family. But Boy Two is equally as precious because he completed it. The odd damp shoulder and suspicious nappy doesn't seem to have done him any harm so far. 

The Unmumsy Mum

Lesson 32: No place I'd rather be?

At home, with my wonderful boys. Taking care of them. Looking after our home. Creating memories. Where I belong.

But sometimes, I'd rather be anywhere else.

When the baby has been screaming for over an hour and the toddler is throwing objects at my head and/or refusing to put his shoes on, and I am feeling REALLY RATHER FUCKING SHOUTY...well, on those days I'd quite like to step out of the front door and keep on walking. 

I want out. 

They say you discover things 'about yourself' when you become a parent. Well, I have mostly discovered that I have no patience. Zero. None whatsoever. My fuse is SHORT. 

I can't stand the constant demands. And mess. And noise. I recently embarked on a rare child-free supermarket trip and found myself sat in Lidl's car park with the engine turned off, smiling from ear to ear because for the first time in days nobody was shouting or whinging at me. Jesus Christ it was peaceful. I sat there in silence for ten minutes, staring at my windscreen and wondering when Lidl's car park on Saturday at 11am became the fucking highlight of my week.

I am bored at home. I read an article recently criticising mums like me. How dreadful to say your children bore you. Except that's not what I'm saying at all. It's not my children I find boring. It's the situation. My boys are hilarious and cute and smart and lovely (sometimes). But it is bloody hard work. And parts of it have pushed me to breaking point. Not the endless washing and nappies and feeds and battles over nap times (though all of these things are challenging). The hardest part is the mental torment that accompanies twelve hours of whinging, and discussions limited to 'the kids,' and seventy seven trips to the park in as many days. I don't really like other people's children to be honest. They always have runny noses.

I have discovered that I am ironically least 'at home' whilst I'm at home, and happier in the work environment. I like going to work. Nine months 'off' (yeah right) is not a pleasing prospect. Perhaps that is why I chose to take six months maternity leave again and have subsequently further reduced this to five months. The drop to Statutory Maternity Pay is not enough for us to scrape by on for nine months, but for me the real motive for returning is non-financial. Five months is the maximum I can manage without cracking. And even that is quite possibly too long.

At Baby Two's eight week check, the doctor asked the following:

'How are you feeling? Are you enjoying it?' 

I replied, as I always do, with my honest thoughts:

'A newborn and a toddler? It's not the most fun I've ever had. In fact, I'd rate it pretty low on the enjoyment scale.'

Cue a nervous look at the chart to see if this answer is listed under PND warning signs. 

I'm not depressed. This is not PND. This is just fish out of water syndrome. I'm the fish, work is my water, and maternity leave is an uncomfortable drought. 

But whilst we are increasingly encouraged to talk to one another about our mental health, it doesn't ever seem acceptable to share your true feelings about life at home with children. Unless, of course, your feelings match the general consensus that the first year is magical and maternity leave must be treasured. I am regrettably too honest, and this is often met with looks of surprise and, I hate to say it, disgust. 

Beautiful boys, but it's not all rainbows and smiles

There are moments I treasure. Truly there are. But if you ask me how I find being at home with my wonderful babies I will tell you the truth. 

I WOULD RATHER BE AT WORK.

At work, where I exist outside of breastfeeding duties and nappies and snack time and smiley fucking baby groups :-) :-) :-) :-)

At work, where I look forward to seeing my boys because I have not spent every waking minute with them. Where weekends and non-work days are cherished more because they do not represent yet another patience-testing Groundhog Day. 

At work, where my cleavage remains sick-free and I can have a hot cup of tea.

Sure there are mums who will take a year off. There are mums who will never go back to work. There are mums who will take no more than one month off before returning full time. I respect them all. 

'A happy mum is a happy home' I once read. A bit fucking selfish I thought...but it does make some sense to me now. Turns out a working mum is a happy home for us. 

Lesson 32: 'where you belong' cannot be dictated by other people. The needs of your children should come first, of course they should, but not to the exclusion of your happiness. If you want to stay at home, and can, you should. If you don't want to stay at home, and don't have to, you shouldn't.

'You won't get this time again' is a dead cert. Make it a happy time.

The Unmumsy Mum

Lesson 31: 'Breast is best' but not always for mum

I have blogged about the pressure on women to breastfeed before. I breastfed Boy One for three months, and I am breastfeeding Boy Two (now 4 weeks in). I also expressed for a number of weeks, and formula fed for a number of months, so I hope I am at liberty to comment...

In my humble opinion, whilst breastfeeding remains wonderful, it is significantly harder than bottle feeding. I am not disputing the health benefits for both mother and baby. Nor am I denying the convenience of breastfeeding (milk on tap at the right temperature, no sterilising bottles, bloody marvellous). 

I have, however, been once again reminded about the truly relentless nature of feeding a newborn. Once again, I am left dubious as to whether it is worth the hassle (*hides from the glare of breastfeeding peer counsellors*). 

I am, of course, aware that feeding of any kind is difficult when it comes to those first few weeks. But nothing is quite as draining (both physically and emotionally) as having a small human welded to your nipples 24 hours a day. 

All other activity is put on hold to sit feeding the child, sometimes for hours at a time, sometimes with no more than half an hour between feeds. 

Routines are glorious once they are established, but I am a great believer in feeding on demand for the first few weeks at least. On demand does what it says on the tin. You are a slave to a breast-hungry monster who never seems to want a cuddle without having a nibble. 'Look for cues to indicate baby is hungry' they say. Well he tries to eat my neck/shoulder/hair if I attempt a cuddle and often cries until he is attached, so we are going with his 'cues.' I swear he is often over feeding, but as I can't truly monitor how much milk he is getting WHO KNOWS? 

At times it is difficult to do anything else. Good luck negotiating the washing and shopping 'between feeds' when the illusive 'between' time is non-existent. The health visitor advised I need to encourage him to feed for longer. I should, she explained, view each feed as his opportunity to have a three-course meal. Breast one should be his starter and main (to allow for two 'let downs') and if he finishes those, I should offer the second breast 'as dessert.' Fucking marvellous - he gets ten feasts every day and I am lucky to finish a meal unless it has been cut into fork-sized chunks by my other half. Tickle his feet to keep him going. Change his nappy 'between courses'. The palava rolls on.

You are a prisoner on your own sofa. This may sound nice, but you can forget having time to play with any of your other children, unless of course by 'play' you mean read them a book next to you as you feed. I miss spending quality time with my eldest. When family members come round to entertain him I often think how much I would like to take him to the park or to the shops, and leave my newest boy with one of the many willing volunteers for an hour or two, complete with a bottle. I simply do not have the time to express this time around. Instead, my precious time with Boy One is invariably cut short by the phrase of doom 'I think he's hungry again.' Of course he bloody is. 

My wonderful husband was at home with me for our boy's first four weeks. I was so very lucky in that respect - his support as ever remains a godsend. But we are both left frustrated when his willingness to help is rendered pointless by the simple fact that he cannot feed the baby. 

And then there is the feeding itself. No disputing the ease of getting a boob out to comfort a screaming child. Anytime, any place, anywhere. 

But what if you become fed up with getting them out? Heaven forbid you might want to wear something which doesn't have a button-down front. Or a 'secret' feeding panel (I can spot a JoJo nursing top a mile off, there is no secret). 

I have no shame in feeding in public. My boobs are doing their job, I get that. But the constant muslin-over-the-shoulder-buttoning-down-of-outfit-to-feed whilst also attempting to eat your own food/play with the toddler at the park/have coffee with friends does take its toll. 

As does adjusting breast pads to avoid wet T-Shirt patches and having to wear a bra day and night. After 40 weeks gestation there is relief at being master of your own body again. Except with breastfeeding, the complete child body dominance lingers - little or no alcohol, limited caffeine, avoiding foods that can make the baby agitated or windy. 

It takes commitment. And patience. Which runs in short supply after two-hourly night feeds and an inability to have five minutes to yourself. 

All of the above assumes the baby is feeding well, that you have adequate milk supply, your nipples remain crack free and you are not on the verge of mastitis. I have met women so desperate to continue breastfeeding they have cried through the sheer pain of feeds. They have continued with bleeding nipples in total depression at the feeding situation, because the thought of 'giving up' is somehow worse. Such cases always lead me to ponder 'surely, it cannot be worth it?'

Well I don't think it is worth it. 

For me, this time, it is still early days. I guess we are not in any kind of feed and sleep cycle yet. But if the relentless one to two hourly feeds continue for much longer I know exactly what to do. I will march on down to Boots, grab a tub of Aptamil, rest easy in the knowledge he has had a decent 5ozs and GET ON WITH MY LIFE. 

Lesson 30: breastfeeding is bloody hard work. You will be talked out of bottle feeding by any number of health professionals, but you don't get a medal for 'sticking at it'. Don't be a hero. 

Sometimes, it doesn't work out.

Sometimes, the wellbeing of the whole family improves with the switch to bottles. 

Sometimes, Mums deserve the 'best' option too. 

The Unmumsy Mum

Lesson 30: Things 'down below' and other annoying euphemisms

Euphemisms for the sake of preserving modesty get right on my nerves. 

I am a fan of calling a spade a spade. 

The world of the newborn baby is full of these pointless alternative words and phrases, and I have listed a few of my 'favourites' observed during recent home visits from the midwife and health visitor.

Down below

'And how is everything' *lowers voice* 'down below?' they ask. 

Below where? Oh. You mean down there (equally annoying). 

What is wrong with vagina. Is that so offensive? 

Vagina vagina vagina. 

I would find it quite refreshing to simply be asked 'how's your vagina doing?' It's clearly not a time for shyness, given that a baby just emerged from down there (*sneers*). 

Ones and Twos

Actually this goes for all toilet related euphemisms. 'Are you managing to go to the toilet?' *completes checklist in maternity notes* 'Ones and twos?' 

Ones and twos?! FFS. What happened to wees and poos? Yes I'm managing to wee and poo, thanks for asking. 

Granted, it might be slightly unnerving if the midwife pottered in and asked 'have you done a shit and how's the vagina?' but at least we'd all know where we stand. Of course I wouldn't really expect her to say shit, but we could at least find a middle ground. We talk openly about poo with our potty-training youngsters for god's sake, and I am not a child. 

'Baby'

This one isn't a euphemism, but rather the annoying habit that health professionals have of abbreviating the growing foetus and/or new child simply to 'baby.' I recognise that this is in no way offensive, but god how it annoys me.

'Shall we check baby's heartbeat?'

'How is baby feeding?'

'Make sure baby gets a full mouthful of breast.'

It's THE baby. Please bring back use of the definite article. Or better, once said 'baby' arrives he or she usually has an actual name. Baby indeed. 

'Baby' (grrr) 

Over to you...

Are there any other commonly used euphemisms you can think of to add to this list of annoyances? 

The Unmumsy Mum