by jessheagren | Jun 10, 2018 | Bad Mum, Good Mum, Motherhood
There are lots of different types of Mum. The shouty Mum, the worky Mum, the too-much Mum, the obsessed Mum, the cool Mum, the unconfident Mum, the hippy Mum, the growly Mum, the pretending-to-hold-it-together Mum, the why-am-I-a-mum Mum…they’re all loveable and hateable in their own way. I think I am one part Growly Mum, one part too-much Mum and two parts pretending-to-hold-it-together Mum. The one Mum I am definitely not though, is the Super Enthusiastic Mum.
She is a whole new breed. She makes me feel bad. She makes me feel boring and dull and grey. There is a Super Enthusiastic Mum at nursery who does the same drop off times as me. Around her I transform from appropriately-warm-and-chatty Mum to muttering, awkward and looking-down Mum. It’s strange as I’m not normally affected by people to this degree, not anymore. Everyone so often though I meet someone who makes me recoil into myself. And Super Enthusiastic Mum is one of those people.
Super Enthusiastic Mum
I could compete, but I know I will lose. I’m not as peppy. Not as loud. And definitely not as smiley. Especially not when I have just been dragged from my slumber. Super Enthusiastic Mum, you see, is one of those little bouncy blonde Mum’s who I know has never stopped to question whether her volume bothers anyone. And why should she? She’s not doing anything wrong. She seems lovely and confident. And she obviously loves her children. I mean really obviously. She is really loud about her love. She takes up all the space with her love, enthusiasm and volume.
We both drop off our Girly no2’s (about 18-months old) in the tiny space of the entrance to the Baby Room. Her being half my size but twice my personality, she takes up 80% of the space (simple maths). We hand over our babies, I nod quietly to her keyworker “yes, she’s fine, great night, slept well etc”, kiss her on the cheek and hand her over. Super Enthusiastic Mum throws her hands in the air and declares it the best night they have ever had. She grabs her baby back again and smothers her in kisses her all over before eventually releasing her to the floor, not letting go of her hand yet. She eventually does and as she walks up the stairs behind me, she shouts “love you” over and over until she finally she is out of ear shot. I stumble into Girly no1’s Pre-School room smiling at her key worker. “Morning!” I say with a small smile as I hang up her bag and coat, changing her shoes into slippers. I bend down for a cuddle, kiss her on the head, tell her I love and tell her to pop to the toilet before they go on the walk. She reminds me to wave to her at the window.
My way down the stairs is blocked by Super Enthusiastic Mum who is telling her new audience about the best night they ever had (which is every night, in case you’re wondering). She gets her Girly changed into her walking gear, slobbering all over her and holding her tight. She loudly shouts about how they are about to have the best day ever – how the walk will be full of twittering bluebirds, singing squirrels and luscious flowers surrounded by dancing honeybees. She tells how her playtime will be enthralling, fun and exciting! They bounce around together, laughing. Once dressed there is a further round of kisses and cuddles as she eventually releases her no1 and they agree to race to the window.
I walk down the stairs, out the door and I stop to wave to my Girly, who is waiting at the window for me. We mouth I love you. She makes a heart with her tiny hands and I nearly cry. As I head towards the car, Super Enthusiastic Mum rushes out. She sees her no1 and shouts “You beat me AGAIN! AGAIN! EVERY DAY!”. She doubles over laughing then looks up to shout “love you” over and over from the street and they blow kisses. When they have finished their overt coo-ing, she goes back to the window where our babies are happily playing. She raps loudly to attract their attention and blows yet more kisses. I slink away. I can’t cope. It’s too much.
Last week I was running late and Super Enthusiastic Mum was on her way out as I was on my way in. She patted my Girly no1 on the head and said (loudly) “I believe you definitely will kiddo!” in her cheerful sunny tones. I wondered if no1 had whispered “can I come live with you Mrs Sunshine?” when I wasn’t concentrating and felt slightly burnt. Then I remembered the tshirt she was wearing that we had argued about that morning. It has metallic rainbows on it and says “I will change the world”. I begrudgingly agreed that yes, she probably would, and went on feeling even more uninteresting than I normally did after our interactions. She skipped off to her nearly-new Range Rover to retrieve a beautiful fluffy dog and then bounced over the road to meet her bouncy blonde friend with a bouncy blonde dog so they could all go on a bouncy blonde walk together.
There is a Super Enthusiastic Dad too
The other morning she was accompanied by Super Enthusiastic Dad. There’s no way he’s that full-on with his love…surely,I thought. But yes. Super Enthusiastic Mum and Super Enthusiastic Dad are cut from the same cloth. There was twice the amount of “love you’s” twice the amount of kiss-blowing and ten times the laughter because, isn’t it hilarious when you can see your little Girly waving goodbye and shouting I love you from the window? HAHAHAHAHAhahahaha…
No. No Super Enthusiastic Mum and Super Enthusiastic Dad! Calm it down! Every day and every night can’t be the best night! I imagined their ‘best nights ever’ – nipple tassles, belly dancing and shimmies while they sloshed Cristal around their palace made of gold.
Is Sainsburys that exciting?
The other day I saw Super Enthusiastic Mum, Super Enthusiastic Dad and Super Enthusiastic Girlies in our local supermarket. I was ahead of them and unrecognisable without children (Super Enthusiastic Mum doesn’t have time to be worrying about who other people are). I discreetly watched them from the aisle ends, lurking in the milk fridges while they (loudly) danced around the cheese. My shoulders dipped at the peacefulness of my shop. I had to remind myself that shopping with two children is actually a different kind of hell involving at the very least a half eaten bag of apples, a nibbled baguette and eventually sweets from the banned list, culminating in me asking a very grumpy checkout operator desperate to go on their break whether they have a bin for the brown apples cores and slimy banana skins I’m placing into their hands. How does the Super Fam even make this look fun?! As I quietly smile at the checkout lady scanning my items, they catch me up. Well…three of them do. The other Girly is at the other end of the supermarket slowly dawdling along. HA! I think. Enthusiasm, volume and laughter do not make children perfect! Then Super Enthusiastic Dad runs out and says “Run to me babe! Come on! Run as fast as you can and I’ll throw you in the air!”. She comes running with a big smile on her face and I chastise myself for imagining him tripping over a trolley. They all roll about laughing when she runs over. Stupid, perfect Super Enthusiastic Fam, I think.
I shouldn’t be so mean. I’m not actually that grumpy, I just sound it. They’re just so…..bouncy! And keen! And enthusiastic! There is always that one Mum who is the Tequila Sunrise to your Dark ‘N’ Stormy. The one who makes you question yourself. Do I worry enough? Do I work too much? Am I too snappy? Do I kiss them enough? And this Super Enthusiastic Mum is mine. I know deep down that we’re trying to do the same thing bringing up independent, well rounded and happy little people in our own way. That’s our job. Being a Mum is a leveller, you realise that we all have the same intentions. We are all cocktails of similar ingredients when you get down to it.
I go back to the car and look at myself in the rear-view mirror. I know that what they have is actually very lovely. How fabulous to be so chirpy all the time. Imagine your glass not only being half full but constantly bubbling over with possibility and imagination? We try for this but we just have a few more shades of grey in our life. We can’t help it. And actually….I quite like it. It’s more us. We’re just not the loud and bouncy types. I look back to the mirror and practice smiling and say “hi” and “love you!” in my loudest voice. I wobble my head from side to side and try to smile for longer than two minutes. It makes my face ache. I sneer and go back to my resting bitch face. That’s better.
Thanks for reading this far! How kind! In the unlikely event that you are Super Enthusiastic Mum reading this, please don’t be offended. Know that I admire your energy and love. I promise to try and be more like you. If you’re not her, and are a slightly-grumpy-in-the-morning soul like myself then please do share with your Super Enthusiastic friends so they begin to understand what they do to us – Facebook, Twitter & Instagram. Until next time my friends.
by jessheagren | Feb 11, 2018 | Bad Mum, First Year, Good Mum, Lists of Things, Motherhood, Parenting
We have all had it. The well meaning comments or questions from people that you can’t believe come from a good place. The face just doesn’t match the voice! Here are my favourite from the list of things people say when you have a baby…
You look well! – You’re still fat!
Wow you look incredible! Really incredible! I can’t believe it! – Where’s your baby bump and how the hell did you get so thin so quickly? Bitch. (I’ve not experienced this one myself)
How’s she sleeping? – Shit! I didn’t know they did eye bags in that shade and size!
How are you feeding? – If it’s not the same as me you’re doing it wrong.
When can we go and drink prosecco? – You’ve been so boring recently.
Soon enough, you won’t remember the pain of labour – I tried my best to block out the hideousness of what happened to me but I will NEVER forget how your much it hurt when my child tore my vagina apart.
She’s so peaceful! – She doesn’t cry all the time you liar.
Your baby is so cute! – He looks like every other baby and I wouldn’t recognise it if I fell over it.
Oh sweet! – I’m not really interested in what you’re saying.
All babies look like Winston Churchill – Your baby looks like Winston Churchill.
Who does she look like? – I can’t see any of your husband in her, are you sure she’s his?
I’m sure mine was talking/walking/any-other-milestone by now – Behind already. Looking at you two, I can’t say I’m surprised.
Bluebell Apple… what a unique baby name! – Why would you torture your child with a name like that?
What a cute… baby. What is its name? – I am politely trying to figure out if your baby is a boy or a girl.
It’s amazing how much stuff you accumulate when you have a baby, huh? – Your house is a pigsty.
He’s really got a set of lungs on him! – I want to leave. Now.
It’s great you’ve been able to find the time to post so many pictures on Facebook! – I’m sick of your kids face.
Would you like me to watch the baby while you take a shower or something? – You smell.
Thanks to everyone for their submissions! Send me yours below, on Twitter (@makinglittleppl) or via Facebook and I’ll add my favourites to the list. If you’ve enjoyed this post, please like and share. Interaction really boosts my confidence and encourages me to write more. More blog posts available here.
by jessheagren | Feb 11, 2018 | Bad Mum, Good Mum, Motherhood, Multiple Children, My journey, Poo, Second child
It’s not often in your life that you buy a house, have a baby and quit your job in the space of 12 months. All this change has left me feeling reflective and I’m drawing some strange parallels. For example, friendships, if you think about it, are just like poo…
Girly no2 is having digestive issues. At 14 months, she’s really struggling with her poo. I think it’s quite common as the nurse wasn’t at all surprised when I told her that Husband and I had spent the weekend pulling poo from her bum. Nor did the girls at nursery, though they did at least pull a slightly disgusted face, much like the one on your face now. We spoke to the doctors after two gruelling days of grunting and sweating from her, and us. It culminated in us pinning her clammy little body to the floor, bicycling her legs and grabbing hold of the big brown log peeking in and out like a tortoise head, eventually pulling it out. Yuck.
It’s just not the relaxing family Sunday you picture when you imagine what life will be like. After cleaning the carpets, towels and bath mats and scooping up nappy sacks full of skid-marked nappies, we flopped onto the bed exhausted staring at the wall and wondering what had just happened. As we laid there, not speaking just touching little fingers, my mind wondered to the three pictures we have hanging above our bed.
Then, Then and Now
The first picture is of us at our wedding dancing happily around a grassy maze (you have to see it to understand) posed, but real at the same time. The second picture is us with Girly no1 when she is about 6 months old looking baffled by life. We all were. We (I) look pretty good in this picture, mainly due to all the fake tan, bleached hair, whitened teeth and, ahem, Photoshop-ing I demanded. I needed it, I didn’t know what was going on. The third picture is of the four of us as we are now, taken on my birthday last year looking happy, if not slightly tired and chubby (again, me). It was right before we dropped the babies off with Mum-In-Law to go out with friends for my birthday. A completely different set of friends to the ones that watched us dance in the maze at our wedding. Which I think is kind of sad.
We had a small wedding in Italy attended by just 34 people. I think there are at least 10 of those people that aren’t in our lives any more. Isn’t that really sad? I voiced this to Husband and he looked up and said “they’re all pricks, it’s not our fault” then immediately went back to making lion noises with the Girlies. I later voiced it to my besty, The Northerner, who is not known for her delicacy with words – “yeah that is bad, what you doin’ wrong?”.
More interested in analysing it with me than Husband, who prefers to deal in facts, figures and Twitterati, we went through the list. There were some obvious reasons for some of them, the ones that sued my Dad after our UK reception (yep, that happened), one family member that hasn’t spoken to me since our connecting family member died (obviously waiting for a reason to never have to talk to me again) and a couple of people from work who should never have been there in the first place and have since placed career over friendship (enjoy that in your old age, suckers!). Then there are the less obvious people, the ones from whom we just seem to have drifted apart.
We talked about how dynamics just change over time. Partners change, people move, babies come out. I nodded, pensively. “It’s a bit like poo really” I declared, having thought long and hard about it. Met with her blank face, I explained. “You know, sometimes a poo is really hard and difficult to get out, and you need someone else to intervene and tell you what to do. These are like those friends that are just a pain. They’re a drama. They need blood sweat and tears while they’re there, and then you’re left feeling violated afterwards.” She arched an eyebrow which I took to mean she wanted me to go on. “You need a fine white powder to fix these poos (meaning Movicol). With the friend, a fine white powder would result in a sweaty, self-obsessed fidgeting figure with verbal diarrhoea but maybe that’s what they were all along.” As my analogy drifted away from me, she laughed and urged me to go on. “The other end of the spectrum,” I continued, “are the wet, sloppy ones who just get all over the place. They come with a bit of a pain at the time and a bit more afterwards but they’re explosive. They’re your fun-time friends. Great on a Saturday night, but leave you with a hangover so you need a bit of a gap before you see them again!” By this point I couldn’t even keep a straight face but I carried on anyway. “Then there are the really good poos that slip out effortlessly. There’s no cleaning up afterwards. They’re easy. They might have some funny colours and indentations but they’re your funny bits so it’s OK. These are the Holy Grail of friends. The Perfect Turds!”
We fell about laughing and I didn’t say it at the time, but I thought about how she is my perfect poo of a friend. I wish I had recognised it at the time and made her my bridesmaid. I know she’ll be around forever. As will some of the other incredible new friends we have made in the last few years since having our Girlies. People who are so close to us it’s hard to imagine a time when they weren’t in our lives. If we were to have our wedding again now, our ‘now’ 34 would look very different to the ‘then’ 34. Life has changed a lot. But we’re a bigger unit than we used to be, and we know who we are now and what really matters. So maybe it’s OK that friends change. Poo changes too.
As per usual, please share on Facebook or Twitter if you have enjoyed! Thanks for your ongoing support.
by jessheagren | Dec 11, 2017 | Bad Mum, Hangover, Lists of Things, Motherhood, Parenting, Tiredness
We all know it’s a bad idea to drink when you have to be up with the little people the next day. But we still do it. We all become the Hungover Parent. Not me of course. I’ve just heard the rumours…
5.45am Hear a faint rustling of sheets. Lift head. Owwwwww. Check time. Bury face and close eyes hoping everything goes away.
6am Hear rustling and gurgling. Close eyes tighter and pretend to be asleep.
6.05am Sick burp. Mmm jaegermeister.
6.15am Hear Baa Baa Black Sheep over the monitor. Shout into pillow. Faaaaaaaaaaaarck.
6.18am Hear Baby start stretching. Ask Husband “why two” in barely-there-voice. Husband growls.
6.30am Lie straight on edge of bed whilst being hit in the face with comforter. Wish you had gone on milk run.
6.32am Agree that Peppa Pig is a great idea. Search for 60 minute compilation on YouTube and hit play.
6.33am Lie down and close eyes. Smell something gross.
6.34am Change Baby nappy. Gag. Taste prosecco.
6.37am Sigh heavily at wee on the bed. Cover with a towel and lie on it.
6.40am Close eyes. Drift off to sleep to soothing sounds of Peppa.
6.42am Use wet wipe to clean baby sick out of hair. Retch at smell. Taste vodka.
6.43am Dry heave over toilet
6.45am Stare at Husband’s back imagining what it would be like to hurt him. Try to smile at Baby.
6.47am Clean off clogged up mascara. Put in eye drops. Successful on 3rd time.
6.50am Stare at Baby blinking lots. Try and snuggle in.
6.51am Turn over away from Baby scratching lips and kicking delicate stomach.
6.55am Turn back again to shush baby. Lie patting tummy and making coo-ing noises in gravelly zombie style voice.
7.32am Groan as Peppa finishes. Agree to one last one. Can only find 30 minute compilation. Smile inside and carry on patting Baby
8.02am Offer up stale Digestive in attempt to stave off breakfast.
8.05am Sit up. Take deep breaths. Tell Toddler you’re fine and try not to cry at how you ended up here.
8.10am Put Baby back to bed.
8.20am Pour cereal. Eat cereal.
8.22am Vomit cereal.
8.25am Pick Baby back up before head splits. Put Baby on Husbands back and leave the room quickly.
8.27am Clean up Toddlers spilt cereal.
8.28am Burn toast.
8.30am Eat toast with Toddler. Lie about not remembering the words to “5 Little Ducks”.
8.45am Suggest going to watch more Peppa
8.50am Doze off on sofa
8.54am Wake up being hit in the face with a cup. Provide more water. Down a pint for self.
8.57am Tell Toddler Mummy is fine, tummy just didn’t like the toast. Baby does it all the time, it’s ok.
9am Beg Toddler for cuddles
9.01am Bury face in Toddlers candy floss hair and cuddle round tum.
9.02am Cry when Toddler strokes face and says “I love you, Mummy”.
9.05am Feel guilty for crossly saying no more Peppa. Agree to watch Frozen to say sorry.
9.55am Wake up in panic. Where the hell is Toddler?!
9.57am Relief as see Toddler on kitchen floor surrounded by tubs and lids.
9.58am Annoyed at realise tubs contained rice, pasta and sugar.
10.05am Pause cleaning. More vomit.
10.10am Stomp upstairs to get dressed (and check on Husband and Baby).
10.12am Noisily sing “Let It Go” with Toddler.
10.14am Pick up Baby and snuggle. Smile smugly hearing Husband argue over clothes and relent on Scooby Doo costume.
10.30am Check clock to see if it’s time for Baby to sleep again yet.
10.35am Give Baby more milk to make it be quiet.
10.45am Frantically search for paracetamol and Barocca. Shout down to Husband for tea and crisps.
10.47am Make own tea and get own crisps.
11am Change pooey nappy.
11.03am Vomit up crisps
11.05am Check clock to see if it’s time for Baby to sleep again
11.10am Feel guilty for refusing to do jigsaw on bathroom floor with Toddler.
11.15am Lie on bathroom floor covered in towels pretending to do jigsaw.
11.20am Ask Toddler if she’s tired yet.
11.30am Break out in sweat as doorbell rings.
11.31am Argue with Husband about who’s going to answer door.
11.32am Freeze as hear front door open.
11.33am Run to shower on hearing in-laws voices.
11.34am Make “aaaah” noises in steaming hot shower.
11.40am Continue to stand in steaming hot shower.
11.46am Continue to stand in steaming hot shower.
11.47am Cry after Husband rubs bum against glass and shouts “Here’s Bummy!”
11.50am Start getting dressed really slowly.
12 noon Start countdown. 7 hours til bedtime.
12.10pm Wake up in bra and jeans on bed. Curse under breath.
12.15pm Cough lots to make voice normal. Clean teeth for fourth time.
12.17pm Fake happiness to see everyone. Excuse self to wretch in toilets.
12.30pm Steal cheese from Toddlers lunch. Frantically search cupboards for Mini Cheddars and Coca Cola.
12.35pm Tell everyone hangover is gone.
12.40pm Excuse self to put Toddler to bed.
12.50pm Lie down on bed as new wave of nausea hits
2.07pm Wake up to Toddler shouting “Mummy”. Hear faint baby crying. Groan. A lot.
2.10pm Try and think of reasons not to go to the park.
2.30pm Shiver on bench at park. Text in-laws and apologise for earlier disappearance.
3pm Countdown. 4 hours til bedtime.
3.25pm Argue with Toddler over leaving park.
3.30pm Watch Todler rubbing face in mud in tantrum. Rub face a lot as realise it’s bath night tonight. Then pizza…
3.32pm Drag Toddler by foot back into pram.
4pm Countdown. 3 hours til bedtime.
4.30pm Assume Baby jiggling position. Feel sick again.
5.25pm Defrost Toddler food.
5.30pm Eat half of Toddler food. Half-heartedly argue over ice cream for pudding.
5.32pm Give Toddler ice cream.
5.35pm Day dream about Dominos.
6pm Start move towards stairs muttering about pyjamas.
6.15pm Sniff baby and toddler. Confirm with Husband that baths can wait til tomorrow.
6.25pm Argue with Husband that you’re deserving of giving Baby milk in rocking chair in dimly lit room.
6.30pm Complete journey upstairs
6.40pm Let Toddler run around naked.
6.50pm Agree that Elsa & Ana probably don’t have to clean their teeth every night so we’ll do them twice in the morning.
6.51pm Read stories in best auctioneer voice.
7pm Collapse in exhausted heap on sofa.
7.13pm Accept offer of beer.
7.15pm Wonder why didn’t have beer at 6am.
7.20pm Order Dominos Meal Deal for 4.
8.15pm Devour 2 persons worth of Dominos.
8.25pm Complain about bloating.
8.27pm Pass out on sofa.
10pm Wake up in extreme state of confusion. Climb stairs on all fours.
10.05pm Stare at bed and remember dirty bedsheets. Feel for wet patches.
10.07pm Shrug and get in anyway.
Sound familiar?! Are you a hungover parent?! If so, please like and share on Facebook or Twitter (@makinglittleppl). More blog content here.
by jessheagren | Dec 3, 2017 | Bad Mum, Good Mum, Motherhood, Parenting
Previously, when I considered myself to be a high-flying career gal, I thought the worst word in the world was ‘no.’ “There’s no such word as no! Where there’s a will there’s a way!” I would tell my team enthusiastically. I was wrong. I was stupid and ignorant. The worst word in the world is in fact, ‘The worst thing in the world is a toddler asking you why. All. The. Time.
I like curiosity. I enjoy a thirst for knowledge. Wonderings and philosophising (to a degree) are things I consider to be signs of intelligence. ‘Why?’ from the mouth of a babe is reflective of an innocent mind with so much to learn; a sponge waiting to soak up all that it is presented with; a blob of clay ready to be moulded into a sculpture of tomorrow. I myself like to know the reason behind things. “Just because” has never been a satisfying answer to me. I always want to know why so that I can understand and remember. I used to ask it a lot. I have become slightly more measured in when I use it: “Miss, why is now not a good time to explain what an anus is?” (#truestory from year 10 Biology); but I still think asking why, particularly as an adult, is powerful and that you learn a lot about people and situations. For this reason I will happily answer “Why?” to the best of my ability. I try not to give direction without reason. I don’t expect anyone to blindly follow my instructions, and I am happy to offer explanations. Especially with the Girlies. I am very conscious of it.
With the above in mind, I embrace the word ‘Why?’ from my curly blonde, pale-faced three-year-old. I enjoy the challenge of trying to answer a question in a way she will understand it. Where possible I speak to her like an adult, which has the added bonus of distracting her with trying to repeat whatever word is new to her and she enquires about the meaning rather than the topic, which we have long-since exhausted. This goodwill though, is on my “Good Mum” days. I’m lying. They’re not days. They are patches. Patch is probably too much. Moments. Yes, my Good Mum Moments. You know the times….the first half an hour after they wake up after a lie in…just after you pick them up from school…whilst they’re (silently) eating breakfast. In these times I will happily pontificate as to why eggs have a sunshine in them, or why the colour pink is called pink and not splergimlp. I will patiently provide explanation on why the sky is blue (note: according to Husband, the correct answer is not “it’s a reflection of the sea” but Rayleigh Scattering – dispersion of the colour blue being more visible to the naked eye, to you and I).
But today, I cannot deal with it.
Because today the word ‘why’ does not mean ‘why’. It means I-want-to-drain-every-last-iota-of-energy-from-you-then-knock-you-over-and-stamp-on-your-head:
“Move away from the edge of the sofa or you’ll fall off.”
“Don’t touch the cake pans after they come out of the oven because they are very hot and will burn you.”
“You need to wear your raincoat out to the car because it’s raining and you’ll get wet and cold.”
“Why do I have to wear my raincoat Mummy?”
“You must drink your water or you poo will hurt your bottom.”
“Let’s tie your hair up for nursery so you don’t get nits again. All that shampoo-ing and combing wasn’t very nice, was it?”
“Why wasn’t it very nice Mummy?”
Let me ask you a question. Is my communication unclear? Is there something in my vernacular that fails to provide good reason or justification? Am I stupid, ill-informed or deluded? Have I lost the ability to speak clearly, enunciate or make myself heard? Tough to answer in text form but I hope you trust that I don’t sound that different in real life to how I do in your head. The ‘Why?’ from Girly no1’s mouth is just another habit and comes more easily to her than ‘yes’, ‘no’ or ‘OK’. But because of the things I have outlined above, I feel compelled to answer. She deserves an explanation. If I am to be successful at this mothering thing then I must answer the “Why?” with an appropriate response and expand her little tiny mind. But somebody please tell me, what do you do in this situation – it could go on forever:
“If you put your hair in your sisters hand like that, she will probably pull it.”
“Because your hair is beautiful and curly and she can’t resist giving it a little tug.”
“Because she’s a baby and they give into their urges.”
“Because that’s what babies do.”
“Because of a biological predisposition.”
“I’m out. Ask Doctor Winston.”
At this point a little puff of smoke comes out of my ears and if you listen really carefully, you’ll hear a crackle like a static shock. I should add here that I have tried other things. The coaching technique:
“Why do you think?”
“Ummm….is it because….can you ask me Mummy?”
“Ask you what?”
“Ask me why.”
“Nooooooo Mummy! You ask me!”
“I am asking you…..oh! You mean ‘tell me’….“
“Yes! Can you tell me why?”
She gets cross and frustrated. So do I. She looks as me exasperatedly as if to say you are the adult. My teacher, my parent. Your job is to educate me and tell me why. What good are you to me if you cannot fulfil this one simple request?! So I try again. Until I am out of explanations and I resignedly hang my head, thinking ‘let someone else fill the sponge with whatever it needs.’
“Mummy, I’m wet. My water bottle is wet too. Why am I wet?”
“Because the car in front braked suddenly, so I had to. Sorry darling.”
“Why did the car in front throw water at my face?”
But why Mummy?
I know every child goes through the “Why?” stage. I have heard many a parent growl in frustration as they answer why their beloved brat shouldn’t eat the squashed McDonalds chip that is resting on dried dog poo. Or why wiping snot on your sleeve is so disgusting that it makes the Child Free Folk gag. I try and remind myself that “Why?” is good, curiosity is something to be applauded. I play stupid games to challenge myself to answer questions until I can no longer answer myself. Mostly I laugh. But some days, I sigh. And I say…”just because.”
Am I on my own People?! Please tell me I am not! If you have enjoyed, please like and share! Thanks lovely readers and friends xx
by jessheagren | Apr 11, 2017 | Bad Mum, First Year, Good Mum, Husband, Lists of Things, Parenting, Poo, Tiredness
This list is Things You Might Feel in the First Year. You might not feel them but I sure did.
5 mins post delivery: Elation, disbelief and tears. Shit. A human just came out of me. Did anyone else see that?! Other than the 45 people that were in here at the time?
30 mins: Exhaustion, awe and gooey mushiness. Look at it. Just look at it. Wow.
3 hours: Disbelief. Slight concern that Baby won’t be quiet and I don’t know how to look after it. Where’s the thing you press to call the midwife? Can she come home with us? Feed it more. Pain killers wearing off, down below feeling a little bruised.
6 hours: Uncomfortable. Fanny and arse on fire, can’t sit down. Shifting uncomfortably from left bum cheek to right helps. Want to go home.
12 hours: Drained but excited. Babies in ward waking up constantly. Mine slept, I got 5 hours! I’ve got this Mum shit down! Can’t wait to get home.
12.5 hours: Embarrassed. Just been told off for not waking Baby up every 3 hours. How was I supposed to know?!
1 day: Impatient. Still waiting for going home papers. Still can’t sit down.
1.5 days: Panicked. Just had midwife spiel on all the things you should and shouldn’t do, the appointments you have to make, the legal requirements you’re supposed to remember. What have I done? Who thought this was a good idea? Lower half of body in excruciating pain after jumping up to gather leaflets in eagerness to demonstrate how good a mother I’m going to be.
1.7 days: Delighted. Walking (shuffling) through the double doors out of the hospital with sleepy little baby. This is going to be marvellous!
1.75 days: Sluggish. Wondering who drove a bus into your vagina and whether you’ll tick over to 24 hours parking since that’s how long this 200m walk to the car is going to take.
1.8 days: Overjoyed. Home! Back into gooey mushiness and gazing wonderment, especially as all it does is sleep! I love it!
2 days: Terrified. What the fuck? Who let me bring this thing home? I don’t know how to look after a child! Why does it keep making that noise? Oh….the Baby has gone green. It’s covered in poo. That’s ok. I can handle poo even if it does go from ears to toes. Cleaning is fine. Pretend it’s a dirty frying pan. What’s next? Don’t worry about what’s next. One thing at a time. Deal with the shit.
3 days: Worried. Unable to remember the last time I closed my eyes and that high pitched wail didn’t pierce my ear drum. Arse and fanny swollen to the size of a house. Just want to sleep for 12 hours like before it got here.
4 days: Tearful. Boobs swollen to watermelons. Wondering when I might not feel like I’ve been run over by a bus forwards, backwards and forwards again.
5 days: Mortified and Irritated. Wet patches on my top. Milk keeps seeping through in front of my father in law. Sick of the smell of flowers, they keep making me sneeze. Baby sleeps on all visitors then does nothing but wail for me. Go away! It’s my Baby!
One week: Annoyed. Thought “sleeping like a baby” was a thing?
Two weeks: Shit! Got a cold. Fanny stinging constantly and only relieved when crab walking naked round house. Found all the leaflets from the midwife and haven’t done any of it. So, so tired. And Husband is a dick.
Three weeks: Amazed. 4 consecutive hours sleep last night! New. Woman. Still feel like eyeballs have been sandpapered but can survive on this. Only 40 minutes late to friends house today. Winning! Bits are itchy but bearable. Love Husband, he’s so great.
3.1 weeks: Disappointed. Aaaaargh! Must have been a one off. Back to 3 90 minute blocks of sleep. Why hasn’t stupid Husband got boobs?! Think I might die of sleep deprivation. Cuddled the checkout boy in Tescos by accident. Call mum begging for her to take the Baby away. Call back 10 minutes later to cancel, guilt set in. Such a bad Mother. Didn’t mean it. Promise. Missed doctors appointment altogether as caught in a poo-eat-sick spiral. Begged for new appointment. Fanny relief came in the form of a cream. Why didn’t they send me away from the hospital with this?!
4 weeks. Defeated. Can’t take this. Babies shouldn’t have such stupidly small stomachs. Whose idea was it to have a baby anyway?
5 weeks: Elated! Baby smiled! Love it so much! It’s so cute, look at this!
6 weeks: Hopeful. Black clouds are clearing. Last 3 nights had 2 lots of 4 consecutive hours’ sleep. That smile…
6.5 weeks: Delirious. Doctor talked about sex at 6 week check. Laughed all the way home. Then cried when saw Husband. Please don’t run away with Hot Receptionist with her stupid in-tact fanny.
8 weeks: Furious. Why the fuck are you stabbing my baby with all these diseases? I’m not coming back for the next set of immunisations, this is ridiculous.
9 weeks: Ashamed. Tried that thing the doctor said about. Fanny is a cave. It will never be the same again. Cried during sex. Husband will never touch me again. Just take him Hot Receptionist…
11 weeks: Satisfied. Tried “it” again in spare bedroom after Baby fell asleep on our bed. It was ok. Bit like being 16, but ok. Will leave handcuffs and lingerie in the drawer for a while longer yet.
3 months: Knowledgable. Researched immunisations and decided to go back. Resisted punching doctor. Gave advice to another Mum in docs waiting room. Feel like a hero. I know stuff! Feeling brighter. Accepting of new life. Wish I could get back in my jeans for date night.
4 months: Organised. Routine established. Days have structure. Baby wakes up at 3am then 7am. Do-able. Joined gym. Have the occasional thought about going back to work, throat swells up.
5 months: Confused. Weaning? Is like weeing? Thought potty training was ages away. Must talk to other Mums.
5.5 months: More confused than ever. Buy blender. And bananas. And rice. Basmati?
5.6 months Wrong rice. Return it and buy Baby rice.
6 months: Exasperated. Routine lost. Spend all day feeding. Shit stinks.
6.5 months: Betrayed. Dada?! Are you kidding me?
7 months: Trepidation. Err….it moved. WTF? This house is a danger zone.
8 months: Anxious. Why must everything go in the mouth?! You can’t eat Babybel wax! Wish it would lie still again.
9 months: Heartbroken. “Keep In Touch” day at work. Cry on train. Cry in toilets at work. Call home seven times. Run back to the train station and snap heel on new shoes. Don’t care. Don’t let go of Baby for 3 hours. Re-do finances and research working at local nursery.
10 months: Pained. Back killing from holding baby upright so it can walk. Can’t you just crawl again?
11 months: Focused. Spend all day on knees with arms around Baby making a cage to stop it falling on face. Bump on head from last week. Am waiting for Social Services to knock on door. Finally able to do button up on pre baby jeans. Now to lose muffin top.
12 months: Proud and Reminiscing. Made it to a year! Baby is so big and so clever! More so than every other baby at nursery. It’s gone too fast! Remember how cute it was? Remember that sniffly noise it used to make? Big sigh. Maybe we could go away for the weekend and drink and lie in like grown ups. Remember when we used to lie in? Remember how much fun Friday nights were? Remember when parents used to say all those cliche things and we’d roll our eyes but now we know they’re all true? Don’t care….love new life.
Recognise any of these as things you feel in the first year?! Send yours in via the Making Little People Facebook page or on Twitter (@makinglittleppl). More blog posts available here.