There seems to me to be three types of toddler. There’s the angry-stampy-throwing-on-the-floor type; there’s the manic-shouty-running-circles-around-mum kind; then there’s my one. The whiney-melodramatic-crying-about-everything-that-hasn’t-happened kind…
Before you have children, when you are very much in the “eww…kids” phase of life, you see these snotty whining clingy children and can’t help but sneer. Urgh. Why would you want one of those noisy soggy limpets hanging off of you all the time? No thank you. When eventually you start to open your mind to the possibility of a child, you imagine your quiet, polite, funny if you’re lucky, little mini-me as something of an accessory to delight in, and show off. Then you blink and find yourself staring down at the stringy little runner bean wrapped around your ankle emitting a tortuous noise that makes you want to shoot yourself in the head. You wonder how this happened. I was adamant I wouldn’t have a whingey, whiney child. Much rather a boisterous opinionated one that stamps and shouts – at least it would have a backbone. Alas it was not meant to be. A whingey whiney very-almost-three-year-old is exactly what I have. My days are bombarded with a whining sound that can only be compared with an air raid siren from WWI. “wwwwWWWWHHHAAAAAaaaaaa wwwwWWWWHHHAAAAAaaaaaa”. Unaccompanied by tears but loud enough to make the old deaf guy over the road turn his head – it’s deafening. It’s alarming and stress-inducing. It comes unexpectedly and at the drop of a hat. Any threat of pain or unwanted suggestion of activity. “Whaaaaa I fell over” – “but you didn’t bleed”; “whaaaa I tripped up” – “but you didn’t actually fall”; “whaaaa a wasp just flew near me” – “but it was the other side of the window”; “whaaa I don’t like it Mummy” – “but you haven’t even tried it.” It drives me to distraction. It turns me into a horrible mother. “WHY ARE YOU CRYING!?” I find myself yelling unsympathetically at my little girl 25 times a day. Shocked bystanders hold their phones in their hands threatening to call social services when they see her sad face, giant eyes and scrunched up features. “THERE’S NOTHING WRONG WITH YOU!” I bark at her. I’m not unsympathetic. Like any mother, my stomach lurches when she runs too fast. My jaw sets when another child says something mean. My shoulders rise when she walks into something. I very much worry for her and when she is genuinely hurt, my love and cuddles are abundant. But only when there are genuine tears. The whining noise that has become the soundtrack to my life is more than I can bear. “wwwwWWWWHHHAAAAAaaaaaa”. I see the child-free sneer with distaste. She has become the anti-advert for starting a family. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Those golden curls were meant to be symbolic of her angelic-ness. An actual angel, not a pretend one. Her little face was meant to draw people in, not make them turn away in disgust when they hear her. The noise gets worse when she is tired, louder and more frequent. Every little thing sets her off….”whaaaa I need a drink”; “whaaaa she tried to touch me”; “whaaa I need a wee”. JUST GO TO THE BLOODY TOILET THEN!
After a particularly bad week not long ago, I decided enough was enough. Enter Evil Mum. The next time she stumbled but didn’t actually trip I continued walking. As the wailing became louder, I brusquely said “is there blood or are there broken bones? No? Then stop crying”. The next incident was some water down her front in a restaurant. “It will dry” I said, and kept on eating. Next time, in the park she actually fell. But no blood, no tears, no scratches, not even a pink graze. The moaning crescendo’d….I had had enough. “STAND UP. Why are you crying? Just stop it. Let’s go on the slide.” The other mums all looked aghast. I realised I looked cold but it had become ridiculous. Being firm now is the only thing that worked. The siren reduced to a whimper and eventually tailed off leaving just the sound of gossiping parents. We carried on like this for a week. Evil Mum conquered the whine siren. For a while, anyway.
I hate being mean. It makes me sad. I don’t want to be horrible to her but I genuinely believe it to be attention seeking, and it grates on me like little else in the world. I want her to know I love her but making that noise will not be the thing that elicits affection. I always try and think about how this behaviour manifests itself later in life. She will be the class cry-baby. The teenage sour face. The adult moaner. The wet weekend. The drip. People will roll their eyes when they think about spending time with her. It would be no good for her in the long term to let this carry on. A little tough love now will be good for her in the long run, particularly as this is nothing deeper-routed than a cry for Mummy and Daddy’s attention. I find it suspicious that the ramped-up whining coincided with the arrival of no2. But being mean when she cries feels horrible and it makes me feel bad. At night, before we go to bed, I go in to her bedroom and stroke her angelic blonde curls, kissing her soft chubby cheeks. I tell her I’m sorry I’m not more patient and that I can’t be more like the Mums that don’t snap. I tell her I love watching her go down her slide and that I love how inquisitive she is. I love her impatience, it reminds me of me. I love her frustration that she’s not more independent. I love that she expects to be able to do everything straight away. I love that she can’t talk when she first wakes up. I love that she randomly gives me kisses and cuddles when she’s in the middle of playing. I love that she says I’m her best friend and likes to hold my hand. I love that she can almost write her name (with lots of l’s and a special i-dot). I love all of her. But fucking hell she can be hard work!
The whining has eased off for now. It’s nice that I don’t have to be cold and callous in front of the nice sing-song mums all the time. It comes back every now and then and we have lots of chats about being brave and not crying about things that haven’t happened. It’s OK to cry when we’re sad or scared or hurt, but not for no reason, my little girl who cried wolf. Child psychologists may tell me this isn’t the way to handle this situation but like many other things as a parent, we do what we think is best. I’m sure friends, teachers and she herself will thank us in the long term. I hope so anyway. Wine is the only whine we want in our lives, my love.
Share with me your own tips on handling your toddlers’ whining either below or on the Facebook post. Thanks for stopping by! xx
The girl who whined wolf
Last week I talked a lot about vagina anxiety and the unknown of getting back to “normal” but it’s not just my vagina, I want to feel normal again. Maybe even a bit cool so I can fit back in to my old London stomping ground. But I’m a Mum now. And the only cool in my life seems to be the temperature of my baby’s feet in a footless babygrow…
Before I start, I feel I should caveat this post for the purposes of people that know me, who will be sat there thinking “she was never cool! How deluded is this woman?!” She was a geek! The cool I talk about is “my cool”. The version of myself when I actually feel good. When I actually style an outfit, pair coordinating accessories with matching shoes; where I get dressed up and go out for the day feeling sexy and confident; strutting into bar and ordering a drink with a smile on my face surveying the other people, checking out their faces and outfits; cracking jokes and laughing with people I’ve not met before; having no worries, just being and feeling cool. Basically all the things I definitely don’t feel after I have a baby.
A child-free friend of mine was telling me the other day about a night out with her sister, who has a baby roughly the same age as my Girly no2 (9 months). She had spent hours before their night out jollying her sister along to get her out of the door and drunk. She described how her sister didn’t know what to wear, then she didn’t like her outfit, then that her make up felt tired, then that her shoes were too high. Then when it came to leave she had a wobble and didn’t want to go – they were off out in London to be surrounded by beautiful, young cool kids. “I know exactly how she feels” I answered emphatically, knowing that my friend didn’t really understand and was probably a little annoyed at having to give her so much encouragement when she should just be grateful for being out. I recognised every feeling from my own first big night(s) out after having no1, and then I went through it again with no2. It wasn’t any easier the second time around, other than that I was expecting the discomfort – though I think that made it worse. London seems to be much worse than a night out in your local pub. Even having lived in London for 7 or so years, it feels intimidating. At 8 and three quarters months pregnant, we moved back to Hampshire where we had both grown up. It was totally the right decision for us, I love bringing our babies up surrounded by green, near parks, lakes, beaches and lots of other families. Plus being near their grandparents is vital, for their sakes, and ours. We wouldn’t get out at all if it wasn’t for them! But lots of our life is still in London – friends, work and things we enjoy doing. It means that we regularly go back. The difference now though is that I don’t feel the same there. I don’t feel quite cool enough to fit into London now. Whilst I’m not officially a country bumpkin and I haven’t quite got to the “that big bad city” feeling whereby I need to plan my journey to the end, don my walking boots and walk round with the tube map on a clipboard, I can’t just waltz in feeling like a Londoner now. I even haven’t got an Oyster card, even though they’re all but redundant now contactless cards exist. I feel like my clothes don’t fit right, even though anything goes up there. My make up feels weird on my face, even though you can be a 60-year old man in drag and people won’t gawp. I feel like I use the wrong words, even though I know that there is every nationality you could imagine, it’s like an after party at the Olympic Village, there is no common vernacular. I feel I have nothing exciting to talk about because the most exciting place I went this week is the soft play with the cow print slide, even though I know my friends and family think what I am doing is exciting in itself. The truth is that it’s not really about cool, about London, about the people or the outfit, it’s about me having changed and not quite knowing how to be cool with myself anymore. It’s hard when your life is so dramatically different to how it used to be. A few weeks ago I took the girlies to a baby dance class. The first part wasn’t so bad. We sat on the floor, picked out fluffy toys and sang the corresponding nursery rhyme. A little cringey when there are only two other adults in the room and you can her your own trodden-on-cat-like singing voice, but it’s do-able. Then we got to the one about the elephant and his nose and his knees and we had to stand up and do this weird dance. I should add here that we were in a glass-fronted foyer of a church where people regularly walk by. As we were bending down to touch our toes exposing our muffin-top mum tums in the worst possible way, a group of teenagers walked by in their uniforms and I just wanted to run and hide in the toilets. I imagined them all pointing and laughing and was taken back to being 13 and a Kicker-clad classmate asking me if I was still bought my shoes in Clarke’s. It was a foot stomp too far from cool for me. At 35 years old, and a mother of two, I am well aware that this is ridiculous. Singing and dancing for your children is cool, it’s exactly what they love. And I love doing it too. In my house. With no one watching. We love a kitchen disco. I just can’t bring myself to do the elephant stomp in front of see-through walls and a group of teenagers.
As well as high waisted jeans, 4-inch heels and denim shorts with at least a finger lengths fabric either side of the gusset, I am no longer cool in lots of other ways. My purse has trebled in size – I need somewhere to put my Sparks, Advantage, Nectar, Body Shop and JoJo loyalty cards. I always carry a pack of tissues and some antibacterial hand spray – especially if in London! I have a paper diary to keep track of everyone’s commitments. I have a rain coat. I only wear thongs if I have to. I listen to radio 2, and embarrassingly, I enjoy some parts of Jeremy Vine’s show. Sister can list a load more things, as she thoroughly enjoys reminding me of all the ways I am no longer cool. I try and hang on to some shred of my old life with the little things. I keep up my Grazia subscription, even though I only read one in four. I always have a pedicure when my toenails need doing. I have a limited edition print pram. I have a handbag-looking changing bag (Storksak obvs!). I have Hunters with laces down the front for jumping in muddy puddles. And I only go the baby groups that I can bear…mum and baby yoga, swimming and baby sensory. Although even this last one breaches my new cool limits sometimes. I can’t help but feel like an idiot singing to a fluffy duck whilst my baby frowns and then looks the other way. Life is different now though. My need to be practical and fit in with my babies wildly outweighs my desire to be cool. The changes in me aren’t a negative, they just make it that little bit harder for me to be like I used to. I was reminded of this when my child-free friend asked me a few weeks ago, as she has for every festival we have been to together, which outfits I was taking to Latitude. It hit me like a bus that I didn’t even know what I had packed for myself, but I did know that I had 4 packs of wet wipes, a clean bed sheet for every night and up to four layers for each of the girls’ bed time outfits. For me I assumed it was the same stuff I normally wore to roll around on the grass in and maybe an extra necklace and a ring or two. When I opened my suitcase, I was right. I was in no danger of escaped pubic hairs sticking out of my too-short-shorts and nor would I suffer a ripped ear lobe from an irresistibly dangly earring. Practical but not cool.
I have accepted that there is a new cool me now. It’s remarkably different to the one from before. It no longer matters whether I go to Brownies or whether I’m playing Roll With It or House In The Country. I can’t remember the last time anyone questioned me on my jeans then sneered, apart from that time I told my Husband how much they actually cost of course. There will always be a new cider I don’t recognise and can’t pronounce in a bar in London, and I might be a bit behind the trend on which shade of ash blonde my hair should be, but there are ways of blending Mum cool with London cool, it just takes a bit of figuring out. Finding the things that really matter is the first step – mine is my feet, a vague awareness of current fashion trends and the odd accessory that makes me feel self-indulgent. Not worrying about it is the next one. But I’m not sure that will happen until the cool kids of Brick Lane start doing the elephant stomp.
Thanks for taking time out to read this! As usual, I really love to hear from you. Reactions, thoughts, inspirations or even wild disagreements and accusations of lunacy. Please share below or over on my Facebook page. Love love!
How YOU doin?
I had Girly no2 9 months ago and started this blog not long after. I never really stopped to think about what people would say, I certainly didn’t expect some of the lovely comments I receive. Most unexpected though, was that people would regularly ask me how my vagina was. It still happens now…
(Dads, there is a lot of Vagina in this week’s blog. Let that be your warning!)
I started writing this blog because I was genuinely perturbed at what I had experienced during childbirth. And how, despite the fact I already had a child, this time it all felt new again. Not the baby bit, that was pretty similar, but the “me” bit. How I felt, physically and emotionally. I put pen to paper (well, finger to screen), showed my husband and sister what I had written, and was told that I absolutely must share my thoughts with the world. I had visions of the group of girls that plagued my school years starting a club whereby they met up each week to read it and laugh. But then I remembered I didn’t give a shit about them and that actually there were people in my life whose opinions I did care about and they thought I was honest and funny, which was what I was going for. I genuinely never really thought about what the other people would say. I definitely didn’t stop to think about the secrets people would share with me. I never expected to learn about vaginal physiotherapiy (yep, that’s a thing); about what the right amount of drunk is to have sex for the first time after childbirth; or what THINX were (sanitary wear, if you’re not in the know either). None of this occurred to me until quite a few blogs had been posted. You see you don’t get much back online. Some of you are kind enough to like or share my posts, but I don’t see people smile or sneer as they read. I just assume people start to read and get bored, shrug and move on. I often wonder if it’s worth continuing to share my thoughts with the world until I see someone face to face that I haven’t seen in a while. At that point almost everyone mentions it and, more importantly, tells me how much it resonates and makes them laugh. After that, I hear all sorts – and I love it! Not because I’m nosey (I totally am) but because it makes me feel like what happened to my body 9 months ago and ever since, has happened to so many other people. In fact, worse has happened to other people. And I don’t feel like quite so much of a drama queen.
Childbirth is of course shocking and most people have some horror to share. I continue to be surprised, though, by what happens in the year after childbirth. I’ve heard more than one story about women whose pelvises have been so broken as the baby came out that they have had to have physiotherapy to put them back together again. Literally like Humpty Dumpty. But instead of 10,000 horses and 10,000 men it’s taken 10,000 pelvic floors and 10,000 leg lifts. The word prolapse was not even in my vocabulary before this blog. I’ve spoken to people who have experienced a vaginal prolapse. Their baby has literally taken their body with them as it tried to squeeze them out. You know why you shouldn’t run in the first 6 weeks after birth? Because your vagina might fall out. If you are lucky enough to have successfully ejected your baby, and your bones are back in the right place and your vagina hasn’t fallen out, then eventually you might make it through to the point where you think about having sex again. Besides dryness and tightness-paranoia, I haven’t heard too many stories about this. Mostly because people don’t like talking about it. No one wants to voice their inner fear about having a vagina like a cave that no penis can reach the walls of, and the worry that their partner might run away to some one with a tubigrip vagina. This one really goes on too, I’m not sure you ever stop thinking about whether your vagina will go back to normal, wondering whether your partner secretly longs for your old-school-vag. But it gets better and better until you’re back to whatever tickles your pickle again as you get braver and braver and stop having visions about sex re-tearing you from front to back. No doubt after that some time after that your periods will come back depending on feeding, contraceptives etc. At this point, more never-considered-before hurdles. Thinking I could just whack a Tampax in and continue about my day recently, I walked out of the bathroom like someone who had just sat inappropriately on a (very dry) telegraph pole. What is that?! No one had mentioned this before, just another joyous reminder of childbirth. A few Googles later, I’ve found nothing formal on the subject, just a load of Mumsnet threads of people experiencing the same tampon discomfort I have. Proffered explanations range from scar tissue dryness right through to needing a bottle-sized tampon. I’m going with the first explanation. Some people say it never goes, others say 2 or 3 periods later it will be fine. Either way, not fun and definitely not anticipated. Alternatives? Nappy like sanitary towels; Mooncups, which are egg cups that fit inside you to catch it all requiring manual emptying – not my bag, thanks; or the newly available THINX – pants that soak it all up and you wash them along with everything else. With the pants there is apparently no smell, they’re environmentally friendly, and they don’t rustle like a pair of paper trousers. I’m still undecided myself, but luckily I have another three weeks to think about it.
The post-childbirth body has been well documented by many more competent writers than I. I think the most confident of people have moments where they long for their pre-baby body. I assume most people like me search the internet for pictures of Kourtney Kardashian and Heidi Klum in a bikini, zooming in, obsessively searching for signs of wrinkled skin and stretch marks. Or under-eye shadows on Amal Clooney and Princess Katherine. Any Facebook beach shots from beautiful friends with multiple children I wonder why their boobs don’t look like just-emptied udders. It’s easy to obsess over other people and the difference between now you and pre-baby you. But in time you have to accept the things you can’t change back, and move on. I am very lucky in that Husband is amazing when it comes to my body and constantly reminds me of what I have done for him. He only ever notices the good things and anything he really can’t argue away (like the Braille underground map on my belly), “battle scars” he says, gazing adoringly at our two little girls, “I don’t care. I don’t see them”. That helps. And it reminds me to find my inner confidence and be proud of what I have achieved. He still finds me beautiful, and I’m not really that different on the outside….besides the bulging rounded tummy, the ridge over my csection scar, my one-shoe-size bigger feet, and the 3+ increase in ring size. They don’t matter. So if ever you were wondering how I, and my vagina, are since the first few blogs, I’m good! I’ve come a long way since those first few weeks where I felt like someone had set fire to my pelvis, and whilst my vagina might not be exactly as it once was, it’s OK. Healing still, but getting better all the time. My paranoia about sex has greatly reduced, all thanks to my Husband who says (and does!) all the right things. I don’t care if he’s lying, what he says makes me feel like I need to, for both of our sakes.
There’s so much talk after birth about getting our bodies back in shape, I never anticipated all these other things. We don’t just worry about getting our figures back; whether the fact that we cried every day for a week means we have post natal depression and whether that look on your babys’ face means she will be a psychopath, it goes beyond the first few weeks. The first year is full of surprises, mostly around the revelation that “normal” is no longer something you know and probably never will know in quite the same way. It takes a year for my tummy not to be rounded to the point where I could pass for being 12-weeks pregnant. I have fat fingers and feet that will never go back to their original size and have reduced my pre-child-and-therefore-extensive shoe and jewellery collection by half. I manically do pelvic floor exercises every day lest I leave a trail of wee or, even worse, period blood behind me or be the butt of a “that-baby-just-fell-out” joke from the boys. But the truth is, that you never really go back to normal. There’s a new normal you, and it just takes a bit of getting used to. I do think we should do each other a favour and talk about more of this gross stuff though, we would accept our new selves far more quickly. So next time we meet for a coffee, or if you’re feeling brave then leave a comment, tell me your “new you” woes and how you came to terms with them because I’ll bet me, or one of my friends, will be going through exactly the same thing.
Thanks as always for stopping by. I look forward to your comments. If you need a backing track for reading this blog, I would choose My Sharona, obviously replacing Sharona with vagina. See you soon! xx
Hello, how is your vagina?
This week has been a bit quieter than usual – it’s been rainy and grey and our normal haunts have been invaded by the “big kids” on their holidays. I’ve been going through photos picking the best ones to put on our 8-month-old-but-already-children-stained walls, wondering how on earth so much time has passed already….
Girly no2 is almost 9 months old and growing up crazily quickly. I can’t bear it. I keep wanting to hit pause on this phase of rolling around cooing, holding her toes and lifting her little (big) head like a meerkat. I have wanted this at every point since she emerged (far too polite a word for what happened). Girly no1 is 3 in 9 weeks and I’m already doing that annoying thing that all parents do of asking Husband how did we get here? Where have 3 years gone? How have we been parents for 3 bloody years?! It has gone so fast. She was a snuffling warthog that learnt to roll, then sat up, then ate, then crawled, then walked and then went from chubby little toddler to this slender (and slightly weird) little girl who asks me my favourite colour 14 times a day and says things at bed time like “tell Daddy to bring the telescope home from the garden at the pub”. I don’t know what this means or how she knows what a telescope is but I am in awe of how all these things have happened in the last 34 months. My baby is catching her up. When I see no2 with her face in the rug and her bum in the air shuffling to reach something she isn’t allowed, I know crawling is close and I want to hold her exactly where she is now. Not in a suffocating-her-in-the-rug way, just in a don’t-grow-so-fast way. She produces new sounds each day, we’ve gone from ba-ba-ba to ta-ta and da-da (no hint of ma-ma, second traitor in the family) and she’ll be waving and clapping before I know it. Having gone through it once before, I know what comes next and I know it’s thick and fast from here on out.
I don’t sit around weeping over future school uniforms or envisage packing them up for university but I do stare dreamily at my babies – trying to memorise every moment. I film them both, sometimes obsessively. I spend ages on my phone when they’re in bed deleting blurred shots and ruining Game of Thrones saying “look what she did today…” to Husband, who has worn the marks off the pause button on our Sky remote. I try and remember to write down silly things no1 has said and to capture crazy situations so that my parenting highs and lows are there to be read by them later. They’ll want to know about the many times they poo’d on Daddy, the time he accidentally licked some of their poo off of the back of his hand thinking it was curry; or the time they pee’d on the model sofa in the poshest sofa shop in Surrey and Mummy didn’t know what to do so just pretended it hadn’t happened; won’t they?
I hate all the old cliches like “every second is one you can’t get back” but annoyingly, like most other things I’ve discovered since becoming a parent, it’s true. Everyone says -where does the time go? We know where it goes, it just passes us by. When you have children it passes at breakneck speed. Once something is learnt and progress is made, it’s never the same again. Your babies change and grow constantly. You don’t want it to be the same forever, but part of you thinks ‘I do’. You just want to drink up the present into your body and slow it down so you can recall and relive it at any given moment. There was an episode of Black Mirror (if you’ve not watched it, you must) where everyone had an implant in their brain and you could replay and be back in every moment from the past. Shit for arguments, but amazing for babies. In the thick of it you count the hours til bedtime, or the days until a night out, then when a milestone happens you hit pause and realise it’s all so fast and you wish you had slowed down. Pictures and videos are the only real way of remembering at the minute – so I try and get it all, but without being on my phone the whole time.
I used to be annoyed by people who used their children in their profile pics on Facebook – how were you supposed to know it’s them? The learning to walk videos – everyone learns to walk, yawn. First day of school? Yep, they definitely look the same as all the other little hobbits in the same clothes. First day of school v’s last day of school? Shock horror, they grew. And then, my perfectly beautiful cherubs arrived. The sheer amazingness of this means I would happily share all of the amazing moments with anyone that would look or listen. Actually not anyone. Only people with children because I know how I felt BC (Before Children, though I’m disappointed if you didn’t figure that out by now). I don’t actually share that much on Facebook because I worry about photo ownership, how and where pictures are shared and where they might end up. Also, my Mum was photo-obsessed and I remember my friends walking through the gallery, sorry hallway, pointing, laughing, aaah-ing then laughing again at the timeline of my childhood to date. In today’s age of social media I don’t want to be responsible for this happening to my children, particularly with the bullying horror stories I hear and read about. Having said all that, I can’t help but post the odd picture. It’s too big a part of my life not to. My Facebook timeline would go from London Lush to Hampshire Hermit in 3 short years. The other thing is that they’re so cute! I love my little monkeys and I want the world to see these beautiful little animals I have made! In doing this I have ended up creating the hallway-come-gallery from my childhood, except I have done it electronically, eternally and in full view of the world. I assure myself it’s OK because of my friendships, privacy settings and the fact I can delete them all if they embarrass them at any point. I also question whether Facebook will be big in 10-15 years time or will it just be us old farts left on it. The reality is, though, that I have created an online gallery and a hallway gallery. Double the grief from their friends. We’ll cross that bridge when they get there.
The public gallery
We have a WhatsApp group (yes I’m aware of the irony of ownership) joined only by people that want to be part of it. On this I share my weekly highlights without shame. I send videos of no1 singing Let It Go over the babymonitor or no2 saying da-da-da with snot streaming into her mouth. Pictures of me with no make up or bra and awful Snapchat filters with no shame. Naked shots with just a cup to cover girly bits with no shame. Sometimes five and sometimes twenty. I don’t worry about how many or how often as long as they know how to turn off the “automatically save media to phone”, following a couple of friends trying to remove them selves discreetly from the group saying their phones were filling up with videos of my children. I’m sure this is absolutely the real reason that any of my friends risked the very big and very public “X HAS LEFT THE GROUP” announcement and not at all because they were sick of the pictures of my little stunners!
The beauty of my WhatsApp group, besides receiving unadultered adoration from lots of people about how beautiful my children are, is that it gives me my very own highlights reel for my babies. I scroll back through being very aware of how quickly they are changing. Between this blog (in which I’m sure they couldn’t be easily identified…?!) and the WhatsApp group, I think I have a good record of it all. The reality is that I can’t stop or slow down time, even if I wanted to. All I can do is appreciate every moment as it happens and use media to fill in the gaps of my memory, trying not to bore my friends and family too much in the process. All of this is of course until I get my I memory chip inserted when I’m assuming they will be able to upload up all the photos and videos and blog commentary so I can travel back in time!
Hope you have enjoyed this week’s publication! If so, please let me know with a thumbs up and a share if you have Mummy friends. I’m also interested in your views on sharing photos so please do share them. Ciao!
How can you not want to look at these babes?!
“How was the festival?” my friends keep asking with an amused smile waiting for the barrage of moans and groans. “Actually,” I reply, “it was fun! At times it even felt like a BC (Before Children) Festival”. “And the camping?” they ask, well aware of my attachment to my hair dryer, ecig and phone charger. I make a noise that is incomprehensible. “I’m just not sure we’re a camping kind of family.” I respond….
The day before we left for Latitude it was the Paramedic’s wedding. It was beautiful. We got home at not too late an hour with the intention of setting off at 6am. I had abstained from the sambucas and had my last drink at around 10 so I knew I was ok to at least start the 3-hour drive. The plan had been for Husband to drive, but he was already 4 shots down and at volume level 9 by 7pm so we both knew that wasn’t going to happen. We were in bed by midnight and everything was ready to be loaded into the car. At 1.30am, Girly no1 (nearly 3) woke up crying about her snotty nose. This is totally out of character for her, she doesn’t normally stir if there’s an electrical storm at her window. I ran in to wipe her nose and snuggle her back down. At 2.15am, Girly no2 (8 months) woke up screaming. I went in to pat and reassure and she went back off sounding sniffly and hoarse. At 3.25am she was awake again, crying and shouting. She went back off ten minutes later whimpering. At 4.10am, she was awake and raging. She was hot, red and sweaty. And she was inconsolable. At this point, Husband lifted his weary head and asked if she was crying. “Yes darling, she has been on and off for hours”. We gave her both medicines, patted, paced and whispered but nothing pacified her. Just before 5, Husband put her in the pram and went off walking, strangely bumping into an old rugby on the street. I still don’t know what he was doing at 4.55am at the end of our road. I had thought the voices were Husband cursing the baby. I tried to sleep while it was quiet but my head was full of packing, roof boxes, tents and all of the things I had probably forgotten. Husband and no2 were back just before six so we agreed to get our heads down until either Girly woke up. A few hours later, after three of us hung off the roof box to close it, we set off.
Successfully avoiding low bridges, we kept our roof box in tact and avoided sprinkling my pants across the pretty countryside of Sulfolk. We arrived at Latitude Festival with one woefully sad baby and one bored and hyperactive toddler. Our tent had been sent ahead and erected by the Northerners so we just had to get our tonnes of stuff into it. We paid for the Festival Taxi service to get us from the entrance, almost to the tent. There were four long trips from the car to the entrance, all done by a very sweaty Husband as I pacified a teary baby, but then one beautifully driven airport-car with a trailer full of our crap attached to it escorted us to the tent. Latitude had been described to me as England’s middle-class festival. This was brought to life during the taxi ride when we passed a group of teenage boys. They first appeared to be messing around jumping in front of us however as we drove passed them, one of them shouted “look at the baby! It’s so cute!” The rest of them nodded and coo’d their agreement. I briefly wondered if I had entered an alternate universe as they all smiled and waved at my wide-and-watery-eyed baby girl.
We finally arrived to be greeted by pink sheep and glitterballs
After a stressful hour inflating beds and sorting the tent, done mostly with a bouncing toddler on my back, I cracked open a tinny. Camping chairs out, we sat down to survey our surroundings. This is nice, I thought, we might relax after all. About 45 seconds later, I was back up again looking for clean syringes to top up no2 with Calpol. Then it was baby food time. Then clean nappies and the potty. Then it was time to pack the pram ready for an evening out. Torches, blankets, pj’s, medicine….it was a military operation in itself. The Latitude site isn’t actually that big, that’s one of the things that makes it great for families, but we still didn’t want to be backwards and forwards to the tent all the time. We headed out with our pimped up pram (by which I mean my friends’ double mountain buggy wrapped lazily in solar powered fairy lights) laden with back packs, changing bags and pram baskets full to the brim not with alcohol as in days of old, but of spare clothes, baby milk and pop-up tents. We met up with the rest of the group, including another mum of two whose children were 18 months and – wait for it – 8 weeks old! In many ways, she was the easiest of the bunch, just feeding and sleeping. Strapped to her Mummy or Daddy’s chest, beautiful Betty was an angel. We grabbed some food, watched a couple of acts and then at around 8pm, Girly no1 asked if she could put her jamamas (pj’s) on and get in the pram. “Yes!” I shouted, tempering my keenness lest she realise what she had said. Both girlys were asleep by 8.15pm leaving us to have a few ciders and watch Goldfrapp and the 1975. Perfect! We went back to the tent at 11-ish surrounded by pimped up Festival carts, all headed towards the family camping fields. No1 transferred into her Gruffalo ready-bed without too much noise other than a fight over whether she had to have her duvet or not. No2 was a different story. She was desperately unhappy, full of snot, sweating and crying. I felt awful and questioned my parental decision-making at bringing my sick baby camping at a festival. The music was deafening until 4 in the morning. As was teenage Chris, living in the tent behind us, shouting to Flora for hours about “having it” to some DJ. Had I heard his voice in the festival later that day, I would have slapped him, no questions asked. I felt better when no2 started screaming at 5am, knowing that he would only just have gone to bed. I fantasised about putting her in his tent, right by his head, and leaving her there. But he would probably have stayed asleep, comatose from all the microbrewery IPA he had drunk. I broke my rules and put no2 in our bed, snuggling her close to me all night. She woke every hour or so whimpering sadly, eventually sleeping for 2 consecutive hours from about 5. No1 woke up at that point demanding oaty bars and milk. Husband and I were not at our finest, snapping and bickering. It wasn’t helped by our slowly deflating air bed that left us laying on a pointy plastic frame of spikes. This happened every 3 or 4 hours, and the other one was jiggled up and down every time the other one moved. I hated camping at that point. The continual disappearance of everything we needed drove me mad. Syringes rolled away the moment you let go of them. The calpol never seemed to be in the changing bag where I left it. Clean nappies were buried in duvet the second I let go of them. I could never find baby wipes when I needed them, which was a lot. I hate losing things. At home I know where everything is and anything that is important, I have multiples of. One in the changing bag, one in the cupboard. One upstairs, one downstairs. The issue with camping is just not knowing where anything is. It’s not permanent enough for things to have ‘a home’ and this was exacerbated by our poorly baby. After two nights of no more than 45 minutes sleep in one go, I was a woman on the edge. I feel awful admitting this, but I may have told my darling princess of a two-year old to “just shut up and go back to sleep” when she was demanding things from me at 5am on Saturday morning. Not proud. I apologised profusely later in the morning after my first two-hour block of sleep in three days, cuddling and kissing her until she brutally pushed me off with a hand to the eye. I think I was forgiven.
I was so tired that Saturday that I felt sick all day. I drank us much tea as I could stomach in the morning but it wasn’t helping. Then my other Northern friend, StoryBook, and her Mum, Jewels, announced the beginning of the totally irrelevant, but very creative, ‘Jamaican Me Crazy’ party, producing pineapple and ginger cake, reggae music and Dark ‘n’ Stormy cocktails. I felt remarkably better after one of those. Girly no1 made everyone laugh with her huge duck poo – “Daddy, look! I did a poo on my potty and it’s a duck!” – proudly showing it off. I’m not sure the Northerner was too enamoured with the makeshift toilet alongside her tent but she managed to feign enthusiasm for the carefully crafted turd from my daughters’ behind. We got through the rest of the day with food and dance, peppered with the odd cocktail or a dirty vodka red bull when both girls were asleep. At one point I was sat in a tent in the amazing kids field making beetle bracelets with card, glitter and pipe cleaners, seriously thinking about nestling into the gritty looking cushions for a snooze. I sat through a kids theatre show about a Boy Scout and Grandad that I really didn’t understand. No1 fired questions at me about what was happening, which, whilst hilarious to everyone else, felt to me like I was undergoing an interrogation from the KGB. I couldn’t cope. No2 was much better after some sleep, and we kept up alternating Calpol and Nurofen every two hours. She slept most of the day occasionally waking for some Mummy snuggles and to refuse food. By 8.30pm both Girlys were again fast asleep in their jamamas in the pram while we bounced around to Mumford & Sons. It was great. We went back to the tent at midnight via a disco that played the best tracks of each year since 1980. We made it as far as 1998 then realised we were the last pram left in the festival. StoryBook and Forty-Fucking-Two (so-called for her youthful looks leading me to think she was ten years younger than she is) carried on partying and whilst I was slightly jealous, as we hiked off with our enormous pram, I was delighted to be in bed half an hour later, finally sleeping for 4 long consecutive hours. Bliss.
My little Festival fairy
Sunday morning was remarkably more calm than the other days. I did relent and give no1 the iPad for an hour so I could go back to sleep at 6am but I needed it so I forgave myself. I felt like a new woman! No2 woke up much much better and whilst still on food strike, she was happily guzzling milk and she laughed for the first time in days. I re-introduced her to the group as my real baby, declaring the tearful snot beast of the previous days an imposter. We made the best use of our last day exploring all the areas of the Festival we hadn’t seen yet. Latitude is so varied and has all these amazing secret bars and tents. We saw comedy and theatre, were covered in glitter and then set up camp with the rest of the group for the bigger acts of the night. We hid in the pop up tent for the brief showers and watched Girly no1 and her new best friend run, dance and roll around around the grass looking like mental fairies. It was amazing.
Overall it was a fantastic experience that I would 100% repeat. The downsides were the camping and the lugging of all the things, and no2 being poorly. The latter you obviously can’t plan for, but as I said to Husband through gritted teeth on the first night, we would be doing the same thing with her whether at home or in a field in Sulfolk. She would still be waking up and crying and I simply wasn’t willing to forgo the hundreds of pounds spent on tickets, tents, roof boxes and all the other crap we had to buy to get there. Camping is camping. Maybe it’s something you get better at. I still don’t love it, but I dislike it less. The best advice I was given prior to the festival was to not expect the festival experience to be the same with babies as without. We went in with that attitude meaning the grown up time we had gotten was enjoyed twice as much. The night times were almost our own, but with less alcohol than if we were alone, and the day times were actually pretty similar but with a better set up as we had cold beers, blankets and space. I think we probably will go back next year. But with a motor home.
I’d love to hear about your own camping and festival experiences. As usual, please like and share on Facebook or Twitter if you have enjoyed.
Three quarters of the FestiFam
Husband surprised booked us tickets to Latitude Festival next weekend! Yay! Woohoo! Amazing! But shitting hell! Do you know how much stuff we have to take?! And how much we have to buy? We don’t even have a bloody tent! And it is less than a week away. And we have a wedding the day before. And we have two children. TWO.
I love a list. I’m not going to lie. I’m also rather partial to a spreadsheet. I don’t use spreadsheets properly, I can’t even use half the functionality, but I love them for a list with panache, numerically ordered and peppered with the odd calculation. The list for Latitude Festival has little artistic flair, but it is epic in its purpose. To get a family of four, including an 8-month old and a 2-year old to survive in the middle of a field for four days. The list has sections, headings and locations. It’s a list to be proud of. It doesn’t compare with my wedding spreadsheet, that was on a whole other level. We got married in Italy so it had multiple tabs – address books, project plans, budgets, as well as currency conversion rates and automated guest counters. I’ve sent it on to other people to use since, I am that proud of it. Anyway, I digress. Latitude has been sprung on me as a result of drunken harassment from the Northerner. Husband responded by giving in, I think just to avoid the inevitable hours of badgering that would fill the rest of their three-day visit. I was momentarily floored and have struggled to sleep since with all the things that need to be done. I don’t normally stress over such things, I was a project manager many moons ago (still am now according to my brother) but this was a festival. With two children. Something we vowed we would never do! So I did what I do best and went into list-making overdrive. I have been dreaming of reams of paper, ballpoint and biro pens and different styles of bullet points.
A list is for me a way of controlling my life. I like to be organised and have what I need. Mostly because I suffer with such horrific FOMO (that’s text speak for Fear Of Missing Out for those not in the know) and if I am prepared for most situations then I can indulge my desires. These days though, it’s more about the one thing I have learnt since having children and that is that organisation is the key. It’s the difference between driving home with two satisfied, sleepy children and gently transferring them to bed with a tender kiss on the forehead; versus veering round country roads at breakneck speed shouting “in a minute”, then force feeding cheese on toast to a sobbing toddler whilst the baby screams in her car seat, then all the way through nappy and pjs and then pauses every few suckles of her bottle just to remind you how bad a mother you are. Having a bag (ha! I see that too); having bags with enough nappies, drinks, snacks, calpol (never leave without it), bonjela, wet wipes, clothes, bibs, muslins and a couple of toys, is key to my sanity. I have no shame about going away for one night with my 4×4 car packed to the rafters with every piece of baby crap imaginable. I’ve even started to enjoy the increasingly shocked look on people’s faces as we make our fifth trip back to the car for yet more stuff. I’ll happily come back home with half a suitcase of clean clothes as a result of my over-packing and if anyone dares utter “are you sure you need all this?” they will be met not only with a death stare but also a “stay-out-of-this” hand. Because when your child is crying, you will do absolutely anything to stop it. Really it’s a selfish thing, if they’re happy you’re happy. And my way of keeping them happy is with all of the things. All of the things in the world that they might need. “Travel light” does not feature in this household.
For a festival this is a lot of things. I should confess at this point that not only have we never taken either child camping, I also don’t really like staying in a tent. Last time I went to a festival, we stayed in a little wooden house with a bed off of the floor. It was called a PodPad. It was actually OK. And a great hide out in the rain. But it’s one thing spending 3 days at a festival completely shit-faced and passing out at silly-o-clock in the morning having jumped up and down for 6 hours; it’s quite another to look after an 8-month old and a 2-year old in a wet field surrounded by canvas walls (are tents even made of canvas anymore?). I am dreading it more because a couple of months back we stayed at Sister’s Boyf’s house (Beardy), all in the same room. It was horrendous. We had a lovely time, of course, but the sleeping part was horrendous. The two travel cots were jammed next to each other alongside the bed. We put Girly no2 to bed first and when she was fast asleep, we put Girly no1 in bed. There were multiple visits back into the room. On the first visit, she was throwing her toy at no2’s head, retrieving it (roughly), then doing it again. For the second she had found a candle and was picking out wax with her little stubby finger and smearing it on the window. Maybe she didn’t enjoy the view of Dalston. By the third visit, she had found some earphones from somewhere and was wrapping them around her wrists making her hands go white. I was shocked as I thought I had successfully removed all potential murder weapons. All of this was of course to the backing music that was the Wheels on the Bus and If You’re Happy and You Know It. After she eventually passed out two hours later and we had finished our take away form the restaurant we were supposed to have eaten in, we crept into bed as silently as possible. Four hours later, at 4.30, we were all awake. No2 had woken no1, who had in turn woken us. It was a long weekend and not one that my Lists could have saved me from. Unless of course it had said “Find 4-bedroom place on Air BnB”, which will definitely be the plan next time.
You see why I am nervous about us all being in a tent together for three nights. I originally opted for a 3-room tent thinking there might be some quiet. Then I read some blogs from some far nicer Mums than me that said imagine how terrified your babies would be waking up in the night in completely strange surroundings following full days of new sights and sounds and not being able to see you. Dammit nice mums! Because of this, we’ve had to buy an enormous open tent with no rooms. There is the added advantage that it’s big enough for our elevated double bed of course but really I did it for the girlies…..! From the looks of my list, an 8-man tent is completely necessary. We will need all of this space to accommodate the suitcases, the wet weather gear, the toys, the pop up sun tent, the baby paddling pool, the milk and food pouches, the cool box of milk, the cross-country pram and all the other things on my list. I’ve opted not to take a cooking stove in the interest of saving space (!), we will take baby food and ready made milk, and some snacks but everything else we’ll eat out. It’s going to be even more expensive but we’ve already had to rent a roof box and I really do draw the line at a trailer.
I continue to add items to my list. And I enjoy adding little green ticks against my items once I have bought the things I need to buy. When I pack these into the bag and then the car they’ll get a double tick. Oh the joy of ticking off! In some sick way, I am enjoying the process. I feel far less stressed now I have some control back over this wild situation. I shouldn’t even be stressed. It doesn’t compare to the things I have had to do for work. But for some reason I am. We leave in seven days, six if you don’t include the wedding of the wonderful Paramedic and her lovely SAS Paramedic the day before. Six days to put stuff in a corner, then in a bag, then in a roof box (assuming it turns up). I’m sure it will be fine. I’m sure I won’t forget anything major. And if I do, it will probably be Husbands. Poor him. I wonder if I should take my hairdryer…
My list is below. Do let me know if I’ve forgotten anything or anything you think I might find useful. The car gets locked at 8am on Friday! Thanks for stopping by, please like and share on Facebook if you have enjoyed. And feel free to tag your friends!
The dress rehearsal went well
The Latitude List
- Minions backpack
- Pen for writing mob number on arm
- Sleep sack
- Dressing gown
- Shorts & t’s x6
- Sun dresses x6
- Leggings x3
- Pants x10
- Hoodies & jumpers x3
- Wet weather suit (at nursery)
- Wellies, Crocs & flip flops
- Night Nappies
- Ear defenders
- Towel and swimming costume
- Bed teddies
- Hats (sun and warm)
- Travel cot & sheep skin
- Sheets x3
- Ewan Sheep
- Sleep sacks (thick and thin)
- Nappies and sacks
- Calpol, nurofen & antihistamine
- Bum cream
- Clothes (pjs, vests, day stuff)
- Blankets x3
- Ear defenders
- Hats (sun and warm)
- Outfits (white jean shorts & black vest, green dress, shorts and drapey top)
- Green festival coat
- Ponchos (???)
- Jeans x2
- Jumpers (all saints x2, weird fish hoody, blue cardi)
- Pants & bra
- Make up
- Wellies & welly socks
- Flip flops & Trainers
- Swimming costume & towel
- Eye mask (bedside table)
- Swim shorts
Food & drink – Sainsbury’s order coming at 8am on Wednesday:
- Ella’s pouches x8 ✅
- Ready made aptamils (16) ✅
- Pimms ✅
- Rice cakes✅
- Raisins ✅
- Banana bread bars✅
- Apples & bananas✅
- Cereal bars ✅
- Milk ✅
- Towels (shower & swim)
- Feeding seat with tray
- Chargers & charging block
- Blankets (outside)
- Blankets to snuggle
- Camping chairs (x3 in shed)
- Bottles, cups, plates, bowls & spoons
- Tea towels
- Baby carrier (garage)
- Plastic pint holder
- Torches – handbag and kitchen box
- Girly cups & bowls
- Little cutlery
- Medicine box
- Playing cards
- Speaker & music phone
- Ear phones
- Dirty washing pop up thing
- Carrier bags for muddy boots
- Toilet rolls
- Sun shade tent
- Pop up pool
- Ice packs & cool box
- Gruffalo ready bed
- Our bedding, sleeping bag and sheet
Things to order, borrow or buy:
- Roof box – rental on Thurs (brief Beardy)
- Tent – Amazon ✅
- Air bed (ours) – eBay ✅
- Lanterns for in tent – amazon/eBay
- Pram – Shizzle ✅
- Glow sticks – Amazon & £land ✅
- Body paint – Amazon ✅
- Cool Box – Amazon ✅
- Washing up bucket/No2 bath – Amazon ✅
- Pen knife – Dad or Mum
- Pump – Dad ✅
- Tarpaulin – £land ✅
- Camping table – Mum
- Sponges – Sainsbury’s shop
- Anti bac handwash ✅
- Black bags & clear bags – Sainsbury’s shop
- Kitchen roll – Sainsbury’s shop
- Colouring for No1 ✅
- Ear plugs – Boots ✅
- Gaffer tape – £land ✅
- Freeze ice blocks
- Charge charging unit
- Pack cases
- Confirm roof box
- Wet weather stuff from nursery
- Washers for Pram wheel
- Pick up prescriptions
Have you seen my baseball?
This week Husband asked if I minded if he went to pick up some new golf clubs once the Girlies were in bed. I beamed from ear to ear! It was a 2-hour round trip! Absolutely not darling! The pleasure of watching Love Island by myself with a little tin of cider and no one wanting me for a couple of hours was written all over my face. I think he may have been a little offended.
I’ve never liked being on my own. All of my friends, and in particular Sister, will be able to recall some strange place I’ve taken them to at some point because I didn’t want to go on my own. Sister is eight years younger than me and regularly starts her sentences with “Remember that time you took me to…move out of your ex’s flat, the office, a baby gym class even though I have no baby”. I hate silence, and I’ve always hated my own company. Maybe not when I was really young, then I used to talk to my furniture (think Belle talking to Lumiere and Mrs Potts in Beauty and the Beast except without the furniture talking back). I’m a serial over-thinker and can send myself into a dark (mental) hole if left on my own for too long. Sometimes I used to think I wanted to be on my own so on a work trip, for example, I would go to my hotel room and order room service. Then I would spend all night messaging people. Texts, WhatsApp and Messenger changed my life.
That was then. BC. Before Children. Now, I spend most of my waking hours craving time alone. There are some things I want to do alone. Things I should be able to do alone. Like have a poo. I never knew this to be a luxury in my previous life. I wish I could go to a bathroom and quietly sit on the toilet for 5 minutes without that little blonde mop of curls peering round the door – “What are you doing Mummy? Are you on the toilet Mummy? Are you having a wee or a poo? Shall I get you some tissue Mummy?” I wish I could shower alone, occasionally washing and conditioning my hair without thinking every noise is the sound of 2 year old Girly no1 rolling 7 month old Girly no2 down the stairs. Or giving her one of those overly affectionate “cuddles” that barrel her into the floor like a rugby tackled nerd and leave her wailing like a banshee and kicking like an upside down tortoise. I wish I could have 60 seconds to wee alone. I wish it could be timed for when I start to need a wee, not when I’m hopping up and down about to wet myself and hoping I make it back to the kitchen before the kettle starts whistling, no2 throws all her finger food on the floor and no1 finishes her yoghurt and decides to help feed her sister, by which I mean ramming lumps into her mouth until she gags. I wish I could have two minutes on my phone sometimes to respond to a friend I haven’t heard from in a while, or to plan nice things for us all to do. I wish I could read a message, type a response and hit send in a relaxed way. I see people casually looking at their phone perusing pages and idlely tapping out messages and I want to snatch their phone off of them and throw it away. How dare they have all that alone time and be so casual with it?! Most of all, I crave alone time in the mornings. Far from renowned for my morning charm (no one at work ever chose to meet with me before 11am), I want to wake up of my own accord. I want to spend half an hour gently opening one eye at a time, blinking lots and wiping away the dribble from my pillow at a sloth-like pace. No one needs to be kicked in the stomach and have your boob pinched whilst having “Peppa Pig Peppa Pig” shouted in your sensitive morning-ears. There are just some things I never knew I wanted to do alone.
My now very-precious alone time is garnered at strange times. On a good day, it’s a skipped visit to the in laws or a missed nursery collection (someone else doing it, not just leaving her there). In these precious half hours or hours, I tidy up the house, put the washing away and make sure the next lot of meals is ready. Sometimes half an hour goes by before I even put the radio on. This is so new to me, I would never before be in silence in any way. After the house is in order (I can’t relax otherwise) I lie on the sofa or the bed and I do nothing. I just lie. I call it star-fishing. You know when you just flop out with your arms and legs relaxed outwards, making your body into a star. I really indulge in having no one asking me questions, or hanging off my feet, or pulling at my clothes, or making me find things, or talking to me about poo, or discussing what food will be consumed next. I just lie. Really still. And I stare into the distance, sometimes daring to close my eyes. I never go to sleep. That would be a waste of my precious alone-time. It doesn’t go on for too long, but ten or twenty minutes of star-fishing is the dream. After this period, if I have more alone time, I try and enjoy it more. Recently I have listened to some pod casts like I used to, or audio books. I listened to The Handmaids Tale because I can’t wait for the next episode on Sundays. This turned out to be a mistake – I’m annoyed at how the book ended and I now notice every deviation in the TV series. There are other things I do. Running (check out #milfgoals on Instagram for some hot pics of my angry tomato head) has always been something I’ve hated. Now I love it. Half an hour to be on my own outside, running through beautiful countryside with no one badgering me. It’s amazing. I feel like I’m in a Disney film, the opening scenes to Bambi maybe, but with less murdered deer.
Most days though, my alone-time is limited. I have to snatch it throughout the day. I hide in the utility room, sorting washing, or I take 10 minutes to have a wee. Husband thinks I’ve started poo-ing three times a day. Mind you, he’s started poo-ing five times a day so I think he might be doing the same. Doing washing has become my friend, and I now see how my Mum became so obsessed with it (sorry Mum!). Our utility room is at the back of the garage, through a big heavy fire door that Girly no1 cannot open. When she’s really ‘on one’ I can hide out there for some deep breaths. When the tumble drier is going, it just about drowns out the “Mummy! Mummy! What are you doing Mummy?” I feel like a horrible person admitting that I hide from my children, but being brutally honest, this last month or so has been draining. I struggle not to crack open a Koppaberg at 5pm, when – on a good week, I can wait until at least 6pm. I’m exaggerating, I only actually have a drink 3 or 4 days a week (!) but this toddler phase is really tough. It’s the whining, the potty training, the refusal to do things, the taking forever to do something, the bundling her sister. It’s pretty relentless. Sometimes, both Girlies sleep at the same time. When it happens it makes me giddy. I do my normal running around and then try and do something I want to do on my own. When the weather was really hot they both slept at the same time, so with naps and running I listened to The Handmaid’s Tale in about two weeks. It was a dream! It’s only the second or third book I’ve finished since I became a Mum. I used to read a book a week! Last week we thought it was time to cut out Girly no1’s naps. I’m not-so-secretly pleased that she was so horrendously behaved and deafeningly whingey that they’ve been reinstated. Phew! Close one.
I know that I am incredibly lucky to have any alone time at all. Many Mums are doing things single-handedly or with very little help and they don’t get any of this time. Hats off to you Mumma’s. I don’t know how you do it. I have an incredibly supportive Husband and family so I probably get far more time than most. But whatever time I do get is precious and needed. Oh-so needed! My ears need a break. My brain needs a rest. My body needs space. Whether I’m trying to shed baby pounds, listen to someone else chat who doesn’t need an answer back, or just to starfish – I need it. Also, there’s Love Island to catch up on, I forgot to mention that important alone time. Husband won’t watch it so I have to try and watch it at some point during the day, when there are no young eyes or ears around. No one wants to be asked “What are they doing Mummy?” when the duvet starts bumping up and down.
Just imagine I have a pointy head
After all of last week’s talk of poo, this week is a little more sombre. Girly no1 continues to decorate our new house in poo whilst Girly no2 has been scaring the hell out of us. She has been wheezing and swelling, covered in rashes and experiencing something I now know to be called “intercostal recession”. Sometimes I wonder why anyone has children….
In a previous post I talked about how awful it feels when your baby hurts themselves. It is just as bad when they are ill. Last week, we had an ambulance turn up to the house. I know. It was the turn of Girly no2 to scare us silly for the second time in her seven months on the planet. Since her bronchiolitis at 3 weeks old, she’s been pretty healthy. She gets the odd cold but nothing like the way my little snot factory Girly no1 gets them. No2 gets a little snuffle, a bit warm but just keeps on smiling that big goofy grin. She’s a smiley trooper! Over the last two weeks though, she has had a severe and “rare” case of urticaria (hives to you and I) and a chest infection leading to me falling a little bit in love with two men in green uniform.
Typically the hives came on whilst I was out being very drunk at the Races. A rare occurrence of course! Both girlies were staying with Mother In Law, and the following morning whilst I was enjoying wallowing in my hangover, I received a picture of a rash creeping up her legs. Being something of a rashy kid anyway I didn’t think much of it. I rolled over and carried on dozing, gazing wistfully at Grazia wishing I could lift my head up to see it or even open one eye to read it. We dragged ourselves out of bed, paid an extortionately priced taxi to collect our car (as if we were ever going to get the train really) and headed over to pick them up. The rash had spread to her tummy and back but we knew it wasn’t meningitis and she seemed fine. By Sunday morning however, her whole body was covered in huge red lumps and any tiny bit of skin left uncovered was so swollen it was bruised. She was a Michelin man with a Barney the dinosaur coat. We called 111 and headed off to the out of hours doctor at the local hospital. Urticaria was diagnosed and treated with steroids. But it got worse before it got better We were given antihistamine – unlicensed in under two’s in the UK. We did some research and found out it was approved in America so decided to give it to her. It started working almost immediately. Thank goodness. Seven days later, the rash was almost gone.
Eight days later however, she was still snotty, sounding a little chesty and starting to cough. Only I could have two children with SuperMegaColds in the biggest heatwave since the Seventies. Papa Bear was here to celebrate Fathers Day with his long-term girlfriend, we’ll call her Arty K, and my brother, Uncle G. Both girls had been in the paddling pool, Girly no1 impressing me by actually getting out of the pool to wee on her potty. I was reminded again how much like me she was, and not like her Daddy! We had just lit the barbie and made all the food. No2 just couldn’t get to sleep in the heat, I brought her down and was instantly worried by how breathless she sounded. I took her round everyone individually and made them listen. Papa Bear and Arty K said she did sound a little short of breath but told me not to worry. Uncle G smiled at me through the haze of Stella. Husband did his grave face…it scared me so I handed him the baby and ran away to play with the potatoes. A few minutes later he called me over and pointed out her “intercostal recession”, which means she was struggling to breathe and her skin was pulling in under her ribs and at her throat. The Paramedic Friend had told us this was exhausting for babies and needed immediate attention. We nodded at one another and I picked up the phone dialling 111 for the second Sunday in a row. Answering a series of questions the operator said “Ok, I’m going to send out an ambulance, can you confirm your address for me”. I couldn’t get the words out so was told to give the phone to someone who could talk. Husband took over. We paced up and down for the next ten minutes waiting for a gentle knock on the door. Instead we heard sirens in the distance and then saw blue flashing lights through the window. It set me off again so I greeted the men in green suits in a puddle of tears.
Kristian and Mike (my NBF’s – that’s new best friends in our world) strolled in, not taking their eyes off no2 for a second. They did all of their tests, expertly moving around without upsetting her once. Fathers of four and six respectively, they were amazing. They put me, Husband and Girly no2 at ease, instantly confirming that we weren’t neurotic parents and this visit was warranted but there was no need to panic. They chatted comfortably about all sorts, sharing stories about their own families and explaining everything clearly but not remotely in a condescending way. When Girly no1 jealously stomped in half an hour later, Mike took her out to the ambulance, letting her pretend to drive and turn the lights on. She was in her element, basking in the attention. Kristian stayed with me chatting but all the time watching her breathe and counting breaths discreetly. He decided to send us to the hospital to see a doctor. Fortunately, I had put a cork in the Father’s Day prosecco when I heard how chesty she was. We jumped in the car leaving Papa Bear, Arty K and drunk Uncle G to deal with a slightly manic Girly no1.
We were called into Dr Asperger’s office within 20 minutes of getting to the hospital. He looked done. He walked like a zombie. He was sweating. His hair was ruffled. He did not look or sound like a happy man. Possibly because he was wearing a 3-piece suit in 30 degree heat. We gingerly followed him into his office immediately dropping a tub of leftover BBQ food all over his floor. He tried picking it up but every time he moved more crumbs fell out. Embarrassed that we even had it with us, Husband almost head butted him as he dived to the floor to help pick it up. The doctor, at about 5ft tall, then awkwardly got wedged in the doorway with my 6ft tall rugby player husband at which point I let out a loud snort of laughter. When everyone finally sat down I started to gabble about why we were there. He nodded “Ok, enough” moving my baby around into various positions and giving pointers about how to hold her to stop her grabbing at the stethoscope, his hair, his badge and anything else she could get her hands on. After performing his checks, he turned silently to his computer. I commented how warm his office was and how it wasn’t very fair that he didn’t have air conditioning. He looked at me pointedly – “I don’t feel the heat.” – and went back to his screen. I glanced up at Husband whose turn it was now to stifle a laugh. After what seemed like an endless silence, punctuated only by Girly no1 slapping his desk repeatedly with her little chubby hands, he announced that she had a chest infection and would need antibiotics and an inhaler. I asked how that would have come about mentioning that the GP last week said that the steroids would weaken her immune system. He shook his head, factually stating that she would have inhaled a germ that caused the infection and turned back to his screen. I asked a few more questions and was given lots of information in a very serious voice, not once smiling. He pointed us in the direction of a chemist and off we went on our merry way, relieved that it was nothing more serious.
We arrived back home at 9pm that Sunday, just 5 hours after the call to 111. Amazing – hats off to the NHS. Girly no1 had taken full advantage of the situation and was still awake, jumping out of bed and demanding more stories. But after the magic words from Husband, she was asleep within 60 seconds. After Girly no2 was tucked up in bed, we sat outside with (just the one) glass of prosecco reflecting on how incredible everyone had been that day, including Dr Aspergers. We realised just how lucky we have been in terms of illness and wondered how parents of sick and hurt children cope. That night I went into each Girly’s bedroom before bed, squeezing them until their heads nearly popped off and praying that this Sunday we’ll be back to scraping poo off the wall and the only number I’ll be dialling is the Indian takeaway.
We were, and are, in awe of the incredible paramedics, doctors, nurses and operators who helped us, and have to deal with far worse. We’re deeply thankful to them all, especially Kristian and Mike, who were tending to my Girly no2 instead of being with their own babies on Father’s Day. You guys are amazing. Please do share in the hope someone is friends with them and they see it!
Crappy Fathers Day everyone! I say this because we’re elbow deep in wee and poo right now. Lucky us! I would love to hear your experiences. Please share. Or just put a little smiley poo in the comments box so I know you’re with me!
I’m writing this post as I sit in the cinema watching some annoying scarily eye-browed dungaree-clad girl called Daisy dance around like a twat with poor replica Peppa and George puppets (if you have to ask “Peppa and George who?” then what are you doing here?). I want to head butt the floor but my beautiful first born of two and a half years is utterly entranced. She’s munched her way through a tray of popcorn bigger than her head and she hasn’t said a word since the film started. Occasionally her little chubby hand reaches out to pat me and check I haven’t gone anywhere but other than that she is in her element.
We are here because we are in the midst of toilet training. The potty, step and toilet seats have been in our lives since before Girly no2 was born seven months ago. My (now seemingly laughable) aspiration was to only be changing nappies in one size, not two. Ten nappies a day instead of fifteen. Two turds a day instead of three. Before no2 arrived, Bare Bum Bum time, as it’s catchily known in our house, was faring well and we were probably at 80/20 chance of success of wee landing in that days’ receptacle of choice. When no2 arrived, the slightest mention of a pot was met with a lot of screeching and stamping. I believe the technical term is “we regressed”! We left the potty and toilet seats casually strewn around but didn’t push it, we were waiting for the day she announced: “Mother! There will be no more nappies forthwith!” However it has not been forthcoming. Some days, she will insist on wearing pants and using the toilet. Others, she wouldn’t do it in return for episodes of Peppa. Actually that’s a lie. She would lie in the road for Peppa. She would even stand under a hand drier in a public toilet and she hates those. I desperately hope that she never meets a red t-shirt wearing, pink faced, snub-nosed boy with a really annoying voice. It’s just now how I picture my future son-in-law. Girly no1 has been in no hurry to add items to her to do list. Least of all things that, when they go wrong, piss Mummy off. Sorry, make Mummy cross. I stopped asking about Bare Bum Bum time. I promised myself we would be led by her. Occasionally she would surprise me and ask to leave her nappy off, which I duly did, hoping that just this once I wouldn’t be on the playroom floor on my knees with a bottle of detol as the spaghetti boiled over and the baby started screaming. Sometimes my wishes were fulfilled, but they were few and far between. I tried (and try) my best to be very unmumzilla (great new word for you all there) about it, but come on! Does anyone enjoy cleaning up someone else’s wee? Isn’t there already enough to do?!
Off we go Peppa….
The next time she announced she was wearing pants we decided on some gentle encouragement. The first was some fancy pants. I say fancy, they’re not ball gown fancy. They have glittered ponies and rainbows on, akin to that of an 80’s tshirt that is frequently spotted in Shoreditch and in hipster movies. The problem with these is that her indecisiveness got the better of her and she started deliberately wee-ing in them so she could wear a different colour pair. Fail. I put it behind us and went back to nappies. And hid the pants. Then, about a week ago, she again announced that she no longer wanted to wear nappies, she would wear pants. I had done some research which suggested 3 days was all it took once they decided. Great, I thought! Let’s do it. I knocked up a Peppa Pig reward chart, inspired by Pinterest, using an old colouring book and some reward stickers from Tescos. Little smiley faces for a wee, big smiley faces for a poo, treats for the coloured spots. We were ready.
Day one – stay home and just wear nothing on the bottom: Ok, good. One accident, good job all in.
Day two – wear trousers with no pants and go for a walk for an hour: Again, good job. One tiny accident but she was excited running away from waves at the beach. We managed a lunch out, a couple of uses of a restaurant toilet, all was going well. Even better that she was going to Mother-In-Law’s for the night! She has far more patience than I do. Tomorrow we will be done!
Day three – wear pants and trousers: Just one accident which happened when she banged her head. I totally get that. If someone bumps into me when I need the loo then a bit of wee comes out. It’s the Displacement theory. More than forgiveable! She even managed a daytime nap with no accidents. Winning at life!
Day four – You’re on your own with your newly potty trained child: Wee’s all fine. But we have a problem. A quick review of the last few days confirm that no poo has left the building since day zero. Having suffered with constipation previously, we jumped on it, plying her with Movicol which we are never without. As her reward for hitting 10 wee’s on the toilet, we go to see Peppa Pig at the cinema. No accidents there either. However as we were saying goodbye to Paramedic and her firstborn (someone had to suffer with me!), I saw her adopt a familiar squat in front of the Despicable Me poster. I whisked her off to the toilet and after 20 minutes of sweating and pushing, nothing. No poo poo. When we got home, we put a nappy on and she eventually poo’d aided by Husband (I won’t go into detail but the poo needed some help coming out). She went back into pants afterwards, and had only one accident in the early evening.
Day five: This was a nursery day. They’re not allowed in until they have three consecutive days dry. She wore a nappy in, poo’d so much she leaked out of it and she didn’t ask for the toilet once. In the afternoon she didn’t want to wear pants, she wanted to keep a nappy on. Hmmm. The problem with following someone else’s plan is the lack of trouble shooting. What do I do at this point? Force her to carry on? Leave it? Keep her off school? Throw the nappies away?
Day six: Same as day five. “No pants Mummy, I’m wearing a nappy”. Hmm. I can’t be bothered to argue.
Day seven: A home day. She refused pants to start off with but I reminded her of the glittery unicorns just waiting to be loved by her peachy little bum. She had one accident mid morning but we had a successful trip to and from swimming via M&S with no accidents. I can’t guarantee she didn’t pee in the pool but who would ever be silly enough to admit to doing that?! She had her nap sans nappy, no accidents. All good. Then the afternoon happened when she did a huge turd in her pants. Not so bad I thought, at least she did it without a nappy on. I was slightly discombobulated she didn’t mention it was on its way but that’s ok. Deep breath. Calm mum. No making her feel bad. What happened next though tested all my motherhood calm skills. Firstly, there was the blanket wee. I asked after dinner if she needed a wee. She shook her head vociferously and insisted she didn’t. I took some plates into the kitchen, filled the sink with water and looked out of the window into my sunny garden. I was greeted with the view of her bum in the air with her peering through her legs. I fleetingly wondered if she was wee-ing but surely not. After she had finished inspecting her bits from the ground up, she ran in and told me she had just done a wee on the new blanket. Great. In my best (passive aggressive) mum voice I reminded her I had just asked if she needed the toilet and she said no. “We must try and use the potty or toilet next time!” I said with as much positivity I could muster. I should add here that it wasn’t just any blanket…it was brand new – first time use – family rug from the Great Little Trading Company (#middleclassproblems). A little treat to myself for the beach this summer…and now it was covered in no1’s wee. I brushed off (most of) my annoyance, put it in the washing machine and we moved up to bath time. As Girly no2 was poo-ing on the bath mat (her very own laxative, she does it every day), Girly no1 was suspiciously quiet. I thought nothing of it as I was elbow deep in water wipes cleaning curry sauce off my knees. No2 came in a few minutes later saying she too needed the toilet. I gave myself a virtual pat on the back for her asking, we might nail this after all. Then we spotted some poo on her foot. Where did that come from sweetheart? (She makes me call her this since I explained a few days before that it meant I loved her). She blamed no2 saying that she had poo’d on her foot. Without being too graphic, this was impossible. It was like confusing Korma with Bhuna. It could not be done. Husband and I looked at each other and started searching for signs. I spotted some poo patches on the carpet in the hall coming from the direction of no2’s bedroom. More on her new rug (great), more on her bedroom carpet (brilliant) and then a big pile of turd over by the wall (oh crap). I started to rub my temple and cover my eyes, the universal sign for an “over it” mother. Husband guided me out of the room by my shoulders telling me to get the other two in the bath while he cleaned up our shitty house.
Immediately after that we both said that was it. We were done with potty training. She could go to school in nappies for all we cared! However after a nights sleep, and realising we were down to just one or two accidents a day we decided to persevere. Come on Team! We were knocked again yesterday after the “turd on the wall” incident however it was so ridiculous that we could do nothing but laugh. Girly no1 was wearing her pj’s sans pants when she waddled through saying she had poo’d. I ran her to the toilet, whipped her bottoms off and sat her on the toilet where she finished the poo. There was very little in the bottoms so we waited a while to see if some more would come out. After a couple of minutes Husband appeared at the door to check all was ok and let out a noise I don’t think I’ve heard him make before. “Is that poo on the wall?” As I started to laugh at the absurdity of his question I looked over my left shoulder to see, a couple of feet away from us and proudly sticking out like a stag head, a massive lump of shit stuck to the white wall. I was momentarily stunned then fell about laughing as no1 started crying that there was poo on the wall. The whole thing was ridiculous. It is ridiculous.
That’s it…look more closely…no it’s not a stag…hello poo!
My Mum used to say to my Dad “You’re sick and I’m poo”. I get it now. He’s sick and I’m poo. Whilst I find comedy in these things after they happen, I am unduly appalled by poo. I think it’s because an ex once left a big old heap of shit on the floor of our previously co-owned flat, which I had to clean up despite not having lived there for four months. I find poo the height of disrespect. But when your baby girl poo’s on you, or your new carpet, or your wall, you just have to suck it up and crack on (pardon the pun) with the toilet training. I know that she’s actually doing really well. We are half way through our third day and so far we are dry. But we’ve yet to poo today so who knows what crappy treats there are in store!
I would love to hear your tips, stories and comedy moments with your toilet training. Who doesn’t love a poo story?! Add them below or on my Facebook page in the comments box. Let’s share the shit out of it!
The happy turd
I’ve been a little uptight this week. A little short and snippy, the odd growl of frustration emerging. I don’t think I have been the best Mum, wife, daughter, sister and friend I could have been, and that makes me feel bad. It’s not my fault though, it’s the beggleybooglebeggkeyboog.
My slightly irritable mood is down to a few things. The first is some “what’s-my-future” stress. At this same point in time with Girly no1 I had a bit of an identity crisis. What am I now? Where am I going in life? How do I be a great Mum and be Me? What should I be spending time on? So many questions. I am the best version of myself when I have answers to these questions and I know my life goals I am working towards, so I need to figure this stuff out. I’ve been a bit hot, sweaty and wriggly, permanently feeling like I’ve just got dressed after swimming but am still in the changing rooms. My hair has been sticking to my face so I’ve toyed with shaving it off. I should note here that I love the heat and the sunshine. I’m not complaining about it at all, it’s just that I’m feeling far too “fleshy”. I’m still too fat for most of my summer clothing and not really keen on having all my extra flesh on show. I’ve had a couple (cough cough) of hangovers from my birthday weekend. Yes I have a weekend, not just a day, it’s the queen in me. I have stopped breast feeding, nearly seven months after starting again, and I think my body is probably flooded with hormones as the last big shift in my post-baby body is made. I found a lump on my breast last week – that didn’t help my mood. It turned out to be a blocked milk duct that I was able to massage out over 3 or 4 days but it wasn’t very nice regardless. Everyone has been ill with some weird bug. That hasn’t helped. And maybe I have also been feeling this haze of terrorism that’s around us at the minute. Seeing parents lose their children is devastating at any time and it does make you stop and think about your job as protector of your babies. It is so scary when this is interrupted by forces outside of your control. All of these things combined are making it much easier to rattle me. Normally I would shake it off the small things and carry on about my life, processing along the way. But I am flaring up with annoyance regularly. Some of this is due to a certain small person poking the bear.
Girly no1 (aged 2.5) had a new noise, it goes something like this: beggleybooglebeggkeyboog. And she says it over, and over, and over again. She says it when I ask her a question. If I speak to her sister. If she doesn’t want to eat her dinner. If I don’t respond immediately to her every demand. If I am on the phone. If she doesn’t like what I’m saying. Anytime really. She looks at me with goading eyes, dribbly chin lifted in the air and says it at varying volumes. Beggleybooglebeggkeyboog. It makes my hackles rise. Actually, it makes them stand on end and start doing somersaults – whatever they are. I can feel annoyance rising up from my stomach to my throat threatening to bubble out in a blood-curdling scream. That’s a lie, I hate screaming. I would never scream. But maybe I would shout. I can cope when she walks around saying it to herself – babble away little one, I think, that’s fine. It’s when it is her response to something I want from her. I ask her to be a helpful big sister and grab a nappy, “No Mummy. beggleybooglebeggkeyboog beggleybooglebeggkeyboog beggleybooglebeggkeyboog”. Or when I ask her to stop waving her spaghetti clad fork in circles around her head flinging it over the white walls and the wooden floors “beggleybooglebeggkeyboog beggleybooglebeggkeyboog beggleybooglebeggkeyboog”. Or sometimes randomly mid-conversation about what lovely things we should do today…”beggleybooglebeggkeyboog beggleybooglebeggkeyboog beggleybooglebeggkeyboog”. I just don’t know why. I know that these noises, like other habits she has picked up along the way, are normal and will go away and I should ignore it. She’s testing me. But this week I am flunking her test. I know she’s pushing me. But this week, I’m falling over. I’m tired and irritable and it’s making me snap. I should note here that if you don’t know me, I’m pretty calm. I’m not a shouter, I don’t get too mad and I’ve never had a fight. But this week I have raised my voice daily and I have hit both the steering wheel and the kitchen worktop with the palm of my hand, in pure frustration. Do you remember when you were younger there would be those songs like the one from the Club advert that people sang over and over again – “if you like a lot of chocolate on your biscuit, join our club” or “pss pss, chukka chukka mwah tut aaah”. And who could forget the “Whassuuuuuuup” face circa the late 90’s Bud advert. Our current version of these is the beggleybooglebeggkeyboog. Her new noise is the mother equivalent of locking me in a dark room and playing the Crazy Frog or Gangnam Style over and over again. It makes me want to cry. It’s driving me fucking nuts. By 4pm each day, I am done. I consider prosecco or cider. Sometimes I can abstain, particularly if I am hungover, but not always. I wait until 6. That’s far more acceptable.
It’s not just the noise that is winding me up, though that is the main perpetrator. She has become difficult in conversation and she asks the same question over and over again:
G1: “Mummy whose drink is that?”
Me: “That’s yours darling”
G1: “Is that my drink?”
Me: “Yes, that’s yours.”
G1: “Whose drink is that Mummy?”
Me: “Whose drink do you think it is?”
G1: “Mine! Is that my drink?”
Me: “Yes baby. We just said that didn’t we?”
G1: “Is it mine though Mummy?”
And so on until I want to stab myself in the eye with a rusty screwdriver. In isolation, I don’t mind. I can do this a few times before I lose control. But all day, it is relentless. She also plays with the doors, a big No-No following numerous trapped fingers, scraped toes and lots of tears. Just yesterday, having repeatedly asked her to leave the doors alone and calmly reminding her of what happens when she doesn’t, I had had enough so we introduced the Naughty Step. I put her on it telling her no toys and no talking to anyone. She seemed very non-plussed as she lounged on our thickly carpeted stairs in full view of the widescreen TV in “The Other Room” as it is known in our house, just like the Other Stage at Glasto. I thought I had done OK as I asked her at the end of her time why she had been on the step and she told me it was because “I keep saying ‘no’ to Mummy” (no apology for the beggleybooglebeggkeyboog noise though, I thought haughtily). I didn’t get it quite right though. Later in the same day I was met with “No Mummy, I don’t want to talk to you. Stop talking. Just. Stop. Talking”. On a good day this would really make me laugh. What do you even say to this?! It’s hilarious to have her little chubby finger pointed at me through her mane of blonde curls. And a part of me is pleased. She is naturally quite compliant and Husband and I talked a few weeks back about not quashing her desire to question and challenge, not wanting her to be too “yes sir, no sir, three bags full sir”. I stifled my laugh and reminded her what she had been on the Naughty Step for. “Can I go on the Naughty Step now Mummy?” she asked me. Hmm.
So in these moments of frustration, I am trying to do better. I am trying to stay calm. I am trying to be my usual rational self. I say how we want to teach Girly no2 actual words. I try to ignore “the noise” and I ask the question again in my same calm tone. I try not to resort to “if you do/don’t…then…”. But this is really hard when everything is met with beggleybooglebeggkeyboog. What does it even mean? beggleybooglebeggkeyboog. It doesn’t even sound like anything. What is she trying to communicate with me? Is it lack of attention? Is she feeling jealous? Is she picking up on my stress? Or is it just an annoying noise? I’ve tried asking her about it. “Mummy, just say it, just like this – beggleybooglebeggkeyboog.” I say it. It annoys me even more.
PC (Pre-Children), I used to see stressed parents growling at their heart-meltingly cute children and think “how could you be cross with them? Look at their little faces!” I didn’t know about the power of a beggleybooglebeggkeyboog. Now I get it. And I send virtual apologies to anyone I thought this about. I also apologise to my Husband, because coming home from work must be like walking into a Lions Den at feeding time. I know I am short tempered and I know I can’t always get rid of it once they are in bed. For this I apologise to you, Husband. I know that in the grand scheme of things, I am lucky to have my Girlies and that this noise is minor. But it’s still bloody annoying. I don’t know how we will find our way out of this one. How do you escape a beggleybooglebeggkeyboog? Probably just by ignoring it, that’s how any previous annoying habits have been cracked. In the meantime, I should avoid alcohol and get lots of sleep. HAHAHAHA! Cheers!
Is this a beggleybooglebeggkeyboog?