The Bump Chronicles began as a regular whinge on Facebook about how crap (in my opinion) being pregnant feels. After the safe delivery of my rather hefty bundle of joy we progressed to the ‘Postpartum Years’. So two weeks and six days into my full-time role as ‘Mummy’, in between soothing a crying infant, getting covered in all sorts of unsavoury bodily fluids and trying to remember to feed my two house panthers, I thought I’d share snippets of my ‘parenting journey’. Think less epic, life affirming voyage, more traffic jams, faulty brakes, getting ripped off at service stations, throwing up in the car type of journey and I think we’ll be on the same page!
The postpartum wardrobe has a lot of boxes to tick. Flattering, comfortable, confidence boosting, easy to feed in, conceal chunder/poo/snot stains, the list goes on! I am trying to buy new jeans. I find it a stressful task for a number of reasons. And I’m still emotionally scarred from purchasing my first apres baby pair.
The baby was approximately 2 weeks old. We were in town to register his birth so had dragged our sleep deprived selves out. I’d managed a shower but hadn’t really had time to do my hair around feeding and needing to be out the house for a certain time, so I’d scrunched it and popped a hairband on. In my wisdom, I’d decided Primark was the best place to purchase jeans from because they’d be cheap and wouldn’t fit me for long. (Ever the optimist, me.)
Leaving hubs, the baby and the middle child on a seat outside, I plodded into the changing room, selection in hand. When I’d drawn the curtain across the cubicle, the first thing I was confronted with was my clothed reflection. The hair, which I’d convinced myself was ‘cute’ with the hairband, was far from it. I looked a cross between Hagrid and the Honey Monster! It was a stark reminder that hair straighteners are an essential for me. Fortunately I keep hair tie round my wrist at all times because I like cutting the circulation off to my hand. I faffed for a bit trying to improve the barnet situ, but what I needed was a qualified stylest, back basin and hair tools to make any sort of improvement. Resigning myself to the fact I’ve been cursed with shite hair I began peeling off my maternity jeans. And that’s when I saw myself, full length, for the first time since giving birth.
My stomach looked like a balloon, one that was inflated several days ago and has been lost behind furniture, deflating into a wrinkly ball. My stretch marks were a livid red. I’d managed to avoid them for the first two pregnancies but my third saw me adorned with them. My belly button was still the gaping chasm it became as my skin struggled to contain my growing baby. This mottled angry flesh hung like an apron and as I stared at my reflection, I began to cry. Try as I might, I couldn’t keep the corners of my mouth from droopping, like each side had been weighted. Tears gathered in each eye, I tried to stop them by taking breaths but it didn’t help. There were mirrors on all sides and a rather aggressive fluorescent light beating down on me. I couldn’t not see myself! I grabbed the first pair of jeans (2 sizes bigger than my pre- pregnancy size) and winced as my stitches pulled when I leant forward to put them on. They slid fairly easily over my lower legs, got noticeably slower at the thigh, but trying to tuck my tum into the waistband was like trying to get Jus-Rol croissant pastry back into the can. It wasn’t pretty. I tried the next pair. Also uninspiring but they did up and most of my flesh was tucked into the waistband. I faffed with the hair again, making little to no improvement and left the cubicle trying (and failing) to appear chipper.
The thing is, we’re expected to ‘bounce back’ after birth, we’re bombarded with articles about getting our ‘firgures back’, post partum diets, and uncomfortable contraptions that promise to make our bodies look like they haven’t grown babies. In TV and film, women have babies in one scene and in the next are flat stomached and perfect. And as much as I told myself I’d change, some of it temporary, some permanent, I clung to hope that by some miracle, this time it would be different. That I’d be like the photo-shopped celebs and the only evidence that I’d been pregnant would be my baby.
The changes to my body hit harder third time round because before I found out I was pregnant, (and for the first time in my life), I was happy with my body. I was maintaining my size with exercise and less snacking but not in a way that was onerous, restrictive or unrealistic. I had a level of fitness. I was happy, confident even! Not something I’d been able to say before.
My stomach has continued to deflate over the past 10 weeks, (although it has plateaued now and may start inflating again if hubs and I keep eating the ‘nice’ icecream we hide from the kids). I am now in the market for MORE jeans. I have some stipulations. 1) They must be high rise. High rise is the mum tum friend. Low rise jeans were all the rage when I was a young ‘un and there is a special place in hell for them! They give even the slimmest of wearers a muffin top. Show part or all of your arse when sat down and some of the more extreme low rise jeans require a wash board stomach and bikini wax…
2) They must not be ‘ripped.’ Ain’t no way I’m paying forty quid for something that looks like it’s ready to be replaced! Honestly, why in the name arse are people paying for what look like faulty goods?! And you know it will only be the second time you put them on that you get your foot caught in the ‘designer’ rip and make yourself a pair of shorts with one long leg…
I found myself in Next today, after an unsuccessful jaunt to M&S where the colour jeans I wanted in the style I wanted had frayed hems (whyyyyyy?!). There was a sale on, huzzarh! I found 2 pairs of jeans, and shuffled off to the changing rooms with my 6yo and the baby, in his pram. First issue was that all the changing rooms were the same size: small. Meaning that once the pram and the six yo were inside I had an area the size of a postage stamp to get changed. I pulled the first pair off the hanger. I have no doubt my arse was causing all sorts of curtain protrusions as I attempted to put them on. Getting them on was harder than I thought, a lot harder! Turns out some joker had hung size 10 jeans on a size 12 hanger. Well I’d come so far, I had a sort of morbid determination to see if I could get them all the way up. I could. Managed the buttons too, although they were practically trembling with the effort of staying attached to the fabric. I felt like my legs had been encased in concrete. It was at this point the 6 yo piped up with ‘Mummy, why are your eyes all wet like you’re going to cry?’
‘Because mummy can’t breathe in these jeans darling, someone put the wrong size on the hanger.’
As he digested this and was quite vocal on who could do such a terrible thing, I attempted to remove this second skin that was had a smaller surface area than my actual skin. Of course my pants came down too, trying to seperate knickers from jeans was not an easy feat, especially considering the space I had. The 6yo had pulled his cap over his eyes to protect my modesty but was loudly narrating the fact that they were too small.
Having removed the first pair I was decidedly sweaty (mostly panicking I’d need to ask a shop assistant to cut me out of them). I reached for pair number too, having learnt my lesson I double checked the size on the hanger was the same as the actual jeans. It was a match. They slid on like a dream. Button fly though. Not a deal breaker but not my favourite. They did up, enveloping my mum tum in soft demin, score! I checked the price, £12 in the sale, absolute bargain! Owing to the space issue (and the frequently farting infant making it a suffocation hazard) I stepped out of the cubicle to check out my potential new threads.
And that’s when I saw it. The huge gaping knee. Threads of shredded denim hanging down the leg, more holes above the knee! What fresh hell is this? These jeans were only a couple of bloodstains away from looking like they’d been in motorbike accident! They looked ridiculous, and so did I.
Dis-robing for the second time I put on my elasticated baggy trousers resigned to the fact I may never find my perfect pair of jeans. I’m aiming too high, perhaps I’ll shoot for ‘acceptable’ instead. I’m starting to feel my age in clothes shops, I found myself loudly asking where the bottom half of a t-shirt was today. The music is too loud, the lights are too dazzling and I have a sort of style now that I stick to which means I’m always looking for something specific rather than finding something and liking it. I am beginning to be baffled by ‘fashion’ finding some of the offerings in shop windows downright stupid!
I can’t tell if my views will cause the boys to roll their eyes in despair when they’re older. If they’ll go to great lengths to avoid shopping with me to avoid ‘mumbarrasment’. Much as I’d roll my eyes when my mum used to say ‘we wore those when I was a kid’ now I find she was right, fashion is simply the same clothes coming in and out of fashion. (Don’t tell her I said that, I’ll never hear the end of it!) The only thing that changes is me, softer and wobblier but after a shaky few weeks with an acceptance of my body I’ve never had before.
May has been an exciting month in the Postpartum household, as we welcomed baby boy number 3! (#outnumbered) He came very swiftly one evening and is the first baby I’ve had that hasn’t been served an eviction notice.
Not being terribly au fait with the whole natural labour thing, I have some regrets from the day. The first being buying the kids an apres school icecream, there is nothing more frustrating than having quite painful uterus cramps in a pub car park whilst emploring your 3 year old, (and worlds slowest ice cream eater), to eat his icecream at a faster pace than a sloth.
The second thing I regret is the manner in which I spoke to my husband when I realised these cramps were 1) getting worse and 2) closer together. As I was 6 days overdue everytime his phone rang he half expected to be told it was time. In my head, having been robbed of the opportunity of breaking this news to him previously, I imagined something along the lines of ‘Darling, it’s happening, we’re going to meet our baby soon!’ What he actually got was a terse and rather tetchy phonecall from a woman who was in pain and still traumatised from the length of time she’d stood in a carpark, in agony waiting for a 3 year old to eat a Mr Whippy, and it went something like this:
‘I’ m having pains. They’re getting worse.’
‘Should I come home, do you think this is it?’
‘How the f*#k should I know?’
Yup. What beautiful words.
The third thing I regret is that one of the first things I said to my newborn son, in a room full of medical professionals was ‘We’ve got a banging holiday in Weymouth booked.’ No profound first words from Mummy I’m afraid, kiddo.
I had prepared for a long labour, I’d ran a bath which was no mean feat as I was dealing with contractions and incessant questions from the 3 and 5 year old. (What are you doing? Is it for you or us? Can we get in? Shall we get some toys? Do babies need to be born in water?)
By the time I was in the water I had started to panic. I was in pain and not sure how long I could deal with it. The panic was making the pains worse. So I gave myself a mental talking to, and started to breathe.
In and out. Nice and slow. Innnnnm and ouuuuuuuut. The boys, who had been doing a sterling job of pouring water on my bump had grown bored and asked if they could watch telly. Permission was granted. I had vague recollections of NCT classes harping on about aromatherapy during childbirth, and me smelling various scents, remembering geranium being one of those scents. I happend to have a fancy geranium scented shower gel in my bathroom so started sniffing the bottle like a half crazed drug detection dog everytime I felt a contraction. (Any port in a storm.)
Sooner than expected, hubs arrived. Probably expecting to find his wife replaced by the green faced girl from The Exorcist, and began flapping.
Those who don’t know my husband would not agree with this. It’s not like he started running round shoving towels and nappies into a plastic bag, to the untrained eye he would have looked calm and collected. But I know my husband and he was at Flap Central. Packing things and checking and growing quiet. My mum arrived, as a retired midwife and my mum she was just what we needed to keep grounded. She put her hand on my tum and started to time the contractions. I will never forget all three of us in the bathroom, hubs next to me mum at the door and me trying to breathe through a particularly ferocious contraction when the 3 year old ran past the bathroom yelling ‘HULK SMASH!’ waving his arm around in a chopping motion. I found myself laughing. And I still can’t think about it without giggling.
Anyway, contractions were timed, the hospital was called and we were asked to go in. If you look closely you can see the claw marks on the dashboard as I gripped on wondering why the hell this journey was taking so long? *
*it took the normal amount of time.
When we arrived at the hospital, the walk to labour ward took some time. I kept needing to stop, grip the handrail and grunt for a bit. If the poor child being wheeled back to the Children’s ward ever comes across this, I am so sorry you had to see that.
The rest, dear reader, is rather hazy. I begged for pain relief and was given glorious gas and air! We had arrived at the hospital at 5 to 7 in the evening. Our son was born at 19 minutes past. I think I pushed maybe 3 times and not really consciously. My body seemed to say ‘Ahhh, this again, we’ll take it from here.’ It’s a very good job our Midwife was on the ball. Hubs cut the (exceptionally long) cord, as he has for all our children and we were parents thrice over!
Whilst I regret my first words to my son, he doesn’t appear to regret pooing all over me mere moments after being born. The midwife was quite dismayed by the state of me, and called for back up to get the bed changed and the meconium wiped off. Our baby had demonstrated the power of his lungs then settled. Things that needed stitching were stitched. Tea was drank, toast was consumed and family called. It was the best Thursday I’d had in bladdy ages.
I am breastfeeding no more. I had no idea how long I’d feed him for when we started, I think 23 months is a good innings. I just wish I’d known the last time I fed him would be the last time I fed him.
I can’t say that I’ll look back fondly over the whole experience. In the very early days, I felt like someone had rubbed broken glass over my nipples. I leaked everywhere and doing all the night feeds solo was bloody torture. When I returned to work I had the most arduous task of feeding him from the breast AND pumping so he could have milk when I wasn’t there. Trying to get him to take a bottle was an actual nightmare and when I seemed to be spending all my time with either a baby or a pump on the boob. I remember the night I cracked. It was late, and I was looking forward to my bed. Then I remembered I hadn’t pumped. I wanted to cry. More so when I realised I couldn’t pump until I’d sterilised the damn thing. I was angry and winced at the suction of the pump. My body didn’t feel like it quite mine anymore. The next day I brought him follow on milk. That freed me from the pump. When he was with me he had booob, when he wasn’t he had follow on milk.
It’s not a natural stop, he’d definitely still be waking at evil o clock in the morning for boob and a snooze if I hadn’t stopped him. But it was time. I can’t imagine he was getting much milk, and his wiggling and fidgeting meant that I was getting a 20 minute nipple twist every morning.
So after a fluke couple of late wakings, where we took him straight down for breakfast, on the third day when he cried for me and was placed in our bed, when he started tapping at my chest and saying ‘boobie’ I told him no. He tapped a little harder. I told him there was no longer milk in mummy’s boobies. ‘Booby is empty darling.’ He began to cry. I held him whilst hubs went to get him a bottle. He wailed when we tried to give him the bottle. He was angry and confused. His little face wet with tears.
When he calmed and accepted the bottle, I had to escape the the bathroom to cry my own hot salty tears. I was so ready to stop, but I felt like I was somehow betraying him. I thought about the first time I fed him. Moments after birth his tiny mouth rooting for food. I had post birth shakes and hubs and I had to struggle with my impractical long sleeve top so he could latch.
He did not sleep a wink that first night. We weren’t great to start with. I tried shields, got through copious amounts of lansinoh and cried. I cried a lot. But we got better!
I remember the first time I fed him in public. Finding the darkest most deserted corner of Costa, sweating with nerves. It got easier after that. As we both got the hang of it we fed anywhere and everywhere. People didn’t look twice at the mum carrying her baby round HobbyCraft, would they if they had known the baby was feeding?
There were days when I felt chained to him. Maybe it was a growth spurt or he felt unwell. By the end of these days I was so sick of constant contact I couldn’t even bear to let the cat sit on my lap. Then there was the biting. On one occasion when his newly acquired teeth had clamped down on my nipple and I was screaming a yelling in pain, (which made him smile and clamp down harder), my husband suggested instead of just screaming, I should concentrate on getting him off. I can’t tell you how close I was to bludgeoning him to death that day!
After our very emotional morning, he asked for boobie once more. He settled more quickly when I gently told him there was no milk in boobie anymore. He hasn’t asked since.
I can’t help but think of future last times. The last time he sleeps in our bed with us, the last time he holds my hand, the last time he calls me ‘mummy’ and maybe it’s better I don’t know when they’ll be. My heart aches a little at his new independance from me. But I guess that’s just what motherhood is; a whole lot of love and heartache
It’s half eight. It was approximately six am when the youngest woke, loudly protesting from his ivory cage. Retrieved by hubs, he was plonked into our bed where he immediately latched onto the boob and drank with gusto. He likes to throw in a bit of thrashing around; nothing wakes you up quite like a nipple twist and a headbutt.
A mere twenty minutes later his brother plodded in claiming he couldn’t sleep. The reality that I’d had my last few moments in bed sunk in and I reluctantly plodded downstairs with wriggly offsprings.
These few hours are a little like the twilight zone. I’ve just been handed four coloring pencils and told I need them to ‘shoot the pretend bad guy’. Meanwhile the smaller one is drawing all over the (new) sofa with his pencil ‘gun’. My attempt at a reprimand earned me a toddler growl and that smacky hand thing he does, which I’d find cute if he wasn’t graffiti-ing over the new bloody sofa!!
Every day I wake up determined to be a better parent than I was the day before. Unfortunately the earlier the wake-up call the shorter my patience. The 4 year old asks a question (approximately) every 17 seconds. The other 43 seconds he says ‘mummy’. I find myself snappy and irritable. I hate that. Really hate it.
Say what like about screen-time but these early mornings call for out saviour, the TV. It keeps the boys amused and gives me time to adequately caffeinate. As the dulcet tones of Hey Duggee floated out of the magical box, the one year old IMMEDIATELY started dancing. Or bouncing, to be more accurate. His brother joined in and there was raucous bouncing and giggling from both of them.
And I forgot that I was tired, and I’d been woken with a headbutt and a nipple twist. And I’d been told off by the four year old for pouring his cereal wrong(!) And I joined in with the giggling, and the bouncing and as they sat transfixed, I sipped my coffee, but drank them in. My lovely, lovely boys.
Nothing quite like clearing up a poo explosion in a motorway service station to signify the official start of your holidays! I do so love getting poo stuck under all my fingernails. Child wiped down, but with a yellow Simpson-esq tinge to his skin he happily tucked into sweet potato wedges.
Car journeys with small children are stressful. The Bald Kitten asks many questions in both a pitch and volume that is impossible to hear. Naturally when asked to repeat the question he does so even quieter than the first time round. Resulting the standard not-heard-you-but-clearly-you-want-some-sort-of verbal-response ‘Oh yes darling’. I have literally no idea what I’ve been ‘yes darling’ to, hopefully not something expensive. Or dangerous. Despite the fact he can’t seem to ask something in a volume we can hear, sudden loud outbursts of ‘DADDY LOOK OUT!’ are fairly common. This is always followed by ‘There’s a big elephant/dinosaur!’ The car accidents he’s nearly caused by these outbursts are numerous.
Even Balder, chuffed with his giant poo and content with his potato wedges, declined the boob in the services, choosing instead to start screaming about thirty minutes later, in an area with absolutely nowhere to stop. Eventually finding a car park, we pulled over for some boobing. Even Balder decided pulling the gear knob and looking round was preferable to feeding so I assumed he wasn’t hungry and we set off on our journey again.
To the sounds of an infant screaming. For an hour and a quarter.
An hour.
And a quarter.
We got a little relief by playing Bohemian Rhapsody through the car stereo but it was short lived. When we stopped at a supermarket close the the holiday park, I took my tiny, pink, tear stained (and still wailing) boy of of his seat and he stopped. Immediately. At first I thought I’d gone deaf. I’d almost forgotten what the world sounded like without crying. I mistakenly thought he was hungry, turns out he was fed up of being in his car seat and just wanted snugs. He was quiet round the supermarket, meaning I could hear his brother exclaim ‘Mummy, I found bird oil!’ when he saw the bottles of Famous Grouse.
We arrived at the holiday park to much excitement. As hubs and I were busy unloading the car I happened to catch an unholy pong in the caravan.
Long story short, the Bald Kitten had shit himself.
Now, as I was scooping up diarrhoea off the bathroom floor, and showering poo off a small, whimpering boy, (he was upset that he was covered in poo, he wasn’t in any trouble) I couldn’t help but think about how I’d been elbow deep in crap twice in one day.
As much as drinking until I forgot the poo was appealing, I’m both boob feeding and co-sleeping, that’s not an option. Pre-kids holidays involved late nights and too much booze, holidays now revolve around the kids. We do a lot of things we don’t particularly want to, because it makes the children happy. Sometimes it makes them happy for a lot shorter time than you anticipated. Sometimes, it makes them so happy you get an almighty tantrum when the activity has to come to an end. Sometimes you get so excited planning something you’re convinced they’ll love, eagerly anticipate all the wonderful memories you’re going to make and all the ungrateful sods do is whine and moan. That’s a good one for creating a holiday atmosphere.
Today was a simple day. An explore, a walk, a dip in the sea. Then a poorly hubs. We sent him to bed and went to the park. I stood for what felt like hours whilst the Bald Kitten went on a slide approximately fifty billion times, he’s developing a fearlessness that is turning my hair white. I was trying to keep hold of his wriggly little brother, and was surprised when I told him it was time to go that he went without any objections.
On the short walk back to the caravan, he held my hand, bouncing along in the way that small or excited children do and said: ‘I’ve had a lovely day Mummy.’
We’ve done nothing extravagant, we’ve mainly just been together. And our little boy has had a lovely day. And I couldn’t be happier about that.
I’ve had enough. As much as watching my adorable infant sleep next to me, and hearing his gentle breaths gives me the ultimate feels, it’s got to stop. I haven’t had a decent night sleep since he was born, I sleep teetering on the edge of the bed whilst he’s spreadeagled in the middle. Every morning my back hurts from laying twisted to ensure I don’t roll on him, I never feel rested. I never feel like I’ve slept. I’m exhausted. I need quality sleep.
But co-sleeping is all Even Balder knows. We’ve been doing it for most of his life. He’s not going into his cot without a fight. I’ve tried popping him in during the day so he gets used to being in there and I can have a poo in peace. (Well, as peaceful as it can be with him screaming in the next room.) But he still seems to have a rather strong ‘cot aversion’.
This week I got my official return to work date. I’m pretty stoked about going back. I’m craving adult conversations that have nothing to do with children, being creative and getting out of the house. But if I go back with my current cognitive abilities, I’ll be worse than useless. I can barely get a sentence out before I’ve forgotten what I was trying to say.
Last Saturday, after a boob feed, I placed Even Balder in his cot. I left the room and closed the door.
Nothing.
I practically skipped downstairs and turned on the monitor.
Not a sound.
…
Then the anxiety kicked in – Why isn’t he crying? Has the cover gone over his face? (He was tucked in in such a way that couldn’t happen) Is he breathing? I worked hard at being rational and sat down in front of the chimnea hubs had got going. I started to relax, so this is what it feels like to have grown up time away from the kids! Right on cue Even Balder started crying. I went up, I sorted him, I came downstairs. He started again. It took longer and a boob feed this time but when I lowered him into the cot again, he slept. I enjoyed my evening without holding a semi-conscious/sleeping boob monster. I felt free!
He did not sleep in his cot all night. And rather ironically faced with being able to sleep however I wanted to for the first time in months, I couldn’t get comfortable!
I’ve managed six nights, to start him off in his cot. The following Saturday, he wasn’t going to settle for love nor money so he came in with us. But I get it. It’s what he knows and if he’s feeling poorly, or a bit off or those BLOODY TEETH are hurting him, he wants me. He wants to curl into my chest and sleep. He wants to spend a proportion of the night kicking and grabbing at hubs too, I mean why wouldn’t he want to play in the early hours of the morning?
But one day, I’ll wake up and I won’t see his face, eyes closed, long tuft of hair over his ear, his little chubby hand resting on my boob. And I’ll never wake to that again. And I imagine I’ll ache to have him back, this small and this content, but that part of his childhood will be over. So I’ll take the back ache and I’ll take tiredness because I think the very definition of precious is waking to our beautiful boy, in the place he feels safest, between his mum and his dad.
In other news:
We’ve had Marms for six whole years! I shall be making her fishy for tea to celebrate.
The Bald Kitten has started his extended Nursery hours, he is LOVING it.
Even Balder is the proud owner of a single tooth. Which seems a bit unfair as he’s been teething FOR EVAH.
The Bald Kitten is three. At 16.48 on Saturday afternoon he was officially a whole three and I got a tad emotional thinking about three years ago; when our lives (and my fanny) changed forever.
Three brings a whole new set of challenges. I think kids bring a whole new set of challenges daily, it’s part of their charm but he’s really ramped things up. What I’ve not been prepared for is the rapid and alarming decline in his behaviour.
He is hard work.
He’s also started sniggering when he knows he pushing it, which is about as much fun as an ear infection.
On the days he’s complete bum hole from the moment he opens his eyes Even Balder is sure to cry for extended periods of time, so I really get to question my sanity before lunch.
Sometimes I question where my little boy has gone, but then yesterday after chasing the little sod all round Mothercare, having him shout ‘No! You’re being naughty and you have to stop it!’ at me in front of the nice lady at the till, after he turned ALL the heads in Superdrug because he didn’t want to look for his brother’s sock, after wailing ‘Mummy let go of my hand you’re hurting me!’ earning me some looks of disapproval (I absolutely wasn’t hurting him) he burst into tears (still in a shop, natch) and said ‘Mummy I want a cuddle.’
I’ve noticed he does this when he knows I’m furious. It’s his way of checking that even though he’s been a little shit, I still love him. I’m not going to lie, I needed a couple of deep breaths before I could cuddle him. My emotions aren’t quite as flexible as his. But cuddle we did, I got on my knees in the middle of the shop and cuddled him. He wrapped his arms around me, I wiped the tears off his face and told him it was important to hold my hand and use his ‘listening ears’. He nodded and I left the shop with a calm little boy.
It would be great if that was how it ended, wouldn’t it?
Well obviously it didn’t. We got to the door and he said ‘Mummy, can we go to the cafe?’ I’m not flush with cash at the minute and maybe I’m a Scrooge but I’m not spending a fortune on overpriced cake and squash for a child I’ve had to chase around three shops.
My refusal started the very dramatic, rather theatrical wailing again. With repetition of the phrases: ‘I WANT TO GO TO THE CAFE!’ and ‘I DON’T WANT TO GO HOME!’
But home we went. I’d like to point out my mum was with us, doing a good job of pretending she wasn’t. Traitor.
In other news:
Already regretting buying the Bald Kitten a noisy police car for his birthday.
Hubs and I had a heart attack after the boy said what sounded very much like ‘the animals are slags.’ Turns out he said ‘the animals are SAD and we need our hearing checked.
Even Balder is producing so much dribble I think he might actually be just dribble.
Postpartum body crisis alert!! (Imagine a klaxon going off if you will.)
When I’m lucky enough to get in the shower I have a hard time looking at a saggy tum with newly acquired stretch marks and pendulous boobs. I no longer have the bladder control I used to enjoy AND the postpartum hair loss is in full swing, before long I’m going to be rocking a Homer Simpson. Probably going to bugger up the hoover too, it can’t cope with all the bloody hair that’s EVERYWHERE except my head.
My appetite is now HUGE, I am chowing down on vast quantities of food and STILL feeling hungry. Starving in fact. And don’t get my started on chocolate consumption. Now this excessive food consumption is starting to show.
Great. Fat and bald.
My beautiful little sister is getting married in March. She’s chosen her dress, it’s stunning. Elegant, classy, timeless. She looks beautiful in it. I’m going to be a bridesmaid in about 9 months and I look like a potato. Amy Schumer said something amusing about bridesmaids in their 30s and ‘Turkey-leg arms’. Just call me Mrs Turkey leg.
I turned to Pinterest for ideas on how to lose weight without changing my diet or doing any exercise. (Spoiler alert, you can’t. But a girl can dream…) It was there I found us gals should be aiming to be ‘Slim-thick’ now, apparently I need to lose weight in some areas and put it on in others.
Good grief.
And apparently I should have got my ‘pre-baby body’ back approximately 37minutes after giving birth. I’m in the ‘let herself go’ mum category.
I don’t think that fact that I’m feeling really frigging old is helping. Although the hair loss has rid me of the impressive sideburns I acquired during pregnancy, my chin is sprouting like a meadow in spring. I’m getting crows feet, a little jowly (face AND boobs are sagging, score!) and my hands are looking creased and papery.
I’m desperate to buy new clothes to cheer myself up, but I’ve no idea how I’m supposed to dress?! I don’t really have a style. At the moment ‘clean’ is the only requirement. (Well cleanish). And then I can’t be arsed with the ordeal. Clothes shopping is fast becoming strange and bewildering experience (why are shops only selling half tops?! Why are people buying jeans that are already ripped?) I’ve begun to feel alienated in the shops I used to frequent. The music is loud, the girls are tall and willowy and I’m a potato. Waddling round, remembering the days I used to get dressed up. The days I put perky boobs into pretty bras. The days I scorned the granny pants I now wear daily. And really is there any point in getting new clothes when you spend most of your days boob feeding and cleaning up wee?
I guess it sounds dramatic but you lose a little of yourself when you have kids, a body you no longer recognise and a mind dulled from lack of sleep and full of baby thoughts, and now I feel I’m losing a bit more of myself to age.
In other news:
I’ve just had to stop the Bald Kitten licking his brother.
The co-sleeping continues.
My first baby turns three in just under a fortnight!
I look forward to sleeping in the hours that lead to bedtime. A nap is a real treat for me.
The Bald Kitten was every parents dream, sleep wise. He slept through the night from 8 weeks. At bedtime, we’d pop him in his cot and walk away. He’d nod off without a tear or whine until the next morning. And he always woke with a smile. Heaven. The gold standard in sleeping, hubs and I were pretty bloody smug about it.
The Even Balder Kitten, is a rather different story. For one: I can’t put him in a cot unless he’s in REM sleep. Even then I only get enough time to crawl into bed before he starts. He gets up AT LEAST twice in the night, unless I’m really tired and unsure how I can go on functioning, in that instance he gets up every four seconds.
Now, I’m human and I’m tired. If he’s snuggled next to me, he sleeps. So I can spend my nights putting down and then picking up a baby. Or I can sleep… ish.
So why a reluctant co-sleeper? I like to thrash. Left, right, leg out the bed, flat on my face, starfish on my back, curled up in a ball, feet hanging over the edge, one pillow, no pillow, all the pillows. I like the freedom to move in bed.
I can’t do that with a baby in there too. In fact, he’s often so traumatised by the fact I’ve lowered him into his soft, comfortable bed with the gentleness of a bomb disposal expert, that he needs boob to calm down. An upside to boob feeding is it can be done whilst laying in bed, but to ensure he feeds and I stay put I have to do a bit of twisting. I give my knees and back four months before I’m stuck with the flexibility of a octogenarian.
So when he’s in there with me, I can’t move and I have to lay in such a way that causes me physical pain.
BUT
If he’s not in bed with me, he’s awake. And screaming. So it’s a lose – lose situation. Hubs has diligently been researching how to get babies out of the habit of co-sleeping. I mean sure, I could be a bit more consistent but I don’t have the strength to stay up all night putting him back in his bed, when I could be getting painful, fractured sleep.
Co-sleeping can be quite an emotive subject. Some people are all for it, some resolutely against. There are new guidelines on safer co-sleeping, so if, like me you find you’re co-sleeping not by choice, check out how to make it a safe as possible and NEVER co-sleep if you or your partner have been drinking alcohol. For further information on safer sleeping please see The Lullaby Trust
So I’ve been boob feeding for just over 16 weeks now.
The main and best change is that my nips are no longer pure agony. No more wincing when I take my bra off and nip meets air. No nipple shower caps needed. No more bleeding! (No more wincing and crying out when he latches, whoop!)
Although a downside is that I have worn a bra day and night for just over 16 weeks. (Not the same bra, smart arse.) I hate this because I love the relief that comes with de-braing after a long day. But these leaky lumps need containing now.
I’m pleased to report that my initial hesitation about feeding in public is loooong gone. I’ve had my boobs out in a LOT of places – the car, pubs, restaurants, a jewellers, a school, Ikea, M&S, softplay Costa. In fact my boobs are out in Costa so often they should have a coffee dedicated to them.
I use a scarf when I’m feeding in public. When I first got the scarf it was like an extension of me, I wasn’t good at being discreet and I felt so self conscious in public. I still use that scarf, but in all honesty it’s more for other people. Tom gets hot under there, it gets in the way, I’d rather not wear it. And if someone happens to see a bit of boob, then they should see it for what it is: something I feed my baby with.
My boobs have changed. Sadly, not for the better. They are rather pendulous now and I imagine if I didn’t wear a bra to bed, there’d be boob claps whenever I rolled over. (If you don’t know what a ‘boob clap’ is, you’ve never experienced one. It’s pretty self explanatory really…) However due to the frequency in which my little boob monster in laying next to me suckling, rolling over in bed is not an option. Sleeping in bed isn’t really an option either.
It’s definitely less demanding now, although he is going through a ‘cluster feeding’ stage. Cluster feeding is a fairly nice sounding term for pure hell. If you boob isn’t in your babies mouth they’re screaming blue bloody murder. It’s times like this I feel irrational rage towards hubs when he’s getting to enjoy sleeping and drinking beer and not breastfeeding.
I kept a diary when I started breastfeeding, to note times, length of feed and which boob he fed from. I flicked through the other day and found the following notes: ‘All I’ve bloody done today is feed! My nipples are killing me!’, ‘I’m bloody fed up’ and after a particularly long on/off/on/off lasting from 8-11pm I found: ‘THIS IS TAKING THE PISS’ after I wrote that the on/off feeding continues until 4.43 am, then I was able to sleep until he wanted feeding again a 7.30am. I know there were a few dark thoughts I didn’t commit to paper, but the feeding ‘schedule’ in the early days was by far the most gruelling thing I’ve ever done in my life. To the point I convinced myself I’d pass the sleep deprivation part of SAS training no worries.
We’ve not had another ‘snapping turtle’ incident but now his nails grow like I don’t know what and one would be forgiven for thinking I’d been mauled by a tiger. I have to say, I’m not looking forward to his teeth coming through…
I’ve read many social media posts and articles where women say that they love breastfeeding. And when hubs asked me if I liked it, I said no. BUT for all the parts I dislike: (leaky boobs, saggy boobs, ugly bra, can’t drink as much wine as I like, my entire wardrobe is clothing I can easily whip a boob out of and I’ve not been able to have a long uninterrupted bath since before he was born) I genuinely dread our last feed. I feel so connected to him when he’s feeding from me, I feel powerful, if that makes sense, and although I long for a little more freedom, I have to remind myself that in a flash he won’t need this from me anymore.
In other news:
In an attempt to get the Bald Kitten out of nappies he’s in pants in the day. We’ve had varying success.
Even Balder has been in a swimming pool for the first time. He couldn’t have been less bothered and spent the whole time chewing his fists.
I have polished off an alarming quantity of food today.
I’ve had enough. As much as watching my adorable infant sleep next to me, and hearing his gentle breaths gives me the ultimate feels, it’s got to stop. I haven’t had a decent night sleep since he was born, I sleep teetering on the edge of the bed whilst he’s spreadeagled in the middle. Every morning my back hurts from laying twisted to ensure I don’t roll on him, I never feel rested. I never feel like I’ve slept. I’m exhausted. I need quality sleep.
The Bald Kitten is three. At 16.48 on Saturday afternoon he was officially a whole three and I got a tad emotional thinking about three years ago; when our lives (and my fanny) changed forever.
Postpartum body crisis alert!! (Imagine a klaxon going off if you will.)
I’ve never wanted to co-sleep.
The Postpartum Years 