We’ve survived another week of parenting…

Survived being  the operative word here.

Sunday was a day of great joy in the Warwick household as Wills rolled over. Our clever little man. He naturally waited for the 30 second window when neither of us were with him, we entered the living room to see him on his front looking ever so slightly bewildered. We might have cried a bit.

This week has been busy, I’ve had something to amuse me most days, hubs had an extended weekend so we had a jaunt to a park. Where we were swarmed upon. By ladybirds. There were hundreds of them. Crawling all over us and Wills. It was horrific. I’ll tell you what else was horrific.

My period.

Something else new mums aren’t really given adequate information on, post partum periods. In the FOUR I’ve had since giving birth (not including the fortnight of daily bleeding) I’ve noticed they are now incredibly painful (like labour but without the fun of gas and air) and very heavy. In addition to worrying that if I sneeze, I might drown someone I seem to be experiencing hormones like never before. Hubs has started hiding anything pointy and avoiding eye contact.

Sodding hormones.

So this the lowlight of this week was definitely not coping with Wills incessant screaming and telling him I didn’t like him.

I said those words.

I don’t think I’ve ever regretted anything more. I cradled him, told him I loved him more than anything and cried. Repeating I’m sorry I’m so sorry through sobs. And that’s what hubs came home to. His wife holding his now quiet son, crying almost hysterically.

And I cried when I told my sister what I’d done. And my mum. I feel sick thinking about it. How could I say that to him?

You see the problem with people bleating about having children being the best thing in the world and telling people without them ‘you don’t know what love is until you’ve had children’ (Something I will never say to the childless), is that no one thinks to tell you how absolutely shit having children can make you feel. How absolutely inadequate you feel. And like you are the only parent on the planet who is completely fucking it up. Yes I love my son, I adore him. I know every contour of his beautiful face, I know his scent , his cry, I know the exact smile I’ll get from him in the morning. I know which of his toys he likes the most. But even with all the love I feel for him, sometimes coping with day to day life is incredibly tough.

Parenting really it taking the rough with the smooth, sometimes the rough greatly outweighs the smooth.

In other news:

Both the cats have taken an interest in William. Wills seems to enjoy a combination of smacking/grabbing Captain. Captain seems to enjoy this too.

Wills has had his last set of immunisations until he’s one. *sighs with relief*

Sophie the Giraffe is officially William’s favourite toy.



A serious case of ‘Can’t be arsed’.

The clocks went back last night. This marks the start of a fair few months where we’ll be getting up and going to sleep in the dark. As much as I love summer, I like that in winter the evenings are clearly distinguished from the days. A chance to really embrace unwinding.

Or it was until we became parents.

It is Halloween on Monday,  I’ve purchased a pumpkin, pumpkin onesie for Wills and some lollipops should we get any trick-or-treaters. I daydreamed about our first Halloween, dressing up Wills, dressing up ourselves, carving the pumpkin together and watching Hocus Pocus as a family. So far the pumpkin has remained uncarved and last night once Wills was asleep hubs and I stared at our phones whilst ignoring each other I’m surprised we had the energy for it. Friends had wild parties, and I envy them being able to enjoy uninterrupted hangovers today.

The thing is all the good intentions didn’t take into consideration how bloody tired I’d be. There is no real opportunity to catch up on missed sleep and my long afternoon naps are fast becoming ancient history. Today we will carve the sodding pumpkin, I don’t care how crap it looks it’s happening, and we’ll take a picture of Wills in the vicinity of said pumpkin so when he’s older it will look like we made more of an effort….

You can peak too soon, no danger of that here.

In other news:

Marms has acquired some sort of spiky lump on her face here’s hoping it drops off. (The lump not her face.)

It’s quarter past three and getting dark already.

It is bloody freezing in this house.


Roll on bedtime.

Today has not been my favourite day. Wills woke at half five coughing and spluttering. Then he wanted feeding. He does this ‘fun’ thing at the moment, be pushes the bottle out of his mouth then screams. So feeding time is now battle time. My milky mamma friends have said they are having similar problems. Must be an age thing. After feeding, he screams and stiffens his body. This goes on… and on. It’s exhausting. That coupled with the alarming frequency in which he throws up on me, has made me quite emotional. Rather ironically he sat silently in his bouncy chair as I cried in the shower yesterday.

It’s very hard to ignore a crying baby, especially as in terms of decibels they are on a par with road drills. It’s so unbelievably frustrating when you have done EVERYTHING, fed, changed, cuddled and the tiny human is STILL screaming. Today I had to put him in his cot and walk away. (Helloo mum guilt), he eventually fell asleep under the watchful eye of Captain.

The worst thing you can say to a frazzled mum or dad when holding their now placated offspring is along the lines of; ‘Well he/she is alright with me!’

Fuck off.

You are not the sodding baby whisperer, if anything my baby is too exhausted to play up now. I don’t want to hear how you think you have magical powers with  our child, I want you to be sympathetic! How about; ‘That sounds awful, kids are like this sometimes, but you are doing an awesome job.’

One of those phrases will have a mum weeping in secret feeling like her child hates her, the other might just prevent those tears.

But just in case you need reminding;

Your baby loves you. No one can replace you in your baby’s affection. You are a fantastic mummy and baby is lucky to have you.

In other news:

Part two of the Mousehole  cat will be tonight’s bedtime reading.

The house panthers have been celebrating National Black Cat day.

We will be carving out first family pumpkin this weekend!



Who am I again?

Autumn is here, although it’s one of my favourite times of the year I can’t say I’ve been out and about in its chilly golden glow.

I’m finding leaving the house harder and harder. Leaving the house means washing, getting dressed, trying to make my now very thin and greasy hair acceptable and then packing a massive bag of assorted baby crap. I then have to park, assemble buggy (stroller) remove baby from car put into buggy, attempt to strap in child who is now doing best impression of a plank of wood, bag of assorted baby crap is then attached to buggy handle via intricate Velcro system, blanket placed on baby some sort of toy chucked in for good measure and then off to navigate shops that clearly have no notion of pushchair access because they’ve put shitty piles of crap in the middle of isles already too narrow for buggies. Then I have try and find somewhere to feed my child because he’s screaming blue bloody murder only to stroll into Costa or similar to find that the only sodding clean tables have some dickhead sat with laptop and a latte pretending to be intellectual.

So I order an expensive coffee I can’t drink before it’s cold because I need to feed the foghorn and sit there getting ‘looks’ because, despite my best efforts, the pushchair is in the way. If you’re breastfeeding you have the potential added bonus of people with no idea what boobs are actually for chiming in. Thankfully so far all my milky mamma friends haven’t encountered anything too awful but do get the odd stare.

No thank you.

To top my already incredible mood, Wills has been so fussy it’s untrue. The sound track to most of my day is him crying. It’s exhausting. Yet if we see anybody he’s an angel so they think either I’m a liar or a moron. Ha! I too have been fooled by this, I thought looking after my nephew overnight qualified me in some way to ‘know what it’s like’ to be a mum. What a fucking idiot.

Like I have said before, I am no longer ‘me’ I am ‘we’ and I bloody adore my son but I feel almost bereft. I feel I’ve lost the me I knew and I’m still figuring out who I am now. I’m trying to get used to a whole new set of things to be anxious about or annoyed by.  (There are many.)

I fear that the more upfront slightly ballsy woman I promised to be is turning mousier and mousier, retreating, pyjama clad under a blanket watching crap, mind numbing TV whilst the world passes by.


In other news:

‘Don’t stand on the baby, Captain’, is the phrase of today.

Am baffled by Tesco’s notion of a ‘large’ pumpkin.

The baby is crying. Again.



A battle of wills with Wills.

I think perhaps the title of this post sounds a little more dramatic than it is. Basically, I have been attempting to up the amount of milk Wills has each feed so that he can go a bit longer between them.

He’s have non of it! He’s quite happy with small amounts frequently.

They day after I got out of hospital a midwife came to visit. This is standard procedure in this country, they come to your home to check that you are your baby are both well and your infant isn’t sleeping in a sack on a bed of nails. I remember sitting on the sofa wincing at my tender downstairs hoping to all that is holey that I wouldn’t need to poo until I was a million percent healed and feeling fuzzy from lack of sleep and about a gazillion antibiotics. The midwife asked simple questions; How many wet nappies has he had? (I had no answer to this, I looked at my husband panicked, how the hell should I know? Are we supposed to count them?) Hubs and I made an educated guess and as the midwife wrote our guesstimate down without looking alarmed I figured it was an okay total. The next question she asked me was how often was I feeding him? A little confused by this question I replied ‘Well, when he’s hungry,’ wondering if this was a trick question, ‘So you are doing baby led feeding?’

‘Err yes baby led feeding…’

As it happens I’m doing baby-led sleeping and eating and showering. Yep consider me baby-led.

In my naivety it hadn’t occurred to me that there were other ways. It seemed to make sense to feed when hungry. And this is not to say I feel there is anything wrong with a feeding schedule, a friend of mine who is a mummy of two can tell me what time her little one is getting fed. And her baby is both beautiful and beautifully content.

I can tell you what time my cats  will get fed. (Well ish  they have got very patient with us now we have Wills, pretty much through necessity.) Wills can sometimes feed and go for hours before he wants more, other days he’ll feed and in what feels like four seconds want feeding again. My vain attempt at altering this haphazard approach to nutrition has made me reflect on my haphazard approach to life.

I am not organised, I am not a list girl, I rarely plan things in advance. I will be the mum the school has to chase for permission slips. My sons lunch boxes will fester in his school bag much the same as mine fester under my desk at work.

Can I change my disorganised ways?

At 30, probably not.

Fortunately hubs is the yin to my yang, the list maker, the lunch maker, the lunchbox chaser upper, the sorter of important letters, the man that remembers to take re-usable shopping bags to the supermarket. Yep, thankfully he still finds my casual approach to life-admin amusing.

There are much worse things to be than disorganised, (probably not what an organised person thinks) and I’ve managed so far. So I think instead of trying to change, I’ll just accept I am me, there will always be room for improvement but who has the time?

Now I really must go, my child wants feeding.

It’s not my turn to be ill.

I took William to the doctors today. It’s not nice being woken in the early hours because your infant is choking. Unfortunately there isn’t anything he can be given to help apart from time.

That’s fine, who needs sleep?

This morning I was treated to coughing in stereo. The deep barking of my husband and the slightly higher, teensy bit cute cough of my son.

Keep away germs, the bedroom floor is fast becoming indistinguishable from the wash(laundry) basket. Except, those pesky germs might have already found me. Unless I accidently swallowed a razor last night I’m quite sure I’m coming down with something. (Not ruling out the swallowing thing just yet.)

I don’t have time to be ill. My son isn’t quite self sufficient yet so it doesn’t matter how poorly I get, I can’t have a day off. I remember as a child my sisters and I all getting poorly around Christmas. (It doesn’t feel like Christmas to me until I’ve thrown up or can’t breathe through my nose.) My mum had enlisted the help of my nan to stop us killing each other whilst she went to work. I remember her getting back from the supermarket and throwing up in the sink as she was packing the shopping away, then carrying on! Making dinner, cleaning the sink and preparing for Christmas despite the fact she felt like arse! What a trooper!

When you have a baby, your body isn’t yours for nine months. It’s very nice to get it back, even if it’s slightly larger and saggier, than before. But I am no longer mine anymore, because I have a little chap so dependent on me, that for a fair few years,  it seems I will exist solely for his every need.

That’s bloody hard to get your head round sometimes. I can’t wallow in self pity. I can’t choose to stay in bed if I’m poorly, I have to get up and be a mum.

So probably time I find a lemsip and start putting tonight’s tea together.

In other news:

One of the cats left a mouse and a rat (deceased) on the living room carpet today. As the rat was in three pieces, we suspect Captain was responsible.

I shouldn’t have eaten so many chocolate digestives last night.

We think Wills might roll over soon!

Up to our eyeballs in vomit.

The plague has descended on the Warwick household. Hubs is poorly and I know it’s bad because he’s trying to be helpful. The more ill he is the more he tries to do. Wills so far is plague free but seems to be vomiting a lot more than usual.

His first chunder of the day usually occurs as soon as I’ve put a clean vest on him. I change the vest, put trousers on him, then a top which he throws up on. Mostly I think sod it and leave that on. If I’m lucky I’ll get a bib on and he’ll throw up on that. This coupled with the copious amounts of drool means we are getting through those bibs. Just what my washing pile needs, more sodding stuff.

In addition to having a slightly soggy baby I myself spend most of the day covered in regurgitated milk. I’m feeling less than glamourous at the moment, my hair continues to fall out at a seemingly alarming rate, having a shower consists of just getting wet and carefully applied make-up is a thing of the past. To add insult to injury, the hair missing from my head appears to be growing out of my chin and neck. So eau de sick is pretty much the least of my worries.

This Friday my husband is taking me out for our first date since we had William. He has brought me a dress and booked a lovely restaurant, his mum is babysitting for us and I have a decision to make. Does she come here are babysit or do we send him there for the night. Knowing that I am really torn about this hubs has told me I don’t have to decide until the day.

My head tells me we could do with a night off. His nan is more than capable of looking after him. He will be safe and he will be happy.

But I won’t be there when he wakes up, what if he needs me? What if he thinks I’ve left him? What if his nan and granddad can’t interpret his behaviour like I can? What if he has a nightmare and I’m not there?

I’m not sure I’m ready for him to be anywhere other than the cot beside me yet. Because as much as I’m fed up with being thrown-up on every five minutes and looking like I should be appearing on some sort of extreme make over programme, he’s my little boy, and he’s totally worth it.

In other news:

Wills is now able to grip things tightly. Unfortunately his favourite thing to grip is my bingo wings. (The arm fat at the top that hangs down when you lift your arms)

The cats continue to act indifferently towards us.

Hubs is on the mend.