‘Thanks, now would you mind minding your own business?’

A slightly weird but definitely infuriating thing happened to me and hubs today.

Set on enjoying the bank holiday we got Wills ready and were out the house by 11:15 am (only and hour and a quarter later then planned score!) We began the day by looking at kitchens we couldn’t hope to afford but have optimistically booked a ‘design visit’ where I fully expect to have to scale back our expectations and sell one of my lesser organs. After traipsing round the vast showroom and drinking overpriced coffee in the café, hubs and I decided to head to the Fargo Village Beer Festival. Fargo Village is a new development for the city of Coventry, which has a bit of a reputation for being fugly. Mainly because vast areas of it are.  The Luftwaffe kindly flattened most of the city in the forties so bang went the medieval charm and up went some pretty revolting concrete buildings. Anyway the council have begun ‘tarting up’ the place Fargo Village is a fashionable development with a brewery, and other crafty/vintage shops including barbers shops and vegan food outlets. But most importantly there is a brewery.

Hubs and I were surprised to find the place pretty much deserted, the brewery was open (huzzarh)) but other then that it was very quiet. It wasn’t hot but we sat outside because it’s May and that’s what the British do. In other countries I’m quite sure people would be sat in coats on days like today, but we’re out in pub gardens, with shorts on, freezing but acting like there has been some sort of heatwave. I kind of like it, we NEVER waste sunshine in this country. Even if it’s bloody freezing, if the sun is shining we’re out, lighting barbeques, having picnics cramming  ourselves into pub gardens and wearing the shorts we brought four years ago but have only worn six times. (Unless of course we went abroad on holiday.) Anyway, I digress. We sat outside; Hubs with a beer, me trying to calm a tired William (whom I suspect is having a poo this very second, yep, please excuse me a tick.) Tired William was balling so I decided to placate him with a bottle, when he’s had enough I popped him in his pushchair, but he started a protest in the form of wailing at the top of his lungs. Ahh the naptime fight, a battle of wills with Wills. It doesn’t happen every naptime but when the little foghorn is fighting sleep you sure do know about it!

As he wailed I uttered soothing phrases and  pushed his chair back and forth.

‘Excuse me’

‘Err, yes?’

‘Maybe if you sat her up she’d stop crying, I don’t think she likes that’

He is actually very tired, he is fighting sleep, that’s why he is crying.’

‘Oh is it a boy?’

(No I just call her him for shits and giggles yes it’s a fucking boy, he’s in blue corduroy dungarees!) ‘Yes it’s a boy.’

‘Oh, and is he your first baby?

(What the fuck does that have to do with anything?) ‘Yes, first baby.’

‘I hope you don’t mind me saying?’

(Of course I fucking mind, who in the name of arse do you think you are? creeping up behind me and giving me advise I neither need or asked for!) ‘Not at all, thank you!’

 

Thank you!! I fucking said THANK YOU. I didn’t mean thank you, there was nothing about that situation that I was thankful for!! You see, when you have a baby you sort of become public property whether you like it or not. Sometimes it’s nice that strangers say nice things about your baby, but sometimes it crosses a line. Like the woman who asked; ‘… and are you feeding him?‘ The temptation to reply: ‘No, I refuse to offer him breast or bottle, we send him out into the woods to forage for his own food…’ To the people that ask ‘Did you have a natural birth?’  What comes out of my vagina is my business, and although I’ll happily talk through the process to preggos, that particular question is posed in a way that suggests anything other than natural is sub par. And it absolutely isn’t. There are babies and mammas that wouldn’t be here today without the marvels of modern medicine. So you can stick your natural birth question up your arse.

I’ve never had such an intrusion before. Perhaps this person thought they might combust if they didn’t intervene. But what if I was having a bad day. What if it had been one of those days when I’ve doubted my abilities. The days when I’ve cried, thinking there are a million women who’d be a better mummy. Women who never get tired and make only organic home cooked food. Who attend every baby group going and keep an immaculate house. If this had happened on one of those days I can’t tell you the damage it might have done.

But today has been a good day, I’m looking over at my little boy who is sharing a rusk with Captain and I feel all warm and proud. And I’m wondering how I’m supposed to get rusk off the cat.

I may not be a ‘supermum’ but I’m doing my best. If I want or need advice, I promise I’ll ask for it. If you don’t hear me asking, keep it to yourself.

In other news:

There is a black cat coming into the garden that my black cats are hell bent on terrorising. It’s not always easy to distinguish which black cats are mine form a raging ball of hissing and clawing.

We’re off to a wedding in a couple of weeks. Going to get Wills a suit, hoping I can keep it clean for longer than five minutes…

I’ve started a diet. Hubs is looking for sanctuary somewhere, any offers greatly appreciated.

 

 

Mum authority

Mum Authority is a term I’m pretty sure I’ve made up. And it’s something I didn’t feel I had until quite recently.

When we transported Wills home from the hospital it marked the beginning of us being in charge. Occasionally he’d cry (spoiler alert, that can happen a lot) when he cried, visitors would often ask me what was the matter with him. And I wouldn’t have a bloody clue. My standard response was usually, ‘I don’t know, I’ve only had him a week…’ and sometimes I’d feel bad. Does this make me a bad mum? Don’t mums usually know what’s wrong with their children, don’t they sense it? I didn’t  know him well enough to know if he was out of sorts. Does this mean we haven’t bonded, after all I was whipped away so soon after he was born to get my bits sewn back together.

The thing is, there are two things I’d like to point out: 1, when Wills was born he looked like a baby, not me or his dad, just a baby. He could have been anyone’s. Now he’s the spit of his dad, even the postman has told me so (‘must look like his dad because he looks nothing like you…’). And 2, he had no personality. People might think that’s a mean thing to say but how could he? He’d been floating around in a womb for nine months, he’d never experienced anything other than that.

I’d felt him move and he’d heard my voice but we’d never met until that hot afternoon in hospital. And yet here I am, expected to know everything about him. Fast forward nine months and he is rapidly becoming his own little person, and I have developed a ‘mum authority’ I know when he’s not quite right. What he does and doesn’t like, the reactions I’m going to get. And with this new knowledge of my son comes not the feeling that I particularly know best, but that what I say goes.

What I say goes.

I am rapidly building a dislike of him being tickled. A little is fine, but people go too far, do it for too long and I don’t like it. And if I don’t like it, guess what? It’s not happening.

He doesn’t want to kiss you goodbye? Guess what? He’s not kissing you goodbye, my son chooses who he kisses, not me.

If I say he’s had enough of something or I don’t want him to have something…. guess what? (Pretty sure you get the gist)

I’m embracing my newfound mum authority, maybe it was a long time coming. Do I always know what’s best? No. Am I always right? Of course not (don’t tell hubs!) but I think it’s about time the world knows this:

I am mum. What I say goes.

In other news:

Marms has been once again gracing us with her presence, last night she sat next to my feet for a whole tewnty minutes! Some of this time was spent chewing my slipper socks.

Hubs is on a stag do this this weekend (bachelor party to any readers from the U S of A) so I’m solo parenting for a couple of days.

The boy has learnt to clap. We are super proud.

 

 

Working and working at parenting.

I am on my third week back at work. The first two were a breeze. This week, not so much. I put this down to two things:

Firstly- the novelty of being back at work is starting to wear off and I’m realising ‘this is my life now’

Secondly – daylight sodding savings. My alarm clock may have said six thirty this morning but I think we all know it was actually half five. I was present in body only today. I also forget where I work… whilst at work which wasn’t great as I was on reception.

I also had a slight wobble after loading Wills into his dad’s car this morning, as I looked at him through the window, he looked all wide-eyed and sad. I didn’t want to leave him, but I had to, ‘my son looked a bit sad this morning’ is not a valid reason not to go in. So gave him exaggerated smiles and waves as his dad drove off and cried on the journey into work.

With gallons of coffee and fizzy drink I made it through my working day, (and three bags of crisps), popped to the shop for nappies and got home, to put the dinner on. After tea hubs and I prep for tomorrow. Then Wills goes to bed and we vege out on the sofa. Tonight Wills decided sleep was definitely not on the agenda. When his wailing showed no sign of abating I retrieved him for some cuddles on the sofa. This was going swimmingly until he smacked me in the face with his monitor. I’m still not sure whether this was an accident or his way of voicing his disquiet about the sudden life upheaval he’s experiencing. What I do know is the inside of my mouth is swollen and my tooth is now moving.

William has very recently started crawling. It is quite literally amazing how they go from crawling a few tentative paces to all over the sodding place. Naturally he finds the most dangerous things to crawl to.  And his new found mobility has meant a huge rise in bumps, usually gained at the exact moment you take your eyes off him. It’s also meant he can indulge in his favourite hobby of following Captain around. I’m okay with this as it helps both of them burn off some extra energy. I’m not okay with William eating cat biscuits so the pursuit often involves Captain, Wills and Mummy.

Hubs and I are slowly getting into this new phase, our parenting has to be different now, all the rules and routines have had to adapt with him and now we’ve thrown working into the mix. We now need to consider childcare, dropping off and picking up, making enough food to send with him (he doesn’t stop eating!) I’ve said it before, every time we think we have this parenting malarky down, he changes and we are back to square one.

In other news:

Captain continues to steal things from the neighbours house, his latest crime was witnessed by said neighbour.

Marms has eaten a couple of meals at our house, but she growled at me when I stroked her. (The cow.)

My first Mother’s Day was lovely! Flowers, a mug and the promise of a night out for cocktails.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The witching hour.

Wills is in bed, his chunky form has been securely zipped into his sleeping bag, he has been lowered gently and silently into his cot, his tiny chest rising and falling with each sleepy breath, floppy rabbit placed near him, a comfort should he wake. Peace.

Until the shitbagging cat marched in for an impromptu, (full volume), miaow-a-thon. At least Wills was delighted to be woken and find a cat in his room. Mummy was decidedly less impressed. Thankfully he was two feet into the land of nod and settled quickly. I now find myself in the witching hour, the time the house takes on a silence it never seemed to have before Wills. The time when I try to cram in resting/catching up on hobbies/ self maintenance/drinking wine.

As hubs is out enjoying himself at a beer festival I decided to cook myself a Chinese, thank you, Mr Gok Wan. I can’t tell you how much I’d rather have ordered one but I’m yet to find a nice one close by and just ordering for one doesn’t qualify for delivery and picking it up is not really an option with a baby. So far I have managed to burn the rice, something I seem to do with alarming regularity at the moment. But I did buy a huge bag of prawn crackers so I won’t starve.

I did intend to sit in my clean and tidy living room and enjoy an evening by myself but after an earlier emotional crisis and a couple of hours spent sulking in bed I’ve managed to hoover. That’s it. The sofa is covered in ironing, the carpet in biscuit. Wills’ toys remain scattered about and the draining board is stacked with washing up. Luckily I’m too exhausted to care, I’m sat on the floor, the cat on the sofa (he’s in my spot).

So it’s ten to nine, I’m sat on the carpet drinking wine, in a messy house, starving but thoroughly enjoying my witching hour!

In other news:

The boy crawled today, it turns out Captain was all the motivation he needed.

Hubs has assembled a work bench today, he now feel like a fully fledged dad.

Wills noisy habit of blowing raspberries for hours on end has returned with a vengeance.