A family day out with a raging hangover.

Hubs and I went to a wedding reception last night. NannyGran was babysitting, hubs was driving and I let my hair down. Pretty sure I let it all the way down, in a way that would put Rapunzul to shame.

Fast forward to this morning, I hear my son calling for Mummy and hubs telling him ‘Mummy’s in bed. She got very drunk last night.’ I got up, drank two cups of tea and made poached eggs.

Impressed?

You shouldn’t be. The earlier I get up and the more functional I am, the more stinking the hangover will be when it finally kicks in.

Hubs and I decided last week that we’d take William to the air museum today. He loves watching planes fly over the garden and can spot them before anyone. I got dressed. My makeup still looked okay from last night so I put a bit more mascara on and was ready! (I’m not ashamed that I’m not ashamed of that.)

Hangover issue one: I’m in no fit state to drive.

No problem, hubs is driving.

We arrived at the museum with a very excited toddler, who kept exclaiming ‘Ooooohhh’ loudly whilst pointing at all the planes.

Then we encountered hangover problem number two: Museum smell. Most of the exhibition was outside, thank Lordy because the hungover body doesn’t tolerate smells very well. Chundering on an old jet engine wouldn’t have gone down very well with the over visitors.

Will was given the freedom of his reins, which leads me to hangover problem number three: when you can see the earth spinning the last thing you need to see if your toddler running round in circles. Pretty sure chundering on my son would have been frowned upon too.

We left the museum and popped to the supermarket. It was crowded and Will, after being an absolute treasure in the museum screamed blue bloody murder the whole way round. Hangover problem four: I’m barely humaning, parenting is out of the question.

On the way home my hangover hankering for a McDonalds peaked and we took a detour. Hubs doesn’t eat anything from this particular fast food outlet and only goes at my request. (or my preggo rage that could only be quelled by their chips!) Hangover problem five: do as we say not as we do. We’re trying to make sure Will eats the best possible food to help him grow into a healthy young man. He’s had one McDonalds in his life and we’re in no hurry for him to have a second. (Although he got so excited when we pulled in to the car park we have some questions for his grandparents…)

We’re home now and this hangover is really kicking in. (And kicking my arse) which leads us to hangover problem number six: Will has no idea I’m hungover. So he’s been climbing on me. Kicking a ball at my back (repeatedly) trying to claim the blanket I’ve wrapped round myself and yet more climbing on me, and needing all the things from me he always does. And throwing in a few extra tantrums for good measure. I’m letting hubs take the reins.

Can you have a family day out with a hangover?

Yes. Yes you can.

Should you?

Not unless you like torturing yourself.

In over news:

Will crushed a snail in his hand and then licked it. Must keep sharper eye out for snails. (Think of me as a one woman snail protection unit.)

Will has named his bedtime bunny ‘Me me’

I’m never drinking again. (Until Saturday)

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Time to get fit(ish)

I’ve been rather alarmed by my growing waistline. The final straw came on Friday. The boy and I were changing the bedding. This is mostly arsing about, pretending the duvet is trying to eat him, putting the fitted sheet over him and exclaiming ‘where’s the baby?’, etc. Half way through the process we were rolling around on the bed doing our ‘Oh no I’ve fallen over and I can’t get up’ routine, when the boy clocked my belly. He was mesmerised by it. Pressing his hands into it and wiggling them about, slapping it and watching it ripple and finally (which nearly tipped me over the edge) grabbing handfuls of it. (Yes. HANDFULS) As much as I’m all for anything that keeps him amused I’m drawing the line at my belly.

I’ve not been taking care of myself recently. I’ve been leaving that up to the various pharmaceuticals I’m on. But I need to take responsibility for my own health, I need to help it along and as much as I enjoy sharing an Easter egg with hubs I’m certainly not blessed with a metabolism that lets me get away with that. And I’ve said it before my clothes size is closely linked with my self esteem.

Today I exercised. I’d downloaded an app that gives me a little routine to follow. William found this fascinating, which caused a problem. When I was planking he decided to lay on me and exclaim ‘ahhhh’, when I did a wall sit, he tried to climb on my lap with a book and when I did crunches, he straddled me, bounced up and down squealing and slapped my tum like it was his tambourine. Thankfully hubs removed him before I was winded.

Will this health kick last? Probably not, but I’ll make the most of the enthusiasm I currently feel.

In other news:

The boy has started going to Nursery half a day a week. He’s not too happy about this.

Cat/bald kitten relations are going very well. (If you ignore Marms) although Captain wasn’t too sure what to do when he had a sippy cup thrust in his face.

It seems I am the current favourite parent, and although I’m enjoying being flavour of the month I know how upsetting some of the rejection is for hubs. (Although he’s pretty stoked that I get the pleasure of reading the sodding alphabet book eleventy billion times a day.)

Feeling redundant.

The boy is becoming more of a ‘character’ every day. He’s beginning to really communicate what he does and doesn’t want.

Which would be great if 9 times out of 10 it’s me and hubs that he doesn’t want. 

It’s a wonderful feeling when you pick your child up and they scream and squirm because they don’t want you. He’ll happily snog the cat, but heaven forbid mummy and daddy get a kiss. 

Daddy is also firm favourite this week, if he goes upstairs Wills will stand at the baby gate wailing, then smack at me if I try and comfort him. This smarts, I ruined my vagina and got a daddy’s boy. ‘Triffic. 

Luckily the Captain is extremely needy.

In other news:

The path leading from our front door to our drive has turned into ‘massive spiderweb land’, i just love starting the day sticky.

Marms seems to have rememberd that she is, in actual fact, our cat and  is home a lot more. There are now daily cat squabbles. If a cat squabble causes me or hubs to shout, Wills will start to cry. Hysterically. 

No the boy is picking up language at an alarming rate I really must stop swearing. (But that’s hard when your cats are arseholes.)

It takes a village to raise a child.

Now I’m not sure if the saying is ‘a’ village or ‘the’ village but what I do know is I don’t agree. 

You see support is a wonderful thing, no question. Offers to babysit/look after the little one are great. Advice, when it’s asked for delivered in a non-judgemental way in truely invaluable, but the village…. no thank you. 

You see raising a baby is hard enough but it’s even harder when everyone has slightly different ideas on the right way to do things. It’s even harder when people take you ignoring their advice and doing your own thing personally. What do you do if that happens? Let ’em be upset, don’t try and justify how you’re choosing to raise your child or you’ll spend the next 18 years apologising!

It’s also worth bearing in mind that all of these villagers were once exactly where you are now, no matter how authoritative their advice no-one is born knowing exactly what to do with a tiny human in all situations. 

In other news:

The boy has a cold. So. Much. Snot.

The cats appear to have called a truce.

The winter wardrobe is out the loft.

Sorting myself out.

It’s safe to say, from my previous post that I was a having a wobble of monumental proportions. I have been struggling recently with work pressures, trying to be a good mum, trying to keep my house clean and trying to not hate my body. And I’ve realised that because of being so wrapped up in thinking about how I’m failing, I’ve missed a lot of good things. 

When I feel down, I bring everything else down too. I can’t help it, the world suddenly becomes tinged with grey. I couldn’t handle William’s behaviour even though I was probably the cause of it. Babies are perceptive. It’s probably why he was so clingy. 

Yesterday I had a glorious afternoon with my son. I worked in the morning and managed to hand over a project to my boss. This thing has been the bain of my life for a few weeks so it feels great not to have to think about it for a bit! When I picked him up from my mum’s he was engrossed in watching a pigeon in the garden. He pointed with his chubby little arm and was mumbling ‘kitty’ (everything is either kitty or mummy at the moment). I could see prints all over the window from where he’d been studying this weird creature in NannyGran’s garden.  We got home and we played. We danced,  he ‘helped’ with the washing by taking clothes off the airer and putting them back into the machine. He played with two empty milk cartons he’d pulled out of the recycling box. You should have seen the sheer delight on his face! He cuddled me, he squeezed the cat (we’re still working on cat handling). We had fun. He laughed a lot. I don’t think I can put into words what the sound of his laughter means to me, I have special sounds, ones that make me feel warm inside, Wills laugh, Hubs saying my name and the cats with their surprisingly loud snoring. 

I couldn’t help but think how many times do I get so wrapped up in how I’m feeling that I miss what’s going on around me? 

We’ve had a busy morning today, so busy Will clambered onto my lap and fell asleep. It feels like such a long time since he’s done that. In the early days that’s what we did, he slept, I held him. That doesn’t happen anymore, instead I have a little boy who sprinkles cat biscuits all over the house, plays with the recycling, takes his socks off and shoves them under my nose, pulls the sodding carpet up and permanently changes the TV settings by playing with the remote. And it’s bloody brilliant! 

So, my wee man, my dearest darling boy: you be you. In all your cat-biscuit-eating, weeing- all-over -your monkey, following -mummy-around-crying glory! Because no matter how tired/sad/inadequate mummy might feel sometimes you really can make it all go away xXx

In other news: 

William heard the cat flap go and said ‘KITTY’. I may have mentioned this before, but super proud!

William can say ‘Mummy’ this would be more flattering if he didn’t insist on calling EVERYTHING mummy. 

It’s that wonderful time of year when Marms starts going baldy again. Just in time for winter…

When will I feel like I know what I’m doing?

My weekend has not been great. I’ve had a clingy boy, a domestic and a hangover. My house is in a disgusting state, I’ve had to buy a new phone, my car tax reminder has arrived and my recent junk food binges have caught up with me and I couldn’t do my jeans up this morning.

William has once again spent the morning wailing, quiet only when he got hold of the cat food pouch and (I’m pretty certain) ate some of the cat food. He also covered himself in his own shit this morning, leaving a residual poo smell on my fingers despite me scrubbing my hands repeatedly.

Set the scene?

I’ve been to the shops this morning but have been walking round on the verge of tears. Wills kicked off in the phone shop, and Tesco, and my patience is practically non-existent. And I feel like shit.

I’d always fantasised that I would be one of those uber calm mummies, that is always 100% prepared for any eventuality loves every second of parenting and does all sorts of exciting things to amuse and educate her little one.

In reality, I’m not. I have fallen short of my own expectations. I mourn pre-mummy me. I feed the boy too much toast. I don’t know how to amuse him. I mean I know what he likes doing, pulling the cat’s tail, emptying the recycling, playing with the loo brush, taking hubs’ beers out of the box and putting them on the window ledge… But these aren’t what he should be doing.

I’m not wanting this to sound like a pity party or like I anything but adore my son; I love the very bones of him, but I feel awkward around him sometimes, like a baby sitter not his mum. I don’t know always know the source of a tantrum, I miss-read his hunger signals. I cut his thumb when I last trimmed his nails, it was a nasty cut. I’ve barely touched his nails since, taking off such miniscule amounts of nail it’s hardly worth bothering.

My question is this:

When will it start to feel okay?

When will I start to feel like a ‘proper’ mum? When will I start putting his needs above everything? When will I develop the spine to say ‘This is my son, this is what’s happening’ without being hindered by the crippling fear of offending anyone? When does it get easier? When will I stop feeling like an absolute failure?

 

 

 

Not all fun and games.

One of more bizarre questions I was asked as a very new parent was ‘Do you enjoy being a mum?’ A standard reply was something along the lines of I hadn’t decided yet owing to the fact I hadn’t had him for very long.

If I had been asked that question today the answer would have been a resounding NO. You see today Wills has acted in a way he has NEVER acted before. It involved screaming inconsolably every time I wasn’t in his eye line, or I was in his eye line but I wasn’t holding him. As a human being with functioning ears, I don’t enjoy the sound of a baby crying. I also like to wee without a child on my lap. I like to walk about freely without a child clinging to my legs. I like to apply make-up without a child on my lap. Today was a day that pretty much revolved round stuff I don’t like.

It was a poor start, he woke up crying. I retrieved him and nipped to the loo, he followed me wailing like an air-raid siren. A short while later he pooed. Put his hands in the poo, around about the same time he was kicking hell out of my boobs, saw a big lump on poo on his finger and attempted to put finger in his mouth.

Cue the machine gun no: NONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONO,

I grabbed the arm with the offending poo finger, he began to cry after all what sort of bitch stops him eating his own crap? Had to get the assistance of my heavily pregnant sister, to keep offending poo finger out of his mouth whilst I attempted to remove all the poo caked round his bum.

He remained clingy. Extremely clingy. And the crying. Good grief. Before I had a baby I vowed that I’d never let my child be sad. That as soon as I saw their lip quiver, I would hold them, cuddle them, reassure them by just being there.

A prime example of some of the fucking moronic ideas I had about parenting before I became one. I had cuddled him, I had tried being soothing but I’m tired. I want to be left alone, I want him to stop standing on my bloody feet. I want a cup of tea in peace. Today that was not on his agenda.

We visited my cousin ( ? Her Grandma is my great-Aunt) who had baked us some truly delicious cakes for afternoon tea. This was lovely but a problem when a mother at the very end of her tether, a mummy to a four month old and a heavily pregnant woman with a lively two year old get together, is that most of the time we’re so exhausted/hormonal/sleep deprived we don’t really have a fucking clue what we’re talking about. I think we had about 17 half conversations on the go. So we’ve had a catch up but probably couldn’t tell you anything we’ve ‘caught up’ on. Apparently we shouldn’t expect that to improve any time soon.

My cousin(?) Katy has a dog. I can’t remember the breed (Yorkshire terrier?) but it’s tiny. Wills likes it. Except today. When he screamed. I’d pick him up. He’d point at the dog chatter to it, wiggle to get down. Follow dog. Dog would then see her new friend, get excited, jumping and licking would ensue, son would cry blue bloody murder again. Having said that, he was fairly quiet at Katy’s house he was busy eating his food off the floor. I tried a feeble intervention but my fallopian tubes were busy tying themselves in knots and quite frankly I didn’t want to stop them.

Afternoon tea over we faced the task of trying to get a two and one year old in the car. The two year old wanted to sit in the front (the driver’s seat), she is also terribly independent and we’d learnt, (to our cost) that she likes to ‘do the big step’ into the car by herself. SHE MOST DEFINATLY DOES NOT WANT LIFTING INTO THE CAR. However, actually doing the big step into the car, takes a long time. A very long time.

After dropping off my sister and my niece and enjoying some less-clingy William, I headed home. Got home to find hubs mowing the lawn. Wills continued to be clingy.

To cut a long story short I *might* have lost my temper (I did) whilst my poor mother-in-law was on FaceTime, trying to talk to her balling grandson, snapped at hubs (who was actually trying to help but I’d gone ‘rage blind’ and considered all the enemy) and stormed off into the house. (Slamming the door behind me).

Once in the house I spoke to my little boy in a manner that suggested I was absolutely fine and I had not marched off in a temper (OSCAR worthy performance, BTW) and popped him in the bath. Of course he cried when I put him down to turn the taps on, then ran off with his shampoo and his dad’s shower gel.

We made the sounds for his letters whilst he was in the bath. He concentrates so hard on the foam letter stuck to the side of the bath, I sound it out, he turns, grins at me and occasionally he will try to make the sound I’m making (most successful is the ‘zzz’ sound) (kudos for me for refraining from ‘P P P Pissed off’ and suchlike). I calmed down a lot until the cats started YET ANOTHER fight. Not quite sure why I’m paying an arm and a leg for a Feliway plug in, they’re still being wankers.

Anyway, the boy is in bed, his trusty monkey tucked under his arm. Hubs has poured me a wine and is cooking in the kitchen (I suspect partly to keep away from his moody and irrational wife). The ball of fury in my stomach is slowly dissipating, and I’m hoping to wake up a more balanced and reasonable individual. (And convince the MIL her son hasn’t married a psycho…)

In other news:

The washing machine is broken.

The cats have left two dead birds in the house and two on that lawn. (Fuckers)

I have a very exciting unicorn pad for work.