Most. Unproductive. Day. Ever.
Piglet woke up this morning at 7.30am, which I understand from my fellow parentals is usually described as "late." For me, this is obscenely early, and I spent over an hour whimpering "Go back to sleep" whilst being enthusiastically hit in the face by an increasingly perky baby. Once I finally did get up, I remembered that I had been planning to go to a childminder's drop in session in the vicinity of where I work, so I reluctantly put Piglet in the pram and headed off. One delayed train, five minutes of peering mournfully at the huge staircase I had to navigate with the pram at the other end before some knight in shining armour took pity on me and came to my aid, and one brisk walk later, I was at the children's centre, only to be informed that the childminder's session had ended ten minutes previously, and yes there is a nursery here if you're interested, but you should probably know that there's a two year waiting list.
TWO YEARS. WHAT IS THIS PLANET OF MADNESS UPON WHICH WE LIVE????
"I just got a place recently!" a young mother who happened to be sitting nearby piped up, with the pride of someone who's just been told that their toddler has just got a place at Oxbridge.
Newly enthused, I asked how old her daughter was.
"She's two. I put her name down at birth! Some parents put their babies' names down before they're even born!"
OH HELL. I am DOOMED. I am never going to be able to go back to work. I am going to have to put Piglet in the nursery up the road, which is called "The Honeypot." The HONEYPOT, I tell you. It sounds like a porn movie. This is HIDEOUS.
After a brief visit to work to show off how much baby has grown since last visit four months ago, I trudge wearily back to the station, only to spend ten minutes at the bottom of a set of stairs wondering how I am going to navigate them with a pram, wondering if it would be acceptable to ask someone who works there to help (I'm guessing no, based on previous experience with Transport for London. I'm surprised they haven't yet gone on strike about it), contemplating whether it would be highly dangerous to attempt to lift entire pram, complete with sleeping Piglet (answer: yes) and most of all, wondering how I am supposed to do this every day after a whole day toiling away at the coalface at work, in the not-too-distant future.
I finally resorted to folding the pram, which was not Piglet's most contented moment with as I had to lie him down on the manky station floor while I did so, then holding the now-wide-awake-and unimpressed-about-it Piglet with one arm whilst dragging the pram up the steps behind me with the other. I am not sure that the pram has fully recovered from the experience, and that thing was EXPENSIVE. And don't even get me started on the state of my shredded nerves. I am so going to have to bite the bullet and get one of those cheap things my mother had back in the '80s, which she used to expertly fold with her little finger whilst simultaneously hauling an armful of toddlers onto the bus. Some things really were better in the Olden Days.
Showing posts with label parenting horrors. Show all posts
Showing posts with label parenting horrors. Show all posts
Tuesday, 20 January 2015
Sunday, 4 January 2015
More Hair-Raising Adventures on the London Underground
Travelling anywhere with a baby has begun to resemble a particularly farcical episode of Miranda.
Today, for example, Piglet and I (plus my mother) travelled from Bristol to London on the train (Piglet's first trip on the "big train." He was fairly non-plussed, despite my mother's running commentary on the journey with all vehicles played by characters from Thomas the Tank Engine). All started well, although there was a brief moment of panic when we got the pram out of the boot of my mother's friend's car at the station only to discover that whoever had packed the pram in the car had disassembled it completely. The last time the pram was taken apart Mother and I spent twenty minutes shrieking in the kitchen and cursing the makers of Bugaboo, watching Youtube videos on "how to assemble your pram" and yelling "it wasn't like this in my day! I used to be able to fold a double buggy in seconds whilst running for the bus!" whilst unsuccessfully trying to fit all the bits back together, before giving up and taking Piglet out in the sling. This time however, due in no small part to the somewhat calmer influence of my mother's friend, we managed to put the pram back together, and the journey to London passed uneventfully.
Until we got to Paddington.
"Look!" said my mother smugly as we wandered across the station concourse having successfully folded the pram, stowed it upon the train, removed it from said train and reassembled without incident, "I told you there was a lift!"
One lift. That doesn't go all the way to the actual tube. POINTLESS.
Needless to say, before long we found ourselves faced with the prospect of a perilous journey on an escalator; Mother with a large suitcase, and me with an empty pram and Piglet in the sling.
Mother panics. "You're not allowed to take buggies on the escalator! It's not allowed! It's too dangerous!" It'll be fine, I thought. I've been on an escalator with the pram before, admittedly not without help, but IT'LL BE FINE. Anyway, there is no other way of getting to the tube, unless buggies are suddenly banned from that too, which is entirely possible.
Seconds later, Piglet and I are on the escalator. The pram has toppled over and is veering off to one side (THANK GOD FOR SLINGS), and the escalator has come to some sort of emergency stop. Piglet is thankfully unharmed, and is gazing at me beatifically from the sling, blissfully oblivious to the fact that his hapless mother has just brought the entire Bakerloo Line to a standstill. Mother and I tiptoe off the escalator, hanging our heads in shame, and wait for it to be repaired while a long line of fellow travellers gather at the top, looking annoyed. It is even worse than that time I tried to get the pram-this time complete with Piglet in it-off a crowded London Overground train at Willesden Junction and the front wheels of the pram FELL DOWN THE GAP and had to be rescued by a crowd of quick-thinking commuters.
And there was me thinking the mass exodus of parents out of London had something to do with the house prices.
Today, for example, Piglet and I (plus my mother) travelled from Bristol to London on the train (Piglet's first trip on the "big train." He was fairly non-plussed, despite my mother's running commentary on the journey with all vehicles played by characters from Thomas the Tank Engine). All started well, although there was a brief moment of panic when we got the pram out of the boot of my mother's friend's car at the station only to discover that whoever had packed the pram in the car had disassembled it completely. The last time the pram was taken apart Mother and I spent twenty minutes shrieking in the kitchen and cursing the makers of Bugaboo, watching Youtube videos on "how to assemble your pram" and yelling "it wasn't like this in my day! I used to be able to fold a double buggy in seconds whilst running for the bus!" whilst unsuccessfully trying to fit all the bits back together, before giving up and taking Piglet out in the sling. This time however, due in no small part to the somewhat calmer influence of my mother's friend, we managed to put the pram back together, and the journey to London passed uneventfully.
Until we got to Paddington.
"Look!" said my mother smugly as we wandered across the station concourse having successfully folded the pram, stowed it upon the train, removed it from said train and reassembled without incident, "I told you there was a lift!"
One lift. That doesn't go all the way to the actual tube. POINTLESS.
Needless to say, before long we found ourselves faced with the prospect of a perilous journey on an escalator; Mother with a large suitcase, and me with an empty pram and Piglet in the sling.
Mother panics. "You're not allowed to take buggies on the escalator! It's not allowed! It's too dangerous!" It'll be fine, I thought. I've been on an escalator with the pram before, admittedly not without help, but IT'LL BE FINE. Anyway, there is no other way of getting to the tube, unless buggies are suddenly banned from that too, which is entirely possible.
Seconds later, Piglet and I are on the escalator. The pram has toppled over and is veering off to one side (THANK GOD FOR SLINGS), and the escalator has come to some sort of emergency stop. Piglet is thankfully unharmed, and is gazing at me beatifically from the sling, blissfully oblivious to the fact that his hapless mother has just brought the entire Bakerloo Line to a standstill. Mother and I tiptoe off the escalator, hanging our heads in shame, and wait for it to be repaired while a long line of fellow travellers gather at the top, looking annoyed. It is even worse than that time I tried to get the pram-this time complete with Piglet in it-off a crowded London Overground train at Willesden Junction and the front wheels of the pram FELL DOWN THE GAP and had to be rescued by a crowd of quick-thinking commuters.
And there was me thinking the mass exodus of parents out of London had something to do with the house prices.
Friday, 12 December 2014
Who is even allowed to use the birth centre?
Just returned from a quick excursion to the toilet to find Piglet slumped in his bouncy chair, hanging off the end. Perhaps the time has come to start strapping him in (what's that sound? The sound of social services being called at the fact that I have so far failed to do this). Either that or I am going to have to start taking him with me to the toilet. Last night he cried when I left him in his cot in the bedroom while I went to clean my teeth, and I had to take him into the bathroom with me and lie him on a towel on the floor to keep him quiet. I may never have a moment to myself again.
Anyway, today we have been to the library, so that Piglet got to have an excursion in the pram so that he could go to sleep; and we went swimming. There was a nap required before the latter as well, and as Piglet did not seem to want to nap in the bouncy chair, or go anywhere near the bouncy chair, crying every time I tried to put him in, and thinks his cot is a receptacle for bicycling his legs around and giggling, we had to leave half an hour early for swimming, and sit in the "London Designer Outlet" (sorry, that still cannot be written without the use of inverted commas) for ages so that we could get a good nap in beforehand. Luckily, it paid off and Piglet was surprisingly cheerful throughout swimming, managing to crack no less than three smiles. As usual he behaved impeccably, which made me feel better about having to sit through the following poolside Competitive Mother conversation that took place beforehand.
"My labour was really quick-just six hours."
"Really? Mine was three hours."
"Mine too."
I HATE YOU. I HATE YOU ALL. Perhaps I should just dive into the very shallow pool head first and kill myself now as I am obviously a failure as a mother and as a woman in general. One of the women even said she gave birth in the birth centre. The BIRTH CENTRE. I thought giving birth in there was banned. Isn't it just there to make women feel better and make sure that the species doesn't die out by making us all think that maybe there's a remote possibility that giving birth is just going to be a matter of bouncing on a beach ball a couple of times, playing some whalesong and sitting in a paddling pool grunting? One of the women from my antenatal class was banned from using the birth centre just because she'd visited the hospital a few times during her pregnancy worried that she wasn't feeling the baby move enough, even though there was nothing wrong, and even though the birth centre is like, in an actual hospital. WHO IS EVEN ALLOWED TO USE THE BIRTH CENTRE?
Piglet is gazing at me forlornly from his baby gym, sucking his thumb. The look on his face says "yes you are a rubbish mother. You are not even fit to call yourself a woman. Because of that caesarean, I am now traumatised for life like it says in your hypnobirthing book. And it's ALL YOUR FAULT."
And if that wasn't bad enough, due to my rubbishness as mothering, he then banged his head on the lockers in the changing rooms, mercifully not enough to do himself an injury, but enough to make him howl for long enough that all the other mothers considered calling social services. And then I accidentally poked him in the eye whilst trying to soothe him. ARGH.
He later did a projectile wee into that very same eye while I was changing his nappy later in the day, which I imagine must sting a bit, but as we were at home and minus an audience, that didn't even register a whimper.
The Public Badge of Good Motherhood has now been confiscated.
Anyway, today we have been to the library, so that Piglet got to have an excursion in the pram so that he could go to sleep; and we went swimming. There was a nap required before the latter as well, and as Piglet did not seem to want to nap in the bouncy chair, or go anywhere near the bouncy chair, crying every time I tried to put him in, and thinks his cot is a receptacle for bicycling his legs around and giggling, we had to leave half an hour early for swimming, and sit in the "London Designer Outlet" (sorry, that still cannot be written without the use of inverted commas) for ages so that we could get a good nap in beforehand. Luckily, it paid off and Piglet was surprisingly cheerful throughout swimming, managing to crack no less than three smiles. As usual he behaved impeccably, which made me feel better about having to sit through the following poolside Competitive Mother conversation that took place beforehand.
"My labour was really quick-just six hours."
"Really? Mine was three hours."
"Mine too."
I HATE YOU. I HATE YOU ALL. Perhaps I should just dive into the very shallow pool head first and kill myself now as I am obviously a failure as a mother and as a woman in general. One of the women even said she gave birth in the birth centre. The BIRTH CENTRE. I thought giving birth in there was banned. Isn't it just there to make women feel better and make sure that the species doesn't die out by making us all think that maybe there's a remote possibility that giving birth is just going to be a matter of bouncing on a beach ball a couple of times, playing some whalesong and sitting in a paddling pool grunting? One of the women from my antenatal class was banned from using the birth centre just because she'd visited the hospital a few times during her pregnancy worried that she wasn't feeling the baby move enough, even though there was nothing wrong, and even though the birth centre is like, in an actual hospital. WHO IS EVEN ALLOWED TO USE THE BIRTH CENTRE?
Piglet is gazing at me forlornly from his baby gym, sucking his thumb. The look on his face says "yes you are a rubbish mother. You are not even fit to call yourself a woman. Because of that caesarean, I am now traumatised for life like it says in your hypnobirthing book. And it's ALL YOUR FAULT."
And if that wasn't bad enough, due to my rubbishness as mothering, he then banged his head on the lockers in the changing rooms, mercifully not enough to do himself an injury, but enough to make him howl for long enough that all the other mothers considered calling social services. And then I accidentally poked him in the eye whilst trying to soothe him. ARGH.
He later did a projectile wee into that very same eye while I was changing his nappy later in the day, which I imagine must sting a bit, but as we were at home and minus an audience, that didn't even register a whimper.
The Public Badge of Good Motherhood has now been confiscated.
Sunday, 7 December 2014
New Sport of Ostentatious Breastfeeding Makes Wembley Debut
And so for a bit of ostentatious breastfeeding.
Well not at the moment. At the moment I am watching X Factor on mute so as not to wake Piglet from his slumbers. Michael Buble is either singing or talking to someone who may or may not be Nelly Furtado. Without the benefit of sound, they both look like they're hosting the Eurovision Song Contest and are having a faux-hilarious conversation about the merits of Azerbaijan whilst pretending to look excited about the prospect of someone from Bosnia-Herzigovina singing a heartfelt ballad in Serbo-Croat.
Anyway, today Piglet again behaved impeccably throughout swimming, and another comment was made about how relaxed he seemed to be in the water (another star on my Public Badge of Good Motherhood). One poor child was screaming so much his parents took him out of the water, which would not have even merited a comment here were it not for the fact that I caught Piglet watching him with interest as his parents tried to take him to the other side of the pool to test to see if he could go in again without crying, and I am pretty sure that he was taking notes.
Piglet's impeccable behaviour continued throughout the afternoon as I went to meet friends for coffee, but then sadly decided to deteriorate right at the point when Mummy and friends decided that they wanted a mulled wine at the Christmas market. The following farcical events then ensued.
1.) Piglet starts screaming. This is worrisome. Previous attempts to feed him in Costa Coffee have been unsuccessful; partly because my eyes are constantly scanning the room for any signs of Nigel Farage or Katie Hopkins come to chase me into the corner, where I will sit behind a taped-off police cordon marked with the sign "Danger! Breastfeeding woman ahead!" with a napkin draped over me; and partly because I am wearing an enormous fluffy jumper which gets in the way.
2.) Piglet is briefly distracted by some fairy lights. Thank the Lord for fairy lights! And for being born at Christmas, allowing us all to have fairy lights! This gives Mummy enough time to chug down the greater part of of a cup of mulled wine, keeping it well away from Piglet of course (remembering the health visitor's dire warning about a baby they saw recently who had been scarred for life by a hot drink).
3.) The fairy lights are forgotten, and the crying resumes. Mummy attempts a fair bit of ostentatious breastfeeding, standing on the table yelling "Look everybody! I'm breastfeeding!" squirting jets of milk at the two other people in the open air Christmas market bar, and the five bouncers they have inexplicably needed to employ to keep those two people under control.
4.) OK that last one was inaccurate. What actually happened was that Mummy had to take off Piglet's hat and unbutton his coat while the Public Badge of Good Motherhood fell from its privileged position on Mummy's lapel in the cold December air, and attempt to latch Piglet onto the breast while the fluffy jumper and Piglet's fluffy coat conspire to render such a feat impossible. Well, I couldn't take the coat off as IT'S DECEMBER GODDAMIT AND THE BABY MIGHT FREEZE, and I couldn't remove the fluffy jumper either in case Nigel Farage happened to be promenading past arm in arm with Katie Hopkins and THERE WAS NO CORNER IN THIS EDIFICE. I mean, it was like, in the open air! It was just a roof with some tables! And it was sort of a bar as well, which serves ALCOHOL, so what was I even doing in there with a baby? Off with my head!
5.) As things get even more fraught, I decide we may have to vacate the area, and knock back the remaining mulled wine. As I do so, some of the mulled wine spills onto Piglet's fluffy white coat. It looks like blood. AARGH! I am terrible mother! I have done something terrible to baby!*
6.) That's it. We're going home. I look around. The five bouncers are looking at me in a judgemental way which says, "you are a disgrace to motherhood. Get Nigel Farage on the phone IMMEDIATELY."
And that, my friend, is ostentatious breastfeeding.
* I must add here, before you all call social services, that the mulled wine was, by this point, cold. Piglet was never in any danger from the mulled wine spillage. Put down your phones, people.
Well not at the moment. At the moment I am watching X Factor on mute so as not to wake Piglet from his slumbers. Michael Buble is either singing or talking to someone who may or may not be Nelly Furtado. Without the benefit of sound, they both look like they're hosting the Eurovision Song Contest and are having a faux-hilarious conversation about the merits of Azerbaijan whilst pretending to look excited about the prospect of someone from Bosnia-Herzigovina singing a heartfelt ballad in Serbo-Croat.
Anyway, today Piglet again behaved impeccably throughout swimming, and another comment was made about how relaxed he seemed to be in the water (another star on my Public Badge of Good Motherhood). One poor child was screaming so much his parents took him out of the water, which would not have even merited a comment here were it not for the fact that I caught Piglet watching him with interest as his parents tried to take him to the other side of the pool to test to see if he could go in again without crying, and I am pretty sure that he was taking notes.
Piglet's impeccable behaviour continued throughout the afternoon as I went to meet friends for coffee, but then sadly decided to deteriorate right at the point when Mummy and friends decided that they wanted a mulled wine at the Christmas market. The following farcical events then ensued.
1.) Piglet starts screaming. This is worrisome. Previous attempts to feed him in Costa Coffee have been unsuccessful; partly because my eyes are constantly scanning the room for any signs of Nigel Farage or Katie Hopkins come to chase me into the corner, where I will sit behind a taped-off police cordon marked with the sign "Danger! Breastfeeding woman ahead!" with a napkin draped over me; and partly because I am wearing an enormous fluffy jumper which gets in the way.
2.) Piglet is briefly distracted by some fairy lights. Thank the Lord for fairy lights! And for being born at Christmas, allowing us all to have fairy lights! This gives Mummy enough time to chug down the greater part of of a cup of mulled wine, keeping it well away from Piglet of course (remembering the health visitor's dire warning about a baby they saw recently who had been scarred for life by a hot drink).
3.) The fairy lights are forgotten, and the crying resumes. Mummy attempts a fair bit of ostentatious breastfeeding, standing on the table yelling "Look everybody! I'm breastfeeding!" squirting jets of milk at the two other people in the open air Christmas market bar, and the five bouncers they have inexplicably needed to employ to keep those two people under control.
4.) OK that last one was inaccurate. What actually happened was that Mummy had to take off Piglet's hat and unbutton his coat while the Public Badge of Good Motherhood fell from its privileged position on Mummy's lapel in the cold December air, and attempt to latch Piglet onto the breast while the fluffy jumper and Piglet's fluffy coat conspire to render such a feat impossible. Well, I couldn't take the coat off as IT'S DECEMBER GODDAMIT AND THE BABY MIGHT FREEZE, and I couldn't remove the fluffy jumper either in case Nigel Farage happened to be promenading past arm in arm with Katie Hopkins and THERE WAS NO CORNER IN THIS EDIFICE. I mean, it was like, in the open air! It was just a roof with some tables! And it was sort of a bar as well, which serves ALCOHOL, so what was I even doing in there with a baby? Off with my head!
5.) As things get even more fraught, I decide we may have to vacate the area, and knock back the remaining mulled wine. As I do so, some of the mulled wine spills onto Piglet's fluffy white coat. It looks like blood. AARGH! I am terrible mother! I have done something terrible to baby!*
6.) That's it. We're going home. I look around. The five bouncers are looking at me in a judgemental way which says, "you are a disgrace to motherhood. Get Nigel Farage on the phone IMMEDIATELY."
And that, my friend, is ostentatious breastfeeding.
* I must add here, before you all call social services, that the mulled wine was, by this point, cold. Piglet was never in any danger from the mulled wine spillage. Put down your phones, people.
Tuesday, 4 November 2014
The Maternal Guilt Starts Here
Well actually it started three months ago, when the wee one was born. And there is never a moment when you are truly safe. There's always something waiting round the corner that could be going wrong. A case in point being the one illustrated below.
On Friday I was happily bleating down the phone to a friend about how being a single mother is "fine, just fine" (except for the fact that I am about to slip into a financial abyss from which I will quite possibly never return). But finances aside, i.e. if I had all the money in the world, or even just a bit more money, like I'd won the Euromillions or something, then it's all just fine and dandy. Then, inevitably, something happens almost immediately that shatters that illusion.
On Friday that something was me suddenly acquiring some sort of food poisoning or norovirus type ailment. I won't go into detail about what it entailed but suffice to say I was in no fit state to be looking after a wee one. Luckily, by the time it struck (at 9pm) Piglet was asleep (something of a miracle. He normally goes to sleep around midnight). Consequently, the last few days have been spent doing the following:
1.) Feeling rough
2.) Not eating
3.) Tentatively sipping water
4.) Watching Loose Women whilst lying on the sofa in a sleeping bag
5.) Lying in bed with Piglet, apologising that I have no energy to do anything else.
There were several points where I actually had to take Piglet off the breast to go and vomit/other end, leading to screaming fits which definitely lasted longer than most child psychologists would recommend.
Speaking of which, I am still confused about the best way to get Piglet to go to sleep as half the Internets I have read say that babies should be in a routine by now and that rocking or feeding a baby to sleep is going to mean he will turn into David Walliams in Little Britain demanding "bitty" from his ageing mother at inappropriate times, and the other half say that imposing a routine is going to mean the child turns into a Romanian orphan circa 1990, silently banging his head against the cot he still sleeps in at the age of twelve, unable to speak, so basically whatever I do, Piglet is doomed.
He's actually lying next to me now, shouting at me that why oh why when the parents were being given out did he have the misfortune to end up with me and not Brad and Angelina. At least I think that's what he saying. It actually sounds more like "O-OOOH EH OOH, GOOO," but I'm pretty sure that's baby language for the above.
Motherhood. The guilt just never ends.
On Friday I was happily bleating down the phone to a friend about how being a single mother is "fine, just fine" (except for the fact that I am about to slip into a financial abyss from which I will quite possibly never return). But finances aside, i.e. if I had all the money in the world, or even just a bit more money, like I'd won the Euromillions or something, then it's all just fine and dandy. Then, inevitably, something happens almost immediately that shatters that illusion.
On Friday that something was me suddenly acquiring some sort of food poisoning or norovirus type ailment. I won't go into detail about what it entailed but suffice to say I was in no fit state to be looking after a wee one. Luckily, by the time it struck (at 9pm) Piglet was asleep (something of a miracle. He normally goes to sleep around midnight). Consequently, the last few days have been spent doing the following:
1.) Feeling rough
2.) Not eating
3.) Tentatively sipping water
4.) Watching Loose Women whilst lying on the sofa in a sleeping bag
5.) Lying in bed with Piglet, apologising that I have no energy to do anything else.
There were several points where I actually had to take Piglet off the breast to go and vomit/other end, leading to screaming fits which definitely lasted longer than most child psychologists would recommend.
Speaking of which, I am still confused about the best way to get Piglet to go to sleep as half the Internets I have read say that babies should be in a routine by now and that rocking or feeding a baby to sleep is going to mean he will turn into David Walliams in Little Britain demanding "bitty" from his ageing mother at inappropriate times, and the other half say that imposing a routine is going to mean the child turns into a Romanian orphan circa 1990, silently banging his head against the cot he still sleeps in at the age of twelve, unable to speak, so basically whatever I do, Piglet is doomed.
He's actually lying next to me now, shouting at me that why oh why when the parents were being given out did he have the misfortune to end up with me and not Brad and Angelina. At least I think that's what he saying. It actually sounds more like "O-OOOH EH OOH, GOOO," but I'm pretty sure that's baby language for the above.
Motherhood. The guilt just never ends.
Sunday, 12 October 2014
Essential Items for the "Nursery"
I just ate my dinner from start to finish with an angry Piglet sitting in his chair kicking his legs around and shouting at the TV, which I had turned him around to face to try and take his mind off the fact that Mummy was eating and not playing with him.
I am a terrible mother.
OK I may now have redeemed myself by cuddling him all through Downton Abbey (it is now several hours after I started writing this-nearly 11pm-and I have just put Piglet in his cot for the fourth time). He has been fussing all evening. His bedtime routine started at 6.20pm as usual and I was hoping he would be in bed in time for Strictly Come Dancing. O what folly! Instead he decided to whinge all the way through Strictly, X Factor and Downton. Clearly one night of uninterrupted television (two. Or maybe three as there's a new series on Thursday I like the look of) is too much to ask, for the rest of my life, ever. Oh well, Piglet is worth it I suppose.
I had been reading another baby book that I got from the library the other day in an attempt to pick up some tips, in particular on sleep routines. The thing about baby books is that the advice proffered is guaranteed to make you feel bad as inevitably there will be something the book suggests you do which you haven't done (or that the book says you should never do, which you do all the time), and as a result you will be made to feel that your child is now destined to grow up and become an axe murderer or general menace to society because you didn't give him a bottle of expressed breast milk for his night feed (please also note the use of the singular here, "night FEED." Clearly the implication is that if your offspring is having more than one feed during the nocturnal hours then you are a failure and a bad parent who will end up being talked about in hushed tones at the school gates as the mother of "Piglet, who has NO boundaries. Did you know that yesterday he weed-yes, WEED all over the headteacher's office?"
Another annoying thing about these books is the outrageous assumption they make that you are a) middle class-live in a house rather than a flat, have a car and a selection of Cath Kidston aprons; are not a teenage mother and b) have a husband, which I find somewhat presumptuous. There are, for example, many mothers who are single, or who are married to other women. Clearly I myself am in the former category. In the particular book I borrowed from the library, there was far too long a list of baby-related items that the author deemed "essential" to purchase. For example, a baby monitor-not necessary when you live in a one bedroom flat. I know only too well that I can hear Piglet cry wherever I am in my very small flat. Not everyone lives in some sort of palatial stately home where one may find oneself in a completely different wing of the house to the baby (like in Downton Abbey. Has Lady Mary actually met her son? It seems to me that Lady Edith spends more time with her secret daughter who lives in a different house than Lady Mary does with the son and heir whose name I don't even remember. She could definitely do with a baby monitor). Also, the book kept banging on about things you need for the "nursery"-not just a baby monitor, apparently, but a night light and a special chair for breastfeeding. Firstly, my iphone has a perfectly good light on it thanks, so why would I go wasting money on some sort of specialist baby light that is bound to be bright pink, plastic and shaped like a character from In the Night Garden and ruin the feng shui? Secondly, a chair specifically for breastfeeding? What's wrong with a normal chair? What is a breastfeeding chair anyway? One shaped like a breast? And lastly, who even has a nursery to put these things in? Who do they think I am, Tamara bloody Ecclestone? Clearly this book is a ruse to make me feel bad about being single and impoverished. Not only this, but the author proudly boasted about how she moved her children into their poncey nurseries when they were only Piglet's age, in clear contradiction of the current guidelines which state that the baby should be in the same room as you for at least the first six months. The woman is a charlatan. She is practically Lady Mary, banishing her child like that.
And I did not just say that to make me feel better about the fact that Piglet and I will more than likely still be sharing a room when he is in his teens (I mean due to financial constraints, not because I am weird). I think I will write a baby book of my own. After all, I'm sure Britney Spears' mother wrote a parenting manual at some point. And look how poor Britters turned out. Admittedly she's done all right for herself, all things considered, but I'm pretty sure she's mentally deranged as a result. Anyway, I could be a pushy stage mother, easy. This week I suggested to Piglet that he might want to try ballet when he's older. That's definitely a start.
I am a terrible mother.
OK I may now have redeemed myself by cuddling him all through Downton Abbey (it is now several hours after I started writing this-nearly 11pm-and I have just put Piglet in his cot for the fourth time). He has been fussing all evening. His bedtime routine started at 6.20pm as usual and I was hoping he would be in bed in time for Strictly Come Dancing. O what folly! Instead he decided to whinge all the way through Strictly, X Factor and Downton. Clearly one night of uninterrupted television (two. Or maybe three as there's a new series on Thursday I like the look of) is too much to ask, for the rest of my life, ever. Oh well, Piglet is worth it I suppose.
I had been reading another baby book that I got from the library the other day in an attempt to pick up some tips, in particular on sleep routines. The thing about baby books is that the advice proffered is guaranteed to make you feel bad as inevitably there will be something the book suggests you do which you haven't done (or that the book says you should never do, which you do all the time), and as a result you will be made to feel that your child is now destined to grow up and become an axe murderer or general menace to society because you didn't give him a bottle of expressed breast milk for his night feed (please also note the use of the singular here, "night FEED." Clearly the implication is that if your offspring is having more than one feed during the nocturnal hours then you are a failure and a bad parent who will end up being talked about in hushed tones at the school gates as the mother of "Piglet, who has NO boundaries. Did you know that yesterday he weed-yes, WEED all over the headteacher's office?"
Another annoying thing about these books is the outrageous assumption they make that you are a) middle class-live in a house rather than a flat, have a car and a selection of Cath Kidston aprons; are not a teenage mother and b) have a husband, which I find somewhat presumptuous. There are, for example, many mothers who are single, or who are married to other women. Clearly I myself am in the former category. In the particular book I borrowed from the library, there was far too long a list of baby-related items that the author deemed "essential" to purchase. For example, a baby monitor-not necessary when you live in a one bedroom flat. I know only too well that I can hear Piglet cry wherever I am in my very small flat. Not everyone lives in some sort of palatial stately home where one may find oneself in a completely different wing of the house to the baby (like in Downton Abbey. Has Lady Mary actually met her son? It seems to me that Lady Edith spends more time with her secret daughter who lives in a different house than Lady Mary does with the son and heir whose name I don't even remember. She could definitely do with a baby monitor). Also, the book kept banging on about things you need for the "nursery"-not just a baby monitor, apparently, but a night light and a special chair for breastfeeding. Firstly, my iphone has a perfectly good light on it thanks, so why would I go wasting money on some sort of specialist baby light that is bound to be bright pink, plastic and shaped like a character from In the Night Garden and ruin the feng shui? Secondly, a chair specifically for breastfeeding? What's wrong with a normal chair? What is a breastfeeding chair anyway? One shaped like a breast? And lastly, who even has a nursery to put these things in? Who do they think I am, Tamara bloody Ecclestone? Clearly this book is a ruse to make me feel bad about being single and impoverished. Not only this, but the author proudly boasted about how she moved her children into their poncey nurseries when they were only Piglet's age, in clear contradiction of the current guidelines which state that the baby should be in the same room as you for at least the first six months. The woman is a charlatan. She is practically Lady Mary, banishing her child like that.
And I did not just say that to make me feel better about the fact that Piglet and I will more than likely still be sharing a room when he is in his teens (I mean due to financial constraints, not because I am weird). I think I will write a baby book of my own. After all, I'm sure Britney Spears' mother wrote a parenting manual at some point. And look how poor Britters turned out. Admittedly she's done all right for herself, all things considered, but I'm pretty sure she's mentally deranged as a result. Anyway, I could be a pushy stage mother, easy. This week I suggested to Piglet that he might want to try ballet when he's older. That's definitely a start.
Friday, 15 August 2014
Piglet: On First Name Terms with the NHS
Well yesterday's post (the Secret Weapon, by the way, was about to be revealed as a baby sling. Regrettably it turned out not to be such a vote-winner later that evening, when Piglet bawled non-stop for ten minutes in it, and I took it off, thinking maybe it was too tight and crushing his little testicles) pretty much sums it up. You start doing something productive; cooking, eating, drinking a cup of tea, writing this blog, sleeping...and immediately Piglet starts screaming and whatever necessary life task one happens to be engaged in is abandoned, never to be returned to, whilst all one's energy is taken up with trying to halt the bawling.
Last night it got so bad that my mother, who had sworn that she would be sleeping tonight and I would have to cope with Piglet's squealing alone, burst into the room and announced that his persistent crying was not normal and I should phone NHS Direct. This then led to a 1am dash across Bristol to the only walk-in centre that was still open, in order to get him checked out by a nurse who pronounced him "colicky," which was exactly the diagnosis my mother had already made (I had gone for "acid reflux," but the nurse reassured me that this was not the case). The good news (other than that Piglet was not, as my mother seemed to have feared, dying) was that when we finally returned, he actually went to sleep. Hallelujah.
Give that this was the fourth time THIS WEEK that Piglet and I have accessed the services of the NHS in one form or another, I think we can now safely say that for probably the first time ever, I am definitely seeing a good return on all the tax I've paid.
Last night it got so bad that my mother, who had sworn that she would be sleeping tonight and I would have to cope with Piglet's squealing alone, burst into the room and announced that his persistent crying was not normal and I should phone NHS Direct. This then led to a 1am dash across Bristol to the only walk-in centre that was still open, in order to get him checked out by a nurse who pronounced him "colicky," which was exactly the diagnosis my mother had already made (I had gone for "acid reflux," but the nurse reassured me that this was not the case). The good news (other than that Piglet was not, as my mother seemed to have feared, dying) was that when we finally returned, he actually went to sleep. Hallelujah.
Give that this was the fourth time THIS WEEK that Piglet and I have accessed the services of the NHS in one form or another, I think we can now safely say that for probably the first time ever, I am definitely seeing a good return on all the tax I've paid.
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