I will miss Wembley. Where else, with the possible exception of One Direction's house (do they all live in the same house? I sort of imagine they do, except the one who left, obvs.) can you walk out of your flat, take the baby for a walk and find yourself in the middle of a crowd of excitable teenage girls all waiting around hoping to catch a fleeting glimpse of someone famous?
At least, I presume that was what they were all doing outside Wembley Arena today watching the X Factor being filmed. Unless there was just a really, really long queue to get in.
Piglet was asleep, so I waited for a few minutes, noting that something must be about to happen as not only was there an expectant waiting crowd, but a paparazzi photographer was stationed on the roof like a sniper.
Of course she may actually have been a sniper. Watching X Factor sometimes has that effect on me, too, especially when Cheryl rocks up wearing two dustbin lids and shaming a teenage girl on national television for being "a bit of a bully" and everyone swoons and says she's the nation's sweetheart. Or when they cue the Sad Music and start talking about a contestant's "journey," and how every minute of their existence up until now has been utterly meaningless because all they have ever done with their life is have a normal job like everyone else that doesn't involve singing terrible dated covers to the nation on a glittery plinth every week, and also their gran died last year at the age of a hundred and three and it was all terribly tragic and unexpected, and now she must be watching over their moment of televisual glory from that great big living room in the sky, probably wearing a T-shirt with a picture of them on it. Anyway, I digress. Piglet let out a squawk of displeasure at the pushchair being stationary, and I moved on, noting with interest that the real action was not in front of the Arena, but along the side street on the way back to my flat, where Olly Murs was being filmed getting out of a car. Yes, OLLY MURS. GETTING OUT OF A CAR. Take that, waiting public, you missed it.
After all this excitement, (please note I also saw Caroline Flack. CAROLINE FLACK! She was only, like, FIFTY METRES AWAY! And also some other presenter who I didn't recognise, who was interviewing some people whom I can only assume were PROBABLY X FACTOR CONTESTANTS!) I had to calm myself down with smelling salts, and very nearly missed the yearly extravaganza that is the Forum House Residents' Party.
This was, in fact, a welcome break from trying to get Piglet to eat his dinner, an ordeal that basically consists of me repeatedly putting him in his Bumbo seat and him repeatedly climbing out and crawling away, although not before giving his sippy cup a nice big shake so that all the water comes out, soaking at least one book in the process.
Piglet seemed to enjoy the party, and it did have the desired effect of tiring him out before bed, as he spent a glorious hour exploring the courtyard of the building, being trailed by yours truly. I was trying to strike the right balance between being a relaxed parent who lets my child explore his surroundings, thus meeting his development potential as encouraged by the likes of Penelope Leach, et al, and being suitably firm about boundaries at crucial points such as when Piglet decided to pick up some stones from the ground and attempt to eat them.
The main difficulty in gauging where exactly the appropriate limits might be, is that there is no one else to tell you. Well, maybe Gina Ford, but like, facepalm. Or my mother, but is it really necessary to avoid all grass just in case a dog might have once relieved itself on that patch at some point in history? There is no rehearsal and no going back and putting it right if you get it wrong. Let's just say that this evening, in the courtyard, no one else's baby seemed to be crawling around. They were all either old enough to walk, or too young to do much more than sit contentedly in their parents' arms. And not one of the assorted children of my neighbours were in any way covered in mud and grass, as Piglet very quickly was. Eventually I gave up and took him back inside. He crawled most of the way back to the flat, which is probably regarded in some quarters as unacceptable, but hey, we don't have a block party every week.
Showing posts with label the Public Badge of Good Motherhood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the Public Badge of Good Motherhood. Show all posts
Tuesday, 21 July 2015
Monday, 20 July 2015
Piglet Vs. Literature: Part 2
Piglet seems to have developed a rather disturbing new habit. Several times this week I have caught him banging his head-apparently deliberately-on his cot or my bed. Upon consulting Dr Google about this distressing new hobby I have learned the following:
Piglet has above average intelligence
Head banging is totally normal
Piglet must be autistic
Piglet is a Romanian orphan
Obviously some of these possibilities are more appealing than others.
Anyway, in an attempt to stimulate the first of these options, today I took Piglet to the library. Now I must admit that Piglet does not seem to be overly keen on books at this present time. In fact, whenever I try to read to him he either a) tries to grab the book and throw it around or b) crawls as quickly as possible in the opposite direction, usually right off the side of the bed (I basically have to cling on to him at all times whilst on the bed. The other night I was woken up by an almighty crash and the sound of hysterical crying, only to find that he had rolled right off in his sleep. This did not go down well in light conversation at work, where I suddenly felt the eyebrows of all present company rise slightly as I regaled this witty oh-aren't-children-funny anecdote, as though I had just casually admitted to waterboarding my son during his evening bath). Today, however, there was a Netmums meet-up at the library, during which they were going to be talking about some stuff that doesn't apply to me, such as flexible working (ha ha ha) and starting your own business (I once sold some stuff on Ebay and made an actual loss).
Now one friend of mine, a devotee of Mumsnet, once told me that she preferred Mumsnet to Netmums because the latter was "a bit working class," so I was expectingto feel right at home the place to be populated by people with Croydon facelifts and children called Chardonnay, but it turned out that in fact the Netmums posse consisted of nice well-spoken ladies with well-behaved children who sat still and looked on magnanimously as Piglet crawled around crazily trying to steal their scooters, pushchairs and any shoes they happened to have removed from their feet. This meant that I ended up somewhat disengaged from the conversation as I was continuously having to run across the library and stop Piglet from emptying entire bookshelves and throwing the contents across the floor, in much the same manner to how he rolls at home with my own book collection, now sadly mostly ripped to shreds or soaked with water on a daily basis. To be honest though, I pretty much switched off and decided to leave at the point when the speaker, who was talking about setting up a business when her children were small, decisively proclaimed that if you were always working when your child was young, by the time they turned ten you would have lost them forever, and due to your failure as a mother by not putting the effort in during the early years and being there to wipe away their every tear and change their every nappy, you were setting yourself up for a lifetime of emotional distance, bad behaviour, and basically having you and your child physically enact all the lyrics from Cats in the Cradle by Harry Chapin.
That song always made my dad cry. Not sure why, as it seems that in real life it's generally only mothers who come in for the sort of criticism that blames every one of an individual's personal failings/murderous tendencies/despotic dictatorships on the failure of their female parent to be a cookie-baking, treasure hunt-organising, dedicated to home and hearth Perfect Mother. The dads can work all they want and no one ever implies that they are neglecting their true vocation and ruining the next generation for all of humanity.
Anyway, my lack of motherly skills evident, I skulked off, only returning when I saw that the queue in Starbucks was a bit long, and I stealthily snuck back into the library to use the coffee shop, hoping not to be seen by any of the Net Mums. Sometimes I think when Piglet is older he will turn on me and accuse me of loving coffee more than him. The boy is basically being raised in the highchairs of Cafe Nero, Costa and Starbucks. The Starbucks staff don't even have to ask me my name anymore. Some of them can even spell it.
And I made him play on his own while I watched an episode of Mad Men this evening. I'm going to Hell in a Handcart.
Piglet has above average intelligence
Head banging is totally normal
Piglet must be autistic
Piglet is a Romanian orphan
Obviously some of these possibilities are more appealing than others.
Anyway, in an attempt to stimulate the first of these options, today I took Piglet to the library. Now I must admit that Piglet does not seem to be overly keen on books at this present time. In fact, whenever I try to read to him he either a) tries to grab the book and throw it around or b) crawls as quickly as possible in the opposite direction, usually right off the side of the bed (I basically have to cling on to him at all times whilst on the bed. The other night I was woken up by an almighty crash and the sound of hysterical crying, only to find that he had rolled right off in his sleep. This did not go down well in light conversation at work, where I suddenly felt the eyebrows of all present company rise slightly as I regaled this witty oh-aren't-children-funny anecdote, as though I had just casually admitted to waterboarding my son during his evening bath). Today, however, there was a Netmums meet-up at the library, during which they were going to be talking about some stuff that doesn't apply to me, such as flexible working (ha ha ha) and starting your own business (I once sold some stuff on Ebay and made an actual loss).
Now one friend of mine, a devotee of Mumsnet, once told me that she preferred Mumsnet to Netmums because the latter was "a bit working class," so I was expecting
That song always made my dad cry. Not sure why, as it seems that in real life it's generally only mothers who come in for the sort of criticism that blames every one of an individual's personal failings/murderous tendencies/despotic dictatorships on the failure of their female parent to be a cookie-baking, treasure hunt-organising, dedicated to home and hearth Perfect Mother. The dads can work all they want and no one ever implies that they are neglecting their true vocation and ruining the next generation for all of humanity.
Anyway, my lack of motherly skills evident, I skulked off, only returning when I saw that the queue in Starbucks was a bit long, and I stealthily snuck back into the library to use the coffee shop, hoping not to be seen by any of the Net Mums. Sometimes I think when Piglet is older he will turn on me and accuse me of loving coffee more than him. The boy is basically being raised in the highchairs of Cafe Nero, Costa and Starbucks. The Starbucks staff don't even have to ask me my name anymore. Some of them can even spell it.
And I made him play on his own while I watched an episode of Mad Men this evening. I'm going to Hell in a Handcart.
Wednesday, 27 May 2015
The Middle Way
And so another trip to the Baby Weighing Clinic draws to a close.
A trip in which I received a literal pat on the back from the health visitor for maintaining Piglet's centile, no less.
And then a metaphorical slap on the wrist for admitting that I sometimes (OK, maybe every day) feed him Organix baby fruit purees as desserts.
I can only imagine what the reaction would have been if I had said I gave him a tub of Ben and Jerry's. WHICH I DON'T, BY THE WAY. What sort of mother do you think I am?
First it was "don't you make them yourself?" as though buying a ready made puree was the comestible equivalent of popping a fag in the baby's mouth "just so he could join in with the grown ups." Oh sorry, I forgot, we are all supposed to be Surrendered Mothers now. I am supposed to be carrying Piglet on my back in an organic woven sling while I go out to tend the fields, whilst simultaneously teaching him how to count to ten in Mandarin and contorting myself into a yoga pose, before returning home for a nutritious meal of self-grown quinoa and organic goji berries.
Then it was "he shouldn't be eating purees now. It's time he fed himself." This despite the fact that I had already pointed out that he ate the same food as me for his main course. Like, real actual food. Yesterday we had CURRY for Christ's sake. And he feeds himself said curry, WITH HIS FINGERS. In fact, he wouldn't even accept a spoon until last month, and the only reason he's having any purees at all if because I'm so excited that he suddenly appears not only to like them, but to open his little mouth like a baby bird in the way that every other baby I have ever heard of has been doing since the age of six months. FINALLY.
The Buddha once said that the best way was the Middle Way, which would presumably mean that the best way of going about things is somewhere between Surrendered Mother and My Mother, who advocates jars of baby food at every opportunity, because "it never did you any harm," and because it's the best way to preserve the carpets. The again, the Buddha also abandoned his own wife and baby so that he could go and sit under a tree in the lotus position for seven years, so he's no Penelope Leach himself. One simply cannot win.
Anyway, I came home and pureed an entire punnet of apricots. At least I made them myself.
A trip in which I received a literal pat on the back from the health visitor for maintaining Piglet's centile, no less.
And then a metaphorical slap on the wrist for admitting that I sometimes (OK, maybe every day) feed him Organix baby fruit purees as desserts.
I can only imagine what the reaction would have been if I had said I gave him a tub of Ben and Jerry's. WHICH I DON'T, BY THE WAY. What sort of mother do you think I am?
First it was "don't you make them yourself?" as though buying a ready made puree was the comestible equivalent of popping a fag in the baby's mouth "just so he could join in with the grown ups." Oh sorry, I forgot, we are all supposed to be Surrendered Mothers now. I am supposed to be carrying Piglet on my back in an organic woven sling while I go out to tend the fields, whilst simultaneously teaching him how to count to ten in Mandarin and contorting myself into a yoga pose, before returning home for a nutritious meal of self-grown quinoa and organic goji berries.
Then it was "he shouldn't be eating purees now. It's time he fed himself." This despite the fact that I had already pointed out that he ate the same food as me for his main course. Like, real actual food. Yesterday we had CURRY for Christ's sake. And he feeds himself said curry, WITH HIS FINGERS. In fact, he wouldn't even accept a spoon until last month, and the only reason he's having any purees at all if because I'm so excited that he suddenly appears not only to like them, but to open his little mouth like a baby bird in the way that every other baby I have ever heard of has been doing since the age of six months. FINALLY.
The Buddha once said that the best way was the Middle Way, which would presumably mean that the best way of going about things is somewhere between Surrendered Mother and My Mother, who advocates jars of baby food at every opportunity, because "it never did you any harm," and because it's the best way to preserve the carpets. The again, the Buddha also abandoned his own wife and baby so that he could go and sit under a tree in the lotus position for seven years, so he's no Penelope Leach himself. One simply cannot win.
Anyway, I came home and pureed an entire punnet of apricots. At least I made them myself.
Tuesday, 5 May 2015
I appear to have accidentally told someone I hate being a parent.* I am going to Hell in a Handcart.
Sorry. I just really wanted to use the phrase "going to hell in a handcart." It is surely the best thing anyone has ever said, ever. I mean, THE IMAGES.
Anyway, back to the point, I am talking about how, as a parent, you become endlessly obsessed with how good or otherwise a parent you appear to others.
Comments like "ooh you've got your figure back OK then" suddenly turn into conclusive proof of one's motherly virtue, rather than the result of random chance and genetic good fortune; but on the flip side, any recognition of such on the part of self, such as my sheer unbridled joy at being able to fit into an American Apparel bodycon dress three weeks after the birth, are swiftly turned into evidence for the prosecution at the trial of Worst Mother Ever; defendant: Me ("HOW THE HELL ARE YOU GOING TO FEED HIM IN THAT????")
Today I left work at 3.30pm, such as has become the custom, and was happily bounding along towards the train station with a sleeping Piglet in his pram, when I bumped into someone from work. Now the only polite things to say to me at the train station are: a) "Well done! I heard you can now pick up that pushchair WITH THE BABY IN IT and carry it up an entire flight of stairs! You are surely the world's most accomplished mother. And a seasoned traveller of the London Underground, at that! You are a LEGEND in these parts!" and b) "Would you like a hand getting that pushchair up the steps?" However, given that this was somebody from work who I don't know all that well, the conversation was far more likely to take a turn along the lines of, (*peers into pram, feigning interest*) "Ooh what a cute baby. Are you enjoying being back at work?"
The only acceptable answer to the above question, of course, is no.
It is sometimes acceptable to admit that it is rather nice to have the pleasure of conversing with actual adults once in a while, and that it is still a pleasing novelty to be getting dressed in the morning into something other than a pair of ill-fitting and tragically see-through Primark leggings, but let's face it, if I turned around and answered that I was LOVING being back at work and pursuing my career like a wanton career-bitch superwoman in a shoulder-padded power suit, I would almost certainly be cast out forever from the motherly fold.
And so it was that I decided to sit on the fence and answer, "well, er, it's OK."
"Ha! That means NO!" cackled Person From Work, as she walked off.
It was at that point that I realised that she had not actually asked me how I was finding being back at work, but how I was finding "it" in general.
So maybe by "it" she meant, like, MOTHERHOOD.
OH MY GOD I HAVE BASICALLY JUST TOLD THIS WOMAN THAT I HATE BEING A MOTHER. I am surely now damned for eternity to burn in the deepest pit of Hell.
No matter how many times I tried to console myself with the true fact that it does not matter even one jot what someone from work thinks about my suitability or lack thereof to be a Holy Mother, I couldn't escape the image of other, more experienced mothers at work laughing and pointing behind my back about how they knew all along that I wasn't cut out to be a parent, much like I imagined my own mother did when she told me that she hadn't expected me to be a good mother as I was too concerned with "Going Out And Getting Dressed Up." In clothing from American Apparel, no less. THE SHAME!
I am now going to have to track down this woman at work tomorrow and do some sort of penance for my accidental apparent lack of glowing motherliness.
I'm pretty sure that the Duchess of Cambridge doesn't have this problem. And I bet she never has to carry a pushchair up a flight of stairs either.
*I don't really hate being a parent by the way. It's great, honestly.
Anyway, back to the point, I am talking about how, as a parent, you become endlessly obsessed with how good or otherwise a parent you appear to others.
Comments like "ooh you've got your figure back OK then" suddenly turn into conclusive proof of one's motherly virtue, rather than the result of random chance and genetic good fortune; but on the flip side, any recognition of such on the part of self, such as my sheer unbridled joy at being able to fit into an American Apparel bodycon dress three weeks after the birth, are swiftly turned into evidence for the prosecution at the trial of Worst Mother Ever; defendant: Me ("HOW THE HELL ARE YOU GOING TO FEED HIM IN THAT????")
Today I left work at 3.30pm, such as has become the custom, and was happily bounding along towards the train station with a sleeping Piglet in his pram, when I bumped into someone from work. Now the only polite things to say to me at the train station are: a) "Well done! I heard you can now pick up that pushchair WITH THE BABY IN IT and carry it up an entire flight of stairs! You are surely the world's most accomplished mother. And a seasoned traveller of the London Underground, at that! You are a LEGEND in these parts!" and b) "Would you like a hand getting that pushchair up the steps?" However, given that this was somebody from work who I don't know all that well, the conversation was far more likely to take a turn along the lines of, (*peers into pram, feigning interest*) "Ooh what a cute baby. Are you enjoying being back at work?"
The only acceptable answer to the above question, of course, is no.
It is sometimes acceptable to admit that it is rather nice to have the pleasure of conversing with actual adults once in a while, and that it is still a pleasing novelty to be getting dressed in the morning into something other than a pair of ill-fitting and tragically see-through Primark leggings, but let's face it, if I turned around and answered that I was LOVING being back at work and pursuing my career like a wanton career-bitch superwoman in a shoulder-padded power suit, I would almost certainly be cast out forever from the motherly fold.
And so it was that I decided to sit on the fence and answer, "well, er, it's OK."
"Ha! That means NO!" cackled Person From Work, as she walked off.
It was at that point that I realised that she had not actually asked me how I was finding being back at work, but how I was finding "it" in general.
So maybe by "it" she meant, like, MOTHERHOOD.
OH MY GOD I HAVE BASICALLY JUST TOLD THIS WOMAN THAT I HATE BEING A MOTHER. I am surely now damned for eternity to burn in the deepest pit of Hell.
No matter how many times I tried to console myself with the true fact that it does not matter even one jot what someone from work thinks about my suitability or lack thereof to be a Holy Mother, I couldn't escape the image of other, more experienced mothers at work laughing and pointing behind my back about how they knew all along that I wasn't cut out to be a parent, much like I imagined my own mother did when she told me that she hadn't expected me to be a good mother as I was too concerned with "Going Out And Getting Dressed Up." In clothing from American Apparel, no less. THE SHAME!
I am now going to have to track down this woman at work tomorrow and do some sort of penance for my accidental apparent lack of glowing motherliness.
I'm pretty sure that the Duchess of Cambridge doesn't have this problem. And I bet she never has to carry a pushchair up a flight of stairs either.
*I don't really hate being a parent by the way. It's great, honestly.
Tuesday, 27 January 2015
Note to self: Stop reading parenting blogs (that aren't this one, obvs.)
What is it about parenting that makes everyone go all Judgey McJudge?
Well, not everyone, but more specifically, me.
No, in fact, everyone. Everyone does this.
OK I admit I was quite judgemental beforehand, in a "well that outfit isn't very suitable for work now, is it?" kind of way, but with motherhood this tendency seems to have gone stratospheric.
Take our weekly swimming class for example; it's a veritable showcase of all the things I can get judgey about: four year olds with dummies, baby girls clad in head to toe pink outfits, babies wearing jewellery. The list is endless. And on Wednesday at Baby Club I almost had to slap myself when I started getting all judgey over a three week old guzzling a huge bottle of formula. For all I know, it might not have even been formula. It could have been condensed milk for all I knew, but the point is why should I care? It's blatantly NONE OF MY BUSINESS. I think I am turning into this woman.
Yes I am getting a bit obsessed with this blog. I think it appeals to my judgemental side. I quite liked it while it was banging on about things that I already do and Why They Are The Best Way of Doing Things and Everyone Else Is Wrong, e.g. breastfeeding, co-sleeping and hating on all baby books ever written, but my new found love (and smugness) quickly turned to disappointment when a post appeared which detailed why "married parents are the best parents."
Clearly I am not, after all, doing everything right.
Or maybe I should just take the words of someone who calls themselves "The Alpha Parent" and illustrates their blog with a picture of a mother with a halo, Virgin Mary style, apparently with no trace of irony, with a pinch of salt. What's that halo about anyway? If anyone is like the Virgin Mary, clearly it's me. I bet the Alpha Parent didn't have an immaculate conception. Perhaps I should write a post about why parents who have immaculate conceptions are the best parents, as clearly all this judgemental motherhood is just all of us desperately trying to justify our own personal life choices, whether they be marriage, breast/formula feeding, babywearing, baby led weaning or being Gina Ford. Or maybe we should just all accept that there are a million and one acceptable ways of doing things, and we should all just be nice to each other. What a revolutionary idea. At least that way the Daily Mail would definitely go out of business.
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.
Monday, 8 December 2014
The Curse of the Mummy Clothes
Not a terribly productive day. Currently procrastinating cleaning the flat and using Piglet's current slumbers as an excuse. We cannot have him being woken up by the vacuum cleaner after all.
In fact, today's activities consisted of: going downstairs to check my mailbox, baking chocolate cookies and going to the bank. As I am currently desperately trying to reclaim my Public Badge of Good Motherhood and also as the first of these necessitated going outside briefly, Piglet was trussed up in a snowsuit for a walk of several metres across the courtyard, whilst I was wearing leggings and a T-shirt. Granted we were only actually outdoors for a matter of seconds, but what would people think if they saw a wee bairn like Piglet snowsuitless and wearing just a hat and indoor clothes in December? I also had to put him in the sling for the journey, as what would people think if they saw me carrying around a baby in my arms? I mean, it's just not safe.
Later on we went to the bank and Piglet finally managed to have a nap in the pram, and we went into a charity shop for a look around, only for Piglet to be woken up by a screaming child who wasn't him, and who in my opinion was a bit too old to be sitting in a pushchair, but then I'm no expert in toddlers and I can envision a day when someone thinks that about Piglet, so I will try not to judge.
Anyway, by far the most important thing about the visit to the charity shop was not Piglet's rude awakening, but the fact that I found a dress for one pound. Yes, ONE POUND. It wasn't exactly a masterpiece, but ONE POUND! I found myself explaining the style of the dress to my mother thus:
Mum: "So, what's it like then, this dress?"
Me: "Er, it's kind of like, a dress."
Mum: "What colour?"
Me (realising this makes it sound like a primary school summer uniform circa 1989) "Pink and white checked."
Mum: "What size?"
Me: Noting that the size had not even occurred to me when I bought it "Well, it fits. Sort of. It's long. It looks OK with a belt. It would have cost, like twenty pounds in a vintage shop."
I stopped just short of describing it for what it was; a tent-like object which which was probably previously worn as an overall for cleaning the house, but still, ONE POUND. And yet I still feel guilty for buying it, even more guilty, randomly, than I do when I spend £2.50 on a latte, even though that is more than twice what I paid for the dress. There's just something about clothes, sitting there in the wardrobe, that invites guilt. Perhaps it's the fact that the only things I wear these days are those in the list below.
My list of mummy clothes, a.k.a. the only things I am allowed to wear now that I am of the maternal persuasion.
Leggings-some of which are from Primark-ugh. A total waste of £3 as they don't even fit properly. Thanks Primark. Thanks for making your size eight leggings more like AGE EIGHT.
Orange T-shirt from American Apparel which slides off easily, therefore good for breastfeeding. Also good for accidentally revealing entirety of bra to Wembley High Road. Speaking of bras....
Two M&S nursing bras (all other bras currently in storage until they can be worn/fit again).
Multipack of M&S Giant Mummy Pants. I'm not sure that's the name they were advertised by on the website, but it is implicitly understood that this is what they are. And my Caesarean scar is still a bit too tender to wear anything that isn't a Giant Mummy Pant. The jury's out on whether I will ever wear acceptable underwear again. Once you've worn a Giant Mummy Pant, nothing else is ever comfortable enough.
Sensible shoes. I grant that what is sensible for me isn't necessarily sensible for everyone else, but put it this way, they are not Jeffrey Campbells.
Parka coat. No more spectacular furry creations. Everything has to be waterproof and have a hood.
Pyjamas. In fact, I basically just live in these.
So in other words, that pound might have been better put towards the cost of a latte. I probably would have got more wear out of it.
In fact, today's activities consisted of: going downstairs to check my mailbox, baking chocolate cookies and going to the bank. As I am currently desperately trying to reclaim my Public Badge of Good Motherhood and also as the first of these necessitated going outside briefly, Piglet was trussed up in a snowsuit for a walk of several metres across the courtyard, whilst I was wearing leggings and a T-shirt. Granted we were only actually outdoors for a matter of seconds, but what would people think if they saw a wee bairn like Piglet snowsuitless and wearing just a hat and indoor clothes in December? I also had to put him in the sling for the journey, as what would people think if they saw me carrying around a baby in my arms? I mean, it's just not safe.
Later on we went to the bank and Piglet finally managed to have a nap in the pram, and we went into a charity shop for a look around, only for Piglet to be woken up by a screaming child who wasn't him, and who in my opinion was a bit too old to be sitting in a pushchair, but then I'm no expert in toddlers and I can envision a day when someone thinks that about Piglet, so I will try not to judge.
Anyway, by far the most important thing about the visit to the charity shop was not Piglet's rude awakening, but the fact that I found a dress for one pound. Yes, ONE POUND. It wasn't exactly a masterpiece, but ONE POUND! I found myself explaining the style of the dress to my mother thus:
Mum: "So, what's it like then, this dress?"
Me: "Er, it's kind of like, a dress."
Mum: "What colour?"
Me (realising this makes it sound like a primary school summer uniform circa 1989) "Pink and white checked."
Mum: "What size?"
Me: Noting that the size had not even occurred to me when I bought it "Well, it fits. Sort of. It's long. It looks OK with a belt. It would have cost, like twenty pounds in a vintage shop."
I stopped just short of describing it for what it was; a tent-like object which which was probably previously worn as an overall for cleaning the house, but still, ONE POUND. And yet I still feel guilty for buying it, even more guilty, randomly, than I do when I spend £2.50 on a latte, even though that is more than twice what I paid for the dress. There's just something about clothes, sitting there in the wardrobe, that invites guilt. Perhaps it's the fact that the only things I wear these days are those in the list below.
My list of mummy clothes, a.k.a. the only things I am allowed to wear now that I am of the maternal persuasion.
Leggings-some of which are from Primark-ugh. A total waste of £3 as they don't even fit properly. Thanks Primark. Thanks for making your size eight leggings more like AGE EIGHT.
Orange T-shirt from American Apparel which slides off easily, therefore good for breastfeeding. Also good for accidentally revealing entirety of bra to Wembley High Road. Speaking of bras....
Two M&S nursing bras (all other bras currently in storage until they can be worn/fit again).
Multipack of M&S Giant Mummy Pants. I'm not sure that's the name they were advertised by on the website, but it is implicitly understood that this is what they are. And my Caesarean scar is still a bit too tender to wear anything that isn't a Giant Mummy Pant. The jury's out on whether I will ever wear acceptable underwear again. Once you've worn a Giant Mummy Pant, nothing else is ever comfortable enough.
Sensible shoes. I grant that what is sensible for me isn't necessarily sensible for everyone else, but put it this way, they are not Jeffrey Campbells.
Parka coat. No more spectacular furry creations. Everything has to be waterproof and have a hood.
Pyjamas. In fact, I basically just live in these.
So in other words, that pound might have been better put towards the cost of a latte. I probably would have got more wear out of it.
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.
Friday, 17 October 2014
The Facade of the Public Badge of Good Motherhood
Argh. I have inadvertently trained Piglet to gaze blankly at the television as if in a hypnotic trance.
Unfortunately, this does not only happen during In the Night Garden. This was not supposed to happen. I was supposed to be an earth mother, all joss sticks and babywearing, giving birth blissfully in a bathtub surrounded by candles and incense, then holding the baby aloft as if he was the future leader of a pack of lions in a Disney musical. I was supposed to fill Piglet's days with classical music and brain-enhancing learning activities; he was supposed to be reading fluently by the time he turned one (there's still time...Not that he paid much attention to tonight's bedtime story, Flitter Flutter Butterfly). He was not supposed to be wrenched out of me by a team of medical personnel in an operating theatre, following several hours of Mummy taking all the drugs the NHS could offer. He was not supposed to be wheeled around in a pram for eternity because it has a shopping basket underneath which is just so damn convenient for carrying around all those spare nappies and the groceries. And he was not supposed to be sat in front of the television like a zombie, silently taking in all that ITV can offer (reader, it wasn't even BBC4). By the time he's three, he'll doubtless be asking Mummy why we can't track down his father using a DNA test and a lie detector on Jeremy Kyle.
I have to admit, it is useful to be able to plonk Piglet in front of the television when Mummy needs to complete some pressing task, such as eating dinner, but isn't motherhood supposed to be about self-sacrifice? If I was any sort of mother I would surely have relinquished all food and be living on a diet of pure maternal love, ready to abandon dinner and jump into action like a coiled spring at the first sign of baby whimpering. If I was any sort of mother I would have gone to bed long ago, instead of still sitting here at 11.15pm with a glass of wine, desperate for a few extra minutes of self congratulation at getting Piglet to bed, before he wakes up again.
Still, I did manage to tick off one box of the middle class mother questionnaire today. Piglet and I attended a swimming class. OH YES. And Piglet excelled himself by not crying AT ALL.
I should probably not crack open the champagne just yet. After all, we have another four weeks of swimming classes for him to get hysterical and/or poo in the pool, leading to a mass evacuation (if you'll pardon the pun). However, I will add that Piglet's angelic calm-baby performance occurred in front of one of the other ladies from my NCT class, who was also swimming with her baby, so at least I was able to enjoy the Public Badge of Good Motherhood for an hour or so. Those fraught hours spent searching Westfield for a reusable baby swim nappy yesterday were put to good use.
At least I appear to be keeping up a charade of reasonable competence at this job in public, even if in private Piglet is spending (considerably) more than the recommended upper limit of half an hour per day on television watching (as decreed by a poster in Wembley Children's Centre).
Unfortunately, this does not only happen during In the Night Garden. This was not supposed to happen. I was supposed to be an earth mother, all joss sticks and babywearing, giving birth blissfully in a bathtub surrounded by candles and incense, then holding the baby aloft as if he was the future leader of a pack of lions in a Disney musical. I was supposed to fill Piglet's days with classical music and brain-enhancing learning activities; he was supposed to be reading fluently by the time he turned one (there's still time...Not that he paid much attention to tonight's bedtime story, Flitter Flutter Butterfly). He was not supposed to be wrenched out of me by a team of medical personnel in an operating theatre, following several hours of Mummy taking all the drugs the NHS could offer. He was not supposed to be wheeled around in a pram for eternity because it has a shopping basket underneath which is just so damn convenient for carrying around all those spare nappies and the groceries. And he was not supposed to be sat in front of the television like a zombie, silently taking in all that ITV can offer (reader, it wasn't even BBC4). By the time he's three, he'll doubtless be asking Mummy why we can't track down his father using a DNA test and a lie detector on Jeremy Kyle.
I have to admit, it is useful to be able to plonk Piglet in front of the television when Mummy needs to complete some pressing task, such as eating dinner, but isn't motherhood supposed to be about self-sacrifice? If I was any sort of mother I would surely have relinquished all food and be living on a diet of pure maternal love, ready to abandon dinner and jump into action like a coiled spring at the first sign of baby whimpering. If I was any sort of mother I would have gone to bed long ago, instead of still sitting here at 11.15pm with a glass of wine, desperate for a few extra minutes of self congratulation at getting Piglet to bed, before he wakes up again.
Still, I did manage to tick off one box of the middle class mother questionnaire today. Piglet and I attended a swimming class. OH YES. And Piglet excelled himself by not crying AT ALL.
I should probably not crack open the champagne just yet. After all, we have another four weeks of swimming classes for him to get hysterical and/or poo in the pool, leading to a mass evacuation (if you'll pardon the pun). However, I will add that Piglet's angelic calm-baby performance occurred in front of one of the other ladies from my NCT class, who was also swimming with her baby, so at least I was able to enjoy the Public Badge of Good Motherhood for an hour or so. Those fraught hours spent searching Westfield for a reusable baby swim nappy yesterday were put to good use.
At least I appear to be keeping up a charade of reasonable competence at this job in public, even if in private Piglet is spending (considerably) more than the recommended upper limit of half an hour per day on television watching (as decreed by a poster in Wembley Children's Centre).
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