Mum Overboard

I didn’t even buy formula.  I mean, how hard could breastfeeding be? Breast is best right?  It’s free, it’s easy, it helps you lose weight and it gives those all-important mammary cannons their chance to fulfil their dreams.   I had no idea why any women in her right mind wouldn’t breastfeed. I hadn’t a clue. Once Elias was born I realised, almost immediately, that I was spectacularly mistaken. Having never had someone suck on my nipples with all the force of nine months of hunger, I didn't know what an acceptable level of pain was.  Add to this the fact that each midwife who helped me to latch Elias on was clearly rushed off her feet, and you can see why I just bit my lip, wiggled my toes and got on with it.  This was a mistake. By night number two Righty was as cracked as a dry creek bed.  I was in trouble.  I was an all-you-can-eat buffet for two full nights and I could only feed off the left side.  My milk supply was being established in torrents and, with the weight o

If you were to make a Wordle (look it up) of my birth plan, I recon the word poo would come out the biggest. Before Elias, my major concern - trumping blood loss, sleepless nights and breast conundrums – related to spectacularly defecating whilst our little boy made his grand entrance (or exit depending how you want to look at it).  I was also concerned about how this poo would be fished from the birthing pool.  Would I be allowed to do it myself whilst no one looked and could everyone please pretend it hadn’t happened? I didn’t make it to the birthing pool.  I certainly did poo myself.  I most certainly did not care.  At forty-two weeks pregnant I resembled a whale.  A really fat whale.  Being induced involves something resembling a SIM card with a tampon-like string being shoved into close proximity with your cervix. I kid you not Reader, I remember the sharp pain from this pointy intrusion more vividly than the pain of my contractions.  It appears Mother Nature is a trick

I've been meaning to put a list of the stupid things I've done whilst under the influence of sleep deprivation together for a while now but, ironically, I've been too tired. However, today - with eye lids fully open -  I've managed to collate these little gems in the hope that other equally sleepy mums will be reassured that we are zombies together. All for one and one for all (* zombie growl*). - Making orange squash with milk.  Trust me, water is better. - Witnessing my living room curtains swell and billow like a giant angry mouth. - Washing hair with conditioner - only conditioner. - Washing body with shampoo -  shower gel is for the awake. - Forgetting my baby's name.  Probably the reason he isn't sleeping through the night (early trauma). - Calling other babies by my baby's name (they all look the same at the age right?) - The classic: waking in a panic that I've dropped/ rolled on my baby. - Variation on the classic: sleep fallin

I witnessed something quite spectacular in the doctors' surgery a couple of weeks ago. A be-tattooed biker type fellow, complete with leather jacket and dark 'don't mess with me/ even look at me' glasses, sat on the far corner of the seat nearest the door.  Short of waiting in the car park, he couldn't have been further away from the rest of us.  A few sniffling patients were exchanging pleasantries, along the lines of 'Haven't we been waiting ages etc?' but no one glanced in the direction of the aforementioned biker.  No one that is except a scruffy toddler who had set her heart on him reading her a story. One by one she brought him the dog-eared story books, crossing the entire width of the waiting room with each one.  Fortunately, her mum didn't stop her.   Angry Biker was accepting each gift bestowed so generously upon him; he was even smiling.  Yes, angry 'don't mess with me biker', who I would have avoided at all costs, turned

I lost count of how many people told me this would get easier at the three month mark.   I longed for the time when I could be awake during daytime hours, when the weight of my boobs didn’t give me back ache and I had time in the morning for more than a cursory encounter with the shower.   However, I feared putting too much on this hope in case it turned out to be unreliable; a bit like the advice about shaking my baby’s bottom to stop him crying. It’s true – at least for me – there is something magical about three months and with the three month spring in my slightly lighter step I thought I’d share with you some of the pondering I’ve been doing: 1.       1) When you see a women in a supermarket with a baby she is living on the edge.     There’s something about Lidl that Elias detests.   Unless I can induce him into a full on sleep comma before we go in (careful nap timing required), he’ll cry and I’ll spend the trip asking myself questions like ‘do we need milk enough

Not all super heroes wear their knickers over their tights, gloat about x-ray vision, parade their web-shooting powers in public. Not all super heroes flex their guns, frolic about on city roof tops, iron their capes to make sure they flutter 'just so'. The super-est of all heroes can serve up breakfast whilst getting a two year old dressed, magic away tears and the monster under the bed, shape-shift between doctor, teacher and Sergeant Major . The super-est of all heroes is easy to spot; you'll find her waiting at the school gate.  She needn't flash her pants to draw attention to herself. "Honour her for all that her hands have done,      and let her works bring her praise at the city gate." Proverbs 31

I'm quite organised really.  In fact, scrap that, I'm as organised as a Filofax in its heyday.  On my long, long maternity leave (the era I will refer to as pre-Elias) I sorted everything from my teaching folders to my jewellery box; even Zane's socks found themselves in neat pairs. After about three weeks of determined sorting, I was ready; it was officially time for baby Duxbury to make a grand entrance. I borrowed a birthing ball to help him along...and we went for a curry...two curries...and I committed to stair climbing and long walks. In the end we drove to far away places like Horsey and Fakenham daring my little squatter to pack up and leave.  Needless to say, baby Duxbury was reluctant to fit to my schedule; he would not be sorted.  This, in the world of a woman who lives her life in accordance with a school bell, spelt disaster.  I realised God had a lesson for me to learn pre-Elias. It's confession time friends: I'm a dirty, dirty control freak. I w