An Ode To Two Year Olds

Two Year Olds are NOISY – our local playgroup is bleddy fabulous, not least for the fact that there is a rolling cake rota and endless coffee on tap for the frazzled zombies mums.  But I have considered suggesting that ear plugs be included in the admission price, because the volume can reach truly stunning levels (usually as the sugar rush hits after pilfering all of mums cake and ignoring the healthy snack table – they aren’t stupid).

Two Year Olds are QUIET – and it’s almost always a cause for suspicion.  Like the time when I dared to enjoy the peace and quiet for the 90 seconds it took to make myself a cuppa, and then walked back into the lounge to find her painting her newborn brother’s face with Sudocrem.

Two Year Olds are SMELLY.  Really.  Really.  Smelly.  I was so incredibly proud when Molly did her first solid deposit on the potty.  I think I literally clapped.   I then realised very rapidly that cleaning poop out of a potty is immeasurably less pleasant than dealing with a full nappy.  It doesn’t make the task any more pleasurable to have its grinning perpetrator happily describing the colour, size and shape of her work as you try to figure out the best position to wipe her up in.  I try to avoid wishing away these young years, with a few big exceptions.  Bring on the age where she can deal with her own business and wiping duties on a flushable loo, behind a closed door.   Maybe at that point, the commentary will stop too.

Two Year Olds are MASSIVE – when towering over a baby sibling, when they sneak in for a midnight cuddle and end up taking up the entire king sized bed, when they go up a shoe size every two months, when you start to decline the highchair in the restaurant, when you struggle to carry their sleepy weight from the car seat up to bed.

Two Year Olds are TINY – and it is so easy to forget they are in fact barely out of baby-hood when they are starting preschool, reciting books by heart and outperforming most lawyers in an argument.  Huge emotions and new experiences are overwhelming their little minds, and exhausting as it is to deal with, it is worth remembering that parents form a safe environment in which our toddlers can experience and explore the capacity of their ever-growing minds.

Two Year Olds are RUDE – and have zero brain-to-mouth filter.  I know that this is developmentally appropriate and is at times completely hilarious.  And by hilarious, I mean that it was hilarious for me to hear of how uncomfortable she made the hubbie when they popped to the local shop and ended up on one of those awkward routes where you bump into a complete (and in this case, rather large) stranger in every aisle and the mutual amused raised eyebrows/resigned smile/we’re-not-following-you joke starts to wear thin after the eighth bypass.  She increased the discomfort 100-fold by inquiring loudly at each meeting whether Daddy had seen “THAT BIG FAT MAN?  DADDY??  DADDDDDYYY??”.

Two Year Olds are PATRONISING.  Like all households with young kids, we have seen certain TV shows and movies so many times that I sometimes sing the theme tune in my sleep.  The current favourite is ‘Stick Man’.  So, when we were walking to the park last Tuesday, I saw a Stick Man-esque stick on the floor and decided to embark on an imaginative journey of make-believe.  “Oh, Molly, look!” I whispered, in tones of reverent amazement. “It’s..I think…oh, could it be…yes…it’s Stick Man!!”  She looked at the floor with barely concealed contempt at my discovery.  “No, Mummy.  That’s just a stick.”

Two Year Olds are LOVING – Miss M has always been a tactile toddler, and far from having jealousy issues when baby bro came along, she adores him with her whole being, which often results in adult intervention to ensure that he is still getting enough oxygen through her cuddles.  She is also obsessed with holding his hand at any opportunity – in the car, in the kitchen, on the sofa, while he’s feeding, while she’s on the potty.  I’m interested to see if they still do this as teenagers.

Two Year Olds are IMAGINATIVE; we have reached the beautiful stage where she is starting to use her imagination independently and is increasingly creating private little playgrounds with her mind.  A dressing gown cord is a lasso, a skipping rope, a lead (and mummy is the beleaguered willing doggy).  Everything must be sorted into families (big Daddy, medium Mummy, tiny baby); we have many families lodging with us at the moment, including the Stone family, the Stick family, the Cookie Cutter family, the Button family….you get the idea.  At least they are quiet tenants.

Two Year Olds are PEOPLE.  Parenthood is not an ownership but a stewardship.  These little beings may be dependent on me, but they are not extensions of me; they are people in their own right.  My job is to guide them through their childhood into adulthood, and try to equip them emotionally and socially so that when my stewardship ends, they can lead happy, balanced lives, and hopefully one day begin their own stewardships.  Even from toddlerhood they deserve to be listened to and validated.  They need space to discover the world without mummy hovering over them, to make their own mistakes and discoveries.  They are entitled to absolute bodily respect and should be educated to extend that respect to others, without prejudice.   They need to be equipped with manners, social skills and empathy that make them valued and positive members of society.  They merit self-respect, self-confidence and self-knowledge in order that they might successfully know their own minds and follow their own dreams.

Because, above everything that two year olds can be – even in the space of one excruciating, challenging, endless day – they are PEOPLE.

Limpet-Baby

The four-month sleep regression, teething and a raging cold has hit the little man hard.  From a steadily improving nocturnal situation we are right back to waking every hour and a half at night, constantly wanting to nurse, and not wanting to be put down.  Ever.  Not for a minute.  Nada.  He will thankfully still nap in his basket for 40 minutes at a time, but lordy, it’s the shortest 40 minutes in the world.  The space in between naps is currently spent standing up and jiggling; sitting-down jiggling (i.e. if mum is putting in less than 100% effort) is Absolutely Unacceptable.  When my arms get too tired, or I need to do something that requires both hands, I start switching between my fleet of baby-carriers (baby-wearing has literally saved my sanity.  In fact, right this minute, wee man is fast asleep on my back, lulled into dreamland by the walk back from the pre-school drop off.  I should probably attempt to pop in into his bed, but I’m just enjoying this moment of peace far too much….I mean, my coffee AND my toast are both being consumed HOT, for crying out loud!  Ain’t no-one gonna mess with that heavenly situation).

I’ve been to Limpet-Baby-Land once before with the now-preschooler, and I know it doesn’t last long, although it feels like forever at the time.  So, while I am in the thick of it, here is a list of complaints my top 5 favourite things to do whilst holding, breastfeeding or wearing a 5 month old baby:

1. Dealing with a mega toddler-wobbler.  Preferably in public, and especially if it involves sitting down and refusing to move (at top volume).  Like, last week, when she asked for a kinder egg from the infuriatingly cleverly positioned child-height display right next to the till in the Co-Op.  “No, because we are about to have lunch.  And – do you know what, I shouldn’t have to provide an essay of reasons.  ” Cue a tantrum that made people nervously avert their eyes and glance around the shop to check whether the owner of this heaving mess had stuck around to deal with it.  You know when you have used your Excellent Calm Parenting in Public Voice to ask your toddler to remove themselves from the dirty shop floor 18 times with no results, and resort to whispering TV-based bribes to make them move because the baby has chosen this very moment to turn into a writhing contortionist, and the shopping is spilling all over the floor, and smoke has started coming out your ears… Yeh.  You know.

 

2. Cooking dinner.   Hot pans, gas stove, sharp knives, grabby baby, what could go wrong?  Preparing dinner is not a time when my parenting skills shine; I absolutely always occasionally employ the digital babysitter to distract the Big One, and then switch between a cooing baby on my hip or strapped to my chest trying to reach hazardous shiny kitchen implements, and a grizzly little bear crying in his highchair when I need to do the really dangerous stuff like open the oven door.   There is a good reason why my family is subsisting on the same quick, easy (and very boring) rotation of meals at the moment.

 

3. Using a Public Loo. Best case scenario here is that there is a baby changing unit in a spacious disabled cubicle with its own toilet and sink.  Worst case (and more common) scenario is when Mum has once again under-estimated the weakened state of her pelvic floor and is in a mad dash to find a loo, any loo, and ends up cramming herself, the baby and the toddler into a tiny cubicle where the toddler has to stand on the toilet in order to get the door closed.  There is nowhere to put the baby down, and she left the carrier in the car, so is performing a mad juggling act with babe, buttons and underwear, hissing at the toddler not to touch ANYTHING, all while trying not to pee herself.   She then discovers that she has chosen the only cubicle with no loo roll, and the soap dispenser has obviously run out.  Don’t even get me started on the hand dryer that both kids are terrified of, which is set off by every person that walks within 6 foot of it.

 

4. Online banking. Or any task requiring a computer.  The only time this works fabulously is when sleepy bub is strapped to your back.  Even sleeping in a front carrier results in aching gorilla arms from sitting at an awkward position and stretching around your somnolent bundle to reach the keyboard.  Holding a wide awake baby whilst trying to touch type invokes a level of frustration I wouldn’t wish on anyone.  And then bring the toddler into the mix.  “Ohhhh look Mummy, a big RED button!” “Noooooo that’s the Off Button…..and I hadn’t press ‘Save’ yet.”  Brain = Explosion.  Take my advice and save the computer tasks for after rascals darlings are in bed, folks.

 

5. Emptying a potty. This has obvious sanitary hazards, but even having both hands free does not guarantee a safe outcome.  Take for example, the time that Molly did (in her own words) “the most huge-enormous poo in the WORLD” on the potty, as I was feeding the little-un on the sofa.  Luckily it was a weekend so I delightedly heaved clean-up duty onto my husband (the baby had actually finished feeding but I kept him in place to avoid poop-patrol – it’s a great technique, don’t tell anyone).  Unfortunately, as he dashed out of the room to find the packet of wet-wipes that always goes missing at such crucial moments, his foot caught the back of the brimming potty, and I swear the world slowed down as the huge-enormous product of my daughter’s digestive system flew through the air…..landing on the (cream) carpet.  Guess who got lumped with that clean up?  It was probably karma for fake-feeding.

 

Running On Empty

A month ago I made a decision.  “Enough” I thought; “It’s time.”  In the past three years I have undergone two pregnancies, two births, cared for two babies and experienced a bonkers amount of nocturnal activity (NOT the fun kind).  “It’s time”, I thought; “Time to get ME back to ME.”  Genetics have been fairly kind to me in terms of weight gain during pregnancy, and so far my bottomless pit of a breastfeeding baby has worked hard to minimise the impact of my nightly tub of ice-cream.  But although the outwards appearance may be different by a mere dress size, that’s not really the point.  I feel different; things have shifted, bulged, sagged and the huge box of just-too-tight pre-pregnancy everything leers at me from the back of my wardrobe every time I open the door to select another oversized button-down shirt. Despite developing unseemly arm muscles from holding the toddler steady on the toilet to do the world’s longest poo whilst trying not to wake up the baby who is strapped to my chest, I don’t feel fit.  My body is weak, my stamina is gone.  “It’s time.” I thought.  And I went for a run.

Now, the build up to My Run (capitals fully intended) was intense.  I nursed the idea for a few days.  Then I casually mentioned it to my husband who was unflatteringly enthusiastic very supportive about my tentative return to exercise.   Then the baby partied all night and I lost the will to live for three days.  Then I spent a whole evening turning the house upside down in search of my trainers.  Then I booked in Run Night with the hubbie (i.e. please be home on time to take on full parenting responsibility for the duration of The Run, and for at least an hour after I return so that I can recover).   I even pumped a bottle of milk for the little one (cos, y’know, he goes at least three hours between feeds now, but you never know how far these weedy legs might take me).

I found my running gear at the very bottom of the Feel-Bad-Box, languishing alongside my decent underwear, heels and bikini.  The leggings went on alright, although I had to spend a few minutes trying to figure out whether the waist band would be more comfortable over or under the muffin top.  The sports bra was a different story, mainly because its two contents were somewhat, um, lopsided at that point on the feeding schedule.  A lot of jiggling and manhandling eventually secured them into their bulging container with not a whisker of space to spare, and a frightening amount of over-spilling cleavage.  Breast pads were the next problem.  While I was attempting to wedge these in, my husband walked past the bedroom door, did a double take, quickly disguised his horrified expression and then offered me his large cycling t-shirt to wear instead of my skin-tight fitted running top.  Cos, it’s all, like, breathable and stuff, babe.  Rapidly running out of motivation, I scraped my fringe back behind an ancient headband that makes me look like a startled convict, turned on my Nike App (which instantly made me feel like a Pro Runner) and bounced out of the door.

The run itself went OK.  I had to check my App seven times to make sure that the distance-tracker was working (it was, I just hadn’t reached a mentionable distance the first six times I checked).  I had decided on a short circuit around the town, just a few miles to break me in easily.  I slogged and I slogged, but I managed to make it round the whole circuit.  As I triumphantly limped down my road on the homeward stretch, the App tracker announced that I had just surmounted Half A Mile, instantly vanquishing my sweaty daydream of smugly cracking out a quick half-marathon before breakfast tomorrow.  I got home, dragged myself onto the sofa, and hyperventilated quietly for a few minutes before being able to slowly sip the sweet nectar of a chilled bottle of water.  I think my toddler was actually a bit scared of the dripping scarlet mess that flung herself into the room, and then alternated between groaning, panting and softly swearing for 45 minutes.  She did finally recognise me after I took the headband off.

So that was that.  My return to exercise, one month ago.  I managed another, almost identical run that week, and then the four month sleep regression hit us hard, and I haven’t run since.  And I have felt terrible about it, truly experiencing that awful pressure on mums to bounce back to their pre-pregnancy selves as quickly as possible, but somehow amplified because I had managed to make a start which had then faltered.  It is a twisted world where celebrities make news for their method of achieving a flat stomach post-baby, with no consideration for the physical and mental strain that this puts on the mother, and ultimately, the baby.  Because, if a new mum is all strung out about losing those few extra pounds, or squeezing into those jeans, or running that 10km, then she is not really focusing on her true well-being.

Today I made a decision.  “Enough” I thought; “It’s time. Time to get ME back to ME.”  Time to give myself a break.  To accept that self-care might on some days involve struggling into an ill-fitting sports bra, but on other days it will be watching Bake Off without sharing any of my family sized bag of giant chocolate buttons.  To know that my body is wonderful, powerful, fruitful; so what if it isn’t as strong as it once was – those days will come again, there is no rush.  Sure, there might be a bit more of me to love these days, but if anyone has a problem with that, they are not worthy of my time, or love.  To slow down, live in the moment, and feel proud instead of guilty of an un-busy day.  To take the pressure off by turning a common commandment on its head and affording myself the same expectations, patience and forgiveness that I try to afford others.  To invest in some sports gear that actually fits.  For when I am really ready to go running again.  And ONLY then.

The Abomination

My car is an atrocity.  My two year old has aptly named it ‘The Abomination’, and I honestly couldn’t think of a more suitable name.  It’s a grubby grey Golf estate that has done 220,000 miles and seems to have an inbuilt magnet for bird faeces.  Half the front bumper is missing from two separate ‘little bumps’, one each from me and my husband (although he will generally attest that I caused the majority of the damage).   The back windscreen wiper makes an interesting screeching noise, but doesn’t actually move.  The front passenger window has never worked, and the driver side window recently got stuck all the way down, affording my poor nephews and nieces a very chilly drive down the motorway until we reached my long suffering mechanic, who fished the window out of the door with a pair of pliers and secured it up with gaffer tape.  I really need to order the part to replace the snapped cable, but in the meantime I’m layering up the heavy duty tape on what is turning into a very long-term bodge job.  It’s making for some very awkward manoeuvring at the MacDonalds drive-through car park ticket machine.

The sun roof randomly reopens itself when you are trying to close it – we discovered this fun feature on the way back from a shopping trip in a thunderstorm.   Lately the back windows have developed the same idiosyncrasy, much to the infuriation of the windswept toddler.  The drinks holders have never functioned, resulting in a dangerous choice of coffee between the thighs (i.e. very nervous clutch control), or only having coffee when there is a human drinks holder in the passenger seat.  We can’t put anything on the floor because it is always damp, increasing to saturated in wet weather; it is pretty obvious that there is a hole somewhere, but I’m too scared to do any investigative work.  On account of constantly ferrying two under-threes to the beach/forest/park/shops, there is a permanent layer of sand/mud/spilled bribes snacks on the fraying upholstery and tatty floor mats.  I like to think that the reason I haven’t vacuumed it for months because both kids are terrified of the petrol station hoover (we have no parking near our house which rules out the domestic extension lead option), but really, I’ve just surrendered to the futility of putting lipstick on a pig.

Despite this shambolic litany of problems, I have a real soft spot for The Abomination.  I’m not exactly known for being a good driver, and have long endured irritating and insulting original and hilarious jokes about my passengers needing helmets and my headlights needing bubble wrap.  I’ll admit that it’s not completely unfounded – the day after passing my driving test (FIRST TIME, just saying….) I drove the wrong way up a one-way street and got sworn at by an OAP, and the following week I drove 6 miles with my handbrake on, wondering why I couldn’t get my poor little Citroen AX to go faster than 23mph.  That car was not destined a long life in this world, at least not after I bought it.  A scarlet three-door artefact with four gears and a manual choke, it had for most of its life been immaculately maintained.  I knew so little about motor vehicles at the age of 17 that I didn’t realise that engines needed topping up with water on a regular basis.  And coolant.  And oil.  I just about managed petrol.  Two years later, goodbye head gasket.  My relationship with my husband nearly ended prematurely when I drove his car into a Cornish hedge (twice) – surely I’m not the only person who didn’t know that Cornish hedges are fundamentally misnamed, and actually consist of stone walls disguised in overgrown foliage?  I thought the scrape-marks added a nice tiger-esque element to the bodywork.  Apparently I was wrong.

But I digress.  The Abomination suits me and my occasionally sub-par driving style, and I have grown fond of it.  Maybe on a strange level, it reminds me of myself?  Sure, we could both do with a polish and a wax, but the heart is in the right place; the engine ticks along fine.  We’re not stylish, nor something to be particularly proud of on an aesthetic level, but we’ve had a good life, we’ve worked hard, and maybe we’re just a little tired right now.  We can be a little leaky, temperamental, inconvenient, unpredictable, and there is no telling which bit is going to fall apart next week.  The car gets the job done though and I won’t be embarrassed of its appearance, because who I am to judge?  Maybe when I finally get my own act together I might start thinking of a newer, shinier model, but for now I am happy to partner The Abomination as we limp together through an exhausting phase of our lives, and when it’s days are done (this could be fairly imminent), I will always remember it fondly, not least for the helpful ‘Put Diesel ONLY Here’ sticker on the fuel cap which has stopped me making that terrible mistake (again).

Rewriting The Dictionary

It’s not exactly breaking news that having kids changes your life in ways you never even anticipated.  Sleepless nights, curtailed social life, all the clichés.  I have realised though, that as well as daily life taking on a whole new form, even words have come to have new meanings, with thoroughly different definitions found in the Before Children (B.C.) Dictionary versus After the Deluge (A.D.).  I have taken the liberty of articulating a few extracts from both dictionaries….

 

TEA  noun /ti:/

B.C.  A drink made by pouring hot water onto cut and dried leaves of the tea plant.  A stereotypical staple of the discerning Brit.  Always offered within 30 seconds of arriving to any social situation.  Usually enjoyed steaming hot out of a favourite mug with two digestives to dunk.

A.D.  A drink made by pouring thrice boiled water (because you keep forgetting to actually make the damn cuppa) onto cut and dried leaves of the tea plant.  Either reheated in the microwave several times, or gulped with a grimace when lukewarm.  Usually just out of reach of the breastfeeding mother, alongside the T.V. remote, snacks and her phone.

 

DATE (meeting) noun /deɪt/

B.C.  An occasion when two people who are married, or who are in a relationship, go out together in the evening to enjoy themselves, participating activities such as drinking, eating, going to the cinema, bowling, music gigs, etc.

A.D.  An occasion when two people with children organise a babysitter, spring-clean the house to escape judgement from the babysitter, buy the babysitter a nicer pizza than the one they will eat in the restaurant and bribe the children to be little angels for the babysitter with promises of limitless treats and TV.  They finally escape the house after over-explaining every possible bedtime scenario to the babysitter, and double checking that they have the list of 78 emergency phone numbers.  They spend their entire child-free evening talking about their children.

 

CLOTHING  noun /ˈkləʊ.ðɪŋ/

B.C.  Items such as dresses, trousers or shirts, used to cover, protect or decorate your body.  Usually chosen for the shape, cut or colour to flatter your body shape and/or features, or to suit a task, activity or situation.  Stored neatly folded in drawers or hanging in wardrobe.  Bi-annually cleared out and rearranged according to changing seasons or fashion trends.  Regularly updated with exciting leisurely shopping trips or online splurges.

A.D.  A rotating selection of holey leggings, ugly breastfeeding tank-tops, oversized plaid shirts and various items of mens’ clothing.  Chosen purely for their elasticity and whether or not they pass the ‘sniff-test’.  All items feature an attractive range of stains, including but not limited to: milk, spit-up milk, full-blown vomit, yogurt, pasta sauce, and on really bad days, human excrement.  Mainly stored unfolded in washing baskets or on the clothes horse. Never ever cleared out, resulting in a thin layer of clothes that actually fit and are worn, on top of a foot of items that are now too small, too young, too outdated or too impractical.  Despite being fully aware of these items and feeling mildly irritated by them on a daily basis, they will not get thrown or given away for a number of years as you hold on to a small sliver of optimism that they will one day come back into fashion/fit again/stretch/be needed for that huge glitzy party.  Know deep down that the only thing they will ever be used for again is for your kids’ fancy dress box.

 

SHOPPING  noun /ˈʃɒp.ɪŋ/

B.C.  The activity of buying items from shops, for example food. A food shopping trip will typically follow this pattern: Drive to shop listening to Radio 2.  Arrive at supermarket and take seven sturdy reusable shopping bags out of the boot.  Push trolley around supermarket at leisurely pace, working your way methodically through sensible shopping list, based on healthy and budget-friendly meal planning.  Add a couple of packets of posh biscuits and a case of craft beer – you only live once.  Pay for shopping, remembering to use loyalty card.  Load shopping into reusable bags according to food group and refrigeration needs.   Load into boot.  Drive home.  Unpack quickly, thanks to pre-sorting at the till. Have a cup of tea.  Have a little nap.

A.D.  The activity of buying items from shops, for example food. A food shopping trip will typically follow this pattern: Spend an hour packing the changing bag, persuading the toddler to put her shoes on, and strapping the children into their various 63-point harness car seats.  Completely forget shopping list and bags.  Drive to shop listening to Ben and Holly’s Little Kingdom at top volume in an effort to keep the toddler awake. Arrive at supermarket and change the baby’s diabolical nappy and entire outfit on the front passenger seat while the toddler whinges that she wants to get out of the car.  Strap baby into front carrier and coax toddler around the shop while she whinges that she wants to get back in the car.  Eventually wedge her into the trolley seat that she is too big for and open unpaid-for snacks in order to buy yourself 5 minutes peace.  Seriously regret lack of shopping list, and start speed-grabbing random items off the shelves as baby starts making his hungry noises.  Throw food onto checkout to a cacophonic symphony of crying and whinging.  Curse toddler for rearranging your wallet yet again.  No hope of a loyalty card, bloody lucky that the debit card is still there.   Purchase yet more reusable bags that will be used once and then forever reside in the bulging bag cupboard in the kitchen.  Throw food and children into car.  Drive home.  Dump food bags on the floor.  Hope there is nothing frozen in there – that lot’s staying put till the hubbie gets home.  Plug screaming baby onto boob.  Give toddler free rein of the remote control.  Vow to do an online shop next week.  Have a little cry.

Bank Holiday Beach Blunders

When the heat wave came in June, everyone joked that we had seen the British summer in its entirety, and that Autumn would be commencing post-haste. Chortle chortle chortle.  In the depths of Cornwall, that sultry weekend of soaring mercury was followed by two months of low-lying cloud, mizzle, jumper-wearing and a complete loss of any weather-related sense of humour.  BUT, after an August that has barely seen temperatures exceed 18°C, the bank holiday weekend performed a ninth-hour summer holiday miracle.  OK, it’s been 23°C with rapidly chilling evenings, but in the Queen’s English, this means a trip to the beach.  We have had lovely friends staying over the long weekend with their toddler, so our group consisted of a 5 month old baby, two barely potty-trained two-and-a-half-year-olds, two sleep-deprived mums, and two beer-deprived dads.  Basically the group that you DON’T want to be sat next to on the beach.  Our day went something like this:

Night before: Google weather forecast and decide to just ‘get up and go’ in the morning, affording everyone maximum sand and UV exposure.

7am: Toddler A wakes up.

7.02am: Everyone else is woken up wakes up.

7.30am: Sleepy good mornings, polite enquiries into the quality of each other’s sleep and communal tea-guzzling.

8am: Discussion about plan for the day resulting in reiteration of last night’s plan to make a quick picnic, pack a beach bag, and crack on.

11am: Leave for the beach.

11.15am : Arrive at the car park of the beach that we have chosen in our smug local knowledge of secret spots unknown to tourists and rarely frequented by locals on account of the mammoth scramble short walk from the car park.  Load ourselves up for the trek, with rapidly changing standards of what qualifies as essential beach gear. Make the daring decision to leave the potty in the car.

11.30am: Fully loaded, wake up both toddlers who fell asleep five minutes before we arrived.  Avert meltdowns by shoving an ice cream at each of them – it will give them some energy for the walk; the adults have enough to carry as it is.

11.40am: Toddler A is put on Dad A’s shoulders after insufferable dawdling.

11.45am: Toddler B is put on Dad B’s shoulders after all-consuming jealousy for Toddler A’s mode of transport.

12.30pm: Finally arrive at beach.  Baby is cooing contently in his carrier.  Both mums are sweating heavily and swearing quietly.  Both dads are covered in ice-cream from the shoulders up and have possibly suffered permanent neck damage.  Both toddlers are shrieking with delight from the sugar high at the sight of the beach.

12.35pm: Both Dads head immediately for an hour’s swim a quick dip to refresh themselves after the hike.  Mums pin down squirming toddlers to douse them in sun-cream, bemoaning the fact that they didn’t find time to do this in the three hours it took to leave the house.  Get so focused on making sure that the kids are so lathered up that they take on a shiny beige tinge that all adults completely forget to apply any sun cream to themselves.

1.30pm: Massive regret at the decision to forgo the potty as Toddler A announces that she needs a poo (our tourist-free beach features a distinct lack of toilet facilities).  While the adults discuss how best to handle this, she takes matters into her own hands, squatting to do her business right next to the picnic rug.  Parents B collapse into mirth and make increasingly hilarious unhelpful suggestions while Parents A have a heated discussion about who is responsible for the cleanup.

2pm: Parents B pretend not to notice as Toddler B picks cheese out of sandwich, disregards all bread and fruit, and fills up on crisps.  It’s too sunny for fighting.

2.10pm: Toddler A does another poo.  Parents B find this extremely amusing once again.  Toddler B then announces that she needs a poo too.  Their hilarity subsides rapidly.

2.30pm: Mum B discovers the joys of trying to breastfeed an overtired wriggling baby discreetly on a sandy picnic rug while wearing a swimming costume that she bought before gaining the pregnancy weight. After significant rocking, pacing, cuddling and boob-flashing, she resorts to lying next to him on pile of towels under sun parasol until he feeds himself into oblivion.  Edges away achingly slowly when he is finally asleep.  Takes photo to prove what a chilled beach-babe he is.  Remembers to put boob away.

2.45pm: Parents all take it in turns to diffuse toddler-sized battles over precious gemstones rocks from the beach, and fights over sandcastle demolition (the politics of this are evidently complicated – they appear to be having a great time but will erupt without warning if a particularly special castle is scarified).  Decide it is time to crack open our beers.  Feel decadent as we sip our barely cold Coronas.

2.30pm: Another poo.

3.15pm: All regret the beers as our bladders swell.  Mum B saunters nonchalantly into the FREEZING water trying not to make it obvious that she has only gone waist deep for one reason.  After some outright bullying gentle persuasion from Dad B, she submerges herself and has a minor coronary at the temperature.  After two and a half minutes she exits the water, admittedly feeling refreshed, and probably looking like that Bond girl as she flicks her wet hair back.  The selfie feature on her phone reveals that shivering prawn might be closer to the mark.

4pm: Start to brush sand off toddlers in preparation for the walk back to the car.  Quickly realise that this is futile and just plonk their dresses on over the thick layer of sand. Back on Dads shoulders.  How did this walk become twice as long?

4.45pm:  Finally arrive back at the cars sweating profusely.  All marvel at the fact that the walk back from a beach always seems to be uphill.  It must be a geographical fault.  All agree that a swift pint at the pub would be the ideal way top off a marvellous day and cool our strained sweat glands.

4.50pm: Have three phone conversations in 10 minutes about the fact that both toddlers are crashing hard in their car seats.  Agree to forgo the pub.

5pm: Arrive home and extricate two hot, sticky, overtired demons toddlers from the cars. Both have a complete and utter meltdown.  Settle them on sofa in front of Cbeebies, trying not to think about how sandy they are.  Crack open cold beers all round and feel grateful for toilet facilities.  Start to feel the repercussions of forgetting to put any sun cream on any adult.  All reflect on what a marvellous day has been had, aren’t we clever to make the most of the sun – Autumn will probably start tomorrow.

 

 

A Day In The Life – A Moan and A Moral

A series of unfortunate events has led to my two year old being in an absolutely foul mood this morning, and as a result of this and not enough sleep, I am thoroughly fed up not feeling quite as chirpy as usual.  It started yesterday morning, when for some unknown reason, both the toddler and the baby were WIDE awake before 6am.  We’ve had a manic week as it is, so it was verging on soul-destroying to hear “Mummy, mummy, look! Fin is AWAKE!” in dulcet toddler tones, a full 45 minutes before my husband’s work alarm was even due to go off.  By 6.50am, I was on my third cup of tea, had supervised a potty visit, changed a nappy, read The Gruffalo four times, sent an email, and then finally caved and let them watch Winnie-the-Pooh while I reclined into semi-consciousness and dribbled a little on my pillow waiting for the caffeine to do its work.  I am fully aware that some poor souls have to deal with 5am wake up calls on a daily basis, and my heart truly goes out to you.  I am normally a little more capable of just cracking on with it regardless of the time, but on one of those mornings where 7am would have felt like utopia, I was hurting.

Once thoroughly caffeinated and showered, we did manage a good day of chilled out activities.  A particular highlight was realising that I had forgotten both wet wipes and changing mat when the little one filled (and I mean FILLED) his nappy at the playground.  Usually teaming with mums who are far more capable of packing a changing bag than I, the park resembled a desert wasteland at this moment, with no one in sight from whom to beg a moist towelette. Luckily we were with a friend of mine who kept the toddler contained in the dangling child-cage pushed the toddler on the swing while I attempted to deal with nappy-Armageddon on a bare park bench.  I think the point at which I sacrificed both of my (expensive, washable, pure bamboo) breast pads to clean my offspring’s gooey nether regions might have permanently put her off having kids.

So we wandered home, Mr Very Pleased With Himself cooing happily in his carrier, and Miss Refused To Wear Her Wellies up to her knees in every puddle.  No matter, no point crying over wet feet/badly contained human excrement (or is there?).  Fresh air and exercise ticked off the list, I could now indulge guilt-free in an afternoon of movies, snacks, books and blanket-dens.  My master-plan was to keep the big one awake all day despite her early start (she has semi-dropped her nap and its dangerous territory) in order that she would be desperate and begging for an early night (hence affording myself the same treat).

The den was my big mistake.  It started out fabulously, a multi-roomed, vaulted-ceilinged affair involving sheets, mattresses, blankets, duvets, every cushion in the house….there is a possibility that I got a little carried away.  Settled deep within the “Snuggle-Story-Princess-Castle-Den” (I wanted to call it Hogwarts but got shouted down) with a pile of books for the big one and a feed for the little one, I felt relaxed and somewhat smug that my plans to power through till bedtime with low-energy activities were running smoothly – how much more wholesome does it get than den-making in the spare room on a rainy afternoon, for crying out loud?! But Smuggy McSmug-Face was smug too soon because two hours later……we all woke up.  Which means that I had let my two year old nap from 4pm until 6pm.  Can you guess how successful that early night was?

“Oh well”, we consoled ourselves after she had finally fallen asleep (in our bed, at 11pm), “at least this late night means that she should lie in a bit tomorrow morning”. I’m sure you can imagine my joy when 6am rolled round and the two amigos were once again bright and bushy tailed, chattering away to each other and wriggling/bouncing me out of my sacred sleepy place.  My brain melted a little when she then pranced off into the spare room, took off her nappy, and purposefully piddled all over Hogwarts.

Anyway.  That was a lot of moaning a long story.  Since scrubbing wee out of the carpet at 7am (I’m lying, I haven’t even cleaned it up yet), we have been to playgroup with an appropriately packed changing bag, and they are both now napping at a sensible time, while I demolish a mountain of cheese on toast and an entire pack of biscuits have a rest.  I am hoping that in a couple of hours  I will have an angelically refreshed little sidekick and that this whole 24 hours will fade into a good anecdote.

The moral to the story?  I’m not really sure, I think I just wanted to rant.  But if there is a moral, maybe it is that it is rarely just one thing that drives frazzled mums to their limits, and that we’ve all been there.  Lots of little things (plus a hefty dose of sleep deprivation) can add up fast to make you lose a sense of yourself and the parent you strive to be.  Like the straw that broke the camel’s back; the tantrum/night/mealtime/poo explosion that broke mummy’s brain is rarely the start of the story.

So here’s to the mums.  To the mum trying to wipe her toddlers bum at the zoo while breastfeeding her newborn.  To the mum having a little cry in the shower because its 7.15am and she’s already exhausted.  To the mum who is so touched out by 5pm that she doesn’t even want to hug her husband.  To the mum who feels guilty about how excited she is for her toddler to start preschool.  To the mum struggling to love her post-partum body.  To the mums.  To all the mums.  All we can do is support each other, embrace the cliché of tomorrow is a new day, thank the lord it’s Friday, and count down the hours till beer o’clock.

 

 

 

The Five Stages Of Sleep Deprivation

Denial

Now this could be just my own personal experience, but man alive those hormones your body produces at birth are mighty potent. For about 48 hours after the incredibly exhausting births of both of my babies, I was absolutely buzzing.  Skyping family from Canada a few hours after the birth of the first sproglet was a memorable experience, not least for the incredulity expressed at how my hubbie looked more exhausted than I did.  After being awake for the entire duration of a 19 hour birth that kicked off at 5pm on a Friday, I then floated on a dreamy wave of oxytocin for most of Saturday night, staring at my tiny beautiful girl and smugly reflecting that I was obviously destined to cope extremely well on lack of sleep.

It all came crashing down fairly soon – never underestimate the value of the timeless adage of ‘sleep when they sleep’.

Anger

It starts in foggy irritability and ends in full blown meltdown.  How DARE the perky cashier politely yawn behind her hand before serving you?  How DARE the floorboard creak as you try to sneak out the door after spending 75 minutes soothing and settling your now wailing cherub.  How DARE your colleague CHEW their lunch and BREATHE between mouthfuls (this is my husband’s own particular bugbear of exhaustion, and god knows he is seriously lacking in sleep too).

If you ever require a swift punch to the face, please find the mother of a newborn (and a toddler too, if you want a real wallop), and give her a painstaking account of how you are soooo tired after making the foolish decision to binge-watch Greys Anatomy last night and consequently only get six hours sleep.  DO YOU KNOW WHAT I WOULD DO FOR SIX CONSECUTIVE HOURS OF SLEEP??

Bargaining

Whatever God or philosophy or higher power you subscribe to, we all start to make deals.  We start to see patterns that aren’t there.  We desperately try to recreate the exact conditions that led to junior sleeping a four hour stretch, or the toddler spending an entire night in her OWN bed.  We experience shocking depths of disappointment when this (of course) does not work.  We (or maybe just I?) obsessively keep track of minutes and hours and precious seconds of sleep.  We trade off lie-ins and snatch micro-sleeps on the sofa while the toddler chain-watches Paw Patrol (thank god for Netflix).

Depression

Dark days.  When you are so sleep deprived that the energy required to brush your teeth or change a nappy is tear-inducing.  When you stare blankly at the other mum at baby group who just asked a question that you didn’t hear because you momentarily just fell asleep standing up.  When you start putting the orange juice in the oven and your clothes on backwards.  When Molly started waking up hourly between 10pm and 7am every night at 11 months old, I all but lost my mind the power of conversation.

If you are in this place, know that it does end, it does ease.  (I do realise that hearing this is THE most unhelpful and infuriating thing at the time). We are still getting over the four month sleep regression (she’s three in January), but we’ve limped into a manageable state.  The bonus of having such a shocking sleeper as a first born is that when Mr Fin arrived, broken nights seemed like no biggy.

Acceptance

Acceptance is a beautiful moment.  A somnolent surrender to all the clichés: the nights are indeed long, but the years are short.  You WILL miss the sleepy 3am feeds and their warm trusting weight as they refuse to sleep anywhere but on top of you.   Their soft milky smell and gentle drowsy snuffles (or full blown snores, in the case of a certain four month old), will one day be a memory that seems like a dream as you converse with the gawky teenager who is suddenly taller than you.  Accept that there is beauty in these moments despite the misty tendrils of sleep deprivation.  Delight and exhaustion can co-exist in a strange harmony, best understood by new parents.

Acceptance is immeasurably important, and not only the acceptance that a frequently waking baby is absolutely and biologically normal and healthy, and that helping them in their need for comfort and nourishment is a relatively short season in the long journey of parenthood.  Try to accept other things too: accept help, accept sympathy, accept offers of cooking, cleaning, babysitting.  Accept nostalgic advice from mums a little further on in their journey – one day you will be the one assuring the bleary-eyed newbie that it does, eventually, ease.  And accept coffee.  All the coffee.

Mama’s Weekend Off

1 month before: Pump breast milk like a raging dairy cow Every Single Day.  At every pumping session curse the crappy manual breast pump that I cheaped out on because I thought I probably wouldn’t use it that much anyway.   Consider investing in a backup generator for the freezer in case of a power cut, because of the sheer effort that has gone into extracting 48 hours worth of milk.

1 week before: Swing wildly between exuberance at imminent escape departure, and crippling guilt that I am leaving my three month old to go and get pissed up honour my sister at her hen party.

1 day before: Irritate husband to breaking point with well-meaning but patronising advice.  Marvel at the speed at which you can pack when you don’t have to consider nappies, soft toys, bottles, car seats, wet wipes, and spare everything.

Departure: Get shooed into the car by hero of a husband, with firm instructions to have as much fun as possible.  Cry for first hour of the journey.

Arrival:  Remember how quick journeys can be without the need to stop to breastfeed, supervise snack explosions, clean up nappy explosions, and placate temper explosions.  Call husband to inform him of safe arrival.  Hear this exact account of bedtime: “Molly did so well, got herself off to sleep without a story after an hour of Fin screaming in her room.”  Immediately open guilt-beer.

First night: Gleefully settle into Own Bed, in Own Room, All Alone for an Excellent Night’s Sleep.  Vaguely miss reading We’re Going on A Bear Hunt 16 times.  Awake every two hours and miss my snuffly little roommates (and the big snoring one, I have to admit).  Wake in the morning looking like Pamela Anderson.  F***ing manual breast pumps.

Hen Do: Start to get into the swing of things.  Remember what it feels like to actually finish a conversation with another adult.  Give strict instructions to my mother not to let me go ‘out-out’ to the clubs with all the young things when I feel invincible after two pints.

Have the Best Time Ever reconnecting with my inner 10-year-old on the inflatable water park assault course.  Get so excited about scaling a giant iceberg shaped climbing wall that I momentarily forget my fear of heights, which wallops me as I reach the top and realise that the only way off is to jump.  Spend 10 minutes freaking out on top of the iceberg while half the water park tries to talk me down.  An hour goes by much too quickly, but now it’s time to party.

Feel very proud and mature to be one of the designated drivers, sipping on half a shandy at the pub lunch.  Start making up for lost ground with gusto the MINUTE I no longer have to be responsible for a vehicle.  Get so involved with beer drinking and setting up for evening entertainments that I leave myself exactly four and a half minutes to have a shower, dress, do hair and makeup, and pump.  Waste precious 40 seconds of this trying to remember how to use mascara. Put on Special Party Dress which is special for the sole fact that I did not have to consider access for breastfeeding when choosing it.  Hoick entire dress up to armpits in order to pump (my cousin looked a little nonplussed at this, but gamely carried on chatting and straightening her hair while I let it all hang out).

Embrace role as tipsy official photographer wholeheartedly.  Put camera away after an hour as people seem a little freaked out at my efforts to achieve arty angles and ‘natural shots’.  Organisational duties discharged, fully enter the party spirit as we lollop down the road to the pub.  Patronisingly explain to another cousin that the reason I like to drink a pint is that one will last me over an hour, if not the whole night.  Try not to catch her eye as I queue for my second 10 minutes later.  Spend a joyous two hours dancing to a fabulous band with my wonderful sister who is even better at carefree drunk-dancing than I am.  Decide that of course I will be going ‘out-out’; I can drink these youngsters under the table.  Get dragged home by my mother to gorge on left over party food and gallons of water.

The Morning After: Curse my children for permanently reprogramming my body clock to wake up at 6.30am.   Curse the natural process of maternal milk production.  Curse the birds for singing their sweet morning melodies.  Curse the paracetamol for being downstairs where I left it.  Bless my mum for not allowing me to go clubbing.

Departure: Decide after two bacon sandwiches, a large leftover bowl of crisps and 68 pints of water that I am ready to hit the road.  Grimace at the thought of a 4 hour, hung-over, solo drive.  If only I knew what was to come.

The Journey: Reflect that I have escaped relatively lightly in terms of a hangover, whilst planning my route according to the location of the drive-through McDonalds. Feel smug about my wise decision to end the night on a high and go home at a sensible time. Feel heart sink as car engine cuts out.  Three times in a mile.  Feel like a complete moron as I see the queue of cars behind me grow as I frantically try to restart the engine.  Avoid eyes of fellow drivers as they start to slowly trickle past me.  Get thoroughly verbally abused by a horrendous specimen in a gaudy open top who honked his horn for 10 minutes before overtaking both my car and the car in front of him who was waiting to safely go round me, whilst giving me the finger and advising that I “pull my f***ing car over”.  This is not how I generally choose to spend my hangovers, mate.

Finally manage to limp into a lay-by and call hubbie with the good news.  I’ve been on the road for less than 10 miles.  Wait two hours for recovery vehicle while mourning my lack of Big Mac and loo roll.  Get towed from Hampshire to Cornwall in a tow truck with no suspension, no air con, which is restricted to 56mph.  Realise after three hours that the blinking breast pump is locked in the boot of car that we are towing.  Wonder if it is socially acceptable to express breast milk by hand in the passenger seat of an AA truck just to relieve some pressure.  It probably isn’t.

Finally end my excruciating journey to be greeted by my two year old with the type of hug that can quench even the most evil adult headache.  “Hello Molly!! I’ve missed you! Have you had a nice weekend? What have you done?!”  “I done TWENTY poos!!”.  Welcome home.