Heatwave

Could there be anything more idiosyncratic of the British than our (over)reaction to hot weather?  All year we moan about the darned cold and gaze greedily at the orange and red swirls over Europe on the weather forecast.  The climate of our mizzly little island causes us a genuine sense of personal affront, yet as soon as we gain some hot swirls of our own, all hell breaks loose.  The City of London advised businesses to relax their policies on dress code this week, resulting in a very serious businessman wearing a shirt with the top two buttons undone being interviewed on BBC News, describing in detail how the heat had driven him to such wildly bohemian practices.

It’s all anyone can talk about, and we like to compete with each other about a) our suffering, b) our expert knowledge of the exact temperature, and c) the extreme lengths we have gone to in order to cope with such challenging conditions.

Fielding kids in such unseasonably high temperatures can be demanding: as well as the bulging suitcase of a changing bag I seem to find necessary for every excursion, there is now added to the list enough water for a military expedition to the Kalahari, a wide variety of sunhats, and of course, sun-cream.  Oh sun-cream.  As if fresh nappies, clean-ish outfits and matching shoes did not provide hurdles enough in the obstacle course of Getting-Out-Of-The-Front-Door, now we’ve got to make sure everyone is doused in a bottle each of extortionately priced unguent before putting so much as a earlobe into the sunlight.  And the titanic effort of getting a two year old to STAND STILL for long enough to apply and rub in the sun-cream, invariably results in me forgetting to afford myself such attention.  Baby carriers do not create good sunburn patterns, especially when you have to attend a wedding as bridesmaid in the near future.

My personal toddler just seems to melt into a sticky, fractious puddle as soon as we set foot outside, to the extent that I am considering starting to carry around a spray bottle of cold water to cool her off every time we step out of the cool shadows that we obsessively hunt to walk in.  The babe on the other hand is coping remarkably well, but this could be because I have simply ceased to dress him at all and all that is required of him is to recline in a shaded pushchair and be periodically cooed at.  Playgroup this morning was like the party scene out of The Wolf of Wall Street – scantily-clad revellers bouncing off the walls with unnatural levels of hyperactivity, periodically guzzling at any fluids available, before dropping like flies one by one, begging to be carted home to sleep it off.

In any sort of extreme weather Britain seems to grind to a halt; we just don’t seem to be very good at coping with anything either side of average.  The supermarkets have run out of ice and lollies, strangers in the street are dazedly exchanging temperature related expletives, and all available patches of grass or sand are covered with the crimson bodies of Brits who appear to have accidently applied olive oil instead of SPF.

Happily, we are due a break in the heat tomorrow with a considerable cooling of temperatures, so we can all go back to moaning about how we could do with a bit more Vitamin D.

Playgroup Isn’t For Kids

Every week I cart my offspring off to two or three lovely playgroups, and apart from the fact that they both seem hard-wired to fill their nappies in the most foul way the minute we walk through the door, we all have a lovely time.  But I have recently come to the realisation that these crayon filled congregations are not actually for the kids.  They provide coffee, crafts, community and conversation for the sleep deprived, the floundering, the lonely, the brave.  And as an added bonus, they let you bring your children!

Social Life

If I don’t see another adult all day, my poor husband really knows about it.  He arrives home after a hard day in the office to be met with a frantically gabbling picture of dishevelment, who is so desperate for some adult conversation that she can’t actually remember how to make conversation, but instead monologues for 25 minutes about the nappy contents of his offspring, current storylines on Paw Patrol, possible dinner choices and a detailed analysis of how the toddler’s nap is going to affect tonight’s bedtime (it’s never a positive conclusion).  Get the poor man a beer.

Don’t get me wrong, I love and am fully aware of how lucky I am to spend every day of these formative years with my kids.  But I do have a limit on how many conversations I can have about pretend (but very strict) picnics in one day.  (This is Molly’s current favourite game; it involves a very complex diet plan for each of her stuffed animals, and I am required to comprehensively understand this and serve up the correct coloured lego block meal to each ‘friend’, while she sits and watches.  The menu can change on a whim – I am not informed when this happens but the consequences for not knowing are DIRE).  If I have had a few hours of grown up interaction, my husband will arrive home to a spotless house, an immaculate and cheerful wife, perfectly behaved children and a delicious gourmet dinner on the table.  OK, that is a complete lie.  But he will get five minutes of peace and quiet with his beer.

Support for the Body, Support for the Mind

There is nothing better than a sympathetic ear over tea and cake at playgroup.  I do try not to moan my socks off every week, but during the last few weeks of my pregnancy I was like a whale with a sore head…or something.  I was DELIGHTFUL company.  But everyone cared, so genuinely, because they had all been there before, and really, properly sympathised.  A bit like having my own personal cheerleading team, it helped push me through those interminable days, until I could take my tiny man in to meet the squad.

Whether it is pregnancy, feeding , sleeping, tantruming…. playgroup mums really do form your squad.  Tell your childless friend that you’ve had a bad night’s sleep with your cluster-feeding newborn and she will sympathise, sure.  But tell another mama and she will grimace in shared pain, and wordlessly get you a cup of coffee while you try and staunch your leaking boobs.  And next week you will do the same for her.

Oh and don’t forget the cake – anyplace that involves a voluntary cake rota is well worth attending, in my humble and sugar-addicted opinion.

 

 

Creative Outlets

The craft table at my local playgroup is wonderful – but not because it is providing my toddler with a diverse foundation in creativity and self-expression.  Every week there is a different and imaginative craft activity complete with a ‘Here’s One I Did Earlier’ example, and every week the table is packed.  With mums.  We all pay lip service to helping our offspring colour within the lines, but eventually get so involved with decorating miniature fairy doors with glitter and beads that we don’t notice that Junior left the table 10 minutes ago and is currently shovelling half the snack table in his mouth while mum is distracted.

With a two month old and a toddler, I currently find myself particularly starved of creative outlets, and any free time I do get is somehow absorbed by incredibly unsatisfying tasks such as showering, life admin, painting three and a half toenails before being interrupted, and removing baby puke from myself, my carpet, my bed, my toddler….  Let me tell you, the playgroup craft table is the highlight of my WEEK.

Welcome To The Jungle

Apologies for my flagrant absenteeism on the blog lately, but I do actually have a doctor’s note, because just over three weeks ago, we welcomed the newest member of the clan into the world.  Everyone is happy, healthy and incredibly sleep deprived, and I have unexpectedly found myself with a sleeping babe on my lap, an AWOL toddler (joking, she’s at Nana’s house), high blood-caffeine levels, and a few spare brain cells.  And as there is only one big (little) thing taking up 99% of my brain power these days, that’s what I’m going to talk about.  I know from experience that these crazy, hazy days of new-born madness will fade into a pleasantly murky blur, so before this happens I would like to record some of the highs, lows and puke-stained baby-grows of the last year.

1st Trimester: Let’s keep it a secret.  Let’s just tell family.  Let’s wait till 12 weeks.  Let’s tell everyone right now!  This was a pretty bad decision on my part, as it made the pregnancy feel about three years long by the end.  Really enjoyed being completely sober at about 27 weddings during this period, whilst feeling permanently nauseous and looking completely un-pregnant.  Note to self: don’t bring a toddler to a wedding.  Just don’t do it.

2^nd Trimester:   I was at the peak of preggo-smugness.  Bump was perky enough to flaunt with no risk of being mistaken for a food-baby, but not big enough to make me walk like a Teletubby.  I have to admit that by month six, the glow was starting to fade, and with it, the self-control.  I wasn’t really baking with my toddler because it was a good quiet, indoor, sitting-down activity suitable for a heavily pregnant lady.  I wanted the cake.  ALL THE CAKE.

3^rd Trimester:  It was a low point when I ripped through the waistband of my elasticated maternity jeans by pulling them up.  But it didn’t stop me hiding behind the cupboard door so that my toddler couldn’t see me demolish a Mars Bar straight after breakfast.  The end of my pregnancy was harrrrrrd going.  Two weeks of pre-labour plus a hyperactive two year old really pushed me to my limits, and I felt like the boy pregnant disaster who cried wolf with the amount of false labour starts I put everyone through.  My father in law summed the whole period up pretty well when he told me at 39 weeks: “it can’t be long now, just look at the state of you!”  I think he meant it kindly…

Birth: What?! You don’t press just the belly button for the baby to pop out? Holy crap!!

Day 1: Love struck, thunderstruck, awestruck.  Welcome Finley, our beautiful son, who has proved to me that when having another baby, love does not have to be halved, but naturally doubles.  And thank you Molly, for loving your baby brother so much that I sometimes have to make sure that he still has an air supply through your cuddles.

Week 1: Absolutely no differentiation between day and night, and the smell of baby poo and milk slowly pervaded the whole house.  Thank the lord for visiting family and their cooking and toddler-entertaining skills.  Nipples nearly fell off, but battled through.  Took 3287 nearly identical photos of the sleeping babe.  Deleted three.  Learnt that new-borns sleep for an average of 18 hours out of every 24.  Dazedly wondered how this can possibly equate with the furious bags under my eyes.   Stumbled upon a few wonderful moments in the middle of all the chaos where time stood still and all that mattered were snuggles on the sofa with my tiny smiley boy and my suddenly huge girl.

Week 2: Considered taking out shares in Pampers and Nescafe.  Who am I kidding, we’ve spent all our money on baby stuff!  Sheltered a lot this week at the wonderful sanctuary that is the in-laws house.  Had first conversation with my husband in two weeks about something other than our babies.  I think it was about the hoover.  Had first pint at the pub!  Daydreamed that hopefully we’ll have twins next.  Mentally slapped myself in the face.  Started to run desperately short of games to play with the two year old whilst breastfeeding.  Did an online shop and was horrified that half of the bill was on nappies and wet wipes.  Oh alright, and beer.

Week 3: Paternity leave ended; first week flying solo with double trouble in tow.  Made it to sing-a-long fun at the library by the skin of my teeth, leaving the house looking like I’d driven a tractor through it.  Squeezed into my pre-pregnancy jeans which Do Not Fit Yet.  Sat in huge discomfort cursing my own vanity through all 37 nursery rhymes.   Made it to playgroup and unashamedly showed off my newest creation while the toddler painted her hands, t-shirt and stomach in the absence of my 100% attention. Felt so grateful to family members who had stocked up our freezers.  Felt overwhelmed by the lovely messages, cards and gifts that we have been flooded with.  Felt incredibly lucky, exhausted, in love, thirsty (thanks breastfeeding), stunned, sore, tearful, euphoric……all at the same time.

Welcome to the jungle, little Fin.

Oh, How We’ve Changed

Nine years, constant adventures, three degrees, ever-changing countries, countless train journeys, innumerable hangovers, one wedding and (nearly) two babies.   I am sure I will be saying the same thing in the same patronising tones about this next phase of my life in another decade, but I feel as though we were mere children when we met, unrecognisable from the people we are today.  We have grown, travelled, studied, suffered, sulked, shouted, lived and loved together for the best part of a decade, and oh how we’ve changed:

Mornings:

Before: Embarrassing to admit, but there was a time when he would pop off to the bathroom upon waking, while I still ‘peacefully slumbered’.  As soon as that lock clicked, I would leap out of bed, grab my tiny compact mirror and make up bag, slap on a big squeeze of foundation that definitely did not match my skin tone, drag my fingers through my hair, frantically destroy a stick of chewing gum, and sink back into the pillows in a carefully choreographed snoozing pose designed to show off my best side.  Close eyes.  Don’t forget to pout.

Now: The trick of pretending to be asleep is still going strong, but is now employed simultaneously by us both, as we try to ignore the escalating shouts of “mummmmmy, dadddddddy” from across the corridor (or, more often, from precisely six inches away).  Whichever one of us caves first (and its pretty even, I have to admit), wearily drags themselves out of bed, fumbles around for their glasses, slaps a bit of toothpaste somewhere near their mouth, manhandles the little hurricane downstairs for breakfast, and starts to consume inhuman quantities of coffee, affording the other a precious extra hour of unconsciousness.  It’s safe to say that my best side got lost years ago.  Don’t forget to yawn.

Date nights:

Before: Now, we’ve never really been the dinner and cinema type of daters, but dammit, we used to know how to have fun.  There was always a justification for a quick pint, which inevitably turned into 36 each, followed by shots, dancing, late night kebabs, endless nonsensical conversations, ambitious adventure planning, the purchase of extortionately priced bacon and eggs from the only shop that was open at 4am, a happy destruction of the kitchen, collapsing into bed, and eventually the vaguely bleary comfort of shared hangover.  9am lectures never stood a chance.

Now: Recently, we had a triumphant moment of parenthood: our darling offspring was fast asleep, in her own bed, at 7.30pm.  At 7.50pm, we had this conversation:

“You know, we could have one of those new herbal teas from the selection box.”

“Oooh, that’s a great idea.  Shall we have a different one each so we can both try two flavours?”

“Yes! I can never decide which one I want, this is a win-win situation!”

“Why don’t we get into our pyjamas, then we can have our herbal teas in bed?”

“We could even watch Part Two of that aeroplane documentary on the tablet while we wait for the tea to cool down…”

“You’re a genius, this is the best evening ever!”

The party lives on.

Valentine’s Day:

Before: The official party line has always been that Valentine’s Day is a money-making commercial atrocity, not something that we feel the need to participate in to validate our relationship.  Yet, each year as that rainy February day rolled around, there would always be flowers, a lovely meal, thoughtful card messages, and smug protests of “oh, but I thought we agreed not to do Valentines this year – here’s your present too”.

Now: Valentines Day #9 went something like this: we both forgot to get cards, let alone presents (but I do have to admit that my morning cup of tea in bed is worth eight dozen roses).  One of us (I forget which) texted the other at midday to say “er, Happy Valentines Day.  Please can you put my pants in the washing machine for me?”  We ate a dinner so uninspiring that I have forgotten what it was, except that it featured raw cauliflower.  Things were livened up a tad when I donned heavy duty rubber…to scoop human excrement out of the bath, while my darling husband bundled its grinning producer into the shower to be hosed down.  When she was finally sanitary and unconscious, we collapsed into bed for a long night of deep, satisfying s…….leep.

An epistle to my pre-baby self (or, a brazen edit of a well-known song)

Pre-baby lady of the class of 2014, do your pelvic floor exercises.

If I could offer you only one tip for the future, pelvic floor exercises would be it.

The long term benefits of pelvic floor exercises have been proven by scientists,

Whereas the rest of my advice has no basis more reliable

Than my own sleep-deprived experience.  I will dispense this advice now:

 

Enjoy the power and beauty of your body.  Oh never mind.

You will not understand the power and beauty of your body until it has borne and ejected a brand new little life.

But trust me, in twenty years, you will look back at photos of yourself

And admire in a way that you can’t grasp now,

How fruitful and powerful your body really was.

You are not as fat as you imagine (just wait till the third trimester)

 

Don’t worry about your parenting choices, or worry, but know that worrying

Is as effective as trying to get the smell of baby puke out of your hair with a wet wipe.

The real battles in those first few years are apt to be things

That never crossed your exhausted mind,

The kind that wakes you up for the 85^th time that night at 4am on some endless Tuesday.

 

Do one thing every day, just for you.  Shower.

Don’t judge other people’s parenting decisions,

And don’t put up with people who are judgemental towards you.  Nap.

Don’t waste your time on the bathroom scales.

Sometimes you’re ahead, sometimes you’re behind.

The race is long, and in the end, it’s only with yourself.

 

Remember first smiles and steps, forget the stretch marks.

If you succeed in doing this, tell me how.

Keep their tiny first shoes, take too many photographs.  Sing (endless nursery rhymes).

Don’t feel guilty if you can’t figure out what the hell has happened to your life.

 

The most interesting parents I know

Didn’t know what the hell they were doing with their first baby.

The parents of some of the most well-adjusted children I know, still don’t.

Drink plenty of coffee.

Be kind to your f***ing pelvic floor – you’ll miss that when it’s gone.

 

Maybe you’ll breastfeed, maybe you won’t.

Maybe you’ll have triplets, maybe you won’t.

Maybe she’ll sleep through the night at 3 weeks, maybe you’ll still have a sleepy starfish in your bed

On your wedding anniversary (and every other night of the year)

Whatever you do, don’t congratulate yourself too much,

Or berate yourself either

Accept that making a choice doesn’t guarantee an outcome.

 

Enjoy your body, love it in every way that you can.

Don’t be ashamed of it, or compare it to others.

It is the greatest instrument you will ever own. Have a date night.

Even if you have nowhere to do it but your own living room.

Start watching the movie, even if you can’t stay awake to finish it.

Do not read parenting magazines, they will only make you feel inadequate.

 

Find a new appreciation for your parents, you never knew till now what they endured for you.

Be nice to you siblings, they are the best link to your past,

And the people most likely to step up for emergency babysitting.

Understand that friends come and go;

The precious few that tolerate your baby years are the keepers.

 

Work hard to build a solid group of mummy-friends

The older your babies get, the more you appreciate the people

Who kept you sane when they were young.

Try camping once, but leave before it ends in divorce.

Try staying with your family for a while, but leave before you end up on the Jeremy Kyle show.

 

Persevere.  Accept certain inalienable truths.

Tantrums will arise, toddlers will repeat swear words, you too will get old.

And when you do, you’ll fantasize that when you were young

Tantrums were not indulged, toddlers were models of decorum

And people respected their spouses.

 

Respect your spouse.  Don’t underestimate the bond that children create.

Maybe you’ll have wonderful friends, maybe your mother is a babysitting saint.

But no-one understands your little family quite like your team of two.

Don’t fret too much about whether you’re doing this parenting thing right,

Or by the time you’re forty, you’ll look eighty-five.

 

Be willing to listen to advice, but be confident in trusting your instincts

Advice is a form of nostalgia, and as such it can be conflicting or confusing.

Politely thank the advice giver, walk away,

And trust yourself to make your own choice.

 

But trust me, on the pelvic floor exercises.

Pregnant Hangovers

No, not that type of hangover. Jeez. Much as I would often kill for my usual pint of lager over an incredibly dull delicious lime and soda, alcoholic abstinence has not been the worst issue of pregnancy for me.  Perhaps it is because it is my second stint of nine long dry months in three years, perhaps I’ve actually Grown Up A Bit, or perhaps it’s because I have found a genuine joy in smugly observing a certain husband’s occasional but debilitating morning-after-getting-somewhat-carried-away-I-think-I’ve-got-food-poisoning-honest hangovers.  (On the subject of dry months, if you EVER moan to an expectant lady about how hard-going your Dry January is, please be aware that pregnancy hormones can really put some power behind a punch to the face).

But I digress.  A “hangover” is defined as “something remaining behind from a former period or state of affairs”.  Most of us would readily assume that this “something” is a heady cocktail of nausea, amnesia, regret and a desperate need for toothpaste, and that the “former period or state of affairs” involved, well, heady cocktails of a different ilk.   But I have noticed two new types of hangovers in my life lately.  I’m sure they existed to some degree before life à la bump, but they seem to have intensified with pregnancy, and I’m sure, with the absence of the hangover we all know and love, The I’m-A-Grown-Woman-And-Know-My-Limits-Pass-The-Sambuca-NOW debacle.  But saving the sorry story of the sambuca for another day, I present to you my two favourite pregnancy hangovers:

The Food Hangover

In my opinion, just as much fun to create as an alcohol hangover, and at least you remember every delicious mouthful.  The best thing about a food hangover whilst pregnant is that it is absolutely acceptable to blame your unborn child for the gargantuan gorging that preceded it.  Eating habits which, at any other time would be universally condemned as “greedy”, “shocking” or “honestly a bit scary”, are now excused by the magical phrase “she’s eating for two – awww”.  Living two doors down from the Co-op has been problematic lately in terms of self control, particularly since Haagen-Dazs has been half price.  But as long as I wear a top that blatantly flaunts my bump to make my nightly purchase, I don’t feel guilty – dammit, I feel PROUD.  So join me, fellow pregnant ladies (in fact, everyone, life is too short not to buy Haagen-Dazs half price), stick that belly out, turn up the TV and enjoy the shiny stretched stomach-skin and lingering nausea of a truly epic Food Hangover.

The Dream Hangover

Pregnancy is a strange time for sleep.  It is hard enough to overcome the anti-sleep effects of the shrinking bladder, the impossibility of finding a comfortable position, and (for me anyway) the two year old who has conveniently decided that she HATES her own bed, two months before her baby brother is due (oh it’s a joyous time in our house).  Even when I finally settle my body, bladder and “big baby” to sleep and start to drift into blissful unconsciousness, a strange world awaits me.  It is a common feature of pregnancy to experience vivid and intense dreams, caused by those gloriously devilish hormones that make you an emotional disaster throughout the day (they don’t even leave you alone while you’re sleeping!!).  All well and good though; at least if you’re dreaming, you’re getting some shuteye.  The problem comes in the morning, when you experience The Dream Hangover, where you can’t quite shake off the torturous emotions of your slumber.  And I have to admit, the person who bears the brunt of this is my (very confused) husband.  My morning face resembles a disgruntled koala bear at the best of times, and is certainly not helped by a) tears, b) irritation, or c) pure rage, directed entirely (and entirely unjustifiably) at my poor spouse.  Did he really post a video of me giving birth on social media?  No of course not, that video doesn’t even exist.  Is he going to pay for it though?  Damn right he is.

On The Eve of Your Second Birthday -THANK YOU

 

Thank you for being the making of me….and at times the breaking of me.  I feel (and look) as though I have aged 10 years, and at the same time have rediscovered the simple joys of feeding the ducks and bubble moustaches in the bath.  They don’t lie about hitting the highest highs and lowest lows during parenthood – from being so sleep deprived that I lost the ability to form sentences, to the loud, ugly-face happiest of tears when you took your first steps.

Thank you for opening my eyes to how powerful, resilient and fruitful my body can be.  The transformation of pregnancy, the shocking intensity of labour, the *insert-very-bad-word* of pushing, the unexpected struggle after being too blasé about breastfeeding, followed eventually by success and amazement that my exhausted body could so effortlessly nourish your tiny greedy one.

Thank you for teaching me that some battles are best left unfought. Battles with you over your insistence that appropriate morning attire consists of a nappy, tutu and wellies (on the wrong feet, and god forbid anyone who tries to swap them) – why does it even matter?  Battles with your Dad that are honestly over the fact that one of us just feels like being an arse – life is too short (and we are just too tired) to keep it up for long these days.   Battles with myself over self-enforced targets and to-do lists, and society-enforced standards. It’s ongoing, but I’m learning to trust my intuition about parenting choices, accept that progress isn’t linear, and that lukewarm tea isn’t all that bad.

Thank you for showing me a whole side to your Dad that I never knew existed – maybe it never did exist before you.  On the day that a baby is born, parents are also born – you are not the only one negotiating a big, new, scary world. Before you he was a bit less tired, and he shaved a bit more often, but now he is your best buddy, your willing horsey, your patient puzzle-helper, your own personal bath-time bubble monster, your forever protector.  He’s even taught you how to bring him beer from the fridge.

Thank you for the life lesson in priorities.  There are times when I take a step back, look at the food on your face, the grease in my hair, the overflowing washing bin, the unmade bed, the untouched to-do list, the toy box explosion, the health warning pinned to the kitchen door, and wonder what has even happened to my life.  But all of the above are just evidence of a functioning family home that puts food on the table, provides a safe place to sleep, clothes to wear, and toys to play with.  If I really, really want it to be clean, I’ll just invite some people over, purposefully inducing the frantic-pre-guest cleaning frenzy.  We all really enjoy the exhausted tidiness of that entire five minutes before the guests arrive and help us trash the place again.

Thank you for teaching me to respect that everyone’s journey of pregnancy, birth, feeding and parenting is different, and rightly so.  Unless a baby is actually being harmed, every mother (and father) has an absolute right to parent as they see fit and should not be subject to any judgement over their choices.  Natural, epidural, assisted, C-section.  Bottle-fed, breastfed, tube-fed.  Co-sleep, bassinet, side-sleeper, cot. Peppa Pig, Thomas, Paw Patrol.  What suits me and my child is inevitably going to be different to the mama-next-door, but let’s take away the judgement, respect our differences, put the kettle on, and revel in our shared resentment of little pink pigs.

Thank you for improving my sense of humour.  Parenthood can be messy, disgusting, embarrassing. And sometimes, I just have to laugh.  Maybe not immediately, but at least my friends will laugh at for me if I’m not ready to see the funny side yet.  Your puke-on-the-plane episode has already been the subject of its very own blog post (see archives), but a friend of mine countered that story with one that could actually be even worse.  Also set on a plane, she was exhausted and in sole charge of her hyper-active toddler.  Momentarily closing her eyes, she ignored her little darling’s proclamations of ‘gak gak’, until the toddler decided that actions speak louder than words, stuck her hand into the solid contents of her nappy, and affectionately stroked mummy’s face.  FUNNY HEY?

And finally, thank you….for being you.  For the little quirks that I know so well.  For being so wonderfully affectionate.  For making an adventure out of a simple walk to the shops.  For making us a family. For the increasingly detailed reports of the contents of your nappy.

Happy 2^nd Birthday. xxx

The Most Wonderful Time of The Year

Dear Diary: A Tale of Festive Cheer and Too Much Beer Cheese

Christmas Eve

10am: Begin military operations of loading the car for The Annual Christmas Pilgrimage (it’ll only take 10 minutes).

11am: Wistfully remember the days of packing a bag each, shoving it in the boot and turning the key in the ignition.

11.10am: Awake from reverie to continue squeezing in ‘just one more’ Bag For Life of Very Essential Festive/Toddler Crap.

Midday: Depart several hours later than planned.

12.10pm: Listen to moaning from husband that he can’t see out the back window.  Resist urge to gently remind him of the absolute necessity of bringing his bike in the car.

12.45pm: “Mummy, nappy leaking….”

4pm: WHO THE HELL DECIDED TO DO THIS BLOODY DRIVE ON CHRISTMAS BLOODY EVE?

5.30pm: Finally arrive, frazzled but determinedly festive.  Gratefully hand teenager toddler over to gushing grandparents.  We can unload the car later.

5.45pm: Glare resentfully at non-alcoholic beverage while everyone else eagerly digs into their chosen Christmas tipple.  Note to self: stop being pregnant at Christmas-time.

7pm: Insist that toddler ‘helps’ make up a tray for Santa.  Try not to get offended when she eats half of Santa’s mince pie.  Accept that she doesn’t have a clue what is going on, and that this is entirely for my own nostalgic benefit.  Write a little note to Santa anyway.

9pm: Remark upon the fact that it’s “blowing a hoolie out there”

9.05pm: Remember that we never unloaded the car…..

 

Christmas Day

7am: Relax delightedly back into bed after grandparents swoop in and scoop up Miss Very Much Awake.  A lie-in on Christmas morning – best present ever!!

7.15am: Accept the fact that the grandparents are even more excited than the toddler about the fact that “Santa’s been!!” Noise levels are only going up.  No-one’s getting any more sleep this morning.

7.20am: Oh wait.  My husband is snoring.

9.30am: Congregate in the kitchen wearing our Christmas best, ready for the annual church outing.  Privately wonder if it is acceptable to bring Peppa Pig videos to religious ceremonies.

9.45am: Arrive at church.  Say “Merry Christmas” in a bright and breezy voice to a lot of people we have never met before.  Feel like excellent members of the community.

10am: Consider running straight back out the door as we are directed to the Very Front Seats Of The Whole Church. Spend the next half an hour quietly hushing increasingly loud enquiries of “Mummy, what’s THAT??”  Pray that she doesn’t do a poo.

11am: Service over with no major tantrums or nappy explosions.  I think the dancing was OK?

11.10am: Remark to husband on the way home: “I wonder if the vicar recognised us?” “Why, who is he?” “He married us three years ago…..”

11.30am: Arrive back at the grandparents’ house. Arrival of Auntie B is heralded by the loud popping of champagne corks and clinking glasses.  Glare at cup of tea.

Midday – 3pm: Keep watch for the dawning comprehension in the toddler of what the hell is going on as she is showered with gifts.  It never happens, but she loves wrapping paper almost as much as the dog does.

3pm: Toddler finally melts down after the Best Day Ever.  Straight to bed for an extremely ill-timed nap.

3.30pm: CHRISTMAS DINNER! This is where pregnant ladies really shine.

3.30pm – 4pm: Contented silence descends upon the table as everyone happily consumes at least twice their usual portion of roast dinner.

5pm: Time to crack out the obligatory family game.  Secretly glad that there are no non-family members present to witness the terrifying combination of alcohol and over-competitiveness.  Survive the circus by sneaking a few sips of the husband’s glass of Baileys while no-one is looking.  It’s basically milk, right?

7pm: Still feel incredibly full from lunch.

7.10pm: Someone brings out the cheese.  Murmur something along the lines of “oh I couldn’t possibly…”, and then dig right in.  Did someone mention cold turkey?

8pm: Still eating cheese.

8.30pm: Just one more mouthful of cheese, then I’m not eating until January.

9pm: Oh, is that a box of Celebrations?

10pm: Food coma.

 

Boxing Day

6am: “Mummy, where are the presents?!?!”

Dear Santa…

A Christmas wish list from the mother of a maniac toddler:

A bathroom

No, not a brand new bathroom, I’m not that greedy. I actually don’t even care what state the bathroom is in as long as it has one key feature: being completely devoid of other people.  Yes Santa, what I truly yearn for is 10 minutes peace behind a closed door to perform my morning ablutions without a running (and increasingly detailed) commentary from a tiny human being.  I would like to shave both my legs on the same day (and I’m sure my husband wouldn’t complain either).  And I would love to take a shower without calculating the length-of-shower to destruction-of-bathroom ratio, and whether the added cleanup time is worth using conditioner for the first time this month.

A bed

Again, Santa, I’m not asking you to renovate my house.  Running along the same theme as the bathroom here, what I wish for is an empty bed.  I’m not even asking you to bring me something, just to take a few things away, and store them safely for me for a few nights.   Take away the snoring husband (and give him his own silent and empty bed, god knows he deserves it!).   Take away the octopus-child who descends upon us at 4am, and take away the lottery of who gets her pedaling feet in their face, and who gets her tiny snores (why are toddlers incapable of sleeping any way but sideways?).  Take away the sharp, spikey plastic pink pigs that sneak into the bed and dig into my back even after the most thorough toy-sweep.  Take away the shrinking bladder of the second trimester, and let me remain unconscious for a full 9 hours.

But please don’t take away my morning cup of tea.

A remote control

My final wish, Santa, is not for a brand new television (although don’t let hubbie hear me turning that one down), but a remote control for life.

Allow me to pause those most precious moments of early motherhood that get swept away in the deluge of daily life.  Slow down the first minutes and hours and days of getting to know this brand new little being.  Capture their special sleepy smell (and equally special sleepy silence).  Slow down the unexpected first words, steps and sentences; and linger over the last shared sleeps, breast-feeds and demands to be held – not known as such until they have passed for the final time.

Enable me to record the hilarious, spontaneous and wonderfully mundane moments.  The early morning conversations that resound in my heart but that will not all ultimately abide in my memory.  The way that first words are fumbled in the most delightful fashion.  The standing unnoticed at the bathroom door, witnessing your two favourite people create their own special bond over bubbles in the bath.  The deliciousness of a squeaky-clean babe in a fresh new onsie.  The increased bond with your spouse as you both experience love and exhaustion like you’ve never known before.

And please Santa, please.  Let me fast forward the time she pooed on me in the bath.