When Boo was 10 weeks old my oldest friend came to visit.
Ever the hostess, Boo slept through her whole visit. We drank tea, gossiped out the old days and stopped every now and again to coo over Boos snuffles.
During one particularly long staring at Boo break, my friend suddenly looked at me seriously and announced ‘she is actually cute you know?’
‘Thanks’. I sipped my tea. Ever honest to the death she continued…
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Feeling the grass between my toes for the first time
Warm caverns slowly heat and swell as each second ticks by…There is a dripping sound in the distance that echos as it slowly builds up to a deafening rush. A sound only made more consuming by the blackness of the surroundings. A torrent of warm, clear liquid gushes suddenly past at high speed, flooding every last hollow of the throbbing space that engulfs you.
Something digs and pushes at the mounds of the throbbing peaks and troughs until they change in colour from deep red to bright white. These white creatures are hard and sharp, and now with every pulse you can practically hear them burrowing and ripping, determined to break free into the fresh cool air outside of their confines. Continue reading
I no longer feel the need to belittle someone because their trainers/hair/PE kit isn’t what me and my circle of friends consider cool (yes, I was guilty of that on occasion over a decade ago!). When I chat with friends now it has passed through the stages of bitching, boys, how to sneak out of the house on a Friday night to go to the under 18′s disco. For the last few years at least it has centred around more grown up (boring?) matters – university, the housing market, jobs, marriage…And now babies.
We have all grown up from our ‘cor, your trainers are sh*t, where’d you get them from? Tescos?!’ *snigger* *snigger* banter to buying most of our wardrobe (and probably the wardrobe itself) from Tescos without too much of a second thought. For a few years nothing in my life has been the least bit about competition. OK, since the ‘how many times a night do you get it’ days before we all married our significant others. Hey, I never said we were all classy!
But now most of my friends and acquaintances have all had babies. Lovely, gorgeous but very different babies. Important point that. Personally I found everyone very supportive on the whole during my pregnancy. It was the randoms on the street that bothered me then. Why is it acceptable to grope my belly just because I’m growing a baby in there?! Do I know you?! Get away from me!
But it was once babies started being born that there was a sniff of competition and strong opinion from some friends. There were mutterings of ‘just gas and air and he was out in one push. AND he was over 10lb’ from the hardened competitive among us. But to be honest, when I had just had Boo I was exhausted. With a capital EXHAUSTED. I was proud that having not been good at much throughout my life I had finally found something I could do well and she arrived quickly and with minimal fuss.
But I was not up for bragging. I looked a mess, hadn’t slept for what felt like weeks, was overwhelmed with the whole new person staring up at me and it took me at least 10 minutes to get from standing to sitting without yelping in pain. The last thing I wanted to be doing was bigging myself up about how my labour was amazing and really didn’t hurt and in fact I managed to clean the whole house, convert the loft, weed the garden and prepare meals to be frozen for a month before popping to the bathroom where the baby slipped painlessly out of me and into her crisp white (freshly ironed) babygro before falling contentedly asleep after an amazing first breastfeed. While whale song played in the background. Naturally.
When I was in labour I yelled to my midwife to ‘just pull her oooooooooooout NOW’. It was not a pretty experience. So, for all those who had a bit of a brag to me I thought, well done you. A 10lb-er out in only one push, jeez your *cough*…you know…must bloody hurt now. Can I get you a rubber ring to sit on? Some ice?
Labour competitivety went right over my head, I’m pleased to say. But then began possibly the most evil and gut wrenching argument of all time to the tired and emotional woman at the hands of baby blues. Breast Vs Bottle. Dum dum duuuuuuuuum.
This is an argument I’m not even going to shed any opinion on right now (saving that for another post!) but I’ll go so far as to say that I have used both methods of feeding. Because in MY opinion, I was doing what was right for MY baby at the time. Others disagreed. I wasn’t aware that formula milk was made my yanking on Satans teat.
Everyone is entitled to an opinion, and it is something that I want to encourage my daughter to grow up with. Opinions shape who we are sometimes, but are also there to be challenged or changed.
But in the same vain, there is a time and a place. Above all, there is a way of expressing your opinion in a way that respects others.
I did not take kindly to being labeled a bad mum purely because for various reasons I chose after several weeks of what I personally found to be a torturous experience of breastfeeding to offer Boo a bottle of formula.
The reason I sit here frantically typing away is that the competitive streak has just reared its ugly head again. The weaning debate has begun. It’s the new ‘breast vs bottle’ in the same way that whatever colour it is now is the new black.
People are slowly dividing into two camps, pledging allegiance to do everything they can to belittle their rivals. Traditional pureeing or baby led weaning, that is the question.
Boo is 20 weeks. Personally I don’t think she’s going to be ready for weaning for a good few weeks yet. She’s slowly starting to show signs but her (devils) milk is satisfying her and after having feeding problems with her since she was born I’m damned if I’m going to rock the boat. She’s a diva, I’m confident she’ll let me know when she’s ready. But for now I’m looking into the above two methods of weaning. I like to feel I have a small amount of control in the chaos that is my life and research helps me do just that.
But suddenly everyone is sticking their oars in.
‘Of course, MY baby was on three meals a day by the time he was 8 weeks old. Do you not realise you’re damaging your child from not giving her structured meal routines?’
‘You can’t possibly even consider that method of weaning, what a disgusting idea.’
And all intermingled with:
‘Is Boo not talking/walking/crawling/asking to use the potty/writing her own name yet?’
Bugger off! All babies are different. They are, after all, little people. All mummys and daddys are different. What works for one doesn’t for the other.
I am more than confident that Boo will be walking, talking, singing and dancing before she starts school. She can do everything in her own time and at her own pace, and once day I know she will be able to do it all. Why rush it all?
Please, have opinions. Offer advice. I for one have never done this before, I would be glad of it.
But understand that we ALL love our babies and only ever want what’s best for them. Don’t bark orders at parents just because something worked for you or your baby. Consider feelings, respect opinions and try starting the odd sentence with ‘have you thought about…’ every once in a while.
If I hear that I am going to scar my child one more time my brain will seep out of my ears.
I am yet to decide how to wean Boo, but at the moment I am planning on taking all my cues from her.
As the years go on, I am fully expecting my friendships with certain people to dwindle. Which I’m really upset about. I am also braced for the future smacking/naughty step/schooling etc etc debates. Oh, and not forgetting the ‘best groomed and most glamorous yummy mummy at the school gates’ competition.
Rest assured, I will not be taking her to McDonalds for her first taste of solid food. That much I can promise. But I will be the mummy in her pyjama bottoms and yesterdays make up rushing Boo off to school in 5 years time.
A little over a year ago I wouldn’t have needed to type this. You would have heard my ovaries chorus their desires from where ever you sit reading this.
I want a baby. No. I NEED a baby.
Like my more recent attempts at describing pregnancy, labour, hell – anything child related to someone who hasn’t personally had the privilege of squeezing a wriggling watermelon out of somewhere small (really, it *used* to be small) and delicate, I cannot explain the broody monster that I became.
Out of nowhere I wanted a little person. No, not one of the 7 dwarfs…Although I’d happily adopt Happy or one of the other least annoying sounding ones. I wanted a little person made by me. With a little help from Mr Boo, of course.
Speaking of Mr Boo, he developed ninja like subject changing skills as my pleas ranged from the normal “you’d make an amazing daddy” “there’s never a ‘right’ time” and “I want us to have our own little family” to the admittedly downright scary. Think along the lines of a bratty 5 year old demanding a puppy. Then times that by at least 500.
You see, I like to get what I want. Jobs, men (all be it in my younger days), the last square of chocolate…I’m my own worst enemy with my relentless competitive spirit. If there was a Christmas present in the house right now I’d sniff it out from an alarming radius and tear into it without a second thought. It’s June.
I am the most impatient being in the known universe.
Mr Boo and me had discussed, planned and neatly boxed away the topic of babies until ‘after the wedding’. At the time, the wedding being only four months away most things fell into the mystical time zone of ‘after the wedding’.
But, my ovaries were singing their battle cry and beating their war drums. ‘After the wedding’ meant nothing to them.
Fortunately, before he had to start worrying about sleeping with one eye open, Mr Boo agreed to ‘give it a try’.
Choirs of ovaries sang.
Clearly Mr Boos sperm are every bit as practical and to the point ad the man from whence they sprung. Clearly my uterus knows how to throw a good welcome party.
Four weeks later we found out I was pregnant.
Inter-uterine streamers and bunting safely packed away (until Boo #2) Boo came into existence.
And snuggled happily there for the next six weeks while frantic wedding planning resumed.
NB: Although it had been in the pipeline since January 2009 we were forced to change *everything* at the last minute. Dramarama. But that’s a different story.
I digress…
One if my stand out best pregnancy memories (not hard when most others are simply ‘feeling sick’) is from the day that we drove to my parents to ‘break the news’ as Mr Boo poetically put it.
We were convinced we were having a boy. Well, Mr Boos family were convinced we were having a boy. His family are all boys. Except his mum obviously. So by her reckoning (clearly based on extensive scientific research) Boo was the first of the 2030 world cup winning team. Yes, she is expecting me to produce an entire football team. Plus subs. Ouch.
As we road tripped our merry way down the motorway, singing tunelessly along to the radio, I saw three magpies.
Now, I’m the kind of person that only ever sees one lonely, menacing magpie staring knowingly into my eyes from behind it’s crooked wing…Cackling and rubbing it’s claws together in glee. I’m your typical one for sorrow kinda woman.
“We’re having a girl” I exclaimed while Mr Boo almost kerbed the car in shock at my random outburst.
He rolled his eyes and turned the radio up. I’m surprised the poor man doesn’t have eye rolling related RSI after four years of living with me. He’s a brave man.
Anyway, the news was broken and my parents were thrilled. My mum did the typical mum thing and cried. My dad kept his end of the parenting bargain by giving Mr Boo the ‘this is forever you know’ speech. We all celebrated. Well, they celebrated. I felt sick and sipped water. Story of my pregnancy.
The following day I started bleeding. Never have I panicked so much. At some point I’ll get around to blogging about what I went through – if anyone happens to stumble across my blog in the weeks to come I would hope to be able to offer the reassurance I so needed but couldn’t find at the time.
A week of emotional turmoil later, at around nine weeks pregnant we had an early scan. Boo was fine. In fact, having got to know her over the last five months I’m sure she was just miffed to have been sidelined during the endless wedding planning and just wanted our full attention.
Like mother like daughter. Yes, Magpies 1 – Mother in Law 0. And I *am* keeping score.
As we left the hospital that day we took a proper look at the photo the sonographer had given us. Of Boo that is, not the sonographers holiday snaps or anything. Boo looked like a tiny goldfish.
Fortunately over the following months Boo lost her fins and tail, I became a Mrs, got drunk off one sip of champagne at the reception and slept my way through our honeymoon.
I had never been happier.
This time 5 months ago I was laying, dazed and exhausted, on my sofa (that I had failed to peal myself off since mid afternoon). My eyes were flicking between the husband, snoring on the floor, half covered with a sleeping bag and the tiny new human being that lay snuffling in my arms.
I had been a mummy for all of 13 hours and I was TERRIFIED. Where had the midwives gone? Who *exactly* was supervising me with this child? What on earth am I supposed to do with her… I don’t even know her name for gods sakes! Continue reading