I'm just wondering why there aren't more groups out their for new mums who just want to have a good bitch!
Becoming a mum is utterly terrifying, for a billion different reasons. Even those who think they're ready for it are NOT READY! No one is. How could you be? Ok, you might be financially stable and have a plan re. childcare and schedules, etc, but you can't possibly be ready until, well, never! There is no ready. It's do or do not. Either you get right or you get it wrong, or you get it somewhere in between. Life just happens, whether you are ready for what's happening or not. It doesn't slow down or stop or pause to let you catch your breath or adjust to the new situation. One minute you're you, then you're you with a teeny passenger, then you're a mum. You're not, then you are. There is no 'ready'.
Thing is, everyone is SOOOOOO supportive. I mean on the whole anyway. There are so many 'we're here to support you' groups. All anyone tells you 'It'll all be fine. Don't worry about it. Everything will be ok', and mostly that's true. Everything will, one way or another, work itself out. No hurdle will last forever. whether you just it or fall down, things will keep moving in one dirrection or another towards the next hurdle.
But what about in the meantime?
Yes, my daughter is happy and healthy and fed and growing and it's wonderful. Yes, I am incredibly grateful. I know how lucky we are.
That doesn't mean it's not hard sometimes!
Right now, this second, she's sleeping soundly and I have a lovely hot cup of tea and a piece of delicious crumbly shortbread. Right now is lovely.
However, about 3.5 minutes ago I was about ready to jump out of a window. Ok, that might be slightly hyperbolic verging on the completely over-dramatic ('hello' *waves and smiles*), but when the baby starts crying real, proper (loud!) tears because she's tired, but she won't go to sleep, you know, because she's tired, and thanks to evolution every fibre of your being is screaming at you to make it better, but you don't have a magic button that sends her to sleep, so you're cradling her whilst singing '4 green bottles', having starting at 100 of the bloody things, and she's struggling and sobbing and arching her back, all while the puppy whines and cries because you left the room (because who doesn't buy a puppy when the baby is only 6 months old?), and you lose count of which bloody bottle you're on, and THEN, right at the moment when she's thinking about giving in, you stub your toe on the cot and it jerks her awake, and now she's screaming worse than ever and your toe hurts and your heart hurts and you just want to run as far and as fast as your legs will carry you... that's when it can all get a bit... overwhelming.
*Breath*
Yes, most likely everything will be ok, but sometimes that's not what you need to hear. Sometimes what you really need is for someone to say 'Yeah, you're right. That does sound shit. Would you like a chocolate biscuit?'
So, in conclusion *genuinely sat down to talk about a new TV series I've gotten into, and here I am composing the concluding statement to yet another 'mum rant'*, while everything WILL BE FINE, and it absolutely will be, I fully support every mum out there in having as many bitching sessions as possible, preferably with a ready supply of chocolate bickies.
Shout. Rant. Rave. Throw things if you need to. Get it all OUT.
Then return home to your wonderful little bundle (who, lets face it, is sometimes a bit of a shit) and know that you are doing a good job, because you obviously care enough to get worked up in the first place.
For now, I am going to drink my (now fairly tepid) tea, scoff yet another chocolate-covered-rice bar thingy (Something had to give. it was either the biscuits or the chocolate coating), and try to relax, because I can pretty much guarantee that this current stillness is probably just the eye of the storm.
xx
National 'lets talk about why you're a terrible mother' week
Last week was National Breastfeeding week in the UK.
This is a fantastic thing.
There should be a Natitonal Breastfeeding Week.
Woman should feel supported to breastfeed their child whenever and wherever they like.
Employers, businesses, friends and partners should all support women in their right to breastfeed.
Ok.
That said...
Shut up about National bloody Breastfeeding week!!
Bit of background before I'm lynched:
By far the most attended/ recommended mum&baby group in my local area is the local Breastfeeding Support Group. I attend most weeks, as do a number of mums who live in my estate. It is, therefor, the ideal place for me to meet local mums and make some mum-friends, of which I previously (read currently) had very few.
At the same time, my child NEVER breastfed properly. She pretended to for the first 2 days of life (she would mostly just fall asleep) before screaming the house down for 6 hours solid, despite having my boob in her mouth the entire time.Clearly, something was amiss. She is our first. We worried. We panicked. We called the maternity ward. We were told to give her a little expressed milk in a bottle, which is exactly what we proceeded to do.
She slept peacefully for 5 hours (a marathon sleep for a 2 day old, I assure you).
From that point on she never again fed directly from my breast. This was not from lack of trying on our part. We even went to our local Breastfeeding Support Clinic, as recommended (commanded) by our midwife. This consisted of over an hour of some horrid woman forcing my baby's mouth to my breast and holding her there, while she struggled and screamed. Over an hour. No breaks. An hour of screaming. If that's not traumatic for a four-day-old, I don't know what is! So she was bottle fed from the start, first with my milk, then with formula.
There are two key points I wish to make here:
1) My child has never gone hungry. I fed my baby. Yes, from 6 weeks onwards, I fed her formula milk, but she was fed. She has grown. She is healthy. She is happy.
2) There will never (as far as I can tell from how I feel right now) come a time when I am not incredibly bitter about this whole experience.
I have spent my entire adult life with ridiculous, oversized, pendulous (ug!) breasts! When I began looking for nursing bras, it turned out I had the choice of only 3 bras across 2 companies in the whole of the UK! That should give you an idea of the kind of size I am talking about here without me actually posting my boob-stats on the interwebs.
I hate them. I have pretty much always hated them. Even worse, I am defined by the bloody things.
So I hope you understand when I say that the idea of whipping them out on demand wherever I may happen to be was not an idea that appealed to me. Still. I prepared. I wore the stupid suction-cup nipple-formers for about 10 weeks. I asked for additional info at our parenting classes *those council classes were totally shit. Next time we are definitely forking out for the NCT class!*. I was placated time and time again.
'What if they're too big?'
'Don't worry it will be fine.
'But what if they are not the right shape?'
'Don't worry it will be fine.'
'But what if they are too ridiculous and baggy and soft to actually work?'
'Don't worry, it will all be absolutely fine.'
They were too big, not the right shape, and too soft for my baby to breastfeed.
Thanks a lot.
Anyway, getting back to the now. I have a beautiful 6 month old daughter. She is huge (not actually, but it feels like that compared to how tiny she once was) and happy and healthy and I love her to bits. *This f**king baby keeps kicking me in the ribs! God damn it! Why won't you sleep!!*
This last week was National Breastfeeding week. Instead of our normal group (a cup of tea I actually get to finish, chocolate biscuits on tap, loads of other cute babies, and some much needed adult conversation), the organisers have opted to make 'celebrate your positive BF experiences' posters, invite NHS midwives from the aforementioned (and slated) BF support clinic, and show TED talks of some BF Guru for all to 'enjoy'.
Well, shit. Thanks very much for that.
Now instead of getting to enjoy the one thing we actually do together every week (I'm shit at joining new things), I'm faced with the prospect of watching mind-numbingly patronising 'self-help' videos whilst trying very hard not to punch anyone wearing an 'I make milk, what's your superpower?' T-shirt. And Yes, they do actually exist.
And after all of this, I only know one thing for sure; I'm jealous.
I longed to breastfeed my child, despite my fears, despite how I felt about my body. So it's hard to watch others who seem to find it all so easy sharing their 'positive BF experiences'. In fact, it's crushing.
I know I should get over it. It's no one's fault. It's not my fault either. It's just how it is.
But I'm not ready yet. I still need to be at least a little bit upset. I'm not done yet. It still hurts.
So I'm sorry if I change the subject whenever anyone talks about their BF experiences. I'm sorry that I seem on such a downer about the whole topic. And I'm especially sorry that all this hurt comes out as anger at those who haven't shared my pain.
Mostly, I'm sorry I'm such a bitch. It's pure jealousy. Honest!
This is a fantastic thing.
There should be a Natitonal Breastfeeding Week.
Woman should feel supported to breastfeed their child whenever and wherever they like.
Employers, businesses, friends and partners should all support women in their right to breastfeed.
Ok.
That said...
Shut up about National bloody Breastfeeding week!!
Bit of background before I'm lynched:
By far the most attended/ recommended mum&baby group in my local area is the local Breastfeeding Support Group. I attend most weeks, as do a number of mums who live in my estate. It is, therefor, the ideal place for me to meet local mums and make some mum-friends, of which I previously (read currently) had very few.
At the same time, my child NEVER breastfed properly. She pretended to for the first 2 days of life (she would mostly just fall asleep) before screaming the house down for 6 hours solid, despite having my boob in her mouth the entire time.Clearly, something was amiss. She is our first. We worried. We panicked. We called the maternity ward. We were told to give her a little expressed milk in a bottle, which is exactly what we proceeded to do.
She slept peacefully for 5 hours (a marathon sleep for a 2 day old, I assure you).
From that point on she never again fed directly from my breast. This was not from lack of trying on our part. We even went to our local Breastfeeding Support Clinic, as recommended (commanded) by our midwife. This consisted of over an hour of some horrid woman forcing my baby's mouth to my breast and holding her there, while she struggled and screamed. Over an hour. No breaks. An hour of screaming. If that's not traumatic for a four-day-old, I don't know what is! So she was bottle fed from the start, first with my milk, then with formula.
There are two key points I wish to make here:
1) My child has never gone hungry. I fed my baby. Yes, from 6 weeks onwards, I fed her formula milk, but she was fed. She has grown. She is healthy. She is happy.
2) There will never (as far as I can tell from how I feel right now) come a time when I am not incredibly bitter about this whole experience.
I have spent my entire adult life with ridiculous, oversized, pendulous (ug!) breasts! When I began looking for nursing bras, it turned out I had the choice of only 3 bras across 2 companies in the whole of the UK! That should give you an idea of the kind of size I am talking about here without me actually posting my boob-stats on the interwebs.
I hate them. I have pretty much always hated them. Even worse, I am defined by the bloody things.
So I hope you understand when I say that the idea of whipping them out on demand wherever I may happen to be was not an idea that appealed to me. Still. I prepared. I wore the stupid suction-cup nipple-formers for about 10 weeks. I asked for additional info at our parenting classes *those council classes were totally shit. Next time we are definitely forking out for the NCT class!*. I was placated time and time again.
'What if they're too big?'
'Don't worry it will be fine.
'But what if they are not the right shape?'
'Don't worry it will be fine.'
'But what if they are too ridiculous and baggy and soft to actually work?'
'Don't worry, it will all be absolutely fine.'
They were too big, not the right shape, and too soft for my baby to breastfeed.
Thanks a lot.
Anyway, getting back to the now. I have a beautiful 6 month old daughter. She is huge (not actually, but it feels like that compared to how tiny she once was) and happy and healthy and I love her to bits. *This f**king baby keeps kicking me in the ribs! God damn it! Why won't you sleep!!*
This last week was National Breastfeeding week. Instead of our normal group (a cup of tea I actually get to finish, chocolate biscuits on tap, loads of other cute babies, and some much needed adult conversation), the organisers have opted to make 'celebrate your positive BF experiences' posters, invite NHS midwives from the aforementioned (and slated) BF support clinic, and show TED talks of some BF Guru for all to 'enjoy'.
Well, shit. Thanks very much for that.
Now instead of getting to enjoy the one thing we actually do together every week (I'm shit at joining new things), I'm faced with the prospect of watching mind-numbingly patronising 'self-help' videos whilst trying very hard not to punch anyone wearing an 'I make milk, what's your superpower?' T-shirt. And Yes, they do actually exist.
And after all of this, I only know one thing for sure; I'm jealous.
I longed to breastfeed my child, despite my fears, despite how I felt about my body. So it's hard to watch others who seem to find it all so easy sharing their 'positive BF experiences'. In fact, it's crushing.
I know I should get over it. It's no one's fault. It's not my fault either. It's just how it is.
But I'm not ready yet. I still need to be at least a little bit upset. I'm not done yet. It still hurts.
So I'm sorry if I change the subject whenever anyone talks about their BF experiences. I'm sorry that I seem on such a downer about the whole topic. And I'm especially sorry that all this hurt comes out as anger at those who haven't shared my pain.
Mostly, I'm sorry I'm such a bitch. It's pure jealousy. Honest!
Introductions and such
So.
Hi.
Probably just saying 'Hi' to myself as it's fairly unlikely anyone will ever read this, but just in case, Hello.
How are you?
... *pause for polite but vague answer*
Lovely.
OK, so the point of this here blog is mainly to stop me talking to myself... in public... again.
I've always found my inner-monologue to be more of an 'outer-narrator', which can be most off putting to my fellow humans (and the cat). Fortunately I now have a small child, so can pass off many of these 'episodes' as just-talking-to-the-baby-nothing-to-worry-about-please-don't-actually-listen type conversations. Unfortunately, re-living an 'argument' with your boss from 3 years ago (for example... not saying that's actually happened... (it totally has)) where you finally say what you really wanted to say, as opposed to the 'yes, you're right, I'll get right on it' that actually came out of your mouth, in the middle of your kitchen while the baby is in the next room having totally forgotten that your friend is also sitting within earshot, is an all too common occurrence! Especially when you have been on maternity leave for what feels like a decade and a half (it's been about 6 months) and are seriously lacking in opportunities for 'adult conversation'.
Now, at this point I feel a little disclaimer is probably necessary *1 coffee 2 sugars - I wish I could spell*. I have not now, nor have I ever been diagnosed with any mental/physical health condition whereby I am UNAWARE that I am speaking allowed rather than just thinking in my head. I know I'm doing it. I often catch myself doing it, and give myself a talking to (again). Honestly, I just feel that I've probably been far too pants at keeping in touch with people over the years, resulting in my having limited resources (friends) through which to vent the many, many (MANY) thoughts racing through my brain at a given time. This is ENTIRELY my own fault. Don't get me wrong, I have a wonderful husband who listens to (or at least smiles and nods at) much of my inane wittering. I also have a handful of very good, loyal, kind, (little bit weird) wonderful friends, to whom I feel forever indebted for their putting up with me!
*Just noticing the smell of wet dog has now reached the living-room, where I am, from the kitchen, where our new puppy is asleep. It's a good job your cute you little stinker!*
I simply feel that there is far too much (pardon the language) shit (sorry mum) which I carry around with me on a daily basis. Arguments which should never have been, or never were. That time a car swerved on the roundabout and nearly killed us; I have subsequently imagined over and over what might have happened had I not noticed his idiocy and implemented an emergency stop. What I would say to the Prime minister/ Donald trump/ the head of Education Scotland should I ever be allowed an audience with them. Much of this sprouts forth from my ridiculously ridiculous, vivid imagination. A lot of it, however, is rooted in regrets I have about the past. Things I should have said, but didn't. Things I shouldn't have said, but did. Interviews I messed up (or failed to get. God I want need a new job). People I've hurt. People I've lost. Any situation where I felt things went beyond my control and the results were 'less than favourable'. These are the 'conversations' I carry around with me every day, for no good reason, and I can tell you this much; I am exhausted.
So, to clarify, this blog shall be the digital ears to my imaginary problems! I shall vent. I shall share. I shall comment on the latest episode of 'Doctor Who'. (OMG did you see this weeks episode!? I was shocked. I mean shocked! Even watching it back a second time I was still totally taken in by that character, you know the one, despite KNOWING he wasn't who he said he was! That, my friends, is the power of truly magnificent acting!!) I will endeavour to keep things as close to my actual train of thought as possible. You may have noticed the use of ** parenthesis (added information). These will be used when information unrelated to my current line of thought pops into my head. *For example, the baby is now awake. My time grows short. *'Muppet Christmas Carole' anyone?** I will try to blog at least every few days.
If nothing else, I'm hoping this will be rather cathartic, like keeping a diary or watching 'Steel Magnolias' (the funniest film to ever make you cry- and I do, every time). I fully doubt that anyone will ever find any of this remotely interesting, though it might be nice if some of what I say strikes a chord for others out there. Mostly, I'd just be happy with the odd comment regarding whichever TV series I'm currently watching/ blogging about. ('Pretty Little Liars' final episode on Netflix tomorrow! Be there bitches! (Mum, that wasn't me swearing. That was me quoting. So it's ok. Right?))
I'll wrap this up now as I appear to have accidentally/on-purpose written a dissertation essay, when really, all I wanted to say was 'Hi'.
Hi.
Probably just saying 'Hi' to myself as it's fairly unlikely anyone will ever read this, but just in case, Hello.
How are you?
... *pause for polite but vague answer*
Lovely.
OK, so the point of this here blog is mainly to stop me talking to myself... in public... again.
I've always found my inner-monologue to be more of an 'outer-narrator', which can be most off putting to my fellow humans (and the cat). Fortunately I now have a small child, so can pass off many of these 'episodes' as just-talking-to-the-baby-nothing-to-worry-about-please-don't-actually-listen type conversations. Unfortunately, re-living an 'argument' with your boss from 3 years ago (for example... not saying that's actually happened... (it totally has)) where you finally say what you really wanted to say, as opposed to the 'yes, you're right, I'll get right on it' that actually came out of your mouth, in the middle of your kitchen while the baby is in the next room having totally forgotten that your friend is also sitting within earshot, is an all too common occurrence! Especially when you have been on maternity leave for what feels like a decade and a half (it's been about 6 months) and are seriously lacking in opportunities for 'adult conversation'.
Now, at this point I feel a little disclaimer is probably necessary *1 coffee 2 sugars - I wish I could spell*. I have not now, nor have I ever been diagnosed with any mental/physical health condition whereby I am UNAWARE that I am speaking allowed rather than just thinking in my head. I know I'm doing it. I often catch myself doing it, and give myself a talking to (again). Honestly, I just feel that I've probably been far too pants at keeping in touch with people over the years, resulting in my having limited resources (friends) through which to vent the many, many (MANY) thoughts racing through my brain at a given time. This is ENTIRELY my own fault. Don't get me wrong, I have a wonderful husband who listens to (or at least smiles and nods at) much of my inane wittering. I also have a handful of very good, loyal, kind, (little bit weird) wonderful friends, to whom I feel forever indebted for their putting up with me!
*Just noticing the smell of wet dog has now reached the living-room, where I am, from the kitchen, where our new puppy is asleep. It's a good job your cute you little stinker!*
I simply feel that there is far too much (pardon the language) shit (sorry mum) which I carry around with me on a daily basis. Arguments which should never have been, or never were. That time a car swerved on the roundabout and nearly killed us; I have subsequently imagined over and over what might have happened had I not noticed his idiocy and implemented an emergency stop. What I would say to the Prime minister/ Donald trump/ the head of Education Scotland should I ever be allowed an audience with them. Much of this sprouts forth from my ridiculously ridiculous, vivid imagination. A lot of it, however, is rooted in regrets I have about the past. Things I should have said, but didn't. Things I shouldn't have said, but did. Interviews I messed up (or failed to get. God I want need a new job). People I've hurt. People I've lost. Any situation where I felt things went beyond my control and the results were 'less than favourable'. These are the 'conversations' I carry around with me every day, for no good reason, and I can tell you this much; I am exhausted.
So, to clarify, this blog shall be the digital ears to my imaginary problems! I shall vent. I shall share. I shall comment on the latest episode of 'Doctor Who'. (OMG did you see this weeks episode!? I was shocked. I mean shocked! Even watching it back a second time I was still totally taken in by that character, you know the one, despite KNOWING he wasn't who he said he was! That, my friends, is the power of truly magnificent acting!!) I will endeavour to keep things as close to my actual train of thought as possible. You may have noticed the use of ** parenthesis (added information). These will be used when information unrelated to my current line of thought pops into my head. *For example, the baby is now awake. My time grows short. *'Muppet Christmas Carole' anyone?** I will try to blog at least every few days.
If nothing else, I'm hoping this will be rather cathartic, like keeping a diary or watching 'Steel Magnolias' (the funniest film to ever make you cry- and I do, every time). I fully doubt that anyone will ever find any of this remotely interesting, though it might be nice if some of what I say strikes a chord for others out there. Mostly, I'd just be happy with the odd comment regarding whichever TV series I'm currently watching/ blogging about. ('Pretty Little Liars' final episode on Netflix tomorrow! Be there bitches! (Mum, that wasn't me swearing. That was me quoting. So it's ok. Right?))
I'll wrap this up now as I appear to have accidentally/on-purpose written a dissertation essay, when really, all I wanted to say was 'Hi'.
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