Party on down!

Friday was a momentous day in the Mother Hood – mine and Daddy-O’s first appearance at a party since having Baby T-Bone! I say appearance, we weren’t booked as a comedy double act or anything, it was an appearance in the sense that we didn’t stay that long. Now that’s cleared up, let me tell you a bit about our evening.

The party in question was a surprise do for Daddy-O’s brother, organised by his new girlfriend (who I hadn’t met before). Unfortunately we weren’t able to get there prior to the “Surprise!” moment so had to turn up a little late. The party was in a bar-cum-club – not the sort of venue I have frequented much in recent months. Let’s be honest, not a venue I have frequented much in recent years – post-marriage and pre-baby you were more likely to find me in a nice restaurant, in a cinema, a theatre, or, on the sofa watching tv with a nice glass of wine, but not often in a venue such as this was: a dark cavernous room, the ceiling resplendent with disco lights and glitter ball, a DJ booth in the corner and loud House music vibrating through the floor. It was novel. And imagine my surprise when walking up to the bouncers to enter the venue (an awkward moment for me, though I am some way off being underage I always feel shifty when trying to walk past bouncers, it’s the same with security guards in shops and I’m no tea-leaf) they did not so much as bat an eyelid but bade me a good night! This never used to happen pre-Baby T – I have obviously aged. I joked with Daddy-O that I must look pretty haggard these days – heck, I even used to get ID’d buying wine (for Daddy-O) when I was pregnant, but it seems those days are behind me. 

Food like this is why you’re more likely to find me in a nice restaurant than a club.

So, we arrive – say hello to Daddy-O’s brother, bid him many happy returns, meet his lovely new girlfriend, decline the green shot with a suspended white liquid inside it (I explained that I was driving, which I thought would be more welcome than saying I had some breastfeeding to do later – both were true anyway), get some drinks more suited to our aged palates and take a moment to survey the scene. The word that best sums it up? Surreal.

Surreal to be out on a Friday night, in a club; surreal to be feeling so old (those who read this post will understand why this is a novel feeling for me); and surreal to realise that it wasn’t just being a mum that made me feel these things – I wouldn’t have fit into this scene for some time before having Baby T-Bone. Some good news though, a new fashion has emerged which I have yet to witness in the cafes and parks of yummy mummy-ville, and it’s totally compatible with my saggy mummy tummy! What is this great new trend? A high-waisted, figure hugging skirt paired with a clingy cropped top, showing off a bit of midriff, and preferably a bit of bra too, so it’s completely perfect for those somewhat larger than average nursing bras you may have in the drawer where you once kept lingerie. Not only this, but my stretchmarks barely extend beyond the top of my belly button,so I am confident that I can pull this off, finally an outfit I can wear with aplomb! I jest of course.

I don’t think it was just me who was finding the experience somewhat surreal though, Daddy-O seemed similarly struck by how our lives had moved on from days past – he struggled to know what to order to drink, opting for a Cuba libre but really wishing he could have had a nice White Burgundy but a) he didn’t think they would have one (he was right about that) and b) he didn’t think he could really drink a glass of wine in a venue such as this (he was wrong about that – he and his mum each enjoyed a glass of Pinot Grigio for the next round, good on them).

Despite feeling a bit like fish out of water we had fun, there was even a magician (think more Dynamo than children’s party) and it was nice to be out as a couple on a Friday night for once. But it was also nice to leave and to realise that we’re happy with where we’re at and the fact that that’s not our world anymore, if it ever was.

“Saggy mummy”

Site stats are an illuminating thing and it does me the power of good every time I see that another person has found me by searching for “saggy mummy”. It happens with such frequency I’m considering renaming the blog (I’m only half joking).

It all started with this post, where I freely shared a photo of my wrinkly mummy tummy. As I mused then, this anonymous blogging lark is quite liberating (let’s ignore for a second the fact that I will be meeting some of my fellow bloggers at BritMums Live in a week’s time and that they will all know what lurks beneath), but I hadn’t thought that my humble little blog would chart quite so highly in the search engine results for “saggy mummy” – the other week if you searched Google images with this term then mine was the first image that appeared.

This must be what fame feels like.

Happily, I have been knocked off the top spot, but, seeing as these two little words appear in my stats with alarming frequency, I thought I would give you, my lovely readers, more of what it seems you are after.

Here then, for those that missed it first time around, or for those of you who are gluttons for punishment, is what my tummy looked like 4 months after giving birth to Baby T-Bone:

And here is what it looks like at a little over 7 months after giving birth:

Yes, the marks are fading, but I think (against my expectations) I am growing to have more problems with my tummy as time goes on rather than fewer. I think it looks worse now than it did in the original shot. Admittedly I could do more to tone it up, and perhaps that would help with the pitted nature some of the stretch marks have now, but my tummy is just so wrinkly. Urgh. I truly am a saggy mummy. It looks okay with clothes over the top of it, and I’m not a one for whipping my stomach out in public, save the odd bikini moment (at the beach or poolside, you understand) but I know it’s there, all pitted and wrinkly. And now so do you.

It is trivial and it is shallow, but it is also affecting me. Not in a huge way, but when I catch sight of my stomach in the mirror I don’t recognise it as a part of me, or at least I don’t want to. I expected to get stretchmarks but I didn’t expect them to be quite as bad as this, or for the skin to be so puckered. I think Daddy-O reckons all would have been okay if I’d moisturised a bit more religiously, whereas I don’t think it would have made a difference – my mum had stretch marks after both of her pregnancies and I expected the same. I just need to grow used to this “lived in” look.

As I said, it’s trivial and it’s shallow but it’s also how I feel. Yes, my body has done an amazing thing, and yes, it is absolutely worth it but yes, it makes me feel less attractive. Motherhood is still a relatively new status for me and I think I need to grow properly used to the fact that forever more I will be a mum first and a woman (or whatever else I want to define myself as) second. I think that’s what I’m trying to say, but as you can tell, I’m still figuring it out! Maybe I’ll treat you to another update in 3 more months, something for us both to look forward to!

Baby of the bunch

That’s me, the baby of the bunch. I am used to being the youngest – not just in my family (I am the younger of two children and the youngest of all my cousins) but in relationships and friendship circles too (school friends aside).

I may be the baby of the bunch, but I promise that’s not my snowsuit…

Growing up as “the youngest” seems to have made its mark on my life. I suppose it could have gone two ways – either I would be used to being doted on as the baby and remain somewhat immature, or perhaps even, shock horror, spoilt; or I would grow up a bit quicker, spurred on by my elders, who would expand my horizons earlier than might otherwise be the case.

For me, I think it has been the latter, though hopefully never to the point of making me precocious. It’s a thought that interests me though, particularly now I have started my own family – how much of an impact does your position in the family pecking order have on your life? Possibly I am creating links where there are none, but I wonder if it is totally coincidental that I have often done things relatively “early” compared to some of my peers – be it leaving home (though strictly speaking that wasn’t a choice, of which more another day), identifying a career path, getting married or having a baby.

I have also noticed that I tend to gel best with those a little older than me (I’m not including you in this, Baby T) – Daddy-O is seven years my senior and most of my friends are a good five or more years older. Sometimes this leaves me feeling like a bit of an interloper – I’m trespassing where I oughtn’t really to be. My friends’ shared memories of childhood, references to popular culture and so on, are not necessarily the same as mine; and yet it seems to work, most of the time! I think I have always been an old head on young shoulders (though my inner child remains very vocal and playful – I wouldn’t want you to have me pegged as totally strait-laced or old before my time!)

And now of course you’re going to want to know my age. I’m not shockingly young, not young at all by some standards, but I do feel a bit circumspect about my age sometimes, which I think is another side effect of spending most of my time with people who are older. I’m twenty seven.

I wonder whether Baby T-Bone’s position as the oldest of his generation in our family (he is the first grandchild on either side) will have much of an influence on his world view or social circle in years to come. I’d love to hear what you think, and whether you consider that your position in the family pecking order has had a lasting impact on your life.

Love & stuff

You know how, with family, you love one another even when, at times, you may not like each other? Because, let’s face it, you can’t like someone all the time. Or at least, you can’t like everything about someone… (Oh, you do like everything about someone do you? Hmmm… Perhaps you don’t know them well enough! Yes, that must be it!) 

Like most children, my brother and I fought fairly frequently when we were growing up, but even in those moments when we didn’t like each other, the love remained. What’s that?Even when he cracked my head open?* Why yes, even then I loved him still. Pardon? And what about when I attacked him with a Lego bicycle and left a scar, you say, or took a chunk out of his arm as I prepared to bite him? Oh yes, even then, his love for me endured (I think!)

*I should, in fairness to my lovely brother, point out that it was not his intention to crack my head open; no, his intention was simply to get me out of his way in the most expedient manner possible, which turned out to be pushing me over. Which turned out to be enough to crack my head open and require stitches.

Anyway, where were we?

Ah yes. Love, the glue that binds families together. Coming from a very loving family (with one notable exception *ahem* *no names* *Dad*) it was a natural assumption for me when I was pregnant with Baby T-Bone that my love for him would be unconditional, and so it is – I loved him before I even met him and I truly would do anything for him. I am sure it is the same for most parents. Though if it’s all the same to Baby T and Daddy-O I would prefer not to change quite so many poo-y nappies. I am sure this is also the same for most parents!

What has taken me more by surprise as a mum is how much I like my son; he’s so easy to get on with, a real charmer, with a brilliant and increasingly sophisticated sense of humour to boot. Needless to say I would love him whatever – that, I expected; but to like him this much, that has come as more of a surprise, and a lovely one at that. 

5 months more

My flexible working request has been agreed, my return date is oh-so-nearly finalised, and I have five months more with Baby T-Bone before I go back to work. Part of me is excited by the prospect – time to read a book on the train, a challenging, stimulating job and an identity beyond motherhood. But another part of me is sad and wistful about this next phase – just thinking of leaving Baby T in the care of another leaves me feeling pretty wretched. I worry that he will be upset, that he won’t want me to go and I don’t know how I’ll cope with that.

Thankfully, for now I can console myself with the fact that the day I have to get on the train and leave him far behind (it makes it worse, knowing that if he needed me, it would take me at least two hours to get to him) is five months away. We have a lot of cuddles, laughs, adventures and discoveries to pack into those five months and that is a comfort. But nevertheless we are on a countdown.

In some ways that seems a good thing, if I were off with Baby T indefinitely, would I really be taking stock as I am now, reminding myself to treasure this time; would it really feel so precious if I didn’t have a date by which I had to return to work? Pah, it probably would wouldn’t it! Babies are only babies for a fleeting time, and children only children for a fraction of their lives; as parents, we surely all realise that this time is slipping through our fingers and that there is nothing we can do to slow it down.

Anyhow, all this has got me thinking, I’ve always said that it’s my choice to go back to work. That, as well as reasons financial, I want to have the intellectual stimulation that work brings, and that I want to keep my foot in the door so that I can continue to build on my career when my children don’t need me in the way that Baby T needs me now. But honestly, I haven’t really treated it as a decision, open for debate, it’s something that seems sensible, it’s what Daddy-O wants and I think it’s what I want, but I’ve never actually stopped and seriously considered leaving work and looking after Baby T full time.

If I did, I’m reasonably confident that I would still be planning to return to work, 3 days a week, as I am now, but I think perhaps it’s been easier to avoid that soul searching. If you kid yourself that you don’t have a choice, that you’re just following a pre-set plan, then you don’t have to justify a decision to return to work, because it doesn’t present itself as a choice. From the moment I was pregnant with Baby T, a year’s maternity leave followed by a return to work became the plan. No ruminating required. No need to account for my actions in going back to my job, it’s just what you (I) do.

Helicopter grandparents

You’ve doubtless heard of helicopter parents – always on hand for their children, hovering over them ready to swoop down and offer their assistance whether it is required or not – rarely is anything off limits. Well, I’d like to introduce you to helicopter grandparents. Probably not a new phenomenon but nor is it one I’ve read about or indeed encountered before.

As a parent, it must be hard when you become a grandparent – you have a new role to add to the mix. You are still a parent but you are no longer the parents. Your previously legitimate power at the helm of the family has diminished and your child is in the driving seat now, head of their own family. You will no doubt  see them swerving from the path you took and it must be hard. One day I will probably find out how hard. As a new parent, I think it is natural to look back at your childhood and think about what worked and what didn’t – you want to avoid repeating some of the mistakes your parents made. Sometimes the fact that they even made mistakes can be a bit of a realisation; I remember struggling to come to terms with the fact that my mum was fallible, that she didn’t have the answer to everything and that what she did or said wasn’t always right. I sometimes have to remind myself of that even now.

Let me paint you a portrait – if you have encountered the helicopter grandparent then you will find some points that resonate here; if you haven’t, I implore you to read on anyway, either for entertainment or as a warning should you encounter these folk in the future. It could even be you…

But first, I will level with you, my in-laws were the inspiration for this post, which I have Daddy-O’s permission to write, though he will not be reading this, I hope. I would struggle to say any or all of this to my in-laws, who in very many ways are supportive, generous and helpful. You shouldn’t look a gifthorse in the mouth and nor would I want to offend or upset them. But that doesn’t stop me getting annoyed on occasion. And what’s the point of having an anonymous blog if you can’t open up every once in a while and let off some steam.

By way of background it may be helpful for you to know that the in-laws live a 15/20 minute drive away – we moved closer to both sets of parents before having Baby T as I was keen to have a family support network in place (if you are thinking that this means I am partly to blame for the helicopter grandparenting, you are right and you are wise).

Back to the portrait – a checklist of some classic helicopter grandparent traits (if you have more to add, please add them in the comments section):

• Visits are frequent, occasionally unannounced and often for reasons which seem unconnected to the grandchild but turn out to be rather more connected to them than you thought;
• Offers to babysit seem more and more like requests for you to go out;
• Parents may not be left to parent as they see fit, with the helicopter grandparent implementing their preferred approach; (you know the thing, you, the parent, want to wait until you’re seated at a table before getting the baby out of the pram? They WILL be getting that baby out of the pram RIGHT NOW. Even though he’s strapped in and happy where he is? YES. Even though you’re in a busy thoroughfare with hot plates and drinks being carried through? Yes, EVEN THEN THANK YOU VERY MUCH).
• Their child turns up on their doorstep without the grandchild in tow and the response is likely to be along these lines: “Oh, it’s just you then, we wanted to see [insert child's name here].”
• You are heading on a (nuclear) family outing and they announce that they are coming with you. And proceed to come with you.
• Invitations to visit them become increasingly frequent until you feel that you are having to act as a gatekeeper in order to keep sufficient time for just the 3/4/5/however many of you.
• Upon arriving at your home, their first action is usually to retrieve the grandchild from your arms without a word and to give them back only when asked or prompted to do so;
• Questions about the grandchild’s development may include how long he is sleeping, which room he is sleeping in, what receptacle he sleeps in; what he has eaten, how he has eaten it; whether he is right or left hand dominant and so on (it is not unusual for such questions to be asked at every visit); and lastly
• News that the grandchild does something new is met with a request to see said action and attempts to coax the grandchild to do x,y or z.

Does any of this sound familiar to you?

DISCLAIMER: It is lovely that helicopter grandparents care so much for their grandchildren and want to spend lots of time with them; far better that than not giving two hoots. And you can’t always have it all, but these helicopter folk grandparent with an intensity that can verge on suffocating.

My advice to any helicopter grandparents reading this would be to think about taking a step back – give your children and grandchildren a chance to miss you – they are likely to need and want your support but you may not be giving them the space to realise or demonstrate that. Far better to let them do the asking on occasion, rather than always chasing them. And finally, I would say, don’t forget that this new family unit need time alone together to bond – there is room for you and it is probably nothing personal when they don’t take up every invitation but you need to let them have their space.

That Friday feeling

Anyone who follows me on twitter and was looking at their feed around 9 o’clock this morning will have seen that I was after some help locating my Friday feeling. It is usually oh-so-reliable and shows up early on Friday morning, come rain or shine (for the last couple of months it’s almost invariably been come rain). But not today. 

You know those days where you wake up in a despondent mood, and try as you might, you can’t work out why, or do anything to shake the feeling? Well, this morning was one of those. So I decided to wait it out. Whilst doing all manner of other things round the house of course, and entertaining Baby T-Bone. Thankfully though, it seems that my Friday feeling is not such a fickle beast as it showed up mid-telephone call with my employer, during which it was more or less confirmed that they are willing to accommodate my flexible working request! Friday feeling restored! I celebrated with a doughnut. I believe it’s customary in such cases.

Little did I know this morning that this silver telephone would bring my Friday feeling back to me…

I hadn’t realised how much I had been fretting about my request until after that conversation, it felt like a weight had been lifted. Heck, I must have been happy – I took Baby T-Bone for a walk in the rain! That’s right, a walk, no destination in mind, just a bit of fresh air. IN THE RAIN, I tell you! The weather had the last laugh though – my sourdough loaf got a bit soil-y and soggy in the shopping basket – just as well I have my Friday feeling back which makes me impervious to such things. And if that’s all that today has brought me to worry about, then I think I’m on to a good thing. Happy Friday everyone!

Time for me

Unsurprisingly, I don’t get much time for me these days, unless you count Baby T’s naptimes, but they are more usually for cooking and cleaning, not so often for day dreaming. So perhaps you will understand the hint of excitement that was in the air for me today; not only was I to have some time for me, I was going OUT (of the house)! A bath in Baby T’s leftover water is perfectly lovely, but it is also all too easily interrupted; today there would be no untimely ending of my plans, this little slither of time was all for me!

Baby T-Bone’s grandmother came over to look after him, and out I went leaving the pair of them together – no buggy to push, no sling to wear, barely even a bag to pack! I practically floated down the front steps, unencumbered as I was by the usual baby paraphernalia. I’ve only been out of the house on my own (i.e. not with Daddy-O either) a handful of times since T-Bone was born (and my hands are quite small, so that’s not many). I usually feel somewhat like I’m playing truant – a notion that was reinforced when I bumped into my neighbour and felt I had to explain where Baby T was, who he was with and what I was doing leaving him! 

But never mind all that, because there I was, revelling in my time for me; floating down the road, my plan for the hour stretching before me. What a treat – I even crossed the road before the green man showed up – that’s living! My destination was a short stroll from the flat, the birds were singing, some of them were even in the trees, and thankfully none of them were seagulls; because let’s face it, they squawk and screech but they don’t sing. And then, there I was, at my destination and ready to continue with this time for me – a treatment where, unlike my post-natal wrap, I wouldn’t even need to bare my mummy tummy! I say treatment, it was really more of a procedure. But it was free, and it was time for me! The nurse said the results of the smear should be with me in two to three weeks. Hey, you have to take time for you where you can in this motherhood game!

Boy in pink

Today Baby T-Bone was resplendent in bright pink. A rather fetching t-shirt which came in a pack of four with green, blue and yellow compatriots. Daddy-O was scornful about the pink and keen that Baby T should not be seen in such a top, lest he be taken for a girl.

Two points here – one, he gets taken for a girl anyway (though I have never seen a more boyish looking baby, even one wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with “Thank Heaven for little boys. Like me…. I AM A BOY.” I may be exaggerating but not much). Two, pink is not the exclusive preserve of girls. Or women. Daddy-O knows this, but still his opposition to the pink t-shirt persists. This I do not understand. But fear not, dear reader, Baby T will continue to wear his pink t-shirt with as much swagger as he sports any other colour.

What you will not find him wearing however, is any clothing which puts words into his mouth. Here I am probably guilty of my classic trait: overthinking. But I’m not comfortable dressing Baby T in clothes that speak for him: “When I grow up I’m going to be a footballer/rockstar/better dresser”. You know the sort of thing. I confess that it was one such outfit (gifted to him) which I pretended Baby T had spit up on so that he didn’t have to wear it out of the house (as mentioned in this post). I’m almost certainly taking these messages too seriously but then you’re looking at a girl who used to spend a good half hour choosing a father’s day card because she didn’t want to send one which expressed gushing sentiments that she didn’t feel. (This father’s day, see if you can find a card which just wishes the recipient a “Happy Father’s Day” without passing any comment on what a brilliant dad that person must also be, it’s harder than you may think!)

Things you didn’t think you’d do…

I was sat in the pub with some baby buddies the other day (just to clarify, I mean friends with babies, not friends who are babies, though I do have some of those these days) and Baby T-Bone was getting a bit hungry, so, before feeding him I lightly cupped my breasts in turn to see which was fuller and therefore ready to be offered up to Baby T. As I looked up, I noticed a couple across the room observing me and exchanging a look and some laughter about what had just occurred. I can’t say I blame them, it must have looked a bit odd; certainly before I became a mum I never imagined that I’d be giving myself a good grope in public!

The breastfeeder’s grope

Motherhood has been quite liberating for me in that way. It’s not that I’ve yearned to connect more with my breasts in public, or flash my nipples at all and sundry (something Baby T seems determined I should do at least daily), but I would have minded before Baby T-Bone came along and now I don’t. I’m not particularly shy, but I am self-aware and I care what people think about me. Even people I don’t know. So I’m quite pleased that I didn’t think twice before cupping my breasts to check which was good to go and that I wasn’t bothered that I had been observed doing so or proved a source of amusement in the process, and I have Baby T-Bone to thank for that.

Before he came along I never would have left the house without full make-up, now it’s a weekly occurrence (albeit one with a purpose – swimming). I would have changed before going out if I’d got a mark on my top – now a little bit of sick or dribble is not such a bad thing and even a bit of (baby) poo on your sleeve isn’t a reason to rush straight home (though it may be a reason to pack a spare top!) So this week I’d like to thank Baby T for helping to make me a more relaxed, less self-conscious version of myself. My mum (who I think is reading this – hello Mum!  ;-) *waves*) has always said that children smooth your rough edges and I see what she means – I don’t have anywhere near as much time to think about myself these days and in large part that seems to be a good thing.

Having a baby encourages you to focus on what really matters and to leave some of the more superficial things behind; I still have a way to go, but I am freer than I was before my lovely son came along – another gift he has given me.