Unwrapping motherhood and the gift of a child

Baby DiscoveryOn Christmas Day last year I returned to my hospital bed from the shower room to find my five-day-old daughter released from the Special Care unit. The surprise of finding her behind the cubicle curtain is the best Christmas present I will ever receive. Expecting a hospital dinner and to go to bed alone, when the consultant came to tell us we were free to go home, I bawled at her. Tears fell and my smile contorted into something that probably still haunts her to this day. Despite crying and snivelling into my little baby bundle who was now free from wires, I nodded furiously to let her know that, in that exact moment, I was the happiest woman alive. I couldn’t ever have known how much pleasure there was to come, peeling back layers day by day to reveal my daughter’s blossoming personality. Coming up to her first birthday, I’m baffled by the grown girl I see before me.


Motherhood and witchcraft (we can all fly)

Witches cat

I’ve only been a mother for ten short months and already I feel ravaged. This isn’t a moan about being a tired and busy Mum, by the way. You find them in every corner of the Earth. Outside of parenting, people are busy. Life itself keeps us all tired. No, this is just me waking up this morning to the feeling I’d been run over by a juggernaut. Before children came along, I would have said I need a holiday, but you can’t take a break from a baby. Not one that involves being on the other side of the world for a couple of weeks. Dancing salsa barefoot in the sand, I’ll have to wait almost twenty years until my daughter is old enough to join me until day break. The only person I can delegate work to is my husband and he looks just as bewildered as I do. Yet I realise something. I don’t need a holiday, I can just keep on going. I don’t want to be without this. For underneath this weary exterior I become more convinced by the day that we parents are, in fact, superhuman.


Co-sleeping? More like no-sleeping

Sleeping baby

My little lady is teething, grumbling and hot as a baked potato. She lies next to me in the double bed, arms behind her head, legs stretched out, whilst I’m perched awkwardly at the edge of the mattress. I haven’t slept since she came up an hour ago and relegated my husband to the other room. She’s only slept in our bed on four occasions, once after a sorry reaction to her second set of jabs, twice for the head cold from hell and, now, for the four teeth breaking through the top of her gums like an army of sadistic soldiers. I love to have her here next to me and she loves it too, until she’s ready for some shut eye – then she pushes me to one side. Budge up, Mama! I have the worst night’s ‘sleep’ that I’ve had in a long while…


Say sorry or choke on it later

Head in hands

For whatever reason, I was never taught to say sorry. Please and thank you, yes. “Sorry I hurt your feelings,” no. You were just the perfect child and never had to… said no parent or guardian ever, certainly not mine. As a teenager I was too busy playing bad pop music at a volume only necessary for Wembley Stadium; I didn’t hear any instructions I might have been given. This means I spent most of my young adult life annoying, upsetting and disappointing people without being able to properly acknowledge it. (Hey, everyone has their flaws!) When I first saw my husband apologise to his children with an openness of heart I’d never before witnessed, my mouth fell open. Whatever I was holding dropped to the floor. They accepted his apology then everybody hugged and moved on – not a week or two of awkwardness and then let’s just forget about it in sight. I had to learn how to do this and didn’t realise how important it would become.


My baby is my boss

Baby contemplatingI remember with real clarity the day my baby daughter first looked at me with an honest question. Mum, why do I feel so bad? Can’t you make it go away? Big eyes, wide open. Her beauty in that moment was devastating. She destroyed the tough outer wall of my heart with one wilting look. With a temperature as high as my alert, we both hoped she could just sleep it off. Up until that day I’d only considered dreaded questions like Mummy, what’s the square root of 289? With a smug surety, I knew these were years off yet and by then I could blame my age for ‘forgetting’ the answer. For now, my daughter is taken care of without question. Life happens to her. The temperature came and went, but her world was beginning to take shape. What she sees is uncomplicated. I am all she knows. It’s a given that I am here, making decisions on her behalf, but what happens when I hit a blank? The baby boardroom has no simple equations.


Turning into our parents


Parenting was instant for me. Not because I grew up with a lot of siblings, had always longed to have children or had started early – no, it is exactly the opposite. The alarm on my biological clock never went off. It didn’t make a sound. At least, if it did, I couldn’t hear it. I once managed to simultaneously hit the snooze button and sleep for three hours straight; perhaps that’s when it sounded and I missed my calling. I’d certainly never pictured myself as somebody’s Mum. I didn’t wake up one day in a panic that I’d missed the boat or that I was late for some kind of compulsory duty. Motherhood just wasn’t on my radar, so when I met somebody who had children I started with a blank slate. These days I’m up at the crack of dawn, I play board games instead of drinking games, and I can count to three as sharply as the next parent. I was quite happy with the parentified me. I didn’t think I was so different, until it happened and I bought a kagool.


A tattoo for my baby

Tattoo illustration

I’ve always looked at tattoos with great envy. The permanence of them would leave me cold. Not the pain, but the bravery of the commitment. It made me weak. I couldn’t do it. I wanted one, but didn’t go through with it. I designed my own, but drawings found the bin. Intrigued, I spied tattoos in the flesh, creeping around ankles, up arms like ivy and poking out the backs of trousers for peekaboo. I was curious. Even the bad ones tell a story. The garish and offensive tattoos. The ones lacking imagination. The sorry looking tattoos that are more like a rubber stamp: GOT A TATTOO. They all lay bare the inner emotion; the feeling at the time or a general demeanour. I was never sure to reveal it, until I became a mother.


Hate shopping? Have a baby!

Woman shopping

I’ve always been an infuriating shopper. Dilly-dallying, nit-picking and shopping around. Often, I wasn’t fully satisfied with my choice and thought there was something better just around the corner. For life in general this is a great philosophy to push your dreams forward, but choosing a new pair of shoes or buying a gift doesn’t need this level of intensity. Invariably, the first or second dress I tried on would trump the sixth or seventh, and the object for the house I’d found in the first shop turned out to be the closest match in colour. Shopping for me was more often a chore than it was fun. I wasn’t sure why I did it to myself and any companion shopper who was unlucky enough to be by my side. These days my companion is less than a year old and sports a nappy. Her urgent needs combined with my tendency to drift was begging for a disaster.


Worn and torn, ‘So Long’ the step-family friend

Shabby sofaLet’s be honest, you’d seen better days. Those faded bum prints in the middle of each seat supported another family before us. As a couple just starting out, but not for the first time, we had nothing between us. Until we found you, our shabby sofa. Free and forlorn, we made do. You held us in winter when we cuddled up in the draft and romance of a big bay window. You reverberated our frequent laughter and the joy at having found our soul mate, but also cushioned our tears when life got in the way. Making room for our growing step-family you squashed us so close together – until the day came when we had to say goodbye. We tore you apart and chopped up the remains. All of us, we were sad.

Why to wean your baby, even if you can’t stomach it

Weaning a baby

Perhaps you were one of those Mums who went straight in to milk production like a pro dairy farmer. You showed the boob to your baby and milk exchanged from your body to theirs like air going in to a balloon. It’s not this easy for many new Mums and breastfeeding can be a real challenge. The last time I came up against such a massive feat of endurance was – well, never. Certainly not one this important. I can only imagine a marathon breaking me in the same way, not so much crossing the finish line as collapsing over it. When you’ve finally cracked it and your breast pump starts to grow mould in the kitchen and the box of formula has long been relegated to the back of the cupboard, it turns out there is no medal for the fight you’ve given to feed your baby breast milk. You start the next challenge: weaning on to solids. A blender replaces the steriliser. Bowls and spoons replace bottles, but I wasn’t sure I had the stamina in reserve.


Previous Older Entries

Blog post images

All images that appear within blog posts are available on Google Images, labelled for reuse with modification.

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 2,227 other followers

%d bloggers like this: