It's probably just teething.....

I'm saying it's probably teething because I can help you if you're teething. I give you a cold flannel to chew on. I freeze cubes of pear puree like when you were weaning. I administer Calpol.

But I really know that it's this other thing - what people call "separation anxiety". And I know that it's real because I feel it too. And I know that it can't be cured with Calpol or cold pear.

And I can't do anything but teach you that we are separate, which is the very last thing I want to do.

You're nearly one, I'm back at work, time moves on. We can't snuggle all day, or spend hours gazing in each other's eyes, or play countless games of peekaboo or blow unlimited raspberries.

That time is done now. You no longer live inside me, you no longer feed from me, you can sleep all night without me. We are separating.

And part of me is pleased. I can feel the fog lifting, I spend all day with adults, people value my opinion, I don't watch as much Cbeebies. I can feel 'me' coming back.

You're gaining independence and I'm  regaining mine.

But it's certainly making us both anxious. The only difference is that I'm an adult and I've learnt to contain my howls.

But facing up to it feels too real, too raw, too final. I'm not ready to leave these heady days behind. I'm not ready to be separate and I'm so glad you feel the same.

But let's call it teething. And I'll hold you tight, and stroke your cheek, and rock you gently back to sleep.

Why I love/hate/love running

"Where mummy going?" asks Z.

"I'm going running" I reply.

 

And the look on his face is the absolute reason that I run (or jog). His two-year-old brain cannot believe that "going running" is actually a thing. He loves to run everywhere and can't comprehend that it's yet another grown-up pastime he's excluded from.  Like eating biscuits and staying up late.

 

I'd wish I thought running was as much fun as eating biscuits and staying up late.

 

My relationship with running is complex. I want to be a positive role model for my children. I'm a bit lazy and I love food so exercise is basically obesity prevention.  I hate the afternoon before a scheduled long run.  I love to clear my head at the end of the day and running has got me through some stressful times.  I'm a miserable runner and I certainly don't like to chat.  I love knowing I accomplished something.  I hate spending money on running gear.  I love reading running magazines...

 

I've never been sporty, I did my first 10k (in fact, ran my first mile) when I was 28. And in the 5 years inbetween I've travelled the world and had two pregnancies.  I don't think that my story is any different from most runners.  It tends to be a bit of a love/hate relationship, perhaps founded on times of glory/ stress/ injury and often includes major set-backs, minor victories and lots of internal and external motivators.

 

I'm running a half marathon in 3 weeks and I'm well behind on my training. It's going to be slow and painful. But I'm aiming to get round and raise some money for Dementia UK in memory of my Grandad who passed away in January.

 

 

I did my first half marathon in 2010 and in an okay time. I ran my last 10k race when I was 3 months pregnant with Z. I'm going to complete a half marathon before my twins are 1.  So I'm also hoping to start taking myself a bit more seriously as a runner.  I bought some sports socks at the weekend so I think that's a step in the right direction.

 

So this is the last push - 3 weeks of taking it seriously, drinking less wine, training every other day, wearing my new socks, doing what I can to make it slightly less painful.

 

And I'll think about how I'll feel once it's done.  And the fact my daughter will grow up with a biscuit loving runner as a role model to help her on her way to being fit not thin.   And I'll wonder what Grandad Jim might think of my determination.

 

And I'll imagine Z's face as I cross the finish line.  And then I might do a couple of fist pumps.

 

Watch this space......

 

https://www.justgiving.com/eloanddadgorunningagain/

 

I am a Mum.

Being a Mum, is falling asleep in the dentists, while she's drilling your teeth, because it's the most relaxed you've been in weeks.

Being a Mum is spending hours traipsing round the house with a wailing toddler looking for 'his tow twuck' before you remember you confiscated it yesterday when he was naughty.

Being a Mum is staring with horror as your baby picks up a peppercorn from the kitchen floor and starts to eat it. But letting it play out.

Being a Mum is realising you have a huge snot smear on the back of your work jacket and having no idea how it happened.

Being a Mum is the tragedy of cutting a tiny finger nail too close and a baby bleeding everywhere. And the health visitor knocking on the door that moment.

Being a Mum is the ability to make cupcakes, pastry and bread without the weighing scales.

Being a Mum is thinking you look cool, then going on a night out and realising you look like a Mum.

Being a Mum is being able to tell your twins identical teddies apart from the way they smell.

Being a Mum is not being phased by a bath poo.

Being a Mum is packing a case for a girly weekend and your toddler asking 'are you excited?'

Being a Mum is heading off on a weekend away and feeling very excited about what you are when you aren't a Mum........

When should I worry?....

When should I worry?  I ask this question of myself a lot more than I ever used to.  Previously it was reserved for when hubby was being boisterous on a cliff edge, or if a friend was overwhelmed after a break up.

It's now a daily question, revolving in my mind, contributing to the relentless noise.

Twin 1 coughs: when should I worry?
Twin 2 isn't crawling yet: when should I worry?
Z's being aggressive again: when should I worry?
Barry and I are bickering: when should I worry?

Twin 2 was recently in hospital following a virus that meant he needed oxygen.  He was nebulised throughout the night and I didn't worry.  It really messed with my weekend plans and I was a bit irritated actually.  He didn't seem that bad to me...

Twin 1 rolled off the changing table the other evening - hubby was babysitting and I was on my way out of the door for a much needed night out.  After a brief checking over, I left.  I wasn't worried.

Are these shocking things to confess?  Will I be ostracized for saying that fairly serious things happened to my 9 month old babies and I was unconcerned?

Or is that the purpose of my mother's instinct?  That when I listen to the Mama inside, I'll actually know when something serious is happening.  I'll feel it in my bones, in my heart space, in the place where they once lived.

And perhaps if I can quell the part of me that frantically researches health conditions online in the middle of the night, the part of me that listens when other mother's compare developmental milestones, the part of me that takes advertising emails about childproofing seriously, or the part of me that weeps when I read a Facebook post about the tragic death of an infant.

Perhaps if I can turn off this external facing, nervous worry, and listen to the Mama inside, I won't feel so guilty about a night out.  I won't feel guilty for not using the inhaler as recommended.  I won't feel guilty about not covering the plug sockets.

I'll worry when I worry.

Because I'll know when.

A little bit of "me time"

Today I was standing by the sink, looking out of the window.

Z was in the garden, wearing just a nappy and his shoes, gathering sticks to throw over the neighbours fence.  Twin 1 had just spit up on her dress and Twin 2 was sucking on a wet wipe.

We were running behind and I needed to get the bath run, the bedtime bottles made, our dinner put on...

In that very brief moment, I had a little look at the sky (still beautifully clear blue on this summer evening), I felt the water running through my fingers, I felt my bare feet on the floor and I stopped worrying.

I stopped thinking "I should clean up that sick, I should take away those wet wipes, I should play with Z, I should find him a t-shirt, I should hoover the floor, I should bring in the washing, I should be thinner, I should be eating organic, I should be posting on Instagram, I should call my Gran, I should reply to that text, I should get my nails done"

I managed, for one very brief moment to switch off the "noise" - to stop feeling guilty, or obligated, or inadequate.  And it made me realise what a very rare moment that was.

In fact, it made me realise how infrequent those moments are.  I'm constantly trying to grab some "me time".  But when I chill out and watch a movie, I feel guilty that I'm not tidying the house.  When I go to get my hair done, I enjoy talking about the kids.  As I fall asleep I think about tomorrow's plans.  When I go shopping, or read a magazine, I think "I should be as thin as her, I should buy that top, I should redecorate"

But actually, "me time" shouldn't be orchestrated, it's any moment - anytime of day or night when I feel like I'm just me.  No worries, no self- imposed guilt or obligations.  Just a kid running around in a nappy, or chewing on a wet wipe, or absent mindedly staring out of a window at the sky.

Effective Communication

I'm still trying to think of some comedic nomenclature for my husband, as seems de rigueur for a Mummy-type blogger.  I've yet to come up with one I like. "DH"/ "The Mr"/ "Him Indoors".....

Let's maybe just call him Barry.

Barry is the MOST AMAZING fella in the Universe (according to me - according to others he's ridiculously loud, a bit funny looking, tight with money, has rank feet and farts too often)

Details of his being amazing include:
- most excellent drinking companion
- physically holding me up to take a post C-Section shower
- skilled washing putter on and sorter outer
- most excellent Daddy who builds dens, drinks fake tea and thinks up cool treats and adventures

Despite this, I am still on a continual mission to "improve him" (which mostly involves buying better pants with no holes in Tesco and reminding him of my friends names) Like many women, I also like to provide helpful suggestions and comments on a fairly continual basis.

Barry is on a continual mission to ignore my advice and do what the f*ck he wants.

We've come to a tacit agreement whereby we ignore the fact that I'm a nag and he still behaves like a teenage boy.

Here is an example of some particularly effective communication:

Me: "Your wee smells like you need to be drinking more water"

Barry: (in head)
"Why were you smelling my wee? I definitely need to start flushing.  Have I got no personal space left?  Why do you care?  YOUR wee smells like you need to drink more water.  I can't wait till I get a shed."

Barry: (aloud) "Yeah, probably"

Me: (in head) "I can't believe that I've become so controlling that I'm commenting on his urine/ hydration cycle.  I'm going to start giving him the space he deserves.  He really is the most amazing man in the world... You know, I don't think he was really paying attention to me then.  I'm pretty sure he was placating me with that comment.  I don't know why I bother.  Don't drink more water then - see if I care. Forget it. I can't wait till he gets a shed."

Me: (aloud) "Okay"

How to make a cardboard rocket

I LOVE blog posts that give me step by step instructions for wonderful craft ideas that I can then fob off as my own.

I mostly steal ideas for delicious cakes, festive wreaths and fancy dress outfits.  I add a good dose of wine and a lot more sellotape than required and usually end up with something that looks and/or tastes a bit shit.

Here is my version of one of those lovely, informative blog posts.  We had an old packing box in the house and I thought it would look cute transformed into a rocket.  Next time, I will leave the box in one piece and let Z use his imagination.

Making a Cardboard Rocket

Things you will need:
- a sturdy cardboard box
- extra cardboard
- parcel tape
- masking tape
- double sided tape
- scissors
- a plate
- tin foil
- stickers
- more poster paint than you have in the house
- some wine

Instructions for Day One

1. Cut the cardboard box down one side and insert extra cardboard panel to create a 5 sided "tunnel" using parcel tape (this was unnecessary - stick with a 4 sided rocket for ease)

2. Cut off bottom flaps of box to create firm base

3. Cut corners off top flaps of box and tape together to create pointed, rocket shape roof.  (don't use parcel tape for this, use masking tape, you cannot paint over parcel tape)

4. Use plate to draw circle on one side of box and cut out "window"

5. Tell toddler to go back and watch telly - rocket is not ready yet and there are scissors lying around

6. Cut out two sides of a rectangle on one side of the box, starting at the bottom to create a "door"

7. Lay out token gesture newspaper on the floor

8. Get toddler to come and help paint the rocket.

9. Decide to have a blue rocket with a red roof and a yellow door.

10. Mix all paint together to create a purple/ brown colour and paint all over rocket and floor

11. Trample paint all over house

12. Explain to toddler that he can't play in the rocket until it is dry.  Get toddler to watch more telly to avoid tantrum

13. Hide rocket while it dries (cursing 5th side that means it will not fit through door) and cover a piece of cardboard in tin foil using double sided tape

14. Get toddler to make "control panel" using stickers on tin foil covered cardboard

15. Go out to avoid another tantrum over not yet dry rocket.  Curse the fact you used parcel tape which the toddler painted over and now won't dry

16. Eventually allow toddler to play in rocket and take photos.

17. Once toddler and babies have gone to bed, drink lots of wine and glare at rocket.  Bemoan involvement of toddler in rocket making activity.  Decide that actually all errors in crafting are your fault and you are a second rate mother/ crafter

18. Drink more wine and feel all better

Instructions for Day Two

1. Take toddler to nursery

2. Cut open cardboard rocket and turn it inside out so that the packing company advertising is on the inside (which you should have done in the first place)

2. Remove all parcel tape

3. Stick all sides together using masking tape (with some parcel tape inside for strength)

4. Go round raw edges of door, window, bottom of rocket etc with masking tape

5. Paint entire rocket in correct colours.  Nearly run out of paint.  Manage to get by.

6. Use spare cardboard to make wings.  Paint in correct colour.  Cut slits in side of rocket, score along side of wings, put wings through slits and secure inside with parcel tape

7. Recover cardboard with tin foil for control panel and cover in sticky back plastic so that tin foil cannot be ripped off and deposited around the house. 

8. Add lots of lovely details like a "framed" family photo on the wall inside and authentic writing on outside. 

9. Take photos that you can actually put on Instagram

 

10. Collect toddler from nursery and spend entire evening being a bit overprotective of cardboard rocket

 

11. Decide never to craft again

I am already the older woman I will become

Days like today seem long but I know they are fleeting. I am already the older woman who looks back on these days in amazement.

I have forgotten the pain of childbirth, I have forgotten the anxiety of being sixteen and I will forget the bone aching tiredness of today.

I am already the old woman who is thrilled by the energy and vitality I have. Who looks back at photographs and sees invisible details. The bracelet on the wrist that holds the baby, the vase just out of shot. These are the details that will help me place the memories of these days.

But the memories of these days are already who I am. As we play hide and seek between the sheets drying on the line. As I'm handed a daisy from our overgrown front lawn. As I hear babies laughter mixed with birdsong and a lawnmower in the distance.

These are old memories. They are clichéd. Sometimes I can't remember if they're mine or if I saw them in a film.

These days are already my favourite days. And I am already the older woman I will become.

My Son is a Racist Pervert

So I've blogged a few times about how amazing I'm finding Z's language development.  I've also been taking a fairly juvenile approach to his frequent mispronunciations.

Z was struggling with pronouncing 't' at around the time we moved him from a cot to a bed.  'T' was pronounced like a 'c'.  Oh, how we laughed:

"My c0ck"
"Bye bye c0ck"
"Baby c0ck"
"No c0ck"

Like I say, juvenile.

When Z says "thank you" it sometimes sounds like "c0ck you" I don't know how this can be, but it does make me giggle:

"C0ck you Granny"

You'd be amazed how often toddlers say the word "stick" and how many of them pronounce it like "sh1t":

"More sh1t"
"Look, sh1t here"
"Want more sh1t"
"No more sh1t, c0ck you"

It seems that whilst Z can't say 't' at the end of cot, he can put one on the end of the word "tip".  And can therefore be found at the front door whilst the car is being loaded for a trip to the local recycling centre shouting:

"T1t, Daddy, T1t"

But, my absolute fave so far came yesterday when Z said 'blackcurrant' for the first time.  He wanted some squash to drink and was storming around the kitchen yelling "I want blackcurrant"  It turns out he can't say the 'r's in this word.

Try saying "I want blackcurrant" with no 'r's and tell me that my son is not a racist pervert.

A Mum's Guide to The Internet

Before there was the Internet, Mums knew other Mums who lived nearby. And they knew their own Mum, their Gran and their friends.  And maybe they read a parenting book, or a magazine article, or watched a programme on the telly.  So what they knew was what they knew.  If they lived on a hippy commune in the countryside or an inner city terraced house, they knew what was around them.

The Internet has opened our eyes to tremendous possibility, but as a parent that can often also mean tremendous pressure. We're exposed to lots of stuff that we don't know, or didn't know, but we feel we ought to know.

Without the Internet, parenting tribes would never have gathered, we would parent as our parents did, as our friends did.  We wouldn't need to stress about our lack of vegan food and yoga. Or that the kids had too many toys. Or that they had their dummies too long. We would look to our community, cross reference the few styles we could see and mimic them.

If I lived close to my mother and grandmother and had no Internet, I certainly wouldn't have heard of hypnobirthing or baby-led weaning.

So what do we do now that we know what we know? We can't be all types of parent. We can't on-board all the information out there and come up with anything useful, so how do we learn, open our eyes, embrace new possibilities but not become overwhelmed? And most importantly, not let it affect how we think of our own ability to parent or how we think of ourselves.

1. Be authentic - if you really do like vegan food and yoga, and you really want your kids to take part - do that. But if you actually don't mind them eating a McDonald's burger, don't feel guilty about it. Don't be afraid to talk authentically about your choices and don't judge others.

2. Listen to your Mum - or your Gran and the older women in your life. They really have seen it all before. They are your best support and whilst they don't use the same terms, they're quite often saying the same things as you. They probably aren't on the Internet. That's part of why their opinions are valuable.

3. Remember it's about the kids. What kind of parent you are is irrelevant really - what kind of children you have is what counts - are they kind, and honest, and polite? That's probably more important than whether or not they co-sleep.

4. Don't compare. Everyone has an Internet 'game face' and if you're looking at your real life, on a bad day, and someone else's organic crafting blog, it's not like for like.  And it will only make you feel worse. Learn from the Internet communities you love, don't get caught in a trap of comparisons.

5. Get off the computer/ get your face out of your phone. And breathe, and enjoy the moment and the company around you. Look really closely at your kids, in that moment, and then decide what they do or don't need.

6. Embrace inconsistency. Some days you'll feel like you nailed it. Some days you'll walk down the street sobbing into your greasy hair while your babies wail. That's the way it goes. Don't pretend. And don't worry.

7. Make friends. In the real world, or over the Internet, find other Mums you love and admire, and learn from them. Are they Mums who love gin? Or outdoorsy Mums?  Choose your peers wisely and let them enhance your journey.

Got anything to add? Pop a comment below.

Being Two Years and One Month is Irrestibly Delicious (apart from the Drooling)

This little guy turned two at the beginning of April, and a whole world of cuteness has suddenly opened up in the form of him speaking a lot more.  He's also getting his molars through so I've had quite a few "not very maternal" moments.  And am permanently covered in drool.

I'm Turner and he's Hooch.

Cute things that he has said in the past month include but are not limited to:

"Where are you going?" "Shops"
"Are you taking the dinosaur toys?" "Yes"
"What do they need from the shops?" "Biscuits"

"Mmm, these (completely imaginary) cakes are delicious, what did you make them with?"
"Hands"

"What was that noise?"
(without looking up) "Faaart"

(Trying to get his Polish Grandad to dance)
"Come on Dzadzio"

(When I do something that meets his approval)
"Well done Mummy" "Clever Mummy" "Yes, Mummy" "Good, Mummy"

(When I do something that does not meet his approval)
"No, Mummy" "Silly Mummy" "Daddy, my Daddy"

(When he's filled his nappy)
"Daaady, Poooooo"

His insistence on saying "Hello" and "Bye bye" to everything - cats, cars, "A moon", "A man" and anyone who leaves the room.

I've just re-read this post and realised it's not that interesting, but I don't really care because I think it's adorable and hilarious.

I probably need to get out more.

And stop making references to little remembered 80's cop-dog buddy movies.

Now where's my copy of K-9?

Have I got another one in me?........

A friend recently said she had her third child, despite quite an age gap "because she just felt like she had another one in her"

This is, I think, a great way to describe the greedy, greedy biological clock that is my body.

In the words of R Kelly, "my mind's telling me no, but my body's telling me yes....."

We have three amazing babies.  I survived two pregnancies virtually painlessly.  We are all happy and healthy.  A family of five is enough to feel big without being unmanageable.  We haven't priced ourselves out of nice family holidays.  We're outnumbered but we can handle it.  My body is getting back to normal, I'm running again. The planet is already over-populated enough.

My brain tells me all of these things.

My tragic, melodramatic body says

"But you'll never breastfeed again, you'll never have the joy of growing a human being inside you, you'll never go through childbirth again, you'll never again hold your tiny newborn in your arms and feel all the love in the world"*

Hmmm.

I'm feeling incredibly empathetic towards those women in their thirties whose bodies turn against them.  There they are, enjoying good careers, fancy clothes, casual relationships and lots of lovely wine when suddenly, their treacherous body starts demanding they sniff babies heads and browse the Little White Company catalogue.

Ugh.  Yet again, being a woman has some stinking downsides.

I'm going to keep ignoring my ridiculous, demanding ovaries and the voice of baby number four (I think she's blonde and called Matilda) and crack on with looking after the three I've got. 

And one day, I might be able to persuade myself that three really is enough.  Probably the next time I'm in Clarks buying shoes....

*My body knows full well that I hate being pregnant, breastfeeding makes me feel like a dairy cow and I was so tired/ drugged up after having babies by "assisted" means that I never got that "moment" with any of them.

A 10 minute blog

I've got a work call at 9 and the babies are asleep.  I'm all set up "business-like" with a coffee and clean hair to talk about my return to work.

I'm 10 minutes early so I thought I'd quickly tap out some words and see how far I get in that time.

I was thinking yesterday about the things you could add to your CV if maternity leave was considered valid work experience.

Productivity would definitely rate very highly.  I have learnt to be so much more productive with my time since having kids.  I'm much more realistic about what can be achieved in allocated periods of time. 

We add complications to our lives over the years - ask any woman with a full time job, a few kids, nice hair and good relationship - your life is so full, its fit to burst.  To keep juggling all the elements effectively, no minute can be wasted.  It's as though everyone in your life is billing by the hour and you're the client watching the budget like a hawk.

I don't take sugar in my tea any more - it was taking too long.

I like multi functional beauty products.

I look for kids clothes that don't have fiddly buttons.

I cook one pot meals.

I can write a short blog post in 10 minutes.

Feeling Empowered to Call My Babies Dicks

This lady, Eeh Bah Mum is an amazing, hilarious blogger who I have followed since I was pregnant with my first baby and I was sent a link to one of her posts.

She's recently been criticised by another Mummy blogger, for amongst other things, calling her son a Dick.

There's been a bit of Mummy blogger backlash and Eeh Bah Mum has written a response - so there's not really anymore to be said about the affair.

Apart from the fact I wanted to say thank you to Eeh Bah Mum for making me feel like it's all really okay.  Children are dicks sometimes - we all are.  Her posts are witty, insightful, crude, cruel, a celebration of the comedy of being a Mummy and a commentary on the situations we've all been in and know so well.  And reading them makes me laugh out loud and feel better about the fact I sometimes leave the babies to cry for a bit while I pluck my eyebrows.

She's been blogging since my first baby was born, and at 3am, when a baby is crying for no reason, I can think "Oh, you're probably just being a dick, that's cool.  Let's hug it out" Eeh Bah Mum said it first and it has empowered me.  And I'm truly grateful.

I've had experiences of fellow Mums online and in real life who have made me feel wonderful and brave and cherished.  And some Mums have made me feel a bit shitty.  And I may have unintentionally made other Mums feel both ways.  Let's face it - if you're a Mum, you're probably a bit weird.  We have so much access and information on all the different styles of parenting, it's easy to raise a (perfectly plucked) brow at what other people are doing.  And we sometimes make a silent comment or judgement on what "other mothers" are doing.  But it is totally not cool to make an out and out criticism.  Not cool at all. 

We're all a little bit of everything.  I'm breastfeeding twins (Mummy plus point) I still drink red wine and coffee and did through both my pregnancies (Mummy negative point) I've always made all the baby food from scratch (Mummy plus point) I use disposable nappies and get through wet wipes like they're going out of fashion (Mummy negative point)

My experience has made me who I am and it's given me the tools to be a parent - sometimes I get it right, sometimes I get it horribly wrong.  But websites like Scary Mommy and bloggers like Kirsty (@eehbahmum) make me feel strong and brave and silly and cheerful - and that's probably a good mix for a Mummy.

p.s. Whilst we may want to throw our drinks in other people's faces, nobody actually does it, apart from on EastEnders when they do it all the time.  But even then I've never seen anyone do it to a baby. 

Questions and Answers by a Nearly Two Year Old

Z has started to talk - it's so brilliant getting to be part of his journey as he becomes a proper conversationalist.  Some of these are instant classics and I don't want to forget a single one.

Where have Daddy and Grandad gone?
Pub

Z, have you done a poo?
No, Daddy

Z, have you done a poo?
No, faart

Have you been a good boy today or have you been a bit mad?
Mad

Who broke the bin?
Grandad

Would you like to wear those pyjamas on your head to nursery?
Yes

Z, what are you doing?
Biting Frafer

What does that stone smell like?
Neck

Z, what would you like for dinner?
Honey

Who did Mummy's lovely Mother's Day present come from?
Shops

Z, why did you throw that ball at E's face?
S'a ball

All other questions should be answered with a resounding No.  Or with another question.

It might be time to stop asking him questions.

A note for my children on International Women's Day

I intended this post to be a note to my little girl - and then I remembered that I want my sons to be feminists too. I want my sons to understand what it means to be human and to embrace the difference that gender brings to that meaning. So here goes:

Be bold and ambitious - you are limited by the size of your dreams- dream big, work hard. Be nice to everyone,  always, you don't know their full story. Be complex - you don't need to choose to be Audrey or Marilyn. You can have a career and a family, you can be successful and vulnerable, beautiful and intelligent, creative and logical. None of your life decions should close doors for you.

Be optimistic. Be adventurous. Say 'yes' as often as you can. If a situation feels wrong, listen to your instinct and get out of it. Never ignore your true voice. Don't be degraded or disrespected more than once.
Love women. They created every person on this planet with their bodies. Don't be prudish about childbirth, menstruation or breastfeeding - talk about it, be inspired. Never be embarrassed by sexual health, buying condoms or tampons - you are privileged to have open access to these things.

Speak your mind, even when you're at risk of causing offence - there is room enough in the word for everyone to have an opinion. Be thankful that yours is not decided for you. Do everything you can to minimise inequality, oppression or small mindedness. Embrace the future and everything it holds, especially change. Challenge yourself. Smile. Be courteous and smartly dressed - these things show that you respect convention. Then be unconventional. Love your siblings, they will be your lifelong allies.

Finally, when your Mum is preaching at you about all the things you should and shouldn't do - ask her how many of them she managed. Then give her a cuddle.

Never overlook the obvious...

Just had a hellish playdate - Z was a total menace and I spent all morning trying to figure out why he's being such a bad version of himself today.

Its an indication of how sleep deprived I am that I forgot to factor in the fact that he's poorly at the moment - with recurrent croup. He's full of cold and toddlers always misbehave when they are under the weather. But he's been a nightmare!

I just realised the treatment he was given yesterday for his croup was a steroid. They did mention he might be pumped up - I kind of forgot this would last for 48 hours.

I should have cancelled the playdate. I'm now amazed he was actually so good!

Moral of the story - toddler playmates are bad enough. Don't organise them when your toddler is on steroids. Certainly never organise a playdate when you have four month old twins and your toddler is on steroids. If you do organise a playdate when you've got 4 month old twins and a toddler on steroids, certainly don't attempt to make homemade butternut squash soup and homemade bread.

I'm going to spend the rest of the afternoon watching Frozen and hiding under a duvet.

Silly mummy.

I just want my babies to stay being babies....

Yesterday I had a shock.  I had a friend over for lunch and she brought her two boys.  The eldest I've known since he was about six months old.  The first time I met him, we babysat him at work and he sat on my knee while I sent some emails and he was a cuddly, lovely, bundle of squidgyness.

Yesterday, he refused to give me a kiss goodbye, and when I said he was a good boy, he said "I'm not a good boy, I'm a cool boy".  A cool boy??! Suddenly, and with startling clarity, I realised that my babies won't stay babies forever.  And it broke my heart.

With Z, I've rushed to every developmental milestone, so keen to get to the next one.  We started weaning on his four month birthday, he got his first shoes at ten months when he couldn't really walk. I've always pushed him to roll over, to sit up, to crawl.  And now I want it all to slow down please.

He's so wonderful and cute and snuggly.  He bosses me around at the moment "Sit here, Mummy" and takes my hand when we leave the front gate "Hand, Mummy".  He needs me to wipe his nose, and his hands "Sticky Mummy".  And one day he won't need me at all and I can't bear it.

I took the twins to a baby sensory class in Cheshire today and it was all bright lights, loud music, bits of cloth being shoved in their faces.  And I recognise myself in the other pushy Mums of first born singletons.  And I realised that I don't want the twins to have lots of sensory development - I want them to stay all tiny and delicious and to think that I am the universe for forever.

For the first time, I'm starting to feel like a Mum.  Not just a keen intern who views this as a two year project.  I'm starting to get that low down aching heart pain.  And I suspect it's not going to get any easier.

And I really want my babies to stay babies forever.

I've seen and dismissed this poem on mumsnet etc before.  And I think it's starting to make sense....*sobs*

"The Last Time"

From the moment you hold your baby in your arms you will never be the same
You might long for the person you were before
When you had freedom and time
And nothing in particular to worry about
You will know tiredness like you never knew it before
And days will run into days that are exactly the same
Full of feedings and burping
Nappy changes and crying
Whining and fighting
Naps or a lack of naps
It might seem like a never-ending cycle

But don’t forget….
There is a last time for everything
There will come a time when you will feed your baby for the very last time
They will fall asleep on you after a long day
And it will be the last time you ever hold your sleeping child
One day you will carry them on your hip then set them down
And never pick them up that way again
You will scrub their hair in the bath one night
And from that day on they will want to bathe alone
They will hold your hand to cross the road
Then never reach for it again
They will creep into your room at midnight for cuddles
And it will be the last night you ever wake to this
One afternoon you will sing “the wheels on the bus” and do all the actions
Then never sing them that song again
They will kiss you goodbye at the school gate
The next day they will ask to walk to the gate alone
You will read a final bedtime story and wipe your last dirty face
They will run to you with arms raised for the very last time.
The thing is, you won’t even know it’s the last time
Until there are no more times. And even then, it will take you a while to realise.
So while you are living in these times, remember there are only so many of them and when they are gone, you will yearn for just one more day of them.
For one last time.

That Freaky Clown Picture

I'm sure everyone does unusual things when they're pregnant.  My have included, but are not limited to: genuinely thinking that what my ice-cream lacked was some gerkins and then feeling like a huge cliché, emailing 60 or so speakers in advance of an event with my incorrect contact number, leaving my laptop at airport security, in Tesco, in my hotel room.

During my second pregnancy I also purchased a creepily freaky painting of a clown from a charity shop which I decided would go in the "circus" themed nursery décor.  (The only thing circus themed in the nursery is the clown picture)  I thought that once it was reframed it would look less freaky. 

As it turns out, once reframed it still looks hideous.  I would regret my purchase if it weren't for the fact that all the kids seem to love it.

My toddler stands on the changing table and points to the animals.

The babies can't stop staring at it while they're getting their nappy changed.

It's totally genius.  If you happen to be under the age of two, pregnant or have no taste whatsoever.

And if you can ignore the fact it's wonderfully weird.

In the words of Coldplay, "Nobody said it was easy, No-one ever said it would be this hard..."

Once upon a time - not so very long ago, I was thinner, I had better clothes, and I like to think I was a little bit cool.  Whatever I was, I was totally footloose and fancy free.  I drank in bars(!).  I went shopping at 9pm to "pick up something nice for dinner" (which we would eat at around 10pm).  I lay in bed on a Sunday nursing a hangover all day.  I read books all the way through.  I went and had my nails done.  I basically did whatever I wanted whenever I wanted.

And I shared this fantastic existence with my hubby.  He is easy-going, low-maintenance and generally fun to be around.  This life was easy.  I did not know this life was easy,  I in fact complained sometimes about how hard this life was.

Then, we had a baby.  First, I was pregnant with a baby, and that was hard.  And boring, and sober, and very fat-making.  And I complained a lot about how hard that life was.  And once we had our baby, we had a big shock.  Because now everything was really truly difficult and tedious.  We dealt with sleepless nights, the frustration of changing sheets five times in a 24 hour period.  We had plans ruined, and all spontaneity taken away.  We gave up on going to bars and eating out.  We moved to the suburbs and bought more toys.  And started wearing comfy shoes and making bread.

And then I had a second pregnancy.  A twin pregnancy.  And by the time you're 38 weeks pregnant with twins (both born at 7lbs) everything you've ever done before seems really easy.

And then we went from a little, easily contained family of three to a chaotic family of five overnight.  And this is really, really hard. I don't really feel ready for how responsible I have to be, or prepared for how difficult it is.

And yet, I'm not sure I've ever been happier.  I'm permanently covered in some kind of bodily fluid - or possibly all bodily fluids.  I've given up covering up the bags under my eyes.  I read the headlines of the newspapers in the shop and feel up to date with current affairs.  I make Halloween costumes while breastfeeding, put toddlers shoes on while sitting on the loo, I do my pelvic floor exercises whilst making dinner, cradling a baby in one hand and singing "wheels on the bus" to a toddler and chatting to my Mum on speakerphone.  This life is non-stop.  It is challenging, and tiring, and monotonous.  This life is filled with a million little things every day that make my heart melt.  And I love it.

That said, if you could give me 48 hours to eat a meal in a restaurant, have a full night's sleep, read the Sunday papers and have a long, hot hair bath, I'd bite your ruddy hand off.