Parents Behaving Badly

Everyone's proud to be a bad parent these days.

Blogs, books, podcasts, you name it, are full of people proclaiming what a terrible job they're doing of raising their children.

It's de rigueur to confess we're not coping and have given up any attempt at routine, dumping our kids in front of Peppa Pig and reaching for the corkscrew.

We're leaping over each other to have the worst behaved tantrum-thrower, or the most excruciating anecdote about going mad during the school holidays and locking ourselves in the biscuit cupboard to binge watch Game Of Thrones, while the children were left to eat crayons and fall asleep in the bathtub fully-dressed.

Of course it's cathartic to get all your insecurities off your chest. And it's reassuring to know that we are not alone. 

Everyone is struggling under the incredible burden of being responsible for another life, and bringing up baby is not easy.

But it can't all be terrible, can it?!

You don't want to sound smug by bragging about how great your first experience of baby-led weaning was. Okay, the kitchen ended up pebble-dashed with banana, but watching the little tyke put food in their own mouth for the first time and chomp away merrily was actually pretty entertaining.

How boring would it be if we all blogged about our brilliant bath time last night? They looked so cute splashing about and giggled at your duck impression and you just can't get enough of sniffing their clean fluffy hair as you dry them afterwards.

And okay, they woke you up at 5am this morning, but when you stumbled over to the cot they immediately stopped grizzling and gave you this big smile that just melted your heart.

Nobody wants to hear that.

And actually, that's not really the stuff you want to harp on about either. Because you're too busy enjoying it.

You take to Twitter to complain that your toddler just threw a tantrum at the supermarket checkout and brought everything to a standstill, because you know there are people out there who will understand.

Your baby isn't going to listen to you moaning about how tired you are, so you have to get it off your chest somewhere.

But maybe we're all being a bit hard on ourselves by doing our own efforts down all the time.

Raising children is not easy. It's exhausting and terrifying and even lonely sometimes.

We're not all bad, we are just parents. Plain and simple.

Or God help our children's kids...

This post first appeared as a guest blog for social networking site Meet Other Mums

Hard To Swallow

Our boiler broke down this week.

Aside from the painfully large repair bill, which we could do without having just moved house and still yet to purchase a sofa or a vacuum cleaner, the timing was an extra blow.

My daughter turned six months the day before and had just indulged in her first attempt at baby-led weaning.

After half an hour of watching her squash carrot and broccoli in her fists, suck mistrustfully and then let them slide out of her mouth and down her chin, she was pretty filthy.

She resembled tinned soup in human form, with vegetable chunks floating on every visible surface.

The worst mush was seemingly ingrained into the folds of her little tortoise-like neck, which I usually find so adorable.

I was feeling pretty fraught after spending the entire time panicking every time she gagged on the unfamiliar tastes and textures, leaping up and scrabbling to undo her highchair straps so I could put her over my knee in a bid to save her life, only for her to cough out yet more goop and merrily suck down some more water. 

Meanwhile, her father calmly made videos on his phone, insisting on playing Food, Glorious Food from Oliver! The Musical to make a fitting soundtrack.

As she began to tire of the novelty of her nouvelle cuisine, wriggling, whining and deciding the thing she most wanted to chew was her bib, I decided bath time would do us all good.

But when I turned on the hot tap the water ran cold, and then colder, and an inspection of the boiler revealed the 'fault' light was flashing.

The evening went downhill from there as I became hysterical that the pilot light had gone out, only to learn our boiler doesn't have one.

And then we argued as we attempted to top up the water pressure, drenching half the kitchen in the process, and then discovering the problem went far deeper.

I resorted to wet wipes to scrape encrusted veg from my daughter's crevices and we all went to bed dirty, exhausted and bad tempered.

A man came to fix the boiler the very next afternoon and after a meal of much more smoothly mashed-up carrot we indulged in a lengthy bath time - ducks, blowing bubbles, the works.

Then it was my turn, and I relished the feeling of being warm and squeaky clean all over as I let the water wash away the stresses and strains of starting on solid food.

It didn't last long though. While waiting for the bus today I found a lump of banana in my hair.

It's parsnip on the menu tonight. I wonder where that will turn up...?

What Are You Bloomin' Saying?

Ever since I became pregnant people I know have been telling me how well I look.

It has been almost six months since I had my daughter and even though I know I have dark circles under my eyes and haven't washed my hair for several days, the compliments about my appearance keep on coming.

"Don't you look well?!", they remark. "You're blooming!", others gush.

Now, I am not ungrateful to my close friends and family for offering me a kind word, not to mention tearing their eyes away from my baby for a few seconds to consider me. But the more I hear these phrases, the more I have cause to question how genuine they are.

At first I gladly accepted them and allowed my self confidence to take a boost.

While I was pregnant my hair grew thicker, my skin got clearer, and, as I was being very healthy, I could believe that maybe I did have that special glow.

Even after giving birth, with the gruesome experience of labour behind me and high on that wonder hormone oxytocin, I was still willing to believe that perhaps I had been doing myself a disservice by piling on make up all those years, and I was actually radiating a natural beauty I had been suffocating until now.

But after months of spending the day at home with my little one being sick on me and dribbling in my hair, not to mention pulling it out in fistfuls, my appearance has certainly taken a downturn.

I try to force myself to make an effort in at least getting dressed... before midday. But I see little point in wearing anything other than the same black leggings and breastfeeding T-shirt I have been wearing all week.

Make-up seems pointless, and when I do look in the mirror to slap on a bit of mascara, a tired and drawn face blinks back at me.

And, as relatives want live video footage my daughter, I am subjected to the horror of seeing myself in HD on FaceTime on a daily basis.

I can only pray that I do not look as hideous to the naked eye, as I do to the all-seeing camera of the iPad, which seems to highlight every flaw and enlarge every pore.

But when people tell me how well I look, I know they are just trawling out the generic line one is supposed to throw at new mothers.

Worse still, perhaps I look so bad they feel they must overcompensate to make me feel better.

The other frequent observation is how slim I am looking.

While some people struggle to lose their baby weight, it is true that I have ended up thinner than I was before I fell pregnant.

However, I know the reason for this is that as a pregnant woman, and now a breastfeeding mother, I consume far less alcohol than I used to. And if I had the choice between having a large glass of wine whenever I fancied it, or dropping a dress size, I'd choose the wine every time.

When people go on about my weight loss I just hear the subtext, "You are not as fat as you used to be."

I accept these supposed compliments through gritted teeth, and feel even more in need of a stiff a drink.

So, while it is the done thing to tell new mothers how blooming marvellous they look, personally I'd rather hear the truth or nothing at all.

So keep your niceties to yourself. Or just save them for the baby.

Nappy Napalm

"You're in for a big surprise this morning, mummy", said her father with a twinkle in his eye as I entered the bedroom bearing coffee.

"I was going to change her myself but then I realised it was everywhere and I am going to be late for work," he added.

My daughter lay on her changing mat gurgling happily and kicking her legs, one of which had a sticky yellow substance oozing down it.

The explosion was slowly spreading across the back of her white nightie and there were spatters on the delicate wool blanket she had been wrapped up in, a family heirloom.

She looked extremely pleased with herself.

Now, I know unpleasant bodily fluids are a fact of bringing up baby, and I am not averse to getting my hands dirty.

Yesterday morning's nuclear nappy was not really such a disaster. It was quite convenient actually, as I just shoved it all in the washing machine and got her clean and dressed.

It's the timing of her other 'random' splat attacks I object to. I say 'random', but they never happen when we have plenty of time and clean clothes to hand.

And my suspicions that my daughter is waging warfare against me when it comes to her bowel movements are further aroused by the outfits she chooses to decimate.

Her nappies never leak toxic stains on a plain old hand-me-down babygrow while we're hanging out at home with nothing to do. Well, very rarely.

But should I go to the effort of dressing her up in a matching ensemble, perhaps that she is wearing for the first time, that's when the s***splosion is sure to hit.

More likely the outfit is a gift from someone we are going to meet. She is looking smart, especially for the occasion, and about two minutes before we are about to leave the house the sirens sound. She is soiled and sodden and must be stripped down and quickly changed into the nearest dowdy old all-in-one I can find.

I have finally learned there is no point saving clothes 'for best', as not only will she grow out of them but they are always the ones she saves her 'best' efforts for as well.

And she always looks so pleased with herself.

Was it really too much to plan for her to wear a little woollen dress with bunnies on and matching tights at Easter? An hour after getting her dressed the answer was yes. Even the baby bouncer took a hit.

And it's no good being on the alert. It might sound like I'm kidding myself, but this stuff don't stink.

I know it will all change once she's on solids, but at the moment it's not easy to distinguish between the smell of her wet nappies and something much worse.

Her wind on the other hand is a noxious gas.

So when I do get her all dolled up with somewhere to go and am suddenly hit by a waft of what smells like old cheese and cabbages, I quickly whip open her nappy, only to find it empty.

Then I drop my guard and boom!

I must have tempted fate. I have just broken off from writing to check her nappy and found a tsunami of oomska gushing up and out of the front and all over her tummy!

She just giggled and sucked her toes smugly while I tried to ease her vest over her head without smearing the muck across her face.

And another good outfit hits the soak overnight bucket.

Food Glorious Food

I miss eating.

Since I became a mother I still consume nutrients several times a day, but I can't remember the last time I was able to sit down and enjoy a hot meal.

My daughter seems to have been born with a sixth sense. She can't see ghosts, but she is able to tell exactly when I am feeling hungry and have dared to think I might just grab myself a quick bite to eat. Then, no matter how short a time she has been happily playing or peacefully napping on her own, she demands my full and immediate attention.

And so whatever food I have managed to prepare must become cold and soggy and disappointing while I tend to her needs.

Or I can opt for shovelling scolding hot, poorly prepared dishes into my mouth at an increasing speed while her wailing becomes increasingly fraught, spluttering, "Please just let Mummy eat something, if I don't eat, I won't make enough milk for you."

The latter scenario ends in discomfort for us both as she sobs and suckles resentfully on my breast, while I try to ignore my indigestion.

There is a third option. Eating one-handed at the same time as nursing, with a plate precariously balanced on my baby.

Experience has proved this method to be the best. As long as I remember to pick all the crumbs off my daughter before we go out in public.

And no matter how hot a wash I put the my breastfeeding pillow cover on, I can't seem to get out the unsightly chocolate hobnob stains...

On the few occasions I have dined out I have become menu blind. I see only food that can be forked single handedly, or better still consumed with my fingers.

I recently enjoyed a burrito on a lunch out with friends, managing to feed my daughter at the same time so she didn't bawl the house down, and was feeling quite pleased at how I was managing to have my burrito and eat it. At the end of the meal I looked down to see my baby, whose head I had draped in a napkin, was showered with little bits of rice that had dropped out of the bottom.

When I was pregnant I would spend hours fantasising about the enormous surf and turf feast of forbidden foods I was going to have - rare steak, blue cheese and seafood, all washed down with a glass of red wine.

Needless to say I am yet to have truly indulged. It would just be a waste.

Meanwhile, busy with moving house and using up jars and tins of odd food from the back of the cupboard, I even worried that by not getting my full five a day, I was doing my daughter some sort of disservice on the nutrition front.

"Oh don't worry," a friend cheerily informed me. "I'm pretty sure your body strips out all the vitamins she needs and puts them into the breastmilk, so it's only you who loses out."

So I could literally be malnourished, as well as unsatisfied, while my baby chomps on regardless.

But I am starting to have my revenge.

She has become interested in food and is now fascinated in anything that anyone puts in their mouth.

Wave a banana in her face and her eyes become as big as saucers, her mouth a gaping vat of drool and she pumps her fists in excitement.

And thus a window of time has been opened to me.

"Do you want to watch Mummy eat a sandwich?", I ask as I tiptoe around the kitchen, lest the sound of clinking cutlery alert her to the fact I am planning to feed myself.

Then, just as I am about to eat, I strap her into her baby bouncer and sit in front of her while I savour a bowl of warm pasta and she enjoys the show.

I relish taunting her with a forkful of spaghetti dripping with bolognese.

"Mmmmm, yummy. You can try this yourself one day soon," I tell her as her eyes pop out of her head. "It tastes SOOO good."

And, Oh! It does. It really does.

Trouble Sleeping

I have a confession to make.

It is very hard for me to reveal this, and I ask you, please, not to judge me.

My baby is a good sleeper.

I am not one of those smug parents who brag about how she has slept through the night since she was six weeks old, or goes on about how much energy I have had since giving birth.

Make no mistake, I still feel pretty tired. Looking after a baby is hard work, draining even. But I do average six to eight hours sleep a night.

And I feel guilty.

We met up with some friends recently for the first time since my daughter was born, parents to two young children themselves.

"You don't look tired enough!", they complained.

My baby has been known to sleep through the night, sometimes several times a week. 

If she does wake it is usually just once around 4am. Her whimpers of complaint and shuffles in the cot, which is still right at the end of our bed, will in turn rouse me from my slumber and I will roll over and haul myself out of bed.

I pick her up and sit in the comfy chair I have padded with pillows, wrapping myself in a thick baggy cardigan and use a support pillow to feed her, and I often nod back off before she does. (Please don't tell the health visitor!)

After about an hour she is ready to go back down and I return to bed until she gives us her gurgling alarm call just before 7am.

Some may say I put her to bed too late - about 8.30pm or 9pm. But our compact life in a studio flat has made establishing a bedtime routine that works for all a little more complicated. And she often doesn't sleep that much in the day.

But until now I have kept my daughter's sleep patterns close to my chest.

The other parents I speak to all seem to relish sharing their stories of being woken every hour throughout the night. Or wax lyrical on the torment of not being able to get their baby to go back down in the very early hours.

They brandish their dark circles like badges of honour, and indulge in their yawns, exclaiming, "I could just go to sleep right here, right now!", while everyone else groans in understanding.

When some fool dares to pipe up about how well rested they are feeling thanks to their little darling's perfect routine, dagger stares are flashed and teeth are gnashed.

And so I have learned to nod along in empathy with the sleep deprived.

I would never dare admit the truth about how many hours of REM I clock up.

Further still, if I am ever I am quizzed on my baby's nighttime habits, I immediately become apologetic. And my vague description is probably closer to a little white lie than it is the truth.

"I'm very lucky," I say quietly and guiltily. "She only wakes up a couple of times a night."

And then I feel I must compensate before I lose these people's trust and companionship entirely.

"But she doesn't sleep at all during the day", I add more assertively. "So I can't get anything done around the house," I moan, rolling my eyes.

"And I put her to bed far too late." Now I'm in full swing.

"I'm always waking her up watching unsuitable shows like The People Vs OJ Simpson and then I have to resettle her all over again, so she's probably exhausted, poor thing."

And so I keep my terrible secret to myself.

But she is only five months old, and she is just starting to teeth. In fact last night she woke up three times. And she hasn't slept through for a whole week.

So perhaps the Sandman has had enough of me bending the truth.

And then I can claim official membership to the Sleep Deprivation Society without feeling like a fraud.

Mad Woman In Residence

Oh dear. We told everyone at Stay and Play we are moving house and they had a leaving party for us!

It was lovely, people brought cake, they made us a laminated picture montage of all the activities we'd done, they even signed a card.

But now our move has been delayed a week and I feel like we can't go back.

What would they think if we turned up again?!

Maybe they were relieved to see the back of us, what with me gabbling non-stop about not having done any packing and her spilling forth a tsunami of dribble all over the playmats and toys, with not a tooth to show for it.

Or they might think I'm some mad woman who makes up stories about moving house just to get attention.

They say two of the most stressful things you can do are have a baby and move house, and going out to different groups are part of what has been keeping me sane.

Ever since she arrived on the scene I have begun to feel slightly unhinged.

I have taken on the role of narrator in the crazy little pantomime that is our daily life.

Walking down the street, around the supermarket or in the disabled loo with baby changing facilities, I describe my each and every action to my daughter, all in a high-pitched and over enthusiastic voice. Sometimes even in song.

I point out the sights; "That building used to be owned by The Masons before they sold it to be turned into luxury flats. Masons look like regular men but they have funny handshakes and take part in strange rituals." Vital information for a four-and-a-half-month-old.

Or I discuss my personal agenda with her; "You must remind Mummy to fetch her new glasses from Specsavers and buy some milk, okay?!"; "Do you think Daddy would like pasta for supper? Or do you think he'll be fed up of it by now?"

And of course most often I use our one-way conversations to excuse myself to the people around us; "Don't cry darling, we've only got three more stops before the bus gets home and then you can have some food. It really isn't my fault we got stuck in traffic and I don't know why you're so hungry - I only just fed and changed you before we got on. I'd love to pick you up and cuddle you to keep you quiet but this bus driver seems to have some sort of death wish on corners and it would be very dangerous."

The latter begins in an attempt at a calm and soothing voice, becoming increasingly frantic and hysterical as we get stuck at yet another red light and she invokes the primal scream.

My reputation as the mad woman who talks to herself is probably sealed by the fact I now seem to find it impossible to stand still, and begin rocking back and forth whenever she starts griping, even though she is in the pram. I am pretty sure I have even found myself swaying from side to side in queues when she is perfectly happy.

This constant chatter with a person who can't talk back means I am immediately grateful every time any adult engages me in conversation.

But why, when you have a small child who can't speak, do people address every question to your baby?

"Hello, you're a sweetie, aren't you? How old are you?"

Seeing as I have already lost most of my social faculties you'd think I might snap back, "She is four months old, she can't talk."

But instead I dutifully enter into a bizarre, third person, sing-song conversation on behalf of my daughter.

And now we have officially 'left' Stay and Play I can't even have the same old chats about sleep patterns and weaning and remarking how much everyone's baby has grown in just one week.

We will have to spend the next two weeks sitting in the park drinking free Waitrose coffee and diving into a bush every time we see a buggy we recognise.

That should make my status as the local mad woman official.