Baby, General, Parenting

10 months..

I haven’t written a post in a very long time.  I’ve just been LIVING. Lots of ups and downs as ever.

It’s been a funny old time. William will be 10 months old in two days. TEN. MONTHS. 

THAT’S 2 MONTHS AWAY FROM 12. Bloody hell. I just can’t believe where the time has gone to.

So I just thought I’d do a little bit of an update post, I’ve had a few people ask me when I’m doing another post, and to be honest I have missed writing, but I’ve been finding it hard to find the time to even wipe my make up off at night, let alone write a hilarious yet honest blog post.

I’m not going to lie, these past couple of months have been a bit testing. Me and norms are up and down, we bicker endlessly about the mundane boring stuff, why the bottles still smell like moudly cat milk, why the washing hasn’t been done, why is there a half eaten crumpet on the floor, etc etc. But then we have wonderful times and we make each other laugh all day and are affectionate and it melts all the crappy parts away. 

William has been getting on great, he is eating more and more “human food” as I call it, we are still careful and cautious but I find myself becoming much more relaxed the more he eats and tries. I will admit though like, it’s hard when you see all these bloody women on Instagram whose babies are a little bit older or a little bit younger than yours, and they are having fish goujons and peas and sweet potato croquettes MADE FROM SCRATCH, or homemade chicken curry and oragnic vegetable rice, with a homemade bloody fruit crumble and all washed down with water which they will drink from ANY CUP – I look at the lumpy cow and gate jar I have in the bowl, and wrestle with Williams 7 millionth beaker I’ve tried to get him to even wet his fucking lips let alone drink any of the bastard stuff, and still feel disheartened. But then I think a lot of what is posted on Instagram is just a whole load of tosh.  I really do. I can’t believe for ONE BLOODY MINUTE that these people’s lives are as perfect as they want you to believe it is. So I just scroll on past, giving William his jarred food and water through an intravenous drip (I don’t do this – just to clarify. Please don’t ring social services.) Also, he is so so close to crawling! He can go backwards, turn himself fully around, and pull himself to wherever he wants to be, and he rolls around like a fish on a slab. It will be any day now. Then I’m sure the REAL fun will begin. 

I think a lightbulb has gone off in my head. I used to be so consumed that my life wasn’t as perfect as other people’s. But at the end of the day, I spend all day with my son, at the weekend me and my husband are with our family and friends, and I don’t feel the need to promote it or share every detail on social media, because I am too busy LIVING AND ENJOYING the moments. I’m sure nobody wants to see a picture of me having a “lie in” until 8am, because norms has gone to give William his brekkie, or a photo of my hairy fat legs having a shower in peace with no baby whining because he’s not surgically attached to my hip/arm/leg/other body part. I do enough Instagram stories with no make up on looking haggard and like a bog rat that I do not need to put any more of that shit put there. Instagram stories are deleted after 24 hours THANK GOD.

Another thing which has been consuming a lot of my time, is thinking about returning to work. I will be returning 1 day a week from September to do keep in touch days, and I can’t believe I return to work for 2 and a half days in October! I know I’m lucky as I am fully aware that some women have to return full time, I mean don’t get me wrong the money is definitely needed from a full time wage, but I (in my own opinion please don’t shoot me down) don’t see the point of having this baby, going through the slog of being pregnant and going through labour, having all this time off work to bond and spend with the little minion, to then go back to work 5 days a week. I mean, the thought of going back to work for 2.5 days a week fills me with dread, so I can’t even begin to imagine how it would feel to have to go back fill time. But everyone has their own rhymes and reasons for doing what they do. And that’s everyone’s own prerogative. I just don’t see the point of having a child and not being there to bring them up. Of course I also understand that some employers are not as happy to let people go back and cut their hours, but that’s something I thankfully haven’t had to deal with. (Sidenote- if anyone reading this DOES have these issues please go and follow the amazing Anna @mother_pukka on Instagram she’s ALL ABOUT THE flexible working for parents. And she is HILARIOUS). 

So Yes, this has been keeping me awake at night. But I am slowly coming round to the idea. At the end of the day, it’s going to happen, my anxiety needs to get off my case and I need to pull up my big girls pants (yep still wearing the preggo hospital pants- what can I say comfort overruled the lacy thong) and go get on with it. 

But I have Williams nursery all sorted, he will be going one day a week, and my mum and mother in law will be having him for the other days. I think this was a big factor about my anxiety. Me and my mother in law have had a rocky relationship since the little one was born. Well, it started when I was up the duff. I won’t go into details, all I will say is that we go about things in a VERY VERY different way, and it all came to a head when we went to check out the new nursery. Words were said, tears were shed. Eyebrows were raised. I think the saying “truth hurts” was the most useful turn of phrase for the chat we had. However, now all is out in the open, and things have been AMAZINGLY better. Anxiety is still there, don’t get me wrong, but I find myself being a lot more relaxed in her company, and feeling more relaxed about the thought of the little one going and spending such a lot of time with her. I am fully aware that to some people I must sound like a crazed lunatic but hey, variety is the spice of life, and my life is certainly not just vanilla. Although I DO love vanilla. 

Another big thing going on is that we are currently selling our house. I’ll do a proper post when things start moving, but basically we have a house ready and waiting to be moved into (yay!) The only thing is, we obviously need to sell ours first. It’s been on the market for a month or so now, we are hoping to sell it sooner rather than later as we are itching to get things moving with the new one! I’ve been looking at so many house inspiration websites and pages, I’ve got a feeling we may need a cheeky lottery win to happen soon! It will be really nice to do a house up together, the house we are in at the moment was bought by norms when he was single, and it isn’t really decorated to my taste, don’t get me wrong it’s not horrible, it’s just not all that cosy. And I think as women as much as we like things to look all lovely and neat and tidy (mega lolz at this with a child – who am I kidding?!) We really just want it to be cosy and homely.  

So that, in a nutshell is what I’ve been doing these past couple of months! I feel like I may do more posts like this, as I just can’t commit at the moment to doing a post every week or every couple of weeks, so maybe a monthly update post – unless there is something that has really got on my tits and I need to speak about it – but then you’d know about it im sure. 

Thanks for reading

T x

General, Parenting, Personal

Let’s Talk About (lack of) Sex, (with a) Baby

Ok, so my husband will probably NOT be happy about this post, but I’ve always said I’ll be honest and this is real life and I’m sure as hell, in fact I’m 100% certain that I am NOT the only one going through a sex drought.

And I’m not talking a dry spell. I’m talking about a full on desert, dry, open plain, hallucinating about a waterfall DROUGHT. 

Sex evacuation. 

I mean, I can’t even blame him. It’s me that is turned off. The fuse box has blown. Im clocked out. I am just not interested.

Of course when you first have a baby, for medical reasons you can’t have sex for so many weeks, and you have this new baby who takes up all of your time and energy, and you are both sleep deprived, and getting an early night means just that…lights off and GOODNIGHT.  None of this hanky panky business. Bed is for sleeeeeeeeeeeeeep.

But William is now 7 months (can we just take a minute to process that information…oh my god). And I can categorically count the amount of times we have…ahem..had relations…on one hand. 

I find myself overthinking this. Am I normal? I bet everyone else is doing it. I bet my husband hates me. Maybe he doesn’t find me attractive anymore? Is there something wrong with me? I bet he’s going to leave me. I wonder if he’s going to look elsewhere? Why don’t I want to have sex???

The truth is, from everyone I have spoken to, sex is generally the last thing on any of our mind’s. We as women are constantly thinking about the next time the baby will wake, how many bottles to sterilise, is his room too hot, oh shit I need to put a jar of food in his changing bag, did I take the dummy out from the car, did I sterilise said dummy before I plugged it in my baby’s mouth while I was in Aldi and he had a meltdown because he wasn’t allowed to suck the trolley, did I put that shitty nappy in the bin or is it still on the floor in the living room,  have I shaved my armpits this week?… And so on and so forth. 

Of course I fancy my husband. I look at him all the time and feel very lucky to have someone who is actually attractive who likes me and wants to be naked with me. I love the bones of him. I love him so much it hurts sometimes. But the truth is, I have so many other things I could be doing, that getting in between the sheets for a quickie often takes a back seat.

I think as well, because more often than not, I get up in the nights when William wakes, as Norms works driving trucks for a living and needs his sleep, when the opportunity knocks and its bed time, and William is sound asleep and we’ve had a lovely time together and the mood is just right…I am always so tired that I don’t think I would even get to the kissing stage without letting off a few snores. 

I do feel bad for him. Let’s be honest, men think about and want sex more than women (usually). But he is very understanding and he really is a good egg. And from what I’ve heard from fellow mums and friends, this drought will hopefully end, and the rainy season will start all over again. It’s hard to remember the times when we used to just have a quick fumble whenever the mood took us. Or what we were like when we were trying to conceive. That’s the ironic part, you spend all this time and effort having all this amazing sex, and then that goes straight out the window when you get pregnant and have the baby. Poor blokes, it must be a shock to the system. They don’t know whether they are coming or going. (It’s deffo not the first one in this household).

This post was really just a ramble, and also for any of you ladies who are possibly going through a sex evacuation like I am. YOU ARE NOT ALONE. We can get through this!!! I mean, we have been and are still going through a really massive culture, lifestyle, body, emotional and physical change in our lives. We need time for this all to calm the fuck down.

Hopefully one day we will all laugh about this, while at an Ann Summers party looking at little skimpy outfits and dildos, and not be crying into a glass of pinot grigio with our fannies closed up and dry as sandpaper.

Baby, Parenting

Just Keep Swimming

I haven’t blogged in a WHILE. It feels like ages if i’m honest. Things have just kept cropping up, been busy and i’ve started weaning William, and that makes mealtimes/breakfast/nappy changing time that little bit longer – I will be doing a blog post about my experiences of weaning so far shortly so watch this space for that one – it involves a choking incident which I am still struggling to get over..

ANYWAYS.

I thought i’d do a blog post about something me and the little (well he’s not so little now – he’s 24 weeks and weighs 19lbs 11oz my little porky sausage) man get up to every week. And to be honest, me as an individual doesn’t really enjoy that much. SWIMMING.

It’s not that I dislike swimming, i’m just actually really shite at swimming. Everytime we go abroad, I always have to get hubby to hold my hand the first few times we go in the pool and I NEVER go to a point where I can’t feel the floor. You should see me in the actual sea. I’m like a crazed lunatic digging my toes into the sand,but then the thought of some weird sea creature biting my toes gets in my head so I just sort of doggy paddle in the water trying to look cool in my bikini from 3 years ago while all these ultra cool hip women who are all size 8’s just smoothly swim past me, wearing Armani sunglasses and a waterproof obligatory Michael Kors watch their boyfriends with a 53 Plate audi bought them for christmas the previous year, that they instagrammed with the caption “the boy did good”. 

Anyway, I digress. Because of how RIDICULOUS I am and have been in the past (i’m sure I have been rescued from a swimming lesson while I was at secondary school by my P.E teacher as I had a little panic attack – not embarassing at all I assure you. I think after that I was on my “period” for approximately 8 years, and never did swimming at school ever again. MEGA LOLZ.) I want William to be comfortable in the water, and be a good swimmer, not just for the holidays I hope we are going to be going on in the future (nudge nudge Norms – Cyprus????) But also for safety. I want him to be competent and able to get himself out of trouble if the awful circumstance ever occurred. 

So I take him every Tuesday with my bezzie Laura and her little girl Chloe. Its lessons, and I use that term very loosely. I mean the instructor isnt teaching him butterfly stroke, And how to do a forward roll turn with a backflip from a 13ft diving board, I mean he’s only just learnt that he has feet for goodness sake. But it’s things like throwing a ball in the water and us holding the babies and encouraging them to try catch the ball with their hands, and encourage them to kick their feet and legs, holding on to the sides and moving along, lots of singing and woggle use. (Anyone who doesnt know what a woggle is, its basically a massive sponge like thing that floats, and its like 6ft long. Google it. Hours of fun.)

Then there is also the SUBMERSION. Well, I was more nervous about that I think than the prospect of people seeing my post-baby body in my Sainsbury’s swimming cozzie. I mean what happened if he DROWNED?? (Obviously he wont – I have hold of him the whole time.) He always looks mega shocked and very taken aback at whats just happened. He also looks at me like a piece of shit on his shoe, that he cant actually believe that I have just done that to him. But it is literally for a split second,and to be fair it makes it lots easier at bath time washing his face, as he gets used to his face being wet. He just hates his ears being in the water, which I think most people do. 

One thing I wasn’t ready for was the amount of CRAP you have to take for one 30 minute swimming lesson/”lesson”. I mean. It’s ridiculous. You have to take a fair amount of shit with you out and about everyday anyway, but going swimming is on a whole new level!! Here’s just a little list of all the crap I take with me every week:

  • Swimming costume for me
  • Swimming costume for William
  • Towel for me
  • Towel for William
  • Pants etc for me
  • Change of clothes for William (I usually take him in his PJ’s then get him changed into new clothes afterwards)
  • Spare clothes in case he sick/shits/pisses on previous set
  • Moisturiser/baby oil for his skin as he gets dry skin after swimming
  • Nappies
  • Disposable swimming nappies
  • Nappy bags
  • Baby Wipes
  • Bum Cream
  • Dummies
  • Teething Gel
  • Milk
  • Muslin cloths/bibs
  • Spare milk in case he is mega hungry
  • Plastic fucking bag for all the bleach smelling wet shit
  • Change for bloody lockers because of course they couldnt possibly be free could they (imaginary eye roll)

I mean…..seriously. So all that shit is crammed into a bag, plus you have your usual changing bag, when you walk in the receptionist probably shits hersef that you are staying for 2 weeks and are going to ask her how she likes her eggs in the morning. It really is THAT much. Plus all the other shit like Calpol “just in case” etc etc – my life is now just carrying crap around in a 15 tonne bag “just in case”. 

But it really is so funny to see William in the water, interacting with the other babies, and me, its nice because it’s something we can do together, just the 2 of us, and he has to put all his trust in me, which is a nice feeling. It’s a really good bonding time for us. 

However I do look like a shitty mum because I literally have NO IDEA what half the songs are, something about a monkey swinging in a tree and a crocodile coming…?? Also using said woggle further up in the post as a horse, literally straddling this bloody 6ft long sponge sausage jumping around as if you’re on a horse…its very degrading. As if having your fadge out with half of the local hospital (in which you work at) coming and eyeing it up isn’t bad enough. You then straddle and jump about on a 6ft piece of sponge. Getting off the thing is the worst. Whilst holding a beast of a baby. Needless to say, my street cred (if I had any) is literally being sloshed away with baby piss and spit down the local council’s drain. 

Also, getting dressed and dried afterwards is quite a stressful experience. You are there with a 56 year old beach towel that your grandma once used in the Cold War, wrapped around you which keeps sliding off, trying to wrestle a slippery chlorine-smelling baby out of a little swimsuit which has gone skin tight onto his little sausage rolls, sometimes not on a baby changing table, because there are like the smallest amount of changing rooms with baby changing facilities, and trying not to drop water on them, they are cold, tired and more often than not hungry (well mine is), so they usually KICK OFF. And I don’t mean a few little cries that can be subsided with a few raspberries on the belly or a tickle under the chin. I mean like a full on, screaming, coughing, kicking MELT DOWN. As if the end of the world is nigh.  So there’s always that thought looming over you as you exit the pool, trying to walk fast (because you can’t run in a swimming pool can you) because your baby is cold and because you don’t want to see someone you know and for them to see your cellulite, that you blame having on being pregnant when really you had it before.

But all this aside, the endless baggage, the stressful change afterwards, the dry skin and the stinky washing, swimming is so much fun! It really really is, and I would DEFFO recommend that if you have a little one, and you are able to then take them. 

Baby, Beauty, Friends, General, Parenting, Personal

An Open Letter to My Friends

Dear Friend, 

It’s me. Tara. Aka Mummy. 

I’m sorry I haven’t seen you in a while. I know you text me 4 weeks ago asking how things are and how William is doing, and that we needed to catch up soon. I did see it. I did want to reply. I really did. But these days, I barely get time to sneeze or go for a piss in peace. And by the time it gets to 9pm and the baby has only just gone down to sleep after me trying  since 7pm, all I want to do is eat something (But I usually dont) and go to bed myself. So please don’t be mad that I didn’t text back. I agree, we do need to catch up. I miss you too. 

I’m sorry I forgot to send you a birthday card. Or a Christmas card. They were written, and on the side ready to post/pop in to you. But the truth is, I can’t really “pop” anywhere these days. Gone are the days of just nipping out, as now it takes me an hour just to try and get a shower, amid all the crying, sicking, changing shitty nappies, cleaning up dribble from various areas of my hair, putting a dummy back in, finding said dummy that baby has spat out and managed to sit on, winding, sssh-ing, reassuring the baby that I haven’t abandoned them , that I’m merely washing the smell of baby shit and B.O. from my body, only to be a sweating mess again in 10 minutes after picking the baby back up to stop him from crying for him to show me the reason he was crying was in fact because he had trapped wind that turned into an acidic white vomit that is now all over my freshly soap and glory’ed skin. Excellent.

I’m also sorry I haven’t popped to see you after work because as well as how long it actually takes me to get out the house now with a small human, the amount of crap I have to bring with me for a small outing is actually unbelievable. I have a £60 bag, which is essentially the size of a weekend holdall bag, filled to the brim with so much shit, that it won’t zip up, and when strapped to the pram it makes the pram wonky and lean one way. All this crap just in case. Gone are the days of me leaving the house with my keys, phone, purse and perhaps a lip gloss and hair brush in a cute little Michael Kors bag. I don’t even use a handbag anymore.  I don’t need one. It’s not like I have time to put on my new Barry M lip gloss anyway. Plus, even if I did, within 3 minutes 45 seconds William would have smeared his little hand into my lips and subsequently into my hair and I will be basically a walking talking scarecrow with a baby attached to me hanging from my knotted but shiny and glittery hair in Barry M shade 678.

I’m sorry that you can’t pop here after work like we used to do. When we used to get chippy teas or naughty takeaways and sit and watch Corra Norra and laugh about Audrey Robert’s funny noises she makes or swoon over Danny Dyer and talk about all the rude things we’d do to him if we ever had half the chance. The truth is, I don’t even know if Audrey Roberts is still even in Corra Norra anymore, by the time I sit down after putting the baby to bed all the good telly is finished and I’m left with some weird fishing programme or QVC selling me a hoover or overpriced hand cream. The term “bath, bottle, bed” is followed as loosely as possible. It’s more of a “do whichever stops him crying and puts him to sleep” the fastest routine. So I sack it off and go to bed, to wait for the next time the small human beast will wake screaming at the top of his lungs like he is sitting in a pool of his own piss and up to his eyeballs in mustard poo, and hasn’t been fed for 45 days. (Obviously he isn’t any of these things).

I’m sorry as well that when we do meet up, I don’t have anything exciting  to tell you anymore.  No gossip from work.  No funny stories to tell you about how I bumped into so and so we used to go to school/college/on nights out with and she’s looking like God knows what now , or her new fella looks like someone from Shameless. Or how I saw this really cute outfit in New Look that I thought would look amazing on you. Or talk about what the Kardashians are up to this week and oh my God did you see Kim K in Heat magazine..? All I’ve got to talk about now is nappies, how many bottles of milk William has had that day and how many ounces he drinks, and how he cried all morning  and the only thing that would console him was me blowing raspberries on his feet. I’m sorry that this is boring for you. But literally, that’s all I have to say. Because that’s what my day consists of, day in, day out. 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Sleep, Feed, Change, Wind, Cuddle, Clean up, Play, Sing Row Row Row Your Boat, repeat. 100 thousand times over.

I’m sorry that I can’t go with you on that night out. I would of given anything to go out with you, get dressed up in something other than leggings covered in milk and spit, and a t-shirt that smells questionable under the arm pits. I would of loved to have been able to go out without carrying the contents of my house, not worrying about lip gloss being smeared into my hair, and sitting at a table that doesn’t need to have room for a pram. It would of been amazing to drink something other than cold tea, from a clean glass rather than a cup that has been used for over a week and not washed because you just simply haven’t got the time or the energy to stand and do dishes.

The truth is, since becoming a mother I have in fact turned into a bit of a shite friend. And for that I am sorry. But the truth is, I’m not sorry I’ve become a mother. 

Yes, I look back on the times when I could leave the house freely, carry my little bag around in the crook of my arm, smell clean and divine and have washed hair that’s nourished and conditioned and not stuck in some bobble and unbrushed for the 3rd day in a row, and feel a little bit sad. I do miss the life I had, when we could hang out whenever we wanted to, go have a drink willy-nilly and end up getting in at 1am wondering how the hell we managed to end up in a club on a Tuesday night?!

The truth is though i don’t miss the life, I miss you. However, being a mum is my priority now. The nappies, the milk, the gummy smiles and the belly laughs at me tickling under his arms. The 4am cuddles because he’s had a bad dream and only mum cuddles will do. This is the life I’ve got now, and I can’t imagine any different. 

It’s not that I don’t want to see you. It’s just that with all the other crap that’s going on, it’s hard to fit it all in. 

I am a mum. But I am still Tara. It’s just Tara has changed. But she does still love you. And I just wanted to let you know that even though we don’t see each other as often as I’d like or as you would like, I still care. I just can’t do a lot of the things I used to any more. My priority is now this tiny human I pushed out my vagina, and unfortunately all the other stuff has to wait. 

Please be patient with me, this is all new to me and I maybe haven’t got the whole social life-parenting-ratio figured out yet. I’m not doing it on purpose. And I’m certainly not pushing you away. It’s just life has now changed.  I enjoy nothing more than lying in bed staring at a tiny human I made, or singing The Wheels on the Bus to try and make my baby smile while holding a wet wipe over his little you know what so that he doesn’t piss everywhere while I change his nappy for the 50th time that morning.

But please know this. I’m always here, if you ever need me. And again, I’m sorry.

But if you ever need wet wipes, I’m the one you should call. I’ve got thousands of the fuckers upstairs.

T x

Baby, General, Parenting

Hey Roomie!

I thought I’d do this next post BUT I would just like to say that there is no right or wrong way to bring up your child, and this is just MY experience and way I have done things.  Also, please no criticism. Us mums need to stick together! 

So, in case anyone was unfamiliar, the Government has decided and given us guidelines about all aspects on bringing up your children. And the guidelines for sleeping are basically, that they should sleep with you in your room, be it co-sleep, in a crib or moses basket or the sort, until they are 6 months old. This is to minimise the risk of sudden infant death syndrome  (SIDS). 

Well that’s all well and good, but what happens if you want to (or need to) put your baby in their own room earlier? Please note again that I’m not a health care professional nor am I a member of this so-called Government who make these policies up. I’m just a first time mother giving whatever works a go.

So basically, William is 4 months old (19 weeks to be PRECISE) now and he is in his own room, and has been since he was about 11 weeks old. 

Cue the shocked and appalled gasps and people running to their phones to ring  Esther Ranson up at Childline HQ. 

The truth is, it all sort of..happened by accident. That sounds ridiculous. Let me explain.

We have Williams room all set up and it has been since before he was born, you know you do the whole painting and decorating the nursery before they arrive, all excited, only you can’t really do anything because your heavily pregnant and crouching down to paint skirting boards isn’t really an option when your top heavy as you just fall over, the baby squashes into your vital organs and you end up panting and needing someone to help you up, which is a job in itself as your about the same weight as a male walrus with tusks and everything.

Anyway, Williams room is all set up, ready for him to eventually go in there. We have a cot, a changing table/chest of drawers and wardrobe, and a chair so we can feed him in there if we so desired. It was all lovely and tidy and looking like something from a mamas and papas catalogue, shiny and new.

Our bedtime “routine” (I use that word loosely, there is no set time for bedtime, we just work it around when he’s had his “tea time” bottle and take him up a couple of hours after that) consists of us bathing him, and then going into his room to get him dressed and lotioned and potioned up and ready for his last bottle. We used to, when he was first born, take him downstairs to feed him then put him in his moses basket and sit in deathly silence downstairs afraid to make a noise as he is a light sleeper, and risk waking him up. We eventually got sick of this, and I was getting pissed off at trying to lip read Danny Dyers Cockney slang in EastEnders  (its bloody hard that. Plus he’s got a sexy beard thing going on. I don’t really lip read to be honest I just gawp at the fitness. Thank you BBC for employing him)  that we decided to put the moses basket upstairs and get a monitor with a screen so we could keep him upstairs and have some time to ourselves and eat tea etc etc without tiptoeing around like church mice. So I bought a second hand BT monitor from eBay and off we went. 

The only problem was, that William is a little chunk. He was waking up because he kept wriggling up his moses basket and having his head pushed up at the top, it was a very strange position. He obviously moves around a lot in his sleep if he isn’t in his sleepyhead. So me and Norms just used to use that instead, put that on our bed and let him sleep in that as he couldn’t move around, and quite honestly he was so comfy in there he didn’t feel the need to. In case any of you don’t know what a sleepyhead is, it’s basically a massive breathable pillow thing, one pillow is in a U-shape and with a little mattress pillow thing in the middle, and it’s supposed to make them feel safer and like they are being held/in the womb/very comfy cosy. Google them. They are ace. To be honest if they did them in adult sizes I would buy one. 

Anyway, we had been thinking about moving Wills into his own room for a couple of weeks back in December, as he kept waking up all the time in our room. Not for a bottle, for winding, for nappy change or one of the other 100,000,000 things it could possibly be that you have to guess, but because of us. I am a light sleeper and move around the bed a lot when I sleep. Beds creak and make noises. Plus normal human noises, heavy breathing, farting etc etc. Plus there was one other major factor. Well I say factor. I mean thing.  The wild bush pig next to me, aka my husband. He snores like I DON’T KNOW WHAT. Seriously. It’s like having Pumba from the lion king next to me, I’m half expecting him to burst into a verse of Hakuna Matata any minute. He is SO. LOUD. And it was waking the little guy up. So we had been discussing it and what we were going to do and how we were going to do it. 

It just so happened that one night, it was my turn to bath and put William to bed, so we did the bath time  (my favourite time of the day, William is so cute in the bath) and I slathered him in all his lovely smelling Potions and decided I would feed him in his room, as he was getting aggy and wanted his milk RIGHT THERE AND NOW and couldn’t possibly wait a millisecond later (its as if they’ve never been fed – cue the calls to Esther again – this time probably from the neighbours the way William screams the bloody place down). So I sat in the chair and gave him his baby crack (milk) and then it hit me. Like, really bad.

I really, really needed a wee. Like, really. You know when you need a wee so much it hurts your insides and one sudden unplanned movement could cause a flood. Yeah, one of those. And since having the milk machine my pelvic floors aren’t what they used to be. I mean, I can hold my wee, but not for as long as I used to be able to. I remember once I held a wee in all the way from York area to Manchester on the train while on a hen do, and carried on drinking, because the toilets were out of order. I ran off that train like Usain Bolt, and left the other girls behind. It was a close shave let me tell you that. Anyways.

So there i was, my little babe literally in arms, he had just fallen into his milky sleep and I so so desperately needed a piss. Shit! I thought to myself. I remembered I hadn’t got the moses basket ready before bath time and the sleepyhead for some reason was in his cot, (I think we put it in there to keep it out the way) and I didn’t have enough hands to move it without waking him up. I needed to make a decision and it needed to be a fast one. Before I covered my little 11 week old baby in piss. This was not a drill.

So I just did it. I placed him in his little sleepyhead that was in his cot, covered him with a blanket and dashed out to the loo. It was one of the best wee’s I have ever had. When I was finished I crept back into Williams room, convinced he would have woken up as he wasn’t in his usual surroundings and I had quite literally just plonked him in. But alas, no. He was still asleep. So I got the monitor and set that up on the side of the cot, and decided to see how it went. 

I went downstairs to hubby and asked him if he thought I had done the right thing, should I go get him out, is it too soon? He just sort of grunted something about seeing how it went, probably engrossed in some shitty police interceptors programme, so I sat and watched the monitor as if it was telly and Danny Dyer was on it topless. But I didn’t need to. That night, William slept 7 hours straight.

SEVEN. 

WHAT. THE. FUCK. 

I went to check on him probably a million times, to make sure he was breathing and hadn’t slipped into some sort of coma, but everytime he was fine. 

He obviously needed the quiet and darkness, and probably thats the reason. When he woke he was like a different  baby. A baby who had caught up with their sleep. He was all smiles and giggles and just generally happier. So we tried again for the next few nights, and he did the same. Maybe not for as long, but he certainly slept longer and better than he was doing in his moses basket or his sleepyhead on the floor in our room. So we never looked back. This is just how we did it, like I say, totally by fluke and because my bladder was about to burst. Some people may have put their children in their own room earlier, and some may not want them to leave their room ever and thats fine. This was just our experience. Now this isnt to say that William sleeps brilliantly every night. He still has his nights where he wont settle, and he just wants cuddling and being on somebody, or he will wake up 45 times in the night and it will generally be horrendous. But thats what babies do. They are crafty. They trick you into thinking that you have won the battle, when really they have already won the war. Sometimes William still sleeps with me for a couple of hours in the morning, because lets be honest, a couple of hours of precious uninterrupted sleep is better than getting up every 5 minutes to put a bloody dummy back in or give them a rock and a “ssh”. 

One thing I wasnt prepared for though was how MY decision about MY child would cause a Health Visitor to be quite rude, really. Now if your reading this and you’re a Health Visitor, dont worry, i’m not slamming you all and saying you are all in some kind of evil witches cult sat there around a cauldron. But this PARTICULAR Health Visitor was a bit shitty really, and she made me feel like a bad mother for making the decision to put William in his own room when we did.

Basically, I take William to one of my local health centres to get weighed every Tuesday, one of my best friends works there and its a good excuse to get out the house and I also get to catch up with her while I wait to be seen. Well this one time, I STUPIDLY mentioned when the Health Visitor asked about how William was sleeping, that he was in his own room. I was met with a right salty look. Literally you could of seasoned about 70 portions of fries with the amount of salt that was in that look. Then came the questions. In the obligatury sarcastic and patronising tone;

“Why is he in his own room? Can I ask what made you decide to do that? What is he sleeping in? What’s in the cot with him? There aren’t any toys are there? You do know the Government guidelines say 6 months? Do you realise he could suffocate? You really should all still be in the same room. What exactly is a sleepyhead? Is it safe for sleeping? He could put his face in the sides and suffocate, we’ve had babies die by being in their own rooms too early. It really should be 6 months…”

She trailed off when she was met with my returning salty look and heavy sigh. She just basically (or so I felt) accused me of just being a bad mother. How DARE she? I had actually made the decision based on the fact of what I thought what right for him – considering he is, funnily enough, MY CHILD. I then answered all her sarcastic condescending questions, about how he is too big for his moses basket, his neck was getting bent by him moving up and around in the basket, the snoring, we have a monitor and watch him, explained what a sleepyhead was, and that he cant suffocate because he is in a sleeping bag and cant actually roll over yet, and that the sleepyhead is actually completely breathable, and yes its safe for sleeping as the clue was in the name (????). She just sort of looked at me with this patronising look in her eyes, as if she wasnt believing anything i was saying, and that I was the world’s worst mother and Satan should come and take me away in his fiery carriage and William should be blessed with holy water to rid him of my cardinal sin. And then proceeded to tell me AGAIN that the Government recommended babies stay with their parents until they are 6 months old. I answered with “Well the government aren’t in my house day after day and don’t know my baby, do they?” And then I just kept quiet, didnt say anything else. I think she got thr hint i was pissed off, and promptly shut her trap and started to write down in Williams red book how much he weighed. The air was very tense, literally you could of cut it with a knife. I politely said goodbye and turned on my heel, going to my friend and telling her what a bitch the health visitor was. Inside I was seething. I’m sure she was just doing her job, trying to give me some helpful advice, yet the way it came across was not in that way. I think sometimes Health Visitors can come across as a bit patronising , some of them are old school, and sometimes the way that you possibly do things may not be the way that either they would do it, or the way the “Government” (whoever these people are who think up these rules are) would recommend. I think they mean well, obviously, however sometimes the way that it comes across is sometimes a bit demeaning and can make you feel a bit shit. So from now on, I just tell them what they need to know, and that’s the way I choose to deal with that.

The point of this post was just to share an experience, and also just to say, that whatever decision you make for your child, you are the only one who can make it, your the only one who knows your baby inside out, so don’t ever be made to feel bad for a decision you have made. Because lets face it, no one really knows what the fuck they are doing. We’re all just winging it day to day, getting into bed on a night and wondering how the fuck we managed to get through another day without anything monumentally going tits up.