Baby product reviews – nappies, wipes, cups and potties.

I’m three kids in so I feel like now might be an acceptable time to review a few baby, toddler and children’s products and even a few parents’ products. I’m a disabled mum of three, ages 6.5, 4 and 1 years old.

I’ll start with nappies as I’m pretty sure most mums and dads will have come across one every now and then with having a baby. My favourite nappies by far are Aldi Mamia nappies. At the moment my 13-month-old son is in size 5 (although he can also fit in a 4+), and you can currently get a pack of 40 nappies for £2.99. For the equivalent of a leading brand, you should expect to pay more than double. You might think ‘well lower cost = lower quality’, but no. I find Mamia nappies are perfectly soft and comfortable, hold their structure well with minimal sagging after 1 wee. They have good coverage to hold in most normal poo episodes (poopisodes) – I say ‘normal’ because there are some poo explosions that just won’t be contained by a nappy. Never underestimate the force with which a small child can fire their own poo up their back whilst sat down. Mamia nappies are pleasantly decorated, with an array of jungle animals. To be honest none of my three children have ever paid much attention to pictures on nappies, but maybe that’s just them. They last a good 12 or more hours of night-time weeing, without leaking and don’t create a strong chemical smell when they’re very wet. According to Aldi, they are extra soft, breathable, hypo-allergenic and dermatologically tested, and are regularly tested for effectiveness against the leading brand. They are comfy, work really well and don’t cost much. Therefore they’re winners in my book. A book which doesn’t physically exist.

Mamia Ultra Dry Nappies Size 5

Wipes – I probably think about wipes a bit more than is necessary even for a mum with three kids, but I feel it tug right at my heartstrings when they start putting FEWER WIPES PER PACK! Why? A while ago, pretty much all supermarket wipes had 80 per pack, and cost just under £1 for a pack, or £3 something for a pack of 4 – stay with me folks – leading brand wipes had less, either 72 or 64, and then some had 56. That is 24 less wipes than what I would call a normal amount of wipes per pack. I really think too much about this. Anyway, now most supermarket brands have 64 wipes per pack, and then Asda’s Little Angels range started producing an ‘extra large’ pack, with 80 wipes, like it was a new thing to sell 80 wipes per pack. I wish they would just pick a number closer to 100 and stick with it, then we wouldn’t have to keep opening new plastic wipes packing every few days, and maybe each pack would last longer.

Favourite wipes – again the prize for my favourite wipes currently goes to Aldi Mamia wipes. Granted they have only 64 wipes per pack, but they are a good price, currently only 55p per pack, or £2.09 for a 4 pack. They are a nice soft texture, don’t rip when you take them out of the pack which is convenient although as far as I know, a wipe that rips means it’s probably made from renewable/recycled natural fibres like tissues are, and therefore better for the environment than a woven ‘cloth-like’ wipe. But I’m only a mum guessing, I may be wrong! They have a closing plastic lid, meaning the wipes shouldn’t dry out, although personally as my hands don’t work very well, I find these more difficult. The sensitive unfragranced wipes are what we usually get but the fragranced packs are also good for when it comes to cleaning hands, or wiping sick off your top in desperation as it masks the aroma a little!

Mamia Sensitive Baby Wipes 64 Pack

Drinking cups – I think over the last few years we may have bought almost every cup going – valved, free-flow, non-spill, straw, 360… my partner thinks I’m slightly crazy as I can’t resist a new cup. They are so pretty! But at the moment I am liking the Nuby 360 cup as it’s pretty much non-spill, and encourages drinking from the edge of the cup. So it makes for a good transition to drinking out of an open cup.

360 Mini No Spill Cup 240ml (4-12m) RED/ROCKET

I have also always been a fan of the standard Tommee Tippee free-flow cup which is great for all ages even young babies of 4-6 months. It’s free-flow so babies might get a bit of a shock when the water flows quite freely into their mouth but it teaches them to moderate the flow themselves. This is a good cup for babies who might struggle to suck out of a valved cup. It’s also a very good value cup, generally found for less than £2 in a choice of colours. #parenton

First sippee cup blue 1 count

Potties – when it comes to toilet training, nothing is more exciting than choosing your first potty. For the child I mean, for the child, not me, I don’t find it exciting at all. Much. We have had a few over the years but the one I’ve preferred and which has worked best for our middle child (when we got it) was a potty like this – ours was unbranded from Tesco  and is just plain pink, but has the same ‘steady’ design and looks comfier than the others we have had. It has grippy feet so won’t slide out of the way as your child goes to squat down on it (disastrous), has a broad seat so it doesn’t dig into the backs of their little legs and a high back so they are a bit more supported as they sit. I’m sure our boy will use it even though it is pink and that will mean he will turn gay, but nevermind.* This potty only cost around £5 and does a perfectly good job of being a potty. It doesn’t sing songs or have a heated seat but our daughter seemed to survive the ordeal of sitting on it.

In my next reviews I will be focusing on clothes and shoes for children!

*Please be assured I am joking.

Twitter @shopgirlygm

Instagram @lizzybuntonvlogs

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I won!

I love sport.

There’s something you wouldn’t have expected me to start with. But I do. Well, some sports anyway. I am a great lover of Wimbledon tennis in the summer and I adore watching gymnastics, diving, swimming and athletics. I used to do gymnastics growing up from ages 6-12 and I also dabbled in wheelchair tennis in secondary school (it was hard to progress from dabbling when you are pretty much the only wheelchair user in a school in a small Cornish village).

But nevertheless, I think I would love to have nurtured some kind of sporting skill if my body had given me the chance, and the working nervous system that is quite fundamental to sporting victory.

But at age almost-31 I have just had my first major sporting success. The annual tournament is a family affair, previously revolving around a golf match (is it a match?) which took place at unsociably early hours on Sunday morning of the bank holiday weekend in August, and the women and children of the family occupied themselves with other activities for the day, such as making sandwiches and changing nappies until we all met up again when the golf was over and we’d have a big buffet-style tea in the garden of the previous year’s winner.

It is always lovely to see all the family in one place, and to try and remind myself of all the names of the great aunts, uncles, cousins removed, cousins’ children and second cousins etc (seriously, Great Granny, how on earth did you cope with six kids) and in recent years the sport has changed to a version of bowls (there are flags and string points markers involved but I don’t know what the actual name is. It just takes place on a bowling green with bowls balls so it seems appropriate to refer to it as bowls). Pretty much everyone in the family now gets involved, we are split into teams and play around the 8-flag course twice. Some members of the family already play bowls and so have an idea of how to throw the balls – they aren’t actually spherical and one side is weighted making it want to veer off to one side – but there is a handicap system in place allowing even novice players to be in with a chance of winning if they score highly enough.

But even with the handicap available, it still would not be a level playing field for me (insert bowling green pun here).

I have no muscle whatsoever in my hands and lower arms, any strength I do have has to come from my upper body, and the only way I can hold a ball is by relying on the tendon resistance in the extension in my wrists/hands (pictures to follow!). Even still, standard bowls are too heavy for me to lift let alone lob into the air (I mean, roll gracefully), so I play using two jacks, which are slightly smaller meaning my child-sized floppy hands can just about lift them. But even with this allowance, I would not be able to get the ball anywhere near the desired region due to my lack of strength, so I position myself about half way towards the post. Only then can I attempt to actually use some skill to get the balls as close to the post as I can, which is exactly what everyone else is trying to do.

I’m pretty sure my spacial awareness is slightly more ‘well-practiced’, than the average mum who doesn’t partake in a particular sport, simply because I have to use spatial awareness all day -steering an electric wheelchair through narrow doorways, or pushing a manual wheelchair amongst a room of small children and Duplo and trying not to break either. Also if I am trying to pick up a small item it takes a lot more concentration to persuade my hands into getting to the right place in order for something to hopefully fall perfectly and conveniently into my hands just so I can put moisturiser on my face, for example.

Well anyway, I am rambling. Cut a long story short, I won.

The family tournament which is in its 23rd year and is really a much-loved family tradition and something I hope my own children will still attend after I’m gone, I won. I scored 86 even without the handicap added, which I am most proud of. The coveted prize is my maternal Great Granny’s wooden walking stick which has been decorated with the winners’ names engraved on little silver shields since 1995 after Great Granny died.

We met at my Gran’s cousin’s house for a BBQ, feast, drinks and of course the awards ceremony. I knew I had scored quite well whilst we were playing but of course, I didn’t know others’ scores so when they announced my name as the ladies’ winner and overall winner it was a bit surreal. My first thought was “Oh shit. I’m going to have to make a speech”, and I hate talking to groups of people, and even more so when it involves speaking about myself. I’d much rather address the masses via computer keyboard where no one can hear my annoyingly quiet voice and see my awkward face. I sat for a few moments cleverly diverting attention to the kids who were playing with my prizes, all the while thinking “I’ve got to say something. They’re expecting me to say something. I want to leave now.”, but I managed a short, muddled and awkward little speech where most of what I said was trying to excuse my winning, and get across that I wouldn’t have had a chance against everyone else if I hadn’t been allowed use smaller balls and start closer to each post. Everyone clapped and congratulated me, my Gran’s youngest brother who organises a lot of it, seemed genuinely pleased that I’d finally won, after being close a few years ago. I worried some of the family might think I hadn’t really won, fair and or square but everyone seemed pleased. Tom was especially proud as was my mum who wasn’t there this year.

But most importantly, I won Granny’s Stick before my big brother.

@shopgirlygm

No, she is not a child carer

Yesterday, I had to take my 6 year-old daughter to A&E because she had hit her head at school and cut it open. On the phone to the school receptionist I was told they’d called an ambulance because her behaviour had changed and she was very pale. I panicked, and left work as quick as I could, bursting into tears as I went down in the lift. What exactly did they mean when they said she had a cut to her head?

I got to the school ten minutes later, about 30 mins after she’d hurt herself.  She was very quiet and pale looking, and didn’t want to talk much. A teaching assistant was stood outside waiting for the paramedics to arrive, except nobody arrived, and instead the ambulance control centre rang my number an hour later, to triage her over the phone, wanting to speak to Amélie herself as well. She didn’t want to talk to the stranger on the phone, and he asked me more questions, then decided she didn’t need someone to come out to her and that we should take her to hospital instead. Quite why they couldn’t have let us know that an hour before, I don’t know. Anyway, we got to A&E and were seen by a triage nurse relatively quickly, and then by the doctor after another wait. But it was a nurse practitioner who saw my daughter after the intitial consultation by the doctor, who said something which frustrated me. I had been quite relaxed after getting Amélie to hospital and knowing she was in good hands and we knew what was going to happen. But the nurse practitioner asked Amélie a few questions just to check she could remember things ok and she was otherwise well after the head-bashing. One of her questions was about at home, and whether she  ‘helped look after Mummy’.

I see. So we went from ‘aww poor girl, she has cut her head open, let’s make her better’ – to ‘aww poor girl, she has cut her head open AND she MUST be a young carer as well, brave little thing’. She asked me if Amélie was a young carer to which I replied ‘no, she’s not’, and she said ‘no but I’m sure she has some caring resposibilities to help you, do the school know, are they aware she is a young carer?’, and so on. She told me it might be good, for Amélie, if the school were aware she might need to help me sometimes.

SHE IS NOT A YOUNG CARER! She is a 6-year-old little girl who happens to have a mum who’s in a wheelchair. The school know me well enough, and they also know I have a very caring and supportive partner who works full-time, and I have a PA who, surprisingly, fulfills the role of ‘helping Mummy’ when I’m not with my partner. My PA was sat right next to me at this point. My daughter doesn’t need to look after me.  I look after her.

Yes, she is able to fetch things for me and she can grab her baby brother out of the bathroom when he’s gone to explore the toilet, but as far as I’m concerned that does not constitute a young carer, who needs keeping an eye on to check she’s managing her complicated life okay.

If I wasn’t a wheelchair user, I’d still get my kids to fetch the baby wipes when I can’t grab them, or to run and close the stairgate when their brother is about to venture upstairs, and they are nearer than we are. I know able-bodied bodied parents that are lazier than us!

It makes sense to get kids to be helpful in their day-to-day life, and know that it’s just a nice thing to do. I hope they are helpful to their friends and teachers alike. My kids are pretty independent too, possibly because I can’t do everything for them that most mums can and  although daddy takes care of most of the physical side of childcare when he’s not working, I think they’ve learned useful tasks earlier than most kids would happen to. Amélie makes cereal for her and her sister, she can make drinks and loves that she can make her own sandwiches when she wants to. She has even taken to flying unaccompanied to Spain for a weekend get-away once a month in a rented villa she found, whilst backpacking in her gap year between nursery and primary school. She really needs the respite from taking care of her entire family.

Of course I’m joking, but on a serious note she does not need to be my carer. Young carers are amazing, and what they do for their mums, dads and siblings should never be taken for granted. And indeed, they might need someone to check-in with them every now and then to make sure things are working and that they have time for themselves. But I have my own PA, so that won’t need to be the case with our children. They’re just regular children and until I’m old and losing it, they can have their childhood.

I think the nurse practitioner may have realised that she’d gone a bit too far with her assumptions, as before Amélie had her head stitched up, she came and sat next to me and asked about my ‘medical history’  (like every parent in A&E with their child gets asked, right?!) and said that it was great that I just got on with life and that I wasn’t really disabled as I don’t let it affect me. She clearly hasn’t read this blog!

@shopgirlygm

facebook.com/haveyoutriedwalkinglately 

10 Signs You Love Parenting 

Disclaimer: please read 10 things you can’t stand about parenting’ if you’re not in a positive parenting place right now, like me most mornings. That fluffy focus-on-the-good parenting stuff needs balancing out a bit.

 

1. Spending ridiculous amounts of time just looking at your baby/child. You know their every detail to the extreme, and of course they are the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. You often feel smug when you look at people who aren’t your child’s parent (so pretty much everyone else except your partner) and gloat inwardly that they don’t get to look at your child every day. You regularly feel the urge to ferociously approach strangers crying “look at her face, she is beautiful!” because, they didn’t seem to be paying much attention.

2. Feeling that aching proud feeling in your chest when they’re so scared to swim in the swimming gala but they do it eventually. Even though they came last, they did it. All the other kids were probably doping anyway.

3. Watching your kids hug each other. It’s quite a skill to have made a little pack of humans whom you hope will confide in each other when they’re bigger and always have a friend who knows them so well. This morning I overheard my two eldest discussing how they liked ‘their baby [brother]’.

4. Wanting to bottle the smell of your baby’s head. I know it’s a cliché but if one of my kids is sat on my lap it’s quite likely that I’ll have my nose in their head (that sounds normal), which is fine until they notice and tell you to stop sniffing them.

5. Loving the power that the iPad or sweet foods has over other humans. I am God. You can make them tidy anything with the promise of an ice lolly.

6. When their favourite song goes from ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’ to something over 20 seconds long and becomes ‘Paranoid Android’ by Radiohead, like my 6 year old daughter (which Daddy is very proud of).

7. Watching them learn to read, or write their own name. The months of choosing their name suddenly becomes a lot more serious. (May have set the bar quite high for our daughter Geneviève, poor kid.)

8. Sitting on the floor and having your baby crawl over to you and rest their head on your thigh. Loving that you’re what they want right now, not a brightly coloured, obnoxiously noisy toy in the corner.

9. Spending weekends watching them run around in the sun and play in trees, or even just giggle at cartoons. This is their childhood. Remembering what you remember from your childhood and realising that this is that, for them, right now. Wanting to make it brilliant.

10. Having made some freshly squeezed brand new people that are largely part of you, but are also separate beings and wanting them to be a bit like you, but also have a better life than you. You know they will probably make the world a tiny bit better.

 @shopgirlygm

10 Things You Can’t Stand About Parenting 

Disclaimer: read ’10 signs you love parenting’ for if you need to be reminded that you do love it really.
1. When someone misidentifies the gender of your baby. You may like to think you’re quite a liberal parent and want to buy your girl a red truck for her birthday, saying ‘fuck you’ to gender stereotypes, but it’s still a little infuriating when your dainty little girl dressed in a blue dress and flowery sunhat gets told she is a handsome young man.

2. Mornings when you feel your stomach acid start to bubble up due to the rage caused by the amount of times you have to tell your daughter to not just stand there in yesterday’s pants for a further 23 minutes, but actually make movements – any freaking movements at all – to get some additional kind of clothing on. And also, when you ask what on Earth they’ve been doing for the last half an hour they seem to have no recollection of their activities. Astonishing. Like it’s been erased from their memory. Which reminds me…

3. Sometimes, they remember everything. Apart from important stuff. But they do somehow remember that last week you promised them they could have packed lunch at the end of this week, and now it is Friday, 8:27am and you now have an obligation to rustle up a nutritious picnic for the clever little thing.

4. You want to be a fly-on-the-wall at school lunch time and have the power to poke other kids when they say something mean to yours. You hate the idea that your daughter is sad and you’re not there.

5. Dressing babies. Due to my disability I can’t do this myself but I’m usually the one trying to pin said baby down while others try to insert him into trousers. They should use this activity to torture prisoners – see how long they last with a baby (okay maybe just a doll) who, just when you’re getting leg #2 into place, they retract leg #1. Leg #2 then becomes leg #1 and the ordeal is repeated about ten times. It’s the same with sleeves and shoes. You all end up screaming and you put your son in a dress and be done with it.

6. They do not want you to sleep. Babies are arseholes during the night and that’s all I have to say on the situation.

7. When you’re supposed to cook something nutritious to fuel their growing bodies but you’ve just got home and it’s 6pm – fridge tapas will have to do. You boil up some pasta, add cheese and a bit of sandwich pickle, some sliced up cold sausage from the weekend BBQ, and throw in some frozen mixed veg to pretend it’s healthy. They don’t eat it, and instead have some questionable yoghurt from the back of the fridge for dinner. If they get the runs it’s their own fault.

8. Meltdowns which occur outside the home. Nothing screams “look how shit I am at parenting!” than when your child decides to lie down on the floor in the frozen section in Morrisons. You’re a mum in a wheelchair and the verbal attempts to get your child to stand up are not working. Then the Parent Samaritans rock up and offer help and you just want to scream “You can fuck off too. Leave me alone.” in their face. You’d quite like to just ignore your child and leave them to their tantrum as you might at home, but unfortunately it is frowned upon in the public arena.

9. Morning wake-up calls before 7am when you’re not getting up early to go on holiday. I love that my kids want to snuggle in bed next to me in the mornings but when they are 3 and 6 years old, it is 5.48am and within 3 minutes they are arguing about not having enough space or any covers, you regularly scream “it is MY bed, it’s not even 6 o’clock, bugger off”. You load YouTube on your phone and some sickly sweet video of some girls unwrapping Frozen-themed Kinder Eggs, and send them on their way. You’ll deal with the post-YouTube comedown later on.

10. After all the other trivial, albeit shitty stuff that happens day-to-day as a parent, you have the overwhelming sense of disappointment that you can’t give them everything you want to. You can’t promise the world will be nice to them always and you can’t promise nothing bad will happen, and that sucks.*

*Although you can help them to be strong, loving and open-minded people, and that might help with those things.

@shopgirlygm

The morning routine with three kids

I sit leaning over the sink with a mouthful of white foam shouting “HEEF HIME!!!” as loud as I can whilst trying not to spray toothpaste everywhere.  The children do not respond to such demands. It is playing time, not heef hime. Brushing their teeth is really not important right now, they have still got to dress Supergirl, even though she wears the same fucking outfit every day and she’s only just been undressed.

“HEEF HIME…HAN ANYONE HEAR NE?” That’ll be a no then. I spit out the remaining toothfoam and shout even louder, well as loud as I can with my croaky morning voice. “HELLOOO? WOULD ANYONE LIKE A BISCUIT?”

“ME!! I WANT A BISCUIT!” come the stereo replies as they elephant up the stairs still without shoes or socks on, despite having been downstairs to finish getting ready for a whole 9 minutes.

“So you can hear me! I am pleased! You’re not having a biscuit though, I was just checking your ears worked properly, which I have concluded they do, so here you are. Now brush.”

Two faces look at me like I’ve just cancelled Christmas, and I feel smug. I win. They do not. The older child then finishes brushing her teeth and goes for a lie down on my bed. That’s normal isn’t it. I finish brushing the younger one’s teeth and wheel into our bedroom to see the 6 year-old looking rather relaxed amongst the unmade bed, and I feel it is necessary to question her whereabouts.

“Why on Earth are you lying down in here? Are you finished getting ready? Have you found your shoes from the depths of the shoeboxfromhell? [They are actually on her bedroom floor in clear view of the doorway from where I saw them, but I want her to discover this for herself] You haven’t even got any socks on. Then you need to brush your hair.”

The younger child then feels the urge to perform her ritualistic hand-grabbing involving her baby brother who is crawling around in their bedroom, unaware although, really fully aware that doing so will mean he falls on his face.

“LEAVE him alone please. If he’s crawling you can’t just grab his hands, how many times do I need to tell you that nugget of information?”

“Ohhhwa. Don’t want to.”

“‘Don’t want to’ what? I haven’t offered you anything, I have told you to leave him alone or he’ll get hurt. You really need to go and find some shoes now.”

Younger child then seems to melt into the bedroom floor, flailing about like beached octopus, ensuring her feet go very close to her brother’s face, enough for him to try and eat her toes, at which point she shouts-

“NOOO, GET OFF MEEEYUH”

You’re on him! You get off, just stand up and he won’t be able to eat your feet and then you will be able to choose yourself some shoes, that’s handy isn’t it.”

I sit near the door frame incase I need to bang my head against it. Older child is standing next to her shoes and does not know where they are.

“Look down.”

Child looks down to discover the elusive shoes that have been there for over 12 hours, and then grins at me with an alluring coyness that I do not find cute.

We eventually make it downstairs, ten minutes later than would be helpful and the sloth-like children have yet to choose a coat. The younger chid has decided to drape herself over the shoe box, definitely sure that she cannot find her other purple shoe. I wheel past her and glance into the shoe box and sure enough, the shoe is literally under her hand. Well no wonder she couldn’t see it, her hand had blocked it out from all vision and discovery. Understandable.

“It is right there. I can see it. Under your hand. Lift your hand up. The other hand. *Oh for fuck’s sake* The OTHER hand, you only have two. See, now put it on.”

“Why do I have to?” she ponders, at least I think that is what she says. It’s hard to tell what a 3-year-old is saying when her face is squished against the shoe box and the moaning tone of voice would seem like I’ve asked her to complete a 1000 piece baked-bean jigsaw puzzle.

“No no you’re right, you can of course go to nursery with one shoe on.”

“Don’t want toooo”

Mummy gives up, and plans a mental timetable by which she will have consumed the children’s Easter egg chocolate before the day is out. They’ve brought it on themselves.

Follow me on Twitter @shopgirlygm and Facebook.

Being Mum: Rehearsal In Progress

img_3938-1.jpg

It’s Mother’s Day in the UK today, and there’s lots I could talk about when it comes to being a mother.

I have three kids, ranging in age from 6 years to 7 months, with  3-year-old in the middle. When I was first pregnant with child #1, it was exillerating, exciting, scary, and new. Nothing had been experienced before except through observing other pregnant people around me, but nothing was to prepare me for what was really to come. Six and a bit years on, I’m still pretty much winging it at times, with the occasional moment of knowing what I’m doing.

With my eldest when she was a baby, I worried about everything – whether she had fed enough, whether she was putting on weight quickly as she was a tiny baby, whether I was doing the right thing by feeding her and putting her down, and letting her cry – because she’d fed and her nappy was fine so what else could she need at 2am apart from sleep? She surely had to understand as early as possible that cuddles and attention in the dark hours was not going to happen. Some people I spoke to agreed, and had similar sleep routines, and some had different opinions on how much attention a baby needs after feeding and changing had been sorted. I was pretty sure we were doing it right, although it was nightmarish at times and we were both shattered. But when we considered the alternative – co-sleeping or something similar and in the attachment aisle of the parenting shop. We got though the baby stage and came out the other end with a baby who slept quite reasonably by the middle of her second year of life and we had our nights back.

Then we had the sensible idea to bring another screaming human science project into our house. ‘We know what we’re doing….maybe’, we both thought at times, and we often heard people say something like ‘oh you must know what you’re doing if this is your second baby!’ Nor necessarily true but I could kind of see where they were coming from. With the second baby some things are very familiar, and some things come back quite easily like breastfeeding, which my second daughter took to like a baby to a boob, with no issues whatsoever as opposed to the first time around where I stressed more than anyone needs to, over getting her to latch on properly, being scared by hospital staff that she’d need ‘topping-up’ with formula in ber first few hours of life as she had not had many long feeds from me. Nowadays I know that that particular bit of advice was unnecessary and I needen’t have worried about her not feeding enough right from the word ‘go’. Of course babies need to feed, and to increase their blood sugar, but considering that their stomach at birth is literally the size of a small marble, there really was no need for me to cry over the fact that she hadn’t guzzled all 2oz of formula after a 5 minute feed from me, only for her to throw it all up everyhwere after. I probably would have too if I’d been made to drink about 5 x the volume of my stomach in one sitting. So with daughter 2.0 this part of parenting was a lot less stressful. Don’t get me wrong, the times they throw up an entire boob of milk before bed when they’re bigger, is definitely a pain in the neck, and there were many rimes when I’d worry that she had not eaten enough, and slept too much, but for the most part, a lot more successful.

With daughter #2, I was also a bit more easy going when it came to sleep. I’d still want her back in her own bed after most feeds because it is my bed and I am selfish – but in the very early days and for the odd night thereafter if she spent most of the night in our bed, co-sleeping as they call it, then that was that. She’s 3 now and has been in her own bed sleeping perfectly normally for at least 2 years, only stopping our bedtime feed at 2.5. I knew we had approached sleep better this time around, but I do have a lingering guilt that in fact with our eldest daughter, she was not sleeping at all badly – she was a baby and babies wake and need a cuddle. The problem really was that we had been conditioned to believe that from a few weeks old babies should be able to sleep solidly. Complete rubbish.

Now I’m on child 3, this time of the male variety and pretty much every situation is sprinkled with a generous layer of salt, rathet than a pinch. He spends the first 2-3 hours in his cot and then camps next ro me with my boob in his face for the remaining 6-7 hours. We both sleep better than if he was going back into his cot after every feed, there is minimal night hour crying and despite my bedsheets smelling more sicky than I’d like, it works for now and I know that he will sleep just as well as his sisters in the next year or so. So whilst the reality at the moment is that I share my bed with a sweaty 20lb boy most of the night, with his Daddy the other side of me, I know that reality changes very often and soon it won’t be like that.

Six years on from my parenting birthday, I have come to realise that children are extremely cute as babies, even when they grin at you with your nipple clamped between their gums. They are cute at times over the next few years, interspersed with moments when they might behave like a complete A-hole, but also have the capability to make you feel more proud than you thought was biologically possible, like when you leave them at their school on the first day of term.

How on Earth did we make it this far? I cannot for the life of me keep a house-plant alive, and I even managed to mess up growing my daughter’s pumpkin seeds that she won in school – but somehow, between me and my partner, we have managed to grow three complete children. They’re exceptionally good looking, fantastically irritating at times, but they’re ours, and we grew them.

We are not by any stretch of the imagination experts in raising babies despite having three insisting that they live in our house. Each and every day I have moments where I shout at them to get their shoes on instead of routing through the bag of never-played-with tat destined for the charity shop and I think to myself ‘shit, that was harsh, I’m really crap at this today’, or times when all I want to do is watch a BBC drama containing strong language througout, and these two girls just sit there on the sofa looking at me like ‘wtf are we going to enjoy about this?’ and I have to consider what is more important – my anticipation of finding out who killed Kay in ‘The Replacement’ or my darling children’s quality time with Mummy? Of course, it was spending precious moments drawing stickmen with the girls and laughing at their farts – that is until I got bored and tasked them with sorting out the shoe box so I could finally watch the last 3 minutes of this crime-drama really quietly and sat ridiculously close to the TV so the children didn’t start repeating obsceneties.

I’m not sure if I’m done having babies, if we might like to add another in a few years. Either way, the baby stage take:3 is rapidly reaching the end of the first year and whilst a relief, it is also tragic and sad that there will be a time when he has his last feed from me, and one day he too will no longer need to ride on Mummy’s wheelchair because he’s tired of walking. I’m enjoying being a mum, even if I don’t always feel like a mum when I can’t do something for them, and even if I have a habit of spending the first few months after habing a baby being a miserable slug. I know now that that is ok, and every othe mum should know that too.

You are allowed to be a miserable slug, shout at your kids ‘KEEP YOUR TEETH TOGETHER FOR CRYING OUT LOUD’ when brushing their teeth, and feed them hot cross buns and popcorn and claim it as a reasonable dinner. You are shattered, look like crap and lose the will to live every hour pretty much. But you are their mum and they won’t remember all this rubbish stuff. They’ll remember you reading them ‘What The Ladybird Heard’ without even needing to see the book because you are a seasoned pro, and they’ll remember getting into bed with you in the morning because you are the perfect bookend to their wake and sleep routine.

They probably won’t remember the times you measured their height and weight, and wiped away their snot for a photo so they’d sell quicker on eBay.

HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY.

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