Being Mum: Rehearsal In Progress


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.




Three’s a crowd 

You may remember from my last blog post that I was slightly disgruntled when asked when my non-existent baby was due. The funny thing is… I am now pregnant. The power of words, eh?!

We found out this little nugget of surprise just before Christmas and then spent the next few weeks planning our announcement strategy, out of the worry that people would think we were mildly, to completely nuts for having a third child. I am aware that having any child is completely the decision of the mum and dad-to-be in question, but the problem with being a disabled parent (a mum in my case) is that it starts to feel like your decision becomes part of everybody else’s business, and you worry more about their opinions before you think about what you might like your family structure to look like as parents. 

We knew our own parents, and extended family, would be more than happy to see another grandchild brought into the world, despite the usual concerns any parent has when their child has a baby. It is the thoughts, judgements and opinions of acquaintances and other such folk that I tend to dwell on. 

Being a disabled mum and having even just one child is a lot for some people to comprehend. Two children is just astonishing, and three – well – that’s just biblical. How can I possibly parent three children? I’ll tell you how, but most of the day to day stresses of having a third child I can imagine, will be largely the same as any other mum and dad face. The difference with our family is that the balance between parental duties isn’t quite what everyone else expects when they become a mum and dad. There are no lonely night feeds where the other half lays comfortably snoozing while you’re sat up wrestling with a seriously angry baby, who is really just quite a selfish individual, concerned only with the whereabouts of the other breast. We spend the awake times in the dark quiet hours together, and it has to be that way because of me. The things I worry about when it comes to having a third baby will be the same as when I had my first two children. 

 I have wrestled with hating myself for not being able to do the mum-things that anyone else can, not that I can help it. But if I hadn’t found someone like Tom whom sticks with me and just gets on with what needs to be done, then I’d never be able to have children at all.  I cannot do it by myself. It’s as simple as that. But if you judge us a parenting unit, then we cope just as the next family with two or three kids does. Sometimes we want to bury our heads in our pillows and scream about the unnecessary drama over Shreddies and Cheerios, or the recent toddler wee that needs clearing up off the kitchen floor, but show me a parent that doesn’t! Sometimes we look at our two girls and say to each other how awesome they are and in my head I then can’t help but think… We did that. We made them, and have coped pretty well so far.  I chose a Tom and he chose me and the two of us chose to have kids. 

So here’s to  all the mums on Mother’s Day. The ones who do it all themselves by necessity, or by choice, and the ones whom can’t do it all by themselves but have someone decent alongside them when they can’t do it independently.  We’re the ones who remain in the same room when Daddy is changing the fourth shitty nappy of the morning, just so they can’t say we have no idea how bad it smells. (Don’t ever mention how bad it smells for you, it doesn’t go down well).

Coming up in the next blog… Disabled and Pregnant. Or some other catchy title. 

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