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 Painful Fourth Trimester

I’ll start this by saying that, for me at least, having children is one of the most magical things I’ve ever done. I love my three more than anything and most days if I really think about it, I can’t quite believe they are mine and that my body made them. There are lots of parts of the whole parenting thing that I love. You get to be a kid again and enjoy the things your children enjoy, at the same time as being their protector and their mentor. But it’s not always magical. Sometimes having babies is pretty shitty.

Giving birth is something that I strangely enjoy, despite all the pain and blood and the pain and useless gas and air and did I mention it’s painful? Going into labour is confusing and scary and exciting. You have no idea how things will unfold, how long it will all take and you’ve forgotten or haven’t yet experienced how bloody painful it is. But it’s happening and that means you get to meet your baby soon, and that’s what you want most. For your beautiful (you hope) baby to be here and you’ll both be well, you and your partner will be euphoric for at least some time and then you’ll get to carry on life at home with your now bigger family.

By the time you get home most of your family and friends have heard the news and can’t wait to see and hear all about the new little being. They’ve stopped asking how you’re feeling and are now asking how much sleep you’re getting. And the looks on their faces when you say “oh not too bad, about 2 or 3 hours at a time”, tells you that they slightly pity you because they can’t think of anything worse. These facial expressions are most helpful when you’re trying to be positive about the amount of sleep you’re having. You like it when family and friends will come and stay and buy take-away food, bring cake and hold the baby so you can drink a cup of tea whilst it’s still hotter than 20 degrees Celsius.

Over the first few days, these things happen: Part of your baby’s anatomy (hopefully just the umbilical cord) will shrivel up, turn a bit gunky and then fall off. Nothing is quite like it and it’s not pretty but in a strange turn of events you feel compelled to hold onto this gross little thing as a keepsake. You also feel gross – you haven’t picked up the eye liner in about seven days and you look and feel weak and somewhat ghost-like. You need to sleep only marginally less than you need oxygen to survive, and no matter how much people tell you to, sleeping during the day when the baby sleeps just doesn’t happen. Whoever came up with that nugget of advice needs to have a baby. You will lie there on the sofa for over an hour listening to BBC News on very low volume (being in the loop on current affairs is apparently quite a priority for me) with your eyes shut and you won’t fall asleep, because at any given moment, probably when you just manage to fall asleep, your baby will fart and you’ll jump out of your skin and take a further thirty minutes to relax again, at which point the baby will wake up.

After a few days you might be turning into a hermit because you haven’t stepped into outdoor daylight for quite some time, you’re wilting like an unloved plant and you think maybe a change of scenery will perk you up a bit. Just when you go to get in the car your boobs will start leaking and because you were cocky and didn’t wear breastpads, thinking you could manage to not leak just by squishing your boobs against yourself in a stealth-like manner when you feel an unwanted let-down, you’ve now got to hope that the matching 50p sized blobs of wet milk on your top will evaporate before you get to the supermarket. You get to the supermarket and you have a bit of a nervous breakdown trying to make a decision on which trolley to choose. You could put the baby in the trolley with the raised up bit that you strap the carseat onto (I am well aware of the campaigns to ban these ‘unsafe’ trolleys) but because it’s so high up and you’re in a wheelchair, you cannot see your baby for the duration of the shopping trip. Your PA (in my case) understands this issue and is just as irritated as you that there are no wheelchair-friendly baby-carrying trolleys. Because disabled people don’t have babies of course. You opt for the stupid trolley with the carseat holder and cry inside at this minor problem which doesn’t feel at all minor. Your baby is 4 days old and you’re still firmly in the stage where you have to look at their face every 3 seconds to check they’re still alive. That, and you’d like people to know that he belongs to you. You try very hard not to cry in public about this and feel like you’ve failed at this day already, this being a tiny obstacle but reminding you of how this parenting thing is never going to come as straightforwardly as it does for the average mum. You feel particularly anxious at being in a large supermarket at this stage postpartum and don’t really know what you’re supposed to be doing, so the only things you buy are shampoo and oven chips. You leave as quickly as possible and get home to be able to burst into tears on your partner’s shoulder for no apparent reason other than failing miserably at buying things in a bloody supermarket. It’s also your partner’s last day of leave and you know that tomorrow his shoulders won’t be around to cry on. Crying again. There’s a lot of crying.

In the following days you will burst into spontaneous tears whilst you’re getting dressed, sat on the sofa, sat on the toilet and many times whilst sat in your wheelchair. Unless you don’t use a wheelchair – in which case don’t worry, you can cry standing up. The baby is feeding well and putting on weight though which is the desired progression, but you still feel like you’ve accomplished nothing in the last few weeks. Check-ups with your lovely midwife have turned into check-ups with a health visitor which is scary and you want to hold onto that era for a little longer but you can’t.

You seem to have forgotten so much about the new baby stage and what the hell you did three years ago. You can’t remember how often you used to feed, or when they started to have a sleep routine or really just how the hell you do this. You’d also quite like to have an appetite again rather than just eating for the sake of needing energy to feed and be half awake. Food is a chore for the time being but hopefully it will start being fun again soon.

Suddenly the idea of seeing friends and colleagues at work fills you with nerves and you realise you’re not quite sure how to be a ‘new mum’ again in front of some people. People who aren’t used to seeing your boobs in the middle of the day. What will they think? Will they think you’re doing a good job?

Surprisingly your other two children have been nothing but adoring and helpful since the birth of their little brother. They haven’t experienced him stealing their toys yet and for the time being he’s the best thing ever. Your five-year-old takes pride in choosing his babygrows and vests when he’s puked on himself one too many times, and your pride levels rocket when you watch her holding him and rubbing her face on his velvety head because she is so in love with him. Your three-year-old is equally as in love with him but shows it in a more “I’d like to squish his head and then make his feet clap” kind of way, but she takes her job of putting nappies in the bin very seriously. You and your partner find this mildly amusing and think it’s a fitting job for the culprit of the most recent episode of pooing-in-knickers.

Some days you feel like you’re doing okay, you’ve kept the baby alive for a few weeks now and every day you look at his little face in awe at how brilliant he is. Some days, more than you’d like though, you feel completely overwhelmed and underwhelmed all at the same time, exhausted, anxious and pitiful. Everything is difficult right now. Then you look at your partner holding his baby while the girls are giggling and using felt-tips to draw ‘tattoos’ on Daddy’s back, and realise you have the perfect little package of people right here on your sofa. And you know that one way or another, between all the crying from you and the baby and the puke and the poo and the stressful mornings, everything will be okay.

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Yes, still pregnant 

Well this is somewhere I’ve never been before, this close to my due date. I’m supposed to have a baby in two days from now, but yet I still don’t know when it might happen. Maybe it’ll be tonight! Maybe my waters will break whilst writing this, or maybe I’ll still be pregnant in two weeks’ time. For someone who has somewhat compulsive time-planning tendencies, I’m finding each day and night rather stressful! 

I am getting more uncomfortable by the half-day. My ankles and feet are squishy and plump, fitting into only one pair of sandals. My wrists feel like they’re going to snap under the growing weight that hangs like a pendulum beneath me as I crawl from my bathroom to the bedroom. I can no longer get onto the toilet by myself and turning over in the night is a two person job. I cannot wait for this pregnancy to be at the point where it’s no longer a pregnancy and I get to hold the human that has been residing in my uterus. I can’t wait to see his face and who he looks most like. I can’t wait for the moment the midwife catches this slippery fresh baby and plonks him on my chest. I can’t wait to breastfeed and be the only person that feeds and comforts my baby in the way that only breastfeeding can, even if I can well remember the pain and endless crying sessions that is true in the beginning of breastfeeding any baby..  Or is that just me?!

I can’t wait for all of this. And yet, I don’t want this pregnancy part to be over. It’s uncomfortable and sweaty and painful at many times, but I still love being pregnant.

Everyone experiences pregnancy differently, and each pregnancy is different depending on whether it’s your first, second or seventh baby. But for me, pregnancy signifies a time where no one needs to take over any of the parenting role for me. It’s a time where I can be a completely independent mum, despite having never seen my child. As soon as he’s born, my role becomes much more complicated. I’ll be his mum all of the time of course, and he will know that, but I need more help in fulfilling the things no one thinks about as being what a parent does and even the crappy, less than savoury parts of parenthood. I’ve touched on it before and I’ll visit it again in a later blog after I’ve given birth, but I guess what I’m trying to put into legible English is the battle I’m having with myself over whether people’s opinions of me being pregnant and having yet more children matter, in the long-run. For some reason I’ve decided they do, because I care what other people think of me. Oops. And seeing as my decisions on how many times I have a baby affect other people, who provide help or make decisions about the help I receive, I can’t help but be affected by their opinions. 

I’m not talking about my mum being worried that I might not stop having children and my body will just start to implode in the face of the physical effects of pregnancy and childbirth, she’s just being a mum who is worried about her daughter, but of course with more specific concerns than  the average mother. (I promise I won’t have 8 kids, mum). If it’s at all noteworthy, I am equally concerned that one adolescent puppy isn’t enough for my mum and that she and my stepdad might become crazy dog people over the years now that their human kids have left the house.

 It’s the people who are going to be judging me and deeming me as selfish,  or as someone who is costing the state more and more each time my responsibilities as a parent change. But to those people I ask what their solution is – Should I have stopped after one child? Should I definitely stop at three? Should I not have had any kids in the first place knowing that I can’t change a nappy or pick a baby up off the floor? I know one of my specific genes has let me down at a significant time in my own development, but surely I have the right to pass on some of my not-so-crap traits, along with the very good genes possessed by my significant other, and together just be a normal family as far as we are concerned? The silly thing is though, that we’re a pretty independent family when we’re all together. We relish the evenings and the weekend days when there is no breadwinning day job to go to, and our time is filled with just us. No care needs. Just mummy, daddy and our children.  Just a normal family, doing normal family things.  

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Those pesky disabled people

I really am on the countdown now. Theoretically I have 5 weeks of pregnancy left, as I hit the 35 week mark yesterday. But considering I’ve never reached a due date with either previous pregnancy, I’m expecting it’ll be a few days short of the 40 week mark. I’m well aware there’s a 5 week ‘guessing period’ of due-datedness from 37 weeks to 42 weeks, ish. So I’m thinking I’ll start a sweepstake? So far in labour history I’ve got a 38+4 and a 39+3. Therefore I’m officially predicting my own baby’s gestation to be aboooout… 37+6… I don’t know why but I just think it might happen slightly earlier, or maybe that is just wishful, begging, desperate thinking as I’m SO uncomfortable.

Nothing fits. I even hate leggings and no one hates wearing leggings.

In the past few weeks I’ve had my first few belly measurements and they are consistently above average size, but still within the normal range. I’ve had blood taken again – which actually went swimmingly for a change because everything is swollen and I feel like I have Hulk-like veins. I don’t, but compared to how they normally cower within the depths of my skin so no medical professional can access them, it’s quite a treat. 

What else? Oh yes. We got engaged!  

Tom and I went down to Cornwall for our anniversary and shipped the children off to granny’s on the way (first time I’ve been away from them over a night or more, seriously!) and stayed in a hotel. It was brilliant, and very relaxing despite some completely inaccessible areas but we just worked things out ourselves, as we have a habit of doing. Tom carried me up and down spiral staircases to the posh swimming pool with staff watching, wondering what on earth we were thinking. We’re not stupid. We couldn’t NOT go swimming, child-free! 

 

There were no accessible changing rooms either so we improvised by sneaking into the empty gym so I could change into my swimsuit top. Well actually, the changing rooms were pretty accessible but it was a toss-up between Tom coming into the ladies’ room and risk getting shouted at, as all men are obviously predators, or me having to go in the men’s and watch other, hairier men changing or dare I say it, ‘flossing’. Neither filled me with ease so I opted for the sneaky gym-change. I guess a disabled person needing access, and then a place to change just doesn’t come into consideration when they refurbished this old hotel building. 

Challenges aside, it was lovely to stay in a hotel and just be us, without small children asking for breakfast at 5.52am for a couple of days. My mum had that pleasure. We even took a drive-yourself boat trip in the bay. Again, we faced challenges with this before we’d even gotten in the boat, with the operators of the boat-hire saying they were concerned for my safety.  (We’re always being irresponsible and risking our lives). It transpires that their concern was more that I  might try and sue them… Apparently they “had one the same, before”, who tried to claim against them after they hired the boat, even though nothing went wrong. It never gets old you know, being referred to as ‘one of them’, those vicious disabled people. What are we like, passionately waving copies of the Equality Act around and sueing people left, right and indeed centre. 

See look, I survived the trip. And I’m pretty sure Tom was quite comfortable with me being in control of the boat, just look at his calm face. In the evening following the boat ride, I decided I might be in labour- I was having Braxton-Hicks contractions, which I’ve had throughout all pregnancies but these were every two minutes and getting quite uncomfortable and slightly painful. We finished our restaurant meal and went back to our apartment and after sitting in bed for a while the pains eased off. Tom then decided he’d quite like to marry me, and conveniently he had a ring in his pocket and so the evening got a lot less stressful! Although before that moment Tom was imagining having to propose in the labour ward of the nearest hospital. 

It was the best weekend. 

So as far as birth preparations go, I’ve washed babygrows, bought some, but not all things for my hospital bag, and discussed a few birth plans with my midwife. It’s mostly a waiting game now.

It’s all getting very near…

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Disabled and Pregnant 

At 25 weeks pregnant, it’s getting slightly uncomfortable now, and there’s still quite a way to go until pushing day. As I’ve mentioned before, this is my third baby, but no two pregnancies are the same and it’s amazing which bits I tend to forget about each time. Other things are very familiar. 

Being this pregnant and being a wheelchair user full-time comes with its own issues, however, and I thought someone might like to hear what it’s like from a different, slightly lower down perspective. 

1. Do I even look pregnant? I currently just look like I’ve been to a large family BBQ and eaten everyone else’s food. For those who know me and know I am pregnant, they are not surprised by my growing belly. And even for people I know that didn’t know I was pregnant, I think they’d guess and hopefully not just guess that I’ve eaten all the fruit pies. But for those whom don’t know me, and might just walk past me outside or in a shop, I’m really struggling to believe that they see me as being a pregnant woman. I don’t know why it bothers me, but, there it is. Like it’s not real if people don’t recognise it. I feel like because I’m not stood up and have an obvious spherical swelling on my abdomen, wearing a tshirt that says “Hands off the bump, punk”, or whatever, and am instead sat down with what looks like your dad’s beer belly just resting precociously on my lap, it doesn’t necessarily identify me as an expectant mother. 

2. My lap is rapidly decreasing in square footage. Everything falls off my lap where before it would just sit there conveniently. As I write this, a cushion is teetering on the edge of my knees because it can’t quite get enough purchase to stay on me. It’s quite unfortunate really as even my children are feeling the wrath of being kicked out of the way by their soon-to-be baby brother. My 2.5 year old regularly asks for cuddles sat sideways on my lap but within a few moments one leg slides off, and then the other and then off she toddles, making it apparent that lap-based cuddling is just too much work right now. She’ll be back in a few months, I hope. 

3. If anything does fall off my lap onto the floor and no one is immediately at my side like a loyal puppy to retrieve said item, then I’m at a loss for ways forward as I can no longer lean to the floor for longer than a couple of seconds, and picking up pretty much any object takes an average of 1 hour 3 minutes while my hands fumble around aimlessly poking the object on the floor, until I give up, sit up and sigh. 

4. Oh yes, sighing. Or even just breathing. Having a baby growing in your belly, pushing upwards in your abdomen, and being sat down all day makes breathing such a chore at times. I mean really, surely breathing is one thing that I should be able to do by myself with no assistance! But several times a day I find myself breathless despite breathing what I thought was normally. It feels like I’m hyperventilating and it’s very annoying at 2am when turning over in bed to get comfortable has just ruined my whole night’s sleep, and now I’m irritatingly aware of every single breath, in and out. 

5. The unquenchable thirst, and the argument I have with myself over wanting to drink more and wondering if I want the drink more than I want to have to go to the toilet. Yet again. This is something any pregnant woman faces, but for me having to pop to the toilet (I cannot ‘pop’ anywhere), especially in the dark hours, is more effort than I’m willing to put in for the sake of extra hydration, at a ten minute round-trip. Sorry thirst, you lose. 

6. My partner told me, whilst getting into bed the other night that he thought David Attenborough could narrate a documentary about me. “Well that’s rude”, I hear you mutter. But really, he’s just quite  observant. Crawling from the bathroom into bed, groaning in pelvic discomfort and with a belly getting nearer to the floor each week, is somewhat akin to watching a pregnant water buffalo lay down for the night, close to birthing her next young and desperately trying to get comfortable in her bed. I think it’s quite a compliment really. I mean Sir David only narrates the best documentaries, right?

I think those are the highlights so far. Still around 15 weeks to go. Or slightly less as legend has it. 

If you have anything similar to add, disabled parenting or plain old able-bodied, please do let me know. 

Until the next installment…

@shopgirlygm 

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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