#BestHalfTermDayOutEver

Life has been so busy these last few years, I honestly thought my days of mum blogging were behind me. But sometimes, a particularly fine gem of a day out with the kids, when you’re stuck right in the middle of a dreary February half-term, just screams out at you, saying, ‘Blog me! blog me! – and so here is my latest offering:

Trigger alert: vomit, cat castration and more vomit 

The day starts at around 12.25 am the night before – Child #3 is calling me from upstairs. She can’t sleep and her tummy hurts. I cuddle her and assuming all is okay, head back downstairs for some more late-night reading and Netflix. 

Twenty minutes later she’s crying more pointedly and is now green of pallor. I drag her with unexpected ferocity (think: save my carpet) to bathroom to stem already-emerging tide of vomit and shover (shove her) head over the toilet bowl. 

Vomiting frenzy ensues. 

(Bitterly resentful) cleaning frenzy follows. 

Some ten (twenty? fifty?) more times in the night, child awakens me for more crying or more vomiting or more of both. I’m no longer used to this hellish nocturnal party central with tiny infant. She’s meant to know better – she’s 7 years, not 7 months, old. 

Official day then starts (again) at around 7am. Bleary with fatigue, we have to panic-dress and rush out of the house as we need to get to the vet on time to get our two kittens neutered. 

 As with a previous blog post from a few summer holidays ago, in which I naively hoped a pet-related activity would pass for a passable school holiday “outing” – and was proved spectacularly wrong – this outing promises to fail dramatically even before it’s begun. 

We put kittens carefully in pet carrier and head off. Child #1 and Child #2 complain vociferously that I’m rushing them out of the house before they’ve eaten breakfast and that they’re !!!#STARVING#!!! Child #3 cries weakly that she feels too ill to leave the house and then promptly proves this to be true by turning green of pallor again before we’ve even exited our very short road in our battered Honda.

I shover – and myself – swiftly out of the car and she throws up, on the pavement. (So far, I’ve been remarkably successful at avoiding vomit landing in wrong places; let’s hope my luck continues.) 

I deposit her firmly with dad and the remaining five of us (me, two human children and two felines) trundle off up the A41 and A1 to picturesque Borehamwood (‘Bore’ promises to sum this whole day up in one) to drop kittens off at vet’s. One child continues to rail loudly due to hunger-related woes. 

Kitties safely deposited, we trundle back down the A1 and A41 and start considering breakfast needs. We land on Brent Street, London NW4 – arguably the grimmest, most soul-destroying, most down-at-heel, most in-need-of-spontaneous-self-destruction high street the leafy suburbs of North-West London have to offer – hunting for a decent breakfast joint.  

Inexplicably, I find myself sharing a slice of very rich Sacher Torte with Child #2 in an over-lit cafe before it’s even 9.30 in the morning. Not satisfied with the menu, Child #1 appropriates my bank card and goes foraging in nearby Tesco Extra for other breakfast items.

Inexplicably too, as we munch on over-sweet cake, Child #2 and I feel called to look up full lyrics of a terrible, sadistic, bad song playing on loop on Capital FM at the moment, which is painfully stuck in my head, with lines that seem to speak of “whips and chains” and did I hear something about “choking”? (Yes, Google confirms there are indeed repeat mentions of choking – “I’ll choke you, but I ain’t no killer, baby” – in this delightful ditty, but it’s okay because: “you can whip your lovin’ on me, baby, whip your lovin’ on me, baby.“)

Should I worry that my three primary-school-aged children, along with most under 18s in the nation’s capital, are listening to this fine artist’s material on loop all day long?

The day has already felt very long, I observe, as 10 am slowly creeps up on us.

Where else to go in the rain when we have one hour spare before we need to reunite with greenish Child #3?  

You guessed it (again): that retail mecca of NW London: grey-of-hue, boxed-in, brutalist Brent Cross Shopping Centre located at the positively bucolic intersection of the North Circular Road and the A41.

We buy Child #3 a Snoopy keyring as a get-well-soon present; we then waste plenty of money buying various overpriced edibles that Child #1 and Child #2 still apparently NEED to satisfy their hunger: Bubble tea, warm pretzels, and the like. We then fritter away lots more money buying specialised haircare products that both Child #2 and I apparently need to “unlock our curls”.  

Still only around 11.30am and we’re back home with Child #3. How, oh how, will I fill the day? I ponder to myself. 

Child #3 picks up a bit in shade of physiognomy and eats a crust of dry toast. Emboldened, I rush her off to Dunelm with Child #2 for another spot of retail therapy, pushing down threat of inevitable existential crisis this homeware mecca brings out in me as soon as I step foot inside. (What’s the point of lampshades? What’s the point of 375 types of fitted sheets? What’s the point of dog-shaped umbrella stands? What’s the point of 87 different shapes of raffia storage solutions? Why is this shop so idiotically named? Who am I? Why am I here?) 

We leave Big Child #1 at home for a short while for his “screen-time” (in italics and with quotation marks to highlight the “who am I kidding?” aspect of calling this screen-time, and in so doing, keeping up the pretence that this is an activity with a tightly controlled start and end-time).

We make it over the threshhold of Dunelm. My mood starts to marginally lift. I put Child #3 in trolley and we wheel around ground floor of store, looking at sheets and dog-shaped umbrella stands. Suddenly, you guessed it…..green pallor……….. 

We charge out of store. We make it but not quite in time to avoid splashes of vomit landing modern-art-style on the large mat at the store entrance. (I did let a shop assistant know, in case you’re wondering if I’d stoop low enough to ‘puke and run’. I’m of high moral standing, you see.) 

Back home far too soon – and I’m not even looking at the clock. I give up on life, rain, half-term and everything and crash into bed with inclement child. We nap blissfully for some time. Vaguely hearing two loud screens blaring in other parts of the house, I put thoughts of being a terrible parent out of my mind and slumber some more. The afternoon slowly rumbles along.

The vet calls and all is well with two kitties. We’re instructed to collect them at 17.00. 

Some time later: it’s back up the A roads to Borehamwood, this time armed with sturdy sick bags. We pick up neutered, shorn, but otherwise quite perky, kittens and head home.  

Traffic, rain and general malaise accompany us as we head back along the A1/A41 for the fourth time today.  

We nearly make it into the general area of Hendon Central (as also discussed in a previous blog post) when, you guessed it again, sick bag is urgently required. 

Back home; supper, mess, laundry, more mess, hunger, no more sick (hurrah, but am I speaking too soon?), hunger finally abated, haircare products tried out and bedtime finally puts a close to the longest day recorded in human history. 

Signed: A tired parent at 23:11 of the same day.  

Picture of the two feline protagonists of the tale.

Clearly it was a bad idea to go for a hot chocolate in HENDON CENTRAL

It’s fair to say that 600 months of lockdown melting almost seamlessly into 400 further months of summer holidays can leave even the most enthusiastic parent holding up their hands to heaven on a midweek grey August afternoon  beseeching the Powers of the Universe with a howling refrain: “What ELSE can I possibly do to keep three young children entertained?”

It’s a grey midweek afternoon in the middle of an interminable August. It’s 2020. The Year of the Pandemic. We’re having a staycation, a homeliday.

I am with my three young children in a back garden in London NW4.

We are rabbit-sitting a cute rabbit called Beyoncé and unfortunately have smashed Beyoncé’s water bottle. So I hunker down on my phone and discover on Google Maps that there’s a pet superstore just down the road in West Hendon.

HALLELUJAH! Just when I’m wondering hopelessly about where to take the children after we leave our bunny friend, a plan has miraculously manifested itself.

We have a mission! We have an outing! Never have I felt so grateful to a smashed bunny bottle before. We’re off to the pet superstore!

We bomb it over to pet superstore. One beady-eyed child eyes up a Tesco Metro that we pass and starts hammering about stopping for a treat. “No, pet superstore is shutting VERY SOON,” I reply mendaciously, “so we can’t stop.”

We arrive at pet superstore and glide into parent-with-children parking spot right in front of entrance. It’s clearly meant to be.

Horrible disappointment number one: After promises to three excited children aged 3, 5 and 7 about what adorable little puppies and kittens and bunnies and guinea pigs we’ll find – for whom we will obviously have unlimited stroking privileges  (Covid-19 notwithstanding) – in pet superstore, we discover there are zero animals on-site. All cages, runs, hutches are deafeningly empty.

Oh.

Try in vain to interest children in cute shaped hutches and interesting rabbit treats.

I efficiently locate new bunny water bottle with great ease in record time and head off to  check-out.

Overly optimistic prediction of how much time pet superstore outing will use up of this endless afternoon prior to arrival: 1 to 1.5 hours.

Actual time spent in store: 3-5 minutes.

Come on children, let’s go back to Beyoncé to give her her new bottle and we’ll stop to buy a treat on the way, I say.

There’s no other way to get back to Hendon from West Hendon other than through Hendon Central.

There’s no avoiding it. I’m going to have to take the children out in Hendon Central. Possibly the grimmest traffic junction in the whole entire world? Hendon Central is this: Three-lane traffic roaring up the Hendon Way, people marching in and out of tube station, traffic lights flashing, seedy shops spilling out in all directions, a boarded-up Jews for Jesus store (Jews – and everyone else – are for one thing alone in Hendon Central: getting the hell out of there as quickly as possible and heading home), a youth hostel, more seedy shops, umpteen fried chicken joints, a Mama Africa restaurant with darkened windows, a hair regrowth clinic, and lots of greasy cafes should you need to take three children out for an apple juice and a bite to eat.

We park the car. I go buy children snacks in Tesco and some magazines with plastic tat freebies on the front to keep them entertained in whatever eatery we end up in.

Can’t face walking through the grim underpass to the Other Side of Hendon Way where there’s a Costa café. So I look around hopefully near where we’ve parked. I spot a little Italian restaurant and pile the children in there. There are no other mums with children; just a few groups of men from different European nations sitting around quietly at various tables munching and chatting.

The waitress is smiley and lovely to the children. I want to hug her.

We order our: apple juice, orange juice, hot chocolate and a Mocha for Mum. I get out the new magazines, our ever-present bag of felt pens and colouring books so the children can busy themselves while I sit back and take a sip of my drink.

Mummy can you open my magazine?
Don’t knock over your orange juice!
Mummy I need a straw!

What’s the magic word?

Mummy can you open my slime?

Mummy my hot chocolate is not sweet enough.

Mummy can I have a sip of your mocha.

Mummy what’s a mocha?

Mummy I don’t like my orange juice.

Mummy what are you meant to do on this page?

I NEED that green pen!

S/he snatched my new toy from my magazine!

Children, how about being a bit quieter?

Eventually things quieten down.

There’s even some actual colouring happening.

I take another sip. Bliss?

But only momentarily.

One child needs the toilet. And not just an innocuous Number One.

Oh no, it’s the dreaded Number Two. And I didn’t bring any wet wipes with.

Shudder.

Child needs me in the toilet urgently. There’s been a bit of an accident and underwear is, well, soiled.

Child cannot stay in soiled underwear so we take it off, soiling my hands and their other clothing as we go. The horror of it all. Why does no one talk about how much poo you’ll get on your hands for years to come when you first announce you’re having a baby?

I wash out soiled underwear as best I can and wring it out. I blitz my hands with half a bottle of hand soap and hope for the best.

Distracted by another child’s howls of protest wafting through to the toilet from the restaurant. I rush back and see they’re being bullied by the other child at the table who keeps grabbing their stuff from the new magazine and not giving it back.

It’s MINE! Child keeps screeching so so loudly. I hush them urgently.

Felt pens are strewn all over the floor.

Everyone in the restaurant, including Nicest Waitress in the World, is still smiling and being nice to me and not one bit disapproving and tight-lipped like they would be if they were English (I’m English myself so I’m just being self-hating not racist, in case you’re wondering).

I give the waitress a generous tip and she tells us, you won’t actually believe it, to COME BACK AGAIN. We love children, she says!

I almost forget I’m in Hendon Central and imagine I’m in Sicily for a second.

I bundle the children, felt pens, plastic toys, hoodies, magazines, mobile phone and me out of restaurant and back to the car.

As we’re driving back to Beyoncé, I suddenly remember with horror: I left the balled-up wet, soiled underwear sitting in the sink in the toilet at the restaurant! I forgot to throw it away / take it with us!!! And the waitress was SO nice! How could I have left that vile object behind?????

So just to apologise in advance – in case you ever – inexplicably – wanted to meet me in Hendon Central for a drink, I’m terribly sorry but I simply can never show my face there ever ever EVER again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What could possibly go wrong? Homeschooling three young children in lockdown and attending online university lectures all in one go? Not a chance.

Here’s a recent “Day in the Life” blog post I thoroughly enjoyed writing (in a cathartic kind of a way) for The Motherload blogzine, going through in excruciating detail how my supposed blissful day of online university lectures and seminars unravelled as three feral homeschooled children in lockdown got slightly in the way. Enjoy the read and if you are a parent experiencing the never-ending loop of (failing at) homeschooling in lockdown, hope you can relate! 🙂

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What could possibly go wrong?

Homeschooling three young children while trying to hide in the other room to attend online university lectures at the same time – what could possibly go wrong? (Spoiler: everything.)

06.40: 3 year old joins me in bed, asking questions about Minnie Mouse in very loud voice right in my ear.

07.30: Stagger out of bed. So excited – it’s online university day today! An intellectual oasis amidst the endless tedium of lockdown, homeschooling three kiddies aged 7 and under. A bit bleary-eyed, having stayed up until 2am to prep some written work for today’s online seminars.

08.00-09.00: Repetitive rounds of toast-making, cereal-eating, and bicker-moderating at breakfast table.

09.05: Just about remember to get dressed in something vaguely presentable (i.e. not pyjamas), and charge tablet for 09.30 online seminar start. All looking good.

09.18: It’s a homeschooling principle (that I frequently flout) that 7 year old’s reading practice must be done straight after breakfast or it doesn’t happen. So 12 minutes to chow through four pages of Walliams? Luckily, son is reasonably cooperative today – at least he’s not playing his new “Let’s make Mummy raging mad by adding in random words that aren’t actually in the text when I do my reading practice” game today. Pass homeschool duties to hubbie and issue dire warning to him to keep children away from bedroom OR ELSE.

09.30: Rush into empty children’s bedroom armed with tablet and note-taking materials and slam door, just in time for first seminar of the day. Feeling fairly calm. Microsoft Teams – which worked perfectly last time – will now not admit me. Swear profusely. It’s demanding I download app, then repeatedly claims log-in error. Keep uttering vicious oaths.

09.40: Finally access Microsoft Teams as ‘guest’. Have now missed 10 minutes of 30-minute seminar. Not good start. Finally enter my blissful Alternative Reality where my tutor and fellow (much younger, more organised, entirely child-free) students are engaged in brilliant intellectual discussions.

11.15: Feel first massive wave of IHPS (Incompetent Homeschooling Parent Syndrome) guilt as have ignored 5 year old’s homeschooling needs and have just 15 minutes until next online lecture starts. Rush her frenetically through her reading practice.

11.30: Charge back to bedroom, miraculously get into Teams with no problem this time. Am getting the hang of this, I think smugly to myself.

12.30: Surrounded by scattered Rice Krispies, sticky plates, felt pens (with missing lids), attempt impossible multi-tasking feats at kitchen table: Reading fellow students’ written work and offering thoughtful peer feedback on laptop while simultaneously making monsters out of toilet rolls with children.

13.00: Lunchtime blur.

14.25: Issue another edict to hubbie that no child shall cross threshold of my inner sanctum while final, Very Important seminar of the day takes place (from 14.30-15.30) – particularly 3 year old who is currently napping and who always screams when she awakens from naps.

15.00ish: Tutor singles out a few students’ written work including mine (beam) for discussion for forthcoming enormous assignment. When we get to my piece, she asks me interesting, thought-provoking question. I carefully unmute my microphone, open my mouth, smile modestly, poised to share thoughtful, measured response, when….

….with what could only be described as heavenly inspired timing…

…fiery 3 year old, with wild hair, just awoken from much-too-long nap, bursts into bedroom and screams “MAMAAAAAAAAAAA!” repeatedly in full view of whole seminar group (both video and mic are, of course, turned on). Grab her, hurl apologies into screen, as tablet goes crashing to the floor, mercifully taking me off-screen. Embarrassment levels skyrocket.

Charge into dining room to berate useless hubbie, who claims he didn’t “notice” she woke up. Leave her bellowing in protest and rush back to bedroom. Rejoin Teams sheepishly. But spotlight’s off my work, and tutor group are now discussing next student’s piece. Sob.

15.30: Online lectures finished for the day but…Horror of horrors! It’s mid-afternoon, no one’s been out of house yet, and three children are still in pyjamas. Cue next immense wave of IHPS guilt. Cajole everyone to get dressed so we can go out.

16.00 (or: definitely not mealtime): Children moan in unison that they’re all “staaaaarving”. Dole out Weetabix, toasted bagels, glasses of water on repeat.

17.17: Finally leave home for daily lockdown outing. In pre-Covid times, this would have been supper-time, I think ruefully. Head over the hills and far away for massive walk / scoot / cycle.

20.00: Arrive home. Everyone’s over-tired, hungry…but at least we’ve had fresh air. (But it’s 8pm, I wail inwardly, and we’ve not even started on the supper/bath/bed marathon and I neeeeed to study!!!)

20.45: Over hideously late dinner: “I want to leave home, then I can watch YouTube again!” pronounces 7 year old, utterly incensed at having age-inappropriate video clips banned from his life.

20.50 “I don’t want to be Jewish. I want to eat pigs!” announces 5 year old provocatively. Organised religion has taken a real bashing during lockdown in our house.

20.52 “Alexa! Play ‘I’ve Done a Poo’!” (It’s a real song. Ask Alexa yourself, if you don’t believe me.)

20.53 “Alexa! Volume 10!”

21.39 Oldest two children finally in bed.

22.00 Finally eat supper myself, but 3 year old’s still marauding around house in pirate get-up, brandishing sword thanks to eight-hour-long danger nap this afternoon.

22.15 Inexplicably find myself bidding on Minnie Mouse soft toy on eBay at 3 year old’s bidding. She’s finally all snuggly and cute now and it’s hard to say no. Do I detect signs of tiredness?

22.30 Miraculously convince her it’s bedtime.

22.35 Homeschool finally closes for the day! Now to get back to research for that highly important 5,000-word university assignment hanging over me.

Can’t think why, but I’m just not in the mood to study tonight. Essay will have to wait until tomorrow…

Originally published on The Motherload

Oh no, not another children’s birthday party disaster!

Vomit! Kittens! 13 small children making biscuits! Vomit again! What could possibly go wrong when you’re hosting your *just a small family get-together* child’s birthday party?? Here’s the lowdown on how EVERYTHING went wrong at my baby’s third birthday… published on The Motherload and The Motherload® Community & Website www.the-motherload.co.uk. Enjoy the read 😄😍🎉

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It’s when the biscuit dough turns out to be much too sticky for all those little party guests that I realise I too am in a bit of a sticky muddle…

It’s right in the middle of my baby girl’s 3rd birthday party. The “small” family get-together I’ve planned has morphed into a gathering of 15 adults and 13 children. Yes, I counted them.

Lots of small people with high expectations are gathered around kitchen table with sticky dough rapidly encrusting their little hands, and the cookie cutters, rolling pins and the table top. “Keep sprinkling with flour!” I bark at my fellow adult helpers. Puffs of flour duly billow across kitchen.

The party started about an hour ago with a flourish;  Birthday Girl making moral point of demonstrating that the terrible twos are *absolutely* continuing into the threes by throwing a major-incident tantrum. Excess of screams culminates in her throwing up in hallway just as the first guests ring on door.

Attempting to wipe up sick in casual manner with foot and dirty tea towel, I usher guests in. “Be with you in a minute,” I squeak cheerfully. Luckily it’s kind Auntie S and Cousin G, who are not bothered by fresh vomit smells emanating from our abode.

Soon Auntie Y arrives with Grandma A, armed with the birthday present to end all birthday presents: Two tiny kittens peek out of party bag she brandishes at Birthday Girl with ferocious excitement. No time to question animal welfare ethics, cute kitties (on loan for duration of party, not to keep) prove massive hit – except with Grandma A, who is cat-phobic.

More and more cousins, aunts, uncles, elders pour in through front door. This stream of relatives seems endless, I think faintly to myself, as I usher them in and ply them all with vast quantities of pizza, chips, carrots sticks, popcorn, crisps, chocolate …

Three-year-old Cousin R scrutinises Eccentric Elderly French Cousin F. Taking in his majestic unkempt beard and military slacks, he walks up to him in very purposeful manner and asks with absolute awe: “Are you ACTUALLY a pirate?”

Grandma B, Partner and rambunctious dog Jemima arrive to great fanfare. We now have *awkward situation* squared:

1. Dog + dog-phobic Grandma A

2. Dog + 2 delicate newborn baby kittens.

Grandma A is on verge of walking out. We frantically tie up Jemima in hallway and attempt to jolly Grandma A back into living room.  Frantically hide kittens in back bathroom.

“Time to make biscuits, children!’” I call out cheerfully, feeling slightly lower levels of cheer on the inside. Multitudes of small children squash round kitchen table and somehow, through co-opting kind aunties to help, the stickiness issue is overcome and trays of biscuits in all manner of shapes and non-shapes are placed in oven.

Mess levels are staggering.

Noise levels are extreme.

Everyone seems to be having good time. Except for Grandma A who leaves prematurely, having had her fill of animal menagerie for the day, dragging Auntie Y (and her kittens) in her wake.

Time for birthday cake! HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU we all sing in range of keys. Birthday Girl comes close to new major-incident tantrum when older sibling attempts to blow out candles on cake. By (metaphorical) knife’s edge, sibling is successfully tackled and a crisis is averted.

Cake handed out, there’s nothing else for it: let’s play Pass the Parcel. Children sit in misshapen circle on living room floor ready to play. Except…

Biscuits in oven! Forgot all about them! Feeling somewhat out of control, lurch over to oven. Biscuits luckily rescued in the nick of time before burning to crisp.

Right, back to Pass the Parcel. Except….

‘MUMMY I FEEL SICK!!!!’ Throw pass the parcel urgently at Auntie D and bellow, “You’re in charge!” while dragging 7 year old – who’s apparently scoffed too many chips and piping hot biscuits – through the kitchen with my hand over his mouth trying to hold off vomit gushing out. We reach the bathroom leaving an actual trail of sick behind us. I weakly throw piles of tea towels over gruesome evidence and tend to the child in the bathroom – and to the horror of my soiled hand.

Vomit incident #2 is over. Pass the Parcel has been played and won.

Guests finally start to exit.

I swear majestically in my head as remember one last tray of cursed biscuits still baking in oven. Rush to save them.

Whose *great* idea was it anyway to make biscuits at party for 30 guests? Oh, mine.

Aunties, uncles, cousins start drifting through front door bidding us farewell. Everyone’s had a wonderful time. Baby Girl’s had a great time and starts ripping open presents.

With dignity and finesse, the party ends just as it began: me engaged in disjointed and somewhat distracted conversations while valiantly wiping up sick.

Happy Birthday to you…

Mum life unfiltered – an evening out to the theatre

It was an exciting, rare evening out to look forward to – I was finally getting myself out for a night at the theatre with some friends! Fiddler on the Roof beckoned, and on the day itself, my excitement grew as the evening got closer.

Of course, preparing to go out involved somewhat different parameters to my previous pre-mum incarnation when all I had to concern myself with was an insouciant flick of mascara to apply, a relaxing ponder as to which pleasant novel I should throw in my bag to read on the Tube ride in and a casual light supper to be consumed gracefully.

Instead here’s what happened:

Three children 6 and under need homeworking, supping, bathing, teethbrushing, toilettraining, pyjamaring all by 6.50pm (by which time hubbie promises faithfully to return home) if they are to go to bed on time and I am to leave on time and make it for 7.30 show start in Charing Cross.

Throw myself into wildly efficient mum mode the minute we get home from school.  First fatal error: Decide to make not-simple and not-remotely-quick butternut squash soup for supper. Cue efficient yet slightly frenzied chopping of mountains of vegetables. Knife gets helplessly stuck in tough rogue swede and as I attempt to remove it, blade and handle of knife wish each other adieu and various small perilously sharp segments of blade shower down on the kitchen floor.

Furiously usher three barefooted children out of danger zone, and intensely sweep across kitchen floor. In spite of careful methodical sweeping action, am nevertheless left with lurking feeling that I *may* have missed one particularly small particularly sharp knife segment.

Put lurking fear out of my mind and continue relentlessly on with evening activities.

It is now gone 6.30pm and as the minutes towards my departure time tick by, I start feeling somewhat out of control. Am still wearing stained grubby clothing smelling of cooking and unable to imagine ever actually extricating myself from this scenario and exiting house.

Then everything really kicks off. 2yo who is in process of being toilet trained suddenly cries out “I need a poo!” (she has, to date, very limited success rate of reaching toilet seat in time for said event to take place). At the exact same second as these immortal words leave her lips, 5yo suddenly screams “I’m bleeding!” and starts howling.

Not knowing which way to turn – poo or blood? blood or poo? – I throw 2yo on toilet, hoping and praying we’ve got there in time. But no, we are a millisecond too late and poo is already issuing forth. No time to see where poo has landed, I run over to see what grievous injury 5yo has incurred and step squarely into poo already landed on floor next to toilet.

No time to deal with poo-ridden shoe, nor poo on floor scenario. I deshoe without further ado and hop over to screaming 5yo.

Blood is pouring forth from the sole of her foot. She has stepped on something sharp. Yes, indeed, she has stepped on that missing, invisible to the naked eye, phantom piece of broken knife shard.

ACT FIVE:

Scroll forward 45 minutes. I arrive huffing and panting in dirty, soup-scented clothing at theatre doors at 7.30 on the dot. Cannot believe I have arrived on time. Rush inside. To my utter sorrow, usher informs me it is too late to get to my seat in time for the start of the show.

Utterly bathetic anti-climax as I watch rousing opening number TRADITION!!! TRADITION!!!! on lowly TV screen in deserted theatre bar with a handful of other hapless latecomers.

Song finishes and I’m finally allowed in. I grin sheepishly at my punctual friends, take a deep breath, sit back in my plush theatre seat and prepare to enjoy the show.

(PS The rest of the show was just amazing. Go see it. And yes, have no fear, 5yo’s cut was pretty superficial in the end).

 

Mummy Birthdays That Fall During Late-May Half Term Deconstructed: Peppa Pig, Outings to Sainsbury’s, Shoplifting and all

Today is my birthday, and in the spirit of my blog post from my birthday last year (2018), I am continuing the tradition of telling the warts-and-all truth about celebrating birthdays as a parent. I follow the general parenting philosophy of it’s *usually* better to see the funny side of things, so here’s how my day went:

07.30 Manhandled out of bed by 6yo

07.35 Wait patiently for any one of my three kiddies to say ‘Happy Birthday Mummy’ and hand me my presents. No one exhibits any interest in Birthday Mummy; Peppa Pig on Daddy (Pig)’s computer has more of a pull apparently.

07.45 Give up waiting patiently. Demand they hand over “surprise” presents I know they’ve bought with Daddy Pig yesterday. Open them with relish. Am given:

a) An ‘Egg House’ (if, like me, you do not know what an egg house is, see photo above)

b) A small cactus in a small mug picturing a small depressed cat (see second photo above)

You can’t fault my children for their originality.

c) Also given home-made cards with various birthday wishes and instructions written on them, e.g. “Mummy may not be bossy on her birthday”.

07.50-12.30 – Breakfast, more breakfast, playing, making Birthday Mummy contort herself working out how to erect a play tent, making a mess, tidying up the mess, let’s get dressed, come and get dressed, I’ll (even) get you dressed, just come here now, Mummy I’m thirsty, Mummy I’m hungry, I want to go out, it’s my birthday, come on let’s get dressed.

12.30 Mummy let’s have lunch before we go out. OK children, come eat this delicious nutritious soup I prepared yesterday. Mummy, I NEED croutons in my soup. OK let’s go to Sainsbury’s.

12.45 Birthday outing number #1: Up and down the aisles of local Sainsbury’s we go. Urgent need presents itself to locate Kinder Eggs. They are found in Aisle #8. What was it we came to Sainsbury’s for again? Oh yes, soup croutons!  Many other non-crouton items have found their way into shopping basket too. Total bill: £23.48.

13.00 Everyone finally eats soup. (Well, two out of three children eat soup, one pronounces the fatal judgement: YUCK.)

13.15-14.00 Black hole zone. Getting ready to go out again. Blur, lots of noise, shoes, lost, jackets, found.

14.00 Right we’re leaving NOW. I don’t care where, we need some fresh air NOWWWWWWWWWWWW.

14.05 Birthday outing #2: Step outside front door. Ominous grey clouds loom over London. IT STARTS TO RAIN at this EXACT PRECISE SPLIT SECOND. You couldn’t have planned it better.

14.15 Find ourselves sheltering in local tube station shivering, waiting for errant Grandmum (Birthday Mummy’s mummy), who’s driven up from out of town, to appear.

15.00 Jump on bus and meet errant Grandmum in rather characterless but somehow appealing shopping centre-cum-entertainment hub down road (at least we’re not getting wet). Grandmum finds us in stationery aisle of Sainsbury’s #2 fiercely negotiating over which packets of felt pens, notepads, pencil cases can be purchased for small people. Small people desire many more items of stationery than big people wish to buy for them.

15.30 Mummy warmly encourages Grandmum to take two older kiddies around shopping centre, so she can flee to café with sleeping toddler in buggy and have quiet hot chocolate. Convinced toddler will awaken just as she settles down with a sigh at table, she gingerly takes first sip of warm sugary drink.

Birthday miracle #1 : Toddler sleeps on.

16.00 6yo calls Mummy on Grandmum’s phone and talks loudly and persuasively (aka ‘shouts’) down phone about his need for a book which costs £20 in bookshop in which he, 4yo sister and Grandma are currently located. Mummy says no.

16.15 Toddler awakens in fiery mood. Swiftly placated with promise of a turn on Peppa Pig ride. Dash to Sainsbury’s to get £1 coins for said ride. 4yo clambers dangerously on top of ride where no child should venture, bashes herself and starts howling.

16.30 Everyone happy again as ride turns around and around, with “Peppa Pig! Peppa Pig! Peppa PIG!!!” crooning in background.

17.00 Everyone’s getting hungry again. Make to leave shopping centre but then 6yo announces he has put £20 disallowed book in basket under buggy. We now have shoplifting scenario. Grandmum firmly walks 6y0 and stolen reading material back to bookshop.

17.10 Finally all squeeze into Grandmum’s too small but very cute mint-green convertible Fiat 500. Mummy and three children sit squashed but relatively happy in back seat (Buggy, not Birthday Mummy, gets to sit in front passenger seat, as Naughty Buggy refuses to fit in tiny Fiat 500 boot) for quite a protracted period of time as Grandmum goes errant again in search of lost mobile phone in large shopping centre. After some time, she returns with new tale of woe: Parking ticket machine has swallowed up her parking ticket.

17.30 Nice lady in kiosk helps Grandmum exit car park with new parking ticket.

18.00 Finally arrive at restaurant for birthday supper.

19.15 Squeeze back into teeny cute iconic Italian vehicle. It’s still grey and gently raining, but this in no way dissuades three over-tired children from clamouring excitedly for Grandmum to open convertible roof. We cruise home with rain gently spitting down on us but enjoying every minute of the ride.

19.45 Daddy Pig (who’s breezily come home from work) comes up trumps and produces some small cute cupcakes which he readies with birthday candles in the kitchen with children. Birthday Mummy comes proudly in, and we all wait for Alexa to start singing Happy Birthday so we can join in. Alexa plays Rock Ballad #3472 by Grace Pollack version Hudson from 1986 and not Happy Birthday. We tell Alexa to shut up and sing Happy Birthday all by ourselves instead. Birthday Mummy enjoys blowing out her candles.

20.30 Children finally go to bed. 6yo says to Mummy, while cuddling her most tenderly: “Mummy I’ve had the best Mummy birthday ever today.”

21.00 Birthday Mummy and Grandmum crash out on couch. Find ourselves singing raucously along to Eighties pop videos on YouTube. Birthday ends with rousing rendition of “It’s the Final Countdown! Dada daa daa, da da da da da, dada daa da daa, dadadadadadadaaa da da da da da da da da daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!”

The pressure to bottle feed

Just continuing to update the blog with articles / blog posts I’ve been writing in other places in the last few months. This is another parenting piece, but a serious one this time!

General point: Any pressure on a new mum is WRONG – and this post is in no way a judgement on mums who bottle feed, rather it is an account of my own experience of not being adequately supported in breastfeeding and being repeatedly pushed to switch to formula instead of given the help I needed.

Mums who choose to formula feed routinely talk about how much peer pressure they experience with people around them constantly judging them for not breastfeeding.

But guess what, the opposite experience can also happen. I chose to breastfed but had tremendous difficulty establishing breastfeeding with my first child. Instead of receiving useful support and guidance when I needed it most, I felt attacked on all sides by medical professionals and family members / friends who were all pressurising me to give up breastfeeding and opt for formula instead.

So here’s a blog post I wrote on this subject a couple of months ago for The Motherload, a parenting blogzine I’ve already mentioned I sometimes write for. I was amazed at how many comments this post generated on The Motherload Facebook group, (a popular mum group with 75,000 members) with many other mums sharing similar experiences of feeling pressurised by friends / family members / midwives and other medical professionals to give up breastfeeding at the first hint of any problem and switch to formula instead.

Hope you find it an interesting read:

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(CLICK HERE TO READ THE POST DIRECTLY ON THE MOTHERLOAD, OR KEEP READING FOR THE FULL TEXT).

Earlier this month, I watched “Breastfeeding Uncovered”, a documentary that aired on Channel Four in which presenter and new mum Kate Quilton tries to pinpoint why Britain has some of the lowest rates of breastfeeding in the world and my memories of my own breastfeeding struggles after my first child was born were vividly reawakened…

Among other lamentable observations (such as how she’s made to feel like a leper for breastfeeding in public), Quilton identifies one key issue which rings very true for my own experience:

She reports how from the minute babies are born in this country, and from the very first sniff of any problem with establishing breastfeeding, many mums describe an immense pressure from medical staff, friends and family to give their baby formula. Instead of new mums being supported to learn how to breastfeed successfully, it seems that many of us are far too quickly pushed into either ‘topping up’ with formula, or else abandoning breastfeeding altogether and switching over to bottle feeding.

Before talking more about my own experience, I want to emphasise that this post is in no way a criticism of women who choose to bottle feed. My concern is about this entirely unhelpful pressure to switch over to formula that mums who wish to breastfeed repeatedly experience.

After my son was born in New York five years ago, I experienced a severe postpartum haemorrhage. This meant that instead of the magical first 24 hours I imagined I’d experience with my long-awaited new baby, I was rushed off to emergency surgery straight after delivery, and then spent the first night in the recovery room, receiving blood transfusions and under constant monitoring. I did not see my baby again until the next afternoon.

This also meant that I missed out on the crucial first 24 hours for establishing breastfeeding. And that contrary to my plans, my son was formula fed for the first 24 hours of his life.

I took it upon myself thereafter to try and make up for lost time and did everything I could to get the breastfeeding going. It was a pretty relentless battle but it was really important to me so I didn’t give up. But with my body weak from the traumatic birth and blood loss, I found that I could not establish a strong milk supply quickly, even with long hours spent cluster feeding.

Given this reality, and knowing that my son was already used to formula due to my absence after his birth, I realised quite quickly that I would have to – at least initially – combine breast / formula feeding.

What I did not expect, however, was the screaming chorus of people all around me trying to persuade me to stop breastfeeding altogether and just give him formula.

For a start, the temptingly easy ready-made formula bottles with their perfectly adaptable teats were constantly offered to me and baby for the couple of days I stayed in the hospital after the difficult birth. Formula was taken as a given by the medical staff at the New York hospital I was in – their question was only how often and how much did I want to give him, not if I wanted to give him formula at all.

No one told me that the more formula I give, the harder it would be to increase my milk supply. They just wanted the baby fed quickly and efficiently.

After coming home, with my ongoing milk supply issue, it felt like a near constant refrain from those around me to ‘just give formula’.  Everyone was at it – doctors and nurses (in the US, unlike in the UK, there were no community midwife visits after birth, instead you take your baby to the paediatrician’s office), family, friends…

What did I need to struggle for when there was this easy alternative staring me in the face? This was the overriding voice I recall from those first few hazy sleep-deprived months.

It would have just been so easy to give in to the pressure. Formula was everywhere, screaming out “DRINK ME”. Especially as for all the time I was struggling, I knew that my baby preferred the formula as he got his fix more quickly. I was constantly questioning my choices and wondering if I had got it all wrong, feeling guilty and anxious. Was I needlessly making my baby suffer?

In the end, it turns out I’m a pretty stubborn mule, and I kept going. With the help of an electric pump, I started expressing five times a day to increase my supply; I learnt everything there was to know about natural supplements to boost milk supply. And thanks to a La Leche League friend, I finally overcame issues with my baby’s latch.

And with all this superhuman effort, after about four or five months of combined feeding, I achieved what seemed like the impossible – an exclusively breastfed baby. It was a wonderful sense of satisfaction.

Since that first-time struggle, I have given birth twice more (in the UK), and have had a positive experience exclusively breastfeeding for over a year both times.

If there is one thing I can conclude based on watching “Breastfeeding Uncovered” and my own story, it is that the whole narrative of health professionals (and our own peers) needs to change in relation to breastfeeding mums – especially if the UK is to tackle its low breastfeeding rates. Let the narrative be about helping new mums who wish to breastfeed make a success of it – and feel confident in their choice – not undermining them or pressurising them to give up.

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