#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.

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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Meet the mums doing it on their own

Time to update the blog! Here is a taster (first few paragraphs) of a recent feature I wrote for the Jewish Chronicle about the fabulous single women who are choosing to have children on their own. Enjoy the read! Click here for the full article in the JC. And here for a link to KayamaMoms’ website – the organisation that is helping Jewish single women to become mums. (And here is a link to KayamaMoms’ Facebook page too.)

There’s a growing trend in Israel for women to choose to become single mothers. Now British Jewish women are being encouraged to do the same. Rebecca S… reports.

For Amanda Moss, it was the end of a relationship when she was 39. For Michelle, it was her 35th birthday. Both women decided they were unlikely to find a partner to start a family. So, each became single mothers by choice.

“It was a real emotional rollercoaster,” says Moss, now 44, from St Albans, of her fertility treatment, which included four rounds of IVF. She’d frozen her eggs at 37 and tried thawing them, but none fertilised. Finally she tried a ‘double donation’ —using donated sperm and egg. “I had a gut feeling it would work, and I tested pregnant soon after.

“I was induced two weeks early, and Joshua was born two years ago. I lived with my parents for the first five months. It was great, they built up a real bond with him. They adore him and help me out lots with him.”

Michelle, now 60, from Manchester had an easier time getting pregnant, using donor sperm, and is mother to Alex, 23 and Theo, 21 (their names have been changed to protect the family’s privacy).

“I was fairly secure in my career. I moved round the corner to my parents (they’re not alive anymore), and they were very happy to help out when I went back to work. My dad used to take the boys to toddler groups. I had parents I didn’t know saying to me, ‘I know your dad’!”

She and Moss are part of a growing number of single Jewish women who choose to become mothers. Now an Israeli organisation, KayamaMoms, is helping women considering following their lead.

“So many babies are not being born because people still aren’t considering the option” in the UK, says Dina Pinner, KayamaMoms’ co-founding director. She held an inaugural meeting in London last month to provide information and support to Jewish women considering becoming single mothers by choice (SMCs).

Click here for the full article in the JC

An afternoon in soft play hell

It’s two days before the end of the winter holidays and bucketing down outside. Any inspiration for coming up with yet another edifying cultural activity to take the little ones to long gone, there’s nothing for it, an afternoon at soft play hell beckons.

Naively convincing myself that surely a lot of other schools must have already gone back, I blithely drive into the car park of a large, popular soft play located not far from us in North West London.

And then proceed to drive straight out of the positively rammed, full to beyond capacity car park immediately thereafter, my heart plummeting fast.

Out of the corner of my horrified eye, I see something that looks like a queue spilling out into the rain at the entrance to the soft play, but quickly convince myself that surely this must have been a mirage.

We park at the first available spot several hundred metres away in a nearby giant supermarket car park. We trudge back up, bumping the buggy over the potholes and    humps in the road, inching our way round large puddles, all the while as the skies pour down on us.

We arrive at the door to see there is indeed a very real, very tangible queue of harassed looking parents and their restless offspring spilling out into the rain.

Notice on the door to soft play hell:

I look in my purse, I have approximately 37 pence made up of 1 p and 2 p coins in cash, alongside an armada of credit cards crying out to be used.

Cursing all manner of deities, I wearily trudge off again, this time down a dreary alleyway snaking round the backside of the giant supermarket with my three bedraggled small people in tow in search of a cash machine.

Cash duly acquired, we enter soft play.  We are welcomed with gaiety:

Glaring at the beaming cherubs in this painted scene, I dutifully shuffle along in the mother of all queues until it’s finally our turn to cough up cash-only cash in order to voluntarily enter soft play hell.

And we’re off. Instantly we are swept up in an intense cacophony of noise, children’s screams, loud music, heat, bright flashing lights, lurid Christmas decorations abound. Sensory overload.

A densely populated, heaving mass of humanity has packed itself tightly into this primary-coloured vision of dystopia.

Children streaking by, children wailing, children squealing, children chasing each other, children sliding down, children climbing up, children tumbling, children laughing with delight, children crying with undelight. All breeds of children. Big ones, small ones, pocket-sized ones, wild ones, dreamy solitary ones.

Tables packed full of families chowing down burgers and chips, slurping on lurid-coloured ice slush drinks, crunching on packets of crisps, chewing on chocolate bars, as far as the eye can see.

Mum in question (me) feels existential pangs. Is this what it’s all about? I wonder for the enth time. I spot another mum in the throes of her own existential moment, sitting alone at a table absorbed in pencil sketching on a piece of paper.

I try to stealthily ignore large signs plastering the place stating that outside food may not be brought in and feed my children vaguely healthy lunch fodder brought in from outside. Soft play manager (#dreamjob) catches us red-handed within three milliseconds of said forbidden food items appearing. Disallows continued consumption. Groan. We’re all hungry. Off we troop to food station and fork out for the necessary supplies of crisps and confectionary.

I put my one-year-old down next to the table to crawl around at my feet. Take my eye off her for one second as I sip my cappuccino, look down again and she’s gone. Panic stations. Will I ever find her in the mêlée? With intense relief I see she’s zoomed off as quickly as her four paws will carry her over to the ball pond and is trying unsuccessfully to dive in.

Phew. Save her. But then, with dread in my heart, I realise exactly how the rest of my afternoon is panning out: From then on I am entirely at her beck and call, and must obediently trail after her up and down and round and in and out the bouncy, slidey, baby-friendly side of the soft play apparatus. Feel a brief moment of hilarity-cum-despair when I am forced to get down into commando crawling pose to lower my non-baby-sized self under a particularly height-restricted bar overhead in order to keep up with fast-moving toddler ahead and prevent her from tumbling down a slide face-forward.

You gotta laugh, it seems.

At such points in one’s life, one must be grateful for small mercies:

Small mercy #1: My two larger offspring go off to the main soft play apparatus to climb, slide, chase each other to their hearts’ content and do not require my participation in any of these activities.

Small mercy #2: Management of soft play emit frequent reminders over loudspeaker that visitors to their den of pleasure must not overstay their two-hour visit, or else will be charged an extra fee.

Our two-hour visit mercifully draws to a close.

We reclaim our footwear and stumble out into the chilly grey gloom of an early January afternoon in London.

As we head off home, my five-year-old says, totally spontaneously (and before his tiger mother has a chance to roar any command):  Thank you very much Mummy, we had so much fun.

And that, my friends, is what it’s all about.