Halloween

Betty can really help me out tonight.
Having a little one is the perfect excuse to do all the attention seeking, selfish, greedy things kids get to do, without looking like too much of a weirdo. My 27th annual Trick or Treating venture last year yielded little more than withering glances and spiteful sniggers. I have become accustomed to the deplorably slim pickings cruelly bestowed at each ageist doorway, yet still I have continued to earnestly pursue my sugary Halloween fix. I am keen to promote equality, especially where sweets are involved. Rosa Parks: racism. Emmeline Pankhurst: fascism. Cathey Briars: Halloweenism. I’m just ahead of my time, that’s all. Anyway, despite my painstaking attention to detail, last year’s Derrick Bird costume raised only police complaints. So this year, with my little pumpkin in tow, I should finally be quids in. Bag full of sweeties, here I come! And wow, did they come!
This year, while standing on each doorstep, I noted the familiar, widespread ill feeling as my neighbours, yet again, must confronted their Halloween prejudices; however this year, the palpable tension was eased, slightly, by the mere presence of my six week old daughter. Sure, it’s blindingly obvious that the sweets were not for her, but this time will pass, and, in just a few, short years, my once abnormal behaviour will be acceptably masked by the company of someone under twenty years old.
With a weighty sack of sugary treats to graze our way through, we spent the rest of the E Number propelled evening embroiled in Halloween traditions. Ducking apples, catching apples on strings and eating toffee apples, our daughter looked on, bemused by our affinity to all things arable. (Incidentally; haunting apple varieties? Granny Smith? Pink Lady? Braeburn? An absolute mindfield.)

Needless to say, the addition of our daughter to such an occasion means her parents over excitement and irritatingly enthusiastic approach to any form of holiday, festivity, merriment or celebration is now marginally more tolerable. Good girl.
Roll on Christmas. 

Weight

Okay, I’m big.
I get it. They think they’re being nice, I know. But how would YOU like it?
“Twelve and a half pounds is big for six weeks old!” “Gosh, she likes her dinner, doesn’t she?” “What a big girl! She’s massive!”

Massive. Yeah, thanks. People see a big, bouncing baby girl. They think cute, healthy, strong, nourished. They say; chubster. Baby or not, no-one wants to hear that. I’m more than well aware I’ve got the odd roll here and there; what foodie doesn’t? But talk about give a (not so) little girl a complex.

I’ve been trying to tune it all out. It’s just so unfair. At only six weeks old, I thankfully haven’t discovered ‘will power’ yet. So whenever someone casts another hurtful, ‘weight-based’ aspersion, I try to divert the conversation with a notable gurgle, cry, trump or smile. (Incidentally that little twitch of the lips has come in so handy this week…crack one of those and I get a whole new level of MY OWN WAY. Genius.)
Anyway, it’s not Turkey Twizler, E number based, Jamie Oliver riling fodder. It’s pure, 100% mum milk sponsored flab. And it’s called ‘baby fat’ for a reason; it’ll drop off me once I get crawling. (Must pencil that in soon.)

I like my scran, and so would you if you were in my position. I have free flowing, freshly produced, dairy cream goodness available to me at the slightest whimper. This appetising, flavoursome, scrumptiously wholesome fare is served up while being cuddled lovingly against a warm, generously proportioned boob cushion, listening to the gentle beat of my mothers heart. I’m sorry but, in anyone’s book: that’s Michelin Star stuff.

Yes, I’m a greedy bugger, and under such gorgeously enticing circumstances, I make no apology for it.

I can’t help it. It’s hereditary. If there’s a nipple on the end; I’ll suck it. I’m my father’s daughter. Besides, it would be rude not to gulp down the good stuff when Mum so proudly presents her bulging boobies. The pleased, fulfilled smile of this swollen breasted lady is almost as gratifying as the meal itself. It would be cruel to deny her that chance to feel so maternal (there are few other areas of my care in which she could be identified as such). So, you see, I’m doing her a favour. It would be rude not to. People may say I’m a little plump, but they could never say that I’m not all heart.

L-A-Z-Y

Chilling today.
Amen.

Waking Up

“Come on Betty...time to wake up darling. Betty? Come on sweetheart...time to get up. Betty! Betty! Come on! Wakey wakey...Betty...when you’re ready love! Let’s open the curtains. Wake up now darling...”

"...Alright then. You're still tired. We'll leave it."

Chester Walk

A lovely day out.
Me, my mum and my daughter. A cultural feast. Culture: Tudor architecture, the River Dee and Chester City walls. Feast: Big cakes (what diet?)
Note to self: When embarking on a considerably long walk, do not choose to break back into heels. After almost nine months away from a stiletto, platform or wedge, I chose a day spent on foot (for about six hours) as the time to reintroduce myself to my leg lengthening, super slimming, blister inducing leather boots. As the familiar burning sensation in the balls of my feet returned, any irresistibly sexy, yummy mummy notions I had dreamed up when slipping on the boots that morning hastily disintegrated.
Resembling an overweight, post natal buffoon, I shuffled, hulking and ungainly, around pedestrians and traffic. I expertly used each agonising step to carefully impale my raw tooties further onto my skewer style heels. If only I’d packed a couple of peppers for the journey, I could have knocked out some cracking toe kebabs. Would have gone down at treat in one of the chic, river bank bistros. Ordinarily (i.e. pre-pregnancy) my feet are completely deadened by a cocktail of night out shoes, half marathons, ingrowing toenail surgery and a liberal, hardy, resilient layer of dead skin, so a six hour march round a city would qualify as only low-level torture in my vast catalogue of harrowing foot ordeals. Beyond the foot terrors, the tension of balancing precariously on heel along the precipice of the River Dee was topped only by a stroll up the damp, moss coated, ludicrously slippy steps of the City Walls. Carrying one end of a pram. Great fun.
During the fleeting moments in which I was able to ignore my raw, lesioned feet, it was a fab day. My two favourite ladies, a gorgeous, fresh October day, cuddles, cafes, jokes and chatting.
Unfortunate I was forced to conclude the day with self amputation.

Nine months of overindulgence clearly evident here; coat bulging at the seams. Must stop eating foods with the nutritional content of gravel.

Picking up our Halloween pumpkin.

Nanna takes over with the pram as I am otherwise engaged. Asking passing cars to kindly run over my feet.

Growing

Betty is thriving.
9lbs and half an ounce born. At five weeks? 11lbs 13oz. And long.

So, already, we’ve had a clothes sort out. Packed away all the 0-3 months stuff for if we ever have any more babies. What was that hellish scream? Oh, it was just my cervix recoiling in unmitigated horror.....and...just a sec...I wasn’t sure but.......yep. My vagina just tutted. And now...oh. That’s different. A large, uncompromising, metal roller shutter just slammed angrily shut on my lady parts. And now it has been padlocked to further emphasise the point. And my legs have fallen off. Just kidding. I’ve still got legs. But the fact the organ at the top of them still closely resembles shredded paper would explain any resistance to participating in the creation, and most certainly delivery of, further offspring. I’ll apologise to it later.
Anyway, we are on the 3-6 month clobber. In fact, one 6-9 month item fits Betty perfectly. Is this right? I’m concerned that tomorrow I will wake up and find she’s turned into the BFG (Betty Fully Grown?) and be ready to go off to college. Like Tom Hanks when he first climbs out of that bunk bed in ‘Big’. A 26 year old wedged in a cot. Like something off Jackass.

I worked out that Betty has actually put on 25% of her body weight in five weeks. That would be like me putting on two and a half stone in the same amount of time! Can you imagine that five weeks?! Thirty five insatiable, ravenous, gluttonous days of glorious over-indulgence. Stuffed-crust, supersized, trans-fatted, cheese laden, sugar coated, deep fried greed. Rock and roll. Very Charlie Sheen. But, spending those five weeks on just boob milk? Excessive, but more Cliff Richard.

If I followed my daughter’s example for a full five weeks, and at the end dragged my slothful bulk onto the quaking scales, would I still, as is the case with my not-so-little girl, be considered ‘cute’?
I think not.

Relaxing

Maternity leave – it’s just nine months off, isn’t it?

No.

Smile

It finally happened!
After weeks of cough triggered contractions, sneeze provoked twitches and wind induced smirks; it actually came! An unmistakable, undeniable, unambiguous, distinctive, definite, delicious grin!
Five weeks of prodding, tickling and encouraging, and my beautiful daughter gave me a big beaming smile. Wow.
How do I know it was a real smile? I’ll start from the beginning...

Yesterday morning, my placid, serene daughter had a sulk on. Thrown (stupidly) out of her routine by her naive parents after holidaying in The Lakes, Betty’s sleeping pattern had been wholly shattered. A kranky, grouchy little girl spent five hours of the previous night wide eyed, whining and seeking to chastise and punish her stupid parents for their ambitious , ill-advised jaunt. It was a night when Dave and I were thankful that our lass is so breathtakingly cute; otherwise her whinging could easily result in acting on the desire to purposely drive screwdrivers into your own eyeballs, merely as a distraction from the hellishly grating drone of our inconvenienced child.

Once morning arrived, our little cherub was exhausted. Reluctant to feed (“Bloody hell, she is tired.”) I sneakily tried to smuggle my full breast into her snoring lips. Nothing. Worried that, missing a feed, she would feel faint, woozy and fragile, I persisted in persuading Betty to eat. Nipple leaking, I proceeded to nudge her in the nose, dribble on her sleep suit and clumsily poke about her pursed lips with the good intentioned albeit unwelcome desire to nourish my disinterested child. No joy.
Defeated, I placed Betty in her cot. I have come to learn that the chance of Betty remaining asleep when put down is, well, limited. Actually, I lie. There’s no chance. It’s never happened. I patiently pull up a chair, ready to shhh, stroke and tap, and where possible generally cajole her back to the land of nod.
After four or five minutes of allowing herself to drift in and out of a light sleep, Betty began to dream. Pulling a range of crumpled, stretched, furrowed and overly expressive faces Jim Carrey would be proud of, my little girl tried out her face, in a way only newborn babies can, and Botox junkies wish they could. After warming up her face, my daughter progressed to her vocal chords. Following the usual drift off murmurs came a hearty, hard done to, genuine sounding cry. Which was actually part of her dream. Betty woke up.
Amazing. Amazing that someone so small and inexperienced already has an imagination so established that her dreams can conjure up such lively reactions. I, too, have woken myself with hearty laughter due to a particularly vivid dream (I once remember waking myself because I laughed aloud in my dream at Neil ‘Razor’ Ruddock farting on a match in the ‘I’m A Celebrity’ jungle. Classic.).

The thought of Betty crying at her own dream, and frightening herself, made me laugh, aloud, to the point where I worried I would really make her cry.

As I continued to laugh, I looked through the cot bars at my daughters startled face, who when, on clocking my huge grin, SMILED BACK!!

Not believing the smile to be a conscious behaviour, I dropped my grin. She dropped hers. I smiled again. And SO DID SHE!! We repeated this smiling/not smiling routine four or five times, and each time Betty mirrored my ridiculous smirk.

What a gorgeous moment. I could feel my daughter knowing me and smiling with me. A connection. A joke shared. One tickled little girl. One tickled pink Mum.

Shape Up

The diet starts today.
After nine months and five weeks of consuming everything in sight, regardless of edibility, it is time to sort out my bulging waistline. Over my pregnancy, my attitude towards food changed quite considerably. I set out with the very best of intentions; 5-A-Day, Bran Flakes for breakfast, copious water and an irritatingly arrogant approach to polishing my cuisine halo. Gillian McKeith would have wondered, marvelled and delighted in the chance to dig around in one of my perfectly balanced stogies. The roughage in my diet would have made Mike Tyson cringe. I was, at one stage, lined up for an ITV feature: Ross Kemp On Colons. Tip top turds.
After a frighteningly promising Holland and Barrett sponsored first few months, the tooth rot began to set in. Reading my folic acid packet, I noticed a distinct lack of E numbers, which my angelic digestive tract felt a nagging niggle to remedy. This niggle became an ache, then a throb, then a stinging, smarting, driving compulsion which even the most vegan-ly microbiotic of celebrities could scarcely ignore. A Dorito here. A Yorkie there. Gradually, in crept a chippy tea; a Dominoes; a MaccyD’s. At six months, my diet mirrored that of a Jeremy Kyle guest. For breakfast one day, I actually had a bag of Space Raiders.
By the time Betty was born, I was eating bountiful quantities of ANYTHING. Biscuits, jars of tartare sauce, packets of three inch clout nails. If it stayed still long enough, I’d guzzle it. Thank God the pregnant frame cannot keep up with a bins lorry.
My weighty carcass could not remain on the pizza, crisp and gravy train indefinitely. Mainly because the wheels on the thing would snap clean off. Yet, under the guise of stress/lack of sleep/breastfeeding, my gluttonous ticket remained valid, and I have been able to linger aboard the Heart Attack Express since Betty’s birth. Now though, the time has come. My stout stomach, lardy limbs and portly pins make no secret of my relentless overindulgence. I’m hefty.
Next stop: the monotonously dreary tedium of wholesome nourishment. Big. Fat. Yawn.     

'Holidays'

Was taken on a ‘holiday’ this weekend.
For those of you who have never experienced a ‘holiday’, it is a period of time away from home, where you sleep in a strange bed, cry about it alot, and in doing so keep everybody awake for a minimum of twenty hours a day. I’ll be honest with you; I don’t see the attraction.

Mum and Dad were clearly looking forward to it, but fortunately, my antics pretty much ruined every minute for them, so hopefully, they’ll think twice before booking anything ever again. To be sure my views on the issue are crystal clear, I plan to extend their turmoil by adding a few additional days of excessive breast feeding and preposterous nappy shenanigans, post holiday, thus hammering home the point that these ‘holidays’ are no longer for us. 

The Lake District is apparently a place of outstanding natural beauty. This may well be the case; but for those with immature, underdeveloped eyesight, it is a slightly more prestigious series of blurred, fuzzy blobs to add to my catalogue of lesser known blurred, fuzzy blobs. My field of vision was, however, able to pick up on a suspiciously stained, eye wateringly garish an upsettingly unfashionable travel cot. The 80’s fabric screamed car boot sale, and quite frankly, second hand is a standard to which I am not accustomed. It was an awkward moment when Mum and Dad first placed me in it. Full of smiles and good intentions, I felt uncomfortable breaking those first few tears of disgust. But, I pressed on doggedly, projecting howls, bawls and sobs, interspersed with a theatrical shriek. They soon got the picture and removed me from the outdated and passé abode, placing me instead in my chic Mamas and Papas pram top. I slept in this for an hour, partially to indicate my preference beyond reasonable doubt, but also because my compassion knows no bounds. Suddenly perturbed, I realised my humanitarian streak had begun to make worryingly too frequent an appearance. So, I followed up my act of kindness with a weekend of egocentric, discontented and arduous behaviour, thus reminding my parents of the offensively stressful and harrowingly unpleasant conduct to which they have become accustomed. At times, you’ve got to be cruel to be kind. I don’t want to give them a false sense of security that I am suddenly going to become easier to live with. I haven’t spent all this time inducting them into MY routine, to foolishly undo all my good work in one silly weekend.

So, my work regarding ‘holidays’ is, in the short term, done. I feel they are now both suitably wounded by the experience that they would shudder to even consider embarking upon another break until I am at least old enough to be plonked in a kids club.

BB xx

On Holiday

We're on a short, relaxing, refreshing break in Ulverston, Lake District. Check back next week to find out just how deluded we were.

Packing

Betty’s first holiday.
Two nights in the Lakes. Rented cottage, autumnal walks, tea shops and fresh scones. Wohoo!!

When we nip to Morrisons, we take A LOT OF STUFF. Three weeks worth of nappies, seven changes of clothes (for escaping poos), and an assortment of drugs to calm my ‘WE ARE IN PUBLIC, PLEASE DON’T CRY’ nerves.
So, two nights away? Can you imagine? Well, you don’t have to. Here goes... 

I could go on. But I think you get the gist. Having so much cute stuff doesn’t help. I’ve just got to take it. All.

Ultimately, it resulted in this...

Just to stress, NONE OF THIS IS MINE OR DAVE'S.

With projectile vomit and explosive poos, it's going to be a wild weekend. I just hope our daughter can keep up.
Bon Voyage!

Grow Up

Right.
I need to stop whinging. Sort myself out. Man up.

Just look at that.

What have I got to moan about? Shut up woman. Get some balls for God's sake.
She's gorgeous. All I've got to do is feed, cuddle and love her.

What a chore. Not.

Baby Blues

Where did ‘me’ go?
I love Betty very much. She is so bossy and cute and innocent. She fills me with excitement when I think of the fun we’ll have shaping her into the smiling, fun, opinionated, genuine, warm person she’ll one day be. She’s ours.
But, God, this day to day bringing up a newborn baby stuff is tough. Much harder than I had imagined. As all three of us try to fit in with this new routine, with scheduled feeds/naps/baths, the initial tiredness has begun to ebb away. Yet suddenly, I am left with the reality that for the foreseeable future, this is my EVERYDAY. It won’t change tomorrow, or next month. This tiny person needs me to be their mum every minute of every hour. I won’t ever just be ‘me’ again.

Currently, my daughter has the hefty appetite of Mama Cass on a date with Rik Waller at a cheap all-you-can-eat Las Vegas buffet. At Christmas. And I’m the human cow that has to quench that insatiable, ungrateful thirst. In a Tom and Jerry cartoon, I’d have those little ‘chicken leg chefs hats’ on my nipples and my pupils would have turned into milk droplets. Each time my daughter glances at me, she sees knives, forks and dinner plates circling my head. When I feed her, my boobs leak. When she cries, my boobs leak. When Dave kisses me, my boobs leak. I am, essentially, an unappealingly mumsy entry into your nearest wet t-shirt contest. And for what? After signing up for my body to become a portable deli counter, I thought I’d get more back. Smiles? A look of love? Positive reactions to the sound of my voice? A flicker of recognition? Nope. Not a sausage. All I am to my daughter at the moment is a walking meal ticket. She looks almost baffled by my desire to cuddle or kiss her when it is not dinner time. Mum = din dins. No more.

Catching myself in the bedroom mirror yesterday, I surveyed the sorry state my body has been reduced to. Things that dangle, droop and slap against each other. New sornessess in forgotten places. Saggy, wrinkly, cellulitey. Thoroughly alluring. After all the physical trauma my body has experienced in the last nine months, I always believed the emotional return would surpass anything pregnancy could throw at me. Currently, selfishly perhaps, this is not so. I miss my old body. No oil painting, but serviceable, resilient and, most importantly, I knew where stuff was. Various bits, since labour, have moved. I miss my body looking right. Feeling right. And being mine.
I miss the life I had. I miss the carefree; the speed; the activity. I miss myself.
I feel now I have simply one purpose: provider. Of clean food and clean nappies and warmth and comfort and security. A drab, unkempt, unremarkable, sexless, functional facilitator of life. A lovely little life. But a life that knows very little of me. Except that I taste nice.

How I long for that first real giggle. For her to cuddle into me. For the first time I see her smile at me in the crowd. To see her eyes say ‘Mum’. It will come. But, after only one month, it already feels such a bloody long wait.

My Funny Mummy? She is definitely off duty today.         

The Regime

Still working on the routine.
As the book says, success with children is all about consistency and dedication. Can I dedicate myself to consistently remaining this stressed? For the foreseeable future, I certainly would imagine so.
Up at 7am. Naps at 9am – 10am, 11.45am-2pm, 4pm-5pm, 7pm-10.30pm, then ideally, a full nights sleep from 11pm-7am. Sleep when the baby sleeps? How? I haven’t got narcolepsy and I’m not a student or foreign truck driver.
But, we’re sticking at it. It takes ten minutes of company for Betty to start nodding off. Fine. Sadly, just as she is about to enter the land of nod, she starts to thrash wildly, knocking out her dummy, punching herself in the face, crying and generally ruining any chance I have of making it downstairs for Corrie. Apparently I need to ‘swaddle’ her more tightly, so that she is unable to move her arms and legs, simulating her condition in the womb. So, I swaddled my heart out. When she pulled a white flag from her nappy and attempted to wave it in her teeth, I slackened it off a bit. Tightly bundled, I creep out of her room, as she wheezes melodramatically into the baby monitor.
Playtimes. 7-8.30am, 10-11.30am, 2-4pm, 5-7pm. Teddies, playmats, swings and Disney CDs; it is tiring entertaining a one month old. I get excited if she has a poo, as the changing of her bum does qualify as ‘activity’ time. By 2pm I’ve run out of voices (all of which sound remarkably similar), songs (tuneless) and patience (limited at the best of times). I eagerly await the days to come when my daughter will sit and stew in front of countless mindless cartoons. Yes, she may become a withdrawn, socially inept girl, but it’ll mean I can read Heat or Reveal whenever I want. Priorities at the end of the day. 
Finally, feeds at 7am, 10am, 2pm, 5pm, 6.15pm, 10.30pm. Eat when the baby eats. That I could manage, but no ones dishing that little gem of wisdom out quite so readily. Shame.
I’m now that used to pulling out my boobs that the modesty of hiding in adjacent rooms when we have company has long since gone. I just wap out a breast regardless. The window cleaner has had a few surprises – well, I don’t want to dribble milk on my pants either, do I? Poked the postman in the eye last week. Yesterday I squirted a shot of milk in my visitors’ coffee while burping Betty. The original homemade latte. Well, breast feeding is natural isn’t it. Just like having a poo. Maybe I should start doing that in public. It really is so liberating having a child.  

Visitors

People round to meet Betty B today.
A great excuse for cake and more pressies. Also a superb avoidance tactic from the harsh, unforgiving dictatorship cast upon my daughter since the new routine was established. (More on this tomorrow).
Today, my lovely Uni ladies, SJ, Jean and Jen (with little Ethan) came to coo, smile at and have a crafty cuddle of, my little bundle of sleepless nights. And there she sat; content, wide eyed, smiley (almost), performing to the crowd. Not a hint of the whinging, shrieking, strident little madam who lay angrily in my arms not ten minutes before my guests arrival.
I realised today that in the space of one short month, my ability to interact meaningfully with other adults has diminished quite considerably. I have become one of the most annoying people the previous me could ever have met. As soon as the company I am in initiates vibrant, appealing, attention grabbing conversation, I somehow manage, skilfully yet absent-mindedly, to steer the dialogue back towards dirty nappies, sore boobs and the various stains (detailing size, colour and source) caused by my offspring. And for God’s sake, don’t give me the slightest opportunity to talk about a lack of sleep. I managed to shoehorn a slumberless moan into every other sentence I, or anybody else, uttered. At one point, I think I even followed up one of Betty’s gurgles with another dreary snooze grumble. The polite yet jaded faces of my guests reflected the wearisome company I have become. I managed to max out the sympathy of three of the kindest people I know, with each of them admirably managing to stifle the desire to stand up and unapologetically leave my home. I wouldn’t blame them; my tediously lacklustre company would surely warrant a low-level ASBO. Ironically, my kip gripes had the contradictory effect on my friends, as they suppressed yawns, heavy eyelids and audible snores, as I insisted on blandly listing my evening routine in all its gloriously dull detail.
So, as they reflect on the electrifying banter I delighted them with today, I’m sure my lovely friends will most certainly sleep well tonight. And will understandably hang fire on being in my company again for the foreseeable future.

I on the other hand, will lie awake, tonight, tomorrow night, for eternity....  

Having A Laugh

Good Gracious!
What are these two clowns playing at?
They seem to think that they are still calling the shots in this gaffe. HELLO. I’m here now. That ship has well and truly sailed. Mum has spent most of this week with her nose buried in a book, resulting in her thinking she now has the ‘upper hand’ in the bedtime battle. HA! Like I can be beaten by some know-it-all book. I’ve got the baby blue eyes, the heart wrenching cry and, modesty aside, I am the cutest damned thing you could ever wish to set your eyes on. Get real guys.
Anyway, this ‘routine’. I’ve decided to humour them a little. After all, they’ve been alright with me so far; getting up at all hours, sacrificing their social lives, forgoing sociably acceptable levels of cleanliness, and generally losing the will to live. Time I threw them a crumb.
So, generally I’ve played along. Eating at set times, bed a set times, bath at set time. And you know what...not all bad. I mean, sure, I love driving mum and dad round the bend as much as the next conscientiously shrill, unrelentingly cruel newborn. But this regime has its incentives.
Firstly, there are periods of the day when they need me to stay awake. Honestly, the stuff I can get this pair to do if I just let my eyelids get a little bit too heavy. Singing, dancing, silly teddy voices, new toys...priceless. If only I could operate a video camera; YouTube gold.
Secondly, there are times when they want me to sleep. Dad reckons he’s a personal trainer. We’ll see. Running up and down the stairs 14 times in 4 minutes? Who’s the daddy now, Dad? And Mum needs the exercise too. She packed the weight on while she was pregnant. Between breast feeding,” keeping me entertained” and sleep deprivation I’ll knock that bloater back into shape by Christmas.
Finally. Breast milk = good. Breast milk + lying quite literally spitting distance from the arm pit of a hygienically challenged woman while you dine? Absolutely repugnant. My compliance with this new system has ensured mother has begun to make time for a daily scrub down. Encouragingly, I have begun to feast comfortably, without the familiar nasal assaults previously slung my way. I am now accompanied by the attractive whiff of summer meadows, fresh fruit and just common decency SWEATLESSNESS. Bon appétit.

So. She’s not a total idiot. I’ll play along. For now.

BB xx

Baby Gestapo

Time to get a routine.
I am reading Gina Ford’s ‘The Contented Little Baby Book’. Published 1999. This must be a misprint. 1939 I reckon. When it was generally accepted that if you were maligned, browbeaten and bullied into following a strict, unforgiving, fascist regime you were having a great day. My kind of era. My kind of book; clear, direct, harsh. So, I have set about hounding my daughter with the focus, determination and energy of somebody with lots of focus, determination and energy. Energy? A long lost concept on me at the moment. If it’s linked to rest/sleep/relaxation/bo-bos...then nope.  Gone. A foreign language.
Eva Braun, I mean Gina Ford, was a midwife. Who hates babies.  And mothers. And humanity. So she wrote a book, about how to get yourself, your new baby and your life, into a routine. And along the way, slowly but surely, sap all the joy out of being a new mother. But gain more sleep, so... I’m in.

Today was day one for us. It contained; 4 nap times, 7 feeds and a bath. I could hardly fit in looking after a baby as well. She’s three weeks old now, and like the book says, she’ll never become independent if I keep waiting on her hand and foot. We have followed the daily schedule to the letter, and I wait eagerly this evening to see whether it has paid off. Betty is supposed to make me a cup of tea at 10.30pm. I’ll let you know how she gets on.

Heil Hitler. 

BB Bathtime

Dynamite Areolas

Note to self.
Do not cut corners and buy supermarket 'own brand' breast pads.

And oh yeah...that yellow scribble on the left boob? Poo. Not my own, I hasten to add.

I didn't realise it was actually there until after I took the picture.

And I'd just come back from ASDA, and called in on a neighbour.


Gorgeous.

Heath Visitor

First Health Visitor visit today.

I would not make a good Health Visitor, because
a) I’m am not interested in the health of complete strangers
b) I’m not big on visiting people
c) I’m not a very nice person.

My allocated lady was nice. Too nice.  Smiley and noddy, but with the autopilot/stock answer eyes which gave the game away that she was clearly not sufficiently qualified to tackle the unquantifiably complex medical conundrums I threw her way.


Should Boo's poo be that runny? 
What do you think of this spot on her cheek? 
Should her third toenail be longer than the second? 
Which idiot gave her an outty belly button, and when will the creepy thing go away?

Clearly believing my concerns to be those of your regularly inane and overprotective mother, she attempted to humour me with the politely non committal responses she usually gets by with. Not so today. She’s riding with the paranoia big boys, and she will have to have to up her game.
I pressed for a more specific response to the belly button issue. I could sense the rising distress as the kindly lady searched for the appropriate wording...
Kindly Lady: ...Well...the thing with the belly button...
Me: ..Yes...
Kindly Lady:...well...she might grow out of it. I mean...as she starts to sit up...it could ‘pop’ in...
Me: ...COULD...?
Kindly Lady: ...Yes.
Me: OR?
Kindly Lady: ...Or...she.... (hurriedly)...could be stuck with it.

Great. Just bloody brilliant. What on earth does the NHS stand for these days? The Naval Havoc Society? Clearly making sure your child has a suitably concave inny is not part of their mission statement. However, providing a nice line in delightfully lovely, yet dutifully fence sitting personnel, is.  

My daughter is purportedly incredibly well, 2lbs heavier than at birth three weeks ago, and bright as a button (naturally). Without satisfying the concerns of the irritatingly domineering and distrusting mother, the Health Visitor left us, as I frantically measured and compared my daughters fingernail lengths to see if the toe issue might be spreading. 

Mess

To fully appreciate today's entry, re-read the 13th September post.

Spare bedroom. Oh dear me.

BB's Room #1- Carnage

BB's Room 2 - All that nesting. Wasted.

Our bedroom (those are slippers on the floor, not undies - thankfully)

What on EARTH happened to my lovely home?

She did x

Timetable

Right. We need a routine.
How can such a tiny little human run two fully grown adults so quickly into the ground?

Here’s how.

6.45am – Betty wants a feed. Might as well get up. She munches hungrily at the breast – fair do’s. I doze momentarily in the chair.

7.45am – Betty allegedly wants a feed. She chews calmly yet indifferently at my other nipple. Absolutely not fair do’s.

9.30am – Massive poo. Usually explosive/hanging out of her nappy/up her back/coating her clothes/soaking her car seat/pram/cot. Toys apathetically if offered a feed.

11.00am – A period of alertness. Cries heartbreakingly and ‘I will report you to social services-ly’ if put down at any point. Likes to be entertained with toys/keys/music. Will feed if offered.

11.30-1.00pm – Will sleep in cot if manoevered quickly, quietly and without any actual movement of her body whatsoever. So, in essence…NO CHANCE. Feeding will quieten her.

1.00pm – Heavy wee based nappy to be sorted. Any niggles can be appeased with food.

2.00pm - Betty hungry again. A prolonged lunchtime feed, usually lasting until a few months after her seventh birthday.

3.30pm – Next impressively proportioned poo. Colour and consistency modelled on chip shop curry (smell not.) Feed needed to replace lost solids.

5.00pm – Wide eyed again, time to be entertained. The more jigging/dancing/singing/bouncing/rocking/swinging about you can do the better. Preferably in a very public, quiet, morose place; like a doctors waiting area or a library. My added embarrassment adds to her enjoyment no end. She is her mother’s daughter.
Will also feed quite happily in front of an audience if required. What a trooper.

7.00pm – Overtired crying to commence, lasting throughout Emmerdale and until the very last two minutes of Coronation Street. Excellent love, really great that. Want some peace? Hit the boob.

8.00pm – Bath time. Betty cries getting undressed. She cries naked. She cries on entry to the water, throughout all water sprinkling and fun with toys, and while being removed from the water. Initially believing ourselves to have gone deaf, we discovered there was, in fact, a slight reprieve for the ear when wrapping a naked Betty in a towel. Turns out this was because she was happily abusing said fresh towel and her previously squeaky clean legs by urinating liberally over both.

9.00pm – Another feed. Cries impatiently for breast to appear before coolly assuming the feeding position, and grazing intermittently for the following 45 mins.

10.30pm – Another victory in the Betty vs Pampers campaign, as excessive amounts of borderline solid waste seep mockingly from the seams of the defeated diaper. Milk then needed to rehydrate.

12.30pm – In a final crescendo of neediness, our famished daughter cries out desperately in the dark, unforgiving, yet beautifully peaceful night for sustenance, a bum change, and to generally make sure we haven’t forgotten she’s there. We haven’t. 

2.45pm – Last feed of the 24 hour period. My haggard hooters breathe a fleeting sigh of relief before crawling thankfully yet wearily, into my dizzied bra.

My little lady is getting away with a lot under the umbrella of alleged ‘bonding’. So much, in fact, that the umbrella has torn, bent and blown inside out, leaving only rags of useless cloth flailing in the wind.

We definitely need to have words.

Stay Awake If You Think You're Hard Enough

I am definitely winning the battle.
A few sleepless nights, the odd pooey nappy. I’m not even in second gear yet, and look at this pair of weeds…

They really are going to have to toughen up.

BB x

Stress

Picture the scene.
Me, Betty and my Nan (Betty’s Nannie). A lovely day out shopping in Wigan. Full English breakfast, spending Betty’s vouchers on beautiful girly clothes, treating ourselves to stuff in Primark. Betty remains asleep for the majority of the day, content and tucked up warm in her pram.
Betty begins to stir; time for a feed. Nearing the end of our trip anyway, we decide to return to the car. Just nip to Superdrug for breast pads on the way. Stirring becomes a whinge. Lots of shushing and fast paced pram pushing ensues. Breast pads obtained. Now to car park lift. Floor 2. Sail happily out onto our level. Betty now progresses to an intermittent cry. Nearly back sweetheart. “I’ll feed her on the backseat.” Walk purposefully towards our block, then our bay. 

Car? Where is it? Seriously…where is it? It was definitely here. Wasn’t it? It was. This exact bay. Where is it? Where is it? Oh my God. My car has actually been stolen. My car has actually been stolen.
Betty’s cry becomes a constant wail. We pace the car park. What should we do? Phone Dad? Phone Dave? Phone the Police? Where is it? Definitely gone. Right. Find someone.
My daughter can now only be heard by dogs and dolphins. We charged frantically across the car park towards an official looking booth. Empty. Great. Where now? Only one option…to edge our way down the steep, winding, footpath-less, treacherous car park entrance/exit roads, to report the issue to the oblivious people on the barriers below. I’m sure this was the Boss on the sixth level of Super Mario.
We tackled our Bond moment with the stealth, cool and focus which can only truly be captured by a panic-stricken new mother pushing a howling child, while comforting an 80 year old woman with breathing difficulties, on a massively steep and perilous incline, on a wet and consequently hideously slippy carriageway. If I’d had my wits about me, I might have managed to throw together some sort of an insurance claim. We arrived at the barrier booths, surprised yet relieved we had not, at any point in the journey, turned to see a huge Indiana Jones style boulder pursuing us down the ramp.
Betty’s howling grew into a full blown bawl. My stress levels hit overdrive.

”We’ve never had a car stolen on this car park in the 7 years I’ve worked here,” the first attendant irritatingly announced.
”You’re probably on the wrong car park,” the second chap announced matter-of-factly.
I angrily and arrogantly shake my head. The wrong car park? The wrong car park? What sort of idiot do these people think they are dealing with exactly? I am on the right car park. They see a flustered young mother struggling to deal with a worrying situation and they automatically presume the fault lies with me. The nerve.

Attendant Two insisted on accompanying me back to the level of my missing vehicle. Walking the route I drove on entry, the attendant took my registration. With each footstep, I slowly came to realise that I had actually taken my Micra up to the next level, Floor 3, on arriving in the car park. Sure enough, there it was, in exactly the same bay, albeit one plane higher. Embarrassed. Humiliated. I apologise uncomfortably and the nauseatingly smug attendant* leaves me to deal with my screaming daughter.
However, the ordeal is not yet over. I must now swiftly disassemble the pram, hurriedly play the game of Jenga that is packing the pram and shopping in the car, promptly quell my daughters crying and return without delay to my aging Grandmother who still anxiously awaits news of the missing Micra search.
Appropriately, the car neighbouring my bay had parked ridiculously close to mine, completely hindering my entrance when carrying a baby; my mobile rings constantly as my Nan pursues a theft update; I swear viciously at the pram wheels which point blank refuse to collapse; and Betty’s screaming is now occasionally punctuated by a heart-wrenching sob. Upon reversing, I manage to run over the bag of my own shopping I had neglected to jigsaw into the boot. It was only a carton of orange juice and a new CD; the CD jumped at the chance to split completely in half, and when the orange container burst, I had an actual heart attack. Superb.
I roll furiously down the ramp and back to my Nan, who hastily climbed into the car. We sped away, my daughter crying irately at her flapping mother.

New motherhood? A doddle.

*Incidentally, the car park staff were uncharacteristically lovely. Annoying, so, for the sole purpose of making you smile, I have completely sullied their good names. Well, it’s not www.mydeadnicemummy.co.uk, is it?

Our Day Out

2 week old baby + torrential rain + constantly hungry daughter + no internal breastfeeding facilities = a somewhat tricky predicament.

Then we threw in Alton Towers.

NO NEED.

Birth Registry

Went to register The Poop’s birth today.

There are lots of things about our country I love…the seasons, our comfort foods, Bobby Davro. There are lots of things about America I hate ….morbidly obese people crying on chat shows, the way people drive - just weaving in and out of lanes willy-nilly, and most irritatingly, the thinking that made up words like sidewalk/band aid/garbage are an improvement on the perfectly adequate British equivalents.

However, one thing Americans do do well is a celebration. All singing, all dancing. Street entertainers, party favours, jet fly pasts; and you only had a tooth out.

Yesterday was a celebration. A celebration of a new life. My daughter has arrived, and registering her name made it official.

Me, Dave and Betty took ourselves off to Prescot Registry Office to obtain the piece of paper that meant our daughter is a legitimate, catalogued, recorded, known to the world, real life person. We arrived; smiles, excitement and cameras; ready for this memorable, monumental occasion. 

We were greeted by a dark, carpet tiled, library-smelling, stereotypically dull local government building, last decorated circa 1987. The lady behind the counter, who was approximately three years older than water, acknowledged our arrival with an indifferent mumble. We sat for an age, on crumbling foam seats, in a non-descript corridor waiting for the brass band to arrive. Yellow, curly edged posters and notices scattered the walls; detailing services and events last available when Jesus was a lad. After hurriedly rolling out the red carpet single-handedly, our Registrar finally arrived. We were disappointed to discover she had forgotten her trapeze, though she did have a seven word a minute typing speed, so every cloud. 
As a YTS student, this girl was clearly not trusted with the big daddy of registrar duties, The Wedding Ceremony, however she knew the Birth Registry procedure like the back of her hand; which added to the flair and pizzazz with which she was able to complete the process. After firing up her Acorn computer, she barked a set of strikingly dull questions at us, printed of the relevant documents and pointed insistently to where we should sign. Whilst juggling on a unicycle.

We left. Standing outside, stunningly under-whelmed by the whole experience, we tried to inject some magic back into the occasion. We sat in the sunshine, joked and had a family cuddle. We took a few half-hearted photos of the building, the birth certificate and the flowerbeds. Then we trudged off, defeated, well and truly aware that our gorgeous, magical daughter had just been cynically and routinely initiated into our society.

With us moaning and The Poop crying loudly, we returned to the car, with even Betty herself seeming suitably disappointed.
Consequently proving she had just become a true British citizen.   

BB's Button

Is that not the creepiest, yet smileiest belly button you ever did see?

Sleep

Betty has decided that 1.45am-6.30am is playtime. And cry time.  And burp time. And dinnertime. In the day, she is now feeding every three hours for half an hour. At night; every hour for 45 minutes. That’s 15 minutes sleep every hour for 5 hours. 

Now our family like their scran. We’re not shy when it comes to a spread or buffet. We feel no shame or sense of proportion when eating socially, consuming with focus, drive and vigour, oblivious to the notions of inhibition, sharing or moderation. Calling a spade a spade: an out and out bloody greed bunch.
I myself, after a substantial evening meal, often graze idly on toast, biscuits, yoghurts, crisps. Never massively hungry, never COMPLETELY full. Sheer gluttony. It was inevitable Betty would succumb to the ambitious appetite her DNA has bestowed upon her. 
Hello. My name is Cathey…I am a compulsive over-eater…and I can sympathise with the plight of my daughter.

However, despite a family tree awash with avid, ravenous, craving, self-indulgent passions for all things edible; there is an unspoken hereditary truth which my daughter has not grasped. A decree of effortless wisdom, from which no right-minded relative has ever deviated. A simple yet steadfast edict to which my whole belly-led family adhere.

FOOD DOES NOT INTERRUPT SLEEP. EVER. UNLESS YOU ARE DRASTICALLY ILL.

My daughter is cute, beautiful, funny, precious, treasured and cherished. She is NOT ill.

Bed time IS bed time.
Clearly, the years may not be kind. I fear I will come to face some fierce uphill battles with this jumped up little revolutionary.

Nappies

My daughter is a show-off.

She poos at least four times a day. What I would give to poo four times a day. I go, on average, four times a year. Granted, the colour and consistency leave quite a bit to be desired (bright yellow and like a watery paste), but four times a day; a poo poo prodigy.
When I sense a looming stogey, I feel a mixture of delight and dread. There is a mountain to climb, significantly grim work to be undertaken; yet a tremendously rewarding prize beckons. It is a laborious, prolonged, harrowing ordeal, which has occasionally warranted subsequent counselling. Nevertheless, the sense of emptiness, liberation and boundless joy as you emerge, half a stone lighter from the scene of the struggle, cannot be measured, and it is this feeling which encourages future battle to commence.
My daughter however, clearly encounters no such skirmish when taking on her bowels. She soils happily, readily and with wildly charismatic abandon. John Barrowman productions exhibit less showy fanfare. Mustard tinted liquid seeps exuberantly from the legs, back and waistband of her irritatingly and consistently impressive nappies. Production of such leavings are equally blissful; heavings scattered with smiles, giggles and high pitched gurgles and parps. And not a red face or eye water in sight. Occasionally, as if sensing my insecurity, she will wait until we are mid nappy change, before boastfully piping out additional waste; an added awe-inspiring flourish to seal her superiority.
The worst of the matter is that of her diet. I religiously consume bran flakes, masses of fruit and veg, gallons of council pop and the occasional Senokot. Yet still I must prolapse my way through every bathroom endeavour. My intestinally gifted daughter? Breast milk alone. God knows what she’ll yield when an actual source of fibre enters her stealth like digestive system. Even her trumps border on socially acceptable. Mine take down light aircraft.
Two weeks old. What a big head.        

Parents

So these are my ‘parents’. 

There are two of them, I think. 
One is of the feminine variety. She fusses about temperature, smells my bum (so humiliating), and feeds me boob juice. It’s filling, but the flavour gets bloody monotonous after a while. She always looks pleased with what she’s brewed up, but being brutally honest, the taste is shockingly dull. Masterchef she ain’t, but she means well; I can tell cause she smiles inanely at me and tries to be okay about it when I pulverise her nipples. 

Then there’s a boy one. Bigger and hairier with tattoos. He has got an incredibly spiky face, eyes like mine, and talks to me a lot about how much money the girl one spends. I think he’s a bit simple though – he laughs heartily if I break wind and was yesterday clearly impressed with a substantial yellow stool I passed. He has this very deep voice with loads of base in it that makes my whole body vibrate like I’m in a cheap nightclub. If only I knew what a nightclub was. 

The pair of them keep whinging on about their “lack of sleep”. I really don’t see what the problem is; I sleep all day, so much so it can sometimes be a struggle keeping both myself and these ‘parents’ awake all night. But, I manage – usually opting for a combination of heartfelt crying/sobbing interspersed with high pitched screaming. Every now and then, usually about 3am, I throw in a gurgle which kind of sounds like I’m choking on some sick. That always forces a dramatic reaction. Makes them both feel needed. It’s a chore, but a baby’s got to do what a baby’s got to do.  

BB xx

My God

I always believed that maternity leave would be a doddle; days filled with cuddles, daytime TV and a few visitors thrown in here and there to keep me entertained. Almost a year off work! Maybe I’ll start a blog, I thought; wile away the days… 

Not as easy as I thought.

45 minute feeds every hour and a half, 3006 pooey nappies, 712 loads of washing and 11 sleepless nights later…what the hell did we sign up for?!
I have not seen a newspaper, Coronation Street or general basic personal hygiene since Betty arrived. My arch enemy, punctuality, now has a valuable ally in my daughter, both of whom insist on conspiring against me with last minute dirty/leaky nappies, hunger cries and sick stains. I thought looking after Dave was an ask; this is a whole different league of team leadership. As you can imagine, I am taking it all in my panic stricken, bad tempered, incredibly late stride.

My once immaculate house is filled with dirty washing, tide-marked bath and sink and suspiciously stained laminate flooring.

A determined appetite, untimely bowel movements and a general ‘I don’t really want to do that now’ awkwardness are relentlessly problematic. And then I go and bring a baby into the equation. Throw in crusty boob scabs, a few undercarriage stitches, the heaviest clotty period known to Guinness World Records (what a photo that would make) and raw, bloated piles, and you have a pretty repugnant cocktail of psychological torture.
Next stop – post-natal depression.

Fortunately, her cuddles and smell and wide blue eyes and trumpy smiles are more consumingly precious than I could ever have imagined. And suddenly; everything’s absolutely fab.