The Gallery: morning

This is the first gallery I’ve joined in with in ages. And I’m fairly late to the party. But this was my morning anyway. And yes, it did begin with a healthy dose of “You’re not Daddy!” but that will definitely  probably be another post. So, anyway. My morning.

7.00- get up, peel the baby from me and take a shower

7.10- attempt to make myself look human

7.20- give up trying to make myself look human

7.30- get The Big One out of bed

7.40- tell The Big One to get dressed

7.45- remind The Big One she was getting dressed

7.50- remind the Big One- AGAIN- that she was getting dressed

7.51- get the toddler out of bed/ ignore protests linked to my identity

7.55- get the baby out of bed/ delight in her pleasure at my identity


8.05- breakfast for all:


8.10- Ask The Big One to get her hair brush/ feed baby/ dress the toddler/ find shoes

8.15- attempt to find The Big One’s hairbrush with a baby attached to my chest

8.20- settle the baby on her play mat

8.21- brush and plait The Big One’s hair, ignoring her wails of pain and moving her head back to the front every time she cranes to watch Gumball. Clean up the baby’s poo explosion

8.25- teeth:


8.28- line up everybody, line up, line up ! Curse myself for watching Bubble Guppies and loving that song

8.30- all kids in seats, after convincing the toddler that three teddies are quite enough otherwise there will be no space in the seat for him

8.35- back to the house to pick up forgotten reading wallet. Remind The Big One that it is her reading wallet, not mine

8.40- TRAFFIC.

Just a typical morning really…



Breastfeeding and birth trauma

My son

I totally believe that breastfeeding saved my son and I.

My breastfeeding journey as a mother has been varied. At times it’s been a little like travelling one of those perilous roads on a mountain side; you think you might slip but you just manage to keep going. At other times it’s been like a drive on a Sunday afternoon, along the sea front with the wind in your hair and the world at your baby’s feet. Just now, I’m pootling along quite happily. No, scratch that. I’m cruising. It’s never been like this before.

I was only 26 when my eldest was born. That seems so young! Stop laughing back there, you blasted young ‘uns… So I was only 26 and easily embarrassed so my breastfeeding journey was a little bumpy at times. I used to feel resentment at having to hide away feeding for such long periods. I hated listening to people having SO MUCH fun without me, while I was stuck with a baby clamped to my chest. My eldest, however, loved breastfeeding. So much so that any attempt at introducing a bottle was met with shrill cries and severe back arching. She was all about the real thing, that child.

When I fell pregnant with my son, I was determined to introduce a bottle a little sooner. I still wanted to breastfeed, but I wanted the choice to give a bottle if need be. How was I to know that other things were going to get in the way of all my carefully laid plans?

My son’s birth left me tattered. He was placed into my numb arms just moments after I awoke from surgery and he felt like nothing but a dead weight. He was pushed towards my breast and they helped him to latch on. He screamed. I cried. And this went on. They insisted he would feed from me and all the time, I was like a robot. He would cry, I would put him to the breast. But it felt so different. It hurt. Physically and emotionally. It was a pain I just cannot describe.

You can bet we introduced that bottle. And then the guilt set in.  I had to bond with this baby they were saying was mine. I had to give him the same love I had given his sister. I had to hold him to my breast and smell the top of his head and enjoy being with him.

But I couldn’t.

Each time we sat in the half light of the night, my son and I, we cried. He cried with frustration- perhaps- and I cried with pain. Oh, the nipples had long since ‘toughened up’. It was a different pain. Guilt. Remembering how special it had been with my eldest. Remembering how close we had felt. Wondering why it wasn’t like that this time.

I’m not sure how it happened.

Each time we sat in the half light of the night, my son and I, we became stronger. As I held him to my breast and he clutched onto my skin like I might disappear… we bonded. Slowly. One night he smiled at me.

We only lasted four months, for reasons beyond my control. But we did it. And it saved us.

Today I am 13 weeks into breastfeeding my youngest and that is all thanks to my son.

Breastfeeding and birth trauma don’t often go together in a sentence. But breastfeeding helped me to make the first step towards overcoming my birth trauma. Breastfeeding is still helping me to overcome my birth trauma.


Extreme pram walking

This post has been brewing in my head for almost eight years now. It started way back when I didn’t even know what the dickens a blog even was. But finally, finally I have had enough. Extreme pram walking is doing my head in. Don’t know what it is? Then read on, my friend…

Extreme pram walking is taking your own life- and that of your baby’s- into your own hands. Or, into the hands of the main road and three hundred fast cars. It occurs in many situations and it is ruthless. Adrenalin? Maybe.

Situation 1

There are cars parked on the pavement. They may or may not be ‘allowed’ to be there. Mostly they are there to either pick up/ drop off school children, or to avoid the car’s owner of having to pay to park somewhere that has actually been designed for cars to park. They require such skill as you realise you cannot squeeze between them and the wall so you are forced to walk on the road. Sometimes situation 1 is further hampered by heavy traffic which means you either have to go all ‘school teacher like’ and stop traffic, or wait for a break and make a mad dash. You get a few paces on when situation 1 occurs again! Damn it!

Situation 2

It’s bin day. You don’t know if it is the bin owners leaving them there or the bin men not putting them back properly. Either way, its annoying and it makes for an interesting Extreme pram walking situation. Can you squeeze through? Go on, try.. oops! You’ve bashed the pram, woken the baby and STILL not squeezed through! Onto the road it is, then.

Situation 3

People are stupid. The following actually happened to me. The big one and I were out with prams and bikes. We were standing at the crossing, feet firmly placed on the braille crossing indicators on the floor. This is a tricky crossing as there’s no green man and you need to know the order of the traffic lights to get across safely. So we’re standing, waiting for our moment, when a car pulls up and parks- YES, PARKS- right in front of us. The driver gets out, shrugs his shoulders with a smile and says sorry. Then he goes inside his takeaway shop and starts about his working day. He appears not to know that you aren’t supposed to park ON the braille bits at crossings.

Situation 4

Inconsiderate dog owners. Those who know me know that I am scared of dogs, but that isn’t why they make pram walking so perilous. It’s the poo. Dog owners don’t clean up it so it gets smeared on your wheels. Either that or you go out of your way to avoid it, again probably into the road or thorny bushes or something. And if its not poo on the floor then its poo in bags that have fallen from their temporary home in the trees and are now tangled in your wheels. Not sure why the trouble of bagging up poo is preferable to putting said bag in the bin…

Situation 5

Workmen/ window cleaners. You probably already guessed this one. They leave things in the way.

I’m pretty sick of Extreme pram walking to tell you the truth. Sometimes it’s easier to put the baby in the wrap and walk that way. But if you do any of the above, I’d appreciate it if you would just… stop. Thanks.

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