Some Mummies are smug and some Mummies know it all. I am neither but would like to think I am honest about my good and bad Mummy moments.
Today Bad Mummy (me- BM) and Smug Mummy (shall remain nameless-SM) had, in hindsight, quite a funny exchange at our fitness class. . .
SM: My other half is away tonight, so I am definitely treating myself with a pizza. I've earned some carbs after this class.
BM: Oh, we're in a similar position tonight except I am going to treat myself to a glass of wine.
The memory of hourly wake ups the night before still fresh in my mind. SM looks at me like I am some kind of lush.
BM: Once he has gone down of course.
SM looks at me some more, as if I have suggested that I intend to teach Son how to throw knives at the tender age of 6 months.
She has clearly decided I am some sort of degenerate of a mother, so takes a different approach.
SM: Hubert* is now in his second out fit of the day.
BM: Me too! As long as he is clean and dry we can probably see 2/3 changes of clothes based on how meal times have gone.
BM clearly thinking I had redeemed myself.
SM clearly thinking BM was redeemable then says the following.
SM (leaning over like we're best buds): Of course, you know its a bad day when you have had to change your outfit as well.
BM: I am well past that. I'll keep wearing what I started the day out in regardless of the amount of puke I get thrown at me.
SM: Yes, but wait until you are on solids. Then the puke really does smell like puke.
BM: Yes. We are and it does. And I am well past changing my clothes throughout the day to try and keep up.
SM reverts back to her original look of disgust at the mention of my having a glass of wine and I can virtually hear her thinking "what is the phone number for social services? This child needs rescuing"
Needless to say we were not (and I suspect chose not) to be paired up on any of our joint exercises!
* not his real name
Wednesday, 30 October 2013
Tuesday, 15 October 2013
Wandering Breast Pads
Pre-Son (a distant memory now) my boobs were just there. Nothing to shout about or advertise or fiddle with or adjust.
Now they are functional and require maintenance.
And I find myself adjusting them in any old place- the bus, the middle of a shop, mid conversation. Any old place, any old time. I have lost any sense of dignity around "My Girls". Pre-Son I would never have dreamed of naming my boobs.
You see as part of breast feeding I find myself wearing re-usable breast pads to avoid any embarrassing marks appearing on my top. Instead I have swapped embarrassing marks for embarrassing bra/boob adjustments.
Why and how these pads are roaming around my bra is a mystery.
There is no fixture between the pad and the bra, something a friend has listened to me bemoan for a couple of weeks now, and try to come up with some ideas on fixing. Which have included the following:
- velcro
This clearly has nipple related agony written all over it if you get in wrong in terms of reveal/disguise pre and post feed!
- loops and hooks
The nobly nature of these attachments would simply draw far more attention to the nipple area than any woman I know would ever want to do. Plus and excessive amount of faffing pre and post feed.
(Note- between the pad and bra and not the pad and boob)
Any solution would still require an ability to get easy and quick access to a boob for the obvious feeding requirements.
Why these pads are wandering around I have no idea. Perhaps they are lonely and need to confer with each other about the state of current affairs.
Which leads me onto the other lament I have shared with BF'ing Mum friends; is that nursing bras are dull. There is no other way to describe it but soft cotton, bubble gum grey, white or black is not inspiring. The best ones I have come across are M&S and have a splash of colour and even lace.
It is just a shame that at least once a week Son manages a well targeted puke down the centre of my now ample cleavage, sending the bra (along with top) into the wash. Consequently they are fast losing they're suggestion of sexiness!
Now they are functional and require maintenance.
And I find myself adjusting them in any old place- the bus, the middle of a shop, mid conversation. Any old place, any old time. I have lost any sense of dignity around "My Girls". Pre-Son I would never have dreamed of naming my boobs.
You see as part of breast feeding I find myself wearing re-usable breast pads to avoid any embarrassing marks appearing on my top. Instead I have swapped embarrassing marks for embarrassing bra/boob adjustments.
Why and how these pads are roaming around my bra is a mystery.
There is no fixture between the pad and the bra, something a friend has listened to me bemoan for a couple of weeks now, and try to come up with some ideas on fixing. Which have included the following:
- velcro
This clearly has nipple related agony written all over it if you get in wrong in terms of reveal/disguise pre and post feed!
- loops and hooks
The nobly nature of these attachments would simply draw far more attention to the nipple area than any woman I know would ever want to do. Plus and excessive amount of faffing pre and post feed.
(Note- between the pad and bra and not the pad and boob)
Any solution would still require an ability to get easy and quick access to a boob for the obvious feeding requirements.
Why these pads are wandering around I have no idea. Perhaps they are lonely and need to confer with each other about the state of current affairs.
Which leads me onto the other lament I have shared with BF'ing Mum friends; is that nursing bras are dull. There is no other way to describe it but soft cotton, bubble gum grey, white or black is not inspiring. The best ones I have come across are M&S and have a splash of colour and even lace.
It is just a shame that at least once a week Son manages a well targeted puke down the centre of my now ample cleavage, sending the bra (along with top) into the wash. Consequently they are fast losing they're suggestion of sexiness!
Thursday, 10 October 2013
The administering of medicine - Bad Mummy Style
So, a couple of you might have already heard this but when I told a friend what my sleep deprived family got up to the other night she said straight away that this was to be shared with you all. I dedicate this one to you Mrs B.
As I write this I am half way through a glass of much needed wine. You see we are going through teething. By "we" this pain is being shared across us all- it's not exclusive to Son. And no matter how many times I whisper into his ear, over rocking cuddles, that "once they are through, they'll be through and it'll all be over". I don't know what comfort this is giving him. We both feel pretty helpless as he wakes in the middle of the night in pain.
Which he did last night.
So up leapt Husband and up leapt Wife as if the bed were on fire to see what had happened to Son. I set about soothing and cuddling while Husband gets the calpol. One measure was all we needed to get past this lips. That's 2.5ml. not much I'm sure you'll agree however his head shaking and crying sees him knock a good chunk of it off the spoon, over the side of his face, on the carpet and over Husbands hand.
So how do we get the remainder into him?
a. Do we use a syringe?
b. Do we coat a dummy?
c. Do we mix it with a bit of milk?
d. Do we run it down my boob towards his mouth as he's feeding in the hope that it somehow makes its way into his mouth??
Why d. of course.
What?! (luncay) I hear you cry. Well, the alternatives didn't occur to us until we'd committed to coating both my boob and Sons face with calpol.
As he falls asleep later on having been soothed to sleep by my warmth, some suspiciously calpolly tasting milk and shear exhaustion I am hit by the realisation that in the morning I am going to be looking a a baby version of Paul Hollywood - with a little fluffy like goatee courtesy of his bed sheet and me with my own fluffy boob.
Ahh the joys, pass the wine Husband.
As I write this I am half way through a glass of much needed wine. You see we are going through teething. By "we" this pain is being shared across us all- it's not exclusive to Son. And no matter how many times I whisper into his ear, over rocking cuddles, that "once they are through, they'll be through and it'll all be over". I don't know what comfort this is giving him. We both feel pretty helpless as he wakes in the middle of the night in pain.
Which he did last night.
So up leapt Husband and up leapt Wife as if the bed were on fire to see what had happened to Son. I set about soothing and cuddling while Husband gets the calpol. One measure was all we needed to get past this lips. That's 2.5ml. not much I'm sure you'll agree however his head shaking and crying sees him knock a good chunk of it off the spoon, over the side of his face, on the carpet and over Husbands hand.
So how do we get the remainder into him?
a. Do we use a syringe?
b. Do we coat a dummy?
c. Do we mix it with a bit of milk?
d. Do we run it down my boob towards his mouth as he's feeding in the hope that it somehow makes its way into his mouth??
Why d. of course.
What?! (luncay) I hear you cry. Well, the alternatives didn't occur to us until we'd committed to coating both my boob and Sons face with calpol.
As he falls asleep later on having been soothed to sleep by my warmth, some suspiciously calpolly tasting milk and shear exhaustion I am hit by the realisation that in the morning I am going to be looking a a baby version of Paul Hollywood - with a little fluffy like goatee courtesy of his bed sheet and me with my own fluffy boob.
Ahh the joys, pass the wine Husband.
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