Sunday, 24 August 2014

Week 152- organic toys, nicking nail varnish and dressing like a princess...

It doesn’t matter how much you spend on organic, ethically sourced, gender-neutral toys for your children. They will always prefer to play with the cheap, plastic rubbish, or ‘bin fodder’ as my friend affectionately refers to it.

Same goes with clothes.

My daughter has tonnes of beautiful stuff. I literally mean boxes of it. I’m not showing off. I am, by my own admission, a middle-of-the-night-whilst-breastfeeding-eBay-obsessive, so she was always going to do well out of that.

But, when given the choice of either wearing a pair of gorgeous BNWT Boden dungarees or a Disney-style princess outfit in luminous pink with gothic black netting, that was bought from a jumble sale for 20p, is at least one size too small and looks like a dog has had a good go at it, there is, of course, no competition.

This has been her outfit of choice for the last few weeks.

And that’s how we rocked up to a campsite over the bank holiday weekend. She squeezed it over her normal clothes on an absolute scorcher of a day, so was completely roasting.

Her other favourite thing at the moment is finding ‘special treats’ wherever we go.

These ‘treats’ can vary from leaves to snails to discarded receipts.

So imagine her absolute joy when, as we were pitching the tent, she found a bottle of acid blue, glow-in-the-dark nail varnish.

She’d already buddied up with a bunch of older girls on the site, who had been over several times to introduce her to a variety of dogs, so we assumed one of them must have dropped it.

Having been briefed that she had to return it to its owner, our daughter marched off around the campsite clutching the nail varnish, asking all the girls if it belonged to them. Which it didn’t.

So she claimed it as her own and began, without any encouragement or prior experience, painting her toe nails with the concentration of a surgeon.

 


I have spent the first two and a half years of my daughter’s short life making a right fuss that children should be whatever they want, can wear whatever colours they like, can play with pretend kitchens or power tools, that it’s their choice.

But for now it turns out my daughter couldn’t be happier than when she’s sitting off in a field dressed as a princess, painting her toe nails with nicked nail varnish.

I think the real punch in the tits came when a fellow camper walked past and said to me: “It’s so lovely when you can dress them up like that. Give it a year or two and she won’t let you.”

Sunday, 17 August 2014

Week 151- Lazy Susans, beige food and four in a bed...

If I could go back and have a chat with my pre-child self, there are a few things I'd like to ask her to do.

The first being, save up for a decent-sized double bed.

Don't waste all your disposable income on over-priced large glasses of vin rouge and clothes from Primark that you'll wear once and then give to a charity shop.

Get the biggest bed money can buy. And make sure it comes with a hard mattress.

That bit’s very important. Because you’re going to be spending hours, if not days, hunched over in it feeding a hungry baby. And making do with a second-hand one with about as much resistance as a marshmallow is only going to result in you walking around doubled up and very bad tempered.

There will also be four people sleeping in the bed. And not in a ‘Rita, Sue and Bob too’ kind of way. Think more, Grandpa Jo and family in ‘Charlie and the Chocolate Factory’. It will be hot, stuffy and there will be nowhere to escape, so make sure the bed’s bloody huge or you will spend the entire night being squashed by at least one human being.

My suggestion would be: talk to your partner about anything and everything.

Make sure you find out each other’s perspective on life. That sounds a bit heavy going, but it will be worth it. Know each other’s likes, dislikes, opinions, what films you’ve watched, favourite books. The works.

Because you’re never going to be able to finish a sentence again. Every conversation will be interrupted by a small person asking to go to the loo/watch Frozen for the millionth time/ have a drink/ go to the park/have another peanut butter sandwich/find a small bead that has become a hugely important hidden treasure that’s wedged underneath the fridge.

And when they have gone to bed, you’ll be too tired to talk. But that way you can guess what you might say to each other based on memory instead of actually having to say anything.

Third, learn to cook. Properly. Not just following a recipe from one of the cards you pick up for free on the way into Sainsbury’s. Learn how to bake, to make stews, to cook by taste. Because otherwise your repertoire will be a Lazy Susan of beans on toast, fishfingers and pasta and pesto.

Which is fine for a couple of nights.

But three years in, your daughter will be living on a prison-style menu of Weetabix for breakfast, peanut butter sandwiches for lunch and pasta for tea. And when you do try something a bit different she will refuse on principle as it’s out of her comfort zone because it’s not beige.

If you learn before children, healthy and varied eating will be a way of life, instead of an expensive experiment that everyone thinks tastes disgusting.

But mainly, don’t panic. Don’t freak out when you find out you’re pregnant. Because it’ll be brilliant. There’s a massive trade-off, course there is. But it’s worth it.

Even if you’re only going to have ten centimetres of duvet to sleep under for the next few years, know that you’ll be sharing your bed with literally the best people in your world.

Sunday, 10 August 2014

Week 150- scratch cards, cruises and nicking someone's fruit...

In a parallel universe we live in a five-bedroom house with a massive garden and a huge open fire. All surfaces are dust-repellent, there are obscene amounts of storage, so I never tread on a rogue bit of Duplo again, and the high-ceilinged walls are painted throughout in different shades of Farrow and Ball.

As we are currently house-hunting, the reality of our budget in this universe is starting to sink in.
The thing is, something’s always got to give.

If you want to live in town, you have to give up the idea of a garden in favour of a ‘patio’, which is about four paving slabs overlooked by neighbours on all sides.
Alternatively you can live further out of town and get a bigger place, but have to accept a potential life of loneliness as not even your best mates will take the three bus journeys to come and see you.

I spotted the most amazing house that was selling for the best part of three-quarters of a million pounds and I started daydreaming about what it would be like to live there.
The dinner parties we’d have round the twenty seater oak table; the amazing meals I’d cook from scratch for the children on the Arga; how, as a family, we’d learn to identify the different birdsongs in our football pitch-sized garden, just for a laugh.

In fact, not only would I live in a huge house, I would instantly become a more wholesome, more crafty person who was also so hugely nice that you couldn’t help but be pleased for me and my humongous abode.
I got so carried away with the idea that I started buying scratch  cards, convinced that I was just a quid away from the £100,000 that would enable us to buy it and have some spare change for a cruise while the removal men unpacked.

Until I realised I’d missed a zero off my calculations and I’d need to win at least seven times, which seemed a little less realistic.
One of the best bits about house-hunting is looking round houses you’d never normally get invited into. It’s like a nosy persons dream. You get a snapshot into people’s lives and try to see if you could somehow adapt your life into their space.

But by far the best person to take to viewing is a two-year-old.
If you want an honest opinion about a place, just ask them. They remember the things you don’t. The homes with the great places to hide. The ones that smell weird. The houses that have all the children’s toys out, which, as exciting as it is for a child, is a giveaway that the parents have run out of storage.

It’s also worth remembering you can’t take your eyes off a small person for a minute though.
My daughter has nearly made off with another child’s teddy, has snuck off to use the loo during a viewing and has even started to eat fruit from someone’s fruit bowl.
Never mind. I might be sitting off in my five-bed house in a parallel universe, but I don’t imagine my parallel kids are nearly as much fun.

Sunday, 3 August 2014

Week 149- red wine, 30 Day Shred and priority seats when not pregnant...

The worst has happened.

I thought getting stitched up and not being able to sit down for the best part of a month when I gave birth to my daughter was bad.
Or having to walk around with cabbage leaves stuffed in my bra to relieve the strain of mastitis.
In fact, having to negotiate with a two-year-old who’s literally thrown herself on the floor of the big Sainsbury’s and is beating the tiles with her fists on a busy Saturday morning seems like a laugh in comparison with this.
I have been mistaken for still being pregnant.
This is like all my worst post-birth nightmares rolled into one.
I bumped into a friend of the family whilst we were travelling up and down the country introducing our new son to relatives.
We greeted each other warmly, and, as she asked me how I was, she touched my stomach. It all happened so quickly that I wasn’t entirely sure what had just happened. That was until it was followed up by the head-cocked, ‘How are you getting on?’ question.  
And I realised she clearly thought I was still pregnant.
Obviously word had spread that I was having a baby, but it had not got around that it had actually been born.
We chatted briefly, and to avoid any embarrassment, I brushed right over the imminent birth of my now three-month old son and instead asked about her family.
We said our goodbyes, with her kindly wishing me luck, and then she walked into the pharmacy, where I was just about to buy nappies. But there was no way I could let her realise her mistake by allowing her to see me buying something for a baby. To spare both our blushes, I walked around the block, thinking I’d go to the supermarket instead.
But, as is the way when you try to avoid someone, she had beaten me to it and was already in the Co-op. I made a ‘We should stop meeting like this’ gag, as I looked down at my basket which was, so far, full of red wine and chocolate. Not great for an ‘expectant’ mother.
We parted company again but several minutes later, as I went to join the checkout queue clutching the nappies - proof that I had a child at home - I saw that she was also waiting to pay.
So I hid.
I’m a 35-year old woman, and I found myself squatting in the confectionary aisle to avoid further conversations about being pregnant, when in fact I had the baby 14 weeks ago.
And I had a moment of clarity.
With a heavy heart, I took out the multi-pack of Twirls, replaced them with some Ryvita and thought, right then Jefferson, when you get back to Brighton, you are going to unwrap that copy of ’30 Day Shred’ and dust off those dumbbells that haven’t been used since the impulse Amazon buy, and you will squeeze into your old jeans if it kills you.
Either that or totally milk this situ and start using the priority seats on the bus again.
 

Sunday, 27 July 2014

Week 148- Tetris, wedgies and panicking the relatives...

It never ceases to amaze me how much paraphernalia you need with children. The sheer amount of stuff that accompanies them would rival a Mariah Carey entourage. 

I'm not sure if we just expand into the amount of room we have available. We had a three-door car with our daughter and would go on long journeys that involved me having to sit in the passenger seat while luggage was strategically packed around me. There was no need for an air bag in the unfortunate case of an accident as I was so tightly packed in I literally couldn't move a muscle for the duration of the journey. 

Before having our son we took what felt like a massively grown up step and bought a second-hand estate car for three hundred quid. The thinking was we'd have more than enough space for a family of four. 

What idiots. 

It turns out we just find more things to drive around with. It becomes a Tetris-style challenge. I see an inch of space and think, fantastic, you could definitely ram a scooter in that gap.  

On a recent trip to show off our new baby to the family, the car struggled to go above 60 miles an hour, creaking under the immense weight of our belongings.

As we turn up at relatives' houses you can see the panic in their eyes. When we start to unpack, it looks like we're never going to leave. First out the boot comes the three massive rucksacks, followed shortly by the baby gym, toys, potty, toilet training seat, plastic bags full of emergency food, half a library of children's books... the list goes on. 

The thing is, once it's all out of the car I can't find anything I need anyway, and the thought of having to unpack three rucksacks of clothes to find a muslin cloth makes me want to punch myself in my own face with frustration. 

I like to bill myself as a bit of an expert when it comes to packing for three people. The reality is, I get all the stuff I need for the children and throw whatever is closest to hand in a bag for me about 30 seconds before we leave the house.  

Unfortunately this means that, whilst both kids have enough clothes to last them until Christmas, I only have one pair of pants, no pyjamas, an empty can of deodorant and a pair of shorts that are so tight they'd make Miley Cyrus blush.

We have an estate car full of belongings but I still have to buy deodorant and supermarket jeans so I don't have to go around stinking of BO with a wedgy for the entirety of our trip. 

Perhaps our next vehicle purchase should be a double-decker bus. 

Maybe then I'd manage to pack enough underwear to see me through a weekend. 

Sunday, 20 July 2014

Week 147- Bros, ginger biscuits and virtual keep-fit...

I think I’m more of a virtual keep-fit kind of person that an actual, real life, trainers-and-sweat woman. I could spend hours online researching ways to get your pre-baby figure back, while sitting on the sofa eating lasagne between meals.

The thing is, I thought I might have been able to get into at least one pair of trousers that I wore pre-pregnancy by now just through the power of positive thinking.

But alas, no.

Actually that’s not entirely true.

I have a pair of denim cut-off jeans circa 1993 that I can just about squeeze into, which are so awful even the Goss twins would think twice about wearing them. They’re so low-slung that I only need to bend over very slightly and I have a total builder’s behind.

 

Not ideal, but at least they’re not maternity jeans.

I feel a little like I’ve been holding my breath, waiting for this miraculous body transformation to just happen. And then I can start wearing all the titchy clothes I bid for on e-bay in the middle of the night while feeding my son.

Part of the problem is that I know that you burn off more calories when breastfeeding, but I can’t remember how many, so I’ve just rounded it up to the nearest thousand.

I think I got into bad eating habits during pregnancy, because a part of me thought ‘I’ve spent the majority of my adult life being conscious of what I’m eating, developing a slightly unhealthy relationship with food- so here was the chance to have nine months of eating whatever I want, bar a few soft cheeses.’

And I rose to the challenge with the enthusiasm of a two-year-old girl watching Frozen for the hundredth time.

Sadly those bi-hourly Twirls I inhaled for the best part of forty weeks are a bit tougher to shift at the other end.

It’s normally during the 2am feed that I have a moment of inspiration and start Googling mother-and-baby aerobic classes. There have been mornings when I have had at least three emails from personal trainers responding to my enquiries.

But then there’s always a reason to talk myself out of it. The weather’s been totally Biblical recently, so there’s no way I’m traipsing off to the park with a buggy to do plunges in a tropical storm.

And then there’s the Monday excuse. There’s no point in starting anything until Monday. Diets. Exercise. Financial planning. Anything, really.

So it only takes one mid-week rogue ginger biscuit and I think, ‘Right, that’s this week’s healthy living out the window. But next Monday, I’m going to totally nail it.’  

With all that it mind, I’ve recently turned my e-bay attention to fitness videos. I figured, if I can’t make it the 100 yards to the local park to join an exercise class, then I should attempt to do it in the front room instead.

I currently have two DVDs, and another coming soon in the post. The 30 Day Shred looks so terrifying I haven’t even taken the cellophane off yet.

I’ve also downloaded a range of apps that suggest different routines and ask you to submit your daily calorie intake and weekly weight.

I’ve done this religiously. Logging all the runs I planned to go on, but didn’t, and imaginary carb-free dinners I would have cooked if I’d had the time.

In a virtual fitness world, I’m totally on fire at the moment.

In fact according to My Fitness Pal I’ve lost 10 % of my body weight in the last two weeks.

I just need to transfer some of this into real life, but for the moment, well done to the virtual me!

Sunday, 13 July 2014

Week 146- scurvy, ugly crying and The Goslinator's having a baby...

So. It's happened. I knew it would eventually. I was hoping it wouldn’t be while I was a hormonal, sleep-deprived mess, but there you go.

I found out at 4am, on Facebook of all things, while feeding my son.

It just made it feel so cheap.

RYAN GOSLING IS GOING TO HAVE A BABY.
  

And worst of all, I thought he’d split up with his girlfriend so I wasn’t even a bit prepared for the devastating news. Damn you, Google.

Now. I’m not a total psycho. I didn’t actually believe that I was going to meet/date/get married to/have children with The Goslinator.

But he has been a bit of a constant crush throughout parenthood.

I’d seen The Notebook like the rest of the female population several years ago.

But it wasn’t until I rewatched it when four months pregnant with my daughter that I had massive hormone rush, ugly cried for a good hour after the film had finished and thought it would be a constructive use of my time to watch the whole back catalogue of Goslo films.

My daughter’s early years are somehow interwoven with his silver screen appearances.

The first time she took a step was round the same time I watched Drive. I went to the cinema to watch Only God Forgives after her third set of injections. A friend and I saw The Place Beyond the Pines when she’d started sleeping through the night.

The list goes on.

But I knew this couldn’t go on for forever. Partly because I need to grow up and mainly because he’s stopped starring in films.

So, it’s time to man up and get over it.

I have two children. I’m attempting to write a play when they’re both asleep. I have a flat that seems to haemorrhage dirt and dust the moment I leave a room. I need to learn how to cook something other than pasta and pesto before everyone under our roof gets scurvy.

I don’t really have time for a Hollywood crush.

But it suddenly dawned on me that he had been my guilty pleasure. In the same way that, pre-children, it had been smoking/binge-drinking/dancing in clubs to bad 80s music.

And that to balance being a parent with not going nuts, I was going to have to find another ‘hobby’.

So I’ve subscribed to Netflix and am going to watch the whole of Orange is the New Black on my own.

It’s no Prisoner Cell Block H but I do feel a bit better.

And if I ever DO meet The Goslotron, we will now have parenthood in common so it’s not the end of the world.