Week 190- Big Daddy, downing shots and crowd-surfing like Eddie Vedder...

As I type, I am currently sat very sheepishly on a pile of cushions.

My back is so bruised it feels like I have been clotheslined by Big Daddy.

And I can’t complain about it out loud.

As this is isn’t an injury caused by tripping over my son’s walker.

Or slipping on a rogue soggy rice cracker.

Or from carrying the pram up and down the millions of stairs to our front door.

No. My back is so sore I can’t even put my coat on because I fell off a stage after an evening of celebratory drinking on my friend’s hen do.

Or if could have been from falling off the table I was dancing on.

Or both.

I can’t remember.

See, I think if you want to have a good night out. I mean a proper ‘dance till your feet bleed, sing till your voice is so horse you sound like Darth Vader’, night out...

... then go out with a mum of small children.

Because we are so massively delighted to be out, so hugely excited to be listening to music that doesn’t instruct you to touch your head/ shoulder/ knees/ toes, that we are absolute quality for money.

And often a cheap date too.

With little opportunity to get involved in hard liquor at home, two Sambuca’s and we’re absolutely floored.

We’re the first on the dance floor, and will dance to ANYTHING. Fire alarms, lift music, mobile phone ring tones. It doesn’t matter.

We often have no idea what the music is anyway, unless it’s been a question on Ken Bruce’s Popmaster or a dance routine on Milkshake’s Bop Box.

But most importantly, we’re a right laugh.

That’s partly because we don’t give a shit about what anyone thinks.

Once you’ve pushed out two babies in front of several midwives and student doctors, the thought of an impromptu twerk in the pub to Beyoncé’s 'Crazy in Love' somehow doesn’t seem to register on the embarrassment scales as highly as it may have done pre-children.

So, if you’re putting together your dream night out guest list, have a think of any of your friends with kids.

Don’t think we won’t be up for it because we’re tired/ got to be up early/ are too grown up or sensible now to neck Tequilas and ass dance to Status Quo (no she didn't…)

But, and this is just a small plea, if you see us looking like we’re going to throw ourselves off a stage like Eddie Vedder...

... just shout 'NOT A GREAT IDEA!' or something along those lines. 

Because it’s a total bastard trying to carry two children the following day.

Three Generations of Women - the next step...

Right. Sorry in advance. This week's blog post isn't about parenting as such. 

But it is about being a mother. 

Or having a mother. 

Or knowing a mother.

Last year my theatre company, Broken Leg Theatre, developed a website for women to upload their stories, sharing experiences and memories of what it is to grow up in Britain over the last 100 years. 

And the response was immense. Like, truly incredible. 

Nearly 2000 stories were uploaded. Tales of courage, of oppression, of love. 

Secrets that were held in families for years, shared with us online. 

And from this, we wrote a play, which was performed to audiences in Brighton, London and Leeds as script in-hand-readings. 

We now want to build on this. 

To enable more women to share their stories by developing the website further. To hold writing workshops for women to find their voice. And to tour the play nationally. 

To do this we need to fundraise.

We've set up a crowdfunding campaign, and already within the first four days we've raised £1650. 

Which is INCREDIBLE.

But we need to reach our target of £5500.

And we have only 28 days left to do it. 

So, if you can donate, that would be fantastic, but if not it would be amazing if you could repost this blog or the link to the campaign. 

Or have a look at the website, read some of the inspiring stories, and maybe add your own?

Because we've all got a voice, we've all got a story to share. 

And maybe this might be the right place for you to share yours.

MASSIVE THANKS. x

Week 188- sleep, sewing and what success looks like...

My son sleeps through the night!

I know I’m tempting fate but I don’t fucking care!

Also, when I say the whole night, I mean his day starts at 4am now- but that’s the time some commuters get up to go to work, so technically, yes, he sleeps through the night.

Practically, my day now starts three hours earlier than it did when I used to drug him with breast milk from 2am onwards as I lay there like a bed-bound heifer attempting to catch another 40 winks while he used me as a human dummy.

But those days are over *dusting hands*

We are moving on.

And I am going to embrace these eye-wateringly early starts.

I was having a think about what I could do with an extra three hours a day while still entertaining a one-year-old.

• Finish writing my novel
• Upload and print out all the millions of pictures I have of my children that are lurking on a range of digital devices
• Clean out the cupboards
• Sew at least one button back on every item of clothing my children own
• Sort out the children’s clothes to filter out all the really titchy baby gros I’m still squeezing my son into.

Day one. My son plays happily on the floor as I turn on the computer, then sit with my eyes shut in front of it as the glare feels like it is burning my retinas.

Day two. Tip out three drawers of children’s clothes onto the floor, just to stare at them for a couple of hours, then squash them all back into the drawers again.

Day three. Sit on the sofa under a duvet with my son in a headlock. 5.30am he gives in and goes to sleep on me.

Forget fast cars and big houses.

This is what success now looks like.

Quick plea...

If you enjoy my blog, please could spare two minutes to vote for my blog in a couple of awards….

I’ve been shortlisted for the Brit Mums Brilliance in Blogging Awards in the writer category, the link is here; http://www.britmums.com/2015/04/vote-for-you-favourite-bloggers-bibs2015/ the writer category is number 7, and my blog's called You Can Take Her Home Now… (www.youcantakeherhomenow.co.uk)

Secondly, the MAD awards have just opened, I’ve been a finalist three times in the writing category, and it would be fab to be there again, the link to that is: http://www.tots100.co.uk/nominate-in-the-2015-mad-blog-awards/ (The writer category is second from the bottom on the second screen after you’ve nominated your blog of the year.)

Thanks! x

Week 187- feeding, fretting and an end of an era...

Hello mastitis, my old friend. 

Has no-one told you that YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO BOTHER WOMEN WITH ONE YEAR OLD CHILDREN?

TWICE?!

As I lay in bed with a temperature of 40c, radiating heat whilst simultaneously chattering my teeth off, I decided enough was enough.

I was going to stop feeding.

I lied about how old my son was when discussing methods of relieving the pain on a parenting forum. All the other women who were suffering were feeding their two-week old babies. It felt ridiculous to say my boy was virtually walking and can eat a chicken wing unaided and I’m STILL getting mastitis.

On the plus side, this now means I can:

Go out on the piss and not have to extract the last moisture from my body by breast pumping an evening of double gins resulting in looking more dehydrated than a fig.

Wear dresses, because, lets be fair, no-one wants to have to hoik up their dress over their waist to feed their baby even if it is in the comfort of their own home.

Bin my disgusted collection of milk-encrusted, fraying, greying maternity bras.

The thing is through, I feel really sad about it, (stopping feeding. Not the bras.)

The feeling just crept up on me.

On day one of no longer feeding him it started as a niggle. That unsettling feeling like you’ve forgotten something. I just put it down to the fact that we probably had actually forgotten something as we haemorrhage our belongings wherever we go so the chances are I’d left a coat/ doll/ pair of socks/ dirty nappy somewhere throughout the course of the day.

But by the morning of day two, I got the full on, punch-in-the-face impact of the realisation that I will never breastfeed a baby again.

And that it had stopped so abruptly that I hadn’t even had chance to say goodbye to that part of my life.

He doesn’t need it anymore, I get it. It was only going to get harder for him to stop.

And let’s be honest, there’s nothing glamorous about sitting on the floor in front of a mirror in a pair of pants putting your make-up on when a one-year-old scales your back, pops his head under your armpit and starts feeding.

But when I stopped feeding my daughter, I knew we would hopefully have another child in the future.

We don’t intend to have any more.

So three nights ago, when I cradled my boy in my arms, when the wiggliest one-year-old closed his eyes, fed and feel asleep on me, I didn’t realise that would be the last time ever.

That that part of motherhood had just ended. That it was the end of an era.

So tonight I’m going to raise a gin to wave goodbye to that chapter. Actually, I’m going to have several cos I bloody well can now.

Quick plea...

If you enjoy my blog, please could spare two minutes to vote for my blog in a couple of awards….

I’ve been shortlisted for the Brit Mums Brilliance in Blogging Awards in the writer category, the link is here; http://www.britmums.com/2015/04/vote-for-you-favourite-bloggers-bibs2015/ the writer category is number 7, and my blog's called You Can Take Her Home Now… (www.youcantakeherhomenow.co.uk)

Secondly, the MAD awards have just opened, I’ve been a finalist three times in the writing category, and it would be fab to be there again, the link to that is: http://www.tots100.co.uk/nominate-in-the-2015-mad-blog-awards/ (The writer category is second from the bottom on the second screen after you’ve nominated your blog of the year.)

Thanks! x

Week 186- while you're in the voting mood...

Now, it’s the week for deliberating how you will vote, who you trust and how you want your country to be run.

You’re probably absolutely sick of campaigners, manifestos and promises of a better future.

So, I realise I’m pushing my luck by throwing this one into the mix but…

VOTE FOR ME.

Not for a political standing, but in the Brilliance in Blogging 2015 Awards as I’ve been shortlisted in the Writer category.

The link to the form is here, the Writer category is number 7, voting closes Friday 15 May, and, just like the election, it’s all about the votes. 

But, unlike the election, I am not intending to run the country, I’d just like to put on a posh frock and go to an awards ceremony.

So, I’ll let you crack on with your bank holiday, and mega massive thanks in advance.

Oh, and this might help...

Or this?

And if you needed any more convincing?

Thanks Goslinator.