It seems like only a few weeks ago I was writing about why we didn’t “do” presents last Christmas for all the boys – and yet now, my Grinch like antics have spread like the Child-Catchers sneeze of doom to Casper’s second birthday this coming Monday. Yes, my darling little cherub of a ‘baby’ is turning two and what are we, his abnormally large immediate family doing about it? Diddly squat, that’s what?! There’ll be no Daily Mail headlines of this toddler’s parents lavishing him with a diamond-encrusted tractor ride party at Daylesford Farm with Mr Tumble and co as special guests, at a grand cost of £237k; in fact, the headline will just about make it to my personal Facebook page and perhaps my Instagram, with a modest picture of the tot in question ramming his face with the Asda equivalent of Colin the Caterpillar cake. Last minute guilt might also manifest in the shape of a Gruffalo helium balloon.View Post
Day 47 (and the last day) of the summer holidays: The kids have been piled in and out of the car on six separate occasions today to head to yet another fun filled activity. Each trip undoubtedly ends with “can we go home yet?” as the excitement wears off and they suss that I’ve again stung them with a cheap-skate trip to the beach or park. But isn’t that what summer holidays are about? Filling your days with wholesome, outdoorsy activities that feed your parents’ souls, make for cracking Instagram updates and will, eventually my little cherubs, make for joyous, nostalgic memories.
When I look back on my childhood, it was a much quieter one than my children are being subjected to. I was an only child with a small, close knit family – the kind that were civilised enough to venture on a nine hour, family car journey every summer to visit my aunt and uncle in Scotland, without feeling like all sanity might be lost by the time we hit the M25. It was on one of these mammoth escapades that my tale unfolded…View Post
A tale of being supportive, loving and open with other mamas in the tribe! We’re all in it together – let’s keep it real!View Post
My first baby arrived when I was a mere 21, yes, I was 21 once! Looking back, in the grand scheme of things I had barely left school long enough to work out what sort of a mother I wanted to be and naively embarked on the motherhood ideals many a young (and often older) woman believe lay ahead of them during their pregnancy. So, when Hugo popped into this world, “popped” being euphoric recall as the reality was it took the best part of 2 days to get the little gremlin out, I just assumed that I would breastfeed my little bundle as my mother had so easily done with me for the best part of two years!
Latching on seemed a doddle from what I remember, but my paranoia that he wasn’t getting enough food thus leading to him not sleeping enough, leading to him screaming endlessly and therefore not eating enough (see the cycle there?) was very much the issue. I soon became an over-tired, emotionally wrecked dairy cow – on the pump at least three times a day, just so I could decant the breast-milk into a bottle to see how much he was eating and try to bring an end to the cycle. I was stressed and my baby was stressed. This was not a happy time. To be honest, the rest is a bit of a blur, until I woke up one morning with cheeks like Aunt Sally, boobs like boulders on which you could easily fry an egg and feeling like I’d had a house dropped on me! Welcome Mastitis! This hadn’t happened over night, but I’d ignored the signs for a good part of a week before admitting there was a problem – as the last thing any new mother wants to admit to is that there is a problem and that all is not well.View Post