Material Girl

I realised recently that I had slipped into a bit of a rut, in terms of my appearance, and that perhaps it was reflective of a sense of exhaustion and maybe even futility about life currently. Not in a dramatic way; just in a kids-tag-teaming-through-the-night-and-I’m-completely-knackered sort of way. And I realised that my lack of effort in terms of my appearance was not only reflecting my ennui but also feeding it. So this week I have been taking a bit more care: drying my hair rather than scraping it into a ponytail, wearing shoes other than my trusty Nikes, putting on some lipstick… and it feels good. I’ve felt more confident, eager to face the world, and that makes me happier.

I don’t want to overthink it, as I am clearly prone to do. I’ve been mulling over a post  on self-esteem, body image, and being a good role model for my children (my daughter in particular), but the soul-searching is proving a bit… bleak. So, I’m actually going to let myself enjoy the process of making an effort for a while, instead of lamenting my inability to separate my appearance and my sense of self-worth! And instead of fighting our image-obsessed, patriarchal society (I’ll do that soon though, I promise), I thought I’d share some of the things that have been improving my mood this week…

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I don’t want an early night

I have been tired for a long time. I thought I was tired before I had children but it turns out I wasn’t. But now I am. My son was three in August, so I suppose that makes me just over three years’ tired.

I know this is nothing on those of you with older kids. And I’m not even sure that it goes away when they turn 18 or leave home or find a life partner or have children or do anything else that makes them unarguably grown-up. My mum still seems pretty tired. Sorry, Mum.

So, I am tired. You are tired. So it is and will be, now and forever.

Bugger.

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Village People

It’s become something of a cliché to talk about a parent’s need for a village to raise their children but, as I lie in my bed failing to sleep off a debilitating bout of infective mastitis and I hear my wonderful nanny taking care of the children downstairs, it feels like an omission not to talk about it.

I live far from my parents in Scotland, and quite far from my husband’s parents in the south of England. I didn’t go to school or university in London. Many of my friends from law school or work have since moved to the sticks to raise their kids: escaping terrifying stabbings on the doorstep, choking pollution and exorbitant house prices in search of charming village greens, enormous back gardens and (it would seem) a fucking hideous commute.

My sister moved to south London a couple of years ago; though it’s not really *that* far, it involves a day trip, organised in advance, rather than popping in to see each other. (My other sister moved to Mexico, so it’s a good job she’s so lovely or I’m not sure we’d be on speaking terms.)

So to where/whom do I turn, when my left boob turns a blazing red, I have a dizzying temperature and I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck?

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Beans on toast

I have a confession: I absolutely loathe cooking.

I love to eat – I really, really love to eat. But at the moment, my love of eating is falling second to my hatred of getting food onto my plate.

Before I had kids, this laziness was disguised by a job that kept me in the office for long hours, enabling me to justify the purchase of breakfast, lunch and often dinner five days a week, and a husband who loves to cook, enthusiastically picking up the baton at the weekends without even realising he was doing me a favour.

Now I’m at home and there’s nowhere to hide. Continue reading

A love story 

During the day, with the chaos of a toddler dominating, I sometimes forget she’s there. Momentarily, rather than, you know, leaving her on the bus. But at night, when my son is asleep, I feed her in complete peace. I relax, no longer having to wonder how long we have before my son comes to distract her. She feeds and, for a while, I think only of her.

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Motherhood, 2.0

I recently started to write about my experience of becoming a mother: the alien sensations of being pregnant for the first time (when ligaments stretched and gas got trapped and sometimes I bled for no reason and everything was unprecedented and felt seismic and completely unfathomable); the frantic consumption of facts and advice in books and online about pregnancy and birth (but, perhaps somewhat naively, absolutely nothing about actual parenting); the gruelling and brutal labour (a post for another day perhaps); the overwhelming torrent of love and fear and complete exhaustion of new motherhood… And then I stopped. Because it all felt so far away, too distant to describe really. I look at my son now, a vibrant, energetic, stubborn whirlwind of almost three, and I can only hazily remember the newborn days filled with vomit (him), sleeplessness (me) and crying (both of us). Without me noticing, the oppression of new motherhood eased into something bearable. Something agonising still, in its intensity, but a weight I could live with and enjoy.

And then everything changed again, when my daughter arrived.

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Buy stuff; feel better

I saw a post on Instagram tonight relating to the closure of an online kids’ clothing shop that I have used a couple of times. The ensuing discussion was about the difficulties that small retailers are facing currently, in particular given the prevailing exchange rate. Although I hadn’t often used this particular shop, their closure made me feel surprisingly sad, and weirdly… guilty.

Since they ruined my figure and forced me to wear only clothes that allow the hasty removal of a boob at a moment’s notice, I have re-channelled my shopping compulsion in the direction of my children. I bloody love buying them clothes. In part because they look so cute in everything that it is extremely rewarding; also because they are so pleasingly quick to grow that I get to do it almost continually, which is extremely gratifying for an addict. I generally dress them in fairly gender-neutral clothes (I mean, I don’t care if my daughter wears dresses (as long as she isn’t physically inhibited by them) but I don’t want every t-shirt my son wears to have a fucking tractor on it and, if it does, then I’m happy for it to be handed down to my daughter). I try to dress them in well-made, ethically-sourced clothes. I want them to wear things that are fun to wear and fun to look at. And I don’t feel like it’s very easy to follow this approach using high street brands only.

So, tonight has provided a useful reminder that it is incumbent on me to continue to give my custom to the small shops that I follow on Instagram, who import the clothes I like and from whom I gain inspiration, because if I don’t, THEY WILL CLOSE.

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Why some babies sleep and some babies torture you instead

I wrote this post a month or so ago and never got round to sharing it. Unfortunately for me (not least because I have never wanted to be able to  use the adjective “scrotal” to describe accurately my under-eye skin), it turns out that mere contemplation of a blog post on the topic of sleep was sufficient to trigger an enormous, calamitous Sleep-Jinx. I should have known better. We are in the midst of the six-month sleep regression/first teeth hell. My poor baby no longer naps for longer than 20 minutes and wakes pretty much every 40 minutes at night. Somewhat ironically, I am too knackered to edit the original draft, let alone write something new, so here it stands. A testament to my enduring naivety and in memory of the last occasion when I had more than two consecutive hours of sleep. 

It is probably waaaay too soon to say it but my daughter seems to be a decent sleeper. [*Laughs hollowly*] I mean, she wakes at least twice in the night for milk and sometimes she can’t settle and some nights she chats away for a couple of hours when I REALLY wish she were sleeping and all I can think is that my son is bound to wake up just after she finally goes to sleep (because this is pretty much a dead cert)… but that all seems eminently sensible for a five month old baby.

My son, bless his heart, was a TERRIBLE sleeper.

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No offence intended, but…

You may have noticed a bit of a gap since my last post. I started blogging full of enthusiasm and feeling as though I had something I really wanted to share. And I was surprised by the kind response and the extent of engagement, from friends, acquaintances and some complete strangers. But then, if I’m honest, I felt tired, and worried about writing anything more. I found myself stuck on the question of why it is so hard to address the different ways in which we reconcile motherhood and life beyond. In particular, I thought it would make sense for my next post to discuss why I am currently a stay at home parent, but I felt apprehensive about broaching the topic. And then, in fairly time-honoured tradition, I allowed my anxiety to spiral, wondering if I could continue to talk about any of my personal experiences of motherhood – breastfeeding my toddler, co-sleeping with my baby, possibly delaying the school start of my August-born son until he is five, etc – without inadvertently offending someone or instigating a stressful debate.

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