When Your Toddler Holds You Hostage In Superdrug

Sometimes I forget that I'm still a first time parent. I feel like I've been a Mum for a while, its not all shiny and new and I should just know the answers by now. I mean you get all that when you have a new born, that feeling of not knowing what you're doing, not knowing how to hold them without their head falling off. Unsure of the normal temperature, the normal colour of poo, the normal amount of crying. You're supposed to not know when they are new and you are new at being a parent, its expected, its accepted. Its ok to hold your hands up and say 'Sorry I'm new at this, I don't really know what I'm doing!'. 
Trouble is, I'm not really sure I can do that now my first baby is a new toddler. I mean I'm more confident with my parenting skills than I was in those first few months, his needs are easier to read, mostly because they are being screamed at me from across the supermarket. I can assess the right temperature because I've realised that its either just too fucking hot or too fucking cold, it doesn't matter if you're nine months old or ninety. I don't worry about the colour of poo, I no longer phone my Mum about it. Two and half years in, I've seen it all or at least please God, I hope I have. Its been on my hands, in my hair, on the carpet, there's nothing in the poo department that can worry me now. We've kept him alive and reasonably well behaved, we used to congratulate ourselves on what a 'good baby' he was.

Then three weeks ago, he held me hostage in Superdrug.

Women With Influence

Last week the post I'd written last year, Don't Fear the C-Section re-surfaced itself on Twitter courtesy of Kirstie Allsopp. She'd come across it via a hashtag I assume, read my piece and deemed it worth a re-tweet to her 399k followers. How terribly exciting for me and very flattering of course. I've watched her television programmes for years and was quite taken aback by such a compliment. Fully aware that this would be the first and last time my blog received any level of notoriety from the outside world, I allowed myself to get a bit giddy about it, told anyone who would listen and congratulated myself with a large glass of wine at the end of the day. Oh yeah.
Then I got to thinking about why she'd done that, what was her motivation. Why does she care what I think about C-Section births? Kirstie Allsopp is typically known as a broadcaster of property programmes and has made a living selling vintage home ware and interiors. So I had a good google on her and discovered that it was a topic close to her heart, something she'd written an open letter about a few years ago. Having had two Cesarean births herself, she'd taken an exception to the "too posh too push" stigma and spoken out about how we should be better prepared for the eventuality of a C-Section birth, as now 1 in 4 results in one. Turned out she'd started a bit of a debate. With many women supporting and thanking her for speaking out and others slating her for promoting unnecessary birth intervention. She's not afraid to speak out about other women's issues either from her opinions on marriage and banning homework. Through to acknowledging your fertility window and considering putting that first before your education and career. You may or may not agree with her opinions but at least she has some and there relative and real. I found it really refreshing to see a woman with influence sparking a discussion about something important that actually relates to my life.

A History Of Anxiety

Anxious.
Its such a throw away word.
"I feel a bit anxious!" "I have anxiety about it." "I had a little panic attack."
Its a word we hear and use in casual conversation, to express our nerves or qualify our social awkwardness. Everybody feels anxious, you've just got to push through it and you'll be alright. Its such a shitty word, it lends itself to enable people  to talk about anxiety disorders as if they are not really illnesses. As if they are a self imposed state of mind for people who just need to relax a little.
I think I've lived with anxiety for the majority of my life. Its generally comes disguised as a very specific and tailored fear. Which then manifests itself deeper and further into my everyday life. Like when I was 8 years old and started refusing to go school, because I became terrified and transfixed on 'The Bad Book' being read out in school assembly. It is in truth quite a horrendous notion, that each Friday the list of 'Bad Children' was read out to the entire school and if your name was called, you had to stand up and be shamed. I hope nothing like that happens in Primary Schools these days. I spent my early twenties in a constant state of extreme anxiety. I don't mean that I was stressed or shy or a bit nervous. I mean that every day for five years, I had or fought off panic attacks. I mean that everything I did or didn't do was governed by the prison of my own mind. I built myself a tiny, little world with limits. I was quite safe there.

No More Cot Prison

Increasingly we are becoming aware that we're living on borrowed time with Finley still sleeping in his baby cot. He's fast approaching the two and a half years old mark now and every noise, every creak we hear from upstairs whilst trying to eat our dinner, we convince ourselves that he's finally done it. He's finally figured out how to throw himself over the side and make a break for freedom. Any second he'll come bumping down the stairs on his 'bum-bum' asking for a biscuit or a drink or a story and that will be it. Game over. No more cot prison. The enjoyment of our evenings will be subject to his free will and our ability (or lack of) to discipline him. Luckily for us its not happened yet, but now I've put that in writing it probably will tonight of course...

There's Too Much Fucking Swearing On This Blog

Its fair to say that there's a lot of swearing on this blog. None of it is particularly offensive in an aggressive sense, its all intended as tongue in cheek humour but I cannot deny that the profanity word count is pretty high. I'd never really considered it until recently, I'm pretty free and liberal with how I write, in that I write how I like and if I like it then I keep it. I don't write for other people, I write for myself and I've found it very therapeutic, cathartic even. I just start tapping away and if a 'shit' or a 'fuck' contributes to the giggles or exasperates my tone I go with it. Particularly if you're writing about something that pisses you off, I've found a couple of 'bastards' and 'arseholes' really help get your point across. Of course I'm thrilled to bits to discover that people actually read my nonsense and even if it is just mostly my Mum (hi mum!), I've enjoyed that I've made people laugh and engaged with them on a certain topic or event in my life. I've had some cracking comments and direct messages, many full of obscenities and 'Fuck Yes!' moments. I've laughed my arse off at some of the feedback I had on that tit post, apparently it is a real issue affecting mothers globally - not just me!

Mothering The Shit Out Of Life

Towards the end of last year I got pretty bogged down with all the things I had to do, the things I did do and things that were never going to get done. My mind became increasingly cluttered and stressed and over burdened by the demands of work, housework, my son, my husband and everything else that goes with it. There was always hoovering to do, always emails to respond to, always a dinner to cook. I was becoming increasingly frustrated with myself and my inability to get everything done. Everyone elses houses are always tidy, why was ours never ever tidy? We're never even here for fucks sake. At one point I was actually getting up in the middle of the night to hang up washing so it would dry in time. I would voluntarily opt out on reading my son a bedtime story, so that I could get dinner started so we wouldn't be eating at 9 o'clock again. I was giving a little of myself to everything, meaning nothing got my full attention, nothing truly ever got done or finished and well, I was fucking failing at everything.

Is Anyone Else Being Constantly Punched In The Tit?

Bar two days I've been off work with Finley all over Christmas. Its been lovely, Christmas and all its shenanigans and then just having normal days with him. Taking him to soft play, getting his breakfast, buying a multi pack of Petits Filous because he was actually around long enough to eat them all. We spread his Christmas over our two families, as you already know his upbringing is pretty much a family affair and its been great to be with him and everyone important in our lives. Its been pretty chilled, slow paced, relaxing and well just lovely.
Until I recount all the injuries I have sustained ... Seriously in a ten day period I have been bruised, poked, pinched, slam dunked and quite frankly conquered by my two year old. On the whole its been unintentional, but it all still hurts like a mother fucker. First up, he apparently likes to pinch my fat. If my muffin top is a bulging, he's right there pinching and giggling. Thanks kid, like I need that non so subtle reminder.  He also likes to tickle people, which is really sweet and all good fun in theory. Except his tickles aren't tickles, they are prods and pokes. He gets all his fingers together, comes at you from across the room and shouts "iggle iggle! iggle iggle!". And you have to grin and bear it because you love him and stuff but it really does hurt like a bitch. He's also taken to slam dunking people, this situation arises when he wants you to be a horsey but you haven't figured that out in time. So he launches himself at your back, knees to the kidneys and arms tight around your neck. You either go down and submit or you choke to death in seconds.