Blaine started school last August, he loves it. His reading skills have taken a wee while to develop. At first we started with the usual phonics sounding out of words and he had loads of words in a word tin to learn - he hated it at first. Tears, tantrums, and lots of shouting "NO MUMMY! YOU ARE WRONG THE WORD IS NOT PAN IT IS PIN" etc etc. He's a stubborn wee so and so (no idea where he gets that from) so sometimes there's just no reasoning with him. He would sound out words like "T....A....P" and would say "banana", or "I.....S" would be "sausages" - you get the drift. So reading was not his forte to begin with.
Fast forward to January this year and Blaine had finally "got it". The reading just kinda clicked into place and he started whizzing through his words and getting "proper" books home with words in it that he could read. Of course I was as pleased as punch and encouraged his new found enthusiasm for reading.
He gets heaps of homework from school - reading, maths, science and some craft pish that I normally have to end up doing. He hates craft, he just scribbles all over the page and it looks like the cat made it. So I "help" which is not much of an improvement as I'm not a crafty type either - Blaine normally goes mental as my work is as equally shite as his. But we get thorough it.
This week Blaine brought home his reading book - he gets 2 a week - "The Trunk and The Skunk" it was called. I sat with Blaine and he started reading his book with great enthusiasm. When he gets stuck on a word he sounds it out, lots of praise is given when he gets a word right. Now the word "skunk" is a new word for Blaine. He's reading the sentence "The mammoth said to the skunk" and he's stuck on the word Skunk. So he sounds it out "ssssss....kkkkkk.....uuuuu....nnnnn....kkkk"........ "sss...kkk...uuu..nnn....kkk" "AHA! CUNT!"
What the very fuck. I doubt Blaine has ever heard the word, he just thought skunk was pronounced cunt - easy mistake to make I suppose.
I look at Blaine with a look of sheer horror on my face "what did you say" I ask thinking I must have misheard, "cunt mummy" HORROR. "No, no, no you must never ever say that word - it's a naughty word. The word is Skunk" "but mummy, what does cunt mean?" Blaine asks, "OK Blaine - I've asked you not to say that word. It's a horrible word. It very insulting" Blaine thinks over this and continues reading using the correct words. We get to the end of the book without anymore swearing. Result. I send him to school and spend the day dreading the phone ringing incase it's the head teacher phoning to give me a bollocking for my son's use of the C-word. Luckily my phone didn't ring. Relief.
Wednesday, 25 May 2011
Sunday, 22 May 2011
Daddy is left holding the baby.......
As I'm now back to work full-time, Tom has to take some responsibility for the child-care. Ha. Ha. Ha. It's about time he got his finger out his arse and introduced himself to Imogen anyway. Tom was nightshift last week, he finishes on a Friday morning, so, to save forking out MORE money on nursery fees, it has been agreed that he comes home, goes to bed for a few hours, gets up at midday and I head into work. Leaving him with Imogen and having to deal with the school run, make tea and get Blaine to karate.
To allow Tom to get a decent few hours kip I went out with Imogen in the morning, for coffee (may have slipped a wee cake in too) met a lovely friend of mine, Angela, and her son. Haven't seen her for ages so it was good to have a natter or more a moan about working, husbands and kids.
Once I was home I quickly popped online to see if Facebook has anything exciting on it and I find Tom's status update asking if anyone is free for coffee this afternoon as he's home alone with Imogen and she likes to socialise. Or, in other words, SHIT - I have my daughter to look after and I don't have a clue what to do - HELP! One kind friend took him up on this offer, so he'd sorted out a couple of hours entertainment before picking Blaine up from school.
I wake Tom up and he decides to take forever to get ready, I needed to be in work at 12:30 latest. It's 12:30 and he decides to have a shave. Then he rants as he can't find his razor (his own fault, he still hasn't unpacked half his stuff since last weekend) and he starts asking a million random questions about Imogen "what will I give her to eat?" "when is she due a bottle" etc etc Sigh. Eventually he's organised and I get dropped off at work. Tom is left to deal with Imogen.
Work kept me busy and stopped me thinking about what state the kids were in. Tom sent me the occasional text "what time is karate?", "what is for tea?" , "when are you coming home?" etc etc But I guess he's coping so reply and get back to work. Then, at about 6pm, I receive a text from my friend Donna "Tell Tom Paul will meet him in the Mains 7:15-7:30" Paul is Donna's husband. The Mains is the local pub. Tom has arranged a wee night out it would seem - without my knowledge. It would appear looking after the kids for an afternoon has driven him to drink. I text Tom to ask him what the fuck was going on and it does appear that he's arranged a wee drinky, obviously forgetting I'm actually back at work.
I get picked up with a pile of crap to bring home with me (working from home, what fun) and get dropped back off at the house. A very quick conversation happens "how was your day? " "aye fine, kids were fine, been good" Then he disappears like a bat out of hell and practically runs down the road to the pub.
The house is a bit chaotic, the kids need fed, both need put to bed, I've just finished work and he's off on a jolly jaunt with his new best friend. Sigh. Secretly I hope he chokes on his pint. I then start to plan my next night out. It's only fair! So, I think it all went well.....
Today Tom informs me "oh, I forgot to mention. Imogen pissed all over the sofa on Friday", "oh right" I reply, "Did you clean it up" Tom - "well, I gave it a wee wipe with a baby wipe" Fuck sake.
To allow Tom to get a decent few hours kip I went out with Imogen in the morning, for coffee (may have slipped a wee cake in too) met a lovely friend of mine, Angela, and her son. Haven't seen her for ages so it was good to have a natter or more a moan about working, husbands and kids.
Once I was home I quickly popped online to see if Facebook has anything exciting on it and I find Tom's status update asking if anyone is free for coffee this afternoon as he's home alone with Imogen and she likes to socialise. Or, in other words, SHIT - I have my daughter to look after and I don't have a clue what to do - HELP! One kind friend took him up on this offer, so he'd sorted out a couple of hours entertainment before picking Blaine up from school.
I wake Tom up and he decides to take forever to get ready, I needed to be in work at 12:30 latest. It's 12:30 and he decides to have a shave. Then he rants as he can't find his razor (his own fault, he still hasn't unpacked half his stuff since last weekend) and he starts asking a million random questions about Imogen "what will I give her to eat?" "when is she due a bottle" etc etc Sigh. Eventually he's organised and I get dropped off at work. Tom is left to deal with Imogen.
Work kept me busy and stopped me thinking about what state the kids were in. Tom sent me the occasional text "what time is karate?", "what is for tea?" , "when are you coming home?" etc etc But I guess he's coping so reply and get back to work. Then, at about 6pm, I receive a text from my friend Donna "Tell Tom Paul will meet him in the Mains 7:15-7:30" Paul is Donna's husband. The Mains is the local pub. Tom has arranged a wee night out it would seem - without my knowledge. It would appear looking after the kids for an afternoon has driven him to drink. I text Tom to ask him what the fuck was going on and it does appear that he's arranged a wee drinky, obviously forgetting I'm actually back at work.
I get picked up with a pile of crap to bring home with me (working from home, what fun) and get dropped back off at the house. A very quick conversation happens "how was your day? " "aye fine, kids were fine, been good" Then he disappears like a bat out of hell and practically runs down the road to the pub.
The house is a bit chaotic, the kids need fed, both need put to bed, I've just finished work and he's off on a jolly jaunt with his new best friend. Sigh. Secretly I hope he chokes on his pint. I then start to plan my next night out. It's only fair! So, I think it all went well.....
Today Tom informs me "oh, I forgot to mention. Imogen pissed all over the sofa on Friday", "oh right" I reply, "Did you clean it up" Tom - "well, I gave it a wee wipe with a baby wipe" Fuck sake.
Wednesday, 18 May 2011
The weekend away.....
Right, finally I have time to tell you all about my fun-filled weekend away in Blackpool. 2 kids, 1 husband and 1 long car journey. What fun!
We decided that it would be very sensible to stop over at my mum's house on the way down to Blackpool. Mum lives about 2.5 hours away, Blackpool is about 6 hours from Aberdeen - no way will Imogen cope with that (and there's no way I can cope with Tom driving for 6 hours) So we departed Aberdeen on Thursday. The car was jam packed with a heap of shit that we needed for 3 nights away, mostly random stuff for Imogen "just incase" and, of course, Tom's band crap (baritone and uniform) which was packed with great care. I ended up organising everything for the kids and myself, while Tom chucked in a pair of pants, his band crap and some head-ache tablets. That's basically all he needs. So we depart.
Imogen decided she really wasn't in the mood for a day trip in the car, so half way to Dundee we had to stop. Sadly on the way from Aberdeen to Dundee there's no service station to stop at - there is, however, a McD's. Fab for me - I do love a Big Mac, but not so fab for Imogen. Imogen had scoffed her sweet potato and mackerel food before we left, so she couldn't be hungry. She better not be. So we pull into McD's and order our food - 1 happy meal, 2 Big Mac meals and some carrots for Imogen "just incase". Then the wee bloke behind the counter informs us there's "no been any carrots delivered today, or apples" Fucking great. I can see images of Imogen scoffing into my Big Mac. So we stand there and deliberate over what to get her "just incase" she wants to eat...... hamburger? erm...no. Chicken nuggets? no....Mcflurry!? again no. We opt for fish fingers and decide to peel the breaded stuff off it and just pop in the white fish. That should do the job.
Imogen ended up acting like she was starving and had some of my breaded burger bun and a bit of fish. That seemed to please her and we could now continue with our journey. Luckily Imogen eventually fell asleep (must have been all that salt) and we arrived at mums.
After a good feast (she loves to feed us) we stayed over then were all up bright and early to head to Blackers. Blaine was hyper, Imogen was hungry/grumpy/tired/who knows and Tom was.....well...Tom.
We arrived in Blackers about lunch time, popped to our hotel "The Big Blue" but our room wasn't ready, so we decided to go to The Pleasure Beach. What a bloody drama. When I was wee you could waltz on in for free, pop on a few rides, then pop back out. Not now. Security all over the place ensuring you buy your tickets before entering the ground. The wifey at the desk informed us that we had to pay £5 just to enter the park. My jaw dropped to the ground "£5 just to go in and wander about - £5 each!? You're joking?!" Nope, she wasn't. And this is where our real Scottish-ness kicks in. We stood at the desk for a good 10 mins trying to figure out the cheapest way to get into this park and get Blaine on a few rides. It was decided that we would purchase the £5 park entry tickets to "have a look" and if Blaine wanted to go on any rides then he could get a wrist band (£21!) but the fiver is deducted or something. Then we could work out if Tom needed tokens and, if so, how many. Easy peasy.
In we went. Blaine wanted to go on everything, so a wrist band was purchased. The few hours there cost us a bloody bomb. I think we blew about £70 on those bloody tickets/wrist bands and then some random hook the duck game where you can win a Spongebob Square Pants toy. Just what I always bloody wanted.
We left when Tom had run out of tokens and headed to the hotel. For once we had picked a decent hotel in Blackpool, normally they are sex-shops in disguise or lap dancing bars. This one was, in fact, a very nice, clean, friendly hotel. So that was Friday - over.
Saturday saw Tom disappearing very quickly as he had to go to his band contest, leaving me in charge of the kids in Blackpool. Oh great. Luckily I had plans to meet some weirdie Internet friends from some forum I frequent, so that would keep me occupied (they turned out to be lovely people and not weird at all!) We were meeting at North Pier, I was at the South, so a wee tram ride would get us there no bother. But there was some mental problem with the trams and they were delayed so we walked. I estimate that the walk between South and North Pier is about 25 miles. At least. Or that's how it felt. Every shop Blaine wanted to look in at all the tat. "Ohhhh mummy, can I get that hat?" "Ooooo mummy, look at that pinny- it has a willy stuck on it!" "OOOOOH MUMMMY! BOOBS!" yes, you can imagine. Blackpool is full of tacky shit. Tacky shit and stag/hen parties - that's about it.
I met my friends and we descended on a local cake shop, Blaine decided to use my t-shirt as some form of art easel, scribbling on my sleeve in crayon - as I was with company I kinda smiled sweetly and asked him not to do it, in my head I was a fishwife screeching bloody blue murder.Imogen just created her usual moaning, but did charm a few locals with some gummy smiles. She also decided that tins/pouches of baby food are minging, so a weekend of bananas it was. Tom's band didn't win, but he had a nice time with his fellow brass-banders. Lucky gits having a few pints in the bar while I was shoogling Imogen and trying to keep an eye on Blaine. Saturday ended with a rather rubbish meal in some Steak House kinda establishment.
On Sunday we had promised Blaine a trip to The Sandcastle water park. Que more complaining about the price to get in - I had to pay £7.50 for the privilege to watch, Imogen hates the water so no point taking her in as she'll just erupt in a rage. My £7.50 did entitle me to copious amounts of free drink (sadly, non-alcoholic) so I took advantage and stocked up on caffeine. 2.5 hours later we decide to begin the long journey home.
I kinda napped a little on the way home, Tom was driving but it's hard to sleep when he's nipping in and out of traffic and muttering to himself about the useless drivers on the road. We stopped at mums for tea, Imogen delighted to be given her mashed tatties and peas - she's probably sick of bananas now, having lived off them for 2 days. Then we drove back to Aberdeen.
On Monday it was back to normal, Blaine to school, Imogen to nursery and Tom to....erm.... the sofa?! Tom was nightshift Monday night so needed 12 hours to lie about on the sofa to prepare for such a shift. I arrived home from work to the sight of nothing being unpacked, the house a tip, no food in the house and nothing for tea. So pizza it was. After a long day at work I couldn't bare to start unpacking properly.....that can wait until tomorrow..... instead I cracked open the Morgan's and sat down to watch a very classy Scottish TV program - The Scheme. Makes me feel dead posh.
We decided that it would be very sensible to stop over at my mum's house on the way down to Blackpool. Mum lives about 2.5 hours away, Blackpool is about 6 hours from Aberdeen - no way will Imogen cope with that (and there's no way I can cope with Tom driving for 6 hours) So we departed Aberdeen on Thursday. The car was jam packed with a heap of shit that we needed for 3 nights away, mostly random stuff for Imogen "just incase" and, of course, Tom's band crap (baritone and uniform) which was packed with great care. I ended up organising everything for the kids and myself, while Tom chucked in a pair of pants, his band crap and some head-ache tablets. That's basically all he needs. So we depart.
Imogen decided she really wasn't in the mood for a day trip in the car, so half way to Dundee we had to stop. Sadly on the way from Aberdeen to Dundee there's no service station to stop at - there is, however, a McD's. Fab for me - I do love a Big Mac, but not so fab for Imogen. Imogen had scoffed her sweet potato and mackerel food before we left, so she couldn't be hungry. She better not be. So we pull into McD's and order our food - 1 happy meal, 2 Big Mac meals and some carrots for Imogen "just incase". Then the wee bloke behind the counter informs us there's "no been any carrots delivered today, or apples" Fucking great. I can see images of Imogen scoffing into my Big Mac. So we stand there and deliberate over what to get her "just incase" she wants to eat...... hamburger? erm...no. Chicken nuggets? no....Mcflurry!? again no. We opt for fish fingers and decide to peel the breaded stuff off it and just pop in the white fish. That should do the job.
Imogen ended up acting like she was starving and had some of my breaded burger bun and a bit of fish. That seemed to please her and we could now continue with our journey. Luckily Imogen eventually fell asleep (must have been all that salt) and we arrived at mums.
After a good feast (she loves to feed us) we stayed over then were all up bright and early to head to Blackers. Blaine was hyper, Imogen was hungry/grumpy/tired/who knows and Tom was.....well...Tom.
We arrived in Blackers about lunch time, popped to our hotel "The Big Blue" but our room wasn't ready, so we decided to go to The Pleasure Beach. What a bloody drama. When I was wee you could waltz on in for free, pop on a few rides, then pop back out. Not now. Security all over the place ensuring you buy your tickets before entering the ground. The wifey at the desk informed us that we had to pay £5 just to enter the park. My jaw dropped to the ground "£5 just to go in and wander about - £5 each!? You're joking?!" Nope, she wasn't. And this is where our real Scottish-ness kicks in. We stood at the desk for a good 10 mins trying to figure out the cheapest way to get into this park and get Blaine on a few rides. It was decided that we would purchase the £5 park entry tickets to "have a look" and if Blaine wanted to go on any rides then he could get a wrist band (£21!) but the fiver is deducted or something. Then we could work out if Tom needed tokens and, if so, how many. Easy peasy.
In we went. Blaine wanted to go on everything, so a wrist band was purchased. The few hours there cost us a bloody bomb. I think we blew about £70 on those bloody tickets/wrist bands and then some random hook the duck game where you can win a Spongebob Square Pants toy. Just what I always bloody wanted.
We left when Tom had run out of tokens and headed to the hotel. For once we had picked a decent hotel in Blackpool, normally they are sex-shops in disguise or lap dancing bars. This one was, in fact, a very nice, clean, friendly hotel. So that was Friday - over.
Saturday saw Tom disappearing very quickly as he had to go to his band contest, leaving me in charge of the kids in Blackpool. Oh great. Luckily I had plans to meet some weirdie Internet friends from some forum I frequent, so that would keep me occupied (they turned out to be lovely people and not weird at all!) We were meeting at North Pier, I was at the South, so a wee tram ride would get us there no bother. But there was some mental problem with the trams and they were delayed so we walked. I estimate that the walk between South and North Pier is about 25 miles. At least. Or that's how it felt. Every shop Blaine wanted to look in at all the tat. "Ohhhh mummy, can I get that hat?" "Ooooo mummy, look at that pinny- it has a willy stuck on it!" "OOOOOH MUMMMY! BOOBS!" yes, you can imagine. Blackpool is full of tacky shit. Tacky shit and stag/hen parties - that's about it.
I met my friends and we descended on a local cake shop, Blaine decided to use my t-shirt as some form of art easel, scribbling on my sleeve in crayon - as I was with company I kinda smiled sweetly and asked him not to do it, in my head I was a fishwife screeching bloody blue murder.Imogen just created her usual moaning, but did charm a few locals with some gummy smiles. She also decided that tins/pouches of baby food are minging, so a weekend of bananas it was. Tom's band didn't win, but he had a nice time with his fellow brass-banders. Lucky gits having a few pints in the bar while I was shoogling Imogen and trying to keep an eye on Blaine. Saturday ended with a rather rubbish meal in some Steak House kinda establishment.
On Sunday we had promised Blaine a trip to The Sandcastle water park. Que more complaining about the price to get in - I had to pay £7.50 for the privilege to watch, Imogen hates the water so no point taking her in as she'll just erupt in a rage. My £7.50 did entitle me to copious amounts of free drink (sadly, non-alcoholic) so I took advantage and stocked up on caffeine. 2.5 hours later we decide to begin the long journey home.
I kinda napped a little on the way home, Tom was driving but it's hard to sleep when he's nipping in and out of traffic and muttering to himself about the useless drivers on the road. We stopped at mums for tea, Imogen delighted to be given her mashed tatties and peas - she's probably sick of bananas now, having lived off them for 2 days. Then we drove back to Aberdeen.
On Monday it was back to normal, Blaine to school, Imogen to nursery and Tom to....erm.... the sofa?! Tom was nightshift Monday night so needed 12 hours to lie about on the sofa to prepare for such a shift. I arrived home from work to the sight of nothing being unpacked, the house a tip, no food in the house and nothing for tea. So pizza it was. After a long day at work I couldn't bare to start unpacking properly.....that can wait until tomorrow..... instead I cracked open the Morgan's and sat down to watch a very classy Scottish TV program - The Scheme. Makes me feel dead posh.
Wednesday, 11 May 2011
Week one over! Bring on the weekend!
So my first week of being back at work is over. Get out the flags. Thank fuck for that. This week is only a short week as I'm off on a jolly jaunt to Blackpool this weekend.
I got through the first few days, relatively unscathed, and I've not turned into a raving alcoholic overnight. Bonus. Kids have also survived - homework complete, lunches made and I even remember to drop them both off in the mornings, always a good thing.
As previously mentioned, this weekend we are all heading away to Blackpool. How on earth did that happen? Well a few months ago Tom came bounding in the house, after a band practice, and had, apparently, had a "brilliant idea!" This idea was a nice family weekend away to Blackpool. Blaine could go to The Pleasure Beach and The Sandcastle, he would love it. I won't but that's beside the point. Now, I'm not daft, Tom never ever suggests such things with such glee - there's always a hidden agenda. I've been married to him too long to know that a "family weekend in Blackpool" is not his idea of fun. I've also been living in the world of Brass Bloody Bands for the past erm...... 15 years or so. I know when certain contests of the year happen and I know that Blackpool hosts one of them. And I was right. "Contest is it?" I ask...... "erm, well, I dunno if the band is going yet" translated this means "YES! It's all sorted, we're going" So that's that decided. We're going to Blackpool.
We booked a lovely hotel - The Big Blue. Sounds like a giant smurf. I've stayed in a few hotels/B&B's in Blackpool - some been OK, others been - well shite. I mind of one hotel - holes in walls, really minging, I'm sure it was actually a squat. Some of the band people actually slept in their cars as it was so minging. But not me, hard-core, and it can't be worse than sharing a bed with Tom. Then there was the year Tom got so pissed he slept on the street - prick. I was so pissed off I went out in the morning and got a tattoo. He hates tattoos, I don't. Then I had to drive all the way home as he was still pished.
My adventures in Blackpool are mainly a bit of a blur, pieced together with the help of my partner in crime - Kerry-doll. Kerry has been my partner in crime for many many years. It's all her fault I'm married to Tom. It's all her fault I started hanging out in brass bands. We met at college - I was trying to look dead cool in my Adidas Gazelles, hooded trackie top, ripped jeans and in my mums Rover Metro. Kerry pulled up beside me and gave me a look, she tells me I looked "well 'ard" and she was hoping I wasn't on her course. I was. We got inside college and hung about - I asked "You here for music?", "Aye" she replies. "Me too, I'm Niki" "I'm Kerry" and that was it. My partner in crime was found. I think she was too scared to not be friends with me LOL
Anyway, this time my Blackpool weekend will not be a drunken affair, well a few tipples will of course be sampled, but there will be no sleeping on the street. I'm meeting up with some internet weirdo friends from one of the forums I frequent, for cake and coffee. If the weather is nice I may hope on a donkey. I'm taking the kids to see all the Blackpool sights - oh and, apparently, it's Gay Pride weekend, so maybe Tom will get lucky!
I got through the first few days, relatively unscathed, and I've not turned into a raving alcoholic overnight. Bonus. Kids have also survived - homework complete, lunches made and I even remember to drop them both off in the mornings, always a good thing.
As previously mentioned, this weekend we are all heading away to Blackpool. How on earth did that happen? Well a few months ago Tom came bounding in the house, after a band practice, and had, apparently, had a "brilliant idea!" This idea was a nice family weekend away to Blackpool. Blaine could go to The Pleasure Beach and The Sandcastle, he would love it. I won't but that's beside the point. Now, I'm not daft, Tom never ever suggests such things with such glee - there's always a hidden agenda. I've been married to him too long to know that a "family weekend in Blackpool" is not his idea of fun. I've also been living in the world of Brass Bloody Bands for the past erm...... 15 years or so. I know when certain contests of the year happen and I know that Blackpool hosts one of them. And I was right. "Contest is it?" I ask...... "erm, well, I dunno if the band is going yet" translated this means "YES! It's all sorted, we're going" So that's that decided. We're going to Blackpool.
We booked a lovely hotel - The Big Blue. Sounds like a giant smurf. I've stayed in a few hotels/B&B's in Blackpool - some been OK, others been - well shite. I mind of one hotel - holes in walls, really minging, I'm sure it was actually a squat. Some of the band people actually slept in their cars as it was so minging. But not me, hard-core, and it can't be worse than sharing a bed with Tom. Then there was the year Tom got so pissed he slept on the street - prick. I was so pissed off I went out in the morning and got a tattoo. He hates tattoos, I don't. Then I had to drive all the way home as he was still pished.
My adventures in Blackpool are mainly a bit of a blur, pieced together with the help of my partner in crime - Kerry-doll. Kerry has been my partner in crime for many many years. It's all her fault I'm married to Tom. It's all her fault I started hanging out in brass bands. We met at college - I was trying to look dead cool in my Adidas Gazelles, hooded trackie top, ripped jeans and in my mums Rover Metro. Kerry pulled up beside me and gave me a look, she tells me I looked "well 'ard" and she was hoping I wasn't on her course. I was. We got inside college and hung about - I asked "You here for music?", "Aye" she replies. "Me too, I'm Niki" "I'm Kerry" and that was it. My partner in crime was found. I think she was too scared to not be friends with me LOL
Anyway, this time my Blackpool weekend will not be a drunken affair, well a few tipples will of course be sampled, but there will be no sleeping on the street. I'm meeting up with some internet weirdo friends from one of the forums I frequent, for cake and coffee. If the weather is nice I may hope on a donkey. I'm taking the kids to see all the Blackpool sights - oh and, apparently, it's Gay Pride weekend, so maybe Tom will get lucky!
Monday, 9 May 2011
Day 1 of being a fulltime working mum - over.
Well, that wasn't so bad now was it? Day 1 of going back to work is complete. I somehow managed to get the kids organised and get out the door for 8:30am. Amazing. I even put on some make-up and straightened my hair, so I looked a little bitty more respectable than normal - not a "yummy mummy" (SPEW!) yet - more a "working mum with 2 kids, oh is that sick on my shoulder?" kinda look. Imogen got dumped at nursery, Blaine school and I made my way into work.
So, that's me - a full-time working mum. Joy of joys. My first day back wasn't too bad - a nice meeting over bacon rolls and coffee to "catch up" on the past 7 months. All I will say is this - things don't change. I then went into my actual place of work and saw some staff, most seemed pleased to see me - so that was good, others couldn't really give a toss, nothing new there then. I made sure I had a hot cup of coffee (well, a few of them) I went to the toilet in peace and I managed to have conversations with people that didn't involve talking about Imogen's sleep, my boobs or school. Bliss.
After work I collected Blaine and Imogen, arrived home and Tom got out of his bed (he's nightshift this week - which means he's as miserable as sin) Now on a Monday Blaine attends Karate club at 6pm - so before then he has to have done his homework, had tea and got changed. It's a struggle at the best of times, so Tom flung something in the oven, had a shower then popped off to Asda for some random crap. Blaine pissed about with his food, wriggled on the seat like he had ants in his pants and yapping the biggest load of nonsense ever - "Why is Yoda called Yoda?" Who gives a toss - just to quickly add I didn't actually say this, I replied with something like "because that's what his mum called him" or some other dull answer. Blaine is currently going through a Star Wars phase, one of his school friends has Star Wars Lego on the Wii or something - I dunno, anyway he yaps on and on and on about it - thinking I know the answer to absolutely anything to do with Star Wars. I am a fan, sometimes I think I'm a Jedi, normally when drunk.
Imogen inhaled her tea at a dramatic speed, grumping if I dared put the spoon down. How very dare I! I ate my tea with one hand - it is amazing the tricks you learn when you have kids. I'm very skilled at doing a lot of things with one hand - no sniggering please!
After tea it's a mad case of tidying up, Tom getting ready for work, Imogen getting washed and ready for bed, then Tom takes Blaine to Karate. Imogen pops off to bed very early - so it looks like I'll be up at 4am tomorrow, which gives me loads of time to get ready for day 2.
So the kids are now in bed, the house is in a reasonable state and Tom has disappeared to band. I think I managed to conduct some form of conversation with Tom in the 20 mins that I saw him - it went something like this:
T - "how was work?"
Me - "usual, nothings changed"
T - "I'll take Blaine to karate and head to band"
Me - "OK"
T- "Do you need anything from Asda"
Me - "cat food, something for Blaine's packed lunch and cheese"
T - "OK, bye"
Me - "bye!"
And that was about it. What more needs to be said? Being married for so long has it's perks - you don't have to actually speak to each other anymore, you kinda sit in this dazed silence, listening to the noise of the kids as you try not to go insane.
So here I am, in my pyjamas, with a glass of fruity cider, slobbed out on the sofa. Day one of work is over, I survived.
So, that's me - a full-time working mum. Joy of joys. My first day back wasn't too bad - a nice meeting over bacon rolls and coffee to "catch up" on the past 7 months. All I will say is this - things don't change. I then went into my actual place of work and saw some staff, most seemed pleased to see me - so that was good, others couldn't really give a toss, nothing new there then. I made sure I had a hot cup of coffee (well, a few of them) I went to the toilet in peace and I managed to have conversations with people that didn't involve talking about Imogen's sleep, my boobs or school. Bliss.
After work I collected Blaine and Imogen, arrived home and Tom got out of his bed (he's nightshift this week - which means he's as miserable as sin) Now on a Monday Blaine attends Karate club at 6pm - so before then he has to have done his homework, had tea and got changed. It's a struggle at the best of times, so Tom flung something in the oven, had a shower then popped off to Asda for some random crap. Blaine pissed about with his food, wriggled on the seat like he had ants in his pants and yapping the biggest load of nonsense ever - "Why is Yoda called Yoda?" Who gives a toss - just to quickly add I didn't actually say this, I replied with something like "because that's what his mum called him" or some other dull answer. Blaine is currently going through a Star Wars phase, one of his school friends has Star Wars Lego on the Wii or something - I dunno, anyway he yaps on and on and on about it - thinking I know the answer to absolutely anything to do with Star Wars. I am a fan, sometimes I think I'm a Jedi, normally when drunk.
Imogen inhaled her tea at a dramatic speed, grumping if I dared put the spoon down. How very dare I! I ate my tea with one hand - it is amazing the tricks you learn when you have kids. I'm very skilled at doing a lot of things with one hand - no sniggering please!
After tea it's a mad case of tidying up, Tom getting ready for work, Imogen getting washed and ready for bed, then Tom takes Blaine to Karate. Imogen pops off to bed very early - so it looks like I'll be up at 4am tomorrow, which gives me loads of time to get ready for day 2.
So the kids are now in bed, the house is in a reasonable state and Tom has disappeared to band. I think I managed to conduct some form of conversation with Tom in the 20 mins that I saw him - it went something like this:
T - "how was work?"
Me - "usual, nothings changed"
T - "I'll take Blaine to karate and head to band"
Me - "OK"
T- "Do you need anything from Asda"
Me - "cat food, something for Blaine's packed lunch and cheese"
T - "OK, bye"
Me - "bye!"
And that was about it. What more needs to be said? Being married for so long has it's perks - you don't have to actually speak to each other anymore, you kinda sit in this dazed silence, listening to the noise of the kids as you try not to go insane.
So here I am, in my pyjamas, with a glass of fruity cider, slobbed out on the sofa. Day one of work is over, I survived.
Sunday, 8 May 2011
An end of an era......goodbye daytime TV, hello work.
Ah fuck. Today is the very last day of my maternity leave. I have had 7 months off work and tomorrow I go back. Gah, I really can't be arsed but sadly needs must - I could give up work but we would be homeless very quickly.
So, what exactly does maternity leave entail? Well, for the first 4 weeks I hobbled about on my crutches doing not very much, to move anywhere was agony, so it was in my best interests to sit on the sofa and do fuck all. I would take Blaine to school, come home, make coffee and park my ever expanding arse and bump on the sofa and watch mind-numbingly boring daytime TV. I would then hobble back down to school to collect Blaine. Not bad eh?
Then Imogen was born.
From the moment we brought her home I kinda figured she was going to be slightly more demanding than Blaine, and I was right. She entered the house looking like a cabbage patch doll - big, fat, dimpled face, red from crying. My mum kinda looked at her and said "oh dear, erm...she's lovely?!"
So my time off work soon became slightly more hectic. Imogen fed on demand - and boy, was she demanding. Days and nights were all a blur, colic was hell and Imogen was just a grump. Quite early on I knew I would have to get out and about with Imogen. So we joined a couple of mum and baby groups and a baby sensory class. All very good fun - I get to pop along, meet other mums, share stories and drink coffee. All good. If Imogen allowed I would even manage to do some housework - shove a load of washing in, empty the washing machine, wash the dishes, maybe even fling the hoover round on a good day. My Facebook addiction soon reached an all time high, as Imogen fed there wasn't much else I could do - so internet it was ;-) Breastfeeding has a lot of perks. You can do it with no hands.
Being on maternity leave also meant I could sample the daytime TV. How people cope watching this shite day in, day out is beyond me. It is just dire. To start the day it would be Jeremy Kyle - normally a bunch of drunken chavs doing lie detector tests or getting a DNA test done as they've all been to pissed or high to know who they have shagged. Duuuuuurty bastards. Then it's This Morning - which is normally bearable. Then it just goes downhill. The news is always worth a watch, but after that you might as well give up. I mind watching one program - House Gift, or some bollocks. Quite frankly - what a load of shite. 3 designers have to choose a gift for some poor couple's house. They get a budget, which they have to pick, then they get a car (size depends on what budget you picked - smallest budget = smallest car) then they all fuck off on a jolly jaunt to buy a house gift for the poor sods. The gifts are normally guff. After that it was off to school to collect Blaine.
My life kinda turned into Groundhog day, same shit, different day. But, I soon began to enjoy this life - a new found freedom, not being tied to work rotas, arranging lunch/coffee at the drop of a hat. Being home with the kids - it's bloody hard work, a thankless job really - but it's been kinda nice. Although SMP is a joke - who can survive on that pish? So Tom's had to work all the hours available (except if it interferes with band of course) to make ends meet.
However, all that is about to change. As I become, once again, a full-time working mother. But, this time, with 2 kids. I am looking forward to a few things about returning to work, the mains ones being:
So, what exactly does maternity leave entail? Well, for the first 4 weeks I hobbled about on my crutches doing not very much, to move anywhere was agony, so it was in my best interests to sit on the sofa and do fuck all. I would take Blaine to school, come home, make coffee and park my ever expanding arse and bump on the sofa and watch mind-numbingly boring daytime TV. I would then hobble back down to school to collect Blaine. Not bad eh?
Then Imogen was born.
From the moment we brought her home I kinda figured she was going to be slightly more demanding than Blaine, and I was right. She entered the house looking like a cabbage patch doll - big, fat, dimpled face, red from crying. My mum kinda looked at her and said "oh dear, erm...she's lovely?!"
So my time off work soon became slightly more hectic. Imogen fed on demand - and boy, was she demanding. Days and nights were all a blur, colic was hell and Imogen was just a grump. Quite early on I knew I would have to get out and about with Imogen. So we joined a couple of mum and baby groups and a baby sensory class. All very good fun - I get to pop along, meet other mums, share stories and drink coffee. All good. If Imogen allowed I would even manage to do some housework - shove a load of washing in, empty the washing machine, wash the dishes, maybe even fling the hoover round on a good day. My Facebook addiction soon reached an all time high, as Imogen fed there wasn't much else I could do - so internet it was ;-) Breastfeeding has a lot of perks. You can do it with no hands.
Being on maternity leave also meant I could sample the daytime TV. How people cope watching this shite day in, day out is beyond me. It is just dire. To start the day it would be Jeremy Kyle - normally a bunch of drunken chavs doing lie detector tests or getting a DNA test done as they've all been to pissed or high to know who they have shagged. Duuuuuurty bastards. Then it's This Morning - which is normally bearable. Then it just goes downhill. The news is always worth a watch, but after that you might as well give up. I mind watching one program - House Gift, or some bollocks. Quite frankly - what a load of shite. 3 designers have to choose a gift for some poor couple's house. They get a budget, which they have to pick, then they get a car (size depends on what budget you picked - smallest budget = smallest car) then they all fuck off on a jolly jaunt to buy a house gift for the poor sods. The gifts are normally guff. After that it was off to school to collect Blaine.
My life kinda turned into Groundhog day, same shit, different day. But, I soon began to enjoy this life - a new found freedom, not being tied to work rotas, arranging lunch/coffee at the drop of a hat. Being home with the kids - it's bloody hard work, a thankless job really - but it's been kinda nice. Although SMP is a joke - who can survive on that pish? So Tom's had to work all the hours available (except if it interferes with band of course) to make ends meet.
However, all that is about to change. As I become, once again, a full-time working mother. But, this time, with 2 kids. I am looking forward to a few things about returning to work, the mains ones being:
- Going to the toilet, LOCKING the door and peeing in peace. Absolute peace. No kids barging in, no baby crying because you dare to leave her for a nano-second.
- Drinking a hot cup of coffee/tea without moving it out of harms way or forgetting about it then it goes cold
- Having adult conversations.
- Not watching crap TV
- Wearing makeup and not slobbing about in my trackies and jeans (well I'm not really looking forward to this as it means I have to actually find the time in the morning to make myself look respectable. Hmm.)
Wednesday, 4 May 2011
Peace, perfect peace.
Today I have peace. For approximately 6 hours. Absolute bliss. As much as I love and adore my wee family, it is fantastic when I get some peace and quiet - time to myself.
Today is the last day for about the next 20 years when this miraculous feat will occur, I return back to work on Monday so my peace will be well and truly shattered!
So, what does one do with oneself when child-free? Well I have a list of things that need to be done today, a lot of boring mundane stuff including:
I also have another list of things to do, this includes:
My day was supposed to start at 6am, today is the first time I am attempting getting Imogen to nursery and Blaine to school without having some form of breakdown. Last night I got loads of stuff organised - Blaine's school clothes looked out, reading folder sorted, play piece in bag, Imogen's bag packed, clothes looked out, my clothes looked out. All sorted. All I had to do was get up, get showered, dressed, feed Imogen, fling some cereal at Blaine and get out the door. Sounds simple doesn't it? Let's look at the reality.
After being up twice last night with Imogen I woke at 6:30. Great - so far 30 minutes late. This now means I can't get a shower before Tom leaves, he pisses off in the shower at great speed as he has to get to work - his naked body wobbling about, such a charming sight first thing in the morning, my poor eyes. I drag myself and Imogen down the stairs for breakfast, Imogen is acting like she hasn't been fed for a week - desperate for her peach and banana porridge. It's shovelled in at great speed and Blaine emerges from his pit. Tom, being helpful, sorts Blaine out with his breakfast - Sugar Puffs, very nice - the cats are going mental as they are also starving. Tom decides to have tuna rolls for lunch today, this sends the cats into a wild frenzy all over my kitchen, they get removed from the kitchen by Tom, but Bartok is determined and has somehow mastered the art of opening a door. Sigh Sadly they are not being treated to tuna today - just plain old, ridiculously expensive, urinary cat food, . Apart from Rimsky, who has the cheap Tesco shit.
So, kids are fed, cats are fed, Tom departs. Blaine has now decided he wants a packed lunch at school today. What. The. Fuck. So now I have to find stuff in my kitchen to make a packed lunch, totally not prepared for this drama - I fling together a ham roll (hopefully it won't poison him), carton of orange juice, cereal bar and a banana. Tough shit if he doesn't want it, that's all I have in the house. It's now well past 7am and my routine is all to pot. Of course I have time to pop on to Facebook and update my status ;-)
It's now time for Imogen to get washed, dressed and nap. She hates all of these things so the screaming commences. Eventually she's washed and dressed, I pop her down for a nap and she starts creating a fuss. Gah. I need a shower, Blaine is jumping about down the stairs like a lunatic (damn you Sugar Puffs) and Imogen is screeching. So I do what I do best - whap out a boob, this shuts Imogen up and she nods off quickly.
A quick shower, dressed then downstairs to see the chaos that Blaine has created in the time I have been away. Sugar Puffs on the floor, cushions off the sofa, he's naked. He's ordered to get dressed, which he does (amazingly without a fuss) and I run about finding my shoes, Blaine's shoes, putting the sling on, making up bottles for nursery. Finally we are sorted. Imogen wakes from her nap and I fling her in the sling. Let's go to school. But wait, Blaine hasn't put his shoes on. He's asked to put them on "NO!" is the defiant response. "Blaine, put your shoes on now" "NO MUMMY!" Right, I've stayed relatively calm but now he's pushing the buttons. "I WILL NOT PUT MY SHOES ON. I HATE SHOES" For fucks sake. Give me strength. "FINE!" I shout (yes, shouting now) "WEAR YOUR SOCKS AND LETS GO!" I have no friggin' time to argue about shoes and there's no way he'll go to school without shoes on. "Wait 'til your teacher sees you with no shoes, she will be FURIOUS" Blaine ponders on this for a moment and replies "No she won't as I wear my indoor shoes in school" Kids - they always have a response for everything.
At this point I think I'm gonna spontaneously combust. Luckily Blaine does put on his shoes and off we pop. The plan was to take Imogen to nursery first then Blaine to school - but we're running late so it's Blaine to school first and then Imogen to nursery. Which is fine for today as I don't have to be in work for 9am, but I've not even had any caffine yet so the need to get home for my first daily does is huge .
I have no idea how I'll get them both sorted and be at work for 9am next week without sounding like a fishwife. Oh, and I haven't even straightened my hair. So I look like a scarecrow.
So, I'm back home now and enjoying the peace. Time is ticking on so best make a start on my lists...... number 5 from list 2 is looking appealing.....
Today is the last day for about the next 20 years when this miraculous feat will occur, I return back to work on Monday so my peace will be well and truly shattered!
So, what does one do with oneself when child-free? Well I have a list of things that need to be done today, a lot of boring mundane stuff including:
- Ironing
- Hoovering
- Putting away heaps amount of clothes
- Filing all the paperwork that's been building up for the past 6 months
- Book MOT for car
- Chase up insurance company
I also have another list of things to do, this includes:
- Drinking a hot cup of coffee
- Peeing in peace
- Watching crap daytime TV
- Catching up on emails
- Just sitting and savouring every second of peace
My day was supposed to start at 6am, today is the first time I am attempting getting Imogen to nursery and Blaine to school without having some form of breakdown. Last night I got loads of stuff organised - Blaine's school clothes looked out, reading folder sorted, play piece in bag, Imogen's bag packed, clothes looked out, my clothes looked out. All sorted. All I had to do was get up, get showered, dressed, feed Imogen, fling some cereal at Blaine and get out the door. Sounds simple doesn't it? Let's look at the reality.
After being up twice last night with Imogen I woke at 6:30. Great - so far 30 minutes late. This now means I can't get a shower before Tom leaves, he pisses off in the shower at great speed as he has to get to work - his naked body wobbling about, such a charming sight first thing in the morning, my poor eyes. I drag myself and Imogen down the stairs for breakfast, Imogen is acting like she hasn't been fed for a week - desperate for her peach and banana porridge. It's shovelled in at great speed and Blaine emerges from his pit. Tom, being helpful, sorts Blaine out with his breakfast - Sugar Puffs, very nice - the cats are going mental as they are also starving. Tom decides to have tuna rolls for lunch today, this sends the cats into a wild frenzy all over my kitchen, they get removed from the kitchen by Tom, but Bartok is determined and has somehow mastered the art of opening a door. Sigh Sadly they are not being treated to tuna today - just plain old, ridiculously expensive, urinary cat food, . Apart from Rimsky, who has the cheap Tesco shit.
So, kids are fed, cats are fed, Tom departs. Blaine has now decided he wants a packed lunch at school today. What. The. Fuck. So now I have to find stuff in my kitchen to make a packed lunch, totally not prepared for this drama - I fling together a ham roll (hopefully it won't poison him), carton of orange juice, cereal bar and a banana. Tough shit if he doesn't want it, that's all I have in the house. It's now well past 7am and my routine is all to pot. Of course I have time to pop on to Facebook and update my status ;-)
It's now time for Imogen to get washed, dressed and nap. She hates all of these things so the screaming commences. Eventually she's washed and dressed, I pop her down for a nap and she starts creating a fuss. Gah. I need a shower, Blaine is jumping about down the stairs like a lunatic (damn you Sugar Puffs) and Imogen is screeching. So I do what I do best - whap out a boob, this shuts Imogen up and she nods off quickly.
A quick shower, dressed then downstairs to see the chaos that Blaine has created in the time I have been away. Sugar Puffs on the floor, cushions off the sofa, he's naked. He's ordered to get dressed, which he does (amazingly without a fuss) and I run about finding my shoes, Blaine's shoes, putting the sling on, making up bottles for nursery. Finally we are sorted. Imogen wakes from her nap and I fling her in the sling. Let's go to school. But wait, Blaine hasn't put his shoes on. He's asked to put them on "NO!" is the defiant response. "Blaine, put your shoes on now" "NO MUMMY!" Right, I've stayed relatively calm but now he's pushing the buttons. "I WILL NOT PUT MY SHOES ON. I HATE SHOES" For fucks sake. Give me strength. "FINE!" I shout (yes, shouting now) "WEAR YOUR SOCKS AND LETS GO!" I have no friggin' time to argue about shoes and there's no way he'll go to school without shoes on. "Wait 'til your teacher sees you with no shoes, she will be FURIOUS" Blaine ponders on this for a moment and replies "No she won't as I wear my indoor shoes in school" Kids - they always have a response for everything.
At this point I think I'm gonna spontaneously combust. Luckily Blaine does put on his shoes and off we pop. The plan was to take Imogen to nursery first then Blaine to school - but we're running late so it's Blaine to school first and then Imogen to nursery. Which is fine for today as I don't have to be in work for 9am, but I've not even had any caffine yet so the need to get home for my first daily does is huge .
I have no idea how I'll get them both sorted and be at work for 9am next week without sounding like a fishwife. Oh, and I haven't even straightened my hair. So I look like a scarecrow.
So, I'm back home now and enjoying the peace. Time is ticking on so best make a start on my lists...... number 5 from list 2 is looking appealing.....
Sunday, 1 May 2011
BOOBS!
Imogen reached a big mile-stone today. 6 months old - well, if you go by weeks it's actually tomorrow, but by months it's today. I have breast-fed Imogen for 6 whole months. I feel quite proud. This is my take on breast-feeding, so if your pregnant and considering breast-feeding or are currently breast-feeding and need a bit of light relief then read on....... also read on if you want a laugh at my expense.
On 01/11/10 at 12:28 Imogen came crashing into my world. I had done it - I'd pushed this heifer of a baby out. As the midwife and student examined my chuff and deliberated over stitching (we decided I didn't need any, no comments about baggy fannies please) Tom was standing looking totally shell-shocked and a bit pale and I was lying exhausted, but exuberant, on the bed. Imogen was passed to me for vital skin-to-skin and my adventures in breast-feeding began........
Imogen's first feed was when she was 35 mins old. After a few mins of rooting about she latched on - and she did it well. I was armed with my essential supplies for feeding - nipple cream, breast pads and lots of fluids. How bloody wonderful and glamorous. For all you mums to be out there if there's one piece of advice I can give you on breastfeeding then this is it - get a tube of decent nipple cream, Lansinoh is the best out there, you can't beat it. Get it and use it - before and after every single feed. Don't let your nipples get dry. There's nothing worse than cracked nipples - it feels like you've rubbed them up against a brick wall. Another tip is to get the number of a Breastfeeding Counsellor as, in my experience, the Health Visitors don't have a fucking clue about breastfeeding and "feeding on demand" to them means every 4 hours. Load of bollocks - it's called on demand for a reason - when the baby demands it you feed. Not when some bloody book tells you.
So the first few days passed on a high - Imogen fed like a dream, the cream was slapped on, the food and drink intake was increased (sadly non-alcoholic) and the sleep was non-existent to some extent. Co-sleeping saved my sanity, I would whap out a boob and doze off while Imogen guzzled away. Bliss. Tom was kicked out of bed to make room for Imogen - another perk! So, so far so good.
Then I started getting invited to social occasions, I refused to express until Imogen was 6 weeks - so my supply would be established and she wouldn't get nipple confusion. Yes, babies can get confused by nipples apparently. It's much easier to take milk from a bottle than a boob - less sucking needed. Babies are lazy things, a bit like men really, if there's an easier option they will take it. So I held off with the bottles. Which meant one thing. I couldn't drink. Not a spot. Fuck. And here came my first melt-down "That's it! I'm stopping, get me the formula!" I proclaimed, looking rather demented, and demanding the formula. Tom was very good at encouraging me to breast-feed so he would encourage me to keep going. The reason for this? Money. Pure and simple. The health benefits are also HUGE but formula is not cheap - about a tenner a week, whereas boob milk is free. Living on SMP is pure shite, £124 measly quid a week to live off instead of a full-time wage. Sadly our mortgage still needs paid when I'm on maternity leave, so if we could save over £40 a month on milk then we would bloody well do it. Tom wouldn't make much money down the docks of a night. So I went along to a couple of xmas nights out with Imogen tagging along and stayed off the booze, whapping out the boob for her to enjoy while I sat with my non-alcoholic beverage. Good times.
When Imogen was slightly older I could take it no more, and at one night out I had some wine. Oooooh it was fine - and as the sweet taste of wine delighted my senses I decided that enough was enough. Bring on the bottles. But Imogen had other ideas - a bottle?! What the very fuck. I don't bloody think so. We tried numerous bottles of - spending all my Advantage Card points on random varieties of bottles, and using all the top tips and tricks from various websites. Nothing worked. She spent the day with one of my friends, Lindsay, for whom I am eternally grateful as she managed to get her to take a few ounces. Hurrah! And little by little she started taking milk from a bottle. And I started planning my next night out, child-free, wearing a proper push-up bra and drinking alcohol.
Growth-spurts were always fun. Not. During a growth spurt a breastfed baby will feed on demand frequently through a 24 hour period. When I say frequently this is exactly what I mean - you might as well sit on the sofa with loads of fluids, flapjacks (oats are good for milk supply!), nipple cream, lap-top, remote control, mobile phone, jammies on and boob out and don't move. Imogen would feed every hour during these mental growth spurts - putting in her order for the next day. She'd also be a total grump - like ridiculously grumpy, even worse than Tom. During these times I would have the worst ever melt downs, Tom would encourage me, Blaine would get away with murder as I was stuck on the sofa and he knew it - "I'm just getting something to eat" he would say as I heard him drag a kitchen chair across the kitchen floor so he could clamber onto the unit, get in the cupboard and start demolishing the junk food, and I couldn't move to stop him. My one saving grace was knowing that at the end of it I would be rewarded by a decent few hours kip. After a growth spurt Imogen would have a decent kip most of the time (for one day only though!) My on-line weirdy Internet pals would help me through these times, offering advice and support. Guiding me through the growth spurt as I ranted that i couldn't do it anymore.
But, here we are. After 6 months, our journey is still going strong. I did it. I bloody did it. My nipples are still intacked, along with my sanity (I think) and I've saved hundreds of pounds just by using my boobs. Well done me.
The highlights of breastfeeding for me are - seeing Imogen's drunk look after a good feed; losing weight even though I stuff myself silly with cakes, crisps, chocolate and loads of other junk food - I only have 2lb to go until I'm back at my pre-preggy weight; health benefits for both of us and not having to sterilise a heap of bottles every day. I'm a lazy mummy, I can't be arsed with all that.
So here's to me and my boobs! They really are amazing.
On 01/11/10 at 12:28 Imogen came crashing into my world. I had done it - I'd pushed this heifer of a baby out. As the midwife and student examined my chuff and deliberated over stitching (we decided I didn't need any, no comments about baggy fannies please) Tom was standing looking totally shell-shocked and a bit pale and I was lying exhausted, but exuberant, on the bed. Imogen was passed to me for vital skin-to-skin and my adventures in breast-feeding began........
Imogen's first feed was when she was 35 mins old. After a few mins of rooting about she latched on - and she did it well. I was armed with my essential supplies for feeding - nipple cream, breast pads and lots of fluids. How bloody wonderful and glamorous. For all you mums to be out there if there's one piece of advice I can give you on breastfeeding then this is it - get a tube of decent nipple cream, Lansinoh is the best out there, you can't beat it. Get it and use it - before and after every single feed. Don't let your nipples get dry. There's nothing worse than cracked nipples - it feels like you've rubbed them up against a brick wall. Another tip is to get the number of a Breastfeeding Counsellor as, in my experience, the Health Visitors don't have a fucking clue about breastfeeding and "feeding on demand" to them means every 4 hours. Load of bollocks - it's called on demand for a reason - when the baby demands it you feed. Not when some bloody book tells you.
So the first few days passed on a high - Imogen fed like a dream, the cream was slapped on, the food and drink intake was increased (sadly non-alcoholic) and the sleep was non-existent to some extent. Co-sleeping saved my sanity, I would whap out a boob and doze off while Imogen guzzled away. Bliss. Tom was kicked out of bed to make room for Imogen - another perk! So, so far so good.
Then I started getting invited to social occasions, I refused to express until Imogen was 6 weeks - so my supply would be established and she wouldn't get nipple confusion. Yes, babies can get confused by nipples apparently. It's much easier to take milk from a bottle than a boob - less sucking needed. Babies are lazy things, a bit like men really, if there's an easier option they will take it. So I held off with the bottles. Which meant one thing. I couldn't drink. Not a spot. Fuck. And here came my first melt-down "That's it! I'm stopping, get me the formula!" I proclaimed, looking rather demented, and demanding the formula. Tom was very good at encouraging me to breast-feed so he would encourage me to keep going. The reason for this? Money. Pure and simple. The health benefits are also HUGE but formula is not cheap - about a tenner a week, whereas boob milk is free. Living on SMP is pure shite, £124 measly quid a week to live off instead of a full-time wage. Sadly our mortgage still needs paid when I'm on maternity leave, so if we could save over £40 a month on milk then we would bloody well do it. Tom wouldn't make much money down the docks of a night. So I went along to a couple of xmas nights out with Imogen tagging along and stayed off the booze, whapping out the boob for her to enjoy while I sat with my non-alcoholic beverage. Good times.
When Imogen was slightly older I could take it no more, and at one night out I had some wine. Oooooh it was fine - and as the sweet taste of wine delighted my senses I decided that enough was enough. Bring on the bottles. But Imogen had other ideas - a bottle?! What the very fuck. I don't bloody think so. We tried numerous bottles of - spending all my Advantage Card points on random varieties of bottles, and using all the top tips and tricks from various websites. Nothing worked. She spent the day with one of my friends, Lindsay, for whom I am eternally grateful as she managed to get her to take a few ounces. Hurrah! And little by little she started taking milk from a bottle. And I started planning my next night out, child-free, wearing a proper push-up bra and drinking alcohol.
Growth-spurts were always fun. Not. During a growth spurt a breastfed baby will feed on demand frequently through a 24 hour period. When I say frequently this is exactly what I mean - you might as well sit on the sofa with loads of fluids, flapjacks (oats are good for milk supply!), nipple cream, lap-top, remote control, mobile phone, jammies on and boob out and don't move. Imogen would feed every hour during these mental growth spurts - putting in her order for the next day. She'd also be a total grump - like ridiculously grumpy, even worse than Tom. During these times I would have the worst ever melt downs, Tom would encourage me, Blaine would get away with murder as I was stuck on the sofa and he knew it - "I'm just getting something to eat" he would say as I heard him drag a kitchen chair across the kitchen floor so he could clamber onto the unit, get in the cupboard and start demolishing the junk food, and I couldn't move to stop him. My one saving grace was knowing that at the end of it I would be rewarded by a decent few hours kip. After a growth spurt Imogen would have a decent kip most of the time (for one day only though!) My on-line weirdy Internet pals would help me through these times, offering advice and support. Guiding me through the growth spurt as I ranted that i couldn't do it anymore.
But, here we are. After 6 months, our journey is still going strong. I did it. I bloody did it. My nipples are still intacked, along with my sanity (I think) and I've saved hundreds of pounds just by using my boobs. Well done me.
The highlights of breastfeeding for me are - seeing Imogen's drunk look after a good feed; losing weight even though I stuff myself silly with cakes, crisps, chocolate and loads of other junk food - I only have 2lb to go until I'm back at my pre-preggy weight; health benefits for both of us and not having to sterilise a heap of bottles every day. I'm a lazy mummy, I can't be arsed with all that.
So here's to me and my boobs! They really are amazing.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)