***

I went to the shops today. Mum was muttering under her breath that it would be a quick trip, because the shop’s only over the road. We needed some of that delicious white stuff she likes to give me before my nap, so I was well up for going.

I decided I didn’t want to go in my buggy. It’s rubbish. Who wants to be strapped into a seat and wheeled around when you can hold hands and practise this new thing called walking?

Mum was moaning, as usual. She said I had to get in the buggy or she’d get a bad back walking with me. I won though.

Walking to the shops is really great – you should try it sometime. You get to take as long as you like and stop to look at each bit of green stuff in the garden. And there are loads of noisy things in the trees that flap and tweet when you wave at them. Mum was banging on and on with, “What noise does this make? What noise does that make?” etc etc. I just said, “Woof”. It seemed to keep her happy.

The thing about walking to the shops is that you really get a chance to show off. I mean, when you’re in a buggy you can’t give people a proper display of your skills. Walking isn’t like that at all. Plus if people aren’t paying you enough attention, you can just stop and shout at them and wave a bit. This either really annoys the people trying to walk behind you, or old ladies think you’re very cute and start chatting to you.

I took my sweet time walking past my house. I needed to make sure everyone was giving me the attention I deserve. One man wasn’t – so I shouted, “Woof” and dazzled him with my best smile. Who did he think he was to try and get past me without a greeting? Idiot.

Then we got to this big tall thing with some brilliant flashing lights on it. Mum had to pick me up at that point, which I wasn’t particularly pleased about, but I humoured her because it meant I got to press a button which made the tall lights go red and make a bleeping sound. All the whizzy houses on wheels (apparently they’re called “cars” – don’t know if you’ve heard of them?) stopped, just for me.

When we got to the shop Mum had gone a funny colour. She was a bit red and her hair was sticking to her forehead. I heard her tell the man she was getting a sore back because I can’t walk on my own yet. Seriously, all that woman does is moan.

I got a bit tired walking on the way back so I tried to sit down. Mum wouldn’t let me so I had a paddy. I find this works extremely well in situations that aren’t going my way. She gave in and picked me up. This was pretty cool because it meant I could try and lick her face and pick her nose.  She hates it when I do that in public.

All in all, I’d recommend walking to the shop over the road. But leave at least two hours for it. And be prepared for plenty of waving.

Hide and seek is another good way of killing time.

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But in the last couple of weeks I have come to know the term rather well.

Being a mother requires a huge amount of patience. Which I now know to mean a huge amount of biting one’s tongue and deep breathing. This doesn’t come easily to someone who was used to chasing down stories and meeting hourly deadlines pre-baby (I have yet to meet a truly patient journalist).

Although patience entered my life the day my baby was born, it has been ramped up a level over the last couple of weeks. Frog’s six new teeth and her new-found love of independence means I have been forced to do much deep breathing recently.   There’ve been points when I’ve been breathing so heavily I sound like I’ve either run a marathon or am mid-way through giving birth a second time. It’s not a pretty sight.

Case One is the getting dressed scenario. This includes any kind of dressing activity, be it changing a nappy or putting on a pair of shoes and socks. She may not be walking yet, but boy my 15 month old can move. I have to sprint to keep up with her.

And she has the Forward-Lean-Roll Technique down to a fine  art -  so that she can slip out of the tightest grip to escape a nappy being placed firmly on her behind. I defy even the most skilled Judo champion to keep this baby pinned on the floor when she wants to roll over and crawl away.

Case Two is the one I dread the most. It’s the pushing buggy scenario. Again oblivious to the notion of walking, my daughter still demands to push her own buggy. So this involves me carrying her while she pushes, proud as punch at her newfound “freedom”. Ignoring her upstretched arms and shouts of “Me me me” just leads to a piercing high-pitched scream which can be heard from the other side of the village. So I dutifully unstrap her and carry her, while she keeps both hands firmly on the buggy and pushes with all her might. Getting home from a twenty minute walk yesterday took nearly two hours.  *Deep breath*.

The thing is, while Frog tests my patience to extremes, she seems ever eager to show me how it’s done.

Nowhere is this more evident than in her second favourite game (after “Push the Buggy and Drive My Mother Mad”) which involves placing five pebbles in a glass pot, one at a time, and taking each pebble out, one at a time. Over and over and over again. For an hour. Seriously.

I don’t know whether to be proud or disappointed. That is one trait she most definitely does not get from her mother…

[slideshow]

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Hear me out on this one…

It’s all to do with the walking.

I have never been one of those parents to brag about their child’s advanced developmental milestones. Mainly because my child hasn’t reached these supposed milestones before any of her peers. In fact, she’s always been last.

I developed a bad case of sitting envy when Frog was around 7 months old. I’d be the mum at baby and toddler group surreptitiously sitting behind her daughter propping her up. As other mums asked “Is she sitting yet?” I’d outright lie. I didn’t want to be outdone or lose the baby race, see.

But after a while it all got a bit exhausting and I withdrew from said race, resigned to the fact my stubborn child really would “Do it when she’s ready”, which appears to be after every other child in the vicinity.

So now we’re at 15 months and the craze of the moment is walking. Everyone’s doing it apparently. Even those babies three or four months younger than Frog.

Turns out it’s an overrated activity. Well, according to Frog anyway.

As other tots wobble their way around on two feet she just looks at them with pity.

And I must say, this daughter of mine has it sussed.

I mean, she gets to be wheeled around like the Queen of Sheba, reclining on a soft lambswool fleece in the buggy which cost more than my car. And she gets to be carried around by doting parents, grandparents and friends, ensuring she is constantly centre of attention.

And when you’re so good at crawling, why bother getting up on your feet? Why would you spoil it all by walking when you can dash off at the speed of lightning as soon as your idiotic mother turns her back?

Yes those Clarkes “cruiser” shoes are very pretty. But they cost more than any right-minded individual would pay for shoes that are so bloody tiny, it’s a much better idea to keep them shiny and new by not actually using them for what they’re intended. Far better to just drag them along on crawling feet, turning to wave at them occasionally.

So this is why I’ve come to the conclusion that my daughter’s refusal to walk is yet another example of her extreme intelligence and desire to be treated like a Queen.

No idea who she reminds me of….

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It’s a work thing. I’m a freelance journalist, see. This means that sometimes I am “Working Mum”, putting on my smart clothes and leaving the house to do a day’s work in radio. Other times I am “Work At Home Mum”, writing articles while wearing a dressing gown covered in half-chewed banana and crusty milk. Then, when I don’t have any bookings or commissions to finish, I am “Stay At Home Mum”. On these days, my uniform is a mouldy dressing gown followed by a pair of muddy jeans. And my main activity is playing.

The thing is, I don’t know which Mum I prefer.

So I thought I’d do a little exercise.

Working Mum:

Pros:

• Wearing a top that’s not covered in half-eaten food.
• Drinking a cup of tea before it’s gone cold.
• Talking with other adults about things that don’t involve babies or poo.
• Being able to listen to the radio on the way to work, rather than Humpty Dumpty’s Greatest Hits.
• Getting through a good chunk of the day without wiping someone else’s bum.
• Focusing on one task at a time, rather than juggling at least seven – all to the background noise of Rasta Mouse or Mr Tumble.

Cons:

• Getting dressed before 9am.
• Planning the military operation that is packing for a day out of the house.
• Guilt (this is a big one).

Work At Home Mum:

Pros:

• Getting dressed after 9am.
• No guilt.
• Having the time to play and earn money all in one day.

Cons:

• Juggling of epic proportions.
• Very late nights.
• The computer winking in the corner during play time.
• Cold tea.
• A rather dirty house.

Stay At Home Mum:

Pros:

• Play time lasts all day.
• No guilt.
• Having time to cook a delicious dinner.
• Having time to clean the house (this is debatable).
• No juggling.
• No military-style packing.

Cons:

• Humpty Dumpty’s Greatest Hits on repeat.
• Wearing clothes constantly covered in half-eaten food.
• Cold tea.
• Wiping a dirty bum that is not my own.

I don’t think this exercise has particularly helped, rather than to remind me how much I love a hot cup of tea and hate the “G” word.

So help me out here – which Mum are you? And what’s the best and worst thing about it?

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*Gasp*

As in, really out. Not just to put the rubbish in the dustbin at the end of the garden. I’ll be in a proper pub with proper adults and proper alcohol and everything. And I can’t wait.

The thing is, this time a year ago I was one of those women. The naive pregnant ones who think everything will return to just the way it was before they were “with child”. “Yeah yeah, I’ll breastfeed – but my baby will take a bottle too,” was one of my favourite mantras. And “As soon as this baby’s out I’ll find time to go out dancing every now and then.”

As if.

Dancing was the last thing on my mind after pushing what felt like a melon through a hole the size of a needle. Granted, it may not be the size of a needle anymore, but that’s what it felt like at the time. And then Frog balked at the sight of any kind of latex, preferring her milk direct from the source.

So dancing and pubs have pretty much taken a back seat over the past year.

Meaning I’ve been mainly wearing these:

In typical over-enthusiastic, I-hardly-ever-go-out-anymore fashion, I will be donning a pair of heels for tonight’s adventures. This is partly because in my head, they give the illusion of turning a 5ft 4″ woman with wobbly thighs into a 5ft 8″ long-legged beauty, and partly because I feel they’ve become rather lonely gathering dust at the back of my wardrobe.

Ah, hello friends:

I have absolutely no doubt I’ll fall over at some point during the evening. It has happened many times before. I also have absolutely no doubt I’ll end up singing at some point, a habit I have been known to do when consuming alcohol in the past.

If the singing starts, it’ll be probably be this little number. It’s a karaoke favourite, which I’ve belted out while standing on a chair in the middle of a pub on, you guessed it, more than one occasion:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lcOxhH8N3Bo]

So, Emma, Jane and Alice – this is what you’ve let yourself in for this evening. Please don’t stand me up, I’m relying on backing singers for my Bonnie rendition and someone to help me walk in these bloody ridiculous shoes.

This post was born from a tag at Mummy Mummy Mum. Well, two actually, asking me to reveal a) my choice in karaoke song and b) my shoes. So here they are. Now I tag Alice at My Life, My Son, My Way, because I reckon she has good taste in karaoke – and some cracking pairs of shoes.

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No, really, it stinks.

There’s nothing quite like being woken at 2am to change a nappy that smells like something concocted by a mad scientist with a penchant for experiments created out of dustbins and sick. Yum.

It’s been a week now. At first we thought it was the teeth. “It’s those bloody teeth again,” I told the (self-proclaimed) Northern Love Machine knowingly. Then, when a tooth failed to appear, I blamed the water in Rochdale. “It’s this water, it’s different from the Southern stuff she’s used to,” I pronounced, equally as knowingly.

Then it was something she ate. Then it was back to the teeth. Then, after a fifth day of guessing – by which time I’d been struck down too – I had to accept that, sometimes, Mother’s not always right. Sometimes it’s the doctor who knows best. So off I dutifully trudged, stinky baby in tow, to the GP.

And, of course, as soon as we got there Frog perked up. She was commando-crawling, clapping, blowing raspberries and pretty much doing everything she could to put on a good show, except for a tap-dance. She’s yet to learn that trick yet, lazy baby.

I explained that we’d both been poorly. The doctor looked disbelievingly at my almost-tap-dancing child and sent us home with some rehydration sachets and a diagnosis.

The “medicine” is all well and good, but it was the diagnosis I most appreciated. Finally, no more guessing. My options were running out and the (self-proclaimed) Northern Love Machine was starting to get more and more doubtful of my increasingly outlandish attempts to explain away those stinking nappies. “It’s because you took her swimming and let her swallow the water,” I’d yelled at him the day before. “And then you gave her a banana, everyone knows bananas are bad.”

Finally no more need to prove I am the All Knowing One, so in tune with her daughter’s body she merely has to look at her before announcing the problem.

Phew.

My options were running out. Next on my list was Delhi Belly and considering Frog’s never actually been to India I’m aware this may have been clutching at straws.

So a virus it is. But between you and me, those teeth aren’t completely off the hook. Let me have some diagnosis glory at least?

Get well soon Frog.

She's ill. Honest.

The post The day the virus came to stay appeared first on Mother's Always Right.

*sob*

My boob-loving daughter has, after a few false starts, entirely given up the boob. I know, I know. Get a grip and all that.

The thing is, this hasn’t exactly been out of the blue. First of all I whinged on about feeling rejected when she seemed to hate the boobs (it was the teeth – her teeth, I mean, not teeth on my boobs. That would just be weird). Then I moaned when she was all about the breastfeeding again. I wanted to wear pretty dresses and under-wired bras, see.

And now here I am, moaning again.

Don’t get me wrong, a big part of me is breathing a sigh of relief. So she doesn’t want that last feed before bed? Great, now I don’t always have to be the one to put her to bed. So she doesn’t want that first feed in the morning? Great, now I don’t always have to be the one to get up with her at the crack of dawn. I can wear dresses, underwired bras, even a jumpsuit if I’m feeling particularly daring (only joking – can you imagine me in a jumpsuit?). The wardrobe is my oyster. Finally.

But that doesn’t explain why I burst into tears in the middle of eating my chicken fajita tonight.

Yes, I’ve been a gibbering mess since Frog’s birth last June. And yes, there was a particularly sad scene on Waterloo Road. But that’s not what I was crying about.

I just had a really vivid image of a tiny Frog, all curled up against me, softly breastfeeding. And now she’s nearly one and she hates my boobs and she’s not tiny anymore and she doesn’t need me like she used to and did I mention she’s nearly one? AGH!

After wiping the tears off my soggy chicken fajita, I attempted to explain this to the (self-proclaimed) Northern Love Machine. Surprise surprise, he doesn’t get it. In irritatingly calm logic he pointed out that it’s all “part of nature” and that “babies grow up” (thanks for that). After I snivelled some more he shrugged his shoulders and said “it’s the circle of life”. It was at that point that I huffed out of the room – I don’t need someone quoting Elton John at me when I’m in the midst of a drama queen boob-related breakdown, thank you very much.

So it looks like I need to just get over it and stop harking back to the beginnings of Frog’s life. I need to look forward and get excited about all the new things we’re yet to experience, rather than the things that have now ended.

Not to mention making the most of this newfound freedom for lie-ins.

Back in the days of boob love

The post The end of a love affair appeared first on Mother's Always Right.

Well, not for me at any rate.

With a daughter nearing her first birthday, I’m starting to wonder if I will ever fully regain my lost brain.

When you’re pregnant, being in a constant state of confusion is allowed - expected, even. It seems to be regarded as an endearing quality (except by those who live with you and have to put up with nine months of lost car keys, lost glasses and forgotten shopping items).

And then the baby’s born and the baby brain really kicks in. Relentless sleepless nights and internet baby forum addictions can wreak havoc with a memory, don’t you know. But again, it’s allowed, “You’ve just had a baby for goodness sake. Really, just go and sit down and I’ll find your car keys.”

So here is my dilemma: how long can I get away with blaming “just having a baby” for my current state of stupidity?  With a child who’s nearly 12 months, I fear I may be nearing  the end of the acceptable time period of  the baby brain condition and hurtling worryingly close to plain old stupidity. How long does baby brain last anyway?

Because, I must admit,  I’m getting rather sick of it. My life seems to be filled with aimless stair-walking. Seriously, I spend at least 75 percent of my day walking up and down stairs. I’ll get to the top, realise I’ve forgotten what it was I needed and walk back down again, only to remember at the bottom. So up to the top I go again. And forget. Again. I can waste  a good half hour like this, just walking up and down the stairs.

I decided a while ago I couldn’t go on like this so I started reciting my reason for leaving a room, such as nappy nappy nappy nappy, over and over again until I’d retrieved the object of my quest. But then I’d get distracted by something, like a really good nursery rhyme or Take That song, or realise the hoovering hadn’t been done. And my quest would be terminated just like that. On his return from work, the (self proclaimed) Northern Love Machine would be greeted with a beautiful sight: a half naked woman (I’d forgotten to get fully dressed, obviously) wondering up and down the stairs muttering “nappy nappy nappy” in between random outbreaks of Relight My Fire and Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, as she trailed a hoover after her, which she clearly had no idea she was holding.

This was in the early Frog days, you understand. I’m a little better now – these days I tend to remember to get dressed at least.

On writing this post I’ve just realised that I’ve rambled on about something completely unrelated to what I originally intended  to write about. There it goes again – baby brain.

Which leads me to my next question – how long can you use the “I’ve just had a baby” excuse to explain away a flabby tummy and big bum? Again, I fear the answer may be under the 12 month mark. Damn.

The reason for my stupidity

This blog is a finalist in the Best Baby Blog category of the MAD Blog Awards 2011. You can vote here. Voting’s only open for another 2 weeks – after this time I’ll shut up about it. Promise.

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Except this time it’s Crawling Envy, or CE as it’s commonly known. The thing is, my now-11-month-old child is not moving. At all. 

She sometimes rolls. Occasionally goes onto all fours. But always, and I mean always, ends up on her belly, resembling a beached jellyfish – an angry and frustrated beached jellyfish at that.

She doesn’t pull herself up. Doesn’t crawl. And walking – are you joking? I fear I may be carrying her around and fetching things at her beck and call for the next 18 years.

But I’ve decided to take a different approach to the CE than the one I took to the SE (Sitting Envy – obviously). This time I’m going to go all Earth Mother on you. I’ve handed in my race card and withdrawn from the baby race. It’s really no fun taking part if you have zero chance of winning afterall.

I’m over at Born Free Mum and Dad today talking about the whole thing. For all of you with babies who refuse to sit / crawl / walk I invite you to join my club. We can all be spectators in the baby race. It’s really rather lonely all by myself on the sidelines you know.

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One month today, my baby will be a little girl. A one-year-old. Big. Not a baby.

Every moment I look at her she’s changed – a new laugh, new scream, new babble.

I need to hold her close to me now, the baby that she is. Make the most of every second of her smallness. There’s only one more month of it left.

So here’s to one more month of babyhood. One more month of waking in the night, of decorating the walls with food, of refusing to crawl, of pooing on the carpet.

Sorry? What’s that Frog? “Fat chance?”

Yeah. Thought so.

[slideshow]

As always, beautiful pictures by Caroline Gue.

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