Before I begin, this is not a post about Ed Miliband, or indeed any member of his party.

I wish. For that explanation would be far, far, easier.

“Mummy, how is your baby going to come out of your tummy”, asked my almost-four year old the other day.

Like all questions of this nature, she threw it in casually when we were doing something totally unrelated. A bit like, “Can I have some chocolate buttons? Oh – and where do you go when you die?”

It was one of those parenting moments that remains etched in my brain. As I stammered and stuttered, trying to buy myself some time, she went on to offer her own suggestions.

“Maybe the baby will come out of your mouth, like a big sick?” and, “Will your head fall off when it comes out? Will you die?”

Deciding that the truth, in all its gory detail, was probably better than her own version of events, I took the plunge.

“No, my head won’t fall off and the baby won’t come out of my mouth. The body is a very amazing thing. Mummy’s body will do something amazing that it was designed to do. It will stretch and I will push the baby out. And we will all be OK. No one will die.”

Feeling rather smug and awarding myself an invisible gold star, I thought that would be the end of the matter. But she persisted, with a new light of interest gleaming in her eye.

“So you will poo it out of your bottom and it will land in the toilet?”

And here is where I fear I made a mistake. I don’t know what the rules are regarding telling four year olds about birth. I assume you’re not to mention stitches, dilation and intense pain, but I don’t want my child walking round thinking I’m going to pass her brother or sister like a large stool.

So I told her. I told her the truth. I told her that the baby will be born out of my “tuppy” (her word for vagina – long story, don’t ask) and that it will be rather incredible.

And that was that. She didn’t ask again. She hasn’t become fixated on the idea. And she hasn’t seemed to make the link between her own “tuppy” and the possibility she may too give birth out of it one day far in the future. Phew.

I didn’t think much of it, until recently when I overheard her telling a friend how her mummy has a “super stretchy tuppy”. This friend, I later found out, thinks babies come out of belly buttons.

We discussed how “mummy’s tuppy” isn’t a subject for conversations with her friends (or any conversations come to think of it), and how maybe she should keep the whole baby being born thing to herself. But I was mindful of not wanting her to think it was a secret, or a bad thing or end up leaving her associating anything negative with the birth at all. I don’t want her to be scared for me and hate the baby before it’s even born, after all.

And that’s the thing. It’s a very different situation having a baby when your eldest is four, not two. You can fob toddlers off with all sorts of half-truths, but a couple of years on kids get wise to the white lies and start asking more probing questions. Or, that’s my experience any way.

And if I’d have told her some nonsense about a stork delivering the baby then what would I say in a few years time, when she comes home from school aged fourteen, devastated at the news storks aren’t physically capable of carrying babies in their beaks – let alone making one of those fancy tied up hammock things they’re meant to carry them in?

So I told her the truth. But now I’m concerned that I shouldn’t have. I don’t know. What are the rules of telling four year olds about labour and birth anyway? Anyone?

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After settling my almost four year old back to sleep at 3am this morning I found myself lying awake staring into the darkness. I could hear my child’s soft snores and feel this new life wriggling around inside my belly. And it hit me: how the hell will I cope with two?!

Have you ever noticed how everything seems worse in the middle of the night?

My mind raced. My breathing grew shallow. I could feel myself on the verge of a full blown panic attack – I haven’t suffered one of these in the last seven years. 

What if I’m not enough?

I’m already one of those mums who’s regularly in a flap. It’s rare I’m the first to drop Frog off at pre-school. I nearly took her this morning in slippers. I forget things. I sometimes shout. I try my very, very best all the time, but sometimes it doesn’t feel like enough.

So how will I find the extra bit of myself to give when our new addition to the family arrives?

I already feel bonded to this baby. Every little kick (and boy, there are a LOT of kicks) is a reminder that I’m growing a human being. I look forward to breastfeeding again and breathing in the sweet smell of a newborn’s head.

But I’m also more than aware of how hard babies are. I rarely managed to get dressed before 10am most mornings until Frog was a good couple of months old. I’d fluster around in milk-stained pyjamas, bundling washing into the machine while trying to latch a baby to my breast. I’d lose the Infacol and regularly run up and down the stairs chanting “nappy nappy nappy” just to remind myself what I was actually going into the next room for.

Babies are beautiful. And joyful. And precious. They have the ability to tear love from you, leaving you winded. But they’re also noisy (especially at 2am). And demanding. And impatient. It’s like living with a 7 pound dictator who makes you jump at their every whim. I already live with a 3 stone dictator, how will I manage with another little one under the same roof?!

In September Frog will start school. I won’t have the luxury of faffing around in my PJs with this new baby. I’ll have to arrange my mornings with military precision, getting everyone up, dressed and out of the house by 8.30am. And that includes me.

When Frog was a newborn it would sometimes take me two whole hours to leave the house, once I’d changed the umpteenth dirty nappy, breastfed her for the millionth time or finally found my car keys. And then I’d regularly get to where I was going and realise I was still in my slippers.

How will I continue to show Frog how much I love her, listen to her stories, make time to do things with her, while giving enough love to this new little one too? How will I keep enough of myself for me, so I don’t go slowly mad? Will there be anything left for my husband, so we’re actually enjoying each day rather than merely surviving it? And don’t even get started on work. I’m planning a fairly short maternity leave, so that will be another ball to juggle.

These were all the thoughts swimming round my head at 3am this morning. And, if I’m honest, they haven’t completely evaporated.

I want to be one of those mums who moves effortlessly through the days, artfully juggling the demands of mothering multiple children with work, remaining happy and continuing to look great. I want to be like my friends Emma and Jane, who make motherhood of three look so easy.

But while they make three kids look like a breeze, I’m worried I won’t even be able to cope with two. Will I be the mum who always turns up for school drop-off late, with a child who hasn’t brushed her teeth or combed her hair, wearing slippers and a top encrusted with baby sick?

Will there be enough of me? How will I do it?

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I became a mum at 26. We didn’t own our own home and we weren’t married. But that was all OK, because that was part of The Plan. We moved from our town centre flat to a little cottage in a village, with the intention of saving and enjoying life as new parents. We had always discussed having two or three children, about four years apart.

The Plan involved buying a house before another child came along, getting married at some point and continuing with my career as a journalist. That evolved along the way, as we realised that childcare is blooming expensive and my meagre salary would barely cover the cost of a morning at nursery. So we made some adjustments and Ta Da! The Refined Plan was born.

Except that didn’t really work out either, because my work situation changed. And then we decided that we might not want to live in this area until we bought a house. And, actually, we weren’t quite ready for another baby yet. It dawned on us that perhaps The Refined Plan was not so much a helpful guide as a heavy weight hanging around our shoulders, taunting us with what we were yet to achieve.

And so, here we are.

We have made the bold decision to ditch the plan (see? I’ve even removed the capital letters). Instead we are running with a new way of doing things. It’s called the See What Will Happen And Enjoy Life In The Now route. Not so catchy, but far more fun.

The thing is, this lack of clarity over a big life plan seems to irk some people. Apparently, if you are a good, responsible parent, you need to map out each five years of your life and get from A to B seamlessly.

As my two year old hurtles toward her third birthday, I’m constantly reminded – often by complete strangers – that she doesn’t have a little brother or sister. Sometimes they look at my belly, as if searching for a bump, before seeking my empty arms for any sign of a newborn. They always appear disappointed when nothing is there.

I didn’t know this would be the case.

As if being a parent isn’t hard enough, with the minefield of decisions and constant “Am I doing enough? Am I doing it right?” questions, there is yet more thrown at us. Not only do we have to put up with divisions and judgments about whether we leave the house to go to work or stay home to look after the children, breast or bottlefeed, puree or baby-led wean, use a buggy or a sling – but now, it seems, our very choices about HAVING children are thrown into the spotlight.

I’ve lost count of the times I’ve been told to, “Hurry up and have another” before my child gets too old to “get along” with any potential sibling. When I joke that we’re not quite “ready yet” for another baby, I’m met with a raised eyebrow and a shrug, as if I’m irrationally peculiar for not immediately planning our second baby once we became pregnant with the first.

Life doesn’t work like that though. Life has a habit of throwing curve-balls and putting new opportunities and hurdles in our way. Life doesn’t always allow us to plan each year perfectly, map out each century, define each day.

Our new Not Plan doesn’t mean we aren’t motivated. It doesn’t mean we are existing from day to day without making provisions for the future. We still have wishes and wants and things to achieve together. We still have a journey to make as a family and an adventure to carve out.

But it won’t fit into some tidy, neat little grid. It won’t, because life isn’t a spreadsheet. Sometimes you’ve just got to ride the wave and accept you don’t know what’s on the other side.

The post On not having a plan appeared first on Mother's Always Right.

Reading this letter now, as a mum myself, makes me hope Frog will one day have a younger sibling. There’s nothing quite like sisters and brothers for bringing you down a peg or two…

***

Dear Mole (On Sunday I bought some “Mole” powder for you),

Here is what I have been doing while you have been on school camp…

On Sunday I went sailing with my friends. Then we went to the pub for supper.

On Monday Mrs Johnston came into my class and said there wasn’t going to be a swimming lesson, we would have two hours free time in the pool to play with all the floats and toys instead.

On Tuesday Mr Waldron closed the school because there was no water. So we had no school for the whole day.

On Thursday Nana is coming to stay, but she will go home on Saturday morning (before you get back from camp) so you won’t get to see her.

On Saturday Mum is taking me shopping to buy me some new clothes from Tammy Girl. She says you can’t have anything.

Love from Lizzy xxx

P.S. NOT!!!!!!!

***

Already an expert in the art of winding up her sister, at the age of 6. And she wonders why I wouldn’t let her play with my Sylvanian Family toys….

The post A letter from my sister, aged 6 and 3/4 appeared first on Mother's Always Right.

Meet my sister, circa 1992.

There are nearly four years between my sister and I. So I was firmly used to being Number One Diva in the house by the time she arrived. To soften the blow, I was given a pair of roller skates and a pair of tap shoes the day my sister was born. Apparently she was a wonder child, who miraculously exited the womb to pop to the shops and find presents worthy of buttering up an older sister. Of course I was won over the instant I saw her – those were some very special tap shoes.

My sister (her name’s Lizzy, by the way) spent her formative years being carried around by yours truly. She was far more interesting than any dolls I owned. She was also a very willing audience member in The Molly Show; she was happy to sit and watch while I performed my latest choreographed piece to Kylie Minogue or Bonnie Tyler. I mean, she was only five months old and hadn’t learned to crawl yet.

As Lizzy grew, so did her personality. She was mischievous and annoying. But she was also very keen to please. I still feel guilty for the times I used to make her come to the park with me on holiday, only to ditch her when new, “cooler” friends came along. I was a pretty mean older sister.

But while she was my nemesis, Lizzy was also my best friend. When she was eight, a friend of the family told her off during a trip to France. I huffed off to her room with her, indignant that someone had the audacity to speak that way to my little sister – only I was allowed to do that.

As teenagers, we fought and made up and fought again. And borrowed clothes. And went on holidays together. And fought. And made up again.

Then, when I was pregnant last year, a twist of fate meant Lizzy was there when I went into labour. It wasn’t planned that way, but she ended up coming to the hospital and rubbing my back along with the (self-proclaimed) Northern Love Machine. She was the third person to see and hold Frog. That meant a lot.

Over the past year, she has been to visit every month or so, despite completing her first year as a doctor and working incredibly long (and stressful) hours. She’s bought presents and cooked meals and listened to my minor moans. She’s also told me to shut up and snapped at me in the way only sisters can.

Today has been another one of those days. As the NLM is away up north on his stag do, I’ve come down to the South Coast to visit Lizzy. Frog, Lizzy and I have spent the day paddling in the sea, eating lunch in a restaurant on the beach and browsing in shops.

The tables have now turned and my little sister is the fashionista in the family. So I will leave laden with cast-off lovely clothes (doctors get paid more than journalists, you know), safe in the knowledge that years of lending are finally being re-paid. My belly will be full with takeaway food and wine and my arms will be light from a day where someone else has held the baby.

So, to my ten year old self I say, “You are lucky you have a sister. It might not feel like it now, while she steals your Take That tape and draws in your diary, but one day you’ll appreciate her. One day she’ll buy you food and wine.”

And to a four year old Lizzy – “Don’t ever let Dad cut your fringe. It’ll look rubbish.”

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