Suburban Fairy Tale

 

Once upon a time, on the edge of the city, in a land pretty much like everywhere else, there lived a Mummy.  From the outset, she was a pretty ordinary Mummy, with scruffy hair and a wobbly tummy. She spent her days tidying her house, but it was never tidy. She spent her days feeding her baby, but he always needed feeding again. She spent her days drinking her cup of tea, but it never got finished. She spent her days rocking her baby to sleep, but he never slept enough. She spent her days trying to do other things too, but they never got done.

One day, the Mummy was out with her baby, at a bright, magical place called the supermarket, and they were having fun together. Her baby laughed as she pulled a silly face and blew a raspberry at him, and he punched her in the head with delight and bit her cheek with happiness.  The Mummy had everything they needed in her trolley: Nappies, wipes, rice cakes to stop her baby from having a meltdown, and chocolate buttons for when they didn’t work; plus essential things every Mummy needs like coffee and red wine.

Stuff I Don’t Have To Do Now I Have a Baby

The face of my freedom

It can be all too easy at times to mourn the things that are no longer available to me now that there’s a baby on the scene. Like long showers, being spontaneous and a decent or even half-decent night’s sleep.

For the moment at least, late night partying is well behind us; we might still be up at 3 AM and there may even be a bottle and the occasional vomit involved, but the circumstances are altogether quite different. Lazy mornings relaxing together are replaced by tag-team parenting at the weekend and begging, pleading and blackmailing for an extra 10 minutes of shut-eye in the week. This baby lark hasn’t half changed things around here.

Letter To My Inner Idiot

Dear Idiot,

I am writing this for your own good, for our own good really. I know you don’t think you are an idiot, which is kind of one of the main issues, and why I have deemed it necessary to take action. You actually seem to fancy yourself as a bit of a smarty pants with your time saving ideas, stupid lists and unrealistic expectations. But let me be clear, you are a fool. And it’s about time someone told you – other than your husband, who we both know rarely gets a fair hearing.

So here you / we are, bumbling along, and it’s all going pretty well you know. We have a nice life, a loving family, great friends and a roof over our heads. The child we always wanted is here, throwing his weight and love around in equal measure, filling each day with laughter and also with screams, slaps and poo.

The Upsides to a Rogue Baby

Exhibit – Rogue

So, to speak truthfully, I’ve had moments of wishing my baby was a bit more chill, and a bit less feral. You know, the kind of baby who will lay contentedly kicking away in Mum and Baby yoga, before peacefully dosing off in time for me to do my post natal stretches and take a moment for myself.  Not so much the kind of baby that leaves me to attempt said stretches stood on one foot whilst simultaneously rocking, feeding and trying to remember if I turned the hob off.

Rogue Babies, also known as spirited, characters, lively and demonic (just in the occasional dark moment), are wilful little beasts who do not:

Bad Mum Day(s)

I started this in the midst of a very Bad Mum Day. The kind when, despite best intentions, nothing gets done, everything goes wrong and the baby senses your stress and uses it to destroy your spirit. It seems the more I try to achieve some days, the less I manage. I woke with a long To Do list – FYI, To Do lists only make you feel like a failure; and a determination to make my son an amazing cake for his Birthday the following day. By 6 p.m. I had a questionable sponge with toxic green icing (I’d attempted baby blue), and hadn’t crossed one thing off my silly, over ambitious list.  I’m not sure why writing a poem about it seemed a sensible option, but it was apparently too early for gin.