eyes open

A year after the birth of my first child, I feel like I’ve learned a thing or two about being a mum.  But back in those early days I’ll be the first to admit that I didn’t have a clue.  No matter how many books I read or antenatal classes I attended, nothing could have prepared me for the thunderbolt of parenthood; for the overwhelming sense of responsibility that, coupled with the lack of sleep, the pain from my (emergency) c-section scar and the cracked nipples, made me feel like I’d landed on a whole other planet and was very, very homesick.

I felt like I’d become the victim of some huge conspiracy. Throughout my pregnancy people had gazed at my swollen belly with admiration and asked with excitement how many weeks were left until the new arrival.  In my head, having a baby was all smooth baby bumps, natural deliveries with just gas and air, tiny cute clothes, a trendy pushchair and a beautiful nursery.  The reality, while wonderful, was very different and a huge shock to my system.  Why had nobody warned me I would feel this way, like my whole world had shifted on its axis?

In that haze of hormones and sleep deprivation, I clung to the advice of so-called experts like Gina Ford and The Baby Whisperer; sure that among the pages of their baby ‘manuals’ I would find the answers to why my little bundle of joy was screeching his head off when he should have been sleeping serenely in my arms, a crowd of awestruck onlookers marvelling at our Madonna-and-child-esque beauty.  On top of that, I was bombarded with books written by celebrity mums proclaiming that they had managed to breastfeed, lose all their baby weight in a week and get their offspring to sleep through the night from an early age while juggling a TV career and regular visits to the beautician.  I, meanwhile, was carrying an extra half stone and spending most of my time in pyjamas with milk stains on them.  From conflicting advice to downright lies, most of the information I got served one purpose – to make me feel completely inadequate as a mum.

That’s not to say I don’t believe in the ‘yummy mummy’, for want of a less cringeworthy term.  It’s just that I don’t believe she’s the woman with perfect highlights and a spotless baby dressed from top to toe in D&G.  She’s a real mum who often doubts herself, who has body hang-ups, who keeps going in spite of illness or tiredness or both and still finds the energy to read stories, change nappies and make silly faces to raise a smile, who still loves designer shoes even if she hasn’t the budget or the occasion to wear them, and who realizes that having a baby shouldn’t dictate who you are, but does mean that you will never be the same again.

So if you’ve ever answered the door with one half of your nursing bra undone, had a temper tantrum at 3am because your baby wouldn’t sleep, gone to work with vomit on your top or wondered what on earth you’ve let yourself in for, then immediately been racked with guilt, you’ve come to the right place.   I hope you enjoy reading.