The 5 Stages of Turning 30

Today marks two whole months of being a 30 year old. And I’m proud of myself.

I’m a bit proud because I think I’ve managed to get away with not letting on how much I hate it. But I’m mainly proud because I have successfully graduated from the School of Grief, coming to terms with the 5 stages, following the tragic loss of my twenties.

(I knew that my AS Level in Psychology would come in handy one day…)

Stage 1- Denial

I went through a brief phase of just trying to change my age (like really old people do), and thought I might stick at 28 for… well, forever actually. But it turns out when you have a big birthday, everyone knows how old you are.

Even my 5 year old clearly understands my torment and sadistically won’t let me lie about it. In fact, he felt the need to tell our next door neighbour, “Mummy is so old I have to look after her now”.

Stage 2- Anger

There’s a chance I may have a total intolerance to mild irritation. I appear to have turned into my 90 year old Grandpa when he flies off the handle for a few Battenberg crumbs on the rug.

Young people irritate me. (By the way, I would define young people as anyone below 25… No, 23.) The ridiculous clothes, the inability to do anything without having your face in your brand new iPhone that I can’t afford, the unbearable negative attitude despite the fact you have no humans reliant on you and no real responsibilities, and the incessant and totally pointless use of the word ‘literally’.

NB. Other things that anger me for no real reason: Sandi Toksvig, the unnecessary use of garlic, and my Husband.

Stage 3- Bargaining

Some aspects of turning 30 are, I suppose, not all bad. There are some things I am happy to see the back of. I will not miss sudden and unexpected breakouts of acne. However, I understand this life-changing prize must come at a price. And that price is approximately a million pounds for anti-wrinkle products, because that’s what a fear of the ageing process forces you to do when you’re 30.

Another significant compromise involves a change in your taste in TV shows (which your entire life revolves around). Gone are the days that I binge watch cool Netflix dramas and illegally download the newest Hollywood Blockbusters. These days I live for The Great British Bake Off and Emmerdale… and apparently, I also use phrases like, ‘gone are the days’.

I vividly remember spending my not-so rebellious youth taking the piss out of my Mum for her shocking taste in TV viewing, and now I find myself too watching Eggheads and shamefully, enjoying it.

Stage 4- Depression

As well as actually being old, I genuinely feel it. I have that female anxiety where my Body Clock is now very much a thing, rather than just something I’m aware of through reading mindless moaning on Mumsnet. I feel forced into making decisions I’ve been putting off for 5 years, just because I’ve had a birthday. And it’s a bit of a lose-lose situation. Do I do what I feel totally unprepared for… emotionally, physically and financially, because it might be my last chance? Or quit forever? Or risk being a Geriatric Mum?!

Stage 5- Acceptance

Over the last few years, I’ve seen nearly all my friends turn 30. And I know that the ones who were really bothered by it were those who felt they hadn’t achieved what they wanted to.

When I think back to what 18 year old me wanted when I was 30… I wanted to be married, have a great job I enjoy, have children and a loving family unit, have a lovely house, wonderful friends, and generally be happy in life.

What more could I want? I have everything I could possibly need. A few wrinkles and Sandi Toksvig is a small price to pay for what I have.

Dear Grandad…

You were absolutely designed to be a Grandad.

You were, in fact, so committed to the role that you weren’t just a Grandfather to your actual grandchildren… Your neighbours, daughter, even friends the same age all refer to you as Grandad.

When me and the other Grandkids were growing up, you were our hero. No one could make us laugh like you, and not just because you let us drink Lambrini with our tea. We would be captivated by your stories, usually about your family, of whom you thought so much. I feel so lucky that my son had the chance to get to know his Great-Grandad, and I promise I will always share your unconventional pearls of wisdom…

Your humour always had a marvellous way of making everything OK… when I was sad about needing braces; you swiftly removed your false teeth and correctly pointed out that, “it could be worse”. When I had got in to trouble for picking my nose and farting in public (we both know where I got that from), you assured me that even the Queen picks her nose, and that if I never trumped I’d explode.

You really did spoil us rotten. Now I’m older I have a much better understanding of how ridiculously amazing it is for you and Grandma to have taken five grandchildren away to Disneyland (I struggle going to the supermarket with one) and I could never have repaid you for your kindness to all of us.

Even in to your senior years, you refused to be the one who needed looking after. When we’d come over to visit, we were always keen to help you both however we could… shopping, cooking, gardening. But you were still so keen to spoil us, we were effectively on a lavish retreat being force fed wine and fry ups (obviously strongly against our will).

There’s so much I will miss about you Grandad… your jokes, your breakfasts, your 25 year old white t-shirt with a thousand holes in it, your side burns and your stories.

But I feel so lucky that you were my Grandad, because you really were the best.

That’s what she said…

It never ceases to amaze me how people can be so horrendously offensive, and yet be totally clueless to it. Don’t get me wrong, I know that when it comes to our little darlings, we can be a little hyper sensitive to every, “Are you sure he should be eating that?” and “I wouldn’t let my child stay up that late.”

But sometimes people just cross the metaphorical line.

The comments in question came from a childless woman so I have been told I should be sympathetic to a lack of understanding. In truth, I have somewhat struggled in the sympathy stakes and have predominantly opted for blind rage as my general response to the following…

“That’s the good thing about you, you’re, like, a cool Mum.”

Ah that’s nice, I thought.

“You know, you don’t always go on about kids and stuff. No one really wants to hear about that, everyone just smiles to be polite.”

Totally with her so far to be honest.

“You know, with most Mums, if anything happened to their kids, they’d never get over it, but you’d be fine and just get on with it.”


So it turns out someone actually thinks so little of me as a parent. Never have I been so hurt. Someone I spend a significant amount of time with, seems to believe I’d carry on as normal the day after my son’s passing (which physically hurts to even type).

Of course, the rational part of me listens to my friends when they tell me it’s absolute crap. But I couldn’t help analysing everything I’ve ever said and done to give such a poor impression of me as a Mother. What could I possibly have done to lead to such a shocking assumption?

Aside from the obvious… writing a blog under the name of The Unfit Mother, the only thing I could really think is that I am a working Mum. I go to work. I enjoy work. I strive to succeed in my work. I like having a bit of time to be me, rather than someone’s Mum or wife, so I don’t constantly talk about my home life.

But does that really make me a bad parent?

When I first started writing this post, it was a day or so after the incident. I was initially determined to use this platform to justify my parenting skills and make a huge statement that I love my child.

As it turns out, I shelved it. This was mainly as a result of my irrepressible rage and excessive wine consumption every time I thought about it. I’m glad I shelved it though. Because when I came to revisit this piece, I realised that such a post would be bloody ridiculous.

Of course I love my child, more than anything else in the world. Of course I’m a competent parent, I’ve managed to get him to the ripe old age of 5 as a healthy, happy, bright boy. But also, why the hell should I justify myself?

So instead, the new Me has decided that this post is about letting it go and having a bit of faith in myself.

Is it acceptable that I was repeatedly reduced to tears, all because one person, who is (as of yet) blissfully unaware of the all-consuming love that engulfs you as a parent, made an ill-advised comment? It’s not her fault that she doesn’t understand that level of love. That jump-in-front-of-a-train-just-to-stop-them-getting-a-chesty-cough love.

I heard a lovely phrase today… ‘to be good at family’. I know, that I am bloody amazing at family, and those who matter know I am and respect me. And if they didn’t, they wouldn’t matter.

It’s all about self-belief. Now, generally speaking, I’m not one for preaching about all that stuff, but we can’t allow ourselves to be beaten and berated by every idiotic remark from someone whose opinion is ultimately so irrelevant. We get enough negative press from ourselves and indeed our little ones. Surely, self-belief is part of being a good parent.

So go and be good at family. And everyone who thinks you aren’t can piss off.


Once again, lovely illustration care of Anna Lewis @ Sketchy Muma

Out Out

Incredibly, I have been able to have 2 nights out in the last month or so. But… Just to be clear, that is the first time I’ve had 2 nights out in a month for the last 6 years. When I finally experienced it, I was bogged down with an internal debate of if I’d changed vs. if the youth had changed… or both.

Now, don’t get me wrong, it was awesome. Seriously. But there were lots of small aspects to it that I just couldn’t get on board with, which actually made me glad a night out generally only comes round once every 6 months or so.

My first night “out out” was a gig in Manchester… I know, who do I think I am right?! I took my amazingly glorious sister-in-law (honestly not enough superlatives for that woman) to see Richard Ashcroft, who has been my favourite artist for about 15 years.

I was so excited, and the gig was unbelievable, the best I’ve ever been to. The music was awesome, the location was perfect and the company exceptional (told you, proper girl crush).

However… We arrived at the venue, got a drink and found our spot. It was heaving, with a group of rowdy lads next to us, but we miraculously did manage to find a space we liked. It had a good view, good access to bars and toilets (turns out that’s more important when you’re old). We sat down on a Poundland poncho, (obvs well prepared) and within about 30 seconds we had a pint of overpriced lager chucked all over us in a playful coincidence. So much for the pre-arranged ‘getting ready’ time in the schedule. Ruined so very soon.

This is just a small part of the intolerance for drunken youths (this being defined as people 2 years younger than me, who weren’t unintentionally and suddenly parents before planned). It is honestly a shock initially to see this behaviour, which is essentially what I looked like a few short years ago, but fatter and in worse clothes.

I managed to get my mate kind of OK after that horrendous start, but then the unthinkable happened… we needed a wee. And a mere 50 minutes later, we were actually allowed to have one. I mean, these environments kind of stand in your way between you and your basic human right to urinate. We queued and queued, just to have the door brayed in by a drunken moron just for taking an extra 30 seconds to touch up our lipstick.

My other night “out out” was in a local city centre on the last day of the school year with teachers. You couldn’t ask for a better atmosphere to be honest. And my teacher-girl-date (another Wonder Woman) was wonderfully sympathetic to the fact that I wasn’t a teacher and therefore wasn’t familiar with the many, many acronyms used in education. She went to such an effort to ensure I was happy and having a great time. It was so fun, but again, not all wine and giggles…

In addition to having a wee, we all know that another basic human need (isn’t it?) is to get a drink. Turns out this isn’t so easy on a Friday night in Leeds. Why must it be so difficult? When you finally work your way to the front of the bar (while realising that revealing your not so perky cleavage doesn’t do the trick anymore), you are faced with the dilemma of how much you’re willing to pay, versus how much you’re willing to carry, all while considering how long you can hang on until you accept ownership of having to return to that hell hole.

After a traditional Wetherspoons start, we found an amazing bar, which was such a laugh. All was going so well then all of a sudden the place just seemed to get very creepy very fast, but to be fair, it was about 2am. We decided it was probably time to leave when a stranger came over to us with 2 drinks and said, “I’ve got you these, I haven’t put drugs in them”. Now, to open an interaction with that, is… well it’s odd, let’s face it. It’s like being introduced to someone and them feeling the need to say, “Hi, I’m not a murderer”.

My least favourite thing about a night out out is that the need for food no longer waits to rear its ugly head at 4am when waiting for a taxi. I will literally eat anything greasy put in front of my gob after a couple of glasses of white wine and I will turn seriously ugly without it. In fact, I have been known to send someone out for crisps, just to manage my raging hanger on a night out.

I love a night out. I love that my awesome husband actively encourages it so he gets some quality boy time. I love spending quality time with the girls and having something to look forward to. It’s wonderful because it’s a rare treat, so I appreciate it so much.

But my favourite thing of all has become what was a punishment as a kid. My favourite days are now staying in my PJs under a duvet on the couch, watching kids films with my family and going to bed at 9. Suppose that’s parenthood for you… awesome isn’t it?

School Mum’s Guide

As a newly qualified school Mum, allow me to share my wide spread expertise on the first year of Primary School… Not for the child; there’s enough booklets, pointless information evenings and transition visits for that, This is for you… the totally unprepared Parent.

Firstly, let’s start with preparations you can make in the summer. I seriously underestimated the amount of uniform that one child would need. People always moan about the sheer volume of washing when you have a baby, but I never really got that, so was shocked and appalled at how kids can go through a jumper a day… that’s what happens when they have baked bloody beans for lunch every day. Also, socks. You’ll never have enough socks.

The school playground is the best place for one of my favourite activities- People Watching. Mainly because most of the other parents are arseholes. This will become apparent early on and your hatred will only deepen as the year goes on. They really are unbearable… but my God, they are fun to watch. At our school, we have ‘Bumbag Mum’, ‘Mrs Thinks-She’s Poppins’ and ‘Self-Obsessed Gym Mum’. OK, the last two are a bit wordy but to be fair I don’t care enough to find out their real names so I have to make them up. You will find yourself going all Katie Hopkins and making horrendous assumptions about the children (and secretly hoping your little darling will not want to mix with the offspring of your blissfully unaware enemy).

One of the most difficult aspects to school is that 4 years old is not too young for love it seems. When my son told me he loved Lilly (this ended up being 4 separate girls in total by the end of the school year) and had kissed her, I was slightly upset that I wasn’t the only woman in his life anymore. But Christ, that slight knowing-it’s-not-quite-real disappointment turned out to be nothing compared to when he got dumped. I swear to Pinot Grigio, I was hell bent on hunting down that little trollop and giving her what for. I’ve since been told, that’s not really the done thing. I still pushed in front of her at the Fair though… well and truly showed her.

Next, there’s Parents Evenings. Shockingly, it turns out that not everyone understands just how intelligent, well behaved, and generally perfect your child is. In fact, it feels like you’ve been punched in the face every time their teacher offers the tiniest bit of ‘constructive feedback’. When I was told that my son is so eager to please that he often puts up his hand despite having nothing to say, I found it difficult to hold back what was brewing inside… “OH I’M SO SORRY THAT HE ADORES YOU SO MUCH HE WANTS TO HAVE YOUR ATTENTION AND CAUSE YOU A MILD IRRITATION”.

Possibly the biggest frustration of all is that kids remember NOTHING. When they first trot off to school, you feel a bit lonely, and a bit like your arm is missing while they’re at school. You find yourself constantly wondering how they are, if they’ve made friends, does the teacher like them… but don’t worry, that passes by week two. The most irritating thing is that by the time 3pm comes and you’re desperately awaiting news of all of the above plus a full breakdown of lunch including portion sizes, it’s incredibly frustrating to repeatedly hear, “I can’t remember”. The truth is; kids are far more resilient than us and we’re far more bothered by the whole experience than they are.

When it was all over on the last day of his first school year, this became all the more apparent. I basically cried at everything. I cried at a beautiful note from his teacher, cried at how proud I was of how well he adapted to school life, cried that he made so many friends, cried that he learned to read and write, and cried that he did it all with a huge smile on his face. He had no idea what the big deal was.

Being a Mumless Mum on Mother’s Day

As soon as I hear the pathetic adverts trying to flog anything a woman may ever be interested in, with the tag line, “The Perfect Gift for Mother’s Day” usually over the dulcet tones of ‘You Raise Me Up’ by Westlife, I know it will start.

Friends complain about the burden of being commercially forced into buying a cheap card and supermarket flowers to give to their Mum. Blissfully unaware of how much that makes me hate them. How I’d give anything to suffer that inconvenience. How I wish my boy could take his Grandma a card and some hurriedly hand-picked daffodils.

I’ll subtly leave the room when colleagues discuss what they’re buying for their Mums and where they’re taking them for a seasonally overpriced Afternoon tea. I find any excuse to escape before someone asks me and I have to give the room-silencing response of, “Actually, my Mum died… But it’s OK, I’ll take some flowers to her grave.”

My beautiful Mum died nearly 6 years ago from a brain haemorrhage. Because of that, this time of year instantly makes me feel heartbroken, but, although I wish it was so easy, it shouldn’t.

Being a Mumless Mum means that Mother’s Day is unbearably sad. But it will always be a little bit more special too.

Experiencing the excruciating loss of a Mother puts me in an exclusive position to understand exactly what a massive role that is in life. And to be that person to someone, to be their absolute everything, is the most precious thing in this world. The conflicted feelings are agonising… Being distraught about missing your own Mum, while ecstatic and thankful about being a Mum is something extraordinarily unique.

I will shed a tear over her every year, she will be the first thing I think of when I wake up on the day. And so she should be. I’m proud of my tears because she is worth it.

Above all, I have to allow myself to feel lucky. Because I know that the indescribable love I feel for her, is felt for me too.

My Wildest Dreams Vs. The Harsh Reality

Just like most people who do this ‘Momblogging’ thing, I started because I was inspired so much by those who do it the best.

I was inspired because I got so much comfort (more than I can possibly begin to express actually), from knowing that I wasn’t the only parent who regularly found my kid annoying, who hated far too many aspects of motherhood, and who missed the pre-Mum life so very much. The thought that I could, just maybe, provoke the same overwhelmingly tear-jerking emotions of relief, happiness and reinstated self-worth is incredible. If I only had one person read my blog, but that one person had the same reaction I did as a result of my crazy thoughts, I would have a bigger sense of achievement than I’ve ever had before.

At least one person in my life had told me I’m ‘sometimes a bit funny’, I am a real fan of grammar and I’m not afraid to share far too much personal information… so I thought, why not?!

I wrote my first post and instantly fell in love.

The excitement of buying lovely stationery, making endless lists, setting up brand new social media accounts and my very own website was a mere perk for a nerd like me. The best thing… it was like bloody therapy! I loved being able to express everything I’d ever thought as a parent without fear of judgement as I had made the decision to use an alias… (seriously, who do I think I am?). But I wanted it to be a secret so I could be honest in my writing, and also because I knew from the beginning, deep down, that it would amount to nothing and I was just setting myself up for a lifetime of piss-taking such as, “Do you remember that time you tried to be a blogger?!” to endless pointing and laughing.

I wrote a few more posts, steadily building my Twitter following to the dizzy heights of a few hundred thanks to the wonder that is hashtags and the odd retweet. Every time I wrote something new, I allowed myself to believe that it could be ‘it’… my big break.

After a month or two, I read about a competition for new bloggers, where you submit a recent post and 5 successful bloggers would choose a winner each to write a paid piece for a website. So I entered on the off chance and my favourite woman in the whole world (to whom I have no physical or personal connection whatsoever) chose me as her winner. I literally cried (once I saw my name as a winner on the website and knew it wasn’t a scam), and I cannot say how important that was for me. The first thing I did was tell my closest friends and family because I didn’t need to feel embarrassed anymore. This time, it really was ‘it’. This was going to change everything. I’d get a call the next day from 10 publishers who would offer me big money to write a book, plus several cool cult movie directors would obviously want me to write and star in a film of my ordinary life.

Somewhat shockingly, that wasn’t the case.

A couple of friends called me and congratulated me. They said they were surprised by what I had done (in a good way, I think) and told me they loved it. Don’t get me wrong, that was nice… but it didn’t feel enough. My best friend called and asked the question I pretended I hadn’t thought about… “What would you do if it came to a decision between writing and your job?”. I brushed it off as ridiculous. I said it would never come to that. But really, I had already had the conversation in my head with my boss a thousand times about whether to leave work to do something I thought I’d really love.

I admire the lives of the successful bloggers. I know a couple of people who have had the guts to give up the safety net of a secure job to pursue a real dream… something creative, something they have a real passion for, something risky… One of those ‘What do you want to be when you grow up?’ type careers.

But I’m not there… My job isn’t a dead end, it’s an actual career, with very real and massive prospects. I’ve worked incredibly hard to take it as far as I possibly can, from teenage trainee to a boss with plenty of qualifications. I do get a sense of achievement from it and without question, it is the most sensible thing in which to progress and give my all.

I have accepted that blogging will never be my career. I have resigned myself to the fact that I will sadly never be invited to Waterstones for my book signing or hold auditions for who will play me in a film. I can’t give this thing the attention it needs, nor am I not clever, funny or talented enough to make it a real thing. I still don’t fully understand what a linky is, or how people actually manage to make a living from it. And that’s OK…

I love that I have something just for me that I’m not totally horrible at. I love that I finally have a hobby other than housework. And I love that for the most part, it’s still my little secret.

I know now that I’m doing this for the right reasons… for my sanity, for my indoor social life, for the off chance that I might make someone laugh or cry, and for my pride.

But I’m not hurting anyone by holding on to my wildest dreams though, right?

Kids TV for Grown Ups

7.10am Postman Pat

He’s late. Again. Just like every bloody day. Everyone seems to think he’s some kind of hero but we all know you’d get wound up with his japes. And how much of a closet murderer is Ben from the Special Delivery Service?

7.20am Thomas and Friends

One of far too many stupid trains tries to do something helpful but actually ruins everything, leaving the Fat Controller to pathetically have a go… Seriously, the words “You have caused confusion and delay” have lost all meaning. Also, why don’t the human drivers ever get into bother for the utter daily buffoonery on the island of Sodor?

7.35am Peppa Pig

Peppa and her horrible little brother set a horrendous example to your children by refusing to eat vegetables unless they’re shaped like a dinosaur, mocking their overweight father, then jumping in puddles and rolling in wet mud laughing.

7.45am Fireman Sam

No one has smashed Norman’s face in yet.

The Supermarket Tantrum

This week, I heard of a glorious interview with Kristen Bell (or Anna off Frozen, as most parents will know her). In a conversation about parenting, she said “If my child is acting a fool in the grocery store, the embarrassment is on her. In truth, that shouldn’t make me feel a certain way”.

I bloody love that. It really got me thinking though. Firstly, about how awesome she is to have such a relaxed and shockingly reasonable attitude to the infamous supermarket tantrum. But also how in that scenario, it is unjustifiably the parent who is automatically made to feel the bad guy rather than the little heathen throwing potatoes down the veg aisle. I’m ashamed to say that I have in fact been guilty of such judging. But that all changed when it was my turn…

I am very fortunate in that I’ve only ever been subject to one supermarket tantrum at the hands of my low maintenance son. On that fateful day, he’d been an absolute horror from the second he got up, and due to a lack of other options, I had no choice but to take him with me to Tesco. We were wandering round aimlessly, then to my dismay, right in front of us I clocked a stand rammed with a brand new super spanking range of Paw Patrol toys. Of course he’d spied it too.

He wanted Marshall’s Fire Fightin’ Truck and wasn’t going to take No for an answer.

So he screamed, he shouted, he cried, he kicked and he threw things. I immediately opted for my go-to response… blackmail. “If you don’t pack it in, no party at the weekend”, “No ice cream at the park if you keep this up” etc. Still he continued. I tried again reasoning with him, but to no avail. I tried ignoring him and walking away, but still no success.

At this point, I started to panic. The crowd was growing and I just needed him to shut up and calm down. So I shouted at him, which obviously just made the screaming louder and more intense. So as a last resort I dragged him away by his arm, chucked him in the car and drove home in tears.

I was so upset… humiliated at his behaviour and at my response. But most of all, I was embarrassed by the tuts, the shakes of the head and the smug glances with an overwhelming air of ‘I’d never allow my child to behave like that’.

Well the truth is that you can be the best parent in the world, but sometimes kids will just be unbearable… because they’re kids and that’s what they do, and there is bugger all you can do to stop them (apart from buying the bloody truck).

Now, I’m not saying that the correct course of action is to verbally abuse the kid kicking up a stink, but just bear a thought for the unfortunate Tantrumee, who clearly hasn’t instructed or encouraged this behaviour in any way. Don’t be a knob and judge. Because we have no idea what goes on. No one knew that my son had already made me cry twice on the day of his public meltdown. They didn’t know that I had already tried reasonably and calmly pacifying him before forcibly removing him from public view.

What I wouldn’t have given for a fist bump from a fellow parent, for a nod, for a sympathetic ‘don’t worry, we’ve all been there’.

We’re all just doing our best with our little ones and an act of kindness would have made my day. In fact, to quote the hosts of our showdown, every little helps. So next time you see a kid having a public tantrum and an exhausted looking parent despairingly trying to sort it out, I urge you to leave the knobness behind, for all our sakes.

Dear Pregzilla…

To my dearest,

As we get older, the natural progression is to get married and have kids, meaning that friends become a slightly smaller aspect of our lives. I think about my friends now and of course I love them, I really do. I make a real effort to see them and spend time with them… we catch up and laugh over shared stories, but I feel like we don’t really know what happens in each other’s lives. There’s a thing with adults where there’s always a bit of a facade.

It makes me think of when we were young. I don’t think I so much as had a crap without telling you about it. We shared everything, often in Egg Language, whether the other person wanted to hear it or not. And now I am beyond excited that my gorgeous friend will soon become an amazing Mummy (and I desperately hope that your love will eventually manifest itself in the form of grey leather elbow patches).

So here are my pearls of wisdom, all the things I think you should be warned of before you embark on this amazing experience. It’s just for you, based on my extensive 4 and a half year’s experience of rearing 1 low maintenance child… You’re welcome. Love you lots like Jelly Tots (IDST). xxx


  1. I’m sure you have been told that labour hurts, which is true. So don’t listen to those weirdos who say it’s a life-changingly euphoric experience. It isn’t, it’s horrific. HAVE AN EPIDURAL. Anyway, the pain is one thing. But then there’s the complete lack of dignity too. You may recall from an earlier blog post that not only was I essentially fisted by a friend’s Mum, but also a Doctor actually sniffed the gusset of my knickers. A few hours in and you will be totally accustomed to flinging your legs akimbo for any Tom, Dick or Harry who opens your curtains (if you’ll pardon the pun). In hindsight, that’s kind of really not OK.
  2. Once you’re home after pushing a human from your fadge, things aren’t actually much rosier. Your foof hurts (and bleeds) for ages afterwards. Oh, and about 3 days after you give birth, your ‘milk comes in’. That basically means that your tits look and feel like a breeze block. They’re heavy, uncomfortable and mean that you won’t get comfy enough to sleep… although baby’s probably doing a good job of preventing rest anyway. Then, once all that’s over, for the rest of your life, you’ll be fighting your bladder. You’ll wee when you sneeze. And laugh. And go trampolining. But I’ve noticed that when I’m about to sneeze, I automatically clench my pelvic floor now so I’m sure you’ll learn to do the same. Finally, you might always be a bit fat, assuming you don’t have a squillion pounds to spend on a Personal Trainer and dietician. Even if you manage to lose weight, you’ll always have the ‘Mum paunch’. Clearly as a chubber, I’m no expert… So if running, spin class and Zumba work for you, that’s brilliant! If you find time, you’re a bloody genius.
  3. Nothing will prepare you for how absolutely crazy you’ll be. You’ll watch your baby sleep for well over an hour without realising it, just making sure their chest is moving up and down. You will constantly envisage horrendous accidents when you carry your baby downstairs or get in the car, you won’t be able to cope with any sad news stories about children, and you will find yourself consulting Dr. Google 17 times a day and making excessive unnecessary trips to A&E. You’ll feel guilty about every decision you make. And not just the big stuff like going back to work, I mean the tiny irrelevant stuff too, like what time she goes to bed and what she eats. And you can’t win (against you). You’ll always hate yourself. Sorry.
  4. You’re never on your own. Even when you poo. For some reason, my little Delight will gladly walk in on me on the toilet, in the shower, anywhere. But when Daddy’s enjoying a dump, he’s allowed to do so in peace. It gets a bit much at times. Especially when you’re trying to do a load of washing with a tiny person clutching your cankle. The absolute worst time however, to have your offspring as a noisy shadow is when you’re hungover. There are no words to describe the pain… You’re sitting on the bathroom floor in nothing but yesterday’s knickers, hugging the toilet, wretching away… and an irritatingly loud voice shouts “What are you doing Mummy?”. And there’s no sleeping it off, unless you can nap while someone shoots you with a Nerf gun and turns your face into a train track. The most ridiculous thing about never being alone though, is that if you do manage to steal just a few precious moments to yourself… you miss them. It’s pathetic.
  5. You will never be patient enough. There will always be a stupid, tiny, ridiculous thing they do to piss you off beyond belief. Whether it’s crying, taking too long to put on their shoes, talking too much, or generally just being there. It sounds awful, and it feels awful. You scream something completely non-sensical like, “FOR THE LAST TIME, GET YOUR FINGERS OUT OF YOUR BUMHOLE!”, then look at their devastated little face and feel horrendous for not letting them just do whatever they want whenever they want.  Then in 2 minutes you’ll lose your rag again. Hence the term… Mum Guilt.
  6. Most importantly, it’s the BEST thing in the world. Never forget how lucky you are, and what a fantastic job you do.