Wednesday, 7 December 2016

I didn't order tiger stripes.

I think when you're relatively 'small', people don't tend to assume that the carrying and birthing of a person will bear much effect on the body following this. For those nice, shiny people that live in the magazines, this might actually be the case. I even thought myself at some point this might be the case. But 7 pounds 11 of a Freddie David and heavily torn stomach muscles later, this is definitely not the case.

Some friends are cute enough to tell you how well you look post-baby, but as they only see you on those rare occasions you plan your outfit and let yourself out of the house for, this mac-contoured portrayal might not stand up as accurate. Basically they can't see through your underwear.

I have achieved that awkward in between size trouser where a size small would provide me with one stomach too many, but a size up would have itself branded the no sex tonight trouser. By trouser I obviously mean pyjama trouser as these are my predominant choice of trouser.

I'm hoping next summer will be my 'look at my epic stomach in my non-high-rise bikini bottom' and 'how did she do it?' summer, as this year we opted for the fully clothed holidays and just continued to eat the food and pretend we didn't know what the gyms were.

The hips I acquired I'm not sure I can do much about to be honest. I'm not saying I dislike them but I do have rather miniature legs for a fully grown person so this now means I have to roll up my bottoms until I've formed nice hearty donuts around my ankles. So in conclusion I've acquired donut ankles post-birth. That's what I've learnt from this journey of motherhood.

Last of all on the list I wasn't aware I was making,  I suppose would be the stretch marks. You know, those things the optimists like to call tiger stripes to big you up, but last time I checked I wasn't a wild animal. I am just a poor woman who looks like her toddlers had twenty minutes with a highlight marker around her lady parts and is definitely not laughing. And why did you even think it necessary to stretch in those areas? The baby was growing purely mid-central, I checked on this. I practically bathed in every form of cream and oil on the market. Do I send these companies highly inappropriate images to get my money back? Or do I accept that this is growing up, this is old, this is mum and this is OK and you can't really see them in certain lights anyway?

When I had first had Freddie I was desperately unhappy about my body but I also remember feeling quite desperate in general at times too. Lack of sleep, pressure and hormones does that to a girl. Nearly two years on, I can't even set to inspire with change. I haven't gone green or taken up hot yoga. I haven't swapped my biscuits for graze boxes or bought one of those generic DVDs. I haven't won a slimming world award or given my meals their own Instagram account. I've been busy working and I've been busy mum-ing and somewhere along the way, other things have become more important. That's not to say that becoming a parent means it's OK to neglect yourself, I just also think life is too hard sometimes and too short other times to not eat the bloody cake. And if I have to be slightly more dishevelled, foolishly telling the world I'll give it another go next summer so I can eat my cherry bakewell with no self-judgement, I'm good with that. I'm so good with being a non-size 8, cake-eating, head full of whinge but a heart properly full of love Mummy.

Thursday, 10 December 2015

So I'm a mum now and stuff.

OK so it has been a long ass time since I have blogged. So long in fact I have lost nearly all of my dear followers, and in the meantime have gained several new jobs, a new home we now own, and one of those babies people harp on about. You know, just the small stuff. To those still hanging around, hello there stranger. To those new, hello to you too!
I'm so embarrassed re my old posts. They feel like such a lifetime ago. As much as I am the same awkward, waffling idiot, I have changed and grown in ways I can't even cipher. I've just looked at an ex outfit post. One of those where the clothes are from an actual hanger, all ironed and sassy from hours of ogling through my favourite blogs and hunting through my once bookmarked stores. So much changes when you become a mum and you couldn't even try to prepare for it. I used to get so frustrated with the idea of my friends not viewing me as the same Lauren I was. I'm just as functioning as before. I can still make you laugh. I promise to not talk to you about my baby's bowel movements and sleeping habits. You don't need to know the ins and outs of my birth plan and I can still see you after dark. This is 100% not true though, and I'm probably only just accepting this. I haven't painted my nails in approximately 8 weeks. My underwear is so far from matching. It has taken me 3 weeks to upgrade my leggings that once had holes in (yes I did leave the house in them. It may have been several times), and my outfits nowadays wouldn't inspire a snail.
After dark is a bit of a deal breaker. Freddie has a pretty strict night-time routine and it would be a somewhat a ball ache to play around with it. I haven't even found the strength to leave him overnight with my own parents for Christ sake. He's only 9 months old, you know.
Remember when I'd just fallen pregnant and my first pledge was to not document every single move my child makes on social media? I AM THE BABY SPAMMING QUEEN. I have literally all knowledge of what I am doing. I almost know that anyone other than a mother, an overly supportive friend or a grandparent would whole heartedly just not give a shit but there I go again, There he is. That's my baby. Revel in his beautiful face because you're going to see it again in approximately 37 minutes because I simply cannot help himself and I have given up caring whether it's OK or not.
So, as much as I swoon over my baby to the internet world with updates of his brilliance and my bursting heart, I'm not sure if you had noticed or not but I am so not the mothering type. Puppies and kittens were always my bag. Babies though, nah I'm alright. Not once have I ever darted across a room to a newborn and ooh'd and ooh'd, and in terms of like holding one of them.. I'm good, honest. As much as I knew that one day I would want a family, Freddie was not planned. In fact his timing in a logical sense was pretty poor. I had just started a new job in business development, one I thought I was pretty lucky to get and as much as it wasn't the direction I had planned, my aim was to smash it and make something of it. We finally had the deposit for a house and had literally just put an offer in for a hugely inappropriate 3-storey wonder. The wooden flooring was glorious.
Anyway I was feeling a bit under the weather (understatement, morning sickness, you are the devil - die, die, die) and my boobs literally felt like they'd been in a bar fight so I took a test or two and low and behold a baby was brewing. It took me 12 weeks to feel anything above miserable. I didn't not want my baby, I just couldn't envision the baby part, not until the scan. Until then I would get up, throw up repeatedly, go to work and hide the fact I was continuing to throw up repeatedly, go home, eat as many spoonfuls of brown rice as I could endure and literally go straight to bed (at 7pm or something crazy) because I couldn't bare to be awake. Of course that all passed when I reached 21 weeks and I discovered I could eat as many peanut butter cups as I wanted and not feel ill (may have made up for lost time and put on a couple stone, who's counting..) but no, I did not receive my glow in the post. My hair did not shine, my genes did not  save me from stretch marks and a beaming goddess I was not. I was pretty mis-sold on the entire thing and I'm still a bit sore about it to be honest but whatever. 20 hours of labour and giving birth without drugs weren't a party either. The first couple weeks of struggling to breastfeed, the inability to sit comfortably, walking like a crab, 4cm lukewarm baths, the smell of baby sick, hormones (oh my god the hormones) and the interfering (probably wasn't interfering but don't bloody condescend me you agent of Satan), other people's perfume on my precious baby's skin, sleep depravity to sheer barbarity but, the love. Jesus fucking Christ the love. Until you do it you will never know and for as long as I live I could never tell you. Love in the most raw, primitive and unspeakable form. My heart could not feel any fuller. It just actually couldn't. I would kill without thought or reason for my child and I'm not sure when it will stop feeling weird to say 'my child' but I'm trying.
I'm not sure of the purpose of this post other than to (over)share our experience so far. I'm not a typical mum so I don't just 'make friends' with the other mums. Not when I have permanent resting bitch face and dress weird. I'm not gooey. I am but I'm not. If my child looks funny because he's just shit himself I will probably tell you this. I guess what I'm saying is I'm still finding my feet with this motherhood thing and I would like to think many other mothers out there are too so rather than sharing unachievable weaning plans or picture perfect snippets of our existence,  I would just be honest about this whole parenting deal. Babies aren't easy. He's the hardest thing I've ever done, I mean I birthed him from my bits and pieces if you didn't know. He challenges me on a daily basis and just as I feel as though I am fully losing my shit and utterly failing as a mother, he does something so insignificant that moves me entirely. The smallest and likely most irrelevant of gestures and he restores all the love in my heart, and the faith in my ability to care for and raise him. These babies at times feel impossible but they're also pretty great. If you've gotten this far I sort of feel like an apology is in order because my English teacher always told me I waffle too much and I need to be more direct to the point. But I'm just chin wagging and there is no point? If you're looking to learn how to be a kick ass mom then you're probably in the wrong place. If you're wanting to feel less guilty about feeding your child too many breadsticks to keep him quiet or your approach is keeping them alive and laughing one day at a time then welcome aboard. I've no idea what I'm doing but I really love it.