I am Soon to be Mum…again!

Well it’s almost time.

The hospital bags are packed and in the car.

The to-do lists are almost all done.

The house has been wrecked and cleaned to the point that one would be forgiven for assuming that we’re hosting a Station Mass.

The Husband is exhausted (well, he thinks he is!) and the Mini-me is bouncing off the walls with excitement.

And me?

I’m absolutely bricking it.

I think that even after nearly 10 months of being pregnant, (tell me please where the magic number 9 came from?), it only hit me that there’s an actual baby arriving when I opened the box of baby clothes last week to begin washing.  When I lifted the first little vest out of the “0-3 neutral” box, my heart almost stopped.

To me, my Mini-Me is still a baby.  She’s almost 4 and taller than most 5 year olds, but she’s my wee baby.  She’s in pre-school and growing more independent by the day, but she’s only a baby…to me.

As I emptied the little vests and babygrows, I was thrown back in time and could clearly see her brand new little self, dressed in each outfit.  I could even remember the first time she wore some of the outfits;  the oooohs! and aaaahs! of family members when they saw the little outfits on her; how I felt all grown up dressing my real-life Dolly in the adorable pieces.  And it stirred up a barrage of emotions that I really don’t have the words for.

Mini-me is excited about being a Big Sister.  She has been practicing on dolls and we talk about the new baby all the time.  Baby Bubba, (as she calls my belly), is coming to live with us soon.  And while she can’t wait, I’m terrified as she doesn’t quite understand what’s ahead of her.

No longer will she be the absolute, single and only centre of our world.  No longer will the bedtime routine be all about her.  No longer will I be able to read three bedtime stories just because I can.

She’s going to have to learn a whole new set of skills; how to share, how to wait until Mammy or Daddy are able to give her attention; how to be the Big Sister.

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In one of my hormonal snotfests recently, I admitted to Hubby that my biggest fear is not being able to be mammy to both of my babies.  I’m more afraid of Mini-Me feeling left out or unloved, than I am of giving birth.

I’m afraid of how she’s going to cope while I’m in hospital.  I’m dreading her being told that it’s time to go home at the end of visiting hours.  I’m terrified that she’s going to decide that we’re not keeping the baby! (I have it on authority from another S-Mum that this can happen…)

I’m petrified that she’s going to, at some point, have to stand back and watch another little person getting the attention that she’s always had the monopoly on.

In short, I’m just bloody terrified.

And yet, rational me knows that she’s not the first child to become a big sister.

I’m the eldest of 6 and at no point in my life have I ever felt any of the things that I’m worried she’ll feel.  Having younger brothers and sisters has made me me. It has enriched my life and continues to provide fun every day, even in adulthood!  The companionship and certainty of friendship that siblings provide can never be measured and I know that Mini-me will thrive.

She’s going to be just fine.

big sis2

But that doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to worry.

I’m pregnant.  I’m emotional.  I’m probably a little teensy bit crazy, but I’m allowed to be.  I’m allowed the odd melt down.  I’m allowed to succumb to absolutely irrational notions that randomly pop into my head.  And anyone who wants to dismiss my fears as nonsense, is either very brave or very foolish. (Or they’ve never experienced being 28 months pregnant!)

And along side all of this crazy, I’m excited.  I can’t wait to finally meet the little munchkin who has been battering my insides so beautifully.  I can’t wait to see if the name we’ve chosen suits.  I can’t wait to see if there’s resemblance to Mini-Me.  I can’t wait to hear their little voice for the first time.  I can’t wait to see Mini-me’s face when she sees a real baby!  (I can’t wait to see my own toes and to no longer have cramps in my arse cheek every 45 minutes…but that’s a whole other post!)

Holding the vest reminded me that inside this abnormally HUMONGOUS and very uncomfortable bump, my next Mini is getting ready to come join in the madness of our home.  They too will wear the little vests and they too will stamp all over our hearts with their tiny wee feet.  They will love the Big Sister unconditionally and will be loved in return.

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And I can not wait.

I am Soon-to-be Mum. 🙂

 

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I am So-it-begins Mum

We’ve reached week four of pre-school and all was going well, until this morning.

As I dropped Mini-Me off, her lovely teacher smiled at me, chirping “This is for you Mummy!”  I took the piece of coloured card from her, thinking that it must be a note from the school about something that she needs or did.  Thanking smiling teacher and waving goodbye to my little one, I left.

When I got to the car, I looked at the piece of card…it was a birthday invitation.

And so it begins.

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My initial reaction was one of shock.  This is the first invitation she’s received to a party that isn’t one of her cousins. And then it inspired a mixture of feelings inside this inexperienced Mummy that I still can’t quite describe.  I was initially delighted and a little part of me felt smug that she’d been invited.  Having been one of those kids who watched others getting invited to the cool kids’ parties, a part of me felt chuffed that my Princess was popular enough to be invited to a party after only a few weeks!

Then I laughed at my own stupidity as I remembered a friend telling me that the parents in her daughter’s pre-school invite ALL of the kiddies to ALL of the parties.  Most likely, all of the parents had been handed the pretty pink card this morning.  I was no different, I just happened to be the last parent to get mines…and that’s when the fear hit me.

There are 22 in her class.  This lovely, kind parent, who is going to the bother of possibly inviting (and obviously paying for), ALL of the kiddies to meet up on Saturday to play, may have just started a class tradition.  Or is it a dilemma?

Am I the only Mummy who thinks ahead to my daughter’s birthday in a few months and now panics?  If this “invite the whole class” pressure is now mounted onto us as parents, how does one stop the spiral?

Because I know that I for one, can’t even imagine being responsible for having 22 toddlers in my care for an afternoon, never mind being able to afford to pay for a party for the full class.  And then there is the fact that this number will be added to the 8 cousins and 6 baby-friends that have made up her first three birthday parties!

Add parents.  Add Grandparents.  Add aunties and uncles.

Add valium.

As children, my siblings and I were always allowed 3 or 4 of our best buddies from school to come home on the day of our birthday for a small party.  I’d imagined that I would do the same for Mini-me when the time came.  I didn’t anticipate it beginning in pre-school.  I didn’t anticipate it happening so soon.

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I thought that I had a few years to go before I had to be “that mummy” – you know the one who bucks the trend and stands her ground by not giving into playground politics?  Yeah, that’ll be me.  I thought.  Now I’m not so sure.

I read a thread on a local Mummy page today where another new-to-this-craic Mummy asked advice on inviting her 6 year old’s full class to a party for her son.  The responses appalled me.

All of them were saying that yes, the whole class is usually invited and that the basic expectations include village halls, gifts for all the kids so that no one is left out, bouncy castles and hot food.

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The responses terrified me and made me really understand that I am bloody well clueless and that my notions of being “that mummy” might just catapult me (and in turn Mini-me) back into that abyss of unpopularity.

So yes, mixed emotions.

Looking at the lovely invitation, I recognised the beautifully scripted name as that of the little girl my Princess sits beside (and whom she talks about non stop, attributing the title Best Fwend to her daily).  So yes, of course I will happily take her to the party.  It’ll be lovely to meet a few of the other pre-school parents…she’ll be with this group of kids through national and probably secondary school after all.

And of course, it comes with the territory.    But I will be hugely interested to see if only a few of the kiddies have been invited or if the whole class and their entourages do indeed, arrive in force.

If that’s the case, the panic will be founded.  If not, I’ll sigh a huge sigh of relief and rest easy for another while.

I quickly took a snap of the invitation and sent it to Hubby.  His first reply was “Aw, her first invitation”…followed two seconds later by “And so it begins!” The latter text had a laughing emoticon at the end.  But we’ll see who is laughing when it’s our turn to send out the invitations.

I am So-it-begins Mum.

I am Sleepy Mum

“I am vewy disappointed in your behaviour!”

These are the words that I heard through the baby monitor at around 3am. I heaved my backside out of bed and waddled across the hall to see who exactly had disappointed my threenager at this ridiculous hour.

sleepy

Mini-me was sitting upright in her bed, having assembled her dollies and teddy bears around her and was wide awake and quite happily giving orders and giving out to her audience.

“Are you Ok Baby?” I asked carefully.

“I’m the teacher Mammy,” she announced as if this was perfectly acceptable behaviour in the middle of the night.

“Percy Penguin had to go in the naughty corner cos he’s been very cheeky and I’m very disappointed wif his behaviour.”

In the dim light from the hall, I could see that poor Percy was lying, fluffy arse up, in the toy box, having obviously been launched across the room by Teacher.

What had he done?  Who knows, but it was enough to warrant his banishment to the dark side. And Mini-Me was determined that he deserved his punishment.

“Aw Poor Percy. Will Mammy lift him up to you again?” I ventured.

“No!  He is not being a very good penguin!” she scolded.

“Okay, okay.  Can you please go back to sleep now Honey?  It’s the middle of the night.”

“But Mammy, I have to be the teacher!”

“You can be the teacher in the morning.”

You can imagine the rest of the conversation.  As I sat at the bottom of the bed, begging her to go back to sleep, I struggled not to laugh at the utter determination on her face as she completely and truly believed everything that was taking place in her imagination.  And yet, I couldn’t help but stare and smile at how utterly beautiful her innocent little face was in the nightlight.  Everything that was happening in her mind was absolutely real to her. And if it hadn’t been the middle of the night, I would have encouraged it.

Humorous little girl playing teacher in classroom

Since starting Pre-school, Little Miss Bossy Pants has been blossoming by the day. Her imagination has exploded from already very vivid, to absolutely crazy.  She’s mimicking her lovely new teachers.  She’s turned her teddybears into her “students”.  Even though she’s never seen me in the classroom, she’s playing the “School teacher” in a way that maybe only the daughter of one, can.

She eventually went back to sleep.  I eventually got back to my own bed.  As shattered as I was, it was a relief that she was awake for such silly reasons.  She wasn’t sick.  She wasn’t having bad dreams and she wasn’t crying.  So I had nothing to complain about.  I drifted back to sleep, laughing to myself at the ridiculousness of the conversations one can have with a three year old at 4am.

Maybe she’s doing me a favour.  Maybe she’s so clever that she’s easing Mammy into the world of sleepless nights again in preparation for Babba number 2? Or Maybe Percy was quite simply being a bold penguin.

Regardless of what exactly caused her to leave her dreams and wake up for full-on playtime at stupid o’clock, she bounced out of bed this morning and happily lifted Percy Penguin from his exile.  Putting him back on the bed, she announced “Now, I hope you’ve learned your lesson Percy.  I don’t want to see that behaviour again.”  Whatever his crime, she hadn’t forgotten, but she’d forgiven him.

In the same way, as parents, we quickly forget the pain of being ripped from our sleep in the middle of the night as long as our little rascals are Ok.

But tonight, if she decides to play Teacher, I hope that Poor Percy behaves himself!

I am Sleepy Mum. 🙂

tired

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I am Section Mum

It’s Cesarian Section Awareness Month and so I thought I’d reshare this one with you all.

I suppose like EVERYTHING we Mammies have to go through, we all have our own perfects.  We all have our own rights and wrongs.  We all make our own choices.  And sometimes, we have to trust the choices of others.   Regardless, most of us don’t care how we give birth, as long Baby is born safely.

I’ve had 2 sections, neither by choice, but would I do anything differently? Nope.  And does it make me less of a Mammy because I didn’t push my babies out? Well, I think you can imagine my answer to that one.

Too Posh to Push_

 

 

“Are you hoping to do it properly this time?”

I kid you not.  This is what I was asked recently by another Soon-to-be Mum with whom I was having the “When are you due?”conversation.

She’d asked if this was my first.  I’d answered that it was number two.

“Me too” she smiled.  Then she asked if I’d had a tough time last time.  I replied that I’d had to have a planned section.  Her next line floored me.

“Aw, so are you planning to do it properly this time?”

 

Now in her defense, she was an absolute stranger, who probably didn’t intend any harm whatsoever.  I don’t think she even realised that she’d said it…but she had.

I smiled politely and said Goodbye.  As I walked away, my smile remained on my face, somewhat forced… I wasn’t quite sure whether I wanted to laugh or to cry.

Smug I-push-mine-out-Mum carried on, oblivious to the fact that she could have just offended or upset the other very pregnant lady.  I carried on about my day, and it was only when I was telling my friend about the conversation that evening that I realised that her comment was lingering in my mind.

The word “properly” has been bothering me since.

Because not only did it dismiss my first childbirth, it suggested that I did something wrong; that my first birth was improper.

childbirth

Did she automatically assume that I was “too posh to push”?  Did she think that I asked to have my stomach sliced open and my baby lifted out by surgeons? Did she really class a c-section as a sub standard, improper way of delivering a child?  If she’s told that she needs to have one this time, is she going to say No because it’s not the proper way to do it?

What is the proper way?  I listen to conversations all the time about childbirth and babies.  There seem to be so many proper ways to do things.

Without medication.  With just gas and air.  With classical music on in the background.  Without bright lights and alarm.  Mammas who breathe through the pain are fantastic.  Those who refuse drugs are wonderful.  Those who have 60 hour labours are phenomenal. But those who take as much pain relief as we can have are equally as brilliant.
I don’t know of any new Mother who had Andy Peters standing waiting at the bottom of the bed to pin a Blue Peter Badge onto their properly born child afterwards.

I applaud and congratulate these warrior women, in the exact same way as I applaud and congratulate the woman who, for whatever reason, may it be medical, personal or indeed emergency, has to undergo the trauma of childbirth on an operating table.

A caesarean section is not what any woman anticipates when thinking of how their baby will be born. It’s terrifying.  It’s painful.  Your body goes through all of the same physical and indeed hormonal reactions to having just given birth as the body of a woman who has been lucky enough to give birth naturally.
There are stitches.  There is afterbirth.  There is pain…by God is there pain.
There is recovery time.  There are hormones.
But most importantly, with the help of some higher power and whatever wonderful staff that are on hand in the hospital, there is a baby.

And that is what childbirth, in any form, is about.

It’s about getting your precious little darling out of your big swollen tummy as quickly and safely as possible.  It’s about causing as little trauma as possible to your newborn, regardless of what your own body must go through.  It’s about love.

And there is absolutely nothing proper about any of it.

Every woman dreams of a quick, pain free labour and uneventful delivery.  How many do you know that have achieved that?  I’d love to meet them.

Of course I’d love to have experienced childbirth like most women do.  But do I feel like I have missed out on anything?
Erm, no.

Do I feel that my darling daughter is any less born than her friends or cousins?  Nope.

If my next child is born by VBAC, will that be more proper than Mini-me’s birth?  Eh…no!?

But If I do manage proper childbirth this time, does that mean I’m finally a real mum and that I can finally be admitted into the proper mum club? Well I think you know where I’m going with this!

I’m already a real mum.   I’ve already had a proper baby.  I’ve already been through the horrors of childbirth, perhaps just a little differently to others.

In the same way as some women judge others for not breast feeding, or for taking whatever drugs are safely available to them from the doctors, or for giving their baby a dodo/soother/pacifier, that lady judged me for having to have a c-section to bring my baby to me safely.

And of course she didn’t intend to offend, but when we so flippantly share our own opinions on bump and baby matters, (and we do!), we sometimes dismiss experiences that we have never had ourselves.
And we should consider that before we speak.
My experiences of pregnancy, birth and of being a Mummy are very different to every other Mummy’s experiences.  My experience isn’t exclusive.  There is no such thing as properly when it comes to being a Mum..

So if this time round, my consultant advises me that I should have another section, I’ll listen to her, because guess what? That’s her job.  She knows best and I trust her.  And because it’s my job too…the only job a mother has when they go into hospital, is to get their little bundle out of their belly!I

And I will happily hang upside down from the rafters, singing Jingle Bells, buck naked and high on horse tranquilizers if that ‘s what it takes to get my little one here properly.

I am Section Mum x

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I am Suspicious Mum

happy singing

Yesterday, something strange and wonderful happened in our house.  For the first time in months, there were no alarms set to go off.  Yesterday, we were blissfully able to waken up to the wonderful world in our own good time.

And while this good time is usually before 7am, yesterday morning, we found ourselves looking at 9.10am on the clock.

This is absolutely unheard of in a very busy house.

So unheard of actually, that the initial stretches and contented turning over in the bed quickly turned to suspicion…panic almost.

Have we slept in? Why wasn’t she up yet? Was she OK?  What was wrong? Because something must be wrong when Mini-me is still sleeping after 9am.

And then we heard it… the singing.

Poor, sweet, oblivious Husband smiles and says “Ah listen to her, the wee dote’s singing.”

Poor, suspicious Wife smiles and says “Mmmmmmhmmmmm…the wee dote’s peed the bed.”

He automatically frowns at me and asks “Now how can you tell that when she’s across the hall?” and as he gets up to go over to his wee dote, I snuggle back under the covers knowing how the conversation is going to go when he reaches Mini me’s bedroom.  How do I know?  Because I do.

Pink---MUM-KNOWS-BEST---Tops

Every morning, our little munchkin climbs out of her pink bed, toddles out of her pink bedroom and takes her pretty self up to the toilet in the not-pink bathroom.

But once in a while, usually after an epic long sleep, she awakens in a puddle.  And rather than jump out of bed, horrified that she’s lying in smelly peepee, she seems to find the warmth of this magical peepee puddle so lovely and cozy, that she just stays there.  And she’s clever enough to know that when the duvet is pulled off the bed, said magical warm nest will become cold and wet and uncomfortable.  So she stays there…singing…until Mammy comes in and ruins it.

“The bed wet my jammies Daddy!” she announces as he enters the bedroom.

“Did you have a wee accident?”

“No.  It was the bed!”

So the bed had an accident.  Mini Me enjoyed the cozy cuddles of the accident and within two minutes, had been lifted from one warm, wet puddle to another one, as I set her into a bubble filled bath.

Accident prone bed stripped, washing machine started, windows swung open…oblivious toddler blissfully continues singing in her bath.

We have to admire a toddler’s ability to see only the good in a situation like this.  To the adult, it’s a torture; wet bed, PJ’s stuck to skin, stench of pee in the room. To the toddlemonster, it’s quite enjoyable to wake in the morning.in a pre-heated cocoon!

So how did I know that the sweet, melodic singing that greeted our lovely alarm free morning, was in fact an alarm screaming Mum, the bed’s wet!?  How did I know that she was quite literally singing in the rain-puddles?

Because I’m suspicious Mum, and where my Mini-me is concerned, I’m usually right!

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