Can Less be More?

 

The Kind of Baby I LOVE

I have a dilemma that you might be able to help me with?

I’m wondering if I’m ‘supposed’ to be pregnant. My body seems to think so (or it just likes Jaffa cakes), and so it seems, do other people.

The panic all started when my son turned 2, and someone helpfully pointed out that if I wanted a 3 year age gap, I’d better get my knickers off pronto (albeit in a slightly more subtle manner).

Ever since then, I feel a sense of urgency, like time is running out.

I had always ‘assumed’ I would have more than one child, and that the age gap would probably be around 3 years. I don’t know why – perhaps it just seems to be the ‘done thing’?

Only…I’m not sure I’m ready for another baby.

Besides, surely, you shouldn’t create a human life because it’s what’s ‘expected’?

Reasons I’m not sure I want another one:

....The Kind of Baby who is 'challenging'

 

- More sleepless nights (enough said).

- Pregnancy face (and arse).

- Labour (and my solemn vow NEVER to repeat).

- Money. (I am particularly fearful of having a girl as I know I would buy her everything I want, but am too big to wear. This includes; Tutus, pink Dr Martens, and stuff with penguins on).

- Baysitters.( It must be easier to get out for the occasional night, with just one little person to think about?)

- The actual THOUGHT of having more than one is terrifying. I literally bow down to these Mums with 2 or more who still manage to get on with their lives. HOW do you leave the house? How do you dress 2 of them, and make 2 lots of breakfasts, and deal with 2 lots of needs on top of your own?

- The really crappy days that make you regret even having the one. (YES I actually said that). The ones when the idea of ‘double the trouble’ is about as appealing as a bag of sick. These are the days when he whinges constantly, disagrees with everything I say (‘’NO Mummy you are NOT hungry’’), throws random objects at me, runs off into neighbours gardens and hides. The days that generally makes me want to lie down in a busy road for some stress relief.

Besides, my little man and I have a kind of ‘thing’ going on, and I’m not sure I want anyone else involved.

But then again…

Reasons I do want another one

- When bedtime comes….little man has had a bath and is all pink and sweet in his fleecy pyjamas. He cuddles into me, says ‘love you mummy’ and all is forgotten. My heart swells like I’m falling in love.

- I want to give him a play mate.

- I can’t really imagine NOT doing it again. As much as being pregnant wasn’t my finest hour, it’s still a pretty amazing experience.

- But most of all there is that bi*^h called Mother Nature. You know the one…she takes perfectly intelligent, logical, rational women and steals their common sense.

I find she often turns up when I see a tiny baby, or am walking past the newborn clothes to the mahoosive toddler section. She taps me on the shoulder and starts her usual routine:

‘‘You want one don’t you?’’ she taunts.

‘’Not really’’ I think, trying to keep logical.

‘’Oh yes you do….a teeny  weeny baby. All soft, and sweet, and perfect. Think of all the cuddles and how nice they will smell’’.

She makes me forget the pain, tears, horrendous nights and recently improved pelvic floor abilities. The feeling that my lady bits have been repeatedly kicked by big foot, or that my boobs trebled in size to the point that my sons head was nearly obliterated when feeding.

She takes away my doubts. Or at least hides them from me.

Credit where it’s due, she’s very good at her job.

So, I guess we’ll have to see what happens….

- Will I even be lucky enough to get pregnant again?

- Is there such thing as a ‘perfect’ age gap?

- Do I REALLY want to have sex with that man (my husband) again?

So many questions….I guess time will tell.

x

What do you call a Willy?

I was sat in the pharmacy waiting room today, when something shocking happened.

No, the receptionist didn’t pronounce my name correctly (sean, sinead, siobahn, sharna etc), I didn’t collapse, and my child didn’t sit still and read a book nicely.

I was sitting next to a woman with 2 young ones happily minding my own business, when I was distracted by them.

One of the children seemed to be having an issue with his bollocks and was squirming uncomfortably.

‘What’s wrong Godwin? His mother enquired. (No, his name is not the shocking part)

‘Is it your PENIS?’? She asked unashamedly (and exceptionally loudly).

I winced slightly and actually felt quite sorry for the poor little tyke. I don’t think anyone else in the surgery really needed to know about his downstairs issues. But what really got me thinking was her use of language.

I recently read an article about how children turn up at primary school with varying inabilities ranging from shitting their pants to still believing in Santa at 5 (not the done thing anymore apparently). However, the writer of the article seemed to take particular offense to children not knowing the correct wording for their ‘bits’.

Apparently it leaves them wide open to ridicule, and presumably some kind of psychological complex when they discover that their ‘pee pee’ is actually a ‘penis’.

Personally, I hate it when people use the correct terminology full stop.

As discussed previously, I have some prude like tendencies that leave me vulnerable to extreme discomfort when people are too….’open’ shall we say. In fact, words such as ‘scrotum’ or even ‘breasts’ make my eyes water.

I know, I know, I should get some kind of therapy to find out whats going on...

It was actually one of the things I was most grateful for when I found out I was having a boy.

After all, ‘willy’ is a word I can just about muster. If I’d had a girl, I would be bang in trouble.

What on earth do you call it??

‘Bits’ sounds a bit vague.

The one starting with F and rhyming with Nanny just sounds so weird, like you might be referring to an aunt.

‘Beaver’ or indeed ‘Muff’, seem distinctly age inappropriate for a child. Imagine taking them to the doctors and explain about ‘beaver’ issues.

Then of course you have the actual name….vag... (I literally can't do it), which I can hardly say, despite the undeniable fact that I am in fact in possession of one myself.

Hardly trips off the tongue does it?

Therefore, I have made the firm decision that ‘willy’ will have to do just fine, until the time requires otherwise.

For example, if he’s 16 or so and has a serious girlfriend, I may check that he actually knows what everything is called, when I have the birds and the bees chat. Of course, if he prefers another term then that will be his business.

Although, on that note, I do strongly recommend to any male readers not to name it anything human – us girls tend to find it a tad unattractive.

As for what will happen if I have a girl – I just don’t know. I'll have to come up with something pretty and vague.

Oh…and apologies if I’ve in anyway offended anyone faint hearted but I did call this post ‘What do you call a WILLY?’ So the clue was kind of in the title.

Is my child a Genius?? (errrmmm No.)

 

Have you ever noticed how parents tend to take credit for everything good about their child?

I guess in many ways it makes sense, what with your child being a massive extension of ones ego. Therefore every time they do something a parent perceives as clever or funny they want to tell everyone…i.e

‘Yes, he’s advanced in reading – gets that from my side. Always had my head in a book’, (which has served them extremely well as a bank clerk).

Or that the childs achievements are often grossly exaggerated;

For example:

‘Daisy’s been swimming since 6 months old actually. She’s a natural. Gets her sporty streak from my side I think’

Sporty streak??? .... She’s a 2 year old in armbands splashing around, not a bloody Olympian. From where I’m standing she looks very much like all the other toddlers in the pool.

Or:

‘Giles is really into construction. His great uncle was an architect, and I’m very creative myself’

Construction?? It’s a wonky tower built from plastic blocks. Which coincidentally, little Giles seemed to relish knocking down with significantly more aplomb than when he was building it.

My personal favourite was when I overheard a woman saying that her child could read. The child in question was probably about 2 and a half – and the evidence of his genius was based on the fact that he had memorised the names of characters in a book. I am fairly confident that had he been presented with ‘The kite runner’ his reading prowess may well have been called into question.

Of course there is nothing wrong with celebrating your children. You should think they are awesome, because nobody else is ever going to think it as much as you. It wouldn’t be much use if you thought they were rubbish and incompetent. They would likely develop self esteem issues. And I’d certainly be worried if a parent thought their child was unattractive, or dare I say, an absolute eyesore, – even though those of us with eyes can confirm that these children do indeed exist.

However, the problem really arises when parents are utterly blind to the idea that their child may actually be in a category with 99% of others, and classed as ‘normal’.

By definition, this means they may have…’imperfections’ shall we say.

But why don’t we ever take responsibility for these, the way we so easily claim credit for the so called ‘good’ things.

When it comes to a below average sized penis, or a lisp, these parents seem totally baffled. Attempting to try and blame it one everyone from the Midwife to the chemicals in modern tap water.

As for tantrums..the child MUST be ‘tired’ or ‘struggling with his emotions’. Never being a little sh^te. Or if they happen to ‘fall behind’ in any area then it must be the fault of their nursery, or the fact that they saw a tramp having a wee in the park.

NEVER EVER anything to do with the parents.

Therefore I have made the bold decision to accept full responsibility for my little angel. Warts and all. The good, the bad, and the downright ugly. (Not that he’s ugly. He’s blimmin gorgeous, although he does have an above averagely sized forehead that even I can see. I’m hoping he’ll grow into it).

 ‘Slightly vicious temper you say? Yes indeed he has – gets that from me, I can be quite evil really’

‘Picking his nose? Yup I do that all the time, he’s just doing what he sees’

‘Wet himself? …. Well, suffice to say it’s not totally out of the question. (I was one of those arrogant pregnant women who shunned the advice on pelvic floor excercises, and has lived to regret it. Exercise my pelvic cloors? Good as gold they are thanks. Could crack a nut in them).

‘Stubborn, quite rude, possibly a tad prejudice, very loud….yep ALL me!!’

In fact, the other day I picked him up from nursery and asked him:

‘What did you do today sweetie?’

‘2 poos’ he answered happily.

Aaaah bless I thought. He’s about as un-charming as his Daddy.

The only exception to the responsibility rule that I have made, is that my husband and I occasionally blame farts on him, particularly if they turned out to be worse than anticipated. Hardly child abuse though is it? Besides, he’s beginning to catch on and now denies it;

(me) ‘who’s a bit wiffy then Mr parp pants?’

(him) ‘No, that was YOU Mummy’ (oh bollocks).

So, a little message to anyone that thinks their kid is perfect….They aren’t. Because nor are you.

Anyone lost a shoe?

Anyone lost a shoe?
 

You know that thing when you’re walking along a road and you see a random jumper hanging off a wall? Or perhaps a shoe, or occasionally a pair of pants…and you think, HOW is it possible to lose those items?

I mean seriously, how do you go off home without your pants? Like;

‘la la la, hmmmm somethings missing? It feels breezy or something. Oh, but of course, I have forgotten my PANTS. I must of left them on the wall outside sainsburys. Silly me’.

Well, now I am one of them.

To clarify, I haven’t left my pants outside Sainsburys. If I had, I would keep that to myself, rather than telling everyone.

What I mean, is that I suddenly appear to have lost a lot of things, and it’s getting worse.

Do we have a poltergeist in the house?

Am I in the early stages of memory loss?

Or perhaps more likely, is it actually my child (the THIEF).

It may be partially my fault, as I now spend my days saying ‘No’, ‘don’t’, and you ‘can’t.

‘Don’t play with the wires / cooker / washing machine / Mummys earrings / Laptop / telephone / tampons / coat hangers . . the list is endless.

Which may well be part of the problem. …

I say ‘NO’ so often that he now ignores me all together. Not only that, but my parenting mistakes are so bad he now tells random strangers about it.

For example, when we were in a shop the other day, a nice lady smiled at him and said hello.

‘Hello. I just can’t do these things anymore’ he responded.

The lady looked utterly bewildered and wondered off.

Now if he wants to play with something he’s not supposed to, he has made the smart, but rather inconvenient choice of hiding said item.

'You've lost what Mum??...No haven't seen it.'

I don’t mean that he has put the fridge in his room or anything….although I wouldn’t put it past him. Just that he seems to take everything else. If I lay out my clothes for work the night before, by the time I go to put them on, they are gone. I find myself stumbling around in my sleepy 6am state, attempting to put on a pair of socks as a bra.

Keys is another one – EVERY time I go to leave the house it takes me 10 minutes of searching, tantrums (me) and bribery to get him to help me locate them.

I have lost pens, my diary, a pair of fleecy pyjamas he took a shine to, a pack of hairbands, 1 pink welly, and a box of donuts (I may have had a midnight feast and be blaming this one on him unfairly). The list goes on…

Some of the items I manage to locate – the top ‘hiding place’ is the bath, with the kitchen bin coming in a close second. However, most have long since disappeared.

I cannot understand this because I do clean my house. I’m the only person who lives her than actually knows where everything is. Other household members seem unable to locate anything whatsoever, without my assistance.

So WHERE could he possibly have hidden them?

Which is why I have now taken to looking at the abandoned items in the street differently.

Perhaps they are have actually been left there by a group of toddlers, whom gather on the streets in the early hours.

They hang out in their Onesies (hoods up), swigging their milk and laughing at their parents ridiculous attempts at controlling them, whilst throwing any random items they’ve gathered in the street?

‘What you got then Freddie?’ asks Noah.

‘Mums pants, a glove and a sock’. Says baby Freddie.

‘Good work. Lets put the pants on the wall….the glove on a railing, and the sock in a puddle. Ha!’

‘Mugs’ says Freddie, taking a glug from his Tommy tippee. ‘My Mum will be so annoyed when she can’t find her other glove. She’ll have to drive to work sitting on her hand again…ha!’

The alternative is that I will one day find said items. Probably as I’m packing him off to university or something…

Until then, I am going to invest in some CCTV and a padlock.