babies

I am a mother of two

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I am woken up every morning by our son chatting through the baby monitor. I don’t always love the hour but I do love the sound.

I am willing to hold my hand out to catch anything that needs to come out of any part of a child of mine. I guess that’s love.

I am amazed by how much laundry two small people can create. My first maternity leave was all about joining baby groups. This time I’ve mainly just tried to stay on top of the washing.

I am completely and totally in love with them both and even more so with how they are together.

I am desperate at times for my lap to be clear but then lost when I’ve nobody to hold.

I am pleased and relieved that our baby has started sleeping through the night. I wonder if my bladder will ever let me do the same.

I am almost always either feeding a child, preparing food for a child, or thinking about what I’m going to feed a child.

I am not sure anything gives me a greater sense of achievement than managing to make them both laugh at once.

I am now aware that if I’d known when we had our daughter in 2017 what I know now, I’d have been so much kinder to myself.

I am amused to find that looking after two children tricks you into thinking that all the years you had with just one child were easy.

I am always in the midst of fighting a losing battle with an orange stain. Carpet cleaner wouldn’t make a very exciting gift for a new parent, but believe me they’d get through it.

I am letting myself enjoy watching rubbish telly with our baby on the sofa when we get the chance. He won’t always want to sit with me, so I’m making the most of it while I can.

I am the mother of a girl who was predominantly formula-fed, and a boy who was largely breast-fed. Here’s what I’ve learnt: both methods are difficult in their own way, and absolutely nobody else’s business.

I am occasionally out without my children and can generally be found smiling at other people’s children because I miss mine.

I am getting through more cheese strings than I should probably admit.

I am prone to spending too much time on my phone. It tends to be a sign that I’m feeling overwhelmed. A 24/7 job will do that to you.

I am a gardener now. I took it on as a maternity leave project. I’m planting stuff, watering it, and hoping for the best. It’s a bit like parenting really, but with less of the backchat.

I am anxious at times and trying not to let it rub off on them. But I’m also trying to show them that every feeling is OK.

I am walking as much as possible because it helps.

I am conscious that just because our 10 month old baby is now the littlest member of our family, it doesn’t mean our four year old isn’t still small too.

I am up for sitting on the floor to play, as long as I have a back support. Otherwise there’s a chance I might never get up again.

I am in my late thirties, yes. What gave me away?

I am unable to remember the last time I added a contact to my phone without including whose mum they are after their name.

I am extremely reliant on TV to entertain my children. I am not sure how anybody does this without it.

I am never ready for the Baby Race episode of Bluey. It gets me every single time.

I am sure our son will settle into nursery before too long when he starts there this summer. But I’m still sad at the thought of being away from him. Our year together has slipped through my fingers.

I am going to be the mum of a school-going child in September. I’m excited for her and sure she’s ready for change, but I also don’t know where those precious years went.

I am forever in demand and I do complain about it sometimes, but the truth is that I love that they need me.

I am grateful for all the moments that remind us what we have. Like when our babies are splashing about in the bath and laughing their little heads off. Yes we are tired, but it’s worth it.

I am exactly where I want to be.

A year into motherhood: Forever changed, forever the same

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When I look back on my life before my daughter was born, all I do is search for her.

Where was she on our wedding day? Where was she on that city break? Did my mum hold onto her while I took my A-levels? Did she sleep by my bed in halls?

I search our photos for a pram just out of shot, or a tiny hand clutching my trouser leg, because I struggle to believe there was ever a time before.

I knew that having a baby would change my life, I just didn’t know how.

I didn’t know that whilst the tiredness, relentlessness, and lack of moments to myself would be hard to adjust to, it would be the weight on my heart that would change me the most.

I knew that I’d love her, but I had no idea what that love would feel like. She’s starting nursery now, and I had to fill out a form explaining what she needs to be happy. A form about me would just say: HER. Bring me her. Show me she’s OK and everything will be fine. She’s what happiness looks like for me now.

Our baby will turn one this week, and the oddest thing about this milestone is how simultaneously quickly and slowly this year has passed by. I’ve lived every second of the last 12 months, and yet it’s slipped through my fingers. There have been days when I’ve been awake for and aware of almost every hour, but I’m still not sure how quite so many of them have gone by.

One minute she was a newborn who lay down for most of the day, and now she’s a little person, on a one-child-mission to destroy our lounge. I can’t tell you how a year has managed to sneak passed in the life of a girl whom I swear we only just brought home.

Back at the start, once the initial weeks of fear and feeding and figuring it all out were done, I realised that I didn’t know where to put myself. I wasn’t sure what day-to-day life with a baby was supposed to look like once you’d got your sh*t together. But then I joined some classes and groups, I tried doing too much, I tried doing too little, and I found a balance that worked for us. Maternity leave is an education in how to cope when you feel lost. You’ve got to do it your way, the only problem is that it’s you who has to work out what that is.

Motherhood has changed who I am and confirmed who I’ve always been, all at the same time.

Becoming a mum wiped the floor with me – it shattered my heart, rewired my brain, and stretched, scarred and knackered my body more than even the most high-tempo zumba class ever could. It’s fundamentally changed how I see the world, and given me a sense of purpose like nothing I’ve ever done before. It’s slowed my desired pace of life right down, and made me see the benefits of a life lived locally.

It’s done all of this whilst also cementing everything I’ve always known to be true: That I need fresh air everyday. That too much small talk leaves me cold. That I never wanted to go out on Saturday nights anyway. That I need to be creative to feel alive.

The trick, if you can manage it, is to let the person you’ve always been find a way to thrive in this new world. It’s not easy – I’m still working on it. We all just have to keep on working on it.

We’re moving into a new chapter now – I’m going back to work part-time, and our daughter will be looked after by somebody else whilst I’m gone. She went to nursery for a few hours last week, and I went to a café to write this. I cried into my hot chocolate as I typed, and then later my scrambled eggs. I’m just not used to being away from her.

It’s funny because so much of parenting is about trying to secure time away from your baby. You work hard to get them to nap so that you can rest. To play with a toy long enough for you to drink a hot drink. To. just. stay. there. whilst you go to the toilet for once by yourself. But it’s all short term, they’re always close by (she can push the bathroom door open now anyway). I hope she knows that I’ll still be close by.

This time last year I was about to have a baby, and now I have a one year old, a toddler waiting to happen. Time’s flown by, we’ve all changed and grown up, and discovered just how strong we can be.

All I want for this baby on her very first birthday is to bring her as much joy as she’s brought me.

 

Be your own adjudicator

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Be your own adjudicator

‘Should’ can be an unhelpful word, particularly when we use it as a weapon with which to beat ourselves.

Life is fast and competitive and it’s easy to feel overwhelmed by our awareness of what other people are doing. I enjoy feeling connected to people I know and people I don’t via social media, and getting little insights into lives that are different from mine. But I can also feel myself drawing unhelpful comparisons. Noticing things that other people do that I don’t, and interpreting them as evidence of my failings.

But just because something exists as a possibility, it doesn’t mean that you should do it. It’s just one of the options. Do it or don’t, no-one cares.

My problem is that I hear ‘should’ when it’s not even being said. I confuse hearing somebody say “I am doing XYZ” with “You should be doing XYZ.” I see people talking about how they’re raising their children or building their careers or decorating their homes, and forget that what they’re saying has no relation to me. 

I’ve always struggled with the fear that I’m not doing the right thing. I don’t mean morally or legally – fear is such a dominant emotion for me that I’m always pretty confident I’m on the right side of the law. No, I’m worried about doing The Optimum Thing.

If we’re on holiday and looking for a restaurant, I’ll worry about choosing the ‘right’ one. What if we’d have had a better time elsewhere? What if that table by the window would have enhanced our experience? What if sitting this near the loos ruins the ambience? What if it’s actually this thought process that’ll ruin our night?

Be your own adjudicatorAnd now that I’m a parent, I – like every single mother on earth, probably – worry that I’m not doing everything I ‘should’ do for my daughter. Should we be at a class? Should we be socialising? Should we be playing educational games indoors? Should I be doing more to make the most of her – whatever that means? As if just loving and caring for her with everything I’ve got isn’t enough.

Parenting is relentless decision making. And what’s harder than being the person who has to make them all, is the realisation that nobody’s going to come along and let you know if you’re doing it right. You just have to trust yourself in the moment.

When our daughter was very small, I used to imagine there would be a time in years to come when she’d say to me: “Mum, you know that day when I was so upset in January 2018? It’s because I wanted you to heat my milk up/put me to bed/ turn off that unbearable episode of Gossip Girl.” But as the sleep deprivation started to wear off, I realised: That’s not going to happen. 

You’ll never know if you did the right thing, because the right thing doesn’t really exist. There’s no list, charting all the options in order of preference, nor is there a jury waiting to judge you on your choices. We have to be our own adjudicators.

It’s true for all areas of our lives. There’s no adjudicator who’s going to come and tell you which career path you ‘should’ have taken, which date you ‘should’ have gone on, or which Netflix series you ‘should’ have chosen to best entertain your baby. We did what we did based on the information we had at the time – there’s no other way to do it.

Be your own adjudicatorSince becoming a mother I’ve learnt that, to be happy, I have to accept my choices as I make them, one by one. Decisions require my attention quickly; I don’t always see them coming. I can’t always nail it, and, if I’m not careful, I’ll spiral into a long and pointless thought process about what I ‘should’ have done instead.

But now I’ve realised how unhelpful that is, and how many moments with my baby I’ll miss if I spend all my time analysing what I’ve done in the past.

Instead it’s better to focus on making decisions that suit us both today. My daughter is the most important person in the world to me, and I’m that to her, too. So when I’m deciding how we spend our time, it’s OK that I do so with what I need in mind as well – my energy levels, my mental health – because if I’m well, so is she. As I’ve written before, the inherent guilt of parenting makes it hard to prioritise yourself, but with nine months of experience under my belt, I can tell you: you must.

So I want to park the ‘should’ and have a little more faith. In myself as a parent and as a fallible human being, and in the need for there to be healthy differences between how we all lead our lives.

Because time will pass, no matter how we spend it. And to hand more of our precious hours over to regret, rather than to joy, and to self-criticism rather than kindness, feels like the kind of waste we should all do our best to avoid.

33 lessons I learnt during my 33rd year

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33 lessons I learnt during my 33rd yearYou know the drill by now – I’ll turn 33 this week, so, as is tradition, I’ve written a list of things I have to say at this point in time. This time it’s some of the lessons this period has taught me. My 33rd year has been dominated by pregnancy and my daughter’s first seven months in the world, so they’re mostly about that, with a few bonus points chucked in for good measure.

(Here are the lists I wrote when I turned 29, 30, 31 and 32, in case you’d like to catch up before we get going.)

1. I’ve learnt that you have absolutely no idea what it’s like to have a baby until you have a baby and that, even then, you only really know what it’s like for you.

2. I’ve learnt that the return of mid-length shorts to the world of fashion could not have come at a better time. I spend most of the day bending down to pick up my child and I need to be able to do so without fear of arrest.

3. I’ve learnt that optimism is heading down to theatre to have a caesarean section with your knickers on in the hope that the surgeons will just cut along the waistband.

4. I’ve learnt that marriage is having to take those knickers off and hand them to your husband to store in the pocket of his scrubs. The spiral of indignity started there and ended… hang on, when will that be?

5. I’ve learnt that when you have a baby your body changes. Mine is bigger, it’s wobblier, and it’s scarred. Of course it is, I housed a giant child for nine months and then had her cut out of me. I am grateful for everything my body let me do and I am happy to look a little different as a result. Women, there’s enough nonsense out there about how we should or shouldn’t look. The least we can do is refuse to add our own voices to the noise.

6. I’ve learnt that instead of thinking ‘What would Beyoncé or Oprah or Emma Thompson do?’, it’s more useful to think ‘What would I do in this situation if I wasn’t worried about what anybody else thought?’

7. I’ve learnt that having a baby makes you look at your parents completely differently. Finally, true empathy and gratitude starts to kick in. Oh wow, you did all this for me. Holy sh*t, this is hard work. Thank you, thank you so much.

8. I’ve learnt that when I look at a picture of my daughter on my phone, I think: That’s my heart right there. That is a photograph of my heart. Oh no wait, that’s 76576 photographs of my heart and my phone memory is full AGAIN.

9. I’ve learnt that marriage is hard when you’ve started a family because you both spend all your time cuddling somebody else. It’s important to make a little room for each other too when you can.

10. I’ve learnt that if you want to eat an iced bun you should eat an iced bun because life is short and cake is delicious.

33 lessons I learnt during my 33rd year

Picture by @ben_cameron. I’ve learnt that he can articulate my feelings in a drawing.

11. I’ve learnt that, whereas I used to be too afraid to wear a jumpsuit because you have to take the entire thing off to go to the toilet (what if somebody walked in?), so many people at our local hospital have now seen me do so much more than that that I no longer care. Join the freakin’ list, lads.

12. I’ve learnt that there is a serious gap in the market for a wearable drinking vessel for breastfeeding mums. No activity on this earth makes you thirstier, and yet you don’t have any hands free to hold a drink. Come on, someone, invent something.

13. I’ve learnt that people who show up at your door with food during the first few weeks of your baby’s life are the greatest people in the world.

14. I’ve learnt that perfect strangers think you don’t know very much about your own child. “She’s tall isn’t she!” Yep. “She’s a big baby isn’t she!” Uhuh. “She’s long for that pram isn’t she!” SHE USED TO LIVE IN MY BODY. I AM AWARE OF ALL OF THESE THINGS.

15. I’ve learnt that all it would take for me to be interested in the World Cup is a nice man in a blue waistcoat in charge of the England team.

16. I’ve learnt that one of the greatest gifts motherhood has given me is the opportunity to say “Come on then, let’s get you home!” into the pram when I need to get out of an awkward social situation.

17. I’ve learnt that it’s hard when you’re in charge of a small person’s life not to see everything else in the world as utterly trivial. But it’s important that you don’t.

18. I’ve learnt that no human being on this earth yields more power than a baby who finds themselves momentarily without a nappy.

19. I’ve learnt that the reason it’s so difficult to just be ourselves is because who we are never stops changing.

20. I’ve learnt that when people tell you to make the most of your free time before you have a baby you think ‘Yeah yeah yeah, what does that even mean?’, and then you give birth and you realise exactly what that would have meant, but it’s too late.

21. I’ve learnt that I’ll feel sick for the 12 hours before I’m going to be away from my daughter, but that, if it’s to go and do something fun, and she’s in safe hands, I will feel better when I get there, and that the time away will do me good.

33 lessons I learnt during my 33rd year22. I’ve learnt that it is possible to feel nostalgic about things that you found really difficult. Pregnancy was tough – my back hurt, I had migraines all the time, and I became so enormous that I could hardly walk. But still, sometimes I miss it. I miss carrying her around with me, and the freedom only retrospect has made me realise that I had.

23. I’ve learnt that any mother you see feeding a baby will probably have been through quite a journey to get that child to eat in a way that works for them both. I thought it would be simple, but it wasn’t.

24. I’ve learnt that my hopes and dreams outside motherhood are very much still alive and well, it’s just that I have to use my free time more wisely now to make sure they happen.

25. I’ve learnt that the second you start to get used to whatever stage your baby’s at, they’ll move onto the next one. Don’t you dare start to think that you know what you’re doing.

26. I’ve learnt that I wear make-up for my own benefit. When I first became a mum, I discovered that I felt better if the face looking back at me in the mirror looked as nice as I think it can. It was my view I was concerned with, not anybody else’s.

27. I’ve learnt that having a baby increases your ability to hold a grudge. I’m sorry, was that a negative word/thought/exhalation in my daughter’s direction? Goodbye forever.

28. I’ve learnt that it’s good to do things that scare you. Maternity leave can be daunting as hell, as I wrote here, but it does help if you leave the house, try something new, and meet people. If you’d told me last year that I would join a choir and be up for singing with them in front of other people, I’m not sure I’d have believed you. A lot can change in a year.

29. I’ve learnt that you discover just how good your hearing is when your child is born. I’d be able to hear our daughter crying through a typhoon. I can’t hear my own mobile phone ring when it’s in my hand, but at least I’ve got her covered.

30. I’ve learnt that if somebody sat you down and really made you understand what the first few weeks of having a baby are like, you simply wouldn’t do it. So thank goodness they don’t.

31. I’ve learnt that if somebody had sat me down and tried to articulate how incredible seeing our baby being born would feel, they still wouldn’t have been able to prepare us.

32. I’ve learnt that I feel like I’ve aged a lot more than just one year in the last 12 months.

33. I’ve learnt that, even though it’s been hard and tiring and more emotional than a season finale of Grey’s Anatomy, I wouldn’t change a single thing.

What I did not expect when I was expecting

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What i did not expect when i was expectingOur baby is three months old now and I’ve finally found time to sit down and write, as it’s true what they say about it all starting to get a bit easier by this point. And thank goodness for that.

I wrote before our daughter was born about how impossible it was to be ready for something this life changing. And I know now that I was definitely right about that. But there are some things that have been particularly unexpected, which I wanted to share.

That feeding a baby would be the hardest work I’ve ever done

You just put your breast in their mouth, right? They’ll smell the milk and just automatically start suckling, yeah? You’ll be able to cook a meal, ride a bike, and write a 12-novel series with a child attached to your body, eh boys?

Breastfeeding comes naturally for many, but for us it has been tricky, and I did not see that coming. I gave birth via c-section and with that can come a slow or reduced milk supply. It also brings with it a mother who is recovering from major surgery. And you’re working with a newborn baby who doesn’t necessarily know that they need to eat, so you have to wake them up for each feed. We did get there – we put the hours in and we got our girl’s weight up – but I wasn’t expecting that element of becoming a mum to be so difficult.

I also didn’t expect to give myself such a hard time along the way. We do combination feeding – meaning our baby has formula and breast milk. It’s a pretty unremarkable sentence to read, but it remains a battle everyday to forgive myself for it. I don’t have enough milk for her, and she requires a lot, so there we have it. But people can be very hard on new parents about feeding, and we can therefore be tough on ourselves, too. But we can only do what we can with what we have.

The opportunity to help a little baby grow is a gift, and it’s important not to confuse having to come up with a Plan B with doing a bad job.

That I would feel so guilty

I feel guilty when I’m pleased that she’s asleep because it means that I can eat breakfast/take a shower/sit down and stare into the abyss.

I feel guilty when I spend the morning preparing us to go out and I’m concentrating more on keeping us on schedule than I am on her beautiful face.

I feel guilty when she’s napping on me and we’re having the nicest cuddle but I’m desperate for the toilet so I have to put her down.

I feel guilty when I get nostalgic for how little she was as a newborn, when she is absolutely perfect as she is right now.

I feel guilty when I feel guilty because I’m wasting time that I should just spend enjoying her.

I didn’t expect to fall so hard into this trap, but I’m slowly starting to manage the feeling better. This baby needs a mother who is clean, who interacts with other human beings, and who has the opportunity to empty her bladder. I’m sure she wouldn’t really expect me to feel guilty about that.

That every person we spoke to at the start had the potential to make or break our day

You’re a mess of hormones and exhaustion at the beginning and, in the mother’s case, you’re probably also in a fair amount of pain. That makes you vulnerable, so when people speak to you about your baby – how they’re fed, what they’re wearing, how much they weigh – what they say and how they say it has a big impact on how you feel.

One minute we’d think we were doing a good job, and the next we’d think we were the worst parents in the world. And though it was partly because we’d never done it before, that feeling was also hugely influenced by the interactions we had with hospital staff and other baby-related professionals.

Some people were incredible, just amazing, and some really could and should have been gentler. I didn’t expect to hang on perfect strangers’ every word like we did, or to be so desperate for approval.

But with time you learn who to listen to and who to ignore, and you stop feeling like you need permission to do things a particular way for your baby. You fear that confidence will never come, but it does.

That wind would become our greatest enemy

If you’d asked me what I’d got up to on a Friday night last year, I’d have told you that I’d been out for a meal, or to the cinema, or that I’d fallen asleep on the sofa after Coronation Street.

Ask me this year and I’ll say that Leon and I spent all evening trying to get our baby girl to burp. Life is wild.

The funny thing about having a baby is that you want them to do things that in later years you’ll have to explain are socially unacceptable. I want her to do the loudest burp she can muster, and I’ll happily have her do it in my face. If it gets it out of her body and stops her crying from the pain, mate, she can record it and set it as my ringtone.

It’s a strange moment when you find yourself thinking that the best present your child could give you right now is a large gust of wind, but here we are.

That love and pain are so closely linked

I didn’t expect it to be possible to feel such joy and such agony at the same time.

The love is so huge, so intense, that my whole body aches with it. When our daughter cries, I feel like I’m dying and I would do anything – ANYTHING – to make it stop. And it’s not because it’s loud (though it IS, her lungs are not kidding), it’s because it hurts my heart.

Before you have a baby, babies only exist in general terms. You know that babies cry, babies poo, babies are rather partial to milk… but once you’ve had one, there’s no longer anything general about it. There’s just this very specific child whose every movement, every sound, and every need becomes your world.

I didn’t expect to feel it all so physically, for my body to react so strongly to her existence. But I guess that’s what it is to be this connected to somebody, and to love them with all you have.

The drama of it all is so consuming – the highs and the lows, the smiles and the cries – but there’s no such thing as a part-package deal. We’re here for all of it, every emotion and every pain. And for the opportunity to feel it for this girl, this beautiful baby girl who’s come along and taken over our lives, I’m grateful every single day.

Perhaps you’ve had a similar experience or you’ve found other things surprising. Either way, I’d love to know. 

I remember

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I remember my alarm going off at 5.30am like we were getting up to go on holiday. But we weren’t. We were getting up to go and have a baby.

I remember sitting in the hospital waiting room and the midwife coming to say we were first on the list and we’d be going down to theatre soon. That c-section we’d talked about, it was going to be happening soon.

I remember going onto the ward and putting on a gown and compression stockings and Leon getting into scrubs. We took a selfie. We look terrified.

I remember walking down to theatre and entering a room filled with strangers and implements and bright lights. I remember remembering to be brave.

I remember placing my trust and my heart into the hands of an anaesthetist I’d just met. I remember she was nothing but amazing throughout.

I remember what it feels like to park your phobias at the door – of needles, of incisions, of surgery – in the spirit of the greater good. Our baby.

I remember having a catheter inserted and realising that when I thought the upside of having to have the baby this way was that there’d be fewer opportunities for me to lose my dignity, I was wrong.

I remember losing all feeling from the chest down. I remember panicking. I remember calming down. I remember hearing “You’re doing really well, Charlotte” again and again and needing to hear it. Needing to be the child in the room for just a few minutes more.

I remember a sheet going up and it starting.

I remember suddenly chilling right out. I remember making jokes, people laughing. They weren’t funny I’m sure, but when a woman with her bikini line cut open makes a joke YOU LAUGH.

I remember feeling some pushing and some pulling and being absolutely able to handle it. I was doing this. Somehow I was letting this happen.

I remember that I’d almost forgotten what this whole procedure was for until the anaesthetist said “I can see a foot”.

I remember nothing and then everything. Time stopping and then speeding by. I heard “You’ve got to see this,” the sheet came down and our baby was there in front of us. A girl, they said, you’ve got a baby girl.

I remember that we laughed. A deranged, euphoric, overwhelmed guffaw at the sight of our giant, gooey, bright pink and white baby daughter, shattering our hearts with her very first cry.

I remember her disappearing out of sight and calling “Mummy’s here” as she shrieked from the scales. Mummy. Because that’s my name now.

I remember the moment she was placed into my arms, the softest, most precious bundle I’ve ever held.

I remember her looking straight at me, with these enormous, beautiful eyes that I couldn’t believe the two of us had made.

I remember looking at Leon and the world feeling smaller than ever before. There’s just three of us in it now. That’s it.

I remember the moment our lives changed forever.

7 things that have surprised me about the first 5 months of pregnancy

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7 things that have surprised me most about the first 5 months of pregnancyPregnancy is everything and nothing like you think it’ll be.

It’s something you see on TV and in magazines and all over Instagram, but when it comes-a-knocking at your door it’s still a surprise what it does to your mind and body. Or that’s what I’ve found anyway.

The past five and a bit months (or three and a bit, as I was blissfully unaware for six weeks) have been quite the roller coaster, so I thought I’d write about the elements I’ve found most surprising.

To be clear, I’m not complaining about any of this. I like to use this blog to chat about things I imagine other people have felt too, to help us all feel a bit less alone. Whether this is or is not your experience, I’m really interested, so please do let me know.

1. The isolation of the first trimester

I swear, I took the pregnancy test and the symptoms kicked in immediately. Nausea, exhaustion, sudden bursts of emotion, a constant fear that I was going to fall over and – my personal favourite – the relentless need to eat sugar.

And whilst all of that was to be expected, I didn’t expect to feel as isolated as I did. I couldn’t arrange many social activities for fear that I’d have to bail on them at the last minute as I felt too poorly. I also didn’t really feel up to going out and felt nervous when separated from my fridge, my steady supply of Laughing Cow cheese triangles, and my bed.

It didn’t occur to me that, because we wouldn’t tell most people I was pregnant until we’d had the 12 week scan, I’d just have to hang out by myself a lot and wait. I think my situation was magnified because we’d just moved house and we didn’t have Wi-Fi or terrestrial TV, so I had nothing but old DVDs to entertain me. (I’m not sure if you’ve watched one of those recently but you have to GET UP to change over to a new one, which is highly inconvenient.)

But anyway, that sense of isolation came as a surprise. I’m very happy to be able to leave the house again now.

2. My capacity for snacks

You don’t have to have read many posts on here to know that I like a sugary treat. And now that I’m pregnant that enjoyment has turned into a NEED. Consuming regular snacks feels crucial to my survival. Whereas previously I wouldn’t dream of leaving the house without an umbrella, now I wouldn’t go out without at least one chocolate coated bite.

The crazy hunger of the first 12-14 weeks has definitely eased off – I can now have my dinner after 5.30pm and not fear for my life – but I’m still chomping on the regular, just to make sure I stay upright. Even by my standards, a vast amount of sweet goods are passing my lips right now.

3. The things that have made me cry

Here’s a list of things that have made me cry since I’ve been pregnant, despite not being in any way sad.

  • A very happy Gavin and Stacey episode I have seen four million times
  • Being a bit too hot
  • Opening my birthday presents
  • Walking down the stairs
  • Walking up the stairs
  • My nephew giving me a little kiss on the cheek
  • The fact that it was Tuesday

Hormones exist to mess with us and I can confirm that mine are taking their job very seriously.

4. My new-found fear of loneliness

All being well, I’m going to have a small person to hang out with for the foreseeable future from the end of the year onwards. And I can’t wait, but it’s strange how, despite the constant promise of company, you can start to fear being simultaneously lonely.

It’s because it’s all unknown. The routine, what we will and won’t feasibly be able to do with a day, how I’ll cope with looking after somebody who can’t really communicate, how the inevitable exhaustion will affect my capacity to travel, interact and whatnot. I am game for all of it, but it has surprised me that these little pangs of fear have started to kick in.

I’m planning to do lots of things to address this. To build a sense of local community. To seek advice from the dozens of other people I know who’ve done this before. And to keep being honest about how I feel.

5. How quickly you fall into an existential crisis about who you are now

That there will be a person in the world to whom my name will be ‘mum’ is an incredible and bizarre thing. It’s a whole new role and dimension to my life that I welcome with open arms and relentlessly watering eyes.

I’ve been thinking a lot about all the other roles I have in the world – a wife, a friend, a sister, an auntie, a writer, a comms manager, a dedicated fan of leopard print clothing, a Coronation Street enthusiast – and how having a baby will affect each one.

I will, of course, continue to be all of these things (I’ve been delighted to find how prominent leopard print is within maternity wear), I’m just having that inevitable ponder about how each role will shift within the new, baby-inhabited world. I imagine all parents-to-be go through this thought process.

All I know is what’s important – no matter what kind of change you’re going through – is that you don’t lose sight of what matters to you. And that you let yourself figure out how to give each the appropriate amount of attention in your own time.

6. The crazy sense of vulnerability

I was once in such a rush in Central London that I didn’t just walk into a stranger, I walked up him. My feet were on his calves before I realised what I’d done. He was remarkably nice about it considering my incredible invasion of his personal space. But since I’ve been pregnant I’ve felt the need to slow down.

I’m frightened I’m going to fall over and do myself damage. I’m scared of people with bags whacking into me and hurting my small inhabitant. And I’m relieved every time I’ve manage to get home without incident. It all looks very melodramatic written down, but I guess that’s my point. The *drama* of these feelings has surprised me too.

I just feel a huge weight of responsibility (both physically and metaphorically), which is like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. Biology dictates that I’m the only one in our marriage who can carry this little being around for now, and I’m desperate not to put us in harm’s way. So a slower pace and avoiding walking up strangers feels sensible at this point.

7. That so much of this feels normal

I never thought it would feel normal to be kicked several times a day by a tiny person I’ve never met. But here we are. And I must admit it’s a relief that it doesn’t freak me out. Because it is a crazy thing to imagine before it happens and I worried I’d just spend the whole time scared.

And although fear is definitely a prominent feeling for me right now (but honestly when has it not been), excitement and determination are helping keep it at bay. I want to do this and when I don’t think about the details too much (denial will remain my friend until the third trimester, I’ve decided) I’m confident that I can.

That feeling alone has come as the biggest surprise of all.

The small moments of joy that made 2016 more than bearable

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img_20160817_133724I don’t need to mention that this year has been… difficult.

But rather than add to the noise about the horror of 2016 – the deaths of numerous icons, the dream of the first female US president tumbling into the abyss, and the opportunity to spend Wednesday evenings watching people make cake whilst eating cake disappearing forever – I’ve decided to focus on the positives.

Because there’s nothing like a year filled with endless news stories of sadness and despair and a, frankly, terrifying political landscape, to make you appreciate the smaller moments that make up each day. So here are a few of the small but precious moments that made this year unforgettable for me. And I’d love to hear yours too.

Halting mid-order at the bar on Battersea Rise to sing emphatically to Blank Space by Taylor Swift with Ceri. Thank you for your patience, Mr Barman.

Sitting in the British Library with Alexa, working on our separate writing projects alone but together, and rewarding our efforts with door stopper sized pieces of cake.

Hearing my brother walking down the stairs saying “Alright then, dude” to his 10 day old baby son, Jack, who he was about to introduce us to for the very first time.

img_1739Having a panic attack at St Pancras station whilst waiting to meet Emma, telling her I was suffering, her saying “You know, I don’t expect anything from you” and it disappearing just as quickly as it came.

Receiving my first ever yes from an editor I’d pitched a story idea to cold.

1am Sunday morning, late January. Standing on the train back to Wimbledon with Sarah, covered from head to toe in sweat after throwing everything we had into Shake It Off. People stare. We regret nothing.

Watching Jack fall asleep on Leon and witnessing the precise moment my husband fell in love with our nephew.

The final seconds of Orange is the New Black series 4. *mouth wide open emoji*

Standing in a cramped pub in Hackney, the windows streaming with condensation, bouncing along as my friend Sara played bass in a David Bowie tribute band and having it confirmed that she is indeed the coolest of chicks.

Purchasing a yellow leather backpack under the guidance of my boldest friend, and never looking back.

Sheffield, August. A whole afternoon with Jen, Matt, Jo and Leon. I discover Hendrick’s, tonic and cucumber. Life becomes even more interesting.

The response I got to a blog called Solitude is good for you, loneliness is not. I thought talking about finding social situations difficult and needing time to myself would make me sound weird. But, as always, it’s never just you.

Reviewing my choice of outfit (below) for a two and a half hour hike between the Cinque Terre in Italy and realising once and for all that nobody will ever accuse me of being outdoorsy.

Dinner, La Loggia, Levanto, Thursday 19 May. We are at our best.

Falling out of a bar at 8.45pm on a Friday night with my two favourite drinking buddies, laughing like hyenas and heading off in search of food, any food, to soak up all the delicious, if ill-advised, margaritas we’d consumed.

Every time I did that particular type of sigh I reserve for when I close a book I’ve loved. (There were 16 this year, if you’re interested).

When Leon and I used our Nutribullet to make margaritas and we learnt the hard way what it tastes like if you line each glass with table salt instead of rock. (Not good, bro).

Watching Jack eat the tiny remaining peas from his dinner that he’d spread around his high chair from the tip of his mum’s finger.

Seeing the way he looks at her.

Demonstrating that I know all of the words to Mysterious Girl by Peter Andre at a wedding and feeling not a single ounce of shame.

The look of amused surprise on my friends’ faces at Thorpe Park when they discovered just. how. seriously. we take roller coasters.

Being taken to Budapest for my birthday and learning that the first rule of wearing a hat in 34 degree heat is: keep the hat on until you can shower your hair back to normality.

Spending a day with my five oldest friends discussing everything – from the super grown up world of marriage, mortgages and babies, to the most immature game of GUESS WHAT XYZ FROM SCHOOL LOOKS LIKE NOW! – and managing to empty a pub with our endless guffawing.

Every single commission, recommission, published piece, and positive comment that confirmed that, writing wise, I’m in this for the long haul.

The three hour masterclass I went to on how to structure a novel. I don’t know if I’ve got what it takes, but at least I know how to find out.

Discovering that, in Italy, having a doughnut for breakfast is not just acceptable but encouraged.

A chocolate milkshake with Rachel. It was 50% catch up and 50% “Charlotte, don’t let this opportunity pass you by – I’m going to help you take it.”

Realising that one of my very favourite things to do when I’m alone is to play No Matter What by Boyzone and sing both Ronan and Stephen’s parts. And don’t pretend you’re not now off to do exactly the same thing.

The expression on Leon’s face when he came home to find I was making homemade burritos for tea.

Going to see Frankie Boyle, Bridget Christie, Stewart Lee, Hans Teeuwen and Luisa Omielan and feeling that special type of excitement that only comes from watching really, really good comedy.

A Wednesday night in November. Stepping onto the escalator at Waterloo and smiling because that evening with those two women just happened.

Every other time I walked away from a catch up thinking “I cannot wait to see that person again.”

When the cat that visits our garden came into the flat and sat on our sofa for the very first time and there was an entire five minutes when I didn’t think she hated me.

My younger brother standing on the platform at Leicester station and pointing through the train window at empty seats because he knew I was worried about having to stand all the way back to London.

All the days I managed to continue living my life despite having a migraine every week for six months. You don’t get to win, I do.

Christmas. Every second of it.

Feeling everything on my family’s priority list silently shift and Jack taking his place at the top.

Standing in the upstairs bedroom of what will hopefully be our new home and seeing our future waiting for us.

 

7 things that happen when you become an auntie

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7 things that happen when you become an auntieMy biggest news for 2016 so far is that at the end of February, I became an auntie.

My brother and his girlfriend announced the arrival of little Jack and life has never been the same since. Well, mostly for them of course – I still get a strong 7-8 hours sleep, can have a shower whenever I want, and am responsible for nothing except feeding my cheese on toast addiction. But my brain is all about baby Jack and when I’m next going to get to have a cuddle of him.

A new baby joining the family is life-changing for everyone. Conversations, decisions and occasions all revolve around him now. He has more power than any of us job-holding, mortgage-paying, degree-awarded adults, and he’s only been in the world for 53 days, the clever little thing.

I’m taking my new role as an auntie extremely seriously and enjoying every second of it. Here’s the inevitable listicle about what life is like when your nephew (or niece) has arrived. In short: pretty darn swell:

1. You stare at their photograph like a lovestruck boy band fan – The morning after Jack was born, my husband found me lying in bed, glued to the picture my brother had sent through of him the night before. I was completely in love with a baby I had never met. Scrolling through photos of the little dude is now my favourite pastime. As soon as a major baby comes into your life, you understand why parents can’t help but take pictures of their child’s every movement – their existence will never cease to feel miraculous.

2. You develop a newfound respect for your sibling – One minute your brother’s refusing to let you have a go on his Game Boy and making you so angry that you run into his bedroom and rip his posters off the wall (as discussed previously we didn’t always make life easy for each other when we were growing up), and the next he’s presenting you with his brand new baby son and making you feel so proud that you burst into tears. Having a brother really is an emotional roller coaster. Seeing your sibling and their partner more tired than they’ve ever been and yet still doing an amazing job of looking after their little one is enough to make you bow down in awe. Leon and I might think that staying up late watching old episodes of Family Guy makes us tired but something tells me that we don’t yet know the meaning of the word.

3. You and your partner vow to be the best aunt and uncle the world has ever seen – We were beside ourselves with excitement when we were heading up north to meet our nephew. I didn’t quite realise until he was born how much his arrival would feel like a gift for us too. We’ve cooed over little outfits together (often discussing just how many of the patterns on Babygros we would both happily wear on our own clothes), we’ve considered all the London sites we’re going to show him when he comes to visit, and we’ve wondered just how old the little guy will have to be before we stop referring to him as ‘baby Jack’. (Our current estimate is 18).

4. You’d think that no other baby had ever been born – I do know that Jack is not the first baby ever to grace the planet. I understand that I was once a baby and that you were too. And yet I can’t help but feel that there is something extra special about this one. In conversations I want to say “No but you don’t understand, this guy is extraordinary. I swear, nobody has ever worn dungarees so well.” But I know this is just what happens when you have a new little human in your life. In the interests of avoiding being branded a mad aunt at this early stage, I’m trying to keep this kind of observation to a minimum (although seriously his style is on point).

5. You give yourself far too much credit – When I arrived at his house this weekend, after just a few minutes of trying to figure out which part of my chest was most comfortable, Jack fell asleep. And even though my head knew that he would definitely have drifted off anyway no matter where he was lying, my heart remained open to the idea that I was in fact a baby whisperer.

6. You discover that ‘eau de baby’ is your new favourite smell – It’s a good thing that it’s not possible to inhale an entire baby otherwise I fear I might have done just that. Everybody says it but my word they smell amazing. I find myself sniffing the clothes I wore to visit Jack just to get a little dose of that gorgeous milky scent. It’s such a shame we all lose our newborn smell; I’m sure commuting through London would be a much more pleasant experience if everybody smelt like a freshly baked biscuit, instead of a hot sweaty mess of body odour, coffee, and rage.

7. You get to watch somebody learn how to be a person – The first time I met Jack he was only 10 days old. He was the littlest human I had ever seen. This time, just over a month later, he was still small, as you would expect of a baby, but he had clearly already learnt so much about the world. He can pretty much hold his own head up all by himself, he can knock back an entire bottle of milk without even needing to come up for air, and he can smile. These are major achievements. The only thing I’ve learnt in the last month is that eating two creme eggs in a day will make you feel just as nauseous as you would expect. If being an auntie has taught me anything, it’s that I really need to start making better use of my time.