We’re half way through, I’m slowly dying and there’s still another 3 weeks left.

Looking back on my childhood the summer holidays were amazing. Ice creams, parks, beaches, annual Gullivers Kingdom trip…just fun everywhere. Even for the first part of my adult life they were still a lovely time of year – no traffic going to work, no traffic coming home and the weather was as nice as typical British summer gets.

Then I had kids.

I don't feel that way anymore. I fucking hate the summer holidays.
Everywhere I take Sophia I'm surrounded by something I don't think I could actually hate any more if I tried… other people's children (bar a few). And they're everywhere. The softplay I once used as a sanctuary now overgrown with children far too old to be there. Children who push my meek little toddler over or just completely overwhelm her.
Parks packed unless you go obscenely early.
The swimming baths even operating a second wristband strategy for the toddler pool – having to wait in the bigger, colder pool til someone leaves the splash pool is not easy with a little baby and a toddler itching for the slide.
I dare not even attempt a Pizza Hut buffet.
And it's for 6 whole weeks! So what do I even do for 6 weeks? We get cabin fever after staying home a few days let alone weeks. There's only so much playing in the garden and table arts and crafts in the world. Apparently it's bad form to just stick them in front of the tv all day too. So every day is "what the hell are we doing today?"
I'm out of ideas already, and without playgroup to tire her out she's sleeping less at night.

And I have to do this shit over and over again. Every. Single. Year. For another decade.

Send help. My eye bags are growing back.

What are you doing for contraception Mrs Lunn? Ah yes it’s called “having kids already” and it’s 100% effective.

That's the fateful question at today's 6-8 week checkup before Teddy had his jabs.
What am I doing for contraception? Well truthfully nothing, but that is because this is the appointment I was expected to wait until to get on something; so a bit of a backwards question from him really. Teddy has something called Laryngomalacia, a minor birth defect which essentially means he's got floppy vocal chords according to the doctor; and as much as I've noticed he's growing out of it already, it can have him making loud grunting noises for sometimes hours on end – which is offputting to say the least (when there's even time with 2 kids under 3).
But okay Mr Doctor I'll humour you and answer you properly. "I was hoping to speak to you about that today…I'd like the implant please."

You see contraception is a minefield, everything has side effects that affect everyone differently, no two forms are the same and yet they all have an equal end result. Breastfeeding limits what you can have even further and because I don't fancy taking that risk of using exclusive breastfeeding as a form of birth control I'm stuck between a final few to choose between.

So I settled on the implant. Safe while breastfeeding, don't have to remember to take anything and can just forget about it all for a few years. Possible weight gain but much less than if I got pregnant, that I am sure of.
So when you finally settle on something you hit even more hurdles when you discover the doctors doesn't even offer it as a service. "Our doctors don't do the implant here so you'll have to go to the family planning clinic at London Road Community Hospital." Okay I say and off I go, I get home later and *quick google*…I'm sorry what? You want me to go WHERE?! Thats the GUM clinic! Isn't the GUM clinic for folk waiting for their chlamydia tests? For folk who live a life far floozier than I do and I don't want to be seen there! Jazzy name you gave that place to fool me Mr Doctor.

So what do I want less, another baby or someone to think I'm smutty?

I think I'd prefer people to think I'm smutty. Off to the GUM clinic I go then…

“What’s the magic word?”

Phrases I never thought I'd hear myself say before I became a parent:

  • Please take the drill out your brothers ear. No you don't need to fix him
  • STOP WEEING ON ME
  • Did you just fart on my hand?
  • Don't wipe poo down the tumble dryer (potty training is fun)
  • Don't wipe poo down the doors (see above)
  • Leave your bits alone
  • What am I doing? I'm feeding baby milk. Yes from my booby. Yes you have fridge milk.
  • Seriously – I've got no idea what you are saying to me
  • Have you weeweed or poopied?
  • NOOOO DON'T EAT YOUR POO!
  • Don't strangle him
  • Yes you came from my tummy but no you can't get back in
  • Please stop biting your toenails
  • If you keep sucking your thumb it will fall off
  • Stop eating your crayons. I will not tell you again.
  • Stop licking that.
  • Spelling all the good stuff: "hey David do we have any C A K E" or "shall we take her to the P A R K tomorrow" are fine examples.
  • Your shoes are on the wrong feet again
  • Stop taking Moanas clothes off.
  • Please don't wipe your bogies on me
  • Can you stop rubbing your bum against everything you look like you've got worms
  • Of course I want to play this same puzzle for the 146784th time today with you.
  • No. No. No. NO!
  • I'm going to count to three…. one, two, two-and-a-half, two-and-three-quarters, two-and-nine-tenths…OH JUST DO AS YOU ARE TOLD FOR GODS SAKE!
  • *Specifically pre-weaning* – oooh you smell milky have you made me a poopy?
  • *specifically post-weaning* – oh dear god what did I let you eat?!
  • What do you say? P-P-P? Please. The word is please.
  • Yes Teddy has one and no you won't be able to find yours… 😳

Sometimes you don't need to say anything. You just give them a stare so deep and make a face so hideous that it doesn't require words. Either that or you make the face because the words you want to use aren't appropriate to use on children.

It's not an attractive face. In fact the more ugly the more seriously you are taken.

If you can take anything from this…it's that parenting is fucking disgusting and that getting icky stuff on you is inevitable.

There’s no use crying over any fucking milk…

I'm part of a lot of mums groups on Facebook; and I mean A LOT. Because I'm a mum and its kind of reassuring to have my Facebook filled with women who have as little daily adult conversation as I do, and truth be told motherhood can be a lonely place at times.
Generally the gist of these mothering groups tends to be "does this bodily fluid look normal? PICTURE IN COMMENTS"
I mean really? See a doctor, no you should not have that leaking out of you
"LOL just had sooooo much sex who wants to know the details *emoji emoji emoji*"
Oh shut up Sharon* your husband hasn't seen your vagina since you drank too much prosecco at Christmas let alone been able to poke it.
And last but not least "oh my Eugene* sat up at 5 minutes old, walked at 3 months and could recite Pythagoras Theorem by the time he was 2, is this normal? what are your babies doing?" That's funny I'm pretty sure I saw your kid eating his own shit in the park last week Katherine*, get back in your lane.

Then there's THAT POST. If you're in a mums group then you'll know what I mean. The age old cutthroat debate of breast v formula. I mean if I could roll my eyes any harder I'd feel them detach from the socket at the fact that in this day and age it requires a debate is beyond me.
Basically it's a massive my Dick is bigger than yours competition where the kids are the dicks (I mean usually there are anyway but y'know what I'm saying)

I'm gonna say it now:
I don't care how you feed your kid, as long as you actually fucking feed them!!

I needed it off my chest, and now I can go about my day judging everyone in silent.

*Names changed to protect me from these crazy ladies 🙊

Wonky boobs, control pants and “Hey, where did that breast pad come from?”

Now don’t take this post the wrong way – I’m all for the “Mama Confidence” thing – I absolutely adore what my body has achieved and what it can do with regards to creating, growing, birthing and feeding my children. But we don’t all feel that way all the time. I left the hospital feeling like Wonder Woman, but it’s the weeks that follow when I look and think “oh that belly is still here then”. When you’re pregnant you see your body change every day, it morphs slowly and if you’re anything like me the sight of your growing belly fills you with a sense of pride and desire to show it to the world. I think pregnant is when I feel most confident in my body. 

Then I give birth and I’m left with what I can only describe as looking like I’ve been hit by a car and absolutely nothing like my former self. My clothes don’t fit, my boobs are two different sizes and I’m covered in a layer of “insulation” which sounds much nicer than fat. Anything that does fit is about as useful to me as a third nipple (which coincidentally I also own but that’s another story) because I can’t breastfeed in it. 

Which brings me to my next point – nursing clothes. Google them, you’ll find that they are all “maternity/nursing” and have bump room. Why do I need bump room? it’s the bump I’m now trying to find a relatively discreet way of feeding. What I need is boob and arse room, on account of that layer of insulation. The two nursing dresses I own are so stuck to me I look like linked sausages, which is exactly what I wanted when a photo of me wearing one has been posted by Mumii – the mums entertainment website – on their Instagram while I was testing pushchairs for the Best Baby & Toddler Gear Awards. 

Not forgetting nursing bras man…fucking hell. If I’m going to spend £40 on an over the shoulder boulder holder with clips for releasing the milky beasts I want them to look fucking fantastic doing so. But they don’t. 

I need one with industrial support that I don’t actually think exists because truth be told my boobs are different sizes – Lefty is a little anorexic compared to Righty. 

One of the joys of breastfeeding is leaking – I mean give me a couple hours not feeding and I would totally win the giant teddy in the watergun game at a fun fair. So breastpads were invented. No one invented ones that stayed in place though did they. Anywhere except my bra is where they tend to rock up. Most recently I found one in the shower stuck under Lefty, literally right under there. And the worst part was I’d washed under there already and totally not noticed til it had absorbed so much water my boob lifted up. I blame fatigue.

God only knows how long it had been there, possibly since after my shower the day before. Maybe longer. 

So from now on I own 2 pairs of control pants and always check twice for breast pads. 

No-ones been killed, but I do need to gloss the bathroom…Again!

It can only mean one thing…I’ve died my hair again. Knew there was a reason I only do this once every year or so. Because my hair is approximately 300 feet long I need multiple boxes of dye and some quick juggling practice beforehand making sure it’s all mixed at the same time so it develops evenly.

Gone and effing David Dickinsoned myself

I also quite clearly need Kim and Aggie on standby because it ended up everywhere. In my mothers house there’s multiple stains from over the years across that bathroom. HAIR DYE – not what you were thinking, minds out the gutter please.

One of many…

The thing is with my weird hair and hair dye is that it always ends up different to what the box predicts (yes even looking at the blonde, light and dark predictions on the side) so whenever I buy dye I’m sort of playing Russian roulette with the colour chart a bit. Usually it’s a nice surprise when I’ve dried it to what I end up with, but not this occasion. Not at all. See all that dye all over my bathroom and my landing carpet (comes out I’ve learned it’s cool), that belonged in my hair. And because it wasn’t there I had patches of my old colour left behind. I had completely missed spots all over my hair!

I had the colouring of a fucking Staffordshire Bull Terrier, the shower resembled the scene from Psycho and then the children required my attention. Fuckety fuck.

 

 

Okay, plan. No, panic! No. Plan. Definitely Plan… I can fix this. No I can’t. David can. Maybe? He’s my best shot on a Saturday evening. Good job I bought an extra box of dye. We’ll patch it up pretending its like going over roots… like the instructions say – 10 minutes roots (patches) then 20 rest of dye to blend. Great!

We get the Sophia to bed and wait for Teddy to fall asleep and get to work. David covers the patches and we wait the 10 mins and he chucks the rest of the dye over my hair. I glance at the instructions – shit. It was supposed to be 20 minutes THEN 10. How did I not read that right?! I mean I shouldn’t really be surprised, my track record isn’t exactly exemplary when it comes to dying my hair. As mentioned above I had a tendency to get dye everywhere. Well it’s not just the bathroom that gets it…my skin gets covered too; and once I even managed to dye a contact lens red.

In case its not apparent we do this practicaly naked...don't want dye on clothes after all

In case you haven’t noticed we do this nearly naked…wouldn’t want dye to get on our clothes right?

So 3 boxes of hair dye, 4 towels and some time later I have red hair. Kind of. I still have some uneven patches where some hasn’t taken much and others taken too well (thanks to my top notch instruction reading) and I’m not entirely sure I love it but it’s done. I figure once I require the roots doing I’ll go straight in with the 3 boxes of dye and do the root touch up properly next time and hope for the best. I say “I”…Davids doing it.

I can’t be trusted.

Hairdye end

My vagina is a weapon – it fires kids out like torpedoes…

I’m all for a bandwagon, me. Really I couldn’t get much more basic unless you caught me instagramming my coffee (again). Lately I’ve read a lot of birth stories, all so full of intricate details on the lives these women have brought into the world. Some lengthy and horrifying, others so light and wonderful, all make me re-live my own and make me want to write it down. 

So will my birth story be lengthy and horrifying? Or light and magical? Neither. My latest birth is short, sweet and braggy as fuck. So braggy I’m probably the most sickening person to anyone who experienced trauma truth be told and for that I (sort of) apologise. Only sort of because I needed stitches so I’ll let you feel sorry for my vagina. So here goes, my short and sweet birth story, bullet pointed for your convenience:

  • Put Sophia to bed at 7pm
  • Watch top gun with a few “tightenings” 
  • Tightenings get closer together and a bit stronger but still don’t think they hurt enough to care about them – assume false labour
  • Top gun finishes around 9:45pm
  • Waters break at 10pm – shit starts to hurt
  • Mother arrives to babysit
  • She stops me trying to get to the car mid-contraction to ask where tv remote is (truly impeccable timing)
  • Arrive at hospital car park at 10:43pm
  • Finally get into a birthing suite room around 11pm
  • Midwife says “iffff you’re in labour we’ll get you some pain relief love” if? If?! Rightio. 
  • Midwife sticks hand up and says “oh. Do you need to push? You can. You’re fully dilated” (take it I’m in labour then love? I’ll have that gas and air now please” 
  • Few pushes and we played a game of catch at 11:22pm, the ball was an 8lb 1oz Teddy. He made a great ball, and the midwife made a great catcher. 
  • David told me the gender by declaring “I see boy bits!”

Jobs a good’un. Discharged and home less than 8 hours later and before Sophia woke up for the day; we were on the sofa with a McDonalds breakfast when she came downstairs.  

Total labour time: dunno like an hour or so? (Said in smuggest voice ever)

Amazing experience and if I didn’t know they turned into toddlers I’d do it again in a heartbeat. 

The animals went in two by two…

You know how occasionally you have one of those days. You know the ones, where you scream at the sky shouting “fucking seriously? Could this get any worse?” and a bird shits on your face and it drips in your mouth? I had one of those today, but rather than bird shit I was boob-deep (which granted after 2 kids isn’t as deep as it used to be now my tits are at my ankles)  in baby shit and toddler snot.

And it’s all because of the rain, ruined all the plans I had for the day. Me and my Mother thought we’d go out for the day to check out the Mothercare sale followed by running some errands in town, and it starts so well. Having a newborn and a toddler the pushchair and buggy board require a small physical exam to set up and counts as that days body workout. Weathers nice we say and leave the raincover in the boot – big mistake. Fast forward to leaving and Noah and his fucking Ark are sailing past telling me to seek refuge in Toys r us to kill time while it blows over.

Half an hour, the purchase of one paw patrol toy and two dummies later, Noah’s drowned, the Arks a wreck and the animals are dead. So I leave Mother and the kids in Toys r us and run back to get car from mothercare resembling the drowned rats more disheveled mother. By the time I got the kids in the car the pushchair was already wet on the outside and I was cursing the nice, new, still unused raincover staring at me in the boot while I moved onto my next mission: getting a Bugaboo Buffalo in the boot of a Vauxhall Astra without getting it even wetter. Truly mission impossible. Trying to keep the carrycot dry I balance it on the parcel shelf – which collapses. The carrycot which weighs exactly 2.4678 metric tonnes falls on my arm, not the worst casualty of the day but I’ll get to that later. So mission keep it dry aborted I had to put it on the flooding car park floor. The only thing wetter was my face from the tears of sadness from desecrating a bugaboo in such a way. The inside is now wet and poor Teddy can’t go in that so the days plans are scubbered – I have babycarriers galore but things to buy that I didn’t want to carry #firstworldproblems

So, Mother and I agree to forget town and go home via McDonald’s drive thru. Problems solved right? Wrong. On the way Ted decided he was hungry for boob-juice and as much as they reach my ankles now like I said, they don’t quite stretch from drivers seat to his car seat. Inconvenient. So I had to throw the car into any parking space and, as I wasn’t getting out the car performed some acrobatics to get him out feed him and put him back in his car seat so we can hit the drive thru. As I’m driving home I realised that in my excellent move putting Teddy back in his car seat I forgot to put my boob back in its industrial container. Yep. I did the drive thru with my tit hanging out.

Get out the car at home and somehow mothers coffee was attached to me from the cup holder and as I leave the car it comes with me going all over the seat and all down my fucking leg, I was too busy trying to avoid the monsoon that I didn’t notice til I realised my leg hurt quite a bit. By the time I cleaned the car I was dripping and my dinner was cold

Now I have to pick my husband up from work sitting on a towel in a car that smells like Cif…

I’m pretty sure I’d rather have taken the bird shit and have gotten it over with.

First blog post: who am I and why am I here?

Questions I ask myself daily, if not hourly: what am I doing and why am I here? Long story short I’ve got no idea. I seem to have woken up aged 25 married with two children and no idea how I got here or what to do about these tiny creatures. Apparently it’s my job to raise them to be decent upstanding members of society and I’m not even 100% sure I’m one of those myself. What’s that old adage; do as I say not as I do?

So here I am, musing about my hectic life, asshole parenting techniques and throwing in some occasional product reviews I’ve been lucky enough to have either  taken part in or have in fact purchased myself.

As for the blog…I’m winging it.