Home, Sweet Home

Last week, The Boy and I set off on Tuesday lunchtime heading to my parents house, a 100 mile journey down the motorway, leaving East Anglia behind and returning to my South East London outskirts roots! My parents moved home when my mum was pregnant with me, into the house that was home throughout my childhood and that remains their home now. When I was a young teenager they had the loft extension built and my room was jokingly known as ‘the flat’ as it was large and fairly self-sufficient with my own shower, sink, kettle, fridge, television and stereo plus a number of various games consoles over the years left there by boyfriends! The room now is currently unusable – it was never insulated correctly and as a result during winter it becomes an ice box, despite double glazed windows, without a radiator in the room and nobody using it and putting an electric heater on frequently, the sink pipes burst and ruined the cupboard and surrounding flooring one winter and the year after that the shower pipe did the same thing, though the shower wasn’t completely removed the cubicle is filthy and the water has now been turned off up there. Boxes of my old junk and my brothers old junk are stacked around randomly; old furniture painted in the colours of our childhood bedrooms sits lopsided and empty; a doorless wardrobe holds my husbands wedding outfit (in a protective zip up clothes bag) as well as a lilac bridesmaids dress of mine from years ago.

The rest of the house, with the exception of the smallest bedroom at the back of the house, has been redecorated since I lived there. This means that while the house itself seems somewhat familiar and safe, the décor seems wrong because its not how I remember it from my childhood, and so it puts a weird spin on my perspective and I can’t seem to decide if I feel relaxed and secure in this house – as a result, I rarely sleep well when I stay, despite sleeping there soundly for my entire childhood and until I finally moved out, aged 23. To add to my discomfort, I am away from The Hubby, which I find difficult; I am away with The Boy and without The Hubby, which means The Boy is entirely my responsibility, which is stressful, though when I’m with my mum she will help out loads by taking The Boy and doing stuff with him!

The first few nights, The Boy slept in a cot and I in the single bed in my brother’s room. Before our arrival my mum had changed it around and after dinner my dad and I built the cot. I adore sleeping in the same room as The Boy – having the smell of him so close, listening to his soft snoring and mumbling throughout the night, plus knowing when he did wake up that I would be immediately aware and if it was an unsociable time then I’d be quickly able to try and calm him down so he didn’t disturb my parents. However, sleeping in the room with The Boy also meant I couldn’t sit and read in bed as I usually would, it meant I had to be fairly quiet when getting ready for bed myself as while he’s a good sleeper in general, if he hears things he often wakes up purely because he’s nosy and he wants to know what’s happening. Added to that, I was sleeping in a single bed and I didn’t have The Hubby to cuddle up with. It was odd, and combined with the different night sounds my parents house has as opposed to the night sounds in my own home, I found I didn’t sleep awfully well at all.

We set off from home around noon and arrived at their house just before two; The Boy had quietly played for the first hour, and been lulled to sleep for the second hour by me changing the radio station to Classic FM as soon as the reception for Heart East Anglia was lost and we were cruising down the motorway (I am probably one of the only people left in the world with a radio/tape stereo in my car and no tapes I wanted to play) We arrived and were greeted with cuddles and kisses, a strong mug of tea for me and a nappy change and some milk for The Boy.

That first day, we didn’t do much; We originally had plans for two old friends of mine to come over (it would have been their first meeting of The Boy, I haven’t seen either of them for about three or four years) Unfortunately that didn’t happen as they’re a couple and one of them had a migraine so neither came over, so we spent the day with my parents and playing in the snow in their back garden. The following day, I had plans to go and visit other friends, the husband of whom leaves for work at midday, so the idea being that we’d get there in the morning to spend some time with him as well before spending the afternoon with his wife and their son, who is two months older than The Boy. It started snowing first thing in the morning and was coming down quite heavily, and added to that The Boy slept in until almost 11am, which is unheard of. I never like to wake him up because he’s so grotty and moody if you wake him before he’s ready, and I gathered that after a long journey and late night the previous day then he could probably do with the extra sleep. Anyway it meant we didn’t end up getting to my friends house until after lunch, by which point we’d missed seeing her husband, though we had a lovely afternoon together. As we’d not got there until later than planned, we didn’t leave til later than planned, which meant that the possibility of a quick visit to another friend before we headed back to my parents for dinner was out of the window as we hadn’t enough time.

The day after, my auntie came round quite early in the morning – she’s recently retired but still up and about quite early in the day and by nine thirty she was being dropped off in town by her fiancé (she’d spent the night at his house) and then walked from there to my parents house. I was upstairs in the shower when she first arrived and The Boy was still in his pyjamas; It doesn’t matter, really, but it just made it feel like she’d turned up unexpectedly and she hadn’t, but I hadn’t known to expect her so early! After a couple of hours, dad gave her a lift home and I went with them so we could stop off at a shop near her to pick up a few items of shopping. We got home and mum had given The Boy some lunch and he’d gone down for a nap; they’d spent an hour in the garden playing in the snow while we’d been out, and The Boy seemed tired. My friend messaged me to say he’d be over shortly, and my cousin messaged to say he’d be there that evening after work. My friend arrived and was there for a couple of hours, during which my parents neighbour (and good friend of theirs) came over to say hello, hoping to see The Boy and probably feeling quite disappointed when he was in bed again (last time we visited he was asleep when she popped over as well). After she left, it was time to wake up The Boy, and then we played while mum did dinner, as she dished up my friend left and about ten minutes after we’d finished eating my cousin arrived. He didn’t leave til quite late, and then it was time for a quick bath before putting The Boy to bed.

The next day my sister in law came round, with her son (almost eight months old) To begin with, he was asleep in his carseat and The Boy was fascinated with the Sophie Giraffe attached onto the harness using Toy Ties, but as time went on he became increasingly grumpy. We put him in the high chair for some lunch, and of course at that point The Nephew woke up.

Still hungry, grumpy and tired, The Boy was now confined to his high chair while The Nephew was removed from the confines of his carseat and allowed to roll around on the floor. He touched The Boys toys, which The Boy seemed unhappy about, until my sister in law produced some of The Nephew’s own toys, then The Boy wanted to play with those despite the fact they were baby things. After lunch, which The Boy didn’t eat much of, The Nephew sat in the high chair for his lunch, and The Boy helped himself to The Nephew’s toys. He was fascinated by the fact that The Nephew has a blue V-Tech Alfie Bear (The Boy has a traditional brown one) and he was pressing the buttons on both to confirm they did the same thing. After The Nephew finished lunch there was some time for playing together, but The Boy kept passing The Nephew things to play with and The Nephew thought a much better game was to throw the things on the floor again, so The Boy would pick it up and pass it to him again. After a while of this The Boy was becoming tired and not concentrating on his walking so well, which meant much stumbling about and tripping – I got quite worried he was going to fall on The Nephew, and he was rubbing his eyes, so my mum took him upstairs to put him down for a nap.

A couple of hours later, my sister in law and nephew set off for home, and mum went to wake The Boy who was still snoring. After dinner we had a Skype conversation with The Hubby before The Boy had his bath and went to bed. The next morning I woke with a horrible sore throat, banging headache and a cough. I popped pills, slurped syrups and mum mostly looked after The Boy for me while I shivered and felt sorry for myself in my pyjamas for most of the day. Our plans to visit more friends went out of the window given my sickly state, and the fact that apart from not wanting to drive and sneeze my way down the road on black ice and snow, there is the fact that my friends have a young baby and I didn’t want to spread the germs. So we had a lazy day, before our final night there.

My cough got worse the moment I lay my head down to go to sleep – it kept me awake until 3am, when I searched the kitchen for the fourth time and finally found some cough syrup. I took some, with a couple of cold and flu tablets, and shivered my way to sleep. At 7am my own coughing woke me up again, so I took more pills and cough syrup and returned to bed with a glass of orange juice. That morning, the rest of the family were off to church, so mum was racing about getting ready while my brother plodded his way through sorting himself out and my dad sat in the kitchen until the last minute wearing his pyjamas and dressing gown, flicking idly through the paper and gazing about like he hadn’t a care in the world. When they finally rushed out of the door, ten minutes later than they should have done, I breathed a sigh of relief. For the first time since our arrival, it was just me and The Boy, and today was the day that we were packing to head home again.

I said earlier that my parents house has been completely redecorated since I lived there – well the combination of that as well as me sleeping in the front room means that I don’t really unpack when I stay there, so fortunately for me our bags were pretty much done – I’d been putting laundry in a black bag anyway and kept the remainder of the clothes in the bag folded up, so once we were washed and dressed I packed up most of our things, ready to load into the car once the rest of the family got home.

They got back, and I loaded up the car and sorted out the bed things from the front room while mum took care of The Boy. My dad fell asleep in the armchair and my brother disappeared upstairs. Mum cooked dinner for my brother, The Boy and I to eat before we each returned home – my brother was going back to his flat for Uni that evening. The Boy and I sat and ate our dinner while my dad snored in the armchair and my brother was upstairs. Afterwards my mum took The Boy upstairs to change his nappy and my brother finally came down to take the things back upstairs, then he disappeared into his room again without his dinner. Finally we were ready to go so I went downstairs and picked up the final bits and loaded them into the car, then got The Boy ready, put my own coat on and looked at my mum.

Suddenly my dad was awake and wanting to say goodbye and my brother had reappeared from nowhere – typical blokes, they’d got out of helping me sort out the front room and pack the car, got out of helping mum look after The Boy and cook dinner, but now it was all done they were there! We said goodbye and I strapped The Boy into his carseat and we were off.

Home lay two hours away, and Classic FM quickly soothed away my grumpiness as I thought of how nice it would be to get home. I missed The Hubby – I always do when we’re apart – and I know The Boy had as well. I hadn’t missed shouting at The Hairy Hounds Of Hell, but I’d missed their warmth snuggling up to me on the sofa in the evenings as I watched TV, and missed their familiar tap-tap of claws on laminate flooring. I simply missed home – my own little house, decorated the way that The Hubby and I decided, filled with our things, the place I could truly relax in. The Boy slept for most of the journey home, and as I turned into the driveway and saw our house I felt very happy.

As lovely as it is, to return to the old stomping ground and catch up with all the people there, I really do appreciate the saying Home, Sweet Home now I have my own home. You can never really relax in someone else’s house like you can in your own; Even the night time quietness is somehow unfamiliar and you don’t sleep as well. I’ve never been one to question staying over somewhere if it’s more practical – I make a huge effort to ensure anyone who stays at our house feels welcome and that the room is cosy and they have anything they may need, I’ve crashed on various sofas, floors, armchairs and beds during my life and it never once worried me, but suddenly I’ve become a real home body (Maybe it’s Motherhood? Now I have to protect my young as well as myself I have to be more alert to my surroundings?) That first night home, I enjoyed a lovely long hot shower and washed my hair (my parents bathroom seems determined to stay ice-box cold so you freeze in the shower over the bath – the water pressure is completely unenthusiastic and it’s a struggle to wash my long hair) I then went to bed and fell asleep within about five seconds of my head hitting the pillow! I slept right round the clock because The Hubby was a darling and got up first thing with The Boy and left me in bed, so I didn’t wake up til nearly midday. I felt so much better for it.

I do love going back to my parents and seeing them, but I love coming home and remembering why I moved out in the first place! I love making plans to see people, I just wish sometimes the plans would actually happen like they were meant to but we always have a nice time regardless. I love visiting for a few days because anything longer is a headache for many reasons, but in a few days I don’t settle and I don’t get to see everyone, which is a shame.

The next visit planned is for April, and for a very good reason – my younger brother will be getting married. We’re planning to drive down once The Hubby finishes work the night before, arriving fairly late evening so that we can put The Boy straight to bed (hopefully) as he (should) have had a bit of sleep in the car on the way so (fingers crossed) he won’t wake up properly if I can get him in the hotel and put into bed without too much fuss. Then the wedding will be the following day, and we’ll stay that night in the hotel and travel home the day after. It will be the longest time we’ve ever left the dogs – we’re still not entirely sure who we’re going to get to dog-sit! Whatever happens, it will seem like we rushed there and back again, we’ll have a brilliant time but we’ll be exhausted by the time we get home and we’re looking forward to it immensely but on the drive home we’ll be glad to be homeward bound.

Home is where the heart is, after all.

A Love Story

Today being Valentines Day, I thought I’d share with you a love story.

When I was 17 I got a job working for a pizza restaurant. I got the job through my best girlfriend, who had worked there for a while at that point. I had a boyfriend, we’d been together since we were 16, at high school, and I went to college.

The colleagues I met there became good friends; There was constant banter, affectionate bickering, we’d turn the music up loud in the kitchen and dance while we worked, we’d spend hours in the pub over the road once our shift had finished and at the weekends a small group would end up at someone’s house, drinking more and having fun until the early hours of the morning.

By the time I was 18 my relationship was rocky; we argued all the time (mostly over the fact that I wanted to listen to different music and wear different clothes to what my boyfriend wanted me to) By that point I’d passed my driving test so was even more independent, not having to rely on him for lifts; If I’d been drinking I just slept at whoever’s house I ended up and started from there the following day. I kept my college bag and a change of clothes in the boot of my car in case of going straight to college after one of those nights, as they started happening more often throughout the week. My boyfriend resented the amount of time I could have been spending with him but was choosing to spend with other people. We argued more and more, and as I rebelled against his more controlling side I deliberately became more like what he didn’t want – I dyed my hair from coppery blonde to plum purple simply because he said he’d dump me if I did, and I thought that would be such a ridiculous over-reaction to dyeing my hair that I did it just to see if he would carry out his threat (he didn’t).

My best friend and I remained solidly close, spending a lot of time together and in the company of our friends from the restaurant. There was another pair of best friends there – two guys, older than us by a year, both of which I really enjoyed the company of. They were welcoming, friendly and we’d spent many evenings getting drunk in the pub and playing video games back at someone’s house, having a good time. My best friend and I went on holiday, and before going I tried to finish my relationship with my boyfriend. I missed him while we were away, and when we returned to the UK and I got service on my phone again I had a load of messages from him. We ended up getting back together again, though even as I did it I wondered why.

In truth, one of the best friends had been flirting with me more than usual. He had beautiful eyes that I couldn’t help looking at, and as silly as it sounds he always smelled nice, which I liked. He had a shy smile and was fairly quiet and nervous – nothing at all like my bolshy, loud, shouty boyfriend! I enjoyed spending time with him especially, but didn’t think it meant anything more to him than just being friendly. That illusion was shattered after one evening in the pub when he was telling me about a girl he really liked, but that she had a boyfriend and while it wasn’t going well with her boyfriend he wasn’t sure how she felt about him. I encouraged him to tell her how he felt, my argument being that at least if he was rejected he would know how she felt and could move on accordingly. He agreed that was what he’d do, and soon afterwards I left the pub. A few moments after I got into my boyfriends car I got a text message from my friend simply saying It’s you x

I didn’t reply that night. I didn’t know what to do, or say, or even think. My boyfriend and I had broken up and made up so many times in the past and while I knew it wasn’t working in the long run I didn’t want to end it because of my friend: On the other hand, now I knew my friend felt the same way about me that I did about him, I knew it was unfair to keep my relationship going, because it was bad enough that I felt that way about someone else while I was still in a relationship. My boyfriend knew something was up and was clingy and even more controlling, trying to tell me I wasn’t allowed to go out with other people and not him, telling me where I could go and what time I had to leave and what to wear. I felt suffocated and trapped: We’d been together three years, I’d never had another serious boyfriend like this and at the start of our relationship I imagined we would be together for always. When you get with someone when you’re 16 years old, you either grow up together or you grow apart, and unfortunately we’d grown apart, and the more he tried to stop it the more I encouraged it. I wanted to be my own person, free to decide for myself, but he wanted me to be his girlfriend, one half of a pair, to allow him to direct me. Shortly after my 19^th birthday I finally found the courage to tell him it was over between us. He didn’t want to accept it at first, but then the following day he messaged me asking if he could come over and I said yes, then packed all his belongings and some photographs of us into a box and left it on the doorstep of my parents house. He collected the box and went home, then phoned me and asked if he could see me. I said I didn’t think that was a good idea and he started crying. It wasn’t an easy break up and for ages afterwards he kept trying to convince me that we should get back together – I don’t think he knew what to do without me in his life at that point and it wasn’t because it was me, specifically, but more because he hadn’t been single for a long time and didn’t know what to do.

My plan was to be single for a while, to show that I wanted to break up with him because I was unhappy and not because I wanted to be with someone else, and also because if I got together with my friend on the rebound how would I know whether it was a genuine thing or not? Would I just be using him to replace the person in my life I’d just cut out? I didn’t want to treat him that way, knowing how deeply he felt about me – a confessional letter from him on my birthday had him spilling his honesty onto a page for me, telling me exactly how he felt and leaving me in no doubt that he was in deep, regardless of the fact I still hadn’t said anything to him about the text message. It didn’t happen, though – I couldn’t keep away. Then one night, when I knew he would be at a club with friends, I dressed up and messaged him It’s you x then I walked into the club and over to him, leaned over the table and kissed him, and walked out again. I felt like I was on something as I walked out of the club – I got back in the car and drove home. 

My next decision was that we’d take it slowly, not rush things, he needed to make an effort to win me over and I wanted to get to know him better, and again that was a decision that didn’t last. Within a week I was staying over at his rented house every night, returning home in the morning for a shower and to change my clothes, heading off for college, and going back to his house that evening. One night as we lay in bed together I said to him, “Do you think we can make this work?” and he said, “Yes, I do.” At that point my ex was behaving badly, showing up everywhere and kicking off, I’d had neighbours call the police on him, his friends walking up to my new boyfriend and threatening him, yet at the same time my ex was trying to get back with me, making promises for a future he didn’t want but he knew I did, trying to persuade me that he would change and be what I wanted him to be – he didn’t seem to understand that the whole point was he shouldn’t have to change, and neither should I. I tried to explain that if we were right for one another we’d be ourselves, open, honest, and it would be fine; if either of us had to change it wasn’t meant to be.

My new boyfriend and I moved in with my parents for a while when the lease on his rented house was up. I didn’t have to pretend in this relationship – I was myself, and it was fine, and I could do what I pleased, go out where I liked and with whomever I liked, wear what I wanted, and because I had that freedom I didn’t need to rebel against anything and I settled right down. I never felt more comfortable, more secure or more happy than when I was being held in his arms.

Our relationship was tested almost four years into it. Relatives from both families died at an alarming rate, and we attended a funeral each week for ten weeks solid, until only our immediate family was left. Then my grandfather died; my world fell apart. I was utterly crushed, devastated and bereft – and then his grandfather died within a month. The pair of us clung to one another, the emptiness inside us both. The Autumn of that year, I lost my grandmother, too, and once again my world collapsed as I watched my mother and father crumble again, watched aunts and uncles and cousins shake with emotion and saw the same minister provide another moving service at the same crematorium that I’d already spent so much time in – I felt the sympathetic eyes of friends on me, the crumpled mess who’d lost almost everyone that meant something in my life. I don’t know what I’d have done throughout that time if it hadn’t been for my boyfriend. Despite his own grief he was always there for me, knew when to give me a hug, knew when to leave me alone, knew when to say something and knew when to be quiet.

The following year, we married. I was desperate for something good, a happy event, after so much grief and sorrow, but it was a bittersweet day as I realised how small our family had become and that my grandparents and so many other relatives didn’t make it to our wedding. After we married we discussed where we would live, where we would build our future, and we thought about moving 100 miles away, to East Anglia.

I’d only visited a handful of times; I’d never holidayed in East Anglia like The Hubby had done when he was a child. I had no experience of this area of the country, had never considered moving away from my roots before – I’d been brought up in the same house where my parents moved when mum was pregnant with me and where they still live to this day, and moving away from familiarity wasn’t something I’d considered before. Then again, everywhere I turned held a memory of someone who wasn’t alive anymore, a time when I went here and there with great aunts, great uncles, or with my grandparents. We discussed the pros and cons of moving away and I found myself telling The Hubby that I thought it was a really good idea. My past was there – my future was with The Hubby, wherever he wanted to settle. We started house hunting and found the perfect place within a few weeks – we moved in within a month. Within a week of us being here it felt like home – we’d lived for two years in a rented property before moving and that was always ‘the house’, with my parents house remaining as ‘home’, but within a week of living here that changed and this was ‘home’.

In December 2009 I discovered I was pregnant – The Boy was born in August 2010 and the closeness and love I had for The Hubby before has increased even more now he is the father of our beautiful child. He’s still as thoughtful and sweet and kind as he was when I first got to know him, and he knows me better than anyone. Throughout labour with our son, The Hubby was the perfect birth partner, he knew exactly what to do and when (no mean feat, considering that literally everybody else who was involved pissed me off at some point during the experience!)

We’ll have been together for 12 years in July this year – I’ve still got the first photograph ever taken of us as a couple, taken about a week after we got together and we still say “I love you” at least once a day to one another. I try not to get the hump with him and if I do I just say it and get it out of my system rather than have a fight with him about it – in 12 years we’ve not had a major fight, we’ve only had occasional bickering and a bit of annoyed banter. I still miss him when we’re apart; we still message one another several times throughout a normal day and finish our text messages with kisses. I used to wonder how my parents put up with one another – they’ve been together for almost 40 years and married for over 30 years – but now I realise that if it’s the right person then it doesn’t feel that long, and it isn’t that much of a challenge. Obviously there are times when you argue and bicker and things aren’t going smoothly, but you get through it together and it makes you stronger and happier.

The Boy and I were away last week, and we arrived home on Sunday. The Hubby had been busy - as well as doing all the housework, he’d started the laundry and been shopping! Yesterday morning he got up with The Boy and left me to have a lie-in; last night he cooked us a lovely dinner.

For me, it’s still him – it has been for years and I can’t see that changing any time soon. I can’t imagine my life without him in it. So, this Valentines Day, rather than spending a lot of money on stupid teddies, pointless trinkets and overpriced cards, I’m going to cook him dinner and tell him I love him, just like I do every other night of the year – after all, it doesn’t have to be Valentines Day for me to appreciate him!

Dogs Behaving Badly

I call my dogs the Hairy Hounds of Hell because, on the whole, they are a law unto themselves. Boy dog used to have basic training skills, but since we adopted Girl dog he seems to have lost his skills. Girl dog is impossible to train – I’ve tried every way I can think of, and she’s still as dumb as a daffodil.

Both will sit and hold their paw out to shake when offered a treat. Both will take the treat calmly and without nipping fingers. That’s really where it stops. Both are a nightmare on the lead – Boy dog barks and bounces around at anything and everything, flipping around so violently at the end of the lead that he slips out of his head halti, leaving you grappling with the lead attached to his collar only, which is dangerous as he could do himself an injury. This reaction is, according to our vet, a reaction of fright. When he was a pup we shared a house with another couple and their two dogs, one of which was a complete nightmare and would torment our Boy dog pup relentlessly. Now, even though Boy dog is six years old and a fairly large size dog, that fear is instilled, so when he sees another dog, or person, he reacts by shouting at them to tell them to go away even if they haven’t yet posed any threat. He sees this as protecting us, and he goes absolutely crackers. I can understand why people cross the street to avoid us, but it does leave them under the impression you’ve trained your dog to be an arse and have a go at everything and they give you some awful looks and make some scathing comments (One I had, when I was seven months pregnant and trying to get him to the vet, was “Get him neutered if you can’t cope with him, love” – My reaction was, “He is neutered!”) In addition to this, Boy dog is frightened of funny noises – at home, having him scared of the Hoover and the hairdryer isn’t much of an issue, but when you’re out walking him and he’s trying to run away from the lorries, buses, coaches (the air brakes freak him out) from motorbikes (loud and buzzy) and many cars (a certain deep pitch can freak him out too) it becomes a battle trying to walk him anywhere. When he was younger we used to be able to let him off the lead for a run about, as where we lived we could take him to the common where sometimes you wouldn’t see another sign of life for hours and his recall was very good – while we have access to a vast forest here we wouldn’t be able to trust him anymore to come back to us when we call, as his recall has gone since we got Girl dog and now he flounces off without a second thought. Girl dog, in contrast, despite being smaller, is a lot braver; But to the point of stupidity. She’ll run over to the lorries, buses and coaches to investigate the funny noise; she’d step out in front of the motorbike or car to see what it’s doing, if she was able to. So trying to walk these two badly behaved freaks is a mission and a half, and not possible for me to do alone, so I have to go out for walks with them with The Hubby, which means that they only get evening walks as he’s off out first thing, and if he’s not finishing til late they won’t get an evening walk as The Boy is already in bed and we can’t (obviously) leave him home alone. The Hubby is also unable to walk both the Hounds of Hell single handedly, which adds to the ongoing nightmare.

It would be unfair to walk Boy dog without Girl, and vice versa, but the breed that they are denotes that they need a hell of a lot more exercise than we are currently able to offer either of them. We try to get them out as much as possible, but sometimes it isn’t possible and for the most part they have to make do with running round our (generously sized) garden. We investigated the option of training classes, but were faced again with Boy dogs problem with other dogs – it would mean paying extra for special one-on-one classes for him, which isn’t an option. I found out that Dog Borstal was filmed fairly locally and I was all up for taking the pair of them, but it would have to be something The Hubby and I did together with them and The Hubby refuses resolutely to be involved in anything that involves a video camera and him appearing on TV.

To add to our woes, Girl dog isn’t well housetrained. She is up to the point where she won’t squat and go in front of you, and she won’t do it in her cage, but despite having her for almost four years and countless efforts, we’ve only just managed to get her trained thus far. We’ve stopped the pair of them going upstairs at all by keeping the kitchen and front room doors shut, so they’re limited to downstairs only – when we allowed them the freedom of the house she’d disappear upstairs to have a poo on the landing, not ideal in any circumstances but especially now we have The Boy to consider we can’t have that. To start off with, we allowed the Boy dog to have the roam of the house overnight, and locked Girl dog in her cage in the kitchen, as this was the only way she wouldn’t mess in the house overnight. After about a year of that we stopped both of them going upstairs at all, so they have the roam of downstairs overnight and she’s only done it once or twice since then. It used to be the same if we went out – Boy dog could be trusted, Girl dog could not. She’d mess in the house, have the bins turfed out and the contents shredded, she’s even been known to get up onto the kitchen worktops to get at oven trays and kitchen utensils which haven’t been washed up so she can chew them/lick them clean. It’s only been in the last few months we’ve been able to leave her roaming when we’re out and not come back to an awful mess.

Sometimes I wonder if it wouldn’t be better for both of them to be rehomed. For them to go to a family who can offer them lots of regular walks, keep up with the training on a daily basis (realistically, between being a housewife, a mum and working from home I just don’t get the time) But then I think how awful that would be for us as a family. We’ve had Boy dog since he was an 8 week old pup – he’s six years old now, and we’re the only family he’s ever known. To uproot him now would not only break my heart, but surely his as well? He gets on so fabulously with The Boy, and I’m a big fan of children growing up around animals, I think it teaches them valuable lessons about life and love and caring and sharing, and the two of them are BFF’s already. And Girl dog was a rescue when we got her, after she was found running the streets around Christmas one year and taken to the local police station where the dog warden collected her. She had no collar and wasn’t chipped, so after seven days she was put up for adoption and that’s when she joined our family. She still has panic attacks over the strangest things, like if you pick up a skipping rope she freaks out and hides, or if you try to hold her to clip her claws she shakes and shivers and gets so upset she wets herself – it makes me wonder at the kind of abuse she might have suffered before we adopted her, and that makes us her safe home, and I don’t want to ruin her completely now by giving up on her and rehoming her elsewhere.

So I’m a bit stuck. I’ve got these two crazy furry hounds that I love dearly, but who are both clearly mentally unbalanced and need a lot more attention than I’m currently able to give them in order to try and work out some of their issues. The Hubby is a great one for starting a project and not finishing it – to begin with, dog training was his job, and he did very well with Boy dog as a pup, but it wasn’t kept up enough and Boy dog has lapsed into bad habits which are hard to break. Again it was The Hubby’s job to train Girl dog when she arrived with us, but he didn’t stick with it and she quickly became a handful. I’ve tried all different kinds of training methods, but what works with Boy dog doesn’t work for Girl dog and vice versa – Boy dog will do practically anything for a ball, he loves playing fetch and he’s always got a toy in his mouth to play with (One of the reasons him and The Boy get along so well is that The Boy is now at an age where he’ll play fetch with Boy dog). Girl dog, in contrast, couldn’t give two hoots about toys but if you offer her food of any description she’s up for it. Trouble is, with both of them, they get too distracted by the reward and after five minutes of attempting to train them they’re bored of what you’re trying to train and wander off with the reward.

So if you ever see a person in the street struggling with two mentalist dogs barking and being generally loony please don’t presume that person is lazy or hasn’t tried to keep their animals under control, for all you know they’re struggling on a daily basis to instil the basics and for whatever reason it isn’t working out well for them. I don’t know whether we’ll ever reach a point with our dogs where I can walk both of them nicely, when their recall is excellent and I can allow them free roam of the forest safe in the knowledge they’ll come back to me when I call for them, but I can dream. It would be lovely to be able to take a leisurely stroll with The Hubby, The Boy and both dogs, but it’s such a chaotic, mad event at the moment that it’s something I look upon with dread. With winter upon us it’s even more of a nightmare as its dark by the time we get them out after The Hubby returns from work, and dark makes them both worse because Boy dog also doesn’t like headlights and Girl dog seems to think that streetlights are something to be barked at when illuminated. Sigh.

Goodnight, Sweetheart

The Boy is becoming less well organised as he gets older. As a newborn, he fell into a fantastic routine immediately, and we always knew when to expect him to wake, feed, and nap throughout the full 24 hours of any given day.

As he got older, he got into the routine of having two naps each day – one from 11am-1pm, and another from 3pm-4pm, before going to bed at six and sleeping for thirteen to fourteen hours regularly. People marvelled at how good his routine was, but I fully admit it was all his doing – I did nothing to try and get him into a routine other than put him to sleep when he wanted and letting him sleep as long as he wanted, and feeding him on demand.

Even more time passed and he decided that he only needed one nap a day, and he preferred the 11am-1pm nap, after which I’d get him dressed, he’d have lunch, and we’d go out for the afternoon. Often we didn’t have anywhere in particular to go, but I’m a huge fan of getting him in the pushchair and going for a walk, so we found our way around several new areas of town we’d not ventured to before, including a beautiful riverside walk that completes a round circuit of around four miles; we’d take stale bread with us to feed the ducks, swans and geese that hang out by the river, or I’d take him in the car to the local soft play centre, or we’d visit friends with children of similar ages.

By the time he was a year old, he’d pushed bedtime from six to eight, but was still sleeping til eight in the morning, and having one nap a day. I’d learned by then that if he didn’t nap from 11am-1pm, he would nap from 1pm-3pm, or from 3pm-5pm, he really wasn’t as bothered anymore. Sometimes he would eat lunch at midday, other days it was almost four, some days he wouldn’t eat lunch at all, because he’d sleep right through.

Yesterday, I didn’t try and put him down for his nap. He’s pushed it round from 11am to 12pm at the earliest, and my parents were expected at around midday. The parking in our road is ridiculous, but we have access into our garden for parking, which is where my car lives and where we can park a few other cars, too, when we have visitors, so I knew when they arrived I’d have to shut the dogs in the house and go off down the garden. When you shut the Hairy Hounds of Hell in the house and go off down the garden without them, they presume you’re going out without them, and they really don’t like that, so they tend to cry, bark, howl and generally make a lot of noise. If they know that The Boy is upstairs and I’m setting off like that without him, I don’t know whether they think I’m going to leave The Boy home alone or whether they understand it means we have visitors, but either way the noise they make is even worse. There is no person on earth who could remain asleep upstairs in our house while they were creating such a fuss, despite the fact The Boy is a good sleeper, that wakes him up without fail every time it happens. And I don’t know about your children, but The Boy is quite like me in the fact that if he is woken up before he is ready; he is grumpy and difficult for some time afterwards!

My parents arrived, the dogs went barmy, and then The Boy and his grandparents settled down to play. I made lunch, including The Boy in the round of toast I produced, but he was more interested in poking it and leaving it in various odd places in the front room (on the sofa – butter side down; on the seat of his ride on car; tucking it into the DVD cabinet) I cooked up a batch of sausage rolls to try and tempt him – he’s not been eating well for ages – and sausage rolls always seem to be a favourite. The last lot I cooked lasted three days; admittedly The Hubby is also quite partial to a sausage roll, but even so there were plenty that The Boy had eaten. So I cooked up another lot, and once they were cool he was put into the highchair and offered some food. It was just after 2pm.

Bearing in mind as well that The Boy had been awake since 8.30am yesterday morning, and had three ounces of milk first thing, then refused to eat breakfast til shortly after 11am, when he played with a bowl of cereal and actually ate about three bites of it. By my reckoning he should be fairly hungry for lunch, and he didn’t do too badly, but it wasn’t what I would have described as lunch for a growing toddler, it was a snack. Anyway, he decided he’d had enough to eat, so I got ready and we all went out for a walk around town.

The Boy was wide awake for the walk into town, though at the first shop we went into he fell asleep pretty much immediately – he’s not a keen shopper – leaving me free to peruse. We wandered about for a while before heading home again, and he woke pretty much as we walked out of the town centre itself, though my mother blames a particularly loud motorbike making him jump as it rode past us.

Back at home he played until dinnertime but by then was moody and restless, rubbing his face as if he was tired. His catnap in town had lasted around about an hour, while he normally has two or even three hours at home, and I think he would have carried on sleeping for longer depending on the circumstances. For instance I know as soon as he opened his eyes mum would have been talking to him, whereas if it had been me pushing the pushchair I would have probably not spoken to see whether he’d go back to sleep again! Once you talk to him, that’s it – he’s too interested to go back to sleep!

Anyway The Hubby put him to bed and he was asleep by 9pm. My parents left while he was in the bath, and The Hubby and I sat down to watch a program together. Just after 10pm  The Boy started crying. I made a bottle and The Hubby went straight upstairs; The Boy had gotten himself in a real state, screaming and tears pouring down his face, and we couldn’t fathom it out apart from thinking maybe it was a bad dream, or night terror. I calmed him down after a while and gave him back to The Hubby to put back to bed, but five minutes later he started again and wouldn’t calm down again. I went back, there was rocking and shushing and drifting from room to room to try and distract him (He likes watching the car lights going past on the main road from the front bedroom window) Eventually I put him back in the cot and while he was still whimpering, he settled after a while. It was 11pm by the time we headed back downstairs, confused as it was not the normal run of things for The Boy to behave that way.

At midnight, he started again, and The Hubby went up to him. While he was gone I turned off my PC, fed the dogs, loaded the dishwasher and tidied up the kitchen, made myself a drink and went upstairs – it was almost 1am by then – I got ready for bed then took over from The Hubby trying to settle The Boy. It wasn’t easy – just when you thought he’d calmed down, he’d start right up again and get upset all over again. Eventually I took him into our bedroom, shut the door, and allowed him to wander about a bit. The Hubby came up about half past one, and as soon as he saw him, The Boy burst into tears again. “Oh, no,” The Hubby panicked, “What have I done?” We couldn’t work it out. Then I went to lift The Boy and realised his sleepsuit was wet. “He’s soaking,” I said, “Did you change his nappy?” After all, I added silently, it would be the first thing to do, surely, when he wakes up crying? It turned out the nappy hadn’t been checked, or changed, because The Boy usually goes down and goes all night without a nappy change, so The Hubby didn’t think he would need one by that time. We got The Boy into his room and I unpoppered the sleepsuit – a thick towelling one he wears because it’s so cold at night – and found that sure enough his nappy was full to bursting, his vest was soaked from front to back and up to his chest, and his sleepsuit was now also wet. I nearly cried. It took a while to clean him up, dry him off, get another nappy on him and a clean vest and sleepsuit, but once it was done he looked so much happier. I sat in the rocking chair with him for half an hour while he had some milk, then laid him in his cot and tucked him in and he snuggled up with his favourite soft toy and smiled as he closed his eyes. I got into bed about 2.20am.

The Hubby has a very long day today – working 9.30am-5.30pm, then a work do tonight from 6pm-9pm. He’s getting a lift there and back, fortunately enough as I wouldn’t be able to go and collect him, and by the time he gets home we’re anticipating it to be about 10pm. He left this morning before The Boy was awake, after seeing him last night for the first time since Friday morning, and he won’t see him at all today. Fortunately he’s got some time off coming up which will be nice – hopefully he’ll get to spend some time with The Boy then! If he’s not too busy doing more DIY like he was the last time he had time off from work! It does mean that I’m flying solo with The Boy all day today, with no chance of a reprieve, but to be fair, it hasn’t been hard work. This morning, we got up at 9am and he had milk and a nappy change and we came downstairs wrapped in our PJ’s and dressing gowns. We watched CBeebies in the cosy front room and ate scrambled eggs on toast and drank milky tea for breakfast (scrambled eggs is another good favourite of his!) I took him upstairs at 12pm for a nappy change and some milk and put him down for a nap about twelve thirty, and went back to bed myself. I thought well, it’s Sunday, why not have a nap? I slept til 3.30pm then came downstairs and made tea waiting for The Boy to start singing and let me know he’s awake … Except so far he isn’t! 

I do have limits to how much I will let him sleep, even though I don’t like waking him up before he’s ready! If I don’t wake him up soon he’ll be up til midnight tonight and I’m not keen on that idea because it starts the week off badly! How mad is it though that sometimes they want to sleep for so long and other days you’re lucky if they nap for 10 minutes?

Dear Santa ...

We’ve been tagged by our friend Alice at Mummy, Not Big Milk Thing, to participate in sharing our Christmas lists with other mummy bloggers.

Presuming that I’m not going to win the lottery pre-Christmas, my ultimate dream of a six week holiday to Australia is perhaps rather far fetched – but a girl can dream! (Plus I’d get to see my best friend, who now lives in Sydney!)

So for me, being slightly more realistic, I’d like to ask Santa for a new set of hair straighteners, since my current set is about seven years old and the on/off switch has broken, meaning you have to remember to plug and unplug them every use (which doesn’t sound like much, but actually I find it very difficult to remember!)

The Hubby has been battling for some time with an ancient set of hair clippers, so for him I’d like to ask Santa for a lovely new set of hair clippers, to prevent the stress attacks every time he tries to do his hair!

And for The Boy, well don’t tell him but I have already got this for him and it’s been safely hidden away til Christmas morning, and I think he’s really going to enjoy it as he’s very much into things that go Whoosh right now!

Our Hairy Hounds of Hell don’t get forgotten at Christmastime, and Santa always brings our boy dog some lovely new toys ...

And as our girl dog is such a pig, she’ll be more than happy with a nice big pile of biscuits!

To continue the tagging trend, I’m going to tag Charlie Monsters Fun House, Inside The Wendy House and Not Always Right.

Baby Two

Now that The Boy is 15 months old, it seems to give people the right to ask when The Hubby & I will start trying for Baby Two. It’s a very personal question, though I don’t think many people realise, given that for all they know we are already trying.

Before I got pregnant with The Boy, as regular readers of this blog will know, we were TTC (or rather, NPP) for almost two years after I stopped having the contraceptive injection Depo Provera. It is generally agreed in the medical world that it can take up to two years for your fertility to return to ‘normal’ after being on this injection, however that point was not something that was made clear to me before I started having it. As far as I was concerned, once I stopped having it I would go back to ‘normal’ within a few weeks. (After all, while you’re on it, they stress the importance of keeping it up every 3 months otherwise you could become pregnant ‘by accident’ which says to me that once you stop it everything returns to normal pretty quickly). Anyway, the whole time we were TTC we didn’t tell people on the whole (My best friend was aware, and another mutual friend guessed, but I didn’t go broadcasting it to everyone).

Anyone who has been TTC for a while, or who was TTC prior to their pregnancy will understand where I’m coming from here. I didn’t want the added pressure from people saying “Aren’t you pregnant yet?” as I felt enough of a failure every month when my period would arrive anyway, without the additional ‘sympathy’ from those who don’t really give two hoots but want to know all your personal business anyway (for example, those people you know as acquaintances in your everyday life who don’t normally say two words to you, but if you’re looking upset one day they’ll be acting like your best mate to try and get the gossip). In my family there is history of miscarriage, so I didn’t want people to know before the 12 week scan, and I’m the sort of person that if someone said “Aren’t you pregnant yet?” I would lie, obviously, and say no, but they’d see the truth written across my face and guess. So that’s another reason why I chose to keep it private.

Also, not being funny, but it is a very private thing in my opinion. I don’t want the world and his wife to know that I’m charting my ovulation dates, chewing on folic acid and giving up drinking and smoking in an effort to become pregnant. By default this means these people are aware that The Hubby and I are on a mission to become parents, which is a very personal, private thing, and not something that I’d share to many people. You don’t go into work in the morning and announce when you’ve had it off the night before, do you? So why expect me to tell you when we’ve been at it like rabbits in an attempt to introduce a sperm to an egg?

One of the ladies in the office where I work is about the same age as my MIL – mid-50’s – and has two grown up sons, one of which has been married for about 3 years now. Her husband has a teenage daughter from his first marriage, who has been with her boyfriend for a year or so. The married grown up son and his wife announced at the beginning of this year that they were TTC and my colleague got so excited about becoming a grandma – she’s already saved and brought the travel system for them, as well as collecting an array of neutral colour baby clothes, blankets, has considered getting a cot bed for her house for when the baby sleeps over, and pores over ideas on how to decorate your nursery. Unfortunately, they’re still TTC with no sign of a pregnancy so far, and naturally now her daughter in law feels under intense pressure due to the attitude of her husband’s mother. On the flip side, the teenage daughter of her husbands decided to try and get pregnant so that she and her boyfriend could get a council property together as they can’t afford to rent or buy themselves (they both live at home with their respective mothers still). She is now five months pregnant, already signed off work due to exhaustion, is on the council waiting list but has been told it probably won’t be for another six to eight months that she gets a place, and she talks about nothing but the pregnancy to everyone she sees. This obviously adds more pressure to the TTC couple, who don’t see her that often, but often enough that she should know to be slightly more sensitive – unfortunately while she may be 19 years old technically, emotionally speaking she is a bit like a spoiled 13 year old who can only see her own world and not other peoples views, so she doesn’t tend to take their feelings into account at all. When The Hubby and I were TTC, so were The Hubby’s sister and her husband. While we were keeping quiet about it, my SIL was talking regularly to her mum about it all, and when I announced our pregnancy the first thing MIL said was “Oh dear, SIL will be so upset”. Quite frankly that pissed me right off, and I gave her a look but didn’t respond. She said some time later that she remembers when she told her MIL she was pregnant with The Hubby and her MIL made a similar comment and it upset her so much she swore she’d never do it, and apologised for how that must have made me feel, but to be honest the words were said, the damage done, and I don’t think it’s something I’ll ever forget. SIL did become pregnant about halfway through my pregnancy, but sadly lost the pregnancy at 10 weeks – by then they’d told everyone, as everyone already knew they were TTC, so then to add to the heartbreak of going through the MC itself she then had the added stress of having to explain to everyone that she was no longer pregnant. They continued TTC once she was given the all-clear, but didn’t talk to anyone about it except her mum – when she became pregnant again, they held off telling anyone til after the 12 week scan and even then she only told family and close friends originally, holding off telling everyone else until she was almost 20 weeks (she’s a larger lady, so hiding the pregnancy wasn’t an issue, though she did suffer bad sickness which is how most of her colleagues guessed).

So back to my original point, if I didn’t make a big thing about announcing we were TTC in the first instance, why do people think I’d do it second time around? I suppose most people think once you’ve had one baby you know you can get pregnant and it happens as quickly as you deciding you’re ready for Baby Two – but I know from experience this is not always the case. There’s an age gap of eight years between myself and my younger brother. It wasn’t intentional that there was such a large gap, but after TTC for four years before becoming pregnant with me, my parents then were TTC for those eight years, and suffered two miscarriages in that time. When my mum did become pregnant with my brother she was 35 and was considered a ‘high risk’ pregnancy due to her age, and her weight and the history of MC, so she was on bed rest practically the whole pregnancy. It worries me that the same thing could happen to me and The Hubby – what if we decide we want another and it takes us eight years to achieve that? On that basis, I should be coming off the Pill now, as in eight years time I’ll be coming up to my 39^th birthday, and The Boy will be nine and a half, but on the other hand I’m not ready for Baby Two yet, so if I was to get pregnant straight away it would be hard. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t, right? As The Hubby says, you can’t live your life by ‘what if’ so we’ll wait til we’re ready then we’ll start TTC again.

To add to my situation there is the fact that despite The Boy now being 15 months old, I’m still not back to ‘normal’ as far as my lady bits go. Speaking anonymously I feel I can be more honest about this than if you all knew who I am, but basically the delivery was not straightforward and I was badly damaged, requiring a lot of stitches following delivery, which now I’m not convinced were either done properly or have healed properly. I still have a lot of pain during intercourse, so that only happens once in a blue moon and usually after I’ve consumed a fair amount of vodka; Going to the toilet is still painful and afterwards it can take up to two hours for that pain to subside again. (Yes, I will be speaking to my GP about it shortly as I realise this is not normal!) So on the face of it while TTC should be easy, actually it won’t be – not just because the sex itself is so painful, but because I really don’t want to risk another delivery like that and having another couple of years of pain like the last 15 months have been. I’ve spoken to my GP already and told him I want an elective C-section next time – he said “It would mean you’re off your feet and unable to drive for 6 weeks”: That happened last time, anyway. He said, “There’s no way of knowing whether the next delivery would be problematic”: But you can’t guarantee it won’t be. After The Boy’s delivery, initially my biggest concern was him – there was meconium in my waters, he’d gotten stuck and distressed, his heart rate went from sky high to dropping through the floor low, and when he was first out he didn’t cry. Oblivious to the team of medical staff fussing around me, and the blood loss I was experiencing, my only concern was for him, and whether he was OK. Thankfully despite our initial trauma, he was absolutely fine. It was only afterwards when I read my medical notes did I realise how close a call it was for both of us, not just him. My poor OH could have literally been left holding the baby, or worst case scenario he could have left the hospital that night without a wife or a baby, but thanks to the attention of the maternity team at a hospital which has been knocked a lot for it’s maternity department, we were both still around the next day. It isn’t that I expect a second delivery to be so traumatic, or that I expect there to be problems, but I would rather have an elective C-section and have baby safely delivered in a calm, organised environment and also so that I’m in total control and have made the decision, it happens, all is good. I lost control in my first labour, things happened that were unplanned and hadn’t even been thought of as my pregnancy had been so textbook straightforward, and until the point of The Boy getting stuck the labour was going brilliantly too.

There’s also the fact that I don’t want another baby yet. Don’t get me wrong, I’d love Baby Two to join our family one day, but just not yet. I’m still enjoying my relatively new status as ‘Mummy’ to The Boy: Never again will I have this chance to enjoy him at this age, and I don’t want it hampered by morning sickness, me becoming distracted by ‘The Baby’ and him missing out on special time with me. I understand some ladies choose to have their babies very close in age – one of my high school friends has two boys just under a year apart, as she was pregnant within three months of the first baby being born – but that isn’t for me. The Boy is a whirling dervish of excitement and curiosity and I don’t know that I’d be able to keep up with him at the moment if I was heavily pregnant. I’d rather wait a while, maybe til he’s two or three, before I start TTC again, and that way at least I’d get a few hours every so often during the week where he attends nursery and I can have a nap, or go baby shopping, or decorate the nursery, or just put my swollen ankles in a cool footbath for an hour or so!

The Hubby is, as always, understanding of my point of view – after all, as he said, it’s me that’s at home with The Boy and not him, he gets to escape out to work every day – though we have had the chat about Baby Two and he has said that he is ready when I am. I know he’d dearly love for Baby Two to be a girl, and neither of us want a massive gap between The Boy and his younger sibling, so it isn’t something I’m putting off forever, just for now.

So next time you’re chatting to a family member, or friend, or even a work colleague, and that question pops into your mind, I recommend you don’t ask – for all you know she’s already in the process and it could be the sort of conversation she really doesn’t want to have. If you’re close, chances are she’ll speak to you about it sooner or later anyway: But please don’t pressure her. She’s already got enough on her mind.

Cyber Bullies

I’ve been reading lots of articles recently with interest on the internet, where people are verbally attacking others because of their beliefs in how to bring up their children. Excuse me? Racial hate isn’t tolerated; Sexual hate isn’t tolerated – what’s this, then? It can’t be named ‘children hate’ as it’s the complete opposite – its women tearing chunks out of one another on a social internet page or forum because they both believe that they are a better mother than the other. Can’t they just agree to disagree? Apparently not!

Among the list of topics that seem to get everyone hot under the collar, we have:

The Eating In The Carseat or Pushchair Debate: Yes, well, those of you that have seen my comments will know my view. In the carseat no, never, absolutely not. The Boy is allowed a drink when we are stationary and not otherwise. In a 30mph accident, objects weigh five times their normal weight as they fly through the air. Imagine a hard plastic container filled with water (the beaker in his hand) being thrown through the car in an impact where you’re travelling at 30mph and so is the person you hit – A combined speed of 60mph will do a lot of damage to whatever that beaker hits. As far as food is concerned, why would I risk it? My son is rear facing in his carseat, so if I’ve gone out on my own with him what do I do if he starts choking on a piece of food? Some clever clogs wrote a comment on a page “Simply pull over and stop to assist him” well that’s all very good if it’s possible, sweetheart, but on narrow country lanes that go for miles without anywhere safe and suitable to pull over what do you expect me to do? Tell him to wait on his choking until I can find somewhere suitable? Or drive my car into a farmer’s fence like a madwoman to administer emergency first aid while the hazardous positioning of my vehicle causes an RTC in the road? Added to that the fact that I can’t see him if he is choking makes me nervous about doing this. Then there’s the weight factor, too – though I doubt a single Bella’s Kitchen cookie would do that much damage even at five times its normal weight, you never can tell!

The ERF carseat debate. Do your own research, work it out, well done, now do some more research and buy a rear facing carseat. Now ask a million retailers why they don’t sell rear facing carseats and find out it’s because the ignorant masses of the UK don’t want it, on the whole, they’re not interested. It’s easier for them to get their child in a forward facing carseat so as quickly as possible they will do so, regardless of how many times you try to explain that it is safer not to travel this way for a child so young. There is a lady who I regularly see commenting on this subject and one of her comments was along the lines of “If I had to drive wearing a red clown nose, a silly wig and pulling a funny face to make my kids safer, then I would.” I think it’s very commendable, and I take my hat off to her, but she doesn’t seem to realise that unfortunately she is in the minority when she makes that comment. Most people wouldn’t do something so silly for an extra bit of safety, they want something that looks good and offers the latest gadgets and is a label they can boast about a bit and that is simple and easy to use. Don’t confuse the British public – it’s terribly easy to do, on the whole. I’ve worked since I was fourteen and in every job I’ve had an interactive role with the people who would be viewed as ‘customers’ and believe me when I say that as individuals they can have degrees and know all kinds of clever things, but as a mass, a group, they are completely ignorant and will simply follow the herd and if you don’t tell them what they want to hear they will ignore you and talk a bit louder (then ask to speak to your supervisor). As a company you need to give customers what they want if you want them to buy your product, which is why you’ll find not many major companies shout about products they produce, but which are less popular.

The Breastfeeding Debate: OK now this one I saved til last because it really touches a nerve with me. A range of products – including baby t-shirts – has just been launched showing an image of a bottle with a red line through it and a negative comment about not breastfeeding. It is meant to imply that mothers who don’t breastfeed are somehow lacking in being perfect mothers, and that by the act of breastfeeding those who do are somehow better and more perfect.

I am pro-breastfeeding. I think it’s a beautiful thing to be able to do, to provide your baby nourishment and comfort from your own body in such a way. Technically speaking baby needs nothing for the first few weeks apart from mummy – these times are for mummy to treasure forever, and a time for bonding and getting more used to one another. Throughout my pregnancy I was asked by various other mums to be, midwives, consultants, doctors and other medical bods whether I intended to breastfeed and every time I answered truthfully, “Yes, I do.”

The Boy’s delivery wasn’t easy and it was a good hour or two after delivery that I had an opportunity to try feeding him. He wasn’t interested at all, and after the midwife tried assisting me and found he wasn’t having it, she suggested I kept trying for a while and left me to it. Two hours later he still hadn’t fed, though I’d managed to rub some of the colostrum around his lips and he’d licked them, he wouldn’t latch on for a good feed. The midwife complained that if he didn’t by midnight I couldn’t be discharged onto the ward from the recovery room, and I had to be discharged from the recovery room by midnight (I didn’t think to ask if the room turned into a pumpkin at midnight, because thinking back on it now, why should it matter?) Anyway midnight was in an hours time, the midwife tried assisting again and he wouldn’t latch on, so she got another midwife to help and that didn’t work either. In the end some more colostrum was rubbed around his lips which he licked and they counted that as a ‘feed’ and discharged me to the maternity ward just after midnight.

We were in hospital for three days altogether. Each time I tried to feed him he’d take a mouthful or two but never much at a time. The best time I got him to latch on was the day we were discharged, when he was on for almost an hour, but he wasn’t taking a lot, it was just as if he wanted the closeness. I was still worried; they were still convinced everything was fine, we were discharged. The following day at home my midwife was horrified by what I told her, and the fact that since our return from the hospital The Boy had been asleep. We expressed some milk and fed it to him with a little sippy cup, which he took hungrily. “Darling, he’s not asleep, he’s unconscious,” She whispered, “He’s hungry, very hungry, and we need to get food in him or he needs to go back to hospital.” So we expressed even more into a bottle and fed him. From that point on, I tried to get him to breastfeed from me, but he simply wouldn’t, he refused, he would absolutely not to it to the point where he would scream his lungs out as soon as he realised what I was about to do! I had all kinds of advice and help from my midwife and a nursery nurse assistant to the health visitor (the health visitor is as much use as a chocolate teapot, but more on that later!) My son would drink breastmilk until his tummy went pop if it was out of a bottle, but direct from the source he absolutely refused. It was soul destroying, heartbreaking and made me feel so rejected by my beautiful, perfect baby that I cannot even begin to say how much it hurt every time I tried and every time he refused. While The Hubby was off work it was easy for me to pop off every couple of hours to express, and he would look after The Boy or wash and sterilise the bottles while I did so, but when he went back to work it became harder and harder to do. I’d slip from every two hours to every two and a half, to every three hours, as I struggled to juggle everything on my own, and of course as I was expressing less often I was getting less when I did. I must point out that at no point did I ever produce enough to satisfy The Boy – throughout the whole six weeks I was expressing milk I couldn’t keep up with him, even when expressing every time he fed, so the whole time he was being combination fed with SMA formula. And before that sparks off a whole other debate, there was no particular reason for us choosing SMA other than the fact that it was a brand we both recognised and was available in most shops locally so we knew it would be easy to buy when it was needed. Gradually the amount of milk I expressed off was less than the amount The Boy consumed of formula milk in any 24 hour period and one evening when he was six weeks old and I was exhausted I burst into tears about the fact that I couldn’t breastfeed and I couldn’t supply his demand and I was a useless mother in front of The Hubby.

He was horrified to find that I’d been feeling like that, and assured me that it was clearly The Boy’s choice not to breastfeed and we’d tried our best but he wasn’t into it, so how about we allow the formula feeds to take over so I could stop expressing and stressing about it. We agreed that was the way forward. I tried very hard to breastfeed, but for us it didn’t happen, and in lieu of breastfeeding directly I think I did alright to express for six weeks. It’s longer than some women breastfeed after all!

Now, bearing this in mind, I don’t take kindly to people presuming to know that I couldn’t be bothered to breastfeed my baby, or that I took an easier option or that my child is somehow less healthy because he didn’t breastfeed. Technically he did breastfeed as he had my milk for six weeks as well as formula – he’s had fewer illnesses so far in his life than other children of the same age and he’s taller and broader than the same group. He’s happy, sociable, inquisitive and thoughtful. I see no problems in his development physically or emotionally because I didn’t breastfeed him directly.

So then, how dare some other woman, who doesn’t know me, or my son, or our story or history, presume to know my reasons for not breastfeeding, and start having a go at me for my own, personal, honest opinion? Surely that’s unacceptable – I was asked for my opinion and provided it, and somehow this entitles you to have a go at me? To rant at me for some imaginary lifestyle story you have dreamed up for me? You don’t know me, why are you being so judgemental? Yet these women are doing it on an almost constant basis, to other mums who are presumably working just as hard as everyone else simply to do their best by their children? I hate this about society today – so quick to make judgements, to rip someone’s throat out (figuratively speaking) and scream abuse, vent your rage and start all the name calling under the sun. Have we actually moved on from the playground mentality at all? The whole idea of opinion, and debate, is each to their own – not that we will try and bully others into agreeing with our opinion!

Someone gleefully pointed out, on a debate on one page today, “Ooo, it’s just like MN in here!” and at that point I had to log out. I stopped using MN because of the awful conduct of the hideous women that frequent its pages and I hope that this is not the way that other pages will be going. I am all for debate, conversation, opinions – but not when people start getting bullied for speaking their mind.

At school, kids got bullied by me and I got bullied by other kids. I made a conscious effort to stop behaving that way when I was fifteen or sixteen and since then if I have an opinion I would like to give it without the risk of bullies shouting at me and threatening me verbally if I share my opinion. I am not here to judge you, why should you judge me? Each to their own – if we were all the same, life would be boring. It’s the same opinion that makes us decorate our houses differently, buy different cars, wear different clothes, all these are individual choices and you should not be ridiculed for sharing your choice when an opinion is asked.

So please, before you write a nasty comment to someone you don’t even know about the choices they’ve made in their life or their child’s life, stop and think about it. You don’t know the whole story, and a comment you say may be a very hurtful thing. You’re not going to agree with everything you read, but nor do you have to take such an aggressive stance on what you don’t agree with – if you don’t like it, stop reading it and move on – life goes on.