As delighted as I was to have become a finalist, watching the banter on Twitter about the approaching Britmums Live blogging conference and the included award ceremony had the opposite effect than it probably should have done. I didn’t feel part of the community involved with Britmums Live, exactly the opposite, I felt like the one stood by the door holding a watermelon gawping (if you have never seen the film Dirty Dancing, to be honest, this metaphor is going to be utterly wasted on you).
With your first child it’s fine to be fastidious with every aspect of their lives, from having ear phones strapped to your belly playing Beethoven (yes I did this) in order to better grow a cultured foetus, to showing a 6 month old flash cards in the hope it will give them an edge over their competition peers. With the second child you’re happy if everyone is dressed and fed and you convince yourself that the older one is passing on all the wisdom you attempted to impart in them to their younger sibling. By the time you’ve reached your third child, a good day constitutes not having misplaced any of them and not having had the neighbours report the screaming coming from next door to social services. Little do they know that it is you screaming, not your children.
[S]leep, or the lack of it, is probably the biggest cause of arguments in relationships, well in relationships that involve the shared care of a baby anyway. It's amazing how, based purely on the fact that they are asleep and you are not, it is possible to feel pure hated for another human being. The mere suggestion of a contented sleepy sigh from your partner when you're awake with a baby (born with the inhuman ability to sense a cot mattress approaching) is enough to undo any humanity or decency that you once saw in them. And no doubt the ...
The secret to happiness is low expectations
~ Barry Schwartz
[I] normally wouldn't agree with this statement. It seems like the defeatest's excuse to sit around moaning rather than trying to change the things in their life that they don't like. I hadn't counted on the ability of a traffic warden to piss me off quite as much as they did Friday evening though, and suddenly I'm wondering if there might be a shred of truth in the statement.
This is what I found as I came off the train at St Albans City train station having been discharged from Great Ormond Street ...
Becoming a mother is an assault on every one of your senses, it’s an exercise in surviving mental torture and has a learning curve that puts a banana to shame. Yet, at the same time I learnt so much about such specialised things that, if you pitted my knowledge against the general public’s on the same subject and you would have to concede that I, in the context of the wider world, was a childcare expert, and really that’s something that more mothers should learn to be proud of (Gina Ford, eat your heart out).