This is not a post for the squeamish

Sometimes I dread writing these blog posts because I can’t believe that some of this stuff actually happens to me. Any mathematicians out there I would LOVE to know whether I've officially hit longer odds with my pregnancy complications than winning the lottery because if not, I’m pretty sure I’m running a damn close second.

Yesterday was a day I could only describe as "batshitinsane". OK so I could maybe use a word like "surreal" instead but that wouldn't quite cover it. I’m choosing not to post about our brush with celebrity just yet, instead I want to tell you about the other thing that happened.

I passed a kidney stone – apparently.

Here’s the little fella in a photo I took to send to Keith because frankly, I had one foot planted in the land of WhattheHELL?!?! and the other dancing a jig of gratitude that finally, after weeks of “repeated UTIs” I finally felt instantly and gloriously better.

 

Anyone eating their lunch can skip the next section, it contains details.

[start of details]

So a few weeks ago I started peeing pink. Nothing else, just peeing pink. I went to the doctor who put me on antibiotics for the first time in years, and a week later I was back with the same symptoms. Test results had shown that there was no infection so like everything that happens at times like these, it was put down to the fact that I’m growing a human.

Cut to a week later and I have an evening where I can’t stop shivering, feel like my back is going to explode, and I need to puke like I’m appearing on that old TV gem, Jackass. I stripped off and took a hot shower and while it helped a little, but all I could think was “this feels like back labour, but wrong”. Trust me, I’m an expert in back labours, it was close, but something felt a little off.

Having retired for the night I woke up the next day feeling OK, and over the course of the next week I got another UTI which was just miserable. I’d given up going to the doctor by this point so went to the supermarket to get something to take the edge off the symptoms and hoped for the best.

[end of details]

Clearly the big man was listening because yesterday I went to the loo and felt instantly better in the way you do when you pop an enormous zit, or escape from an important formal occasion and let rip a epic fart (husband I’m looking at you).

Better, and also incredible confused as to how I’d managed to pick up a lump of gravel somewhere gravel should never be found.

I was so confused I actually ran through a list of possible ways one of my darling ankle biters might have sabotaged the laundry before slowly, everything started to click into place.

But why? If you run down the list of pregnancy complications this does not feature highly. In fact, just whatthehell?!?!?

I've paid my dues to weird pregnancy complications, my teeth went to ratshit with Alfie because of the aspirin, my heart went to hell with Esme because of ephedrine, I’m due a nice, calm, complication free ride this time!!

Yeah, turns out long term aspirin use can cause kidney stones.

Who knew?

Not me, because apparently that kind of information is entirely unnecessary to someone on their third aspirin fuelled pregnancy UNTIL THEY START PEEING ROCKS.

On the one hand I figure if this is the only weirdness I get this time round, I’ll take it and say a quiet prayer of thanks.

On the other hand, I’m wondering if I need to take out life insurance.

Real Women

I don’t hate pink as a colour, but I hate what it symbolises in the context of raising the next generation of women. On the other hand I do hate the phrase "real women" because anyone with a set of female genitalia is a real woman, you don’t become imaginary because you look or act in a particular way.

That said, there is a major corporation who leads the way in training the next generation of women to feel less than real if they don’t conform to a certain look.

Disney, I’m looking at you.

If you care to look online at the female characters of the last 20 years, waists have gotten smaller, eyes and busts have grown and the power of self-determination has all but vanished. Where once girls had Pocahontas and Mulan, they now have a collection of princesses who seem to have no greater ambition in life than waiting to be saved by the man of their dreams.

Because let’s face it, we all need saving, right girls?

Even when they look set to change, Disney can’t seem to help sexualising their characters. Merida, the tomboy heroin of the film Brave is now set to get the sparkly, Victorian corset makeover.

And while it cheers me that 108,000 people have already voiced their concern over the move, it saddens me that the number isn't 100x higher.

It saddens me because of what it is teaching my children, and it saddens me more because that lesson seems to be acceptable to the wider population.

Women are sexual objects, women need to be saved, the beauty of a woman is in her figure, she might be feisty, but don’t worry, once you've won her over with your strong masculinity, she’ll be putty in your hands.

Holy shit people, when did all this become OK?!?

Right now, women are set to vanish from UK banknotes because clearly those women who had previously "made a lasting contribution, which is universally recognised and has had enduring benefits" have now ceased to be of importance. Perhaps if we had given Florence Nightingale, or Elizabeth Fry the Disney treatment they would have been allowed to stick around for a little longer?

These are the monetary faces of my formative years and I remember looking at these women as a child and being curious as to what they had done. Without saying a word, just the fact that I was seeing them on a regular basis gave me the message that they were important: That what they had done was valued by our society.

Now we have created one more void into which alternative role models will leech. And those role models will have impossible breasts, pink clothes and probably wear vajazzels.

It means I now have to work even harder to demonstrate to my children where true worth lies.

That is just one reason I love this post by talented photographer Jaime Moore who has taken the time to bring some incredible female role models alive for her daughter.

We shouldn't live in a world where positive discrimination is necessary in order to demonstrate to our children that women have more to offer than sexuality, but clearly we do. So I urge you, search out the real women of history – whatever their looks – and show them to the children in your life.

Nobody else is going to.

A Sudden S-s-s-stutter

I’m not, as a rule, a nervous parent. In actual fact I think our attitude towards health and safety is probably at the more permissive end of the scale. Last night, for instance, Keith and his friend Bill were discussing whether Alfie is ready for his own rod next time he goes fishing and not once did it occur to me to be concerned about hooks Vs soft squishy body parts.

Some things do scare the bejesus out me though, and a recent Alfie development is one such, coming as it did completely out of the blue.

My son has suddenly developed a very marked stutter.

I know that’s not even on the scale of what a lot of parents have to contend with – it’s not life threatening or even likely to lead to mild bruising – but in a less physical way, it is important.

It’s important because Alfie is just starting to blossom into an articulate intelligent little boy.

It’s important because we were just moving away from him lashing out in frustration and into the realms of reasoned response.

And it’s especially important because I am hesitant enough to consider mainstream education for someone of his personality, let alone if he is carrying the child equivalent of a big neon arrow saying “victimise me”: God could you even imagine the bloodshed? … on both sides!?!

Alfie’s stutter seems to have coincided with a time in his life when he is perpetually tired and growing like a weed both physically and mentally. There is nothing that seems to make him more or less likely to stutter, it just seems to engulf him every now and then and he will spend seconds stuck in a loop of the first syllable of his word.

Most of the time his speech is perfect.

Luckily in a world of easy access information my troubled mamma bear soul has been soothed by scores of other mothers experiencing the same: The upshot is, it’s normal, he’s just developing so fast his brain is doing the linguistic equivalent of tripping over its own shoelaces, and he’ll grow out of it. Oh and PS, that’s what you get for having a boy, you should have stuck to girls, they're less faulty.

Well why didn't you just tell me that in the first place?!

Worried? Who was worried?

Me. I was.

And not because I thought his life was over but because as a parent it is my duty to hate anything that stands in the way of my child having an easy life. For a little while, all I could see around me was evidence of how thin the line is between ‘perfect’ and ‘damaged’ and marvel at how fragile is the human condition where some small accident of misfiring synapses can have the potential to change how you are perceived.

I don’t let myself get fearful about the things that could happen to my children, as Baz Luhrmann once said “The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind; the kind that blindside you at 4pm on some idle Tuesday”.

I do stand humbled, however, at the power of the universe to throw curve balls Sandy Koufax would slow clap in awe. It never hurts to be reminded, adjust your perspective and breathe out …

This too shall pass.

It’s Not What You Say …

Recently both children have taken language acquisition and put a big fat stamp of individuality on it. 

In Alfie’s case I wish it wasn't so because having wracked my brains for weeks to work out who he sounds like, I have now remembered. I just wish I could forget.

A few weeks ago Alfie decided that the perfect way to express surprise and incredulity was to start saying “Whaaaaaaaaaaa?!” in what I now realise is a near perfect take-off of the tone used by Tim-The-Tool-And-Coke-Man-Taylor in Home Improvements.

Remember that show? Do ya? DO YA?!? With the misogyny, and the over indulgent wife, and OHMYGOD the chauvinism.

I’m not a cruel person so I’m sorry to embed the link here, but click on it and you too can remind yourself of the glory days of 90s TV scheduling.

And right at the end, just as the credits come crashing to a gloriously amusing crescendo you will hear Tim’s trademark “huuuuuuuh?!” which my son now says the exact.same.way. Every time I hear it I wish I’d had my next tattoo done already so I could look at my arm and repeat “This too Shall Pass” until I didn’t feel like selling him for spare parts.

Esme on the other hand has developed a much cuter new word. Which goes without saying because somehow, Keith and I managed to breed an embryonic girlie girl who at the tender age of 17 months instinctively hunches her shoulders, drops her head to one side and FLUTTERS HER EYELASHES every time she says “please” or “thank you” while giving you this cutesy “you can’t say no” smile which you KNOW she’s perfected because her father, in all honesty, can’t say no.

Anyway, her new word. It’s bike. As in motorbike.

She’s just obsessed with them and every time she hears or sees one she has to announce it. And I don’t mean she says the word, NOSIR, I mean she gives you this look of “Holy shit mum, you’re not going to believe this! I mean I don’t quite believe it, but I swear I just heard it. A motorbike! Yeah, I know! An honest to goodness BIKE!!” and screeches “BAAAAAAAAAIIIIIII” at you. It doesn't matter the time gap, but this is repeated for every single bike she sees or hears, days, hours, minutes or even seconds apart.



I’ll let you think for a minute about what her reaction is going to be when we take the children to Silverstone to ACTUALLY WATCH THE BAAAAAIIIIII.

There'll be Bluebirds Over .... Arlesey

I have come to the conclusion that babies are the slippery slope to bankruptcy.

You can dress it up with words like “need” and “legally required” but basically once that nesting urge kicks in, the only hope it to try and find the things you covet as cheaply as possible.

In our case we have summarily rejected pushchairs - one is in the loft while the other is soon to go up for sale – in favour of slings. That doesn't mean less cost however, in fact some of the slings I have been drooling over for Olive come in at well over £100, so any time I can pick up a bargain, I’m on it.

Especially when it means I get my amazing talented friend to stamp her mark on it.

I picked up a ring sling at our last Nearly New Sale. It was a steal at £5 still in the packaging and as it was plain black I figured I couldn't go wrong. I have never been overly sold on ring slings, taking to my stretchy wrap as well as I did but I figured it deserved another chance. Especially for a fiver. Who can argue with a fiver for a sling designed by an ex-starlet turned fashionista?!?!

Steal or not, I wasn’t going about with her logo shimmering off my shoulder - I might as well give up entirely and buy some sweat pants with Juicy stamped across my ass – so I asked Helen of Monkey Mei Tai  if she might be able to spare a little time to help me out.

I send her a pixelated photo of Donald Campbell’s grave (don’t ask, for some reason Olive’s colour for me is turquoise blue, and I love the symbolism of bluebirds)  and she sends me back this amazing piece of work.

And all I could think was "Holy crap lady, do you just wake up and fart talent every morning?!"

So first up we have to break in the sling, and for that we are going to try some Rebozo sifting and by “we” I of course mean Keith, I can’t reboze myself, that would just be crazy and frankly he should just be grateful to get away so lightly with baby duties this time round.