The elephant

Well, a few days ago I had my first PND therapy session with a nice lady called Sue. No point boring you with the details. It wasn’t particularly revelatory… I didn’t have a lightbulb moment where I thought ‘yeah, that’s why I’ve been feeling so crap and now, blimey, I’m cured!’ I found out that I’m not suicidal (I already knew that), that I’m feeling out of control (ditto), that I’m not very good at telling people how I’m feeling or asking for help (errr, yes) and then I was asked what I could do to help myself feel better. Well, Mrs Therapist, let me tell you… if I knew that then I wouldn’t be bloody sitting in this chair wide-eyed on Prozac wittering on to you, would I? Good God, give me some answers woman! Anyway, I now have a regular slot on Tuesdays at 3pm, which means I can get back in time for Deal Or No Deal. And hopefully Sue can get to the bottom of all this PND malarkey. She was right about one thing though — motherhood is a stressful, life-changing event where you find yourself doing things you would never have dreamt of before, like spending 20 minutes drying a sopping wet stuffed Mothercare elephant with a hairdryer. Yes Sam can’t do ANYTHING without his beloved elephant (for some reason pronounced Yayashant in our house), not eat, not sit in the pushchair and certainly not have a bath. So Yayashant now regularly has a sub-aqua experience, bobbing on the surface, looking disgruntled, and then occasionally dipping below the bubbles until Sam hauls him back up from the depths. Trouble is, Sam can’t sleep without Yayashant either, which is where the frantic hairdrying marathon comes in. Bloody hell, I don’t even have the time to dry my own hair, but somehow I always manage to find 20 whole minutes to gently dry the polyester fur of some ridiculous soft toy! Madness, I tell you, madness. Any wonder I’ve got PND? If you’re reading this, Sue, we’ll talk about it next week…

Revelations and ridicule!

I read this in the papers today: “The number of women who’ve had postnatal depression could be two to three times higher than previous estimates, reveals a survey of 500 mothers commissioned by the Royal College of Midwives. It was previously estimated that 10 per cent of new mothers suffer some sort of depressive illness, yet the survey showed 20 per cent of women said they’d had postnatal depression that had resulted in treatment such as medication or therapy after the birth of their baby.
Dame Karlene Davis, General Secretary of the Royal College of Midwives, said: "Pregnancy is a wonderful life changing event for some women, but the transition to motherhood can trigger anxiety, severe exhaustion and depression. This survey indicates that postnatal depression could be a lot higher than previously estimated and the reality is that the incidence could be even higher, as many women hide their symptoms and are too afraid to ask for help.”
No wonder people don’t ask for help when yummy mummy types are somehow revered. Things like this ridiculous survey don’t exactly help www.slummy-yummy.com. ‘What sort of Mummy are you?’ it asks, alongside questions about whether you prefer slippers or high heels, have a muffin top or toned midriff (what new mum has a toned midriff, for God’s sake??!) Not surprisingly, I came out as a slummy mummy… “You love being a Mummy so much you’ve neglected yourself and your relationship,” it told me. OH BOG OFF! Then I was asked to: “Visit the MAMA website to re-discover the woman behind the mother.” ERRR, NO THANKS YOU PATRONISING TWAT… I vote that the MAMA website is banned!
Meanwhile, poor Sam continues to bravely put up with his style change. The necklace was one thing, but now I’m on my ethical eco drive he’s also wearing a pair of natty Oxfam trousers that cost me 99p. My sister said he looks like, and I quote: ‘a nancy boy’. Oh well…

Trying to go green – and falling off the wagon

I recycle, I use Nature nappies or Moltex Oko (not as good as reusable, but let’s avoid that for now), I use products like Ecover and I buy Fairtrade. I’m in no way an ethical warrior or green queen (that accolade falls to one of my best mates, who leaves my pathetic attempts trailing in her wake), but I try. It’s a bit half-hearted to be honest, because I’m still a sucker for a cheap bargain from New Look or Primark and I think nothing of spending a tenner here or there on what can only be described as tat. I prefer Cadbury’s to Co-op’s Fairtrade chocolate, I’d watch Wife Swap over How To Be Green any day, I baulk at walking too far or taking the bus and I’m not exactly the type to waft around barefoot baking my own bread and living off mung beans. Or am I? Three days ago I had what can only be described as an ethical epiphany. After learning about a group in America called Compact (www.sfcompact.blogspot.com) who’ve pledged not to buy anything new for a year except for food, medicines and essentials (nappies, washing up liquid etc) I’ve decided to do the same. Charity shops, Ebay and reclamation centres are now the only places where I’m allowed to spend my money. The idea, in a nutshell, is that your resist global corporatism, but they also talk about de-cluttering your life, which, in my current state, sounds like a good idea.
It started off so well… we’d been looking at a set of garden chairs at Argos, until we found one on Ebay for around the same price. Then I mended a pair of shoes I was thinking of replacing. I felt good about it… I was shunning all those big businesses in favour of good, old fashioned ‘make do and mend.’ Then, in all my hippy dippy happy clappiness, I fell off the wagon. I popped into Green Baby for some reusable baby wipes (euccchhh) and parted with £16.99 for one of those amber necklaces for babies that supposedly help them with teething pain and keep them calm. ‘Well, the amber’s not new. It’s been around for centuries, so technically it’s not a ‘new’ purchase,’ M said later, helpfully trying to absolve my guilt. ‘And we’ll save on Bonjela and Calpol.’ Sam was a bit non-plussed about his necklace and no matter how much I pretend it suits him, he does look a little bit like a girl. Never mind… I guess I can always blame the PND for these moments of weakness. Talking of which, another friend has just told me she’s in the same boat and is seeing her doctor next week. Good for her, because admitting it is the hardest thing.

Postnatal depression – it’s okay to own up!

So, I’m not crummy after all. A few weeks ago I was diagnosed with postnatal depression (hence the long gap in between posts). This will probably come as a shock to those of you who know me, but that’s the shit thing with PND… it makes you feel embarrassed, like an utter failure and you don’t want to own up to anyone about it, especially not other mums. That’s why it’s still something of a taboo subject. You don’t going around going, ‘hey, guess what everyone? I’ve got postnatal depression’, do you?
Anyway, in the spirit of breaking the cycle of secrecy surrounding PND, guess what? I’ve got postnatal depression. It started last October when Sam was seven months old. I’d felt fine before that, but my GP puts it down to stopping breastfeeding and the drop in all the hormones I’d had swimming around my body since Sam was conceived. (Bloody hormones!) I was in denial, battled on, felt better for a while, then pretty darn crap again about a month ago. I’m now on fluoxetine (okay, it’s Prozac, but using its generic name makes me feel better!) and I’m getting there.
The funny thing is that it wasn’t exactly depression that I was feeling. I wasn’t weeping uncontrollably or finding it hard to get out of bed. I was trying to do too much and that was the problem – I felt a constant, nagging, persistent overwhelming stress. It was as if I was a bucket of water with holes in and no matter how hard I tried to block all the holes and keep the water contained, it would inevitably seep out – that was what my life felt like. Out of control.
I wrote endless lists of things that had to get done each day – and if I didn’t tick every single thing off then I panicked. Weirdly, I was so obsessive and so obviously scared of losing my marbles that my list would go something like this:
1. Feed Sam
2. Have shower
3. Remember: PUT A WASH ON!
4. Buy milk
5. Don’t forget: FEED CAT!!
And on it would go… sometimes there would be 30 things on my list. Inane things. Everyday things. Simple things that, to me, felt like mountains
to climb. Occasionally it would feel like there was so much to do, so much to cross off, that I'd be gripped by a terrifying inertia, like a rabbit caught in the headlights. On those days I couldn't even leave the house because getting Sam in the buggy without forgetting something essential seemed like too great a challenge.
I ended up keeping the list by my bed at night, so that if I woke up at 4am fretting about forgetting to take the washing out of the machine, I could simply scribble it down for the next day… and so the cycle would continue.
No wonder I resented all those ‘have it all’ perfect yummy mummies. No wonder I felt like a crap mum. Their lives seemed easy, a breeze. Mine was an uphill struggle.
Not that I ever once resented Sam, though. I knew I loved him more than anything. I just didn’t think I was doing enough for him, or doing things right. I felt guilty, like he deserved more than this pent up, anxious old bat who purported to be his mum.
But thank God for Prozac, that’s what I say. It’s taken the edge off and I feel ‘normal’ for the first time in six months. I’m actually a CONFIDENT mum, I’m a GOOD mum… despite being a little chaotic and unconventional. And I’ve banned lists from my life. It means I forget a few important things every now and then, like last week I forgot to buy nappies until I was down to the last one, but it wasn't exactly life threatening and it wasn't as if the corner shop didn't sell Pampers (okay, I wasn't the wonderful eco-friendly mum I wanted to be by using them, but so what if it's just once in a while?)
I've also stopped going to my postnatal group full of supposedly 'perfect' mums and now I only see nice, normal mums, who admit to a few mistakes and misgivings every so often, but can laugh about them. They're friends, that's the difference.
I would say though, that if for one second any of you suspect that you’re also suffering from PND then please please see your GP. It comes in all shapes and forms – not everyone feels sad, lonely, teary, anxious or doesn’t bond with their baby. Others feel stressed and panicky or angry and moody. For some, like me, the bond with the baby is the only thing that keeps you going. However it manifests itself, it’s a very real and very miserable experience, but one that does get better with the right help – or so I’m told! I’m having my first lot of NHS counselling at the Lind Clinic in delicious Deptford next week, so I’ll let you know how it goes. Yep, there’s hope for me yet!

‘Wait til you have two’

It seems to me that anyone who has more than one child is teetering on the edge of madness. I can barely mention Sam’s penchant for cat food or his Houdini-style attempts to free himself from his buggy in the middle of Lewisham High Street to ‘friends with more than one kid’ without them stifling a laugh. ‘Just wait til you have two,’ they snigger.
To them, it seems, wrestling one baby back into the pushchair is a breeze - a holiday, no less. I’m lucky, they tell me. I have time to go to the loo, to write this blog, to eat a sarnie, to make a cup of tea and to prize my baby’s fingers out of the plug socket. They don’t.
Come 8pm, when I’m slumped in an exhausted heap on the sofa, they’re still hanging up the third load of washing or scrubbing crayon off the carpet. While I’m up just once in the night seeing to Sam’s sore teeth, they’re lucky to get four hours’ sleep thanks to kids wetting the bed, toddlers wanting to play and newborns screeching for a feed.
Today I sat in the garden with the paper while Sam bum shuffled his way around harassing the cat. It wasn’t my idea of total relaxation, but at least I got to skim over the headlines – which is more than my ‘friends with more than one kid’ get to read. So all I can say to them is yes, thanks for the tip – I WILL wait til I have two…
On a similar note, did you read this in the Times last week? http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/comment/columnists/caitlin_moran/article1469531.ece
Good on you, Caitlin Moran.

Sick sick sick

There are loads of things people don't tell you when you have a baby... that you can't physically feel your bum to poo after a natural birth, that you suffer a deep PMT-style depression after you stop breast feeding, that every day you find yourself looking forward to 5pm so you can justify that glass of wine.
But one of the worst things is that the very second your baby enters nursery you're all plagued with a constant, relentless sickness. Coughs, colds, chicken pox, conjunctivitus, viruses from hell, infections that rattle your bones, pound your head, shiver your spine and have you retching like you've never retched before.
In the last month, Sam has been well for five - yes, just five - days. For the rest of the time he's been utterly miserable. And so have I... because, aside from having a clingy, tearful, snotty baby, and aside from changing squitty nappies a hundred times a day, whatever he's had I've had too.
'It's perfectly normal,' the doctor smiled when I begged him to make my baby well again. 'In fact, it's better that he's ill now than when he first starts school. It's important he builds up his immune system.'
'Hear that Sam?' I said. 'You can stop your moaning. Your runny arse and gammy eyes are a GOOD thing...'
Then, perhaps selfishly, I thought, 'but what about me?' When I sit on the loo with a bucket in front of me, feeling like I'm going to faint and hearing Sam wimpering to himself next door, how is that possibly a good thing? And don't get me started on how every week I call up work to say I can't come in. 'Sam's sick' just doesn't wash anymore. Neither does 'I'm sick.' It might actually be easier to ring in and say, 'you know what? I can't be arsed to come in today. I'm officially bunking off.' Because, let's face it, that's what they think I'm doing anyway.
Right now, I'm off with a tummy bug and Sam, despite his conjunctivitus, is in nursery. Truth is, I need a break... I'm just sick of being sick.

All blogged out

Three days ago, I decided I wouldn't do this blogging lark any more, for numerous reasons...
1. Who really wants to read about the minutiae of my tiny little life? Isn't it a little self-indulgent?
2. There are other blogs where women moan about being mums and I don't want to jump on that bandwagon...
3. I've offended a few people I know (obviously!)
But then I decided, stuff it, I find it cathartic to rant on about stuff that gets on my nerves and I hope other crummies find reading my rants cathartic, too.
Let's face it, I'm not doing this to wax lyrical about Sam. I could easily go on about how gorgeous he is (he really is), how he can already say a few words at just 11 months (he really can), and how there's not one second of one day where I don't thank God for him, but if I did, it would be a little tedious, wouldn't it?
No, all I want to do is to expel some myths about pregnancy, birth and motherhood. It's a job that none of us are prepared for. And just when you think you've got the hang of it.... BAM! They get ill/start moving/go off certain foods/decide the washing machine is more terrifying than watching The Shining. And you're in the dark again, just like you were when they first plopped into the world. So I've decided to continue blogging for now... if only to carry on getting a few things off my chest.
What do you think of this by the way? In the news today...
"Women face ongoing discrimination in the workplace, a major review of inequality in the UK suggests.
"A partnered mother with a child aged under 11 is 45% less likely to be in work than a partnered man, the Equalities Review says.
"The report suggests women with young children face more discrimination in the workplace than disabled people or those from ethnic minorities.
"It cites a survey of 122 recruitment agencies that revealed more than 70% of them had been asked by clients to avoid hiring pregnant women or those of childbearing age."
Isn't it shocking? But at £45 a day, my local nursery doesn't exactly make going back to work a viable option anyway...

Bugger the books and stuff the health visitors

Phew… this is a long post. But bear with me…
For the first few weeks of Sam’s life, in that clueless sleep-deprived haze of paranoia that surrounds most first-time mums, Sam couldn’t even sneeze without me frantically looking up ‘sneezing’ in the index of The Bible (aka What To Expect: The First Year). If that didn’t give me a satisfactory answer, I’d tap ‘sneezing baby’ into Google, then finally beg the health visitor for a reason why Sam had got, in my mind at least, a severe case of ‘sneezing baby syndrome’.
Every green poo, every spot, every bit of puke was closely scrutinised. As the months passed, that paranoia manifested itself in Sam’s development, too. If The Bible said Sam ought to be crawling or making ba-ba-ba noises and he wasn’t, I’d panic.
‘Why isn’t he sitting up yet?’ I’d ask M.
‘He will… soon,’ he’d placate me. ‘All babies develop at different rates.’
‘Well it says here that he should be by now. What’s wrong with him? He did another green poo again last night. Do you think he’s ill?’
Of course it didn’t help that the Postnatal group Yummies had babies that did everything on cue… they sat up at six months, crawled by seven, pulled up by eight and said ‘Mummy, you’re the best’ at 10 months (okay, I made that last bit up, but you get the gist.)
Sam, meanwhile, ‘failed’ his eight-month check on the basis that he was a) too skinny, b) wasn’t making ba-ba noises and c) didn’t respond when I called his name.
Gloom and doom. Depression and angst. I was a bad bad mother. I was doing something wrong. I was failing my baby. The books said so. Was it because I didn’t bake my own organic bread for him or take him to Sing ‘n’ Sign? Maybe I was giving Sam too much attention… or too little?
More avid reading and Google searching ensued. I posted on babycentre and ivillage forums. I went back and forth to the health visitor, like a demented yo-yo.
The answer finally came from a member of staff at Sam’s nursery. ‘He’s a real little character,’ she said, chuckling. ‘He definitely knows his own mind.’
‘Yes,’ I smiled. ‘Yes, he does.’
Back home, I ditched The Bible and I haven’t been back to the health visitor since. Sam never did learn to crawl – he bum shuffles everywhere. The reason he doesn’t respond when I call his name is because he’s already learnt to ignore the inane wafflings of his mum. He’s skinny because, well, that’s just the way he’s built. And he ba-bas and ga-gas, but only when he feels like it. He’s different. Every baby is different.
Now I do what I feel’s right for both me and for Sam – I’ve stopped sterilising those flipping bottles, I laugh whenever Sam does something naughty, I give him a drink if he wakes in the night, I bring him into bed with us, I feed him full-salt, full-sugar Baked Beans (likewise bits of pizza, sips of my tea, soups made with stock, undiluted juice, sausages and – oh gosh – food that isn’t organic!), I let him sample cat food (he prefers it to Annabel Karmel’s creations) and I allow him to play freely without me meddling or interrupting to build towers for him every five seconds.
As a result, we’re more relaxed (well, most of the time anyway). So the moral of this story is that baby books – Gina Ford, The Baby Whisperer, What To Expect, Annabel blinkin’ Karmel — are the devil’s work. They feed on the paranoia of first-time mums everywhere. That’s how they make money. Don’t buy them — unless you fancy living your life in a perpetual state of worry. Take it from me, green poo, sneezing and bum shuffling are all totally normal.

Being yummy isn't so bad after all

Yesterday Sam slept for an hour in the morning, so I used the time wisely. Nope, I didn't clean weeks of baby crud off the carpet, clear the maggots from the cat food dish or even watch Jeremy Kyle. I had... a shower. A rare treat indeed. Then, I chose something nice to wear... a skirt, a posh sweater and trendy knee-high leather boots. Okay, so I had a hole in the gusset of my tights, but otherwise I looked like I'd stepped straight off the cover of Mother & Baby mag.
For the rest of the day I felt calm, in control and I began to understand what it's all about, this yummyness. Looking good on the outside makes you feel good on the inside. It's so simple.
Then I took Sam to the park via the corner shop and I felt like a right nobber. You see the thing is, I live in Lewisham, not Dulwich, not blinkin' Putney, but good old SE13 where looking like you've just stepped off the 185 bus (and not out of the salon) is de rigeur.
Today I'm back in my usual get-up, but the experience has taught me one thing... I need to buy some new tights.

Yet another thing to worry about...

I read this in the Times last week....

www.women.timesonline.co.uk/tol/life_and_style/women/families/article1315346.ece

What a crock of shite. Is this journalist (Lucy McDonald) really suggesting that if we don't have a forward-facing Bugaboo our kids will end up with poor communication skills? Does she have shares in the company or does she just want to replace her posh pram with the latest celeb model?
I have nothing against Bugaboos, per se, and good for you if you can afford one. But, frankly, for most people £500 is a heck of a lot of money. And if you can't stretch that far for a pram, or if you prefer to spend your hard-earned cash elsewhere (on a holiday, say) then you certainly shouldn't be made to feel that you're parentally challenged or, worse than that, somehow contributing to your kid's potential language problems.
Let's face it, there are plenty of other opportunities during the day to talk to your child. When you're changing their nappy/feeding them/pushing them on the swings. And honestly, me wibbling on to Sam whenever he's in the pushchair isn't going to make much difference to his learning — sometimes, in fact, babies need quiet time just to look at the cars going past, stare at the ducks in the park or watch the leaves rustle in the trees and me saying, 'look darling, a doggie! Can you see the plane? Oooh there's a big truck!' every five minutes will probably really pee him off.
Give the babies - and us mums - a break! And don't rush out to buy a forward-facing pram on the back of this article. It's rubbish, I'm telling you. Rubbish. Sam's 10 months, gets pushed about in a rattly stroller and he can say cat, dog, duck and dada. Proof, if ever it were needed, that you DON'T NEED A BUGABOO!

p.s My Annabel Karmel one-pot chicken casserole was rejected today, yes REJECTED, in favour of that good old favourite Hipp Organic Chicken And Vegetable Risotto. Can you believe it? I'm utterly disheartened.

What is it with Annabel Karmel?

It seems to me that society has a very set idea of how you should be as a mum... some sort of warm, ever-giving, sensible, highly organised culinary queen and domestic slave. And this domesticity doesn't just extend to washing babygros and changing nappies. Oh no, you have to be the world's finest baby chef, too.
It all starts with the dreaded 'W' word — weaning. When to do it, what to do, how to do it?... Baby rice, pear or mash?... Four months or six months?... One teaspoon or two? And there's only one person who has the answer... Annabel Karmel.
I'd been feeding Sam pear non-stop for three weeks when I first heard her name mentioned by some Yummies in Greenwich Park, like she was some sort of shaman of mush, a champion of slop.
'Oh yes, Dulcie just adores her salmon and cornflake surprise,' one gushed.
Oh God... guilt descended like a blanket of doom.
I bought the book, stared at the cover, stared at her picture. There she was, this baby food guru, groomed to perfection with not one stain of baby shit under her immaculate nails. She'd done to Chicken and Sweet Potato Puree what Nigella Lawson did to Duck With Honey and Orange - she made making it sexy.
The blurb on the back read: “Any mother who does not have at least one of Annabel’s books in her kitchen, well thumbed and splattered with food, should waste no time in putting that right.” Yikes.
Guilt made me do it... and the words of the Yummies ringing in my ears: 'If you wouldn't eat it yourself, don't feed it to your baby.' Would I eat a jar of Hipp Organic Chicken With Vegetables And Rice? Maybe with a hangover...
Anyway, today I chopped, skinned, deseeded, peeled, simmered and whizzed with the handheld blender (as recommended by Annabel). I spooned the gunk into tiny pots and rammed it all into the postage stamp-sized freezer compartment of our fridge. After that, I had a small rest for Deal Or No Deal, while Sam played with some multicoloured plastic and the washing up festered by the sink.
By the time M comes home I definitely won't be arsed with cooking anything else so no doubt we'll get a takeaway — again. And we'll add the dirty plates to the others still festering by the sink. Oh the romance of it all.
'That baby will be eating better than anyone I know,' my mum told me on the phone. Yep, she's got a point there.

'I hate Yummy Mummies'

Anyone read this article by Nirpal Dhaliwal?

http://women.timesonline.co.uk/tol/life_and_style/women/families/article1271972.ece

I have to say I agree with most of what he wrote, not least the line about Yummy Mummies being 'the epitome of the fraudulent charade that passes for being a parent these days.' The reality of the situation is that being a mum is stressful, chaotic, fraught with guilt and peppered with mistakes. The shinyness of these Yummy Mummies and their 'perfect parenting' is a myth. Surely behind closed doors they're as neurotic and confused as the rest of us? Or am I the only one happy to admit that I'm neurotic and confused?
We mums are each others' worst enemies. It's when we start thinking that we can't talk to so-and-so about our parenting problems because their lives are so perfect and their little darling has never cried/shat/fallen head-first off the bed that we come a cropper. Let's revel in how we haven't got a clue what we're doing, glory in being confused, guilt-ridden, dishevelled and totally reliant on ready meals whilst wishing we had the energy to cook hearty organic suppers and, more importantly, laugh at our mistakes and support each other through the difficult times... because, believe me fellow Crummies, there'll be many more of those ahead...

Running Mummies, Buggy Fit... whatever it's called, it's rubbish

Last night, after my third pint (I don't even drink lager) in a crap smoke-filled pub, my mobile phone bleeped.
'R U coming to Running Mummies 2moro?' Postnatal Group Yum Mum texted. Somewhere in the booze-filled fug of my memory I recalled that I'd promised to go. 'Starts @ 9.30.'
I spluttered into my pint. I'd been once before with a normal down-to-earth Mum friend who just happens to love exercise — and I hated it. Nine super-fit, fresh-faced, up-with-the-lark Yummies pushing their Stokkes and Bugaboos jauntily round the park while I trailed behind, coughing, spluttering, creaking... and panicking that the rattly old wheels of my £50 stroller would fall off at any moment. Sam juddered over every bump like a mini pneumatic drill. And I paid £5 for the privilege.
Rumour has it that the long-suffering twins, which the Running Mummies leader pushes effortlessly around in her fancy three-wheeler, are actually 'borrowed' from a friend - what a fake! Not for her the fear of your womb plopping through your pelvic floor as you thud across the tarmac.
'Don't think I'll make it,' I texted Yum Mum back. 'Sam's got a doctor's appt.' Its for situations like that that the white lie was invented.
This morning at 9.30, as I fed Sam his Weetabix, while still in my dressing gown, I marveled at how these Yummies do it. They actually get up, get the baby up, dressed, fed and in the Stokke all by 9.30am.
Personally, I never make it out of the house before about 12... that's generally after washing up all the plates from last night's dinner, two nappy changes, an epic hunt for Sam's hat and gloves, another nappy change, a mammoth screaming struggle to wrestle Sam's coat on and then, finally stepping out of the front door only to discover I've forgotten Sam's juice beaker or, on one occasion, Sam. And if anyone thinks I've got the energy to prance around the park after that they've got another think coming.
Top tip: If you ever leave the house without a spare nappy, two sanitary towels pressed together work wonders. I speak from experience.

Organic Panic — Why organic baby products don't automatically turn you into a 'perfect mum'

Friday 9th February 2007

I've just had a delivery. From Neal's Yard. For baby barrier cream (with organic sunflower oil and Roman chamomile, don't you know.) I ordered it in a panic on Saturday after reading a 'middle class paper' dismiss anything non-organic as cancer-causing. Half of me thought, 'oh bollocks to it, Sam'll be fine,' but then the guilt descends and suddenly I find myself ordering Moltex Eco nappies by the bucketload and spending almost £50 (£50???) on the Neal's Yard website. Opening the parcel made me feel despondent... yes, I now have the beautiful cobalt blue Neal's Yard jar sitting in pride of place on Sam's changing table like a shining beacon to perfect mums everywhere... but it doesn't hide from the fact that it's sitting next to a big ugly pink bottle of Johnson's baby cream, a shitty snotty muslin and a discarded baby wipe covered in something that can only be described as poo.

Why sledging with a 10-month-old isn't such a good idea after all.

Thursday 8th February 2007

We got a sledge from my dad for Christmas, well Sam got a sledge from my Dad for Christmas, which we thought was a bit optimistic what with global warming and all.
But today it snowed. Big, fat, wet, deep snow... in London. So down came the sledge from the loft. In the morning I went with two like-minded mums - without mishap. But you don't miss a chance to go sledging twice, do you? So in the afternoon, as the snow was melting, I called a few Yummies (super jolly fizzing perfect Yum Mums from my postnatal group) to offer more 'sledging fun' in the park. Dubious responses, but a few agreed to come and watch. I dutifully threaded my old mobile phone charger flex through the metal loops (no rope in this house, you know) so I could pull Sam along like an overgrown Husky and heaved my way to the top of the hill. 'Be careful with Sam, make sure he doesn't fall off...' the Yummies cried from the sidelines (which basically translates as 'I don't think you should take a 10 month old sledging.')
'Hmph,' I thought, as we teetered on the edge of the hill. 'We'll be fine. It'll be fun. This is what having a kid's all about, isn't it?' (Which roughly translates as 'I'm going to be a fun Mum, not a boring sensible one!') So we whizzed off down the slope of our local park, wind in our hair, and, sure enough, we came to an abrupt halt at the bottom. Sam flew off face first into the snow and emerged with freezing mush in his eyes, ears, mouth and nostrils looking like the baby snowman we'd just made. Only then did I realise his little shoe and tiny sock had come off half way up and his toes were embedded in the cold, wet flakes. He bravely blinked the snow from his eyes as I frantically scrabbled around for his shoe and sock before any of the Yummies could see what I terrible mother I was. Then we went home to warm up... I'd like to say 'by the fire with tea and crumpets', but the truth is we warmed up by the radiator with tea and a bit of leftover toast I'd saved for feeding the ducks. So the moral of the story is this... sledging with a 10 month old isn't such a brilliant idea after all.