It’s a hot sunny day. It’s a miracle I’m dressed. Frog is around a month old.
The novelty of night feeds gazing at tiny finger nails is starting to fade into a mild yearning for sleep. Prolonged sleep. Sleep that lasts more than two hours at a time.
My friend is coming to visit today. My oldest friend.
We meet her from the train and she takes us to our village pub, where we sit in the garden overlooking the canal. We eat a ploughman’s lunch and chat about the new person in our life. Frog sleeps.
But then my baby wakes. She cries. The cries turn to screams. She is hungry. Continue reading
I know, I know, I’m in Cuba. Still on honeymoon. So I’ve handed the fort over to one of my favourite bloggers today, Adele from Circus Queen.
Adele’s was one of the first blogs I found when I started blogging just over a year ago. Back then she was writing about pregnancy – reading her words took me right back to the days 19 months ago when I was huge and fed up.
She writes with humour, thought and huge sprinklings of common sense. And she resides in my homeland of Bristol, so she’s got to be worth a read.
Without further ado, I bring to you, the Queen of the Circus herself….
When I was fifteen, I voluntarily (!) got up at 5am to study Chemistry and Biology. I was getting ready to write my CXC’s (the Caribbean version of GCSE’s). Looking back I would’ve managed anyway. Looking forward, I’d put my fingertips in the toaster to get those unslept hours to return. Continue reading
Her name was April.
She had blonde hair.
She was firm but gentle, calm and quiet. She had warm hands. Continue reading
This time last year my world was a very different place.
I had a new baby, which meant a new life. Gone were the days of rushing around a newsroom meeting all sorts of exciting people. Gone were the days of carefree nights out with my friends, set up on a whim after a glass of wine or two. I was a new mum. And I was lonely. Continue reading
I wrote a blog post a couple of weeks ago.
It was all about the (self-proclaimed) Northern Love Machine’s struggle at the beginning of fatherhood, both to bond with Frog and fit into his new “role” as a dad. The post had more comments than I’ve ever received on a single post. It was also highlighted in a video by Tara at Sticky Fingers in her talk about The Gallery at Cybermummy 11. And it was included in the Top Ten at Ten round up on the Tots 100.
None of that really matters though. Continue reading
It looks like the love affair is over.
My boob-loving daughter has, after a few false starts, entirely given up the boob. I know, I know. Get a grip and all that.
The thing is, this hasn’t exactly been out of the blue. First of all I whinged on about feeling rejected when she seemed to hate the boobs (it was the teeth – her teeth, I mean, not teeth on my boobs. That would just be weird). Then I moaned when she was all about the breastfeeding again. I wanted to wear pretty dresses and under-wired bras, see. Continue reading
The boobs are back in business.
After recently deciding she’d had enough of my aggressive attempts to thrust a nipple in her mouth, Frog appears to have done a U-turn. The flame has been reignited, so to speak, and Boob and Frog are firmly back together.
Even though at the time I lamented the end of breastfeeding and looked back on those moments of closeness and bonding with bleary-eyed nostalgia, I was – to be quite honest – relieved. It meant I could get rid of the unflattering maternity bras and start wearing dresses again. I’m all about the dresses, me.
So here we are again. Back to tops and trousers. Maybe even a skirt with leggings if I’m feeling particularly trendy. But no dresses. Well, apart from the fabulous breastfeeding Dote Noir dress I bought for a wedding. But that’s pretty much it.
This time last year I was eagerly looking forward to getting my wardrobe back. I was excited about being able to wear whatever I wanted, without having to consider if it had an elasticated waist. I ordered my sister to return every item of clothing I had leant her during my pregnancy, and greeted each flatteringly cut dress like a long lost friend.
Yet here we are. A year on and I’m still not completely free to choose what I wear each morning. It’s like being three again and having someone else pick my clothes. Getting dressed each day is a military operation of tactical considerations. Can I easily get the boob out in this top without showing it to the entire world? Does this one pull up easily or will I end up sitting on it because it’s too long? (Clearly here I’m talking about the top, not the boob.) If I unbutton this shirt am I going to be stuck with one boob flapping in the breeze? Sheesh. It’s enough to give me a headache.
It’s an unpredictable business. Some days Frog’s fine until bedtime, in which case I lament a day’s loss of dress-wearing having opted for jeans and a T’shirt to be on the safe side. On other days, though, Frog is clamped to me for what feels like hours. And she always chooses those days when I’ve opted to risk it with a dress. It’s like she knows I’m not keen on flashing my pants as I attempt to hoik up my dress and get the boob out in a discreet manner.
Ten months old and already she’s mastered the art of embarrassing her mother. Or maybe she just hates dresses.
A tiny Frog and an ugly bra
My baby hates my boobs.
It hasn’t always been this way. No, she used to love them. Like, really love them. She was attached to my nipples like a limpet to a rock, at least every two hours. She woke every few hours in the night and literally stuffed my boob in her mouth. She just couldn’t get enough of me. And I whinged. I bellyached and whined and moaned. If only she’d take a bottle, then we could have a night out, I’ll never be able to leave her!
But now she hasn’t the slightest bit of interest in them. Now that real food’s on the table, she’s happy for a quick munch from me first thing in the morning and last thing before bed. But that’s all. And I can’t help but feel a little rejected.
Don’t get me wrong, I am pleased. It means she’s actually worked out proper food can fill her up and is now (fingers crossed) sleeping longer at night. But I’ve always been a “grass is greener” sort of girl and I just can’t help thinking…oh, right, that’s it then.
I did try to reignite the flame, so to speak. I waggled my nipple around for a good ten minutes at one point but ended up poking her in the eye with it. I’ve now grown sick of the withering looks she gives me, as if to say don’t come near me with those things. So I’ve stopped trying.
I’m trying not to take it personally, but it’s hard. For the last eight months, she’s the only one who’s shown any interest in them. The (self proclaimed) Northern Love Machine won’t go near them for fear of being squirted in the eye with milk. And they’ve never been the type of boobs to attract attention in the first place (apart from when I flashed to the entire village but that was a one-off). So I suppose the boobs were enjoying their time in the limelight while it lasted.
Oh well. At least Arthur still loves me. In fact, he loves me “more than peas and doors” apparently. There you go, I may have rubbish boobs but I’m still better than a small vegetable. Not brocolli though. Nothing beats the brocolli.
I'll take brocolli over boob any day...