Tag Archives: breastfeeding

Guest post: 5.30am is not morning

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….

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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

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Filed under Baby stuff, Breastfeeding, Development, Sleep

When the battle was won

Bedtime used to be a horrific affair.

At around three weeks old, once Frog “woke up” from her newborn slumber, she decided she didn’t much want to sleep at bedtime. She’d rather stay awake sobbing while her mother jiggled her around, tightly wrapped up in the fleece (and now nicknamed) magic blanket.

Baths were a nightly occurrence from the age of 1 day and 6 hours. Stories entered the equation a few months later. But the tears, oh the tears stayed around a good while longer.

If I could go back and revisit the me of this time last year, I’d shake her by the shoulders and tell her, “Don’t stress about it. Your baby will get the hang of bedtime eventually”. All that time worrying she’d need the nightly placatory boob sessions to get to sleep – what wasted time. Continue reading

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On being a new mum

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

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Who’s the Daddy? Part II

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

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Sleep misery loves company

When my baby was born she wouldn’t sleep.

Well, she would, but not without me rocking her with her magic blanket (the magic blanket they sell in sets of two from Primark – who knew magic was so easy to get hold of).  Fast-forward a few months and we’d gone past the rocking. She still needed the magic blanket and, on special occasions, the boob. But on the main she was happy to go into her cot, with the blanket of magical qualities, and fall to sleep. Continue reading

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The end of a love affair

It looks like the love affair is over.

*sob*

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

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The perils of postnatal exercise: Part IV

Everything hurts.

From my hairy toes up to my double chin, my body is on fire (and not in a sexy way).

So, for those of you who are new here, I will elaborate. Five weeks ago, in a fit of I’m so fat I need to lose my baby bulge desperation, I signed up to Bootcamp. And instantly regretted it. But I’d already parted with my money and, because the (self proclaimed) Northern Love Machine made a bet that I wouldn’t stick it, I’ve carried on.

And boy was that a mistake.

Tonight consisted of running around a room, stopping, and then running again. We also practiced a new form of torture called The Plank. Yes, it is as scary as it sounds. And we did terrifying exercises with weights. Not to mention the press-ups and tricep dips. Oh, and the running. Did I tell you about the running?

That was my downfall. I hate running. I hate it even more after tonight. After last week’s flatulent car thief episode, I was aiming to keep a low profile. But the running put paid to that.

It was when we started to jog that I felt a pain in my boob. That was when I realised that in my haste to breastfeed the baby, put her to bed and get out of the door on time, I’d forgotten to do up my milk bra. (I believe the correct term is “nursing” bra, but you get the idea).

Before you question why I wasn’t wearing a sports bra, I will tell you: I don’t have one. Nor does any half sane person I know. Who actually has underwear specifically for sporting activities? Really? And anyway, aren’t milk bras pretty similar? They’re massive and particularly unflattering.

Clearly not. As milk bras undo like this:

So, imagine a woman running around a room, with one full breast lolling about in front of her, clearly visible through her thin T’shirt. Then imagine said woman galloping around in a circle of fifteen others, facing inwards, trying to discreetly tuck the stray lolloping breast away without drawing too much attention to herself or flashing to the entire circle.

Yep, it’s impossible. I am now a hairy toed, pants-wetting, flatulent car thief with a penchant for flashing one full breast at anyone unlucky enough to be looking.

Watch out Katie Price, that’s all I’ll say on the matter.

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Filed under Fitness

Rejection begins with an R

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...

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