August 2022

#sb10067890u-001 / gettyimages.com I used to think ‘domestic’ was a word that only applied to cats. Now I love the smell of bleach in the morning. What is happening to me? I fear I am becoming worryingly domesticated. The Worryingly Domesticated (WD) is a breed that used to dry clothes over the door, and now counts the tumble dryer as his or her most prized possession. Not to be confused with the so-called OCD Housewife, whose house makes you want to weep and never visit again, the WD is someone who is becoming house proud in barely perceptible stages. There comes a time in life when you see your house as less of a place to change between work and the pub, and more of a Home. Whether because you have just got your foot on the housing ladder, have bought your forever home, have had kids or just got a wee bit older, you tend to spend more time at home. And as a side effect of this, you become more house proud. You just can’t help it. It is a slow creep for people like me, but I have finally got to the stage where I would describe myself as becoming domesticated to a level that worries my former self, drinking lager in the back of my mind. Do you recognise yourself in any of the following? 1. You browse the cleaning aisle like you used to browse beauty counters. With that willingness to believe, that hope springing eternal, that thrill of the chase. But it’s not your face that you want to look brighter, fresher, younger, more radiant. It’s your toilet.

2. You love getting your house ready for guests. Even better if they don’t arrive and mess it all up.

3. You love emptying the tumble dryer filter. Rolling that lovely lint between your fingers – mmm! You used to think it was another ridiculous manacle of the home, now you can’t wait for it to fill up again.

4. Your favourite purchase, nay victory, of the last year, was a genuine one-handed kitchen roll dispenser. (Yes, you have to observe the correct angulature of tuggage, but it’s a true one-hander. Life-changing.)

5. If your vacuum cleaner packs up, you treat it with more urgency than you do your cracked IPhone.

6. You like to pre-wash a pan before popping it in the dishwasher. Although I wouldn’t dream of subjecting my favourite Le Creuset frying pan (a solicited recent Christmas present – itself a troubling admission) to its harsh jets.

7. You buy loo roll. Every time you go out. You get the fear if stores run below one roll per household member.

My standards haven’t dropped completely. My life is still too short to iron sheets, although I have to admit I now wholeheartedly see the logic in ironing a table cloth before I put it away. If I’m like this now, what will I be like in 20 years? I already know the answer. My mother-in-law.

This post is also featured on The Huffington Post.

40 before 40? So over! It’s all about 24 before 2 and a half! Here’s my list of things you MUST do before you turn two and a half:

MY MUCK-IT LIST

1. Bungee-jump off a changing table. Nothing beats the thrill of diving for the floor, dangling only by one foot caught in the safety strap and the other in your mum’s hand.

2. Swim with poo-phins. Never mind the most intelligent creature of the ocean, nothing beats swimming with your own floater.

3. Learn a new language. It’s fine to make up your own. Yes = no; no= yes. Mummy = daddy; daddy = mummy. More = if you force one more spoon of that mush into my mouth, I’m going to regurgitate it all over you.

4. Start a retirement fund. Swallow a penny.

5. Tantrum like it’s 1999. Let no floor be un-pummelled, no car seat be willingly sat in, no drink go un-spilt, no mouthful be un-spat, no thing be right. Make mummy cry in public.

6. Do an up-the-backer. If you try really hard, you can push the contents of your nappy right up into your hairline. For extra points, dip your ankles in it while you’re being changed and pound them on mummy’s clean shirt.

7. Seize the day. And the night. Life is for living, people! Sleep is for losers. Never rise later than 5.30am.

8. Get your hand stuck in a vending machine. Preferably while your brother’s running off in the other direction. You’re doing your mum a favour, at least she – and everyone else – knows where you are: you’re the one screaming and refusing to let go of the Fruit Pastilles even though the vending machine flap is closing its grip like a vice.

9. Get your head stuck in the banisters. Railings are also good.

10. Fall face down in a puddle. Best done when you are late for school / the doctor / a bus. More haste, less speed, mother.

11. Decide who your favourite parent is. Clue: Which one does the most for you? It’s the other one.

12. Get your siblings on side. Take the heat for your older brothers and sisters a few times and they’ll have your back forever.

13. Lead by example. If you acquire a younger sibling before you are two, show them how much you love them by bouncing on their head whenever mummy turns her back. Establish that everything is in working order by hitting them all over with your toy hammer. Teach them what pushes mummy’s buttons.

14. Learn how to take your own socks off. This is an invaluable skill. It can keep you occupied for hours in the car / buggy. The key is to lose one or both of the socks just as you get to where you’re going. For example. your own christening.

15. Find a comfort item. Muslins, dummies, blankets, cute floppy bunnies – all these are good. But mummy’s better. Don’t let her out of your sight.

16. Establish a good sleep routine. I suggest feeds and cuddles till approx. midnight, then a couple of wake-ups between 12 and 5.30am.

17. Cut out an entire food group. You should never eat a balanced diet. One food group must be shunned at all costs. Popular ones are Fruit and Veg – but I find these a bit of a cliché. I have chosen Carbs. Yep, watch mother fret about you getting enough calories / eating out and about when you refuse sandwiches now.

18. Get tech savvy. Work out the code to mummy’s phone and delete all her apps. Get to grips with the TV remote and always remember to hide it before you go to bed.

19. Establish good personal hygiene. If this means squeezing the entire bottle of baby wash into the bath, so be it. Wipe your nose on mummy’s shoulder – better out than in. Wash your hands ten times a day, not forgetting to ‘wash’ your whole top and trousers at the same time.

20. Have a 6-month cold. May as well get it over with.

21. Read 100 books. By read, I mean pull off all the “lift-the-flaps”, destroy any turny wheel things, rip out the last page, draw on the cover and stick pages together with puree.

22. Learn martial arts. When you’ve worked out that those wriggly things at the end of your arms are your hands, use them to your advantage. Grab mummy’s hair and close your tiny fist like a vice. Karate chop her on the boob. Roundhouse kick her on the chin while she changes your nappy. Do a running headbutt into her pubic bone. Know your own strength.

23. Decide which colour food you will eat. I have chosen yellow – it’s a goodie: butter (by the spoonful), cheese, Pom Bears, and chips (everyone knows these are not a carb). Laugh in the face of yellow peppers and pineapple.

24. Smile. And the whole world will be round your little finger.

Linking up with #TheList at You Baby Me Mummy and Mums Days.

I will always love you

I’m about to turn 40. So why won’t I dress like it?

I assumed there would come a day when I would always look effortlessly stylish, smart – mature. In well-cut clothes and tasteful jewellery with a ladylike bag to match. I assumed it would be when I was about 40 – but that is 32 days away and I am currently coveting logo sweatshirts and white trainers. What is going to happen in the next four and a bit weeks to turn me from dressing like a teen to looking like a grown-up woman?

I blame the kids – of course. Because of them I no longer wear heels, necklaces, non-machine-washable clothes or white.

Apart from the immediate threat my children pose to delicate items and dangly earrings, there is the change of lifestyle. The only time I need to look smart is when I go to parents’ evening. I don’t watch rugby in the pub, I watch it on the boggy sidelines of my son’s junior club. The only Tube I enter now is the tunnel at the park.

But it’s not just for practical reasons that I want to dress down – I feel like I will look even older than I am if I am too “done”. I know there are thousands of fab and 40 women for whom this is just not true, but I have not yet found my place among them. Every time I find a grey hair I buy (or crave) another grey logo Tee – which I then only wear round the house because I feel silly wearing it in public.

That’s not to say you can’t wear a whimsical or tongue in cheek item past your 30s. There are no rules, indeed. It’s all so dependent on personality, figure, confidence levels and everything else bound up in our sweaty paw before we type the credit card details in. When I was in my 20s, I wore clothes that felt much older than my years – on purpose. To be taken seriously in the office (where the suits-only rule necessarily brought me into check), and to look chic. When you’re that age, you can wear pretty much anything and look good, provided it suits you (and even if it doesn’t, mostly), I realise now.

But with the onset of haggardness, I fear that if I wore a blouse and a trouser, I would look dowdy or frumpy, however fashionable the individual items were. I wouldn’t look ironic, or cool, just…old. So I stick to my uniform of jeans, shirt and (almost always) grey jumper.

Heidi Klum, 41 in this photo from the Mail in 2014, wearing my standard uniform…a bit better.

It’s not the fault of my years but my shopping habits, perhaps. With very little time or inclination to shop in real life or online, I end up buying different versions of the same things I always buy. This is definitely a change that has come with age – with the years bringing, in my case, a busy young family. As an office worker in my 20s, I had plenty of time to browse in my lunch break and spend whole Saturdays shopping. If I had a Saturday free now, shopping would be the last thing I would choose to do. I would spend it lying down alone in a quiet room eating champagne truffles (my ideal Valentine’s Day, incidentally).

But what all those years of fashion frolics has taught me is – what suits me. Which necklines, skirt lengths, jeans styles, colours, fabrics…Of course, there’s still plenty of scope left for me to make dreadful purchases, but at least I’ve narrowed the field a little.

Perhaps all this change is what makes me want to keep my clothes constant – the only reminder of who I “am”? As I approach 40, I may not know who I will decide to be in my 40s, but I will know what she looks like.

Me.

Do you feel like your wardrobe should grow up with you, or are you hanging on to your hotpants for dear life?

There has to be a middle way between Taylor Swift and Elizabeth Taylor?

Can you channel Maria in real life?

It was the bit where Maria comes back from the convent and the children, who had till then been dolefully singing and one by one breaking off in silent tears, hearing her cheerful voice joining with theirs, run ecstatically to greet her.

“Would you like a nice lady to look after you?” I asked my eight-year-old son, who was sitting next to me.

There was a pause.

I’d like to think he was struggling with the finer points of his conscience. But since no answer came the swift reply, I realised he was just ignoring me because a TV was on.

Still, despite realising I was shamelessly fishing for scraps here, I persisted: “Well, would you?”

“I s’pose,” he said. And then, “We’ve got you.”

There was no intonation there. At least he didn’t say, “BUT we’ve got you”, thus ruling me out of the running entirely. But neither did he say, “You ARE a nice lady, mummy.”

Of course, I’m used to this. He hasn’t let me kiss him for a year now, although I still manage to sneak them in. (They are immediately wiped off with more force than is strictly necessary, but I try not to be offended.) You don’t get much positive feedback from some kids, and that’s just how it is. I know it’s not all of them because my other sons are still quite affectionate: they say, “Mummy? You smell,” at least five times a day, but served with a winning grin, I’m chalking that up as a compliment.

Maybe it’s eight-year-olds?

Anyhow, I am left with the familiar feeling that once more I have failed as a parent. I am not fun or nice like Maria, and certainly don’t have her teeny tiny waist. This is quite hard to take at the end of a Christmas holiday where I have been niceness and fun-ness personified, as far as I’m concerned. They’ve been allowed to totally trash the house, bounce on my nice sofa, use all the bedding in the house for “stair-slides” – the game with no winners. I’ve played Monopoly. Several times!

And never mind all the presents!

During the usual mealtime altercation, where I am vilified for asking my son to eat his tea within a time frame of less than one day, he tells me I’ve ruined Christmas. I am so wounded I grasp at straws.

“What about all those nice presents I bought you?”

He shrugs, and continues to non-eat his food.

I know he didn’t mean I’d ruined Christmas. But to be channelling Maria and giving off Scrooge was a bit of a blow.

Since The Sound of Music incident, I’ve been focusing on my Maria-like qualities – smiling kindly with twinkly eyes, breaking into song, properly playing with the children, making their clothes out of curtains…(spot the odd one out). It’s easier to be like that in the holidays, but now they’re back at school. They can’t stay up late or stay in their drapes till noon. How did Maria make them do their homework?

I fear I will forever be caught in the von Trapp of parenting: whatever you do, you feel like you’ve failed. You just have to hold onto those golden moments when one of them tells you you smell of poo.

It had to happen. Six years, three kids, a gazillion Lego pieces. Sooner or later, one of those bits was going to go up someone’s nose. I’m only surprised it took so long. So, what do you do, if hooking it out with your little finger ain’t happening? How do you get a bit of Lego out of a kid’s nose? Disclaimer: If you’re reading this because your child actually has got a piece of Lego up their nose right now, and you’re concerned about their breathing or anything else, please call your doctor / go to A&E depending on your level of concern. I’m not a doctor, this is an anecdote (though it does feature the medical advice we were given – which obviously worked!). Oh, the irony: Lego figures don’t even have noses. As with most child injuries and incidents, I didn’t see what happened. One minute my middle child was happily playing, the next he’s poking at his nose as he sits on the loo. “Do you need a tissue?” I asked. “No.” A few minutes later I notice he is still prodding at the outside of his nose. ‘Unusual’, I thought. ‘What’s occurring?’ I wondered. At the time, middlie was 2 3/4, on the cusp of middle-toddlerdom: an age where they begin to have some self-awareness. I think he thought that I’d be cross if he blurted out what had happened, bless his little Lego-filled nostrils. Eventually he said, “There’s something up my nose.” “What?” I said. “A bit of Lego.” “What?!” I took a look – sure enough, there was a single-nub dark grey bit of Lego at the top of the poor lad’s left nostril. “How did it get there?” “I put it up.” Goggling at him and also, trying not to panic, I had a little assessment. He was breathing fine, I didn’t think it could go any further up and he was not distressed. One of the hundreds of very cute things about kids is the teeniness of their ‘trils. Picking a baby’s bogey is one of the most satisfying, if gross, parts of motherhood. But this bit was not for the picking. There was no way my finger would fit up there, and my son’s own had obviously been ineffective, so I moved to step 2. I called NHS Direct; they said call the doctor; my doctor said bring him in, then, when I said how old (young) he was, they said I had to go to the Urgent Care Clinic (like a mini A&E in our local mini-hospital). So I went, with both boys and my seven-month bump squirming as my nerves fed into the amniotic fluid. After a reassuringly long wait (so we weren’t urgent, then), we got called in. “Ah yes,” said the lovely triage nurse. “This is an easy one. Pop him up on the bed.” I did so, looking around for the magic suck-y machine to be wheeled in. “You’re going to do this one, dear,” she said. “Yes. We just need to close the nostril without the Lego in, cover his mouth completely with your mouth, then blow quite hard and it’ll just pop out. It’s much better if you do it rather than one of us, dear.” “Ah, great!” I said. “Got it!” Step 3: Resolution – and a Tip So, of course, I did what they said. The poor poppet looked slightly alarmed, but I reassured him and promised him lots more sweets. I’m surprised he didn’t get the giggles at my looming face – as I always do when I’m getting my eyes tested and the optician comes at me with his retina-seeking torchlight. I held the empty nostril shut, covered his mouth with mine and blew. Quite hard. Nothing. A bit more reassurance, then another swoop, this time with a sharper blow. It was out! I was jubilant! Next stop Grey’s Anatomy! Should you ever have to perform this act, I would strongly advise keeping the confectionary bribe till after the operation – if you want to avoid a mouthful of chocolatey washback. Everything Happens for A Reason, and Everything Is Awesome They say that everything happens for a reason. A pretty facile phrase, I thought. Until a couple of weeks later, literally, I got a call from the school. My friend’s son needed to be brought home and his mum was delayed, could I come? I went. “He’s a bit distressed,” said the school nurse. “He’s got a stone stuck up his nose.” You should have seen me! It was like on University Challenge, where there’s always one on the team that hasn’t said a word all programme, but then finally their subject comes up. “I know this! I know this one!” I almost shrieked. I carried the poor pup home, explaining all the way what I was going to do, and how it wouldn’t hurt, just a quick ‘puff!’ and it would be gone. All the while he was getting more and more distressed, as you can imagine, when a lady he barely knew was proposing to kiss him on the lips. In fact, his body must have revolted so much at the idea that his nasal membranes bridled, because the next thing I knew, he was saying happily, “Look! It fell out!” I don’t know which of us was more relieved. So there you have it. A double win. Everything was awesome.* *This is a quote from The Lego Movie. In case you didn’t know. Nominations for the BritMums Brilliance in Blogging awards open today! If you liked this, you could pop me in for the Laugh, Fresh Voice or Writer category – just click on one of the badges below.

Related Post: The Mummy Accident Form. Our kids come home with an accident form for the slightest scrape, but what about us? Where’s our George Clooney plaster and hug in a kindly nurse’s bosom? 

It had to happen. Six years, three kids, a gazillion Lego pieces. Sooner or later, one of those bits was going to go up someone’s nose. I’m only surprised it took so long. So, what do you do, if hooking it out with your little finger ain’t happening? How do you get a bit of Lego out of a kid’s nose? Disclaimer: If you’re reading this because your child actually has got a piece of Lego up their nose right now, and you’re concerned about their breathing or anything else, please call your doctor / go to A&E depending on your level of concern. I’m not a doctor, this is an anecdote (though it does feature the medical advice we were given – which obviously worked!). Oh, the irony: Lego figures don’t even have noses. As with most child injuries and incidents, I didn’t see what happened. One minute my middle child was happily playing, the next he’s poking at his nose as he sits on the loo. “Do you need a tissue?” I asked. “No.” A few minutes later I notice he is still prodding at the outside of his nose. ‘Unusual’, I thought. ‘What’s occurring?’ I wondered. At the time, middlie was 2 3/4, on the cusp of middle-toddlerdom: an age where they begin to have some self-awareness. I think he thought that I’d be cross if he blurted out what had happened, bless his little Lego-filled nostrils. Eventually he said, “There’s something up my nose.” “What?” I said. “A bit of Lego.” “What?!” I took a look – sure enough, there was a single-nub dark grey bit of Lego at the top of the poor lad’s left nostril. “How did it get there?” “I put it up.” Goggling at him and also, trying not to panic, I had a little assessment. He was breathing fine, I didn’t think it could go any further up and he was not distressed. One of the hundreds of very cute things about kids is the teeniness of their ‘trils. Picking a baby’s bogey is one of the most satisfying, if gross, parts of motherhood. But this bit was not for the picking. There was no way my finger would fit up there, and my son’s own had obviously been ineffective, so I moved to step 2. I called NHS Direct; they said call the doctor; my doctor said bring him in, then, when I said how old (young) he was, they said I had to go to the Urgent Care Clinic (like a mini A&E in our local mini-hospital). So I went, with both boys and my seven-month bump squirming as my nerves fed into the amniotic fluid. After a reassuringly long wait (so we weren’t urgent, then), we got called in. “Ah yes,” said the lovely triage nurse. “This is an easy one. Pop him up on the bed.” I did so, looking around for the magic suck-y machine to be wheeled in. “You’re going to do this one, dear,” she said. “Yes. We just need to close the nostril without the Lego in, cover his mouth completely with your mouth, then blow quite hard and it’ll just pop out. It’s much better if you do it rather than one of us, dear.” “Ah, great!” I said. “Got it!” Step 3: Resolution – and a Tip So, of course, I did what they said. The poor poppet looked slightly alarmed, but I reassured him and promised him lots more sweets. I’m surprised he didn’t get the giggles at my looming face – as I always do when I’m getting my eyes tested and the optician comes at me with his retina-seeking torchlight. I held the empty nostril shut, covered his mouth with mine and blew. Quite hard. Nothing. A bit more reassurance, then another swoop, this time with a sharper blow. It was out! I was jubilant! Next stop Grey’s Anatomy! Should you ever have to perform this act, I would strongly advise keeping the confectionary bribe till after the operation – if you want to avoid a mouthful of chocolatey washback. Everything Happens for A Reason, and Everything Is Awesome They say that everything happens for a reason. A pretty facile phrase, I thought. Until a couple of weeks later, literally, I got a call from the school. My friend’s son needed to be brought home and his mum was delayed, could I come? I went. “He’s a bit distressed,” said the school nurse. “He’s got a stone stuck up his nose.” You should have seen me! It was like on University Challenge, where there’s always one on the team that hasn’t said a word all programme, but then finally their subject comes up. “I know this! I know this one!” I almost shrieked. I carried the poor pup home, explaining all the way what I was going to do, and how it wouldn’t hurt, just a quick ‘puff!’ and it would be gone. All the while he was getting more and more distressed, as you can imagine, when a lady he barely knew was proposing to kiss him on the lips. In fact, his body must have revolted so much at the idea that his nasal membranes bridled, because the next thing I knew, he was saying happily, “Look! It fell out!” I don’t know which of us was more relieved. So there you have it. A double win. Everything was awesome.* *This is a quote from The Lego Movie. In case you didn’t know. Nominations for the BritMums Brilliance in Blogging awards open today! If you liked this, you could pop me in for the Laugh, Fresh Voice or Writer category – just click on one of the badges below.

Related Post: The Mummy Accident Form. Our kids come home with an accident form for the slightest scrape, but what about us? Where’s our George Clooney plaster and hug in a kindly nurse’s bosom? 

Picture credit: http://www.foxmovies.com/movies/the-martian

Welcome to motherhood! It’s a strange planet, isn’t it?

You did it! It’s over! You’re amazing. And look at your gorgeous baby. Almost unreal in his perfection.

But you know he’s real, because if he wasn’t, why would you be here holding him at 2.30am? It’s a strange world, the middle of the night, don’t you find? Just you and your child in the dark, alien sounds breaking the silence: the plaintive, piercing cry of a hungry baby, the blissed-out little mews in the back of his throat as he starts to feed, the tiny squeaks he gives when he sleeps in your arms.

And you look around. It’s your room – but not as you knew it. A lot messier, probably. Unfamiliar things lying on your bedside table: Lansinoh, Infacol, a cup of tea you didn’t have a spare hand to drink. Muslins and tiny clothes on the floor. A stack of baby books on the chair.

Your partner may be next to you but for now, you are alone on this strange planet. Alone but for the life you have created. You may feel light years away even from those who love you. Even from other mothers. They may have taken this journey but no one has given birth to your child. You are on your own Mars.

If it feels alien to you, imagine how it is for your baby. A foreign air rushing into his lungs, unfamiliar soft fabric brushing his tiny feet, his mother’s voice unmuffled by the womb, her skin warm on his.

You are travellers together in a strange land.

You watch the sun rise and light up the soft down on your baby’s little head. You feel the storms rage, as he won’t stop crying and you don’t know why, or your husband forgets to bring you a biscuit when you’re feeding.

You feel detached from the real world, even though it flashes before you on Facebook. Friends without babies on nights out – they cannot understand. They have not been on this journey that is more miraculous than space travel. But they can still help you, cheer you up and cheer you on. Give you a hug. When you are ready, they will be there.

You might have heard they just found water on Mars – I know, world news can pass you by when you are watching your baby breathe in, breathe out. You may find yourself crying and you’re not sure why. Especially when your milk comes in on the third day. You have done something so momentous, your daily – and nightly – work is so momentous, each tiny development in your baby’s life is so momentous. It is huge, becoming a mother.

You may feel overwhelmed. Crying, feeling low, worrying about your baby, know that these are normal. But if overwhelmed becomes over-riding, if you feel you just can’t cope, talk to someone.

You probably won’t see The Martian, Matt Damon’s brilliant new film, until it’s on Sky Movies. (Although, I smuggled my youngest into Skyfall at two weeks. I got some pretty strange looks when he started making noises but I managed to see all but the ending!) I’m not spoiling it when I say that Damo has to survive by growing potato plants. Almost his whole time on Mars is devoted to nurturing the precious life he created.

That is you, now. Don’t worry about the washing up or the laundry or tidying up for guests. You are nurturing life. It is incredible. It is also incredibly hard work. It is forever. You don’t want it to stop. But you really need a nap.

Maybe your experience on Mars is different. Maybe you think this is sentimental nonsense, over-dramatic, an analogy stretched. You would have preferred warm congratulations and practical advice: how to cope with breastfeeding problems, how to do up a onesie without missing a popper, how to change an up-the-backer nappy in the dark, silently, with nothing but your last two baby wipes.

I can do all that too. But for now, I just want to say – wherever you are in the universe – you are doing a fantastic job.

Picture credit: http://www.foxmovies.com/movies/the-martian

Welcome to motherhood! It’s a strange planet, isn’t it?

You did it! It’s over! You’re amazing. And look at your gorgeous baby. Almost unreal in his perfection.

But you know he’s real, because if he wasn’t, why would you be here holding him at 2.30am? It’s a strange world, the middle of the night, don’t you find? Just you and your child in the dark, alien sounds breaking the silence: the plaintive, piercing cry of a hungry baby, the blissed-out little mews in the back of his throat as he starts to feed, the tiny squeaks he gives when he sleeps in your arms.

And you look around. It’s your room – but not as you knew it. A lot messier, probably. Unfamiliar things lying on your bedside table: Lansinoh, Infacol, a cup of tea you didn’t have a spare hand to drink. Muslins and tiny clothes on the floor. A stack of baby books on the chair.

Your partner may be next to you but for now, you are alone on this strange planet. Alone but for the life you have created. You may feel light years away even from those who love you. Even from other mothers. They may have taken this journey but no one has given birth to your child. You are on your own Mars.

If it feels alien to you, imagine how it is for your baby. A foreign air rushing into his lungs, unfamiliar soft fabric brushing his tiny feet, his mother’s voice unmuffled by the womb, her skin warm on his.

You are travellers together in a strange land.

You watch the sun rise and light up the soft down on your baby’s little head. You feel the storms rage, as he won’t stop crying and you don’t know why, or your husband forgets to bring you a biscuit when you’re feeding.

You feel detached from the real world, even though it flashes before you on Facebook. Friends without babies on nights out – they cannot understand. They have not been on this journey that is more miraculous than space travel. But they can still help you, cheer you up and cheer you on. Give you a hug. When you are ready, they will be there.

You might have heard they just found water on Mars – I know, world news can pass you by when you are watching your baby breathe in, breathe out. You may find yourself crying and you’re not sure why. Especially when your milk comes in on the third day. You have done something so momentous, your daily – and nightly – work is so momentous, each tiny development in your baby’s life is so momentous. It is huge, becoming a mother.

You may feel overwhelmed. Crying, feeling low, worrying about your baby, know that these are normal. But if overwhelmed becomes over-riding, if you feel you just can’t cope, talk to someone.

You probably won’t see The Martian, Matt Damon’s brilliant new film, until it’s on Sky Movies. (Although, I smuggled my youngest into Skyfall at two weeks. I got some pretty strange looks when he started making noises but I managed to see all but the ending!) I’m not spoiling it when I say that Damo has to survive by growing potato plants. Almost his whole time on Mars is devoted to nurturing the precious life he created.

That is you, now. Don’t worry about the washing up or the laundry or tidying up for guests. You are nurturing life. It is incredible. It is also incredibly hard work. It is forever. You don’t want it to stop. But you really need a nap.

Maybe your experience on Mars is different. Maybe you think this is sentimental nonsense, over-dramatic, an analogy stretched. You would have preferred warm congratulations and practical advice: how to cope with breastfeeding problems, how to do up a onesie without missing a popper, how to change an up-the-backer nappy in the dark, silently, with nothing but your last two baby wipes.

I can do all that too. But for now, I just want to say – wherever you are in the universe – you are doing a fantastic job.

It had to happen. Six years, three kids, a gazillion Lego pieces. Sooner or later, one of those bits was going to go up someone’s nose. I’m only surprised it took so long. So, what do you do, if hooking it out with your little finger ain’t happening? How do you get a bit of Lego out of a kid’s nose? Disclaimer: If you’re reading this because your child actually has got a piece of Lego up their nose right now, and you’re concerned about their breathing or anything else, please call your doctor / go to A&E depending on your level of concern. I’m not a doctor, this is an anecdote (though it does feature the medical advice we were given – which obviously worked!). Oh, the irony: Lego figures don’t even have noses. As with most child injuries and incidents, I didn’t see what happened. One minute my middle child was happily playing, the next he’s poking at his nose as he sits on the loo. “Do you need a tissue?” I asked. “No.” A few minutes later I notice he is still prodding at the outside of his nose. ‘Unusual’, I thought. ‘What’s occurring?’ I wondered. At the time, middlie was 2 3/4, on the cusp of middle-toddlerdom: an age where they begin to have some self-awareness. I think he thought that I’d be cross if he blurted out what had happened, bless his little Lego-filled nostrils. Eventually he said, “There’s something up my nose.” “What?” I said. “A bit of Lego.” “What?!” I took a look – sure enough, there was a single-nub dark grey bit of Lego at the top of the poor lad’s left nostril. “How did it get there?” “I put it up.” Goggling at him and also, trying not to panic, I had a little assessment. He was breathing fine, I didn’t think it could go any further up and he was not distressed. One of the hundreds of very cute things about kids is the teeniness of their ‘trils. Picking a baby’s bogey is one of the most satisfying, if gross, parts of motherhood. But this bit was not for the picking. There was no way my finger would fit up there, and my son’s own had obviously been ineffective, so I moved to step 2. I called NHS Direct; they said call the doctor; my doctor said bring him in, then, when I said how old (young) he was, they said I had to go to the Urgent Care Clinic (like a mini A&E in our local mini-hospital). So I went, with both boys and my seven-month bump squirming as my nerves fed into the amniotic fluid. After a reassuringly long wait (so we weren’t urgent, then), we got called in. “Ah yes,” said the lovely triage nurse. “This is an easy one. Pop him up on the bed.” I did so, looking around for the magic suck-y machine to be wheeled in. “You’re going to do this one, dear,” she said. “Yes. We just need to close the nostril without the Lego in, cover his mouth completely with your mouth, then blow quite hard and it’ll just pop out. It’s much better if you do it rather than one of us, dear.” “Ah, great!” I said. “Got it!” Step 3: Resolution – and a Tip So, of course, I did what they said. The poor poppet looked slightly alarmed, but I reassured him and promised him lots more sweets. I’m surprised he didn’t get the giggles at my looming face – as I always do when I’m getting my eyes tested and the optician comes at me with his retina-seeking torchlight. I held the empty nostril shut, covered his mouth with mine and blew. Quite hard. Nothing. A bit more reassurance, then another swoop, this time with a sharper blow. It was out! I was jubilant! Next stop Grey’s Anatomy! Should you ever have to perform this act, I would strongly advise keeping the confectionary bribe till after the operation – if you want to avoid a mouthful of chocolatey washback. Everything Happens for A Reason, and Everything Is Awesome They say that everything happens for a reason. A pretty facile phrase, I thought. Until a couple of weeks later, literally, I got a call from the school. My friend’s son needed to be brought home and his mum was delayed, could I come? I went. “He’s a bit distressed,” said the school nurse. “He’s got a stone stuck up his nose.” You should have seen me! It was like on University Challenge, where there’s always one on the team that hasn’t said a word all programme, but then finally their subject comes up. “I know this! I know this one!” I almost shrieked. I carried the poor pup home, explaining all the way what I was going to do, and how it wouldn’t hurt, just a quick ‘puff!’ and it would be gone. All the while he was getting more and more distressed, as you can imagine, when a lady he barely knew was proposing to kiss him on the lips. In fact, his body must have revolted so much at the idea that his nasal membranes bridled, because the next thing I knew, he was saying happily, “Look! It fell out!” I don’t know which of us was more relieved. So there you have it. A double win. Everything was awesome.* *This is a quote from The Lego Movie. In case you didn’t know. Nominations for the BritMums Brilliance in Blogging awards open today! If you liked this, you could pop me in for the Laugh, Fresh Voice or Writer category – just click on one of the badges below.

Related Post: The Mummy Accident Form. Our kids come home with an accident form for the slightest scrape, but what about us? Where’s our George Clooney plaster and hug in a kindly nurse’s bosom? 

Wry Mummy is two!

And still a complete mystery to most of my family and friends.

“A blog?”

“It’s my own website, grandma. You know, on the computer.”

“Your own website?”

“That’s right.”

“Oh,” baffled nodding and unsure smiling from the dear nonagenarian.

“Is that for your blog, mummy?”

“Yes, darling.”

“What IS a blog, mummy?”

Well, indeed. Explaining a blog to a small child or a 90-year old lady is understandably hard, but it’s almost as hard to most people I know and meet.

“What do you do?”

“Nothing at the moment. I mean, apart from being a mum.”

“Oh!”

“And I have a blog.”

“Uh-huh?”

“It’s like a funny mummy blog. Tries to be funny anyway.”

“Oh, ok. Is that like, your job?”

“Um, kinda.”

But does it matter that most people don’t get what I do? I don’t understand what my husband does, and we’ve been together 14 years. If you ask me, he works “in IT”. *eye roll from Mr Wry*

The best way of describing it is that basically, my blog is my baby. Er, except now it’s my toddler.

Eek!

My first ever post was Kids’ Bedtime – The Last Straw. Two years on, the 7pm-8pm vortex still kills me.