I think we should all just stop warning.

I recently read the beautifully written They Should Have Warned Me blog and being reasonably fresh into this journey that is motherhood I was overwhelmed with emotion. It was beautiful, it was spot on it made me cry; not that that’s difficult postpartum. I copied and pasted the link and sent it to my very pregnant friend; who also cried.

A few days later I then read the response to this blog; I’m Glad Someone Told Me and was equally as moved. Another spot on article that recognised that motherhood isn’t always as seamless as it’s perceived to be and it’s OK to have a bad time of it. I quickly copied and pasted that article to my same very pregnant friend, typing; this one is good too, because it’s important she has a broad spectrum of what could be’s, right?

But it bothered me. I’d sent her two articles, two beautifully written, hitting-the-nail-on-the-head observations; both making valid points, both warning/advising that this is what motherhood could be like? And either way it was OK.  I imagined my hormonal, tired friend reading both pieces, a baffled expression on her face and an even more baffled perspective forming.

And then it hit me. Why was I trying to ‘warn’ her of anything? Because all I really wanted to tell her was; enjoy it, do it your way and enjoy it. Yes, some days are bad and others top of the world brilliant, just like life before pregnancy, before a baby, because that’s what life is like; up and down.

I remember being pregnant and literally drinking in blogs, websites, app information that would maybe give me a snippet into how being a mother  was going to be, what it would be like, how I would find it, and do you know what? Absolutely none if it has had any relevance to the way I’m brining my little girl up.

I’m fully behind the essence that we all need to be made aware of the mental health issues that could possibly arise after having a baby and it’s always nice to hear how truly beautiful having a baby is but it’s also OK to just get on with it…it’s totally OK to do it your way, your unique, tailored way because at the end of the day that’s the only way that should matter to you. And I would like to tell my friend that she categorically cannot get it wrong.

I emphasise the TO YOU bit again because that’s what I really want on pass onto her, to the lady in the supermarket who only has a week or so left of pregnancy, to anyone who is thinking about getting pregnant or at the very beginning of the growing a human voyage; If I got on the Tower of Terror rollercoaster I would have a completely different experience to the adrenalin junkie that took the seat next to me; completely different!  So, excuse the metaphorical pun but that’s why I think we should all stop warning or telling or anything.

We should hand hold, pat backs, offer support and frequent ‘You’re doing great.’ We should be there for the tears or the joy or the anything that our friend, sister, colleague wants to throw our way. Sometimes we’ll be able to relate, often we won’t because that’s the incredible thing about human beings we are all different, very, very different.

And becoming a mother is the only common denominator we’ll each have during this trek.

So, let’s celebrate the mutual factor us females share within pregnancy, childbirth, motherhood and rejoice in the more than common factor that every one of our journeys will be different. Let’s celebrate, learn, support and enjoy; not warn.

So, to my friend; the only advice I really have for you is enjoy it as best you can, if you can, because it doesn’t half go fast. Phone me whenever you want, to say whatever you want, ask me advice, ask for my assistance, my aid and I promise to help as best I can, but like Frank said; do it your way.

Walk your own path and leave your own footprints.



What Christmas looks like when you are six months

They literally woke me up! Granted it was early morning but still. Normally I have to thrash around or cry a little for attention but there they were with these huge toothy smiles banging on about it being my first.
They then took me downstairs where that mother one got all gushy about a jumpy thing, a swinging thing and a thing they filled with balls.
She put the music on, the music with bells and happy sounds. She’s been playing this music for a long time and saying ‘don’t tell Daddy.’
The father one, post initial excitement, looked tired and a little bored by the whole malarkey.
The mother one, you know the one with the boobies, then kept passing me paper stuff which tasted absolutely rank but I quite enjoyed the noise it made and the way they both laughed at me doing my goat impression.
They then put me in the jumping thing whilst the father one looked at where he was supposed to put batteries. They then had a quarrel about reading instructions first and why the hell had the mother one hidden the tool box?
The row was gaining as much momentum as my bouncing when in came the grandparents; the really crazy ones not the little bit crazy ones.
They brought me loads of stuff! Some brilliant, some I heard the mother one whisper to the father one was a bit unsuitable.
I loved it all especially the thing they named; cotton bud dispenser! If only they’d let me play with that longer.
The grandparents paper was less shiny than the stuff I’d had earlier in the morning and smelt a bit damp.
Apparently everything from the grandparents (really crazy ones) smells a bit funny but no one has told me why yet.
The father one then took me out of the jumpy thing and put me into the swinging thing. I was thoroughly enjoying the jumping thing so I made sure I poo’d once he’d pushed me three or four times to show my distaste.
They all liked it when I poo’d and clapped their hands and talked to me in that stupid voice all big people seem to do.
For dinner, that day, we went somewhere new, where lots of other people were having their dinner and people I had seen before were all around our table. It seemed nice and they stuck me in a chair next to the table so I could see everything which was really exciting.
Only this dinner was different. That mother one was in no rush to eat hers which I felt was both cheeky and selfish. I demonstrated my dislike for her ‘not bothered’ attitude by crying until she stopped eating and picked me up.
She then tried to distract me with this paper thing on her head and they all thought it was highly amusing when they put it on my head!
I cried a bit harder until it was removed and the mother one took me outside not to ‘ruin’ everyone’s day.
Outside she kept saying that this was my first Christmas and that I must be tired! Ppppfffftttt! I was in no way tired this was all too exciting!
After a while she handed me to the father one who tried to sssshhhhhh me, like he always does, but I could time my nap by it that he’d give up soon and pass me to someone else.
That someone else happened to be the one they call Aunty and that’s the last I can remember of the place we had dinner; I’ll give it to the Aunty one she’s good!
Back at home, just the mother one, father one and me and the mother one mentions a glass of wine which is code for wanting me out of the way which disappointed me. She had been more than neglectful on my so called first Christmas!
I made a song and dance then about not wanting to go to bed and wanting to go in the jumpy thing again only the parents still don’t know what I’m after half the time. I made the really wailing noises and the mother one stuck her boob in my mouth and then all of a sudden it was morning again but they hadn’t woke me up and there was no more shiny paper.