The Frog Pyjamas

Two mums, one blog, two takes on parenting


Leave a comment

Mama fat: why I won’t worry about weight loss this time round

Some pregnant women put on a bump, and that’s it. No other discernible weight at all. Not just photo-shopped celebrities either: women I see on a regular basis. From the back, you would never guess they were pregnant.

Well, I’m not one of them. Nearly seven months in and I look almost as inflated from the back as I do from the front. From the side, I look like Daddy Pig. When I reveal my due date, it is to barely suppressed disbelief that it is not, in fact, tomorrow.

I know from last time that it’ll be the same after the birth. Week after week, another new mum friend would show up to our get-togethers in her pre-pregnancy jeans, apparently effortlessly lithe, while I continued to look five months pregnant (on a good day).

And last time it bothered me, absurdly if, I gather, typically. It wasn’t so bad when I was actually pregnant and could pretend I just looked blooming. But even then – even amid the fear and excitement of preparing for birth – I found time to notice how many of the other mothers in my antenatal classes had not acquired my generous contours. (And when I stop to think about that, WTF? You can bet your life our partners weren’t sitting there worrying that the other dads were taller/fitter/less bald than they were, and they weren’t the ones who had shortly to shove a baby out of a small hole.)

Then, barely over the terrors of a first few weeks when weight loss (our beloved new daughter’s) had given T. and me quite enough real stuff to worry about – and still struggling through an endless grind of expressing, feeding, expressing to make up for my abject failure as a dairy cow – I was noticing again. Noticing that nothing fitted except maternity clothes, that my stomach had all the resilience of a deflating balloon. Spotting a theme to our new-family photos: Little A gorgeous (if frighteningly small), T. proud (if tired)… Oh, and what the hell is that? Jabba the Hutt’s flabbier sister, squashing herself into the frame. In one early snapshot of A., I mistook my thighs for the sofa.

Months two to six were when I really minded. Not so much that I stopped cramming as much food as I could into myself. (Mostly cereal bars: I retained sufficient sense of proportion to mind very much more about getting the milk supply up. Plus I’m basically greedy.) But enough to feel conspicuously un-yummy mummy when I was out and about, to waste a whole lot of time and energy stressing about it, and to start exercising very much sooner – in retrospect – than I should have. I even went to one of those buggy fit classes, lumbering around at the back of a pack of already (it seemed) marathon-ready fellow mums, failing abysmally to do a single press up, trying to ignore the fact that any kind of formalised exercise class has been an anathema to me since the ritual humiliation of PE lessons at school. To add insult to injury, none of this made any difference at all.

This time, though, one thing will have changed: I’ll be trying my very hardest not to care. That’s partly my promise to the child I already have: a small girl brimming with energy and appetite, who already notices everything, and whose main role model I am. I have no desire to pass on any weight-related neurosis to her. (Which, apparently, I all-too easily could.) But it’s also my promise to myself, born of the period of perspective I can now look back on, when the hormones had settled down after delivering and feeding Little A. but before they went crazy again this time around.

Because, of course, it was stupid to mind. Understandable, given the barrage of “lose the baby weight” magazine headlines and parade of improbably skinny celebrity mums – surely they can’t all be flat stomached at four-weeks post-partum? – but stupid nonetheless. Stupid partly because, as it happened, a lot of the extra weight came off of its own accord in the second six months, when I cut down the breastfeeding and (oh the irony!) the exercising. (Some of it never did, and that’s OK too: I just have a new “natural” size.) But stupid mainly because there’s quite enough of emotional turmoil, good and bad, in early parenting, without adding something so completely trivial to the mix.

When I look back on my first months with Little A. (and, fingers crossed, her brother or sister), I will remember the life-changing love and life-changing terror. I will think about those warm, sleepy cuddles, the agony and joy of breastfeeding, those delicious, gummy smiles. About how my own baby’s crying sears me like a physical pain, about the quiet desperation of never getting enough sleep. I will think how short those days really are: how quickly our babies grow and become someone else. More wonderful and more engaging every day, but no longer that new, fragile, helpless little person.

I won’t look back on how long it took me to squeeze back into my favourite dresses, or care if that pair of jeans never made it past my hips again. Of course, I would care if I never got back into running or climbing, or getting out into the hills again, but that’s different. That’s about being healthy – and doing something that keeps me reasonably sane – not just body image.

So that’s what I remind myself of, now the hormones have me in their grasp and the media wants me to believe that I should be able to produce a baby one minute, model a bikini the next. When I catch a glimpse in a full-length mirror, I laugh, or remind myself what an amazing thing that rapidly-ballooning body is doing, and how lucky I am that it can do it. And afterwards? Well, Kate Middleton may be paparazzi-perfect within hours of her daughter’s birth; for me, it would take a few centuries longer. But if I have a healthy, happy baby, and I’m getting even a modicum of sleep, I’m just going to be grateful for that.

As for that third of new mothers who, apparently, feel pressurised to lose their baby weight to please their partner, they need to change something in their lives, but I don’t think it’s their body shape.

 

 

 

 

 

Advertisements


Leave a comment

Daddy-time: Why we all loved paternity leave

A couple of weeks into paternity leave with our eight month-old daughter, my partner T. phoned me at work.

Him: Would you like to meet for lunch?
Me: [Delighted] How lovely. Yes. Where are you?
Him: Just down the road. We’re outside A&E.
Me: WHAT?
Him: [Hastily] But it’s OK, we’ve been in, and she’s fine.
Me: What happened?
[Pause]
Him: A pan fell on her head.
Me: [Horrified silence]
Him: [Small voice] But only a little one.

So far, so stereotypical. But that was more than a year ago, and we’ve all survived. More than that: sharing the parental leave was one of the best things we’ve done.

For him… well, he can speak for himself. [And does, below.] A. got to forge a close bond with an already adoring father which will last her all of her life. More immediately, she didn’t have to take one huge step (doing without me) at the same time as another (starting nursery). For me, it was a chance to reduce the hit that maternity leave inevitably takes on a mother’s career but without, in the first instance, having to leave my beloved little dot with strangers. (I went back three days a week at first, and that helped too.)

It was good for us all in another way, too: it forced me to shift from keeping a steely grip on baby-related decision-making to being prepared to trust him. More than that: to accept that, for a while, he would know more about her routine, her development, her likes and dislikes, than I did.

That wasn’t easy at first. I’d been her primary carer from the day she was born: breastfeeding (after a traumatic start), learning to make sense of her wants, getting some kind of a grip on her routine. Then weaning her, encouraging her, watching her past each milestone. Learning slowly how to be a parent, and then learning again, by changing every day how I did things. And all the time having her there, close by me, kissable on demand and almost always consolable in my arms or at my breast. Now, I had to hand her over, knowing he would make mistakes, wouldn’t do as I did, wouldn’t be able to reassure her as quickly as I could.

To make it even harder, for nearly six weeks of those months of intense mother-baby bonding T. hadn’t seen her at all. He’d been overseas for work. My first day back at the office, Little A.’s aunt would have done better on a “what does she need when?” quiz than her father. Probably her five year-old cousin would have.

For all that, it worked. For a few days, T. phoned me every half hour to check some small detail of routine or ask me where her shoes were. For a week after that, I was phoning him almost as often – for reassurance. The only person who adjusted seamlessly was Little A. herself. But we got there. And it was almost worth the stress of learning to leave her, to come back in the evenings to small chubby arms reaching out of a high chair, and a radiant smile on a food-smeared face.

True, T. didn’t – still doesn’t – look after Little A. exactly in the way I would. There was an awful lot of what he calls independent play and I call leaving her on the floor while he gets on with his own stuff. But then independence is a useful trait. Plus she wouldn’t have been up so many of Edinburgh’s hills on my back, nor been introduced at so early an age (ever, probably) to the joys of ornithology. And at least I came home to find my supper cooking away on the hob, which is more than T. did when I was on mat leave.

As for his pan-related blip? Well, probably the biggest challenge to co-parenting (for me) is coming to terms with different attitudes to risk. But, being charitable, parenting is a steep learning curve, and it’s even steeper, in some ways, if you are suddenly presented with a crawling, grabbing little monster, than if you can build up to it through the transition from staying put to reaching, rolling, udging, etc. And I’ve said it before: if we can’t force ourselves to leave dads to get on with the childcare, un-micro-managed, we’ll always be the “experts”, and we’ll always be expected to do all the work.

That’s where the new legislation comes in. For a month now, dads in England and Wales have been able to share parental leave. They even get some statutory pay for. Let’s hope it makes a difference: in 2013, only 1 in 172 dads was taking additional paternity leave. (For an exception, see my fellow blogger.) Even in Scotland, where some sharing was already an option, T. was very much the exception among our friends and colleagues.

I’m not sure how optimistic to be. Employers can always find more subtle ways to discourage new fathers: making them feel more vulnerable to redundancy, or encouraging a macho culture in which this just isn’t “done”. (In 2014, around 2 in 5 dads didn’t even take the paternity leave they were entitled to, apparently believing there was a social stigma around it.) There’s also the financial aspect.

And, of course, it’s not for everyone. Some mums, understandably enough, don’t want to give up any of this precious time. (As one friend put it: “The day he takes some of the pregnancy off me is the day he gets some of the maternity leave.”) But I can’t believe that the current imbalance is down to no other couples wanting to do it. So fingers crossed. As for us, we’re hoping to be able to do it again, this time next year.

T. says:

Why don’t we have five day weekends and two day weeks? A common refrain in many an office. Well, when I took paternity leave that’s exactly what I got. Five days of fun every week. Only two days of paid work, right enough, but one of us was always going to take the leave and we’re paid roughly the same so the family income wasn’t affected.

Setting it up was a breeze: the HR manager at work ran the process like clockwork. Technically I was not on paternity leave, as employment law stipulates that one cannot take that part-time. Instead I made a formal flexible-working arrangement for three months. My employers could have rejected my request but had they done so I could have forced the issue by requesting paternity leave and working no days. This arrangement suited both parties – they got me for two days of the working week and I got Little A. for three.

I took the leave from January to April. I was never worried about my ability to take care of A. but I was aware it would take some getting used to. Was I prepared? What would I forget? With this in mind, I took a day’s holiday and had a practice run. A. and I went to the museum and met a friend for lunch with Liz at home ready to help out if necessary. As it was, it all went well and when the big day came we happily waved Liz off to work and got ready for our day.

It was easy enough; A. was still sleeping twice per day so we went for long walks up the local hills while she did so. Between times we shopped or played, or she played and I cooked and cleaned. I also got to join the weekly meet-ups of the mothers and babies from our NCT group, which up to that point had been a mostly all-female affair. They were one of the highlights of my week. A. was lovely to spend time with but her conversation was rubbish.

While I have no problem with Liz’s parenting style, it is not the same as mine. I am far more willing than Liz to let A. try something and fail before helping her. I also have more faith in her ability to bounce – both literally and metaphorically. A bruise won’t kill her and nor should a setback stop her trying. The three months of Daddy-time allowed me to shape my daughter in the ways I wanted; they also let me learn how to care for her.

So do it: it gives you time off work; it give you precious time to be fly solo and finally it lets you bring up your kid in the way you want. One note of caution, though: don’t drop pans on your child’s head; trips to A&E are a real waste of time.