The Frog Pyjamas

Two mums, one blog, two takes on parenting


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Well done Serena – but please, folks, don’t expect us all to do that

So Serena Williams won the Australian Open when she was eight weeks pregnant. Good for her. I did something amazing in the first trimester, too: some days, I even got out of bed.

When I look back on my early pregnancies, especially the second one, there are no sporting achievements to remember. Instead, there is exhaustion: leaden-bone exhaustion. And there is puke. A lot of it.

Some snapshots. Hanging over the loo, my head actually in the bowl, vomit in my hair, knowing that if I made myself lift my head up, I could be sick again and buy myself maybe five minutes’ relief from the all-pervading nausea, but too miserable even to do that. Stopping on the way to work to be sick behind a bin in central Edinburgh. (Yep, classy as hell.) Standing in front of a room of students, my goals narrowing from the usual criteria of being as engaging and informative as possible, to the simple aim of getting through the class without spewing on them.

And then, the second time round, constant guilt – through the constant sorry-for-myselfness – that I had so little time or energy for my adorable toddler.

It wasn’t a happy time, however happy the end result. So why recall it now? Certainly not to denigrate Serena Williams: about as inspirational a woman as you could hope to find, with reserves of talent, strength and endurance I can barely imagine. But when I hear stories like that, while part of me thinks “Fantastic” and “Aren’t women amazing?” there’s also a part that thinks: “Oh God, here we go.” Because here’s another reason for some men (and even some women who breezed through it) to accuse those who us who found pregnancy a body-invading ordeal, of malingering. (And yep, there are plenty of them out there: just check out the charmers here or here.)

Trust me, we weren’t. If you want to know what pregnancy is like, for those who get it hard, think of the worst hangover you’ve ever had. The horrible, all-consuming nausea. Only it doesn’t go away. For months and months. Then imagine you also have flu, so lifting your arms and legs is like doing weights. Even standing up for more than a few minutes is touch and go. Then envisage trying to get through your days without more than a handful of people knowing that you feel like this. Because of course you haven’t hit the magic 12 weeks yet. And I’m just talking ordinary bad pregnancy sickness: not the back-in-hospital for dehydration kind.

So yes, all credit to Serena, and to Alysia Montaño running an 800m race at 34 weeks pregnant, and all the other women who continue to achieve great things while they are growing another person. But personally I found it more helpful when the Duchess of Cambridge spoke out about her experience of hyperemesis gravidarum, than I do all the current raving about “what woman can do”.

Yes, of course I’d take Serena as a role model for my girls any day, especially over a woman whose entire career is being married to a prince. But when I saw pictures of Kate trying to smile and get through an awards show, I felt less alone. I knew that she, too, must just be thinking: “Please don’t puke, please don’t puke.” The more honesty there is about how hard those early months can be, the less pressure women feel under to pretend everything is just fine. The more we might feel it’s OK to tell people, and to take time off. And the less excuse any partners will have for that oh-so-understanding phrase: “Making a fuss.”


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Parenting in dark times

With my more direct hat on, I’d call this post: ‘How to be a good parent when the world is turning to sh*t.’

My girls are still small, so I didn’t face the immediate challenge many parents did on November 9. I didn’t have to explain to them what the hell had just happened or why Daddy and I were using quite so many bad words. Nor did I have to tell them why we and a group of fellow parents were drinking too much and boycotting all media last Friday night. (On June 24, I did try to tell Little A – in three-year-old-friendly terms – why I wasn’t at my best. However, her only response was to demand a snack, so it seems safe to assume she didn’t grasp my real opinion of Brexit.)

But as I ask myself how I’m going to bring my daughters up – as I stare into the gulf between the world they look set to inherit and the one I want them to live in – I figure I have challenges enough. We all do.

I want my girls to believe in human equality regardless of race or religion: to believe in it at so deep a level that they don’t even have think about believing it. I want them to empathise with refugees as desperate fellow human beings, not fear them as a rabid alien force hell-bent on stealing jobs and bombing cities. Yes, Theresa, I want my daughters to be citizens of the world and proud of it.

How do I teach them these things when it seems to have become OK to be openly racist? When being anti-Muslim can get you, oh, all the way to the White House. When there are violent attacks on Poles living in the UK? When some of my own friends and colleagues have been verbally abused for not being British? I want to bring up compassionate, loving human beings, but there is so much that will teach them to hate.

I also want to bring up confident women. I want it never even to occur to my girls that they aren’t as good as boys. I want them to value themselves for themselves. I want them to grasp the future with ambition and confidence. How can I do that when the newly appointed ‘leader of the free world’ has been caught on video boasting of serial groping? (FFS: his idea of a compliment to his own daughter is to say that if she weren’t his daughter, he might be dating her.) How can they not see this as a man’s world when that same self-proclaimed ‘grabber of pussies’ has just signed a bill to jeopardise women’s reproductive rights and put their lives at risk across the globe?

How can I look forward to the future for my children – let alone their children – when the life that people like me have been living for generations has comprehensively screwed up the planet? When for one major step forward (Paris climate deal), we have another lurch back into the fossil fuel dark ages. (Yep, him again. That man with the terrifying politics.) How do I – how can I – explain that to them?

Of course, I’m writing this from a position of massive advantage: even having time and scope to ponder these dilemmas, in itself, a kind of luxury. I know parents across the world are struggling to bring up their children in war zones or in famine. I cannot imagine the terror they face. Even in this country, there are mothers and fathers struggling to put meals on the table. When I kiss my girls goodnight, I’m not worrying about whether I can feed them tomorrow or whether our home will be taken out by a bomb. I know how lucky that makes me. But these concerns of mine are real, for all that.

So this is what I think I should do. Since this is one of the rare occasions when my professional life (as a climate ethicist) gives me some kind of claim to know what I’m taking about in this blog, I’ll go further: this is what I think we, as parents, should do.

We shouldn’t accept this bleak future. We had our children, so we owe it to them to leave them a decent society and a planet which hasn’t been totally trashed. Start with climate change. We can fight for our children by acting together. Marching, lobbying, petitioning, giving to environmental causes, supporting renewables, joining global movements for action. Locally, nationally, globally. We can show our own commitment to that change by changing what we do ourselves. (Drive less, fly less, use renewable energy, eat less meat and dairy. Etc.) Yes, many parents are short on spare cash – let alone spare time – but there’s almost always going to be something you can do.

And think about it this way: there are an awful lot of parents out there. That’s a lot of voters, a lot of consumers, a lot of potential givers to charity, or signers-up to living sustainably. If we used the voice we have together (Mumsnet, any takers?) maybe someone would listen.

If we think we should bring up our children to care about other people and the world they live in, that doesn’t change just because the ‘bad guys’ are in charge. It makes it more urgent. If society will tell our children that it’s acceptable – even patriotic – to be racist, or that women shouldn’t be presumptuous enough to want control over their own bodies, we have to keep on telling them otherwise, louder. And showing them. If we want them to grow up as strong women or as men who respect women, we have to be the strong female role model they need, or the male feminist. If we want them to be compassionate, we should make sure they see us having the courage of our convictions: supporting the victims of violence or discrimination, helping refugees, donating to food banks, campaigning for change.

And of course, we have to do all this without scaring them with too many of the dismal facts, too early. They need space to be children, too, and to grow up at their own pace.

So it’s a tall order. But it’s not all bleak, the picture we have to show our children. Yes, those who are old enough to understand will have to know about Trump, about UKIP, about institutionalised climate change denial, xenophobia, and sexism. But we can point them to the Earth2Trump movement, to the ‘Bridges not Walls’ and ‘Love Trumps Hope’ banners all over the world last Friday, to those who have opened their homes to refugees, to the Women’s Rights Marches and their vocal, visible support from women and men. Yes, too many mothers had to explain to their daughters how a man with no experience and horrifying opinions won the presidency over a much better qualified woman. But they could also have reminded them of the many great female role models and success stories out there, from politicians to activists, sportswomen to scientists.

We should also remember that we have a huge resource in our hands, as parents. Our children are not only the people who will live in this un-brave new world: they are the ones who will, in a generation’s time, be reshaping it. We are bringing up the citizens of the future: the ones who will hopefully do a better job than we have. As well as being scared, maybe we should be a bit excited by that.


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My family and other people: The impossible task of parenting in public

I see her all the time: my pre-motherhood self. I see her in unimpressed strangers if my three year-old launches a ‘BUT I WANT IT’ rage over some withheld treat, or the baby wails in her buggy on the bus. I see her in the man whose face falls when we sit next to him on the train. I even see flashes of her in the café owner whose frozen smile and barbed comments have left my girls and me effectively ASBO’d. Most of all, I saw her in the student who spent an entire carol service glaring at the two families in the row behind: four harassed and (initially) apologetic parents, two wriggling and vocal toddlers, and a baby I was trying to breastfeed under my coat so she didn’t scream the place down.

Ten, twenty years ago, I couldn’t bear it when children had snot running down their face. My internal monologues on the people who ‘let’ their children scream during weddings were a masterclass in intolerance. I used to wonder why parents whose babies kept me awake on a plane weren’t marching them up and down the aisle from take-off to landing. I would have loved the latest transport innovation: child-free zones.

It wasn’t that I didn’t like children. I adored my little cousins and later my nephews and friends’ children. But I thought parenting was just a matter of doing it the right way. I thought badly behaved kids = terrible parents. I failed altogether to grasp two simple truths. 1) Children are their own people. 2) You’re so desperately tired – from the start of pregnancy until, well, forever probably – that it’s impossible to follow even the simplest rules.

Calm but firm, I thought, looking superiorly around at all the uncalm, unfirm parents and rampant children around me. That’s all it takes. Now I wish I could go spiralling back through the decades and chant at my former self: ‘Calm but firm. Calm but firm. CALM BUT FIRM. Ha ha ha ha ha.’ Then I’d go round apologising on her behalf.

Of course, I still judge other people’s parenting. (Be honest: we all do it.) But I’ve got a whole new margin of tolerance, and a whole new realm of understanding. There is some bad parenting – there is some shockingly awful parenting – but there are a lot more parents who are trying their best, even if that isn’t always obvious to the childfree bystander.

I understand, now, that the four year-old sprinting up and down the train carriage has probably been allowed to do that because she’ll yell herself silly otherwise. I know if you are only going two bus stops more, it’s not worth wresting the baby out of the buggy to calm her down. I understand that the mother clutching her wailing infant on a plane may be too exhausted from a zillion sleepless nights to stand, never mind walk. I know the baby may be teething, or have sore ears.

I know that snotty-nosed mite’s parents probably did just wipe it, because I am now horribly familiar with the incredible speed and volume of toddler snot production. (Scientists should really be trying to replicate it as an energy source.) I realise it’s at least a possibility that the happy couple asked parents not to remove their noisy offspring from the wedding ceremony. (Although I’m still kind of with younger-me on that one: I whisk my own babies out at the first squeak, with the result that the only wedding service T. and I have sat through together since A. was born was the one with the no children rule.)

Now I think why on earth have a kids’ menu if you don’t want actual – living, breathing, moving – children in your café. (Faced recently with a notice on a restaurant indicating that children were welcome only if they were quiet and still, my sister and and I laughed out loud and took our hungry brood elsewhere.) I realise that parents have to do some of the things they enjoy with their little monsters in tow. It’s that or have no life. And why the hell not? It’s crucial bonding. Plus children are part of society – even if some commentators seem to forget that – and get as much if not more out of museums, galleries, parks and holidays as we do.

Most of all, I understand just how hard it can be to say ‘no’ to a small person who has your heart firmly gripped in their little fist. And I know how bad you can feel when you give in to those disapproving stares and end up being stricter than you actually think is fair.

But that doesn’t mean it should be a free-for-all. If we expect tolerance, we have to show some consideration. As parents, we’re not always good at that. We are all too inclined to think the world should revolve around our children, and that they are so cute that everyone should be prepared to overlook even the most outrageous behaviour. (People are much the same with their dogs, I’ve noticed, and it is every bit as misjudged there.)

Why should the childfree should have to put up with all the noise and mess that goes with being around small children, when they don’t get the amazing, intangible positive stuff that we get from parenting? It’s not like we do them a favour by having children. (In fact, as an environmentalist, I feel like I should thank anyone who chooses not to.) Maybe we should remember that more often than we manage to do, caught up in those day-to-day exhaustions and petty battles.

There’s a line somewhere between letting your toddler stand up on the bus seat to chat to the passengers behind, and watching her drag all the books off the shelves in a shop; between handing out ‘I’m sorry’ goody bags to fellow passengers the minute you step onto the plane, and sitting silently while your progeny throw food and pull hair all journey. And, of course, there are venues and venues. Anyone who has had a special occasion meal out ruined by someone else’s running, shouting child is entitled to be pissed off. But it’s just plain stupid to take a laptop into a ‘yummy mummy’ café and expect peace and quiet to work.

As for me, I like to think I have some intuitive idea of where that fine line lies between being over-restrictive to my girls and inconsiderate to others. But I still fall off it, on one side or the other, on an almost daily basis.


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Educating not fat-shaming: parenting and body image

“Mummy, are you fat?”
“Er- I don’t know. Do you think I am?”
“Yes.”

And so my daughter, aged nearly three, moved effortlessly into the world of female body preoccupation. (In terms of tact, though, she takes after her father.) Reading about the influence of childhood on body image, I’m now wondering how worried I should be.

Apparently, if we call our daughters fat, they are more likely to grow up with body image problems, whatever their size. Well, duh. But they are also less likely to have a “healthy” BMI, making such comments as ineffective as they are unkind. Other research warns us that trying to control our children’s diet, commenting at all – even positively – on their weight, or otherwise encouraging them to pursue thinness, could be setting them up for a future of insecurity. That’s for girls and boys.

So we need to be careful what we say. I hope it’s obvious that you don’t make disparaging comments about your child’s weight once they’re old enough to understand. (And certainly not when they’re an impressionable adolescent.) But beyond that, I’m not quite sure what we should be doing, or just how early all this starts.

Am I wrong to exclaim over the delicious chunkiness of our younger daughter, aged nearly 11 months? Should T. and stop referring to her (adoringly) as the “small fat one”? I can’t imagine it’ll harm her – we’ll stop before she knows what we are saying – but are we sending the wrong message to her big sister? Or is it OK because we’re countering the prevailing thin-is-best mentality? (“I’m kissing her chubby little arm,” Little A. announced the other day, cutely but – in light of this research – disconcertingly.)

I’m also stuck on how not to control my children’s diet in a bad way, whilst also doing all the things I’m supposed to be doing to control it. Because let’s not forget that other thing we are always reminded to worry about: childhood obesity. Of course, we can make sure we provide mostly healthy food, don’t make a big deal about the odd biscuit, and encourage our boys and girls to enjoy running, jumping, and generally rampaging. But I need to be able to explain myself when my daughter wants chocolate buttons every night instead of broccoli, and I don’t give them to her.

I get that, “Don’t eat that, it’ll turn you into a porker”, is out, but what about: “It’s bad for you to eat too much of that”? According to one researcher, that’s out too. Which seems very limiting. Of course we shouldn’t tell our children to be thin, but presumably we can and must encourage them to be healthy, and that’s got to involve some education about different foods.

I could always imitate a couple of my friends and appeal directly to the effects (positive or negative) of certain foods, in a non-weight related way. “Eat this fish, it’ll make you clever.” “No, you can’t have that drink. The sweeteners always make you behave like a maniac.” Etc. I’m also hoping that teaching my girls to enjoy cooking food as well as eating it is a positive thing: part of making it a legitimate pleasure. But it’s always going to be a balancing act.

Then there’s the still more difficult task of policing what others say. Can we? Should we? Of course, if they are actually offering insults, or waving pictures of Lindsey Lohan around and asking, “Don’t you want to look like that?” But what about the family friend who mock-stumbles and says, “Oh, aren’t you getting heavy?” as they throw your child into the air? It’s meant jokingly, even affectionately, but I wonder how young is too old to say that to a child.

Perhaps I’m wrong, but this troubles me especially for girls, scarily high proportions of whom already worry about their size. It can’t take long for our daughters to pick up that “You’ve lost weight,” is pretty much the ultimate compliment in the adult female world. Or that they never hear their mothers telling each other that they look great because they’ve put weight on.

Which brings me, of course, to the real challenge. It’s not just about what we and those around us say to our children. It’s not even just about what we do (or don’t) encourage them to do. It’s also about what they see us doing, and hear us saying to one another.  If we constantly comment on our own and each other’s weight, if we spend our lives dieting, we’re setting them up for body insecurity. And, hopefully, if we enjoy a range of food, exercise, and generally don’t make a thing of it, then they will have a better chance of following suit. Again, duh. But that doesn’t make it easy to carry out.

I don’t diet. That’s simple, since I made promised myself several years ago to stop wasting my life on such a futile occupation, and reinforced that when it came to the baby weight second time round. But I do have some spectacularly unhealthy food habits I don’t want to pass on, starting with an inability to eat anything cake or chocolate-related in moderation. If my girls pick up my chocolate binges but not my love of cycling, they will not only not be thin – which doesn’t matter – but not be healthy. Which does. And even if they are, that all or nothing approach to sweet treats has its roots in a food-as-sin mentality that I wish I could unlearn.

So for me – as I expect for many mothers – demonstrating a healthier attitude to food means quietly re-examining some of my own eating patterns. But it also means shedding a lifetime of insidious little phrases. “I shouldn’t, but I will.” “Oh, OK then: I’ll be naughty.” “I won’t. I’m trying to be good.” All of which tell our daughters that food is something they should feel bad about enjoying, and so, almost certainly, make them think about it all the more. And which tell our sons, if not the same, then at least that that’s what they should expect from the women in their lives.

It’s going to be a struggle. But it’s one worth trying, for my daughters. For the record, when Little A. said I was fat, I laughed and said I thought I was a pretty normal size but that it didn’t matter anyway. I don’t know if that was the ideal response, but it was the best I could manage at the time.


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Why I want more for my daughters than girls’ clothes

“What a lovely little boy.”
“She’s a girl, but thank you.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” [Peers closer.] “Oh, she’s got pink on her vest. Of course she’s a girl.”
“Er- no. SHE HASN’T GOT A PENIS, so of course she’s a girl. It’s got nothing to do with the colour of her vest.”

Alas, only three-quarters of that conversation actually happened. The last bit is just what I wish I’d said.

My blue-eyed, fat-cheeked nine-month old is regularly mistaken for a boy. That in itself wouldn’t trouble me: at that stage, left to themselves, they mostly just look like babies. However, I am bothered that people feel they have to apologise for the mistake, as though I’ll be hurt that she doesn’t look ‘feminine’ enough. And it is irritating – because of what it implies – that this happens every time she’s dressed in anything that isn’t stereotypically girly. (And never, of course, when she is.)

Because it’s not only when she’s in her cousins’ bluer hand-me-downs that this happens. (That, at least, would be unsurprising, if still a bit depressing.) Rather, it seems that there’s no such thing as gender neutral anymore: almost everything I naively thought of as unisex is assumed to be (and sold as) boy-wear. A baby is only allowed to be a girl if she’s wearing pink, lilac, pale purple, flowers, birds, or butterflies. Or sometimes kittens or rabbits. Oh, or a dress. Obviously. Everything else – most colours, almost all animals, and (of course!) anything transport related – is for boys.

And I use ‘allowed’ advisedly. If I correct people on my baby’s sex, I get accusation almost as regularly as apology. An aggrieved: “But she’s wearing blue/dungarees/a picture of a truck.” Like I’ve been false advertising.

All this is annoying enough, but it’s even more disturbing when combined with another trend on the baby circuit: baby girls sporting bandanas decorated with a bow or flower, in lieu of long hair. Just to make sure, presumably, that no-one could mistake them for a boy.

This depresses me. Of course I’m not saying don’t do it. It would be the height of hypocrisy to complain about being told how to dress my girls, then lecture other mothers on how to dress theirs. I’m not suggesting we should all be like the couple who not only eschewed all gendered clothing and toys, but refused to disclose the sex of their child until he was five years old. Far from it: I have lots of fun putting my girls in dresses and flowers – it’s just not all I dress them in – and I would love plaiting my three year-old’s hair if she would let me.

But I see these headbands so often that it seems like yet another thing we’re expected to do. I’m starting to feel as though boys are the default, and it’s taken for granted that parents of girls will mark them out as different. Often, even more annoyingly, in intensely impractical ways. There’s no way I could get my wriggling, grabbing, crawling little monster to keep anything like that round her head for more than ten seconds. The sunhat is a battle enough.

Of course, that’s my real bugbear. It’s not just about colour coding. It’s about, effectively, curbing what girls can do. And it only gets worse as they get older. Take the other week. Scene: a major supermarket. My quest: sandals for my three-year-old, for an outdoorsy holiday and charging around the garden without picking up any more splinters. Not too demanding, you would think. But you’d be wrong, reader, because my three-year-old is a girl.

There they were: the shelves of shoes next to one another, one heavily pink, the other mostly blue. I’d expected that. But it went further. The girls’ section featured what looked like fashion sandals. Perfect for attending a party (at least, if it was a sit-down-and-play-with-dolls kind of party); hopeless, as far as I could see, for muddy running, paddling, or climbing. The boys section was a different story. Two sturdy pairs of sandals, securely velcro-strapped, ready to withstand plenty of dirt, and altogether much like a mini version of those sold in outdoor shops. Clearly designed for just such fun as my intrepid Little A. had in mind.

Even the waterproof sandals, presumably both intended for beach-holiday paddling, were starkly gender-divided. In the boys’ corner, closed toed, robust. In the girls’, flimsy, strappy things that promised nothing so much as a sprained ankle at the first scramble over boulders or race up a pebbly shore.

I can’t express how cross this makes me. I was expecting the same outdoorsy shoes in both sections, only with the girls’ ones covered in flowers and pinkness. That would be annoying enough. (Message to my adventure-loving, climbing, jumping daughter: “OK, you can do these things so long as you look pretty at the same time.”) But not having a girls’ equivalent on display at all? That’s basically saying to my girl and all those like her that she shouldn’t be doing those things, full stop. And saying that to her at three years old. What will it be like – what will she expect, of the world and of herself – by the time she’s ten?

Perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised. What she’ll expect, after all, is exactly the kind of society she’s growing up in: one so packed with double standards that women can still be required to wear high heels to the office. But of course that only makes me more furious.

No doubt there’s more I should be doing about this. Petitioning the excellent Let Toys Be Toys campaign group to turn their attention to clothes. Barraging the offending stores with indignant emails. I’ll try both. In the meantime, I did what I often do anyway, and bought from the boys’ section. My daughter now has a pair of sturdy, multi-terrain sandals in her favourite colour: blue. She loves them.

 

 


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Can’t sleep, won’t sleep: Surviving postnatal insomnia

“Sleep when your baby sleeps.” Yeah, right.

Everyone warns you about disrupted nights, though nothing prepares you for being woken, some nights, every 45 minutes. From two to seven months, two hours was a long sleep for my younger daughter. Even her big sister – no perfect sleeper – had left me totally unready for that.

Nobody warns you that you mightn’t be able to sleep even between those imperious alarm calls. That, as if this amazing, impossible motherhood lark wasn’t challenge enough already, you can be let down by your own body.

Nobody tells you about lying next to a sleeping baby, zombie-tired but irredeemably awake. About the time sliding by as your thoughts run in unproductive but unstoppable circles. Exhausted frustration to near-resignation. Then another cycle of almost-but-not-quite-dropping-off. Finally, sobbing panic at the thought of the long, fast-approaching day. A day with two infinitely valuable, infinitely demanding little persons to be kept alive and fed and happy.

No-one tells you about listening for your baby’s slightest movement. One moment hearing her stir and deciding it’s pointless trying to sleep when she could wake any second. The next panicking because you can’t hear her, and waking her yourself to ascertain that, yes, she is still breathing. About how sometimes you will end up waking her to feed, hoping the ensuing sleep will be a chance to sleep yourself. (It wasn’t, usually.) Or how you will tell yourself what a terrible mother you are to have disturbed her. (Those are not the hours for rationality.)

At least, nobody told me. I hadn’t heard of postnatal insomnia until I had Little L. Then, frantically Googling (usually at 2am), I found only brief mentions on the official websites, usually as a codicil to postnatal depression. It was only by trawling through the message boards that I found other new mothers grappling with it as a standalone problem. (Or perhaps not entirely standalone. Looking back, I can see how easily that tear-drenched middle-of-the-night panic could have spiralled into PND.) But, because it is a very real problem, and in the hope of helping someone else, here is how I got through my months of sleep deprivation.

Co-sleeping. I never planned to do it: it rang all the alarm bells in my risk-averse head. But when I only had to wriggle across to feed L. to sleep, then back to my side of the bed, I didn’t ever have to wake up all that much. And – an unexpected benefit – I loved it so much that I wished I’d done it first time round. (Tip for the similarly cautious: under-the-sheet bed guards. They stopped her rolling into me and under the duvet, but I could lie across them to breastfeed.)

Talking books. I tried some of the standard insomnia tips. Prescription and even over-the-counter drugs are, alas, incompatible with breastfeeding. So I was left with camomile tea (For weeks, I kept it by the bed.) With not staring at a screen before or in bed. (The 2am Googling: bad idea.) A hot bath. (Like, when exactly?) I even tried downloading what claimed to be a self-hypnosis insomnia cure. (I ended up more awake than ever, but distracted by planning methods of torture for the deeply annoying narrator.) Talking books actually blocked out that unproductive escalation of worry. Books I loved, but knew inside out already. They tricked me into sleep because I wasn’t thinking about it. It didn’t always work, but it did more often than anything else.

Early nights. For the insomniac, it’s a case not of sleeping when the baby lets you but finding out when you can sleep, and moving heaven and earth to make space for it. For me, that meant going to bed almost as soon as my toddler did. Then, I could grab a few straight hours while L. was carted round the house in the sling on her dad, or cuddled by whichever aunt or grandparent was to hand.

Friends. Girls I could text after a bad night, begging them to come round, warning them I was liable to burst into tears at any moment. Friends who showed up in twos or threes, loaded with cake and their own toddlers to entertain mine, who carried Little L. around when she cried, picked up A. when she tumbled over, and barely let me get out of my chair. Those expensive antenatal classes we did the first time round? Totally, totally worth it: they brought these indispensable ladies into my life.

Acceptance. The single most useful piece of advice I found in all my obsessive online research was that there is no miracle cure. Two friends saying of the two hourly wake-ups: “That’s just what it’s like when you are exclusively breastfeeding” was about the most helpful thing I could hear. After that, I wasn’t constantly thinking: “Oh I can’t wait to crack the sleeping so I can enjoy parenting again.” I was relishing her already. And it means so much, looking back, that I didn’t let the sleep crap undermine that.

The truth is, we can deal with it. Even a double whammy of insomnia and a six-feeds-a-night-baby. Once I found I could cope even with only an hour’s sleep, I was spared that 5am how-will-I-get-through-the-day panic. Yes, there was more Peppa Pig than I ever thought I would countenance, and I felt – and still feel – terrible at how much snappier the tiredness made me with my adorable A. But I knew I could keep both girls fed and cleanish and mostly cheerful, even if I was on reserve battery myself. Armed with the swat team of friends and cake, I even laughed my way through some of those zombie afternoons.

And while insomnia has nothing going for it, there is something to be said for the baby-led night-time wake ups. With a toddler and a houseful of chores, quality time with a second baby is thin on the ground. From that first besotted night in hospital, thinking how crazy I was to worry I couldn’t love a second baby as much, the night feeds have been just for me and Little L. For all the tears (mine and hers), there are memories that I will treasure. That moment when she stops raging and begins her trusting, shut-eyed questing. Her happy, snuffling noises. That warm, cuddly intimacy, even through the haze of exhaustion.

L. is nine months old now and at least starts the night in the cot. Her dad handles some wake ups, she’s down to two or three a night, and I (mostly) sleep better. I wouldn’t say I’ll be sad when she eventually sleeps through, but there will be some things I’ll miss, after all.


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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.