The Frog Pyjamas

Two mums, one blog, two takes on parenting


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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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Overprotective parenting: not always a bad thing

Once upon a time a mother took her sons to a busy, rural playground. The older boy (aged three) played while his baby brother was confined to a pushchair. After a few minutes the little one demanded his mother’s attention and, in giving it to him, she took her eyes off her older boy for about 45 seconds. When she looked up again, he had vanished from sight.

Snatching the baby out of his pushchair, she ran around the playground fruitlessly calling. Realising he wasn’t there, she sprinted down the short hillside to the tree-banked steam in the valley. The little boy was paddling in the knee-deep water, oblivious to the angst he had caused.

Several potential alternative endings to that story make my heart go cold. I was lucky. I had not been attentive enough, and if anything terrible had happened to the Heir, it would have been my own fault. Yes, I stopped watching him for less than a minute, but even a few seconds can be too long.

The Heir is now seven years old and (usually) less prone to running off, but I still struggle to find a balance that allows him and his brother some independence whilst not taking undue risks. How much freedom should, indeed can, we safely allow our children? What risks, if any, should we encourage them to take?

For me there is a distinction between necessary and unnecessary risks. The former are those that we must allow our children to take in order to enable them to grow up independent, physically and emotionally confident and able to thrive in adulthood. On the other hand are unnecessary risks, to which we expose them through carelessness or inattentiveness, or for our own trivial convenience.

Some parents seem just plain stupid and make decisions the rest of us can only shudder at. Take the woman on holiday in Benidorm who allegedly left her nine year old twin boys to find their own way back to their apartment while she went out on the town. Her children survived unharmed (physically at least), but they might easily not have done. In another misjudged case – however much one might sympathise with their sentiment – it is hard to understand the Japanese parents who left their son alone in a bear-inhabited wood as punishment, only to return and find him gone.

However, it isn’t always so clear-cut. Sometimes, an avoidable error of judgement can end in tragedy. Do I believe that Madeleine McCann’s parents were to blame what happened to their daughter? Absolutely not. Would I ever have left my sleeping children in an apartment and gone out for supper in a nearby restaurant? No way in the world. Likewise, is anyone accountable in the horrific July incident where an alligator drowned a toddler as he paddled in a lagoon?

I accept that there will inevitably be situations beyond my control. However, there are many that I can and should influence. I never assume that anyone else, be they friend, grandparent, or lifeguard, has responsibility for my child unless specifically agreed. Unlike some of my contemporaries, I would never, even briefly, leave a sleeping baby unattended in the car. Instead, I scoured the area for “pay at pump” petrol stations and always lugged the unwieldy baby seat into the shop for a pint of milk.

When the Heir was a baby and toddler, I was obsessive when he was eating, never turning my back lest he should choke. At the playground I would be just behind him on the steep steps up to the slide, or begging my husband not to push him too high on the swing. I was sometimes accused of being overprotective and worrying too much, which made me question my judgement as a mother.

As the boys have grown more mature I have been able to adapt my approach, letting them take more risks and be more independent. Ironically, at times I now find myself the victim of other parents’ anxieties about my sons’ adventurousness and my acceptance – even encouragement – of it. I fear that to parents whose approach differs wildly from my own I can appear irresponsible. I can understand this – in our health and safety obsessed society we aren’t exactly encouraged to evaluate and take risks. However, I’m trying my best to stick to the distinction between necessary and unnecessary risks, and it seems to me that some are necessary.

My more relaxed approach is still within limits. I let the boys play out of sight at home, but not in public places, where there is the possibility of undesirables lurking with malicious intent. They may not ride a bike, scooter or pony without a crash helmet, neither do I let them play in or near water without a responsible adult present. These constraints they accept with good grace; others less so. I am extremely concerned about letting them go into public toilets unaccompanied. The Heir, now seven, is especially indignant, but I insist they come into the Ladies with me if their father is not with us. I don’t know what the accepted age for this is, but at the moment I am just not comfortable with it. These things (and many others) are non-negotiable.

Elsewhere, I have learned to be flexible. I allow them to climb trees of their choice, but have taught them how to do so safely, to judge if a tree is suitable for an attempted assault and to ensure they can make their own way back to the ground. In the swimming pool they love nothing better than to be flung high into the air by their father, to come crashing down into the water. I watch mutely with my heart in my mouth, mentally running through all the awful things that could happen.

Yes, I am regularly pushed outside my comfort zone, and the inbuilt maternal obsession with protecting my children from harm. But I cannot, and will not, wrap them up in cotton wool for the sake of soothing my own mind. If I am too protective during childhood, in later life they will be ill equipped to deal with the harsh realities of the world. I applaud campaigners in Canada, whose determination to reintroduce the concept of “risky play” has led to the availability of funding for innovative playground schemes.

Our garden is edged by private woodland, so I am very fortunate to be able to allow the Heir and Spare the freedom to explore in a relatively “safe” environment. It is not quite The Famous Five, but free-ranging across an acre of woodland seems a fair compromise in a world where children need to develop skills for adult life whilst avoiding the unknown but real threats that fill their parents with semi-permanent fear.

When I reflect on their early years, or wonder if at times I am still overprotective, I remember the words of my great aunt, an experienced paediatrician, when I confided my worries. “There is no such thing as overprotective,” she told me. “With all the worst accidents I saw in my professional life, the parents said: ‘But I only took my eyes off them for a second.’”


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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.


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Let’s change how we talk about dads and childcare

My partner and I both have full-time paid jobs and our one-year-old daughter is in nursery four days a week. I work a compressed week (five days’ work in four days) and do about two thirds of the childcare and half of the housework and cooking. T. works five days a week and does the rest. I’ve lost track of how often I’ve been told how lucky I am that he does so much. No-one (apart from me) has ever told him how lucky he is that I do even more, or for that matter how unlucky he is to have less time with little A. Instead, he gets told how unusual he is.

What’s not unusual is, unfortunately, this discrepancy in how we’re judged. Take the disapproving reaction to my friend’s announcement that she would have to spend a few nights away for work when her daughter was 11 months old. “But what will happen to the baby?” she was asked – not once, but repeatedly. “Err – she has a father.” T. spent five weeks abroad when Little A. was five months’ old, and not once were we asked who would be looking after her.

Or take this mother’s article, which the same friend posted on Facebook. The author had attracted cyber-fury for daring to say that looking after children can be boring, but what horrified my friend was the casual way in which this liberal, professional woman described her husband as ‘helping’ her with their young children.

And that’s the particularly depressing thing: it’s not just men who are using this vocabulary (although particular mention should go to the two male friends of friends who describe themselves as ‘babysitting’ when they look after their own children, especially the one who demands a day playing golf to recover). It’s also women, including intelligent, modern, well-educated women for whose opinion I generally have a lot of time.

I have no problem with saying I am lucky in some of the things my partner does. I’m lucky that he’s a great cook, that he is a ‘morning person’ happy to do breakfast and the nursery drop-off most days, and that he has become so obsessed with vacuuming (a task I hate) that he doesn’t trust me to do it properly. I’m less lucky that he thinks sheets should be left to fester on the bed for at least a year, regards his mountain bike as second in importance only to our daughter, and is apparently incapable of putting washed clothes away or taking out the recycling.

But that works for him too. He’s lucky that I have juggled my working hours, starting early and foregoing lunch breaks, so that we can keep Little A. out of nursery one day a week. He’s less so that I never do the washing up, and am so monumentally bad about getting out of bed that every one of those early starts becomes a whirlwind of rushed crossness which I somehow make into his fault. We are both lucky in having an enchanting, affectionate and good-natured little girl (5am rage aside), which tips the balance in the delight/endurance see-saw that is looking after a toddler.

However, I do have a problem with being called ‘lucky’ for the mere fact that T. takes on any of these tasks. Yes, there’s one sense in which I am, if ‘lucky’ means ‘luckier than most’ or, for too many of the mums I know, ‘luckier than me’. A recent mumsnet survey confirms what plays out among most of my friends and family: that even working mothers still do the majority of household chores and childcare. But using terms like ‘lucky’ (me) or ‘good’ (him) implies that a father who does more than nothing (although less than half!) is going well beyond what can be expected of him. Subtext: childcare and housework are a mum’s job. Even when she has another one as well. (Or, for the stay-at-home-mum, even in weekends and evenings, when other people’s ‘day jobs’ come to an end.)

This infuriates me. But then I can hardly criticise when I do something almost as bad myself: incessant micromanaging. It won’t help to correct any gender imbalance that dads are so often written off as incompetent carers. (My friend, asked who would look after her baby when she was away, was not only outraged on principle but also insulted on her husband’s behalf.) And it will be hard to do anything about that impression if even those of us who don’t believe it are incapable of handing over the baby without a list of detailed instructions.

Of course, stopping is a lot easier said than done. (I’m saying it, but I’ve so far failed completely to do it. Just ask T.) The very fact that mums do more childcare tends to make us the experts – plus we are often more risk averse – and it’s almost impossible to leave anything to chance when it comes to your little one’s well-being. But maybe we should bite our tongue sometimes. Is the baby actually in danger? No, then let it go. Because every time we explain to a father how to feed, dress, or entertain his own child, we only reinforce the archaic idea that it’s our role to do all that, and we are just temporarily delegating.

I realise that for some women that’s not necessarily a problem: two thirds of working mums are happy with the way things are, according to mumsnet, or at least don’t want their partners to do more. I certainly don’t want less time with my little daughter. But I wish the women surveyed had been asked not just whether they wanted their partners to take on more childcare or housework, but whether they would have liked them to find more time to do things together as a family. I have a feeling the results would have been different.

Where the current situation suits both partners, great (although that still leaves us with the question of why dads are so much less likely to ‘choose’ time with children rather than at work/exercising/in the pub). But for the sake of those mums who aren’t so happy (and there are plenty), perhaps we could all rethink some of the signals we send. It won’t solve anything: we need social, legal and cultural change to do that, starting with Scandinavian-style parental leave. But it would show that we don’t buy into a set of stereotypes our grandmothers would recognise.

So let’s try to trust our partners a bit more when they are looking after our (and their!) children. And please can we have a ban on terms like ‘lucky’ or ‘helping out’ when it comes to dads and housework or childcare. If you wouldn’t praise a mum for doing something, don’t praise a dad for doing it. Or better still, praise them both.


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Never say never: notes to my pre-motherhood self

Pre-motherhood it was easy to make confident decisions, to plan what, as a parent, I would and would not do. Now, as I enter the final furlong of my first year as a mother, I have adapted to my ‘new normal’ and many of my old certainties just make me laugh. Here are a few things I have realised over the last all-consuming, confusing, sometimes painful but ultimately joyous nine months.

The things I swore I’d never do versus what actually happened:

I was not going to shout at my husband. It’s a clichéd trap that I was not going to fall into. We have a great marriage, right? Of course we would carry this into parenthood and always ‘be on the same page’…

Hahahahahahahahaha. Whilst I pick myself up from the floor laughing, read on. The first disagreement we had was in the hospital over whether to give our baby girl formula as my milk was delayed in coming in due to a rather interesting labour. My husband had been NCT’d (that’s a whole other blog) and felt that administering Aptamil was tantamount to poisoning her. I, on the other hand, whilst remaining determined to breastfeed, had survived being bottle-fed as a child and just wanted to get some fluid into our girl.

And so it began. Over the next few months we disagreed over many, many things – driven, in the main, by sheer eyeball-weeping tiredness, but also by fear. Fear that our smallest parenting choices would somehow harm this sacred thing we’d been allowed to carry home. Our disagreements usually played out in hushed passive-aggressive hissing over the sleeping infant and in my sleep-deprived, cranky, sore and hormonal state, I thought only I had the capacity to understand and soothe my child.  If I found that circling the crib three times, throwing salt over my shoulder and chanting got our girl to sleep then why the hell couldn’t he do it too?  Although I have found that a mother’s instinct is to be trusted, my “it’s me or no one” mentality was clearly insane (but I regret to say that sometimes it reappears).

If I had this time again, I would try to listen to my husband more, to let him do more and to not try and conquer this thing alone as he too needed time to evolve his unique and special role in our daughter’s world.

I was not going to give my child a dummy. Why would I need one? Surely they are for mothers who don’t understand their children? Or worse still…are lazy?

Hahahahaha… Sorry, I will stop this. Newborns like to suck and, contrary to popular belief, they aren’t always hungry. After a few weeks, following a suggestion from my Health Visitor, I tried giving E. a dummy. It immediately soothed my crying bundle and gave me (or rather my nipples) much-needed time away from breastfeeding and even the chance to have the odd shower. Dummies may also have a further positive – scientific research suggests that babies who go to sleep with one are potentially less likely to suffer from SIDS. Certainly that made me feel better about my decision, but to use one obviously has to be your own parenting decision. The dummy disappeared from our lives as quickly as it appeared – I realised around four months that it had become a sleep aid so went cold turkey and hey presto, a better sleeping baby! But I’d like to thank the dummy fairy in any case for preventing early insanity. Mothers who don’t resort to one or have babies that don’t need one – I salute you.

I was not going to buy loud, obnoxious, plastic toys. My child would have traditional, educational wooden toys and learn from me and from nature…

I was told by other mum friends I should get a specific all-singing, all-dancing bouncer. I turned my nose up at these helpful people and bought instead a sleek Scandinavian-designed bouncer with a traditional wooden toy bar. My little girl would go to sleep in it if she was tired, but would start to shout quite quickly if not ready for sleepy time. At dinner one night at a fellow new mum’s house, she went into another early-stage inexplicable meltdown and other mum offered her son’s shiny plastic bouncing chair. Little E. was mesmerised and remained so for most of the evening. Suffice to say, Amazon received a ‘buy with one click’ visit that very evening and I’ve subsequently turned my nose back to its usual position on this one.

I was not going to let my personal appearance and standards drop. I remember visiting a new mum just before teatime one day only to find her un-showered and still in her PJs. This was not going to happen to me.

I think I managed to shower and dress most days. But make-up, deodorant and hair-brushing became unfamiliar in the first few months. On one memorable occasion, I managed one eye of make-up but completely forgot the other only to discover this in a mirror a few hours later in a coffee shop loo. I also frequently wore PJ bottoms as legitimate day clothing and continued to wear posset covered tops out after only ‘showing it’ the muslin. I’m better now but things like this don’t matter so much anymore anyway…

Not so much something I swore I’d never do, but rather something I thought I didn’t need…new mum friends. Why would I need new friends? I have friends, most of whom have children and some live near me.

I remember asking a friend with children whether it was worth attending the paid-for parenting classes recommended to all new parents, to which she replied: “not for the information but you need to buy friends”. How right she was. These women were going through exactly the same thing as me, at exactly the same time. I found I could be more honest with them than with some of my closest friends and have formed new and valuable friendships.

Over the last few months I have learned a lot, but there are many things that I now know and do that I wish I had learned much earlier. In no particular order:

As long as my baby is fed, clean and cuddled I am doing a great job. In the early weeks I strived for what I saw as perfection and constantly found myself wanting. I do what feels right for me and my baby but am willing to adapt – I no longer put unnecessary expectations on myself.

I wish I had been kinder to myself just after E. was born – I had just done a monumental thing and had earned the right to eat chocolate and wallow for a while without feeling guilty.

It took some time but physically I do now feel like “me” again.  At times, I never thought I would.

Bad times happen but they also pass – the baby will sleep and the phase will end.

Sometimes I felt alone, helpless and confused – sometimes I still do. I don’t know any new parent that hasn’t despite what front they may present. It helped enormously to share my fears.

It’s okay to cry – either through hormones, tiredness, frustration or joy. I let them come, they are cathartic.

I trust my instincts more – friends, midwives and well-meaning women from an older generation will give advice, but they are not bringing up my baby.

I should accept help when it is offered. There is an African proverb that says it takes a village to raise a child.  I thought that accepting help meant that I wasn’t doing a good enough job. With the power of hindsight I can now see that was really silly.

The intensity of love I feel for my child constantly surprises me and the mild-mannered and polite former me will quickly become a tiger to protect her.

It is perfectly acceptable to say no to visitors. I found there were two types – the ones who popped over unannounced to see baby and who sat and expected to be fed tea and cake whilst prodding my sleeping bundle in the hope she would perform like the proverbial monkey. I wish I had found a nice way to put them off, but I didn’t and sat with clenched teeth through many a well-intentioned visit, wishing they would leave us to sleep, panic or just stare into space. The second type of visitor were the ones who checked in advance, brought their own cake and did the dishes or a pile of laundry. They were always welcome.

I need lots of hand cream – I wash my hands so many times I frequently end up looking like the Skeksis from The Dark Crystal.

From even a few weeks in I encountered competitive parents. I have learnt to ignore them or better still, bin them. My child will develop at her own pace.

I find that I have hidden vats of energy and patience (although not with my husband) after days of little sleep.

I have experienced every type of emotion possible – sometimes within the space of an hour.

I really should sleep when baby sleeps – sod the hoovering and there really is no need ever to iron anything.

Buying stuff for my baby – even muslins and changing mats – is actually more fun than buying things for myself. Who knew?

All in all, my experience of motherhood so far is that it is one of the hardest, most demanding and least recognised jobs there is, but I wouldn’t change a thing. The only problem is, just when I think I’ve cracked it, something changes and I feel hopelessly confused and lost again. Anyone fancy writing me a guide to the next 18 years?

Guest blogger: Nicky

Currently taking time off from her career in Broadcast Media having had her first baby . Loves her friends, good food, cuddling her cat and annoying her husband.