Lend Me Your Ears

When my daughter was first placed into my arms, I didn’t know what to do. Partly because I was off my face on a combination of Pethidine and Nitrous Oxide, but even more so due to the fact that I had never really held a newborn before. At least, not held one without being able to hand them back when they started screaming, or when I felt too uncomfortable to hold them. The latter always came first.



I had nobody to pass this baby onto. I learned this more than ever when, at 1am on a lonely yet incredibly muggy Mother & Baby ward 7 hours after birth, the cries wouldn’t stop – and I was clueless on what to do. I hobbled to the front desk and told the midwives I needed to sleep but couldn’t calm the baby down. They stared blankly back at me before slowly explaining that I needed to learn how to cope, and that she – the baby – will tell me what to do; I just needed to listen.


I was taken aback. I needed to learn? I don’t need to learn anything! I had always found everything so easy throughout my life, could blag my way through any exam, yet here I was with something so small and defenceless in my arms and I didn’t know where the hell to start. Clearly it was her problem, not mine, and they needed to sort it out ASAP. ‘Needed to learn’. Pfft. They must have been confused.



Three years later, and I think I’m finally getting to grips with this form of further education. I’m keeping an open mind to my learning abilities and realising that there’s no amount of blagging that I can do to convince somebody that I’m doing a good job; the evidence stands right in front of me, now multiplied by two, and they can tell no lies (seriously, have you ever tried getting a kid in for free to an attraction by lying about their age? They’ll catch you out – they’re three years old and damn proud of it, sir!).


I still don’t really know what I’m doing, but these little people are guiding me. I try to do what I think is right and often get rebuked; a cry of “No, Mummy, that’s not fair!” or “I can do it myself now!”, perhaps even a “He doesn’t like that – I know what will stop him crying and it’s not what you’re doing!”. All things which stop me in my tracks and make me think about this little girl in front of me and what she’s saying. And then I flick back to what the midwife said, the anti-christ in my eyes at the time, who was right all along.


She’ll tell me what I need to do. I just need to listen.




I have learned to cope; I have learned so much more than to cope. I have learned to love like I have never loved before. I have learned that breakfast for dinner sometimes isn’t such a bad thing, and neither is dinner for breakfast – because “it’s all going to the same place anyway”. I’ve learned songs I’ve never sang before, dances with moves I never thought I’d be able to do. I’ve learned more compassion, empathy, how to laugh at something that would have made me angry previously because, in the whole scheme of things, what is it to me? What would have seemed like my everything before is now my nothing, because these little people, they are my everything – a terrifying thought yet an exceedingly simple concept. I’m never too uncomfortable to hold them and only wish that the cuddles could go on. And hey, I’ve become a great listener to the ones who deserve to be listened to. It just took me a little bit of learning to find that out. 

Everything I Am, Plus Some

Every time I see my Nan, she says the same thing to me about my children – “They’re growing away from you from the day they’re born”. Partly in reference to how independent they are, but I think the nostalgia factor is playing the main part. It’s true. Every day they fight against something when I try to help them. Whether it’s putting words in Flo’s mouth when trying to guess what she’s trying to say (I get a firm “No.” and a repeat of what it is she’s trying to get across) or holding Roo’s hand when he’s walking, the feeling that I am unwanted in those particular departments is growing stronger with each passing minute.



I constantly have to remind myself that Florence only needs gentle guidance. I see so much of me reflecting in her from day to day. The way she tries to make people laugh to gain their attention and affection; her interest in wildlife and care for everything she touches; her workings out of her family tree and wanting to know how she’s linked to people, even the small age of Big Three.

But I need to snap myself out of that. You see, she is me and so much more. She is her friends, her brother, her family. She is the kindness of her Grandma, the feistiness of her Aunt and the sass of her cousin. She is Elsa, Moana and Merida, but equally, she is Aladdin and Hercules and Buzz. She is Dolly, Bruce, Regina, Simon & Garfunkel, she is every song that ever was that she has tried to sing along to. She is me and so much more; she is double the DNA, triple the threat and a million times better than I’ll ever be. I can pass on my knowledge and she’ll add to it – that’s the way it works, right? That’s the way it should work. That’s the way I want it to work. She’ll figure out how it works before I do.

She is me and so much more. I need to bring it home and stick with it. The guidance is there but I’m learning not to be as offended when it’s skipped over. A skip is a walk with a bounce in it. Bounce your way from A to B and it’s a pretty fun journey. Right?


5 Ways To Ruin A Rug

This is the excerpt for your very first post.

When I first moved into my house, I didn’t have much in terms of decoration. I’d moved from 2-bed terrace with small rooms (apart from a massive kitchen which didn’t get utilised enough) to a 3-story house with a big lounge space. I didn’t have sofas, I didn’t have a television, and I didn’t have a rug at this point.

Fast forward a couple of weeks from moving-in day and I had two sofas, two televisions and a rug that collective members of my family had defecated on so many times that it’s a wonder it kept its red colour. (I’d like to point out that they weren’t adults at the time – I hope.)

While it’s great that so many people put towards me being able to sit down in comfort and not stare at a brick wall once the kids had gone to bed, there was just something about the rug which I wasn’t too comfortable with. After reading the last paragraph, you’re probably well on the way to realising why.

I went to IKEA a couple of months later, armed with Christmas money and various bits and bobs that I had saved up in order to chuck out the old and bring in the brilliant. I went for a nice patterned piece which I thought went well with the room. You know what I didn’t take into account it going well with?


And so, let me present to you … five ways to ruin a rug.

  1. Fruit

It’s only when you become a parent that you realise just how much time Satan probably put into devising specific fruits to chuck up into that garden with Adam and Eve. Bananas leave a stain as dark as your nightmares upon clothing that promised better, and blueberries turn your kid’s crap into something you’d probably get an amazing crop out of if you were that way inclined. And then there are mangoes. Delicious mangoes. My children feast on these as if they’re the last food on earth. Apart from when they don’t feast and are saving them for later, inevitably smashing them into my poor new rug in the process.

2. Shake ‘n’ Vac

I thought that this would be brilliant stuff to help rid my rug, the room, my life, of any unwanted odours. Turns out that it does get rid of odours, it just won’t come out of any carpet that’s a bit wavy. Should’ve read the label really.

3. Play-doh

Present my children with this at your peril. I have learned my lesson with play-doh. We can be having nice (contained!) fun with it on a table, and no matter how careful I am when packing away, it still makes its way to the rug. How? We’ll never know. Science. Magic. Voodoo.

4. Pens

Again, something that as a rule stays firmly away from the carpeted area, yet still manages to creep in up the sleeve of a child. I only tend to notice once they’ve coloured a flower in.

5. Me

I’m a law unto myself some days. The amount of stuff I’ve spilt on that rug is diabolical. Tea, wine, curry, my solitary tears. Everything. Let’s see how long this one lasts.