Thursday 26 April 2012

Boys and Body Bits



What is it with boys and their bits? You’d think their hands would be tired after playing on computer games all day but they still find the time to have a fiddle with their danglies. Yes – my four year old son has discovered the wonders of the winky. He’s been obsessed with it for a while. If he’s not pulling at it or talking to it, he’s flashing it to visitors, wiggling it to see if it’ll slap his stomach or rubbing it against the sofa, floor, bed, wall... It’s like a toy that he carries everywhere and grabs when he’s bored. He discovered the painful side of having a tiddler yesterday when he was sitting on the sofa in his underpants and Ava tried to pull herself up into a standing position...she almost used it as a climbing rope and he howled like wolf.

His tail isn’t the only body bit that captures his interest however. He’s also obsessed with nipples. He pokes his tiny little dots and says “beep beep” and finds it highly amusing when I’m getting dressed to jump up and try and slap a breast. He keeps asking me how many nipples the dog has and then he prods and counts them trying to prove me wrong (poor Fudge). He’s a definite booby boy. He’ll sit on the knees of women who come to the house and snuggle his face into their bosoms. I’ve caught him giving Dad a sly smile as he does it and I half expect Dad to whip him a high five. Perhaps I should teach him that copping a feel of your grandmother is an arrestable offence. And weird.

He’s asked me several times where my winky is. I told him it fell off because I played with it too much.  It hasn’t deterred him.  I’ve caught him sneaking a peek at me in the shower with a confused look on his face (and I’ve yelped in shock when he’s slapped me on the behind).  And it leaves me wondering when should I stop walking around my house naked and start locking the bathroom door? At the age of four I still see Owen as my baby and I’m not embarrassed to be in my birthday suit around him – he came out of me for goodness sake.  But should I stop being nude around my son? When does it become wrong? He’ll chat to me when I’m on the loo and brush his teeth when I’m in the bath. Dad does it too...there’s nowhere to hide in this house, and I’m not expecting to regain my privacy and dignity anytime soon with another child toddling about. I don’t want my kids to be embarrassed or ashamed of their bodies – but I don’t want them slapping my baps when the mood takes them either.

Dad walks around the house in his pants no matter who’s visiting us (“it’s my house I can take my clothes off if I want to” he grunts) and just about everyone we know has seen his tinky winky as he’s not averse to getting it out on special occasions...like our wedding reception. On one of the first family gatherings that he attended when we first started dating, he whipped his kit off, tucked his dongle between his legs to imitate a front bottom and did some pressups in the back garden. My Auntie's back garden. In front of most of the females in my family and my grandfather. On a typical day when Owen comes home from school, he won’t just remove his coat and shoes, the trousers are stripped off too and he’ll trot around the house come rain, snow or shine in just a t-shirt and underpants. No doubt when Ava learns how to undo buttons she’ll be whipping off her dresses and joining the bare boys in just her nappy.

So for now we’ll just carry on as we are – mostly in a state of undress (unless the boiler breaks), trying to keep little hands busy with actual toys and swatting away the odd tit slap. If there comes a day when the kids start to become embarrassed by the sight of their dad’s tighty whiteys or their mother’s wobbly bits then we might consider putting them away.  And if they ask any biology questions then of course we’ll tell them the truth...boys do become girls if they pull on their penis and girls turn to dust if they’re kissed. 

Tuesday 24 April 2012

The Weekly Shop


I used to love food shopping – just because I get to spend money. With two children in tow times have changed... it’s now the ultimate test in planning, patience and selective hearing.  It’s the Total Wipeout of the domestic world...how quickly can we get around? How fast can we do the trolley dodge without sending the slow movers flying down the pasta aisle? How many things have been sneaked in the trolley by little hands when the four extra pairs of eyes I've developed are not watching? And how many of our kids did we lose along the way?

Usually Dad and I double team when we do the food shop – one can push the trolley containing a bored, screeching Ava who chomps her way through the produce before its touched the conveyor belt, and the other can rugby tackle Owen when he tries to climb in the freezers. But one week, when Ave was ten months old, I attempted it alone...or with my mother (aka English Granny)...which is practically doing it alone because she’s out of practice.

So it all began in the car on the way to Asda when English Granny decided to give Ava an entire apple to eat...and she began to choke...and then threw up all over herself and the car...and I didn’t have a spare change of clothes. We headed straight to the upstairs cafe where I wiped the puke from Ava and removed a layer of clothes and ordered the Gremlins some top nosh – chicken nuggets and chips for Owen (sorry Jamie Oliver) and potatoes and beans for Ava. But Ava didn’t want potatoes and beans...she wanted Owen’s chips...so she helped herself to a chip...and because she couldn’t chew chips properly she threw up all over herself again. It was at this point that the mother of a work colleague approached us cheerfully for a chat...but after she clocked the stench of Ava (who then growled at her) and Owen began to chant “bum bum bum” she sharp ran off.

The next hour was spent running after Owen, who hid in the clothes four times. I didn’t mind this. I was relieved that he wasn’t trying on the women’s shoes like he usually does. This running around was done to the beat of Ava screaming and me shoving food in her mouth to plug up the noise.  Then as I perused the baby aisle looking for conditioner for Ava’s rat tails, Owen and I had our typical Asda interaction:

(Owen holding up a jar of baby food) Mam do you want this one?
No
(Holding up a different one) Mam do you want this one?
No
Mam do you want this one?
No
This one?
No
What about this one?
No
This one?
NO!
Can I have a Milky Way?
No
Please can I have a Milky Way?
No
But I want a Milky Way (cue crying)
 
I told him he could have a Milky Way if he was good and helped me with the shopping. I asked him to put a loaf of bread in the trolley for me. He decided to sink his teeth in it. Of course I put it back on the shelf and picked up a different one. Bloated  and overfed, Ava stopped screaming and fell asleep as soon as I approached the tills and Owen ran off again and hid in the photo booth.

When the shopping was over we headed back to the car. English Granny climbed in the passenger seat and put her seat belt on.... “It’s alright Mam I can manage!” I said, observing my sleeping baby covered in puke, my four year old trying to play chicken with passing cars and the trolley full of shopping.

So “Asda” is now an offensive word to me. If you see me there curled up in a ball sobbing, pat my head, tell me it’s going to be okay, feed Ava and find Owen. Your help is always appreciated.

Thursday 12 April 2012

The REAL Miracle of Birth


WARNING: DO NOT READ if you do not want to know the truth about childbirth, are pregnant, are male, are under 18, are related to me or are eating liver.


I’ve done it twice.  What shocked me the first time was that no one EVER really tells you the truth about childbirth. Even “One Born Every Minute” which shows you some of the yucky bits is edited to show you the most interesting bits, but it doesn't show you the whole slog or what happens after the baby slops out. I can honestly say that after giving birth to Owen I was mentally traumatised and I wouldn’t be surprised if I had post-traumatic stress because there is nothing natural about pushing a little human being out of your front bottom. I know that everyone has vastly different experiences of labour, and some women are lucky to have their babies just fall out of them (these are the women who we jealously refer to as jammy bitches and don't believe for a second). After experiencing a gas-and-air birth with the first one, I decided that if I did it again I’d want to be knocked out with a hammer. After doing it once I had full intentions of Owen being an only child. Or adopting. And no, time didn’t make me forget the pain – I just knew that it was something that I had to do again in order to get my little girl...and that makes me well hard! There’s no way a man would do it twice.

BIRTH ONE: Two weeks before Owen’s due date, at about 9pm I was on the phone to my grandmother - aka Supergran - and I wet myself. I remember saying lots of naughty words, changing myself in the loo and phoning Supergran back on my landline. Then it happened again. It took a few times of going back and forth to the loo to realise that I hadn't developed sudden incontinence. When I phoned Dad, who was at work, to tell him that my waters were breaking I think his waters broke. He rushed home, shouted "what do we do??!!!" about twelve times and managed the twenty minute drive to the hospital in about two and a half minutes. I wanted to stop at a shop to get some Lucozade and Mars Bars - he thought I was going to give birth in the car park. I wish. At the hospital I had to drop my pants and a midwife stuck her head up there to tell me that – yes my waters were breaking – but that I was only about one centimetre dilated so I still had a way to go, especially as I wasn’t even feeling any pains yet.  I was advised to go home, have a warm bath and try and get some sleep (easier said than done when you’re excited and cacking yourself) and come back in the morning if I didn’t feel the need to return sooner. I asked if I could Immac my lady garden as I was unprepared in that area since the baby was making an early appearance - the midwife gave me a firm no. Well....it was her who had to plough her way through the nest. She wouldn't even let me have bubbles in my bath.

We swung by the hospital the next morning and I dropped my pants for another midwife – and I was still only one centimetre dilated. She asked if I wanted to go back home again and wait it out – or if I wanted to stay and use the television room?  I asked to stay because I had no idea what I was doing or what to expect and I didn’t want to risk giving birth on my bathroom floor (my landlord might not have been sympathetic). So we stayed and watched a bit of telly. For a few hours I rolled around on a yoga ball and jumped up and down hoping that the baby would just fall out...no such luck...and the contractions began to kick in...ow ow ow ow ow! It’s hard to describe how a contraction feels.  If you’ve ever had bad diarrhoea and felt those waves of cramp in your gut that gradually build up until you turn red in the face, froth at the mouth, squeal like Bon Jovi and feel like you want to drop your load...multiply that by a million billion trillion and you’re not even close.

After a few hours of bored bouncing, jumping and rolling around, the midwife advised me to go for a walk so we headed out to Greggs because Dad wanted a pasty. Even though you could hardly miss the giant red contracting woman at the counter, they managed to serve everybody but me until I blew up into a massive rage and verbally abused every useless member of staff and Dad was forced to apologise “on my behalf” and hope that they didn't spit in his steak bake.  On return to the hospital I thought I must’ve been at least fifty eight centimetres but when a third midwife shoved her head up there I was only two...arrrrghhhh! So they decided to start sweeping...and I don’t mean the floor. A sweep is really not nice.  It involves the midwife sticking a couple of gloved fingers up your fairy and “sweeping” your cervix to stimulate your contractions.  Though it doesn’t feel like anyone is sweeping – it feels like she’s trying to break in and pull the baby out there are them along with the rest of your internal organs.  It’s very uncomfortable and your contractions intensify quickly afterwards. They also decided to fully break my waters. So I was on my back again legs akimbo and the midwife shoved what looks like a crotchet hook up there.  It didn’t hurt – but a gallon of water gushed out of me and all over the bed. One soggy mattress later and we were off...

By 4pm I was told that I was now three centimetres and in “active” labour.  It bloody felt like it too with contractions coming regularly and painfully.  And then Dad’s entire family showed up. They chatted to us in the television room while I wobbled around on the yoga ball puffing and panting, and Dad decided to entertain them by playing cards on my back. When a midwife appeared at 5pm and asked me if I wanted any gas and air I nearly broke her arm off, pulled out the hose and inhaled the whole canister. The gas and air wasn’t bad.  It didn’t take any of the pain away but it did make everything okaaaay.  I remember watching Eggheads and thinking that CJ was hilaaaaaarious.  Everyone was laughing at me and I became really paranoid that they were all staring, so I passed it around and they all had a go.

At 7.30pm I flumped into the birthing pool, which took the edge off for about three seconds, but there was nothing to hold on to so every time I had a contraction I flapped about like a shot sea lion. A few hours earlier I wanted to wear my bikini in the birthing pool and didn't want Welsh Nanny in the room - by the time I got in there I was in so much pain my giant baps were bopping about all over the place and every inch was on show but its true when they say you really don't give a shit! I used Welsh Nanny as a squeezy stress reliever and had bruises up and down her arms. By 9pm I was crying my eyes out and my midwife asked if I wanted to push while I yelled at her to give me drugs or knock me out or kill me.  Two and a half canisters of gas and air later and sounding like Barry White, I climbed out of the pool and had a shot of Pethidine. I hoped she was putting me down. I felt something moving and yelled "is it coming??!!!" Nope. I did a poo. On the bed. By that point I think my body had had enough of me and decided to start pushing the baby out by itself – I flailed around like the girl from The Exorcist until by some miracle, Owen forced his way out of me at 12.22am.

The contractions stopped instantly. I nearly fell off the bed when the midwife told me that he weighed 9lbs 2oz. They even weighed him twice to make sure they'd done it right. No wonder it felt like I was birthing Alien. I looked down at my beautiful boy with his angry little face scrunched up looking like he wanted to punch me, looking a bit blue/grey and covered in gunk, it felt amazing that I'd ever gotten him out. I only held Owen for five minutes before handing him to Dad because I was so exhausted. Owen was passed from Dad to Welsh Nanny to Welsh Gransha while I tried to doze on the bed surrounded by guts.

For the next hour or so, the midwives poked and prodded every tender hole and I got high on more gas and air whilst they stitched me back together and I wanted to yell, “JUST LEAVE MY FANNY ALONE!!!!” Then I threw up everywhere.  As Dad’s parents cleaned and dressed our baby, Dad helped me to shower - it was like the famous scene from psycho. He helped me to get into my jammies with a sanitary towel the size of a brick stuck in my knickers and I dragged myself off to bed at about 3.30am...with a week of sitting on a rubber ring and only being able to walk ten yards at a time to look forward to.

BIRTH TWO: Ava was two weeks late and I had to be induced. I practically grabbed the midwife by the throat and demanded an epidural. I got one. And the rest is boring because I didn’t feel a thing. Even the epidural itself was painless. She was 8lbs 7oz and I didn’t have a single stitch. The only down side was that I lost a bit of blood and had to have a transfusion that took a couple of hours...and I still required a sanitary towel the size of a brick and a week of sitting on a rubber ring. But there was no screeching like a banshee or abuse hurled at my husband. I didn't want to be a Superhero today.

Monday 9 April 2012

How It All Began...


We met on the 19th of September 2004 at 3am at a lock-in.  Dad (not my father – but the public face of my husband) tried to set me up with his friend. The friend wasn’t interested and the feeling was mutual. So Dad and I started to chat and in about ten minutes realised that we had so many things in common - we had a similar taste in music, we liked bands that no one else had heard of, we loved watching films, we were both fussy eaters yet we liked the same food and if we were ever to get married it would be whilst smashed in Las Vegas. Though we clicked instantly (and had our last first snog on the stairs) I wasn’t interested in having a relationship. So obviously within two weeks of meeting we became boyfriend and girlfriend and I was officially a rugby WAG.

On our first proper date we were driving to the cinema in his dark green BMW with white leather seats when I realised my flatmate had left me a voice message - so I played it on loudspeaker and turned the colour of a plum when she bellowed out "enjoy your date with your hunky chunky rugby player...hope you shaved your bush...don't want no danglies on his ganglies!" I dropped my supersize Cocoa Cola all over his super posh car and pulled the knob off his gearstick. Then when exiting the vehicle, I didn't see how close we were parked to a wall and banged my door off it. I'm surprised he ever wanted to see me again. I said sorry by giving him a bonk. On our second date, his car broke down and he walked the forty-five minute journey to where I lived in the hammering rain to meet me...and afterwards he had to walk back home because it never occurred to me that I should offer him a lift. I refused to let him stay over as I didn't want him to think I was easy!  For his birthday two weeks later I bought him a spud gun and nicked some potatoes from the bar I worked in. I also gave him some beer mats. I realised I loved him when we were lying on the sofa watching a DVD and he pushed me on the floor and told me that the crocodiles were going to get me.

Luckily he forgave me for my inconsideration and the destruction of his car and we moved to Wales after eight months of dating...and I soon realised that my chosen partner was an acquired character. He developed a habit of getting naked anywhere and in front of anyone (that habit has unfortunately never gone away). He’s peed out of a moving bus window and farted a rubber duck out of his arse. He does a great impression of Sloth from The Goonies and can fall asleep within ten seconds of his head hitting a pillow. He shaved his balls in front of our gay best friend, put his whole head in a chocolate fountain at a wedding and likes to call my Grandmother a GILF. To her face. She thinks it’s hilarious.

His sense of humour enthralled me (and still does). He always makes me laugh (when I'm not dying of embarrassment) and to this day he makes sure to tell me a joke every day. We got engaged in April 2006. I knew he was going to do it because he wore a suit to our local pub and his best mate’s shoes were shiny. The secret wasn’t well kept when his mate began to sing the wedding march in the car, people we knew randomly showed up at the place where we were due to eat and he downed four pints in four minutes. When he told me he’d ordered me a chocolate cake for dessert, without asking whether I wanted a dessert, I realised what he was going to do and told him I wanted ice cream instead (hehehe).

In January 2007 we acquired a tiny puppy – who became affectionately known as Fudgepacker Shitbag – or Fudge for short. On 1st March 2007 (St David’s Day) we found out that I was pregnant, and seven months later we had our first bundle of joy, snot, sick and poop. When Owen was six months old we re-located back to England to be close to my large family under the assumption that we’d have countless willing babysitters so that we could continue with our rather substantial, young and carefree social lives. As if. We soon learned that life as we knew it was over and a new chapter had begun - one of being responsible adults and parents.

On October 3rd 2009 we got married – whilst smashed – at The Little White Chapel in Las Vegas.

And following the birth of Ava in 2011, our party of five was complete and our story really began...

Meet the Family

My public face is Supermammy.

My true identity is hidden away and doesn't emerge very often. Sometimes I'm not even sure who I am anymore - I'm "Mam" or "Mammy" or "Aaaaaaarrrrrgghh". That's me now. My role is to love, protect, care and provide for my two children (and husband and animals).

That's me at the top of the picture with the blonde hair and expression of permanent bewilderment. I recently joined Club 30. Most 29 year olds collapse in dramatic sobs and pleadings of "whyyyyy?!!!" but I decided to embrace my 30s wrinkles and all. I had a good time in my teens and twenties - making mistakes, finding my feet and trying to working out which path would lead to my fame and fortune. I moved out, went to university (sometimes), partied five nights a week with money I didn't have, worked in many a crappy job, travelled, spent more money I didn't have, hated a body I did have, laughed, fought and cried a lot until the winding slippery path of life led me to right here. I'm now a married mother of two, I work full-time in a job that I enjoy sometimes, I run our home, I manage our money, I plan for our future and I juggle a billion tasks, thoughts and plans a day until I collapse into bed at night and give my husband a friendly pat on the shoulder that says "not tonight love I'm shattered". I try to do everything and please everyone and spend most of the time feeling guilty that I haven't done enough. I can't switch off or the ten thousand balls that float around my head on a daily basis will crash to the floor and we'll all fall down. I haven't got a clue what I'm doing, I just rush around trying to do it all right. But being a Supermammy isn't about having all the answers - its about trying your best, feeling like you're never good enough and still rolling out of bed at 6am the following morning to give it another go. Being a Supermam is the hardest job I'll ever do. I'm hoping it'll be the best.

My husband - Superdad - otherwise known as Dad - is my toyboy. By four months. We met in 2004 at a lock-in when he was a semi-professional rugby player and I worked in a bar. If he had to describe himself he'd say that he looks like Vin Diesel ("or Bruce Willis" he just yelled from the kitchen). I won't disagree in case he points out that I don't actually look like Reese Witherspoon. Dad retired from semi-pro rugby a few years ago after earning several caps playing for his country. Now he works 24hour shifts with looked after children and occasionally plays for our local rugby team at the weekend. He's my hero and he has the ability to bring my true self out of hiding on occasion with his quirky sense of humour. And he'll call me "gay" for saying that. His hobbies include eating, drinking, entertaining, stripping, shopping, buying DVDs, watching DVDs, selling DVDs, generally being my third child and farting a lot. He's like the male version of me about ten years ago and he makes beautiful babies.

At the age of five, Owen is our oldest Gremlin (super cute and cuddly but can change into a destructive crazy demon if you feed him at the wrong time or get him wet). He's the artist of our family portrait. He has hair like Margaret Thatcher, teeth like toe separators and ears like the FA Cup. He could be the love child of Alan Carr except that he's blonde and doesn't wear glasses. He has the energy of a Duracell bunny and his mouth goes like a Pacman - he never stops talking - unless he's playing on his Nintendo DS and doing a fantastic impression of locked-in syndrome. He's actually a very handsome child with big blue eyes and an athletic little body. If only I could shave off his awful thick curly blonde hair but Dad won't let me. The one time I tried, he looked like he had alopecia and we had to do an emergency dash to the nearest barber. I think its cruel to let his grandparents twiddle his hair into ringlets until he resembles the Milky Bar kid. He won't stand a chance in school if he looks like a blonde Annie. Owen refuses to eat, has an acute case of selective hearing and has a super keen interest in swear words. And his willy.

Ava is our baby girl, she was ten months old and could roll like a Tasmanian Devil when I began writing these chapters - she's now hit the terrible twos and is doing it in style and with a vengeance. Dad says she has nineteen years left to go until she's allowed out of the house unsupervised. She has white blonde hair, a huge sweet and innocent smile and a scream that can shatter windows. She never learned to crawl, she would bring her feet up under her hips and slide on her face - like Mam at 6am when Ava starts banging her dummy on her bedroom wall ready to begin the day. I used to call her my cling-on because she wanted to be attached to me 24/7, I had to buy a sling so that I could retain the use of my arms. Now she'll go to anyone who'll feed her. She can spot a Wotsit ten miles away and will launch herself at you with arms outstretched if you rustle a packet or mention something edible. If you dare to refuse her grub she'll throw herself backwards like a gymnast in a crab and give an ear-splitting scream until you're grappling for anything to shove in her mouth to switch off the sound. The dog even has to hide his bones in case she slides over on her face and sinks her teeth into them. I'm predicting fat camp in about five years.

Almost last and usually least (poor thing) is my slightly hairier fourth child, Fudge, a cross between a Jack Russell and a Staffordshire Terrier. I'm not an animal lover and I never wanted a dog, I'm lazy, I hate walking and I don't enjoy picking up crap with a carrier bag. Dad spotted him as a puppy and begged me to have him: "I'll walk him, I'll feed him, I'll take him out running, I'll pay for all of his food and vets bills." That lasted about four days. But despite being completely untrained and the fact that he humps the stuffing out of any soft toy with a face, he's my first born and I'll protect him as much as I do my other three. I may have to protect him from Owen who asked if he could have a cat when Fudge dies. The newest member of our family is Gus the hamster who lives in Owen's bedroom in a three storey penthouse paid for by Superdad's parents Welsh Gransha and Welsh Nanny. Gus is fawny coloured with big balls and OCD - he likes to move his bed from the ground floor to the second floor one night - and back the next - kicking sawdust all over Owen's room in the process. He likes to bite pokey fingers and dangle from the roof of his cage by two little paws. He fits in well.

SO...that's the family. It definitely won't be getting any bigger for reasons of finance and sanity. I hope you enjoy reading about our "normal" hectic life. Perhaps there'll be some elements that you'll identify with and nod in understanding. Or perhaps you'll help to diagnosis our little family as absolutely raving nuts. Either way - this is us.