Now, I must admit that there are days when I tuck the little guy in and wonder that same thing — where did the day go? What did I actually do / accomplish?

Then there are days when I reach the end without having to sit down on anything other than a play mat for some tummy time or the side of the bed during a feed.

There’s laundry (so much laundry) and cleaning and feeding and burping and stimulation play and regular play and the occasional good, hard stare at the cuteness wondering how we made it and a snack for me and another snack for A and maybe a walk or a trip to the shops and hopefully, if he naps nicely, I can have a quick nap or watch a little tv once I’ve eaten and cleaned up and put away the toys and paraphernalia that seems to explode out of his room. Luckily, bath time is not on my list. That’s Dad Time. Phew. But then there’s dinner and a feed for A and bed time and seven hundred nappies in the middle. Maybe a cuddle. Maybe a series or a few pages of a book (maybe). A little studying, a little instagramming / blogging / tweeting. Jokes, that’s what I do when I’m in the bath, feeding or… on the loo. Shut up. You do it too. Somewhere in there is a walk (sometimes) and a shower. Maybe a coffee / lunch outing or a visit from a kind someone, most likely checking that I haven’t gone insane or caught cabin fever (I have, to both). And a LOT of time putting dummies back into a tiny mouth, looking for dummies, cleaning dummies. Wiping burps and spit and drool. Cleaning my hands is — by the looks of things in the cuticle department — happening a LOT. Gosh… what am I forgetting? My tea? Oh no, that’s cold.

And then suddenly, the day is done. We’re sitting down to dinner, flipping through the endless channels of nothing, and then someone says, “Well, I guess we should go to bed.”

Bed time involves a check on the baba, a shower or dunk in leftover bath water, a chat about the poop-tivities of the day, a scroll through Facebook or a little online research and then, typically, I pass out mid-conversation and am woken up by a little cry at some stage in the night. Two feeds, some nappy changes and suddenly it’s morning. And then we do it all over again. And that’s before walking, or talking, or eating real human food.

Or something like that. I can’t really be sure because some days really are a hazy, baby-scented fog. You know, in case you were wondering.

Here, just take a look at what these hilariously honest moms have to say…

Facebook

Disclaimer: Motherhood is amazing, I love it and you can DEFINITELY manage all of it. Do not let this post put you off. You’ve got this.

What do you DO all day? was originally published in ReallyFrank on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

The warnings of sleepless nights were frequent and grave. The warnings about the entirely new body I’d be sporting, however, were not.

Not only does getting out of the house for a walk / run take a whole lot more organising and baby-friendly suncream and emergency nappies, but my energy levels and strength are severely lacking. (Before you mention doing ‘home-gym’, let me stop you. Cabin fever is real. As is the need for sunshine on my pasty skin. The gym-gym is not really appealing, save for the free child care). Seriously, I may not have had strong stomach muscles to begin with, but post laceration they are completely gone and everything just feels different like it hasn’t settled back into place.

The leap back to my pre-preggie bod is starting to seem like a crazy, crazy fantasy and, while I’m sure getting out will get easier and I’ll find my stride again someday, I am slowly (read slowly) starting to get comfortable with the fact that my body is now just different and likely always will be. It’s just still feeling quite foreign and like we need to get to know each other. We’re sitting at the same table, we’re chatting, but we’re still a little unsure of each other.

This, coupled with the tiredness that goes with being a parent and that overwhelming no-clue-what-I’m-doing feeling can leave one with a notably lower desire to get naked and do all those things that led to making a baby in the first place.

But more than all of that, I think it’s the lack of confidence that’s bringing me down. Sure, it’s a new role and I’ll figure it all out, but every now and then when I’m bending over, crouching, or sitting with the little guy on my lap, I catch myself tugging at a shirt or wondering how many of the new little lumps are sticking. I may have lost a lot of kg’s and may LOOK ok, but I don’t FEEL it.

In truth, this is not a post about anything in particular. It’s really just a ramble about a couple of feelings. The advice and motivation I need can be found and yes, I will give it time and be patient with my new self, etc, but sometimes you just need to wallow in your current puddle for a moment or two before you jump out and get going. Wine helps, too. And champagne is ‘good for milk production’.

Anyone else wallowing at the moment?

P.S. I tried to find a funny meme about mom-bods. Surprise — I couldn’t find anything worth sharing. I then tried to find any image related to mom bodies. It took a little digging but I found a few that weren’t as defensive as the rest.

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P.P.S. If you have a few extra minutes, check out this article about the post-baby body movement.

Bringing sexy back was originally published in ReallyFrank on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Disclaimer: I wrote that 4 days ago. It’s appropriate for today, too, but still. And there I was thinking I would blog so much about this journey to parenting. Hilarious.

Today: 4 days later…

Today marks a whole 2 weeks since we became parents. 2 weeks. It has flown by and been peppered with everything I thought it would be, and a whole lot more — like A being overdue, having to be induced (A was really comfy, apparently), the caesarian we hoped to avoid, the incredibly painful nipples we didn’t bank on and the hours we’ve spent just staring at him that we couldn’t have begun to imagine a few weeks ago.

When I say we, I’m not being obnoxious. This really is a we-situation. There is zero chance I’d even be typing this were I ‘going at it’ alone. A rock of a husband and my mom being here for a few weeks to impart some wisdom and make sure we eat, sleep and have a few breathers in between. Plus the tiny soul.

Disclaimer: It didn’t stop there. It’s is now the next morning and A is batting his eyelashes at his granny after a rather long night. I should throw in here that is deep, dark eyes looking up at me in the middle of the night make little else matter. Nope, not even sleep.

The journey thus far

Guys, it has been a journey. It’s been dark (duh, midnight feeding), and full of twists and turns. I’m not just talking about the twists and turns A does when I’m trying to get him to latch properly (he gets really, really excited about food time). My days have become a myriad of asking what the time is, checking the time, timing feeds, checking when the next feed is and forgetting where we are with it all, or falling asleep, mid-feed. Normal at 3am, apparently (??).

Getting dressed has become a whole new experience, and getting out of the house takes a whole lot longer. My outfits need to centre around how accessible and protected my boobs are — new for me, that’s for sure — while still being easy enough to move around in and comfortably cover my newly formed, still rather lumpy, mom-bod (I don’t hate it, it’s just different). Then we need to dress another human, considering his temperature / real-world acclimatisation. Outings, strategically planned around feed times, are attempted daily to avoid cabin fever and ensure I learn to mom in public. A, however, sleeps through them all. Car seat or pram = sleep. Good to know!

I thought my incessant night-time toilet trips and moments spent lying awake pondering his future would prepare me for the evening trips up the passage to feed the little guy. I was wrong. I could navigate to and use the toilet still pretty much asleep. Getting a very small, very hungry human to latch nicely requires a certain level of consciousness. That being said, I never knew how OK I would be about getting up several times a night to feed, burp, comfort… or send Frank down the passage to stick a dummy back in a little mouth or change a dirty nappy.

I’ve cried at nothing, put it down to a lack of sleep and raging hormones and, thankfully, not had to apologise for a damn thing. I’ve also learnt that having strangers shove your boob into your baby’s mouth in the middle of the night is the only way to learn how to feed and that your baby isn’t as fragile as you thought and that Voltaren suppositories are incredible things. All dignity gets parked at the hospital entrance when you roll in to get your baby out and you don’t get to pick it up on the way out. Just forget about it. No one will care, anyway. Apparently we’re given a full license to be a mess once we enter the ‘hood.

I thought the love I have for Frank was a lot. Holy smokes. This is that coupled by an overwhelming protectiveness and constant worry. That never goes away, does it? I only check that he’s breathing (and real) about 200 times a day, and I cannot sleep without checking the little pendulum on his monitor is ticking, monitoring his little heart beat.

All in all, this whole experience has been completely surreal and it’s flying by. Someone put this all on slow-mo, please, so I can stare at this perfect, little 2 week old face for a few minutes more.

So, now that we’re officially a part of the parenthood, any advice?

Learning to mom was originally published in ReallyFrank on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Convinced he was arriving early and advised by seasoned professionals that it was a good idea, I stopped going in to work 2 weeks ago. 2 weeks ago.

I have cleaned. Napped. Cooked. Prepped. Organised. I know exactly what’s happening in everyone’s lives courtesy of infinite Facebook, Twitter and Instagram refreshes. I’ve bookmarked a lot of articles and actually read a few, too, all in preparation for my big return to work (in a whole ‘new’ position). I’ve mastered Solitaire and Two Dots, read a book (this one) and re-read a few preggie-related ones. Pre-ordered Scrappy Little Nobody on the off chance I’ll get to read it at some point during motherhood. There’s really nothing left to do, but have a baby.

I was told to sleep and freeze a few meals, but sleep isn’t something that lasts more than an hour and a half for me at the moment (so a baby waking up every 4 will be an amazing improvement) and we’re pretty good at the quick-quick dinners around here. It’s what everyone learns when they move to Joburg and start focusing hard on work, right?

So… can this baby arrive already? Naturally? Roll on 3pm, I’m ready to find out what being induced entails and, you know, become a parent.

Any second now… was originally published in ReallyFrank on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

There are books and videos and blog posts, but none as refreshingly honest as this Facebook post from Mummy Mumbles.

Enjoy x

20 things to know when you’ve just pushed out a baby
1. The after pains. Pain. After. Who knew? When God designed women to give birth, he well and truly screwed us over….
2. Your first wee. Take a jug with you and pour it over your bits like you’re trying to be a star in some very disturbing porno. It helps.
3.. Your first poo. Do not panic. You are not having another baby. It just feels that way. But just remember the size of the thing you pushed out of the front bit, and the prospect of pushing out what’s in the back bit won’t be quite so daunting. Your bum is not falling out. Or it might be. If you have piles. Which you probably do…
4. Your baby looks weird. Like… Really weird. ‘Oh how cute/such a beautiful baby’ etc will be said at you and you’ll accept other people’s opinions, but to you it looks like a hairless slightly purple old grandad with dried blood and skin stuck to its wrinkly face.
5. Their downstairs bits are ridiculous. You will worry about the impact they will have on their lives should they stay like that. Boys little nuggets are the size of whole walnut whips, but their willies are the size of the walnuts on the top that nobody wants. Apparently this ‘swelling’ goes down soon. If it doesn’t, expect ‘big bollocks’ to be part of your sons school nickname.
6. Their first poo is not actually poo. It’s tar. The midwives sneak in over night, fill your baby’s nappy with treacle and then test you to see if you know to get rid of it, or to see if you decide to take one look at it and start googling ‘why do nappies come pre-filled with marmite?’
7. Your first shower will be like a scene from Carrie. It’s normal. It may feel like you’ll never be right again and that you’ll walk like John Wayne forever, and you might, but you’ll feel so much better for the shower. You’re literally washing away your sins. (If the baby was born out of wedlock anyway….)
8. Midwives like babies. They will come and pick yours up with no prior warning. They will squeeze their testicles, massage their tummies to make them crap, and fiddle with their face so much you’re sure the baby looks like it’s had botox when they give it back.
9. Your baby hates you. It’s not crying. It’s communicating with its master- the devil- about how successful their plan to destroy you is going. Seriously — it doesn’t actually hate you. It may seem like it never cries when anyone else holds it or that it enjoys keeping you up all night, but really, it is so dependant on you it’s embarrassing. Human babies are embarrassing.
10. You will say the word ‘latch’ more than you have ever said it in your life. And the idea of a tiny person casually sucking on your nipples suddenly becomes a reality. At this moment, you will feel like an actual proper mum.
And a cow.
11. There are people in hospital that can smell your vulnerability. They will take photos of your baby looking cute and then try and charge you a million pounds for it. They will scroll through the 50 photos they’ve taken of your baby in the same position, asking you to choose your favourites. and if you’ve got a partner like mine, that means you will have to re-mortgage your house by the time he’s done…
12. The hospital food is as bad as it is so that people decide they would rather be in pain and at home than eating ‘peaches and custard’. The custard is hot wee with a splash of breast milk mixed in, and the peaches are body parts that have been soaked in sugar over night. And don’t eat the chocolate mousse. Just don’t.
13. It farts. It burps. It hiccups. It makes weird noises in its sleep that make you think you’re going to wake up and see Chucky in the cot- head spinning and laughing. You hope people know it’s the baby and not you. Not that you’d know if you were farting. Your sphincter muscle control is somewhat lacking at the moment.
14. Everyone you’ve ever met will want to come to the hospital to see you. People get overexcited about visiting hospitals. They feel VIP when they walk in to a ward. You are a VIP- a very in-pain person. And you look and feel like death. So only accept visitors if you are up to it. You’re still so high on drugs that making conversation with adults is like trying to sieve flour with a fishing net. Everything just pours out of you and none of the shit is stopped getting through…
15. Your tummy is now resembling a balloon that’s slowly deflating and feeling very sorry for itself. If you press it, you instantly conclude that it would make a fantastic trampoline for Stuart Little. Or that if you sliced it up right now, the hospital kitchen staff would use it and palm it off as nectarine jelly..
16. They want you on contraception straight away. Countless midwives will come and talk to you about how fertile you are and how likely you are to become pregnant again. They do however forget one crucial thing- you’re never having sex again. You never want to see a penis again. And if one comes near you, you’ll most likely destroy it for the sake of women everywhere. The end.
17. Everything’s angry. Your brain is angry, your eyes are angry, your tummy, your bladder, your bum. Your vagina isn’t angry. It’s f@&king livid. Give it a while to calm down but right now, you and she ain’t friends…
18. People ask you if your milk has come in yet, and you half expect somebody dressed in a cravendale costume to waltz through the door and stay with you forever, handing you milk as and when your baby needs it. Not true. What actually happens is that, about 3 days in, your boobs start to leak like they have forgotten they are breasts and now believe they are garden sprinklers. Whose garden you don’t know, but at the rate they start pouring out it must be the Queen’s…
19. They want you to go home ASAP. You are taking up valuable bed space and now you have delivered your stinky human bundle and they’ve checked it over to make sure it isn’t a live Picasso painting, you’re free to leave. Don’t. Not until you’re ready. Get all the help and advice you need before going home. Because once you’re at home, your baby is expecting you to know what you’re doing and you’ll wish you’d stayed longer at the hospital. If to only delay the car seat fiasco a little longer…
20. Stop worrying. You’re not superwoman. There is no such thing as normal, and there is no such thing as perfect. You are your baby’s normal. You are your baby’s perfect. They aren’t judging you. They are completely reliant on you and being responsible for another human being is not a piece of cake. It’s a piece of ‘oh my god I can’t do this’. You can. And everyday will get easier. Breath mummy.
You just grew and pushed out a mini Mitchell brother. There’s nothing you can’t do.
Except sleep.
You can’t do that anymore.

Here’s the original post — go give Mummy Mumbles a like, won’t you?

So, you had a baby. Now what? was originally published in ReallyFrank on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

For a second, after realising that this little person will be arriving when we’re just about into Summer I thought, “Gosh, I hope I lose weight quickly so I can fit into some Summer-friendly clothing.”

It didn’t last long. The thought was probably squashed by some other day-mare about the fact that this kid is coming and how the heck do you know if you’re ready. Something like that.

I will say this, I am dying to go for a run. I cannot wait for the day when I can strap on some shoes and feel the wind in my hair for a good, solid hour. It’s not going to happen for a while, though. Apart from being horribly unfit, there is a whole lot of post-baby stuff that needs to happen… apparently :)

Anyway, back to hollywood.

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Hathaway first captured my heart with this post. Did you see it?

And finally, there’s Selma Blair. She has a 5 year old, but she’s keeps it pretty real.

Images from here

Famous moms on their post-baby bods was originally published in ReallyFrank on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Here’s what they don’t tell you…

You need to get to grips with who and where you are. There will be no alcohol to help you bring out your ‘fun side’ and, for the most part, you’re going to be the boring, responsible, reasonable person at the party. Oh, and boy will it be hard. Get used to being the grumpy one, the so-serious one, the one that just actually, really wants to go to sleep. ‘Guys, that is probably not a good idea’ will not make you popular and, in fact, you may be asked not to mother people. No, no, I’m just more sober that you and can foresee the outcome… Oh never mind. Go right ahead.

Over an above being uncomfortable, tired, anxious over your impending life change is the life change you’re currently in — the one where you have to start figuring out who you are before the little person arrives so that you don’t become one of those moms who loses themselves in their kids and, once they’re asleep, has nothing to say because they’ve lost their ‘voice’.

Sure, there will be wine for days like that. Thank goodness for that.

Your partner will not always get it. At times, you’re going to just be feeling a lot of things and, quite possibly, be left wondering why your partner isn’t being more supportive, attentive, compassionate, etc, etc. He’s (or she’s) going through his own things. Trying to be a part of this whole experience even though it’s mostly all happening inside of you right now. Trying to imagine what life is going to be like. The thing is, and it may seem like an obvious one but bear with me here, he can’t read your mind. You’re going to have to suck it up and tell him how you’re feeling and what you need so he can help you.

You’re going to feel very silly sometimes. See above, and the one above that. Now, remember all of those hormones they told you about in the baby books? All of this together means that sometimes you’re going to cry or feel down, you might eventually tell your partner what’s going through your head and then feel kinda silly for not having said something sooner or, once you’ve been reassured, wonder what you were so upset about in the first place. Then you might think about all the women who have gone through this before you (and survived! Imagine that!) and how exciting this all actually is, and feel even sillier.

You’ll think other people won’t get it. This is probably the biggest one, and the reason that so few people are honest about their preg-speriences (claiming that word). It’s meant to be this magical time and people love it so much and isn’t it all so wonderful — no. Your body is doing strange things, it’s miraculous and incredible, but it’s also hot and uncomfortable and just a little odd at times. I have come to the conclusion that giving birth, and then parenting, overshadow the preggie period and wipe the memory clear of anything less than wonderful and miraculous. You won’t want to sound like Debbie-Downer voicing all of your concerns and fears and strange aches in strange places, so you’ll try to avoid those preggie lovers, and then wonder who is left to chat to. The child-free may not get it (they do, more than you know) and again, you want to be positive. My advice — just talk and be honest. You’ll be surprised by who is able to help you and keeping it all in isn’t the answer.

You’re going to become one-dimensional. I know you’re not just pregnant. I know you have a job, are interested in what’s happening in the news, caught the game last weekend and have things going on outside of pregnancy, but humans get awkward around pregnant people and end up speaking to you as though pregnant is all you are. You’ll probably also be told to relax a lot, to ‘not worry’ etc. The same people will probably comment on your belly size every day. It’s just people. We’re an odd species.

For the most part, though, I can say this. You’re going to have a whole lot of weeks of baby things ahead of you. Try use some of the time to focus a little bit on yourself, too. The type of parent you want to be, the way you’re going to manage your life after the arrival so you don’t get lost in it all, the things you still want to achieve and do and how your Small can fit in (there, I said it). Try to enjoy it. Try to talk about it, honestly.

xoxo

What the baby books don’t tell you was originally published in ReallyFrank on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Please don’t take this the wrong way, I am very happy to be alive and participating in humanity at this particular point in time. Humans are achieving, discovering and inventing incredible things.

They also doing really awful things.

Fine for us, as adults, to deal with. We can give situations context and understand backgrounds and upbringings and wars. Little people, not so much.

Knowing the curious mind his father has, I’m 100% sure this little man is going to come out of my womb and into the world questioning everything, and everyone.

How do we explain the things going on without creating a being that turns into a jaded, pessimistic adult? It’s not like news outlets have a handle on balancing good with bad because fluffy doesn’t sell.

So tell me, parents, when a little human asks you about the goings-on in the world, how do you respond? ‘Humans are just a bit shit sometimes’ doesn’t feel like it will cut it.

Explaining this world we live in was originally published in ReallyFrank on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Instead of fearing what those small little fingers are grabbing, it was suggested that I try out some teething jewellery. No, no, not those amber beads you see adorning the necks of oh so many smalls, but this pretty, practical mom-stuff.

I first saw these gorgeous necklaces on Mama & Little.

Then I found these on BubbaChew and started getting really excited because, well, look.

And then, in a local search, I found these on BabyGroup.co.za…

Now I’m excited! The best part? They can all go into the freezer so they’re nice and icy for those little gums.

Have you tried them? Thoughts? Experiences?

Help a mama out!

Your New Accessories was originally published in ReallyFrank on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Apparently, at some point in the next 4 weeks, there needs to be a hospital bag packed and ready — in case. I thought I’d do some research into what the heck we need.

These are not tips, and I’m certainly not experienced, but this is what I’m throwing in.

For the small fry

• 1 x bag — size to be determined (this list seems long)
• 1 x pack of nappies
• 1 x pack of wet wipes — apparently sensitive ones are best for brand new bums
• Bum cream
• Body lotion — guessing this is needed for both mom and bebe
• Clothes — 4 x outfits / onesies, consider a mix of newborn and 0–3months, in case.
• Hat
• Socks
• Swaddling blanket
• Pacifier — if you’re going that route
• Surgical spirits, cotton wool balls
• Car seat and base!!

Mom-stuff

• The gorgeous (please, please pick up on the sarcasm here), disposable maternity undies
• 2 x packs of maternity sanitary towels — we’re going home in nappies, too
• Linen savers
• Dark, comfy, button up PJs
• Robe, if your PJs are not suitable for walking around in
• Slippers / slops
• Feeding bras, breast pads, nipple cream (protect those puppies!)
• Toiletries — for sanity and being presentable if you’re allowing visitors
• Towel
• Phone charger and adaptor — labelled MINE
• Some form of entertainment, in case you have any energy left, and earphones
• ID, copies of ID, pen
• Hospital and medical aid docs — authorisation letters, etc.
• Something to go home in, if wearing PJs outside isn’t your thing
• Some juice / bottled water, in case.
• Choccies, preferably Lindt Salted Caramel (ok that one I made up, but it sounds like a legitimate need, right?)

Other notes:

• Book a wax for about 2 weeks before or have a plan for your ‘situation’. Nobody wants a nurse-in-a-hurry hacking around there.
• It might be a good idea to have a route and plan for getting to the hospital sorted out. Uber sounds like a great idea if you’re stuck, but the Uber driver might not be too impressed.

What am I missing, mamas?

Hospital bag 101 was originally published in ReallyFrank on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.