Eau de Vomit, Screaming and Bubble Wrap

Eau de Vomit, Screaming and Bubble Wrap

My hair smells of baby vomit, it sounds like there is a small scale riot taking place in my lounge and my laundry piles resemble the New York skyline.

Our two year old son is marching back and forth across the lounge, intermittently pausing to join his seven year old brother in a wonderful game of jumping up and down on the large sheet of bubble wrap laid out on the floor. Our ten year old daughter is sprawled out on the sofa, headphones on, oblivious to the ruckus happening around her. Our nine week old daughter is quietly regurgitating possets of milk onto my shoulder while I’m desperately trying to complete the obligatory end of day kitchen clean and general tidy up. I feel a little like I live in some kind of modern day asylum where all the residents go about their day like it’s just normal, real, every day life but from an outside perspective they are all acting crazy.

My husband is due to walk through the door at any minute, laden with takeaway fish and chips in place of the home cooked meal I didn’t find time – or enough child free limbs – to make. You know what?
I wouldn’t change it for the world.

I have four children and a very hard working husband. The latter means that I spend a lot of time alone with our children. Some days I am an outstanding, almost OCD level cleaner, other days I am a parenting magazine-worthy nurturing mother or a Michelin starred chef and occasionally, when the planets mysteriously align, I am all of the above all on the same day. More often than not however, I am the frazzled, scatterbrained asylum patient who lives under the illusion that she is in fact not a patient at all, but a Nurse in charge of the other patients. That is fine by me.

My children are happy, healthy and free, my home is beautiful but lived in and my marriage is solid and full of love. These days I hear far too much talk of competition between mothers, criticism being carelessly delivered to the most vulnerable of parents and ridiculous standards demonstrated through rose tinted representations on social media. Screw that.

Time flies, children grow in the blink of an eye and you look in the mirror one day to see you’ve aged ten years when your mind has barely aged one.

Enjoy it, appreciate it, embrace it. Every sick-covered, noisy, insane second.

Fists and a condom?!!

Fists and a condom?!!

So I’ve been pretty quiet of late.  Oddly I’ve not had much to say but this is mostly down to being heavily pregnant and going through a rather frustrated time which I’m affectionately calling ‘had just about enough now’.  

For some reason this time around I have really struggled from thirty-four weeks and have just become increasingly stressed out and impatient with my ballooning belly, lack of energy and achy body.  Fourth time around has proven to be completely different to my previous three pregnancies and I have been decisively neurotic, much to the delight of my poor, suffering husband. 

I am now thirty-seven weeks and five days pregnant and am writing this from a hospital bed, due to a bleed yesterday afternoon.  Everything is fine, our little lady is happy as can be but they insisted I stay as the source of the bleed is as yet undetermined.  Thankfully it seems to have stopped so I’m hopeful I will be released very soon. 

My best friend accompanied me to hospital last night as my husband was working with his band.  She’s a great friend, always there for me in all manner of emergencies and dramas!  We waited patiently in the assessment unit while the lone Dr tried to work his way round us all.  We didn’t mind waiting, the longer you wait the more urgent cases there must be ahead of you right?  I’d rather the Dr be saving lives than fussing over me.  We actually had a bit of a giggle, but she and I can make good of any situation.  

The Dr got to me around midnight and hilarity ensued.  Those of you who have not had children/experience with gynaecology might want to skip this anecdote…. 

My situation required a speculum examination to determine the source of the bleed so the Dr arrived with a massive torch worthy of the hardest prison warden and a speculum (don’t look up what this is if you don’t already know, trust me!).  He had a brief look and then announced to the nurse “Fists and a condom?!”  Horrified, I immediately asked “Excuse me?” and informed him in no uncertain terms that even my husband isn’t that lucky!  Turns out that it was all much more innocent than first thought and he just needed me to put my own fists under the small of my back.  The condom was purely to make the speculum easier to use.  At this point I missed my husband more than ever, as there were just far too many opportunities for his witty sense of humour and sharp one liners to be utilised!  He would have thrived in that situation and had everyone in tears of laughter.  He is one of a kind and I wouldn’t want him to be any other way! 

Edit: I wrote this led on a hospital ward on the morning of 3rd April. Little did I know that later that day we would be welcoming our beautiful little girl into the world!  That’s another story….