I realised in my previous blog that I had never told you about my “vision”. My vision is not what I would normally share (you’re privileged), however I feel it explains the nature of my blog – and hopefully my book.
Here goes – the minute I met Matthew I knew he was “the one”. I used to plan my wedding with my friend Jordan. And when he finally gave in and proposed (there are only so many emails with pictures of engagement rings a boy can take) I also started to plan our future. House, Car, Children, I may have even practiced my signature (which happens to be another funny post, but I’m to embarrassed to tell you about the time, I decided on it, signed something to do with the mortgage, then changed my mind and we had to go through the application again *cough*). Being the control freak that I am, the wedding had a colour coded itinerary and I’m not ashamed to admit, that was just the beginning of my 10 year plan.
ANYWAY. Children. I was going to have one. It was going to be a girl. She was going to be called Lillian Elizabeth, although somewhere in there, there was going to be a “Chris” to acknowledge my dad. I was going to be tall, blond, thin and wear cropped white linen trousers. When we moved to our new house the vision got better, and I imagined a checked picnic rug with a little brown eyed girl and me dancing about in the garden. You get where I’m going? I guess I set myself up to fail even then, given that I’m 5ft 1, naturally dark haired, and drink more alcohol and eat more pizza then a thin person should. Also – anybody who thinks they can get away with white linen trousers on a picnic with a toddler is seriously deluded.
Matt finally caved and agreed to have a child with me. It had only taken a few years and I hadn’t even got to the with-holding sex side of things, however I think he knew it was coming. We agreed to try and were lucky enough to fall pregnant within 3 months. The pregnancy wasn’t my finest moment. Not only did I suffer complications and ended up in and out of hospital, but I felt robbed. Not robbed of a natural labour (I had a c-section – he was breech, teenytiny, and I had “no” fluid for him to turn). Not robbed of any other magical moment – I got a bump although it took BLOODY AGES for my belly button to pop out, so I just had two rolls, I was robbed of the eating side of things. I was so so so looking forward to eating for two. I had it in my mind I’d be able to stuff ice-cream pizza’s in my mouth, I was looking forward to sending Matt out t the shop at 2am BECAUSE I HAD TO HAVE SOME CAKE. But no. That wasn’t meant to be. I had heart burn all the time, I couldn’t face ANYTHING, and I was always full. On holiday I had an incident where I fancied something amazing off the menu, it was placed in front of me, I took three mouthfuls and was full. Matt had to eat two dinners. I lived off cocopops, pineapple and onken lemon mousse. I was gutted. I also had this ongoing worry in the back of my mind that the child would be ugly or worse, would be ginger. I’d already secretly had a word with my hairdresser and had prep’d her with the knowledge that I may be calling her to the hospital before visitors were allowed.
But that wasn’t my biggest disappointment (other then post baby was the mother in law showing everyone the picture of me holding the beast just after birth looking rough as houses). All the way along everybody thought I was having a girl. It was a given. Then on the morning of the 20 week scan I just began to get a feeling that I wasn’t going to be lucky this time. Matt picked me up, and we both drove to the hospital. Obviously all I wanted as a happy healthy scan. But, I also wanted a girl. All was good all healthy and going well, but they also announced that she had a healthy amount of “balls”. I have to admit, I was gutted. Not because I didn’t want a boy, but because I was afraid – a boy wasn’t part of the vision – I didn’t know HOW to be a Mummy to a boy. I hadn’t PLANNED a boy’s nursery/name/wardrobe. I don’t know anything about FOOTBALL or TRANSFORMERS, and I HATE CAMPING and getting grubby. *sob*. I had a brief hormonal tantrum and threw the baby name book across the kitchen after Matt jokingly (stupidly) suggested the name “Gaydar”. I didn’t know what to call him. Boys names just weren’t CUTE AND PRETTY.
So – that’s the first few parts of my vision changed. However, I came to terms with the boy thing – although struggled with the name – fairly quickly. I just decided I’d make him gay. Next came the next part of the “vision”.
The being thin bit – whilst I’m not where I want to be, I didn’t do too badly. However my cute cuddly baby had reflux and colic and threw up after every feed. Anybody who has had a baby with reflux knows this actually means projectile vomit across the world. We got through outfits like you wouldn’t believe, and the idea of linen trousers? Nah ah. I needed something more hardy – something that would take the constant rubbing of a baby wipe/cloth/blanket. So Vision fail number 2.
And then the vision gets better. I go back to work after a year, he’s eaten mostly home made food, and I love him so much I go part time. We are a happy blossoming pair.
Then I got pregnant (stupidly planned in one of our romantic isn’t our child lovely drunken hazes – I thought I’d get a girl and actually I’d produce the perfect “one of each” family), and he turned two. Then he got an attitude, and I was less tolerant. I was MASSIVE, not the same at all, and I resented the baby for the first month or so – well the first 20-odd weeks when I had constant sickness – pulling the car over on the A1 to vomit is not my ideal morning commute. I fell out with the beast as he answered back and he was hard to discipline. He wasn’t awful, he was two. Oh and they told me I was having another boy – another boy that was going to be massive this time. I wasn’t AS concerned about having another boy – I adored my boy and was actually getting on ok with the football and lego malarky. But I’d failed again. I didn’t have one of each. Plus WTF WAS I GOING TO CALL HIM?!
Even I know I’m being irrational feeling like a failure because I know we’re only having two children and I haven’t produced one of each. To the outside world I’m fulfilling a vision – one that could easily be mine. Hot husband (way out of my league), two gorgeous (albeit one slightly fat) boys, a nice house and car for our age, and with my spanx and my jeggings and my expensive make up I do look “ok”. However, behind closed doors when I let the stomach flob out, nothing is anywhere near as good as the vision was. I’m barely keeping up with the Jones’s. I’m looking older by the second, I wobble in places I didn’t think it was, you know I’m never happy with a photo of me (I always look round faced like I have rabies) and as you can tell from this blog – I’m bloody useless with my kids.
So. I’ve come to terms, I’m not perfect, I’m not a perfect Mummy…therefore I’m going to settle with being the most perfect BAD mummy there is.