Misleading Memes and shit quotes

There are plenty of lovely things to be said about pregnancy and motherhood, should you wish to read them…you’re on the wrong blog I’m afraid. That said I am a fan of thinking and saying fairly nice things about TH, yet I have never been inspired to “like” or “share” the absolute shite that clogs up social media regarding the subject.

For this edition of my blog I have decided to ruthlessly and publicly pick apart some of the ones that bother me the most. The one’s that encourage parents walk round like a dog with two dicks, have unrealistic expectations or are just plain silly.

1)

I’ve seen this again and again, particularly on the Facebook pages of companies aiming their products at new mothers. I mean seriously, where do I even start? Well there’s the uncomfortable linking of a “date” in two totally different contexts. It’s been a while since I went on one but my understanding of a “blind date” is somewhere in the range of ‘cheeky little kiss-get laid’ depending on your morals. It’s pretty safe to say, wherever you sit on the moral scale, you do not want to date your newborn baby. Don’t try and pun on it in this way, it’s weird.

Let’s carry on with the line “you KNOW you will meet the love of your life.” Do we know that though?  What about women who suffer with PND? What about women who need to take time to get to know their newborn? The expectation of instant love, not just here in this crappy quote but evident in a lot of pre birth narrative puts too much pressure on women. It’s fine and normal to not feel an instant rush of love, don’t sweat it.

The best thing I have to say about this quote though is not something I said, I wish I did! Upon telling a friend about it he replied: “what a load of rubbish, labour is the only date of your life where, unless you’re very unlucky or specialist, you know you’re likely to have your fanny stitched up.”

2)

I don’t like to brag about it but…my labour was bigger than your labour. It was probably about 40 hours bigger than yours, at a grand total of 48 hours. So I think I’m in a pretty good place to comment on what one ‘leaves’. For the sake of humour I shall proceed to use ‘leave’ in the past tense of ‘left’, flows better.
I left my pajamas at about 30 hours in, when I was just too fucking hot for clothes. On a pile, on the floor, along with my dignity.
I left midwifery led care in a wheelchair, at about 35 hours, chosing outside triage to attempt to scream my baby out, much to the delight of concerned 20 weekers and first twinges inside.
I left my manners, much to the horror of my mother, at about 39 hours…when I mistook the tea lady for the anaesthetist and screamed things at her that still make me feel guilty.
I left my confidence that I could do it, at around 42 hours and sobbed in my husbands arms.
I left my trust in the hands of the NHS, who did their best to give me the birth I wanted before consenting to an emergency c-section at 48 hours.
I left the hospital after 2 days in recovery, clutching TH, unable to walk further than the toilet and drugged off my tits on a pick ‘n’ mix of medication.
Do I even need to explain how very far from travelling to the stars I was?
Again with the quote pressure, no!

3)

This one floors me, truely knocks me down with its down right offensiveness. It implies so much about women and men who chose not to have children. Look at them, those who don’t want kids, with their less fullifilled life than us, their inabilty to know love truely as they don’t have children. Can we, parents, just get the fuck over ourselves. We don’t know love any better than those that choose to not become parents; it’s a bit twatish to act like we do.

Ooooohhh let’s not forget to twist the knife in a bit more for those struggling to concieve, by making sure shit like this is splattered over social media. Now I’m not a complete bitch, despite the tone of my blog, I really wanted a baby and love TH. I cannot even begin to understand or write about how it must feel to go through that, so I won’t, it would be patronising, just like this quote.

Now then I just have the one TH, what I’m thinking is: if I have 25 kids surely my heart will be, like, really really full? Surely that space in there can’t be infinite? Fucking hell it’s going to burst out isn’t it and get into my lungs? Then when I breathe out, I will always whisper “I’m a mother don’t you know.”

4)

Really? We’ve fought for generations to be considered equal to men and still spew this sort of shit? Now Emily Davison’s reasons for throwing herself under the horse aren’t fully known BUT I’m pretty sure she wasn’t thinking about how we should all swell with pride at getting ourselves knocked up.
I’ve simultaneously done a lot with my life and also not very much, when I compare myself to female peers. I’m very happy to be a mother but it’s not what I’m most proud of. however this isn’t my record of achievement, so I won’t list them. I just want to put it out there: you don’t have to strut round like the cock of the walk because you gave birth, women have been doing it literally forever. Maybe take more pride in achievements over adversity, patriarchal society and those that were just plain hard work.

5)

IT’S NOT A FUCKING JOB. OK? It’s just not. It certainly wouldn’t be the best job even if it was. That’s reserved for those people who get to be chocolate testers, puppy strokers, panda cuddlers and holiday destination seekers.
The dictionary definition of job is “a paid position of regular employment” or “a task that is paid.” Don’t even and try and come at me with that ‘paid in love’ shit, paid means cold hard cash and we all know it.

6)

Oh joy, we are promoting mothers guilt I see! I’m going to split this into sections in order to spit my vitriol.

“a choice you make everyday” It’s not a choice, once you’ve had the baby you’re kind of stuck with it.

“to put someone else’s happiness and well-being ahead of your own” Whoever wrote this has clearly not hid in the toliet, on Facebook, while listening to their baby whinge in the cot (he was napping five minutes ago….surely he’ll just go back to sleep?) They have also probably never shouted at same whinger “you’re just going to have to wait I need to fucking eat too!” It’s OK to put yourself first still, even if its just for a few minutes. If you can do it for hours, hell a full day and/or night, I salute you! I’m not advocating neglect here but just saying, you’re happiness and well being still matter as much. As one good midwife said to me “happy mum means happy baby,” I personally need to put myself first sometimes for that to happen.

“Do the right thing even when you’re not sure what the right thing is…” that’s just confusing and surely written to make the reader feel even worse? “Do what’s right, in your reasoned opinion” would have been better.

“forgive yourself over and over again, for doing everything wrong.” I mean, come on? Why? Please please stop putting this sort of guilt shit on mums. TH is five months old today, I’ve done stuff that’s gone well, I’ve done stuff that’s not gone so well. None of it is bloody wrong. It’s a well worn cliché that these things don’t come with instruction manuals, you can’t get it wrong, just do it at least adequately (I don’t say best because, honestly? Some days you just won’t have it in you) each day and that’s fine.

7)

And some clean up, or pay their happy kids to do it. Neither is a bad mum. Fact. I don’t know where this narrative comes from, that your house has to be a shit tip, when you have kids, but it pisses me off. There’s more stuff in my house now but it’s not turned into a hell hole. Anti competative parenting is just another tool to pit parents against each other and I don’t buy into it. My house is tidy still, yours might not be, let’s just get off our high horses about it.

8)

This one was picked by Mr Gobshite, in line with us both having a special place of hate regarding most views on men and parenting. I’m not an idiot, there are some terrible fathers but there are also terrible mothers. What there isn’t, are demeaning quotes and Memes about it. Mr Gobshite will be TH’s primary carer from 7 months onwards, yet he is still plagued by the narrative of ‘daddy daycare’ wherever he goes. ‘HARK, LOOK YONDER AT SIMPLE MAN CARING FOR HIS OWN CHILD, SURELY HE CANNOT OFFER THE SAME LOVE AND NURTURE AS THE MOTHER?’ Sorry to dissapoint but yes, yes he can. Dare I even say it? Yes, yes I do…sometimes he’s better than me at it! I take great pride in the fact I never forget all the ‘bits’ for going out but I have pretty much zero patience for repetative play, which TH loves. Mr Gobshite not only remembers everything to feed and clothe our child but can enthusiastically play the same thing for hours and fucking hours.

Now at this point I could publicly praise him for that but I’m pretty sure he would find it patronising. Like the time the health visitor at weigh in, held TH up like a golden prized piglet and declared “look how well he’s doing in daddy daycare, well done Daddy.” As if she somehow expected to find TH had regressed, having spent the morning in the company of his father.

Should you chose to co-parent a child, you should also chose to live in the modern world and do it together. Stop belittling the role of a father and putting on a pedestal that of the mother.

I could go on forever but I’ll stop now. I hope you’ve enjoyed reading my second entry. Please feel free to add your own “favourite” quotes below. Don’t forget you can also find me on Facebook by searching “Gobshite and Tiny.”

Formula feeding without apology

I unapologetically and enthusiastically formula feed tiny human and that seems to either piss off or delight people, so what better way to kick off my first real blog entry?

I have read some crazy opinions on formula feeding, in one popular forum a user referenced it in the same sentence as cigarettes. Stating that “there must be something severely wrong with it if they are not allowed to advertise it, like fags.” I’m no fool and neither are other formula feeders, we all know that breastfeeding has to be promoted as it does have better health implications for both mother and baby (although that research doesn’t take into account mental health). Time and time again I hear words like ‘failure’ and the phrase “that’s a shame” when speaking about formula but never about breastfeeding. That leads into the fact it’s pretty much impossible to write about formula feeding, without writing about breast feeding. However it is possible to not tear to shreds the choice you didn’t make, something most of the internet, random strangers and occasionally ‘friends’ are yet to discover.

I’ll split the main body of the blog into two: ‘in the beginning’ and ‘now.’ Honestly, if you want the ranting and shock factor, just head to ‘now.’ If you prefer to have background context, read the whole thing.

In the beginning

Let’s get the obvious “questions” out of the way: yes I breastfed, along with formula, for just shy of two months. No, I had no problems doing so in public, in fact sometimes I relished in the freedom and novelty of simply being able to get out a tit or two. I did it anywhere and everywhere, basically I treated it like an extreme urban sport, parkour but with boobs if you will. Yes the bond it created between my tiny human (TH) and I was beautiful and no I didn’t have any pain (just this one weird experience with a rush of blood, late at night, during which I was convinced TH was one of the undead.) I also had no problems stopping, just one strange incident with a singular engorged breast.

So why the formula? Oh milk of Satan, artifical powder of doom that shall hence forth ensure TH’s IQ will be on par with that of a well developed chimp. As his name otherwise suggests TH wasn’t actually that tiny, having being untimely ripped from my womb this 9lb 6oz beast wanted feeding immediately. I happily let several women push and pull at my nipples until those drops of magical colostrum landed on his eager tongue, marvelling at the magic of how such a tiny amount would satisfy his appetite. Bullshit. After five hours of screaming and furious rooting in the small hours of the morning I knew TH was hungry and there was nothing in those nips for him. Drugged up, barely able to move and alone I asked for formula, which I was begrudgingly given along with a lecture on my supply.

The guilt started there, the sense that approximately nine hours into motherhood, I’d failed TH already. It was overwhelming and if I’m totally honest, still difficult to write about now as I’m so ashamed I allowed it to bother me. This guilt was compounded a few days later at home, I thought I’d cracked it (I’m sure there’s a bad nipple joke in there somewhere) but I hadn’t, over two days TH lost more and more weight. I sat in the armchair, sobbing, unable to breath during the midwife’s second visit repeating that “I’d failed.” The next day I would be sent to hospital if he didn’t put on any weight. I spent the rest of the day furiously making TH latch on while crying. Then came the two hour 9pm scream (TH, not me,) that resulted in myself and my husband cracking open our first bottle of cow and gate. TH immediately stopped and drunk.

And that’s when I stopped. Stopped feeling guilty. Stopped caring what the midwife would think. Stopped caring what my peers would say. I just stopped, looked at my now content TH and remembered I had a backbone and my own mind. I hadn’t failed anyone or anything, it was a choice that was mine to make. I chose combination feeding.

Now

Fast forward to now and I’ve become increasingly passionate on the subject of formula feeding and that women shouldn’t apologise for doing it, whatever their reason. Obviously all of this, apart from the first, is my own experience and views. I am in no way claiming to have or know every reason women choose to formula feed. To prevent rambling, I’ll subsection this.

Medical
We’ll start with medical. It’s easy, they can’t, don’t be fucking nosey, get over it. Don’t patronise them with tales of the joys of breast feeding, it only serves to possibly make them feel like shit and you look like a twat.

I didn’t love breastfeeding
As outlined previously, once I got over the initial, soul destroying issues of feeding I combination fed for two months. Breast feeding support is easily accessible in my local area and I took full advantage of it. I LOVED the breastfeeding group (and still miss it now) but that was about it. I largely found it perfunctory and boring. There were so many other ways to bond with TH, I didn’t get why this one was so special.

I didn’t want to express
TH is a milk machine, he eats and eats and eats. The most popular thing people say about him is “surely he can’t be hungry again?” when he most certainly is. To have enough milk to be away from him for the day, I would have had to spend the whole previous evening expressing. I ain’t got time for that shit. I wanted to play with him, cuddle him, watch him and rock him to sleep. Not sit alone in my room squeezing a tit into a plastic pump for hours.

I wanted to be by myself sometimes
Maybe the not loving breastfeeding is linked to this but I really did not relish the role of sole provider, I wanted my husband to do it too. I wanted him to go out for more hours than was viable if I was breastfeeding and leave me alone. I love time alone and cherish it even more now.

I wanted to go out, away and yes: drink
I am still me, I am me but with TH who I love fiercely and beyond compare. But I am also still the me who loves to put on a face full of make up, blow dry my hair and go out for lots of lovely pinot. My desire to indulge in the spoils of adulthood didn’t disappear when I pissed on that stick, nor when TH made his appearance. In fact I spent most of the first few weeks feeling furious that I couldn’t have a glass of wine due to all the drugs I was on. Now he’s a little older I eagerly look forward to the nights my parents take him and we just get to be a couple again.

I hated the clothes
I was totally done with easy access tops and dresses the very second I pulled one over my head. They were all hideous, or hideously expensive. Frankly speaking I live in a uniform of bland h&m basics now, so I’ve not really upgraded that much.

I didn’t believe the hype
Once those first few days of crippling guilt left me, I remembered I’d already thought about this. The large majority of my adult friends were not only formula fed as babies but also appeared to be fairly normal individuals, hell some are even clever and hold down respectable jobs that require a university degree. They are also, for the most part, healthy and to the best of my knowledge don’t have a shit load of allergies. There is a whole world of misleading language around health and formula feeding, that is used to make women feel guilt. For example “breastfeeding reduces your risk of cancer” is often misinterpreted as “formula feeding raises it.” This is simply not true, your risk is the same as before, same as all the women who don’t have children at all.

But I did believe the sleeping myth
And I definitely can’t write about TH’s sleep because then everyone will hate me.

I feel at this junction I’ll draw conclusion. Reflecting on what I have written I can see perfectly well I was unwilling to give breastfeeding my all, formula feeding gave me freedom to still be myself when it suits TH’s needs. I’m not saying I want to go back, that I miss adult only holidays, spending all my money on me, going out the house without having to give myself three hours to prep for it etc (we all know this narrative so I won’t bore on.) I would not swap my life with TH for all the pinot in the world (mmmmmm although he has started teething) he is literally the best bloody thing ever. However I refuse to apologise for those selfish moments I still need for myself. Some people are happy to be a ‘mother’ and very little else, good for them but good for me too. There is no shame in any of the reasons to formula feed, a happy mum means a happy baby, myself and TH are certainly both those things.

What I will apologise for is this first entry. I’m worried it rambles, that it will disappoint and fall flat. I would appreciate feedback on style and form. Sorry, not sorry.

Ps: neither can I fathom why my last two paragraphs are bold and underlined, I’ve spent 10 minutes trying to undo it. Sorry.

Why oh why?

For as long as I can remember I’ve found the phrase “just leave it” follows me around. I have a lot to say about most things, enjoy debate, don’t shy away from conflict and do a good line in passive aggressive questioning. Nothing though has ever really filled me with enough passion to write about it (except maybe my hatered of wine spritzers served in anything other than a wine glass. No, just no.) Then came pregnancy and to my great delight I found a whole new set of things I could have an opinion on. Even better? There are plenty of people also willing to stick their oar in or listen! 

I ventured a few opinions on Facebook during my second trimester. Firstly regarding medical intervention during labour (I don’t see why it’s presented so negatively, still don’t despite a long and horrendous labour) and then on the media coverage of Jess Ennis and her return to sport following the birth of her son (I felt they were reducing her achievements with constant reference to her position as a mother). I was overwhelmed by responses, both agreeing and disagreeing with me. That said I decided to keep my mouth firmly closed until I had sqwoze my tiny human out of me, after all what if I was wrong? Not just about these two things but about so many others? Whilst I’m all for admitting I made a mistake or was in the wrong, I didn’t want to give anyone the opportunity to say “told you so!”

Now I’m five months in to parenting tiny human (TH) I feel ready to unleash my mouth again. I have so much to say, that I usually dispatch from my mouth after a few glasses of wine. Humerous, serious, depressing, inquisitive, there’s no limit to how much pinot I can wave round while pointing and gesturing.

So here I am now, introducing my blog. My aim is to give my views and experiences, without being ‘unsisterly’ as there is far too much of that behaviour as it is, I would hope that anyone reading could extend the same courtesy. I strongly believe that at no point does being a gobshite mean I need to bring others down. Quite the opposite, I hope to empower others or at the very least give them something to talk about.

So I’ll leave this intro on a cliffhanger shall I? For my first post, I shall write about the thing that fills me with the most passion: my choice to bottle feed my son.