Bonkers: A Real Mum′s Hilariously Honest tales of Motherhood, Mayhem and Mental Health
Bonkers: A Real Mum's Hilariously Honest tales of Motherhood, Mayhem and Mental Health
Olivia Siegl
A Real Mum’s Hilariously Honest Tales of Motherhood, Mayhem and Mental Health‘You see, pre-motherhood I had this image of the sort of motherhood I was going to have. Happy, confident and in total control, breezing through my perfect new mum life, clad in white linen with a smiley easy-going baby attached to my hip. But then, something happened.’This book is about bathing in the crazy, dirty, hilarious, bonkers truth about motherhood.It’s about being brave.It’s about empowering each other; talking about the times we get it wrong, our mental health, our worries about being perfect. It’s about admitting that we all need a little help.For every mum out there feeling lost in the wilderness. For every mum feeling pressure to be perfect. For every mum questioning if they are good enough. You are magnificent.
OLIVIA SIEGL is the proud owner of two tiny humans and creator of popular parenting blog, The Baby Bible; a funny, honest and straight talking blog covering everything from post-baby vaginas to Postnatal Depression, uniting mums worldwide to be able to talk about ALL areas of motherhood – NO judgement!
After suffering with severe Postnatal Depression and Postpartum Psychosis following the birth of her two daughters, Olivia set up The Every Mum Movement, a global movement that empowers mums to take care of their maternal mental health and speak more openly and honestly about motherhood. The movement has gone from strength to strength, gaining support from the NHS HEE, NCT, Netmums and high profile celebrity parents, as well as invitations to speak at the Department of Health and the Houses of Parliament. Olivia also speaks at events and in the media on her experiences of maternal mental health to help raise awareness.
She loves writing and is a regular contributor to The Huffington Post, The Metro and leading parenting sites.
Copyright (#ulink_e1e39d7e-9e4f-52c2-ab47-ab42c24424cc)
An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018
Copyright © Olivia Siegl 2018
Olivia Siegl asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © January 2018 ISBN: 9780008214869
For my amazing little girls, Éva Loren and Isla-Mai, and my
awesome husband, Jamie, for always believing I could do this. And
to every Mum who has ever doubted themselves – this is for you
Me, Jamie and our awesome tiny humans
KEEP IN TOUCH
One of the best parts about writing my blog has been hearing from
other mums and sharing our tales of motherhood. I would love to
hear from you.
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CONTENTS
Cover (#u5231a545-6662-5f03-b7b3-399f50414971)
About the Author (#ubf7836fb-8671-5bde-9be3-b5bf7624a543)
Title Page (#u5c2fb132-20ec-542e-9432-3971653ea2cf)
Copyright (#ulink_8c3555e7-9643-5e60-9b5f-edb5ead78bfc)
Dedication (#u2e458473-388f-5758-becc-40d34e6049e4)
Introduction A Quick HELLO (as I know you’re busy keeping your tiny human alive) (#uf5942949-27c9-5329-80ae-1fd98e031995)
Foreword A Tiny Word from my Tiny Humans (#u4e710d85-bef6-58d6-a338-82c093860017)
Chapter 1 Bulls*** (#uf9ef7545-1727-5556-83a0-224f27be6223)
Chapter 2 It’s Time to Go Back… Waaay Back
Chapter 3 Pregnant and Blooming – (aka Blooming Demonic, Starving and Willing to Kill for a Cheese Burger and a Full-Fat Coke)
Chapter 4 Childbirth, aka Trying to Push a Tiny Human Out of your Vagina
Chapter 5 Becoming Mum – The Early Days
Chapter 6 The Every Mum Guide to Postnatal Depression
Chapter 7 Popping your Motherhood Cherry
Chapter 8 After the After (Birth) Party – Celebrating Our Post-Baby Vaginas
Chapter 9 Going from One to Two
Chapter 10 In Charge of Two Tiny Humans
Chapter 11 Postpartum Psychosis – The Danger of the Unknown
Chapter 12 Feeding Your Tiny Human
Chapter 13 The Every Mum Guide to Weaning
Chapter 14 Snapping Back into You, Post-Baby
Chapter 15 Post-Baby Body
Chapter 16 The Every Mum Guide to Being a Dad
Chapter 17 What Does Motherhood Mean to Me?
Endnote Au Revoir For Now (#u8622c761-e6c4-5cc8-8e83-1ba2b25902c9)
Acknowledgements (#u5a60f48c-ecdb-50ac-848c-17b5fe5bc637)
Useful resources (#uf60d61cb-0886-503a-8f81-854bd207d0e1)
Glossary (#u8060370a-d444-5fad-9eaf-5c90a4f6d110)
INTRODUCTION
A QUICK HELLO (AS I KNOW YOU’RE BUSY KEEPING YOUR TINY HUMAN ALIVE)
Dear Every Mum,
No matter how you give birth; no matter how you feed your tiny human; no matter if you are a co-sleeper, a breast-feeder, a baby sling wearer, a baby-led weaner, a home-grown organic mum, a home-opened fish finger mum, a gentle parenting mum, a ‘Get your shoes on RIGHT NOW before I turn into the Hulk’ mum, a stay-at-home mum, a back-to-work mum, an ‘I’m not getting dressed today’ mum, a mum struggling with her mental health, a mum feeling judged, or a mum feeling on top of the world …
NO. MATTER. WHAT. You, my gorgeous and magnificent new friend, deserve the right to enjoy motherhood.
FOREWORD
A TINY WORD FROM MY TINY HUMANS
A little like trying to get through a HOT drink of anything nowadays, I similarly, couldn’t get through the intro of this book, without my tiny humans sharing their thoughts on it all. Over to you girls …
MUMMY’S STARTING A REVOLUTION
Our mummy doesn’t like it when people say unkind things about other mums. She says this is being judgmental and that no mummy deserves that.
Our mummy thinks it’s very important to tell the truth, no matter how hard it may be. She believes that not telling fibs about what being a mummy is really like will make other mummies feel better about themselves and not like they are the only one going through it.
Mummy is not scared about telling the truth.
She was once, though. When she first became a mum, our mummy thought she wasn’t doing a good enough job, that everyone else was doing better at it than her, but she was too scared to talk about it. She felt alone and not very brave. She was scared to tell the truth that sometimes being a mummy is hard and that it sometimes made her think unkind things about herself.
Our mummy soon learnt that telling the truth about her experiences of being a mummy, even the more difficult parts about her mind getting poorly, helped other mummies share their experiences. And that made her and other mummies feel less alone and more brave.
Our mummy really cares about this book and the people who read it. She doesn’t want to sound corny or like something she calls a ‘prom queen’, but she really wants to make a difference with what she has written and help bring together other mummies who also believe in being kind to other mums.
Our mummy wants to create a big group of these mums all showing support rather than judgement to each other, even if these mums do things differently.
So Mummy has made a decision.
Mummy’s starting a revolution.
The Every Mum Revolution, supporting EVERY mum – NO judgement!
She would love you to join her.
Love Éva-Loren & Isla-Mai
CHAPTER 1
BULLS***
OK, so have I got your attention?
I hope so, because I have a feeling in my knackered, mummy bones (without being too presumptuous, as we have only just met) that we are going to be great friends. You know the kind. The kind who, after just five minutes and five swigs of fizzy wine, are sharing life stories, birth trauma, sex-gone-wrong tales and the fact our bikini lines are less Brazilian, more Gorillas in the Mist since pushing a tiny human out. Yes, THAT type of friendship; the type we all dream about and seldom have the pleasure or fortune to have in our new mum-shaped lives.
You and me, I want us to be that type of friend – and like any good, no, GREAT friendship, we need to agree that the things we share between these pages (and what happened between our legs) is, of course, just between us.
Deal?
Can I take it from you silently nodding your head that means you are in?
BRILLIANT!
So, now you’ve managed to stash your tiny human somewhere to get a few minutes peace to read this book, let me introduce myself properly.
My name is Liv. I am the often bedraggled, occasionally ferocious protector of two tiny humans. I am also a writer. The writer bit came second as, before motherhood, I was a closet writer. Which meant, I didn’t have the literary balls to show my work to anyone. However, once I’d shown my vagina to a bunch of strangers (thanks to the beauty of childbirth, not me being a porn star), showing something I’d written to the world was no longer as terrifying as my brain first had me believe (who’d a thunk it?!). Motherhood, for this (and for other unforgettable gifts such as permanent piles, sleepless nights, an uncontrollable bladder, oh, and my two beautiful tiny humans) I thank you.
So, what else can I tell you?
Oh yes, I’m knackered and a little bit mental. Officially, I am the first (knackered) all of the time and have been the second (mental) some of the time. Just to clarify, when I say ‘mental’ I don’t mean the cool London-meets-LA speak ‘mental’. You know the ‘Yeah, my life is SO fooking MENTAL since having kids, I’m like, SO CRAZY’. No. I actually mean, full on, officially diagnosed by a doctor, mental. All thanks to a visit from those two petrifying and incredibly nasty friends, postnatal depression and postpartum psychosis. But more of this delightfully messed-up tale later. (If you are a lover of horror stories and can’t bear the suspense, then feel free to skip the next bit and dive straight into the darkness on page 95).
So, what can I tell you about me on the mum front?
Well for one, I insanely bloody LOVE my tiny humans (two beautiful little girls bursting with character, kindness, snot and glorious sloppy kisses in equal measure) with an unashamed, unbashful and unrelenting ferociousness like no other I’ve known. It is fair to say that I would singlehandedly slay any fool who gets in my way of loving, providing and protecting them. (I know I sound scary; in real life I actually hate confrontation – honest.) Now, don’t get me wrong: like any other good mum out there, I’m not too proud – no, scrap that, I AM proud enough to admit that they also drive me bat-shit-like-a-box-of-frogs-on-speed BONKERS. I love the chaos (most days). I love and hate equally the edges of despair and the precipices of near disasters that I’m teetering on the edge of on an hourly basis thanks to motherhood. And whether or not I have my head together to deal with these days, usually depends on the amount of sleep I haven’t had, the number of cataclysmic tantrums I’ve diffused pre 8 a.m., and if I’ve ran out of my dry shampoo (which, I’ve come to realise, is my only real ally when the Don’t kid yourself that you can leave the house looking like that crap hits the fan).
Now, I know that you’re also busy keeping your part of the human race alive (great job, by the way). So, before we get to crack open the fizzy wine and dive into my knackered mummy soul and the rest of this book, I need to first let you in on a little something. After all, any woman worth her salt knows that the only way to cement a great friendship is with a dirty great confession (or two).
So, here goes:
I haven’t got a clue what I am doing.
Not one.
SERIOUSLY.
Yes, I am a mother of two tiny humans. And yes, most days I am scared out of my tiny mind that I am making the mother of all messups and that I will ruin their lives forever. And, if I’m really honest, I do not have a scooby doo how I veer from one day to the next, with both my tiny humans still happy (ish), still healthy (ish) and still alive (def more than ish).
Fact.
Wow, it feels better to get that off my chest – thanks!
Since becoming a mum, I’ve found that telling the truth, no matter how ugly, disgusting or ridiculous a light it paints you in, makes you feel better. And it makes every other mum feel so much better too. Which got me asking: Why on earth do we all seem so hell bent on hiding this truth when it comes to our own experiences of motherhood?
This leads me nicely to my next confession (I’m on a roll here and I’ve got a feeling due to the fact you are still with me and haven’t put me down to go buy a Kit-Kat or put a wash on that our Every Mum friendship is well on its way to being cemented good and proper). If not the next bit should do the trick…
So here goes, confession No 2:
I don’t always enjoy motherhood.
I know. SHOCK HORROR! Right?
I can hear the perfect parenting vigilantes running down the road shouting ‘Burn the witch!’ right now.
However, isn’t this what we all need to hear? Doesn’t every mum need to hear the honest truth that motherhood, like everything we turn our hand to in life and similar to everything we experience (even the most magical) isn’t always enjoyable all of the time? And that it is totally OK to feel this way. In fact, totally normal and it doesn’t mean you’re a witch or a terrible mum.
Yes. I know. Big, HUGE confession to make so early in our friendship. Bear with me and I’ll tell all.
You see, pre-motherhood I had this image of the mum I was going to be and the sort of motherhood I was going to have. It was the type of motherhood I’d read about in all the magazines and on all the blogs and had seen in films. In my Perfect Mummy mind’s eye, I was happy, confident and in total control of this ship called Mother. Breezing through my new mum life, creating a perfect home, running a successful new baby business (because that’s what all new mums do right?), clad in white linen with a smiley and easy-going baby attached effortlessly to my hip and me enjoying every second of it.
But then, something happened. I pushed a tiny human out of my vagina, and ever since I’ve noticed a distinct smell of something quite different in the air.
Do you smell it too?
Since becoming a mum do you also feel surrounded by a distinct smell of shit? I do. And, the smell, my lovely new friend, is not coming from my tiny human’s nappy or the Poo Pants of Shame I stuffed in my nappy bag three weeks postpartum after accidentally pooing myself in the middle of Mothercare. (Cheers, Mother Nature, for the heads-up that childbirth runs amok with more than just your bladder).
Oh no, that smell burning in my nostrils following the birth of my first tiny human, was the distinct smell of judgmental bullshit being flung at me and other mums from every direction and sucking the joy out of my experience of motherhood. From how I was handling my pregnancy to how I gave birth. Was I bottle-feeding or breast-feeding? Was I a baby wearer? A co-sleeper? A gentle parent? A dummy lover? A baby-lead weaner? To just when exactly was my tiny human planning to crawl, walk, talk, start applying for MENSA!
And you know what? It made me sad. It made me angry. It made me want to do something!
This book in your hands is me Doing Something.
It is me making a stand for every mum out there and saying enough, is enough. Stop with all the perfect parenting propaganda. Stop with all the pressure to be the perfect mum. Stop with all the judgement thrown at mums trying to make the best decisions for themselves and their families. Just please STOP with all the perfect parenting nonsense. Please!
Instead, this book is about bathing in the beauty of own our truth. It is about us being brave. It is about owning our own crazy, beautiful, challenging, dirty, hilarious, disgusting and honest mum reality. It is us telling the world that we are mums who sometimes get it right. We are mums who sometimes make mistakes. We are mums who sometimes have our life together. We are mums who sometimes want to run away from our responsibilities like we are running from a burning building. We are mums who sometimes suffer with our mental health. We are mums who sometimes look hot and we are mums who sometimes just look like we have peeled ourselves off the local park bench after being run over by a herd of snot-wielding tiny humans. However, this is us. This is who we are. No smoke and mirrors, no airbrushing.
For every mum out there feeling lost in the wilderness of motherhood. For every mum out there feeling pressure to be the perfect mum. For every mum out there questioning why their life does not look like the parenting described in the media. For every mum suffering with their mental health. For every mum feeling like they are alone. For every mum questioning if they are a good enough mum. For every mum feeling judged. This book is for you!
I want to show every mum that you are good enough. That you are doing a good job. That regardless of whatever is going on with you right this second that you are one hell of a mum and a woman. You are magnificent. Yes, just as you are. No matter how long it’s been since you last washed your hair. No matter how short your temper is because you haven’t had more than two hours of goddam sleep. No matter how imperfect and inadequate you feel when measured up against your pre-baby vision of how life as a mum should be. Just you hold on to this fact: you are already the perfect mum for your glorious, milk-scented, chubby-legged tiny human and regardless of what motherhood throws at you:
You BLOODY ROCK!
Welcome, my friend, to the every mum revolution.
Hold on to your stitches and nappy bags; it’s going to be one hell of a ride!
CHAPTER 2 (#ulink_7c236953-86c6-55a6-852a-d6ed799ae5ff)
IT’S TIME TO GO BACK … WAAAY BACK
So, seeing as you are still with me and haven’t been put off by my Poo Pants of Shame confession, I think it’s safe to say we are now buddies, amigos, mates, gal pals and fellow Every Mum allies. Therefore, there’s only one thing for it. It’s time for a Craig David ‘Re-Rewind’ moment to cement some fellow mum history between these sheets and find out how this mum came to think she was capable of taking care of a tiny human, let alone writing a book about it.
SHE’LL BE COMING ROUND THE MOUNTAIN WHEN SHE COMES
Being pregnant, living up a mountain in a foreign country miles away from my family and the things I cared about most in this world (namely my mum and Boots the Chemist) was not something I ever imagined when I used to flirt with the rose-tinted idea of becoming a mum in my mid-twenties.
Now, don’t get me wrong, this isn’t as treacherous or as exotic as it may first appear. The mountain was in France, not the Himalayas. It’s not as though we were living in a mountainside shack, miles away from civilisation – even though sometimes, when everything in the village shut down between the hours of 12 noon and 2 p.m. and I couldn’t go to the supermarket twenty-four hours a day it could feel like it. (Wow! Talk about First World problems!) No, it was France and the Alps – a ski resort called Morzine, to be exact. It was one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever lived and had fresh running water and an amazing health care system (albeit a ride down the mountain – the hospital not the running water).
So how the hell did I end up here I can hear you asking?
Let’s start at the beginning, shall we, and meet the pre-baby me. Let’s take a good, long look at her so we can see how far the free as a bird mighty have fallen. Hang on a second, I think I can hear her shiny Geneva heels clicking down the shiny Geneva pavement now, clicking and swooshing her way to a swanky client meeting in a swanky Swiss building. (I know, I almost can’t believe this me actually existed either!)
So, I know what you’re thinking, how the hell did the now disheveled and slightly unhinged me find herself once upon a time clicking down a shiny Swiss high street in shiny Swiss heels?
Well, it went a little something like this. My hubby, Jamie, had lived in France since a teenager and after I went on a ski holiday in his French hometown of Morzine, we were properly Cilla Blacked and hooked up by mutual friends. We were smitten from the word go – or should I say smitten from the first of many drunken snogs as we tried (and failed) to ski home from an end-of-season party on the slopes. The holiday and the snogging ended and I returned back to my life and career in marketing back in the UK. (Yes, I once was a functioning member of society who had a pretty successful career under her belt.) However, six months of long-distance dating later, I’d packed up my career, said goodbye to my City Girl bachelorette pad, hung up my heels and moved to the mountains to be with the boy of my dreams. Bang! No messing! In for a penny, in for a pound – or, as it transpired, a wedding and two tiny humans!
Our life together in France was pretty damn sweet. It was one of doing whatever the hell we wanted, snowboarding, skiing, hanging out with friends, boozy picnics by the lake, and road trips to Italy for lunch that turned into a weekend away. We were carving out a life together that was universes away from my daily commute, 9–5 city life back in the UK. (I could poke my old self bang in the eye right about now: I had NO bloody clue how good I’d got it!)
Now, don’t get me wrong, I am a city girl at heart; I love the dirt, the noise and the bristling energy on which a city thrives. However, this new life in the Alpine mountains, was one of adventure, great food, freedom and possibility, all shared with the love of my life. The downside was that I really missed my family. We are a really close bunch – like EastEnders close – which drives me bonkers at times when it becomes more dramatic than an EastEnders storyline – but I wouldn’t be without them. And as they were only a short plane ride away; I went back regularly and they came out to see us when they could.
After a year and a half together (living together and working together on his online ski holiday business), Jamie dragged me out on a snowy walk, bent down on one knee in waist-deep snow and proposed to me in front of our favourite waterfall. (Yes, this place I now found myself living in was so ridiculous we actually had enough choice of waterfalls to class one as our favourite!) A year later, we were married in a beautiful château in front of all our most favourite people, followed by the mother of all parties that rocked le château well into the early hours.
Following the wedding and honeymoon, I landed myself a marketing job in Geneva, earning more money than I’d ever earned or could earn back in the UK. I somehow managed to convince my employer that I should only work four days a week (and one of those from home), and, not surprisingly, we were loving life thanks to the much-coveted disposable income. If it helps, I now want to run back in time and throttle my old self for thinking this type of life and financial freedom would go on forever, even after having babies – pah, fool! So there we were, happily married, with good jobs and living in a beautiful place. It was inevitable that sooner or later talk of tiny humans started to pop up.
GETTING PREGNANT
We’d been really open about both wanting a family from pretty early on, and knew that once we were married we’d want a family of our own. However, it was my hubby who was the first one to suggest that we actively stopped not trying for a baby. I still remember where we were when he first said that he thought it was time: a karaoke bar. We were on a six-week trip to Vietnam – our postponed honeymoon that I’d also managed to wangle before starting my new job (seriously, I love Geneva) – drinking way too many two-for-one mojitos and about to be taken to a club by a member of the Vietnam mafia and his security guards. Yes, I said mafia! #bloodyidiots (us, not the mafia).
I turned to him like he was a loon, looking at where we were right then and trying to imagine our life with a baby in it, and told him I wasn’t sure. (No shit Sherlock! You were about to go clubbing with the mafia. How the hell was a tiny human going to fit into those plans?) Life-changing conversation over, we then proceeded to do the final shot, sing one last rendition of Jessie J’s ‘Price Tag’ (It’s all about the money money money) and went clubbing with our well-connected new friends.
However, after he had planted the reality of a baby in my mind (and the mother of all hangovers had worn off), it grew from a ridiculous idea to an exciting butterfly in my tummy that developed into something we both wanted – and we started not not trying for the rest of the trip. I found myself googling ‘ovulation calculators’ from our dodgy hotel in Ho Chi Min City whilst planning our next stopover, and daydreaming of going home pregnant and ready, after six weeks of adventures, to start the next chapter of our lives (because life is always that textbook, right?).
The idea of being a mum – of going from the two of us to the three of us – went from being a drunken conversation to something I couldn’t stop thinking about.
With a mix of naivety and a sprinkle of pre-baby arrogance, I believed that deciding to have a baby meant that we would start trying and, bam, we would be pregnant. I blame the crap sex education we received in Year 9. You see, when us girls are growing up, we are full of fear that we only have to see an erect penis and we will be with child. That unprotected sex leads us on a one-way street to either STDs or pregnancy (both terrifying destinations aged 16). And we grow up safe in the knowledge that one day when we decide, we will become mothers to deliciously chubby and healthy tiny humans and continue to have as many as we want until we decide to call time on our ovaries once we’ve reached our perfect number of children.
What we are not told is that in fact there is only a small window of opportunity each month to get pregnant. That our biology and cycles have to be aligned to ensure it’s possible for us to get pregnant. That even once we become pregnant the journey our tiny human has to complete to finally end up safe, healthy and in our arms can be so precarious that some don’t make it or if they do are not able to stay with us for long. We don’t realise that our ovaries may have already called time on us, long before we even decided we are ready to become a mum. It’s bloody terrifying to realise that something we are programmed to believe is our natural right as a woman – to grow and bring a tiny human into this world – may not be our right after all. That our bodies, despite being in good physical condition, are not able to produce the one thing we want most in the world.
So back to me and my foolish notion that we would get pregnant purely because we were on our honeymoon and I was off the pill. I missed a period a couple of weeks before coming back from the trip, we got overly excited – only to do a test and taste the first taste of disappointment, a taste with a strength that amazed us. A few weeks earlier, we hadn’t even known we wanted a baby. Now, we’d spoken about it, and it was all we wanted. We ended up shrugging this off and calmly chastising ourselves for thinking it would have happened so quickly, but also being happy that it proved to us without a shadow of a doubt how much we wanted this little person in our lives.
This calm nonchalance was all well and good at the start. However, once the months started to tick by, without a blue line making an appearance, we started to worry. We both told each other it was crazy; it had only been a few months and we knew rationally that it could take up to a year or longer. But we still couldn’t stop the little niggling of fear of ‘What if it isn’t going to happen for us?’ and ‘What if there is something wrong with one of us?’.
I’d heard about ovulation sticks from family and friends, but I didn’t know if this was the right way to go about things or just let things happen naturally. This worry was compounded by a remark someone said to me when we were talking about couples ‘actively trying’ for a baby and using these sticks to help them know the best time to be having sex: ‘Oh, I would hate to do that. To be one of those couples who have to have sex even if they don’t want to, just to have a baby. I’d much rather just go with the flow and see what happens.’
My response to this?
BULLSHIT!
Give yourself a couple of months of ‘just seeing what happens’ and, when nothing does, of feeling the anxiety start to build along with the fear that it may not ‘just happen’ for you, that you may not be lucky enough to have the baby you’ve been dreaming about. Give yourself a couple of months of that and then tell me what you think about increasing your chances of conceiving by knowing the optimum time to get pregnant thanks to weeing on a stick? Anyone who has ever tried for a baby knows that once you get a few failed months under your unfastened chastity belt you will try ANYTHING to get with child – from having sex on the smiley days even when you are feeling more knackered than turned on to trying more ‘effective’ positions and the waiting with yours leg in the air after having sex. Literally ANYTHING. And you know what? So, you should. There is no shame in it, nothing to feel embarrassed or unnatural about trying anything you can to get pregnant, even peeing on a stick.
Therefore, never feel ashamed or embarrassed about whatever route you take to being able to bring your tiny human into this world – and, most importantly, never feel judged on it. Never!
FINDING OUT WE WERE PREGNANT
So, these Bad Boy ovulation sticks worked a treat and after a couple of months of using them along with every other Old Wives’ trick in the book, we were officially in the club. However, thanks to me being crap at calculating my cycle dates – or, if I’m honest, anything mathematical (sorry, Mr Warton, all that GCSE maths tuition never really stuck!) – I didn’t realise I was late until almost a week afterwards! Oh yes, thanks to me miscounting the days on my work calendar, I was nearly a week late, and the smell of coffee (hard to escape when working in an office in Geneva because it runs through the veins of these people) was making me want to throw up during every meeting. In true Swiss fashion, we had a lot of meetings and a lot of coffee.
So, there I was at my desk in Geneva, when it struck me that I might have miscalculated. I started to recount the days and yes, yes, divvy here had made a mistake. My stomach somersaulted (not just because of the reek of coffee) as I dared to let myself believe that I might have a little person already growing inside me. I reached for my phone and called my hubby straightaway.
‘I think I’m five days late.’
He was so excited, and we both couldn’t wait to get home so we could do the test together. So there we were, hours later, at home surrounded by a wide-grinned bubble of nervous energy wanting it so much to be true. Not quite believing it could be and trying to hold onto our heads and our hearts in case the lines did not appear – or, in the case of our French digital Clear Blue test, the word enceinte did not appear.
It was the longest few minutes of our lives. I did the test, saw the timer start and was so scared to keep looking at it that we placed it on the coffee table, out of sight and out of reach, and sat on the sofa together like two bunnies in the headlights, grinning and giggling at each other like loons.
‘Shall we look?’
‘No, it won’t have worked yet.’
‘The timer’s still going.’
‘Stop looking.’
‘OK.’
‘Stop peeking at it, I can see you looking, come and sit back down.’
‘Oh my God, do you think we could be?’
‘I don’t know, do you?’
‘What if it’s positive, can you imagine?’
More grinning like loons.
‘Do you feel like you are?’
‘Yes. No. Oh God, I don’t know!’
‘Shit, we really could be pregnant!’
Fingers crossed harder than ever before.
‘Right, time’s up. What should we do?’
‘You look.’
‘No, you look.’
‘OK.’
‘Wait! Let’s look together.’
‘OK.’
And there it was for the world to see: Enceinte – 3–4 semaines.
We were pregnant. We were three to four weeks pregnant. It had only bloody worked!
We both stood in the middle of our lounge, clutching the test stick, clutching each other and crying tears of disbelief and happiness.
We couldn’t stop staring at each other in wide-eyed disbelief, fast calculating the due date to be sometime in late January, hugging each other, minds blown that there were now three of us sat together on the sofa, and wondering: When would I start showing? When we should go to the doctor? Would it be a boy or a girl? So many questions, so many emotions, so many exciting times ahead of us. A whole new world. A world we had no idea about.
Those first moments finding out we were going to be parents, that we were going to bring another being into the world, reminded me of how I feel when looking into the vastness of the night sky, so enormous, so unexplainable and breathtakingly beautiful. We were staring into the face of a miracle no words or thoughts could explain or even begin to contain.
So what do you do when faced with such a miracle? Well, if you’re greedy beggars like us, you get your asses out for a slap-up mountain dinner, of course! So, we packed ourselves and our new beautiful little secret into the car and went to a remote mountainside restaurant, where we were guaranteed not to bump into anyone we knew (word travels fast in a mountain village) and were therefore able to talk freely about our new little person and start making plans for our future as a family of three.
BRING IT ON!
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Olivia Siegl
A Real Mum’s Hilariously Honest Tales of Motherhood, Mayhem and Mental Health‘You see, pre-motherhood I had this image of the sort of motherhood I was going to have. Happy, confident and in total control, breezing through my perfect new mum life, clad in white linen with a smiley easy-going baby attached to my hip. But then, something happened.’This book is about bathing in the crazy, dirty, hilarious, bonkers truth about motherhood.It’s about being brave.It’s about empowering each other; talking about the times we get it wrong, our mental health, our worries about being perfect. It’s about admitting that we all need a little help.For every mum out there feeling lost in the wilderness. For every mum feeling pressure to be perfect. For every mum questioning if they are good enough. You are magnificent.
OLIVIA SIEGL is the proud owner of two tiny humans and creator of popular parenting blog, The Baby Bible; a funny, honest and straight talking blog covering everything from post-baby vaginas to Postnatal Depression, uniting mums worldwide to be able to talk about ALL areas of motherhood – NO judgement!
After suffering with severe Postnatal Depression and Postpartum Psychosis following the birth of her two daughters, Olivia set up The Every Mum Movement, a global movement that empowers mums to take care of their maternal mental health and speak more openly and honestly about motherhood. The movement has gone from strength to strength, gaining support from the NHS HEE, NCT, Netmums and high profile celebrity parents, as well as invitations to speak at the Department of Health and the Houses of Parliament. Olivia also speaks at events and in the media on her experiences of maternal mental health to help raise awareness.
She loves writing and is a regular contributor to The Huffington Post, The Metro and leading parenting sites.
Copyright (#ulink_e1e39d7e-9e4f-52c2-ab47-ab42c24424cc)
An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018
Copyright © Olivia Siegl 2018
Olivia Siegl asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © January 2018 ISBN: 9780008214869
For my amazing little girls, Éva Loren and Isla-Mai, and my
awesome husband, Jamie, for always believing I could do this. And
to every Mum who has ever doubted themselves – this is for you
Me, Jamie and our awesome tiny humans
KEEP IN TOUCH
One of the best parts about writing my blog has been hearing from
other mums and sharing our tales of motherhood. I would love to
hear from you.
Share and tag your photos of BONKERS: A Real Mum’s HilariouslyHonest Tales of Motherhood, Mayhem & Mental Health using the #BONKERS hashtag
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CONTENTS
Cover (#u5231a545-6662-5f03-b7b3-399f50414971)
About the Author (#ubf7836fb-8671-5bde-9be3-b5bf7624a543)
Title Page (#u5c2fb132-20ec-542e-9432-3971653ea2cf)
Copyright (#ulink_8c3555e7-9643-5e60-9b5f-edb5ead78bfc)
Dedication (#u2e458473-388f-5758-becc-40d34e6049e4)
Introduction A Quick HELLO (as I know you’re busy keeping your tiny human alive) (#uf5942949-27c9-5329-80ae-1fd98e031995)
Foreword A Tiny Word from my Tiny Humans (#u4e710d85-bef6-58d6-a338-82c093860017)
Chapter 1 Bulls*** (#uf9ef7545-1727-5556-83a0-224f27be6223)
Chapter 2 It’s Time to Go Back… Waaay Back
Chapter 3 Pregnant and Blooming – (aka Blooming Demonic, Starving and Willing to Kill for a Cheese Burger and a Full-Fat Coke)
Chapter 4 Childbirth, aka Trying to Push a Tiny Human Out of your Vagina
Chapter 5 Becoming Mum – The Early Days
Chapter 6 The Every Mum Guide to Postnatal Depression
Chapter 7 Popping your Motherhood Cherry
Chapter 8 After the After (Birth) Party – Celebrating Our Post-Baby Vaginas
Chapter 9 Going from One to Two
Chapter 10 In Charge of Two Tiny Humans
Chapter 11 Postpartum Psychosis – The Danger of the Unknown
Chapter 12 Feeding Your Tiny Human
Chapter 13 The Every Mum Guide to Weaning
Chapter 14 Snapping Back into You, Post-Baby
Chapter 15 Post-Baby Body
Chapter 16 The Every Mum Guide to Being a Dad
Chapter 17 What Does Motherhood Mean to Me?
Endnote Au Revoir For Now (#u8622c761-e6c4-5cc8-8e83-1ba2b25902c9)
Acknowledgements (#u5a60f48c-ecdb-50ac-848c-17b5fe5bc637)
Useful resources (#uf60d61cb-0886-503a-8f81-854bd207d0e1)
Glossary (#u8060370a-d444-5fad-9eaf-5c90a4f6d110)
INTRODUCTION
A QUICK HELLO (AS I KNOW YOU’RE BUSY KEEPING YOUR TINY HUMAN ALIVE)
Dear Every Mum,
No matter how you give birth; no matter how you feed your tiny human; no matter if you are a co-sleeper, a breast-feeder, a baby sling wearer, a baby-led weaner, a home-grown organic mum, a home-opened fish finger mum, a gentle parenting mum, a ‘Get your shoes on RIGHT NOW before I turn into the Hulk’ mum, a stay-at-home mum, a back-to-work mum, an ‘I’m not getting dressed today’ mum, a mum struggling with her mental health, a mum feeling judged, or a mum feeling on top of the world …
NO. MATTER. WHAT. You, my gorgeous and magnificent new friend, deserve the right to enjoy motherhood.
FOREWORD
A TINY WORD FROM MY TINY HUMANS
A little like trying to get through a HOT drink of anything nowadays, I similarly, couldn’t get through the intro of this book, without my tiny humans sharing their thoughts on it all. Over to you girls …
MUMMY’S STARTING A REVOLUTION
Our mummy doesn’t like it when people say unkind things about other mums. She says this is being judgmental and that no mummy deserves that.
Our mummy thinks it’s very important to tell the truth, no matter how hard it may be. She believes that not telling fibs about what being a mummy is really like will make other mummies feel better about themselves and not like they are the only one going through it.
Mummy is not scared about telling the truth.
She was once, though. When she first became a mum, our mummy thought she wasn’t doing a good enough job, that everyone else was doing better at it than her, but she was too scared to talk about it. She felt alone and not very brave. She was scared to tell the truth that sometimes being a mummy is hard and that it sometimes made her think unkind things about herself.
Our mummy soon learnt that telling the truth about her experiences of being a mummy, even the more difficult parts about her mind getting poorly, helped other mummies share their experiences. And that made her and other mummies feel less alone and more brave.
Our mummy really cares about this book and the people who read it. She doesn’t want to sound corny or like something she calls a ‘prom queen’, but she really wants to make a difference with what she has written and help bring together other mummies who also believe in being kind to other mums.
Our mummy wants to create a big group of these mums all showing support rather than judgement to each other, even if these mums do things differently.
So Mummy has made a decision.
Mummy’s starting a revolution.
The Every Mum Revolution, supporting EVERY mum – NO judgement!
She would love you to join her.
Love Éva-Loren & Isla-Mai
CHAPTER 1
BULLS***
OK, so have I got your attention?
I hope so, because I have a feeling in my knackered, mummy bones (without being too presumptuous, as we have only just met) that we are going to be great friends. You know the kind. The kind who, after just five minutes and five swigs of fizzy wine, are sharing life stories, birth trauma, sex-gone-wrong tales and the fact our bikini lines are less Brazilian, more Gorillas in the Mist since pushing a tiny human out. Yes, THAT type of friendship; the type we all dream about and seldom have the pleasure or fortune to have in our new mum-shaped lives.
You and me, I want us to be that type of friend – and like any good, no, GREAT friendship, we need to agree that the things we share between these pages (and what happened between our legs) is, of course, just between us.
Deal?
Can I take it from you silently nodding your head that means you are in?
BRILLIANT!
So, now you’ve managed to stash your tiny human somewhere to get a few minutes peace to read this book, let me introduce myself properly.
My name is Liv. I am the often bedraggled, occasionally ferocious protector of two tiny humans. I am also a writer. The writer bit came second as, before motherhood, I was a closet writer. Which meant, I didn’t have the literary balls to show my work to anyone. However, once I’d shown my vagina to a bunch of strangers (thanks to the beauty of childbirth, not me being a porn star), showing something I’d written to the world was no longer as terrifying as my brain first had me believe (who’d a thunk it?!). Motherhood, for this (and for other unforgettable gifts such as permanent piles, sleepless nights, an uncontrollable bladder, oh, and my two beautiful tiny humans) I thank you.
So, what else can I tell you?
Oh yes, I’m knackered and a little bit mental. Officially, I am the first (knackered) all of the time and have been the second (mental) some of the time. Just to clarify, when I say ‘mental’ I don’t mean the cool London-meets-LA speak ‘mental’. You know the ‘Yeah, my life is SO fooking MENTAL since having kids, I’m like, SO CRAZY’. No. I actually mean, full on, officially diagnosed by a doctor, mental. All thanks to a visit from those two petrifying and incredibly nasty friends, postnatal depression and postpartum psychosis. But more of this delightfully messed-up tale later. (If you are a lover of horror stories and can’t bear the suspense, then feel free to skip the next bit and dive straight into the darkness on page 95).
So, what can I tell you about me on the mum front?
Well for one, I insanely bloody LOVE my tiny humans (two beautiful little girls bursting with character, kindness, snot and glorious sloppy kisses in equal measure) with an unashamed, unbashful and unrelenting ferociousness like no other I’ve known. It is fair to say that I would singlehandedly slay any fool who gets in my way of loving, providing and protecting them. (I know I sound scary; in real life I actually hate confrontation – honest.) Now, don’t get me wrong: like any other good mum out there, I’m not too proud – no, scrap that, I AM proud enough to admit that they also drive me bat-shit-like-a-box-of-frogs-on-speed BONKERS. I love the chaos (most days). I love and hate equally the edges of despair and the precipices of near disasters that I’m teetering on the edge of on an hourly basis thanks to motherhood. And whether or not I have my head together to deal with these days, usually depends on the amount of sleep I haven’t had, the number of cataclysmic tantrums I’ve diffused pre 8 a.m., and if I’ve ran out of my dry shampoo (which, I’ve come to realise, is my only real ally when the Don’t kid yourself that you can leave the house looking like that crap hits the fan).
Now, I know that you’re also busy keeping your part of the human race alive (great job, by the way). So, before we get to crack open the fizzy wine and dive into my knackered mummy soul and the rest of this book, I need to first let you in on a little something. After all, any woman worth her salt knows that the only way to cement a great friendship is with a dirty great confession (or two).
So, here goes:
I haven’t got a clue what I am doing.
Not one.
SERIOUSLY.
Yes, I am a mother of two tiny humans. And yes, most days I am scared out of my tiny mind that I am making the mother of all messups and that I will ruin their lives forever. And, if I’m really honest, I do not have a scooby doo how I veer from one day to the next, with both my tiny humans still happy (ish), still healthy (ish) and still alive (def more than ish).
Fact.
Wow, it feels better to get that off my chest – thanks!
Since becoming a mum, I’ve found that telling the truth, no matter how ugly, disgusting or ridiculous a light it paints you in, makes you feel better. And it makes every other mum feel so much better too. Which got me asking: Why on earth do we all seem so hell bent on hiding this truth when it comes to our own experiences of motherhood?
This leads me nicely to my next confession (I’m on a roll here and I’ve got a feeling due to the fact you are still with me and haven’t put me down to go buy a Kit-Kat or put a wash on that our Every Mum friendship is well on its way to being cemented good and proper). If not the next bit should do the trick…
So here goes, confession No 2:
I don’t always enjoy motherhood.
I know. SHOCK HORROR! Right?
I can hear the perfect parenting vigilantes running down the road shouting ‘Burn the witch!’ right now.
However, isn’t this what we all need to hear? Doesn’t every mum need to hear the honest truth that motherhood, like everything we turn our hand to in life and similar to everything we experience (even the most magical) isn’t always enjoyable all of the time? And that it is totally OK to feel this way. In fact, totally normal and it doesn’t mean you’re a witch or a terrible mum.
Yes. I know. Big, HUGE confession to make so early in our friendship. Bear with me and I’ll tell all.
You see, pre-motherhood I had this image of the mum I was going to be and the sort of motherhood I was going to have. It was the type of motherhood I’d read about in all the magazines and on all the blogs and had seen in films. In my Perfect Mummy mind’s eye, I was happy, confident and in total control of this ship called Mother. Breezing through my new mum life, creating a perfect home, running a successful new baby business (because that’s what all new mums do right?), clad in white linen with a smiley and easy-going baby attached effortlessly to my hip and me enjoying every second of it.
But then, something happened. I pushed a tiny human out of my vagina, and ever since I’ve noticed a distinct smell of something quite different in the air.
Do you smell it too?
Since becoming a mum do you also feel surrounded by a distinct smell of shit? I do. And, the smell, my lovely new friend, is not coming from my tiny human’s nappy or the Poo Pants of Shame I stuffed in my nappy bag three weeks postpartum after accidentally pooing myself in the middle of Mothercare. (Cheers, Mother Nature, for the heads-up that childbirth runs amok with more than just your bladder).
Oh no, that smell burning in my nostrils following the birth of my first tiny human, was the distinct smell of judgmental bullshit being flung at me and other mums from every direction and sucking the joy out of my experience of motherhood. From how I was handling my pregnancy to how I gave birth. Was I bottle-feeding or breast-feeding? Was I a baby wearer? A co-sleeper? A gentle parent? A dummy lover? A baby-lead weaner? To just when exactly was my tiny human planning to crawl, walk, talk, start applying for MENSA!
And you know what? It made me sad. It made me angry. It made me want to do something!
This book in your hands is me Doing Something.
It is me making a stand for every mum out there and saying enough, is enough. Stop with all the perfect parenting propaganda. Stop with all the pressure to be the perfect mum. Stop with all the judgement thrown at mums trying to make the best decisions for themselves and their families. Just please STOP with all the perfect parenting nonsense. Please!
Instead, this book is about bathing in the beauty of own our truth. It is about us being brave. It is about owning our own crazy, beautiful, challenging, dirty, hilarious, disgusting and honest mum reality. It is us telling the world that we are mums who sometimes get it right. We are mums who sometimes make mistakes. We are mums who sometimes have our life together. We are mums who sometimes want to run away from our responsibilities like we are running from a burning building. We are mums who sometimes suffer with our mental health. We are mums who sometimes look hot and we are mums who sometimes just look like we have peeled ourselves off the local park bench after being run over by a herd of snot-wielding tiny humans. However, this is us. This is who we are. No smoke and mirrors, no airbrushing.
For every mum out there feeling lost in the wilderness of motherhood. For every mum out there feeling pressure to be the perfect mum. For every mum out there questioning why their life does not look like the parenting described in the media. For every mum suffering with their mental health. For every mum feeling like they are alone. For every mum questioning if they are a good enough mum. For every mum feeling judged. This book is for you!
I want to show every mum that you are good enough. That you are doing a good job. That regardless of whatever is going on with you right this second that you are one hell of a mum and a woman. You are magnificent. Yes, just as you are. No matter how long it’s been since you last washed your hair. No matter how short your temper is because you haven’t had more than two hours of goddam sleep. No matter how imperfect and inadequate you feel when measured up against your pre-baby vision of how life as a mum should be. Just you hold on to this fact: you are already the perfect mum for your glorious, milk-scented, chubby-legged tiny human and regardless of what motherhood throws at you:
You BLOODY ROCK!
Welcome, my friend, to the every mum revolution.
Hold on to your stitches and nappy bags; it’s going to be one hell of a ride!
CHAPTER 2 (#ulink_7c236953-86c6-55a6-852a-d6ed799ae5ff)
IT’S TIME TO GO BACK … WAAAY BACK
So, seeing as you are still with me and haven’t been put off by my Poo Pants of Shame confession, I think it’s safe to say we are now buddies, amigos, mates, gal pals and fellow Every Mum allies. Therefore, there’s only one thing for it. It’s time for a Craig David ‘Re-Rewind’ moment to cement some fellow mum history between these sheets and find out how this mum came to think she was capable of taking care of a tiny human, let alone writing a book about it.
SHE’LL BE COMING ROUND THE MOUNTAIN WHEN SHE COMES
Being pregnant, living up a mountain in a foreign country miles away from my family and the things I cared about most in this world (namely my mum and Boots the Chemist) was not something I ever imagined when I used to flirt with the rose-tinted idea of becoming a mum in my mid-twenties.
Now, don’t get me wrong, this isn’t as treacherous or as exotic as it may first appear. The mountain was in France, not the Himalayas. It’s not as though we were living in a mountainside shack, miles away from civilisation – even though sometimes, when everything in the village shut down between the hours of 12 noon and 2 p.m. and I couldn’t go to the supermarket twenty-four hours a day it could feel like it. (Wow! Talk about First World problems!) No, it was France and the Alps – a ski resort called Morzine, to be exact. It was one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever lived and had fresh running water and an amazing health care system (albeit a ride down the mountain – the hospital not the running water).
So how the hell did I end up here I can hear you asking?
Let’s start at the beginning, shall we, and meet the pre-baby me. Let’s take a good, long look at her so we can see how far the free as a bird mighty have fallen. Hang on a second, I think I can hear her shiny Geneva heels clicking down the shiny Geneva pavement now, clicking and swooshing her way to a swanky client meeting in a swanky Swiss building. (I know, I almost can’t believe this me actually existed either!)
So, I know what you’re thinking, how the hell did the now disheveled and slightly unhinged me find herself once upon a time clicking down a shiny Swiss high street in shiny Swiss heels?
Well, it went a little something like this. My hubby, Jamie, had lived in France since a teenager and after I went on a ski holiday in his French hometown of Morzine, we were properly Cilla Blacked and hooked up by mutual friends. We were smitten from the word go – or should I say smitten from the first of many drunken snogs as we tried (and failed) to ski home from an end-of-season party on the slopes. The holiday and the snogging ended and I returned back to my life and career in marketing back in the UK. (Yes, I once was a functioning member of society who had a pretty successful career under her belt.) However, six months of long-distance dating later, I’d packed up my career, said goodbye to my City Girl bachelorette pad, hung up my heels and moved to the mountains to be with the boy of my dreams. Bang! No messing! In for a penny, in for a pound – or, as it transpired, a wedding and two tiny humans!
Our life together in France was pretty damn sweet. It was one of doing whatever the hell we wanted, snowboarding, skiing, hanging out with friends, boozy picnics by the lake, and road trips to Italy for lunch that turned into a weekend away. We were carving out a life together that was universes away from my daily commute, 9–5 city life back in the UK. (I could poke my old self bang in the eye right about now: I had NO bloody clue how good I’d got it!)
Now, don’t get me wrong, I am a city girl at heart; I love the dirt, the noise and the bristling energy on which a city thrives. However, this new life in the Alpine mountains, was one of adventure, great food, freedom and possibility, all shared with the love of my life. The downside was that I really missed my family. We are a really close bunch – like EastEnders close – which drives me bonkers at times when it becomes more dramatic than an EastEnders storyline – but I wouldn’t be without them. And as they were only a short plane ride away; I went back regularly and they came out to see us when they could.
After a year and a half together (living together and working together on his online ski holiday business), Jamie dragged me out on a snowy walk, bent down on one knee in waist-deep snow and proposed to me in front of our favourite waterfall. (Yes, this place I now found myself living in was so ridiculous we actually had enough choice of waterfalls to class one as our favourite!) A year later, we were married in a beautiful château in front of all our most favourite people, followed by the mother of all parties that rocked le château well into the early hours.
Following the wedding and honeymoon, I landed myself a marketing job in Geneva, earning more money than I’d ever earned or could earn back in the UK. I somehow managed to convince my employer that I should only work four days a week (and one of those from home), and, not surprisingly, we were loving life thanks to the much-coveted disposable income. If it helps, I now want to run back in time and throttle my old self for thinking this type of life and financial freedom would go on forever, even after having babies – pah, fool! So there we were, happily married, with good jobs and living in a beautiful place. It was inevitable that sooner or later talk of tiny humans started to pop up.
GETTING PREGNANT
We’d been really open about both wanting a family from pretty early on, and knew that once we were married we’d want a family of our own. However, it was my hubby who was the first one to suggest that we actively stopped not trying for a baby. I still remember where we were when he first said that he thought it was time: a karaoke bar. We were on a six-week trip to Vietnam – our postponed honeymoon that I’d also managed to wangle before starting my new job (seriously, I love Geneva) – drinking way too many two-for-one mojitos and about to be taken to a club by a member of the Vietnam mafia and his security guards. Yes, I said mafia! #bloodyidiots (us, not the mafia).
I turned to him like he was a loon, looking at where we were right then and trying to imagine our life with a baby in it, and told him I wasn’t sure. (No shit Sherlock! You were about to go clubbing with the mafia. How the hell was a tiny human going to fit into those plans?) Life-changing conversation over, we then proceeded to do the final shot, sing one last rendition of Jessie J’s ‘Price Tag’ (It’s all about the money money money) and went clubbing with our well-connected new friends.
However, after he had planted the reality of a baby in my mind (and the mother of all hangovers had worn off), it grew from a ridiculous idea to an exciting butterfly in my tummy that developed into something we both wanted – and we started not not trying for the rest of the trip. I found myself googling ‘ovulation calculators’ from our dodgy hotel in Ho Chi Min City whilst planning our next stopover, and daydreaming of going home pregnant and ready, after six weeks of adventures, to start the next chapter of our lives (because life is always that textbook, right?).
The idea of being a mum – of going from the two of us to the three of us – went from being a drunken conversation to something I couldn’t stop thinking about.
With a mix of naivety and a sprinkle of pre-baby arrogance, I believed that deciding to have a baby meant that we would start trying and, bam, we would be pregnant. I blame the crap sex education we received in Year 9. You see, when us girls are growing up, we are full of fear that we only have to see an erect penis and we will be with child. That unprotected sex leads us on a one-way street to either STDs or pregnancy (both terrifying destinations aged 16). And we grow up safe in the knowledge that one day when we decide, we will become mothers to deliciously chubby and healthy tiny humans and continue to have as many as we want until we decide to call time on our ovaries once we’ve reached our perfect number of children.
What we are not told is that in fact there is only a small window of opportunity each month to get pregnant. That our biology and cycles have to be aligned to ensure it’s possible for us to get pregnant. That even once we become pregnant the journey our tiny human has to complete to finally end up safe, healthy and in our arms can be so precarious that some don’t make it or if they do are not able to stay with us for long. We don’t realise that our ovaries may have already called time on us, long before we even decided we are ready to become a mum. It’s bloody terrifying to realise that something we are programmed to believe is our natural right as a woman – to grow and bring a tiny human into this world – may not be our right after all. That our bodies, despite being in good physical condition, are not able to produce the one thing we want most in the world.
So back to me and my foolish notion that we would get pregnant purely because we were on our honeymoon and I was off the pill. I missed a period a couple of weeks before coming back from the trip, we got overly excited – only to do a test and taste the first taste of disappointment, a taste with a strength that amazed us. A few weeks earlier, we hadn’t even known we wanted a baby. Now, we’d spoken about it, and it was all we wanted. We ended up shrugging this off and calmly chastising ourselves for thinking it would have happened so quickly, but also being happy that it proved to us without a shadow of a doubt how much we wanted this little person in our lives.
This calm nonchalance was all well and good at the start. However, once the months started to tick by, without a blue line making an appearance, we started to worry. We both told each other it was crazy; it had only been a few months and we knew rationally that it could take up to a year or longer. But we still couldn’t stop the little niggling of fear of ‘What if it isn’t going to happen for us?’ and ‘What if there is something wrong with one of us?’.
I’d heard about ovulation sticks from family and friends, but I didn’t know if this was the right way to go about things or just let things happen naturally. This worry was compounded by a remark someone said to me when we were talking about couples ‘actively trying’ for a baby and using these sticks to help them know the best time to be having sex: ‘Oh, I would hate to do that. To be one of those couples who have to have sex even if they don’t want to, just to have a baby. I’d much rather just go with the flow and see what happens.’
My response to this?
BULLSHIT!
Give yourself a couple of months of ‘just seeing what happens’ and, when nothing does, of feeling the anxiety start to build along with the fear that it may not ‘just happen’ for you, that you may not be lucky enough to have the baby you’ve been dreaming about. Give yourself a couple of months of that and then tell me what you think about increasing your chances of conceiving by knowing the optimum time to get pregnant thanks to weeing on a stick? Anyone who has ever tried for a baby knows that once you get a few failed months under your unfastened chastity belt you will try ANYTHING to get with child – from having sex on the smiley days even when you are feeling more knackered than turned on to trying more ‘effective’ positions and the waiting with yours leg in the air after having sex. Literally ANYTHING. And you know what? So, you should. There is no shame in it, nothing to feel embarrassed or unnatural about trying anything you can to get pregnant, even peeing on a stick.
Therefore, never feel ashamed or embarrassed about whatever route you take to being able to bring your tiny human into this world – and, most importantly, never feel judged on it. Never!
FINDING OUT WE WERE PREGNANT
So, these Bad Boy ovulation sticks worked a treat and after a couple of months of using them along with every other Old Wives’ trick in the book, we were officially in the club. However, thanks to me being crap at calculating my cycle dates – or, if I’m honest, anything mathematical (sorry, Mr Warton, all that GCSE maths tuition never really stuck!) – I didn’t realise I was late until almost a week afterwards! Oh yes, thanks to me miscounting the days on my work calendar, I was nearly a week late, and the smell of coffee (hard to escape when working in an office in Geneva because it runs through the veins of these people) was making me want to throw up during every meeting. In true Swiss fashion, we had a lot of meetings and a lot of coffee.
So, there I was at my desk in Geneva, when it struck me that I might have miscalculated. I started to recount the days and yes, yes, divvy here had made a mistake. My stomach somersaulted (not just because of the reek of coffee) as I dared to let myself believe that I might have a little person already growing inside me. I reached for my phone and called my hubby straightaway.
‘I think I’m five days late.’
He was so excited, and we both couldn’t wait to get home so we could do the test together. So there we were, hours later, at home surrounded by a wide-grinned bubble of nervous energy wanting it so much to be true. Not quite believing it could be and trying to hold onto our heads and our hearts in case the lines did not appear – or, in the case of our French digital Clear Blue test, the word enceinte did not appear.
It was the longest few minutes of our lives. I did the test, saw the timer start and was so scared to keep looking at it that we placed it on the coffee table, out of sight and out of reach, and sat on the sofa together like two bunnies in the headlights, grinning and giggling at each other like loons.
‘Shall we look?’
‘No, it won’t have worked yet.’
‘The timer’s still going.’
‘Stop looking.’
‘OK.’
‘Stop peeking at it, I can see you looking, come and sit back down.’
‘Oh my God, do you think we could be?’
‘I don’t know, do you?’
‘What if it’s positive, can you imagine?’
More grinning like loons.
‘Do you feel like you are?’
‘Yes. No. Oh God, I don’t know!’
‘Shit, we really could be pregnant!’
Fingers crossed harder than ever before.
‘Right, time’s up. What should we do?’
‘You look.’
‘No, you look.’
‘OK.’
‘Wait! Let’s look together.’
‘OK.’
And there it was for the world to see: Enceinte – 3–4 semaines.
We were pregnant. We were three to four weeks pregnant. It had only bloody worked!
We both stood in the middle of our lounge, clutching the test stick, clutching each other and crying tears of disbelief and happiness.
We couldn’t stop staring at each other in wide-eyed disbelief, fast calculating the due date to be sometime in late January, hugging each other, minds blown that there were now three of us sat together on the sofa, and wondering: When would I start showing? When we should go to the doctor? Would it be a boy or a girl? So many questions, so many emotions, so many exciting times ahead of us. A whole new world. A world we had no idea about.
Those first moments finding out we were going to be parents, that we were going to bring another being into the world, reminded me of how I feel when looking into the vastness of the night sky, so enormous, so unexplainable and breathtakingly beautiful. We were staring into the face of a miracle no words or thoughts could explain or even begin to contain.
So what do you do when faced with such a miracle? Well, if you’re greedy beggars like us, you get your asses out for a slap-up mountain dinner, of course! So, we packed ourselves and our new beautiful little secret into the car and went to a remote mountainside restaurant, where we were guaranteed not to bump into anyone we knew (word travels fast in a mountain village) and were therefore able to talk freely about our new little person and start making plans for our future as a family of three.
BRING IT ON!
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Olivia Siegl
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Юмор и сатира
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 25.04.2024
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О книге: A Real Mum’s Hilariously Honest Tales of Motherhood, Mayhem and Mental Health‘You see, pre-motherhood I had this image of the sort of motherhood I was going to have. Happy, confident and in total control, breezing through my perfect new mum life, clad in white linen with a smiley easy-going baby attached to my hip. But then, something happened.’This book is about bathing in the crazy, dirty, hilarious, bonkers truth about motherhood.It’s about being brave.It’s about empowering each other; talking about the times we get it wrong, our mental health, our worries about being perfect. It’s about admitting that we all need a little help.For every mum out there feeling lost in the wilderness. For every mum feeling pressure to be perfect. For every mum questioning if they are good enough. You are magnificent.