Bethany's Baby Babblings

When I went for my psychological assessment to determine whether I needed counselling (spoiler alert: I do), the counsellor (let's call her Barbara) was so lovely, sympathetic and understanding. The main thing that Barbara said that really stuck with me was that "babies cry" To you it may seem obvious but to me it was a bloody revelation. The penny dropped. Babies cry! And that's OK! It's not my job to prevent crying (that would require being able to read my child's mind) but more to try to stop the crying and/or comfort her through the crying. Because, you know, sometimes babies cry for no damn reason. They cry for one reason, you sort it out, then they change their mind and want the opposite and cry again. Eventually they'll stop crying...until they start crying again. Those two words have helped me so much. I mean obviously the post natal depression is still there but it's the second tool in my arsenal to help me combat it. (the first too...

Once upon a time, Christmas was about scoffing ALL the food, getting pissed and being lazy. All of the above went of out the window this year. Me and Dale scoffed some food in shifts because our daughter decided to wake up just as Christmas dinner was served, my gin & tonic lasted me five hours and we were in bed for 9pm Christmas day because we were so exhausted. Not that we care one bit. She is totally worth it and it's lovely having children about for Christmas! Chunk's Christmas Miracles • actually pooing in her nappy (she normally does it out in the open so we considered it our present from her) • feeding at 8pm, FINALLY going to sleep at 11.30pm and then not waking up until 5.30am for her next feed (the six hour stretch of sleep was weird. the nine hour stretch between eating was weirder) • not being that bothered about being passed around the family like a rugby ball (clarification: this is a description of the frequency of being passed not the way she ...

First of all, apologies for the lame blog post title. I couldn't think of owt better. My brain power was used up this morning when doing the cryptic crossword with my mum and dad. Secondly, merry christmas. And now for the main bulk of the post. Yet again I will be giving out unsolicited advice that nobody asked for; be the annoying twat with a camera.  Now before you mentally butt in with the "live in the moment, don't be a slave to social media, etc" argument, let me explain (and sorry but it'll be a bit morbid) You never know when it'll be your or someone you love's last christmas, or last anything. I promise you that having candid or silly or sickly sweet photos and videos of your loved ones will be a massive comfort if anything happened to one of them. I promise. So that being said, my little christmas pudding has been on this planet for 38 days. My dedicated photo album for her has over 350 photos and/or videos... ...and I treasure ever...

Remember when you were a kid and your mum would buy you clothes that were ten sizes too big because "you'll grow into it" and consequently you looked ridiculous? Yeah, I've now become that mum. Not that I mind in the slightest about turning into my mum. Mummy Beal is one of my best friends and my inspiration (no apologies for being soppy, expressing your feelings is the new black) So yeah, here is my daughter with spaghetti arms because mummy insists that there's room for growing.

Parenting is bloody hard and I've been told that I need to give myself a break. My new mantra is (not that I am qualified to dish out advice at all) to take short-cuts, sack off unecessary tasks, cheat the system and ignore societal pressures of what good parents should do. Be lazy.  For example, it's my daughter's first Christmas. Father Christmas was at our local garden centre. Me and Dale couldn't be arsed to queue up for a what would only be something to post on social media rather than a genuine experience for our kid. So we compromised and took a photo of her by the plastic display in the entrance. Win win.

It's my daughter's Auntie Emma's birthday today. She would have been 29. Everything that has happened recently (my sister's death and my daughter's birth) has reminded me of the latest Cinderella remake. There's a lovely quote; I want to tell you a secret that will see you through all the trials that life can offer, have courage and be kind. If I only had two words to describe Emma it'd honestly be courageous and kind. And these are two traits I will teach my daughter (and myself) to be because Emma was/is amazing and if more people were kinder and braver then the world would be a wonderful place.

Shall we all rejoice in the fact that me and Dale have actually managed to keep our daughter alive for a whole bloody month?! And we've all survived. Just about. I still feel like that I need sectioning but that's because I'm having a bad run of days currently. But I am going to focus on the positive for this post. Or at least try my best to. Highlights of our First Month • strangers in the supermarket telling us how cute our child is • peeing and pooing out in the open (the baby, not me and dale...obv) • singing inappropriate songs together as a family (mostly the songs featured in family guy) • just her face in general • most of all, the love and support from our family and friends. from visits to cards to thoughtful messages to offers of help. it really means a lot. And here is a panoramic photo of our pig sty of a lounge to show that the idyllic photos that I share on Instagram and Facebook are just the glossy highlights of a rollercoaster whirlwind experienc...

She's four weeks old today. Four weeks of motherhood and I have been unofficially diagnosed with post natal depression. I say unofficially because no-one has outright said it to me but my healthcare visitor and GP have referred me for perinatal psychological therapy. And I'm ticking most of the boxes of the symptoms. I was half expecting to have post natal depression (let's use the abbreviation from now on, PND) anyway due to a history of depression and self-harming, and just being generally anxious day to day. My sister passed away 7 weeks before my daughter arrived and I tried my hardest to stay strong mentally, emotionally, physically to protect my daughter. So once she was born it was obvious that my mind and body just broke down. I realise this post isn't in keeping with my usual tone of self deprecating humour but I think that the more I talk about my PND the more I can take steps to get through it. Plus I don't want it to be this to be a 'big dirty ...

I've discovered that part of being on maternity leave is the daytime telly. And part of the daytime telly is the crap adverts. Mine and Dale's personal favourite is Vagisan Moist Cream. Vagisan. Moist. Cream.  I know right, how vomit inducing. Almost as vomit inducing as whatever made my child projectile vomit all over me this morning.  It looked like the rice pudding I had for my tea (yes I had rice pudding for tea and yes it was delicious) 

... I am addicted to the taste of my laxative medicine (don't ask why I'm on this, you don't want to know because, did I mention, childbirth is HORRIFIC) ... baby farts are bloody hilarious ... there's nowt nicer than your child falling asleep on your tummy... until you need a wee/want to change the TV channel/are gasping for a brew ... I am getting far too used to wiping my daughters sick/bogies/etc on to my clothes (why is the muslin square* nowhere to be found when you need it?!) * my mother in law amusingly called these 'Muslim towels' once so obviously we know constantly take the piss out of her for it and call them prayer squares.

Last night was non-eventful yet also eventful. My daughter spat up milk all over my new Harry Potter pyjamas. They have the Marauders Map on them so mischief was well and truly managed. Especially because it somehow got into my bra. We then had a cute family moment of watching the snow. Well me and Dale watched the snow, madam watched the light fitting. She's obsessed with them. We're hoping it's because she's going to be an interior designer and not because she's going to be as weird as her parents. Miss Fussy Pants then wouldn't settle for love nor money (probably because she's just all about the milk and at this moment in time she didn't want any; therefore sorting her out was guesswork) So to keep her quiet for 10 mins I laid her down on the bed with me. She stared at me. I interpreted this as a challenge to a staring competition. I lost miserably. Turns out babies don't blink very often and it's rather unnerving.

Being a parent involves finding your child's bodily functions absolutely fascinating and taking photos to show people. And these said people actually do not give a shit. Like my husband dislodged this bogie from our child's nose and saved it to show people. Imagine if he did that with his own bogies, I'd be filing for divorce (saying that he did once keep a nose hair he pulled out and I wasn't even phased. In fact I was impressed because it was SO LONG!) Enough about my husband's nose hairs; be grateful readers that I haven't taken photos of my daughter's nappies. Although weirdly she always poos out in the open rather than in her nappy. Or maybe that isn't weird. I don't know.

Then: I had plastic shot glasses in my cupboard for prinks (pre-drinks for those who aren't fluent in wanker) Now: I use said shot glasses for all the medication I have to take because CHILDBIRTH IS HORRIFIC AND THE HORRORS TO YOUR BODY CONTINUE FOR WEEKS AFTERWARDS AND NO-ONE PREPARES YOU FOR IT. no-one. Then: This time last year I was vomming up McDonalds after a pantomime night out to Camel (cheap drinks and cheesy music makes a happy Bethany) Now: I had a quiet night in, went to bed at 10 but not before getting thrown up on by my child on to my new MC hammer pants Then: I slept on public transport, through alarms, sat upright, mid conversation, etc. Anytime, anywhere, I could always have a kip. Now: If my child doesn't make a sound for 10 seconds I snap wide awake convinced that she has stopped breathing OR I'm just laid there with my eyes shut anticipating her next move (and I am always wrong) Then: I took sneezing, coughing, laughing and generally moving f...

I really enjoy singing to my child. I enjoyed singing randomly before she arrived. It's my thing. Much to everyone's chagrin. Wahey that rhymed, I'm practically Stormzy (I think? I have no idea about modern music. I am 25 going on 76.) Anyway I digress. I've been singing to my baby and have built up quite the repertoire of songs with the wrong bloody lyrics. I am blaming baby brain. My biggest error is the wheels on the bus which I then merged with Old McDonald so this poor bus driver now has a bus full of farm animals. There's been loads more but I cannot for the life of me remember any of them. I did manage to sing the entirety Is This The Way To Amarillo to her this morning though. Told you I was 25 going on 76.