I think the penny has now dropped that I need to curb this almost boastful ‘my day was worse than yours’ carry-on. I’ve never really achieved anything by giving my husband shit when he comes through the door. Every now and again, I just feel hard done by and want recognition that I have drawn the short straw. I want him to get out his ruler and confirm that my straw is shorter. I need him to get it. But, equally, he is fed up with hearing my persistent whingeing and wants to remind me that he has been at work all day (‘Well, lucky you …’ And on it goes …).
The thing is, on reflection, I know I have been a bit unfair. It is true that on my home days he does ‘escape’ at 8.25. And he can listen to music on the iPod (though he’s dicing with the risk of ‘Let It Go’ and/or ‘Hakuna Matata’ on shuffle). It is true that I am sometimes bored to tears by 9.25 – I can’t cope with Jeremy Kyle any more; I struggle to get past the lack of teeth and the fact that two toothless people had sex but seem surprised it resulted in a baby, who they’ve named Mercedes-Leigh.
It is true that there are, genuinely, many days I would rather be at work.
But none of this proves that my husband is ‘winning’. I’m sure he really does wake up some Monday mornings, look at the week stretching out in front of him and think, I wish I could stay at home. His jealousy of me is just as valid as mine of him. But all he gets is me dismissing his feelings as ridiculous, telling him how hard it is at home and reiterating that he has no idea. I’m not exactly wrong in that assertion – he doesn’t have any idea what being at home with two kids under three all day every day for months on end is like. He has never had to do it. But that’s not really his fault. By the same token, I don’t really know what working full-time and coming home to Hurricane Wife (and surrounding devastation) is like either. In the hardest of my maternity-leave months I often forgot even to ask how his day had been. It might have been awful. I was too busy instantly offloading the full breakdown of the reasons my day had been horrific, reasons my day had been ten times harder than his, reasons he had already heard in abusive, sweary texts sent earlier in the day. Texts like:
I’d rather be a bin lady than deal with this shit.
Don’t phone me at lunch. I’ve got nothing nice to say.
Where are you? Text me the moment you leave. You need to pick up nappies – I couldn’t even get to the shop because they’ve done nothing but play up like twats all day.
You better not be late. I’ve fucking had enough of your kids.
These are actual texts (not proud).
I text when I feel compelled to text, which, unfortunately, tends to be when I have gone off on one. Such messages aren’t a balanced view of the situation at all – I have plenty of great days, just me and the boys hanging out, that never make the text-message edit, bar the odd token WhatsApp picture of them on a steam train. Sure, I moan about my days ‘off’ – the midweek ones, especially. But even for die-hard work fans there are benefits to being at home. Sometimes, it is the better deal. On top of the summer sun and catching up with friends and extra cuddles (the non-snotty ones), there is something undeniably liberating about being master of your own schedule on the days you are not at work. If you choose to, you can simply decide at 2 p.m. on a Tuesday that you fancy a trip to the library. And go. Admittedly, you won’t get there until 4 p.m. because it is impossible to leave the sodding house in less than ninety minutes . . . But, to a certain extent, you decide what you do with your time. It’s the kids who roll the behaviour dice and decide how successful that outing is. You still answer to somebody, but the boss or bosses breathing down your neck are much smaller. And can be bribed with raisins.
I feel I should add at this point that what I am writing is based purely on the dynamic in our household. This isn’t a sweeping generalisation that the mum of the household is at home on kids duty more than the dad is – this is often not the case. It might be the other way around. You might be in a same-sex marriage where it is not ‘her versus him’ at all. You might both work full-time. You might both work part-time. You might be a single parent.
Hats off to you all.
But if you share our dynamic, perhaps the grass really isn’t greener on the work side. Some days, it is. Some days, it isn’t. Some days, one of you has a distinct advantage. Some days, you both lose. The only certainty is that, unless you are genuinely considering addressing the work/home divide (and reallocating roles), the constant ‘my day has been shittier than yours’ debate could roll on for ever, which doesn’t help anyone. What has so far proved more helpful is to crack open a bottle of wine on Friday night and agree we’ve both had a hard week. This promotes a feeling of solidarity – and there’s wine. Everybody wins.
Important Notes for the Worker
If the baby is teething or if anybody at home is poorly, you definitely have the better deal being at work.
Don’t pretend you have any idea what it is like to take a crying baby to the doctor’s for injections accompanied by a toddler who has switched to arsehole mode. Truly, she has lived through hell that day.
If she is having a ‘moment’, cut her some slack. She doesn’t really hate you. Or the kids. Or the house. Or her life. But she is at (temporary) breaking point. Those abusive, sweary text messages aren’t her new hobby but, sometimes, she can’t stop herself. Sometimes, she doesn’t know what else to do. Don’t sigh. In fact, on those days, it’s sometimes best not to even breathe near her. It’s nothing personal, but she might want to smack you in the face.
Finally, never, ever ask what she has been doing all day. Or if your work shirts have been washed. She hasn’t even washed herself. You know where the washing machine is.
And for Those Holding the Fort at Home …
I know it’s bloody annoying when he says, ‘But I’ve been at work all day!’ but he has been at work. All day. And he never ever gets to sunbathe during toddler nap-time. Or watch Loose Women in his PJs on a Thursday. Or meet a friend for coffee and cake at the library. Just admit it: there are some small perks. Although James, if you’re reading this, I know how hard you work, but I think we could just agree that being at home is a teeny tiny bit harder and that buying wine and/or making me a cup of tea is the least you can do. In return, I’ll try and stop giving you shit via text message.
* * *
‘I’m so glad my little boy waited until you could hear a pin drop at the library before asking, “Why has that lady got a beard?”’
Kelly, Norfolk
* * *
Let’s Talk about Sex, Baby
[Absolutely no need for you to read this chapter, Dad – or my future teenage sons, for that matter.]
‘Are we having sex tonight?’ Transparent questioning from James.
‘Err, I dunno. Are we agreeing sex in advance nowadays?’
‘No, I just wondered if I should Sky Plus some of my programmes.’
‘Right, well, I don’t know.’
‘That’s a no, then?’
‘It’s probably a no.’
‘Okay. In that case, I don’t need to record Wheeler Dealers. Cuppa?’
There are no two ways about it: having children changes your relationship. Sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse and, sadly, sometimes for ever to the point of collapse. (When I blogged about the post-having-children relationship dynamic, I received several ‘My post-having-children relationship dynamic was divorce!’ comments, which, though offered in jest, did seem to prompt an assortment of ‘Me, too, the bastard!’-type replies …)
For many of us, I think the relationship is just different. Despite my crazed and irrational meltdowns, James and I continue to get on like a house on fire. I’m not one to plaster ‘Love you baby, you’re my rock, my soulmate, you complete me’ all over Facebook (because I could, you know, just tell him that), but I have realised while writing this book just how fortunate I am to have married such a good egg. Throughout all the disastrous toddler mealtimes and the sleepless nights and all the other shit (sometimes actual s
hit, sometimes the shit that is on the floor), we often find ourselves crying with laughter or enjoying a moment in the kitchen when we dance to songs on the radio while doing the dishes. (God bless Heart FM for churning out songs like N-Trance’s ‘Set You Free’ and Charles & Eddie’s ‘Would I Lie to You?’ Absolute classics.)
It’s true I moan about the kids a lot; I know I do. I moan because at times it’s just all so bloody hard, isn’t it? (Have I said that yet?) But how we are, how our marriage is, what having kids has ‘done to us’ is genuinely not something I need to grumble about. We’re all good.
Nevertheless, the boys have brought with them some changes to our relationship, and I reckon we’re not alone.
Doing It
I’m just putting it out there that I suspect a decline in the frequency of having sex is symptomatic not only of becoming parents but also more generally of being married or having been together for a number of years (nine for us, by the time Henry arrived). Life is busy. Discounting the first year of our relationship, holidays abroad and the spells we were trying for a baby, we weren’t exactly at it like rabbits before the children came along. Without having any tangible idea of what constitutes a ‘normal’ sex life, I’d hazard a guess that we’re somewhere on that normal spectrum.
Sometimes, we have sex.
Sometimes, we are too busy or too tired (okay: I am too busy or too tired).
Sometimes, I would quite honestly rather sit in my dressing gown watching Broadchurch.
Adding children to the mix was never going to tip the balance back in favour of getting down to it more often, but it is what it is. I can’t comment on having sex in the first few months after giving birth because, quite frankly, I wouldn’t know; there was nothing about soggy breast pads and larger-than-normal knickers that made me want sex in those early days, and if I had half an hour to lie down I wanted sleep and nothing more. I have heard from other mums who ‘got intimate’ within a few weeks of childbirth, and that’s great; I simply found it too hard to disassociate down there from stitches and placenta retrieval for at least a couple of months. (And maybe by a couple I mean six.)
Even now that some normality has resumed, I think it’s fair to say that sex is rarely at the top of the agenda; certainly, the majority of messages via social media and conversations I’ve had face to face have reinforced this point. They’ve also reminded me of the comedy moments that having sex as a parent can deliver, such as:
Attempting to have some nookie while the baby naps, only to hear him cooing and gurgling from the next room. ‘Mama Mama Mama bottle bot bot!’ = mood ruined.
The equally moment-killing threat of a toddler or small child pottering in and discovering Mummy and Daddy ‘wrestling’. Even worse is having to stop just as you reach the ‘point of no return’ because you think someone’s out of bed. (Cheers, Jason, via Twitter, for sharing this particular scenario – I couldn’t help but picture your state of imminent euphoria crossed with moderate panic, which, let’s face it, can’t be healthy for anyone.)
Genuinely deciding whether ‘tonight’s the night’ (or not) as you do the supermarket shop. (‘Are we having any action later? Do you know if we’re out of pitta breads?’) We 100 per cent do this; it’s better to know where you stand so you can judge whether you need to bother with a shower and/or tape Gogglebox, right? Spontaneity is dead to us.
The times sheer exhaustion takes over and you:
a) Both fall asleep despite best-laid plans.
b) Downgrade the act of love-making to something speedier (you know the one).
c) Quite like the idea but can’t be bothered to make any real effort so both partially keep your pyjamas on. I’m pretty sure the Comfy Pyjama Quickie never featured in More magazine’s ‘Position of the Fortnight’ feature, but parents of small children can’t be aspiring to the reverse cowgirl and three orgasms in one session, can they? Can they?
Having to do the post-sex loo dash (you know the one) in absolute silence for fear of waking the children.
Remembering with childish giggles the times you got jiggy in places other than your bed/occasionally on the sofa (like that time in the changing room . . . Stop reading, Dad).
Time as a Couple
It’s not just sexy time (ha) that takes a hit. Once the offspring have landed, quality time of any sort becomes largely non-existent, doesn’t it? Sometimes, the most loving of acts in our house is for one of us to facilitate five minutes’ peace for the other by taking over childcare duties. If I want to savour a shower (or a wee) in peace or, on the rarest of occasions, stay in bed past 6.30 a.m., James must entertain the small ones.
Occasionally, he says, ‘Why don’t you have a nap, babe?’ and I look at him like he has handed over a winning lottery ticket or bought me a Terry’s Chocolate Orange. So much love right there. With small children at large, there is no commodity more valuable than sleep, and on the days I’m flying solo with the boys I’d genuinely be prepared to start giving away our household appliances in exchange for a nap. I suspect I am not alone in this uninterrupted-nap fantasy.
Likewise, if James wants to watch even one half of a football match without Henry smacking him around the head with a lightsaber and/or noise interference from the VTech Baby Walker (‘Welcome to our learning farm, we have lots to show you’; ‘Piss off’) I must vacate the living room and take the tiny terrors with me. I know we’ve got a good thing going on with our unspoken agreement to offer each other a break, but it’s like shift work. We never get to have a break together.
And what happens when you finally do find yourselves gloriously child-free, maybe at a nice restaurant? Well, if you’re anything like us you will eat your posh meals in thirty seconds flat (subconsciously trained to expect the mealtime meltdown) and spend the entire evening talking about . . . the kids.
‘Isn’t it cute when you tell Jude not to climb up on his pram and he knows he’s being naughty so he gives you that cheeky smile?!’
‘Did I send you that picture of Henry in the sandpit? Hang on, I’ll find it and WhatsApp it to you …’
And we realise we have become more than a bit obsessed with our monsters and miss them dearly so happily settle the bill and go home to check on them sleeping. And then have an early night ourselves.
A fully covered pyjama night, usually.
Slack Pelvic Floor and Empty Boobs
I definitely underestimated the impact that growing and birthing small people would have on my body – those interesting physical developments that can strike both in pregnancy and post-birth. By ‘post-birth’, I fear I may mean forever, because some of the changes I’ve experienced are highly unlikely to be reversed without a trip to Harley Street.
I always find any mention of ‘post-baby body hang-ups’ really grating, so I give the ‘Celeb Mum Loses Mum Tum in Just 7 Days!’ front covers the one-fingered salute while muttering, ‘Oh fuck right off!’ whenever I’m in Tesco. I certainly didn’t lose my ‘Mum Tum’ in 7 Days (it took me the best part of a year to level out at my pre-baby weight), but I suppose I haven’t fared too badly at ‘shedding those pregnancy pounds’ (grrrr), if you discount the fact that I’m still wearing Mothercare M2B pyjama bottoms I purchased during my first pregnancy, mainly for comfort reasons on days I find myself pregnant with a Galaxy Minstrels baby.
But post-birth body changes are not all about weight loss and, to be honest, weight, as in actual pounds of flesh, is probably where the similarities between my pre- and post-baby body start and end. I get told, ‘You’ve got your figure back!’ and, ‘You wouldn’t even know you’ve had children!’ quite a lot, which is really flattering, but these people haven’t seen me naked. They haven’t shared a car journey with me and had to stop four times because I’m going to piss myself. My body knows I’ve had children. Trust me: it knows. Hidden beneath those jeans from before (high five!), the signs are all there.
That said, I’ve heard from women who’ve experienced pretty major complications following childbirth, so I
count myself bloody lucky to be functioning normally. I therefore don’t class my physical developments as ‘hang-ups’ at all and have in fact started to accept them simply as changes – changes which, unsurprisingly, resulted from growing half a stone of human, then pushing it out of my vagina (twice).
So my post-baby-body observations are just that: observations about my own body. I hope I never bump into any of you – ever – and, if I do, let’s just agree we’ll all pointedly forget I’ve shared far too much information. Here we go …
My Boobs Have Gone
Henry and Jude basically ate my boobs. It is a bit of a shame as, when I was pregnant and breastfeeding, I had a reasonable cleavage even without my bra on. I kind of wish I’d taken some pictures or got one of those god-awful DIY belly-and-boob casting kits. (Christ, I’m really sorry if you have a cast of your pregnant belly and boobs hanging in your hallway next to a giant canvas of your heads from your wedding; it’s just not my cup of tea. But I digress.)
The Unmumsy Mum Page 6