Nagging

Nagging; in the conventional sense, the relentless mission to get Mr S to migrate socks from bedroom floor to washing basket.  In my case, blogging whilst the baby is taking a nap.

So today I found myself in tears on the bus.  Not because I missed my stop.  Not because half the contents of the buggy basket scattered over the pavement whilst trying to mount said buggy wheels onto said public transport (though that did happen.)  But because two ladies started chatting to me and my baby.  Initially lulled into a false sense of security was quite smug with the “like his hat, he’s cute comments” (usually just get “he’s big!” Or “he’s how old?!”) Then came the seemingly innocent but ultimately tear inducing “you’re not going back to work are you?” When I replied that yes, I was, I was met with a combination of disapproval and pity.  Think Miss Trunchball meets Dot Cotton.  “One bit of advice, she says, you can’t get your time again.”  Yes I know, I thought, I’ve seen back to the future.  I was suddenly struck with an overwhelming feeling of sadness, guilt and anxiety. Will he remember me after a long day at the surgery?Will I miss bath time after the commute home?will he call someone else mummy for the first time..

You would have thought I would have gotten a little used to uninvited social comment from strangers whilst pregnant. As a non pregnant person, it would seem rude to exclaim “woah, you are massive!” Or “have they checked it’s not twins?” the first time you meet.  Basically saying, you ARE FAT.  But when pregnant, this seems to be completely acceptable behaviour, and I became accustomed to such a statement, questioning and gender speculation towards my unborn baby.  It turns out in fact being pregnant is an excellent springboard for small talk, of course being recognised and referred to as “the pregnant one” at all times.  This added to a feeling that being pregnant was somehow corroding my individual identity, not to mention adding several minutes to all my consultations.  It seems as though being “up the duff, with child, bun in the oven” is a magnet for applying labels, not to mention the all too familiar”it’s baby brain” Don’t get me wrong, I believe this exists and that I am indeed suffering from it.  There is also menopause brain, which happens later in life and appears to be even more distressing.  But I do not like how the term is universally applied to new mums; we are doing our best on no sleep and a diet of foods that can be eaten one handed, in particular chocolate hobnobs.  So what if I have to set a phone reminder to clean my teeth; those late night hobnobs are playing havoc with my wisdoms…

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Bothering blogging

Mother to a 3 1/2 month old, wife, daughter, daughter in law, granddaughter, owner of a lively border terrier and part time GP.

Inspired to start blogging by a friend and the likes of selfish mother, to which I constantly refer to validate my own life choices.

I had great plans to blog after the birth of my son, documenting that first smile and endless dirty nappies, but then I realised my hands and arms would never again be my own.  Always thinking about the next nap and if I will be able to poo alone.