Mummy Minute

Tonight’s dinner came with a side serving of snot, but surprisingly I didn’t really mind. It was one of the rare occasions our Master 11 months old has a chance to experience life as an only child, the center of his mothers attention, the one drawing in all focus in a room, as his sisters were off at dance class with Daddy. Master 11 month’s  smile is magnetic, his laughter so enchanting that even as he hands me a piece of carrot lathered in snot caught as he  teethed on it before deciding it is more fun to feed Mummy, I do not cringe. I let him feed me, paying close attention to every tiny tooth he has, all 4.5 of them, admiring his cherubic cheeks and sparkling almond eyes he inherited from his Daddy and listening earnestly to his sweet chuckles as I chomp away like a hungry puppy. It wouldn’t be the first time I have stomached something that pre-motherhood I would have choked on.

I recall one early morning feed with my boy, then only a few months old, the warmth and comfort of our bed linen bathed in broken shards of morning sun light that peered through the blinds into our secret bonding moments of mother and child, when the peace was interrupted by a milk vomit. I am almost certain some landed n my mouth, but the allure of sleep was too much to deny and I didn’t even flinch, so as not to wake my baby who too was drifting back to sleep.

I wipe bums for the better half of the morning, and also during the day, I wipe snotty noses relentlessly during the colder months and wipe up vomit when needed. I clean food mess from the floor at least three times a day, and squished banana has a texture that is just ick! So why is it that when it comes to picking up the dog poop I find it hard to hold down the barf and I am so utterly grossed out that I must wash my hands at least twice before handling my beautiful babies again.

Well lately I’m  thinking perhaps the dog has cottoned on to the fact she grosses me out, with her butt licking and walk pooping (she covers a greater area this way, spreading out her fecal matter so it becomes a game finding every last piece!). It started with her licking my kids, on their faces, often when they are talking so their mouths are open, umm ewwwwww! Then she started taking food from them, which was fun at first but Master 11 months old cried in anger when she nicked off with his lamb cutlet recently and my girls got sick of losing their ice cream to the dog pretty quickly.

Perhaps the dog wasn’t getting the attention she was craving, even as a climbing frame for our kids she wants more, or maybe it is just a hormonal thing, but now I have another nappy to change…..yes our dog is incontinent. Husband is in denial that his precious pooch has lost her youthful bladder control, but I mop under her bed every morning now. We have been through round one of medicines to no avail so now pooch is starting on twice daily medicine. ‘Yippee!’ I did not think when the vet informed me it was twice….daily! I have so much to remember on a daily basis that my diary is fat and full of scribbled notes and reminders about who needs what for preschool, who has a play date when, what fees are due, what appointments are coming up and then I must also remember who needs what cream, inhaler, antihistamine etc ….

With my family’s world becoming fuller by the day, and life so busy I hardly see friends of my own anymore or have time to myself, and knowing how quickly children grow, it is nice to marvel at Master 11 months old and just delight in the wonderful being he is. With my first two babies I’m not sure I enjoyed just simply watching them as they discovered the world, probably too focused on what I should be doing to enhance their learning and stimulate their senses to gain optimum use out of every situation.It is hard to live in the moment when you are bombarded with details about what you should be doing as a parent to help your child do this or that. But children grow, and fast. Its better to enjoy this time with them than worry about what some book, blog, article, friend, neighbor, stranger etc recommends you do. It is nice now to allow the chaotic and busy life we lead to rush around whilst I slow down and enjoy watching our children make discoveries on their own, simply marveling at their wonder and joy for living. So no I don’t mind the food mess, or laundry mess, or toy mess (even as I step on a piece of Duplo and pain sears through my foot), or poo mess or wee mess, or snot veggie fingers, because I know where the mess comes from, the masters of our hearts.

So, here’s my vent. It hasn’t been a great week, it’s been a pretty shitty one so far. And I don’t like admitting that because I know this is the best time of my life, my three darling cherubs at home with me full time, none taken away to ‘big school’ yet. But there are only so many mornings I can take of being screamed at for an hour straight about wanting a dummy, or toast with more margarine, or fruit on the fairy plate, or my girls incessant desire to have everything that their siblings have even when they both possess the same freaking drink bottle!

I usually self medicate with extra chocolate (not a coffee drinker so have to get some sort of caffeenish/sugary hit another way and my morning Milo has included extra teaspoons lately). But this week with all three kids being overtired, Master 9 months deciding he no longer needs sleep…..ever…., snotty noses descending upon our house, a few rainy days thrown in to force us to be contained inside and I’m calling for a sick day, or a day of annual leave. I ask my husband knowing full well he can’t afford to take the time off work, no he has already used his leave to allow me my actual “sick day” when I got gastro a month back. Plus he had to take time off whilst I sat through three sessions of root canal. I told the nurse it was my morning off! Some days the long numbing needle of the dentist seems like a tropical oasis to the frantic mornings at our house. My time in the dentist chair was my mini ‘vacay’ away from the screaming, scratchy small hand grabbing around my neck and legs, the constant rivalry my girls seem to evoke within each other and my baby’s obsession with my boobs and being held, but you must be moving, you cant be stationary or he will cry…..again……

Deep breaths. That’s how I get through…and a bunch of hurried texts and sobbing phone calls to husband for moral support, but also so he can hear that my colleagues can really scream, and scream and cry and scream. I mean I don’t understand their motivation sometimes. I totally understand when they are hungry they get a little tense and frustrated that I’m not peeling a banana fast enough, but they are hungry all.the.time. And why do they suddenly after playing nicely decide to push each other. Is it a power thing? Is it because I am not being attentive enough? Do I sound funny when I use my authoritative voice? And why can’t I just put on my bra or pee without someone getting hurt, or starting a fight?

I lug us all to play-morning. The other mums must sense my desperation as we arrive an hour late. I am actually elated to see another mum arrive just before us. Phew, its not just me! I am asked how I am. I waiver. Do I tell them I’m losing my shit with the constant screaming and frankly bazaar requests. I mean why does Miss 4 require a tutu and ballet shoes and her hair in a bun and her hair clip, no not the purple one, the pink one, THE PINK ONE!!!!!!, to simply dance? And why right now, when I am holding  baby, burning dinner again and pacing the hallway looking out for hubby to arrive home so I can hand over and have a few minutes to cry as I feel I have failed yet again, does Miss 2 need to poo on the potty so I must attend butt wiping duty instantly.

So do I smile and tell them “I’m fine, thank you”. No, I decided to be honest, “I’m tired”. “Why?” the doe eyed mother of two asks, and I respond,  “Because my kids won’t sleep and  they have been fighting and yelling”. “Where’s your husband” she enquirers (like he could do my job any better?) and I respond that he is at work, now wondering what her husband does as she implies he is around clearly more than my man is. Then she asks why so much yelling and I just tell her that’s what life with three kids is like (must be noted her youngest is a baby and unable to be throwing tantrums yet an her eldest, well perhaps she lied when she said she doesn’t scream). Meanwhile my girls are off playing happily, looking like perfect angels who simply have a disheveled mother who clearly can’t keep her shit together.

Back to the me failing part. My reason for failing…..you see I have always wanted to be a mother, always wanted children, lots of them, and always wanted to be a SAHM. But in my fantasy I hadn’t factored in the social isolation. Husband goes to work early so he can come home early enough for dinner thankfully, but mornings can be hard, getting 4 people ready is a tough gig and its usually done in parts. For example I take off my pajamas then chase baby away from the power point. I tell Miss 4 to go to the loo for the fifth time then try to convince Miss 2 she doesn’t need to wear her Frozen dress for the 56th consecutive day, it desperately needs a wash, again. Then I try to wash my face, put on deodorant as mummying is sweaty work and tie up my hair but what’s the sound? Oh crap, someone has hurt themselves. When did you learn to climb baby? He’s ok, phew! Yikes, I still nee a bra, quick, put one on then what’s that smell…..change a nappy…..who is calling for help…..Miss 2 toilet trained herself last week and needs toilet paper…..have I brushed anyone’s teeth yet? And does anyone have shoes on yet????? And again, we are approximately an hour late to wherever we plan on going and likely if its not a preschool day its a too hard to leave the house day.

The only semi adult conversation I get is either online, which is really just me reading posts from fellow mummies on Facebook who all seem to be having a much better day than me posting pics of them painting egg cartons or baking cookies with their smiling kiddies or off at the park when we haven’t even left the house yet. But really who posts that their kid just shit themselves and that they were screamed at for putting socks on incorrectly. Or that their toddler just bit them so hard they squealed in pain as they clenched their teeth and thought of their escape plan; often hiding in the pantry where the sugar lives. Those few who do write honest posts about arriving at an appointment with poo smeared across their shirt, I take my hat off to you, thank you for being realistic about the everyday occurrences of the mummying profession.

Even if I do get to talk to another human adult, its hard to carry a conversation when I’m counting my kids as I watch them, rarely able to make eye contact or complete a sentence anyway. Two mums talking must look like lunatics from a distance, heads moving about in all directions, occasional bouts of yelling “Stop! Come Back. NOW!” and the popular countdown “5, 4, 3, 2…I mean it…..ONEEEEEEEEEEE” as one mum runs off after their spawn trying to avert some sort of catastrophe like their eldest pushing his little sister off the swing. And forget talking to an adult without kids. What else is there to talk about when you have three kids? The weather?

My kids rarely listen to me, unless I slip in the word “lollies” or “chocolate” or “ice cream”, then they are likely to tune in, but only briefly until they can ascertain if there are actual treats available right now and secondly if the reward is worth the effort. It can also be very difficult following a conversation with my little people. Miss 4 told me tonight there was something wrong, when I asked what it was she replied the curtain was closed. Umm yes dear, its bed time, we close the curtains at night. I mean its not exactly riveting dialogue an many occasions, but I was happy for the acknowledgement of my question none the less.  And our dog is so depressed by her bottom place in the pecking order that she hardly raises an eyebrow, let alone move off her bed during the day, even when the kids climb all over her.

I’m lucky I have my mum, thank goodness she knows when enough is enough. She actually turned up at play morning, then we drove to McDonalds and ordered two happy meals and for a moment there was calm. Mum hugs me and tells me its ok that my kids are watching Frozen for the 2nd time that day, that’s its okay they ate junk for lunch, that its ok I needed a break. And gradually her parenting choices I previously questioned start to become clearer and for a moment I understand her and her reasons woman to woman.  Because honestly I feel guilty feeling this way. I think when the midwives told me to check my dignity at the door before childbirth (see my previous post) they replaced it with a suitcase full of guilt. I should have read a book at bedtime, I should have made a more nutritious lunch than a honey sandwich, I can’t believe I yelled…again…..and the guilt creeps on.

I read somewhere that the days are long but the weeks are short. I definitely know this to be true. My kids are growing up way too fast. Miss 4 is now signing her own name on her artwork, Miss 2 is a comedian in dance class making even her teacher laugh and Master 9 months old is now climbing stairs and taking steps as he clutches onto my hands. I know if I blink this will all be over and so I decide I don’t want to take my annual leave. I don’t care how much they scream at me, or that I don’t even have a shower to myself anymore. If I read the description to this job before I met my babies I likely would have refused. Any sane person would. Broken sleep every night, no privacy in the bathroom at all (yes I poop in full view of my kids who are fascinated by bowel motions), no “lunch break”, being on call 24/7, never clocking out, no sick leave unless I am vomiting or have diarrhea or both, and the inability to do anything right according to my Miss 4. Although the job does have its many perks, like now, after a day of screaming, and yes that included me, I go in to check on my sleeping babies. Miss 4 stirs and tells me “I just want you mummy” . She embraces me and I hold her tight relishing in the spontaneous cuddle, even if her hair is in my mouth and I can’t breathe properly. Then she tells me “I love you so much Mummy” and I smile as I whisper “I love you more baby”. I may fail at my job every day but I don’t fail my kids. They are bursting with love and that’s because I fill them with love. But now its time for some self love, massage is booked in for this weekend.

My pre-baby self was always clucky. I would watch other mums, tiny chubby arms draped around their necks, starfish hands rested on their chests as they chatted amongst themselves whilst their older children played in the park. I wondered what they were talking about; probably how lovely it is to be a mummy! I saw their tired tummys, slightly looser than their pre baby shape at a guess, and their tired eyes, sometimes a few grey hairs highlighting their natural tones. Yet their creased smiles marked by lines etched in after thousands and thousands of happy smiles and laughs made it definite to me that whatever having a baby did to their body’s, however they might have changed, it was worth it. I would look down at my taught belly fresh from a gym workout and think I would trade it in for a saggier version any day to be holding my own baby in my arms.

Upon becoming pregnant with our first child, a real surprise and such and amazing time for us, I hoped to soon be covered in “the glow”. I had heard it many times before, and seen it too! Women, pregnant women, with beautiful glowing skin, rose pink cheeks and relaxed faces, failing to mask their inner joy that they were expecting. Well I certainly wan’t expecting my skin to tun to s**t (for lack of a better word). I had been lucky to escape pimples for the most part of my pubescent years, and now an adult, me in my mid 20’s, I had red spots adorning my once pristine cheeks. I looked like a teenager! One who liked pizzas and fizzy drinks a little too much. The red rash stayed throughout the pregnancy, and is still with me even now, 5 years on and 3 kiddies later. Must be a hormonal thing, I keep telling myself that anyway. My doctor tells me there is cream I can use, but not whilst pregnant or breastfeeding, so yes I am stuck with my own version of “rosy” cheeks.

To tell the truth, I never minded my skin being crappy, I know its because I have been given the greatest gift of all, being a mummy to my three amazing kids. Mind you, combine my terrible skin with my limp due to painful leg cramps with my third pregnancy and I must have looked a strange sight hobbling after my two girls with a huge belly preventing me from scooping them up into my arms, reliant on my voice to command them to not venture too far.

As I continued to have children I realised that there was more unexpected body changes I had not signed up for. I understood the whole getting big thing, and whilst I was lucky to escape stretch marks (I invested well in moisturiser), I did end up with scars. Sure, having a door cut into my abdomen to bring my babies into the world is a rough gig. Getting a baby out any way would be a tough time. But I thought I had escaped the yucky stuff that can happen to your lady parts when you push a baby out from there. Apparently not, no I bled like the best of them, so severe with my first I was readmitted to hospital and treated for a secondary post par-tum haemorrhage. Then one day whilst nursing our first baby and catching up with a friend who had a natural birth I was placed the question, “Does sex hurt after a Caesar?”. Finally it clicked, those mums weren’t idly chatting about how lovely their kids were, they were checking in with their war stories, shuddering away the indignations suffered for their childbearing.

“Umm, well yes actually, ” I replied, astonished myself. It was only last week, after chatting with my doctor about various “problems” that I realised how much carrying a baby does to your body. She explains, “You didn’t push the baby out of your bum but you still got haemorrhoids.” Wow that wasn’t a conversation I was expecting to be part of at 30!

At our anti-natal classes prior to the birth of our first child, we were told we check our dignity at the door when we give birth, and don’t I know it. I had to ask the midwives to check I hadn’t crapped myself after our third baby was born, it was all warm and gooey down there and I could hardly feel my legs, it was a mess to say the least.  Thankfully she sweetly advised me I hadn’t soiled myself. Conversations I never thought I’d have, especially with my husband standing beside me. Although he did high 5 me when on day 2 after birth I managed to do a poo! I’ve obviously become more immune to these types of conversations since our first child was born when I clearly remember being embarrassed buzzing the nurses to ask them to please clean me up as I had just vomited all over their sponge bath job from only minutes earlier.

Now I look at  my scar that has healed, and I admire the brilliance of our obstetricians handy-work leaving a minimal “pouch” for having had three caesareans. My skin rash has begun to fade ever so slightly, and I am currently nursing a cut nipple courtesy of our teething 7 month old. Each time I brush my hair I watch more than usual fall out due to breastfeeding only to be replaced by tiny “baby hair” that gives me a really weird fringe (I’m currently a fan of large headbands!). I arch my back after a day of bending down to the level of my little people and realise my back will likely be out of alignment for the foreseeable future as I wrangle my kids in varying configurations on my hip, wearing them on my back, side and/or front or all three. But I also notice I have those smile lines now etched on my face. I know they are there because of thousands and thousands of smiles and laughs since becoming a mummy. And I really wouldn’t trade any of it, because now I have tiny chubby arms draped around my neck, starfish hands in my palms and three beautiful kids who call me “Mummy”.