Hannah Hopkins's Blog, page 2

The longest week

I haven’t managed to post on my blog for a while, mostly due to the fact that I have been so busy with the release of my book ( I honestly had no idea how much work would go into this and I’m still learning!) and have also been consumed by another writing project. I was secretly hoping that my next blog post would be my second birth story, followed by some pieces about our family of three turning into a family of four, but no such luck!

My due date is this Friday, and it’s definitely true what they say- the last part of pregnancy is the longest. Up until this point, the entire thing has gone really fast. I’ve been so distracted with my older son and my writing that I’ve barely had a chance to think about it, but as the end draws closer, time is starting to drag! At this point, I feel like I’ve been huge forever. I can’t remember what it’s like to see my toes or be able to do up my own shoelaces. I’ve cut down on going out, finding it too physically difficult to venture about on my own, especially as my son often insists on being carried and is known to throw tantrums at the end of toddler groups when he’s asked to put the toy cars away, meaning that I have to heave him away. I feel guilty not taking him to the things he enjoys doing and have tried to make staying at home as fun as possible, but deep down I thought the baby might have been here by now and he wouldn’t have too long to wait until we could start going out again!

I’ve been telling myself not to get my hopes up, but every twinge, every painful movement or bit of indigestion sends me into an excited frenzy. The fear of labour is disappearing now and the adrenaline has started to kick in, making me more determined to just get it over and done with! However, I’ve now got a horrible feeling I’m going to go over my due date ( as I did with my eldest by ten whole days which honestly felt like ten months). I know there’s no logic to this assumption. There’s still four days to go until I’m technically overdue, but each day feels like an eternity and I’m now convinced I’m going to be pregnant for the rest of time.

When I’m in the throws of labour, I’ll probably wish I was back in the waiting phase, but for the time being, I will be cooking a series of spicy dinners and wiggling my hips until I finally get a result! Here’s to hoping that my next post contains an exciting announcement

The Journey Begins..

 

To celebrate the release of my book “The Split”, I’d like to share the first chapter with you all and hopefully get some comments and feedback in return! Writing fiction is so different to any other form of writing I’ve done, and I worked extremely hard to choose the right words to paint the pictures I envisioned in my head while dreaming up this story. I hope you enjoy what you read…

 

 

1.

The Journey Begins

 

 She was running through the night, clutching the small, precious bundle under her cloak tightly to her chest. It was deathly quiet, the only audible sound coming from the flickering streetlamps as they hummed and struggled into life. Her breath caught in her throat, a ball of burning exhaustion rising in her chest. She had been running for what felt like hours, but there was no time to stop and rest. As she sprinted down the street, she caught glimpses of the houses left desolate and empty, abandoned by their owners in fits of panic and hysteria. Cars were parked diagonally across driveways, their doors flung open, awaiting owners that would never return. Dustbins had been overturned and rubbish littered the street as far as the eye could see. Front doors had been left ajar, revealing eerily lit hallways.  She wondered how much longer it would be until the power went out altogether, plunging Earth into a permanent darkness.

She turned the corner and continued to flee down another deserted road. The smell of the salt and seawater filling her nostrils and telling her that she was getting closer. She reached a metal sign cemented into the ground, twisted and warped from the heat of a passing solar flare. The top had come askew, but she could still make out the white lettering against the faded green background informing her that Pentewan train station was half a mile to the left.

Before she moved off, she peered into her cloak to check that her journey so far had not disturbed her cargo. Satisfied that all was well, she began to walk, continuing down another derelict street, the flickering lights taunting her as she went. She closed her eyes to block out her surroundings. For just one moment, she imagined that she was walking down the street on a perfectly ordinary evening, perhaps going to meet friends or returning home after a hard day’s work. She felt the echo of excitement rise inside of her as the sound of faint laughter filled her head, conjured somewhere from the depths of her memories from a time when normality still existed. The Wars on Earth, as they were collectively referred to, had broken out when she was barely a teenager and she struggled to remember a time when conflict and strife hadn’t dominated the day-to-day life of every citizen on Earth. The poverty and lack of resources that had ensued after the numerous wars had resulted in the rise of gangs and looters, causing the fight for survival to move from the battlefield and onto the streets. Once the peace of a mundane life had gone, nothing had ever been the same again.

Her thoughts had clouded her vision, but her legs had taken her to the right location. She arrived at the decrepit train station, flinching slightly at its ghostly appearance in the dark. She pulled a battered pocket watch from her cloak, a prized relic from the old days that she had found on her travels, and clicked it open to read the time, her cold breath illuminated in the clock’s glowing face. It was 11:40 p.m., which meant her train was due any second. Terrified she might have missed it, she began scanning the inky black tracks desperately, relief spreading through her body as two headlights pinpricked the horizon.

The silver metallic train pulled up and halted to a silent stop. Two of its doors opened smoothly, splitting in the middle and coming away so that they blended with the side of the carriage. Without hesitating, she stepped aboard, moving quietly through the dimly lit compartments.  She didn’t need a ticket. There was no driver, no conductors and no ticket inspectors. They had all gone. The magnetic system that ran the trains had been left on, with nobody bothering to switch them off. The trains continued to run, picking up no one and taking them to nowhere. Occasionally, though, they had come in useful, allowing her to move about the country undetected as she had made her vital journey.

The seats were laid back in their reclining position, ready to take tired commuters into the night. A single coffee cup sat upright on one of the cold, white tables that connected one pair of seats to the other. She wondered how long it had been sat there for and under what circumstances it had been abandoned. The faint smell of sweat lingered in the air, almost completely masked by the steely odour of metal that emanated from the train’s walls. At the head of the carriage was an interactive screen, blinking slightly from years of damage and neglect. She walked over to it and activated it with a touch of her finger and was greeted by a clinical female voice as the screen sprung into life.

“Welcome to the I-Train,” the voice said. “The pioneering way to travel brought to you exclusively by The Interactive-Tech Company.”

She selected the main menu, bringing up a display that featured information on the journey. A small icon of a train moved along a virtual winding road, heading towards Charlestown, Cornwall which was marked by a large, red circle. Elsie pressed on the screen and the estimated time of arrival appeared before her, letting her know that she had only fifteen minutes before she would reach her destination.

She swallowed, the fear of failure creeping into her mind like an unwanted pest. She was yet to come up with a proper plan of action to take when she arrived at her journey’s end, and she had so little time to prepare. She was about to sit down and begin detailing a plot with all the information she had gathered so far, when a noise from the next carriage along startled her, causing her to stagger backwards.

She paused for a moment, unsure whether she should run and hide, but instinct told her not to be afraid. Boldly, she pressed her hand to the small, sensor by the side of the door that divided the compartments, causing it to slide open. As she stepped across the carriage’s threshold, she was greeted by a blonde-haired woman, sitting on a rear-facing seat, a tartan push-trolley sat between her legs. She was leaning forward on its handle, smiling coyly up at her new visitor. A middle-aged man sat hunched on the floor opposite her, his legs drawn up to his chest and his arms wrapped protectively round his body. He was so thin that he was almost skeletal. His sunken eyes stared fixated at the floor and his mouth hung open, forming whispered words that only he could understand.

“Hello, love,” the woman said cheerfully. “Come and take a seat.”

Elsie hesitated, glancing over at the man with slight alarm. The woman followed her gaze.

“Oh, don’t worry about him, he’s harmless,” she smiled.

Warily, Elsie moved through the carriage and sat on one of the forward-facing seats, swinging her body around carefully so that she could see the other woman.

“The name’s Grace,” the woman grinned toothlessly. She didn’t look particularly old, but her face was haggard, prematurely aged by hardship and sorrow.

“Elsie,” she replied. She wasn’t sure why, but she trusted Grace. It was clear that she had suffered great stress and loss and that somehow gave them a common ground to stand upon.

“I didn’t expect to see anyone on these trains,” Grace said after a moment. Her accent was hard and callous. Wherever she had grown up had left a lasting impression on her inflection.

“Neither did I,” Elsie replied.

“We’re going to see them off, Bernard and me,” Grace continued, gesturing to the man. He did not seem to recognise the sound of his own name and continued gawking, wide-eyed at the floor.

“Them?” Elsie asked.

“You know who I’m talking about,” Grace hissed. “Those who are dearly departing on the Mayfly. I reckon we ought to give them a great send off. Let them know how sorely they’ll be missed. Bunch of fools!”

She spat at the floor and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. There was a fury resonating from her eyes that Elsie had never seen in another human being.

“They think they’ve got it all planned out,” Grace ranted. “Leaving us less important people behind to rot like pieces of rubbish while they fly off to start their new world. Well they’re on a fool’s mission anyway. Mark my words they are. There is more to this than any of those stuck-up fools can begin to get their tiny minds around.”

Her eyes flashed with a passion that Elsie could only interpret as excitement.

“Are you talking about the conspiracy theories?” Elsie asked, beginning to feel she was trapped on the train with a madwoman.

“You’ve heard them too?” Grace said, her voice ragged with enthusiasm.

“Yes, I have,” Elsie replied flatly, her heart twinging with pain as she recalled the fate of the last person she had known to believe in the theories.

The bundle beneath Elsie’s cloak began to wriggle, causing the fabric to rearrange itself suspiciously.

“What have you got there?” Grace asked, her beady eyes detecting the movement.

“It’s nothing,” Elsie said quickly, stealing a glance through the cloak’s neck hole.

“Are you sure about that?” Grace pressed her as a soft cooing noise emitted from beneath the swathes of cloth.

Elsie said nothing, she knew her secret was out but had no desire to discuss the matter. The true magnitude of what she would lose if she failed to make it aboard The Mayfly was too terrible for her to acknowledge out loud. Grace seemed to understand this, continuing to speak without receiving a response.

“My husband left me, you know,” she informed Elsie. “We were married fifteen years. He had another son by his first wife. It caused a lot of problems between us. I can’t have children, you see, and I resented the boy for existing.”

Elsie nodded, unsure how best to respond to such a personal revelation.

“Anyway, his boy’s mum died. She was killed by looters in one of the Cities. Everything changed after that. My husband and I had both agreed we would stay on Earth come the day of The Split, whatever that meant. He believed in the theories too, you see. Had real evidence for them as well. But when he took his boy in, he changed his mind. Suddenly he was applying for The Mayfly, saying he had to give his son a chance of living. I told him I wasn’t going, no matter what, but he left anyway. Have you any idea how bad that feels? Being left to suffer and die by the one person who’s supposed to love and protect you?” she asked. The question was rhetorical, but it brought a fresh wave of pain to the surface of Elsie’s mind.

“I do actually,” she said. Grace regarded her shrewdly, a moment of silent understanding passing between them.

“Well then,” she nodded. “You know why I have to go and see them leave for myself. It’s not just humans on that ship, you know. I’ve heard whispers”

Elsie nodded but said no more on the subject. She was well aware of the conspiracy theory Grace was referring to and didn’t think it wise to voice her harsh opinions on the matter. The only thing which surprised her was how wide-spread the theory seemed to have become. Stupidly, she had assumed she was among the only few people to have heard it.

“What happened to him?” Elsie changed the subject, regarding Bernard with concern.

“Him? His family abandoned him. His parents have been dead a long while, mind, as most of ours have. He had a sister, though, but she married some rich bloke, got her and her kids a place on board and left him here to rot. Apparently, there was “no room” for him. Truth is I think she was ashamed. He doesn’t have any skills, you see, or money so he’s of “no use” to The Mayfly or the continuation of our species,” Grace explained with disgust.

“That’s terrible…” Elsie said after a moment. Grace nodded curtly. Whatever pity she had had for Bernard’s seemed to have been doused by the overpowering anger she felt towards all those leaving after The Split.

“What about you then?” Grace asked brazenly. “You got any nearest and dearest? Other than the obvious,” she nodded at Elsie’s cloak.

The question hit Elsie like a knife to the throat. She felt her chest closing in on itself in a futile attempt to cushion the pain to her heart that the words had caused her. She closed her eyes and bore the agony, letting it peak to an unbearable torment before it subsided, allowing her to breath once again.

“All dead,” she said thickly, hoping that would be enough to deter Grace from pressing her any further.

“They been gone a long time?”

“Years,” Elsie lied.

Her parents were long dead it was true, but it wasn’t the discussion of their absence that was causing her to silently crumble into dust. She could not even think of her more recent loss, for fear the pain would rip through her body and destroy her completely.

Grace seemed to accept this response and the conversation drifted into a comfortable silence. Elsie allowed herself to be lulled into pleasant numbness, concentrating on the whirring sound of the train’s mechanism as it pulled them forward into the night. Every so often, she stole a fleeting glance at Bernard, who hadn’t moved or changed his posture the entire time she had been in the carriage. She wondered what would happen to him and Grace after The Split, fighting the panicked thought that she might still be on Earth to find out.

The time fell away like rain drops sliding off soft skin and soon enough the robotic, female voice was announcing that they had almost reached Charlestown. Grace rose to her feet immediately, heaving a dazed Bernard into a slumped standing position beside her.

“Well, “she said, regarding Elsie with a look of comradery. “Good luck to you, love. We’re heading up the hills to get a good view of them leaving. If you need to, you can find us up there.”

Elsie attempted a smile, causing Grace’s previously hardened expression to be abducted by unconcealable pity. She raised two fingers to her head in a strange sort of salute and then turned to face the steel doors of the train, which was now slowing to a standstill. With one final lurch, they became stationary, the doors sliding open in one swift movement. Without looking back, Grace disembarked with surprising elegance, dragging Bernard limply behind her. They disappeared into the night. Suddenly, everything was quiet.

Mustering all the courage she could find, Elsie stepped onto the platform. Immediately, she was hit by two powerful sensations. The first was the sharp, crisp air that engulfed her body the moment the train doors shut behind her. It was a deeper degree of cold than she had felt earlier in the evening, and she clutched her arms around her traveling cloak protectively, drawing in as much heat as she could from her body. The second was the bittersweet sting of nostalgia as she took in the familiar appearance of Charlestown, the place that had made her heart leap with joy as a child.

She could still picture it now. Her mother curled up on the corner armchair in their holiday cottage, engrossed in a novel on her I-Reader, her father popping in and out from cooking  in the kitchen to sing silly songs and take requests. Elsie would be sat on the window ledge, her bare feet swinging freely as she relished the relief of the cool evening air after a startlingly hot summers day. Her parents would put the 3D television on for her to keep her entertained while they went about their various tasks, but she sat with her back to it, ignoring its persistent noise as she stared out across the moon-bathed hills, that rose and fell all the way to the silent black sea beyond.

Shaking these thoughts from her mind, she made her way to the green, perforated steps that would lead her out of the train station and ascended, quickly reaching the street above. The shops and houses that flanked the road had once been bustling with tourists and cheerful residents, but were now haunted by echoes of voices and laughter. She walked past the Tall Ships sat bobbing gently in the bay, their decaying masts rising gloomily out of the mist. She rounded the final corner that would lead her to the beach and stopped still, her feet finding balance on the pebbled shore. She had arrived.

 

If you would like to read more of my book (and trust me, you have no idea how happy that would make me!) you can buy the Ebook on Amazon for just 1.99 or the paperback copy for 6.99:

 

 

 

 

Taking my dreams into my own hands

MY BOOK IS FINALLY OUT.  As you may be able to tell, I am a little bit excited. Ever since I was a child, I’ve dreamed of writing a book and have been attempting to do so from the moment I learnt how to use a computer ( although I’m not sure my first novel, a three-page saga about a beetle I found in my grandmother’s garden and named “Dead-Legs”, would have ever made it to print). This year, I decided to focus and push myself, feeling I was ready to finally commit to the lengthy process that comes with writing a book. It was the first time I’d had an idea I felt I could shape into a whole story and had spent months taking notes that formulated an entire book series.

The execution of actually writing it down was a lot harder than I had expected and it took me ten months in total to completely finish the work to a standard I was happy with. After this, I wasn’t sure what to do. I spent a long time researching traditional publishing, only to feel incredibly intimidated by the towering obstacles that would have to be overcome before a publisher might accept my work. I then read up on self-publishing, educating myself on the benefits and challenges that come with being the one solely responsible for the editing, marketing and distribution of your own work. Although this means more hours invested into the book on my part, it also means that I retain control of everything – an idea which is very attractive to me as it allows me to fit everything around my commitments to my son. I also came across stories about authors such as Bella Forrest, who has sold over 7 million copies of her books through Amazon off of her own back, demonstrating that the success of self-publishing can be as great, or even greater, as taking the traditional route.

Whatever happens now, I’m extremely proud of myself that I managed to finish a novel while pregnant and caring for a one-year-old. Even if only ten people enjoy my book, I feel it’s a worthwhile achievement and will continue writing the series, even if just for my own pleasure. Writing is a part of who I am, and I’m not sure what I’d do myself without it.

If anybody would like to read my book, here are the links to the E-Book and Paperback copies, including a synopsis of the story!

E-Book:

 

Paperback:

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1549988697

Blurb text:

It’s the year 2100. Earth is dying. A young woman named Elsie has risked everything to get her newborn son, Will, aboard The Mayfly – a spaceship that will transport a select number of people to a new planet they can call home.

Thirteen years later, and Will is ready to start school at The Space Academy, an institute specialising in subjects such as Alien Studies, Technology and Rocket Control.

Whilst there, Will begins to uncover secrets about his father’s death , becoming wrapped in a mystery that he and his friends must solve if they have any hope of saving humanity from the threat that lies in wait…

 

Waiting for baby

Ahhh the end of pregnancy….What a joyous and exciting time this is, where mother’s-to-be blossom into Snow White and begin spring-cleaning their houses to perfection, whilst whistling a merry tune, joined by the local neighbourhood birds as we bake apple pies in the oven to present our wonderful Prince Charmings when they return home from their day at work… NOT!

The end of pregnancy is HARD (actually it’s all hard, but this bit is hard with the added bonus of not being able to see your toes anymore). You’re tired, you’re big, you can’t bend down to pick something up without having to rush to the toilet. Every time you lie down you experience heartburn akin to taking a backwards absinthe shot and for some reason your body decides that the weeks leading up to when you’ll have a newborn baby and thus no-more-sleep-ever, is a great time to get you to start waking up in the night for absolutely no reason. You begin to feel more like a large cow than a human woman and desperately try to remember what it was like to have your body to yourself, struggling to picture the older, skinnier you who could fit into a pair of leggins without making holes in them. Your partner laughs when you get your belly out, telling you that you look like a truck driver/ Homer Simpson and thinking it’s hilarious until he sees your face and realise you actually may kill him, hiding the big knife in the kitchen just in case.

It can be an incredibly difficult time, made only more difficult by the fact that the end to your suffering is labour. So essentially, the relief from your discomfort will be excruciating pain. Of course, all of this is forgotten as soon as the baby is born and after a few days the lovey-dovey chemical in your brain convinces you how worth it it all was just in case you ever fancy doing it again. Having a baby ( once they are here) is the most wonderful experience in the world, however that doesn’t mean a pregnant lady can’t have a good moan as she waits impatiently for that moment to arrive!

 

 

How Becoming A Mum At 21 Changed My Life

I am having a bit of an emotional moment. I’m currently at a soft play with Samuel and for the first time ever he’s gone off to play without me, confidently running into the maze of squidgy apparatus without so much as a glance behind him to see where I am. This, coupled with the fact that he now has a vocabulary of 20-30 words has started to give me the “he’s so grown up” feels.

Having a rare moment to sit alone with my thoughts has allowed me to reflect on how quickly the time has gone since he was born just over two years ago and also on how becoming a mother changed and shaped my life in ways I never thought it would.

Before I had my son, I – like most other twenty year olds- viewed parenthood as something scary, the heavy responsibility of which I was certain was at least a decade away. When it transpired that I would, in fact, be joining the “young mums” category, The phrase “you’ll grow up with your children” was tossed around a lot, but personally I found this not to be the case. When I knew I was going to be a mother, I grew up overnight.

It was time to get serious, something I hadn’t been very good at up until that point. In the year that proceeded my son’s birth, I learnt to drive, cook, completed a college course and got a job in a local primary school. Not only was I finally putting the wheels into motion when it came to sorting my life out, I also had direction and purpose that I’d never had before. I decided I wanted to be a counsellor and started taking the steps towards achieving that goal. This year, I pushed myself to fulfil my lifelong dream and wrote a book, which will be coming soon to Amazon. All of these things were done through the drive that having my son has blessed me with. He is my motivation and as long as I am his mother I will continue to work the hardest I can to create a life for us where we are stable, happy and fulfilled.

I can’t say for certain what path my life would have taken if I hadn’t have become a mother, but I do know that it was the best thing that could have ever happened to me, regardless of my age or situation at the time. The best things in life are often unexpected and we have a habit of not knowing what we really need until we’re presented with it. There may be more pressure and harder work in my life than I thought there would be, but there’s also greater reward, deeper happiness and bigger love than I ever could have imagined! And I wouldn’t change it for anything.

 

End of cheesey rant.

 

 

 

Second-Time Labour Fear

I’m not sure if there’s a proper name for this, but if there is then it’s definitely something I’m suffering from. Earlier in the week, I went for a scan to check the baby’s weight and growth. Before we went in, my boyfriend stopped to get us some lunch, leaving me alone in the car with my eldest son Samuel, who was happily playing with his plastic lorry in the backseat. My phone was dead, so to entertain myself I started rifling through the plastic folder I got at my first midwife appointment and found a pregnancy magazine to flick through while I waited. I happened upon a feature about the size of the baby at each gestational stage, which reminded me that by the time labour rolls around, the fetus is  the size of a watermelon (As if I could have forgotten) The section on birthing brought me no more joy, with phrases such as “perineal tears” and “episiotomy” bringing actual tears to my eyes ( if you know, you know). My first labour wasn’t the greatest experience, and almost since the first moment I knew I was pregnant, I have been trying to come to terms with the fact that I’m going to have to do it all over again after swearing blindly ( as all women do) that Samuel was going to be an only child.

I ended up sitting in the car actually crying for a few minutes. The thought of going through labour again at times genuinely terrifies me. I know all women are nervous to give birth and it’s a perfectly natural feeling, but sometimes I feel my fear is excessive to what it should be. Some days I feel confident. I tell myself that it won’t be the same as last time and that all births are different. I feel ready to embrace being scared and come out the other side of labour. Other days my legs go numb at the thought and I feel as though I can’t breathe as the sickening reality that there’s no way to get out of this hits me hard.

To make matters worse, at our scan we were informed that although our baby is of a healthy weight and has grown and developed normally, his head circumference is above average, measuring the same as a baby at 38 weeks when I, myself am only at 34! As if I needed any more reason to stress, I’ve now been presented with the prospect of delivering a freakishly giant baby head on top of everything else.

The trouble with second time labour is, no one can re-assure you that it “isn’t that bad” or that “pain is in the mind” or that”everyone’s different”. There’s always someone who knew someone who had a painless, wonderful labour or whose baby shot out unaided and when you’re a first-time mum you can manage to convince yourself that you’ll be one of those unicorn women with the amazing experience.

Unfortunately, I can remember the pain all too graphically. I can remember my entire body shaking with exhaustion as I tried for four hours to push my son out, who had moved his head and got stuck in the birthing canal. I can remember begging the midwives for help and asking them to take me to the doctor, assuring them that I’m going to collapse if someone doesn’t do something soon. I remember being sent home without pain relief -after being told that I wasn’t in “proper labour” because I wasn’t screaming -and biting down on the wood of the cot in absolute agony as I suffered the most painful part of the whole ordeal in my bedroom. Back in hospital, I remember being taken down to the doctor, fighting the urge to push because the pain was so unbearable. I can remember her anger that I hadn’t been brought to her sooner, which sent me into a panic. After my son was born, I can remember having to have part of his sac removed by hand because it had broken off and got stuck inside me. I can also remember being put on a drip after bleeding, the wonderful moment my son came into the world totally eclipsed by terror as nobody would tell me whether I was okay or what was happening.

Now, of course, once I was cleaned up and had been checked over, the baby euphoria hit me and I catapulted to cloud nine. True, I felt like I’d been hit by a bus and I couldn’t breathe when I tried to walk to the toilet. I was absolutely knackered and still hadn’t been given any pain relief, but I still stayed up most of the night in the ward staring at my beautiful baby, so in love and so unbelievably happy despite the trauma I had just faced.

Despite, being over the moon at becoming a mother, I can also distinctly remember talking to Samuel on the first night of his life and telling him that he was going to be my only child and so he better be really extra amazing and do me proud. I was obviously joking about the amazing part but I was completely, deadly serious about not ever being able to go through child birth again.

Flash forward two years and mother nature did her bit in successfully persuading me that babies are cuter than labour is painful and that “its all worth it”. That instinctual drive to produce more offspring got the better of me and now here I am again, waiting with terror for the inevitable. I can’t wait to hold my new baby in my arms and feel that special feeling that only children can bring, but the process of getting to that moment is the focus of my thoughts for now. I know when it’s actually happening I’ll deal with it but in the mean time I can’t help but worry. I don’t know how normal this is. Other women seem more confident about their second birth having done it before but I’m sure I’m not alone at falling on the opposite end of the spectrum. I hope sharing my anxieties might help anyone who feels the same and of course any helpful words of advice or comfort from mummies of two or more would be most welcome!!

 

What do children really want?

Today, I went to the cinema to see “Goodbye Christopher Robin” ( I will warn of any spoilers). As well as being a huge tear-jerker, it also made me think about what our children really want/need from us and what we strive to provide.

In the current climate we live in, it’s very easy to become fixated on money. Not out of greed, but out of necessity. For my generation in particular, life is becoming increasingly expensive, with the prospect of being a home-owner or even earning a comfortable living always seeming to be on the horizon but never quite in our reach. Consumerism is at an all-time high and it feels like everyone on Facebook/Instagram/YouTube with any large following is trying to sell us something, convincing us we “need” it in order to emulate their desirable lifestyles. Having children ( in my personal experience) makes it more difficult to ignore these advertisements and fuels the urge to purchase material things. We all want the best for our children, and that often means wanting to buy them the same things that everybody else has, not wanting to feel that they’re missing out. We want them to be well-dressed with the latest toys/technology and have as many days out and experiences as we can provide for them. Wanting these things for them is obviously a good thing, however, after watching the film today I have started to wonder if we put too much pressure on ourselves to produce these things and are too hard on ourselves if we can’t.

It’s made me think about things from a different perspective, taking a child’s point of view on the issue. Is my two-year-old son really bothered if he’s wearing a fashionable outfit from a popular high-street retailer? Not particularly. He much prefers his “Primark” joggers which make clambering on the sofa and running up and down the house like a mad-man much easier. Does he actually appreciate the costly, electronic toys that light-up, spin, talk, play music and have a number of other flashy features to boot? It seems like he’s happier playing with his second-hand wooden blocks or sitting quietly with me and doing activities in a sticker book that cost £1.99.

Children appreciate our love, devotion and time. They have no concept of money or how much things are. Although I’m pretty certain that I’ll always be a complete sucker for the latest “Mothercare” line and will probably never stop flicking through the “Smyths” catalogue and putting stars next to all the toys I’d love to buy my son, I have made a promise to myself to stop focusing so much on getting “stuff” and to just enjoy motherhood as it comes. The most precious moments are the ones money cant buy; Reading stories, going for walks, playing chase, tickling him until he squeals, laughing at bath time when he puts his face in the water and ends up with a bubble beard, having cuddles in the evening before bedtime. All of these things are priceless and are what truly make parenthood a joy. To end this post, I want to leave a particular quote from the film that really resonated with me and stuck out in my mind (spoiler alert!!!).

The context is Christopher Robin talking to his father about his childhood:

“I never wanted any of it, Dad. I never wanted the money, or a marching band on my birthday.”

“Then what did you want?”

“I wanted you. That’s all”

My top three baby brain fails

Is “baby brain” real or are we just really tired? At times it can be difficult to tell. I, for one, have always been incredibly scatty and at times downright ditzy (I once bought lard instead of butter, put it in the butter dish and then wondered for several days why it was the wrong colour and if there was such a thing as “albino butter”). However, since being pregnant there are some ridiculous things I’ve done that have at times made me genuinely worried for my sanity.  Here are my top three baby brain fails:

Leaving the handbrake off my car and waltzing into work, completely unaware.

Picture the scene: I’m at work, teaching a group of five-year-olds a maths problem which, if I’m being completely honest, I’m finding quite confusing myself. Suddenly, the woman from the office bursts in, informing me with urgency that somebody has just reported my car rolling in the car park. I jumped up in confusion, replying stupidly that “I haven’t been in my car since this morning” and rushed out, dithering for several minutes as to whether I needed to put my coat on or not in order to rush to the scene where my car was actively rolling out of its parking space…

Luckily, my trusty Toyota had stopped short of hitting the expensive and very shiny Audi that was parked behind me. Still, this was the first incident I can remember seriously worrying about my (lack of) memory.

Putting the ice cube tray in the fridge and expecting it to freeze (the clue is in the name!)

“There’s not much room in the freezer,” I thought to myself, “I’d better put this in the fridge instead.”

Que eight hours of disappointment as I impatiently waited for ice cubes to materialise so I could enjoy a nice, cold beverage. It wasn’t until my boyfriend got home and pointed out my mistake that I realised what the problem was.

Asking for my chicken burger to be “well done” at Byron Burger.

This is by far the most embarrassing entry of the post. Sitting with my friend at Byron Burger, I decided to order their “classic chicken burger” thinking that being pregnant, chicken would be a safer option than beef. Very obviously talking to my friend, the waiter said “we usually do our burgers medium rare, are you okay with that?”.  I don’t know why, but something in my foggy baby brain possessed me to reply.  “No thank you, I’ll have mine well done”  I said, cringing almost the moment I said it.

My friend burst out laughing, the waiter began hastily assuring me that all their chicken burgers are “well done” and I suddenly became very interested in my blank phone screen.

So, there they are. My top three most painful “baby brain” moments of the pregnancy so far. I’ll be honest, the memory loss is getting to me so badly now that I reduced this post from “top ten” to “top five” to “top three” because I’ve forgotten what I was going to write!

But hey… here’s a picture of my son in my boyfriend’s t-shirt:

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NOTE: This was not actually a result of baby brain but just something I found amusing.

 

 

 

A day in the life of a twenty-something mum

The washing up is never done, the laundry pile unshrinkable, you’ve no idea what song/tv show/ viral video everyone else is talking about. People your own age don’t particularly enjoy talking about potty training and trying to take a selfie is impossible thanks to tiny human photo-bombers ( see above) . You’ve never been happier, but you’ve also never been more tired- even when you used to stay up all night by choice! Sound familiar? I’d like to share a day in the life of me, a twenty-something mum, for anyone who can relate.

The alarm goes off at 6.a.m. And by alarm I mean my son, Samuel, wakes up and starts crying to be let out of the cot. It’s still dark outside, so I foolishly believe I might be able to trick him into going back to sleep if I’m bring him into my bed. He wriggles into every position under the sun,  trying each one out to see which is the most comfy and nearly pushing me onto the floor into the process. He then decides that he doesn’t, in fact, want to go back to sleep and begins demanding to go downstairs in his own special toddler language. This happens every morning without fail, yet I still cling to the tiny ray of hope that each day might be the day I finally get a lie in.

We go down for breakfast, which involves some tears if Samuel’s favourite cereal of the week ins’t presented to him. Which particular cereal that is is anyone’s guess, and so we find ourselves playing  a game of roulette, with me producing a bowl at random and placing the odds on whether Samuel will eat it or not.

On this particular day, I’m in a productive mood – an occurrence I accredit to a combination of nesting instinct and wanting “cosy autumn” house vibes. I decide to head upstairs and have a good, proper sort out. My little companion follows me up, deciding to play a round of “let’s see how hard I can make household chores for mummy”, his current favourite game of choice.

The clear-out starts off well. I fold all the clean washing into organised piles to make it easier for me to put them away later. I grab a bin bag and throw away all the clutter and rubbish that seems to magically accumulate in hordes every day and even manage to sift through Samuel’s bath toys, binning all the ones that have succumb to the horrible, gunky illness that only bath toys contract. Leaving the bag on the landing, I grab a pile of baby clothes and head downstairs to put them through the wash, feeling very pleased with myself and the certainty that I will have everything tidy and organised in no time. It’s at this point that I realise I have no idea what Samuel is doing. The house is suspiciously quiet, a clear warning sign that mischief is being carried out somewhere.

Back up the stairs, I find that my organised piles of washing have been turned into disarray, Samuel having upturned them in order to find the best and most shiny label to hold for comfort ( which for some reason always seems to be the labels on embarrassingly large pairs of knickers). While I’m sorting the clothes out for the second time, Samuel runs into his bedroom and shuts the door- his new favourite trick. Unfortunately, he hasn’t quite mastered opening the door yet, meaning I have to drop whatever I’m doing and rescue him from being trapped somewhere on a regular basis. Once he is freed, he turns his attention to the bin bag on the landing, sifting through the rubbish in a hunt for buried treasure. He manages to discover all of the bath toys I tried to get rid of without him noticing and rescues them, smuggling them back into the bathroom so they can continue in their mouldy existence. After stopping him from clambering onto my dresser and playing with my lipstick ( which for some reason he thoroughly enjoys the taste of), I successfully persuade him to go and find his toys and play with them nicely. He obliges promptly, collecting his plastic diggers, trucks and tractors and engaging in an innocent game with them. I’m relieved and feeling extremely smug with myself, until I discover that his chosen setting for said game is none other than the lid of the toilet.

After several more battles and a confusing tantrum over me opening his curtains, we finally make it downstairs, both of us dressed, washed and ready for the day. To reward myself for this achievement, I sneak into the kitchen and attempt to stealthily eat a chocolate biscuit without being caught by a jealous toddler. I might have got away with it as well, had something not dropped through the letterbox causing me to forget myself and wonder absentmindedly into the hallway. As soon as I’m within Samuel’s line of sight I’m busted. He runs over to me and starts begging, forcing me to choose between giving up a piece of my treasured prize or risk facing another tantrum. These are the small dilemmas I face as a mother everyday… The daily ‘is it worth it?’ question. Do I stick to my principles or give-in for an easier life? On this occasion, after having had a morning filled with countless struggles already, Samuel ended up with a piece of chocolate biscuit. ( There’ll be a nice helping of mum-guilt for that one later).

The day continues as a cycle of being pushed to my absolute limit and then forgiving Samuel immediately as soon as he gives me a cuddle or a cute smile. The only breaks and moments of peace I ever have occur when Samuel (rarely) decides to have a nap or when my boyfriend comes home from work in the evening, providing me with the relief of  adult conversation and somebody else to say “no” so that I don’t have to. My job is tiring, more so than I think others understand, but it comes with more rewards than I would have space to write on here.

At the end of the day, Samuel and I read stories together, with him in the placid just-before-bed mood that means he’ll actually sit nicely with me and have cuddles. Once he’s asleep and I go downstairs, child-free for the first time in over twelve hours, I finally have the chance to enjoy peace and freedom. I can do whatever I want now- watch any TV show, eat any snack, sit by myself without the interruption of little hands pestering me for attention. The world is now my oyster, the opportunities endless. So what do I do with my precious free-time, you may ask… More often than not the answer is sit there, missing Samuel and wondering how long it will be until he wakes up and the madness can start all over again! Because even when I feel like I’m going insane or that I literally can’t take anymore, a simple look at him reminds me that becoming a twenty-something mum is the best thing that’s ever happened to me- and always will be.

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An ode to Dads!

In some ways, Dads are the unsung heroes of pregnancy. Yes… I know what you’re thinking. They aren’t the ones ballooning to a size of a whale or continually worrying about pushing a small human out of a very delicate area for nine months. This is true. However, I do think dads put up with a lot more than we give them credit for during the gestational period. Their presence may be taken for granted, but without them, we would certainly notice the difference.

There’d be no one to rub our sore feet. No one to go to the shop in the rain because we’re craving diet coke and maltesers. No one would help us up when we got stuck in a funny position on the sofa (trying their hardest not to laugh). No one would be there to listen to the tears and to comfort us as seriously as possible when we have a full on breakdown over our son’s brand-new cords coming out of the dryer covered in fluff ( okay that one might be a little bit specific).

There’d be no one there in the middle of the night to talk to when the fear of giving birth again starts to get you. No one would assure you consistently that you don’t look fat in that top you’re convinced makes you look like a marshmallow. Although sometimes the hormones and their annoying habits can make us want to kill them, dads are actually a very important part of the pregnancy journey and having a support system, be it a partner, friend or parent, is essential to not losing your sanity completely in the nine gruelling months it takes to grow a human being.

So as I’m feeling mushy and weepy, I wanted to write this post to take the opportunity to say thanks to all the dads! We appreciate what you do, even if most of the time we’re doing a pretty convincing job of looking like we hate you.