Sunday, 26 June 2016

Time to banish the mum pouch: update



I said I’d post an update after 8 weeks – it’s more like 10 because the 2 weeks I fell off the exercise wagon totally don’t count.  I’m at the halfway point and honestly, I’m starting to see some improvements. The mum pouch is slightly less; I’ve rediscovered my collarbone and the tiny dents in my arms (under a certain light) could pass as biceps. Progress! I’ve lost 4lb and 8 inches, 4 each from my hips and waist.  A result is a result (even if this is less than I hoped, nay, prayed for) and this one is largely down to a combination of weight training, running and cycling. I’ve been mixing it up by doing whatever I feel like on the day but have made sure to fit in at least 4, hour long sessions a week.


 I have to be completely transparent though, whilst I am happy with these teeny results I know I can do better. Exercising alone won’t bring about the changes I’m after. If I want a toned tum and arms that make Davina weep, I can’t come home from a weights session only to sit down for a session twice as long with sky box sets and a yard stick’s worth of Toblerone.  It’s time for me to address the cake shaped elephant in the room. I have to hold my hands up and admit that, while I’ve made every effort to get active, my diet is like that of a toddler let loose in Cadbury’s factory. I don’t really ‘do’ the whole diet thing, no will power I’m afraid. I have to have my treats! 


Now things are going to be different, I can’t bring myself to use the D word but for the second half of my battle to banish the mum pouch I will be making some, let’s call them adjustments, to my eating habits. More water, less caffeine, more fruit less Fruitella, that sort of thing. Locking the cupboards and removing the light from the fridge will help with the evening snacking, slash suppers, too.
Here’s hoping that the key to washboard abs is not in the kitchen.  I will update in another 8ish weeks.

If you have any belly blasting tips remember to tweet them over.

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Wednesday, 1 June 2016

Surviving a nursing (breastfeeding) strike.




A month before my son’s 1st birthday I was thinking about the dreaded return to work and wondered - with him starting nursery and us being apart for most of the day - if it was time to bring our breastfeeding journey to a close. I didn’t dream that my baby would take the decision out of my hands completely but he did. A few days later the little man staged a strike that struck our booby world apart with apocalyptic force.

As with all of the breastfeeding problems we’ve faced in the past, this one was down to teething. Usually when those pesky white buds are about to make an appearance I can’t get him to stop feeding (or biting) but this was different. I was faced with a baby who refused to feed. Every time I brought him to my breast or tried to feed him in any way he would clench his little jaw and pull back. The only liquids he accepted were tiny sips of milk or water from his cup.

Frantic, I had him checked over by a medical professional. When the nurse confirmed it was just his teeth I turned to Dr Google and quickly discovered that my baby was staging a nursing strike. According to the millions of articles I trawled through; a nursing strike differs from self-weaning because it’s sudden, an abrupt 'NO' as opposed to a gradual 'no booby thank you mummy'. Most babies don’t wean until around 18 months but the suggestion on some websites was that it might not be so easy to persuade a striking baby to feed again. Apparently this was the reason many mothers chose to wean their children early.

I must admit, I toyed with the idea of embracing the strike as a weaning opportunity. I had been considering it after all – and the idea of having a few glasses of wine without doing all the milky arithmetic was appealing - but it just didn’t feel right. I envisioned weaning as a gradual process, one we both felt ready for, but the suddenness of the strike, the angst from my baby and the pain in my boobs told me that this was all wrong and now was definitely not the time to stop breastfeeding.  So I went on the offensive, determined to put the smile on my baby's face. I took it back to basics with skin to skin, warm baths together and milk on the mouth but nothing worked. We were both miserable and I couldn’t leave the house because I was attached to the breast pump.

On the third day of the strike I resigned myself to fate, my baba did not want to feed and I was delusional for trying to carry on.  The websites said not to take it personally though, ha! I’d never felt so rejected in my life, booby was everything to my boy, a comfort, a drink, a teething ring and most of all a bond, something which tied the two of us together in our little milky bubble. That night I went to bed feeling heartbroken. I couldn’t even bring myself to have the wine that I was suddenly allowed to drink. I knew there and then I would have gone teetotal for another 10 years if it meant being able to feed my baby.

Miraculously the lil guy woke up the next morning looking for one thing, booby! To say that I was overjoyed is an understatement - I was cartwheeling around the house and haven’t stopped since.  All thoughts of weaning are out of the window too. I’m so happy to have my baby back, he can feed until he’s fifteen.

Just kidding!

If you have any nursing strike tips tweet me or comment below.

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Wednesday, 25 May 2016

The 5 stresses of throwing a children's party




It’s been a few years since I last threw a party - a creepy crawly themed affair for my eldest in the local church hall - and I looked back at that memory with fuzzy fondness. I thought, heck why not do the same for the tiny man's birthday. We’ll have a little garden party, invite a few of his nappy wearing chums and it’ll be so much easier because we’re at home, right? Wrong!

I seemed to have developed some kind of party planning amnesia but the second I clicked send on the e-vites it all came flooding back to me...

The 5 stresses of party planning.

Have I booked enough, have I booked too much?

Gone are the days when a Spice Girl’s album on repeat and a McDonald’s toy wrapped in 15 layers of newspaper were enough to entertain the kiddies. The party industry is big business and there’s choice, choice, oh so much choice when planning entertainment for the wee ones. In hindsight I’m not sure a 5ft bell tent was necessary but I’m glad I drew the line at a party pony.

Who did I forget to invite?

So it’s a few days before the party and everything is running smoothly, all is under control, I’m not panicking (honest). Then it hits, like a bolt from the blue, I forgot to invite somebody! Several bodies in truth.
There are two options here, super short notice invite – and pray they haven’t spoken to the crowd I invited three weeks ago - or accept the mistake, hope they don’t see the pictures on Facebook and know that we won’t be invited to their child’s birthday party again, ever.

What if nobody shows up!

Ok, we all have a little bit of anxiety the night before a party but the usual worries of an empty garden and a lone child blowing out his candle were made a reality for me when not one, not two but 7 people messaged to cancel. I blame Mother Nature, spoiler of plans with little regard for outdoor birthday celebrations, she decided to throw down several (million) buckets of rain on the eve of the little guy’s big day.
On the day of the party I had resigned myself to our fate and sobbed under the hastily erected marquee. “Who’s going to eat all of this food!” I wailed to my husband, who was busy answering the door.
In my helium filled hysteria I had forgotten just how many people I had invited. Needless to say the bell tent was fit to burst when he blew out his candle, meanwhile I had found something else to panic about… 

Do we have enough?

Like a bipolar jack in the box, having experienced the soaring highs of a garden full of happy guests I quickly moved on to my next worry; do we have enough food? and for god sake how many party bags did we make! There were people everywhere, did I invite them all? Had I just counted him twice? Whatever the reason I was convinced we didn’t have enough. Thankfully there was plenty to go around, I even managed to sneak a few slices of leftover cake to go with my post-party cuppa, winner.

Am I being a good host?

Are the children happy? Are the parents happy? Does everyone have a drink? Have I spoken to everybody? Do my neighbours really like me? Argh! Have a slice of cake and chill.

What did I forget?

It was only after we had waved goodbye to the last guest that I noticed the health conscious pinnacle of my buffet lay unopened in the fridge. Two exotic fruit platters never saw the light of day, and I will forever be remembered as the mum who hosted a party with a sweet buffet and no fruit (sobs hysterically) the horror!


A few hours later, after the four of us had filled our faces with kiwi and mango. We had a jump on the castle and went to relax in the bell tent. I was suddenly filled with a happy glow. The children had fun, we saw the people we love and got together to celebrate a happy occasion,  and that is what it's all about.

Children’s parties are not dissimilar to childbirth, stressful before, frantic during and once it’s all over you can’t wait to do it again!

If you have any party planning tips tweet me


Thursday, 21 April 2016

Desperate to be a housewife!



The fact that I’m writing this post on a beach with the sun shining down on me (and my ice cream) while my baba sleeps peacefully beside me, only makes me want this lifestyle more. In an hour he’ll wake up and we will have a play in the sand before going to pick up my eldest from his school disco and heading home for a barbecue! Reality check, we are in England here where the sun doesn’t always shine and the life of a housewife isn’t as idyllic as this perfect day, but it’s pretty darn close.

I’ve been off on maternity leave for over 12 months now and the countdown to my return to work has well and truly begun. While I mourn the end of free life as I know it I have to say I envy all of the stay at homers out there, and not for the reasons you may think.

I believe it takes a great deal of courage to be a stay at home parent in this day and age. Society places no value on the benefits of having a parent at home and the positive effects this has on family life. The assumption is that both parents should work, regardless of how financially viable this is, and if not then be prepared to explain why.

As I’ve entered the last weeks of my maternity leave the world and its wife have been lining up to tell me how good I am for going back to work. Apparently I’ll be a bored, anxious mess whose only source of human interaction is the mailman if I don’t have a 9-5. 
Nobody wants to mention the other life that I’m leaving behind: This past year I've grown closer to my family because I’ve been able to give them the time they deserve. Life is harmonious and calm because it’s the first time I’ve been able to see the end of my to do list and feel like I have a chance of doing it. And, despite what most people think, I haven’t once seen (or spoken to) my mailman because I’ve been too busy at playgroups, with friends or visiting family. 

Now I look in the mirror and see someone who feels fulfilled and is there for the people who need her. I’ll miss her when she’s replaced by the frantic working mum constantly chasing her tail and never at home during daylight hours.

To all of the stay at home parents out there, you’re doing and amazing job and I salute you!


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Wednesday, 13 April 2016

Time to turn it off and stop comparing...



The irony of writing a negative post about social media on social media is not lost on me, but I have a Facebook hiatus coming up and I am ridiculously excited.

The highlight of our family vacation (apart from spending endless time with my three darlings obvs) has to be the turning off of my mobile phone.  The house is safe, thanks to the in-laws, and the people I generally worry about 24/7 are with me, so off it goes in my case until our holiday is over.
Without the tiny blue flashing device to distract me the change is instant:  I’m more aware of the conversations happening around me (as opposed to muffled background noise), I care less about what other people are doing and I realise that right here, right now, the life I’m living - while not perfect - is pretty freaking awesome.

The new buzzword being thrown around is mindfulness, feel the moment, be at one with the moment (blah, blah, blah) but it really does pay to take the time out to just be. To experience things fully and not snap them, not share them, not hold them up for everybody else’s approval, is actually quite refreshing.

Now don’t get me wrong I love social media – heaven knows how I’d still have friends without it and I have family on the other side of the world who wouldn't know what my boys look like if not for the connecting powers of the web – but there’s no getting away from the evidence. Too much time spent on sites like Facebook and Twitter has direct links to poorer mental health and depression. I know myself that a few hours on Facebook can leave me feeling like the worlds worst mother with a home that looks like Shrek’s swamp in comparison to the infinitely better groomed, more glamorous mothers on my timeline.
Equally, I’m aware that all is very rarely as it seems on a well filtered snapshot of someone’s life. People only put their best face online and comparisons don’t benefit anybody.

So I’m going to enjoy my switched off time and no doubt I’ll come back vowing to stay away from the nasty web forever.
All things in moderation is probably a more realistic goal and I can start practicing my mindfulness while we’re away.

See you soon!



Friday, 8 April 2016

Time to banish the mum pouch!


Sorry, I'm sure my pictures are TMI for some of you - it’s certainly too much for me every time I look in the mirror - but public shaming is necessary here folks because my mum pouch (or that saggy flap of skin below my naval) is the bane of my existence. 

I suspect people think I’m a bit of a narcissist when I mention the mum pouch but this is because I’ve become an expert at hiding it. High waist jeans and granny knickers are a god a send - the pouch can simply be tucked in and concealed - but I’m the one who has to look in the mirror every morning knowing that I’m not happy with what I see. Weight and shape are two entirely different things and whilst I like what the scales show me, my current shape is similar to that of a deflated balloon.

It’s not like I haven’t tried either. I stayed active throughout my pregnancy and regular swimming, cycling and running sessions have helped me to shake of most of the baby weight but this belly won’t budge!

I’ve been forced to take a long look in the mirror (stretch marks and all) and have decided that professional help is what's needed here. I’m not a fan of the gym – I much prefer the benefits of exercising outdoors in natural light – but I’ve bitten the bullet and signed up to a training plan in the hope that the lycra clad gym bunnies can help me to tone up and find my abs.

So this is it. I’m giving myself 8 weeks, the exact amount of time before I have to return to work (sob), to make a change and I’m determined to see some results. 

Wish me luck and watch this space…

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Wednesday, 30 March 2016

Are parents qualified to look after a toddler?



As a former Nursery Nurse and a parent I have to say that Save The Children’s rather sweeping declaration that all toddlers need a teacher was like a kick in the teeth. According to them, my 12 years of professional (and life) experience with 0-5’s is no match for a teacher, fresh out of university.

While I agree with Save The Children - and the 13 Doctors, Physicians and Education Specialists who have put their names to a letter - about the importance of early learning.  I do not think it necessary to have toddlers taught by teachers.

Children learn the most in the first five years of life. Their brains are like tiny neuron filled sponges with connections and pathways just waiting to be made. The only way this can happen is by exposing them to as much of their environment as possible, particularly through sensory and physical play. If these connections aren’t made and nurtured the neural pathways die.

David Eagleman (the cool neuroscientist) was recently quoted as saying “What a child is exposed to, that’s what prunes the garden,” essentially children are what they learn about.
Now I’m no neuroscientist but most parents are perfectly capable of reading a book to their child and love nothing more than exploring the big wide world with them. Equally, many nurseries have staff qualified to degree level and I consider it an honour to have worked with some of the most dedicated nursery practitioners out there. These people spend their free time (not unlike teachers) planning fresh challenges and new learning experiences for the children in their care. But as with all things some professionals, some parent, and even some teachers, are more dedicated than others.

I have visited school nurseries - which have recently opened their doors to toddlers thanks to government funding - completely unprepared for the physical and emotional needs of a two year old and practically expecting them to sit at a desk and read. I fail to see the argument that a teacher would do a better job than a loving mother or a trained nursery practitioner at helping a toddler to thrive.

Finland are the rock stars of the academic world, with Finnish children ranked as some of the highest achievers out there. But what’s their secret I hear you cry?  Children from Finland don’t pick up a book until the age of 7 when they start school. Up until this point they are encouraged to roam freely at nursery and explore the world around them. When they do start school there are no uniforms and most children don’t even wear shoes in the classroom. The emphasis is on a home from home learning environment and it works

So rather than making parents who may not be able to afford childcare, and nursery staff who’ve trained for at least two years, feel inadequate. Why not look to raise the quality of our toddler’s learning experiences? After all it’s not about who’s playing with our little ones, it’s how.

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