The Last Tablet

Tablet: Tablet (pharmacy), a mixture of pharmacological substances pressed into a small cake or bar, colloquially called a “pill” (Wikipedia)

So, it’s Sunday…and today is the day I take my last anti-depressant. Today is the day I am meant to be officially cured. No longer trapped and isolated and broken from PND. And although I feel ok, I don’t think I’ll ever be the same person I was before this vile illness took hold. A little bit of my confidence will never come back, an edge of anxiety will always be there in the distance, and the unbearable threat of the illness returning will always surround me.

But, for now I’m lucky enough to be ok, and to celebrate this last tablet (yes, for me it is definitely a celebration!) I am going to share with you a letter I wrote to myself several months ago. I was very very lucky to be put forward to go to a local art therapy group for mums suffering with PND. It was, as we all in the group felt, a lifeline. We all lived for Friday mornings, where our children were in the crèche and we were given time, and space, to talk, and be listened to. To not be judged. To not be made to feel like we were terrible parents. Where we drank tea, ate cake and got creative, each of us finding our own favourite creative tools. It was during the first of these sessions that we were asked to write a letter to ourselves, a wish list of everything we wanted, needed. And when the sessions ended it would be posted, for us to read.

My letter arrived in the post last week, and I haven’t opened it yet. It was so many weeks and emotions ago when I wrote it that it’s contents will be as fresh to me now as they are for you reading it for the first time.

So, today, after I have just taken my last tablet….here goes….

Dear ***,

I wish these things for you…

*child free clothes shopping
*the gift of acceptance (to not try and control everything)
*the gift of reading a book, uninterrupted
*some quality time with each of my children, independently
*8 hours of uninterrupted sleep
*the gift of just being, without analysing and criticising myself
*some quality time with my husband
*waking up when I am ready, not be woken up!
*confidence to go back to work
*quality ‘child-free’ time with friends
*an uninterrupted bubble bath
*time to exercise; for hobbies
*to wake up looking forward to the day ahead, even if I’ve nothing planned
*to feel good about the way I look
*to feel positive

Okay…wow…that was actually rather lovely, but also very eye opening to me. It was like reading a letter from a completely different person, and it’s so hard to believe that I wrote it. What first strikes me as I read this through is how trapped I must’ve felt, and how I felt I couldn’t do some of the things on the wish list, things which now I actually take for-granted. And as I read I notice how such trivial things are written next to some really quite serious things, but at the time there was perhaps no differentiation, all of these things seemed like desperate needs to me. Amazingly, I have been lucky enough to have been granted many of the wishes I wished for myself all of those weeks ago. I have done so many of the things I wanted to do. And I don’t feel trapped or isolated anymore, I don’t feel like everyday I am trudging through treacle in a midst of panic and desperation for it to be bedtime again so I could sleep and not feel anything, not have to struggle through.

Reading this letter has shown me how far I’ve come. And has granted me one last wish, the knowledge that I really am recovered, it has shown me I am one of the lucky ones, and that those little tablets which held me together for so long are now gone. And now I know…that last tablet…really was my last.

Red Balloons

Red balloons

Balloon: A balloon is an inflatable flexible bag filled with a gas, such as helium, hydrogen, nitrous oxide, oxygen, or air. Modern balloons can be made from materials such as rubber, latex, polychloroprene, or a nylon fabric, while some early balloons were made of dried animal bladders, such as the pig bladder.[1] Some balloons are used for decorative purposes, while others are used for practical purposes such as meteorology, medical treatment, military defense, or transportation.

Right, it’s ranty Friday, and thanks to a few sleepless nights and PMT I’m ready to rant!

Have you ever noticed how hard it is to be positive? (Ha I hear soooo many of you cry!) So many things conspire against us, least of all, as I am finding out at the moment, other people and mostly people I don’t know. As you know I’m weaning slowly off anti-depressants and am trying to remain positive (I know, I know, sometimes it’s not that simple and our brains won’t work like that just because we will them to, but I’m trying, I have to, and I really am trying) Recently it has seemed to me that everyone around appears to like to moan, and whine, and feel like they are so much more hard done by than everyone else. Not just people I come across everyday, but even in the news which at times seems so bizarre that I can’t believe it has actually made the headlines. And mostly this angst is over such trivial things that don’t, in my opinion, warrant such a bad mood. For example when driving….people can become sooooo unbelievably aggressive and cross, mostly about the simplest of things ‘Ah you haven’t let me out, YOU HAVEN’T LET ME OUT, how could you do this to me, why haven’t you let me out, ah that’s it, my day is ruined, RUINED I tell you.’ *offers a finger or two* Or in the supermarket ‘You are blocking me, I cannot possibly say excuse me so instead I will ram your trolley and give you an evil glare because you are in my way and I need to get past, I NEED to get past, oh I cannot believe your trolley is there, you must be doing this on purpose, my day is ruined, RUINED I tell you.’ *huffs and puffs and shakes head* It’s the rudeness that comes with the perceived ‘unreasonable’ action that really upsets me. I’m a nice person, I don’t go out of my way to upset people, yet perfect strangers seem to treat me with contempt, as if my only aim in life is to make their lives miserable, simply because let’s say, my pram might be in the way. Say excuse me….it’s not hard!!!! If I don’t know you’re there or that you need to get past I won’t know I’m in the way! Maybe I’m being over sensitive or unfair, I don’t after all know these people, they might just be taking their justified frustrations out on me, you never do after all know what goes on behind closed doors.
But everyone to me seems to be fighting to prove that they have it harder than everyone else, they seem to go out of their way to find things that wouldn’t normally cause concern to groan and moan about. I’m not talking serious illnesses, or redundancy or anything major obviously, people that suffer these fates have my every sympathy and I am always there to listen and help in anyway I can. No I’m talking about things like I mention above, and the unnecessary rudeness that comes with it. Whatever happened to common courtesy. To a bit of politeness and respect. To sticking together, supporting each other…helping each other out when things really are tough. We should look out for each other not battle against each other. We should be quick to assist, not judge and condemn.

I was becoming so overwhelmed by strangers reactions to me in various circumstances, that I often ended up in tears in public places. I had to find a way of letting things go. It’s not until I started to try and let these things go myself and put them into perspective that I noticed it in so much more in others. I needed a technique that was going to work. So…I started something new, and irritatingly am now advising everyone I meet who groans over insignificant stuff to do the same. Life is simply too short to hold on to these things. It’s simple, you just put the problem in an imaginary red balloon and send it off, floating up into the sky. And it’s gone. (It bloody works as well I promise!)

When someone doesn’t say thank you, red balloon. When someone sees me struggling with a pram and a toddler and doesn’t hold the door open, red balloon. When someone pushes in front of me, red balloon. You get the picture. I do admit that once I was so incensed by someone that not only did I put them in a red balloon, but I also floated them up to the nearest electricity power cable so the balloon popped and they fell swiftly to the ground, but you know, it was fair, they’d really upset me!

So, is there something in your life that you could red balloon? And send floating away so it doesn’t take up any of your precious head space? Right now for me, I am appreciating the irony of my blog post, and of my ranting…so into that red balloon it goes…… 😉

Count to 10, and walk away

So, it’s Thursday again, and I just wanted to start this post by saying that this week’s poem for #Prose4T could be interpreted in a number of different ways. It was not necessarily written from my perspective (although throughout different parts of my life it very easily could’ve been) but it could also have been written about me, when I was ill with PND, or by someone else completely. Thank you, as always, for reading x (Oh and next week I promise to write something more uplifting 😉 !!)

Count to 10, and Walk Away

Your words go deeper than you know,
Hurt inside deep down,
Childish words said out of anger,
Pure nastiness behind the frown.

Said to cause me so much pain,
To cut me when I’m weak,
Uncontrolled outpouring of hate,
Whenever to me you speak.

Is it because you feel so guilty,
Because you don’t know what to do,
Is it because you hate me,
Because I really feel that you do.

You never offer comfort,
Your words are never soft,
They are nasty, mean and horrible,
From across the room they waft.

Make me feel it’s my fault,
That I’m not worthy of your love,
Make me feel so horrible,
They envelop me like a glove.

You know just what to say,
Just what will hurt the most,
And you make me a shadow of my former self,
A tiny, insignificant ghost.

You don’t know when to stop,
You can’t control your voice,
It’s as if you are possessed by evil,
As if you don’t have a choice.

But it’s when the children hear you,
When they see you be so cruel,
That I feel I’ve let them down the most,
That I feel like a total fool.

They shouldn’t be around it,
Shouldn’t hear those words be said,
They should only hear words of kindness,
Only have nice things in their heads.

So please next time you hate me,
Or don’t know what to say,
Bite your tongue, keep it closed,
Count to 10, and walk away.


Sunshine is sunlight, the electromagnetic radiation emitted by the Sun, especially in the visible wavelengths. (Wikipedia)

So today is Monday, and this week’s #magicmoment is brought to you by sunshine. (Sunshine, what’s that? I hear you cry!) Well, it’s a lovely thing that comes from the sky, and brings with it light and warmth. It makes everything look more beautiful to me. And it gives me hope.

Yesterday was my middle child’s 4th birthday. He’d already had his party (Bleurch, read previous post lol!) so the day was going to be a simple family day. Just the five of us, plus my Mum up from Cornwall. The birthday boy wanted a Wagamamas for lunch, and a robot cake. Simple. As the clocks had gone forward that night, getting up at half past seven hadn’t seemed so bad. (I tried not to think about what time it really was as I am NOT a morning person at all) We came downstairs, he opened presents and had a lovely breakfast together. Simple. We played with the toys he’d been given and then my mum arrived. Still simple, still so very lovely. We all went off to Wagamamas. Lunch was eaten and then we returned home. Simple. And it was after we returned home that for me, the magic happened.

For those of you who have read my blog you will know that I have recently been quite poorly with post-natal depression, and thankfully am starting to come out of the other side. In just over a week’s time I should be completely antidepressant free. It’s been a tough few weeks reducing my medication, but not nearly as bad as I thought it would be, and for me, yesterday was another giant step forward. Another moment when I realised, and believed, that I really am getting better. And it was all because the sun came out. Tentatively at first, peeping out behind a few stray clouds. And then slowly it became stronger, and warmer, and out for longer stretches of time. There is always a temptation when the sun is out to quickly rush out of the house, to go somewhere, to enjoy every second of it and make the most of it whilst it’s here. Get our bikes, pack a picnic, hike up a hill. All wonderful things to do, but I forget that I actually have a perfectly lovely place to enjoy the sunshine not more than two metres away from me most of the time. A place that doesn’t require hours of planning, endless packing and organisation and more often than not a lengthy car drive. My garden!

So into the garden we went, and as we sat there, in the sunshine and for the first time in what feels like such a long time feeling warm, I felt a huge sense of optimism and hope. I watched my children laughing and running around and I felt hope for the future, for a summer full of sunny days (We are ALL most definitely due one!) For a summer where I can spend time with my amazing family in my garden, and in the sunshine, and actually enjoy it! Last summer was swallowed up by a giant black cloud for me, both literally and metaphorically, and I was unable to really enjoy any of it. I mostly spent it crying, panicking or trying not to run away and never come back. But this summer, when my youngest will turn one year old, I know that I will truly be back. The magic of the sunshine yesterday made me know that I will be the person I used to be, before the b**** that is PND took me away.



Have not had many feelings,
For so long they disappeared,
And if I felt a feeling,
It was strange, bizarre, so weird.

The tablets took it all away,
Made me feel quite blank,
But they meant that I could function,
And not feel quite so rank.

Made those dark days disappear,
Trudging through treacle no more,
Made me want to live again,
Not run screaming through my front door.

Am now I’m learning to feel again,
Happiness, sadness, each one,
And learning how to live a life,
I thought forever gone.

Those tablets saved me once before,
Got me back on track,
For now they’re gone, out of my life,
But I know they might be back.

Today I’m feeling happy,
And positive at last,
I’ll hide those dark dark feelings,
And consign them to my past.

I know I am recovering,
It’s refreshing how clearly I see things,
And I know I am so lucky,
To be enjoying these positive feelings.

Cine Film Magic

Cine Film Magic

Cine is usually used to refer to one or more of the home movie formats including 8 mm, 9.5 mm, 16 mm film, and Super 8. It is not generally used to refer to video formats or professional formats (such as 35mm or 70mm film).
Cine film literally means ‘moving’ film; deriving from the Greek ‘kine’ for motion; it also has roots in the Anglo-French word Cinematograph, meaning moving picture.
Cine started the expanding revolution of ‘play at home’ movies.
Cine film started out expensive, but as it became cheaper the format started the craze of home recording. 50-foot reels were purchased for recording important events such as weddings and funerals.
However, sales started to decline in the early 1970s with the introduction of 16mm film. (Wikipedia)

This blog post is inspired by The Oliver’s Madhouse Magic Moments linky! And it is a perfect time for me to link up, as this weekend has been filled with a million magic moments. Magic family moments.

My mum lives over two hours away and I sadly don’t get to see her as much as I (or my children!) would like. I’ve mentioned her several times in previous blog posts and even though at times our relationship hasn’t been perfect (namely when I was a sh***y teenager!) we have always had immense fun when together, chatting endlessly, catching up on all of our news, whilst my three children get so unbelievably over excited and crazy that we end up having to shout over them. And now that my 11 year old daughter is on the verge of becoming a sh***y teenager herself I’m beginning to understand what I put my mum though. Endless backchat, pushing the boundaries, testing the limits. I’ve been having a difficult time with my daughter in recent weeks and have regularly doubted my parenting ability and at times my instincts. Our relationship has suffered and we’ve been struggling to connect. But this weekend was going to turn out to be a magical one for both of us. One where we both became a bit more understanding of each other. All thanks to some very old cine film, which my mum has recently had transferred to DVDs.

When I was growing up my dad (who sadly passed away 14 years ago) very often had a cine film camera (not sure what they are actually called!) or video camera in his hand. At the time, my brother and I were regularly made to walk, hand in hand, towards the camera, waving and smiling as we did so. We were filmed from the day we were born up until my dad passed away when I was 22. Birthdays, Christmases, holidays. All there on silent film. Magic moments scanning 22 magical years.

My 11 year old had recently been asking about my childhood, about what I was like as a child, and a teenager. She had asked to see photos and to hear stories. So instead of getting out all of my old diaries (which are cringeworthingly embarrassing) we decided to sit down after the little ones had gone to bed and watch the old films. Films I hadn’t seen for over a decade. It’s amazing the little things that I remember from my childhood, a toy at Christmas, an over sized bobble hat. We all smiled watching the films, we all laughed, and we all cried. Mum and I saw things we’d completely forgotten about, and things we remembered as if they had happened yesterday. My daughter was completely fascinated. For once she was silent, glued to the television. Amazed that there were no mobile phones, no iPads, and no awareness of health and safety whatsoever!!!

And then the 11 year old me appeared on the screen. Out for a family walk and yet not wanting to walk anywhere. I looked at my facial expression and knew I’d seen it somewhere else. On the beautiful face of my daughter. The two of us look very different, but it was amazing to see how similar we really are. The films brought back memories and stories of my teenage years and I suddenly remembered, and in remembering saw life so clearly from her eyes. How difficult the transition to secondary school is. How horrible girls and so called friends can be. And how, as a teenager, attitudes and feelings towards your mum can change. You’re not a grown up but you’re no longer a child and you’re struggling to find yourself and work out who you are. And as my 11 year old watched the films and heard my memories she realised that I’d been there, that I’d done it, and that I knew what I was talking about when I tried to help her through her struggles. It was a wonderful magic moment where we looked at each other and we came back together again as mother and daughter, we became a little closer once more. A bond that was damaged was beginning to mend. It was a magic moment when the difficulties of recent weeks were forgotten and we resolved to work as a team, to not battle against each other. Where we realised we both want the same thing, we both want her to be happy, and confident and know she’s loved. That we both need to trust each other, and to earn that trust.

It was magic because even though my dad is no longer around, he has helped to fix me and my daughter, just like he helped to fix me and my Mum (on more than one occasion) when we argued and fought against each other all those years ago. He’s still working his magic. And that…is possibly the most magical thing of all.

We are back home now and the first thing we have done this morning is dig out our video camera, which is covered in dust and hasn’t seen the light of day for a while. My 11 year old is chief camera lady and we have all resolved to capture our own magic moments on camera. And who knows, maybe one day she will be watching those films with her own daughter, and having their own magic moment together.


Slippers: A slipper or houseshoe is a semi-closed type of indoor/outdoor shoe, consisting of a sole held to the wearer’s foot by a strap running over (or between) the toes or instep. Slippers are soft and lightweight compared to other types of footwear. They are mostly made of soft or comforting materials that allow a certain level of comfort for the wearer. This can range from faux fur to leather. (Wikipedia)

So I’ll begin by saying that this post is slightly different to my usual posts, but it is very current and I felt I just had to write it.

This morning I made the mistake of turning on This Morning. I watched a debate about the recent budget and how it affects mums. How mum’s who go out to work will recieve a tax break to help with childcare. and how SAHMs don’t receive any such break. It’s an interesting debate thats been discussed in newspaper, on the television and of course on Twitter. It is one that is very divisive and seems to have once again put mums into two separate camps. Forget the attachment parents vs the Gina Ford devotees, now it is SAHMs vs Mums who work. (And then everyone vs the government of course ;-))

The original reason the whole debate started has seemingly been forgotten, as everyone tries to fight their own corner. Shout the loudest. Justify themselves and the reasons why they do/don’t work. The debate is an ongoing one, and whilst I agree that working mums and families undoubtedly need support with extortionate childcare costs, (it has now gone from I can’t afford not to work, to I can’t afford to work) I am hurt and deeply affronted by the suggestion that as a SAHM I have no aspirations. That I sit about in my slippers all day (yes someone did actually say that on the television this morning!) drinking tea and doing sweet f*** all else. That the budget is to help those who ‘aspire to work hard and get on,’ and that SAHMs are not seen to be doing that and how they are deemed somehow to not be as worthy of support as those who work. That SAHMs are somehow inferior and the government is not willing to acknowledge what they do or indeed reward it.

I mean, it’s not like I want a ‘chuffty badge’ (remember them?!) or a pat on the back, (or actually any of the taxpayers money!) but I, and several thousand other SAHMs out there, would at least like it acknowledged that we DO work, that we DO have aspirations, that we ARE setting our children a good example and that we ARE doing what we think is best for them. Some of us aren’t staying at home through choice, (some are sadly to unwell to work and some’s children are unwell and need caring for) and some of us work our butts off at home WHILST looking after our children. We are not rewarded, we are not applauded, and are now criticised for not having any aspirations on top of everything else. For being lazy. But I’m betting that if you asked a child if they wanted their mummy to stay at home or go out at work it wouldn’t take a genius to predict what they would say.

And yes, don’t get me wrong, I imagine there are mums out there who are lazy, and who do not look after their children even though they are at home with them all day, and are happy for the government and the taxpayer to pay for them to do so. But DO NOT tar us all with the same brush. EVER.

And what about choice? It seems in this country, where human rights and freedom of choice are shouted about so often, we are not allowed to choose whether to work or not. Those who go out to work are often made to feel awful for leaving their children, and now SAHMs are criticised for not leaving their children! When will it stop? When will people realise that being a mum is the most important job on the planet and we mums should have time, energy and support invested in us, just like we invest in our children. Whether we work or not. Since when did becoming a mum become so worthless?

I myself have been a single SAHM, a single working mum (full time), a working married mum and am now a married SAHM. Now after my third child I have asked for an extra year’s maternity leave, (unpaid obviously) because I have three children and I want to spend as much time with my children as I possibly can. Time with my children that I will never get back. I’m lucky enough that my career can technically be ‘put on hold,’ and hopefully in years to come I will go back to work and be as successful at my job as I was before I had children. But for now they are my priority. I do not want to blink and turn around only to see them moving out at 18. They need me now. And I need them. And it would be quite nice if it was recognised that this is an amazing thing to be doing. A worthwhile thing. A thing that can be aspired to. Why have children if you are never going to see them? I’m sure it’s not that black and white to everyone, but to me it is.

Anyway, I am guessing this debate will run and run, and is there ever going to be a conclusion drawn where everyone is happy? I doubt it. At the end of the day I applaud ALL mums. It’s a bloody tough job and we ALL need to stick together and support each other, and respect each others decisions.

Thank you for reading xx

A Monster Ate My Mum

I have now turned this poem into a storybook. You can read it here. And now, you can also buy the finished book on

Mummy used to laugh,

Mummy used to smile,

But I haven’t heard her giggle,

Or seen her happy for a while.

She sleeps when it’s daytime,

And is awake all through the night,

I don’t know why, I don’t know how,

But something isn’t right.

She doesn’t shower ever,

She doesn’t even get dressed,

Her hair looks like it needs a brush,

It’s an awful, dreadful mess.

Her eyes are full of sadness,

When she speaks she sounds so flat,

I heard her saying she’s ugly,

And stupid, and useless, and fat.

I want to make her better,

To put a smile back on her face,

I want for her to be happy again,

And for our home to be a wonderful place.

But for now I’ll give her cuddles,

And rest my head upon her tum,

And if ever meet the beast,

I’ll whack the monster that ate my mum.

Support independent publishing: Buy this book on Lulu.

Expectations: Part 2 (The very honest part)

Expectations: Part 2 (The very honest part)

So after my ranty post last week, it’s time for some honesty.

As I have previously said, I have high expectations. Very high expectations. Maybe too high expectations. I believe that if a job is worth doing it’s worth doing well. And in stark contrast to when I was growing up, when people would always comment, ‘Ah, she gets there in the end!’ things for me now need to be very immediate. I expect results, quickly. (That’s why I hate trying to lose weight, it never bloody comes off as quickly as I’d expect, or would like!)

So when I first got pregnant I naturally had expectations. Of the pregnancy, of the birth, of what being a parent would be like. And with my first, and every baby after, those expectations changed, and were either challenged, or exceeded.

To begin with, when I was 24 years old, I didn’t expect to fall pregnant. Nor did I (Unsurprisingly!) expect the father of the child to say that I was a ‘slapper’ (I wasn’t) and that the baby couldn’t possibly be his. Several long and lonely months and one rather expensive paternity test later (funded by the father, not by Jeremy Kyle) I was proved right. Then, I expected things to change. I thought the hard work was over and that I wouldn’t be alone in this anymore. That he’d be around. But I shouldn’t have expected anything like that. After a pregnancy where he saw me only twice and wasn’t present at the birth, I was silly to expect him to want to get involved. He didn’t. At all. He went to Crete for a holiday when our daughter was three weeks old, saying he was stressed about being a father and needed time out. *Insert own swear word here* So…he was in Crete, sunning it up, and I was awake 24 hours a day feeding a dependent little baby. I was exhausted. And felt isolated. I remember one particularly difficult day, when my Aunt came round to meet my daughter. She held her and said, ’She’s gorgeous, I bet you can’t stop looking at her.’ And I smiled, an empty smile, and said, ‘Of course.’ But inside, all I was thinking was, ‘Actually, I could quite easily stop looking at her.’

Don’t get me wrong, I loved her, very much, but as many new mums are I was exhausted, and completely and utterly overwhelmed. I would think, ‘What have I done, why can’t I settle my own child, what am I doing wrong?’ The health visitor wouldn’t even let me fill in the mental health questionnaire at my six-week check. She said I was obviously depressed. (No s*** Sherlock) But no support was offered. No anti-depressants, no counseling, no nothing…oh, except a half an hour visit to teach me the basics of ‘crying it out.’ My baby girl was just six weeks old. And I was told that crying it out was the only option, my only option, and the only solution to my problems. No recognition of the fact that I was doing it all completely on my own. That I was exhausted and doubting myself. That most of all I needed support, and encouragement, not some hideously awful method that leaves both you and your baby in even more tears and a worse state afterwards than you were before. But I was desperate, and against all of my instincts I followed the health visitor’s advice. One night my daughter cried on and off (with me going in regularly as instructed of course) from midnight until five o’clock in the morning. And so did I. But agree with it or not, eventually it worked, and she slept. And I began to feel better.

I met a lovely group of mums who met regularly. We each took in turns to cry when we were together, (Thankfully our meltdowns all seemed to happen at different times!) and we were all so fantastically supportive of each other. I never expected to make such wonderful friends through having a baby. And good friends we were, for several fun-filled years. But as our lives changed, so did our needs, and our friendships sadly fizzled out. I’d never expected that to happen either.

So…I put my post-natal depression down to the fact that I was a single parent, sleep deprived and struggling alone. And it was never mentioned or talked about again. Until I got pregnant with my second baby. (This time planned!)

My daughter was 6, and I was living with my now husband. I was excited about having a baby. About having a baby with a man who wanted to have a baby with me. I didn’t expect all of the unresolved problems and emotions from my first pregnancy to come back with a vengeance. I became irritable, panicky, suffering so many palpitations that I eventually needed an ECG, which thankfully was normal. I became a jealous woman, over obsessing about some woman my husband worked with. (Yes I even checked his phone and emails) I would cry, a lot. I couldn’t seem to get a grip. My poor husband could do nothing right (Don’t get me wrong, he’s not perfect by ANY stretch of the imagination, but he didn’t deserve the abuse he was getting) and my daughter didn’t understand where the mummy she knew had gone. So pre-natal depression was diagnosed. And this time I was offered counseling. There was a waiting list of course, but thankfully not too long. Counseling was hard. I regularly didn’t want to go. Didn’t want to talk about myself yet again. (Which is MOST unlike me!) I had light-bulb moment during session four, where I realized that I was subconsciously expecting my husband to be as big of an arse as my daughter’s father. That I was taking out all of my hurt and anger on him. And annoyingly now, even as I write this I’ve never been able to stand up to my daughter’s father, to tell him what I really think of him. He’s in her life now, every other weekend and I’ve left it up to her to make her own judgments about him. It’s not my place to tell her I think he’s an *insert own insult here* I should perhaps tell him one day though.

Anyway, my first son was born and it was wonderful. He slept better than my daughter had and I had a man there to help in the middle of the night. (Plus an iPod with games which I hadn’t had the first time!) I had however, expected to breastfeed. I tried. So hard. And he kept losing weight. So formula top ups were suggested. After only 3 days. My milk hadn’t even come in yet. But they worked and thankfully he gained weight. My milk came in and I stopped the top ups, expecting it to all be ok, like it had been with my daughter. (Well, until three months when some idiot on his mobile phone driving a massive lorry crashed into my car and the stress of the accident caused my milk to disappear overnight) But it wasn’t ok. My son lost weight again. My big hungry boy either wouldn’t latch on properly or my stupid boobs wouldn’t work properly, or the crash did untold damage. I had no choice but to continue the top ups and mixed feeding, and did this until he was twelve weeks old. I never expected to feel guilty about not fully breastfeeding, I was always and still very much am pro-choice, but I still do feel guilty. It’s not as easy as they say it is. It’s bloody hard work and it doesn’t always come naturally. No matter how hard you want it to work and no matter what you do, sometimes it just doesn’t. As always the media and social websites don’t help, often comparing formula feeding to smoking, but…I digress and once again that, is another blog post!!

So onto my third (and definitely last baby!) You’d think having done it twice before I’d be well prepared. That my expectations of parenthood and being a mum would be pretty much spot on. That nothing new could throw me because I’d been there, done it all and got the t-shirt! Oh how gloriously wrong I was. My third baby, my second son, would see all of my expectations get thrown out of the window. He would challenge them all. Every single bloody one of them. My first son had slept, and I’d coped, why on earth would I expect having this baby to be any different? But he didn’t sleep, at all. And I didn’t cope, at all. I couldn’t understand it at first, ‘But my babies sleep’ went round my head and out my mouth often. And yet he still didn’t. He didn’t do what I expected, and I wasn’t coping how I’d expected and it threw me. I spent my days unable to look at him as if I did I would have a huge panic attack. I firmly believed that I couldn’t look after him, I was scared I wouldn’t be able to stop the crying. I spent my nights desperately trying to get him to sleep, crying uncontrollably when five minutes after he’d settled he’d be crying for me again. I’d scream at my husband that I couldn’t do it, that he needed to take him away. I constantly planned how I would run away, where and when I’d go. (Middle of the night, to a friend up north) I mentally wrote the note I would write and leave to tell my husband that I couldn’t be a mum to this baby, that the family was better off without me because all I did was panic and cry and shout. I’d cling to my son during the day and not let anyone hold him because then he would wake up and the crying would start. People now say I looked trapped. I certainly felt trapped. Everyone knew something was wrong. Even me. But I just thought I was sleep deprived. That when I got more sleep I would feel better. Unsurprisingly I didn’t. Five weeks in and my son was only waking once in the night for a feed, yet I had developed insomnia, and would cry all night, unable to sleep a wink. Thankfully my health visitor recognised that I was ill. Very ill. And one day, when I was sat in my car outside the supermarket, thinking I’d rather go to sleep and never wake up again than live because life was just too damn hard, I recognized that I was ill too. And that I needed help. And lots of it.

I never expected to get post-natal depression. And when I did, so badly the third time around, I never expected to be able to get better. But I’m getting there. I’ve been very lucky that I’ve been referred for CBT and art therapy and see my wonderful doctor regularly. But I’m also lucky that I have those high expectations of myself, and that I will do anything I can to get better and be the best mum I can for all of my fantastic children. (Um and yes, a good wife to that husband of mine too!) And get there I most definitely will.

Thank you for reading x

Expectations: Part 1 (The ranty part!)

Expectations: In the case of uncertainty, expectation is what is considered the most likely to happen. An expectation, which is a belief that is centered on the future, may or may not be realistic. A less advantageous result gives rise to the emotion of disappointment. (Wikipedia)

I’ve worked out why I dislike softplay so much. I don’t dislike children, far from it. I’m a mum of three, and when I’m at work I am a primary school teacher. I love children; they are my passion. But what I find frustrating (especially at softplay) are the many differing expectations other parents have of their child’s behavior. And how no one’s expectations seem to be as high as mine!

It is fair to say that I have high expectations, both of myself and of others. I expect a thank you when I let a car out, or when I wait and hold a door open for someone. (I rarely get one) But is it too much to expect parents to at least partially supervise their children at a softplay? To expect them to follow the rules? Be considerate? Maybe it’s my problem and something I need to just let go of, but quite honestly it annoys me when I see children who are say, over the age of four (usually by quite a bit) in the section designed for the under fours. Often with little respect for the equipment, or said under fours. (And yes in case you’re wondering, I am one of those mums who won’t let her children climb UP the slide!) It’s not the children’s fault, they are rightly absorbed in their own world of fun, but parents often seem to turn a blind eye to their child’s behavior or, in many cases, aren’t even keeping an eye on their children at all.

There have been many incidents I have witnessed this week where I have been left shocked, and thinking about the different expectations people have of themselves as parents, and of their children. One such incident was on a train, where a clearly harassed mother loudly told her screaming, ditressed daughter (who couldn’t have been more than five) to ‘f*** off.’ And another, where a mum told her child that no, she couldn’t play on the slide as she was disgusting because she had wet herself. The mum sat looking at her phone, not even attempting to clean or change her child, while the child sat crying, attempting to comfort herself.

It made me think. Do some people not have a natural parenting instinct (I find this hard to believe), or did they expect parenting to be easier than it is? Did they expect their children to behave without leading by example? Did they expect them to comply without supporting and loving them along the way?

And where do these expectations come from? Our parents, and our parent’s parents? Or social media and parenting books? Buzzwords, trends and manuals don’t help our expectations of parenthood. As I’ve said before, guilt and anxiety are intrinsic parts of being a parent, and sadly I think these buzzwords, trends and manuals, and the people behind them, feed on those emotions and our desperate want and need to do what’s best for our children. They can lead us to expect that our babies will sleep through the night from six weeks. (er, hello…I’m 36 and still don’t sleep through the night) They set expectations we didn’t know existed. Or indeed need to exist at all.

Expectations can be dangerous. As a parent we can set ourselves up to fail or be disappointed. These high expectations are partly what led to my post-natal depression. (Aside from the massive chemical and hormonal imbalance in my brain) I was never going to meet my expectations as a mother, and was inevitably setting myself up to fail. (More on that in Part 2) And on another level it can be dangerous for our children. As a teacher I have seen countless parents who have expected their children to be more intelligent than they are. Expected them to do better than they do. And refuse to accept them for who they are. You can imagine how these children feel.

Of course expectations aren’t all bad. When something unexpected happens it can be a wonderful surprise. A fantastic moment, which reaffirms your self-belief, and bonds you closer to your children. When our expectations are exceeded it can undoubtedly bring untold joy.

So…do I perhaps expect too much? And is this why I am often left frustrated and disappointed?

I expect so!!!

Is parenting how you expected it to be, or has it exceeded your expectations?

1 22 23 24 25