Читать книгу: «Bonkers»

CHAPTER 1

BULLS***

OK, so have I got your attention?

I hope so, because I have a feeling in my knackered, mummy bones (without being too presumptuous, as we have only just met) that we are going to be great friends. You know the kind. The kind who, after just five minutes and five swigs of fizzy wine, are sharing life stories, birth trauma, sex-gone-wrong tales and the fact our bikini lines are less Brazilian, more Gorillas in the Mist since pushing a tiny human out. Yes, THAT type of friendship; the type we all dream about and seldom have the pleasure or fortune to have in our new mum-shaped lives.

You and me, I want us to be that type of friend – and like any good, no, GREAT friendship, we need to agree that the things we share between these pages (and what happened between our legs) is, of course, just between us.

Deal?

Can I take it from you silently nodding your head that means you are in?

BRILLIANT!

So, now you’ve managed to stash your tiny human somewhere to get a few minutes peace to read this book, let me introduce myself properly.

My name is Liv. I am the often bedraggled, occasionally ferocious protector of two tiny humans. I am also a writer. The writer bit came second as, before motherhood, I was a closet writer. Which meant, I didn’t have the literary balls to show my work to anyone. However, once I’d shown my vagina to a bunch of strangers (thanks to the beauty of childbirth, not me being a porn star), showing something I’d written to the world was no longer as terrifying as my brain first had me believe (who’d a thunk it?!). Motherhood, for this (and for other unforgettable gifts such as permanent piles, sleepless nights, an uncontrollable bladder, oh, and my two beautiful tiny humans) I thank you.

So, what else can I tell you?

Oh yes, I’m knackered and a little bit mental. Officially, I am the first (knackered) all of the time and have been the second (mental) some of the time. Just to clarify, when I say ‘mental’ I don’t mean the cool London-meets-LA speak ‘mental’. You know the ‘Yeah, my life is SO fooking MENTAL since having kids, I’m like, SO CRAZY’. No. I actually mean, full on, officially diagnosed by a doctor, mental. All thanks to a visit from those two petrifying and incredibly nasty friends, postnatal depression and postpartum psychosis. But more of this delightfully messed-up tale later. (If you are a lover of horror stories and can’t bear the suspense, then feel free to skip the next bit and dive straight into the darkness on page 95).

So, what can I tell you about me on the mum front?

Well for one, I insanely bloody LOVE my tiny humans (two beautiful little girls bursting with character, kindness, snot and glorious sloppy kisses in equal measure) with an unashamed, unbashful and unrelenting ferociousness like no other I’ve known. It is fair to say that I would singlehandedly slay any fool who gets in my way of loving, providing and protecting them. (I know I sound scary; in real life I actually hate confrontation – honest.) Now, don’t get me wrong: like any other good mum out there, I’m not too proud – no, scrap that, I AM proud enough to admit that they also drive me bat-shit-like-a-box-of-frogs-on-speed BONKERS. I love the chaos (most days). I love and hate equally the edges of despair and the precipices of near disasters that I’m teetering on the edge of on an hourly basis thanks to motherhood. And whether or not I have my head together to deal with these days, usually depends on the amount of sleep I haven’t had, the number of cataclysmic tantrums I’ve diffused pre 8 a.m., and if I’ve ran out of my dry shampoo (which, I’ve come to realise, is my only real ally when the Don’t kid yourself that you can leave the house looking like that crap hits the fan).

Now, I know that you’re also busy keeping your part of the human race alive (great job, by the way). So, before we get to crack open the fizzy wine and dive into my knackered mummy soul and the rest of this book, I need to first let you in on a little something. After all, any woman worth her salt knows that the only way to cement a great friendship is with a dirty great confession (or two).

So, here goes:

I haven’t got a clue what I am doing.

Not one.

SERIOUSLY.

Yes, I am a mother of two tiny humans. And yes, most days I am scared out of my tiny mind that I am making the mother of all messups and that I will ruin their lives forever. And, if I’m really honest, I do not have a scooby doo how I veer from one day to the next, with both my tiny humans still happy (ish), still healthy (ish) and still alive (def more than ish).

Fact.

Wow, it feels better to get that off my chest – thanks!

Since becoming a mum, I’ve found that telling the truth, no matter how ugly, disgusting or ridiculous a light it paints you in, makes you feel better. And it makes every other mum feel so much better too. Which got me asking: Why on earth do we all seem so hell bent on hiding this truth when it comes to our own experiences of motherhood?

This leads me nicely to my next confession (I’m on a roll here and I’ve got a feeling due to the fact you are still with me and haven’t put me down to go buy a Kit-Kat or put a wash on that our Every Mum friendship is well on its way to being cemented good and proper). If not the next bit should do the trick…

So here goes, confession No 2:

I don’t always enjoy motherhood.

I know. SHOCK HORROR! Right?

I can hear the perfect parenting vigilantes running down the road shouting ‘Burn the witch!’ right now.

However, isn’t this what we all need to hear? Doesn’t every mum need to hear the honest truth that motherhood, like everything we turn our hand to in life and similar to everything we experience (even the most magical) isn’t always enjoyable all of the time? And that it is totally OK to feel this way. In fact, totally normal and it doesn’t mean you’re a witch or a terrible mum.

Yes. I know. Big, HUGE confession to make so early in our friendship. Bear with me and I’ll tell all.

You see, pre-motherhood I had this image of the mum I was going to be and the sort of motherhood I was going to have. It was the type of motherhood I’d read about in all the magazines and on all the blogs and had seen in films. In my Perfect Mummy mind’s eye, I was happy, confident and in total control of this ship called Mother. Breezing through my new mum life, creating a perfect home, running a successful new baby business (because that’s what all new mums do right?), clad in white linen with a smiley and easy-going baby attached effortlessly to my hip and me enjoying every second of it.

But then, something happened. I pushed a tiny human out of my vagina, and ever since I’ve noticed a distinct smell of something quite different in the air.

Do you smell it too?

Since becoming a mum do you also feel surrounded by a distinct smell of shit? I do. And, the smell, my lovely new friend, is not coming from my tiny human’s nappy or the Poo Pants of Shame I stuffed in my nappy bag three weeks postpartum after accidentally pooing myself in the middle of Mothercare. (Cheers, Mother Nature, for the heads-up that childbirth runs amok with more than just your bladder).

Oh no, that smell burning in my nostrils following the birth of my first tiny human, was the distinct smell of judgmental bullshit being flung at me and other mums from every direction and sucking the joy out of my experience of motherhood. From how I was handling my pregnancy to how I gave birth. Was I bottle-feeding or breast-feeding? Was I a baby wearer? A co-sleeper? A gentle parent? A dummy lover? A baby-lead weaner? To just when exactly was my tiny human planning to crawl, walk, talk, start applying for MENSA!

And you know what? It made me sad. It made me angry. It made me want to do something!

This book in your hands is me Doing Something.

It is me making a stand for every mum out there and saying enough, is enough. Stop with all the perfect parenting propaganda. Stop with all the pressure to be the perfect mum. Stop with all the judgement thrown at mums trying to make the best decisions for themselves and their families. Just please STOP with all the perfect parenting nonsense. Please!

Instead, this book is about bathing in the beauty of own our truth. It is about us being brave. It is about owning our own crazy, beautiful, challenging, dirty, hilarious, disgusting and honest mum reality. It is us telling the world that we are mums who sometimes get it right. We are mums who sometimes make mistakes. We are mums who sometimes have our life together. We are mums who sometimes want to run away from our responsibilities like we are running from a burning building. We are mums who sometimes suffer with our mental health. We are mums who sometimes look hot and we are mums who sometimes just look like we have peeled ourselves off the local park bench after being run over by a herd of snot-wielding tiny humans. However, this is us. This is who we are. No smoke and mirrors, no airbrushing.

For every mum out there feeling lost in the wilderness of motherhood. For every mum out there feeling pressure to be the perfect mum. For every mum out there questioning why their life does not look like the parenting described in the media. For every mum suffering with their mental health. For every mum feeling like they are alone. For every mum questioning if they are a good enough mum. For every mum feeling judged. This book is for you!

I want to show every mum that you are good enough. That you are doing a good job. That regardless of whatever is going on with you right this second that you are one hell of a mum and a woman. You are magnificent. Yes, just as you are. No matter how long it’s been since you last washed your hair. No matter how short your temper is because you haven’t had more than two hours of goddam sleep. No matter how imperfect and inadequate you feel when measured up against your pre-baby vision of how life as a mum should be. Just you hold on to this fact: you are already the perfect mum for your glorious, milk-scented, chubby-legged tiny human and regardless of what motherhood throws at you:

You BLOODY ROCK!

Welcome, my friend, to the every mum revolution.

Hold on to your stitches and nappy bags; it’s going to be one hell of a ride!

CHAPTER 2

IT’S TIME TO GO BACK … WAAAY BACK

So, seeing as you are still with me and haven’t been put off by my Poo Pants of Shame confession, I think it’s safe to say we are now buddies, amigos, mates, gal pals and fellow Every Mum allies. Therefore, there’s only one thing for it. It’s time for a Craig David ‘Re-Rewind’ moment to cement some fellow mum history between these sheets and find out how this mum came to think she was capable of taking care of a tiny human, let alone writing a book about it.

SHE’LL BE COMING ROUND THE MOUNTAIN WHEN SHE COMES

Being pregnant, living up a mountain in a foreign country miles away from my family and the things I cared about most in this world (namely my mum and Boots the Chemist) was not something I ever imagined when I used to flirt with the rose-tinted idea of becoming a mum in my mid-twenties.

Now, don’t get me wrong, this isn’t as treacherous or as exotic as it may first appear. The mountain was in France, not the Himalayas. It’s not as though we were living in a mountainside shack, miles away from civilisation – even though sometimes, when everything in the village shut down between the hours of 12 noon and 2 p.m. and I couldn’t go to the supermarket twenty-four hours a day it could feel like it. (Wow! Talk about First World problems!) No, it was France and the Alps – a ski resort called Morzine, to be exact. It was one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever lived and had fresh running water and an amazing health care system (albeit a ride down the mountain – the hospital not the running water).

So how the hell did I end up here I can hear you asking?

Let’s start at the beginning, shall we, and meet the pre-baby me. Let’s take a good, long look at her so we can see how far the free as a bird mighty have fallen. Hang on a second, I think I can hear her shiny Geneva heels clicking down the shiny Geneva pavement now, clicking and swooshing her way to a swanky client meeting in a swanky Swiss building. (I know, I almost can’t believe this me actually existed either!)

So, I know what you’re thinking, how the hell did the now disheveled and slightly unhinged me find herself once upon a time clicking down a shiny Swiss high street in shiny Swiss heels?

Well, it went a little something like this. My hubby, Jamie, had lived in France since a teenager and after I went on a ski holiday in his French hometown of Morzine, we were properly Cilla Blacked and hooked up by mutual friends. We were smitten from the word go – or should I say smitten from the first of many drunken snogs as we tried (and failed) to ski home from an end-of-season party on the slopes. The holiday and the snogging ended and I returned back to my life and career in marketing back in the UK. (Yes, I once was a functioning member of society who had a pretty successful career under her belt.) However, six months of long-distance dating later, I’d packed up my career, said goodbye to my City Girl bachelorette pad, hung up my heels and moved to the mountains to be with the boy of my dreams. Bang! No messing! In for a penny, in for a pound – or, as it transpired, a wedding and two tiny humans!

Our life together in France was pretty damn sweet. It was one of doing whatever the hell we wanted, snowboarding, skiing, hanging out with friends, boozy picnics by the lake, and road trips to Italy for lunch that turned into a weekend away. We were carving out a life together that was universes away from my daily commute, 9–5 city life back in the UK. (I could poke my old self bang in the eye right about now: I had NO bloody clue how good I’d got it!)

Now, don’t get me wrong, I am a city girl at heart; I love the dirt, the noise and the bristling energy on which a city thrives. However, this new life in the Alpine mountains, was one of adventure, great food, freedom and possibility, all shared with the love of my life. The downside was that I really missed my family. We are a really close bunch – like EastEnders close – which drives me bonkers at times when it becomes more dramatic than an EastEnders storyline – but I wouldn’t be without them. And as they were only a short plane ride away; I went back regularly and they came out to see us when they could.

After a year and a half together (living together and working together on his online ski holiday business), Jamie dragged me out on a snowy walk, bent down on one knee in waist-deep snow and proposed to me in front of our favourite waterfall. (Yes, this place I now found myself living in was so ridiculous we actually had enough choice of waterfalls to class one as our favourite!) A year later, we were married in a beautiful château in front of all our most favourite people, followed by the mother of all parties that rocked le château well into the early hours.

Following the wedding and honeymoon, I landed myself a marketing job in Geneva, earning more money than I’d ever earned or could earn back in the UK. I somehow managed to convince my employer that I should only work four days a week (and one of those from home), and, not surprisingly, we were loving life thanks to the much-coveted disposable income. If it helps, I now want to run back in time and throttle my old self for thinking this type of life and financial freedom would go on forever, even after having babies – pah, fool! So there we were, happily married, with good jobs and living in a beautiful place. It was inevitable that sooner or later talk of tiny humans started to pop up.

GETTING PREGNANT

We’d been really open about both wanting a family from pretty early on, and knew that once we were married we’d want a family of our own. However, it was my hubby who was the first one to suggest that we actively stopped not trying for a baby. I still remember where we were when he first said that he thought it was time: a karaoke bar. We were on a six-week trip to Vietnam – our postponed honeymoon that I’d also managed to wangle before starting my new job (seriously, I love Geneva) – drinking way too many two-for-one mojitos and about to be taken to a club by a member of the Vietnam mafia and his security guards. Yes, I said mafia! #bloodyidiots (us, not the mafia).

I turned to him like he was a loon, looking at where we were right then and trying to imagine our life with a baby in it, and told him I wasn’t sure. (No shit Sherlock! You were about to go clubbing with the mafia. How the hell was a tiny human going to fit into those plans?) Life-changing conversation over, we then proceeded to do the final shot, sing one last rendition of Jessie J’s ‘Price Tag’ (It’s all about the money money money) and went clubbing with our well-connected new friends.

However, after he had planted the reality of a baby in my mind (and the mother of all hangovers had worn off), it grew from a ridiculous idea to an exciting butterfly in my tummy that developed into something we both wanted – and we started not not trying for the rest of the trip. I found myself googling ‘ovulation calculators’ from our dodgy hotel in Ho Chi Min City whilst planning our next stopover, and daydreaming of going home pregnant and ready, after six weeks of adventures, to start the next chapter of our lives (because life is always that textbook, right?).

The idea of being a mum – of going from the two of us to the three of us – went from being a drunken conversation to something I couldn’t stop thinking about.

With a mix of naivety and a sprinkle of pre-baby arrogance, I believed that deciding to have a baby meant that we would start trying and, bam, we would be pregnant. I blame the crap sex education we received in Year 9. You see, when us girls are growing up, we are full of fear that we only have to see an erect penis and we will be with child. That unprotected sex leads us on a one-way street to either STDs or pregnancy (both terrifying destinations aged 16). And we grow up safe in the knowledge that one day when we decide, we will become mothers to deliciously chubby and healthy tiny humans and continue to have as many as we want until we decide to call time on our ovaries once we’ve reached our perfect number of children.

What we are not told is that in fact there is only a small window of opportunity each month to get pregnant. That our biology and cycles have to be aligned to ensure it’s possible for us to get pregnant. That even once we become pregnant the journey our tiny human has to complete to finally end up safe, healthy and in our arms can be so precarious that some don’t make it or if they do are not able to stay with us for long. We don’t realise that our ovaries may have already called time on us, long before we even decided we are ready to become a mum. It’s bloody terrifying to realise that something we are programmed to believe is our natural right as a woman – to grow and bring a tiny human into this world – may not be our right after all. That our bodies, despite being in good physical condition, are not able to produce the one thing we want most in the world.

So back to me and my foolish notion that we would get pregnant purely because we were on our honeymoon and I was off the pill. I missed a period a couple of weeks before coming back from the trip, we got overly excited – only to do a test and taste the first taste of disappointment, a taste with a strength that amazed us. A few weeks earlier, we hadn’t even known we wanted a baby. Now, we’d spoken about it, and it was all we wanted. We ended up shrugging this off and calmly chastising ourselves for thinking it would have happened so quickly, but also being happy that it proved to us without a shadow of a doubt how much we wanted this little person in our lives.

This calm nonchalance was all well and good at the start. However, once the months started to tick by, without a blue line making an appearance, we started to worry. We both told each other it was crazy; it had only been a few months and we knew rationally that it could take up to a year or longer. But we still couldn’t stop the little niggling of fear of ‘What if it isn’t going to happen for us?’ and ‘What if there is something wrong with one of us?’.

I’d heard about ovulation sticks from family and friends, but I didn’t know if this was the right way to go about things or just let things happen naturally. This worry was compounded by a remark someone said to me when we were talking about couples ‘actively trying’ for a baby and using these sticks to help them know the best time to be having sex: ‘Oh, I would hate to do that. To be one of those couples who have to have sex even if they don’t want to, just to have a baby. I’d much rather just go with the flow and see what happens.’

My response to this?

BULLSHIT!

Give yourself a couple of months of ‘just seeing what happens’ and, when nothing does, of feeling the anxiety start to build along with the fear that it may not ‘just happen’ for you, that you may not be lucky enough to have the baby you’ve been dreaming about. Give yourself a couple of months of that and then tell me what you think about increasing your chances of conceiving by knowing the optimum time to get pregnant thanks to weeing on a stick? Anyone who has ever tried for a baby knows that once you get a few failed months under your unfastened chastity belt you will try ANYTHING to get with child – from having sex on the smiley days even when you are feeling more knackered than turned on to trying more ‘effective’ positions and the waiting with yours leg in the air after having sex. Literally ANYTHING. And you know what? So, you should. There is no shame in it, nothing to feel embarrassed or unnatural about trying anything you can to get pregnant, even peeing on a stick.

Therefore, never feel ashamed or embarrassed about whatever route you take to being able to bring your tiny human into this world – and, most importantly, never feel judged on it. Never!