So I’ve finally done it, the thing I’ve been trying to stop myself from doing for probably the past 9 months. I’ve started one of those awful ‘mummy blogs’ and I sort of hate myself for it. It’s not that I think my adventures with my daughter are any more exciting than anyone else’s days with their children, because they’re probably not. I’m hoping it’s going to act as some sort of therapy for me and the constant nagging feeling I have that maybe I’m just a bit of a shit mum.
I had a horrific pregnancy – sickness all day for about 5 months, acne, acid reflux, painful hips and probably more nasties that I can’t remember. I also had an awful birth. I spent 53 hours feeling as though someone was trying to rip my insides out through rather delicate places, 8 hours of listening to my daughter’s heartbeat drop thinking she was going to die, finishing nicely with a doctor snipping me open and dragging her out of me by her head. It was day one of being a mum and I’d already failed.
I’m sure most pregnant women dream about the type of mum they want to be – patient, kind, singing their precious little bundle to sleep every night with a voice that could make a Disney princess jealous; taking them to fun mummy and baby classes so they can learn through play and develop their social skills that even Kim Kardashian would be envious of. I wanted this too. I’ve dreamed of being a mum since I was in junior school, it was what I wanted to do with my life (other than be a Solicitor which I also managed to cock up – well done me). Well I’m not that kind of mum. Don’t get me wrong, there are days when I feel as though I literally can’t give April enough kisses, she’s so scrummy and gorgeous, she’s a mummy’s girl and she makes me laugh every day with the weird things she does. But I’ve also had times where I could have sold her to a passing circus.
I’m hoping this blog will help me to come to terms with the fact that it’s okay not to have your shit together. It’s okay not to take your child to 5 classes a week so that they can be the next Einstein. And it’s okay that sometimes, after your 9 month old has been screaming at you all day, you call your husband, burst into tears, and tell him to come home immediately because you just don’t think you can cope anymore.
I’m probably going to be writing things that are far too personal and become far more vulnerable than I’m comfortable with, but I think I need to do this for me.
Wish me luck!
Going Dotty 