Today is one of those days.
Today is one of those horrible days when I wish I wasn't a mother, where I question whether or not I am the sort of person that should be a mother.
I should never have been able to have children. The doctor told me so. It never bothered me as I never wanted children. But when I found out I was pregnant, I somehow knew that these were my babies, that this was meant to be.
Unfortunately today is one of those days when I question that. I don't usually have such beastly thoughts about my boys, not since the PND days, and I suspect a lot of it is down to tiredness. Special thanks to Benny for deciding that he now wants to be awake between 11pm and 2:30am.
Many little things have been irritating me today but I finally had a cry shortly after lunch. I was on the floor picking up bits of lunch the boys deemed to be not good enough for them when Benny launched his cup out of his high chair. It landed on the plate I was collecting the food on and it smashed in half. I told him off. I told myself off for telling him off. He, after all, didn't do it deliberately. I carried on picking the food up when Benny reached over and grabbed a handful of my hair. I gave him another telling off but could feel myself starting to well up. I sat on the floor and felt bits of food hitting the back of my head. I lost it and sat there sobbing. All sorts went through my mind. What had become of me? This isn't me. This enormous fat girl with saggy tits and flabby belly. This girl with no make up on, with frizzy hair in horrible condition. This girl with stubbly legs, cracked lips, rough skin, food stained dress that i've been wearing for three days.as I haven't had a chance to wash any of my own clothes out for nearly a week. I didn't recognise myself. I haven't recognised myself in a long time. I don't know who I am anymore. I don't matter anymore. I want my old life back.
My old life wasn't fantastic. I had a job that paid well but that I was falling out of love with. I had a fancy flat in the town centre and, more importantly, I had complete 100% freedom. I can't even have a wee without an audience screaming at me.
But today is just one of those days. It'll be over soon and tomorrow will be a better day.
Monday, 30 November 2015
Thursday, 12 November 2015
Today's letter was D and the word was discipline. Discipline - a word that used to conjure up images of a pale and flabby middle aged woman rummaging around Ann Summers for a paddle and some flimsy furry handcuffs to add a bit of spice to her ailing sex life with her increasingly impotent husband.
Disciplining children is an entirely different kettle of fish. And I am absolutely shit at it. On the whole, Benny and Chops are good boys which makes it harder to differentiate between bad behaviour and normal small child behaviour. So I have been issuing telling offs largely based on how irritating I find their behaviour, whether or not it was funny, if there is potential for something to get broken and whether or not it is dangerous.
Earlier today, Benny bit me on the leg. I squealed, swore and raised my voice to tell him off. He looked at me in shock and his lip started to tremble. Then he started crying, big sobs. I felt awful and apologised to him and gave him a big cuddle. So somehow I get bitten and end up apologising to Benny. Well played son, well played.
The main reason for a telling off occurs when I am trying to change their clothes and nappies. Benny arches his back and goes all rigid whereas Chops is like a noodle. They both try to escape from me and I desperately want them to understand that this would have been over 20 minutes ago if they would just stay still and let me change them. The worst is when they have a stinky nappy. This is where I desperately wish I was an octopus. I have one hand holding up the legs, another hand wiping the bum, another hand trying to swipe away their hands from their bums, another hand trying to keep the other boy from eating the dirty nappy and wet wipes. How many hands is that? 4 hands. Well if I was an octopus I could hold 4 glasses of wine as well.
Anyway, you can guarantee that the baby in question will break away despite my desperate pleas "please stay still Chops. Don't move, don't you even think about it, don't you dare. Just stay still for 5 poxy minutes for the love of God child. Benny, don't you touch the wet wipes. Give it to mummy. Give it to mummy. Give it to mummy please. Give it to mummy now. Chops! Godammit! Get back here now for crying out loud. Get here. Don't you dare move, for Christ's sake". And there it is, Chops is crawling down the hallway, stopping every so often to sit down and leave a poo print on the carpet. Benny is sitting there with a mouth full of wet wipes and I'm sat there with my head in my hands and poo all over my hands and legs.
This ordeal has taken around half an hour. And I now have to repeat it with the other boy.
Twins are twice as nice you say? Yeah, something like that.
Disciplining children is an entirely different kettle of fish. And I am absolutely shit at it. On the whole, Benny and Chops are good boys which makes it harder to differentiate between bad behaviour and normal small child behaviour. So I have been issuing telling offs largely based on how irritating I find their behaviour, whether or not it was funny, if there is potential for something to get broken and whether or not it is dangerous.
Earlier today, Benny bit me on the leg. I squealed, swore and raised my voice to tell him off. He looked at me in shock and his lip started to tremble. Then he started crying, big sobs. I felt awful and apologised to him and gave him a big cuddle. So somehow I get bitten and end up apologising to Benny. Well played son, well played.
The main reason for a telling off occurs when I am trying to change their clothes and nappies. Benny arches his back and goes all rigid whereas Chops is like a noodle. They both try to escape from me and I desperately want them to understand that this would have been over 20 minutes ago if they would just stay still and let me change them. The worst is when they have a stinky nappy. This is where I desperately wish I was an octopus. I have one hand holding up the legs, another hand wiping the bum, another hand trying to swipe away their hands from their bums, another hand trying to keep the other boy from eating the dirty nappy and wet wipes. How many hands is that? 4 hands. Well if I was an octopus I could hold 4 glasses of wine as well.
Anyway, you can guarantee that the baby in question will break away despite my desperate pleas "please stay still Chops. Don't move, don't you even think about it, don't you dare. Just stay still for 5 poxy minutes for the love of God child. Benny, don't you touch the wet wipes. Give it to mummy. Give it to mummy. Give it to mummy please. Give it to mummy now. Chops! Godammit! Get back here now for crying out loud. Get here. Don't you dare move, for Christ's sake". And there it is, Chops is crawling down the hallway, stopping every so often to sit down and leave a poo print on the carpet. Benny is sitting there with a mouth full of wet wipes and I'm sat there with my head in my hands and poo all over my hands and legs.
This ordeal has taken around half an hour. And I now have to repeat it with the other boy.
Twins are twice as nice you say? Yeah, something like that.
Tuesday, 10 November 2015
Hi, welcome to my blog. I have no idea what I'm doing and this is probably going to be a very common theme in my blog.
My name is Emma. I am 33 years old and am a single mother to 15 month old twin boys, Benny and Chops (not their real names).
I never planned to have children and was told that it wasn't a possibility anyway. I was muddling along just fine until one day in December 2013 when, for reasons unknown, I took a pregnancy test which came back positive. I drank a couple of litres of water and did another test. Another positive. I still didn't believe it so I had it confirmed by the GP. Yep, still positive. The next day I went to Options for some advice on my options (strangely enough) and I concluded that this baby was here against all the odds and that this pregnancy was meant to be.
I got excited and started telling those closest to me. My mum I told whilst I was hiding behind the fridge. A couple of weeks later I started to bleed. I went to the hospital for an early scan. Everything was A OK and I was told I was carrying twins. I lay there, impaled by some metal implement, squealing "twins, twins, what the fuck do you mean by twins?!" It turns out it meant pretty much how she said it. I was pregnant with twins. Me, the woman who never wanted children. The woman who had held two babies in her entire life. The woman who recoiled when her colleagues brought their newborns into work. The woman with the poo phobia. The irresponsible woman with all the common sense of a pair of hot pants.
How on Earth was I going to deal with this?
If I had thought about it, I would have started this blog then. But it never even occurred to me. Or at least when the boys were born, but I barely had time to fart let alone maintain a blog. But better late than never.
Emma
10/11/15
My name is Emma. I am 33 years old and am a single mother to 15 month old twin boys, Benny and Chops (not their real names).
I never planned to have children and was told that it wasn't a possibility anyway. I was muddling along just fine until one day in December 2013 when, for reasons unknown, I took a pregnancy test which came back positive. I drank a couple of litres of water and did another test. Another positive. I still didn't believe it so I had it confirmed by the GP. Yep, still positive. The next day I went to Options for some advice on my options (strangely enough) and I concluded that this baby was here against all the odds and that this pregnancy was meant to be.
I got excited and started telling those closest to me. My mum I told whilst I was hiding behind the fridge. A couple of weeks later I started to bleed. I went to the hospital for an early scan. Everything was A OK and I was told I was carrying twins. I lay there, impaled by some metal implement, squealing "twins, twins, what the fuck do you mean by twins?!" It turns out it meant pretty much how she said it. I was pregnant with twins. Me, the woman who never wanted children. The woman who had held two babies in her entire life. The woman who recoiled when her colleagues brought their newborns into work. The woman with the poo phobia. The irresponsible woman with all the common sense of a pair of hot pants.
How on Earth was I going to deal with this?
If I had thought about it, I would have started this blog then. But it never even occurred to me. Or at least when the boys were born, but I barely had time to fart let alone maintain a blog. But better late than never.
Emma
10/11/15
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