Guidance on parenting - Part 1

Following on from my last blog I've decided to share my thoughts under clearer headings from now on. This is the first such entry. I'd love your feedback, including suggestions for topics to cover.

The easiest topic for me to start with is the thing which has occupied most of my time for the best part of a decade now: parenting. From the moment I learned I was pregnant in March 2009 I haven't stopped learning... not all of it was useful! This is a selection of what I've learned, presented to you in the hope that you can skip some of my mistakes and also so that anyone who's not as far through the journey can see the light at the end of the tunnel.

EDIT: this is a very long blog and I have a dozen more ideas, so I've renamed this "Part 1"

1) Forget everything you think you know about pregnancy

It's pretty obvious to say that old wive's tales are occasionally right but won't apply to everyone. Nonetheless I have one example to give to show why you should take them with a healthy dose of cynicism.

Have you heard the one about bad morning sickness meaning you're having a boy? I had dreadful nausea during my first pregnancy and - sure enough - I had a boy. Then it was plain sailing during my second pregnancy then - you guessed it - I had a boy. Anecdotally I've had friends with morning sickness go on to have girls, relatives who were never sick had boys... It's all rubbish. What may be true is that your morning sickness is actually caused by the surge of testosterone given to the baby in the later part of the first trimester. Your body isn't used to having these levels of testosterone so it does what it's programmed to do with anything upsetting the ecosystem: upchucks it.

Babies of either sex have more or less testosterone than the next baby of their sex. So my first son ("M1") loves playing rugby, running, throwing himself around in the mud (what he and his school friends term "the falling down game") while my younger son ("M2") prefers playing with toys like My Little Pony & Disney Princesses and hates getting dirty. M2 also likes watching rugby and happily wrestles with his big brother while brandishing a lightsaber, but generally I'd say it's safe to assume he has a significantly lower testosterone level than M1 and that's why I wasn't nauseated.

Pregnancy myths have some truth to them but if anyone tries to tell you something as fact while you're expecting, stick your fingers in your ears and run in the other direction. Or, you know, just smile and nod politely. But don't take it seriously!

2) Birth plan, shmirth plan

When I was carrying the bump that would become known as M1, I went to a lovely ante-natal class that prepared me for every aspect of a beautiful, natural labour, birth and breast-feeding experience. By the time I wrote my birth plan, I was all set for a relaxed labour on my yoga ball followed by a water birth set to music by a band called This Will Destroy You (which is more chilled out than it sounds!)

In reality M1 started burrowing for escape at 31 weeks, causing me immense pain and false labour on an almost-weekly basis. By the time I got to full term, I was demented with the uncertainty and I'd been signed off my work, so my consultant decided to book me in for an induction at just over 39 weeks.

Instead of a non-intrusive, holistic labour, I spent 48 hours labouring in a hospital ward, attached to monitors while the three other beds in the room operated a revolving door system of women who appeared to be mooing on the other side of the curtains, while my (ex-midwife) mother-in-law sat crocheting beside me, occasionally glancing at the monitor and unhelpfully commenting "oh yes." I'm sorry Mum Gibson, you were great company, but it was a difficult few days! By the time I'd been in there for over 2 days, I'd been examined from every angle by more people than I've ever given my home phone number.

On the third afternoon I was told that, although I was in labour, I was only three centimetres dilated. I was then given the choice of staying put and waiting, going home and waiting (not on your f***ing nelly!) or having a Caesarean section. After speaking to my darling beloved, I told them I'd like a Caesarean. The final part of my birth plan packed its bags and flew out of the window I'd been staring through for 52 hours. On the following morning, three full days after I'd entered the maternity ward, I was subjected to one final degradation - being shaved by a stranger who'd just put on my surgical stockings. When I went down to theatre and my consultant asked if I'd be willing to allow her student in the operating room to shadow her, I actually uttered the words, "the more the merrier."

Having a birth plan is a good idea: it lets your medical professionals know what you're expecting, it guides them on how to care for you and it mentally prepares you for the fact that you're going to have to push that bump out of you. But someone forgot to tell me that the baby didn't read the birth plan.

3) Babies also don't read "What To Expect When You're Expecting"

When I had M1, my partner had just started a new job and getting any kind of leave was very difficult. I was very fortunate that during the first few weeks my lovely, above-mentioned mother-in-law and most of my own family took holidays - or gave up their pre-existing holidays - to come over and run after me. Recovering from major surgery and breastfeeding a very hungry baby who's losing weight a little too quickly is rather difficult. Having a veritable village of helpers around me made a world of difference. I'll never be able to repay the soup-making, bottle-washing, endless laundry and general awesomeness of my little team.

Nonetheless, there were many times when I wanted to sit M1 down and read him appropriate chapters of the baby books to show him where he was going wrong. "You're not meant to feed for only 10 minutes at a time, once every 40 minutes," I cried hopelessly.

"You're supposed to nap now, it says so right here," I wailed.

"Why isn't your poop the right colour?"

"Don't sleep now, I'm meant to wind you first!"

"Wake up, I need to feed you."

"Don't lie that way, the book says it'll deform your skull."

"Don't look at me like that, it's not my fault!!!!"

It took me until week five to realise that the little pudding was starving, I simply wasn't producing enough milk to feed his appetite - an appetite that has thrived for over seven years since that realisation. When I finally gave him bottled milk (to complement what I could offer him myself) he devoured the whole thing in jig time and began putting on a pound per week for the next several weeks!

When M2 came along - also by Caesarean - I'd already decided not to breastfeed. This was for a variety of reasons, which I am happy to elaborate upon but have not been happy to receive criticism about from total strangers online.

To any new or expectant mother, I say, read all the books, take all the advice, then do what suits you and your baby. But you first. Your baby will be okay with bottle feeding. You, however, do nothing for yourself or your baby by suffering endlessly and driving yourself to the brink of exhaustion.

To anyone who has strong opinions on the "breast is best" debate, I plead, don't force those opinions down the throats of women who are already overwhelmed, bombarded with data and statistics and opinions and advice. If you're asked for your opinion, offer it, but do it nicely: calmly, clearly and with measured tones. Don't say that breastfeeding advocates are militants. Don't say that powdered milk is poison. It's not true and it's incredibly damaging to vulnerable women's psyches. Everyone agrees that breast is best, but let's keep the rhetoric on a simmer. Girl power.

4) Other parents are your new best friends

It doesn't matter how good your friendships are, no one wants to hear about your sleepless nights or cracked bits. Unless they're also currently Lansinoh's best customer. And if you don't know what that is, consider yourself lucky and go on about your day. Please don't Google it.

I'm afraid this lesson took me much too long to learn. I did make a few lovely "mummy friends" in the early days, but mostly on a one-to-one basis. One such friend was in a very similar situation to myself - challenging kids, lack of confidence - and she was trying her best to work, like me, but not keeping up with it very well, also like me. Our kids were only months apart, they adored each other and Gill & I became fast friends over shared frustrations and a fondness for a large glass of something strong at the end of the day. We remain firm bosom buddies to this day - more on this later.

I did go to Bookbug story sessions in the library once or twice when M1 was wee, but I'm afraid that when M2 came along my depression took over and he was two years old before I started attending toddler groups - largely to keep Gill company. Mine eyes, dear reader, blew wide. Here was a collection of women and some brave men who faced an identical dilemma to mine: one or more children below school age, too many hours in the day and not enough money to afford a drinking problem. Among the brigade of childminders with gangs of toddlers in tow were mums struggling to fill the days for their precious darlings or those who craved adult company beyond the presenters of CBeebies. I befriended the mums, I networked with the childminders, I watched my children develop friendships that would last a lifetime or a playtime. Crucially, my children learned how to form friendships, while I learned to embrace the ridiculous notion of asking an adult, "please can we be friends?"

Making friends as an adult is a strange experience. Essentially, you sit quietly watching the parents while pretending to be monitoring your little dears, pick someone who looks friendly, then sidle up to them and strike up a conversation. My favourite opener is, "which one's yours?" It came naturally and it lets people talk about their kids instead of themselves. The hardest part is how you get out of the conversation: you've either decided they're not likely to become a friend, in which case you just excuse yourself by going for a cup of tea; or alternatively, you enjoy the chat and want to befriend them. That's the bit where you choose to let it develop over a few weeks of toddler sessions but risk them not coming back ever again (which happened to me) or you try to get a method of contact... without sounding like a lunatic. I'm afraid that one's on you, reader. Good luck!

5) Repeat after me: this too shall pass

The hardest and the best part of parenting is that everything passes so quickly.

Oh, how I wish for those baby smells again, for the chunky little legs of M1 while I was bathing him and the long slim fingers of M2 wrapped around mine. Oh, how I'm glad to be far removed from sleepless nights, food fights, cries over wind... But I detest the hilarity over loud farting! Would I rather they still had wind and couldn't pass gas to relieve their stomachs? Of course not. Do I foresee a time when farting won't be hysterically funny? Sadly, no.

There are moments that you wish you could preserve in amber when your children are young. Within the first year of M1's life I'd taken thousands of photographs and videos in an attempt to capture his little sounds and expressions. He was only 50 weeks old when M2 came along and I continued my photography binge with gusto. When I got my new laptop as M2 turned four, I had 12,000 items in my iPhoto account. As each year has gone by, I've realised that nothing can replace the actual feeling of witnessing your child's "first" anything and one photo to record the event is sufficient. But I sometimes wish the clock would slow down ever so slightly.

That said, I wish daily that this stage would hurry up, bugger off and take its friends with it. Whether it be teething, weaning, sleep training, potty training, fears, shyness, tantrums or obstinance, all of the worst elements of raising kids have eventually f***ed off. Some linger on, like foul smells you can't wash away, but the majority disappear as quickly as they came. Most of the time I didn't even notice - the good and the bad. When M2 was little he couldn't say the letter "Y," instead using the letter "N." Thus, he would frequently ask for a "nogurt" after he'd finished his (self-imposed) "noga pwactiss." A small, naughty part of me didn't correct him when he'd make these little errors yet somehow he learned the way to ask for "you" to do something and the habit was gone. But I hadn't noticed. One day I told him I'd fetch his nogurt and he turned around - disgusted - and insisted, "Mummy! It's YOGURT! Yah, yyyogurt!" with indignant emphasis on the Y. I stood stunned in the doorway, staring at my baby and I burst into unbidden tears. He raced over and grabbed me round the knees saying he didn't mean to shout at me and I had to explain to him that his mother is an idiot.

M2 was also the one who just wouldn't go to sleep on his own. Since M1 started walking (at 51 weeks, when I had just come home with a 1 week old M2) he has sped everywhere as fast as his little legs could carry him. When he had nowhere to go, he ran anyway - in circles, to fetch more toys, to find someone to play with. He has boundless energy but he uses all of it and he desperately needs his sleep when bedtime rolls around. M2 was a different story.

I have a photograph of M2 when he was about 6 months old. The photo is taken from my pillow, while I was lying down, with M2 on my stomach. He's sitting upright, but in the way that babies do when they've only just learned how to sit by themselves - all of his weight was leaning forward and his tummy was being cradled by the basket of his folded legs. It's very clearly the middle of the night in the photo, only the softest light from my bedside lamp fills the room. M2 is looking down at me, all gums and slevers (a good Scottish word for "drool") and he's grinning. Not smiling sweetly, but grinning the milky grin of a baby who knows he's driving his mother batty. His face screams "I know it's the middle of the night, mummy, but isn't it fun to be awake!"

For the first few years of his life, M2 needed either my husband or I to stay in his bedroom with him for upwards of an hour. A movement too soon would rouse him and the whole bedtime process was for naught. Neither of us felt able to go out at night for the first few months of his life and even once we did start taking it in turns to have the odd night out we'd feel horribly guilty for leaving the other one to face this tiny terror's wrath alone.

I am delighted to inform you that for quite some time now M2 has been a great sleeper, easy to put to bed and a very happy long-lier. However I don't have a clue when this happened. The memories are so distant now that it could be anything between two and four years ago. But if you'd seen me back then, or especially if you'd seen my husband (who, as a working father, wanted to have bedtimes as "daddy time"), you would have seen two exhausted and fed up people with no end in sight.

6) Repeat again: this too shall pass

Walking around like a zombie, or like a pin cushion for sadistic nurses, or as cracked and dry as a sandal in the Sahara; all of these things combine to make you feel less than human. In the beginning you focus so totally on the little human that came out of you that you forget to be a person yourself. For a lot of new parents, the first few months are solely about not breaking the creature that the hospital let you take with no instructions. Even a Kinder egg comes with a warning label, but human children have no set text. Concentrating on not killing small people takes up a huge volume of brain power and parents often neglect tasks that would previously have been second nature: brushing your teeth, washing your hair, even changing your pants can sometimes go forgotten when a tiny Hitler is screaming violently from the baby monitor.

M2 turned six in November and has been at school for 18 months... I now have makeup on most days, my hair is always brushed and often presentable enough to be left out of a ponytail, I get my nails painted professionally once every two to three weeks and I never leave the house in yesterday's underwear. I have health problems which mean my sleeping pattern is a little chaotic, so success isn't guaranteed but it's regular.

I can see friends during the day whenever I please and I even have standing dinner plans with Gill (from earlier thoughts on toddler groups) and our friend Mandie. I met Mandie when M2 started going to a dance class. Mandie was a childminder who brought the whole gaggle of children in her care along so the dancers among them could attend class when they were with her. This also meant that Mandie brought entertainment & snacks and therefore her little group was of great interest to M1, who came along while his brother was settling in. Mandie has the most generous and warm nature and instantly invited M1 to join them. Before long, M2 was asking if we could arrive early so he'd have time to play with them as well.

A year or so later when Gill was trying again to get back to work, I recommended Mandie as her childminder. It would suit Gill's little girl better, who was intimidated by the big nursery environment, and it was a lovely, warm, family home so her older son wouldn't feel babied. I'm delighted to say that it was not only a perfect match for Gill's kids, but it also created a friendship circle between the three of us. We used to grab a hurried coffee between nursery drop-offs and school pick-ups and toddlers and so on... But when Gill moved to a town 15 minutes over the hill from Mandie and me, it separated us just enough that daytime get-togethers as a threesome became more challenging. Damn you, Gill!

Truthfully, it was a stroke of genius on Gill's part: we are now forced - forced, I tell you - to meet up in the evening, usually in the local curry buffet. The coffee has been swapped for wine and the food bill rarely exceeds the drinks bill. It's brilliant! But three years ago if you'd told any of the three of us that we'd be going out regularly at night together and coming home drunk - to the embarrassment of Gill's poor husband who has dropped me home in some terrible states while Gill slumbers in the back seat - we would have laughed squarely in your face. One of the times we went out, I even had "pre-drinks" at Mandie's house while she finished getting ready. Imagine!

Parenting is full of cliches - "it's one of the most challenging and most rewarding things you'll ever do" springs to mind - but most of them come from a good heart. All of the above tips aren't new. I haven't tried to reinvent the wheel (cliche klaxon!) but I am giving honest advice to anyone who's reading this blog. If you're a new parent or even a would-be parent, embrace the good bits and try really really hard to grit your teeth through the hard bits. It is worth it, honest. If you're an old hand at parenting, I hope this blog has made you giggle, but feel free to pass on the advice to friends at the start of their journey. If you're a parent who's further on than me, please tell me when they start using initiative in the morning to get ready for school - soon? - because I'm fed up of shouting "SOCKS! NOW!" at small people who don't seem to care. And if you're a non-parent, determined never to have kids, I say "well done" and "good for you" and all of that sort of thing. I hope you've had a right good laugh at what a shower of pillocks we all are for voluntarily subjecting ourselves to this, the slowest form of torture known to humanity. Try not to be too smug in your clean car, on your exotic holidays, in your white- or cream-coloured homes. The rest of us are trying very hard not to be jealous.

Peace and love.

FG xx