Formula haters- you did not pick a good day to mess…

I’m in a seriously sweary mood today, it’s 3 weeks since my last silent coffee. Ordinarily sweary wouldn’t  be a problem. You’d never have known that I’ve shouted expletives into the fridge with the frequency of a bad case of Tourette’s today.
Usually you’d be none the wiser….
But I saw a blog post judging women who formula feed their babies, even suggesting that women that choose to formula feed are somewhat uneducated: and I’ve been giving all the fucking fucks for this. My swear jar (like I have one of those! Pah!) would be overflowing. I’d have saved for the Christmas splurge in an hour. 

What gives anyone the right to judge mothers who formula feed! It’s been a while since I let my mind wander back to our #breastisbest journey. Basically one clear thought ran through my mind: 

Get back in your bastarding box, pretty please

I’ll admit this is a sore subject for me (literally- if you’ve ever tried breastfeeding you might relate!). 
I take maje offence to anyone slating Apamil and the like. Without this my baby wouldn’t have survived! With a projectile case of reflux I was told to express milk and add this magic powder to aid the ample Pukage which had covered every surface of our home over those first few months of manic Babydom. 

My anxious awol confusion of a brain simply couldn’t handle the timing of expressing, feeding, winding, sleeping, expressing, freezing, powder mixing, winding mind-fuck of a routine. 

-How do you think I came up with the name ‘Muma on the Edge’ in the first place?! 

Formula was mine and my baby’s life line. Once we had made the decision to switch to formula the relief was mahoosive. Finally someone else could feed / wind / clear up the puke. I could share the hum drum newborn survival routine with my husband (or anyone else who was offering!). My anxiety levels began to reset and I actually gave myself moments to enjoy this mum thang. 

Guess what: my baby was less sick AND began to thrive. Well well- formula being responsible for a baby THRIVING. Did you hear that haters? 
And I assure you I am not uneducated, I even have a degree AND a private education, fancy! I engaged brain and made a conscious decision to saunter down to Tescos and buy up a crate of Aptamil Nectar.

No one raised any eyebrows as I bought the illicit products either. Bottles, a steamy cleaner, even DUMMIES… Oh yeh, to fuck with it, I went the whole sodding hog. 
Here’s a confession for you: the 2nd time around I chose to bottle feed after just 3 weeks. Because I wanted to. 

I’ll skate over the fact that my left boobage refused to refill. It looked a little like the surgeon had forgotten to pop the silicon in my sad looking pyramid tea bag to my left. Selfishly I wanted my body back, I wanted to wear clothes that didn’t unhook and flap open. After 9 months of growing a baby I needed to be in charge of me again. 

It wasn’t that I was frightened of breast feeding in public, no one had ever made me feel uneasy. I simply chose. And I’m not a bad person btw. I can be quite nice- if I like you…  

My girls are now 6 and 3, they walk, talk, run,hop, skip, answer back, learn, wash, cartwheel, swim, eat, and, touch wood, have never been in hospital. So far I’m not seeing any adverse effects from our formula decision. All present and correct thanks very much. 

So Judgey McJudgeface, before throwing your magic wand of Formula hate around why not locate a ladder, clamber down from that trogan horse and rejoin the rest of us on cloud normal. Please. 
#fedisbest bitches. 

Yup, looking fairly healthy here- blackberries in the potty might pose some questions however…

The pressure to make the most of it: Christmas Edition

Well, well. It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas.

Here we are once more, the big TV Christmas ads are OUT, Christmas carols from Germany are merrily playing throughout Lidl, and we have the hotly anticipated ‘Soz, your kid’s not Mary, so please bring in a tea-towel and long sleeve tunic, a la Inn-Keeper’ nativity request form.

This is by far my favourite time of year, but it is also a time when I reach peak anxiety level. What if he doesn’t pick me out those Cath Kidston slippers…

It is becoming abundantly clear how this whole Father Christmas belief thing works:

There is a window of about 3, maybe 4 years if we are lucky, where our children both understand who Father Christmas is, before a total arsehole  non-believer takes it upon themselves to spread their poisonous ‘He’s not real’ yarda yarda through Mrs White’s class.

I am in the eye of the magic right now. Our girls are nearly 3 and 5. They are fully committed to the Father Christmas movement. They write* to him almost daily, and have an unwavering belief which is actually infectious. I am absolutely expecting a man in a red suit to come down my chimney (so to speak), baring every gift upon my wish list.

It’s truly magical to see their faces when a festive buzzword is mentioned: Father Christmas, North Pole, Head Elf, Naughty n Nice list (-single best bit, thanks FC), Rudolph’s band of merry reindeer, I could go on…
I don’t want this belief to end, and that panics me because I know it will. I must appreciate this year and make the most of it because it might be the last Christmas that Darcie possesses this unquestioning precious belief.

I want to embrace every tradition I hear of, for the FOMO (fear of missing out) is too much to bear;

The pressure to make the most of it is all consuming.

Take that creepy looking ‘Elf on the sodding Shelf’ for example. Last year I laughed and mocked those parents who tirelessly thought up all sorts of frankly bonkers positions for their Elf to be found in each morning. The X-rated versions took the biscuit and had me in stitches, I confess. But on the whole I just thought, what a load of tosh.

Guess what?  This year we are having an Elf on the Shelf. My panic that I’ll regret doing it for our girls once it’s too late was just too much. So I caved. I’ll be posting wan*y ‘Elf dangling from the ceiling in a bid to rescue Barbie from her arranged marriage to Ken.’ and other must see footage…


More Xmas bangers…

Do we give in and pour flour all over the floorboards to mimic Santa boot prints? What about those Christmas Eve boxes or treats? (Who the F came up with that one.) How do we decide on  The Santa Visit ? Have we made  arrangements for the family to see the kids? Have we got any school holiday trips or treats planned? Hang on, what about Christmas crafting?! It’s a minefield.

Then there’s the gifts.

And this is my plea:

Please parents, don’t be a Festive-Douche.

Please don’t post photos of your Christmas tree groaning with gifts at 9pm Christmas Eve. It’s too frigging late by then for me to nip out to Poundland and purchase more tat to pad ours out with. I don’t want to read that you struggled to get in the lounge door because of all the gifts in the way. I don’t want to see that the Christmas eve boxes went down a storm with homemade PJ’s and personalised hot chocolate mugs. That’s great for you, but please don’t put the panic surges and gut wrenching guilts on the rest of us who didn’t get the jazz hands memo.


That all sounds  a bit harsh doesn’t, self preservation is at work, sorry.

I can’t be the only one who has Inst-Panic and Facebook-fu*k moments over Christmas time can I? Is there anyone else out there sharing these feels?

I guess it all boils down to this, the big question, ‘Am I making the most of it?’

My gorgeous, switched on friend, Ursula, who blogs at Mumbelivable wisely said to me “Pick the traditions you want to do, don’t try and do it all  and don’t compare yourself to others, your kids are lucky that you are their Mummy”.

I’m going to try and remember that.

Right then, I’m just off to stage the family Christmas card, and send off for personalised snowglobes, right before adopting a reindeer for a month… just kidding.

Keep it real Mumas, we got this.