Body Combat pt II

So here I am again. The battle with my body continues. This time mon corps has produced two little human beans (in short succession). It has nourished and harboured them safely until expulsion, and then produced sustenance for them until I handed the job over to my moo-ing friends and the wonder that is smashed banana. Those bébés are my absolute pride and joy. I’m floored constantly by how much I love and adore every tiny molecule of them. I want to stare at them, all day and all night. So how come I can’t look at my body, baby making véhicule extraordinaire, with that same pride and joy?

I’ve battled with my body confidence for a long time, maybe forever, and here’s the first thing I have realised of late: just because I had bebes I did not magically become something I wasn’t before I became a mum. Let me clarify. I was not an elite athlete or a gym bunny pre-kids. In fact, prior to having kids, I did not know what a gym was. I mean I had a rough idea of the sweaty horror-house, but I was scared of them. I counted walking to the pub as exercise and an olive in my martini as one of my five a day. At best I was “skinny fat” as my wise (and fit) littlest sister would say, which apparently is a technical term amongst actual fit and healthy people for those that can’t be referred to as “fat fat” but no matter the clothes size still wobble.

Questionable choice of top but remarkable waist. Strong male objectification efforts – getting our own back!

Looking back now, of course, I was just fine. But I didn’t like my reflection; I could point to 20 things I hated about myself before finding a single thing that was ok. I hated wearing swimwear and basically was a massive prude. But I was lucky in some ways- I didn’t like my body but it didn’t particularly knock my confidence. I was brought up to be grateful for what I have, and I was frequently reminded that we are all different and physical appearance is just one aspect of “you”. I don’t remember much other discussion or focus on the body (positive in itself) other than engaging in fun exercise opportunities, no doubt to wear us out as much as to get fit. I was – and remain – passionate about the fact (actual fact) that every body is different, each person is fortunate to have what they have, women lucky enough to carry a baby or to menstruate are blessed and strong, and I deplore the negative effects of advertising on women. The way a woman’s body “should” look and all the products and utensils we need to make ourselves more “perfect” or less “ugly”. How we are objectified. Check out some examples here and link through to Jean Kilbourne’s page and see her pioneering work on this topic.

When I was fresh out of hospital with my new bebes, Facebook ads told me I needed just 8 weeks to get my pre baby body back plus some abs and possibly also a job as a gym instructor. Are you freaking kidding me? I need 8 weeks to catch my breath. I need 8 months to physically recover from this – not to get my pre-baby body “back” – and I need 8 tonnes of patience not to punch you advertisers in the face. I am *never* getting my pre baby body back because I had a bebe. Unless you have a time machine my body will always and forever more be post baby. Let’s focus on that.

I was horrified to realise recently that the image of the internal human body, the muscles and the nervous system, the image we’ve all grown up seeing and studying, is a male body. Shocking news: men and women don’t look the same on the inside! There was a clue with the external aspects, but what do I know. So it turns out the female muscular anatomy is quite different to the male body. Ok you know that. Obvs. But seriously how did we get to 2019 without anybody really calling that out? Where are the mammory glands?!

Right here. Wow.

I digress. Back to moi and my doubly/ triply wobbly wobbly fat fat. I have had kids so now I’m the old me, squared. Ironically I’m probably “fitter” than I have ever been (apart from one time I did a half marathon – unbelieavabubble to me now); I actually occasionally go to a gym, I try to do yoga, I spend my time lifting wriggly worms of 10kg and above, or carting around my office in my bag, or chasing littles, or bending and stretching to get all their clothes washed, folded and away in the cupboards before starting the cycle again, and I am more conscious of what I eat. And drink. Because as someone older and wiser kindly informed me, it is harder to lose the excess flab post kids. *sobs as she puts away the crisps* But I am strong. I should be happy. I am confident that I am more than my cankles and my generously proportioned derrière. I just need to take that thinking and really apply it to my moments of mirror glaring.

I want my children to grow up being comfortable in their own skin. We need to set that example and normalise real women’s bodies. I am thoughtful now about what I say about my own body: I don’t make a big deal about my squishy tummy. I try not to speak out about my mum boobs/ spaniels ears. I try not to hide behind too many layers of protection when we are going for a splash and I’m working on standing proud. “I made you in here!” I declare pointing at my tum “what a clever mummy I am!” And when Big Bro points to my chest and shouts out that “when I was a baby I drank milk from your boobies!” “Yes you did little man, and isn’t that magic!”. Rather than jump on the opportunity to insult myself I’m giving myself a high 5. I’m making a positive change.

Not my image but a glorious one it is!

Voilà the second realisation: linked to #1 above, stop being so hard on yourself. Bloody hell woman. You gave birth twice. You are not 15. You work, you play (in the children playing sense now, not playing hard with vodka martinis, just to be clear) ~ you juggle. Time is precious. Hanger is real. The odds are stacked against you having an easy ride to extreme fitness right now, but you can be healthy. And happy. And proud. Be proud of what your body has achieved. And speak up about it! I don’t think it’s unreasonable to point out to the humans that you produced, and perhaps to the one that you produced them with, quite how clever it was that you produced them in your tummy, and perhaps your thighs and your arms and chins too. Normalise your baby-making body.

Third: try to refrain from commenting. Maybe don’t comment on other women’s appearances, unless it’s to give them a boost. And know your audience. This part is hard. But as you go deeper into friendships, you will know different friend’s attitudes on this stuff. It’s kind of hard if you are super self-conscious to receive any commentary on appearance, because no matter what is being said you can somehow derive a direct or indirect insult. Par exemple “Have you lost weight, you look great!” = “Was I too weighty before? Did I have weight I needed to lose? Why didn’t you alert me to my excessive weight?”

Someone said to me recently, in response to my mumbling about not being happy in a swimming costume, “don’t be hard on yourself, you’re only 18 months post partum”. Now that was sweet and well-intentioned, but doubling + my own ‘9 months in 9 months out’ motto feels cheeky. I mean I could say I’m only 12 years post partum someday… I like it but it doesn’t fly. My body “issues” aren’t purely those that are directly linked to portage of bebe. I’m sure they haven’t been improved by that gargantuan experience but pretty sure I can’t blame the kids for my cankles. Conversely I may well have gifted them our family cankleloom. We are the Fawcett family of powerful legs. De rien!

Mine were 100 times canklier at the end of pregnancy

Fourth: take your own advice. C’est tout.

Go forth and be bold and strong and proud of what you got. I also recommend some Chessie King @chessiekingg on Instagram if you want a regular boost of body confidence 💕

Baby brain – true fact or un peu de bull?

I’ve been back at work for a few months now. I’ve been juggling like a … clown (that could work both ways) and I’m officially a parent to two littles who are getting larger. Time is flying and life is happening far too quickly.

I mostly get sleep, I mostly get sustenance and I even, sometimes, now and again, get a snippet of time to myself. Life still feels entirely chaotic, but we are living our best life. Right?

Bebette tempted to agree

I can shower in relative peace, and Monsieur FF and I have at least a couple of hours in the evening, theoretically, to eat, drink, discuss washing, holidays, education, food shopping (yes) other shopping (no) how cute the kids are, how funny when Bebette started to give the floor the naughty pointy finger when she fell over and how BigBro came to her rescue with a “Pah Patroll” plaster.., occasionally, we even decide we don’t need to talk and we get to browse Netflix (once we find the remote) hoping to stumble across something that meets both of our immediate requirements, and needs to fit in to the allotted, rather limited, timeframe before we hit the sack.  

Anyway, all of this to observe that we are out of “la folie” that is the first year of new babedom, we are no longer “new” parents, and we are almost out of the time where we can complain about lack of sleep and unpredictable behaviour (*almost*, this week has been a great demonstration that we are not actually there yet). From here it’s onwards and upwards towards threenagers and another very optinionated Boddlerette joining our chatty, energetic crew. We are just about surviving, we are happy and we are extraordinarily lucky.

BUT, there is one pretty major thing I haven’t quite managed to retrieve since giving birth (aside from my sanity): my brain function. I don’t know for sure, because my brain function was questionable to start with. When I say ‘retrieve’ it suggests I had something to go back for – really I mean I’m looking for any semblance of grey matter to revive.  I must have had something, once upon a time, because I have managed to get employment and a few qualifications under my (expanded) belt. However, I am concerned that something up there has changed. I can’t weigh my brain, but it feels a little lighter. Slightly less energetic. Un peu perdu.

I am no detective, but I strongly suspect that motherhood has impacted my brain. How? To my mind ~ can i say that when I’m actually talking about my mind?! ~ there are two big things that are different. One good, one bad.

Let’s start with the bad.

I don’t seem to be able to do simple mental arithmetic anymore. Even spelling that was a challenge. I used to be able to quickly “tot” things up, as the Mothership would say, as I went along in the supermarket or on a restau bill, calculate time differences or switch across currencies without too much effort. Dollars into Renimbi; sure. A conference call with Singapore and a New Yorker joining? No probs. Hit me.

Today there is a problem

I take in the question, the challenge, I focus, I try not to think about the other million things floating around in my head…the washing I left in the machine overnight… the yoghurt that needs eating by tomorrow, the hundreds of single socks that are littered around the house and the fearful sock-eating creature that must have stolen the other ones,… and then all I can see is a little egg timer in my mind slowly turning, s-l-o-w-l-y ticking away, and the more I focus on that the more I realise “wow, I literally don’t know where to start… this is really taking me too long, I’ve got no time, quick! think! THINK …”

NOPE. I’m never going to work it out and then I’m lost. I’m hunting for the Calculator app on my phone and I’ve forgotten what I was even adding up in the first place. Basically, anything that requires me to go past head count of my children I’m going to struggle. I now need an app to get me through. Or an abacus.

As I write, I wonder if part of the “blame” for this could go on our smartphone generation, and not on the kids. But it does feel like the difference is more marked now than it was pre kids. Did I give them my arithmetically stronger brain cells when I was giving them all the other magic stuff?! I’ll tell myself that is the case until I can work the grey matter back into shape.

You owe me… but I don’t know what

According to scientists in Australia, baby brain is a real thing, especially during pregnancy. It affects memory, general and executive cognitive functioning. There is no indication how long post-partum it can last. Surely it is to be expected when your own body is busy constructing a whole new one. Not so sure it should still be an issue once the babe is released. Here is a question from me: did that research also factor in the additional brain power of the little bean?!

Now for a huge positive: increased time management and organisational skills.

In exchange for basic maths, I have acquired a mega, Filofax-worthy capacity to plan and organise the day.

This new skillset includes getting my two little humans to and from somewhere, dressed in something, with accoutrements as required, navigating the complex quagmire that is Monsieur FF’s schedule, and then factor in my own, full time job, which involves project management and multi-jurisdictional coordination skills in and of itself. The schedule allows little time for “free time”, and limited “on time”, but if we all get to where we need to be and back round again at some point in time, I would say that is a pretty epic achievement. Others might say it is just being bossy

It is very much a skill to use to your advantage. I read a great article written by a superstar twin mama who was taking a moment to highlight that maternity leave isn’t all about tea and cake, and forgetting your career; there are real learning and development opportunities (patience being high up there!), a chance to get new perspectives, and to really use the desire to be with your children to help you focus. Don’t waste time, but make every moment count. This also resonates with some of the mantras I took back to work with me the first time I went back to work as a mama.

Nowadays there is no dilly-dallying in shops and bars, limited chitchat at the water dispenser (more likely to find me near any form of coffee, even just sniffing the beans), and no more spam emails with pictures of cute puppies – I am officially efficient. Every moment counts. Every second I’m not with the kids I want to be doing something useful. Every second I am with the kids, I want to be doing my best to enjoy it, and to focus in on what’s important versus what can be dealt with later. You know, in that two hour slot after bath time and bedtime…

On this last part it’s a continuous journey. It is really, really hard not to be overwhelmed by a pile of washing or full sink of dishes, to think about the food that still needs to be cooked and the bedtime schedule that needs to be followed. When we occasionally stray, as we did this weekend, everything went up in smoke as BigBro simply could not cope. Our babes need a certain amount of sleep and any disruption to that has serious consequences.I’m still working on it. I have many mum friends who have admirable juggling skills, whether around jobs or other commitments, or interests. They have brains in abundance. It is possible. It takes time. And your brain is doing just fine. The trick, as we are slowly learning, seems to be not to over face yourself. Take you time. Stop worrying about your cognitive function and enjoy 🤘🏼💖

Balls (and the juggling thereof)

Given my lack of blogging recently, you might fairly assume that I have gone into hibernation, like an old hedgehog, OR perhaps that my embarrassing parenting anecdotes have run dry. Mais non! ‘Edgehoggin I am not (I wish). I continue to embarrass myself and my family on a frequent basis. The only thing that’s run dry is my energy. I’m struggling with time management. Really struggling. It turns out that the juggling of deux children, busy job, a marriage, a relatively new home, family, friends and “other” (blogging) is actually quite the challenge (*imagine “challenge” pronounced in a dramatic french accent*).

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I’m not exactly sure what it is about having two little people as opposed to “just” one that makes daily life 359% more complicated, clearly the maths do not stack up, but it’s a parenting truth.

One —> two does not equal double the work. It equals there is no end to the work.

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The ball juggling skills required are next level magician standard. Quite often you are required to juggle with one hand behind your back, because one of the parenting duo arms are out of action (at work/ at social event/ hiding in toilet… not mentioning any names…). Or, you’re challenged in some other way like being exhausted, or hangry, or both of the above in a cafe with irritable children and you realise your wallet is not where you had hoped…

The balls you are juggling aren’t those cool squishy beany clown ones that bounce back if you accidentally drop one, they are fragile like eggs (smash eggs in shopping whilst trying to carry and grab Big Bro making a break for freedom), and hard like rocks when they hit you in the head (subjected to various head kicks and other bodily abuse with whichever child failed to find comfort in their own bed so came to occupy ours). The balls you are juggling aren’t easily replaceable (can’t readily replace child or house or car if I fail to protect and maintain them…probably best to lock them up then.)

Like most people, our day starts with getting up. That simple task that once used to mean exiting bed – to shower – to kitchen – to door – to commute – to work, with multiple coffees. patisseries and pleasant perusal of interweb en route. Then with Bebe FF I could just about manage changing and dressing and feeding him before myself and, with the help of Mondeiur FF, getting us all where we needed to be, but now, with two, it feels that little bit more like mission impossible. Unless I’m barking orders (which goes down a treat as you can imagine) the chances of both children having everything done plus the adults being anything close to ready are similar odds to Brexit ever making any sense…. It’s like we’ve got an egg timer above our heads and it’s constantly on “one tiny drop of sand to go! Hurry the F up!”

If I’m not jogging through the shower and putting my pants on whilst applying makeup and managing my hair (whatever that means, usually rubbing it against something to maximise the backcombed, never-washed look) then I am unlikely to leave the house on time. ‘On time’ means at any point. Certainly I won’t have coffee or food, and most likely I will forget some element of the necessary equipment for the day (wallet, keys, eco-friendly repurposed coffee recipient….) And that’s on the days when Monsieur FF does the drop. I know. The days that I drop, I’m lucky to have any semblance of warm clothing on my body and there’s little to no chance of the “nice to haves”. I have that slightly dazed, chaotic appearance about me that means the carers at nursery approach with caution. “Do you need a hand?” they kindly offer as they glance furtively at my dishevelled appearance and the children attached to my legs and arms. YES PLEASE you absolute wonder women and menfolk! I am rubbish at the “drop” because it’s more like a reluctant, slow and painful pulling at a plaster, twice, because I have to drop one child in after the other, and on a bad day we are all just clinging to each other. I truly enjoy my job, but it doesn’t make it any easier to be parted from the kids. I don’t like dropping them off.

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But look how cute they can be!

Short interlude whilst I work and juggle a few more manageable balls: load some washing, identify food required, have a hot hot drink, etc. Strangely, work time can be some of the calmest time of the day, especially when I don’t have to commute; I’m relatively in control, I am achieving small things without it causing me or anyone else to have a meltdown, and when I talk people (sometimes) listen, as opposed to having a loud chorus of “I want AN ICE CREAM” screamed at me whilst I explain how good vegetables are for you. Especially runner beans which make you run fast FYI. Btw you can’t have ice cream when it’s blinking freezing outside?!? I digress.

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When the end of the working day comes, it’s another mad rush to get to the kids before they hit the ‘extremely tired and unreasonable’ stage. For the avoidance of doubt, I’ve not worked out when that starts exactly, but it’s almost always well underway by the time we get home. I make food whilst the kids are playing (even though they’ve already had about 5 meals at nursery) and then watch them both spray it around their clothes, faces and the floor, chairs, and anything else within a 2 m radius, excluding their mouths, before I give up. Inevitably a “big boy cup” of something will by now be splashed across the table. I try to “whizz” around with the handy little Dyson and it immediately gets clogged with pasta. Should I wait for it to solidify?! I clean away, to make it look semi-passable for the rest of the grown up evening (lol!), and as I hoist the children out of their seats *merde* another portion of pasta falls from their laps and onto my semi-clean floor.

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Gimme gimme gimme 

Next is bath time which entails reservoirs of water, eczema-friendly bubbles and enough bath toys to amuse half of the United Kingdom. That’s not to say one doesn’t need to add some more, as Bebette did when she casually took some apple into the bath last night. Pourquoi pas. Of course then Big Bro desperately wanted to play with the apple and none of the other purpose-built jouets.

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Pretty much bathtime every night in our house… 

Big Brother generously offers to wash Bebette’s hair but isn’t so keen on doing his own, so we have a small battle/dance trying to get his hair clean whilst Bebette looks on in amusement, nibbling her bath-apple. Then we’ve got to exit both children, dry, cream, nappy-up, PJJ on and all trying to maintain some level of calm and pre-bed tranquility. One of the two-person gang (if we are fully armed) needs to disappear to locate milk/ water and sucking devices, as well as ensure beds are ready to receive children.  Stories are told, multiple rounds of Burglar Bill, “Grandma wolf”, Tabby McTat, and then a negotiation that any further reading is solo. “Ok but I want the big book Mummy!” Obviously the most ginormous book of vehicles is the final literature of choice before sleep time, and sleep is signalled by the dulcet sound of that huge book hitting the floor. ONE DOWN! Bebette has decided she doesn’t like to go down at the same time as Big Brother; I’m not sure if she’s cottoned on to the fact she gets all the attention in the evening or she genuinely just finds BB to be too noisey but she ain’t got time for bed with him. So she nods off eventually with us downstairs as we continue to attempt to nourish ourselves/ render the floor passable for another 6 hours/ catch up on any work that is outstanding and urgent/ generally not speak to each other or relax.

And this is the hardest of truths: with two small children and two full time jobs, the main thing that suffers is your relationship. The “leisure” time to unwind and politely converse about the highs and lows of the day is gone, for now. There is barking of further orders, refusal to follow orders, frustrated unclogging of Dyson, emptying of bins, cleaning of kitchen area, and then it’s time to hit the sack because otherwise there is a real risk that hours of sleep may total less than one hands’ worth. The absolute minimum for healthy survival is really 6 hours. Of late, with sickness and excitement and any other excuse they can come up with we’ve been receiving nightly visits to our bed. BB can wander in and just clambers over us and adopts a comfortable position such that he can headbutt one of us and kick the other. Bebette starts mewing when she wants to join the party and also has a magic ability to adopt the most bizarre positions to minimise the available space for the “growmops”. Real life:

 

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This matin

We wouldnt have it any other way. Of course. We are so super lucky. But jeezlouise, this is not easy! Mega hi5s to all parents out there, as always my understanding and respect levels of all that our parents have done, and all that those around me have been doing (don’t even go there with multiples) you are absolutely AMAZEBOOBS. Now to keep it up!

Awesome photos by the talented Clare Long Photography 💕

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Babbling, bubbles and baby food win

I usually try to keep my posts on one topic, but given that time is now even more limited and absolutely *flying* past I’m going to cover a few things in this post. I hope it makes some semblance of sense.

Number 1: omg. Mums and dads are legendary. Just totally AMAZEBOOBS. I’ve said this before but it’s worth noting again.  Every day as I travel to and from work, or talk to people in the business, or chat to my friends and family, I can’t help but wonder (breaking into a Carrie from SATC moment here…) how do people do it?  I regularly marvel at how people manage to get up and dressed and drop kids off and find the energy and time to make lunch or a coffee, and be polite and sociable, how they manage to muster the power to do their jobs and then go home and cater for their families. And in between plan for things like birthdays and holidays…  I mean where does on find the time?!

There is soooo much juggling required in being a parent and so little time to stop and take a breath (or tidy) it really is stupendous that people manage to function. And to work; whether it’s maintaining a house and providing for all the family’s needs or building your own business, or reporting to duty somewhere to perform surgery or teach kids or manage teams of other people with their own kids and life dramas, bloody well done. Well done for getting up and getting your pants on. I have concluded with my one little munchkin it is certainly not easy.

One thing I’m officially incapable of now is planning anything in advance. I don’t know if that’s because my brain simply can’t handle the information or if it’s a defence mechanism when I know that almost certainly something will ‘go wrong’ and plans will change. ‘Go wrong’ includes not getting any sleep, being sicked on, realising I don’t have the physical capacity to move, having no clean clothes etc. To all those I’ve recently failed, especially my Xmas planning failings, je regrette. I will make it up to y’all (in about 10 years when I’m back in the game).  In the meantime, bear with.

I have said before that I believe it takes a typical “child” until around the age of 25 to really start to appreciate their parents and the work and sacrifice that has gone in to getting them “all growed up”. At over 30 (ahem) and now a parent myself I can confirm that this realisation becomes stronger and more powerful by the minute. How Mr FF’s and my parents each juggled FOUR little kids I literally cannot fathom.  Without google and Facebook. And they managed to stay married. Sleep-deprived parents do have a tendency to be a bit snappy. <Not mentioning any names*>.

*myself

I have so much respect but no words really do it justice. Sending a big old round of applause to all of you out there.

So that’s my babbling done (you thought I meant baby babbles?  Ha!)

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Pretty proud of these teef!

Number 2: Nursery. Bugs. Omg#2. I was warned that Bebe FF would get sick when he started nursery. I even documented it in an earlier post. But I assumed he would probably avoid most stuff given he’s robust and, well, half Yorkshire. Sadly not. Not a week goes by without him having some ailement that requires a trip to the doctors and entails a few dramatic nappy changes or middle of the night washes, and at least a couple of broken nights’ sleep. Plus being snotted on 24/7 (Mr FF calls it “snorting” :-)). The poor little coquin usually looks like he’s been through a hedge backwards when I pick him up from nursery. We are still trying to get to the bottom of what exactly it is that causes his eczema to flare up. It is totally random. Most times we also spend a not insignifiant portion of the day aimlessly debating what could be at the heart of the present problems. 97 times out of 100 we go for teeth. Blumming teeth. Other options are ear infection (hard to detect, no temperature), allergic reaction to something (unlikely as he’s been allergy tested) and not forgetting the non-joyous growing pains.

This week we’ve had, amongst other things, a wheezy cough, temperature and snot in quantities I cannot even compute. The reference to bubbles in the title would be the bubbles coming from his nostrils. That’s right. He’s got bogey bubble blowing skills. So proud of my boy.

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Anyway I wish I had a solution to the sickness but sadly I don’t think there is one. Even a mask and following Bebe FF around with anti-bacterial wipes and wash all day would not help. Yes I know he’s building his immune system and that’s great, but when he can’t speak to tell me what’s hurting or why he’s awake and uncomfortable it’s deeply frustrating. Part of being a mum is committing yourself to endlessly trying to make your little one(s) as comfortable as possible as often as possible. It’s difficult when you are clearly not being successful. So far we are trying to feed Bebe FF some abidec vitamin drops every day (naturellement that is easier said than done!), we use sterimar to unblock his nose which is much more effective than the calpol spray we were using before, and a nice warm bath before bed. Also obviously try to keep him as snuggly as possible. However if anyone has any magic remedies for the avoidance of bugs please do shout up!

Third topic: weaning. For those just starting out on the journey – fear not! Even though it’s the most collosal rigmarole, we hit a turning point in the wean of fortune and at 8 months Bebe FF decided that, yes, actuellement food is rather nice. We are by no means fully there yet, but we are making good headway and finally my frozen sweet potato surprise is being consumed by the intended consumer. Luckily Bebe FF doesn’t appear to have transformed into a giant banana wafer despite consuming half of the UK’s supply of the things whilst we waited! #WEANWIN

A bientôt ❤

 

Back to work

This week I went back to work.  It was one of the hardest weeks of my life.  I cried. I was tired. I was grumpy.  I was a terrible wife and barely spoke to my husband at all (sorry Monsieur FF).  But you know what: I survived.  WE survived.

I was really happy to be back in the office: to see colleagues; to check emails; to read without interruption; to wear something that didn’t get covered in food and dribble (at least not until  I got home), to have a hot drink, a leisurely lunch, and sit down and talk business. Not babies.  Mais that’s not to say I didn’t miss my bébé like crazy. I did. I was beyond excited to get home and grab him.  I actually ran (hobbled: new shoes #error) to nursery to dramatically throw down my bag, fling my shoes at some poor child and embrace him.  But, honestly, it was nice to have both work time and bebe time.  This is how life is going to be now. I am a working mum. And I am going to embrace it.

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Back to work selfie

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This post is hard to write.  Whatever I say in here are my very personal thoughts, specific to me and my life, about going to work and having a baby in someone else’s care.  But I’m not alone.  There are so many people out there in a similar position, whether you are a mum, or a dad, trying to work out how to balance your “old” life with this new, exciting but terribly demanding one.

There are also loads of topics that could be covered by the post, predominantly focused on the impossible choices that (mainly) women face as professionals and mothers.  However, I don’t yet feel capable of broaching that one, not least because I can’t see an easy solution.  It’s just bloody hard.  Désolée.

I’m sure somewhere along the line someone is going to be offended by what I say.  I apologise.  This is such a sensitive subject  it is incredibly hard to discuss it without getting into the minutiae of your individual situation (your career/your current role/your family/your income/your aims in life/your marriage etc.)   I’m going to be frank because I think it’s important to document my journey, but also because I’m one of the lucky ones :  I work for a very flexible company and in a flexible team. More about that shortly.

When you have a baby, deciding if and when to go back to work is a massive deal.  Deciding on what basis to go back is complicated, not least because it is not just your decision.  Some people don’t have much choice because their child needs 24/7 care.  Some people don’t have much choice because they are the main breadwinner in the family.  Some employers don’t offer many real options.  There are so many factors in play, it’s really quite mind-boggling.  Not to mention the fact that, chances are, you are not exactly desperate to get back to work work (as opposed to all the hard but super rewarding mum work (which includes lots of cake and cute baby clothes)).

Deciding who is qualified to look after your bebe is like trying to decide who is qualified to run the country. That’s right: no-one.  But there are only a finite number of nurseries, or nannies, or childminders, and there are even fewer options that will fit with a reasonable commute and your financial viability.  I’ve always struggled with the concept of “paying to work” which is the bizarre situation you find yourself in when assessing whether to go back to work.  Unless you are in the very privileged position of having free childcare (usually down to amazing and local grandparents or relatives) or a job that pays a freaking fortune, or you’re just a straight-up millionaire, you are essentially paying to do your job because by the time you deduct the costs of having someone else care for your child, you’re probably barely breaking even.

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The whole subject has actually made me feel quite uncomfortable.  I have questioned myself on an hourly basis for the past month.  What am I doing? Why am I doing it?  If you asked me on what basis I was going back to work, you will have seen me pull a strange face as I reply “full time” and cast my eyes down.  I say “strange” because even I can’t recognise what emotion I’m experiencing… is it guilt?  Is it embarrassment?  Is it sadness?  Most likely it is confusion tbh. I literally don’t know how I feel.

Yes, I’ve gone back to work, and I’m going to do my job full time.  I work in London and like most people I have a commute of the best part of an hour.  So when I finish work in the office, I then need another hour to get back to bebe FF.  You are probably judging me right now. Analysing my decision. Not necessarily in a negative way, but you are wondering why and what led me to that decision, right?  I would be doing exactly the same.  Does she love her job that much? Can they not afford any other option?  Did she not have the option to do part time? Does she not like being a mother??!

Right – just to be clear – I absolutely adore being a mum.  

It is literally the best thing in the world ever.

See – bold, large and colour. Seriously. This is the shizzle. I could not feel luckier. Not a day goes past where I am not overwhelmed by the miracle that is Bebe FF, astonished by how much I love him, delighted by how happy I am in our little family unit, amused by his little bottom and tiny teef, amazed by how quickly he is growing and… scared.  Scared of life happening.

Notwithstanding all the above, I also enjoy being a lawyer.  I love my job. I worked hard to become a lawyer and get this job. I’m a professional woman in a global business.  Oh and the business is a toy company, the LEGO Group to be precise. You may well be familiar with it. The plastic bricks that last forever?  The ones that hurt when you walk on them? That’s us. I’m one of many lucky people to be employed by the Danish super brand and I should be rather proud of it.  My job is exciting and it is demanding.  To do it well, I believe that I need to be available most of the time.  In my experience thus far, it is also incredibly flexible.  Not only does the LEGO Company embrace flexible working, they positively encourage it.

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Bebe FF’s first trip to the office age 3 months – suspect he will be more excited about it in the future.

We don’t have a designated desk in our office.  We are taught “Activity Based Working”, to mix and mingle across departments and functional areas, and we are encouraged to work from home as often as we deem appropriate, provided we are able to perform our function, and judge when a meeting can be conducted from the office and when it can be handled remotely.  I know some people* struggle with the concept of “flexible working” (*the majority of UK employers for starters, and generations before us that aren’t so au fait with modern technology and still think sending a fax is high tech…)  It requires a level of trust and a recognition that a positive and enthusiastic workforce is good for productivity and, therefore, business.  Naturally there are financial advantages for the employers too, not just happy and driven, productive workers, but lower costs (rent, bills, general sustenance).  You need the right tools for it to work efficiently – flexible work spaces, portable laptops and remote video conf capability etc. but all of this stuff is so easily available nowadays, I find it hard to understand why it isn’t more widely adopted as a working standard.

Alas. There are plenty of people out there who aren’t as lucky as us LEGO UK employees, and who are having to fight for their employers to even consider more flexible working.  Check out Mother Pukka for starters.  Her Flex Appeal campaign is brilliant.  It’s all rather ridiculous when you look at the stats: clearly a flexible workforce is a happy workforce, and a happy workforce is far more productive than a morose bunch of reluctant 9-5 workers. Flexible working means working in a way that best suits you as an individual. As Mother Pukka puts it:

Flexible working doesn’t mean working less or slacking off, it means finding hours that suit your life and how you best work.

Self-evidently, if your employer gives you the flexibility to work the hours that fit in to your situation, then you are all the more likely to feel satisfied, and put in the hours and show the commitment to your employer – that improves your work and ethos, and their staff turnover (and all the costs associated with hiring and up-skilling new staff).  Also, critically for parents, it means you can work around your childcare.  Most people are awake for, let’s say 14 – 16 hours per day.  There’s no reason why all the fun stuff has to be crammed into the middle 8 hours is there?!

Family is a priority at LEGO, and having a REAL work life balance is considered to be a true demonstration of success.  It is perfectly normal and commonplace for the office to be near empty by 5pm.  Why?  Everyone has gone to pick up their kids, to spend some time with them before bedtime.  That doesn’t mean they have finished working for the day.  But working on the report due on Friday can be done anytime between now and Friday. Why not do it after the kids’ bedtime.  You are not rushing and you feel happy*.

(*Presupposes bedtime was a success and you don’t have a romantic diner a deux planned)

So, now you know that I am working full time, but it is not like most versions of full time that exist today in the UK.  I told you, I’m very lucky and I know it.

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For the avoidance of doubt

Also, on another note, I have taken 8 months of maternity leave – I could take up to a year and be guaranteed my job on my return.  I have friends in America who were lucky to get 3 months of maternity leave (apparently it can be as little as 6 weeks if your labour is “normal”). Likewise in France, a mere trois mois. THREE MONTHS.  WTF. I’m not being over dramatic when I say I don’t think my body had even recovered after 3 months, let alone my brain being functional and ready to juggle the challenges of motherhood and a career.  What kind of world do we live in?! The NHS encourages and promotes breastfeeding for the full first 6 months of a baby’s life. How do you manage that and be back at work? And I assume given the lack of flexibility on maternity leave, those American employers aren’t likely to be terribly flexible with the working hours either, or having a creche in the office…?

In any case, ladies, whenever you go back and if you go back, or decide not to, respect to you. There is no one-size-fits-all solution to this quandary and whatever you do, I hope you make the most of it.

Well folks thats all I’ve got for now. I’m just embarking on the journey and have a tough road ahead.  Bugs, sickness, work travel, socialising, emotional breakdowns, impossible decisions at home and work, brain failure… so much still to navigate.  But I leave you with this: My good friend, fellow lawyer and producer of Bebe FF’s birthday girlfriend (one hour before Bebe FF to be precise) Claire, shared with me a tip that was imparted on her as she rejoined her legal job, also full time, and a couple of months before us.  She said I should do the following:

  • when you are travelling in to work, think about something you are looking forward to; a meeting with a colleague, a nice lunch, a new exciting project.
  • on your way home, as you dash to pick up your precious little one(s) in time, focus on something you’ve done that day that you are proud of; concluding a project, some positive feedback, a significant learning, a job well done.

This will help remind you why this challenging time isn’t just about battling through and feeling guilty, it’s about being proud of yourself and your achievements, and making the most of each day.