Becky Boop

Diary of a Day in Labour Yesterday I got a lovely message from an old friend who had a baby a while ago. In it, she mentioned how much about the first few months of motherhood you forget. As babies get older, new memories replace the old, and new challenges eclipse those you faced the weeks or months before. The last few weeks have gone so fast, and my daughter has changed so much already, that I have decided to try and record what I remember about the whole experience before the details get lost in a fog of sleeplessness and outgrown baby grows. In this spirit, I have had a go at recapturing what happened the day M was born. You spend approx. eight months considering all the possibilities surrounding labour and birth, worrying / planning / daydreaming your way around all the details, and then – as with everything in life – nothing plays out quite how you expected it. This is what I remember, with as few details left out as possible – for which, apologies in advance. Setting t

Tiredness is… Emptying a can of sweetcorn into a sieve in the sink, before realising the sieve is upside down. Walking down the ridiculously steep hill you live on, feeling quietly proud of yourself for getting the baby in the sling and all her bits and bobs in a bag, then remembering you’ve forgotten to put your own coat or jumper on. Locking yourself out of the house with the baby inside (not quite as bad as it sounds – see previous post). Forgetting to invite one of your best friends to your birthday. Making it to the Post Office 0.5 miles from your house and feeling like Captain Oates. Being so bad tempered that you tell the cat to fuck off. Also, envying the cat for sleeping so much. Having utterly nonsensical arguments that go something like this: You: I’m so sad I can’t leave the house tomorrow to meet X because the baby has a cold. Them: Not to worry, you can always rearrange. You: WHY ARE YOU ALWAYS TELLING ME OFF? Consuming three bowls of cereal, three

TV mothers have long provided inspiration to real mothers everywhere, and recently there has been a cooler crop than ever before. Gone are the days when motherhood had to mean boring, with characters like the mum from Malcolm in the Middle, or even Marge Simpson, playing the straight guy to their well-intentioned but useless comedy husbands and tearaway children. Mums on TV now are proving they can be funny, hapless, irresponsible, and brilliant in their own rights. Sharon Horgan in ‘Catastrophe’ is an obvious and excellent example, but my personal TV mum icon is the irrepressible Della from ‘Raised by Wolves’, every time. I might be five children away from the tribe of six she is raising, and I may (in her words) be a ‘Southern Twat’ rather than a ‘Midlands Twat’, but I love her immensely. Here’s why I’ve made it my personal aim in life to Be More Della. Ferocity ‘Raised by Wolves’ is so named because it’s set in Wolverhampton, and because the girls and the ‘babbies’ run in a p

Why having a six-week old is like being a tour manager to a successful and demanding rock goddess… Venues Unless you happen to live within spitting distance of your entire extended families, you will need to tour the baby to venues around the country. Much like hotel rooms, these must be equipped with beds and baths. Unlike (most) hotel rooms (unless very niche), they also need changing mats and a shit ton of baby wipes. Food and drink Like the best rock ‘n’ roll stars, babies need a rider. If you’re breastfeeding, that rider is you. Your presence must be guaranteed 24-7 in order to satisfy this needy little high priestess of rock. Ironically, drinking like a rock star yourself is not recommended. Probably tour managers also need to maintain a measure of sobriety in the face of excess. Bodily fluids I don’t know if tour managers have to deal with musicians who have shat themselves. I imagine they do. Transport You might only have a Hyundai I10, tin can of the road, but t

Babies have much in common with Gillian McKeith. They desperately want to monitor everything you eat or drink as it happens, and will use a magic sixth sense to ensure their involvement in all your meals, even if they have to wake up to do so. The hotter or more liquid the food/drink, the more urgent their desire to watch you consume it. From your lap. With their face as close as possible to yours. The baby’s favourite thing to do at the moment is to stare at a poorly-executed spiral drawn on a bit of paper and then giggle at it. Either she is going to prove very easy to entertain, or a career in hypnosis beckons for me. Speaking of hypnosis, I sang ‘What a Wonderful World’ to the baby on such a long loop the other day that I fell into a kind of trance, and then I saw her little sleeping face in the mirror and burst into tears with the emotion of it all. I don’t even really know any lyrics past the first verse. It was just me, shuffling round the living room, crying and mumbling

I always felt a bit bashful about admitting to my friends that I wanted to have children. I think a big clue as to why lies in the choice of that word: ‘admitted’. It felt like something I wouldn’t say, somehow out of character. And I think that’s probably because it doesn’t sound particularly ambitious or aspirational, or indeed particularly fun. There is something about announcing you want to be a mother which seems harder than saying you want to be a neuroscientist / start an NGO in Nepal / write the Next Great American Novel. Unlike the vote, or having a career, or even owning your own house, motherhood has always been an option available to women. Not just an option, in many cases, but an expectation. Choosing to be a mother seemed like getting to the end of rationing and then choosing to have a spam sandwich for lunch. In a world of so much choice, why limit yourself? Why be so conventional? Why – dare I say it – be so boring? I’ve been thinking about this a lot since I go

It is one of life’s great injustices that having a baby presents some wonderfully funny moments practically every day, and yet there is rarely anyone there to witness them. From the entirely expected (getting pooed on) to the completely surprising (the joy of watching a baby calm down and drift off while listening to ‘Super Sharp Shooter’), there is much to laugh at in baby-rearing. But there is also much that is boring, frustrating, and a bit embarrassing; especially when you’re trying motherhood out for the first time. And ridiculous or embarrassing things only lose their sting if you laugh at them, which can be hard to do alone. Much like trees falling in forests making no sound, comedy that can’t be shared with anyone over a year old often doesn’t feel like comedy at all. Yesterday two ridiculous things happened to me. Firstly, whilst having some work done on the conservatory (very  Abigail’s Party ) I managed to lock myself out of the house. In bare feet. With the baby inside

03.40 Wake up. Feed the baby in ‘side lying position’. Wonder why this is significantly easier on one side than the other. Are my nipples wildly asymmetrical? 03.50 Put baby back down, thanking Jesus that she is the world’s most enthusiastic and efficient eater. She is the Jay Rayner of babies. 03:55 Nod off. 04.00 Wake up and flail madly about, grabbing randomly at the duvet, convinced the baby is still in the middle of the bed. Discover her in the cot, where I put her ten minutes ago. 06.00 Baby has done a poo. I have made a solemn vow to wake C if the baby needs a change in the night. I do so. He asks whether it can wait until his alarm goes off in 15 minutes. I say it can. 06.10 Wracked with guilt, I decide it cannot. C changes baby. 06.15 I’m fully awake now and I need a wee. If i get out of bed will it be annoying that I didn’t just change her myself? It will, but I must. 06.17 On loo reminiscing about sitting in this very spot five weeks ago, in labour. Remember

My friend Caroline laughed when I told her ages ago that I prioritise comfort over style when dressing, but it is 100% true. This is something I’ve really only learned about myself in adulthood: when I was a teenager I listened to a lot of ska punk and spent my life in DC skate shoes, army surplus jackets and Criminal Damage jeans so wide my friend used to shoplift other trousers underneath them. My nickname at the time was Trampy (meant very affectionately, of course) and I embraced it with gusto. It was never a question of style versus comfort – this was my style and I was very comfortable with it. University obviously did nothing to buck this trend – all I managed to add to my look was some pretty scrappy bleached dreadlocks – and so I managed to make it to 22 wearing almost exclusively flat boots and enormous tops with zips and hoods. And everything I have worn so far has sought to replicate that degree of comfort. There is just something so deeply offputting about shoes you c

What the first four weeks have taught me: a list Even the most sensible adults cannot hold a conversation and a baby at the same time. Holding a hungry baby waiting to be breastfed is like holding a truffling piglet. This will lead you to holler ‘every day I’m truffling’ at the baby, several times a day. Everyone knows that babies will immediately do a huge poo as soon as they feel the soft touch of a new nappy on their tiny bottoms, but did you know they will also wee on you the moment they emerge from a bath? Seeing your own muff for the first time in months is like being reacquainted with an old friend. An old friend who has been sorely neglected. Speaking of friends; if you want to make better friends with people who work in Boots, Waitrose, or the Post Office, take a baby in with you. They will leap over the counter to make your acquaintance. N.b. They aren’t actually making friends with you. People you know and love will astound you with their generosity and kindn