Becky Boop

There is a button, introduced to me by my friend Simon, which I use more and more the deeper I get into maternity leave. It is not a real button, it’s a metaphorical one, but I still imagine it as big and red, and making a satisfying ‘thunk’ when activated. This is the charmingly-named ‘fuck it’ button, and you use it to keep yourself sane. For example… Scenario 1: The door bell rings. You pick the baby up. The baby suddenly does a poo of such velocity that it miraculously leaps from her nappy and down her leg, from whence it travels all down your boob and also your leg and, somehow, a bit of your hair. When to activate the button: You’re still going to have to answer the door, so you press the button and use the baby as a human shield to cover up both her and your own pooey state. This exacerbates the clean up operation no end, but at least you look clean when you open the door to the Yodel guy. Scenario 2: You and the baby go swimming, you are delighted with how much she lov

When you become a parent, you become someone else’s lifeline. Obviously breastfeeding makes this fact very palpable and obvious, but it’s true of every aspect of looking after a baby. The responsibility can be overwhelming if you think about it for more than five minutes / when tired / when hormonal. It’s quite often said in baby books and on the several thousand websites I seem to peruse daily that mothering is hard because it’s all give and not much take. You’re the lifeline, busy providing and sustaining, but sometimes you need to be the one being looked after. And I have been, in so many ways, by so many people. This is a list of some of lifelines that have been cast my way in the last 11 weeks, big and small. I couldn’t have done it without them. Midwives, because they… Look sympathetic and give you a hug when you burst into tears in hospital about the fact you have constipation, despite the fact that they are juggling a dozen far more serious issues, as well as other crazy

So, there I was, twenty hours into labour and being told the baby was breech. My first thought was “bloody hell”, my second thought was “my sodding midwife”, and my third thought was “thank Christ for that, my vagina is saved”, in that order. This meant that I promptly burst into tears and then recovered myself in very quick succession. I was told that there was no chance of manually turning the baby as my waters had broken (wouldn’t have done that anyway, sounds awful) and my options were to have a C-section or attempt delivery. I think I’d opted for a section before the doctor had even finished her sentence. After that everything sped up. I was taken to a room on a different floor, where an earnest anaesthetist explained the risks of the operation and the anaesthetic. I tried manfully (womanfully?) to listen politely, but by this point my contractions were coming every two minutes and it felt like my womb/pelvic floor was transforming into some kind of Iron Maiden. Periodically