Читать книгу Bonkers - Olivia Siegl - Страница 11

CHAPTER 1

BULLS***

OK, so have I got your attention?

I hope so, because I have a feeling in my knackered, mummy bones (without being too presumptuous, as we have only just met) that we are going to be great friends. You know the kind. The kind who, after just five minutes and five swigs of fizzy wine, are sharing life stories, birth trauma, sex-gone-wrong tales and the fact our bikini lines are less Brazilian, more Gorillas in the Mist since pushing a tiny human out. Yes, THAT type of friendship; the type we all dream about and seldom have the pleasure or fortune to have in our new mum-shaped lives.

You and me, I want us to be that type of friend – and like any good, no, GREAT friendship, we need to agree that the things we share between these pages (and what happened between our legs) is, of course, just between us.

Deal?

Can I take it from you silently nodding your head that means you are in?

BRILLIANT!

So, now you’ve managed to stash your tiny human somewhere to get a few minutes peace to read this book, let me introduce myself properly.

My name is Liv. I am the often bedraggled, occasionally ferocious protector of two tiny humans. I am also a writer. The writer bit came second as, before motherhood, I was a closet writer. Which meant, I didn’t have the literary balls to show my work to anyone. However, once I’d shown my vagina to a bunch of strangers (thanks to the beauty of childbirth, not me being a porn star), showing something I’d written to the world was no longer as terrifying as my brain first had me believe (who’d a thunk it?!). Motherhood, for this (and for other unforgettable gifts such as permanent piles, sleepless nights, an uncontrollable bladder, oh, and my two beautiful tiny humans) I thank you.

So, what else can I tell you?

Oh yes, I’m knackered and a little bit mental. Officially, I am the first (knackered) all of the time and have been the second (mental) some of the time. Just to clarify, when I say ‘mental’ I don’t mean the cool London-meets-LA speak ‘mental’. You know the ‘Yeah, my life is SO fooking MENTAL since having kids, I’m like, SO CRAZY’. No. I actually mean, full on, officially diagnosed by a doctor, mental. All thanks to a visit from those two petrifying and incredibly nasty friends, postnatal depression and postpartum psychosis. But more of this delightfully messed-up tale later. (If you are a lover of horror stories and can’t bear the suspense, then feel free to skip the next bit and dive straight into the darkness on page 95).

So, what can I tell you about me on the mum front?

Well for one, I insanely bloody LOVE my tiny humans (two beautiful little girls bursting with character, kindness, snot and glorious sloppy kisses in equal measure) with an unashamed, unbashful and unrelenting ferociousness like no other I’ve known. It is fair to say that I would singlehandedly slay any fool who gets in my way of loving, providing and protecting them. (I know I sound scary; in real life I actually hate confrontation – honest.) Now, don’t get me wrong: like any other good mum out there, I’m not too proud – no, scrap that, I AM proud enough to admit that they also drive me bat-shit-like-a-box-of-frogs-on-speed BONKERS. I love the chaos (most days). I love and hate equally the edges of despair and the precipices of near disasters that I’m teetering on the edge of on an hourly basis thanks to motherhood. And whether or not I have my head together to deal with these days, usually depends on the amount of sleep I haven’t had, the number of cataclysmic tantrums I’ve diffused pre 8 a.m., and if I’ve ran out of my dry shampoo (which, I’ve come to realise, is my only real ally when the Don’t kid yourself that you can leave the house looking like that crap hits the fan).

Now, I know that you’re also busy keeping your part of the human race alive (great job, by the way). So, before we get to crack open the fizzy wine and dive into my knackered mummy soul and the rest of this book, I need to first let you in on a little something. After all, any woman worth her salt knows that the only way to cement a great friendship is with a dirty great confession (or two).

So, here goes:

I haven’t got a clue what I am doing.

Not one.

SERIOUSLY.

Yes, I am a mother of two tiny humans. And yes, most days I am scared out of my tiny mind that I am making the mother of all messups and that I will ruin their lives forever. And, if I’m really honest, I do not have a scooby doo how I veer from one day to the next, with both my tiny humans still happy (ish), still healthy (ish) and still alive (def more than ish).

Fact.

Wow, it feels better to get that off my chest – thanks!

Since becoming a mum, I’ve found that telling the truth, no matter how ugly, disgusting or ridiculous a light it paints you in, makes you feel better. And it makes every other mum feel so much better too. Which got me asking: Why on earth do we all seem so hell bent on hiding this truth when it comes to our own experiences of motherhood?

This leads me nicely to my next confession (I’m on a roll here and I’ve got a feeling due to the fact you are still with me and haven’t put me down to go buy a Kit-Kat or put a wash on that our Every Mum friendship is well on its way to being cemented good and proper). If not the next bit should do the trick…

So here goes, confession No 2:

I don’t always enjoy motherhood.

I know. SHOCK HORROR! Right?

I can hear the perfect parenting vigilantes running down the road shouting ‘Burn the witch!’ right now.

However, isn’t this what we all need to hear? Doesn’t every mum need to hear the honest truth that motherhood, like everything we turn our hand to in life and similar to everything we experience (even the most magical) isn’t always enjoyable all of the time? And that it is totally OK to feel this way. In fact, totally normal and it doesn’t mean you’re a witch or a terrible mum.

Yes. I know. Big, HUGE confession to make so early in our friendship. Bear with me and I’ll tell all.

You see, pre-motherhood I had this image of the mum I was going to be and the sort of motherhood I was going to have. It was the type of motherhood I’d read about in all the magazines and on all the blogs and had seen in films. In my Perfect Mummy mind’s eye, I was happy, confident and in total control of this ship called Mother. Breezing through my new mum life, creating a perfect home, running a successful new baby business (because that’s what all new mums do right?), clad in white linen with a smiley and easy-going baby attached effortlessly to my hip and me enjoying every second of it.

But then, something happened. I pushed a tiny human out of my vagina, and ever since I’ve noticed a distinct smell of something quite different in the air.

Do you smell it too?

Since becoming a mum do you also feel surrounded by a distinct smell of shit? I do. And, the smell, my lovely new friend, is not coming from my tiny human’s nappy or the Poo Pants of Shame I stuffed in my nappy bag three weeks postpartum after accidentally pooing myself in the middle of Mothercare. (Cheers, Mother Nature, for the heads-up that childbirth runs amok with more than just your bladder).

Oh no, that smell burning in my nostrils following the birth of my first tiny human, was the distinct smell of judgmental bullshit being flung at me and other mums from every direction and sucking the joy out of my experience of motherhood. From how I was handling my pregnancy to how I gave birth. Was I bottle-feeding or breast-feeding? Was I a baby wearer? A co-sleeper? A gentle parent? A dummy lover? A baby-lead weaner? To just when exactly was my tiny human planning to crawl, walk, talk, start applying for MENSA!

And you know what? It made me sad. It made me angry. It made me want to do something!

This book in your hands is me Doing Something.

It is me making a stand for every mum out there and saying enough, is enough. Stop with all the perfect parenting propaganda. Stop with all the pressure to be the perfect mum. Stop with all the judgement thrown at mums trying to make the best decisions for themselves and their families. Just please STOP with all the perfect parenting nonsense. Please!

Instead, this book is about bathing in the beauty of own our truth. It is about us being brave. It is about owning our own crazy, beautiful, challenging, dirty, hilarious, disgusting and honest mum reality. It is us telling the world that we are mums who sometimes get it right. We are mums who sometimes make mistakes. We are mums who sometimes have our life together. We are mums who sometimes want to run away from our responsibilities like we are running from a burning building. We are mums who sometimes suffer with our mental health. We are mums who sometimes look hot and we are mums who sometimes just look like we have peeled ourselves off the local park bench after being run over by a herd of snot-wielding tiny humans. However, this is us. This is who we are. No smoke and mirrors, no airbrushing.

For every mum out there feeling lost in the wilderness of motherhood. For every mum out there feeling pressure to be the perfect mum. For every mum out there questioning why their life does not look like the parenting described in the media. For every mum suffering with their mental health. For every mum feeling like they are alone. For every mum questioning if they are a good enough mum. For every mum feeling judged. This book is for you!

I want to show every mum that you are good enough. That you are doing a good job. That regardless of whatever is going on with you right this second that you are one hell of a mum and a woman. You are magnificent. Yes, just as you are. No matter how long it’s been since you last washed your hair. No matter how short your temper is because you haven’t had more than two hours of goddam sleep. No matter how imperfect and inadequate you feel when measured up against your pre-baby vision of how life as a mum should be. Just you hold on to this fact: you are already the perfect mum for your glorious, milk-scented, chubby-legged tiny human and regardless of what motherhood throws at you:

You BLOODY ROCK!

Welcome, my friend, to the every mum revolution.

Hold on to your stitches and nappy bags; it’s going to be one hell of a ride!