Tresillian's top tips

Tresillian is a remarkable place, unique to Australia and so popular, the queue to get in is longer than a James Bond Premier in Leicester Square. It's a "sleep-clinic" of sorts, for newborn babies through to toddlers of 24months. It exists as the Royal Society for the Welfare of Mothers and Babies, and is part-hospital, part-"parenthood"-university. You get 24hr assistance with your child and advice/support regarding how best to put your baby to sleep, as well as individual counselling and group therapy sessions. After my four nights in the clinic, here are my key take-outs, based on conversations I had with nursing staff and from what I observed whilst there.

(1) Save Our Sleep and other such sleep doctrines, are not for all babies....so please, do not presume that what cracked your child's sleep patterns will crack mine. Well done you for finding something that works for you. But don't be arrogant enough to presume that a baby's sleeping behaviour is a "one size fits all" scenario.

(2) Early developers and hyperalert newborns are usually the ones who have difficulty sleeping. It's one of the only common threads that bind Tresillian babies. So don't beat yourself up over something that might not be within your control; if your baby was the type who had head control from the moment they popped into the world, you'll know what I'm talking about.

(3) Control crying usually doesn't work in children older than 12 months. By this time, your bubba will have developed very strong sleep associations. These associations give your child a sense of control and order in their world. A sense of comfort and security. Suddenly stopping their normal 'routine' (no matter how infuriating it is to you) can be incredibly distressing for everyone - including the neighbours, because at this point your kid could part traffic with the sound of his scream! So go slowly. Ease into your new routine. Stay with them while they fall asleep for their first night... The nurses at Tresillian advised that Baby Love was a good starting point for starting new sleep patterns.

(4) Find some patience. I have none of it personally. And it sucks that I need it. But I am going to have to find some from somewhere (behind the couch?) if I want this new routine to work. And you'll have to do the same. In the words of Rachel Hunter, "it won't happen overnight, but it will happen."  

(5) Close the milk bar at 6 months. You can stop breast/bottle feeding babies from 6months of age. They are physically advanced enough to cope without a nighttime feed (obviously, speak to a doctor before you do this incase your child has special considerations). The longer you leave it past this age, the more of a battle it becomes to stop the feeding. Think about it: if you were being offered a warm bottle of chocolate milk every night, even when you were drowsy, you certainly wouldn't refuse it would you? In fact, you'd be getting quite used to the sugar rush at a certain time and would start to wake for that chocolate milk, wouldn't you? Your baby, and your boob/bottle, is no different.

(6) There is no "one way" to send your child to sleep. This was, without doubt, the most frustrating part of my Tresillian stay. One nurse would send Frankie to sleep by sitting on a chair outside her bedroom and repeatedly Shushing her until she eventually fell asleep (this took forever). Another nurse sat in the room with Frankie and patted her, and calmly told her to "lie down". She then crept out the door, shushing the whole way, until she finally exited the room. This too, took forever. The third nurse simply picked Frankie up, plonked her on her tummy, and told her to "Lie down. Go to bed" in a forceful, and commanding tone. She then walked to the door and every time Frankie cried out or made a move to stand up, the nurse would (quite aggressively) shush her and once again tell her to lie down as she plonked her down on the bed. This was the most effective method for Frankie. But I'll be buggered if it has worked for me since I got home! The learning from all this is that you have to work at different strategies until you find the one that works best for you. Frankie is sleeping 2 hrs during the day (ish), and 10hrs straight at night. Something seems to have work, which proves the point that TRESILLIAN WORKS IN MYSTERIOUS WAYS...........

Happy birthday, my love.

At 4.30am this morning Frankie woke up distressed and I decided to take her into my bed. I lay her down, coaxing her back to sleep with a rhythmic, gentle shushing. But this time,  I wasn't able to join her in a state of blissful slumber. Instead, I remained awake and positioned myself so that her dream-breath kissed my face. I love the smell of her breath; it sticks to my skin like laundry powder on fresh linen.

Frankie is turning one this week. Time is never truly measurable until you have a child and witness the change that a day can make. It can mean the difference between a stumble, and a stride.  A gurgle, and a word.

The bad days pass agonisingly slowly, and yet by the time dawn breaks the child you put to bed is not the child you now hold in your arms. She is bigger. Wiser. Stronger. And always, eternally, surprising. The good days are the ones you brag about. The ones that you simply can't hold the pride inside, and must share it with the world or you will burst. They're the days that you bombard Facebook with videos, or call your cousins just to say 'hello' (but secretly, to brag a little bit that your baby is now crawling!)

Frankie - Frances - because of you I now live on a wide, flat plain of love. There is air, there is earth, and there is you.

Happy birthday, my love.

Mumma Anxiety: Stress Less Jess

I take a deep gulp and feel the blush creep up my cheek, hot with shame. Invisible pins prink my eyes so I close them, knowing that the embarrassment will be worse if I cry.

"I'm not coping", I whisper. My stomach heaves with the effort of the words. "It's taking over my life".

I open my eyes and see compassion in the face of the doctor opposite me. She sees my child writhing about in my arms, and a look of sympathy washes over her. Instantly my shame dissipates - I know she doesn't think I'm a failure. She just recognises that I have a problem.

Before I had my child, I was an anxious sort of person. Since having Frankie, I've become a mess. I knew things were getting bad when even the thought of doing 'ordinary' things started to paralyse me. I long-ago gave up taking Frankie shopping; it was simply too difficult to have her in the pram for such a long stretch of time. And here I was thinking it was her....restless, active, energetic Frankie. No, quite simply, it was me. And my issues. It's never been about her. The truth is, she feeds off my anxiety - not vice-versa. She sees me panic, and has a field day.

Last weekend I knew it was serious when Andy and I went for a hiking trip in the Blue Mountains. We hadn't done our planning in advance, and I was in a state of full-blown-panic. I screamed at Andy that we couldn't go. How could we possibly expect her to sit still in the backpack for a few hours in a row. We hadn't prepared her food. Where would we change her nappy? She would need to be in the car for 1.5hrs......IMPOSSIBLE!!! The fear welled up inside me and manifested itself into rage, poor Andy bearing the worst of my attack.

Gently, Andy insisted I get help.

This is killing us. This is killing me. And I'm sure, soon enough, I'll be the one to blame for all of Frankie's insecurities too.

It's tough to admit when you're not coping. That the slightest of tasks leaves you feeling weak at the knees. I look at other mums who manage to work, bake, exercise, and wax and I wonder HOW they do it. It's too steep a mountain for me to climb. And I need to stop using my overly energetic child as an excuse and look at the real problem source. Me.

I feel like a spectacular failure, and I wonder why the Universe doesn't hand out points for how much you love your child and the higher the score, the easier the motherhood experience. If that was the case, than I'd be the most chilled out mum in the world, because I love Frankie more than I love breathing. I never cease to wonder why I find things so.........difficult. And not just difficult...........frightening. 

Next week I have an appointment with a psychologist to help me get things back on track. I hope that the adage "Happy Mum, Happy Bub" rings true, and soon enough I'll be calmer in myself and have a calmer child as a result. Wish me luck. I feel I need it.

The grass is greener, and all that jazz.

I look at other mums, and I reckon they've got it made. Their babies sleep longer than Frankie, some even through the night. Their babies don't scream every time they're peeled out of mummy's arms. Their babies sit still for more than 4seconds at a time. It's not that I don't love my child, but my endless baby-comparison-cycle has me questioning - Is the linen really always softer on the other side of the cot? 

I look at the mums around me who somehow manage to do "it all". They make hairdresser appointments, and keep them. They cook organic, sugar-less, salt-less, wheat-less creations from scratch while bub plays happily alone with a trolley full of toys for entertainment. These women can even go away for weekends and leave bubba with the grandparents because (and this point is completely outside my sphere of comprehension) their bub will behave himself and will sleep through the night.

Frankie is healthy, beautiful, and very, very strong. She is 11 months old, and can run. She can push her pram around at the park even when it has its breaks on. I love watching the way in which she learns from the world around her - she is a kinaesthetic learner and understands things best through touch. I love her unconditionally for who she is but sometimes it feels like she is, quite frankly, tougher work than the other kids.

Frankie rarely sits still for a story. Or, for that matter, a nappy change. On a daily basis, like a looped record, I hear myself say to kind strangers who approach Frankie, "It's not you who's made her scream, she's just going through a shy stage right now" (Sometimes I find it easier just to tell people she's sick).

I secretly wish that she'd perform for others the way she does with me some times; I quite literally WILL her to giggle, dance, sing, and kiss like she does for me at home. But Frankie glares at people suspiciously, clings to me, grows silent and stubborn, and at times seems genuinely frightened of others.  And whilst I do get some incredible moments with Frankie on my own, I also find that the majority of my time with her is spent entertaining her. She seems to tire so quickly of the toys she has, and when I leave her she follows me around the house as though the umbilical cord still binds us, and she hasn't quite understood that it was cut 11 months ago.

Sometimes I wonder whether my anxiety is rubbing off on her, but have no way of determining this. All I know is that a very small part of me wishes I could 'trade her in' for a different model - just for a day or two - to see how the other half live.

I'd love to wake up (after 5am for a change) and do my make up or have a shower. I'd love to hear Frankie murmuring contentedly in her bed when she wakes, rather than screaming the house down, and launching herself out of my arms to run around like a crazed chicken. What I'd give for a baby that would allow me 20 minutes alone to prepare her dinner while she pranced about with only her toys for company.

But maybe a "swapsies" to see how the other half live would teach me a thing or two about how lucky I am with my overly-energetic, overly-skeptical child. Maybe the experience would open my eyes to some of the things that I take for granted with Frankie. She eats virtually everything (although, in fairness, she'll eat nothing off a spoon...) She already knows how to tell me when she's doing a wee or a poo, which I think is pretty spectacular*. Perhaps I will find her own quirks and behaviours more adorable, such as her obsession with the electric toothbrush and her fascination with carrying the potty around the house under her arm.

I know that these tough times will pass and that in the not-too-distant future she will be sleeping well, and out of her separation anxiety phase. But this feels like a lifetime away and in the meantime all I can do is ponder whether the grass is greener on the other side, or whether I should stop my pondering and be grateful for the divinely beautiful baby girl I have in my life right now.


*Frankie is virtually always running around our house without a nappy. She tells me when she's going to have a wee by pointing to the ground, and rubbing the spot where the wee is about to fall, and saying "Weh weh". Sure enough, 5seconds after she has done this, she will wee right onto the floor. (Or, unpleasantly, poo.... I really should put her in nappies more often but I love staring at her gorgeous bottom too much!) 

Poor little possum

The dreaded first illness has finally descended upon us. It's taken a full 10months to unleash it's wrath, but it has struck with violent force in the guise of an ear infection.

I should have realised something was up when Frankie's started to tilt a little to the left. She was walking in circles, like a stunned possum who had recently fallen out of a tree and couldn't quite get her bearings. I found it funny at first -- 'oh, look at Frankie, she's doing a silly little dance', but I soon realised something was up when she couldn't walk in a straight line without tumbling over.

Things got progressively worse and I finally clocked that something was wrong when Frankie's temperature registered above 38degrees, and her cheeks were burning like a shamed Aussie rower on a night out after a medal-less final.

My partner and I rushed her to the local GP (PS. if you live in Coogee, don't go to the Bream Street Practice) who wasn't exactly lavishing attention upon our child. She barely took her eyes off her computer screen long enough to assess Frankie's condition; perhaps we interrupted a good game of Grand Theft Auto or something, who knows?

Anyhoo, a barely-there doctor took one look at her and advised us that Frankie had 'Slap Cheek'. What now? I looked nervously about me, wondering whether today was the day that the social workers would peer out from behind the curtain and take my daughter away from me. Dr. Disinterested started to explain it was a type of viral infection, but midway through her monotone diagnosis-delivery, she saw Frankie pulling on her ear and decided to give it a quick looksy. Well, what do you know, it wasn't Slapped Cheek after all (what a name, I tell you!). A routine ear infection, and wham-bam-thank-you-maam, here are the Antibiotics.

5 nights later (2 of which, shock horror, Frankie slept for a whopping 12hrs in a row) and she's not an awful lot better. So displeased with our GP's prognosis were we, that today we sought a second opinion. Turns out Dr. Disinterested was right enough, it was/is an ear infection, but quite a serious one, requiring a fair bit more patience on my behalf to ride out the infection and wait for better days ahead.

Poor, poor bubba has never been so sooky. But I've soaked up the extra cuddles and put up with the backpain inflicted upon me by carrying a red-cheeked baby around 24/7. And, somewhat selfishly, I'm kind of OK with her delayed return to health. It means I clock up a few more hours sleep at night than my daughter would normally afford me!

OK - quick one. A little round of applause must go to Kathmandu and their child carrier. This hero of a product keeps Frankie calm and content for hours. Literally, hours. Anyone who knows my child knows how much of a feat this is.

It's obviously good for what it was intended for; long walks and treks in the great outdoors. But it is perfect for shopping (forget about steering your pram one-handed  down narrow supermarket aisles with your plastic shopping basket precariously balanced  in the other), nipping out to hang up the laundry, or even just freeing you up during the witching hour to get some cooking done while bubbalugs enjoys herself watching you go about your business.

Thank you Kathmandu. You rock my world.

More metrestone than milestone for Frankie's first steps.

Well, HELLO walking baby! This is a nice surprise for your mum. (OK, not so much of a surprise; Let's be honest, you've been threatening this for months now. So long in fact that I started to wonder whether you'd just lost your bottle? Ha, get it?)

So anyway - it is official - Frankie took her first proper steps just after she turned 8months. Since then, she's barely managed more than a couple - 4 steps max - without face planting into the carpet, or (ooops) concrete. Yes, my sporty child is now sporting battle scars for her efforts. I couldn't be prouder.

I wouldn't exactly call it 'proper' walking so much as I would call it a very fine impersonation of a drunk zombie. She starts by crawling along an item of furniture until she literally has nowhere else to go. She then turns her body around, takes one cautious hand after another off the sofa/coffee table and propels herself forward - both arms extended - stumbling towards what she hope will catch her and break her fall. Ceeeute.

I had no idea how very difficult a concept it actually is for our children to lift their feet up off the floor. If you watch them trying, it seems as though their feet are super-glued down, with any slight movement upwards shifting their whole center of gravity. It's incredible how one day, poof, this superglue dissolves and away they go...

I've yet to train Frances to do the walking gig on command I'm afraid, hence the lack of video footage for overseas Frankie enthusiasts. Soon enough, I hope.

Thought I'd keep you all in the loop. I guess this move to Coogee has been a winner all round... despite the initial teething and moving woes, Frankie has finally started to properly sleep for 11hours straight, AND she looks set to take to the stage in the next Step Up movie. Atta girl, Frank Frank. Mumma loves ya.

No friends on Ramsey Street

It's 4am and I hear yet another blood-curdling scream. The thick walls of my 1920's apartment provide little defense against the wails of my 8 month old baby. I throw back the covers with a sigh that gives way to a small gasp, as the chill of the winter dawn assaults me. All I can think is, my neighbours must hate me.

We have finally made the move from my parents' home into a place of our own. With our new found independence comes the sudden removal of some of the creature comforts that living with my parents has afforded us. A full home to ourselves, for example, on its own plot of land, detatched from the innocent ears of our neighbours. A home where our baby could cry to her heart's content without the associated stress of waking up the neighbours. Sure, I had to worry about Frankie's effect on my own parents, but it's a lot less of a worry when you factor in the unconditional love that grandparents have for her.

Our new home is - in a word -  petit. It's far smaller by comparison to Frankie's last residence, and there aren't two whole floors of space for her to call her own. Gone is Frankie's entertainment space, her backyard, her front yard, her bedroom and her own private bathroom. Gone is the bath, for that matter! Suddenly Frankie finds herself 'stuck' - easily bored within the confines of our art deco abode.

I'm freaking out that the neighbours are one screaming-fit away from banging down our door and forcefully removing us with the aid of flaming torches and oversized pitchforks. If the relocation of our 8 month old wasn't a traumatic enough an experience on its own, try adding teething to the equation. She's now sporting 3 shiny new teeth, which certainly make her look cuter, but unfortunately doesn't win her any friends on Ramsey Street.

Having learned much over the last few weeks, here are my Top Tips for moving house with a baby

1) Paracetamol can be a lifesavour:
Only you will be able to judge whether your baby is traumatised emotionally by sleeping in a new house, or whether those screams are ones of pain. We tried good old-fashioned comforting to help ease any fears of a scary new house, but after a few hours of getting nowhere, we found paracetamol did the trick. Obviously, make sure it's baby paracetamol and your doctor ok's it first!
2) Stay with them for a while:
If your baby was sleeping reasonably well before the move, you can at least hope they'll return to the good-old-days eventually. Whilst you will tread the line of creating a bad habit for yourself in the future, show your baby you aren't deserting them in this new environment. That just like always, you're here for them. We found the whole "stay in the room with your hand on her tummy" thing worked for us with Frankie. But we have now gotten into the bad habit of bringing her into bed with us at 4am to get her to sleep longer until 6am. Our mistake, I know, but it's better than having her persistantly wake the neighbours at that ungodly hour.
3) Be nice to your neighbours
We didn't have the guts to knock on our neighbours' doors individually and introduce ourselves and our bubba girl, but by now everyone knows we are here. Kind of hard to ignore the pram in the entrance way.... We have, however, gone out of our way to talk to every neighbour we run into when we see them in the communal halls, and offer our apologies for the baby's fitful slumber. Luckily, everyone has been very kind and whilst they have certainly admitted to hearing her through the night, they seem to sympathise with our plight and get on with their own lives. Still, doesn't hurt to be uber nice, and offer them a cup of sugar when they need it in the future!

Wish me luck, as we continue on our mission to getting Frankie settled and secure in her new home.

A poem for my daughter, Frances Leigh.

I tasted the salt of your tears before you did. I would kiss them away before they fell down your cheek.

I knew every groove, curve and bump of your head before it was dressed with its amber red locks. 

I gifted you music through my lullabies. Sent you to sleep on the wave of my melody.

My body, your first source of food. My naked skin against yours, your first source of heat.

I knew you before you knew yourself. And I loved you before you were real.

You are my daughter, my blessing, my life.

Bit behind the eight ball. Say it with me now. "Ball".

On the day that Frankie was born, entering the world via the 'sunroof' option and being held up to me over the plastic screen, she has held her head high. Three minutes after her birth the midwife said to my partner and I that she had impressive head control for a newborn. And from that first day onwards, she's just gotten stronger and stronger.

Often this is to my personal detriment. How I wish for a baby I could have cuddled up with, rather than one who pushed off me to explore the world at the ripe old age of 4 months. Or how sweet it must be to have a child that you don't have to pull off the furniture she's climbed up onto at seven months of age. But there are perks too, and it is nice to see your little girl get progressively quicker and stronger in front of your eyes.

All this emphasis that she's placed on moving around has meant that she's not had the focus or energy for other stuff. Like speaking. And I wonder - what is this mad race she's embarked upon cost her in terms of her mental development? Or should I just be sitting back and chanting the mantra, everything in good time?

Frankie has only started babbling this last month. We got "dada" repeatedly for a very long time, which made her father all puffed up with pride, despite the fact that it was indiscriminantly voiced. Now we're getting a plethora of sounds; delicious in their melody and often interspersed with giggles. But as other babies are connecting their words to things and uttering some very impressive statements such as "dog, here", Frankie is still speaking jibberish.

I'm now experiencing for the first time what it feels like to be on the later side of developmental milestones. It's never been a factor before, because our wee athlete's been streaming ahead physically. And it's not as though I haven't been trying with her. I throw her a ball and say "Ball. Ball. Ball" She throws it back to me and I say "Mummy's ball. Mummy throws ball back to Frankie". And she's staring so intently at the ball, waiting for it to be thrown back to her that she literally drowns out my words. She plain old doesn't care. Frankie looks up at me with furrowed eyebrows and, whilst no words escape her lips, I know what she's thinking "hurry up and throw the damn ball, mum, or I'm gonna come right over there and get it myself."

Well, I'm happy with her however she develops. She's beautiful, and healthy, and delicious. So what if she is no great orator at 8months of age. Perhaps she's a writer in the making; more of a listener, less of a talker. Whatever the reason, she just isn't interested in words right now which is a good thing to some degree. It'll be a lot longer before I hear her say "NO" to me. And that's not such a bad thing....

Your momma's so fat.....

There was a time - when I was about 13 years old - when I used to laugh myself silly at American "Your momma" jokes. My particular favourite was "Your momma's so fat, she sells shade in the summer".

I never thought I'd become one of those jokes myself.

Today I went shopping with another new mum, whose daughter is the same age as Frankie. Now, this mum-who-shall-forever-remain-nameless is one of those mothers that makes the whole thing look easy. She is so in love with her child that it radiates out of her like heat from a Smeg oven. She holds down a full time job, is completing her MBA, cooks muffins that make you drool worse than your 7month old teething baby, and she looks great. Always.

So here I am with my amazing mum-mate, looking for a new pair of jeans. I stumble across some cheap ones that will do me well while I'm unemployed....(good ones are a luxury I can't afford until I reenter the workforce, you see). Anyhow, I pick up a size 10 by habit, whack them in my trolley and continue along my way.

I got home twenty minutes ago and tried these new jeans on. And I was left pondering one thing; when is someone going to invent a 'shoehorn' to help people fit into their jeans?

And then it dawned on me - they have! It exists! It is called a diet and there are literally thousands on the market out there.

I took my jeans off and they were stuck so tightly that I managed to remove my knickers as well. Looking down on my naked self in shame I couldn't deny it any longer. I need to lose some weight.

Goodbye Old Jamaica dark chocolate. Goodbye full fat milk and cheese. I shall henceforth go sulkingly forward with my celery stick and Americano in hand. I have exactly 8 weeks until a certain trip to Bali which will require me baring all in a swimming costume and I don't want to scare the locals.

I am not going to turn into a living, breathing fat momma joke.  So help me God!

How to raise a leader.

Sheryl Sandberg (COO Facebook and mother of two) has left me questioning what kind of a daughter am I going to raise? And how will I explain to her that despite living in a 'lucky' country, where women have the same rights and liberties as men and are equally educated, women hold only 15% of the nation's leadership positions? Julia Gillard presents a promising role model for the next generation of young women, however she is the exception to the rule and the numbers of women in such leadership positions are dwindling.

Why is it that women and men may be equally competent, but men are liked for their achievements and women, on average, are not? Why is it that in families where both parents are in full-time employment that the mother will be doing twice the amount of housework and three times the amount of childcare? Why is it that women shy away from taking on more responsibility at work the moment they decide to have children? And why is it that women are so afraid to champion themselves in the workplace and demand a payrise, a promotion, or at the very least, credit for their achievements?

In Sandberg's video, she addresses these points and suggests ways that we ladies can change the statistics without necessarily having to make sacrifices. It's inspiring stuff. My favourite take-out is that women must be prepared to "Sit at the table" - have an opinion, share it, and show everyone that you believe yourself to be a valuable contributor. In my own experience, this is something I know to be difficult and have on many occasions sat back and let others make decisions for fear of appearing unintelligent and unworthy.

I hope that in years to come Frankie understands that whatever work she does - whether she is a homemaker, astronaut, or Prime Minister - that she is respected for her contribution and can adopt a leadership role if she so chooses. I hope that the person that offers her the most amount of respect is herself, and that she realises that having a child can be the end of her professional career but it will be her decision - no-one elses - and that she is responsible for her own fulfillment.

Glum Mum

Lately I feel as though I am sliding. I can't seem to grip onto the sides; there is no branch for me to grab to halt my descent. I'm sinking under a weight of options - a hundred kilos of decisions to be made. I'm overwhelmed by it all and I seem to have given up all hope that I'll make it out of this funk I'm in. 

Where did it start? I would have to say it all began when Frankie started to take the bottle. I was joyous at the prospect of independence for the first time; I could give Frankie over to someone else to look after so that I could grab a few precious hours to myself. But with this good fortune came fear - I no longer had an excuse for not putting Frankie into daycare and going back to work. 

The dreaded 'w' word (that's right, 'work') has plagued me my entire life. I have never found my niche or comfort zone professionally and have lived a life of freelance ever since, wanting never to be bound by the chains of permanent employment. With the end of every contract I've uttered the words "I want a career change", but I've never had the guts to go out and do it. (NB: This is not exactly true. I did try, once, and did  my TEFL course in Prague. This coincides with the time that Frankie was conceived, so I never actually achieved that illusive career change). 

I now have a child that I'm responsible for. I'm not married to a doctor. My partner isn't even a banker. So I guess it means I simply must return to work to make sure that we can afford Sydney rent, swimming lessons, GP appointments, and petrol. The deadline is looming - we move out of my parents' house in a little over a month, so I simply must decide what I want to do when I return to the working world. It is this decision which is weighing me down and causing my chest to compress until the air escapes from me in a whimper.

What makes things worse is that I see supermums all around me. You know the type; women who have no problems making it to their exercise class, cooking, keeping a tidy house, looking a million dollars, and raising well behaved babies all at the same time. Here I am, exasperated by a child that never stops moving, my hair in a permanently disheveled,  still with 5kilos of babyweight to lose, and takeaway on the table more nights than most. How will I ever manage going back to work? 

There are thousands of options for me professionally and I am grateful for my education and experience in advertising. But is this what I want to do? Can I afford to start in a new career on a hefty paycut? And what career, exactly, could I get into?

I haven't even thought about my childcare options which is yet another worry, because I'm led to believe that the waiting lists are longer than a queue to the Primark sales in Manchester. "Everything will work out in the end", or so we are constantly told, but who really believes this? 

I know I want another child and I feel guilty that I want this bubba to arrive soon to give me another excellent excuse for delaying my next career move. Motherhood is without a doubt my favourite job ever, and the realisation that this is going to move from a permanenet role into a part-time position when I go back to the real world has me much more upset than I would ever wish to be.

Call me mother. An ode to the 1950's housewife.

Inspired by my grandmother’s life story and motivated by my parents’ absence**, tonight I attempted my best impersonation of a 1950’s housewife. And let me tell y’all – it was tough work!

My goal was to have an impeccable (or at the very least, tidy) kitchen, dinner in the oven, cold beer in the fridge, baby in bed, and be wearing perfume and pearls by the time my husband returned from a long day at the office.

Sound impossible? Challenging, certainly, but achievable with a bit of forward planning. Let me tell you how I accomplished this miraculous feat, my fellow sisters of the 21st century motherhood club.

(1)   Forego your coffee dates with other mothers. Gulp. Doesn’t that sound so utterly unfair? You’d have to be some kind of crazy to give that up, right? Let me put this into perspective for you. My grandmother had four children and a husband who worked 3 jobs every day to afford to put food on the table. When she wasn’t cooking, she was doing laundry. When she wasn’t doing laundry, she was mending socks. And when she wasn’t mending socks, she was cooking again. Occasionally, bless her, she’d get some respite when she’d pop next door to Mary’s place for half an hour to borrow a cup of flour and have a yarn. We modern mums need to remember that we are living a life of luxury with our coffee dates and yoga classes. You’d be amazed at how self-satisfying it can be to sacrifice these indulgences in order to have a tidy home and a delicious meal in the oven. One missed coffee date and I had a valuable hour up my sleeve to do the vacuuming. Incredible.

(2)   No late afternoon walk to appease the whinging bub. At some point we are all guilty of treating our children as though they are the centre of our universe. But consider the French for un moment (as is the fashion in the world of motherhood literature at present). Their children are important and loved, but they are not treated like miniature-sized kings. I am pathetic when it comes to pandering to my child. Ever restless, I find myself having to pacify her in the pram or the baby bjorn at least twice a day. I’m keeping my weight down (yay!), but losing valuable “housewife points” by constantly being on the move (boo!). In the afternoon my grandmother would be sorting out the evening meal and making sure she was beautiful in preparation for my Grandpa’s arrival. My late-afternoon stroll has me looking more gym bunny than playboy bunny, and so I vowed to leave Frankie to her own devices to amuse herself for a while. There were a few tears, but we both survived it. Bien Sur!

(3)   Remember the bedroom. Lately, my own bedroom has been feeling a little neglected. I have been able to keep the rest of the household in some sort of working order, but my room has turned into a dumping ground of epic proportions. This is our love den! This is our sanctuary! My lack of respect for its condition is proving that I am lacking in good housewifey-ness. Make the bed. Straighten the sheets. Sweep. Dust. Put on a candle. You’ll not only feel better as a wife, you’ll feel better as a human. I promise.  

I appreciate that life has moved on since my grandmother's generation of women and things have been
made a lot easier for us. But with all the great advantages of the modern age, maybe something is
missing? A little bit of selflessness can lead to a real sense of achievement. For one of only a few
moments since having Frankie, this experiment made me feel like I was both a confident mum and a
credible wife.

**Yes, I am 30 years old, living with my parents, my partner and our 7month old baby. Don’t judge me.

Sans-Cappucino and my hyperactive child

She moves across the floor like a wagon making its way through the wild west. She is wobbly, but focussed and sure enough she gets where she wants to be.

Not content unless in motion, she cranes her neck looking for an object heavy enough to suit her purpose and soon finds it. A cushioned footrest is the perfect climbing aparatus. Now she needs to work her yoga magic to pull herself into standing pose.

"Here I am" she shouts for all the world to hear. It comes out like an excited groan; I wonder when she will finally start using syllables instead of this manly monkey mating call that she's fashioned onto? She groans again, "Look at me".

I smile from across the room and continue to drink my coffee. She mimics me, but puts my own smile to shame. Her two bottom teeth flash like icebergs above her gums.

Thump, thump, thump, she plays music by banging her palms against the footrest. This action contents her for all of four seconds before she deems that she has had quite enough of this malarky, and is ready for her next adventure.

Madamoiselle surveys the room. Where to next?

Suddenly, she realises she is stuck. Her excited groan soon turns into a frustrated one. I hear a "humpf" escape from her as she looks left, than right, but knows she can't go either way without falling over. Resigned to the fact that she's going to take a tumble, she lets go of the footrest that has been propping her up. I hear another thump, but this is the sound of her chubby bottom connecting with the wooden floorboards. Whilst the laws of physics were always going to command that she fall down, it still came as a surprise to her. The wailing begins.

I leave her to cry and keep an observant eye on activities from behind my coffee cup. "C'mon poppet" I purr, "You're ok". She accepts that no cuddle is coming, and realises that ten seconds has elapsed without her having moved. Putting my own exercise regime to shame, Frankie does a mini-press up and her body is in a perfect inverted 'V' against the floor. She pulls her knees down and starts moving, this time towards the vase in the corner of the room with the sweetest fragrance of fresh lavendar.

This is trouble. We've yet to formally baby-proof our home and she has already broken this vase once, requiring emergency glue treatment . I have tried my best with a playpen for emergencies (when I smell like a 4 week old crust of parmesan that's been hidden in the back of the fridge and simply must, must, must have a shower while she is awake) but she hates her prison confines. So I choose to watch over her during playtime instead of leaving her be - on my own head be it.

Quickly I whisk her off the floor and away from the already damaged vase. Trapped in my arms she wrestles against me - I wonder briefly whether she'll ever have a career as a self-defense teacher in girls' high schools. She certainly has a knack for getting out of tough grips. In my arms she pushes, kicks, and wriggles with a strength that defies the 8kilos she is packing.

This little ball of energy does at time exhaust me. I wonder where she gets it from. Certainly I am no lazy sloth, but nor am I a hyperactive middle-aged girlguide wannabe with oodles of energy spilling out of my every pore. As I ponder her maddening nonstop motion it dawns on me that perhaps I am responsible. For there, on the other side of the room, lies my second empty cup of coffee. What I have presumed to be a necessity for managing her energetic behaviour may in fact be the cause of her energetic behaviour.

And now I am left in a frightfulfully awful predicament. Am I willing (and able) to survive a week without coffee to judge the impact on little Frankie-pants's behaviour? Can I sacrifice my daily caffeine injections?

Wish me luck as I embark on a week Sans-Cappacino, and establish whether it's the nature or nurture that's contributing to my daughter's endless restlessness.