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.

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.

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!