Today Squidge has been grumpy, I’m not entirely sure why. It could be because he’s got a cold (when DOESN’T he have a cold?)
Or because he had to sit in the pram while I did some shopping.
Or because we dropped in to say Hello to T (my counsellor) but didn’t stay. I’ve not needed an appointment for the last six weeks so Squidge has gone from seeing her for an hour every Friday since he was four days old to not seeing her at all.
Squidge enjoyed my counselling sessions because he sat on T’s lap for cuddles so that I could have a bit of a break. Even though he was still in the room because I wasn’t the one entertaining him I always felt more rested after a session, like I’d had an hour off.
We agreed to put the weekly sessions on hold because you can’t have a talking therapy without something to talk about. Clearly I still have issues (many issues) but at this point in time I feel well and level and so finding enough things to work on for a whole hour was actually getting quite difficult.
I tried telling Squidge that £35 was too expensive for what would essentially be an hours worth of play time with T but either he’s not yet gained sufficient language skills to understand or he just wasn’t listening.
Regardless of the reasons for his grump Squidge has been demonstrating his general bad mood by way of physical cues, including but not limited to bashing, scratching, hair pulling, the pulling of noses and other appendages and using my post-baby tummy (that HE caused) as a trampoline.
After having had my hair pulled for what seemed like the millionth time I may have shouted a tiny bit while detangling tiny tentacle-like fingers from my increasingly scruffy and split end plagued mop.
It was only a very tiny shout.
It was (is) very messy hair.
In the last few weeks I’ve also developed a ridiculous fringe of fine, fluffy hair a few centimetres long. It’s not too obvious when my hair is down but when I put it up for work it sticks up in a manner that is both pathetic and completely unresponsive to hairspray.
The hair pulling just really gets to me on so many levels. It hurts, it means my hair ends up covered in dribble/milk/soggy rusk and it makes me feel that there is literally nothing that is mine anymore.
Not even my own body.
Before I was pregnant I was reasonably happy with my body. I could run a half marathon, I knew what clothes suited me, I liked how I looked in my wedding dress and when we went to Mexico I felt confident enough to wear a bikini on a few occasions.
One bundle of joy later and I’m still carrying an extra two stone in baby weight and I’m still wearing my maternity jeans. None of my pretty bras fit anymore and despite failing to breast feed past six weeks my boobs look like I fed Squidge until he went to school. I know my body looks the way it does because I have successfully grown and safely delivered another human and so most days I don’t mind. I’m slowly losing the baby weight and I will start running again as soon as I can find an armour plated sports bra.
Being pregnant made me feel as though I had been invaded by an alien. This wasn’t helped when I eventually felt I was ready to look at the 12 week scan pictures and Squidge looked like this.
I then hid the photos at the back of my sock drawer and tried very hard not to think about face huggers and aliens bursting out of people.
Getting back to shouty Mummy, Squidge wasn’t bothered in the slightest although I have to admit it didn’t do anything to improve the existing grump. He merely glared at me and resumed jumping, digging his weeny pointed toes into my thighs to gain more height.
I briefly (and I mean briefly) entertained the idea of pulling his hair but clearly that would be:
- Ineffective as a deterrent
- Not particularly supporting the impression that I’m sane.
At that point my husband came home and Squidge was instantly all smiles and giggles and general good humor.
I have never properly lost my temper with Squidge although I will admit that there have been times when I came close, mainly in the middle of a seemingly endless run of sleepless nights. I have raised my voice but it has been to let out the frustration rather than being directed at him. I have sworn but again never at him. I am as certain as I can be that I’ve never frightened him.
I’m not proud of my actions but equally I’m not a saint and there is a reason that sleep deprivation is used as a form of torture.
I am calm now as Squidge has gone to bed and there is the promise of pizza.
Yes I know pizza isn’t going to help with the baby weight