Tag Archives: rant

Breastfed babies cry more

Awesome words of encouragement there.

I firmly believe that it is far more important that a baby is fed than how it is fed. However, because I am human and a walking contradiction, I also believe that breast is indeed best and that even the first feed can make a whole world of difference.  I feel saddened if I see the words “couldn’t be bothered” with regards to breastfeeding.

There have been quite a few articles thrown around the internet lately about the frequency and duration of crying in babies relating to the method of feeding, the most recent one being on the BBC website and beginning with the headline “Breastfed babies cry more”

I know, I know, that article is supposed to be encouragement to make breastfeeding mothers aware that breastfeeding babies nurse for various reasons, so therefore will cry more in order to gain attention from mum.  I know.

But, from a personal point of view, if I were a new mum and I was having the breast vs battle debate with myself, I would be completely put off by being told they cry more.

I think this is because we see crying as a negative thing.  If your baby cries, it means you’re doing something wrong. In fact, if your baby cries, it just means they need you.   They need Mum.  Not a dummy.  Not a bottle. Mum.

We have had two vastly different experiences with babies.  My first screamed.  Constantly.  Or at let it felt that way.  She was about 9 months old when it stopped.  She wold scream all day and night regardless of who held her or what was going on.  It was a nightmare.

My second cries if he wants me. That’s it.  If he cries, I know he wants me.  I have had compliments on how quiet he is.

Both babies were breast fed.  In fact, my daughter was combine fed and she cried more. 

Sweeping generalisations do more harm than good….generally.

Maybe I’m becoming a hippy.  Maybe doing it second time round with a calmer baby has made me believe that we should all have unmedicated births and breastfeed our babies well into toddlerhood (oh if only everything were that perfect.) But I don’t believe saying that babies cry more is a sympathetic view. 

“Oh, it’s OK he’s up all night howling, he’s breastfed.” 

(Most likely followed in the next breath by “Just give him a bottle.”)


Facebook, Twitter and the blog

It has been bought to my attention that I can be a bit ranty on Twitter and the blog…

No shit sherlock!!

My Twitter account and this here ole blog were a whim, something I did one night just to see what it was like.  I use Twitter to vent. Pure and simple.  Piss me off, expect tweets.

I actually like that a lot of IRL people don’t follow me.  It gives me anonymity, it should stop me being censored (haha fail) and it let’s me be honest. I accept that not everybody has the same opinions as me and by all means you are as entitled to your views as I am, but if you don’t like swearing, tweets about poop and how frustrated I get home alone with a bored toddler and a booby leech then this is not the place for you.  If I don’t have Twitter to shout into I go a bit stir crazy.  Plus all the people I tweet regularly are awesome and I like to think that sometimes my “not all pooping rainbows” attitude helps.  Maybe.

The blog is for thoughts…brain farts.  These can range from a justification of my existence (like this one – head is fucked, stomach is sick etc) to a list if stuff that happened.  It’s all here. One of many online journals.  And ever since I started writing journals in the late 90s they have been angry and angsty – so you should probably expect that too. And obviously more tales of poo, although the potty training updates should probably wait for another post.

My Facebook is an entirely different beast again.  It’s mostly family and real life friends.  I don’t want them to know I’m pretty batshit insane (although my closest friends and family know this and love me for it) so I tend to tame it down. A lot.  Sometimes I vent the teeniest bit on there just so that people know I’m still not getting much sleep and having to deal with a feral child, but it really is nothing compared to Twitters live feed of shouting, screaming, wanting to tear the house down and piss on the carpet. 

There is a reason I have two email accounts.  There is a reason I  don’t follow people on Facebook.  There is a reason I don’t post to Facebook and Twitter on the same account and there is a reason my Twitter ID isn’t on Facebook.

Enough justification for you?

Parent and child parking

Nothing winds me up more than seeing a car that clearly doesn’t contain children (ie a two seat convertible) parked in a parent and child bay.  I’ve also seen white vans pull into them and Mr butt crack builder get out. Disgusting.

But if you have kids, does that give you the right to park there even if you’re not getting out of the car?

We, quite hypocritically I feel, bitched about a van (who clearly did not have kids un it) parking in a parent and child bay, then swung into one ourselves, knowing full well we would not be unloading the kids.

Don’t worry, I stayed with them.  I won’t leave them in the car unattended (even though I remember staying in the car during “big shops” all the time when I was younger.)

Surely those parking spaces are designed for people who are taking kids out of the car, the extra space useful for a pushchair or enabling you to fully open the door to get your kid out?  I must admit I felt a bit of a pisstake sat there and only hope we didn’t stop someone who needed the space from having it!

Back the fuck off!

So, I’m driving home from preschool. In the car I have:

1 toddler repeating any swearwords I mutter under my breath

1 screaming 4 month old baby who wants to be cuddled.

1 stinky shitty nappy that can be smelt at least two lanes away.

1 drum n bass cd on repeat

And me, the nervous breakdown waiting to happen.

Almost in the boot of my car I have a smarmy fucker wearing a hi-vis jacket.  He’s so close I can hear him thinking “stupid women drivers!” 

I’m a shit driver at the best of times, and I can feel my concentration lapsing as O raises his cries a few decibels.  I’ve got white knuckles from gripping the steering wheel and I’m willing arseface mcwankerson to opt for an alternate route. 

He doesn’t.  I mean this guy is just asking for a faceful of the heaby duty pram I have in my boot.  And if I didn’t have the kids in the car he would have been offered it.

I refuse to speed, so I keep to 29 miles an hour.  He almost causes an accident as he goes to overtake me into on coming traffic.  The road is clear, I pull out.  He’s smirking, smug shithead.  I get to 30…31…brake back down to 25.  The fucker will pay.

Finally I turn off. He stops being glued to my ringer and goes straight on.

This kind of driving is unnecessary. Really. Just back the fuck off.


I’m all for security. I have a good dose of paranoia. I think shoplifters should be prosecuted as they push prices up for the rest of us. Again, a misdemeanor that spoils everything for the general public.

As you are aware, or at least as you should be aware, going to the supermarket is one of my time killing activities. Shoplifting isn’t.

So, I had purchased my selection (some grows for O, some half price shorts for O a couple of games, soup and tiger bread for lunch). I managed to pack them all into the pannier on the pram and my handbag to do my bit for the environment and went to walk out.

*BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP* shoplifter alert.

I didn’t have anything to hide, so I waited. No one came, so I started to walk away.

“Oi, you, back!” A scrawny security guard yells at me as if I were a criminal.  I rolled my eyes thinking his tone and accusatory stare unnecessary.

As an aside, I was pushing the pushchair full of children and carrying my handbag. I know you can’t trust stereotypes, but I wasn’t exactly a young boy wearing a hoody and surrounded by 4 of my “hardest” mates “just in case.”

Because the security guard was so convinced I was doing a snatch and run and because being right turns me into a twat, I went into super helpful mode.

I pulled out the receipt before he could ask and unpacked the bags, trying my very hardest not to be irritated by his attitude towards me.

There were 6 items on the receipt and 6 items now strewn across the nearest cashiers desk.

I asked if he wanted to check my bag for other items and reeled off a list of the things I carry. Notepad, children’s ballet shoes, paracetamol, crayons etc etc. Nope. Didn’t want to check my bag. I ran my hand around the Toddlers seat to make sure she hadn’t grabbed something on the way round. Still no interest. I offered to empty out both children and the shopping basket thing but he shook his head.  He started going through the receipt and immediately spotted the offending item.

Ready to cuff me he said “This isn’t on here.” Smug face. He handed me the £1.70 carrot and coriander soup.

“What?” I said. “But she put it through.’

He eyed me suspiciously. Soup-stealer, his eyes said. How dare you, you mother of two who looks like she hasn’t had time to brush her hair…for at least a week
How dare you!

He showed me the receipt.

JS crt & corndr

First item.

“These aren’t on here.” He switches his focus to the two pack of half price shorts worth a staggering £2.50.

Boys shrts 2pk

4th item.

He was hoping to catch me out.  Probably for the kiddies laptop but that was on there as plain as day.

Still peering at me with suspicion, he packed up all the items bar the laptop and swung them through the sensor.


Obviously disappointed, he handed me the bag.

“Ok. Thank you.” He mumbled, sending me on my way.

I wasn’t pissed off I was stopped. After all the alarms are there for a reason.  I wasn’t even embarrassed as I would rather they caught the thieving shits. What upset me was the power-hungry determination to label me a criminal and slight condescendence.

Sorry matey. No shoplifting mum conviction for you. At least not from me anyway!

It’s not just ONE thing…

I live for weekends. I love my breaks.  I love being able to spend some time cleaning the house without worrying about him screaming for cuddles or her drawing on the TV.

On Saturday, I woke up and came downstairs.  Normally, I would have done the washing up on the Friday night so it wouldn’t be the first thing I had to face on Saturday morning. Sadly, I had broken the discipline and decided not to do it.  I had been told it would be done, so when I came downstairs and was faced with it, I was not impressed.

I got a chance to go back to bed at 9.30ish and then was woken up at 10.10 to feed. O fell asleep so I rested and had a break until 11 30. I brave downstairs and he announces he wants a shower. He has shower then does lunch. He serves up beans on toast (bread not cut) and expects me to be able to eat one-handed while I feed O again.

Then he buggers off.  So I’m sat looking at my food going cold, O on the boob and her shouting “finished” and waving crusts in the air while he’s having a seemingly “urgent” conversation with our lodger.

I get to eat and he decides O needs to sleep so he takes him.  I then clean up my dinner stuff and sort washing out. Then I say jokingly we should go get an EEE Pad Transformer this afternoon.

He says “We could go get the pieces for the computer…” then disappears off to the other room to look on said computer for parts.

I was so fed up.  I wish I could just leave the room willy nilly and not have to worry about looking after two small children, but my life doesn’t work like that.  I have to schedule in time to clean  the house, or do the washing up/washing/cleaning when the children go to bed and I’m dead on my feet.

Sometimes I wish he could see it’s not just one thing that makes me snap, it’s the bigger picture.

London riots

So, I don’t normally write about current affairs.  This doesn’t mean I don’t have an opinion, it just means sometimes I don’t get the whole picture, but the events in London over the past few nights deserve a mention.

I watched the footage of Croydon as it burned and the young people mindlessly breaking and entering shops and stealing. I listened to the story of the pub landlord who came to work to check his newly refurbed business and ended up shimmying down the drain pipe as looters ransacked his livelihood. I almost cried.

The extreme level of pure mindless violence exhibited by these idiots is almost beyond comprehension.

They are quite literally destroying Britain. Terrorist groups are looking at this going “Hey, we don’t need to attack England! They are attacking themselves.  Wait, fuck it, their police are all occupied.  Let’s get em!”

The rest of the world is either pointing and laughing or pretending not to watch as youths around the country collectively have a toddler tantrum.

Our PM has announced that he WILL come home and tend to the puking child with a funny rash and soaring temperature of a country.

Well done super Dave eh? Come home to offer mother emergency services some backup, help and guidance as she cleans up vomit and shit and knows that once this is over, it’ll be her turn to be ill. But only come home when she’s desperate. Don’t try to help before then.  You continue in blissful ignorance of just how poorly your baby is.

The rest of Britain, most of whom are absolutely disgusted, cry inside, all pride extinguished.

Clever rioters.  In protest of nothing at all (although some will argue that this is a protest against the police or nanny state) you have effectively gone into your house, ripped off your nappy with pride, shat on the floor then excitedly picked it up and smeared it on the TV.

Sadly, we all know you’ll never clear it up.  You won’t even remember doing it after a couple of hours of playing with your toys.  Everyone else will though. We’ll all remember looking on in disbelief, feeling impotent and scared and knowing that from now on, every time we look at it, we’ll always see the streak of shit; the horrible mess you left behind because it seemed an awesome way to creatively express your frustrations.

Nap time anyone?