Hi guys, it’s me! Sadly I’m not the one with the peachiest of bums. I’m Becqui and I’ve decided to start this blog as a way of working my way through the craziest of things that’s ever happened to me. Becoming a mother. It’s awesome and amazing but I also feel like its swept away a lot of what makes me, ME . However, I’m determined to claw my way through the mountains of nappies, bottles, and brightly coloured plastic all-singing all-dancing toys that surround me, to get a bit of ME back.
So what better way to say hi then posing in a pair of big old knickers and getting more naked than I ever have on the internet before.
From the minute you announce you are expecting a bouncing bundle of joy the advice starts pouring in, even from those strangers on the internet (hi you guys) who are apparently able to divine your parenting abilities from what you cram into 280 characters or a cute lil’ square.
You shouldn’t be eating that.
Your bump is HUGE.
Did you know there’s caffeine in that?
He’d sleep better after a bottle of formula.
All very helpful insights indeed, that I politely smiled at whilst inside I was screaming ‘nob off, it’s my baby, my belly and my boobs, I will decide what’s best thank you very much.’ And I think I’ve muddled through quite well so far. R is nine months old, has six teeth, likes to bite ankles and crawls round with his toys in his mouth burbling away very happily.
What I have struggled with though is feeling like ME. And there’s not a whole lot of advice on how to deal with this. Your midwife/ Health Visitor / GP asks the really great question, ‘are you feeling depressed’ and as long as you say nope, then wham-bang-thank you-mother, you are a tick in the box and out the door.
Not that I am depressed, but I expected a bit more help there. I had no idea what was normal, that my hair would fall out by the handful, that my breastfeeding boobs wouldn’t settle down for MONTHS, or that postpartum periods are hell on earth. There’s a few awesome souls out there on the internet that are shouting about this thing called motherhood, but for the most part I look at #postpartumbody on Instagram and think holy hell she’s never gone out of the house with half a Weetabix in her hair wearing a six-year-old pair of Calvin Kleins that belonged to an ex-ex-boyfriend because apparently they are the only pants that I have clean.
No one tells you how bloody difficult it is to feel like you again. The old me with bleach blonde hair, a penchant for high-waisted denim, who went to work in a suit and did grown up things like have meetings and shower every morning. I have two degrees in English (double checks this post for spelling mistakes) and yet for the past nine months the most I have written is a very long Whatsapp detailing R’s bowel movements.
So that’s the point of this really, I love writing and being creative and I need a fire lit under my butt to get back to feeling more Becqui. Fingers crossed it works, and please cross everything else in the hopes I’ll one day be back in those high-waisted beloved Topshop jeans. They might be a size bigger but what’s that saying? The bigger the butt, the closer to heaven? I’m going to roll with that anyway.
With love, B x