Lactation Lyrics #2

A follow-up from yesterday’s post, with some more offerings from the gang, plus one of mine.

People might make light of it, like this poem does, I think women who’ve been bullied and harangued over infant feeding and other mothering choices never really get over it.

I have a nipple as red as rose, 
and after breastfeeding the redder it goes.
I want to be an eco goddess 
but scabby, oozing nipples are sure to depress.
So I've bought some new bottles and now I'm all smiles, 
and now my nipples don't resemble piles.

The idea that breast milk cures all ills, at an individual health level and now at a planetary level, has caused a few eye rolls over the last couple of years for me – expressed nicely here:

Global temps are rising
The world has gone to shit
Our one last hope is all on you
To pour some breast milk on it

And not to mention this is another thing that women have to do to save the world – it’s all up to me. That pressure is full-on and damaging.

Here’s my offering. Dare me to enter it into the competition?

Lactation Lament 

You tell me
To save the world
with me breasts.
It's all up to me,
All of it,
There's to be no rest.

Don't feed him that poison
wrapped in plastic.
Natural breast milk - 
the benefits are fantastic.
Formula will make him thick,
and fat, and sick. 

You should try harder - 
it's what nature intended, you know.
He's getting enough,
it just doesn't snow.
I loved every minute,
it was easy for me though.

Maybe I was just better at it than you?
And what about the planet?
All those poor cows?

Well, what about me? 
Pumping all night,
Stuffing in the calories,
all those oats and almonds.
And the electricity.
Is that all carbon-free?

Failure to thrive, 
that's what they used to call it, 
when babies died.
We need less humans,
maybe this is the answer.
Survival of the fittest.

 Is that what you meant? No?
Maybe think before you speak.
You're the one
Who needs to try harder
To respect mothers' choices
And babies' rights to eat. 

I will be angry about this forever, I think. But I’ll write about something else tomorrow.

Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash

Lactation Lyrics #1

(Yes, really).

Ok, so bear with me if this seems a bit weird. It’s World Breastfeeding Week soon – honestly I feel like there’s about five of these per year, but anyway. The focus this year is on the impact of infant feeding on climate change and the environment. The World Alliance for Breastfeeding Action take the position that breastfeeding is unequivocally better for the health of the planet and its people and therefore should be heavily promoted, in these times of climate crisis.

There was a particularly unhelpful article in the BMJ about this last year, which really irritated me, so I wrote this on my other blog, which remains the most frequently-read thing I have ever written. The issue seems to be raising its head again in the media, due in my view to the folks who are determined to promote breastfeeding at all costs grabbing onto the topicality of environmental issues with both hands, as yet another stick with which to beat the mothers of the planet.

Anyway, there’s a breastfeeding support organisation inviting people to write poems for a competition to celebrate the connection between breastfeeding and the benefits to the environment. A group of anonymous friends of mine have come up with a few poems which might help to explain to these folks that things perhaps aren’t quite as binary as they may seem.

(Because – and this is a quick run-down of a very complicated issue – not all women can breastfeed, not all babies can breastfeed, not all women want to breastfeed and they’re entitled to bodily autonomy, the environmental claims are extremely tenuous and adding a whole heap more guilt onto women in a society where mother shaming is an international sport is not very bloody helpful, actually).

So here’s a selection of lactation lyrics by some angry folks, for your delectation. One from me to follow tomorrow.

Roses are red,
Breastfeeding made me blue,
It wasn't worth doing
To save a bit of CO2

Nipples are red,
Breast milk is white,
Sleep is for the weak,
You must feed all night

There once was a lady from Rye,
Who perceived insufficient supply,
She tried triple feeding
til her nipples were bleeding,
The midwife just told her she lie.

There once was a lady from Boston,
Who never formed any colostrum,
The matter was pressing,
So she tried hand expressing,
Cos Aptimel really would cost ‘em

Lactation haikus

On breastfeeding

Breastfeeding is hard
I will not do it again
It nearly killed me

A haiku on humans and our general propensity for world fuck- uppery, breastfed or not

If your kid isn't
Greta, they're likely bad for
the environment.

Advice to new parents in World Breastfeeding Week

Parent, don't listen
It's not your burden to bear
Just feed your baby

And the final word on it:

Breastfed or formula,
the baby will rejoice.
Stop judging others 
and respect a mother's choice. 

CAVEAT: I’m not anti-breastfeeding and nor are any of my friends and allies who I discuss these matters with. If a woman wants to breastfeed and it doesn’t negatively impact her physical and mental health, and the baby is getting enough to eat, great. If healthcare professionals can offer support to enable this to happen safely, great.

But, coercive “support” is not ok. Spurious, unscientific claims about the benefits of breast milk – either at individual, societal or environmental level are not helpful. Parent shaming based on feeding decisions is not acceptable. Babies starving due to formula being demonised and withheld is criminal.

Photo by Luma Pimentel on Unsplash

Buy me another beer…

This is “flash fiction”, apparently… (I had to google it). In response to one of Peter Wyn Mosey’s excellent writing prompts.

“Buy me another beer and I’ll tell you why I did it”, she smiled at him across the table. She was trying to be enigmatic, but she wasn’t entirely sure it was working.

She watched as he obediently stood up and wandered over to the bar. He looked slightly dazed. With a good view of his broad back and swimmers’ shoulders as he tried to get the barman’s attention, she reached for her phone to send him a text.

– Changed my mind. Red wine please. Big one.

He scuffled for his phone in his pocket in response to its buzz. He turned around, gave her a thumbs up, then turned back to the bar.

“So, tell me then?” he said, returning a few minutes later, carrying a bottle of red wine and two glasses. “I thought it might take a while,” he added, sheepishly raising the bottle in his hand before he set it down on the table.

“Well, I did it because I could, really. It’s hard to resist when it’s there on a plate. I could make excuses, about being vulnerable, I could say he took advantage of me. And yes, I was, and he did, but I still made a conscious choice. He flattered me, and I liked it. He was the boss, he told me how brilliant I was all the time. I was sufficiently insecure to fall for it, and yet I sort of knew I was falling for it as it was happening.” She took a gulp of wine.

“But he was married! And to another colleague! You must have known it would end in tears,” he said.

He sat back in his chair and pondered the situation, watching her drinking her wine and trying to come up with a response. It didn’t surprise him that this guy had wanted her. In much the same way as he himself wanted her right now. But she was keeping him at arm’s length; she always had done, since the moment they’d met, even though the chemistry was undeniable.

“Well, yes of course. But ever since I was a kid, I’ve had this weird self-destruct thing going on. I used to call it the “fuck it” button. It was almost like a test – how bad can I make things, before I finally break everything?”

“Well, you nearly did break everything. You nearly got sacked. Thank god you didn’t, though. Where would we be without you?”

“Now you’re flattering me… honestly, don’t go there!”

He sighed. If only he’d met her five years ago, before Ingrid. Before Niall was born. He fingered his wedding ring absent-mindedly. It was all starting to feel a bit inevitable.

She watched him, smiling and sipping her wine.

Journal #3 – Happy EU day

So I’m going to give away all my political allegiances in this post – and it’s going to be a far cry away from making any sort of progress on fiction writing today, but I just have to get this out! (There seems to be a new genre of novels emerging about Brexit, so maybe this is relevant to the long term dream, but anyway – this is my anon space to write whatever I like.)

We didn’t leave the EU yesterday and I’m happy about it. I’m happy that MPs managed to hold back the new deal, and I’m happy that they managed to make No Deal illegal, for now at least. I’m gutted that John Bercow is stepping down, as I think he’s the saviour of democracy to be honest, and I’m fucking dreading an election.

I feel totally powerless at how awful things could become with a strong Tory majority. I hate so much of what they stand for. But I also have huge qualms about the Labour Party and the way it’s being run. I’m not a proper socialist – I don’t have a huge problem with the House of Lords, I want to send my son to a private school, I don’t hate rich people just because they’re rich, and I don’t think inheritance tax should be increased. Why shouldn’t people benefit from the hard work of their parents?

But I will probably vote Labour anyway, as that’s they most likely way to keep the Tories from winning in our constituency. Can I do anything else? Should I do anything else? I’m not going to go door knocking for the Labour party; I’m not convicted enough. I don’t think arguing online with Leavers and Tory voters is particularly helpful – and anyway, in the social media echo chamber we all live in, I mainly get fed left wing stuff in my news feed and most of my friends are much more left-wing than me. So do I sit back now for 6 weeks, stop watching the news, tune out of Facebook, and accept whatever happens?

It doesn’t feel like ENOUGH. Nothing ever feels like enough to me. I have no idea why I have this ridiculous god complex, that I have to flog myself to death saving the world. I should probably just keep my little stash of food replenished, take my kid to the park and forget about it, right? But what if Boris fucking Johnson gets a huge majority, gets in bed with the Brexiters and we are faced with Neofacism in 2020, and we didn’t do anything?

I suppose what I need to do is write a character who is grappling with this stuff and see where it takes me. The reality of course is that my one little vote won’t make a difference, my one little window sticker won’t make a difference. But not doing anything definitely won’t make a difference, so doing something is better than nothing. And THAT’S a sentence any respectable editor would harangue me about, and justifiably.

It’s also “No fun November” in our house – less booze and less treats, to pay for Christmas and for me to finally try to make some headway on the weight loss front. So happy bloody Friday, people!

At least we’re still in the EU.

Journal #2 – sandpits, eyeballs, Friday night parenting

I’m supposed to be napping, after a classic 0445 start this morning. Instead, #amwriting, while sitting upstairs listening to my husband doing bath time with the toddle-monster.

He is a deeply precocious child when it comes to music – I first felt him kick when we were driving through Tynemouth listening to a particularly jolly movement of a Mozart horn concerto (no. 4 I think, but I would have to check), and now he likes Eine Kleine Nachtmusik. He calls the first movement “the mem song” and he sings along to “mem” rather than “la”. He used to say “mem mem mem” a lot when he was tiny, before real words, so we developed “to mem” as a verb, meaning to babble away cutely, and also to bimble about aimlessly. As in, “have a mem about at the park”. (Oooh, spell check doesn’t like bimble either, maybe that’s not a real word…? I mean amble, potter, that sort of thing).

So a few annoying things have happened over the last few days. I’ve been having trouble with my eyes, through over-wearing of contact lenses and general exhaustion I think. But I’m vain and I hate my glasses so I’ve been disobeying orders and not abstaining sufficiently from contact lens use. I am scarred by the truth of my past here – I started wearing contact lenses when I was 15, and up to that point no boy (or man!) had ever looked at me with any interest whatsoever (in my awareness, anyway). Then suddenly, wham! Boys everywhere paying me attention. This was on holiday in Italy and I think that might have had something to do with it, but anyway, in my teenage mind, contacts made me tolerable to look at, and it’s stuck as an intractable belief.

So I hate leaving the house in my glasses. And I hate that I hate it. I hate that I care about appearances and that I’ve got such a thing about it. But my eyeballs can’t stand it, so I need a mindset shift soon. It’s thought-provoking. And deeply annoying.

Meanwhile, we went to the sandpit today and also to the zero waste shop, to buy some shampoo and conditioner refills. My other blog is about eco stuff, so during nap time I wrote about that and some other switches I’ve made. There was a bit of standard toddler drama at the sandpit over digger sharing, and some helpful tutting from other parents when I moved the small one from one sandpit to another. I was essentially moving him out of the way of some sand-flinging older kids, who were on a holiday play scheme and not being supervised terribly diligently, but he likes watching older kids so wasn’t hugely impressed at being dragged away. Pom Bears bribery occurred. I gradually give fewer and fewer fucks about the opinions of these sorts of judgey mothers, which is just as well, really.

On a more positive note, there is very dramatic leaf fall going on round here at the moment. I do like trees. A lot more than people, sometimes.

So. Friday night now. Fakeaway fish and chips (also knows as oven crap or yellow food) and starting a new box set is on the cards.

I haven’t really got a clue what this blog is going to be. At the moment it seems to be all about parenting and my rambling stream of consciousness. I have plenty of other writing ideas, but not much time to write them, so if you’re reading this, bear with me and I will try to keep it interesting. There will definitely be some more poetry soon.

And hi to my new followers today!

Mummy blogs that talk about wine o’ clock are generally fucking annoying, aren’t they? But it is in fact now wine o’ clock, sorry and all that.

(This is a photo of some daytime wine that I consumed some time ago, not actual live blogging of tonight’s wine. Just so we’re clear on that. I’d hate to mislead anyone).

Journal post… first of many?

Part of the purpose of this blog is for me to be able to write freely about all the stuff I can’t write in my main blog, because it’s not pertinent to the theme or because it’s too personal. I have a feeling these journal-type posts are going to be SUPER dull to read, but it seems to be part of learning to be a writer too, this journal malarkey.

I have actually just written some prose – I had this MAD dream the other night where the whole of the opening scene of a novel came to me, complete with the full name of one of the characters. So I have just written 250 words – not the most productive session, I know. But it’s the most I’ve written in a very long time, so may possibly qualify for celebratory chocolate.

Otherwise, I’m feeling bored, frustrated, grumpy this week. Lots of boring stuff to sort out domestically, an extremely fractious toddler, some frustrating HR-related issues for the freelance work that I’m doing. NHS bureaucracy at its best. I sort of hate the word “bureaucracy”, sounds like the sort of thing idiot Brexiteers go on about, but in this case it’s definitely appropriate and there’s been a clear sense of “computer says no” in the whole interaction.

ANYWAY. We went out this morning to a Christian playgroup, essentially toddler church. Not my usual Thursday morning activity of choice, but it’s free and runs in half term so seemed like a good idea. And wow it makes me sad. I used to believe in all things Christian, very passionately, and I just don’t anymore, for various reasons. Maybe this is something to write about another time. But I kind of miss it. I definitely miss believing in life after death and a greater good. There was a moment during the prayers when the lady leading the session told us, “it’s ok to pray for things for yourself. God doesn’t always give you what you want though, but he will give you what you need”. Tell that the the 39 Chinese people dead in a lorry this morning in Essex. Tell that the the food bank users and the people having their benefits cut. It’s that sort of infantalising of life that made me turn away from organised religion, among other things.

Anyone still with me? Who knows. Plan for the rest of the day is to go and feed some cats (my other life as a cat sitter). I’m a bit concerned about them as they’ve been AWOL all week, except for coming in to eat their food, and I haven’t actually seen them. So hopefully they will make an appearance.

Then this evening the husband is out, so I can eat food he doesn’t like and do some more writing, probably. And drink a moderate amount of wine, and feel moderately guilty about it. The story of me and wine is definitely a post for another time.

If you read this and have anything to share about the experience of reading my journal ramblings, I will be most interested!


Your head
no longer fits snugly under my chin.
You say you want cuddles,
but invariably
you mean wriggles.
Some days you are a tiny dictator,
pounding your insistent fist,
and wailing your thwarted will
across the horizon,
biting your displeasure,
an imprint on my skin.
The cat is no longer safe.
And yet.
Before the sun comes up,
when you call me,
your voice a battery-powered crackle
through the walls,
I pull you in
and wonder what sweetness
another day with you will bring.

Secret Scribbles in London

I have SO much to learn about blogging, WordPress, writing, SEO, finding an audience…

I have another blog which is doing OK, but never enough time to research and write the things I want to. Plus it’s linked to all my personal social media, and is specifically themed, so there’s not much space for personal reflection and writing.

So I’ve just started this one – to write into the void, about whatever I feel like, anonymously, and see what happens, if anything happens at all!

Because the truth is I’ve decided I want to be a writer, I don’t want to go back to the kind of work I used to do before having a baby. I don’t want to work 50 hours a week in a hospital, trying to “do more with less”, “work smarter not harder” and all that stuff. And I can’t stand working in the public sector under a Tory government anymore. So I’m doing a spot of freelance writing for a London NHS Trust at the moment, with the space and time to actually research things properly and deliver something high quality – always hard to do when in an operational job, when business cases are usually a bit of a “seat of the pants” job. I’ve been trying to find other avenues to freelance writing, but it’s pretty hard work. Every job on Freelancer has about 4000 bids and I have no idea how to break through.

I always wanted to write. I wrote a good half of a novel when I was still in primary school. I learnt to touch type because I wanted to be a writer. So, in true X Factor style, I’m going to try and make my dream come true, and you have to start somewhere.

So here we go. Secret scribbles in London.

What could possibly go wrong?