Mosey Jones - The Mumpreneur Diaries - Business, Babies or Bust - One Mother of a Year

Business, babies or bust, one mother of a year

To Tomos and Joshua, without whom the world would be a much quieter, but infinitely less entertaining place

Cover Page

Title Page The Mumpreneur Diaries Mosey Jones Business, babies or bust, one mother of a year

Dedication To Tomos and Joshua, without whom the world would be a much quieter, but infinitely less entertaining place

Author’s Note Author’s Note Many of the people I have written about in this book did not ask to be included so I have changed their names and in some cases other minor details to preserve their anonymity. Naturally others asked, pleaded, begged even, to be included, but I said, ‘No, Dylan Jones of Twyford, Berkshire, you remain anonymous like everyone else.’ Equally, memory is a fickle mistress, particularly that of a woman with ‘baby brain’ twice over, but I’ve tried to write conversations as closely as possible to how they happened. Certainly in the reporting the grammar may have improved, the swearing excised and the drivel paraphrased. Finally, the timeline may have been adjusted in places to help the overall – true – story make sense. In many respects I wish someone had fiddled with the calendar at the time. Then I might not have been perpetually late for everything.

Prologue Prologue Anti Natal Thursday 1 November 2007 Another day, another commute from hell. This morning I am trapped somewhere between Regent’s Park and Oxford Circus, my nose jammed in a damp armpit belonging to a very large man, inhaling lungfuls of deliciously ripe BO. This is made even more heavenly by the fact that: 1 it is rush hour 2 we are underground on the Bakerloo (or baking loo) Line 3 we’ve been stuck in the tunnel for half an hour 4 I am 8 months pregnant thus invisible to everyone in a seat. I can’t wait for maternity leave to start. I don’t care if I never see the office again. Samuel Johnson said: ‘If you’re tired of London, you’re tired of life.’ If that’s the case, Sammy boy, I’m exhausted. I bloody hate London. To achieve what is laughably called a ‘work/life balance’, the Husband and I share dropping off/picking up childcare duties. He therefore leaves home before the sun rises so he can get back in time to collect Boy One at 6 pm. I do the opposite, leaving for work at a leisurely 9.30 am, only to return home long after the sun has set. On the way home I call the Husband from the train to see how bedtime is getting on. Sounding out of breath, apparently he and Boy One have been playing horseys round the living room. At 8.30 pm. As usual I assume the role of grown-up, telling him off for unsuitable parenting behaviour. But despite reading the Riot Act, I am secretly disappointed. It sounds like they are having heaps of fun – without me.

Chapter 1 Born Again Chapter 1 Born Again Sunday 20 January 2008 Baby, meet world. World, meet baby. We bring Boy Two home at 2 am this morning after a mere seven hours in hospital. I think it’s something of an achievement that the midwife is so happy to shoo us off home barely two hours after the birth. The Husband is less pleased as he sees his Star Wars DVD marathon evaporate, to be replaced by the carrying of many cups of tea and biscuits (essential for Mummy’s milk) and by telephone/email duty. My sister and her boyfriend came down from London yesterday on the off-chance that something might happen. By 7 pm I was having contractions three minutes apart while simultaneously trying to teach my desperately undomesticated sibling how to make sauce for Boy One’s cauliflower cheese. ‘How will I know when the sauce is thick enough?’ ‘When it starts getting lumpy again. Chuck in a splash of milk and take it off the heatnnnnngggHHHHHHH!’ ‘And when do I add the cheese?’ ‘When all the luuuUUUUUuumps are gone.’ ‘Are you OK?’ ‘Just having a baby, otherwise fi-uuuuuhhhhhh!’ ‘Shouldn’t you call the hospital to see if you need to go in?’ ‘Mmmmppfffffffffffffffffffffffff!’ Now I’m lying in our bed at 3 am with our new 8 lb scrap of humanity snortling away between us. His 35 lb, three-year-old brother is snoring just as loudly in his bed, which has been transplanted to the foot of ours from next door, where he’d been ousted by my own sibling combo. Too knackered to sleep I watch the baby snooze. He is the image of his father, who is also out for the count (why are men never too exhausted to catch 40 winks?). All of a sudden I feel quite grown up, quite…responsible. With one child you can almost get away with pretending it was a bit of an accident, or that you aren’t really a parent, you’re just playing at mummies and daddies. I find myself trying out the phrase ‘my children’ to see how it fits. Sounds big. Sounds fun. Sounds expensive. Bugger.

Chapter 2 Baby Blues

Chapter 3 Sleepless Nights

Chapter 4 Teething Troubles

Chapter 5 Postnatal Cheques

Chapter 6 Developmental Delay

Chapter 7 Crawling

Chapter 8 Standing Unaided

Chapter 9 Baby Steps

Chapter 10 All Grown Up

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the author

Copyright

About the Publisher

Many of the people I have written about in this book did not ask to be included so I have changed their names and in some cases other minor details to preserve their anonymity. Naturally others asked, pleaded, begged even, to be included, but I said, ‘No, Dylan Jones of Twyford, Berkshire, you remain anonymous like everyone else.’ Equally, memory is a fickle mistress, particularly that of a woman with ‘baby brain’ twice over, but I’ve tried to write conversations as closely as possible to how they happened. Certainly in the reporting the grammar may have improved, the swearing excised and the drivel paraphrased. Finally, the timeline may have been adjusted in places to help the overall – true – story make sense. In many respects I wish someone had fiddled with the calendar at the time. Then I might not have been perpetually late for everything.

Another day, another commute from hell. This morning I am trapped somewhere between Regent’s Park and Oxford Circus, my nose jammed in a damp armpit belonging to a very large man, inhaling lungfuls of deliciously ripe BO. This is made even more heavenly by the fact that:

1 it is rush hour

2 we are underground on the Bakerloo (or baking loo) Line

3 we’ve been stuck in the tunnel for half an hour

4 I am 8 months pregnant thus invisible to everyone in a seat.

I can’t wait for maternity leave to start. I don’t care if I never see the office again. Samuel Johnson said: ‘If you’re tired of London, you’re tired of life.’ If that’s the case, Sammy boy, I’m exhausted. I bloody hate London.

To achieve what is laughably called a ‘work/life balance’, the Husband and I share dropping off/picking up childcare duties. He therefore leaves home before the sun rises so he can get back in time to collect Boy One at 6 pm. I do the opposite, leaving for work at a leisurely 9.30 am, only to return home long after the sun has set.

On the way home I call the Husband from the train to see how bedtime is getting on. Sounding out of breath, apparently he and Boy One have been playing horseys round the living room. At 8.30 pm. As usual I assume the role of grown-up, telling him off for unsuitable parenting behaviour. But despite reading the Riot Act, I am secretly disappointed. It sounds like they are having heaps of fun – without me.