We all know that you very rarely get a chance to pamper yourself when you have kids. And when I say pamper I mean shower. Even going the toilet is like a military operation. Fox opening and closing the door and playing peekaboo. Shadowcat screaming, as I rock her aimlessly with my foot. Fox unravelling toilet paper and trying to put it in the toilet through my legs. Tears streaming down Shadowcat’s face as she death-stares my boobs. Tits pissing milk everywhere at the sound of her cries. Fox singing happy birthday over Shadowcat’s crying, stomping around the bathroom. Fox hits Shadowcat on the head. More tears. Louder screams. Even louder happy birthdays. Jesus Christ, will I ever have a piss in peace again?….
You quickly get used to people saying things like:
“You look tired.” No shit.
“You look good considering you’ve just had a baby.” What? Is that a compliment or an insult?
“She’s not sleeping through the night then?” (Whilst referencing the bags under your eyes) No she’s not sleeping through the fucking night. Babies don’t sleep through the night. And anyone that says that they do is lying. Do not believe them. And neither do bloody mothers. Mothers don’t sleep through the night either. Which is why I look like shit. All the time.image
So after 6 weeks, (12 weeks) of barely getting washed, rarely brushing my teeth and not once shaving my overgrown 70’s bush, I decided that I had to figure out a way to at the very least wash myself and cut my toe nails!
Shower fast. Shower very fast. Shower early. Do it as soon as you get up or it’ll be 3 o’clock before you know it and you’ll all still be in your Pyjamas and won’t have even brushed your teeth. Plus if you’re up early enough you can even shave your pits and potentially the bottom bit of your legs. Quick before they wake up. Husband will think he’s getting lucky tonight. Not a chance whilst I’m still super fertile. No. Thanks.
Get used to showering with one or two small people staring at your naked body, with Fox usually asking “Mummy what’s them?” Pointing at my boobs. “I wanna taste!” (Shadowcat is breastfed. Fox is not.) Put toddler in the bath and baby on a blanket on the floor. Must figure out a way to stop the toddler in the bath throwing toys at the baby on the floor. Shit. We have no soap. Use baby soap. Shit. We have no shampoo. Use baby shampoo. Shit. We have no shower gel. Use baby lavender bath foam. Sing ‘Row Row Row Your Boat’ at the top of your voice to keep Fox entertained and let Shadowcat know that you haven’t abandoned her. She’d shit herself if she thought I’d left her alone with that mental brother of hers.
Don’t bother drying. Get dressed. Don’t even consider moisturiser anymore. No time. Shadowcat is crying on the bedroom floor and Fox is playing his harmonica. Shadowcat doesn’t like it. Cries louder. Where’s that god damn iPad? Fox hits iPad over and over until he discovers a weird video of hands playing with teletubbie russian doll egg things. He is mezmerised. What the hell is it? If it keeps him quiet I don’t care. Seriously it’s like a drug. He plays it over and over and over again. And again. At least I can get dressed. Put weird video into favourites. This might just change everything.
…. You’re welcome.
Gone are the days when I pranced about in my dressing room trying on many an outfit from this season’s trends! Gone are the days when I said things like “Today’s outfit is a whimsical take on the folk trend” Yes I was a fashion wanker. Gone are the days that I actually give a shit about this season’s trends. Gone are the days I even care about all clothes in general. It would be easier to be forever naked or at least topless, considering how often Shadowcat feeds.
Quickly resign yourself to the fact that you’ll never wear heels again. You can’t chase a toddler through a forest in heels. You can’t chase a toddler through Tesco in heels. Anything that slows you down needs to be scrapped. Do not let them have the upper hand. And jewellery. You’ll never wear jewellery again. You won’t believe it at first. You’ll try. You’ll fail. After the 5th time you whack your toddler on the head with your medallion or scratch the back of your newborn baby’s neck with your watch, you’ll decide enough is enough. Goodbye jewellery. It’s been emotional.
Create a mix ‘n’ match capsule wardrobe that:
A. Doesn’t require ironing
B. Has minimal buttons and zips
C. Is dark enough to hide tit milk stains (so black, basically all black)
D. Looks OK with trainers
Pick something that is remotely clean. Or just riffle through the ever expanding pile of washing. Not sure what’s clean and what’s dirty anymore. That’ll do. A naive friend tells you “Do you know there’s sick on that top?” YES I KNOW. There is sick on every top. Or fucking breast milk. Or peanut butter. Or baby shit. That’s what baby wipes were made for. You silly silly girl.
Buy scarves. Lots of scarves. Why was I not told in those pointless antinatal classes about the importance of scarves when you are a mother? They have a multitude of uses. Firstly they hide any surprise boob leakage when you’re in Asda. A handy muslin/wipe when your child sicks on you. Or themselves. Or both. You can make a little pair of shorts if their arse explodes and they shit through every layer. They make great blankets. And they are a perfect shade creator when the sun shines on baby’s face and you can’t be arsed moving that god damn umbrella for the 100th time. I have even been known to rip one up and make a bandana for Fox to protect his head from the sun. Seriously.
So that settles it. The perfect gift for a new mum is a scarf! Not baby shoes. Who decided baby shoes were a good idea? Most pointless creation ever. BABIES DON’T NEED SHOES. They can’t fucking walk!
There will never be time for mascara again. You’ll never be able to find it anyway. Fox hides it. Or throws it down the stairs. Or in the toilet. Or covers his face in it. There’s little finger craters in lip balm and all eye pencils are blunt due to them making the perfect utensil for scribbling on walls all over the house. Fantastic. Take advantage when both kids fall asleep in the car. Quickly pull over and throw a bit of make-up on. Then when you visit the mother-in-law she’s all like “Ooh made a bit of effort today have you? Don’t you look nice!” Thus, highlighting the fact that you usually look like a piece of shit. Nice one girl. Kill me now.
Watching Fox at Soft Play is like watching a suspense thriller. Finger nails chewed to the bone. At least I don’t have to bother painting them. With summer babies comes open toed shoes. Pick one colour nail varnish and never take it off again. Repaint over old nail varnish from time to time. Again and again. I’ve been rocking this scabby turquoise look for about 3 months now, as chipped as it may be.
Gets pulled and played with constantly. Sick and peanut butter can usually be located in it. And sometimes poo. Actual poo in my hair. Wash and brush as little as often. Rock the messy look. Just when you think you can’t look or feel any worse it starts to fall out. What. The. Fuck? Why doesn’t anyone tell you this? Those antinatal classes seriously need reviewing. Live in denial. Convince yourself that your hair is not actually falling out. Find it wrapped around Shadowcat’s fingers and toes and in her nappy. Get it all cut off. Get a skin head and wear a scarf!
Eyebrows no longer get plucked. As if you have the time for that. Grow a very long fringe.
Baby in sling, carry toddler. All day every day. Lug double pram in and out of car at least 3 times a day. Back pack filled with baby and toddler paraphernalia constantly attached to back.
HIT (high intensity training)
Full on tug of war with 2 year old to remove iPad. Squat around the bedroom for hours at 2am every night to keep baby quiet. Drag a tantrum-taking toddler by the feet through dentist whilst clutching onto baby.
5 minutes of ‘Yogo’ with Fox during Waybuloo.
Sprint through the park (whilst pushing pram) after Fox before he dives into lake. Swim in lake to rescue Fox.
Fitness regime nailed.
And that’s it. They’re my easy-to-follow steps into looking like the bag of crap I do on a daily basis. At least I’m managing the odd shower. I also get dressed maybe 3 out of 7 days. That’s an achievement in itself. The husband told me I looked fit the other day. Obviously my beauty regime is working. Or I angled the phone right in mine and Fox’s selfie. Or he’s getting desperate. Either way I’m holding onto it.
Hopefully soon I’ll figure out an effective way to get on top of hair removal. Then again. Don’t want him getting any ideas. I am definitly not ready for number 3.