It’s Primark not Prada…Darling!

Four years ago, I woke up in my feng shui ‘duck egg’ pale blue bedroom, basking in the delightfully subtle smell of scented lavender circulating throughout the room. As I opened my eyes, I was greeted to the most delicious sight, one which brought me so much pleasure words can not even begin to describe it.

And, there before my eyes was my fabulous collection of offensively expensive, inappropriate, illegally painful shoes. Each pair sat proudly on a shelf in the carefully-crafted, bespoke unit, housed in its very own brushed cotton dust bag, ready and eager to make its weekly appearance.

In those PB (prebabies) days, I took pride in my appearance. Weekly manicures and pedicures were a must. I took great offence at the mere sight of a potential chip. Hair was groomed to within an inch of its life and regularly treated to the most deserving of treatments. After all, the smog and dirt of the City can be so cruel.

Then, 5 September 2005, I found out I was expecting not one, but two babies. Once I had fully digested the news and recovered from the shock (it took approximately two years, eleven months and six days), I decided to focus on the positive – the obvious need to purchase more shoes, of a sensible nature of course. I spent my evenings reading and cutting out pictures from the weekly glossies of soon-to-be-mothers modelling the latest outfit and imagined myself proudly walking down the Kings Road in pre-pregnancy jeans, a Madonna-esk T-shirt and the latest LK B summer wedges, proudly sporting a perfectly formed small bump. I would by chance bump into long-lost friends who would say, ‘My God, you look fantastic, when’s it due?’ and I would smugly respond, ‘Oh, any day now.’

What I didn’t foresee, because nobody told me, was that I would wake up one morning having morphed into the elephant women – I exaggerate not.

I remember a month or so into my pregnancy sitting on the tube suffering serve indigestion and popping the latest family sized bottle of Gaviscon, thinking that maybe I needed to buy some bigger clothes. The metal clasp on my trousers just wouldn’t do up, the shirt buttons were dangerously near to popping and embarrassing the poor sod sitting opposite and the suit jacket was so tight that it actually restricted the flow of blood through my arms to such an extent I began to loose feeling in my fingers.

I had tried loosening various items of clothing and had even attempted the old favourite, a safety pin. However, this had proved more dangerous than at first expected. A three-inch, blood-ridden gash in the centre of my every growing belly with blood seeping through onto my newly dry-cleaned Pink shirt was just not the look I was going for. The situation was made somewhat worse by my inability to close said jacket and hide the obvious self inflicted mutilation.

I also discovered early on that my skin and hair suddenly resembled that of an awkward teenager going through puberty. I had been through that once and lived too tell the tale but now, I’m thirty for God’s sake, did I really have to go through it again? Didn’t I read in one of those books that a women is suppose to blossom, and transform into an elegant glowing picture of beauty with thick flowing glossy hair, sparkling eyes and radiating skin. Clearly something was very wrong.

After an emergency trip to my local, unsympathetic, ‘male’ GP, I was informed coldly that no, not all women blossom. Some unfortunates suffer the indignity of not only being physically possessed by two life forms, but may also endure a vast array of physical ailments and emotional upheaval.

Emotional upheaval! I’d say that was a bloody minor understatement. If I could stay awake long enough, I found myself flitting between eurphoria and an emotional breakdown brought on by my inability to recall my pin number at crucial moments of the day (buying food) or, I was vomiting into various curbs throughout London, screaming from the gutter, in my beautifully tailored suits to concerned passers-by, ‘I am not hung over you bastards. I’m pregnant.’ You see, the problem was nobody managed my expectations. And isn’t this what life and business is all about – managing expectations? So why, does this courtesy not extend to soon-to-be-mothers?

I thought I had nine months to readjust and prepare for the arrival of these two new people. Well, I was wrong. What the books don’t tell you in preparation of this joyous occasion, is that you may be one of the ones chosen nine months of nausea, hair loss, bleeding gums, an emotional breakdown, heart burn and insomnia brought on by the sheer expanse of your growing body, which makes it impossible to do anything including, the most precious of past times, sleep.

During this traumatic period of transition, concerned friends and family tried in vain to offers words of advice and reassurance that ‘it’s all worth it in the end’. I would, of course, question not only their sanity and intellect, but most crucially their inability to recollect the sheer pain of it all (and I am not talking about the physicality of giving birth) I am merely referring too the nine months preceding the finale. Over time, I have come believe that all mothers suffer what I call ‘selective amnesia,’ God’s way of ensuring that the human race does not die out. If you don’t believe me then I challenge you to ask any mother what it’s like, pregnancy that is. And, you will hear them say with a smile and a little laugh… ‘Oh, it’s not that bad’. Hear me readers and listen closely. They LIE. They all LIE.

My magnificent transformation from Prada to Primark, I would like to say was gradual. It wasn’t. It was overnight. I soon found myself purchasing size 22 clothes with tears running down my face, stubborn in the belief that I would never succumb to being one of those - the ones who wear patterned pregnancy kaftans with handmade recycled leather ‘flat’ shoes.

One morning, soon after the darling duo were presented into the world, I found myself sitting in our local Café Nero, in Dulwich drinking coffee laughing about the wonderful merits of earlier motherhood, and I began to feel normal again, just for a moment.

Suddenly, I felt a tap on my shoulder followed by rather loud Rodean-esk ‘Excuse me, you’re Charlotte aren’t you? It’s Amanda, we use to work together.’ Suddenly, I looked up at this familiar face and before me stood a former colleague, from my days in the City. Immaculately turned out in the latest City wear. I smiled awaiting the obligatory ‘Congratulations, they’re beautiful.’ Then, I was suddenly stunned into a state of unconsciousness when she loudly said, ‘Jesus Christ, what has happened to you.’

I felt my bottom lip wobble and my eyes fill with tears. I looked down at my badly stained trousers and faithful, long black lycra/cotton mix Primark T-shirt and £1.99 Asda flipflops. And, there in my arms lay my beautiful, perfect baby girl.

In that moment I knew, what ever mother knows, Primark is the new Prada.

Its all in the name

"What's in a name?" Shakespeare had his tragic heroine ask in his tale of star-crossed lovers. "That which we call a rose / By any other name would smell as sweet."

Only a man could write this - and a man without children! Shakespeare was clearly not trying to raise two two year olds, because if he did, he would not even have contemplated asking such a stupid question.

For the past three decades I have been know as Charlotte. Not my favourite girl’s name granted, but hey I can live with it. Over the years, I have been referred to by family and friends as (variations on this name) – Lottie (the most hated), Charl (still used today by the nearest and dearest), Charlie B (Uni friends who remember the care free days of being young and very reckless).

I can even recount moments in my life where I have been addressed as a letter - 'C' - I never knew whether it was a term of endearment, sheer laziness, or worse still (dare I say it out loud?) Mr X really had no idea who I was.

Then I hit the big 30 and produced two very vocal members of the next generation and they introduced a new name. A name which doesn't discriminate. It transgresses continents and borders, race and religion and age and, in some cases it has been known - gender.

This ancient, precious, five letter word, has evolved in Western society from its origins as a noun, to an adjective and a verb. Over the last twelve months it has grated on ever single nerve ending in my body.

'MUMMMMMMMMMMYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY'.

God, I hear it in my sleep ... no it wasn't a dream or a nightmare. It is the ritual calling card of the dynamic duo every day and every night as they summon me to rub their bellies (anti-clockwise of course) or, hold their hands until they go to sleep or, bring them juice, or varying items of food groups.

I have wondered over the last few months, how five measly letters can have such an overwhelming impact on me?

When the tiny two first started talking, the first words to leave there lips was ‘Dada’ not 'Mummy' or 'Ma' or even 'Mu'. Dada! So disturbed was I at this illogically cruel turn of events, that I decided to consult friends, family, long lost relatives - even, dare I say, it the 'books'.

It is universally agreed that despite a mother’s best intentions to give up her life, be on call 24/7, provide love, entertainment, food and comfort, the loving reference ‘Mummy’ will arrive much later than expected.

In fact, if I remember rightly, 'Mama' was possibly the twenty-sixth word to leave their lips. ‘Cat’. ‘Dog’. ‘Milk’. They all took precedence over ‘Mama’. Unfortunately, when it did it eventually enter their vocabulary and was perfected to a 'T' it was swiftly followed by an echo, moan or scream 'mammmmmmmmmmmmmma.'

Over the months, the dynamic duo have perfected the sound, tone, even length of the word and I can assure you that those PB (prebabies) warm fuzzy thoughts of one day being a mother with my charming delightful children calling me 'Mum' have long since vanished and have been replaced by the newest, bestest game in the world, 'Who can be quiet the longest?'

The importance of establishing early on in their lives my name was of great concern to me for quite some time.

When they developed the determining human ability to walk on two legs, I awoke late one night overcome by an alarming irrational fear. Having leapt out of bed at a speed which Zola Bud would be proud, I quickly checked their cots to see if they were still alive and breathing. Fortunately, a rare moment of sanity entered my befuddled brain, which stopped me from physically waking them to hug them and tell them I loved them. I quickly projected to two hours forward and imagined the pain of trying to get them back to sleep.

However, since that moment, my greatest fear is losing them in a shop, or a shopping centre. Having tormented myself for hours, days and months analysing the various possible scenarios which could occur, I decided to take bull by the horns and prep them on personal safety.

Having prized them away from the daily two hours of Toy Story I made them practice our telephone number, address, their full name and next of kin and finally, I hit them with it 'Mummy has two names.'

Four hours later having consumed vast quantities of coffee (me not them), two packets of Quavers, some cheese dunkers and a gallon of juice (them not me), they still didn't get it. 'Mummy's name is not Charlotte. It's Mummy. Silly Mummy'

Then, last Saturday, we decided to take a trip to Jump with another member of the motherhood fellowship and her darling Dottie. For those who have not discovered this wonderful and necessary indoor play centre, Jump is a must. We arrived at this former warehouse and found half the population of Cardiff had had the same idea.

After beating our way through the face painting, negotiating the trampolines and dogging the small things crawling beneath our feet, we settled down in the small cordoned off play area for under 3's. After drinking a coffee (a staple part of mother's diet) I looked around and couldn't see (her) anywhere.

At first, I jumped into the play pen, dug deep beneath the ball pit, climbed up the plastic shaky slide (I don't think it's used to 11 stone bearing down on it) and then oh God, I was struck by the realisation that she was not here.

Just as my heart rate was about ready to put me in an early coma, over the tannoi came a high pitched welsh lilt, 'Could Charlotte, Mummy to M, dressed in a pig’s costume with a purple t-shirt please come to reception?'

And at that moment I stood still and smiled. I breathed a sign of relief. Months, weeks, days, hours of preparation for this very moment.

And, so Mr Shakespeare I will say this. In every person’s life, particularly a mother’s, there comes a moment when you realise that you simply can not be known by any other name.

To pea or not to pea….?

‘Sit down quietly. Please eat your dinner. No…..don’t throw your food on the floor……'

The simple task of feeding two hungry mouths is not an easy feat. It is a skill which takes many months, possibly years to master. There is an art to hiding both the texture and colour of – God forbid I say it – a ‘vegetable’. This month in our house, carrot and peas are the offending items – why? because they’re orange and pink of course! And, for a two-year old, no further explanation is needed. Once the decision is made that the colour is offensive then instant banishment and entry onto the every growing list of items never to be seen or welcomed across the threshold of their eager baby lips again. It’s an odd development in the growth of a child, this sudden revulsion against certain types of food.

Since I introduced my beautiful angels to the concept of solid food, many sleepless months ago, they have enthusiastically eaten the most random of items – plastic straws, toilet paper, a freshly cut daffodil, even mung beans and lentils were regulars on the menu for some time. And as a mother, I have been so proud of this natural mothering ability to ensure that Annabel Carmel recipes are lovingly prepared and devoured at meal times.

PB (prebabies), I dreamed, whilst planning the next twenty years of their life,that my angelic duo would manifest into beacons of health. I would imagine us all strolling hand in hand through the park, with a skip in our step, the sounds of birds singing in the trees and the sun radiating through our skin and I would say '..Are you hungry? Would you like a snack?' and they would say 'yes please Mummy..' And, out of my pocket I would produce a two stick KitKat. They would look at me with confusion and possible horror and say ‘..Oh mum, no thanks. I don’t like chocolate, can’t I have an apple or a banana.’ I would smile of course, maybe tut a ‘silly me’ and then hand them two ripe apples.

In the last twelve months, I have attended numerous variations on mother and toddle groups and over an extra hot, low fat, no whip mocha in a take away cup, I have spoken with pride of how my two beautiful healthy vastly intelligent children so passionately eat a glorious array of foods, without question whilst other mothers recount tale upon tale of how they’re at their wits end because their child will only consider munching on a chicken Mcnuggget or a cheese slice.

However, like most things involving children, the unimaginable and ultimately inevitable will happen.

As we all sit down for our regular evening meal, T.V off, hands washed, bibs on, plastic IKEA bowls and plates in place, I lovingly present home made squash and sweet potato soup served with rice crackers and hummus, followed by poached salmon with fresh steamed asparagus and mashed potato (the prepacked good stuff from the big ‘S’) and what do you know…

From across the table, the echo’s of tiny little high pitched voices singing in unison slowly penetrate around the room getting louder and louder and louder until the piercing scream hits my ear drums….’I DON'T LIKE IT ITS PINKKKKKKKKKKKKKK!’

In six small one syllable words the balance of power has shifted. I hear myself calmly say ‘Try it, please……’ but they know….…children have special SUPERNATURAL powers of detection… they instinctively know your weak points, when your resolve is at its lowest and they strike hard… ‘No, I don’t like it.’

So, the pleading starts again, ‘Please try it… just a little bit. Just for mummy…. If you eat two mouth fulfils you can have a gold star!' …. ..Then I look. I hold my breath. The little pink tongues appear from their angelic filth ridden faces and I wait with bated anticipation praying to God Almighty that they eat their soup. The edge of the small tea spoon is shaking as my hand delivers the offending item towards their lips and as it approaches the tips of their tongue appear. I am projecting positive thoughts - God please hear me. Their tongues touch the edge of the spoons and, suddenly a deafening echoing howl blasts through my head

‘NOoooooooooo, I don’t like it!’

In five words, an hour of researching menus, two hours of my most hated pastime-shopping, thirty minutes of preparing dinner, fifteen minutes of negotiation has proven once and for all…. Yep, it was worth it. They absolutely hated it with as passion and preferred the 69p tined chicken soup with no bits.

Nevermind … will try again tomorrow.