The Day We Were Prayed For.

Today I am writing about my events of yesterday, the day I had to travel to the not so scenic (unless you are people watching) town of West Bromwich. The day I had to catch a tram for the first time and the day I got prayed for.

Lets start at the beginning of the day where O thinks it's incredibly normal for humans to wake up at 6am and that fellow bigger humans like being woke up by being hit in the face (yes he was in our bed due to a rubbish night.. AGAIN). So up we get so he can eat weetabix and watch what they class as kids programmes on t.v.

I aim for us to leave at 12, nice a simple stroll to the bus stop with Daddy who's got an interview to go to. NO. That will never happen, why do I even muse myself that it might?

Daddy realises his interview is 12:10pm NOT 12:40pm, que us rushing around to get ready, I can only find one of O's shoes and he's now wearing odd socks for the day. We get to the bus stop with 7 minutes exactly to spare. Then I realise the dreaded fact that O does not have one of his dummys. No way can I travel all day without a dummy. I have 7 minutes, surely I can run home and grab one and get back. Lets test out my nursing bra for durability.

I'm back in time though hardly breathing. The bus ends up being 10 minutes late any way. Cheers driver.

We get into Birmingham centre and after a dash to the loo because pee can form when you haven't even drank anything we go to the tram station. But no, once again things are not so simple. I can not get it from the tram station and have to get a replacement bus to the next tram station. Fan. Dabby. Dosey.

Finally we get on the tram. I have no idea I am meant to park up the pram and take O out so soon get lectured about that. As I'm taking him out people get on and kindly take the 'priority' seats on which I was sat. I stand and smile while gritting my teeth though thankfully the ticket man does explain to them so I end up get half the seat at the end. Nice.

An elderly lady gets on the next stop with one of those granny push/pull along shopping holders (yeah sorry I don't know the technical term, my bad) and as we leave the station she shouts 'Hello everyone' to which people reluctantly says hello back (a bit like those cheesy pantomimes we went to as a kid) then she starts praying for everyone, at the top of her voice. Obviously everyone shares glances with each other in that awkward silence. Then she comes across me holding O, 'Bless you mother and your baby' I thank her and she moved to the rail by the door but looks uncomfortable standing up. I ask the two seat pinchers to budge up and offer this lady the seat next to me to which she thanks me.

She then starts talking to O and we discover they share the same birthday (obviously from me telling her, O's not that advanced yet), She again prays for him and, then bless her heart, forces £3 into his hand. O obviously looks confused and hands me the money and I thank her kindly and say she does not have to do that but she just sits there for the last 5 minutes of the journey saying prayer for us. Very sweet but very awkward. Also made me a tad nervous something bad was going to happen.

We get off at our stop, do what we have to do then I decide to have a wonder around as the Black Friday sales are on, at this point O starts moaning for food, turns out the banana I bought with me did not survive the journey so off we go with his £3 to get him a sandwich and some fruit (maybe a few chocolate buttons too). While he's sat eating his sandwich I get that dreaded woft come from him, the one where you know its not good news. Sure enough its everywhere and its a swift run (all this running!) to the first baby changing unit.

O decided he is sh*t scared of heights suddenly and the whole time he is lay on the unit while I'm cleaning his mess he is clinging to my arm and screaming for his dear little life because the not even meter drop is horrendous. Done and back in the pram to finish his sandwich.

So tram home, we get on and there is a skinny older male with a heavy Jamiacan accent in a red kilt on and big headphones singing at the top of his voice. 'I just want you to loveee meee' while swinging his arms around with his can of what must be super strong beer. O finds him scary and starts crying (this child is scared of everything recently) so we move to the next carriage, as we walk past the male shouts 'AWW BABA YOU LOOK SO CUTE' I am praying he was on about O.

1&1/2 hours later after being stuck in traffic on the bus and O deciding now was a good time to want to try and run around, we get home. Finally. I am never getting a tram again.

Food For Thought

As well as doing this I run a recipe group on Facebook which started when I started weaning O at 6 months (I trained as a chef when I was younger). The response I got to it was overwhelming and pretty amazing, helping these fellow mums felt so rewarding.

However I noticed one same line keep appearing which was 'Sorry for the silly question but..' and I was so confused as to why these lovely ladies thought asking a question regarding their child's well being was silly i.e. what they can eat, how long a meal can be frozen for, temperatures etc. I had mothers private messaging me as they were too embarrassed to ask in public which I really don't mind but I honestly don't think asking questions is silly when it could stop you making your child ill. No one knows everything.

Along with this just the other day I had someone message me concerned that I had suggested fish fingers as a lunch time snack. Telling me how they are processed and not great for anyone let alone children. Nowhere did I write to give children fish fingers everyday for the rest of their lives but giving yourself a break and your child having a fish finger or a few chips (both which could easily be home-made too!) is not that bad, I mean it's not like they're going to spontaneously combust the moment they bite into it. There is so much pressure on us parents these days to do everything 100% perfect that we're scared to relax. They'll be eating mud and worms behind our backs before we know it, I think a fish finger is the least of your worries.

Their is also the mothers (and I have been here myself) who are desperate for their child to eat. It's so hard to reassure them that their child WILL eat in his/her own time when I know in that position its hard to relax and just believe it. O went 3-4 days just eating banana and refusing any meal I made him no matter how long I slaved over the bloody cooker for, Well they don't care how frustrating they are do they? 

So what to take from this post? 
- No question is a silly question. (I wont be saying that once O can string sentences together)
- Fish fingers don't make our children spontaneously combust.
- Children don't care if you want them to eat or what you cook. They like to be awkward.

Lasagna aftermath.

Paying For Plastic

Having a November baby with Christmas around the corner makes this an expensive time of the year. O's first birthday and second christmas though his first one he was too young to see further than a meter away let alone anything else. So we've tried to make it special.

Being a first time mum it has struck me how ridiculously expensive toys are. I mean lets face it, 98% of toys for 0-2yrs are plastic that make the same 5 noises over and over or can only count to bloody 3 and get to C of the alphabet. Also since when did kids want to pretend to do the washing up? Hoovers maybe but I'm hardly going to pay £20 for pretend washing up stuff when I can get a bowl, scrubber and some marigolds from poundland for less than a fiver. The dirty dishes come along free 2-3 times a day.

 If only we looked that happy when washing up.

(picture courtesy of ELC) 

Anyhow, since when did they get so expensive? Remembering the days of my Nan getting us to sit and put x's next to what we liked in the Argos catalogue, we'd have a set limit and she'd get what she could. These days it would be to pick one toy in the budget! I know I sound old and tight with money but it saddens me that these toy companies are taking advantage of parents wanting to give their kids what they would really like. 

And then when the most popular toy suddenly goes 'out of stock' you have people selling them for 3x the money. But whats more is PEOPLE ACTUALLY PAY IT. I get we all love our kids but come on this is insane. Now I'm not saying don't spend money on your children do they really need it that much for you to pay more than it's worth? At this rate O will be getting a £20 note and a mince pie with a 'Sorry I tried, they were out of stock' letter from Santa.*

They only want to play with the boxes anyway.

 I mean, look how unimpressed he is.

*Again I'm kidding. Dumbass here made the mistake of getting him a mini drum kit for Christmas. Thanks Santa.

Fear: Rational or Irrational

Being someone who suffers with anxiety, fear is a big part of my life. I fear going into shops, crossing roads or needing to pee with no toilet nearby.

But a photo I took the other day (bare with me I will show you) made me think how irrational some fears look but how rational they are to the person fearing them.

My fears/phobias include polystyrene (shuddering just typing it), moths and butterfly's and wrists and ankles. Just no, no, bloody no!

You may be chuckling at this as to you it is irrational but to me it is creepy, goose bump causing nightmares. While they may not kill me polystyrene is like nails on a chalk board to me, moths and butterflies are just scary mo'fo's and wrists and ankles have veins, why can we see veins?! It should not be allowed! (Plus house of wax and kill bill did not help with the ankle part)

My point of this post is thinking of fear with our children, I took this photo and cried with laughter as to me its hilarious and adorable but now I think about it deeper I feel like a right cow for even laughing. The photo you ask?

O is terrified of teddies. Doesn't matter if its a bear, dog or bloody hippo it could be anything but to him its the devil.

I have to admit I am chuckling again at the picture and admit it takes a bit of frustration away from the fact its a £40 build a bloody bear. Also helps take away the annoyance from the fact we went all the way to town excited for him to make a build a bear, even got extras like a smelly thing so it smells like artificial disgusting bananas and he just hid away the whole time.

It'll be a photo that I bring out when his older and we can hopefully laugh about it together but now I have all the teddies away in the top cupboard (I'm a tad worried this will give him a fear of the cupboard now however) and will try again in a few weeks and hope its just a phase.

Fear may seem irrational to you but remember it must be rational to some for it to be there a all. Now excuse me while I go eat chocolate to hide away my guilt.

The Birthday Boy

This post is about my first experience of organising and doing a birthday party. My son turned 1 on the 9th November and so excited over it I organised a big birthday party for him, a hall, hired soft play, buffet, music. I organised it all 3 months in advance thinking nothing could go wrong and people would have plenty of notice. How wrong I was. As little did I know we would end up moving house the same week and the house we move into would be left like a building site. Anyway this is how his birthday party day went (I will refer to Oakley as son as I will get sick of typing his name and battling auto correct):

7am - we wake up groggy after staying up to 1am making paper mâché bloody twirlywoos. (Which in the end don't dry in time and are still in a heap on my dining table)

8am - Son is eating his breakfast while me and his dad sit sorting out cupcakes.

8:15 - Darling son decides to free fall from his high chair banging his head, which proceeds to 20mins of crying but being ok.

9am - Sons godmother and her mum arrive which I am thankful for as Son now has a play mate (his godmothers daughter who is a month younger) and they are great help. Party bags done!

10am - In laws arrive. Que a tour of the new house.

10:50 - I realise the time and that I have 10minutes to get ready, at this point I don't even have my boob hammock on let alone my make up done or hair brushed.

11:05 - Mother arrives. I'm rushing round like a maniac making sure I don't forget anything. Then we're off.

11:15 - Thankfully the church hall owner has let the soft play company in to start inflating the gigantic play area. Son wants some boob. Hall owner wants to show me the fire exits. Soft play people want money. Others are setting up the buffet. 

11:30 - Money paid. Fire exits seen. I am now sat in the chapel brrastfeeding son. Comfy eh. 

12:30 - Guests arrive. Son doesn't want to play and is clung onto me like a baby monkey. 

2pm - Everyone's having fun, except for darling son. We sing happy birthday, he sleeps the whole way through it.

2:45 - People start getting ready to leave,  kids have had a great time. Son has woke up but grouchy and just wants his mum. I'm telling people to take buffet food with them. Please. 

3pm - Soft play people come to get the play area. We clean up and go home.

4pm - Home with mother, grandmother and inlaws. Son is screaming an starts projectile vomiting everywhere. 111 is called and due to the fall earlier the children's hospital it is. 

5:30pm - Driving around the one way system of birmingham city centre for over an hour not being able to find this bloody hospital.

7pm - Finally seen and told they want to observe son until 11pm. Darling son has now perked up and wants to run around.

11pm - Son has played with a pink buggy for hours, screamed at the nurse for taking his oxygen levels as apparently a bit of tape and a red light on your toe is the worst imaginable thing EVER. We head home after being told he's fine. I am exhausted.

12:30 - We are home. Bed is needed. Son is wide a effing wake. 

Moral of the story? Nothing involving kids will go right. At least his friends enjoyed his party.

The Awkward Introduction

Ok so lets get this post done and out the way as I'm not great with introductions.

Firstly my name is Amber, I'm 22 from the UK and mummy to a wonderful (at times) 1 year old called Oakley (I will refer to him as O or son).

Why am I called The Unconventional Mum? Well simply because that's what I am. I mean don't get me wrong I can be your average health visitor approved mum but my child still head bangs to death metal and yes I do bribe him with milky buttons but hey we've all got to have a bit of fun right?

Why am I doing a blog? It was suggested to me by a friend as I have quite a severe anxiety disorder which makes me doubt myself and my ways a lot, she suggested this may just prove I'm 'not that bad' and that there are plenty more of us unconventionals out there.. plus I'm a sentimental cow and will probably cry looking back this time next year.

I will always post as honest as possible, I probably will call my child a shit head some days and refer to what my crazy gang on BabyCentre 2014 call the baby/toddler bin. But we all need a baby bin some days.*

Either way I hope you enjoy and feel free to add you input and share your unconventional tactics and experiences.

With love
Amber

*Please note we do not really put babies/toddlers in bins. Not always anyway.