The Scummy Mummies' sons started school this week. It's all new for Ellie, who has some clear ideas about how she will manage the whole thing. But having done it before with her eldest child, Helen is here to provide a reality check...

Left:
2007
In Helsinki having a mini-break

Right: 
2015
In Lounge having a mini-babybel

Helen writes:

Non-parents can be so cruel, can't they? Specifically, me. Pre-kids, I remember promising myself that when I became a mother, I wouldn't be one of those women who 'let herself go.' (What a bloody awful phrase.) There was no way I would give up my skinny jeans, or stop cutting my hair asymmetrically, or waxing everything.

Back then, though, things were different. I studied History of Art, worked in galleries, wore too much black and smoked fancy cigarettes. Basically I thought I was in a wanky French film. What a dork I was... But that dork got to read books, learn languages, visit confusing exhibitions, pierce things, flirt badly, wear dangly earrings and uncomfortable underwear, and daydream.

Then I became a mum, and my watchwords switched from "cool and interesting" to "sensible and achievable". And why not? I was exhausted and my boobs were dripping with milk. I happily swapped those jeans for M&S chinos. I realised it doesn't matter what length your hair is when you're tying it back anyway. And I decided a bit of hair in other places never hurt anyone. In short, I became the polar opposite of the pre-mum me.

And that's how it's been for the last seven years. It's not that I haven't tried - I have dabbled in rediscovering myself (no, that isn't a euphemism for wanking.) But I find myself spending those odd afternoons off wandering round the shops in a daze, not knowing where to go or what I should be wearing, and end up buying a pair of Clarks shoes. Or I stay at home, determined to put my feet up and relax, just as soon as I've put a wash on, defrosted some mince, and cleared out the spare room.

Don't get me wrong - I am so grateful to have had the opportunity to be at home with my kids and I love it, most of the time. But recently I've been missing the part of me that existed before I became the bum-wiping, tantrum-soothing ninja I am today. Maybe it's because I'm finally getting some sleep, or because I'm approaching 40, but I feel like I'm emerging from the mum fog. I want more than pizza crusts for dinner; I want reading material that's more intellectually stimulating than the Toys-R-Us catalogue. I know, I'm so needy.

It's good timing. My youngest child is about to start school, and I will have some time to myself at last. It's a bit scary, to be honest. What will I do? Who the hell am I these days, anyway?

I don't have any more excuses. I am going to get a bit of the pre-mum me back. My plan is to set myself achievable weekly challenges.  Nothing too extreme - I won't be spending mornings at the Tate before heading home to practice the cello. But I am going to try to do things that are nothing to do with the kids, and get back into the practice of putting me first. Instead of playdates, I will have grown-up dates with friends. We will talk about politics, fashion, art, and music, and NOT ABOUT FUCKING HOUSE PRICES.

So that's where you'll find me in about a month's time - in Soho, having intelligent conversations over proper coffee, with not a babycino in sight. You will, I promise. Just as soon as I've put a wash on. 

Helen writes:

It’s August. The month when we are all expected to enjoy the sunshine and frolic on the beach. Facebook is awash with pictures of kids eating ice-cream, women drinking Chardonnay and families just ‘loving life’. Isn’t August just THE BEST, our selfies say.

The definition of a ‘holiday’ has drastically changed since my hedonistic 20s. Back then it was all about exotic travel, henna tattoos, 'new experiences’ (drugs), hanging out with friends (drugs), and falling asleep on deck chairs (after taking drugs.)

Now I have small children, a ‘holiday’ rarely involves two minutes of peace.  Although it does seem involve the same amount of alcohol - just with less bikinis on a boat and more PJs on plastic furniture. So here’s what summer holidays mean, now that I am a Scummy Mummy.  

Ice Cream Rage

Ice cream has become the most important thing in my children’s life. It makes them smile it, cools them down and it tastes yummy. What’s wrong with that? Well… It’s when they don’t get their fix things start to go wrong. They get the dreaded ice cream rage. This is entirely my own fault - we talk about ice cream like it’s sacred jewel you win at the end of a quest. The reality of course is it's a sugar-packed snack that buys me five minutes of peace. 

Everything is Covered in Sand

Hair, shoes, sofas, cars, showers, toys, towels, brushes, dogs and my last ounce of sanity are covered in sand. Last night I crawled into bed only to discover it was full of sand, FUCKING SAND. On the upside I think I achieved a full-body exfoliation.  

Wine O’Clock Changes to 12.01pm

The best thing about holidays is enjoying a glass or three or rosé at lunch time. And after a while you get pretty used to it, and let’s just say get you start getting twitchy at 11.59am. Cheers!

Surprise Bonking 

August is the month me and hubby will have at least one daytime nudie session. It takes us both by surprise that we will suddenly have enough time (and love) for each in the afternoon to actually DO IT. Whilst years ago this would be to core focus of our holiday activity, the surprise bonk is a rare and joyous thing. JUST LOCK THE DOOR!

Home Looks Better Again

After the sand-filled shoes have walked their last trip to the ice cream shop, it’s time to pack up the smelly car, with the smelly washing and smelly children and head home. And it is a relief. The kids will have toys they like, me and the husband will get wifi that works, and happiness will be achieved. Home always looks so much more appealing after being away from it for a week, and this can only be a good thing.

Ellie writes: 

Is it just me, or does the internet now consist entirely of lists of things to do during the summer holidays? My eldest son starts school next month, so naturally we're spending August doing elaborate scavenger hunts, baking rainbow cakes, and making dreamcatchers out of foraged driftwood. We're definitely not whiling away the days watching telly and hanging out in 
Pets At Home. 

Just thinking about his first day of school makes me wobbly. I'm going to miss him so much. But sometimes - on the days when it's too hot, and we're too tired, and there have been three tantrums by 10am, and that's only counting mine - I do idly fantasise about what I'll do with all that free time. So here's a bucket list of things I plan to do once my child starts school. 

1. Have a poo in peace. 

I will enter the bathroom. I will close the door. I may or may not lock it. And I will enjoy the thrill of having a poo without being asked what I'm doing, or how long I will be, or where the pirate cutlass is, or whether we've got any Dairylea Dunkers, or how to put Spider-Man's legs back on. It will feel more luxurious than a weekend at Claridges. 

2. Save millions on the weekly shop. 

I look forward to leaving the supermarket with only the healthy, essential foods we need to live, like bread, eggs and Sauvignon blanc. I won't have to bribe and argue my way around the shop, which means I won't end up with a trolley full of half-eaten Cheestrings and packets of Haribo. Not to mention those weird new yoghurt lollies that look like feet, which he absolutely loves and which cost £17 each. 

3. Have lunch. 

As in a proper lunch, not a packet of crisps and some out of date hummus. I may even eat it in a restaurant, without having to choose between dirty looks because my son is making a racket or dirty looks because I'm letting my son have an iPad in a restaurant so he doesn't make a racket. There will be wine. 

4. Read a book.

An actual grown-up book. It will feature no Gruffalos, hungry caterpillars or pirate dinosaurs. No flaps to lift or songs to sing. No narratives based around the tediously implausible idea that a zoo would post a series of exotic and dangerous animals to a small child on request. I will read a novel, perhaps that new Harper Lee one, or that obscure Nabokov I never got round to. I definitely won't finish the 50 Shades of Grey series or re-read Twilight. 

5. Have a cry. 

Because lovely though these things are, none of them are as good as spending time with my son. I know that when I come home from that first drop off, I'll close the front door and weep for the absence of my little one. I'll cry for four years of love and laughs and companionship, and yes, the tantrums too. (Although I might not shed too many tears for the days when the potty training went wrong.)

I will count the hours till I can go and collect him and ask about his day. I won't mind when he won't tell me anything. I will hold him close and sniff his hair, and breathe in the strange new smell of school. I will kiss his tired, beautiful face and tell him I've got some of those weird feet lollies in the fridge, if he fancies it. Then we'll do it all again the next day, and I know it will 
get easier.

In the meantime, here's my summer holiday bucket list: to store up as many memories as possible. Not of elaborate crafts or exotic adventures, but of my son as he is now - the endless questions, the daft jokes, the feeling of his arms around my neck, the way his hair curls over his ears when it rains. The only item on my list is to remember my son as best I can in all his funny, gorgeous, four year-old glory. 

Well, that, and to actually buy something from Pets At Home. I'm pretty sure the security guard is on the point of throwing us out. 

Helen Writes:

Last weekend, Ellie and I packed up our husbands and kids and headed down to Dorset to go camping. We took all the essentials: tents, torches, sleeping bags, 400 packets of wet wipes, and a pair of gold lamé catsuits. For this was no ordinary camping trip - we were off to perform at Camp Bestival, our favourite family festival. 


Since forming Scummy Mummies, we have performed in some weird and wonderful places. A shipping container under a flyover in Deptford; the basement of a Thai restaurant in Manchester; a Stop Smoking roadshow in an empty park in Croydon, in the pouring rain. All great times, obviously, but you can see why Camp Bestival feels like a real treat.

I did have reservations. Yes, I am Australian, and a walking cliché in many respects - I love cricket, barbecues, being loud, putting ketchup on everything and wearing flip flops at inappropriate occasions. But I am not a natural camper. Peeing in buckets and not washing for days at a time is not usually my idea of fun. 

But then I discovered Camp Bestival. It turns out camping is really quite enjoyable if you throw in live music and comedy, kids' entertainment and a three litre box of wine. It's like adding gin to tonic - previously bitter pisswater becomes a sophisticated and delightful aperitif. 

This was our second year performing at the festival. We do our show in the Guardian Literary Institute tent, which is less formal than it sounds - in fact it's filled with cosy old couches and jolly bunting. It's host to a wide range of authors, journalists, poets, and middle-aged women doing jokes about vaginas. 

Our slot for this year was 2pm on the Friday afternoon - after the brilliant Guardian games expert Keith Stuart, and before reknowned feminist columnist Suzanne Moore. We felt like the fish fingers in an artisanal sour dough sandwich.

We had a brilliant time and I could bang on forever about our adventures - but here are my highlights.  

1. The audience at the Scummy Mummies Show. 

We performed to a packed tent of fellow scummy mummies, scabby daddies and their kids, all willing to laugh at our boob jokes and share their hilarious confessions. The winning story was from a mum who once weed in her baby's nappy in a service station car park. Congratulations Queen Julie, the scummiest mummy at Camp Bestival! 

 2. Suzanne Moore in a yurt with lager. 

We sat in a yurt and recorded a podcast about feminism with the legendary Suzanne Moore, while drinking cans of lager. Career highlight does not even cover it. 

Ellie writes: 

We're going camping this weekend, and we're taking our seven month old baby with us.

When some people hear this, they raise their eyebrows as if I've just said, "We're climbing Kilimanjaro blindfolded, then racing down it on unicycles," or, "We're going to Ikea on a bank holiday Monday." But I don't believe having children should stop you from doing what you want to do.

Hahaha what nonsense. What I really want to do is spend a week in Tuscany, lying around, drinking wine, and never having to wipe anyone else's bottom. But I can't find any agriturismos willing to pay my comedy partner and I to prat about in gold catsuits for an hour, so we're off to Camp Bestival.

This is a family festival - it's like a regular festival, but with less drugs and dance music and more Dick and Dom. Word is that headline act Mr Tumble has a rider longer than Kanye's, with demands including "200 freshly prepared custard pies" and "everything in the dressing room to be covered in giant coloured spots."

We're performing, too, as the Scummy Mummies (rider: two bottles of warm rosé.) I'm not nervous about doing the show, because we are professional comedians with strong material we know back to front, and we'll drink the rosé before we go on. But if I'm honest, I am a bit nervous about spending three nights sleeping in a structure made out of cloth on a crap lilo with a small baby who still wants feeding every two hours.

I'm trying to remind myself that I've been camping loads of times, and have even almost enjoyed it once or twice. Take last summer, for example, when I survived Latitude while pregnant and looking after a three year old.

Sure, I went to bed at 9pm every night, and woke up one morning to find the tent collapsing around me like a fabric coffin, but having kids doesn't have to alter your enjoyment of festivals. (Certainly not if you're my husband, who popped out for "a few beers" one night, and returned to the tent at 5.30am - covered in mud, looking insane, and babbling about "this really cool chick I met who's got an Airstream." Good times.)

So for what it's worth, here are my top tips for camping with small children.

1. Take All the Baby Wipes

Every parent knows how useful baby wipes can be, but they really come into their own while camping. You cannot bring too many.

2. Befriend an Australian

Based on all the ones I've met (four), Australians love camping. They are brilliant at it. This is partly because they are genetically coded to survive in harsh environmental conditions against all the odds, and mainly because they Have All The Stuff. Gazebos, head torches, fold-out dining tables, barbecues, tiny extra tents just for keeping beer cool... For a much more comfortable camping experience, get an Australian friend. Or better still, comedy partner.

3. Let Them Eat Cakes

There's a reason Bear Grylls is always foraging for berries and boiling up hay - this is easier than planning, shopping for, prepping and cooking normal meals while camping. Take some bananas and raisins, sure, but take a break from worrying about whether the kids are getting their full five a day. They can spend a few days surviving on tiny boxes of Frosties and Pom Bear crisps. In fact, this is what Bear Grylls eats when the cameras are off.

4. Drink  Through It

Alcohol makes crap lilos more comfortable and tinned food tastier. It warms you up from the inside out. It makes camping bearable, even enjoyable. Again, Bear Grylls likes nothing more after six hours of rubbing sticks together  than relaxing with a nice pint of Bailey's. (JUST BUY A LIGHTER, BEAR, THEY ARE FIVE FOR A POUND DOWN THE MARKET)

5. Buy A Lottery Ticket  

You never know, you might get lucky, and then next year you  can go to Center Parcs.

A new episode of The Scummy Mummies Podcast is released every fortnight - listen free via scummymummies.com or download via iTunes. We're on Facebook and Twitter - @scummymummies. Come see us perform live at Camp Bestival, July 31st - 2 Aug. 

This week's blog is a guest post by midwife Natasha Cullen, who runs Beloved Bumps antenatal classes. Here she reveals what she believes is the best way to empower pregnant women, and how her own labour led her to develop a new product.

Most midwives will tell you they knew what they wanted to do from the day they themselves were born. I'll be honest - until my first day of training, I didn't even know what a placenta was...

In fact, that very first day, I wasn't even sure I'd made the right career decision. "The people who didn't get onto this course were the ones who said they love babies," the lecturer said. "Being a midwife isn't about that. It's about being with the woman." I could remember raving about how cute babies were in my interview, so how I'd made it through the selection process was a mystery.  

But over the next three years of training, I realised I'd found my true calling. Now I understand exactly what the lecturer meant - yes, I love watching a baby's head appear and hearing their first cry, but I also love being an advocate for women. I love meeting new couples, and supporting them through the most difficult yet rewarding days of their lives. Although we also have to deal with really heartbreaking situations too, I go out of my way to try to make the experience as positive as it can be.

But as a qualified midwife, I've noticed some patterns emerging. I meet women coming to hospital quite unprepared for their labour, even though they've been to antenatal classes. They seem to see midwives as the "baddies" - as if we're out to get them!

I think this is down to two factors: being told horror stories by friends, and taking antenatal classes taught by women who want everyone to have the same labour they experienced.

So I set up my own company, Beloved Bumps, teaching antenatal classes in South East London. My aim is to give women the full information about what could happen in hospital, but in a way that empowers them with that knowledge, instead of frightening them.

Planning a peaceful water birth with whale music is great, but it doesn't always happen like that. If the women I teach end up being induced or having an emergency C-section, I want them to feel like - "So what? I can still make this a positive experience."

Don't get me wrong - it would be wonderful if everyone could have a beautiful labour with no pain relief. But every birth is different, every woman is different, and no one knows how they will cope in labour until they have been through it.

I don't think preparing for labour should be about deciding what kind of drugs you're going to have or what instruments will be used. All drugs have a time and place if you need them, and doctors use ventouse or forceps depending on the clinical situation, not because they prefer one over the other.

With all this talk of knowledge and empowerment, you'd think I'd know what I was doing when it came to my own labour. But as soon as I went on maternity leave, I very much became a patient, especially when it came to packing my hospital bag. It took me ages to buy all the little bits I needed. And even then, I left the bloody water spray at home...

Ellie writes: 

I love Nigella. I've got all the books, I've seen all the shows, and I've cooked all the classics, from ham in coke to turkey in a bucket. I've even attempted the eyeliner. (Turns out it only works on eyes that are sleek and almond-shaped, rather than squidgy and round like a Mini Babybel.)

Sure, there have been some disasters. Christmas 2012 was almost ruined when I messed up the fir tree bundt cake, despite having bought in the special tin and everything.

"I've burned the bundt," I told my husband.

"It doesn't look burned," he said. "It looks like a perfectly nice chocolate cake."

"It's not a chocolate cake," I said, and he backed slowly out of the room.

But I tanked some icing sugar on it and took a picture anyway. It sat there for the whole of Christmas. I quite liked having it around, looking pretty, being totally inedible, and reminding me to tell guests about the latest ludicrous thing my husband said.

Helen writes:

There are many things I love about being a comedian. They include making people laugh, writing jokes and hanging out with my comedy partner, Ellie. The fact all these things usually take place in pubs is a massive plus. 

But for me, the best thing about comedy is that I'm valued according to the quality of my jokes, not the size of my bum or the width of my waist. I feel sorry for people who work in industries where these things matter - like modelling, for example. 

Kate Moss once famously said, "Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels." Poor love. She can't polish off the kids' bolognese as well as her own, then turn up to work in a pair of supermarket jeans she hasn't washed for three months, can she? But I can! Clearly, I am winning at life. 

Right now, I feel like I am the perfect size for being funny. I have never felt happier or more hilarious on stage, or gotten as many laughs... And I've never been this fat. 

But off-stage, I've been feeling a bit rough - tired, achey in the mornings and generally low.  So I went to see my GP. She was very kind and very honest. She took my blood pressure, banged my knees with the kiddy's hammer and all the rest of it. Then she took a deep breath and announced: "You are short for your weight." 

"Right," I said. "So you're saying I need to start wearing heels?" 

Neither of us laughed, because we both knew what she was really saying. I have a bad case of Being Fat. I have left the land of Within the Normal Range, crossed the Overweight Bridge and arrived in the Valley of the Obese. 

The doctor went on to gently suggest I "have a think about Weight Watchers" and "try some light exercise." But, she said, the bottom line (I do wish she'd used a different turn of phrase) is that I HAVE to lose some weight.

I know she's right. Since having kids I have put on 20kgs, going from a voluptuous size 12 to an extra-cuddly size 18.

Here's the problem: I DON'T CARE. Right now, I am, plain and simply, bloody happy. I've had two kids, kept everyone alive for six years and still managed to kick off a career doing something I adore. Yes, I have spent many hours eating biscuits and drinking wine with other mums in a bid to stop myself going insane - but the thing is, it's worked.

Losing weight and doing exercise do not feature high on my list of priorities, which includes things like keeping my family and myself happy, eating cheese, and sitting around watching funny cat videos on YouTube. Given the choice, I'd always rather spend an hour chatting with a friend over cake than trying to hold in a fart at a yoga class.

I know I have issues with food. Being hungry makes me angry (hangry?), and neither nice nor funny. In a bit to avoid this I usually preload before I go out, just in case, say, the cafe is slow with my toastie. I understand this isn't conducive to being thin and is, well, a bit stupid.

I am also scared of exercise. I don't mind showing off my body on stage (as anyone who saw the show where I spent two minutes jumping on a trampoline in an animal print leotard can testify.) But put me in a group of fitness-minded women and I shit my pants.

Back story time: I grew up in Australia, a country fixated on sports and the outdoors. I spent my entire childhood feeling awful for being unfit and terrible at exercise. The netball girls were bitchy, the hockey girls were bullies and I was always last in the long distance running race. I associate physical activity with failure and sadness, with ridicule and being made to feel bad about who I am. 

Doing comedy has the opposite effect. I prance around in gold lycra catsuits, dancing to Bonnie Tyler songs and making literally tens of people laugh, all using the same body I was so ashamed of in my teens. 

It's not that I've never wanted to lose weight, though, or that I'm incapable of doing it. Five years ago, I went through a period where I made conscious decisions about everything that went in my mouth. I obsessed over herbal tea, agonised over almonds and was generally a tedious person to be around.

But I had a goal: I was getting married. Five months before the wedding, I walked into Vivienne Westwood and announced my desire for a fabulous frock. With a lot of help from two shop assistants, and a fair bit of swearing, I squeezed into a size 16. Then I asked for the size 12.

 "You know you can't return this, don't you?" said the dubious looking assistant.

"Yes," I said. "I am not going to be a fat bride."

 So in fact, not only did I have a goal, but a deadline. For five months I refused cake, shunned wine and ran everywhere. And sure enough, exactly five minutes before I walked down the aisle, I was thin enough to fit into the frock. It was a big, stupid risk, but thankfully it paid off.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy being thin back then. I loved the compliments I got and being able to feel my hip bones. I didn't feel shy about trying on clothes, I had loads of energy and I was happy to lie on the beach in my swimsuit. I had done it - I was Helen the Lovely Bride. I felt SEXY!

There was just one problem - I didn't feel funny. I wasn't doing comedy, so I wasn't Helen the Stand-Up, and that made me sad. It felt like being hilarious and being a size 12 were mutually exclusive.

Don't get me wrong - I love thin people, and some of my favourite funny people in the whole world are skinny as rakes. I know that fat doesn't equal funny, as a general rule. But for me personally, it does.

That's because for me, being funny is about not giving a shit. It's about being at ease with reality, letting go of hang-ups and embracing life with honesty. And that includes accepting my body the way it is.

Plus, I am now one-half of a comedy duo, and I like being the warm and cuddly one. Ellie is lean, sharp and cynical; I am jolly, likeable and larger-than-life. It's an age-old dynamic, but that's because it works.

So it makes sense for my comedy career to keep mainlining carbs and cheese. Doesn't it?

Maybe Kate Moss has a point. There are all sorts of things wrong with what she said, but I do know what she meant in one sense, because nothing tastes as good as funny feels. No lasagne, cheesecake or milk chocolate Hob Nob will ever make me feel the way I do when a room full of strangers laughs at one of my jokes. So I just have to replace the Big Macs with guffaws.

I know it's time to grow up - I am heading towards 40 and ultimately, my fat might stop me doing what I love. I need to be fit to perform hour-long comedy shows and be a healthy, active mum. The kids are tougher to keep up with now they're older. So maybe it's time to skip those pre-lunch lunches and avoid the post-gig kebabs. Wish me luck!

A new episode of The Scummy Mummies Podcast is released every fortnight - listen free via scummymummies.com or download via iTunes. We're on Facebook and Twitter - @scummymummies. Come see us perform live at Camp Bestival, July 31st - 2 Aug. 

Regular listeners of the Scummy Mummies Podcast will have heard Clemmie on episodes 14 and 38. She also writes the hit blog GasandAir, which went viral with her post The Truth About Maternity Leave. 

Here she answers our top ten questions about life before, during and after birth.


1. What's the number one thing pregnant women should do to prepare for labour?

Do some kind of hypnobirthing - breathing, visualisation and so on. It really does make all the difference. And read Ina May Gaskin's Guide to Childbirth.

2. Do you recommend watching birth videos? For example, 34 episodes of One Born Every Minute?

NO! It’s a highly edited entertainment programme that shows women lying on their backs, screaming for drugs. It doesn’t have to be like that. Positive birth videos? Perhaps.

3. Home, hospital, water birth, epidural... How do you know what's right for you?

You don’t until you’ve tried it. Keep your options and your mind open. Birth changes and you can't control many aspects of it, but staying calm works wonders. However, I would say always do your research before making a choice.

4. Does everyone shit themselves when giving birth?

No, not everyone. But we do love a poo, us midwives! It means the baby is coming and you’re pushing in the right place. I think we need to get over the shitting fear. Worse things can happen to women in labour. Shitting isn't worth worrying about.

5. What should you pack in your hospital bag?

A pillow. An iPod and headphones. Water spray, a wide headband, flannel and face wipes. Sugary sweets, dark chocolate and a sports water bottle. Lavender oil and a TENS machine. Sanitary pads, loads of big knickers and comfy socks.

6. What can dads do to prepare for the big day? What about during the event?

Read the book your wife is reading - then at least you'll know what vibe she's into.

On the day, stay calm, charm the midwife and get in touch with your massage skills. Know where the car park is and bring enough change for the machine. Don't forget the phone charger.

7. What's the best gift for visitors to bring when meeting the new baby? And what shouldn't they bring?

BRING FOOD! And only food. I swear by this. No more cuddly toys or cute clothes, especially impractical ones like cashmere bibs or fancy dresses. They will never get worn. Families with new babies need survival gifts. I wept with happiness when a friend left a homemade lasagne on my doorstep.

Only offer to visit if you're prepared to make your own tea, put your mug in the dishwasher and leave after a maximum of 30 minutes.

8. What should you buy your midwife as a gift? What should you avoid


No more chocolates or hand cream, thanks - we get loads. A bottle of lovely wine, a gorgeous candle... I've been given a massage treatment, which is such a treat, and John Lewis vouchers are always so useful. 

But the best things I've received are the handwritten cards with photo. I've kept every one of these I've ever been given.  

9. How long does it take your fanny to go back to normal? Will it ever go back to normal?

Everything will be fine if you work hard (it is all muscle, after all.) And by work hard I mean do your pelvic floor exercises properly and regularly - not just when the midwife or health visitor reminds you.

Don't get caught out like my friend who tried out a trampoline one year after giving birth. Pissed everywhere in front of an entire kids' birthday party.

10. Gina Ford, the Baby Whisperer, What to Expect... What baby book would YOU recommend?

Mmm... None. I always tell new mums their baby hasn't read the book, so how can they expect it to conform to some sort of routine? It's important to understand that babies aren't supposed to sleep through the night. I've had two children, both with entirely different sleep patterns, even though I did nothing different with them.

Having said that, Your Baby Week By Week is a good book, as it tells you what babies do - rather than what you should be doing to get them into a strict routine. 


A new episode of The Scummy Mummies Podcast is released every fortnight - listen free via scummymummies.com or download via iTunes. We're on Twitter - @scummymummies.

1. Many parenting experts say that in moments of frustration or anger, you should breathe, gather yourself and ask what it is your child needs. Sod that. Just shout at the top of your lungs, "BUSTIN' MAKES ME FEEL GOOD!" This provides an instant release of tension, and leaves your children so confused they stop dicking about. 

2. In fact, this catchphrase works in many situations. Strong labour contraction? "BUSTIN' MAKES ME FEEL GOOD!" Losing an argument with your partner? "BUSTIN' MAKES ME FEEL GOOD!" Asked to help out with the school fete and can't think of a reason to say no? "BUSTIN' MAKES ME FEEL GOOD!" They'll wonder what's wrong with you, but they'll never ask again.

3. No time to tidy the house before your in-laws come round? Blame the mess on paranormal activity. Make this more believable by giving the kids some water pistols filled with egg white and allowing them to cover the house in "ectoplasm."

4. DADS. Is your son struggling with the transition from potty to toilet? Make stand-up wees more fun by joining in and inviting him to "cross the streams."

5. If your child asks if you are a god, you say "Yes." 

6. Rebrand yourselves. Forget "Mum" and "Dad", now it's "The Keymaster" and "The Gatekeeper." This will give you an added air of authority and make everyday conversations more dramatically interesting - "No I don't know where your Peppa Pig arm bands are, ask The Keymaster," etc.

7. If you have a second child, do not ask Bobby Brown to write their theme tune.

8. When times get tough, stand shoulder to shoulder with your friends. Together you can face anything, whether it's a 100-foot marshmallow man or a poo in the bath. Who you gonna call? Your friend, because she understands.  

Ellie writes:

As a busy mum, I usually hate reading articles that begin "as a busy mum." But I love food, and I love finding recipes that I actually might have time to cook and eat. So I thought I'd share my favourites. 

These aren't particularly child-friendly - they're more for the days when you can't face yet another fish finger yourself, but have five minutes to spare while they're in the oven. Nor are they super nutritious - I am breastfeeding and I want fat and carbs. JUDGE AWAY. But they are all suitable for eating with one hand, leaving the other free for holding babies / wiping noses / checking Facebook / pouring yet more wine. 

All serve one greedy person. 

Gibsonara

I love carbonara but honestly, who can wait 12 minutes for pasta to cook? 

1 muffin
Two small knobs (hahaha) of butter
Handful of cubed pancetta
2 eggs
Small knob (OK stop it now) of parmesan

Fry the pancetta in one knob of butter. Split the muffin and stick it in the toaster. Grate the cheese. Beat the eggs then tip into the pancetta and scramble about. When it's cooked how you want (I like it runny and laugh in the face of salmonella), throw in the cheese and the remaining butter. Tip onto the muffin and add black pepper. 

 Garlic Pork and Spinach Salad

This is adapted from the Cook Yourself Thin book. I like the book but I have failed to take 
it literally. 

1 pork steak
2 handfuls spinach salad
4 anchovy fillets 
1 clove of garlic
1 tbsp olive oil 
Juice of half a lemon
Half a tsp dijon mustard

Cut the pork into bite-sized pieces and fry in olive oil till cooked through. Finely chop the garlic and anchovies. Mix with the oil, lemon juice, mustard and loads of black pepper. (I did not realise how much I like black pepper until I wrote this article.) Toss everything together. Like the tuna bean salad, this is ideal partner deterrent if they're looking hopeful and you just want an 
early night. 

So there you go. Obviously there are times when even these recipes seem like too much hard work. Meals I have eaten on these days include:

            Four packets of Skips
            A ball of mozzarella, eaten like an apple
            Cream crackers smeared with Philadelphia and Patak's lime pickle (actually this is 
            quite nice) 

We would love to hear your own recipe suggestions - please do share in the comments below or on our Facebook page. Thanks! 

A new episode of The Scummy Mummies Podcast is released every fortnight - listen free via scummymummies.com or download via iTunes. We're on Twitter - @scummymummies.

Helen writes: 

It usually starts with the letter home, written in that passive aggressive style schools do so well: "We've had some unwelcome visitors in the class..."

As everyone knows, this is code for: "Your grubby child has given everyone the hair plague. Don't come back until you've painted a red cross on your door and shaved their heads."

I knew it was coming. It's like getting your first period - you don't know when it'll happen, but you know it will be painful, messy and smelly. 

So I always assumed the kids would bring nits home from school one day, along with the usual collection of paintings, creative pottery and facts about dinosaurs.

It fact, we picked up our first case of headlice during a visit to Australia over Christmas. I'm sure these ones were bigger and itchier than the British version. We discovered them on the plane home. So there we were - me, the husband, the three-year-old and the six-year-old, all scratching our messy, dirty hair like a bunch of feral gorillas. Just to make sure the other passengers knew what was going on, the kids kept shouting, "My head's itchy, Mummy! It's REALLY itchy!" Yes, we were THAT family.

We arrived home facing not only the hell of jetlag, but the horror of having to delouse ourselves before returning to school and work the next day. I sat the three of them on chairs and started combing the mini-beasts out of their tatty hair. Oh, the whining, the wriggling, the moaning I had to endure - and that was before I started on the kids.

Yes, my 38-year-old husband was the worst. It's a special moment in any couple's life when you have to remove crawling bugs from each other's scalps. It puts a whole new spin on having animalistic urges - by the end of the session I was ready to bite him myself, before dragging him into a swamp TO DIE.

At last we were nit-free, or at least as far as I could be sure. I took the kids to school, hoping neither of them would give the game away by scratching. I braided the daughter's hair so tightly her face was free from expression, like a mini Nicole Kidman. I made the boy wear a beanie indoors.

I spent the whole day dreading a phone call from the school, wondering if that letter would be waiting for me at pick-up time... But thankfully, we were OK.

All the same, it wasn't a great time. For me, the hardest thing was discovering that unlike many other parenting experiences, having nits is still taboo. Talking about it involves lots of whispering and nervous laughter. There's lots of trying to sound jolly while saying things like, "Apparently, lice only like really clean hair," as if the particular species of nit on your kid's head only wears Boden and eats organic.

My usual response in stressful situations is to crack a joke and have a laugh, but I found myself embarrassed and on the defence. Just like STDs in your twenties, it turns out nits aren't such a natural source of humour when they happen to you...

But we got through it and now I can see the funny side. So for those new to nits, here's my survivor's guide.

1. CREATE AN EMERGENCY KIT. 
This should contain:

2 bottles of nit solution 
(one for the adults, one for the kids)

4 combs (so there's always one to hand)

Thick conditioner (makes combing out easier)

Lollipops and Kids' DVDs 
(to distract them from wriggling)

Wine / beer / gin 
(to distract yourself from the whole thing)

A sense of humour

Make sure you have all these things in stock at all times. If your child is starting school in September, go and get them now. Seriously. They're more important than the uniform, a coat, shoes etc. 

Draw up a chart to see which member of the family has the most live nits. 

My daughter got 13 the other day and we all cheered. It's a good laugh, and the kids get a bonus maths lesson too. 

Feel free to award a prize to each member of the family,  
especially Mum!

Half-term is a wonderful time to reconnect with your school-age children. But along with all those magic moments, there are days you just want to grab the gin and hide in a darkened room. Often by
9.15am. 

The Scummy Mummies have just spent a week at home with our little darlings.  Here are our holiday highlights.  

Top Ten Things We Said This Half-Term

1. "Sudocrem is NOT facepaint."
 
2. "Gently with the baby, darling. Gently. GENTLY. MORE GENTLY THAN THAT."
 
3. "No, biscuits are not a breakfast food."
 
4. "Yes, hash browns are a breakfast food."

5. "Of course you can be a mermaid when you grow up."

6. "Sorry, you can't keep your nits as pets."
 
7. "Stop licking your brother like a dog."
 
8. "Stop sucking your face with the vacuum cleaner."
 
9. "Yes, everybody poos."
 
10. "This? It's Mummy's special teatime drink, darling. Well, yes, it is a kind of juice, it's made from grapes."

We hope you had a wonderful week! If you've had some Scummy Mummy moments over the half-term please tweet us  about them- @scummymummies.  For more from us, why not catch up listen to our latest podcast episode with Jo Elvin, editor of Glamour. Cheers!

Inspired by our latest podcast with Jo Elvin, editor of Glamour, we've created a 
Scummy Mummies version of Hey, It's OK... one of the magazine's most popular features. 

Hey, It's OK... 

...to feed your kids fish fingers three nights in a row.

...to look forward to pooing at work, because you get to do it without an audience.

...to let your kids watch Frozen on a 
loop while you Google image search Benedict Cumberbatch. 

...to leave the house with at least three different kinds of bodily fluid on your clothes.

...to use baby wipes as make-up remover, floor cleaner, loo roll... Well, anything really.

...that you don't know what's under your sofa, and are too tired to care, let alone look.

...to wear the same pair of jeans for two months without washing them.

...to start thinking about wine at 11am... And start drinking it out of a mug at 6pm.

...to do the school run in your pyjamas. A big coat can cover a lot of things.

...to fantasise about Mr Bloom while you're having sex with your husband.

...to  laugh at yourself and all the chaotic situations you end up dealing with. Motherhood is sometimes fun, sometimes hard and regularly ridiculous... So we might as well chuckle whenever we can. 

For more chat about Glamour, check out the latest episode of the Scummy Mummies Podcast with the Jo Elvin. Listen FREE via scummymummies.com or download via iTunes. We're on Facebook and Twitter - @scummymummies. Come and say hello!  

Is organic food worth the money? What's better for kids, fruit juice or Fruit Shoot? How guilty should we feel about giving them fish fingers all the time? 

Jo Travers, otherwise known as The London Nutritionist, answers all our Scummy Mummy queries. 

What's your opinion on baby-led weaning?

Baby-led weaning is fun and interactive. It can be a great bonding experience for parents and babies. But it can also drive you mad! It can take hours for the baby to eat anything, and this can often leave them hungry and grumpy.

Also, there are some lovely foods for babies that don't lend themselves to this style - porridge, for example. It's lovely to occasionally do some messy finger-painting with porridge, but it's also nice to get some of it in their mouths with a spoon. In practice, I think a mix of traditional and baby-led works best.

How do you get kids to eat their greens?

Personally? I got my daughter to realise she actually liked lettuce by playing the who-can-crunch-the-loudest game. Now she just eats it and I don't have to play the game anymore. Result!

Game playing is good and works quite often. Another game that's popular in our house is the pretend-you-are-a-giant-eating-trees one with broccoli.

Is it OK to bribe kids to behave at the table, finish their plate and so on with the promise of pudding?

It's not ideal, because the food you want them to eat can become seen as the barrier standing between the child and the ice cream. This can lead to resentment of the carrots / sprouts / brown rice or whatever it is. No one likes that kind of barrier, especially kids.

Having said that, it does work surprisingly well. 

What is better - fruit juice (loads of sugar) or Fruit Shoot (loads of chemicals)?

They are both good. Fruit juice has other stuff like folate, potassium and vitamin C. Fruit Shoots offer a tasty alternative to water that isn't really too full of chemicals.

I would keep juice for mealtimes, when the extra saliva produced helps lower the impact on teeth and additional food helps lower the glycaemic load of the sugar. Use Fruit Shoots for hydration at other times - there is loads of evidence to say that many kids don't drink enough.

What about those toddler snacks - Goodies crisps, Ella's biscuits and so on? Can you suggest any healthier alternatives for handy snacks on the go?

Bake biscuits sweetened only with grated apple and make your own hummus to have with homemade oatcakes. 

Just kidding, I know nobody does that. Yes, it's OK to buy snacks, but remember that the purpose of a snack is to provide some energy and nutrients to keep hunger at bay. Some of those weird crisps seem to be mainly air, which serves no purpose - other than pacifying, obviously. And just for the record, using food as a pacifier is not good!

Where possible, choose things that tick off two of the five food groups - carbs, protein, dairy, fruit and veg. For example, hummus and crackers = protein and carbs. Cream cheese and carrot sticks = protein, dairy and veg. 

Are fish fingers OK?

Yes. They are a great source of protein, they are really easy to cook and kids love them. 

But check the ingredients list for things that don't sound like food - not all fish fingers are not all created equal.

Is organic food worth the extra money if you can afford it?

In terms of sustainability, possibly (although that's not my area.) In terms of nutrients, probably not. In terms of chemical residues, maybe.

What are good foods for knackered parents to keep our energy up?

Carbs. Five fist-sized portions of wholegrain carbs spread evenly throughout the day. Aim for between one and one-and-a-half portions per meal.

How much wine can we drink? What about while breastfeeding?

I'm not sure how much wine you can drink, but I'm guessing you can hold your own. 

Joking aside - try to stick within the guidelines of 2-3 units a day, with at least couple of consecutive alcohol-free days per week.

Some alcohol does make it into breastmilk, but no one is quite sure of the effect this has on the baby. Typically the concentration of breastmilk alcohol will be the same as your blood alcohol level. But remember that babies are a lot smaller, so the effect is magnified.

Alcohol is metabolised quite quickly, although everyone metabolises it at a different rate. It seems to be that the level of alcohol in breastmilk peaks about half an hour after you have the drink. So I suppose the best time to drink is at the tail-end of your feeding, and then not again for a few hours. 

Stick to one drink though as more than this pushes up the time it takes for the alcohol to get through your system. Eating alongside drinking tends to slow the increase in blood alcohol level, and is better for your liver.

Is it really so bad to eat an entire packet of chocolate Hob Nobs in one sitting?

Yes.

Jo offers a range of services for both children and adults at her London clinic - visit TheLondonNutritionist.co.uk for details. Find her on Facebook, Google+ and Twitter - @LDNnutritionist. For more from Jo, listen to the podcast we recorded with her as our special guest:

A multiple choice quiz. Each player lists three disgusting meals - two they have made up, and one they have actually eaten. The rest of the group have to guess which one is real. As an example, here are our dirty dinners:

          HELEN
               a) The remains of a pizza the children have already chewed the toppings off
               b) A whole packet of Cheestrings
               c) One of those microwave burgers from Tesco, unmicrowaved

          ELLIE                                                                                       
               a) A Fray Bentos Steak & Ale Pie with a side order of Monster Munch
               b) An entire gratin made with 1kg potatoes and 2 pints of cream
               c) Leftover curry eaten cold, straight out of the tin, in the bath

(This is sort of a trick question as we have eaten all these things, but you get the idea.)

All mums are covered in mystery stains at all times. The game here is to guess the origins of the stains on each other's clothing, handbag, buggy etc. Each time one is identified, the entire group must sing: "Poooooo are you? Poo-poo, poo-poo," to the tune of the CSI theme song. Yes, you are grown women. But you are also mothers, so you might as well get used to the idea of finding 
poo hilarious.

Thanks for playing! For more mums' group chat, check out the latest episode of the Scummy Mummies Podcast. Listen FREE via scummymummies.com or download via iTunes. We're on Facebook and Twitter - @scummymummies. Come and say hello!  

Laughter will get you through the tears, the tantrums, and the tough times. It will sustain you through disastrous day trips and marathon Peppa Pig sessions. Laughing with your partner will keep your relationship alive. Laughing with your kids will remind you why you had them. And laughing at yourself is a great way to remember that nobody's perfect - your best is good enough, even when it's rubbish.  

Love,

The Scummy Mummies x 

We'd love to hear your own scummy parenting hacks, so do share in the comments below. A new episode of The Scummy Mummies Podcast is released every fortnight - listen free via scummymummies.com or download via iTunes. We're on Facebook and Twitter - @scummymummies. 

Helen writes:

Dear Duchess of Cambridge,

Not long to go! You must be so excited about the arrival of baby number two. Now Kate - can I call you Kate? I feel like I know you so well as we have so much in common. We both live in London, we both have two kids and we're both married to blokes called Will! SNAP.

Anyway, Kate, welcome to the 
mother-of-two club. Grab yourself a cuppa and a jaffa cake - here's the Scummy Mummies guide to what life will be like with a toddler and a baby.

1. EXPECT LESS PRESENTS

I know George was inundated with diamond rattles, sports cars and handmade rocking horses from President Obama, but don't expect the same this time round. You'll be lucky if Nick Clegg turns up with a bottle of cava and a packet of Hobnobs.

2. CBEEBIES IS YOUR FRIEND

George will watch a lot more TV over the next year. Just accept this now. Take that rule about one episode of Peppa Pig before bed and throw it in the bin. While you're busy feeding, changing nappies, burping and being generally bloody tired, stick G on the sofa with Mr Tumble and a packet of chocolate biscuits. You'll all be much happier. 

3. ALLOW TWO HOURS TO LEAVE THE HOUSE (MINIMUM)

Trying to get out of the front door (or across the moat in your case) will take about 65 times longer than you ever imagined. So if you need to get to Sing and Sign for 11am on Tuesday, start packing on Sunday night. (Better yet, don't bother with Sing and Sign at all - the sooner they can start asking for things, the more trouble for you.)

Here are some things that can happen when trying to leave the house with two small children:

a) Getting the toddler to put their shoes, coat, gloves and/or hat on will involve actual wrestling.
b) You will fail to pack at least one of the following: keys, phone, wallet, sanity.
c) You will agree to take along a ridiculously over-sized toy, just because you want to leave the house some time before midnight.
d) The moment you are finally ready to walk out the door, someone will need the potty or a 
nappy change.
e) All of the above.

 4. FORGET THE ORGANIC KALE SMOOTHIES

The second child eats crap much earlier than the first. I know it's hard to believe now, but in 12 months' time your little one will be sucking on a chicken nugget and knocking back Haribo at a birthday party like tequila shots.

Here's the good news: you won't care, because your children will be happy and quiet, and someone will have just given you a glass of white wine. You must drink that wine, Kate. Just stop whatever you're doing for five minutes and Drink. That. Wine.

5. YOUR BOOBS ARE HEADING SOUTH

Yes, right now you're prepped to breastfeed and you look like Dolly Parton. But soon those milk floats will make a bee-line for your navel. Sorry, K-Mo. My advice is to buy some good bras from Marks and Sparks - the fancy ones, not the two-packs. You'll thank me later.

6. YOUR MARRIAGE WILL GO WONKY FOR A BIT

I am sure your Will is a real sweetheart and super hands-on, but having a second kid puts a big strain on your relationship. There won't be as much time to sit around staring at your new baby, because someone needs to make sure the first kid is alive.

You'll probably both be a bit more sweary, maybe even shouty - this is perfectly normal. When things get tough, drink some wine together and laugh at some cat videos on YouTube. This will do wonders for your relationship. I'm sure it's what's kept the Queen and Phil together all this time.

7. WATCH OUT FOR GRANDPARENT FATIGUE

I know this sounds harsh but the grandparents will be less interested in number two, or more specifically, looking after two kids. So expect the babysitting offers to dwindle. You'll find Charles is suddenly doing the garden all the time, while Camilla is busy with her charity work.

8. FEEL THE LOVE, IN A DIFFERENT WAY

Of course you will love your new arrival as much as you love George. But you won't have the same amount of time or energy to devote to them. After two years of sleep deprivation, your attention to detail will be lacking. You won't mind so much if this one isn't dressed in matching Gap separates, or hasn't mastered downward-facing dog at Baby Yoga, or started talking by the age of six.

Don't worry, though - the second child will probably turn out more to be relaxed and well-adjusted as a result. Just look at Uncle Harry, he's a HOOT!

Well, I think that covers everything. The thing is, Midders, life with two kids is hectic, noisy, chaotic and twice as stinky. But it's wonderful, because you also get twice the giggles, smiles and cuddles. So enjoy the gorgeous, fabulous mess your life has just become. I'll see you for a latte and a muffin down High St Ken Starbucks.

Yours in scumminess,

Helen X


A new episode of The Scummy Mummies Podcast is released every fortnight - listen free via scummymummies.com or download via iTunes. We're on Facebook and Twitter - @scummymummies.

Dear listeners,

This summer will mark two years since we started the Scummy Mummies Podcast. We've met the most amazing people, laughed till we've cried, and drunk enough wine to fill a skip. Thank you so much to everyone who's listened in and shared their Scummy Confessions with us.

We'd like to keep the podcast going, but it costs us money to produce. So we're trialling a deal where we stick short adverts at the start and end of each episode. This way you get to keep enjoying the show for free, and we get to keep doing it. We might even be able to invest in exciting things like a new microphone or hummus from Waitrose.

If you have any feedback, about this or anything else, we'd love to hear from you - scummymummiespodcast@gmail.com. In the meantime, stay scummy!

Love,

Ellie and Helen X

Sorry last week's blog was a bit of a downer. I didn't mean to start a pity party. All right, maybe I did a bit, because you don't write 650 words about sleep deprivation and put it on the internet without expecting at least one person to go, "Poor you."

Anyway, if I sound different (jollier) and more like my old self (bitchier) this week, it's because I am, because I have HAD SOME SLEEP!

Here's the thing: cranial osteopathy WORKS. At least, it's working for us. Last week I took Joe to see Jo Mitchell at the Sunflower Centre in Brockley. We had a long chat about his birth (two months early, emergency Caesarean, head stuck for ten minutes.) I might have cried a bit.

Then Jo put her hands on various parts of my baby's body and... Did whatever it is cranial osteopaths do. I'm still not totally sure, to be honest.

Joe seemed to like it and eventually passed out. But he started screaming as we left the centre, and didn't really stop till we put him down in his Moses basket a few hours later.

'Oh well,' I thought, 'It was worth a try.'

He slept for five hours straight. The longest stretch he had ever managed.

I say "had", because the next night he slept for seven hours. SEVEN. Thus I achieved my goal of sleeping for more hours than there are members of One Direction (which recently became more attainable obvs.)

I felt amazing the next day. It was as if I'd been underwater for months, submerged beneath waves of tiredness, but I had broken the surface and taken a huge gulp of fresh air. I felt like I could swim an ocean or climb a mountain. I settled for loading the dishwasher and returning the library books we borrowed the week before Joe was born, which is basically the same.   

It didn't last, of course: Joe switched to a two-hourly wake-up cycle that night, and by the end of the week he was back to pulling all-nighters. I emailed Jo, trying to sound positive ("Sorry to bother, just wondering, is this normal?") rather than desperate ("Oh God please help you fixed my baby and now I think I've broken him again please help me argh.")

Yes, said Jo, it's normal, and we've made a good start. So we returned to the centre for a second session - and that night, Joe slept for five hours. And the night after that. And the night after that.

Last night... Not so much. But now a bad night means waking up every two hours, instead of never going to sleep at all. And I'm optimistic that next week's appointment with Jo will put us back on track.

It's changed everything. I don't worry about crashing our new car because I'm so tired. I'm not afraid to agree to meet people for coffee in case I'm too exhausted to make it on the day. Some nights, I don't even go to bed until half-past eight.

So now, based on nothing more than my own anecdotal experience (I'd love to hear others), I am a huge fan of cranial osteopathy. I think everyone should have it. Not just babies but tired mums, creaky old people, perfectly well people, small dogs that won't stop yapping, Nigel Farage.

And I think it should be available on the NHS. That's the kicker - it isn't, and it's not cheap. I estimate I'll probably end up spending the equivalent of a family weekend away on Joe's treatment. Frankly, I'd give up two weeks in the Bahamas in exchange for a year of decent sleep.

But I know that isn't an option for everyone. So thanks to the reader who told me about the Osteopathic Centre for Children, which operates on a pay-what-you-can basis.

I'm sticking with Jo, though, because she is amazing and wonderful and has kind eyes the colour of the Aegean that make me feel like everything's going to be alright. Basically, she's turned my baby off and on again. I don't know how, and I don't know why, but whatever she does is working. Now I can sleep and breathe and smile, and best of all, my baby can too.

Happy Friday! 

Ellie writes:

My house is a war zone. The signs are everywhere: half-empty bottles of gripe water, discarded Infacol droppers, dummies scattered on every surface. (I think they might be breeding.)

Swaddling wraps and sleeping bags lie in crumpled heaps, or draped over the wide variety of baby chairs we've tried. Some rock, some swing, some vibrate, some play music; none of them actually get anyone to bloody sleep.

Nor does anything else we've tried. On a good night, Joe only wakes up once an hour. On a bad night, he's unable to stay asleep beyond ten minutes, and I get no rest at all. The other night I was awake with him from midnight until he finally settled at 6am. At 6.04am, my three-year-old bounded in, ready to start his day.

We've asked advice from everyone we can think of. GPs and health visitors. Grandmas and friends. Random women behind us in the queue at Argos, where we've gone to pick up yet another swingy chair that eats batteries so fast it costs more to run than  a racehorse.

After a few weeks, these conversations have started to go the same way:

"Have you tried X?"

"Yes. It didn't work."

"Oh. Well, it's not forever."

I know it's not forever. I've already been through it with my first baby, to a less extreme degree. But it's still hard.

The worst bit isn't being knackered; it's seeing my baby in pain and exhausted, and feeling like a failure because I can't seem to help. There's an extra dynamic here because Joe was born premature, and spent six weeks in hospital. That meant six weeks of watching him go through injections, tests, tube swaps and all the rest, without being able to help. 

And because I had another son at home, I couldn't even be there 24 hours a day to comfort him. There is one positive - often I don't mind being awake with Joe all night, because it just feels like I'm catching up.

But then the day starts, and it's awful. I struggle to find the energy to be the fun, cheerful mummy Charlie wants, or to be patient while he spends eight minutes putting his underpants on. 

My husband has learned to avoid probing me with intolerably infuriating personal questions like, "How are you?" or, "Have you seen the car keys?" And as for asking what's for dinner - he might as well enquire if I fancy a threesome with Katie Hopkins.

I know it's not forever, though, so we plod on, and the search for a magic cure continues. There isn't one, of course - but somehow the research makes me feel less helpless. It's like when Joe was in hospital and I spent hours reading the telephone directory-sized Preemies book from cover to cover, regardless of the fact he didn't have 98 per cent of the conditions described. (But one day, there will be an entire pub quiz round on necrotising enterocolitis, and I will storm it.)

So that's how I spend those long, dark hours - baby on the boob, iPhone in the hand, Googling things like "SERIOUSLY THOUGH DIDN'T EVERYONE GIVE BABIES RUM IN THE SEVENTIES?"

There is one suggestion that keeps cropping up - cranial osteopathy. From what I understand, this is an alternative therapy that involves a specially trained person squeezing your baby's head, and then they sleep like you've given them a pint of Bacardi. The parenting forums are full of people saying it's brilliant. But there are skeptics too, and it's expensive, so it's always been bottom of the list of things to try.

Now, though, we've reached the bottom of the list. The health visitor has run out of suggestions, Argos has run out of swingy chairs, I have run out of patience. So we're going to give cranial osteopathy a go. In the meantime, if anyone has any suggestions...   

"Hell is other people," some bloke said years ago. (I'd look it up
but my three-year-old was awake all night, and I've reached that special level of exhaustion where you're too tired to even 
Google stuff.)

When you're pregnant, Hell is other parents.

As soon as you've announced your pregnancy there will be a queue of people lining up to give you advice. "Of course, you can't possibly prepare yourself for having a child," they will begin, before listing 75 ways you need to prepare yourself for having a child.

I thought things might be different with my second pregnancy. After all, I've managed to keep my existing son alive for three years - surely that is evidence of competency? He does mainly subsist on a diet of Haribo Starmix and those low sodium organic crisps that cost £8 a bag, but you can't tell by looking at him.

Alas. It turns out people with more than one child love to tell you how much harder life is about to get. At length. They always round off with a wry smile and a shake of the head, adding, "You've no idea what you're letting yourself in for," oblivious to the fact you do have some idea, having just spent two hours listening to them talk about it.

So if there's one thing new parents don't need, apart from a nappy bin that only takes special bags and costs more to run than a small car, it's more advice. But there are some things I do wish I'd known before I'd had my baby, so for what it's worth, here they are.

1. Your life is not over.

From the way some parents talk, you'd think having a baby means never sleeping, having sex or going down the pub again. This is not true! In fact, my own husband and I had sex just last February.

Yes, things are going to change. But some things will stay the same. And new, amazing, hilarious things will appear to make it all worthwhile. You will adapt to this new lifestyle and even enjoy it. Yes, you might have to swap that romantic villa holiday in Tuscany for a wet midweek break at Center Parcs, but honestly, you won't mind.

Much.  

2. Not every parent falls in love instantly.

For many parents, holding their baby for the first time is the most magical moment of their life. They find themselves overcome with a rush of love and a desire to protect so powerful that they know nothing will ever be the same again. Suddenly, their whole life makes sense.

If that happens to you, brilliant. But if it doesn't, and you find the only thought in your head when gazing at your new baby is, 'He looks a bit like Michael Gambon,' don't worry. The love will come.

That goes for dads as well as mums; in fact, this piece of advice was given to me by a male friend. He expected the arrival of his first child to be something like the start of The Lion King, except with less giraffes.

However, it was a traumatic birth and his overwhelming emotion was one of relief that his wife had made it through. He spent the next few days worrying about why he hadn't fallen instantly head over heels with his new child, and wondering whether he was a terrible dad.

But slowly and surely, the love came through. Today he has one of the strongest bonds with his child of anyone I know. All his children, in fact, because despite that difficult beginning he went on to have three more. (Now that's when your life really is over.)

3. The Fear gets easier to live with.

The Fear is what wakes you up to you check your baby is still breathing six times a night. The Fear is what overrides the part of you that knows it's nappy rash, and makes you spend hours Googling "childhood leprosy". The Fear is the price you pay for happiness - it's the constant worry that it could all disappear, at any moment, with a single careless oversight or a simple twist of fate.

No one told me about The Fear, and it hit me hard. I spent the first few weeks of my baby's life simultaneously overwhelmed with joy and consumed with terror. Not just of something terrible happening to my son, but of feeling like this for the rest of my life; of never being able to truly relax again.

I wish I had talked to someone about it. And I wish that person had said to me, "Don't worry. You will always be afraid for your son, because you will always love him. But you will learn to live with The Fear. It will quieten down. It will become manageable, and sometimes even useful. Now shut up and drink this enormous glass of Merlot."

4. Competitive mums are a myth.  

The media (i.e. the Daily Mail) loves to perpetuate the idea that parents are always at each others' throats. Sure, anyone who's ever spent more than a nanosecond on online forums could be forgiven for thinking so. But in my experience, this is nonsense.                                                                                                
For starters, the idea that I might have enough time and emotional energy to go around competing with anyone is laughable. All the women I've met through NCT classes, playgroups and so on have been friendly, supportive and sympathetic. I've never felt the need to hide the struggles I'm going through or pretend my child is more advanced than he is. In fact, if there is any competition, it's over who's got the filthiest Scummy Mummy Confession to share on our podcast this week.

Of course, this could just be because my child is so uniquely gifted I don't feel the need to compete. I don't want to show off, but let's just say I'm pleased they've lowered the age limit 
for X-Factor.

5. Babies' farts are unbelievably loud.

Enough said.

Well, there you go. Those are the things I'd wish I'd known before I had my first child. If I had one piece of advice to offer above everything else, it would be this: ignore all advice. Every baby is different and so is every parent. You'll find out what works for you. Don't be afraid to ask for help, and don't worry. You're going to be fine.  

By Ellie Gibson
@scummymummies
www.scummymummies.com

A letter from the Scummy Mummies 
to a less-than-perfect mum. 

Dear Fellow Scummy Mummy,

We know your secrets. We know you gave the kids fish fingers four times in a row last week. We know you drink 
wine out of a mug at teatime. We know about the time your son did a sick in Sainsbury's, and you ran away.

We know you forgot your daughter's name when another mum asked, even though she's an only child. We know you used one of your son's toys to fish a poo out of the bath, giving a whole new meaning to the term "dump truck".

We know you sneaked wine into a classical music concert by hiding it in your child's beaker. Or as you call it, the Tommy Tipsy.

We know you breastfeed in front of your health visitor but hide formula in the fridge.  We know you pretend not to notice when your child eats chicken nuggets the cat has just licked. We know that right now, there's a dirty nappy in your handbag.

We know about that rainy Thursday when you let your kids watch Madagascar twice in a row, while you sat in the kitchen and did Google image searches for Benedict Cumberbatch.

We know you picked up that raisin you found on the stairs and popped it in your mouth. Only to discover it wasn't a raisin.

We know that one Sunday afternoon, you let the kids cut each other's hair while you finished 
the wine.

We know your child once did a poo in the middle of Debenhams, and you blamed a nearby dog.

We know about all these things because you shared them with us. Some of you emailed them in after listening to our podcast. Some of you confessed your sins in person at The Scummy Mummies Show. Which incidentally is coming to the Camden Fringe on Saturday 23 and Sunday 24 August, tickets available now.

The point is, we've all done things like this. Just ask yourself: is your child happy? Does he know he is loved? Does she have clean knickers on at least 300 days of the year? Then you are doing a good job.

Not one of us is perfect. Not even Kirstie Allsopp. We are all doing our best, and sometimes it doesn't feel like enough. But we keep going, because we are mums. It's what we do.

We might have different parenting styles and standards, but judging each other is a waste of our precious energy. Let's talk to each other instead. Let's share our scummy stories. Let's look at our imperfections and laugh at them. Because there are two things will always unite us: we love our children, and we are all scummy mummies.

Even Kirstie.

Love from the trenches,

The Scummy Mummies 
www.scummymummies.com
@scummymummies

Inspired by 'A letter from a working mum to a stay-at-home mum, and vice versa.'