Mummy gets absolutely bladdered
When I was a little girl I figured I would marry a prince and live in a castle.
I would inexplicably wear period costume and we would live happily ever after, probably with a unicorn in the garden. At no point in my innocent daydream was there even a hint that my pelvic floor wouldn't join me in this nirvana.
I'd not received "the talk" at that point. When it did arrive, it involved some indistinct mumbling from a nun about snails and cupids arrows, and a demonstration of what happens to a tampon when it's put in a glass of water. That was all mildly horrific, but really got interesting when Sarah Baker's brother had to come in to our girls-only lesson, and go to the teacher's desk, where said tampon resided in all its saturated majesty.
Life and reality teach us a lot, and so my childhood fantasy matured with me, until there was no period costume and no castle. I kissed some frogs and found my prince. And I exchanged my unicorn for children. As for happy every after - well, it has become more nappy-ever after, as I shall explain.
You see, there is a single difference between childhood dream and adult reality - children. And the first mistake I made about pregnancy was believing the lies the midwives told me. Namely, that if you breast feed your child, you will regain your pre-pregnancy figure. So I merrily ate from the moment I peed on the stick (obviously I washed my hands first) and I ate throughout my pregnancy on the understanding my body would snap back into place as soon as my womb had.
Moreover, impressed by the instantaneous weight loss achieved by delivering a 6lb 8oz baby and associated fluids (even the cabbage soup diet doesn't work that quickly), I felt sufficiently encouraged to continue eating and feeding (literally, both at the same time) and there you have it. This is me.
Another lie the midwife told me was that regular Kegel exercises during and after pregnancy would return my pelvic floor to BC (before children) quality. First child, maybe. But the second pregnancy destroyed it.
Each and every year of my fourth decade has seen a further decline in my social mobility as a result. Planning a route anywhere has always involved some cognisance of loo-stops - it's part of mixing young children and apple juice - but I had hoped to leave that behind along with the boxes of raisins I carried everywhere.
From getting bladdered in my youth, I'm now being bladdered by my age.
Earlier this year we went to Dublin for a gig. Walking home through the SECOND MOST DANGEROUS street in the city, my husband urged me into some kind of loping run reminiscent of a camel with its legs crossed at the knees. We weren't under direct threat from anyone, but I had needed the loo since leaving the venue.
Not so long ago when I commuted to work, I got caught in the (inevitable) traffic from an accident on the M25. It took me more than seven and a half hours to travel 4 miles. And as I'd left home at 5am, armed with a mammoth cup of tea, which I had ingested while sitting in said traffic, I was left in dire straits. It's impossible to drive a car with your legs crossed, even an automatic, so I did the only thing I could - I peed into my travel mug. Then baled and peed and baled again.
At first, it was my ability to multi-task that suffered. I had to stop walking to sneeze or cough. Then that wasn't enough - I had to fold my legs awkwardly and Kegel so hard it made me shiver. Now, it's safer if my sneezes coincide with loo-breaks and I'm dreading the winter bugs.
I'm still not at the stage where those adverts for urinary incontinence products are anything other than horrendous, thank God, but let's just say you probably won't want me to bounce on your trampoline without some form of PPE.
Sorry about that.
I would inexplicably wear period costume and we would live happily ever after, probably with a unicorn in the garden. At no point in my innocent daydream was there even a hint that my pelvic floor wouldn't join me in this nirvana.
I'd not received "the talk" at that point. When it did arrive, it involved some indistinct mumbling from a nun about snails and cupids arrows, and a demonstration of what happens to a tampon when it's put in a glass of water. That was all mildly horrific, but really got interesting when Sarah Baker's brother had to come in to our girls-only lesson, and go to the teacher's desk, where said tampon resided in all its saturated majesty.
Life and reality teach us a lot, and so my childhood fantasy matured with me, until there was no period costume and no castle. I kissed some frogs and found my prince. And I exchanged my unicorn for children. As for happy every after - well, it has become more nappy-ever after, as I shall explain.
You see, there is a single difference between childhood dream and adult reality - children. And the first mistake I made about pregnancy was believing the lies the midwives told me. Namely, that if you breast feed your child, you will regain your pre-pregnancy figure. So I merrily ate from the moment I peed on the stick (obviously I washed my hands first) and I ate throughout my pregnancy on the understanding my body would snap back into place as soon as my womb had.
Moreover, impressed by the instantaneous weight loss achieved by delivering a 6lb 8oz baby and associated fluids (even the cabbage soup diet doesn't work that quickly), I felt sufficiently encouraged to continue eating and feeding (literally, both at the same time) and there you have it. This is me.
Another lie the midwife told me was that regular Kegel exercises during and after pregnancy would return my pelvic floor to BC (before children) quality. First child, maybe. But the second pregnancy destroyed it.
Each and every year of my fourth decade has seen a further decline in my social mobility as a result. Planning a route anywhere has always involved some cognisance of loo-stops - it's part of mixing young children and apple juice - but I had hoped to leave that behind along with the boxes of raisins I carried everywhere.
From getting bladdered in my youth, I'm now being bladdered by my age.
Earlier this year we went to Dublin for a gig. Walking home through the SECOND MOST DANGEROUS street in the city, my husband urged me into some kind of loping run reminiscent of a camel with its legs crossed at the knees. We weren't under direct threat from anyone, but I had needed the loo since leaving the venue.
Not so long ago when I commuted to work, I got caught in the (inevitable) traffic from an accident on the M25. It took me more than seven and a half hours to travel 4 miles. And as I'd left home at 5am, armed with a mammoth cup of tea, which I had ingested while sitting in said traffic, I was left in dire straits. It's impossible to drive a car with your legs crossed, even an automatic, so I did the only thing I could - I peed into my travel mug. Then baled and peed and baled again.
At first, it was my ability to multi-task that suffered. I had to stop walking to sneeze or cough. Then that wasn't enough - I had to fold my legs awkwardly and Kegel so hard it made me shiver. Now, it's safer if my sneezes coincide with loo-breaks and I'm dreading the winter bugs.
I'm still not at the stage where those adverts for urinary incontinence products are anything other than horrendous, thank God, but let's just say you probably won't want me to bounce on your trampoline without some form of PPE.
Sorry about that.
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Thanks for ranting!