When I look back to my foray into early motherhood five years ago, I thank God for two things: my friend Rebecca, and Facebook.
Becs had her son 11 days after I had mine, and instantly took up residence in my living room. Together, we paced the floor with our screaming bundles of puke, staring at each other in undisguised horror, occasionally wailing 'what have I doooooone?' and 'there's baby sick in my knickeeeeeers'. We crawled through the days in a bewildered mess, getting by on cake and swears, and on one memorable day, wine.
Inside my house, parenthood was grim and terrifying, but at least I had an equally hapless mate going through it at the same time. Outside of the house, there was a whole different world in which I did not feel welcome. The baby groups and breastfeeding clinics seemed full of women whose babies slept and didn't scream until they were sick. Their babies sat contentedly on the floor and chewed toys, while my 5-month-old made it his mission to climb on as much furniture as possible and almost succeeded in garrotting a baby girl with her mittens on a string. Our presence was not appreciated, so I stopped going.
At around that point, I started to regularly post status updates to Facebook about the reality of life with my son: 'Rory's eaten the fucking autumnal pot pourri again' and 'Can someone help me get the baby out of the washing machine? He's been in there for 30 minutes with a cheese sandwich' - that sort of thing. My friends thought it was funny, and I laughed with them. I also found that my honesty opened up a dialogue with other parents on Facebook. We all had horror stories to tell and Bad Mother Moments to admit to - it's just that most women were reluctant to share them, because Facebook is awash with people who try to make themselves feel better by only showing the good side of their lives. My Facebook feed started to become much more fun, with tales of epic toddler tantrums and malevolent pre-schoolers. I carried on posting my tales of life with Rory, extending the mini updates to include tales of my own domestic ineptitude.
At some point, someone suggested that I start a blog. I mulled it over but never seemed to have time - plus, mummy blogs were all full of gushing accounts of motherly love and self-satisfied wholemeal muffin recipes, weren't they? Then, one particularly heinous day, my kitchen was overrun with flying ants just after I'd baked and iced a batch of cupcakes. After a mad half hour with a can of Raid and the Hoover, I surveyed the scene - Nigella Lawson's How to be a Domestic Goddess book sat smugly on the worktop, with a batch of ant-topped cupcakes next to it. I'd found the title of my blog and the inspiration for the header photo. How to be a Domestic Disgrace was born, and I instantly set about filling it with failed toddler activities, sleep deprived rants and piss poor housekeeping attempts. It was only supposed to be entertainment for my friends, but I didn't count on the viral shares of my posts, as clueless mother after clueless mother found something to identify with in my gin-soaked ramblings and felt a little bit better for laughing at someone else's misfortune.
Writing my blog began to feel as comfortable and therapeutic as those early days of parenting with Rebecca, but this time, it wasn't just the two of us - it was me and countless other Domestic Disgraces clawing our way through our children's early years with no sleep, money or clue. Yes, we were cocking up, but we were all in it together, and it was okay because we were still laughing.
It was a very positive thing for me, too. I'd had postnatal depression, and putting a funny spin on everything reminded me that life wasn't awful. It was also something to do when sitting up with an ill 2 year old at 3am, and 'me-time' with a G&T at the end of the day. At some point, egged on by my friends who read the blog, I became a freelance writer. I'd always wanted to write for a living, and slowly becoming more successful at it healed the hurt left after my teaching career was more or less ruined by my complicated pregnancy (this, as they say on Tinga Tinga Tales, is a whoooooole other story). Writing gave me back my self-worth.
I've also become part of the parent blogging community. And yes, there are plenty of mums who blog about making cakes out of wholewheat flour and spinach leaves, and lots of parents who gush about their kids, but, you know what? They're all doing it for the same basic reasons as me - to keep their sanity, to have a written record of the early years, and to have a little corner of the internet which is just theirs. Mine is warts and all. Theirs might be somewhat more pretty and polished. Whatever - it's helping all of us to get through parenthood the best way we know how, and opening discussions with mothers everywhere. If we can keep the dialogue going, we're stronger. Never underestimate the power of a mum with a laptop and a glass of wine.
If you'd like to join Lisa and a host of other brilliant speakers on November 8, you can buy your Blogfest ticket here.
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