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Having a family had always been the dream for me. I had no huge ambitions of being a high powered career woman - no, I was going to be the boss of my family! Haha, little did I know that I would never be the boss of anything... except for maybe being Chief of Puke-Cleanups or General Manager of Poo-Bums! No-sir-ee. There is no such thing as being the boss of your children. Those of you who have had them already will know... they will always be the boss of you! Oh yes, you will try for a semblance of order, a smidgen of control, and you will hope that to the outside world the illusion remains, but we all know, that behind those sticky crayon smudged doors live the tiniest CEO's with the biggest voices!
And it all starts from day one. And by day one I don't mean the day they are born. I mean the day they are conceived! They take control. Of your bladder, your body's water table, your bones, your feet, and yes, your mind - which might I add they never relinquish. I know many of us who have experienced the workplace will know what it is like to work for a not-very-nice boss... but even those don't compare to a boss who dictates how often you will go to the toilet, how often you will puke, what clothes you will be able to fit into today, and what size your breasts should be. Oh and no matter how far you can make plans for that first board meeting... it's not up to you, it's up to them. Four weeks early in my case.
So I wasn't prepared for CEO Megan to arrive when she did. The house was still mid-renovation, the cot wasn't up, babyclothes not unpacked, not to mention that babyclothes didn't even fit! And then Megan decided that she was NOT under ANY circumstances going to share her birthday with Christmas, so she decided to pop out a full month early (can't blame her really...). So rush off to hospital, emergency caeser for breech (yes, she even dictated that her bum was going to be the first thing on view), to be followed by what I can only describe as the tiniest little creature being summarily attached to my boobs... for what seemed like twenty hours a day for 6 months.
As some of you know, Megan was a colicky baby. And being a first time mom, I had no idea that feeding her every two hours right through the night was just making things worse. I was very lucky in that, unlike a lot of mums I know, I was like a cow. Milk just came. Like a tap. With a faulty washer. While having a shower. While reading magazines. In the car. Watching a soppy advert on TV. It just never stopped. So of course whenever Megan cried (which was a lot), I'd shove a boob in the mouth - the only thing that shut her up. I guess the hugely distended tummy should have given it away, but hey this was my first time, I reckoned she cries, I feed! And of course my paed at the time couldn't even be bothered to remember who I was every time I visited... which was often! (I have a new paed now... he's so popular that a friend of mine commented that she has to remember to blowdry her hair before a visit! And he's good with the kids too...!)
Anyway, so what with constantly screaming kid, leaky boobs, and mental mom, we tried the bottle. AS IF. Megan sent an immediate memo to management that under no circumstances was anything not made of skin to pass her lips. No dummies, no teats, no straws, no bottles. She wanted boob, and boob only. I tried to reason with her... "Sweetie, if you take this yummy bottle then Daddy can have a turn to give you your milkies and Mommy can have a nice little rest and not want to send your to China tonight!" To no avail. So drastic measures were needed. The scene was set. Firstly, I planned a little weekend away, with my sister-in-law to come with to "help out" (actually I needed her to take care of Megan as I carried out my plan). I also had to make sure that my husband had to bring a bit of work with him. So he brought the laptop with, which I positioned just so near the telephone cables so that he could dial in (this was before the days of 3G wireless...). I then laid the cable just so, so that when I saunted out the bathroom one lazy morning it would catch the baby toe on my left foot at juuuuust the right angle, wrentching it out of it's socket, snapping the bone neatly down the middle, and sending me sprawling very dramatically across the carpet. Then I just needed to overdramaticise the amount of AGONY I was in, clutching my foot and rolling around on the floor for good measure, making so much noise you would think I was in labour all over again. So Megan was handed over to Aunty and hubby rushed me off to the nearest hospital half an hour away, and after an Xray to confirm the breakage I returned home with my little packet of Myprodols, a tin of formula and a smug look on my face. Suck on THAT miss madam chairperson!
© Sally Hetherington .
