Live to work, or work to live?

I feel myself slipping back to the way I was two years ago. On an endless treadmill. Loving my family, knowing I should be grateful for the life I have, but hating myself nonetheless.

I get up. Get the kids ready for school/nursery. Get myself ready, not bothering to brush or wash my hair and simply tie it back into its bun. Drop the kids off, go to work. Throw myself into work, because I know no other way, but also because I can ignore how I feel outside work if I make this all-consuming. After work I collect husband and children, often from three different places. Make dinner, do bedtime. Stare at the television for an hour, then off to bed. All of this times five, then a weekend where I'm so emotionally drained that I can't engage fully in their lives. And then it begins again,

I don't want to look back on my life, the only reflection being "I was bloody good at my job". I've had enough of feeling second rate at mothering. I've had enough of being fat and fed up, good intentions beginning each week with lunchtime walks and healthy food, crashing off the wagon by Wednesday to grab the sugar and caffeine needed to make it through.

Father Badger wants me to ask to go part time or to quit, not the first time it's been suggested. I'm not comfortable with part time, nor the conversation I'll have to have to request it. I don't have the courage. I fear that part time will mean my overwhelming work ethic will lead to trying to cram full time effort into part time hours, which is not a good solution, leaving me too exhausted to benefit from the extra time at home. Quitting is terrifying in its own right, even though I think about it on every commute. I've never been financially dependent on anyone, and it'll effectively end my IT career as tech moves on so fast.

For now I'm making one last attempt at sorting myself out with minimal scary changes. Food planning, daily walks, early nights. My project manager husband is insisting on a "review" at the end of April to look for progress in my physical and mental health, because honestly it can't carry on this way.

A raw return to blogging, but I'm hoping it will be cathartic. I'm assuming no one is reading as I've been gone so long, so give me a shout if you've made it this far...

Image courtesy of radnatt at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Marrow Mountain

Our garden is not as tidy as it ought to be. It became neglected during my first pregnancy, compounded during the following couple of years of having Baby Badger and definitely not improved during pregnancy number two. I'm gradually clawing back during my current maternity leave, but I have at least got control over the edible garden. Or so I thought...

I knew I'd missed a few cucumbers in the greenhouse. They have a tendency to hide behind leaves. I wasn't expecting twenty-two of them. Likewise, I knew there were a few courgettes that should really be classed as marrows, but I was leaving them on the plant until I decided what I was going to do with them. There have grown somewhat, and the four largest of them probably now weigh more than my three year old. There's also a glut of knobbly beef tomatoes and cherry & baby plum tomatoes, but we'll have no problems getting through those, nor the big handful of runner beans.

Tonight's challenge is to track down recipes to use the marrows and cucumbers. Any suggestions would be gratefully received!

My Body, My Birth Badge, My Choice

I came across this image in my Facebook feed today. Take a moment to read its message...

That's a tall order for me currently.

I've always been dumpy to a degree, even back in primary school. I'm now a size 18 and not in great physical shape. At just under eight weeks postpartum I am out of maternity clothes and back into my jeans, which I am pleased about, but it's hardly the size and shape I want to be.

I've never had a huge amount of confidence in my appearance and to a degree have chosen to ignore my extra pounds, wearing baggy clothes and using a vast amount of boisterous character to distract. I guess it works more or less, but I certainly feel as though I'm the token tubber in my circle of friends.

Part of that lack of confidence can probably be attributed to my mother, who has always struggled with weight and has been on one diet or another for my entire life. It's worth noting that she recently found the diet that worked for her and has lost over four stone. It's also worth noting that having lost that weight she's been commenting on mine in her own inimitable style, for example she was concerned that I was actually putting on weight in pregnancy. There have been a few other unhelpful comments, none of them intended to hurt but still slightly infuriating.

I really don't want to pass that lack of confidence down another generation to Baby Badger (or Badger Cub for that matter, because image is also so important to boys nowadays), so it looks as though I need to give myself a virtual kick up the backside.

My Body. I have no one to blame but myself, but that also means that no one other than me is standing in my way.

My Birth Badge. I was talking to Father Badger earlier this evening about my stretch marks. I actually don't mind them: I've never been one for bikinis, so he and the little Badgers are the only ones likely to see them. I see them as a birth badge of honour, which is a good thing really - I really was huge by the time Badger Cub came out and the pattern on my tummy looks like a good bowl of spaghetti! I would however like them to be sitting on a tummy that was a bit less wobbly.

My Choice. It's up to me, entirely my choice, my decision, to get off my backside and do something about this. And it's time to do it.

Image: onyababy.com

Annoyed, chocolate-free and rather like a sieve

So... who got the right answer in the sweepstake? It turns out I was borderline on the glucose tolerance test, which makes me "query gestational diabetic". And I mean borderline - I was 10.6 on a value that should have been under 10. And I can't help thinking that it might be down to the fact that it took me 25 minutes to get the Lucozade down!

I was referred to the diabetes clinic at the main hospital, had a rather brief chat about what I should be eating and given a kit for stabbing my own fingertips six times a day to test my blood glucose levels. I came away thinking that it was certainly an inconvenience but not the end of the world.

Over the next few days I became more frustrated. The pamphlet I was given gave me very little information about what I could eat and in what combination (which apparently matters). Food that I was worried about gave no sugar spike, and food that I felt should be fine did. It seemed that the easiest way to get the right numbers on the meter was to eat nothing but meat, cheese and eggs, and surely that's not healthy?!

On Tuesday it got worse. I spoke to my midwife to set up an appointment and asked if she had been kept up to date - she hadn't even been told that I had been referred. I found out that because I had been referred to the diabetes clinic I was officially out of midwifery care for the birth and that she had to advise me not to plan for a home birth or one at the local midwife-led unit.

To some mums that wouldn't be an issue. To others, that might be disappointing. Quite frankly, it's sent me into a bit of a panic. Baby Badger was born in record time, and its expected that Badger Cub could come out even quicker - perhaps as little as 30 minutes from first contraction to pushing. The hospital is 45 minutes away from my house on a good day, and that's without traffic, waiting for someone to drive me there and someone else to take Baby Badger.

I've now reached the point of annoyance. I've done lots of reading around gestational diabetes. I've talked to an acquaintance who is an independent midwife. Everything is pointing to there being nothing wrong with me: my readings are within normal parameters for third trimester. I'm guessing the hospital are covering their backs with the referral - they're better off monitoring someone who is healthy that not monitoring someone who later turns out to have related issues.

The problem is that in doing this they are preventing me from planning the birth that is almost inevitable, and as a result my stress levels are up and I can't concentrate on anything else. Add to that, I feel as though my diet is worse because of the monitoring.

Definitely annoyed.

Image courtesy of pakorn / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Sweepstake: less cake or more spinach?

As a result of my referral to the consultant because of Baby Badger's early and precipitous delivery, I was booked in for a fasting glucose tolerance test and told that otherwise they were releasing me to midwife care and weren't interested in seeing me again. That was absolutely fine with me - it's a pain to travel to the main county hospital.

Wednesday was the day I became the human pin cushion. I fasted from after dinner the previous night and arrived at the surgery for my first blood test at 8:20 - absolutely starving, as I get up at 6am and don't do well without breakfast! The nurse seemed to take pity on me and said she would use a fine needle since she'd be doing it three times. Three vials came from the first needle, then I was packed off into the waiting room to drink half a litre of Lucozade.

I'd like to point out that I hate Lucozade. I also don't really drink fizzy drinks, so the result was that not only did I have to taste the Lucozade on the way down but also every few minutes as I burped over the next half hour.

9:15 and back in for another needle and another vial, the same at 10:20. Three holes in two arms, and five vials taken. Finally after this I got to eat the banana in my bag, ridding myself of the awful taste of Lucozade and making me feel slightly less light-headed and grumpy.

Twenty minutes later and I had my midwife appointment. The first thing they asked me? Did the nurse take the bloods we need? A quick check and the answer was no, so in went needle number four and two more vials. No fine needle this time either, but a whopping great needle poked in by the student midwife. Let's just say the bruise has developed to a nice black and purple medley.

As for the sweepstake? I returned from work on Friday to an answerphone message from the doctor: "it's nothing to be too worried about, but please call me about your blood test results...". Obviously, I got the message too late to call, so I'll have to wait until Monday to find out!

So, do you think I need to eat less cake (gestational diabetes), more spinach (anaemia) or both? Or something more exotic, but mentally I'm ruling that out. I'm doing what any self-respecting mum to be would do and eating as much chocolate as possible this weekend in case it goes on the banned list on Monday.

Image courtesy of Victor Habbick / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Parsley stew, anyone?

Until now we've been very lucky: both Father Badger and I have worked 8:00-4:30 and we've been home with Baby Badger soon after 5pm each day.

Father Badger started a new job this week. He seems to be enjoying himself, which is the main thing - I honestly believe that we spend far too much of our lives at work to be doing something we don't enjoy most of the time. The only downside is that they're insisting on standard hours, at least for the first few months, which combined with trains and our local bus service means he's home at 6:40 in the evening. That means it's all change in the Badger household.

It means that each day I'll do the childcare drop off and pick up; I'll do the cooking of the evening meal whilst entertaining Baby Badger. It's like 1960s role reversal, only that I'm also working a full time job. It's absolutely do-able, and I will manage, but it feels slightly daunting at the moment.

I've survived most of this week by using the crockpot - again, 1960s nostalgia anyone? Tonight's treat was beef and carrot stew with a shed-load of homegrown parsley. There's only so much stew I can eat though, even in this season.

Anyone got any tips?

Image courtesy of Graur Razvan Ionut / FreeDigitalPhotos.net