A little over a week ago, I attended Blog Summit, along with just over a hundred other bloggers.  Just over a hundred people, in a room, being amazingly confident, and chatty, and inspiring, and awesome.  Plus me.  That was how I felt; goodness knows how I ever came to the decision to register for a ticket in the first place, such is my fear of huge groups of people I don’t know.

Still, somehow I found myself on the train to Birmingham, arranging a place to meet at the station via Twitter, drinking far too much coffee in an attempt to calm my nerves.  Obviously this didn’t work, I ended up still feeling sick and shaky, only with crazy wide eyes and a headache.

Once I had spotted Pink Oddy in her unmissable Justin Beiber t-shirt, I felt much better about the whole thing.

I wish that was true.  I didn’t actually feel any better, not helped by the over-caffeination, I felt even more nervous and insignificant.  What could I offer?  What did I have to say?  Why couldn’t I have just a teensy bit more confidence?

Eventually a very large group of us had gathered at New Street station, somehow managed to navigate our way through the station (I did no navigating.  I followed the people who seemed to know where they were going) to the venue, found name badges (aided by the totally gorgeous Molly) and grabbed coffee.  At which point, my brain froze, my words dried up, and my mouth refused to work.  A rabbit caught in the headlights would seem laid-back in comparison.  People introduced themselves, people introduced me to others, I could barely utter my own name.  What the hell was I doing here?!

The day went by in a bit of a blur; SEO, meta tags, headers, Page Rank, disclosure, bad links….and that was just the first talk.  I had managed to latch myself onto Laura who blogs at Chez Mummy, who was planning to attend most of the same sessions as me.  She was lovely, very easy to talk to (despite my panic/caffeine induced ramblings), and had attended a few of these bloggy conference thingies before.

After being completely inspired by Tamsin from Parentdish, Rachael author and blogger, and Becky from Baby Budgeting who all discussed getting published in various ways, panicked by Cathy from Nuturestore who spoke about how to use Pinterest and Facebook to gain more traffic and keep your readers and followers, and feeling mixed emotions of motivation and having a ‘plan’, combined with the sinking feeling of not being able to find the time to implement any of this new found knowledge, given that having a shower proves difficult to squeeze into most days, we all gathered in the main room for the final talk.

This was entitled ‘How to be Brilliant’ and I had a feeling of trepidation as Andy Cope took the microphone, thinking it would be a session on what to do and what not to do in blogging, using examples of each of our blogs.

I was totally wrong.  His talk was amazing, humourous, inspiring and ingenious.  It was nothing to do with blogging, and it was a great way to end the day as I think everyone had got to the stage of information over-load.  He talked about happiness, about how happiness really isn’t a destination to aim for, but it is here, in us, with us, right now.  It is all about choice; choose to be miserable, negative, a “mood hoover” as he put it, or choose to see the positive and be happy.

Having struggled with depression for all of my adult life and the majority of my teeange years too, and a newly-found dose of anxiety following the birth of The Princess, together with an inate lack of self-esteem and self-confidence, I am very often not living and performing at the level of my “best self”.  Medication helps (especially when I remember to take it) and for most of the time I am OK.  Sometimes I dip into a very dark place, but those episodes are not the norm.  For the most part I am just existing, trying to get through each day at a time, counting down the hours until I can get into bed before I have to do it all over again.  It doesn’t need to be this way.  Depression aside, I can choose to be more positive, I can choose to be grateful for what I have, I can choose to see the positivity in every situation.  I can choose to be happy.

This is what I learned at Blog Summit:  Blogging involves much more than writing a post (I knew this already, but hearing others talk about it all makes it so much more real).  New situations with strangers are not all that scary.  I can write and publish a book (if only I had some inspiration, the time, and a plot).  I definitely should have no more than 2 coffees in a day (I knew this already too).  I choose not to be a mood hoover, I choose positivity.

The post What I Learned at Blog Summit appeared first on dummymummy.co.uk.

It was really only after my son’s birth that I fully realised the value of having a support network, that I could call on. I must have had some sort of inkling before though, because I signed up to NCT Antenatal classes to gain access to a readymade support set up. The classes weren’t especially informative, especially if like me you’d devoured book after book; watched TV shows; and googled every ache and pain during pregnancy. I didn’t mind that though, it wasn’t what I had come for.

The real value of the classes for me was the support network I gained, simply by being part of that group. In that first year particularly, it was invaluable to me to have people to talk to locally who were going through the same stage of babyhood as my son (even better for me was that most of the group’s babies were a few weeks older than my son, so I could benefit from their experience). Once a week or so, we’d meet up at someone’s house. We’d have some lunch or just numerous cups of tea (how funny that each and every one of us liked their tea the same way: white, no sugar).

Weekly meet ups got more difficult as the children became mobile and some returned to work after maternity leave. Still we continued to meet up. Sometimes we would just go to the park or soft play together, other times someone brave would offer to host a meet up at their house. Increasingly us mums met up on our own, having dinner together at a local restaurant or pub.

The connections continue and grow. My son’s best friend and schoolmate is one of the children from that group. I do some volunteer work with another group member a couple of times a year. Another is in the same ‘book group’ as me (the sort of group where you talk about anything but the book for two hours, then spend 5 minutes discussing it).

Of course, a support network doesn’t need to come courtesy of an antenatal group. My support comes from family, pre-existing friends and new friends met elsewhere on the preschool circuit. One of places that I get my support on a daily basis is from the blogging community. Usually this is online, virtual support, but it’s backed up by meet ups like Blog Summit, which I attended along with Dummy Mummy last weekend in Birmingham. It’s great to talk to like-minded folk about blogging, families, life in general. Blog Summit is also a fantastic way of getting some expert advice on technical problems you’re encountering or simply dealing with writer’s block.

It doesn’t matter where your support comes from. What’s important is that you have people in your life that let you let off steam, will give you some practical advice, or whatever else you and your family need.

This guest post was written by Erica Price who blogs at 92three30 (named for the hours of the school day) and A Little Luxury For Me.

The post Who’s In Your Support Network? appeared first on dummymummy.co.uk.

Angelina Jolie has written an honest and powerful article for the New York Times, revealing that she has undergone a bilateral mastectomy to reduce her risks of succumbing to breast cancer, the disease that she lost her mother to. Her story is not only highly emotive, but one that is very familiar to me.

In 2004, my mum’s sister was diagnosed with breast cancer. She had a lumpectomy and radiotherapy. As she lives in Malta, my mum and another sister (with a phobia of flying) flew to Malta to be with her for support and care. When my mum returned home, the hospital had been in touch to say now she was 50, she was due a screening mammogram.

My mum decided not to take the appointment, her theory being that if you’re looking for something eventually you’ll find it.

I was shocked at her reaction, not that it was out of character – my mum has always been of a ‘what will be will be’ mindset – but that she had just returned from seeing her sister having been through treatment for breast cancer! I was angry that she could be so….neglectful? Selfish? Silly? It just felt wrong to me that she wouldn’t even get checked.

She changed her mind and had a mammogram.

She had breast cancer. Well, she had a DCIS (ductal carcinoma in situ), the earliest stage of breast cancer. It was a difficult time for the family, especially for my mum who was struggling with the options that were laid in front of her. She eventually came to the decision that she would have a total mastectomy on the affected side, reducing the chance of any of the carcinoma being left after surgery, and not being left with a wonky, lumpy breast. Luckily she didn’t need any further treatment after surgery, she just needed a lot of time to acquaint herself with her new asymmetrical body.

A few short months later, my cousin who was 32 at the time, found a lump in her breast. It turned out to be a very aggressive form of cancer (BRCA1) and resulted in her having a bilateral mastectomy and total hysterectomy, as this particular cancer can spread to the ovaries. At 32, with no children, this was a huge and difficult process to go through.

Years previously, an aunt of my mum’s had died from breast cancer. Given that my cousin was now the fourth woman in the family to have been diagnosed with the disease (and another of my mum’s sister’s had died of ovarian cancer in 1993, which is closely linked to breast cancer), the family decided to go for gene testing.

My mum doesn’t carry the breast cancer gene. But her two brothers do, one of whom was the dad of my cousin with the aggressive breast cancer.

On this basis, the daughter of the other brother (keeping up??) who lives in California, went to get tested herself. She had the BRCA1 gene. And a lump which she had not discovered. She, too, underwent a bilateral mastectomy and total hysterectomy, she had chemotherapy, and HRT for the early onset of the menopause. It was a long, hard couple of years, but she is still here. Her 12 year old son and 6 year old daughter still have their mum (sorry, mom).

I hope that Angelina Jolie’s honesty and revelation of what she has been through will be an inspiration to other women to get checked and to do whatever is necessary to prevent or to fight this disease. The outcome for my mum, my Aunty, and my two cousins could have been so different, it just doesn’t bear thinking about.

The post Breast Cancer and Gene Testing appeared first on dummymummy.co.uk.

It’s been one of those days when I have questioned everything.  Everything.  OK, maybe not everything, and maybe I didn’t quite get to the whole meaning of life question, but today I’ve felt a bit shaken, as if my foumdations have been chipped away.

It started with a phonecall from The Boyfriend, who was relaying a message from the nursery where he had just deposited The Princess and Pea, which went something like, “If Pea gets upset today, the nursery will have to get one of us to pick him up because it’s been so long since he was there”.  The Boyfriend was on his way to work.  I was on my way to work.  The babies were in nursery because we were at work, because there was no other option.  What were the nursery playing at?!  If he won’t settle, then try to settle him, that’s what we are paying you for!

I rang my manager as soon as I was at work to say I may have to leave to collect Pea.  He was not overly amused, being as I am the entire department where I work; I can’t simply leave early knowing someone else is there to take up the slack.  There is no-one else there.  My leaving early would mean providing cover from the main hospital 12 miles away, from a department that is hugely understaffed.  After finishing one awkward phonecall, I embarked on the next, and phoned the manager of the nursery.

I was prepared to explain to her exactly why we chose that nursery (flexible hours and a pay as you go policy), and the reason our children are in nursery is because there is no other available childcare for that day.

What I wasn’t prepared for was for her to make me realise how my son had not been my first thought, not only when The Boyfriend told me that we may have to go and pick him up early, but when we were deciding what hours we would need the nursery for each week.

The Boyfriend’s shifts mean that we don’t need to put the little ones in nursery for the same amount of time every week.  Some weeks it is half a day, some a full day, some a day and a half.  My mum helps out one day a week, and the rest of the time we just muddle along ourselves, often solo-parenting.  Towards the end of March, The Boyfriend’s dad offered to help out on the days when we were putting the littlies into nursery for an afternoon.  We jumped at the chance – The Princess and The Pea would get to spend more time with their grandad, and we would save about £200 a month.  Perfect.

Except not perfect.  It has resulted in 2 nursery days a month, and Little Pea has been there even less than that thanks to various illnesses.  His last visit to nursery was well over a month ago, and when I picked him up from that visit he was distraught, had drunk no milk, and had no sleep.  When the manager said to me on the phone that a month is a long time in a baby’s mind, that he will possibly be feeling abandoned with strangers, and that in the interest of his welfare and well-being they cannot let him cry inconsolably, not eating, not drinking, without calling one of us, it felt like someone had stabbed me in the chest.  Of course this was about Pea, how had I not even considered it?  Yes, we were saving money, yes we were encouraging more family time, but we were neglecting the need to ensure Little Pea felt safe and secure, to reassure him that he was not being abandoned, but left in safe hands, in a place we all felt happy with.  The thought of my baby boy, in a place where he maybe recognises a face or two, feeling abandoned by his parents, upset, lonely, confused, stressed, needing comfort and snuggling and nursing, familiarity, love, made me feel like more of a failure than I ever have.  And there have been many times when I have felt like a total failure.  Many, many times.  Selfishness, inadequacy, thoughtlessness all burned through me, and the anger I first felt towards the nursery for expecting me to just leave work at the drop of a hat, was turned inwards and magnified.

I cried, and worked, and cried, and worked, and thought and cried, and worked and questioned.  Was nursery the best option?  Was this nursery the best option?  Should we get a nanny instead?  And then the big questions started.  Why am I not at home with my babies while they are still so little?  Answer, because we have a mortgage and bills and cars.  Why don’t we sell up, sell some stuff, down-size, lower the outgoings, live on one income?  Could we do this?  Could I do this?  And this is what I have been pondering all day.  Lies.  I have been pondering this for a while now, ever since I read this post by the inspirational and wonderful Milli who blogs at The Mule.

It is a question I am still unable to answer.  My children are the most important people in my life, along with The Boyfriend, my parents and my sister, obviously.  My instinct is to protect them, to love them, to keep them safe, to teach them, to play with them, to nurture them.  If we moved house, somewhere smaller, to a cheaper (and therefore slightly ‘rougher’ area – to be fair, this entire city is hardly the height of sophistication), would this limit them in the future?  Would this be the best thing for the family as a whole?  If we had less money, would this cause more problems, just of a different nature?  If I gave up work to be at home with my little ones, would I be enough for them?  Would it be enough for me?  Would there be problems and resentment in my relationship with The Boyfriend?

All these questions, as with the title of this post, still remain unanswered.  Any helpful insights will be gratefully accepted.

The post What Is The Meaning of Life?! appeared first on dummymummy.co.uk.

The Princess is an outdoor kinda gal.  It doesn’t matter what the weather is doing (except she doesn’t care too much for snow, it makes her “handies cold”), she likes to be outside.  Me, I’m definitely a fair-weather-only gal.  I don’t enjoy getting soaked in a downpour, I absolutely loathe the snow, and the wind makes me cross.  Always has.  Luckily, Pea has inherited my dislike of the wind and the cold, giving me a perfect excuse to stay in on days that are less than sunny.  Sometimes, however, The Boyfriend is not around to take The Princess on an outdoor adventure, and it is left to me, such are the joys of parenthood.

One reason my little girl likes to get outside is to find and collect pebbles.  It is bordering on an obsession.  Everywhere we go, pebbles have to be picked up, even from the middle of the road as we are crossing (this is always discouraged, obviously).  Walking on gravel paths can take hours, and we find pebbles everywhere, all over the house, around grandparents’ houses, in the car…like little calling cards from The Princess.

Given all this, as I was flicking through one of my favourite magazines, an item of clothing caught my eye that just screamed The Princess.  A warm-looking, fleecy jumper with a huge colourful pocket in which to store treasures found while exploring the great outdoors – had these people been consulting my daughter directly in their market research?

Our Smocka

This wondrous garment is actually called the Smocka, and is the result of Ocky Olly founder Marilu Wren deciding to design her own clothes for her little ones who loved to collect treasures on the beach.  Her daughter Daisy’s love of pockets also played a big part in the design!  Despite my dislike of the British elements, I do actually love to be outdoors and feel strongly that children are encouraged to get outside to play and discover and learn, something that Marilu feels very passionate about.  The Smocka is one way that Ocky Olly are encouraging us to “Embrace nature and get our little ones playing outdoors”.

Digging for treasure in 100 mph winds

We took our ‘Find the Monkey’ Smocka on holiday to Anglesey last week (finding the monkey on the pocket kept The Princess quiet for a good few minutes of a car journey to the woods, which is always a bonus).  The Princess wore it every day and saved all kinds of amazing finds in the huge pocket.  Pebbles, mainly, to be honest.  But the hugeness of it meant that she could literally fit hundreds of the things in there.  We had to do a daily emptying of the Smocka – the cottage owners probably thought a wall was falling down.

Just popping some pebbles and ponecines in the pocket

…and just a few more

The Smocka is oversized, meaning it can fit over thick jumpers and even coats for layering, and hangs to about mid-thigh, providing a lovely long, warm layer.  Our week away consisted of gale-force winds and temperatures that barely rose above 5 degrees, so being able to fit a thick cardigan underneath the Smocka was really helpful.

As well as Daddy’s hat and scarf, beneath the Smocka The Princess wore a t-shirt, jumper and cardigan. It’s cold in Anglesey, y’know.

It also folds neatly away, although I didn’t get to try this out as The Princess wore it the whole time!

The folding instructions, in case, unlike us, you need them

Despite it’s fairly high price tag (the Smocka retails at £35 which is more than I would normally spend on a fast-growing toddler), it is more than worth the money.  Not just for the warmth, the brilliant huge pocket, and everything else I’ve already talked about, but because it will last longer than most coats and fleeces.  The arms are long with turned-back cuffs, allowing for growing room, and the over-sizing will allow for several growth spurts.  The Princess turns 3 this July, I reckon she will still be in this Smocka by her 4th birthday.

And just in case the fact that my little girl didn’t want to wear anything but the Smocka all week isn’t testiment enough, maybe this will act as proof of the Smocka’s awesomeness:

On our last day of the holiday, when the sun was out but not providing any heat, and the wind was whipping about the beach, we got out of the car, put the Smocka on The Princess to which she hugged her arms around herself and said “Oooh I feel so warm and snugly now.  I love this!”  What more do you need?

Actually, an adult size Smocka could be the answer to my cold-phobia…

Ocky Olly very kindly provided us with the Find The Monkey Smocka to review.  I was not paid to write this post and all opinions, words and photos are all my own.

The post Ocky Olly Smocka – A Review appeared first on dummymummy.co.uk.

The trouble with holidays in the UK is the weather. It is, quite frankly, pants.

But the best thing about holidays with family is, well, family.

The post It’s Raining It’s Pouring appeared first on dummymummy.co.uk.

I’ve never been a morning person.  I have been a life-long fan of sleep and staying in bed.  As a child, while friends would rise at dawn, I could happily snooze the entire morning away.  As a grown-up (allegedly), add in boozy nights, long working days, on-call shifts, and getting up time would very often coincide with Countdown.

My children have not inherited my love for lying in.  The Princess opens her eyes, sits bolt upright and starts the day immediately, with a song or a shout to remind us not to forget about her – “Mummy, or Daddy, I’m heeeeeere!!!” – or a chat with her toys.  Pea, to be fair, takes a slightly gentler approach to easing into the day, often started a little too early by his sister’s foghorn-like tendencies, by opening and closing his eyes several times, attempting to sit up, failing, lying down again, and then spotting something he absolutely must have, and doing everything in his power to grab it.  Usually this is the iCuter (the name we have all adopted following early attempts by The Princess to pronounce ‘computer’), my face cream, my phone, my hairbrush, more or less anything that is being used by someone else.  This obviously leads to meltdowns of the highest order when he is told he can’t have said item.  At this point, Pea is awake, loud, lively, yet tired.  The best combination in a baby, I find.

His blissful sleep is shattered every morning by his sister’s blatant disregard for a respectable wake-up time

Mornings are still my least favourite part of the day.  Not only have I usually woken to feed Pea anywhere between 2 and 7 times during the night, at some point started to think about some mundane fact that has subsequently kept me awake for an hour or so, but I set my alarm for 6am so that I can be up and dressed before The Princess wakes.

This never happens.

I snooze my alarm until I hear The Princess calling from her cot, which then disturbs Pea, at which point I berate myself out-loud for not getting up earlier.  The chaos then starts as I run down the landing to rescue The Princess, run back down the landing to our bedroom before Pea fully wakes and crawls off the bed, sit Pea in his cot (which is used as a safety receptacle while I put The Princess to bed/get her up/get showered, and also a clothes horse for The Boyfriend and I, but has never been used as a vessel in which to sleep), put Sarah and Duck on the iCuter for The Princess, race downstairs to warm some milk for her, grab a couple of nappies, run back upstairs to grab clothes for the littlies to wear, deliver milk to The Princess who is inevitably rearranging (throwing) the pillows in our bed, and sweep a screaming, hysterical Pea into my arms for a comforting cuddle, in an attempt to alleviate the trauma he has just experienced in the form of being in his cot by himself for a total of five minutes.

Awake, downstairs, and in Grandma’s pop socks and shoes within three minutes

Attempting to scale the walls

I have recently given up wearing make-up.   My showers happen when The Boyfriend is on a late shift or a day off, dry shampoo is my closest ally.  I no longer have a ‘style’ I put on whatever I grab first off the side of Pea’s cot.  This usually involves something streaked in dried snot, teamed with something streaked in dried, chewed food.  This hap-hazard morning routine, which also includes a squirt of deodorant, a change of breast-pads, and clean underwear, should really take less than 7 minutes.  In reality I can still be roaming around in pjs an hour later.

Pea does not like to be alone.  He loves his snuggles, and so do I, but it’s difficult to change your knickers one handed with a squirming ten month old balanced on one hip.  His mobility and speed are a huge worry when being tested on a bed the size of ours, which stands on wooden floors.  I have daily visions of not catching him quickly enough and scooping up a bloody, screaming mess off the floor.  It haunts me, hence the cot has stayed in our room.  But listening to his screams from inside his wooden, enrobed, toy-filled prison is almost as painful as imagining him dropping to his demise off the queen-size bed.  And so I have taken to letting him wander around the floor.

I don’t manage to get ready any quicker this way, stopping every 30 seconds to remove his enquiring little fingers from a plug, or the radiator pipe, or to take my shoe out of his mouth, or to get him to sit down before he pulls a bag of clothes destined for the charity shop on top of himself.  But the freedom makes him happier, I don’t feel like my heart is being wrenched out of my chest while dragging a brush through my hair, listening to Pea’s cries of anguish from his cot, and The Princess gets to watch an entire episode of Dirt Girl World (my God, sorry, whose acid-induced idea was that?!) without Little Pea’s eager fingers replacing it with the latest episode of Eastenders, or scooting the iCuter straight off the edge of the bed (PS Boyfriend, this has NEVER happened).

The Princess, the iCuter and Dirt Girl

Does any of this sound familiar?  Please tell me I’m not the only one enduring chaotic mornings, caused mainly by my denial of the fact that lie-ins are a thing of the past?  What do you do with your little ones while you get dressed?

The post My Morning Misery appeared first on dummymummy.co.uk.

Breastfeeding, for me, has always been a very simple, cheap experience.  The only things I have ever had to buy to make the experience more comfortable have been nursing bras and breast-pads.  Even these things are not necessities for everyone – those mums who are lucky enough to be able to pull a regular bra down in order to feed, and not have a milk supply so fast and furious that it requires hourly breast-pad changes, and a change of outfit if a breast-pad change goes undone.

But every so often, something catches my attention that I know would make breastfeeding even easier than it already is.  This nursing vest is one such thing.

Glamourmom Nursing Vest (extra weight not included)

The Glamourmom Nursing Vest, available from More 4 Mums, has an in-built bra, adjustable straps and clasps which unfasten to allow for breastfeeding.  It is also long enough to cover my wobbly tummy, which is always an issue with me when nursing – I am much happier to pull tops down and reveal my boobs than to pull tops up to reveal my flabby tummy!  This vest means that, when worn under another top, I don’t have to show my tummy at all, and only a minimal amount of boob, too.  The material is both stretchy and soft, yet the top is rigid enough to provide good breast support.

At first, I wore the vest with a nursing bra underneath, as I was unsure of how supportive it would be.  However, I (unintentionally) gave it a really thorough testing without a bra for extra support, as I stayed over at my parents’ one night when it was very snowy, forgetting while I was packing an overnight bag that I had work the next day.  Braless is not how I usually turn up for work, and so the Glamourmom vest was truly put to the test as I spent eight and a half hours on my feet, imaging 20+ patients, with only the nursing vest to contain me beneath my uniform.  It provided plenty of support, without being restrictive, and I had no embarrassing leaks.

The only slightly negative thing about this vest is the clasps.  I found them impossible to unfasten one-handed, which is quite important when trying to contain a large and lively hungry nine month old.  I am, however, convinced that this was my fault as opposed to that of the vest, and that I was just unable to get used to the fact that the clasps opened in the opposite direction to those on my nursing bras, causing me much confusion and frustration.  It takes very little to confuse or frustrate me these days.  As it turns out, there was no need to open the clasps at all in order to feed, as the straps of the vest are very stretchy making it just as easy to pull the whole top of the vest down.  This caused much less confusion and frustration, for both me and for Pea.

While there is no real need to buy any special clothing at all when breastfeeding, I think owning a couple of these vests would make life much easier, especially for first-time breastfeeding mums when nursing in public, as they can be worn under another top and provide a good amount of discretion.  They eliminate the need for nursing bras, they provide the perfect amount of coverage, and at £16 each, they hardly break the bank.

And guess what?  More 4 Mums, online retailers of affordable maternity and nursing wear, are giving one lucky Dummy Mummy reader the chance to win one of these vests.  Simply leave a comment at the bottom of this post, and if your comment is the one randomly drawn at the end of the competition, you will get to choose the colour and size from the More 4 Mums website.

Terms and Conditions:

Each comment will be numbered consecutively, (ie the first comment will be numbered 1, the second 2, and so on).  One winner will be drawn at random from the comments on this post, chosen by random.org.

Competition closes at midnight on 30^th April 2013.

The winner will be drawn and notified on 1^st May 2013.

The winner’s name and details will be sent to More 4 Mums, who will then contact the winner for their chosen size and colour of Glamourmom Nursing Vest.

The prize will be sent out directly from More 4 Mums, not from Dummy Mummy.

The prize is a Glamourmom Nursing Vest.  No alternative prizes are on offer.

The post Glamourmom Nursing Vest – A Review and Giveaway appeared first on dummymummy.co.uk.

Little Pea is almost ten months old.  He is just like most other ten month olds, he is crawling, babbling (well, shouting), picking stuff up and throwing it (at me), eating in his own messy way, and generally becoming a sociable, playful little person.

Just after Christmas, Pea cut his first teeth.  Since then, more and more have emerged, some more dramatically than others – two appeared during the week he was struck down with bronchiolitis and an ear infection – and now he has a mouth full of huge, white tombstones.  And they are sharp.

Last week, while feeding, he bit me so hard he drew blood.  For several feeds afterwards, I flinched as he latched on.  It was not an experience I am keen to repeat.

Replace the (swiped) pizza with nipple…

Last night, he bit my eye.  Well, not quite, but he brought his top teeth down on my eye-bag with quite a force, then sunk them in just a little more, as I was trying to grapple his hands out of my tangled hair and grab his squirming body to move him and his chompy little gnashers a safe distance away.  Apologies for stating the obvious, but it hurt.

This morning with no access to a mirror, but my phone in hand, I took a picture of my bitten eye and was horrified by what stared back at me in my photo folder.  Yes, there’s a bruise, but worse than that, the dark circles that I have grown so accustomed to having not slept for three years, are actually black.  I look like I wandered into a boxing ring mid-fight and emerged utterly defeated.

The walking dead

The worst of it is, a have been going make-up free for the first time ever over the last few months.  I don’t have time to slather on products that will make me look “glowing” or “dewy” or “youthful”, I have enough time to moisturise, darken my eyebrows and Eight Hour Cream my lips, whilst attempting to stop a crawling Pea diving head-first off the bed, consoling his heart-broken sobs at being left alone without a cuddle for more than a minute, keeping an eye on The Princess to make sure she is still watching something age-appropriate on iPlayer and hasn’t wandered off onto You Tube, and remember to put on deodorant (I often forget until it’s too late).  That’s it.  No concealer for my spot-scarred skin, no blusher to give a rosy glow, and no brightener for the newly-discovered black rings around my eyes.  People must think the zombie-invasion has actually started when I enter a room, especially given that I rarely brush my hair.  You’re now beginning to see why I stay clear of publishing pictures of myself, aren’t you?

Which brings me neatly onto a subject that I have been meaning to address for a little while, and when I saw my thoughts of regret written on Britmums, it made me resolve to put things right.  You see, even before I was successfully rocking the zombie-tubby-mother look, I loathed the camera.  I had a mental image of how I looked, and every photograph of myself betrayed that image.  And not in a good way.  Looking at photographs of myself would leave me feeling low, unattractive, and duped.  Now, sleep-deprived and nearly two stone heavier, unable to squeeze into any of my pre-pregnancy clothes, with roots almost as long as the coloured part of my hair, I realise how silly I was.  I was slim, always took care of my appearance, spontaneous, romantic, and always looking for something more, and I wish I had more pictures to show it.

This was taken approximately 100 years ago when I was slim enough to show off my legs

Despite my new look (the Unkempt Trogladite, it will be all over Vogue next season, just you wait), I do not want to think back to these times when the babies were still babies, when we had free time with few constraints, while every experience is a new one for The Princess and The Pea, and have no physical memory of it.  I need to be pictured with my children.  I need to stop worrying about the extra 18 pounds I’m carrying, and maybe I need to find an extra five minutes to brush my hair and wiggle a mascara wand across my lashes.  I definitely need to invest in some Touche Eclat, and most of all, I need to look into the camera at an angle that will disguise my numerous chins, smile, and capture these memories.

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A couple of weeks ago, Save the Children launched their ‘Power of the First Hour: Breastfeeding Saves Lives’ campaign.  This campaign was endorsed by celebrities and bloggers and the tabloids and the broadsheets.  This campaign was also the fuel of a backlash against breastfeeding in western society, with many bloggers and journalists and parents jumping on the recommendation to put health warnings on packets of formula, entirely missing the point of this campaign, which is basically this:

Babies are dying.

Save the Children have estimated that 830,000 lives could be saved each year if babies were fed the immunity-boosting colostrum made by their mothers.  In many countries, butter or sugar water or herbal pastes are the first things given to a baby.  Health workers tell mums that their breast-milk is bad for their newborn, that because they themselves are dehydrated or under-nourished, that their milk is no good, and that formula is better.

57% of babies are not getting the life-saving breast milk in their first hour, and in poor countries, infants who are not breastfed are 15 times more likely to die from pneumonia and 11 times more likely to die of diarrhoea.  If a baby is given breast-milk within their first hour of life, they are three times more likely to survive than one who is breast fed a day later.

Just in case you missed it, 830,000 babies’ lives could be saved by breastfeeding.

This is what the Power of the First Hour campaign is about, it’s about getting mothers in poor countries doing this

Instead of this

It is not about whether mothers in the UK do this

Or this

And it is most certainly not about this (Warning: this links to a ridiculous article published in The Telegraph.  If you suffer with high blood pressure or low tolerance levels for idiots who write ill-informed, badly argued articles, I suggest you avoid this piece).

Save The Children have identified four major factors that contribute to low breastfeeding rates in developing countries, namely social and cultural factors, shortages of health workers and midwives, lack of maternity legislation, and the behaviour of formula companies.  The latter is a huge problem, and despite The International Code of Marketing of Breast-milk Substitutes being introduced in 1981, companies are still using misleading tactics in advertising formula milk, and even targeting mothers in hospital to promote artificial feeding.

Many large international companies who sell breast-milk substitutes, have been found to have violated the International Code in many ways, including donating ‘gifts’ of teddy bears and stationery branded with the company logo to midwives, providing health workers with free samples of formula to give to expectant mothers, and even gifting large items for clinics, cash and travel incentives, in return for the names and contact details of expectant mothers, and the promise that they will promote that particular brand of formula.

We are often told about the ‘power’ of advertising, but the following excerpt from the Save The Children’s report, ‘Superfood for Babies’ shows just how shockingly powerful it can be:

The possible dangers of potentially misleading branding were highlighted by an article published by the British Medical Journal.  The article was in response to reported cases of malnutrition in Laos in 2008 among infants who had been fed coffee creamer.  According to the article, the product used in those cases was reported to be Nestlé’s Bear Brand coffee creamer, which at the time carried a logo of a cartoon baby bear being held by its mother in what appears to be the breastfeeding position. The largest ingredient in Bear Brand coffee creamer was sugar.  The BMJ conducted a survey examining what it called the “misperceptions and misuse” of the Bear Brand coffee creamer among paediatricians and consumers in 84 villages across the country.  It revealed that 18% of those surveyed had fed the coffee creamer to their infants at an average age of five months, 39% of consumers believed that the Bear Brand logo coffee creamer was good for infants and 6.5% thought it was a replacement for breast milk.  Although the label on the Bear Brand coffee creamer packaging contained a warning that it was not to be used as a breast-milk substitute, 80% of those surveyed said that they had not read it.  The study, published in the BMJ, concluded that the sale of coffee creamer with this logo had placed the health of infants at risk.

It is for reasons like this, and many more besides, that Save The Children are campaigning to get huge companies like Nestle and Danone to be more accountable for their actions when it comes to infant feeding, and in particular in the advertising and branding of breast-milk substitutes.

The Superfood for Babies report can be found to download here, it is fascinating and essential reading.

And here is where you can help make a difference.

Stop breast milk substitute companies, like Danone and Nestle, from using or permitting any business practices which could contribute to undermining breastfeeding in poor countries. Sign the Save The Children petition calling on breast milk substitute companies to always put children’s health first. They must change the way they market their formula, putting health warnings on their products that take up at least a third of the packaging.  Breast-milk saves lives.  By actively promoting breast-milk substitutes, these companies are putting babies’ lives at risk.

Donate to Save The Children.  75p could buy the equipment needed to clear a newborn baby’s lungs of mucous, £5 buys two blankets, and just £14 could buy a life saving course of antibiotics for a newborn with an infection.

Another small, but potentially very effective, way of helping is to boycott these companies.  Nestle and Danone are international companies who are prevalent here in the UK.  Nestle produce several breakfast cereals, confectionary, and drinks, and they also own a number of other companies, such as Rowntrees and Buitoni (you can find a list of their products, brands and other companies they have shares in here), and Danone produce Actimel, Activia, and Volvic and Evian bottled water.

Please do whatever you can and help to save 830,000 lives.

All images sourced from Save the Children

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