The idiocy of running

I did something really stupid yesterday. Not just my usual level of stupid, like dropping Lumpy on his head, walking into walls, or forgetting to put my trousers on. Oh no, this was proper stupid.

I went running. In fact, worse than that, I ran in a race. A race. Which also involved scrambling over fences. It really was astonishingly, ridiculously stupid.

I have indulged in running in the past, despite being almost comically unsuited to the pursuit. I am just not built for it, physically or psychologically. My legs do not like carrying me around at speed. I have several old war wounds, and have only half a knee left. The minute I inch above shuffling pace, I start making noises like an asthmatic, chain-smoking weasel stuck down a drain. It really is not a pretty sight. I have to be careful about doing it in public in case people are startled and call in the authorities to have me shot.

Because of all this, I have spent much of my life attempting to avoid running. Even at school I loathed it, and will never forget the shame of slogging round the last laps of a 1500m with my irritatingly skinny and bouncy friend finishing, then looping back and jogging along (well, briskly walking, really) beside me, chirping encouragement as I sweated and spat and cursed my way to the finish line, about 7 hours later.

It's not that I don't like physical exertion. In fact, I am a bit of an overcompetitive masochist, and genuinely like swimming length after length, squatting big fat weights, and, being an ex-rower, erging myself into sweaty, blistered oblivion. And I'm actually reasonably good at most of these things. The same pathetic overcompetitiveness that made me write that last line is probably what drives me back to running, time after time. Why am I so crap at it, even if I try really, really hard and do it a lot? I'd love to be good at it. It must feel wonderful to be able to run, quickly and effortlessly, rather than dragging yourself along wheezing and weeping and hating every step. I have dreams about being able to run -- about competing in fun runs (an oxymoron if ever there was one) and striding to the front of the pack, overtaking everyone -- in the same way that others have dreams about flying.

I seem to think that if I just keep at it, somehow I will defy biology, physiology, medical science, and logic to magically become this mythical runner. I even ran a half marathon once (though once again 'run' is a rather optimistic term here). That was two and a half years ago, and the experience was so traumatic that I haven't attempted even a jog since.

Until yesterday, that is, when I decided, for some deranged reason, that it would be a good idea to take part in the Only Fools Fun Run, over the eventing course at Blenheim Palace. It's only 5km, I thought. That's nothing. And the jumps? The giant great jumps that are made for horses to leap over, complete with ditches, and water, and spiky bits of brush? Easy. A little scramble. Fun, like they say. That's what it'll be. Fun.

It really wasn't fun. Or much of a run, to be honest.

Mr Badger streaked off at the start, being a person (sorry, furry little omnivore) who can actually run. Luckily, Sister Badger was there to drag me along, or I may well have fallen at the first, claimed to have a broken leg, and called for the tent and the man with the special gun. I started my wheezing and staggering act after about 50 metres, surprising even myself with my crapness. I actually found myself looking forward to the ridiculous fences, as they gave me a chance to have a lie down and a breather on the top, before someone else trampled on my head and forced me to fall off and shuffle on to the next one.

Somehow I made it round, despite having almost drowned in the lake (which was all of two inches deep), and been spiked up the bum by pretty much every bit of brush going. We were beaten by a dalmation, a cow, and the knights from Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Though the geriatric hula girls were behind us, I believe (they were last seen hoisting one another over the second, after which point I went blind and saw no more).

And Lumpy (disappointingly absent from this entire post, I hear the Lumpy fans cry!)? He slept in his pram the whole way through, and thus failed to witness his mother's shocking display of inathleticism. Perhaps I can train him up to be a runner, so he can fulfill all my frustrated, futile, vain ambitions. Or perhaps I'll just become a baby. No one ever makes them run. Lucky bastards.

Crazy nappy lady

My name is Badger, and I am addicted to nappies.

This is yet another in a series of 'what a sad state of affairs', otherwise known as Lumpy-induced generalized crapness (a recognized medical condition which is, sadly, terminal - see previous post for lager-based evidence of this tragic disease).

How did I sink this low? Mere months ago, I had never even changed a nappy - not even a standard-issue disposable. Yet now I will happily rant for hours about pocket systems versus shaped terry with waterproof pants at anyone who comes within a half-mile radius. If you have no idea what that last sentence means, then you obviously haven't visited me in the last month. Or you have, and wisely shoved your fingers in your ears and took refuge under the table as soon as I started. I spend hours online browsing nappy shops and feel bereft if I don't have a new sample turning up in the post every day. I experiment in stuffing techniques, and my first reaction when I find my lap filled with escapee poo is not 'Oh. My. God. I have a lap full of toxic orange baby poo', but rather 'Hmmm, interesting. The leg cuffs of the Pop 'n' Gro aren't as all-containing as I thought. Or maybe I should have doubled up with an extra microfibre insert. Or would that be overstuffing..?' All while my dining companions stare at me in mute horror, wondering when I'm going to get up and clean the poo off my lap. I even love washing the poo-encrusted, pee-soaked things, delighting in how they transform from skanky rags to fluffy loveliness in the space of a mere was cycle. And I bubble over with preening smugness and pride as I hang them all out on the line. Look! They're so small! And cute! And fluffy! Here, let me rub your face with them! Stop! Why do you run from me, screaming in that way??

This is clearly becoming a serious problem. Even in the grips of my obsession, I realize most normal people don't really want to hear about things that are basically portable baby toilets. But, like all the worst drug bores, I don't really care. On and on I drone, eulogizing on the wonders of reusable wipes, as my friends' eyes glaze over and they consider whether smothering themselves to death with a handy Tots Bots Bamboozle would be more effective than attempting to garrote me with a Bum Genius outer shell.

I clearly need to start up some sort of self-help group. Nappy Sniffers Anonymous. Reusable Ranters Redeemed. Together we can break this cycle of addiction!

But first, I hear they have special offers on Little Lambs. Must just go and check them out...

The Crying Game

Let's talk about hormones. Post-birth hormones are basically akin to being kidnapped by a psychotically sentimental lunatic who locks you in an attic and plays Hallmark-channel weepie movies on a loop with a background of lump-in-your-throat songs remembered from your childhood, while continuously beating you about the head with a fluffy toy, and intermittently dowsing you in buckets of cold water. While threatening to throw your baby out of the window. And making you cake.

It's just like that. Really.

Things seem to be settling down a bit now, it must be admitted. I achieved my first day without crying at around the two-week mark, and now only resort to tears when Lumpy is crying at me and nothing I can do seems to help, and arrgggguuuuuuuhhhhyyyyyeeeeeeeeee am worst mother in the world. (This situation occurs fairly regularly).

The first two weeks were no way near this logical. Everything made me cry. Looking at Lumpy. Being in a different room from Lumpy. Photos of Lumpy. Looking at Mr Badger. Being tired. Leaving the house. Eating. Sleeping. Going to the toilet. Breathing.

The following are actual events which managed to reduce me to a sniffling, sodden, snot-drizzled wreck in the first two weeks:

• Leaking nappies. There was a point (on about day 5, I think) where every nappy we put on leaked - dramatically, messily, and generally instantly. Wee would spurt from the top, soaking whatever clothes he was wearing, poo would explode from the leg cuffs, in all its clotted mustard glory. What made me melt down was the fact that this hadn't happened before, so obviously we'd started to fail at even putting on nappies - something we'd seemed capable of doing in the last five days. From now on, clearly, every nappy would leak, and we'd be doomed to soaked, poo-smeared clothes and sheets until we had managed to potty train him (probably not before the age of 14, knowing our skills). Needless to say, the nappies stopped leaking. At least until we started using reusables, which is a whole other blog post in itself.
• Excessive, voracious, endless feeding. As the previous post shows, we have not really had a problem with getting Lumpy to take to the breast, nor has there been an issue with supply (in fact, rather the opposite - yes, we're talking soggy, milk stained t-shirts (worn proudly down the shops - I am mega sexiiiiie), and literal gushes in the middle of the night. We already have a freezer full of enough expressed milk to last Lumpy till university). For this, I am truly grateful. I was petrified of not being able to breastfeed effectively, and shudder at the thought of myself in a situation where he couldn't latch properly, or I couldn't produce enough, and he was hungry, and we were forced to supplement. That said, I have still managed to have several melt downs over the fact that he has been feeding too much. Seriously, the child would probably be quite content to be attached to me 24 hours a day, and has no concept of 'full'. He will eat until his little belly is swollen and distended, and then produces the most ungodly, raucous farts I have ever heard, let alone from someone who weighs less than a cat. He will literally bubble over with milk, till it's oozing out of every orifice. And he's still rooting and desperate to feed more. He goes through phases of feeding every half hour, which leave me weeping and desperate, convinced he can't possibly be getting any milk from me, as he would simply explode from feeding so long if he was. However, he'd put on 12ozs in 5 days at his last weigh-in, so we reckon he's probably getting enough. But still, sob wah wail, etc.
• Blood test results. About a week in, I got a frantic call from one of the doctors at my practice, who'd been trying to get in touch with me for days (by calling our broken landline, which we'd repeatedly asked people not to, while desperately trying to force my mobile number onto them). He had the test results from the blood sample the hospital had taken a couple of hours after the birth (to check there was nothing untoward because of the blood pressure 'issue'). Apparently my white blood cell count was very high, and he was convinced I must extremely ill, fevered, and, in all likelihood, dead. I assured him that I felt absolutely fine, but he insisted that I come in to have another sample taken. As soon as I got off the phone from him, I naturally googled 'high white blood cell count', and discovered that I must have leukemia. Cue much sobbing, and pathetic declarations that 'at least I had given Lumpy life' before it would be cruelly snatched away from me. (the next blood test results were completely normal, of course).
• Which table to sit at for dinner. My mother dared to ask me this question when she was cooking for us one night, and I howled that I couldn't be expected to make decisions like that, before collapsing face down into my Spag Bol.
• Pretty much every present and card we received. And we received a lot. The postman is now petrified of me.
• A charity appeal advert for Great Ormond Street hospital. There were babies. With wires and tubes. Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah.
• Banging my head on the same beam in the nursery three times in as many minutes. It hurt. Fantasies of axes taken to said beam, and howls of 'why can't we live in a normal house without stupid sticky-outy bits of wood and stone all over the place just made to smash babies' heads on.' Boo-hoo, sob, BONK! Repeat.