It was during a phone conversation with a GP recently that I realised how little I know about my second-born daughter, Ivy.
“How much does she weigh?” the doctor asked me as I stood clutching my phone and staring at my ten-month-old like a deer stuck in headlights. “Er, honestly? I have no idea.” I replied. “Ballpark figure?” she pressed on, her voice surprisingly clear of judgement. “Hmm, I couldn’t even tell you that, sorry.” I said, sheepishly. Yet, still the GP was determined. “Okay, what about her height?” “Nope! Couldn’t tell you that either…”
You can imagine how the rest of the conversation went. Suffice to say, by the time I hung up, I realised not only did I not know how much my baby weighed or measured, I also didn’t know if her sleep schedule was considered “normal”, what other babies her age were up to, or even if Ivy had met any of the milestones for her age group. The most remarkable thing about this? I also, didn’t care.
My laissez-faire approach to parenting might seem surprising to some, but it’s an even greater shock to me considering I was the exactly opposite with my firstborn Cella.
A classic Type-A personality, it wouldn’t be untrue to say I approached pregnancy and motherhood like it was an Olympic event and God how I wanted that gold medal!
I didn’t just want to be a good mother – I was determined to be The Best Mother In The World and to that end, read all the baby guides I could get my hands on (underlining the important passages in yellow if you really must know). I bought designer clothes, washed and ironed them and hung them not only by size, but by type and colour (Did I mention I was also a Virgo?).