{"product_id":"the-unmumsy-mum-isbn-9780143130048","title":"The Unmumsy Mum","description":"\u003cb\u003eCreator of the popular blog \"The Unmumsy Mum,\" Sarah Turner offers an uncensored account of her early years of parenting.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSarah Turner's first few months of parenting were tough. On the darkest of sleep-deprived days, when the baby would not settle and she was irritable and the house was a disaster-zone, she wanted to read about someone who felt the same. Someone who would reassure her that she wasn't a total failure. But she found nothing of the sort. She decided then and there that she would write something herself. She would document parenthood as she found it. Not how she wanted to find it or how she wanted other people to think that she found it. But how it was. Warts and all. \u003cbr\u003e     Thus, her blog was born. Now with thousands of followers, \"The Unmumsy Mum\" blog covers everything from \"baby-wearing incompetence\" to \"second child shortcuts.\" Full of candor, humor, and charm, this book—a #1 \u003ci\u003eSunday Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestseller—shows us that we can read every parenting manual under the sun, but still have no bloody clue—and not having a clue is just fine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Unmumsy Mum \u003c\/i\u003eis a winner of the 2017 Family Choice Awards.\u003cb\u003eSarah Turner\u003c\/b\u003e grew up in Cornwall, England, and graduated from the University of Exeter in 2008 with a degree in Philosophy and Sociology. She worked at the Royal Bank of Scotland until 2012, when she gave birth to her first son and decided to work part-time at the University. Despite achieving the 'holy grail' of part-time work\/part-time parenting, Sarah found motherhood considerably harder than she had anticipated, and for this reason, started writing the Unmumsy Mum blog. In 2014, Sarah's second son was born, and amidst the chaos of life with two children under three, she decided to dedicate more time to the blog, which has more than four million page views.Just the Two of Us\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Allow me to set the prebaby scene. It's 2009.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I'm taking you back to 2009 because that year seems a fair      representation of the prebaby us. It was the year we bought our      first house and both had grown-up, serious jobs. James was      occupying one of the many civil service jobs he's tried his hand      at over the years, and I had just been promoted to relationship      manager in an asset finance company, which, in practical terms,      meant I spent lots of time driving around to farms in Devon      financing machinery, and I bloody loved it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e We worked hard and played sort of hard. We occasionally rolled in      drunk at two a.m. smelling of vodka and clutching shish kebabs,      but, with the benefit of hindsight, we should have played harder.      (I'm somehow mourning the raving I never did in Ibiza; not that I      ever had any urge to get my trance on in an Amnesia foam party,      but I could have if I'd wanted to.) I didn't appreciate the extent      of our freedom.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e After an intense week of work, for us, the weekend revolved around      a Pizza Hut delivery, bottles of wine and beer, the odd beach walk      or excursion to a National Trust house (mainly for the cream tea)      and copious amounts of sofa lounging, tea drinking and Jammie      Dodger eating to the background hum of Sky Sports News. \"Chores\"      were Hoovering out the car (which we could do in peace or while      listening to the radio), grocery shopping (we bought what we      fancied when we fancied it) and \"cleaning the place,\" which took      all of thirty minutes and consisted of sorting out piles of work      clothes and tidying an already uncluttered living space.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Life was good, and we were happy. We were settled.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The following year, we tied the knot and started dabbling in that      dangerous pastime I like to call Property Perusing. I'm sure it      was all that talk of extra bedrooms and garages and friendly      neighbors that prompted us to engage seriously for the first time      in the Chat. There was only one chat to have by this stage, as      we'd already gone down the pet route and rescued Floyd the Cat,      who we treated very much like our baby.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The next level in our adult lives awaited.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I can't pinpoint or remember the exact \"Shall we have a baby,      then?\" conversation, but I remember we agreed that I would come      off the Pill and we would \"see what happens.\" There is nothing      casual about \"seeing what happens.\" From the moment you are no      longer not trying for a baby, you are very much trying for one.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I'm not sure what the rush was. There was certainly no biological      rush, as I was just twenty-three at this point. We had all the      time in the world to start procreating, but something instinctive      told us it was the right time. We may have been just a few months      into married life but, by this stage, we were a full seven years      into our relationship. I was just sixteen when we first got      together (at a nightclub on an industrial estate: the romance of      fairy tales-I know).\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e All of a sudden, I became hyperaware of babies in buggies and      pregnancy bumps on the bus. Despite my continued enjoyment of      work, wine and uninterrupted Friday-night takeaways, more than      anything else I wanted to be a mum.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I guessed it would happen straightaway.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It didn't happen straightaway.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e In fact, ten months into the whole \"I think I'm ovulating. Can you      pause Top Gear and come upstairs, please?\" debacle, we'd become      slightly disheartened with the bi-daily shagathons and leg holding      in the air (me, not James, who never once lay with his legs in the      air for ten minutes to discourage gravity).\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Then, suddenly, we had other things to concentrate on because we'd      just completed the sale of our house and secured a new one with      that extra bedroom and garage. Hurrah! It was a chaotic time, as      we had only a couple of weeks off work to pack up, move house and      prepare for a week's holiday in Kos-a holiday I'd booked prior to      knowing we'd be moving that month. So, in a state of mostly      unpacked but not quite organized household disorder, we found      ourselves getting ready to leave for a road trip to Cardiff      airport. I ran myself a bath (to take care of the essential      holiday hair removal), and while I fannied around in the bedroom      waiting for the tub to fill up, I just had this feeling that I was      coming on my period: achy legs, slight tummy churn. You probably      don't need to know the workings of my menstrual cycle (you'll      undoubtedly know far too much about me as it is when you've      finished reading this book), but I never really had regular      periods, something we had been told might make it difficult for us      to conceive, something which would have made it all the more      sensible to pack tampons as a precaution for a week in a bikini.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I don't know whether the feeling was in some way different from      the usual premenstrual rigmarole or whether I just wanted      clearance to drink my body weight in dodgy Greek ouzo, but      something prompted me to grab a pregnancy test out of my knicker      drawer and wee on it. I shouted down to James, \"I think I'm coming      on my period, but I've done a test just in case, so I have the all      clear to drink wine.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e James came back upstairs. I was totally naked by this point (about      to get in the bath, as I say), hovering over said stick of      fortune. \"Well, what does it say?\" he asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"There are two lines. It's a plus. It says I'm pregnant. Fuck.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Fuck,\" he echoed. \"Are you sure? Do another one!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I can't! I don't need another wee.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I then sat in the bath, trying to digest the possible parenthood      news, while James went to get me a pint of water so I could flush      out some more urine. I did two further tests.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e One test could be a fluke.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Two tests: still questionable.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Three tests: well, three tests showed irrefutably that I was with      child.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Holy mother of chuffing God, there was a baby in there.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And we were about to whisk him or her off to Kos for a stay in      what turned out to be the shittiest hotel we'd been to in all our      years, with a shit \"beach\" and shit food. Add to that an overall      sense of shittiness brought about by knowing that not only had we      rejected a villa in Tuscany but we were now also not enjoying our      last holiday as a twosome.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The saving grace of that holiday-which-was-a-bit-shit (have I told      you how shit it was? I feel the need to reiterate this point, as      it was James who said no to Tuscany, for cost-saving reasons) was      that we were carrying around our baby secret. We were going to be      parents, and we beamed from ear to ear.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e According to the BabyCenter pregnancy app we had downloaded on the      way to the airport, I was already seven weeks pregnant. The      absence of my period had not alerted us because that, in itself,      was not unusual. I'd had no other symptoms and had therefore been      drinking Pinot Grigio and not taking folic acid for the first      seven weeks of our fetus's existence, something I planned to      rectify as soon as we got back to Blighty and I could ram-raid      Boots for mum-to-be supplies.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e So there we were, in our ghetto sunshine hotel, discussing baby      names and nurseries and telling ourselves we really shouldn't get      carried away until we'd confirmed everything was all right while      at the same time getting completely carried away about our little      potato. Finding out I was pregnant for the first time was pretty      amazing. It was scary and daunting, too, but mostly it was      amazing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I'll forever hold an image in my mind of our tanned and excited      faces in the car on the way back from Cardiff airport, scoffing      M\u0026amp;S sandwiches and Percy Pigs (and Pals) from the service      station. Smug about our little secret. We knew we were on the cusp      of something pretty life changing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The reality, of course, as we gaily chomped on Percy and his Pals,      was that we knew nothing at all.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Am I Glowing Yet?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e As you know, I am writing as the proud (though slightly      overwhelmed) owner of two children. I have therefore spent      eighteen months of my life incubating small people. (Total for      both pregnancies, I mean; I don't have anything approaching the      640-day gestation of an African elephant because if I did, I      would, quite frankly, never have coped. Can you imagine the pelvic      pressure and gin withdrawal after 640 days?) Still, eighteen      months equates to approximately 5 percent of my life (to date)      spent \"with child,\" and, when people ask me how I found my      pregnancy adventure, I generally offer the same, uncomplicated      response: \"It was a bit crap.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I really tried to enjoy it. Mostly, I think, I felt compelled to      treasure the experience because I was so mindful of pregnancy      being a blessing, mindful that there are so many other couples who      can't conceive, or have lost a baby. I have always known that      getting pregnant and carrying two healthy babies to full term      makes us a remarkably lucky family.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And there were bits I did enjoy. Like all the buzzy excitement      surrounding the new addition, the magic of feeling the first      kicks, and hearing the heartbeat at the midwife appointments.      Discussing names (slightly less fun after we'd made the mistake of      sharing name ideas with friends and family, who were surprisingly      forthright about our short list); dragging James to antenatal      classes (where we tried and failed to act like grown-ups during      the demonstration of the doll moving down the birth canal);      shopping for baby clothes; painting the nursery and framing my      favorite quote from The Twits to add a bit of Roald Dahl wisdom to      the walls.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I marveled at my body's ability to grow a small person, twice.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But treasure every moment I could not.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I quickly tired of sticking my head down the loo to throw up after      my evening meal. I became fed up with practically pissing myself      every time I climbed the stairs or rolled over in bed because my      bladder had been restricted to the size of a Borrower's. I spent      the last six weeks of pregnancy number two sleeping (or, rather,      not sleeping) propped up on the sofa, unable to get comfy,      watching reruns of The X-Files. And, on top of the pregnancy      incontinence and slightly sicky burps, I was fed up with hearing      the same old shite, those same old myths and superstitions:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"All that sickness suggests this one is definitely a girl!\"      Clearly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"The first baby is never on time!\" He was on time.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"As your first was on time, your second will be early!\" He was      seven days late.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I can tell just by looking at the bump you're having a big baby!\"      Henry was six pounds, thirteen ounces.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Above all, I was a bit pissed off and disillusioned about the      pregnancy legend of the Glow.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I wasn't glowing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But it would come, right? Because I, for one, had bought into the      legend and was excited about my impending glow. I just had to get      through the sicky and awkward podgy-but-not-quite-preggers stage      of the first trimester (the \"shitemester\") and I'd be on the home      straight to the promised land of shiny hair, radiant skin and a      neat and tidy bump displayed proudly under attractive maternity      dresses. It became a long-standing joke: \"Am I glowing yet?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I never fucking glowed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Instead, I found I was vomity, sweaty and permanently tired. My      skin was gray and slightly zitty-less English rose glow and more      hungover pubescent-teenager shine. The \"bump\" I had looked forward      to sporting under a Topshop tea dress developed into more of a      tire of pregnant chub around my middle, spreading slowly to      unsuspecting areas like my arms. And chins. In many ways, I quite      liked my preggers body-I put on more than three stone with each      pregnancy, and there is something quite liberating about thinking,      \"Sod it, what difference is another slice of carrot cake going to      make?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But glowing I was not. Though I should note that I have met some      quite glowy mums-to-be in Topshop tea dresses, so I can't deny      that it happens. It just didn't happen in the 5 percent of my      lifetime I have spent pregnant. (I'm not at all bitter.)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e There were, however, two things I'd heard about pregnancy-two      quirks, if you will (things I had generally dismissed as \"a load      of old tosh\")-that I can in fact verify as true, having      experienced them firsthand.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The first was nesting.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Nesting,\" as a term, is quite misleading, I think, because it      conjures up images of decluttering, decorating and making sure      things are just so. The nesting I found myself absorbed in was      much less about decluttering and more about disinfecting. Of      ridding the house of all dust, grime and odors and leaving behind      the soft scents of Cif Cream (Original) and Windowlene.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I could not get enough of cleaning products. They just smelled so      good. The Cillit Bang advert where \"Barry Scott\" obliterates      shower scum before declaring, \"Bang! And the dirt is gone!\" was      practically a turn-on at one point.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e At the height of my cleaning obsession (which was far worse with      Jude), I was spraying and scrubbing my kitchen worktops at least      three times a day-and that was the most ordinary of my cleaning      activities. Skirting-board bleaching, cupboard disinfecting,      pulling the fridge out to clean behind it, door washing, wall      cleaning-I once washed the external walls and downstairs outside      windows with Flash power spray before instructing my father-in-law      to do the same to the upstairs windows while he was up a ladder      clearing the guttering. I also asked James to pull the TV stand      out twice in the same week because I hadn't managed to blitz all      the dust the first time and I couldn't relax until I had blitzed      all of the bloody dust.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Nobody argued with me when I was eight months pregnant, because      they had clocked my crazed look and feared I would climb a      ladder\/attempt to move a forty-two-inch TV on my own. They were      right to be slightly fearful. There were spells of comedy, but I      had become a nightmare to live with. One time, I paused our      Friday-night film to strip the cushion covers and put them      straight in the wash. Because you just can't bring new life into a      house with unwashed cushion covers. Another time, James put some      leftover lasagna-which was ever so slightly leaking out of its      dish-into my newly disinfected fridge. \"Lasagnagate,\" we named      that particular meltdown, because I cried for half an hour before      getting the surface cleaner back out. Poor James.","brand":"Tarcher","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300630647013,"sku":"NP9780143130048","price":16.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780143130048.jpg?v=1767742009","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-unmumsy-mum-isbn-9780143130048","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}