I don’t.

I feel bad about it, I feel like I should miss them, but no matter how much I try to conjure up fond images of them doing cute things*, I just don’t.

Does this make me a bad mummy?

I don’t think so.

It’s not like I’ve always just gone off, happily doing my own thing, without giving them a second thought. In fact, for about the first two years of Belle’s life I was very rarely even in a different room from her. She was what you would call a ‘highly sensitive’ baby. I didn’t balk (too much) at this, just accepted that she’d let go (literally) when she was ready, and in the meantime I learnt to do a lot of things with just one hand.

Despite becoming a mum at such a young age, I’ve managed to hold on to a very distinct identity for myself, that isn’t just about being a mother. I am not defined by my children, and so when they’re not there, I don’t feel bereft, or like a piece of me is missing. I don’t throw myself on the bed and wail, questioning the meaning of my life without them. I know that whatever they’re doing, they’re probably enjoying themselves/having money spent on them/getting to stay up later than they would at home, so why would I worry?

Sometimes I voice these feelings out loud though, and it doesn’t go down very well.

Last year, I was away in Germany for work for five days. I don’t think I called home the whole time I was gone. One evening, out for dinner with a group of people, while one woman sobbed quietly into her soup, I declared that I didn’t miss my babies At All. “But you can’t mean that?” upset woman cried, a look of horror on her face. Everyone else turned to me, slightly aghast. “It’s just part of your whole slummy mummy act right?”

“Um…” what to say? I didn’t want to become known as the heart-of-stone woman…

“Oh no!” I backtracked, “I miss them of course! I just don’t miss them. You know what I mean.” And I hastily gulped back half a glass of wine.

I lied though. I didn’t miss them at all. Don’t tell anyone.

So what do you think – do I have a heart of stone, or after 17 years of parenting is it alright to enjoy a bit of time to yourself sometimes?

*At this point, I paused and tried to conjure up such an image, so I could give an example, but to be honest I couldn’t even get that far.

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When Boyfriend came back from a three-week trip to China last week, I wanted to impress him with my new-found culinary skills. I’m not normally known for domestic goddessness, but while he was away, to prove I was capable of cooking more than super noodles, I had been practising. A weekly delivery from Hello Fresh helped, but that’s definitely still cooking.

On his first night back, I decided to cook lamb and feta burgers, with oregano potato wedges, courtesy of McCain. Nothing impresses a boy more, so I’m told, than a home-made burger.* If you’d like to woo a boy of your own, here’s what you need:

"potato wedges"For the burgers:

  • 500g lean lamb mince
  • 1 garlic clove, peeled and finely chopped
  • ¼ tsp ground paprika
  • 1 tsp ground allspice
  • ¼ tsp cumin powder
  • 3-4 tbsp flat-leaf parsley, freshly chopped
  • Grated zest of 1 lemon
  • 100g feta cheese, roughly crumbled
  • Salt and pepper to season

To go with your burgers:

  • ¼ cucumber, peeled and sliced
  • 1 small red onion, peeled and finely chopped
  • 6 olives, sliced

For the oregano wedges:

  • 300g McCain Sea Salt & Cracked Black Pepper Wedges
  • ¼ tsp dried oregano

To serve:

  • Four crusty bread rolls, halved
  • Large G&T for the chef to help recover from stress of smoke alarm going off three times

I’m not going to bother with a ‘how to make’ section, as it’s so easy – mix all the burger ingredients together into burger shapes, sprinkle the wedges with oregano and stick in the oven as instructed, and that’s it really. The recipe card suggested the grill or a barbecue for the burgers, and as it was pissing down with rain, I went for the grill. Unfortunately, there seems to be a bit of a design flaw with our grill**, and after about ten minutes, the house was full of quite an acrid black smoke, and flames were flickering out from the oven.

When Boyfriend came down from the shower to ask why the attic floor was full of smoke, I decided to transfer the burgers to a frying pan, to reduce the risk of the fire brigade being called by a helpful neighbour, and that worked very well.

All in all, a very tasty dinner, despite me cooking it, although I’m not sure I made quite the impression I was hoping for, jumping up and down waving a tea towel under the smoke alarm.

*And taking your clothes off obviously. Do that bit later though – you don’t want to get splashed with burger fat.

**Definitely the grill’s fault, and not mine.

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‘You remember how it was sometimes when you were a kid? You got into bed, and then suddenly it was morning, with no interval in between.’

I read this line in a book yesterday and longed for those days. When I was a child I was such a deep sleeper that my mum and sister would sometimes shake me and shout in my face to try to wake me, worrying I had slipped into some sort of coma in the night.

I don’t know whether it is becoming a parent, or simply adulthood, (as they both happened to me at the same time), but it has been about 17 years now since I slept like that. After thinking about it for a bit, and sighing heavily and indulgently to myself, I thought I might write about a typical night for me – I know, you’re yawning just thinking about it, that’s how evocative my writing is…*

And then last night, I had such a terrible night’s sleep, I just had to share. It went something like this:

10.30pm: Come to bed, with warm drink, feeling optimistic. Read for a bit until Boyfriend starts snoring. Turn off light.

11.00pm: Lie in the dark for a while, wondering what the weather will be like tomorrow, deciding what to wear. Try to remember if we have bread. Make mental note to self to change kitchen bin in the morning, and to become thin/fit this week.

Midnight: Wake from dream about Nazi massacre, where I’ve had to step over the body of Hitler, unsure whether he is actually dead or not, and scared he may grab my ankle at any moment. Lie awake for a while recalling all the things I made myself remember an hour ago. Drift back to sleep, waking every ten minutes or so to rearrange duvet, fidget etc.

2.30am: Just entering satisfying period of deep sleep when Boyfriend’s phone rings. Not sure what is happening in sleepy state. Boyfriend goes back to sleep, holding his phone with the screen shining in my face.

2.45am: Phone rings again. Poke boyfriend awake. It is Chinese bed and breakfast owner wondering if he has checked in. Yes he did, he says, two weeks ago. Chinese bed and breakfast owner is not convinced. Boyfriend shouts at Chinese bed and breakfast owner that it is the middle of the night.

3.00am: Boyfriend goes back to sleep instantly, while I lie awake for an hour, thinking about what it would be like to be a Chinese bed and breakfast owner, and trying to work out the time in China. Get up and go to the toilet for a change of scenery.

4.30am: Phone rings again. It is Chinese bed and breakfast owner, calling to apologise for disturbing us earlier. Have dream about ballroom dancing with dead Granddad. Wake up feeling a bit disturbed for a while.

5.30am: Scratch myself awake on spiky duvet. Lie awake for a while regretting choice of jewel encrusted bedding set.

8.15am: Phone rings again. Is Boyfriend’s mother. ‘No,’ says Boyfriend, ‘there is no school today.’ Make Boyfriend make me tea and then complain about it when it arrives.

Spend rest of day moaning about feeling tired.

Really, I am a joy to share a bed with. Is this just me, or just how grown-ups sleep?

*Evocative. Not dull.

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I’m not your traditional sentimental mum.

I’ve never shed a tear at a nativity, and the least impressive pieces of artwork very often accidentally* end up in the recycling.**

However, I am totally smitten with Belle’s performance in her class production of Oliver. She played Nancy, and had several solos to sing. My favourite is Small Pleasures***, and I’ve even watched it twice in bed on my phone and everything. All by myself – not just to try to prove to Belle I am interested.

*on purpose

**I like to imagine that should Belle read this when she’s older, there will be some magical reason that means she can’t see these footnotes

***I remembered after I posted this that the song is actually called ‘It’s A Fine Life’ – it will always be Small Pleasures to me though, as Belle has sung this line about 27,528 times at home, rehearsing for that big moment.

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This week we’ve been eating what my children like to call ‘real meals’, thanks to a new food delivery service from Hello Fresh. If you’re thinking of giving Hello Fresh a go, have a read of my review and you could get £25 off your first order. Do leave your own comments too if you’ve given Hello Fresh a try recently.

Quite frankly, I think my inspired pasta dishes count as ‘real meals’, but apparently just mixing up pasta with whatever you happen to have left in the fridge doesn’t count as cordon bleu. What do they know?

Still, I have to admit that there is something satisfying about using Actual Ingredients, and following a recipe. It’s not my normal style, mainly because recipes are usually so expensive. You may only need a handful of chopped fresh coriander, but you can’t buy it by the handful can you? You end up spending out loads just to get a teaspoon each of five weird herbs you don’t have and will never use again.

This is why Hello Fresh is so good. Not only do they send you the recipes, but they send you all the ingredients you need, in just the right amounts. Costs are kept to a reasonable level, you aren’t left with an almost full bottle of red wine vinegar sitting in the back of your cupboard for the next five years, and you get lots of cute things in mini packets. It’s really very sweet.

"Hello Fresh review"

Om nom nom

This week we ate a yummy fresh prawn linguine, a smoked mackerel, new potato and green bean salad, and a couscous dish with chicken, chorizo, salad leaves and courgettes.

They were all delicious, although the couscous dish did make us a bit farty…

Hello Fresh isn’t not cheap of course, but the quality of the ingredients really was superb – the meatiest, most flavoursome prawns I’ve ever tasted – and with free delivery and no waste I reckon it’s pretty good value for money. So much so, that I’ve actually placed a regular order. Recommendations don’t come better than that.

If you fancy giving it a try, use this link or the code JOMID for £25 off your first order.

Bon appetit!

Have you tried the service? Leave your own Hello Fresh reviews and let everyone know what you think! 

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Today I’ve been working at a real office.

It is pretty fun. There are real people, I get a security pass, and there’s a coffee machine and everything. Today I got quite excited about having a macchiato, which made me feel a bit like Bryn in Gavin and Stacey experimenting with the wonders of mint Baileys and the World Wide Web.

I am very much a ‘grass is always greener’ person, so when I’m working a nine to five office job I long to be at home in my pyjamas, but when I get there, I’m looking for an excuse to get dressed and go to work.

Fickle some might call it.

I like to think of it more as a Hunger For New Challenges.

It got me thinking though about the way I work at home, and the extra pressures that come with being self-employed. Some I think are self-inflicted, but others must apply to thousands of people managing their own time. Here are some of the things I miss about being self-employed:

Holidays – this is the obvious one. When you work for someone else, you get time off, where they pay you to lie-in the sunshine. I know that effectively it just means they spread your wages out a bit, so you earn less on a daily basis, but it feels so much nicer doesn’t it? When you’re self-employed, all time spent not working is potential income lost. Even if you budget for holidays, it makes it harder to switch off.

Sickies – now obviously I have never taken a sneaky day off in my whole life, honest, but I imagine that if you did, it would feel very exciting, and give day time television a whole new appeal. Taking a day off when you work for yourself is really no fun at all. You don’t get paid, and it just means you have to do more the next day.

Coffee breaks – I’m sure there aren’t many offices nowadays where people take actual coffee breaks, but there is something really relaxing about being able to go off and make a drink, knowing you’re getting paid for it. Same with going to the toilet – you can have a wee and earn a pound. Bargain. I also like the forced lunch break, as I’m rubbish when I’m working at home at taking proper regular lunch breaks, and I rarely go out for any fresh air.

Other people – funnily enough, there are dozens of other people hanging around in my study at home for a chat and a bit of office banter, and if there were, I’d wonder where they all came from, and probably have to call the police. I love having the voices going on in the background, and it’s much more satisfying than just having the radio on, as people will talk back to you.

Regular income – I thought I might enjoy the excitement of not being sure exactly how much money I’d take home every month, but it turns out that it’s actually quite scary. Who’d have thought it?

(Are you beginning to get the impression that I didn’t really think this self-employment think through?)

(I didn’t.)

All in all though, I can’t complain. Yes you sacrifice paid holidays, sick leave, social contact and job security, but you do get to go to work in your pyjamas. And that’s pretty cool.

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When you think of me, as I’m sure you often do, idling away those quiet moments at work or at home, I’m sure that one of the things you think of first is hoovering.

No?

OK, so maybe it’s not the first thing you thing of, but I did once write that post about housework you know. I think I suggested throwing crumbs behind the sofa.

Despite my domestic sluttery however, I was recently chosen to be one of 25 ‘Morphy Richards Innovators’, meaning that over the course of the year, Morphy Richards are going to send me some stuff, and I will tell them what I think. I’m guessing they are looking for more constructive criticism than ‘housework is pointless, you do it once and then you just have to do it all again later.’

The first thing they’ve sent me is this, the Lift Away Bagless Upright Vacuum Cleaner.

Here it is, for you to cast your expert vacuum cleaner eye over:

"Morphy Richards Lift Away"

Pretty snazzy isn’t it?

Morphy Richards say “The new Lift Away Bagless Upright Vacuum Cleaner features Never Loses Suction* technology with constant pick up performance.”

Sounds a bit like a Lynx advert doesn’t it? A lot of men would love to enhance their pick up performance. I reckon there’s something in it. A man does become a lot more attractive if they do the hoovering regularly. Especially if it’s all by themselves, without you having to say ‘darling, would you mind running the hoover round?’

I’m not sure though that men really appreciate just how much housework can increase their chances with women. My first bit of feedback for Morphy Richards would be this – reassess your target audience. Come up with an ad that shows a normal looking man pushing a vacuum cleaner around, followed by swarms of beautiful women. A bit like the Pied Piper. There are all kinds of puns you work around the concept of ‘suction power’.

What was I talking about?

Oh yes, vacuum cleaners.

Well, I can say, from experience now, that the Morphy Richards Lift Away does pick things up, which is a jolly good start. We’ve got a lot of floorboards, and I liked that it’s so simple to switch the set up from carpets to hard floors. It was perhaps a little more effective on the carpets, but then they’re the important bit to keep clean anyway aren’t they? Slightly dusty floorboards are fine. That’s just shabby chic.

I found the pivoting floorhead really easy to use, and also loved the ‘Lift Away Detachable Canister’, which means, as you may have guessed, that you can detach the canister as you clean, giving you more flexibility.

"Morphy Richards vacuum cleaner"

PIVOT! PIVOT!!

This was really handy on the stairs, especially as I’m a little on the clumsy side, and have a habit of bashing things against the walls (accidentally) if they’re too heavy or unwieldy.

Another great selling point? It’s purple! Funky.

I wouldn’t say it made housework fun exactly, but it certainly made it easy. We’ll just have to wait and see about the never-ending suction.

*cue those bikini clad babes*

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Today for my lunch I had goat curry. To be honest, I’m regretting the choice a little bit now, as the smell seems to be stuck to my skin, oozing out of me and making me smell like a Jamaican food stand, but it’s a small price to pay of the thrill of adventure. Life is all about new experiences right?

Yes I know, I’m getting a bit carried away with myself, it was only a goat curry after all, but there you go, I do what I can.

There are quite a few things I’ve had for a while now on my mental list of ‘things to do before I die, even I don’t really want to.’ They’re not terribly exciting things, but they’re things I just feel I should really have done by now. ‘Eat a goat curry’ wasn’t actually on the list, but I may add it now, just so I can cross it off. It’s always satisfying to cross something off a list.

Belle has her own list, one of the items being ‘have a car crash’. This seems an odd ambition to me, but she was very excited indeed when I crashed our car into a garage forecourt last year. “I did think it might be the last thing I got to do, and that I might die afterwards,” she told me, “so it was nice to get it crossed off.”

At the moment, for the next ten minutes at least, this list has been just in my head, but I’m hoping that by committing some of it to paper, or to cyberspace at least, that it might prod me into actually doing some of them. Perhaps I could aim to do one and month and report back? Or maybe you have some suggestions for things I could add – things you’d like to read about me doing. (No blindfolded rabid dog taming or anything please…)

Number one, in no particular order, is to go the opera. I’m putting this one off as I’m pretty sure I’ll hate it. A couple of years ago I went to watch some ballet, (something else from the list), and left half way through. Yawn! It’s such a grown up thing to be able to say you enjoy though isn’t it? This is the kind of conversation I imagine having:

Smart lady in pearls: “Any plans for the weekend Josephine?”

Me, casually dressed in a linen suit and delicate diamond necklace: “Well, I’m meeting my wine merchant tomorrow, and then I’m off to the opera in the evening with Humphrey!”

Smart lady in pearls: “Divine!”

On the completely opposite end of the spectrum, number two on my list is to go to a football match. I’m talking a proper match, with real teams and real costumes, not a Sunday league effort, played on a school playing field, where the hungover players share a fag at half time. I’m fairly certain I’ll hate this too, but it would be good to be able to criticise football fans from personal experience. It would feel more valid somehow.

Number three is a trip to a casino. I’ve no idea why I’ve not done this already, as I’m a massive James Bond fan, have an online William Hill account and I’ve been to the races and the dogs already. I think possibly it’s a fear of ‘accidentally’ gambling away my children, as I do have a bit of addictive streak. I can quite picture myself, wide-eyed, martini in one hand, a pair of dice in the other, refusing to leave the table until I’ve won back the car.

Perhaps I’ll save up for this one.

Number four is to go on holiday, abroad, on my own. Not in a ‘singles coach tour of the potteries of rural France’ type way, just a weekend somewhere would be fine. This one comes from having accidentally* become a parent while I was still technically a child, henceforth rather limited my potential for exotic, independent foreign travel. Last year I got as far as going on a plane without a teacher present, and I’ve since been abroad on work, but I’ve yet to leave the country on my own purely for fun.

Number five is to run the marathon. Hahaha! Not really. Goodness me, I think I’d die.

What would be on your list?

*yes I know, it wasn’t really an accident, I take full responsibility etc etc

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On this very day, exactly one year ago, we moved to Bristol.

It was an interesting day. Boyfriend was working in another city for the weekend, and Bee had a Very Important Party that she simply couldn’t miss, so the moving crew consisted of just me, Belle, and two removal men that Belle and I not-very-affectionately referred to as The Chuckle Brothers.

As a seasoned housemover, I was well prepared when they showed up at our door at 9am on moving day. Everything was packed, rooms were cleaned, we were good to go. What I was not prepared for however was just how many breaks The Chuckle Brothers felt it reasonable to take during the day.

They were about ten minutes in, and had loaded up the cushions from the sofa, when I thought I’d better offer them a cup of tea. This, it turns out, was to be a big mistake. I thought they’d take their tea, and have quick slurps between items, but no. Cushions loaded, although not the sofa itself, they clearer felt they deserved a break already, and took their teas, rolled cigarettes, and spent the next fifteen minutes sat on the floor of the van having a nice little chat.

Goodness, I thought, I shan’t be offering them any more tea! (This is my idea of cracking the whip).

Half an hour later though, and I wasn’t left with much choice in the matter.

“Would you mind sticking the kettle on?” Barry, (or it could have been Paul), asked.

A stronger person might have said no, get on with your work, but I’m not terribly good at being assertive face-to-face, so instead I sighed and got out the teabags. They did have all of my stuff literally in their hands – I didn’t want them getting annoyed and ‘accidentally’ dropping things or scrapping any more paint of the walls than was strictly necessary.

The pattern continued throughout the day, and it was several hours before we were ready to leave, and then another three of four hours of intermittent unloading and resting at the other end.

And then they were gone, thanks God, and Belle and I were left in our new house.

It was exciting, but scary.

I had been planning the move for so long, pinning so many hopes on it, as though moving to Bristol was going to be the solution to everything. ‘When we’ve moved to Bristol…’ I must have said at least 100 times in the two years beforehand. There was a lot riding on this move for me, not least the fact that neither Bee nor Belle thought it was a particularly good idea.

As you would expect, those first few months were difficult. When life didn’t immediately become full of new friends turning up on the doorstep, and invitiations to exciting new events and opportunities, I had a little* panic. What if it was all a big mistake? Had I really been thinking of everyone’s best interests? Was city life really the best choice, or was I simply running away from something? From myself?

We’d been living in Bristol for about eight months when I had one of those moments that tips you into a new way of feeling. I was walking to an appointment, and bumped into someone I knew, someone I had made freinds with since moving to Bristol. This doesn’t sound like a big deal I know, but this was the first time I’d properly just happened upon someone in the street like that. Until then, all my meetings had been planned ones, but this was the moment where I thought ‘Wow, I casually know people!’

I walked away from that chance hello with a smile on my face, looking up and around me at the buildings and shops that now had that familiar feel to them, and I knew I hadn’t made a mistake.

That was the moment that Bristol began to feel like home.

*Quite big

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Are you a glasses wearer? How do you feel about it?

I wear glasses, and have for over 15 years. I’ve also had two children. Clearly then, I’ve had sex at least twice in my life, so I can vouch for the fact that some men do actually make passes at bespectacled women. Does it put people off though? Do glasses make a difference to how fanciable you find someone?

"glasses"

Would these glasses put you off?

When I was younger I felt pretty uncomfortable about wearing my glasses. In fact, despite having a pair from about the age of 13, I didn’t wear them at school, college or university until I was 19. Needless to say there was an awful lot of squinting involved. Part of this was a crippling self-consciousness that didn’t need fuelling, but mainly it was down to the fact that my glasses were classic NHS prescription specs – I was unpopular enough at school anyway with my geeky ways, I really didn’t need glasses to reinforce the stereotype.

During my late teens and early twenties, I was still pretty vain, and would regularly sacrifice the power of sight on a night out. It  did increase my hit rate, but how much of this was due to me appearing more attractive, and how much was simply that I couldn’t see to make an informed decision? I suspect the latter, along with a good dose of Peach Schnapps and lemonade.

Nowadays I’m more at ease with my short-sightedness, but still from time to time if I’m going somewhere fancy I’ll put in contact lenses instead. They hurt my eyes, and make me blink about 20 times a minute, but for some reason this feels worth it. It only happens about once a month at most, and I’ve bought a stash of daily disposables online, so at least it’s not pricey vanity.

What do you reckon? Have I been unnecessarily vain all my life, or do people really judge a glasses wearing book by its cover?

Photo credit – Paul Stevenson

 

 

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I’ve been playing netball since January. It was, like many of the new ‘hobbies’ I take up, a bit of a whim, but much to the surprise of all my family, not least myself, netball is a hobby that has stuck.

Something happens to me when I play netball that doesn’t happen with anything else I do. I’m sure for lots of people who play sport regularly this is nothing new, but I can honestly say that until netball, not in 34 years did I find a sport that made me feel this way, so to me it’s something worth talking about.

When I play netball, my head empties of everything else.

This in itself is an achievement, as I normally find it extremely hard to think of just one thing at a time for more than about 30 seconds. Even writing this I’m half compiling a shopping list in my head, half watching Wimbledon, half fancying a cup of tea… You get the idea.

When I play netball though, there is nothing else.

I don’t notice it so much while I’m playing, but I know it happens, because within minutes of leaving the court I feel all the thoughts flood back in again. ‘Oh!’ I think to myself. ‘There you are!’

Normally I’m pretty lazy, but when I play netball, my body sprints and jumps without me having any say in the matter. Half way into the session, I am sweating, red-faced and breathless, but I don’t want to stop. Last night, when there were too many teams to all play at once, I waited impatiently on the sideline for my turn, puffing and panting and rubbing the sweat from my face.

When I play netball I don’t think about how I look, or what I’m wearing, or even really how good I am – I just think about getting the ball, and scoring a goal.

When I’m doing other things, I always have an awareness of time, but when I play netball, the end always sneaks up on me – ‘Really? That can’t be an hour already?’

It’s no wonder really is it that the netball fade has lasted longer than the origami animals?

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Teenage mums get a bum deal don’t they? If you listen to The Daily Mail, teenage pregnancy is the root of all evil, costing the economy millions in benefits and bringing about the downfall of society. Generally, teenage pregnancy is felt to be a Bad Thing.

But is it?

Being a teenage mum is subject to a massive amount of stereotyping, but is it really the young mums who are costing us all the cash?

Having children when you’re young is perfectly natural. You body is better equipped generally to cope with pregnancy at a younger age, and recovers more quickly too. Postponing childbirth into your thirties and even forties is a very modern phenomena, and one, it could be argued, that has more serious implications health wise, for both mother and baby, than teenage pregnancy will ever have.

Studies have shown than pregnant women under 18:

  • Are more likely to have a normal vaginal delivery
  • Have lower rates of maternal and perinatal morbidity

Pregnant mums over 35 however have an increased risk of:

  • Gestational diabetes and hypertension
  • Placenta previa
  • Low birth weight
  • Prematurity

If you are having a baby and you are over 35, your risk of miscarriage doubles, and your baby has a 1 in 400 chance of Downs Syndrome.

All of these complications have a cost, both financial and physical. Keeping a premature baby in special care for example costs over £1,000 a day, and that’s a lot of housing benefit…

Is it really OK for older mums to pass judgement on teenagers, when their pregnancies are not only risking the health of their babies, but also costing us thousands of pounds in additional health care?

Dr Susan Bewley, of Guy’s and St Thomas’ Hospital in London, agrees that middle-aged mums are putting a huge strain on the NHS as they are more likely to face problems conceiving, suffer pregnancy complications and have premature babies.

Dr Bewley told the Sunday Times: “Middle-age pregnancy is a public health problem because women en masse are moving out of childbearing and that brings preventable disease and stress with it. Middle-age pregnancy has complications in the same way as teenage pregnancy. We have policies to address teenage pregnancy but not middle-age pregnancy.”

Suddenly teenage pregnancy doesn’t look like such a bad option.

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