Royal Baby #3

I like to think that I am a good person, but fundamentally, I must be a bitch, (as well as a hypocrite if you look at my last post about women supporting women), because I can’t help feeling a tad jealous about the way Kate squeezed out another heir, seemingly without a perfectly-coiffed, soft-curled hair out of place. Which leads me to suspect that they’ve legalized marijuana in the Lindo Wing.

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I’m certain that in the past twenty-four hours, every loaded, heavily pregnant woman in London has added herself to the hospital’s cancellation list and is hastily changing their birth plan to ‘whatever she had.’

I mean, you look at the woman (who, in a less privileged life could have been a successful catwalk model), and you have to question where exactly in her body she stored that eight-pound baby, and where she found the energy to push him out. I bet she never got accused of having child-bearing hips – thanks, Granny.

I’m sure many of us women have watched Kate’s pregnancies with the same tinge of (well, let’s call it) admiration. And some of us might even have felt that there was a touch of karma involved in her hyperemesis gravidarum. Just me, then? Because the term ‘all bump’ was an exaggeration for a woman who has never really looked pregnant until the last hour of any of her pregnancies.

I struggled to keep both of mine under wraps until the twelve-week scan. And frankly, I still get asked if I’m pregnant. 

And how fricken amazing did the woman look when she left the hospital? Bearing in mind that most women teeter out gingerly with that lumpy pad between their legs, rock-hard boobs and the sort of soreness down below that makes contemplating ever sitting on the toilet again an impossibility. Yet somehow, Kate managed to look like the baby had been airlifted out of her, or at worst, removed via keyhole surgery. I looked like I was on the way to the morgue.

I couldn’t show my face in public for weeks after the births of my two babies. I lied about them not feeding – I think I used the word “starving” – to extend my hospital visit for as long as possible, until eventually, they wheeled me out onto the street, screaming, ‘But I’m not ready.’

And I wasn’t.

I know she had help. Presumably, a Royal medical SWAT team that would have climbed in there and pulled the heir out if push came to shove. And I understand that, in general, each birth gets that bit quicker and easier. But I can’t decide if the speed of her recovery and her styled appearance has done us a favor by highlighting the incredible strength of womankind in the face of one of the greatest tests that nature throws at us, (apart from men), or if she’s set up any woman that needs a few years weeks to recover, to look a bit lightweight.

 

 

Kate’s Parenting Angst and Toddler Versus Teenage Tantrums

I know she has about thirty-five staff on the payroll to help her, which must give her a level of confidence that none of us can truly understand – because who else in the world could pull off white jeans with a baby and a toddler in tow? – but Kate Middleton must be an exceptionally brave woman to expose the royal kids to the full view of the media without looking stressed and about to crack open the wine.

 

This photo, however, gave us mothers struggling in the real world a glimpse behind the façade. It was something we all needed to see, to watch the future Queen of England grit her teeth while she tried to coerce George to behave in a manner expected of the future King of England, without losing the plot, storming off and telling Will to deal with it.

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I can commiserate. We’ve all been there. You can almost hear Kate’s words, ‘Fucking behave, will you!’

 

I can’t even manage to get my nineteen year old to behave in public, and although the press rattle on and on about how cute he is, I suspect that behind the chubby cheeks of little Prince George, he’s trouble just waiting to happen.

 

I can’t decide what’s worse, our current fears of going out with volatile young adults who have their own share of hormone imbalances to compete with mine – worrying about how drunk they’ll get or if they’ll cause some loud, dysfunctional argument and mention how much they hate us in public – or the toddler tantrums we’ve put behind us.

 

I hated the two to four year old stage with NC because she was highly strung and never slept during the day, hence a full risk assessment was required every time we left the house. I have PTSD as a result of those public tantrums, (and I’m not just talking about hers), caused by those times I collected her from daycare and she refused to come home with me or would only get into the car with the encouragement of the staff. Or the other times, when she refused to leave the playground or get off the swing that she had dominated whilst less wilful, (better mannered children that had learned how to share) patiently waited their turn and their mothers threw death looks in my direction, and it took all my strength and momentary hatred to restrain her back in the pushchair. I scraped the top layer of enamel off my teeth from gritting them so hard.

 

To this day I find it hard not to lob expressions of pity at young mums who have to take their toddlers with them anywhere in public, and I hope that they interpret those looks as sympathy rather than criticism. In truth, they may well be tinged with a hint of smugness and a relieved feeling of ‘thank fuck that’s over,’ as well.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What Really Happened At The Royal Birth?

That Kate Middleton is one seriously lucky lady. Not only did she land a prince, (in spite of being a commoner), but she also appears to have had the easiest childbirth on record for a first-time mum.

Newborn child, seconds after birth. The umbili...
Newborn child, seconds after birth. The umbilical cord has not yet been cut. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Did I hear correctly – was it really an 8 hour labour? The words ‘lucky biatch’ spring to mind if I’m honest – or is that a treasonable offence?

There will be pregnant women around the globe turning green with envy when the average labour is more like 12 hours, (and realistically that statistic has probably been fictitiously created to prevent a decrease in the population).

Perhaps there really is something special about the Monarchy after all.

Perhaps the Royal sperm has the mystical qualities of Royal Jelly or Royal blood and its powers managed to loosen the tight Royal cervix unnaturally quickly for delivery of the future heir to the throne.

It certainly sounds as though Kate didn’t experience the atypical child-birth horrors that the rest of us mortals experience, (and that none of us likes to talk about during our child-rearing years – not while we may still have to go through the whole bloodbath again).

Forget the Hollywood movies, the vocabulary associated with childbirth of mucus plugs, dilation, transition (which is when pain becomes unbearable fucking pain and you are screaming for someone to put you out of your misery) and labour pain (which still makes me protectively cross my legs rather like when you mention circumcision to men) are descriptive enough for even a blind person to get the picture of what the ordeal is really like.

Mind you, an 8lb+ baby can do some lasting damage, even to a future queen, if it enters the world too quickly.

Those little critters have been known to drag half your pelvic floor out with them in their rush to get to your breast.

But Kate didn’t appear to be too damaged when she faced the press the following day. Not a sign of a waddle. When I had my first baby I couldn’t walk properly for about ten weeks afterwards so I’m guessing that Kate had only the very best seamstress to hand to stitch the Royal bits back together again.

So how did she do it? How did she manage to give birth in eight hours and then look so fucking fabulous a mere 24 hours later? Where were the bags under the eyes, the tears, the leaking nipples and the ‘stitches shuffle’?

I’m so glad she didn’t attempt to disguise the post-uterine swell – women around the world will be thanking her in their millions.

I remember my brother-in-law, (who taught the old man everything he knows), eyeing my bulging stomach the day after Nerd Child was born and asking me when exactly I was going to deliver my baby. Needless to say, I dissolved into a blubbering, hormonal mess.

I’ve been charging him my bills for therapy ever since.

I wonder if Kate fell for the myth of a natural birth, or if she wisely went straight for the epidural.

Stoicism during childbirth is just so ‘eighties’ now.

I had all the natural childbirth gadgets and remedies at my disposal, but I must admit that the only one to really give me the relief I needed was digging my nails into the old man’s arms as hard as possible.

I mean, WTF was spraying water on my face supposed to do when it felt like someone was shoving hot pokers up my vajayjay?

I remember the old man inadvertently spraying the water into my eyes at one point and slapping him viciously around the face  –  a much more effective form of pain relief.

The Tens machine obviously also needed to be designed with a scale higher than 10 (just saying) to take your mind off the pain; but then just stabbing sharp knives into my lower back might have been an even more effective distraction too. And I never quite understood what exactly that big ball was for, other than to entertain the old man, when all it made me want to do when I sat on it was either pee or throw it at my irritating partner.

I imagine that William was the dutiful husband and father, supporting Kate through the mire of pain, blood and foul language – I’m sure that there was more than a:

‘Gosh darling, I think it might be coming out now. Best tell the Queen.’

Well done, Kate, you’ve produced the heir, so only the ‘spare’ to go now. It looks like you’re a natural.

Kate Middleton: A Tale Of Two Mammaries

Once upon a time, (a very long, long time ago), when I was approaching the age of four and my world innocently revolved around varying tones of pink, anorexically thin Barbies (with unnaturally large breasts) and sugar and spice and all things nice, I fervently believed in fairy tales. That my Prince Charming would someday hunt me down, declare his undying love and as a token of his love, gift me a limitless MasterCard.

But pretty soon I began to meet real men and I wised up matured a bit, experienced a few dissatisfying relationships with some uncommitted, unsavory ‘frogs’ and the cynicism set in. And so, by my mid twenties, I had regretfully reached the conclusion that fairy tales are one of life’s major disappointments, a bit like the Walton family not being real.

I certainly would never have believed it possible that one day a prince from our own Royal Family would marry into the ‘people’! I thought that the Royal Family only mutated with their own ‘posh’ kind, that they liked the uncertainty of in-breeding, of producing offspring who looked suspiciously like their equine forefathers.

We have Diana to thank for the bulldozing of the palace walls. Diana the kindergarten teacher, (who in spite of being the daughter of an Earl, was still depicted as being a little too ‘common’), who managed to break into that Royal enclave and cause some ‘embarrassing episodes’, (the People’s Princess had her own agenda regarding good and evil too). And it was those actions that would ultimately launch the palace into the twenty-first century, force it to evaluate its traditions, to evolve, to develop some new spin and ‘get with the times’. To finally grasp the fact that most of humankind pertain to the idea of egalitarianism.

And the newer, more hip breed of Royals embraced the mess ideals left by Diana, and threatened to shake up the whole historical Royal lineage thing and knock it on its head, and they took some radical (and often misguided) action to try and make themselves appear ‘normal’ to their subjects; like appearing in crass tv shows and courting commoners. Which gave the common man some hope for the first time; a bit like the lottery does. It was suddenly like everyone had an equal chance of shagging a Royal, winning the golden ticket like Charlie Bucket did, and living the fairy tale dream.

Then Kate Middleton appeared on the Royal scene and slammed the winning ball right into the back of the net. She unceremoniously nabbed her prince when he was unprotected by his force of bodyguards, and so it came about that the elements of the fairy tale had to be slightly reworked.

A contemporary version was created in which the setting changed to a Scottish university, where there was a plethora of animated and privileged polo horses, (often referred to as ‘debutantes’), helicopters and ridiculously petite Victoria Beckham dresses with matching nude shoes, and the ugly sisters were replaced by some ugly ginger cousins and an ADHD brother in law, (who was a bit of a laugh really, but who had to be packed off to Afhganistan, for the future well-being of the monarchy).

And the future Queen of England became a modern-day Cinderella, admired by her kingdom for her natural beauty, her flowing chestnut tresses and her attempt to look like ‘one of us’ by wearing the same dress twice. And she was only despised by a handful of bitter old menopausal women who envied her tiny Elizabethan waist a little too much, and the media, who, let’s face it, despise anyone who has created their own fortune. And she became a Royal IT-Girl, who now travels the world by private jet and is the muse of the world’s finest fashion designers. And in return for the adoration and financial support of her public, her only real duties are to make the monarchy look effective and produce an heir.

For as effortlessly entertaining as it must be to have Harry as her brother-in-Law (him being a fellow naturist), duty is indeed the downside of her pact with the palace. For whereas Pippa (the tight assed mentor with the #YOLO attitude in our tale) can court the press and flaunt her assets, Kate has does have some direct responsibilities as future queen. Although coping with William’s bald patch, his snotty extended family, yappy corgis and having to live in Wales are really the only ‘trade-offs’, so it’s not such a bad deal really. Which is why, on those FML days, when all that wealth and adulation gets too much, or the pregnancy test comes back negative AGAIN and she decides unwisely to liberate those pert Royal puppies within the radius of a wide-angled lens, one has to question her wisdom and those of her advisors.

No-one denies that she is entitled to privacy, but her fairy tale is set in the real world where images of Royal breasts are a hot commodity and attract serious gold coinage.

Rogue cameras, the pressure to procreate, and having to deal with sychophants on a daily basis are all annoyances, to be sure, but evil lurks in every fairy tale and maybe our heroine needs to wise up and learn how to resolve conflict, rather than feeding it and whinging about it afterwards.

Time will tell if those evil “grinning perverts”of the paparazzi (The Telegraph) do finally get to Will and Kate, like they did to Diana. I hope not. Let’s hope they get the chance to fulfil the public fantasy and live happily ever after.

The End.

Royal Wedding Souvenir courtesy of sevenyearitchs at www.fllckr.com