Review: Father Christmas Experience at The Chill Factore

Last Christmas, Amelia was only one, and although some of my NCT friends had braved Santa’s grotto, it had generally ended in tears. I decided she was just too young, and didn’t bother. This year, however, Millie is much more aware of Christmas and all its accompaniments; she’s become obsessed with Christmas trees, reindeer and presents (I’ve tried to balance this out with references to angels, stars and baby Jesus, not that she understands) so I thought it was time we finally met “Farmer Mitmus”, as Amelia refers to him.

I started by researching my options and asking friends for recommendations. I’d heard too many horror stories of Santas who smell of Benson and Hedges and hour-long queues in the rain, and I wasn’t taking any chances.

After copious googling, I finally decided on the Chill Factore. You pay £15 for yourself and your child- additional adults cost extra, but as I was planning on taking Millie by myself, this wasn’t a problem. For this price, your child gets to meet the big man, receives a small gift and gets thirty minutes to play in the snow (the “Mini Moose Land” area is specially for children aged four and under, so no danger of being run over by a 16 year-old on a snowboard). It was only after I’d booked and paid online, that I read the small print and realised that the photo is an additional £10 (and taking your own pictures in Santa’s Snowy Kingdom is strictly forbidden). Oh well.

I received a confirmation email straight away, as well as a reminder the day before, not that we could possibly forget; we were far too excited.

The email advised me to arrive early, because “there may be long queues at peak times”. Happily, when we arrived, there was hardly a queue at all, and everything seemed to be organised and moving efficiently. I noticed a huge sign hanging from the ceiling saying “Queue here for Father Christmas” so I went over and enquired, perhaps stupidly, if this was the correct place to queue for Father Christmas. I was asked if I had bought a ticket and I replied that no, I had booked online ( I had the email on my phone, and had also written down the booking number just in case my phone was non-functioning for any reason). Strangely, however, the lady didn’t ask to see my email or booking number, and I was waved straight through. Note to self: get it free next time.

 

We were placed in a short queue, in a quiet, separate area which was equipped with toys, books, mini chairs and other things aimed at small people, which meant that Millie could safely and happily play while I held our place in the queue. Our appointment with the big guy was at 11am and sure enough, at eleven on the dot, an elf popped out of a fairy-light tunnel and asked us to come through.

The elf introduced herself as Snowflake, which I doubt was her real name, but she was lovely nonetheless. She spoke to Millie and asked if she was excited and received, in reply, a slow nod.

At the end of the tunnel there was a 6ft tall plyboard castle draped with tinsel and fairy lights, and we were ushered in through what I can only describe as the front door. Inside there was a cosy scene; a red-carpeted room with a pretend fire in the pretend fireplace, a Christmas tree towering over a pile of identically-wrapped presents, and hundreds of fairy lights and other twinkly, sparkly paraphernalia. A second elf stood to attention, military-style, beside Father Christmas’ throne.

And of course, there was the big man himself. He was exactly as you’d always like to imagine him; festively hefty and satisfyingly old with a (real) snowy-white beard and half-moon spectacles perched halfway down his nose. Although Amelia was initially shy- and, I think, a little in awe- he chatted to her and she soon came round and started replying to him; she even, when he asked if she liked Frozen, gave him a short rendition of Let it Go, which I think was a little more than he expected.

We were probably only in there for about three minutes, but it was enough for a slightly overwhelmed two year-old. He asked Amelia to leave a carrot and a mince pie out on Christmas Eve, and she nodded gravely. So far, so heart-warming. Then, before we were shown out by Snowflake the elf, we were presented with a small gift bag, which we thanked him for, but didn’t open in front of him as it seemed presumptious to do so.

 

And with the formalities over with, it was time for our thirty minutes of playing in the snow. Woo-hoo!

This was the part where I wished that I had Jon with me. Pulling a toddler up a hill in a rubber ring whilst also carrying my over-stuffed tote bag is not the most fun thing I've ever done. Thankfully, after two slides down the hill, she’d had enough.

She pottered around in the snow for a while, where there were various things to play with; those ELC bouncy animals that you find at every Baby Sensory class, jumbo foam building blocks, a Little Tykes playhouse. However, it became obvious that we were not going to last for thirty minutes because, at the risk of stating the obvious, it was really cold. Although Amelia had gloves, I’d neglected to bring a pair for myself, thinking “I’m an adult, I’ll be okay,” and it was amazing how quickly I went from feeling fine to feeling like I had frostbite and was going to die. I asked Millie if she was ready to go, and to my relief she replied in the affirmative. So that was the end of our snowy experience.

We walked to the main exit, at which point Millie burst into tears because, I guess, it was all over so soon. So, feeling guilty, I U-turned into Frederick’s ice cream parlour, and let them tap my wallet for a cappuccino and a humongous milkshake because they “don’t do anything smaller”; it cost £4.50 and Millie drank about a tenth of it.

It was at this point that we looked inside the gift bag, and found a small, cheap teddy that had all the hallmarks of Poundland. I guess even Father Christmas has to think about his profit margins.

 

The Truth About Breastfeeding

Breastfeeding: the easiest, most natural thing in the world. It’s good for baby, good for you. Your breast milk contains important nutrients that infant formula simply can’t replicate. It’s vital for the bonding process. It’s convenient- no mixing, no sterilising, just pull your top down and bob’s your uncle. It helps you to lose weight and get back into those size 8 jeans. It helps to avoid the risk of SIDS, allergies, obesity and oh, about a million other things. It helps your baby’s brain development- you don’t want him to be in bottom set for maths, do you?  If you get mastitis, don’t worry, just pop a cabbage leaf in your bra. Baby won’t latch on? Give your NCT counsellor a call and they’ll sort it. These are some of the things that I was told in my antenatal class and by various health professionals while I was pregnant. My only thought was, why would anyone not breastfeed?

I wanted to breastfeed. I bought shirt dresses, wrap tops and nursing bras in every colour. I bought two breastfeeding pillows, one for the sitting room and one for the bedroom. I bought a breast pump so that I could express if I was invited to a party. My cupboards brimmed with breast pads and Lansinoh cream. I read every book and leaflet I could lay my hands on (“Every Baby Deserves Breast Milk” was the legend emblazoned across some of them). I went to the NCT breastfeeding lesson as well as the free one at my local Sure Start.  No-one could have been more prepared. Everything was going fine, until an actual baby was added to the mix.

The first night in hospital after the birth was horrendous. I was exhausted, traumatised and- once family hours were over- terrifyingly alone. I was trying to feed a baby that would neither latch on nor quit crying. She slept in short snatches and I lay stiffly beside her, terrified of waking her up. I counted every hour of that dark night. Miraculously, when morning came, I managed to give Amelia a full feed, and the midwife let me go home. But little did I know that that night had set a pattern which would continue for the next few weeks.

Back home, I was faced with the realisation that I was already failing. Amelia screamed constantly and never slept for more than 45 minutes. All the milk I could give didn’t seem to be enough for her. She was rarely satisfied and cried just as much after feeding as she did before. I couldn’t pick her up without being scratched and kicked as she screamed for more milk; I was heartbroken that I couldn’t just have a cuddle. Perhaps because I wasn’t getting much of a break between feeds, the pain was intense- a toe-curling, fist-clenching, teeth-gritting sort of pain. But it was the exhaustion more than anything else that was tipping me over the edge.

I grew increasingly desperate. I remember the night that Jon suggested giving Millie a bottle feed before bed. We already had some formula in stock for “emergencies”, so it was simply a case of making up a bottle. I couldn’t watch, and sat crying on the bottom stair as Jon gave Millie the feed. That night, something amazing happened. Amelia slept for over two hours, and when she awoke, she was just making snuffly noises rather than screaming. This was such a dramatic contrast to what usually happened, that I had no choice but to concede that the best thing would be for Amelia to have a bottle every night… and maybe one in the day too…

From there on, she had more and more formula, and less and less breast milk, as she became frustrated and impatient at the breast when the milk came less quickly than from the bottle. The nightmare was far from over, as Amelia had full-blown colic for the next three months, but gradually the pain in my breasts began to subside and  I started to catch up on some sleep. A week went by with virtually no breastfeeding at all.

Then one night, I woke up having a huge panic attack, convinced that I had made a terrible mistake. Everything I had read about breast milk came flooding (no pun intended) back to me, and I was suddenly convinced that Amelia wouldn’t develop properly without it. I Googled “restarting breastfeeding”- apparently, it was perfectly possible.

I knew Amelia wouldn’t breastfeed now, but I could still express. Over the next few days, I sat for hours hooked up to a breast pump, but never got more than a few drops. I gave up hope. The breast milk that was meant for my daughter had disappeared, and I could never get it back.

It’s hard for me, now, to look back at that time- how wretched, useless and helpless I felt. I had let my daughter down. I had fallen at the first hurdle. I was selfish. I hadn’t tried hard enough. Et cetera.

Eventually, I got over it, but not for a while, and never completely. It takes a long time to gain perspective on a situation like that, and to look back and ask yourself honestly where you went wrong, and how things could have been different.  Even now, when I see someone breastfeeding a baby, I feel a surge of something that is part jealousy, part despair. How do they make it look so easy? Why couldn’t I just do that? And the one persistent question that’s been going round and round my head since Amelia was born, no, since she was conceived:

     What is wrong with me?

And the answer is, probably nothing. There is probably nothing wrong with me. Because, unless they are exceptionally lucky, most people struggle with breastfeeding at some point, in some way. It’s not the easy option that some health professionals- and the media- make it out to be. Sorry, but it’s not easier than sterilising bottles. It’s really not.

So why are we persistently told that breastfeeding is easy, painless and convenient? The objective may be to encourage new mothers to breastfeed- and it works. But it doesn’t encourage anyone to continue breastfeeding. Because when you think that you’re the only one who has a problem- that you’re producing too much milk/not producing enough milk/ have deformed nipples (delete as appropriate)- then you’re much more likely to quit. It’s not very encouraging, for example, to be told that breastfeeding “shouldn’t” hurt when you’re in complete agony. If we were warned about the potential pitfalls and difficulties from the start- if we were mentally prepared for them- then more new mothers might persevere, knowing that the problem is surmountable (if, indeed, it is).

Perhaps, then, the breastfeeding slogan should not be Every Baby Deserves Breast Milk, but Every Mother Deserves the Truth. We can handle it. And it might just make us more determined to breastfeed.

 

What are your experiences of breastfeeding? Did you ever feel under pressure to breastfeed? Did you change your mind about breastfeeding after you’d had your baby? What problems (if any) did you encounter? How long did you breastfeed for? Would you do anything differently next time (if there is a next time!)? I’d love to know…! X