Secrets of the Mummy Concierge

by Tiffany Norris

  Tiffany Norris

  is a no-nonsense mummy concierge, journalist and pregnancy guru who has worked with hundreds of pregnant mothers, and supports every woman who needs her help with tips and guidance – and sometimes just a listening ear.

  She was a journalist and presenter for Mumsnet, has written for Cosmo and Grazia and is an expert for The Baby Show. Tiffany runs ‘Mummy Masterclasses’, parenting workshops for soon-to-be and new parents. She was the winner of the prestigious Jacqueline Gold Women in Business award and has won the Theo Paphitis Small Business award.

  You can find her @mummyconciergehq on Instagram where she would love to hear from you.

  First published in the UK by Blink Publishing

  An imprint of Bonnier Books UK

  The Plaza, 535 King’s Road, London SW10 0SZ

  Owned by Bonnier Books

  Sveavägen 56, Stockholm, Sweden

  www.blinkpublishing.co.uk

  facebook.com/blinkpublishing

  twitter.com/blinkpublishing

  Paperback – 978-1-788-703-95-6

  eBook – 978-1-788-703-96-3

  Audiobook – 978-1-788-703-97-0

  All rights reserved. No part of the publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted or circulated in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue of this book is available from the British Library.

  Typeset by IDSUK (Data Connection) Ltd

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  Copyright © Tiffany Norris

  Illustrations © Ana Hard

  First published in 2021 by Blink Publishing

  Tiffany Norris has asserted her moral right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Every reasonable effort has been made to trace copyright holders of material reproduced in this book, but if any have been inadvertently overlooked the publishers would be glad to hear from them.

  This book is a work of non-fiction, based on the life, experiences and recollections of Tiffany Norris. Certain details in this story, including names, have been changed to protect identity and privacy.

  Blink Publishing is an imprint of Bonnier Books UK

  www.bonnierbooks.co.uk

  This book is dedicated to my world: Rupert, Ophelia and Baby Number 3 (due July 2021!).

  ‘Whole wide world, little ones.’

  Contents

  Introduction: Vagina Casts and Photo Shoots

  Part 1: Pregnancy

  Part 2: First Trimester

  Part 3: Second Trimester

  Part 4: Third Trimester

  Part 5: Birth

  Part 6: Fourth Trimester

  Part 7: Honey, I Want My Old Life Back

  Part 8: Toddlerdom

  Part 9: They Grow Up So Fast

  Conclusion: Bumps, Babies and Beyond

  Useful Resources

  Acknowledgements

  Introduction:

  Vagina Casts and Photo Shoots

  It’s 9am on a Monday and I’m chatting to a client about vaginas. Or, to be more specific, her vagina. And if it will ever be the same again . . . Before you start guessing, no, I’m not a doctor, midwife or sex therapist. I’m something completely unique: A Mummy Concierge.

  It’s not unusual for me to start my day dealing with someone’s nether regions. Sometimes it’s explaining exactly how it might feel to push a baby out through it (you’ve heard the watermelon and nostril analogy, right?). Other days, it’s lamenting the fact that our vaginas will never be the same again, post tiny human popping out through them.

  But today is something completely new. Even for me.

  ‘Do you think the make-up artist needs to sort things out . . . down there?’

  Marcia is a client who I have been working with for a total of nine months now. She is currently sitting awkwardly on her hospital bed with what I suspect is a large sanitary towel between her legs and a couple of stitches. We are in the exclusive private maternity unit of one of London’s most prestigious women’s hospitals and there is a two-hour-old baby lying contently on her chest.

  Two make-up artists plump, contour and highlight every centimetre of her face whilst a hairstylist spritzes and puffs every one of the auburn hairs on her head. Fake eyelashes are applied, bronzer is ‘whooshed’ across temples and Crème de la Mer is slathered onto arms and legs.

  Behind me, a clatter of photographic props are being assembled – a collapsible light reflector is balanced (much to a midwife’s horror) on the side of the baby’s bedside cot, a tripod with a second camera is being nervously manned by the photographer’s assistant and an intern is brandishing the latest iPhone and snapping a ‘behind-the-scenes’ video, which I have no doubt will shortly appear on Marcia’s Instagram page.

  On the surface everything looks like a magical magazine shoot. A mother and her baby, contentedly drinking in the new world around them and staring at each other with amazed wonder at their new life together. The hospital room is filled with Jo Malone reed diffusers (which I placed there two hours previously) and every tabletop and windowsill is adorned with fresh flowers and family photos of holidays to the Alps.

  But Marcia is not a celebrity, nor is she a social media influencer. In fact, she is just a new mummy and one of my first client. But hey, what mother wouldn’t hire a team of stylists and photographers to document their first baby? Oh, right . . . just Marcia then?

  ‘STOP RIGHT THERE. DO NOT MOVE. THIS IS THE SHOT! THIS IS THE ONE!’

  I am shoved to one side and narrowly miss landing in a pile of blood-soaked sheets (the midwife hasn’t removed them yet) as Martin, the photographer, bounds past me and pushes his camera in Marcia’s face: ‘COME ON, BABY! JUST ONE LITTLE SMILE FOR UNCLE MARTIN. YOU CAN DO IT!’ Martin speaks in capitals. Every word, I have come to realise, is shouted at the top of his voice regardless of the delicate situation he might be in (has he noticed the sleeping baby?).

  I see the frustration form on his face as the baby, as yet unused to glamorous photo shoots – probably due to the fact that she is less than 24 hours old – dribbles slightly, then squeezes her eyes even more tightly shut. Marcia looks down at her little bundle and sighs. I can’t work out if this is in shared frustration with Martin or if it’s a sigh of contentment and happiness at being a new mother – let’s go with the latter.

  ‘Tiffany, you didn’t answer my question.’ Marcia is looking up at me expectantly. ‘The make-up artist . . . Does she need to make up my vagina?’

  It’s at this precise moment that my world turns from slightly surreal to, OMFG, is this my actual job? Marcia lifts up the sheets and reveals (to everyone in the room, no less) the damage that has been done down below. Above the hospital bed sheets, we have a scene punctuated with designer nightdresses, scented reed diffusers and Ibiza chillout music pumping lazily from the radio. Below, there is blood, amniotic fluid and a swollen, purple vagina ravaged beyond recognition to something resembling a hamburger.

  If ever there was an Instagram vs reality photo, this would be it.

  Let’s backtrack to four days ago. Marcia, who I have been working for since the day she found out she was pregnant, sent me a slightly cryptic text, which simply said, ‘Vagina cast, pre-baby. Thoughts?’

  I typed back cautiously: ‘Great idea! What are you thinking?’

  Her reply came back instantly. ‘It’s Nigel’s 50th just after the baby’s due date, so I thought a great gift could be a cast of my vagina . . . pre-baby. That way, he can remember what it looked like before it’s ruined forever an
d replicates the aftermath of World War I. Thoughts?’

  Marcia always ends text messages with the single word, ‘Thoughts?’ We both know she doesn’t actually mean it. My thoughts are irrelevant, especially when it comes to her intimate regions, but I humour her nonetheless.

  ‘Great idea! I’m sure he will love it. I’ll start looking into it for you now.’

  A text bounds back before I have even finished writing:

  ‘And a photo shoot. Literally AS SOON AS THE BABY IS OUT! I want make-up artists, hair stylists, the whole shebang. Can’t have my Insta announcement tarred with photos of a tired mummy and ugly baby.’

  My pen swirls over my notebook: task number two – photo shoot immediately after birth.

  ‘And whilst we’re on that,’ her text continues, ‘I need a hashtag for when I eventually give birth. Something that might start trending. #NewBaby is just so passé. Get on it for me, will you?’

  Number three on the to-do list: birth hashtag. Can’t be passé.

  You might think Marcia is just a one-off example of the type of client I deal with on a daily basis as a Mummy Concierge.

  You’d be wrong.

  * * *

  My name is Tiffany Norris and I am The Mummy Concierge. I run a 24/7 full-service Mummy Concierge business in London for what I like to call ‘The Million-Pound Mamas’. I work with mums who are going to spend thousands upon thousands of pounds on nursery for their kids (even though all they are going to do is finger paint) and max out their platinum cards on maternity wear (that they will throw away after nine months). I’m a concierge catering for my clients’ every need, no matter how quirky or impossible.

  By the way, the vagina cast isn’t even the most extreme thing I have done for my clients. I’ve tracked down a breast pump in North America at 4am, found a £1,000-a-day Lego therapist for a two-year-old, flown halfway across the world to ‘babyproof’ a holiday villa and even named a child. As in, created a baby name that has never been used before (or likely ever again).

  The parents called her ‘Moxy’ for those of you who are wondering.

  Becoming a mother can completely catapult your life into something new and unnerving, so I was determined to make my role as a Mummy Concierge a ‘lifeline’ for any other mummies out there. I wanted to be the person they could turn to when things got tough, the fount of knowledge on everything there is to know about baby buggies and zip-up baby grows. Acting as a baby’s personal assistant, on-call therapist and social director, I set out to be the ultimate peacekeeper and negotiator when it comes to bringing a new tiny human into the world. I can tackle anything, from decorating a nursery with vegan paint to hiring a stylist for an unborn child. Believe me, there’s nothing I can’t (or haven’t been asked to) do.

  But it’s not all glamour and baby grows. As with any life-changing event, being pregnant and having a baby brings with it roller coasters of emotion, moments of complete desperation and an innate need to make everything, in the words of Mary Poppins, ‘practically perfect in every way’ from the word go. So, welcome to the world of The Mummy Concierge. Now, take a deep breath – because you’re about to see a completely new side to motherhood.

  Love,

  Tiffany

  PART ONE

  PREGNANCY

  Chapter 1

  Patrick and I had been married for less than two months in 2012 when I was given the opportunity to have a free ‘Fertility MOT Test’. At the time I was working as a freelance journalist for Cosmopolitan magazine when an email from a publicist jumped into my inbox with the subject line, ‘Can you actually have a baby?’.

  To say the subject line intrigued me was an understatement. I was used to receiving emails from PRs offering me glamorous (and sometimes not-so-glamorous) freebies in return for coverage in a national magazine. However, this email was different: it was as though the PR had seen inside my psyche. The night before, I had been out at a work event and a conversation came up about marriage and babies.

  ‘Why do people, the second you get married, start asking when you’re having a baby?’ Julia, a fellow journalist, shouted to me as she swiftly downed a tequila shot. ‘It’s like saying, “tick tock . . . you need to have animalistic sex tonight and create a mini human being and then tell us all about it”.’

  I laughed and the conversation moved on. It had been short and sharp, but it had a lasting effect. That night, I went home and hesitantly asked the question I had been too nervous to ask my husband before.

  ‘Patrick?’ I reached over and nudged his heavy, sleeping body.

  ‘Tiff, it’s 2am! What do you want?’

  ‘Do you think now we’re married, we should have a baby?’

  I think that got his attention. He sat up swiftly in bed and turned on the bedside light.

  ‘We got married a week ago, Tiff. What’s the sudden urgency?’

  He was right, of course. Even my father had told me on our wedding day to ‘enjoy time, just the two of you’ before we had children. So, with that, and a tummy filled with tequila, I too rolled over and forgot about it. Married life had only just started, we were going to enjoy it for a bit.

  The following day, the email arrived. My curiosity piqued, I responded swiftly, saying I’d be happy to do a Fertility MOT for Cosmo and write about the experience. I justified it to Patrick as a way of encouraging women to look after themselves and get a health check. A week later, we were standing on Harley Street in central London, full of trepidation and excitement.

  I never thought for one minute the results would come out as they did.

  ‘Your fertility is pretty low.’ The doctor didn’t lean towards me or offer a reassuring shoulder rub as he said this. Instead, he closed his file, beckoned for his assistant and told her to get the details for IVF treatment. Patrick and I sat next to each other, a dull silence vibrating off the walls as we digested what had just been said. The tears slipped silently down my nose as the doctor’s assistant handed me a leaflet detailing IVF treatment. Patrick glanced at it briefly, but I saw his shoulder stiffen. The man I married was never going to give in without a fight so, as the assistant tried to push an IVF leaflet his way, Patrick took my hand and ‘demanded’ another option.

  ‘Well, we can do some more tests. Some invasive, some not.’ The doctor shrugged his shoulders, as if communicating nonverbally that he thought this would all be a waste of time regardless. I, on the other hand, saw his statement as a sign of hope. The adrenaline surged through my body. I had to do something – anything. Suddenly, becoming a mother was the most important thing to me.

  I often think back to those days at school in the biology lab, dressed in squeaky new uniforms and clutching new pencil cases that were our pride and joy, giggly and embarrassed as we started our first sex education class. Drilled into our malleable little brains with absolute certainty was the fact that if you had sex, you would have a baby. But how wrong could that be? As I moved swiftly into adulthood, I had never considered that becoming a mother could potentially be something that was so hard to achieve. I had the formula right in my head – find a man, fall in love, get married and have children. That’s what happens in all the great love stories, right? But sitting there, in that doctor’s room, being told that my dream of motherhood might not be achievable after all, shattered everything I had ever seen my future as being. We all know sex can, of course, lead to babies, but in my case, it was looking more likely that in order to get pregnant, the ‘conceiving’ bit would take place via multiple tablets, injections, surgeries and the use of sterile equipment.

  For all of my life, I had been focused on becoming a mother – I felt it was something that ran through my veins – but suddenly my focus had to shift. I had to actually be able to get pregnant for this dream to be realised. In my way now was a huge stumbling block: I was being told that it might never happen. However, I also came to a decision that day, as I stared back into the unsympathetic eyes of the doctor in front of me, as he handed me a price list of al
l the possible ‘tests’ we could do: if we were to go through something as stressful as fertility testing, I would not be doing it at this clinic. I needed to find someone else, someone who I could trust completely.

  Being told you might struggle to get pregnant can really propel couples forward, and in our case it certainly did. Patrick and I made fertility treatment our main priority – for over two years we met with different fertility experts, I took various vitamins, had multiple tests and cried . . . a lot. My desire to have a baby now at the forefront of my mind, I began to open up to friends, slowly and hesitantly at first, to let them know what Patrick and I had been going through over the past couple of years. An old school friend, Tara, was the one who, rather than wince at me and tell me ‘to relax and it will happen’, actually offered some advice that started to steer us in the right direction.

  ‘I’m in the same situation,’ she confessed, clasping my hand as she did so. ‘Ted and I have been trying for a baby for years and it’s not happening.’ She then rummaged in her handbag and tore off a strip of paper from her diary, scribbling a name and number on it. ‘Contact this lady. She’s a fertility expert. If anyone can help, she can.’

  I remember feeling like Charlie Bucket when he was handed the golden ticket to Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory. For some reason – be it the urgent look Tara gave me as she handed me the contact details, or the fact that it was another ‘golden thread’ I could grasp at – I walked home to our flat feeling a sense of elation. THIS was going to be it! This woman would be the one to give Patrick and I exactly what we wanted.

  A few days later, we arrived on the steps of the hospital. I had heard about it before – its name whispered amongst my wealthier friends as though it was a top-notch elite members’ club – but I had never actually been there myself. At first glance, it was just like any other private hospital. Women clutching Burberry handbags and talking loudly into their mobile phones waited in the reception area. The air smelled of expensive perfume mixed with money. Patrick had already balked at the fees to see Sara, the expert, but we agreed that we would at least meet with her, talk about our situation and then go from there. We weren’t going to commit to anything until we were 100 per cent sure she could help us.