My Son is NOT an Accessory.

So I'm 22 *plays Taylor Swift- 22 in the background* and I look young. I have a behbeh face, I have come to appreciate the fact that I don't look my age, loads of the people I went to college with, who are younger than me look grown as fuck and I'm just here like "I could be 16 or I could be 22, you'll never know", most of the time it's fine because I don't leave the house but the odd times I do, I seem to come across people that are assholes and seem to take my motherhood and appearance as an insult. So I've had a few incidences that have really upset me to the point where I really do not like leaving the house without my husband anymore, simply because when I'm with my husband this shit doesn't fucking happen. People see him and keep their stupid opinions and views to their hateful little gremlin selves, I'm guessing it's because he has the male version of "resting bitch" face which I have named "don't fuck with me" face, also as much as we pretend we are forward thinking, we as a society, still subconsciously believe in the ownership of women, my husband is quite clearly with me when you see us together - we kiss and hold hands, PDA is not something we shy away from. Tbf my body language is one of ownership/dominance than his, when we stand together I tend to place my 5-inch heeled foot in between his feet as a barrier between the world and him "he is mine, do not come closer" or I have my hand on his neck/shoulder as a signal of "physical contact means step off bitch", I'm insecure as fuck, what can I say? He usually just places his hand on my waist to make sure I'm not too far away as I get frightened easily. But I digress. I will tell you one of the things that have happened to me. Story time, boys and girls. Sit down and get comfy. So I'm stood on the train with my son in his carrier, which is strapped to me. And I can feel the one of only two other people in the carriage, staring at me, but it's only a short journey so I'm like "ignore it", about a minute into the journey. This middle-aged women for some reason launches into a vitriolic, hateful torrent of abuse at me. She starts of by telling me that I shouldn't be wearing heels whilst carrying a baby, that it is women like me that push new mums into depression because not all women are made of elastic and can afford to pay for a trainer to snap them back to a size 6, she goes on to accuse me of thinking my son as some sort of accessory, she spits that I obviously have never breastfed a day in my sons life and probably feed him, in her words "processed pot food" and so and so forth in this stream of thought. I am so honestly shocked that I cannot actually speak but I am so hurt by this strangers words, I am in tears. The only other person in the carriage was a teenager who had her headphones in and tbh I don't think she wanted to get in the way of this women and I don't blame her. I get to my stop and get off, in tears. If I had been able to speak I would have told that mean lady - I'm actually a size 00/0 if I want fitted clothes and a size 2-4 if I want loose, at my biggest I was a size 6 when I was pregnant so meh (I'm not advocating being skinny or saying that this is healthy, I'm just pointing out that I'm not a size 6), that the only reason I was so small had a lot to do with my normal metabolism which is super quick and I also ate super healthy and balanced when I was pregnant; not saying I didn't binge on diet coke every now and again and eat chocolate like my life depended on it, I also ate full set meals, ate a metric shit tonne of fruit and vegetables, granted I was throwing up every morning and throughout the day but I still tried. I also walked atleast 4 miles everyday until I was told otherwise by my physiotherapis, which was when I was about seven months gone because my back/hips were fucky.  Also I can fucking run in heels better than most girls can walk in flats. If I could have collected myself during this woman's abuse I would have told her that I have sacrificed my sanity, body, health and self-preservation to look after my child; I have breast-feed him on demand- whether that be every hour when he was weeks old to 4am when he started with 4 hour feeds. I've pumped enough milk for him for when I went to Paris for two days and given him formula milk as a top up not as a full time milk, because I felt this was best for him. I would have told her that I have made every single meal he has ever eaten at home, I used fresh and frozen ingredients and I make it in batches, I spend nearly 3 hours every week making his food. I had to bathe him alone after my husband went back to work, I still do. I'm the one that is up at 3-5am when he is teething. I'm the one that has been showing him flash cards of the alphabet since he was three months old and reads to him. I do almost everything for him. My whole day and in fact my whole life, revolves around his very strict  and structured routine. I would have told her that my son is not an accessory, my son is half of my life. He is my day and night job, he is my little best friend. My son is my greatest pride. My son is not an accessory. No child is an accessory. Just because I am a young mum, on my own does not mean, I am a single mom (shout out to the single parents who are doing right by their kids and are working hard to give them a good life; don't let any fucker look down at you- you are kickass); if you bothered to look at my hand, whilst you did your judgemental sweep of my person, you would have seen a fucking huge wedding ring, I have been with him for four years. Being a young mother does NOT mean I don't love my child and only see him as an accessory to my life, it does not mean I am irresponsible, it does not mean my son was unwanted and it certainly does not mean I have to change who I am - I am still me, ok? I'm also a mother. Guess what? This size 0, black, figure-hugging top from Mango, is actually the best top I own, to nurse in. Guess what? My Moschino handbag fits my sons entire day in and still has room for my Dior makeup bag. Guess what? All five pairs of my skintight skinny jeans have had some sort of my sons bodily fluids on them and it doesn't bother me. Guess what? It's also none of your fucking business. I'm not some prissy little bitch, who has no interest in raising my child. In the time my son has been on this planet I have looked after him by myself nearly every single one of those days. I don't get to call anyone up and say "can you take him for a while so I can nap?", after my husband went back to work I didn't get much help from him because he was shattered after work, coming home at 8pm some night but he did what he could and now does take the little monster at the weekend for as long as I want to sleep and as much as he can during the week. I didn't get anyone turning up to my house with food and a smile, but my husband got us takeaways when ever I wanted and cooked when he could. The only time I have been away from my son more than a few hours was when my husband took me to Paris for two days, and almost the whole night I was there I cried because I missed him. I have raised my son. I have put everything into being a mom. I do not deserve some damaged, pissed off middle-aged woman telling me I am a bad mother. Bitch, you don't even fucking know me. And while we are here - we always hear about how disrespectful millennials are; well I'm here to tell you in my opinion that is frick-a-fracking-snickity-snackity bullshit. You know which age group never ever gives up their seat for me whether I was pregnant or with my son? Middle-aged people. You know who will never help me when I'm boarding a train? Middle-aged people. You know who I've got abuse from? Middle-aged fucking people. Women are the worst for me. Men are just dismissive in my experience. But guess who always offer me their seat, who always offer to help me in any way they can see I need help? Young people. The 16-25 year olds. The ones everyone demonises. Them and people that are just near retirement age. They will always comment on how they think it is lovely that I read to my son on the train or when I'm waiting, how I spell everything I see for him, or they comment of how well behaved he is whilst I feed him, wherever I can get a space because I will not compromise on routine. Guess which age group I would put the people who help me when I'm having a panic attack on the train? Umm... Between 16-25 years old. They smile when they see me sat feeding my son his homemade baby food from a jar, that I have even made a label for. They tell me I'm a good mom and that I'm a credit to young mums. Not to say that I don't get dirty looks for young women who think they are better than me (because they only have had several STI's but they didn't get pregnant! Gold star for you! Don't fucking judge me and I won't judge you). I am the mother I want to be to my son. I am proud to be a mom. My husband is proud to call me the mother of his child. My son is a happy, healthy baby and he has been shocking all the professionals that have dealt with us. I wasn't even meant to have been pregnant, as far as I knew I couldn't get pregnant. But scan after scan, Doppler hearing after Doppler hearing, month on month, I heard the words "you are doing perfect, your baby is medically perfect- we couldn't want anything better". So don't have a go at me because you had a hard pregnancy; darling, just because I had a "lovely, neat bump" and "didn't even look pregnant" doesn't mean I wasn't hurling my guts up, crying because of acid reflux, rooted to the spot in agony due to a recurrent uti, sweating like a whore in church because I was constantly hot, I had several breakdowns because I felt ugly and fat and unattractive too, I went through it all too, Sweetheart. Don't fucking judge me because you can't shift those pounds of baby weight because it's not my fucking fault I have a high metabolism and am really into good home-cooked food and breast fed.And do not dare hate me because I'm in clothes that don't smell like vomit, are put together and look good on me, 5-inch heels and makeup because the chances are I only showered this morning after a week of smelling like a bin, collecting enough grease in my hair to run a kebab shop for a week and only changing my vest and shorts combo once because it had too much dried food on it. Like I said "bitch, you don't know me". Love, as always, Monica             xxx