The thing about post natal depression, it just kicks your arse completely.

If you had told me a year ago that following the happiest and most enjoyed (and most  painful don’t forget most painful!) moment of my life I would suffer with the most awful and foggiest, low and self depreciating feelings I have ever experienced, I would have told you in no uncertain terms to ‘jog on’. There is no doubt about it. I just would have told you that people like me don’t get depression. I am a positive, happy and focused type person. (Copied directly from my CV.) Positive, happy and focused people don’t suffer with depression. (Make sure you spit this word out as if you would the word ‘lazy‘) Because of the person I was capable of being, I believed I was untouchable. My ‘easy go lucky shield’ would bat off any sad, lonely or blue feelings, immediately. I was the happiness superhero! Sponsored by Smirnoff.

 Don’t get me wrong. Ive not had a perfect life, but then who has? Ive not had the type of life that incurred no heartache and no sadness. I have had my fair share, in my opinion, of thunder and lightning. Examples? Ok. I’ll give you a few. I have been on the other side of the world from all my family and friends and have been robbed and dumped by someone I trusted all on the same day. (Don’t get the violin out just yet!), I have had my heart carelessly discarded by countless lying, cheating, (do you need a pair of tweezers to get that little thing out?) immature little boys, playing at being men. I have been treated horrendously by work colleagues and bullied to the point of submission. To the point where I  spent a year staring at people shoes, my self confidence a big fat zero. (I did see a lot of nice shoes though!) And then perhaps the most painful phase of my life so far (you can get the violin out now), I lived through and grieved for my only brother, who died very suddenly and unexpectedly in 2005.

Now some may look at this unfortunate list of events (just call me Lemony Snicket) and think, ‘it hasn’t been that bad love, you’ve not heard what ive been through yet! You’ve been lucky’. I know in comparison to some people, what I have been through is simply a ripple in the ocean. And if you are one of those people, I feel for you I really do and I hope you have the love of your friends and family, and that in some way you are managing to get out of bed every day. And if you are? I respect you for it.

 ‘Life just happens’ That’s what my boss once said to me a couple of years ago when I requested an early finish to go and spend time with my sister in law. ‘Life just happens Lex, if you need a cup of coffee and a cake, you know where I am’. I have never forgotten that phrase. Because life does just happen. Bad things happen to good people. But each morning the sun comes up. Whether you get out of bed or not is another thing entirely. But the sun does come up. It certainly helps to have kind, caring friends around you, that’s for sure.

Even after living through all of the above, and feeling genuinely rotten at points, never ever did I use the words ‘depression’. Because on some days I was very, very happy. On some days I was sad. On some days I was drunk. And on some days I would laugh until my ribs hurt. I did suffer with the odd panic attack and the odd bout of the blues but not ‘depression!’ (Remember to spit that word out again!) If you are depressed it is every day! Right?  It’s a sign of personal failure right?

 There seems to be such a stigma attached to being depressed. Maybe I did see using the word ‘depressed’ as some sort of personal failure, what with my happiness shield and all! Also being out and about you hear the word being banded about with such ease these days;

‘Oh my car won’t start Im so depressed’ – Teenager in car park. 

‘Oh my god ive put on two pounds, Im so depressed’ – Friend of family.

‘All the square crisps in the shop were out of date, Im so depressed’ – (this may or may not have been me. Ahem.) 

So at what point do you stop, take it all in and maybe admit you have been suffering in silence, hiding the tears and forcing a smile for far too long? At what point is it acceptable to admit to somebody you may be a bit more than ‘a little bit down’ and not have them assume it’s because you laddered your favourite tights? (Although that is annoying!) At what point do you admit to yourself that using the word ‘depression’ is not a sign of personal failure?

 They say the first step in recovery (I saw the doctor today and by ‘they’ I mean her) is admitting to yourself you are more than a ‘little bit down’. It may not even be depression. It may just be the ‘baby blues’ but surely admitting it to someone is a good thing? A problem shared is a problem halved and all that? The things is, with this post natal crap (see how angry I am), every time I try to admit anything other than being a bit low, the inner me rolls its eyes and my subconscious whispers ‘God Mammywoo stop being so positively pre teen! You are so lucky, you have a healthy baby boy, a year off work and a loving man. You have to go and ruin it all by being miserable. Ungrateful you missis! Ungrateful!’

 So the truth is, I don’t have any words of advice. I don’t have the answers to how to feel better. I guess it’s just another one of those rollercoasters us women (and some men I’m sure) have to ride. But do i feel better ? Knowing that there are lots of people who have dealt with these feelings, who have suffered horrendously and have come out the other side with a smile on their faces,  Sponsored by their family and friends. Not booze? Yes I do. Because it gives me hope.

 And hopefully I will look back at these months in a few years and smile at the number of times I have shit someone up unexpectedly by bursting in to tears.

• Sorry little old lady in Morrison’s. You saying ‘your son is gorgeous’ is not what reduced me to the foetal position on the floor, sobbing in aisle 2. (Much understood, look of horror, scuttles away.)
• Sorry man in the post office. It’s not your fault I didn’t have enough money for stamps, I shouldn’t have had a full on meltdown and hid my face in the pram, as if the world was coming to an end. Think Nicky Graham in Big brother 7. (He offered me a free stamp to get me out of his shop as soon as possible. This random act of kindness made me cry all the more. Poor bloke.)
•  Apologies to my other half. For countless mornings of scratching my eyes out and yours, for being a total bitch. And for crying anytime you are nice to me. Also I apologise for waking up and telling you there is a man stood at the end of the bed. Yes I can see why, in a pitch black room at 3am, this would cause you to suffer a minor heart attack. But really, the sleep talking is all a part of it. Honest.
•  Sorry to everybody I shouted at. (There are too many to mention.)

 The thing about post natal depression, you can kick its arse!

 I am sure we will get there. All of us. Everyone in the ‘mummy club’ who is going slightly mad around the edges, slightly sad around the edges, and in reality, joking aside, suffering in a big way. In silence. We will all get there. I have been told this by many a wise mother. And really, if they can do it. So can we! (Ive never been very good at inspirational speeches.)

 But the first step is admitting it to yourself. (According to Dr Quack, it is anyway. (I shit you not. That is her name! Look her up if you don’t believe me!)) You have to actually say the words out loud apparently. There are no secret handshakes in this club. Just honesty.

 So ok, I’ll go first.  I’ll take the plunge.

 ‘My name is Lexy and I’m admitting to myself, and you, (ooo get me all brave) that maybe I am feeling more than ‘a little bit down’.

 There I said it. Now it’s your turn. When you’re ready, that is.  And if you’re not. That’s ok. It took me a while too. As long as, at some point you do admit it, to someone. (NOT JEREMY KYLE!) Because I would not like to think of anybody going through this for longer than necessary, alone.

 And in the meantime, I find chocolate helps. Lots and lots of chocolate. and lots and lots of self love. (and i dont mean rude self love, i mean love yourelf. Appreciate yourself if you can, and all the good things you have achieved, even if that good thing is just getting out of bed! ) In fact, I have a bag of revels in the cupboard with my name on it. Ive shared enough for today. Im not sharing them!

 Good luck,  and honestly my thoughts are with you. I know how miserable it is. I am going through it too.

 Click click. Spoc spoc. (Or whatever the trekkies say.) Tommorrow is a new day.

The unfinished tale of the desperate…

Flicking through the channels this evening while waiting for ‘Rome in ancient times’ to start on the Discovery channel, (Cough cough, X-factor more like cough cough.) I stumbled across one of my all time favourite childhood films. BIG, Starring Tom Hanks. Im sure you all know the one. Tom Hanks is 13 years old and asks a spooky looking fairground fortune teller to grant him one wish. His wish, as you all probably remember, was to be ‘big.’

 Much to my other half’s dismay I stopped flicking (the remote) and began to avidly watch it, for old time’s sake. The female readers will understand. Yes I know it’s old! Yes I know ive seen it a hundred times! Yes, that is a dodgy white suit! But Im watching it ok? It makes me feel young! He huffed and puffed and after it became clear I wasn’t about to relinquish the remote, he finally left the room to go and do ‘man things.’ and by that I mean breaking something and then trying to fix it. Probably.

 About an hour in to this fantastical tale of delight, (because come on, like it or not, it’s an 80’s classic) and just after Tom experiences his first sexual encounter with the curly haired vixen in the disastrous pink bra, he forgets his quest to be a child again and begins to very much enjoy being an adult. Until, collective mutual female sighing allowed, he finds himself in unchartered water. He finds himself in a proper grown up, lots of strings attached, full on deep and meaningful relationship. She then (stupidly) begins to ask of him, as we have all done at some point in the past, of someone we have recently opened our hearts and legs to, prey tell, where is this going? (In my opinion, if she hadn’t asked these questions the end of this film could have been entirely different. Has she never read the do’s and don’ts of dating? Dozy mare.) And post this fatal error of judgment, the quest for him to be a child again, is back on. Oh yes, it’s back on with a vengeance.

 ‘You don’t understand’ he exclaims. ‘Only a month ago I was thirteen, I went to sleep and woke up and adult.’
Her, quite frankly desperate, response (and how she didn’t slap him I don’t know) ‘Oh come on, we have all felt like that at times’ (cringe)

 And off he goes in search of the spooky fairground fortune teller, running out mid presentation for dramatic effect. (You godda love dramatic effect.  It has taken me years to get my dramatic hair toss, just right. Im very proud. I’ll show you one day if you feel the need to make a statement with only the swish of the head.)

This scene got me thinking. Firstly it got me thinking that if Tom asked the fortune teller to be ‘big‘, why didn’t he wake up a giant? And secondly and more seriously, it got me thinking about how quickly we seem as human beings, to want to experience everything, right now!

 How quickly we desire to be on the next stage of the ‘growing up’ step ladder. Previous step completed or not. And unlike Tom Hanks, how once we get in to a bit of a sticky wicket (so to speak) we actually aren’t ready for (not that we would admit it), unfortunately we can’t just nip back a few steps and re-live the moments which could have prepared us. The moments in our lives we totally took for granted at the time. The moments, (Im about to get a bit deep here) that make us all who we are!

 I remember being eight years old and playing on the swings with my best friends. We were desperate to be thirteen and be allowed to wear makeup. I remember being desperate to be in sixth form, being desperate to finish school so I never had to wear my uniform again (that one I can kind of understand, it was hideous). Being desperate to finish college so I could go travelling. Enjoying travelling but then being desperate to fall in love, being desperate to get home so I could start a career and buy a home. Being desperate to find ‘the one’ so I could start a family. Finding ‘the one’ and being desperate to get pregnant. Getting pregnant and being desperate to have the baby. Having the baby and being desperate for a proposal.. (Even if he says he does, I know he never reads this blog anyway so I can admit this, in total confidence, that he still has no idea. That’s if he hasn’t already realised from the numerous ‘ring catalogues’ open on the dining room table..) and all the while being desperate to be taller, thinner, smaller, bigger boobs, longer/shorter hair, for that top or those shoes or that car or this pair of hair straighteners.. And so on and so on and so on.

 I then began to think (getting even deeper here) about all the times I had been waiting for something. And with sudden realisation, it made me see, no matter what, no matter who you are, I can say with almost certainty we are always waiting for something or wanting for something. (Even if it’s just a bru.) I am currently waiting for my proposal (and my dinner.) I rang my best friend to check my theory and after a good old gossip, without explaining I asked her ‘Annette, what are you waiting for?’ without even thinking she answered ‘Him to get home from fishing and watch the baby so I can have a bath’  and ok so ive not stumbled across a new planet but I have made some sort of personal discovery. And here it is… are you ready? Its life changing! (no, really!)

 Maybe we need to try and enjoy the present a bit more and stop being desperate for the next step. (Collective gasp from my audience) Even if that next step is just waiting an hour for the men in our lives to come home so we can have a bath? Maybe this next hour I could really enjoy, because I am lucky, I am healthy and I have a wonderful life? Maybe in the next hour instead of shouting at my other half for leaving a used loo roll on the side, instead of throwing it in the bin, I could enjoy throwing it in the bin myself. (And then enjoy slapping him upside the head and reminding him I am not a bloody maid!)

 But it is something, in all seriousness, I will think about. Because at some point there will be nothing left for me to do except enjoy the memories of the steps i have taken. When the kids are grown up, when the wedding is out of the way, (if I have to ask myself to marry me, like Carrie Bradshaw, I will. I’ll get a bloody wedding!) And when I am old and grey (But still fabulous) I want to be able to look back and honestly say I took none of it for granted. I really would much rather, enjoy making the memories, than only enjoying the finished memories. So from now on I will stop using the turn of phrase ‘I can’t wait for Addison to talk’ and  ‘I can’t wait for Addison to walk’ and change it to ‘Im excited about one day fitting in to my clothes again…’ and ‘Im excited about going back to work.’ And if you believe that…

 And that’s where I end today’s mad rambling as I need to go, X-factor is about to start and I’m desperate for a wee….

The miracle of birth? Yeah, ok.

 Picture the scene. It’s Six forty five on a Saturday morning. The house resembles a subsidiary of the Eccles and Hulme tip. It is a bomb site. It literally looks like we were up all night with six thousand of our closest friends and their newborn babies enjoying an all night sit in feeding rave. There are three milk bottles on the arm of the sofa, slowly beginning to curdle. There are sleep suits and vests, miniature trousers and jumpers and dummies and wipes, tea towels and bibs splattered in every direction of the once tidy room. Man sized socks stuffed down the side of the fire place (I’ll kill him). Towels directly out of the drier sit forgotten in a pile on the kitchen work top, there are dog biscuit crumbs all over the once-blue but now grayish spit up stained, living room carpet. It’s like the dog feels too good to eat in the hallway and insists on carrying his tiny bone-shaped biscuits, one at a time, in to the living room and munching them on the carpet where he can watch the show. His version of a doggy TV dinner, if you will. The show, of course being a bedraggled and smelly overweight woman, her hair tied back with a pair of old knickers, sitting like a creaky kneed elephant on a crusty old sofa. The baby’s breakfast is all over her top, she sits squinting through one contact lense (didn’t have time to put both in) while clutching a cup of coffee like her life depended on it, and a squirming baby. Mickey mouse is on the TV in the corner dancing and prancing around inviting his viewers to ‘come inside, its fun inside’
‘Oh bugger off’ she mutters under her breath.

 Because really? What does Mickey know?

 It’s me, by the way, as if you hadn’t figured it out. Im the overweight dumbo wannabe, currently sitting on the sofa with Addison, watching Mickey Mouse attempting to locate his club house. Addison evidently loves Mickey and is kicking and flailing about like an over caffeinated octopus. I got up at 5.45 this morning, with the intention of getting some much needed house work done while the baby slept, but find myself, like I usually do, sat catatonic on the crusty vomit stained (once magnificent) sofa, staring avidly at nothing in particular while devising a few choice places Mickey Mouse can stick his clubhouse, and reminiscing on what I thought motherhood was supposed to be like. Back in the ‘innocent and naïve’ days.

 I’m not in a bad mood. I’m just exhausted. Being awake at five forty five on a Saturday morning is not what I signed up for. Leaky boobs, fat thighs and sleepless nights is not what I signed up for. 3 stone overweight, losing hair from my head like an oversized malting Alsatian with creaky, broken knees is not what I signed up for. All my beautiful clothes being stretched to within an inch of their lives, walking round with more muffin top than a Greggs outlet while my size 10 jeans slag me off  behind my back (I hear them every time I reach for my leggings) is not what I signed up for. I need to contact the motherhood union and explain in no uncertain terms this motherhood lark is not as easy as countless celebrities promised me it would be on the covers of glossy magazines.

 And I have help. (I mean in the form of my other half, not an army of servants. And he is actually, as much as I hate to admit it, really rather good! Don’t tell him I said that.) It really makes me wonder how single mummies do it. Fair play and utmost respect to each and every single mother out there in the ‘mummy club.’ You are unsung heroes. Really you are. It also makes me wonder how teenagers manage. There is no way at the age of 17 I could have done this. Every time I see a young teenage girl walking down the road I have to fight the urge to run up to her and scream in her face ‘DON’T HAVE SEX!! JUST DON’T! YOU WONT ENJOY IT YET ANYWAY! HE WILL NOT ‘LOVE YOU MORE’ AND YOU COULD END UP LIKE ME! LOOK AT ME! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD LOOK! (This is the point I would whip out my flappy belly and destroyed flower for all the world to see) ENJOY YOUR LIFE! FORGET SEX!’ but the sad fact is a lot of young people in my area get pregnant and have babies so they can get housing and not end up on the street. That is the country we live in, but Im not getting in to that.

So what did I sign up for? I signed up for a gorgeous basket ball bump, 10 months of people treating me like the queen, a perfectly short and painless labour, a perfect little pink bundle which slept right through, any weight I had put on would obviously drop from my chubby arse immediately, leaving me waif like with gorgeous thick, full hair. I would also clearly have the perfect little girl who I could dress in pretty pink outfits and show off while the paparazzi, so amazed at the beauty of my bundle, would swarm around me, making me millions and we would live happy ever after. (I always wondered what it would be like to be famous and this was my daydream after all.) But alas, I am not famous. At all. Unless you count that one night at the Chinese karaoke where I fell off the stage and exposed my breasts to an entire room of cheering and slightly drunken business men.

 So imagine my surprise when I did not have the perfect basket ball bump, but instead I piled on fat everywhere! I piled on fat in places I didn’t know existed. On a bad day, up until the 32 week stage and depending on what I was wearing you were hard pressed to even see the bump I had so desperately wanted to show off. (And then came 32 weeks and I began to resemble Mr. Greedy.)  And then the labour. Oh god, don’t even talk to me about the labour. My waters broke on Thursday the 2^nd of April and 65, yes sixty five hours later I still hadn’t managed to push the little monster out. I can’t talk too much about this. I truly believe I am still suffering with some sort of post traumatic stress disorder. I do remember though at the time, legs spread, gas and air in hand, 63 hours in, shouting at my other half ‘I have present traumatic stress syndrome. I do. I need some counseling NOW!. Never mind a doctor, Get me a therapist!’ to which he had had the audacity to reply that he understood. Really? REALLY?

A close friend who recently admitted she is pregnant, asked me while we were having lunch last week, what labour felt like. Now this is dodgy ground. I remember asking this of many mums when I was pregnant. I remember thinking, if they told me I could prepare myself mentally. But the stock answer always seemed to be ‘you’ll be fine’ or ‘I can’t remember’.

At the time it really wound me up. I felt like there was some sort of conspiracy! I wanted to yell ‘I can handle the truth just tell me!’ But I have to admit, when my friend asked me, I finally understood why I had been lied to. Because honestly? You don’t forget that pain. You may not be able to describe it, but you don’t bloody forget it. I just couldn’t do it to her. So I muttered, (looking everywhere but in her eyes) ‘It’s not that bad. And it’s really quick in comparison to the REST OF YOUR LIFE, you’ll be fine, I can’t really remember. Just enjoy being pregnant.’ which may have been a lie but in my mind was a lot kinder than ‘It’s absolutely horrific and excruciating. The stuff horror films are made of, imagine your worst nightmare, double it and while you’re at it try to imagine shitting a watermelon out of your bum hole, ring sting included.’ Or as my cousin summed up six hours post birth last week ‘if the pain had got any worse I’m sure I would have died’  (In this instance I feel the truth would definitely not have set her free)

 I also signed up for a girl. So when Babywoo finally decided the time was right and made a bid for freedom, I was shocked to see, she’d had the nerve to show up with a willy! I had a boy! No pretty pink outfits for me. Football, mud and worms, that’s what little boys are made of, that’s what I was destined for! Bloody football, mud and worms.

 But oh god he was gorgeous. A squirming mass of gorgeousness lying in my arms, grabbing my finger and staring up at me.  The absolute most amazing, breathtaking moment of my life was seeing him for the first time. My other half and I had discussed prior to my labour starting, do you think you will cry when you see the baby for the first time? The response he had given me was ‘Me? Cry? I haven’t cried for years, I doubt it.’ Enter stage right a blubbering lump of mush who goes by the name of daddy. (or ‘dick head’ on the odd occasion too.) He was crying like a little girl. He cried more than I did! The midwife had to shout his name twice to remind him to cut the cord.

 So I suppose it’s not all bad. I suppose this motherhood lark, albeit one great big challenge (banana crisis included) is hugely enjoyable. And I suppose the weight will drop off eventually. And I suppose if I have to, really have to, I can smile my way through the sleepless nights and the five forty five on a Saturday morning get ups.

But I do wish sometimes magazines like HEAT and OK! would stop printing these stories of what motherhood in an ideal world is like, then maybe I would have been slightly more mentally prepared. Although saying that, I suppose if they did, the human race would die out. Because I suppose you have to go through the crap you didn’t sign up for to truly enjoy the moments you did sign up for.

Like tomorrow we are going swimming for the first time and I can’t wait! Addison has just gone down for his nap. Ive had a shower, tidied up a bit and feel a little more human. My other half and I are sat admiring him while cuddling up on the sofa. He’s hugging me with such lovely closeness. The mother of his baby. I’m the mother of his son! How special am i! It’s nice to get some mammy and daddy time too sometimes. We are so lucky. A happy, healthy, beautiful little boy and I…….what’s that ? Sex?

 You have got to be kidding!

When i get older, losing my hair…

As I child, I remember having to sit crossed legged on a hard, cold and dusty wooden floor in the school assembly hall singing random songs every Monday morning, enduring an excruciating hour of ‘music class’. Sometimes they even gave us tambourines. The memory still makes me shudder. I had been squidged, like a hippo in a ballerina outfit (I was a fat kid, there is no denying it), in to a hand me down school uniform that belonged to a distant cousin of my next door neighbor and best friend Laura. I remember feeling desperately uncomfortable as the tights wedged themselves further and further up my bum crack. I remember thinking what the hell is the point in all this? Why must I wear this god awful outfit? Why must I be at school when I know everything already and most outrageously, why are we sat on the floor? (What were we animals? Where were all the chairs?) AND why on god’s green earth, are we being taught a song about some woman who is wondering whether or not her other half will send her a valentines card, when her boobs are hanging down around her ankles and her hair has all fallen out. (I remember my granny’s boobs seeming very low in comparison to my mothers and she was very nearly bald. I was young! I apologise for any offence caused.)

 It was also around that time, as you’ve probably gathered, I developed ‘an attitude’ and for the first time ever in my life, I remember feeling overcome with the sheer mortification of my parents. It was almost as if over night they went from being my hero’s to being the bane of my existence. I remember there was a parent/ teacher night, which horrifyingly, in my school usually involved cheese and wine (looking back now it hits me what a recipe for disaster this was.) All the children were banished to a classroom while the parents discussed their little angel’s performance with the teachers while downing copious amounts of Rioja (I grew up in spain) and munching on Queso. These evenings always filled me with a sense of dread as, as well as being fat and a little bit nerdy I was also a ROYAL pain in the arse. I hated school. I wish id tried a bit harder now, not that id ever admit that to my parents.

 It was on the drive out of the car park on one of these ‘occasions’ that my mother began to question my obvious hatred of school. We had a heated debate for all of 30 seconds (me – against, Her- for) before to my absolute horror in a vain attempt to pummel her point home, she began singing ‘When Im 64’ badly and at top volume. Her point being I should try to enjoy school while I could, as one day I’d be 64 and old…maybe? I don’t know. Either way she began to sing and then as if things couldn’t get any worse. My dad joined in. (My dad was the designated driver, he wasn’t even drunk! What was his excuse?) All my ‘friends’ and the cool kids were still in earshot! It was like they didn’t care about me at all!

Fast forward 6 years and I’m 15 years old. Wearing ‘illegal’ Dr martin boots with my school skirt rolled up to my once podgy bum cheek and still being forced to endure music lessons.(by now we had been given proper instruments. Can you picture it? Thirteen 15 year olds absolutely murdering the Spanish national anthem every Monday morning between 9-10am.) Also by this point, I was at the stage of pretending my parents were a distant visiting aunt and uncle I had been forced to live with by my real mother – the princess of Sweden (Clara).

 In my opinion, at the time my parent’s behaviour was totally uncalled for, irrational and horrifyingly embarrassing. They NEVER let me out late like my friends were allowed, they NEVER bought me ANYTHING and they totally did not understand my vibe man. What is the point in choosing options when Im going to be a famous actor right? And when I grew up and had kids, I would let them do WHATEVER they wanted, WHENEVER THEY WANTED. And while they ‘were under my roof’ they could do whatever took their fancy…

 I need to add at this point for the record, my poor suffering parentals were absolutely right not to let me out until dawns crack! I was 15! And I feel it necessary to add, before the phone starts ringing, and I get an earful, I was spoilt rotten (Yes dad you were both great parents…)

 Fast forward 24 years and Im buckling my little one in to my new four door mammy car. (who’d of thought ay? I was definitely having a motorbike). My little angel looks up at me, grabs my hand and smiles. Smiling back and giving him a quick kiss, I push the door shut and walk round to open the driver door and it hits me. In a moment of blind panic all of the above comes screaming back to me. I get in the car and pause for a moment, the colour draining from my face. In a few short years it will start. I will be the bane of his existence! Yeah sure, right now, he is grabbing my hand and smiling, I am his everything. But in a matter of moments I will be the one, embarrassing the hell out of him, doing his head in and saying things like ‘if all your friends ran off a cliff would you?’ and ‘money doesn’t grow on trees you know!’ and all the other non-sensical sayings my parents used on me. The sayings, I now see, get passed down from generation to generation.

 Of course he won’t remember me sitting up at 4am feeding him, of course he won’t remember me holding his butt cheeks apart, in a vain attempt to help him to trump during the longest nights of Colic induced crying (He will, however be reminded of that particular night on the evening of his 21^st birthday. It would be rude not to include it in perhaps, his wedding speech? Anyway..) He will see me as a mother whom he loves dearly (I hope) but who is a constant source of embarrassment. And I see now. It all makes sense. It doesn’t matter, none of it matters, because I will love him unconditionally. I will love him more than he will ever know. All the while he is pretending I am a distant relative only looking after him while his real mother (lady GaGa – or whoever is cool at the time) is out of town, I will love him.

 Its with that, I put the car in to gear. Switch the nursery rhyme CD to track 8 and sing ‘When Im 64’ at top volume. (Because I get it now, I think, I don’t know, maybe I need some wine but whatever.) Im singing away, both of us ginning like lunatics. Him because, well he’s five months old, he could be grinning because he realises he has a nose. Me because I am so excited by everything to come. For him and for me! He’s gonna have a great little life, and if he’s anything like me a great little attitude! Embarrassing or not. I’ll be there for him 100%. Just like my parents were for me.

 Oh, and when I returned home I did in fact give my ‘long suffering’ (I was told to write that) parents a call and apologised for all the years of attitude I put them through. I think it was a long time coming. Although my dad just laughed and said ‘we had fun didn’t we?’ (I think he’d had a drink.) I also thanked them for ensuring I didn’t ‘ruin my life’ by getting that tattoo of a Chinese symbol on my arse, to which my mom replied ‘that’s ok love, bet your glad you didn’t  now aren’t you?’ (It’s not like they’ll ever find out! It’ll be fine! As long as they never see me in a bikini it’ll be alright.) Its not like they read my blog properly…

Shit the phones ringing. Got to go…

Once upon a time in the life of a fairytale ….

There lived a princess who loved life. She was vivacious, and ambitious, happy and a little bit chubby. She would often give long ambling speeches to anyone who would listen about how happy she was. She had the perfect relationship, the perfect 2 bedroom flat and just enough money in her bank account. She went on luxurious holidays spending her days sipping martinis and lazing by the pool. Occasionally she would shop, all her money being spent on beautiful clothes and handbags all for herself. She would often wander around her kingdom gently humming to herself and pondering life’s little nuances like she had all the time in the world.

And then she woke up to the sound of a drunken stumble entering the bedroom, and realised with a sinking heart, she had no money, was more than ‘a little bit chubby’ and her husband had obviously been sticking his pencil in somebody else’s sharpener.

I have never been married to a golfer, a footballer or a rich celebrity type. I have never been hounded by the press. I have never been voted ‘most gorgeous ass 2009.’ (Although to be honest they missed a trick on that one. My arse is something to behold let me tell you. Something big to behold. Anyways..) I have however, been cheated on in the past. So feel that in some way I can relate to some of the ladies in the press in a small way.

I was dating a pilot. (Do I need to go on or can you guess what happened?) Apparently a bright orange uniform and too much make up did it for him in a big way. Not that I knew. Although I don’t own anything orange so never had the chance to find out…  We had been together for a lovely 2 years when I found out he had been shagging all and sundry behind my back. I was humiliated in a big way, as it turned out most of our friends had been aware of this. I blamed myself for a while and it was truly awful. Even though we had no children, no responsibilities other than a mortgage and a dog, we did have what I thought was ‘the perfect’ relationship. Now for me, personally, there was no coming back from that, or those, particular acts of unfaithfulness. That relationship was dead the second he admitted to countless acts of indiscretion at 32 thousand feet. (I use the word admitted loosely here, it was more of a ‘blood from a stone’ scenario, involving a large stiletto and a lot of tackling.) I now refuse to fly with ‘sleazy jet’ as honestly? If their pilots spend so much time in cubicle one? Who the hell is flying the plane?? But anyways.. there you go. The trust was gone. And so was he. (I kept the dog.) 

As a child I whole heartedly believed that one day my prince would come, so to speak. And that no matter what happened, somewhere out there, under the deep blue sky, was a man that would whisk me away and I would live my happily ever after. And even though that particular short arse, smelly footed, small dicked prince ran off with another (unlucky) princess. I still never really gave up believing that one day my prince would come. (teehee, ok sorry ill stop now.) So when Sir Fucksalot Chlamydia Willy (as I now refer to him) ran off with Princess Ms. Sucksalotofcocks, he actually did me a favour as it hardened my resolve (ooer missus. Sorry don’t know what’s up with me today) that I was living my real life fairytale. 

Did it hurt at the time? Yes. Did I get drunk and listen to Sinead O’Connor at 4am while warbling on to anybody who would listen about how I would make him regret it? Yes. Did I eat too much ice cream, pizza and MacDonald’s and endlessly dream of him ploughing a single man craft in to the side of a cliff? Yes. Did that mean my life was over? No it didn’t. Did that mean I wouldn’t get my ‘happily ever after?’ No it didn’t.

I got to the point after a lot of soul searching where I vowed I would enjoy my continuing search for my happily ever after. Which also meant in the meantime I could enjoy the fairytale of rebound, the fairytale of drunken nights single, the fairytale of enjoying me and all that I am, and the fairytale of finally meeting someone else and thinking ooo could this be it, this time? And this of course proceeded…

The fairytale of first words with the new hottie in the office, first hidden glances, first emails, (the digital age eh? If only the beast had IM’d a photo to Belle first.) Followed by first dates, first kisses, first rambling midnight phone calls, first holidays, first ‘I love you’s’ and first ‘ OK you’re doing my head in now’s’.  Followed by first night in the bedroom (ahem, yes I always wait that long) and the first morning sex. NB- for the record this only happens at the start. Followed by the first ‘did you just have a wee in front of me? Im in the bloody bath!’ and then the ultimate ‘oh my god my period is late’…. and before you know it. You have a house, a mortgage, a baby boy and other than the odd bout of post natal depression fog you are blissfully happy… ..ish.

 And if this one cheats on me? I may forgive and forget, I may leave him, or I may do a Mrs. Bobbit and chop his nads off. But either way I will keep going, keep living, keep fighting and keep searching for the happily ever after I was promised..

I don’t have any advice for Cheryl Cole, Coleen McLaughlin or Pam who lives at number 42. All I can say is do what’s right for you.  It will all work out one way or another. In the end.

 And really it’s nobody’s business but your own. Do you think Cinderella asked the fairy godmother for her opinion after prince charming was caught in the back of the pumpkin with an ugly sister? (See Cinders the untold story.) Nope she stayed with him, or may have left him, I can’t remember. But either way. She lived happily ever after.

 The end.

The Mummy Club.

At school I was the kind of girl that always, without fail, was picked last for any type of team sports. Hang on; I feel I need to labour this point. I was the kind of girl that got picked last for any kind of team sports even at my own birthday party. If there was ever any clubs invented and assembled by the popular girls in the school or even the popular girls in my class, I was never ever part of them. Not through lack of trying either, let me tell you. I endured the initiation tests and humiliation routines endlessly but unfortunately for me I was just never cool enough. I was the girl the ‘cool’ guy in school would call and take the Mickey out of. (I put cool in inverted comma’s here because this ‘cool’ guy is called Tony and last time I saw him he was still living off mummy and daddy and is a complete loser. So from here on in I will refer to him as the tool guy. Because really, what a total tool! Not that Im still bitter…..)

So basically I was the girl all the other girls would look at and think ….well that’s just it! They looked at me and didn’t think. They didn’t think at all.

I wasn’t big, (not that, that should matter) I wasn’t dressed badly, (not that, that should matter) I wasn’t short (you get the picture.) I wasn’t unfit or unhealthy with smelly feet or stupidly tall. My boobs weren’t enormous; I wasn’t so flat I could make a wall jealous. I didn’t say stupid things in class, I wasn’t the joker, and I wasn’t super intelligent. I was just blah. Non-descript. My nickname wasn’t ‘sexy Lexy’ as I would have liked. Oh no. My nickname was ‘Lampy.’ Because with my thick brown hair cut in a bob (thanks mum) and my bony physique I looked like a lampshade. I shit you not. Kids can be so cruel.

Thankfully things moved on after I left school, I got rid of the bob and I made a life for myself. I met a few boys, some idiots and one finally I decided to keep. Had a few jobs – some boring others that included dressing like a huge mouse and dancing in parades. I lived in a few cities – some crap, others that included showing your boobs for beads at certain times of the year. I had a few drinks, some soft; some that made me go a bit crazy. I have been fat, I have been big, I have been thin, I have said stupid things, I have been the joker, and I have had smelly feet. Courtesy of wonder-bra, my boobs have been big, small, hard, soft, and at times free (I blame New Orleans for that one), but still I have never ever been part of a club. The slightest inkling of a club or ‘clique’ forming around in me in my adult life and I would run for the hills.

 Even now the word club fills me with a sense of dread. Clubs are for cool people. And although I have been many things. Im not sure I have ever been truly cool.

However, and this is a BIG however, I realised this morning as I was crossing the road, (after almost dying pushing the pram up a slight incline) and as two other mothers were coming the other way, I have undeniably, like it or not, without realising, become part of a huge great big sodding club!

And you know what?  It’s actually not that horrendous.

There is, in my opinion, still a hierarchy. I realise this by what some refer to as the ‘mummy once over’. For those still pregnant, you will come across this once you are pushing a pram. It can be quite odd, quite annoying, but also quite funny. It goes a little like this. Feel free to correct me or add nuances if need be.

Mother stranger crosses paths with another Mother stranger.

Look up, try and keep it casual.

Slight eye contact but only for a second.

Slight, but not too forward acknowledgement of situation.

And GO!

Quick glance at;

• State of mother. (Outfit, hair, shoes, general ‘coolness’ of other mother. Is she getting as much or as little sleep as you? Is she relaxed, happy, flustered?)
• Pram. (Is it cooler? comfier? Cosier? More expensive? How many wheels does it have?)
• Weight loss. (Belly particularly – this tells you if you are doing well or not, then boobs, face and finally ankles – if you can see them! (NB I find the other woman ALWAYS wins on this…)
• And finally.. Baby. (How old is baby? (This helps with earlier weight loss summation.) Is it a he or she? Is he or she cute? Cuter than your baby? (You always win this one so don’t worry!) By this point a lot of women have to turn to look. And when this happens, and you see it out of the corner of your eye. You deserve a smile to yourself. You aren’t going mad.. it did actually happen and the fact you didn’t turn means you’ve won…

 And carry on walking casually…  

And now for the results!….

 At the top end of the hierarchy you have Yummy. The head held high, beautifully clad, immaculate mothers with smiling babies. At mid way down you have the average head held height, averagely dressed, made an effort with a splash of make-up with sleeping babies, mothers. And then you have, well…. me. The mother who is still a bit podgy round the middle, dressed in the first thing I grabbed before leaving the house (sometimes I get out to find random garment is on inside out), no makeup (because after the night ive had it would only slide off my face) and a baby covered in this morning’s breakfast. (He will only sleep in the maxicosi and wiping his face wakes him up. Ok? OK!)

 There is a catch though. And it’s a fabulous catch! The difference with this hierarchy is its interchangeable! You can move up and down on a daily basis. This basically means at any given time, you could be right on top! Smiling for all the world to see! Look at me! Look at me! I made it out and I look half decent! But it also means no mother can act too smug. Because the mothers at the top also realise, that tomorrow is a new day. And depending on how tonight goes….tomorrow you could be back in the slummy category. Which is why, when you do find yourself at the top of your perch. Enjoy it! Tomorrow is likely someone else’s turn!

 I find it to be a club where you can exchange knowing glances, be overly expressant – and that’s ok! Chat to people you have never met about nipple torture and stitches and teething solutions. The state of your bladder, your stretch marks and your wieght loss. About how annoying/helpful or downright horny the man in your life is. (Already! I know! What am I a fair ground ride?? Give it a month for god sake!)

 The one rule of the club, I have gathered, is honesty. There is no point lying to another mother, as chances are, she has been there and will see through you immediately! If you feel like crap, admit it! That’s ok apparently. The Mums seem to be supportive of one another. If I admit to wanting to run away and hide when he cries, that seems to be ok too. When I admit I was a little freaked to find I was having a boy, that seemed to be ok. When I admitted, in tears, to not bonding the second I saw him – that was ok too. I was thanked for my honesty! It’s like having a huge network of random strangers, all going, or having been through the same or similar things. All sharing, laughing, spouting crap and understanding one another.

 So when an old (single) school friend of mine recently visited and insisted ‘you must be so bored now you just sit around all day, on your own, with nothing to do but a baby’ I just smiled, because I have thousands of friends now. Maybe even millions. And they understand, like me, that statement couldn’t be further from the truth. I am not on my own and I am not bored!  I am part of a club. A club she may one day join. But a club, finally I am cool enough to be part of.  The mummy club! And Im dead happy. Cos you’re all lovely!

Random advice i could do without.. thanks.

Yesterday I was visiting a friend in a Posh little village outside of Manchester. I was stood outside Marks and Spencer’s while she nipped in to get some caviar (or something equally as posh). I, on the other hand, am far too scruffy for ‘Marksnsparks’ so was stood outside staring in to my I-phone (as usual) chatting to my twitter friends while trying to ignore the looks of disdain my Quinny was getting from the BUGABOO mums.

It was a lovely day, as it always is in cheadle, peaceful and posh. I had given Addison a heads up earlier in the day. No tantrums in Cheadle little boy. Cheadle is far too posh for tantrums. But evidently he had decided to ignore me. He woke up from a nap, and decided that in no uncertain terms, he wanted out of his buggy. THIS INSTANT! It was such a surprise, as he is usually such a happy little chappy, so tranquil and smiling. (and no Im not bragging, Im just saying. – although clearly if I’d brought War and Peace he would have been happy to sit and read that… again.)

I quickly and in a mild panic (it was really, really loud screaming and also being a new mum – baby cries? Pick baby up. Gina Ford piss off.) I began the ‘untangling baby’ dance. Clip one, rope 2, button 3, twist 4 , jump up and down on your left foot 5, clasp undone 6 and he’s out! I wrapped my arms around his little trembling, tantrumy body and began my vain attempt at soothing him. Clearly something was the matter as usually he would stop crying the second he is picked up. (yes, yes rod for my back, I know.) I felt around his person for the usual suspects, belly (wind), bum (wet patches) and neck (eczema) but all seemed to be behaving. He continued with his somewhat angry crying and I began to search for his dummy.(tsk tsk)

While we are on this subject, can I just say that dummies have special powers. They can disappear and re-appear at will. And multiply! I spent half an hour searching for one the other day. I turned the house upside down only to find one, rinse it, drop it and find three at my feet! Anyways..

 I finally located the illusive dummy and was about to shove it, I mean gently place it, in his gob when out of nowhere a head thrust itself towards us. A little old lady in a green mac, a green scarf and a green head wrap with interestingly green teeth had broken all rules of personal space and was literally shaking her nobbly little head in what seemed to be disgust, a mere inches away from our faces. Addison immediately stopped crying for a second due to shock and ill be honest, I was gob smacked and just stood there like a total lemon, mouth hanging open.

‘Hello?’- me (step back slightly alarmed)
‘You know what you want to do?’ Posh, clipped and pretentious.
‘No?’ – me. Tired, gormless and confused.
‘Put a muslin over his face’
‘What?!?’
‘Put a muslin cloth over his face, that’ll soon stop him crying.’
‘EH?’

Seriously?! Put a muslin cloth over my sons face to stop him crying?! Yeah, thanks for the advice but I’m not gonna do that.

This has been playing over and over in my mind since the dotty old Disney villain wannabe  uttered the words. She wanted me to put a muslin cloth over my sons little face, to stop him crying. So basically she wanted me to suffocate my son. Yes Im sure it did stop your son crying missis. Im not sure a baby can cry and gasp for breath at the same time.

As we were walking away from the shops. Me holding a bag over Addison’s face, (JOKE!) It got me thinking about how total randomers seem to think its ok to stop and give you advice on being a mother. It’s like being part of the ‘mummy club’ means every man and their dog can assess you and your skills at any given time and offer totally unnecessary and unwanted ‘advice’. On a very rare occasion it can be helpful (usually off your own parents) but mostly I have found ‘stranger danger advice’ to be totally incorrect and utter crap. These ‘pearls of wisdom’ range from a little odd to full on ‘get your coat Addy, we’re off.’

This advice sharing starts from the second you develop a bump, in my opinion. (that and the touchy feelers, but again that’s another blog). So as I was ambling home I started to mentally Blog some of the other ‘nuggets of crap’ I have received over the last year. 

So here goes..

When pregnant – ‘Don’t reach up or your baby will be strangled on the cord.’ Thank you random woman in supermarket.

When pregnant – ‘You are definitely having a girl you are absolutely enormous, you should buy all pink, definitely.’-Thank you MR bus driver.

When pregnant- ‘Don’t have the pram in the house , its bad luck’ – Thank you random grandmother in Mothercare. (This one REALLY annoyed me.)

Life after birth - ‘He’s gorgeous but Im not sure I like the name Addsion. Theo is a nice name for a boy.’ -Thank you cash register girl.

Life after birth - ‘I can’t believe you aren’t breast feeding. You should be breast feeding’ – Thank you random passerby at Starbucks the Trafford centre. 

On losing baby weight - ‘You shouldn’t have eaten for two until the last trimester’ – The last time I saw this person they were hobbling from a swift, hard kick in the shin. You know who you are!

 I have so many more but I would love to hear some of yours.. Because I am absolutely sure it is not just I, who is subjected to this intrusion. And if it is, then what the hell am I doing wrong??  And also if Im honest I could carry on regaling you but ‘Put a muslin cloth over your baby’s face to stop him crying’ is a clear winner. It doesn’t get better than that. Ladies and Gentleman, round of applause for Granny Green. Disney’s newest villain.

So come on let’s hear them, if you have them. I’d love a good laugh!

My last holiday review before baby! The Maldives.

My trip to Hakura Huraa before baby…

Sitting at work on a gloomy day I jumped in the deep end and booked a holiday to the Maldives on a travel agent website. What? I was miserable and it was raining! (This was the reasoning for spending £3000 I gave to my long suffering boyfriend on returning home from work. He was less than impressed until I showed him where we were going!!)

3 months later after surviving on beans, bread and rice (not all together) so we could afford to go we boarded the 11 hour flight to Male. (by the way – when typing in Male on Google to see pictures of where you are going please ensure you type in the ‘island of Male’ otherwise you get very different results!!! Not great when you have your boss waiting to see pictures of where you are going and a big willy pops up!- so to speak)

 We flew with Monarch and you know what? It was ok. Ample leg room – even in economy – and good service. Im quite frightened of flying so when we do go away it has to be worth it – they were great – the entertainment was ok – other than there being no screen in your seat – and the pilot must have been good cos their were no bumps at all! Smooth sailing! I had three seats to myself because it was quiet so we just spread out! BONZA! The next step of the journey was the sea plane. Maldivian Air Taxi – sorry. Again , im a nervy flyer. No need. Smooth, amazing and the pilots are quite entertaining. They fly bare foot and seem happy. Well – you would be wouldn’t you? The plane takes about 40 minutes. But the views you see! W.O.W. – The colours are amazing. The novelty of the sea plane will just never wear off.

Landing at Hakurra the word paradise does this island no justice. Its like Paradise magnified by 100 and then X2. Crystal clear water. Blue and white. Soft soft sand – peaceful. Private – just lush. It’s a tiny island. You can walk round it in 10 mins easy. Watch out for the hermit crabs though! I stood on one – I felt so guilty I spent about 10 mins apologising and trying to find it a new shell. It was not impressed and I felt rotten all day. But that’s just me.

 The weather in December on the internet said sunny. This was not strictly true. The sun certainly did not have his hat on. He was in bed in a grump. Every now and again the sun would peep out from behind the clouds but it certainly wasn’t playing. We still got uber brown though- we perfected the art of cloud bathing. The few days where the sun did grace us with its presence it was so hot we had to keep nipping inside so to be honest the clouds were a welcome sight most of the time. I would stick with factor 25 and above at first. I have olive skin courtesy of greek daddy and even in the clouds I was feeling the burn with a 25 on. My fella burnt his eyelids (go figure) with a 30 on – so for a week everyone thought I was dating a man in pink eye shadow. Not the best look.

 The island is surrounded by a moat. No – not a moat – a lagoon. You see the most amazing things bobbing about.(and I don’t mean the kind of stuff you see bobbing about in blackpool) Little reef fish – big reef fish – tiger fish – lion fish – jelly fish (not so keen) – sharks ( ‘nothing to panic about madam they wont bite’ as I come running out of the lagoon screaming like a banshee), small crabs , medium crabs , crabs as big as your head, sting rays , manta rays , puffer fish and Nemo. There is just constant activity in the water and it’s fabulous. The day trips are not all inclusive. But they are well worth doing. Most prices range between 35 – 70 dollars. The snorkelling safari I strongly recommend if you’re in to that kind of thing, and even If your not I say do it. It’s incredible. For a first time snorkeler it was just amazing to see under the water. The gear is first class once you figure out how to stop it leaking and misting up – ‘spit madam – spit’. They take you to three reefs and it’s spectacular. We saw turtles and every kind of reef fish imaginable. (Well every reef fish I ever imagined – but I didn’t spend lots of time imagining so I enjoyed it).

The deep sea fishing was a hoot. In my mind I pictured us on a big white yacht with leather seats sipping champagne and looking thin (I always imagine myself looking thin) but it was a far cry away from that let me tell you – (boat wise not body mass wise) You go on a ‘Doni’. Picture a caravan on water and you’ll nearly be there. The Doni never stops moving and you are given bits of wire and gardening gloves. Funny as can be and so clever. They use fish guts as bait and you never stop moving. Everyone caught something (except one who claims he was trying not to be cruel so left them where they were). We caught a barracuda and the other couple caught a ‘big Maldivian fish’. (this was what we were told it was… ahh ok.) Word to the wise. If you get easily sea sick – deep sea fishing is NOT for you. Its like sitting on a plank of wood on a see-saw. I’ve never seen so many shades of green and that was just on my boyfriends face. Social suicide to puke over the boat. On the deep sea excursion though we also saw dolphins and two turtles giving each other a piggy back. (ahem).

The evening entertainment in the bar is great. Bingo , crab racing (funny funny funny), acrobats and DJ ranga. The music is a bit loud (and I like to think of myself as fairly young) so if you do get chatting you usually have to shout to each other. Embarrassing if you are having a private conversation and the music stops just as you scream ‘rash’. not that that happened to me you understand.

 The word that springs to my mind when I think of the food is – spicy. Even having a bacon butty in the morning was blow your mouth off spicy. Figured out towards the end of the holiday the ketchup has chilli in it so that’s probably why I was gasping for water after every meal. Seriously though. The food is exquisite. So much to chose from – most cooked in front of you by the friendliest smiliest (no smelliest. Smiliest) waiting on staff ever – and for someone who gets ill from eating well done steak I was pleased to say I wasn’t ill once. They take hygiene very seriously. It was a welcome result.

There are birds everywhere too – crows – watch your food with the crows. They are not shy about nicking your donuts at snack time. (Which by the way is at 4.30 in the bar) And don’t panic too much if you hear screaming. (You’ve not been transported in to a 1960’s horror flick) it’s just the neighbourhood birds. (‘Madam calm down’)

They do dinner on the beach for 100 dollars. It’s very romantic if your boyfriend isn’t in a mood. (Only kidding honey) And definitely worth doing.

The Spa is out of this world and if you’re the kind of girl that needs pampering then walk about 3 feet from your bungalow and get pampered up duck! Pedicure manicure, aloe vera scrubs , coffee scrubs , Indian head massage (not for people who are head sore) , sweeeedish massage – lots to keep you going! And all done in amazing surroundings. However beware of coconuts falling on to the roof, they are loud and if your half way through a relaxing massage they can give you a shock (she says pushing her hernia back in).

All in all I would give this island 21 out of 10 and I would love to go again. They say it’s a three star but it’s so much more in my mind. You see I just can’t picture novotel arranging your bedding in the shape of a heart and surrounding it with flowers. I mean they might but I doubt it… There is no pool but it doesn’t matter. The water sports are fairly limited but the ones they have are great fun.

The staff are just fantastic and really make you feel special – and not just for tips. We had flowers on our bed and palm tree birds sitting on our table – our waiter even bought us a gift from the shop with the money we gave him as a tip. (How guilty did I feel? – we gave him some more and told him off!) However reception staff aren’t that helpful to be honest. I think reception are open between 8am and five past 8am and if you miss your five minute window they tend to frown and say yes a lot but nothing gets done. But im not one for grumbling.

The dive school guys are great. Especially ‘magic’. He is such a character. The bungalows are air conditioned and clean and luxury. The Beach ones are just as nice as the water bungalows, the only difference is they are on the beach so there is no glass panel to look through.(im not going to explain why not) You can snorkel outside the water bungalows too even If you aren’t staying in one. That’s pretty amazing too for a novice.

 In short – It is what you make of it. We could have gone and moaned all week about the weather , the ketchup , the reception , the weather , the slight smell of sewage from 7am to 5 past 7am , the weather , no square crisps , the weather , the hermit crabs didn’t sing .. but we didn’t. We went, we couldn’t find a single thing to moan about – which is saying something – I mean we are british after all. 21 out of 10..without a doubt the best beach holiday I’ve had so far. (Even without a proposal!)

So here I sit back at my desk. Im looking at prices for Fiji – but I think 3 years of beans and rice is a bit much… then again Im miserable to be back and it is raining..

The tooth fairy? What a load of guff! The age of ‘non believing’.

I was watching Bed knobs and Broomsticks with my son on Wednesday. Yes I know my son is only five months old, and yes the term ‘watching with’ is probably not entirely true, but I have waited my whole adult life to share my childhood delights with my son OR daughter and I can’t wait any longer. He’s finally here now so they are going on. END OF.

Anyway so ‘WE’ were watching Bed knobs and Broomsticks (He has also been subjected to Annie (yes I know he’s a boy), sleeping beauty (see last comment) and Pete’s Dragon.) and during this particular scene on the bed, yer woman started singing about the ‘age of non-believing’.

She explained (through the medium of song and dance(badly)) that the age of non believing is that in-between age a child reaches when they are not sure what is the truth and what isn’t. The age they begin to question tales they have whole-heartedly believed in all their lives. Tales such as Father Christmas, (Why is his Reindeer called Rudolf mum? Why not Graham?) The tooth fairy, (why does she only leave me 50p mum? When she leaves Sarah next door a pound?) Mickey Mouse. (He has such big ears mum, his cu-tips must be huge!) The Age, that SADLY, the believing stops.

I looked over at Addison (who was OBVIOUSLY engrossed in the prancing, dancing and knob turning on screen) and it struck me how sad a time this must be for the parents. Almost like the end of an era? Obviously it’s the start of a great new era too. (before I reduce all the mums with 10 year olds to tears)

 I remember this time as a child. (it was only about 10 years ago…ahem) I remember asking my mother at least twice a day leading up to Christmas if Santa was real. I think I knew deep down at this point, the answer to this question, and I remember feeling that as much as I wanted her to tell me the truth and confirm my friends were in fact right, he didn’t exist. I also desperately wanted for her to tell me they were wrong. That Santa was SO real. That she would prove it! That the tooth fairy was in her pocket! Here, look! HOW DARE YOU DISBELIEVE! And that Mickey and the princesses were of course real. Look at the films made about them!

 I think I was about 11 when my ‘age of believing’ was finally put to the test. It was my brother who finally broke the news while my dad was hiding in the bedroom. (My dad couldn’t handle the end of the era. He still refuses to accept I know the truth and every year we will still talk about Santa coming down the chimney. It’s our ritual) I remember asking my Brother Jason, is Santa real? To which, and I will remember this forever, he replied. ‘If Santa was real I’d be driving a Lamborghini now instead of a ford escort.’  I remember responding in very clipped tones, that he had the wrong man. That if he wanted a Lamborghini, it was JIM‘LL FIX IT not Santa, that sorted that stuff out. But I remember feeling gutted too. So that was it. Santa wasn’t real. Which in effect meant the tooth fairy was probably guff too.. But Mickey? Surely Mickey was real…

 I think ‘the age of believing’ is waaaayyyyy too short lived. (which is perhaps why I ended up working as Mickey Mouse later in life but that’s another blog altogether.) It’s with a sinking heart I answer my nieces endless questions about the logistics of him visiting every home in one night. (Santa not Mickey) It’s on the internet now you know?! They map him! Anyways.. Because I know in a couple of years their ‘age of believing’ will be tested.

I also whole heartedly believe every child deserves the right to experience this age of KNOWING Santa is coming, of KNOWING the tooth fairy visited and TALKING OF MICKEY and MINNIE as living beings. I don’t judge parents who do, but I just could never be a mother who always told the truth. (Addison will be 20 and ill be creeping in to his house to plant prezzies!) because childhood is so short lived. Childhood should be treasured. SO this finally brings me to my point (phew I hear you say), I guess we all get to re-live our childhood. Through them. HOW EXCITING!! And my main point (god its like lord of the rings isn’t it…)

When I was five. I was brushing my teeth. I heard Santa’s bells. I HEARD them. I leapt in to bed, pressing my eyes shut and quivering with the sheer excitement of it. Telling my teddy that tonight was the night, tonight he was coming. Its those memories I want to pass on. And for that reason maybe the bed knobs lady is wrong. Maybe there is an ‘age of questioning beliefs’ but does anyone ever REALLY stop, fully believing in fairytales? Because we pass our belief on to our children. And through them the belief resurrects and continues to live on..

 OOOOOOOOOO I cant wait for Christmas!!! Talc snow footprints in the lounge!! … what do you mean he’s too young?? Its happening! END OF!!

Bumping in to an ex. Social suicide of the third degree..

I don’t care what anyone says.
Bumping in to an ‘ex’ is a certified nightmare.
They should issue you with an award. An ‘I bumped in to my ex and survived’ award. Or a t-shirt. Remember those t-shirts? ‘My family went to Skegness and all I got was this lousy shirt’?

Well I may start printing ‘I bumped in to my ex and all I got was an evening of over analysing’ t-shirt. Although Im not sure I would have anything it would go with, to be honest.

 Every woman (and maybe even some men) at the end of any relationship, regardless of how long this relationship lasted, will make themselves feel better with a casual ‘next time I see him ill make him regret it.’

Take Josie in Big Brother. ‘Big Brother, when I get out of here I am going to have my hair done and lose 2 stone and I’m going to smooth him right over’.

 We have all done it, we have all thought it, and I bet most of us have said it. Whether you are the dumper or dumpee is irrespective. Next time you see this person you will be, feel and most importantly look fabulous. (and thin! Thinner than I have ever been.)

 Unfortunately for most of us mere mortals the law of sod sees to it that this rarely, if ever happens. I am yet to meet a woman who can tell me in all honesty she bumped in to her ex and was certain ‘he regretted the moment he left me, let me tell you’ Although we know this rarely is the case it doesn’t stop us repeating our mantra, post dump.

 As I’ve mentioned. Bumping in to an ex is horrific. So why does the law of sod taunt us so?
Why can’t we bump in to the Fecker that cheated, the Fecker that never called and the Fecker we lived with for 2 years who ‘didn’t believe in marriage’ but has since met someone who changed his mind and had him gallivanting up the aisle quicker than JLO, when we look our very best?  Im not sure about you, but I have days when I wake up, get dressed, slap on my Morrison’s eyeliner, look in the mirror and know the wardrobe gods have been on my side. You stop, double check it’s actually you you’re in fact looking at and think , jaysus. I don’t look half bad today. How did that happen? Those days, albeit infrequent are the days when bumping in to an ex would be almost manageable. Almost.

 But, alas, then there are the days you fall out of bed late. Tie your greasy hair up with a pair of old tights, (ok an old bobble if tights are a step too far), rub last night’s foundation back in around your nose, use your spit to quickly eradicate the panda eyes. (We’ve all done it; don’t even bother to deny it.) Pull on last night stained top and the ‘these will do another day’ jeans. Run to your car. Forget your keys. Run back to the house. Run back to the car. Forget the baby. (Painting a picture here, bear with me.) Run back to the house, run back to the car, sniff your armpit, wish you’d put deodorant on. Get in the car, realise your right boob is leaking, get out of car, pour half a bottle of water over your chest to hide one leaky boob, get in the car, drive to destination swearing at tardiness, get baby out of car just in time for baby to spit up on your right shoulder, pick up changing bag upside down but realise too late, just as nappies, wipes and trusty hemorrhoid cream roll all over the car park, put baby down, turn around to pick it all up and….…BANG!! There’s fecker 2. In all his glory, a shocked, but slightly relieved and possibly victorious expression on his face. He looks good and the Fecking Fecker knows it.

 ‘fuck’
‘Hi lexy’
‘Hi Fecker 2’
‘How’s things? (Code for – bloody hell love, what have you been eating? Ever heard of a shower?)
‘Grand. I just had a baby which is why I look fat. I’m not fat. I mean, well I am. But only because I just had another man’s baby. A gorgeous man…(silence)…With lots of money. And we are so happy. Really very happy. I also got a new job…(silence) .. and won the lottery. So yeah I’m really happy…….you?’ (FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKKK)
‘Im well Lexy. Clearly regretting leaving you, and marrying a goddess who dances on the west end.’ (Because let’s face it, the new woman never works at ASDA)…

 On this particular evening you come home and appreciate your gorgeous Irish Fecker. And then ring your best mate for post-ex analysis. Your first words?  

 ’He well regretted leaving me. Let me tell you.’

 It may be a lie. (There is no ‘may’ about it.) But It feels better.

 And who needs that Fecker anyway? I got myself a new Fecker. I mean, man. And I always look gorgeous and thin and fabulous for him.

Mostly.