American woman! Mama let me be…

How did I get here?

This is a question I have been asking myself a lot, as of late. Usually in the dead of night when I am wrestling a squirming octopus back to sleep, with sick encrusted in my hair, right after stepping directly in a cold damp puddle of rebellion wee. Doodle is wearing hot skates on thin ice at the moment, let me tell you. It is also a question I usually find myself pondering when I catch myself being utterly proud of something hugely mundane. ( I reached dizzy heights this morning while doing 6 separate jobs at the same time. Are you ready? I was applying mascara, while holding the baby, while calming the dog down after a particularly terrifying spider attack, (No matter how many times his tongue gets bitten he still insists on eating them. When I drove to Bradford to choose a poodle, the breeder advised if I chose him, I could have him half price. While all the other poodles pranced and danced about, he was sitting IN his food bowl covered in gloop. Serves me right. ) As well as doing all of that, I was also brushing my teeth, flushing the loo and blinking hard to keep my lenses from falling out after a particularly harsh twat on the nose off my 8 month old boxer in training. Now. That. Is. Multi-tasking! Can you understand why I was proud? Surely I should get some sort of award for that? Unless anyone can beat me?)

So how did I get here?

I always wanted to be American. I blamed my parents from the moment I first watched Clueless, and Saved by the bell, and Licence to drive (Oh my god I fancied Cory Haim! I also wanted to change my name to Mercedes.) for having the audacity to conceive and birth me in bloody England. Name one cool show set in England back then? And don’t you dare say Grange Hill.

I used to surreptitiously send out messages to the universe, begging to make me American. ‘Just swap me with someone else! I wont tell anyone!’ At the age of 5, my parents moved me to Spain. (Maybe they misheard me? Ammeerriiccaaa.) Erm, wrong continent.

I wanted a cool accent, I was hardly going to get that in Spain. I wanted to say words like what-ever and As if! Not words like Que? And No comprendo. I wanted to live adjacent to Walt Disney World, not Hipersol. For a while, there was a bit of excitement when a rumour spread that Walt was opening up a Spanish Disney Land right near us. I thought this was a sign from the universe. The universe was telling me I needed to be near a Disney park. My parents disagreed. Turns out they built Disneyland Paris not long after, and we never moved to Florida. They didn’t even think of my needs at all. So selfish.

The further up my tweens I crawled, the more I desperately needed to be American. Please universe, please let me wake up American in the morning. ‘Please! Please! Ill wash up for a month!! I want to go to high school and be homecoming queen, and graduate, and wear a cap with a tassle. I want to sing songs like Cool rider while dancing my way out of school. I do not want to be English in a foreign country and have idiotic Spanish boys drawing willies on the back of my school shirt while I am being egged on my last day of school. ‘Please god, let me wake up American and cool. Instead of English and chubby. I want to go to college and join a sorority like kappa eye used to be thinna (or something quite similar.) I want to experience a keg party and chill out with my homeys.. Please! Please universe please!’

The universe never answered my calls (when the face don’t wanna know, talk to the hand!) So I was forced to do some leg work of my own. Whenever I was out drinking with my best buddy , we used to act American. We thought we were so clever. We thought It would make us so cool. And so interesting. We would adopt, quite possibly the most insulting (to any real American) accents you have ever heard, and we would lie through our pearly white fake American teeth. I used to say I was from Ohio. I have no idea why. Ohio just sounded cool. And I could say it and still sound kind of American. Where as, if I said California, I just sounded like I had a speech impediment. (While we are on the subject, have you ever tried saying sugar puffs in an American accent? Its impossible! Go on! Try it.)

And then finally! I had a real life chance to make my (American) dream come true! After years of dreaming of living in the land of the free bird, next door to Walt Disney world, I was lucky enough to be accepted on to the WDW International programme in 1999. What a fantastic year that was. The best year of my life without a doubt. But, alas, even after 12 months of searching hard, I couldn’t find any man willing to marry me so I could stay. And believe me I tried. (I also had visions of that film with that big nosed actor in it…Green card, I think it was called, (not the other one where his daughter says she’s his girlfriend and then falls in love in Barbados.) and I didn’t fancy having to undergo an intensive examination.) so I was sent packing back to Spain. Mierda! Bollockso! (But forever more I will always point with two fingers and can not walk past Japanese tourists without asking them if they would like me to take their picture…… brainwashed? Moi?)

Anyway moving on swiftly, I recently noticed a girl called Mckenna has started following me on twitter. I have no idea why. (May be something to do with my anti Beiber tweets.) Upon closer inspection, (after trying to work out why a teeny bopper was following someone who couldn’t clench her lady parts any more.) I noticed her avatar, and was hit with the biggest attack of the green eyed monster since my best friend won a free El Big Macco meal in 1998. (That was a big deal back then.) Mckenna is tanned. (Or tan, as she would probably say.) She has flowing brown, thick, quite clearly, healthy out doorsy type, American locks. (Like mine used to look when I lived in Spain, before post traumatic birth syndrome hit and all my hair fell out and, thank you mother nature, began growing back in tufts. (This is not funny! I look like Albert Einstein!) Mckenna is clearly still quite young, (As oppose to approaching 40 like me. (In 9 years time, but its there, bobbing around in front of me like a poo in the bath.) And most rubbing my nose in it annoying? She is clearly, as happy as a pig in shit, as get this! She is wearing a Kappa Sig t-shirt.

So I ask again how did I get here? 

I was meant to be living the dream, and shouting things like FREEDOM! And munching on chips and grits and visiting Dennys for mashed potato at 2am. (How awesome is that?) Not living in a 2 bedroom flat in Eccles and fighting a battle with O2 over a 20% increase in VAT. (Have you had that text yet? My head nearly popped off!) I am meant to be that girl. I am meant to be that girl that is eternally 19, tanned (or tan as she would probably say) and wearing a kannota fit maclothesa bigmama t-shirt.

That bitch stole my life.

I wonder if she ever wanted to be English?

Will investigate.

Oh bum. She isn’t following me anymore.

Go figure.

The wonderful world of Nurturing Career Mama.

Another fanastic woman and blog I would like to introduce you to is www.nurturingcareermama.wordpress.com. I love her style of writing, she tackles everything from multi-tasking on the potty to mummying – your not allowed to be ill! The woman is hilarious, REAL and its a great blog to stop in and have a read of, if you have two minutes to spare. BUT be warned! You may end up being on there an hour and reading EVERYTHING! She is like a pringle. Once you pop you just can’t stop!  Visit her blog and see for yourself. But for now, here is an introduction.

I call myself the Nurturing Career Mama and I’m a midlands gal living in the south west. Because I work in marketing and PR my real name gets banded around quite a bit in association with my day job, so I choose to stay anonymous about my personal blogging. The last thing I would want when searching for my name in association with work, is some middle aged, short trouser techie engineer stumbling across me going off-on-one about the laziness of the male population, my brazenness about nursing in public, me hailing attachment parenting or jabbering on about my love of a good bit of cake.

I’m a full time mother of a toddler trying to be the nurturing mother I want to be. For any working ma you’ll know this feels like you’re a circus artist trying to keep all the balls in the air while breathing a mouthful of guilt induced fire. In my house this manifests itself in me breastfeeding and babywearing my toddler at the same time as cooking the tea, sending an email, empting the washing machine and eating some cake.

If I am to be honest, I’m a little on the crunchy side (that’s not the chocolate bar, but a reference to being a bit of a hippy mother). I’m one of those mums who uses cloth nappies, breastfeeds her toddler, co-sleeps and babywears…but you’re never gonna get me going bare feet, homeschooling or binning the make-up – that lot is here to stay.

My current phase of motherhood has entered Pottyhood. In other words, we are starting to transition babe from wearing nappies to using the poo pot.

On Sunday I was so proud that babe had managed to ‘produce’ a fine poopey specimen in the pink potty that now gets trailed around the house. We rejoiced in merriment at the wondrous gift that she had neatly delivered to us. This was followed by more carpet stains mixed with success…but on Monday it went more downhill.

We were having more nappy-off-time, but instead of peeing in the potty, babe held her potty in her arms and took a seat on my left foot. It’s getting quite nippy so I thought, ‘ah warm at last’. But it started to get too warm, too nice….argh wet…pee pee wet.

The little minky spalinky had peed on my foot! She left me with a sodden sock and soggy trouser bottoms.  Somehow I know this is only going to be the start.

Visit Nurturing Career Mama and see for yourself www.nurturingcareermama.wordpress.com

An introduction to Northern mummy with southern children.

All this week i will be introducing you to some more fantasic blogging sites. The reason behind this being, i love to read. And i want to share with you a couple of my favourite blogs. My first being this young lady from Up north who now lives Down south! This was one of the first blogs i found and it inspired me to start my own. Without further adue, I give you the hilarious, and very talented, inspiring and truly lovely yummy mummy! @northernmum1.

You will find the link to her site on my blog roll, and at the bottom of this post. And in my Iphone. And on my fridge. And on the pc at my mums house, and my dads house… and in the apple store… i am a big fan…

The cost of a third child.

I do like a bit of guest blogging, and even better when I get to blog up here in manchester.  Not quite my home town but it’ll do.

Sorry I should introduce myself properly.  My name is mummmmmmmmy, I used to have another one but it was such a long time since anyone used it I have completely forgotten it.  I have three children, twin boy, twin girl and baby beautiful; again upon their arrival into the world I did give them ‘real’ names but I suffer badly from baby brainitis so most days it is easier to refer to them by their gender or developmental stage.  I also share my home with he who helped create them, but true to form in the blogging world he does little but work, sleep, fart and watch football.  Should you wish to read more on these topics I suggest you head over to either Top Gear or Soccer am’s site immediately.

Although now I come to think of it trumping played a role in the conception of baby beautiful.  I had been banging on about having another baby since the twins could crawl, some would say because of my love for the little creatures, ones that know me better would argue it is because I am a lazy sod who enjoys coffee mornings on maternity leave far too much.  Anyways after the stress of raising two bambinos at once he who helped create them was not as keen to bring another rather demanding mouth into the world.

However as my mother will tell you I have a tenancy to ‘keep on’ and it took me three years but my dedication to moaning, and writing letters to santa entitled ‘I want a baby’ seemed to be paying off as we approached easter 2009. 

The first sign was when he who helped create them wouldn’t let me ebay the car seats, because we may need them again.  The next sign was when I caught him musing through photos of the twins in their baby years with a cute half smile on his face.  The final clue that he had finally been worn down was when he lay in bed one night after a most delicious curry and asked me;

” How much do you want another baby?”

My response was a mix of desperation, pleaing and guilt inducing cries of;

“More than anything”

He turned to me lovingly and smiled as a sound barrier breaking noise erupted under the sheets and the whiff of vindaloo reached my delicate nostrils.

“If you can put your head under the blanket for two minutes now we try for another baby.”

And there it is twelve months on, baby beautiful lies contentedly in her cot and I still feel a sense of shame as I make my bed on the morning.

just one more thing I have done for my children!

Find more hilarious tales at www.northernmum.wordpress.com



It may be time to up the dose…

I am currently stood, hunched over Woo’s crib with a broken heart.

Woo is healthy by the way. Woo is just asleep. Woo is totally oblivious to my neurosis. Woo is dreaming of chocolate, and dogs that look like sheep, and little red fruity things that taste delicious.

Woo is oblivious to his snot nosed, raw eyed, beast of a mother who is currently in the throws of the quietest meltdown she ever had. My head is already starting to bang and yet I can not stop. My eyes will be puffy and swollen in the morning and yet I can not stop. The Irish one is beginning to think I am a total not-right, and yet I can not stop!

The reason? I just watched toy story 3. Do I need to go on? Or have you seen it?

Woo is beautiful. Woo is angelic. Woo is mine! Woo is forbidden from growing up!

‘Oh Andy.’ Mummy says, looking around the room where her little boy used to play, her little boy used to live, and where, undoubtedly for the last 17 years she has put her little baby boy down to sleep every night (and blatantly checked his breathing at least a million times) ‘I just wish I could always be with you.’

Cue Andy stepping out of the door and heading to college. On. His. Own. (The Horror, the horror!)

Cue full on, Mammy Woo meltdown!

Cue Irish one pausing the DVD and staring at me in disbelief.

‘Erm,’ he whispers, treading carefully, ‘you know its not real right? It’s a cartoon’
‘Yes. It’s just that…’ I spit out between gaspfuls of air, ‘in seventeen years, *sob* Addison will be going off to college, and I, *sob*, CAN’T BEAR THE THOUGHT OF NOT BEING WITH HIM.. *Sob sob sob!’*
‘Yes Lexy, In seventeen years!’ he sighs exasperated.
‘But time flies so, *sob*, quickly.’ I wail, utterly inconsolable now.
‘Are we having a Marley and me moment here?’
‘Yes, *sob.*’
‘ Ill put the kettle on.’ he sighs.

(Have you ever watched Marley and me? One day my beloved poodle (Doodle) will die! *sob* My cousin had to practically carry me out of the cinema, poor lass, she was mortified!)

So here I am now standing over my baby boys crib. (I have checked. And he is breathing.) Pledging to enjoy every moment I have with him while he is still this young.

When I have finished my nightime meltdown vigil I am dragging out all my old teddy’s and apologising to them profusely. They must be heartbroken! I had forgotten about them! I never considered their pain! And of course, when Woo is old enough (because I am not subjecting them to rough play!!) I will pass them on to him.

I am also beginning to understand those mothers who keep their children with them until the age of 40 and beyond. (Sort of.)

‘Irish one? I have decided. Woo is never leaving home.’
‘Yes he is.’
‘No he isn’t. He is staying with me until he is forty.’
‘You will be seventy.’
‘So what? Ill still be cool.’
‘Sigh. Ill put the kettle on.’

Tomorrow we are watching UP, as I have never seen it. I hope it is cheerier than those last last two!

Wordless wednesday.

Friendship. Brought together by Mickey Mouse.

Who is also lurking in this picture.

Just a small town girl, living in a different world….

I have a broken nail. The most important typing nail. Which is why I haven’t been around lately. Typing is a nightmare with only nine acrylic nails. It has taken me an hour to type this one sentence. My hand doesn’t know whether it is coming or going. My fore finger is in a mood as it feels chubby and unattractive next to its elongated glittery compadres and the space bar on my laptop is sticky. I am telling you this, so that you understand why, this post is important. I am typing against the odds. I am a warrior. A blogging Warrior.

In the past, pre- anal stitching, I would have had this malfunctioning nail fixed immediately. I would have dialed nail disaster 999 and it would have been sorted quicker than you could say ‘buy some leggings that fit, you chubby moose, then you won’t break a nail trying to heave them over your enormous gut.’

I would have jumped in my foxy little 2 seater and raced down to Bolton town center, hell for leather, music blaring, and been back on the sofa preparing my night out quicker than you could say ‘I love the smell of fake tan, but what’s a night out?’ I was a woman, whose only mission, was career, drink and frivolous fun.

But in the present, (alas), I am now a woman who piddles when she sneezes. (Does this ever stop?… And please don’t suggest I do some pelvic floor. I have enough to do as it is. I can multi-task like a mother fecker but I refuse to add clenching my lady muscles to the never ending list of daily tasks. Clench while washing up, talking baby talk, feeding the dog, loading the washer and doing my eyeliner? No thanks weirdo. But you go right ahead… I hate them. They make me feel sick. I just did one. They are just weird…and horrible. *Shudder.*)

I used to be cool. I was cool. Honest! I liked Journey before Glee made it cool! Which means I was super cool! (JUUUUUUUSSSSSSTTTT A SMMAAAALLLTOOOWN GIIIIRLLLLLL…. Sorry. Love that song.)

However, over the last few days, its has become screamingly obvious, especially seen as I am more inclined to reach for the Tena Lady before a pack of tissues, just how much my life has changed since giving birth to Woo. And not just because of my wobbly gut, stretch marks and inability to walk up a flight of stairs. (…..or sneeze without wetting myself…. )

In February I am going back to work.

Thud.

Hang on, let me just pick my heart up off the floor before the dog starts humping it. (If it moves he will hump it.) 

I am going back to work full time.

Thuddety thud.

Slippery little bugger.

A year ago today my priorities were very different. I was very different. (My lady muscles were second to none and my knees were quite cute, as oppose to creaky and knackered. A year ago today my main focus was my career and being thin. (shallow bitch. Yes I know.) A year ago today I was worried about missing a year off work. A year ago today I was promising to only take four months. A year ago today I was worried about my portfolio and whether I could afford two pairs of winter boots with a baby on the way. A year ago today my job and having a laugh with a bottle of vodka was my world. A year ago today I thought I was cool.

Today I don’t care about cool. Today I am not even remotely arsed about being sophisticated (cough cough chav cough cough) with super skinny jeans and a pendant for skipping meals. Today I am a broken nailed chubby mummy (and blogging warrior!) who can be seen shoving a full fat muffin down her throat while wiping up puke (and not doing pelvic floor excersizes!! Let it go!!!) while singing ‘the grand old duke of York’ at top decibels to win an elusive smile.

Today I am starting to realise February is growing close. Today I am worried my heart will break in to a thousand pieces when I hand my heart and soul, my blood, my best friend, the love of my life, my baby over to a stranger, while I go back to my portfolio. (Spit that word out.)

I am one of those women I used to hate. And I couldn’t give a flying duck. I wanted a career. My priorities have changed. And yes some women have both. But today. I just want Addison.

Thud! Splat! Pacha!

(Nanananananananana BATMAAAAN!!! Just kidding. That’s my heart again. With a dagger in it.)

I am not dreading going back to work because I am lazy. I am not dreading going back to work because I am nervous. I am dreading going back to work because I will miss my son. I will miss my son. I will miss being a full time mum. (I will miss the puke in the bath, the poo in the bath, story time, wiping puke off the book, wiping puke of my jeans, wiping puke off the dog and mostly? I will miss the pukey impromptu cuddles.)

A year ago today I could throw major strops and blame them on stress.

Today I am about to throw a major strop and blame it on my horny dog. LEAVE THAT BLOODY VIBRATING MICKEY MOUSE ALONE DOODLE!!!

A year ago today I was a stroppy cow when I didn’t get my own way.

Some things never change.

Going back to work will not ‘sort my head out’ like countless people keep promising. Going back to work will break my heart.

Smell of wine and cheeeeeappp perfummmmeeee *sob sob*, She took the midnight train going anywheeeeerrrreeeeeee…*sob sob*, Just a small town girl… gonna be living in a lonnneeeelllllyyyy worlllllddddd *sob sob*

Still got the drama though. You godda love the drama.

I AM (post partum) WOMAN! HEAR ME ROAR!

I am a mother on Maternity leave.

Therefore by default, the Trafford Center belongs entirely to me. (And Woo!)

I am also a creature of Habit, (as if you didnt know this) and for the last 8 months I have visited the Trafford Center coffee house, each morning, between 11-12 for a Grande, skinny (because you have got to make an effort with weight loss.) Vanilla shot (because you have skinny so you can have a shot!) cappuccino (because it sounds sophisticated.) and a chill out with my little monster.

It is wonderful, and relaxing and calm. It is a weekday. The big children are in school. Most people are at work. It is peaceful. People Amble! How lovely! We sit like ladies and babies of leisure, me sipping on my Mocha. (Oops I mean skinny cappuccino!!) and Addison chomping on a slice of pear while making poo noises. (He makes poo noises while he eats, I don’t know why. He just does. Hopefully this will rectify itself before his first date…)

We sit together and watch the passing fashion, (ooo great bag! Ooo great shoes! Ooo you shouldn’t be wearing that top love (…she says stuffed in to her post partum girdle like a sausage in cellophane.) Or in Addison’s case (as he watches the baby fashion!) ooo Nice wheels, Ooo nice (foot) muff, ooo your mum looks nice and slim (…sideways glance at my gut! I see you child!) and it is wonderful. It is at times like this, I wish maternity leave could last forever.

So I have to ask, Christmas shoppers! Just who the heck do you think you are?

There are no seats, the high chairs are splattered with gloop, there are long queues, MY parking space is taken, there are teenagers sat on MY sofa, (…which makes me wonder about ‘FRIENDS’ and how odd they always got the sofa… I shall have to look in to it!) and worst of all? Addison is no longer the center of attention! He has competition! When he gurgles at people now, they choose to ignore him! He is baffled by this, and I am outraged!

There is no ambling anymore! People are stressed. People hussle! People tut and sigh and roll their eyes when faced with my pram. A (now worse for wear) woman literally walked directly in to Addison’s high chair as if he didn’t exist!! She knocked him flying! She didn’t even apologise! (Mummy? Why did you kick that woman in the face? Because i am post partum woman darling, and anybody who hurts you or does not smile indulgently when faced with your gorgeous big blue eyed smile gets a beating…. Not really, but in my mind I gave her a Jackie Chan ass whooping. Ninja styleeee… I mean, i dont want to labour the point here but just who the hell do you think you are? He is 7 months old! You are at least 28! Grow some manners!! and pass me a mince pie….. )

The Christmas approach is truly awful! And don’t even get me started on half term!

We are not going back anytime soon.

Which means, if you know me? Expect something off eBay.

And as for you Christmas shoppers?

 The Trafford center belongs to me! Have some decorum! (And pass me another hot chocolate! ….oops I mean….. Oh sod it! Ill have some whipped cream too…)

 

This was first published as a guest post on www.westoncommunications.org.uk

So much for being a stepford wife…

One of the very first Blogs I ever found and fell in love with was www.Thisismommyhood.com.

Her name is Elle and she is a mother to a toddler who is like a hummingbird on crack. Her blog title made me howl with laughter and her humorous and beautiful way with words had me hooked from day dot. It was her, amongst few others, that inspired me to start this blog. It was Elle that taught me it was ok to admit to being a little less than perfect, it was Elle that taught me that being a little less than perfect could be great reading! Today I am lucky enough to add to my blog,  a guest post from Elle herself.  Visit Elle’s  blog over at www.thisismommyhood.com. ENJOY!!

  So much for being a stepford wife. I’m as undomestic as they come….

When I was younger I thought when I got married and had kids I would be Martha Stewart before I knew Martha existed. I thought I would always have dinner ready when my husband got home from work. I thought I would be a cleaning goddess and everything would sparkle like a Mr. Clean commercial.

I thought I would be crafty and teach myself to knit, learn how to use a sewing machine and make my future kids costumes for Halloween and school plays. I thought I would be a perfect hostess to friends while making an effortless meal without breaking a sweat.

I thought I would be perfectly dressed, not a hair out-of-place, make-up always flawless. I thought every word that would come out of my mouth would be kind and encouraging to my husband. I thought my MIL and I would be best friends (okay that might be pushing it). Oh, the beauty of only being 10 years old when I thought these things.

I guess I thought I would be some pod person, some stepford wife, some robot. Then I got married over 15 years ago and reality set in. If your trying to do the math, I’m 24 years old…..in my dreams. Try as I might, and I do try, I can’t cook if my life depended on it. I found out very quickly that I hate cooking. The microwave and I have developed a very special bond over the years.

I like things to be clean yet I’m not a cleaning goddess by any means. I tried to teach myself to knit years ago. That lasted, um, maybe a week. I still have an interest in learning to sew but right now I don’t even know where I’d find the time with a toddler.

After several years of marriage we’ve only had friends over TWICE for dinner. The first time my hubby did the cooking. He also accidentally set plastic wrap on a burner that was on….I can still smell it. The second time, I did the cooking and made a Mexican feast.

To put it bluntly, it sucked balls. The dinner I made was fine but most of the time that our friends were over, I was stuck in the kitchen all sweaty and cursing like a sailor. It was definitely not the nice, relaxing evening with friends that I had hoped it would be.

I spend most of my days, not in perfect outfits, but in yoga pants and a t-shirt. Sometimes it’s a shirt and my pajama boxers. Those are the days when even yoga pants are a little too fancy schmancy for me. When it comes to wearing make-up, Ha! I’ve only worn it once in the past couple of months.

I do take some time to do my hair or I just feel blah all day. I have naturally wavy hair and if I just blow-dry it I look like Bozo the Clown so I have to straighten it too. Even by putting in my best efforts, I usually have a bad hair day most days.

There are times when my husband annoys me to the core of my being and I say things to him that I regret as soon as they come out of my mouth. We don’t fight very often but when I try to discuss something with him, it’s like talking to a brick wall.

I always tell him I’m sorry but that’s not good enough for me. I need to work on keeping the snarky remarks to myself. Better yet I should just put them on twitter. When we do argue (meaning me arguing and the hubby just standing there with a blank look on his face) it’s about pretty typical things when it comes to a couple who’s been married for over 15 years.

The longer that we’re together, the better our relationship becomes so I think that’s a very good sign. We’re both improving. A lot of the relationships I saw when I was younger consisted of yelling matches and marriage getting worse year after year. I actually used to think that’s the way relationships were supposed to be.

When it comes to my MIL, I’ve pretty much given up. I know that the relationship she had with her mother-in-law was really bad. My husband has told me how things were usually very cold between them. What’s ironic is I feel my MIL is basically treating me how her MIL treated her and she doesn’t even seem to realize it.

She actually commented before about how she doesn’t understand MIL drama and that she’s so easy to get along with. I just nodded and on the inside I was laughing my ass off. I still am.

When my husband’s grandmother was alive I would hear how she made my MIL feel bad. Then my MIL would tell me how frustrating it was. Um, hello? She questions everything I do and puts me down. It’s more like she body slams my feelings. So for now things are civil but I do wish she could treat me with just a little decency.

I’m a less than perfect cook who loves yoga pants sans doing the actual yoga, who’s never going to like cleaning and can’t sew, who sometimes lashes out at my husband and whose relationship with my MIL is lacking.

I still have issues with not being the perfect phucking stepford wife but it’s something I’m becoming okay with. What’s made me realize I need to accept who I really am is my daughter. She doesn’t care about all of those other things. She just wants love and cuddles. And whatever I have on my plate therefore leaving me hungry most of the time.

What’s something you thought you would do differently?

Never mind halloween! Try motherhood.

Hot dog hot dog hot diggety dog is the theme tune of my life at the moment. Even when it is not playing out of the television, (which is rare) it is playing out of my Iphone, as it seems to be the only sound my son wants to hear. He wants to hear it when he is playing (Code for; Drooling.) When he is trying to sleep (Code for; Trumping.) When he is having a trump (Code for; Shitting his kecks) and most recently? When he is the bath. (See previous code. Unfortunately the bath also seems to loosen his bladder.) Hot dog works better than a dodi, Hot diggety dog, works better than a soother, and sadly for me, if you’ve got ears its time for cheers, at the moment works better than a cuddle. (Can I borrow a tiny violin?) Come what may, no matter what manner of mood my seven month old angel/monster is experiencing, the moment those opening bars ring out, he is in heaven. He goes quiet, his ears prick up, his thumb goes in his mouth and he is at peace. Hot dog hot dog hot diggety dog, is his drug of choice, if you will.

Meanwhile I am in hell. Actual hell.

Well, ok, not actual hell. But a little bit like hell. It’s not Brahms symphony is it? Which is what I hoped he would like! Which is what I expected him to like! Nor is it Kylie and Jason. (I have tried that too. I have also tried a bit of 90′s house. He clearly needs to be taught to appreciate good music….)

Hot dog hot dog hot diggety dog.. CAN YOU HEAR THAT??? I need to check the CD player in the spare room hang on…. Nope. Its off. Which can only mean one thing. I’m turning in to a full on mentalist. The house is at peace. The baby is finally asleep. And yet for some godforsaken reason, I can still hear THAT BLOODY SONG!

A friend of mine recently endured an extremely long labour, in which I have to say, she was a pillar of strength and tranquility. (I wasn’t there but if I imagine her like this I don’t have to shudder every two minutes in sympathy. Shuddering is knackering and god knows I am knackered enough!) While she was in labour, and I was checking her Facebook wall every 6 minutes for updates, it reminded me of my labour (cue multiple shuddering followed by a shot of brandy) and all of the expectations I had of motherhood, that looking back now, make the hot dog dance seem like small tomaytoes. (I think that is an American saying. Just go with me here. Ill get to the point in a minute I promise.) It reminded me how excited I was about these moments I had built up in my mind, moments only motherhood would bring, if you catch my drift. By the time my 65 hour labour started, I was already a mother. In my mind. I already had the perfect little boy. In my mind. I already knew it all and loved it all. In my mind.

•  Me and my little boy would wander through my maternity leave with ease. We would be a happy couple visiting the shops. (I would not faint with exhaustion in the Trafford center showing my fat arse to the world and wake up with a polo mint shoved in my mouth and clinging on to a random woman’s shoe. I apologise to this woman. I can see now how clinging on to your leg for dear life and laying my head on your boot and begging for ‘five more minutes sleep’ made you a little uncomfortable. I am also sorry for the drool. Mine. Not the baby’s.)
  

• Me and my little boy would be best friends. (If any of my best friends threw up on me as much as my little boy does I would be seriously considering calling either bulimics anonymous of Alcoholic anonymous. I would also be considering reducing the friend status from best friend to ‘If you are sick on me one more time I will take you out.’ As in, outside, for some air. Not with a shotgun.) But my little boy doesn’t need air. He just happily empties his guts all over my finery (new look’s best) and carries on having a look around.
  

• Motherhood would be a pleasure, my weight would drop off and each passer-by would gasp with delight at how beautiful he was and how positively skinny I was. (Have I ever told you about the five stitches in my arse? That certainly took the immediate shine off motherhood. Don’t get me wrong, I love being a mummy but I could have done without the ‘I’m just going to stick my fingers up your anus’ during my post birth happy haze phase. The shine was stripped from that particular moment fairly quickly let me tell you. Especially when I saw the glint in her eye. And yes, people do stop and stare, but unfortunately is it usually because I have a wet patch on my left tit. Or Addy has thrown up all over my face and his face, and somehow I haven’t noticed. (If I am in a shoe shop, he could probably throw up in my eye and I wouldn’t notice. Bad mother? You decide.)
  

• Although he was born with a willy, my son would love everything girly. Including Beauty and the Beast and The Little Mermaid. Which funnily enough are my favourites.(Look Addy, look! Tale as ooolllldddd as timmmmeee, Its princess Aurora, look Addy look!!WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!! Look Addy, look! Its Sebastian the crab, look isn’t he funny!!!!WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!! Look Addy look! Its Paddington bear! Mummy’s favourite! No Addy! No! Don’t eat the book! Addy please stop being sick on the book! Addy noooooooooooooooo! )

Made to make your eyes water.

Seven months ago at this very moment, I was watching the Irish one spread mustard on a home made, ham sandwich while trying to huff, puff and focus myself through a never ending and incredibly painful contraction. I had been in labour for 55 hours and was only 3 cm dilated. While I was busy losing the will to live, the Irish one was merrily spreading Colman’s on a ham butty.

This pretty much sums up the Irish one. Even in times of trouble, the man has to eat. And no, not just a corner shop bap. He has to eat exactly what he has a craving for. And it has to be made by him. This is one of the many perils of falling in love with a man who can cook. (The other peril, is when you are being force fed Coddle. Never heard of it? Its probably for the best.)

The one thing I should probably clarify however, is how supportive the Irish one was during labour. Mustard or no Mustard. He was nurturing and caring, he held my hand while I was muttering all manner of expletives, and he understood when, high on gas and air, I began to call the drip doodle. (The drip going in to my arm. The Irish one is not the drip in this scenario. I love my poodle and I obviously missed him, so I named the drip after him. The drip in my arm. Not the Irish one. Make sense? I would NEVER call the Irish one a drip… honest.) So in summary, he was amazing. In all fairness, I couldn’t have done it without him.(The Irish one, not the drip.) That better love?

If I was to write about my ‘birth story’ it would take me forever (not only because most of it is hazy but because it went on forever.) I could, if I had a few years to spare, give you an hour by hour blow of what happened and I am sure it would make for good reading, it was dramatic, it was funny and it was painful, and yet, writing it all down seems pretty pointless. As you already know how it ends.

Seven months later here I sit, eyes held open with matchsticks, while a beautiful and healthy baby boy sleeps beside me. (Yes I know I should probably be asleep too but I have never been able to sleep while he sleeps. If I am asleep? And he is asleep? Who can check he is breathing every two minutes????)

This time last year – at this very moment (and I know this because I keep a diary, and I was reading it this morning.) I was 5 months pregnant and staring in to the unknown like a woman possessed. Looking back now my little meanderings, seem so funny and unimportant in the grand scheme of things. But at the time they were monumental! As well as howling with laughter at how idiotic I sounded, it really made me see just how much has changed in a year.

So much in fact, I thought I would share a few of my more ridiculous nuggets;

The meanderings of a 5/6 month pregnant drama queen. Written 4/11/2009.

1. I am not sure what to wear for labour. I think I am going to go and buy a nightdress from marks and Spencer’s. I definitely do NOT want everything to be on show and yet I want to look half decent. Yes I know I will be in labour but I still want the Irish one to fancy me afterwards. Hope I don’t have to spend too much money. (Brilliant! Him fancying me afterwards was the last thing I needed or wanted in reality! With five stitches holding my arse together I wouldn’t have minded if he had never felt the urge ever again! And as for not having everything on show? Did I mention the five stitches holding my arse together?)

2. I love being able to eat again. It is so weird to think, everything I eat my baby is trying for the first time. I wonder if when I feel sick it is because the baby doesn’t like the taste of something? (I am clearly a mentalist.)

3. We have the 20 week scan a week on Wednesday. I wish I could have a scan every week. We are trying to decide whether to find out or not. The Irish one thinks it is a girl, but I know it is a boy. I just do. But sometimes I think I am just convincing myself of that because I would like a girl. I only want a girl so we can watch the princess films and I can buy pink things. Plus how do you clean a little willy? I know it’s a boy. As long as the baby is healthy, that is all that matters. Healthy and cute! (So there you have my complete honesty! I was hoping for a girl at the time. Now I wouldn’t change him for the world and I cant imagine myself with a girl! Funny how times change! I learnt how to clean a little willy pretty quickly!)

4. I wonder if The Irish one will propose while I am pregnant? That would be nice. (Nope!)

5. We can not agree on any names. I like Sam and Sebastian for a boy, and Sienna for a girl. He likes random names. I figure I should be able to choose seen as its me who has to go through it! (Told you I was a drama queen! Turns out the Irish one chose the name, as 2 minutes before I went in to labour I went off Sam and had a bit of a meltdown.)

6. I am definitely going to breastfeed. Apparently you can lose all your baby weight by breastfeeding. My friend told me you can burn 1000 calories a day. Which means I don’t feel guilty about all these bacon sandwiches! (Yes those are the right reasons for breastfeeding Lexy. Because you lose weight. Not because it is best for the baby or anything!? Also I couldn’t breastfeed in the end. I was gutted and although Woo did very well on formula – and still does, I am still a happy size 14/16.…. And no where near as selfish! Honest.)

7. I worry about doodle. I love him so much. I hope I still get time to spend with him and that he likes the baby. I will have to watch the dog whisperer and get a few tips. (Doodle is fine. Woo is fine. Cesar Milan was busy.)

I could continue to regale you, but these were the funniest. I wonder if this time next year I will look back at today’s entry about how I know my boy will be a well behaved toddler and laugh?

Here’s betting I probably will.

Oh and just to finish off nicely, here is how my birth story ended. (There is a new born baby on my chest but i felt it a little too personal a moment ,to include. I hope you understand.)

 

But can you see the mustard on the windowsill?

Drip!