Wordless Wednesday

Apocolypse now? Yes please.

So, ok, I know it’s been a while since I have been ‘home’ and I know within that period of time I have had a lot going on.

Including but not limited to;

1. Getting knocked up,
2. Getting fat,
3. Losing the ability to control my bladder,
4. Giving birth (yes that is the right order)
5. Having no sleep,
6. Losing my hair, (and the will to live on occasion.)
7. Growing back ridiculous tufts, (But only around my forehead?!?)
8. And last but not least, finally losing my grip on reality, 

But honestly? I am really not sure I can keep on using Baby Brain as an excuse for the ever growing list of embarrasing fuck ups, I seem to be tallying up, almost on a daily basis! I mean it’s been nine months! Shouldn’t this have stopped by now?

There was me hoping, wanting, praying that admitting;

‘My arse stitches are excruciating, could you please, please get me some painkillers or at the very least check them?’

To a woman I thought was my nurse, two days after finally birthing Addison (turns out she was visiting the lady in the bed next to me, and will probably never wear that outfit when visiting a hospital again) was surely the most humiliating moment of my entire life (yes worse than the actual stitching up, and yes, far worse for me than it was for her. She could giggle, I could not.) And it couldn’t get worse than that right? I’ve had the baby now, so surely, my brain goes back to normal RIGHT? Wrong.

We were running low on nappies. And due to my baby brain I could not remember the translation. Actually come to think of it, I have never had to use the word for nappy in Spanish before. This is the first time in my life I have been home with child. This is the first time in my life I have ever been home responsible for anything other than myself. Previous trips home have usually and mainly been about visiting friends, going skiing and drinking stupid amounts of una vodka y cranberry porfavor! While enjoying copious amounts of chocolate, and family time with my dad balanced perfectly with random parties on the beach and watching the sun come up, with old friends. *Stares off longingly in to the middle distance* (the Titanic theme, may or may not be playing in the background…)

So although I will blame BABY BRAIN (got it?) on my forgetting the word for nappies and what happened after that, (oh the shame!) it is actually, in all fairness, a fairly new word in my vocabulary too.

(Nappies and ‘Holy shit balls’ that is, which I have picked up somewhere (probably Ireland) and have fallen in love with. I can’t stop saying it. It’s popped itself alongside a fair few near misses in the last few days, let me tell you. I am sure the air steward will use it now too! He seemed impressed! But anyway….. Actually while we are on this subject, I am hoping Addison’s first word will be Dada (Yeah right) or Mama (got it Addison? MAMA!!) But at this rate, if I carry on holyshit balling everything, there is no doubt in my mind, the day will come when he will open his arms in a gesture that says mama, but will instead shout SHITBALLS in all it’s glory. (And I don’t mind either. I would still prefer it to dada! Ahem!)

I am not going to tell you exactly how I communicated my urgent need for nappies, across to the random woman (who looked like a mother but thinking back now, she had no child with her!) on the street at 9 o’clock this morning. Because there is no need to. 

It was just me and her on a quiet village street.
I was armed with a full days worth of christmas day, charades practice.
It was meant to be a cinch!
Turns out it was harder than I thought.

It very quickly materialised in to a very badly and graphically played game of the worst and most embarrassing kind of charades I have ever played with a stranger.

(Well? Think about it! How would you act out the word for nappy?!) 

She went red.
My actions became more manic.
She went crimson.
I grabbed my arse and blew a raspberry.

(I panicked!!!)

But we got there in the end.

Or at least I thought we did.

Turns out? The direct translation of nappies to Spanish is Panales.

Not toallas higenicas.

It is during a horrifying moment of realisation, while being shown to the sanitary towels and incontinence pads, that I realise with a sinking heart, I never once used the words ‘for the baby’ during my rendition to the innocent (please god be a mother) on the street.  

The horror, the horror!
Kill me now.
No! I’m serious!

Or at the very leaset please tell me I am not going to have to live the rest of my life with half a brain! I only had half a brain to begin with! (Thought I’d say it before you did!)

This baby brain goes doesn’t it?

Calling all mothers!

The baby brain goes DOESN’T IT?!?????

The power of christ(mas) compels you, Santa!

‘Fuck.’ I sit upright in bed.
‘What?’ as the Irish one turns over groggily.  
‘It’s four am!’ Pulling the covers back and tearing open my swollen lids.
‘Fuuuuuuuck.’ Pulling the covers back over himself and pretending he doesn’t care.
‘Get up NOW!’ throwing the baby over my shoulder and kicking the bed.

And that is how, the day I had been dreading since time began, (A slight exaggeration maybe, so ok, I will amend it so it is a less dramatic- more truthful version!) That is how the day I had been dreading since Addison’s time began, (See?  For those of you who don’t like creative writing? Now I am managing both dramatic and honest) commenced. Badly.

We had overslept. 

Of course we had! Both mobile alarms had been set for days, months, YEARS! (I really can’t help the drama. It’s in my blood.) And yet somehow we still managed to oversleep. How?? I really don’t know. (Mr Sod at his bloody best) I am pretty sure I didn’t even manage to get 4 winks, never mind the pre-promised 40 and yet somehow we managed it. We had overslept by a full, planned to a tee, lets get ready at a relaxing pace, let mammy get her bowels in order in preparation for the flight ahead, hour!

At this point, so early in the proceedings (4am!!) I would love to be able to introduce you, once again, to the Benny Hill theme tune. Except, I do not need to, as the general ambience of both my own mood and that of the Irish one, while running around in a wide eyed, big haired panic was summed up perfectly by my mobile phone shrieking out ‘The Exorcist’ theme tune at five minute intervals. (The Irish one had set this theme as a joke earlier in the year, thinking it would be funny to have as an alarm, and as a ringtone for err, well, for someone scary. Ahem. I have no idea who he could have possibly meant? I’m not due back at work for months so what gives? He is so out of order! My boss isn’t scary!  But anyway! Cough cough cough whistle whistle.) So as it turns out, given my nerves and my uncensored, stomach clenching fear of flying, the theme tune was extremely poignant. (I literally had to force myself not to start running in slow motion while looking back over my shoulder, with a terrorised look on my face, just for kicks. Ok, I did do it, but no one saw me. And only for a moment!)

So! Disaster averted! We woke up late. But ahaaaaa screw you sods law! Because we still managed to be ready and out of the house on time with minimal drama! (I did catch my ear with my GHD’s, so now have a nice welt slowly growing out of the side of my shell like, but that’s another story. I only screamed once. See??? Minimal drama. )

Unfortunately though, cockiness goes against me. As the next potential crisis was hiding in the shape of sodden tights (Addison’s not mine. And yes even though he is male I do put him in tights. It keeps his legs warm. And nobody will know. Well, nobody other than you. BUT again, it is all material for his 21^st birthday, so I am unable to promise that this secret will be kept) and a wet patch growing on his beeeehind.

Basically as the doorbell buzzed and awoke each dormant corner of the house, my boy, mid wee, got the fright of his life. Couple that with the general confusion of being fully dressed at 4 am and, ladies and gentlemen, you have yourself a squirter. 

‘Babes?’
‘What Irish one? For the love of god! The Taxi is here! Help me with these cases!’ (She says applying powder in the mirror, in an attempt to look less dead zombie more mother goddess. (Yes I know it will take more than a sweep of blush. Bastards.)
‘Has Addison sat in something wet?’
‘What?’ (At this point I pause mid dab, a bead of sweat forming on my top lip.)
‘He’s a wet bum.’ (Irish for; he HAS a wet bum.)
‘For the love of all things holy!!!’ (Drops make up brush in the loo and runs to grab Woo) ‘Give him here!’

NOW cue the Benny hill theme tune.

And that was just getting out of the house! Do I need to tell you what happened next?

Between Eccles and Spain, a lot happened (that’s what!) The following is not for the faint hearted.

• I tripped up in to a queue full of yawning and moaning, tired and grumpy passengers, accidentally grabbing a hairy and tall mans arse to stabilise myself. (I am still cringing.) The worst moment? He winked and said he didn’t mind. He winked! (I vomited in my mouth a little.)
• Our bags thankfully were under weight. (Even my suitcase shoves its skinniness in my face!) We realised on arrival we have forgotten ALL THE FORMULA! (I say we, but it’s not like I will EVER accept blame for this!) AND I only brought one extra pair of shoes! Can you believe it? I left room for the bloody formula. What is it with these airlines? 20kg is not enough! I have needs too you know! Anyway no drama. We picked some up in the supermarket immediately. Same brand, everything. (Its not too hot or too cold either! Wink wink smile smile.)
• We finally pushed through the sea of bums and backs and legs and heads to arrive at our seats, fanny around with belts and bags and whistles and wipes, finally get settled and ready for take off, and there it is. Poo face. We hadn’t even taken off yet and there he was proudly squeezing one out for mammy. (I can not type my reaction to this, quite frankly, personal attack on my well being, in here. It was far too upsetting for words. But I will say this. He knew what he was doing. As I passed him on to his daddy’s knee, I am sure he mouthed the words ‘America’s next top model’ at me. I knew flicking from the Disney channel would come back to bite me in the arse one day.)
• Jam sandwiches are a bad idea for a 9 month old when you are not in the comfort of your own home. (The smeared, sticky gentleman on my right hand side promised he didn’t mind. But then, if that were true? Where did he go after his chat with Stewart the steward? Didn’t mind my arse. Have a habit of vanishing in to thin air do you mate??)
• Changing a nappy at an altitude of 36000ft in a toilet I can only assume has been designed for people who don’t have elbows, was my idea of hell on earth. (All of a sudden I was all elbows; Woo was all feet, and all swively hips. Could I whip the nappy off and get a new one on in ten seconds flat,  like I do at home? Could I bollocks! Couple that with a few good jolts of turbulence and I began to panic. I very nearly left the comfort of that midge sized bog, with a shitty bum of my own, carrying a shocked baby and screaming WE ARE ALL GONNNA DIIIIEEEE!! Thankfully, though,  I managed to hold it together long enough (secret swig of vodka) to get back to my seat quietly and composed. (Ignoring the shakes, and my knees giving way, in front of the drinks trolley (another sneaky swig.)
• 2 hours of screaming. (Addison.)
• 2 hours of panic and apologising. (Me)
• 2 hours of sighing heavily, (Irish one) and assuring me we weren’t going to A) crash in to another plane on decent, B) fall from the sky due to double engine failure, or C) die in a horrific mountain meets air random and unexplained plummet. (I really need to quit watching Air Crash Investigation.)

On the plus side, when I had finally stopped shaking, and had finally finished kissing the ground and thanking my lucky stars for our safe arrival at Malaga Aeropuerto, the first thing I spotted, with my beady un-caffeinated and frazzled eye, was An EL Starbuckso!!!

A Christmas miracle!

Cue my first Spanish Latte de vanilla con leche desnatada porfavor.

OK, half a Christmas miracle.

The other half being, Addison slept through until 8.30 this morning!!!!! (A full nueve horas!)

So ignoring the fact I kept waking up in a cold sweat, thinking the bed was shaking (turn that bloody Excorsist theme tune off Irish one! It’s not funny, it never was!!) or that my head was about to start spinning off my shoulders in a sickly green rage (Just a normal day in the woo household then) I very nearly managed a full 40 winks.

‘And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof.
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
down the chimney St Nicholas came with a bound.’

Until he saw Mammy woo, suspended in air,
Green in the face, with very big hair,
You may be special, but don’t eat my pies!!
He fled through the chimney and took to the skies!!

Merry Christmas to one and all!

And to all of the nutbags who keep me sane (you!!) I hope you have all had a lovely christmas day. I love you all x

Stone the witch!!

Deciding not to breast feed was a difficult decision. Ok, who am I kidding? Deciding anything in this big scary world of parenting, is a difficult decision. But deciding not to breast feed, for me, was the one I have probably struggled with the most.

I tried; I honestly gave it a go. But I was tired. But I was hormonal. But I was in pain. But he was just too hungry. And I gave up. A decision I am not proud of. A decision I wish I would have thought longer about. A decision I will probably always feel guilty about but ultimately a decision I have made my peace with, after today’s events.

I think.

I may as well be honest, as at this point, other than you faithful readers, I do not have much to lose. (And I hope you stay with me. One lady in particular, you know who you are. I respect you for your opinions. I really do.)

I wish more than anything I could have breast fed, And that I had persevered, but maybe not for the right reasons. I wanted to breast feed because; yes I wanted to do what was best for my baby. And I was told on countless occasions that breast is best. I wanted to breast feed because, erm, apparently it helps you lose weight? (WITCH, WITCH! SELFISH WITCH! DROWN HER!!) But mostly I wanted to breast feed because I had heard it helps you bond with your baby.

Having suffered pretty badly with post natal depression, I did struggle to bond at first. I blamed it whole heartedly on my selfish decision not to breast feed, and I suppose, in the healing process, I arrived at anger. (With a side order of guilt.)

The reasons, I was told I should breastfeed are still, thrown at me, on a daily basis. (The Drs Office, the health visitor, a dickhead old friend…) It is best for baby being the one I hear most commonly.

I understand why there is propaganda for breast feeding, I really do. I just don’t understand why there isn’t more positive mothering propaganda. Post natal depression is a huge concern in the U.K right now, with many mothers sinking in to a deep dark hole because they feel like a failure. I know propaganda wouldn’t rectify this, but on my darkest days, it would have been nice to see a smiling baby with the slogan ‘Is your baby smiling? Then give yourself a pat on the back’ rather than ‘The best thing about breastfeeding is my milk is never too hot, too cold, and my mummy never runs out. My mummy is doing the best for me.’  Do you see what I mean?

But yeah, best for baby slogans? Those are the ones that upset me the most.

Yes, I am sure breast feeding and the milk your breasts provide,  is a more natural way of feeding than, that, that comes in a tin, but it is all relative isn’t it? If formula wasn’t healthy, they wouldn’t sell it would they? Thousands of babies a year wouldn’t have thrived on it would they?  And surely what is best for baby is a healthy, happy mummy, who is, in one way or another, regardless of whether it is from a bottle, or a nipple, providing nourishment for her child?

I am not very good at failing. I have a habit of having to succeed at everything. And if I don’t succeed, I pretend I never tried. You know the one. It’s the ‘Oh I never tried that, well done you (and in my mind I’m wringing your neck) dance.’ In my opinion being unable to breast feed was some sort of (ignored but still floating around under a loaded baked potato in my chest) failure. So I will have to admit, when I see a mother breast feeding my first thought is always. ‘Lucky Cowbag’. And my second thought is always, ‘Bet you think you’re perfect don’t you?’ Well you’re not. I am doing my best too.’ (Yes I can be very childish.)

This morning, I accidentally caused a bit of a Kafuffle on Twitter. I had seen breastfeeding affirmation tweets knocking about, and immediately my back was up. So I knocked out a couple of formula feeding affirmations. You are a good mum, etc.

And I only lost 26 followers.

You see the thing is, I go on with myself about how I would never judge a formula mum etc and how dare these breast feeding mothers throw their perfection (My Jealousy) in our faces, but the truth is, they aren’t throwing it in our faces. They are simply proud of themselves for achieving a pre-set goal, and reminding themselves of that fact, so that during the hard times, they can remember what they are achieving. It really is fair enough.

(I am talking here about the mothers, who do not have perfection complexes. Not the 26 who un-followed me for having an opinion.)

So maybe I should stop jumping on the defensive huh? Every breast feeding affirmation is not a dig at formula mothers. (Or is it? You tell me? But I don’t think it is anymore.) And, if that is the case, I will continue with my formula affirmations. To remind myself, during the hard times, I am still a good mum. (Not to dig at the breast feeding mothers.)

This morning has taught me a valuable lesson, which I hope is not too idealistic.

There are two sides to every story and actually, we are all on the same side. 

We all want what’s best for our babies.  

Having recently spoken to a friend of mine who breast fed she exposed me to some very surprising nuggets of information. She expressed (see what I did there?) that although she absolutely loved breastfeeding and wouldn’t change it for the world, she had sometimes wished she had gone down the formula route, so her other half could help at 3am, when she was dying on her arse, so that she could eat a bit of cheese pie, and so that she could feel once again that her body belonged to her.

Then, rather shockingly, as if to make some sort of point, she showed me her breasts.

‘Look, see! Look how droopy!’ (We are quite close.)
And she was right, they were quite droopy. But, erm, then what’s my excuse? Because mine are waaaay droopier…  

But still, I didn’t tell her that. She had shown them to me as proof. Proof of what? I erm, I don’t know… But either way, she was clearly proud of her achievement, and I was proud of her too. (Meanwhile, back at the ranch, my jealousy and guilt began to ebb away.)

I was proud of her because she is a great mother. (Irregardless of how she feeds her son.)

So under order of Queen Bitch (that’s me by the way, but only today. Tommorrow I am just Queen of the world again. Got it?) From here on in, all conversations between formula mums and breast mums, must start like this;

Look Mary, I commend you on your breast feeding.
Look Rachel, well done for the choices you made, you are a great mum.
Look Mary, ultimate respect as it’s clearly so painful!
Look Rachel, I am proud of myself but I do wish it could be easier.
Look Mary, I’m a little jealous of how serene you look while feeding.
Look Rachel, I wish I could tell exactly how much my baby is getting.
Look Mary, you are doing your best you are a great mum.
Look Rachel, Right back at you.
Look Mary, now show me your breasts.

Ok, take that last one out.

But wouldn’t that make more sense than some of the constant judgment that flies around?

Ultimately we are all on the same side right? We are all sleep deprived. We are all knackered. We are all trying our best and we are all, in some ways, new to this mothering Lark. Would it not be easier then, to drop the charade and just help each other out?

Here, take my nipple, I don’t need it.

And the bells were ringing out for… oh bloody hell.

‘You gonna buy a coat for winter?’  I asked my best friend this morning while stood shivering outside Starbucks,  attempting to de-tangle Woo from the car seat.

‘Yeah I already bought mine a while ago, Lexy. I am wearing it. Look. It’s huge, it’s warm, it’s belted, and it even has a hood.’

I glance up, cursing the frost bite which had begun to make itself at home on my fingers ‘Oh. Yeah. It’s Nice. ’   The Bitch looks toasty.

‘Are you gonna buy a winter coat any time soon?’ she fires back looking a little bewildered. ‘You must be freezing in that t-shirt and cardigan.’

‘I, erm, I was waiting for winter.’

Ok, somebody please explain this to me. How the fooking hell did it get to December when my mind, body, soul and most annoyingly my bloody wardrobe are still living in August? I am serious! Where the hell has this year gone? I swear to beejaysus that it was August 13^th LAST WEEK! What happened to October? What happened to November? HOW IN THE HELL IS IT THE 18^TH OF DECEMBER?

I was waiting for winter to buy a coat?! What is wrong with me? I have bought Addison snow suits, I have bought Christmas presents, and I have put a tree up. At what point did I forget about myself in this equation?  All I can say is, with my shopping addiction as it is, I must have done all of this on the exhilarating auto pilot that spending gives me, as it only dawned on me this morning, It is bloody winter woman! This is why you are constantly shaking! (I thought i was developing early onset Parkinson’s. I really did. I can be a bit paranoid at times. No it is not a sore throat! It is a nodule! A throat nodule it has to be! Yup that’s me.)

And if it is winter? Then oh god, it’s bloody Christmas soon isn’t it? Which can only mean one thing. It is bloody Christmas soon. *falls to knees and shouts why god, whyyyyyyyyyyy*

Do you know what Christmas means to me?  (Beware all you ho ho ho –ers. I am not really a lover of Christmas. I am not a Scrooge either though, before you all start shouting BAH HUMBUG at me. I do buy presents ok? So do not even think about sending any ghosts to see me d’ya hear? I have enough skeletons in my closet (just none wearing coats!) without you mailing me some bloody fairy with a squeaky voice. (Have you ever watched Scrooged? I love it! If you haven’t then you must.)

This is what Christmas means to me.

·         Too many shoppers.

·         Worrying about my weight. (DO NOT bring Quality Street in this house! Not if you expect to leave with them intact.)

·         Arguing about who you spend the exclusive day with. (Child of a broken home. Sob.)

·         A plane ride. (I fooking hate flying.)

·         Finding somewhere for Doodle to stay (I always go to Spain.)

·         A great day skiing with my dad. (The one plus point.)

·         Being a bit gutted because Santa isn’t real. (And don’t start saying he lives in our hearts blah blah blah. There is no room in my heart for a fake fat man who eats my mince pies.)

·         Freezing my droopy tits off and longing for summer.

What? I am just being honest. Christmas has been a contentious, to say the least, issue in my family for years now. I think when your parents are divorced (Poor poor me) it is usually the way. We are forced to discuss it in June.

‘What’s happening at Christmas?’
‘Dad, its June.’
‘Yeah, but what’s happening?’

See??? It’s a nightmare.

Last year was a bit fun, I’ll admit. I was too pregnant to fly. (I said this from week 4) so everyone i loved had to come to me. (God I miss having that power.) There was heavy snow, for the first time in years, (which made it fun, now the novelty has worn off, not so much!) I could eat as much as I wanted (as the weight will fall off right? RIGHT? Lying bastards the lot of you.) And although I couldn’t ski, doodle didn’t have to be shipped off, so enjoyed his first Christmas day ever at home. Which was lovely for him, and for me.(Doodle is very important to me.)

This year though. The race to Christmas is back on.

We leave for Spain on Friday morning. (Not Thursday as I suggested on my earlier post. See? My head is up my arse! Thank god for the Irish one, (DO NOT TELL HIM I SAID THAT)  as we’d have had to spend the night in the airport. No. We couldn’t have come home. Once you are there you are there. Yes. I know i only live 20 minutes from the airport. But ONCE YOU ARE THERE YOU ARE THERE!)

This morning we have woken up to more snow. So now i have to worry the plane won’t go too. However, the suitcases are opened and are excitedly anticipating being crammed full of all manner of shite. All manner of shite we need now that we have an extra set of arms and legs coming with us. Travelling light? Racing through passport control with just a carry on? Another thing i lost when i neglected to use a condom. Are you listening teenagers?!?! Travelling light? A thing of the past.

But at least The Irish one is excited. Next year we do it his way. Ireland. He is excited about Spain, this year, as he knows next year it is his turn to go home with baby in tow. (I have a year to get out of it. But that’s another post all together. And while we are on this subject, don’t tell him I said that either.)

Addison has been sat in the suitcase while I pack it; he keeps juddering about like a milkshake in an earthquake, so I take it from that, he is excited too.

If I am honest, I am a bit excited about spending two weeks at home. I am excited about Addison spending so much time with granddad and I am looking forward to spending a bit of time with my old friends and relaxing while granddad does the night feeds. (MUAHAHAHAH!) 

But my opinion of Christmas and winter in general?

Well, I think Doodle sums it up perfectly.

And i still need a coat.

Houston? We have a problemo.

I am nervous.

I would even go as far as to say I am shitting myself.

This time last year I was heavily pregnant with only a few months to go. (Turns out I had no idea what being heavily pregnant even actually meant by that point.) What a drama queen I was. (No surprise there.) ‘Oh my bump is so big, I can barely walk, oh my back, oh I feel like shit. Poor poor me.’ If I could go back now and tell myself to hang on another few months, as by then I would have a full understanding of what the enormity of being humongously pregnant meant, I would.

Yes, I can picture it now.  Time traveller’s wife – the pregnancy edition.  (Cue voice over.) A fat, uncomfortable and thoroughly fed up (even with her own moaning) 39 week pregnant Lexy, visits a whiney, chubby, and relaxed 26 week pregnant Lexy and slaps her around the face
‘Quit your wining, you aint seen nothing yet… And put that burger down!!’
It would be a best seller. For sure.  

Anyway sorry about that tangent. I am so tired, it is hard to focus.  (I haven’t been to my new drive thru Starbucks yet today. YES DRIVE THROUGH! It is the most amazing thing that has happened to me this year!!!!!! Erm, you know, except for the birth of my son, obviously. Ahem.) 

Ive done it again haven’t I?  What was I saying? Oh yes.

This time last year, I was probably snoozing and idly looking forward to a lazy Christmas and a bit of turkey. (While questioning if it is normal for ones thighs to grow at the same rate as ones bump… ‘I’m not eating that much…’)

Right now, however, have I mentioned? I am absolutely laying an egg about Christmas. What a difference a year makes. (Except for, you know, the drama and the moaning.)

The reason why my bowels are doing the Hokey Cokey (and shake it all about!) currently?

A week on Thursday, I am travelling on a plane, for the first time, with Addison Jake oh my god ill just scream and puke for the hell of it, Doyle. Destination, Spain.

I am not a very good flyer, I’ll be honest. The whole rigmarole just makes me shudder. Violently.

I hate the anxiety. I hate the packing.

Oh how I hate packing.

I hate the mad dash to leave the house. I hate the ‘have you got the passports?’ conversation which is usually repeated at least a million times. (YES, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD YES!) ‘Just check one last time.’ (OH FOR HEAVENS SAKE!) I hate airports. I hate airport trolleys (They all have dodgy wheels! And I don’t have the stomach muscles to control wayward luggage mobiles anymore!) I hate searching for a number on a huge screen full of bloody numbers. I hate the queue to get on the plane. I hate the tunnel of doom and the smiling troll welcoming you on board. I hate the false smiles and unnecessary checking of the boarding pass, (‘Ooo 27A, you will find that particular seat, 27 seats down, just past the guy with the massive arse, bending over his chair, for no reason whatsoever, on your right. Its the seat that says 27A in letters above it.’ Really? REALLY? Well thank god for you. I’d have never have found it otherwise.)   

I hate all the touching and rubbing and polite, passively aggressive ‘excuse me’s!’ involved in getting to your seat. I hate the cabin crew. (You know why… remember the pilot who slept with the hussy?)

And finally?  I hate being whizzed down a run way at a million miles an hour. It is just not natural.

At the thought of that first dip and wobble, (you know the one, just before you reach the clouds) my internals are literally on a Benny.

In fact, hold that thought. I need the loo.

Right, sorry about the wait. (Don’t go in there for at least half an hour ok?)

So, yeah, a week next Thursday (Christmas eve, yes) we will be leaving the comfort of our own home, the home that has nappies. The home that has bottles, the home that has a steriliser, the home that has a cot bed, the home that has Playhouse Disney and most importantly the home where my two feet are always, solidly placed on the GROUND. We will be leaving my comfort zone and we will be heading for the heavens. The clouds. The unknown. A place where there is no ground. Did you hear me? NO GROUND!

Yeah, sure the flight is only 2 and a half hours, but have you any idea how much chaos a 9 months old ill just be sick on that nice lady over there because she grabbed me off mummy in the commotion baby boxer will undoubtedly cause in that amount of time? (Serves you right, troll.)

And don’t even get me started on all the new stuff, I will now have to accomplish while shitting my kecks during every wobble. (Turbulence can’t harm a plane? Tell that to the Apollo 13 crew.)

The not being able to bring formula through the barrier, the queues, and the can we sit here? No? Do you want the aisle seat? How does this work with a seatbelt? Does he sit on my knee?  What the fuck is a bulkhead? He has been sick, where are the wipes? Well what the hell are they doing up there?

What I commonly refer to as,  the changing a nappy at 32000 feet nightmare. Because it will be won’t it? And what if we forget the changing bag? Or he screams the whole way? Or his head falls off because of the altitude?

I need the loo again.

I may be some time.

I love the way you lie.

I am collapsed on my sofa. Doodle is on my knee looking for a cuddle.

I can not feel him. I cannot move.

My eyes are wide open. Staring at nothing. Somewhere else.

I am hunted.

And this is where I was found.

This is where I found myself, when once again, you caught me.

I had run as far and as fast as I could run. I had hid around corners and ducked below humour. My heart pounding out of my chest, my mouth dry, I had been chased down empty moonlit streets and down damp tear stained, grief filled alley ways. I had jumped over obstacles, my breath bursting out of my lungs in sharp, short disappointment. Another dead end. There must be a way. I had clawed at the positive, breaking my nails with the determination to carry on, pulling myself, willing myself to get up and carry on running. To escape. I had slipped once or twice, and stumbled on life. I had run until my lungs hurt and my head banged, I had run until I physically could run no more. I had run until the tears pricked and my heart sank.

I could hear you laughing.

I could feel your breath on the back of my neck.

All this effort.

The painted smiles, the brittle laughter, the pretence.

The masked and terrifying intruder in my life, always only one step behind.

So easy for you to keep up.

You are hardened. You are a machine. You are well trained. You are dead inside.

I am not your first victim. I will not be your last.

But I let you finally grab me this time. Did you hear me?

I let you find me. I let you grab me.

I am regaining some control over you now. And you know it. Your grip on my neck is less cocksure. The agression in your whisper falters, your menacing grin has faded. I sense the fear, just for an instant. In your darkness. 

Hope.

I am wading through the disdain, the failure, the self hatred and the suffocating blanket of heartache that I have once again, been enveloped by. The crucifying sadness that you, you piece of shit, brought with you.

My energy is low. My battery light flashing. I am reaching for the light, but the wire is all tangled. I can not find the way. I am confused. I am lost.

You have won.

But this is just a battle. I am fighting a war.

A war I intend to win.

One day.

One day soon.

I won’t run.

I will be waiting.

I will be waiting, do you hear me?

I will be waiting.

Very, very frightening me! Galileo Galileo!

Do you know what really winds me up?

Thunder stealer’s.

For instance, when you finally pass your driving test (this time you didn’t run over a granny! Woop!) and you excitedly pick up the phone and reveal to one person the great news, and the next thing you know all your friends are texting offering words of congratulations without you even having spoken to them. (True story.) Yes, thank you for spreading my news, but i do have vocal chords of my own you know!

Or, for instance, when you find out (after a mere 34 tests) you are pregnant and your dizzy blonde mate, who you have to forgive, because she is your dizzy blonde mate, asks your mum, if she is looking forward to being a grandma? Before you have told your mum. (True story. Was months before mother spoke to me again.)

Or, for instance, when you push a 7 pound baby through a hole made for delicate manoeuvring only! Endure 65 hours of labour, followed by 24 hours without a wee, followed by an attack of the heebie jeebies and when you finally get 2 minutes to spare and log on to facebook, to tell the world of your amazing news, hand poised over your status bar, trembling with excitement, you notice with fury, some fucker has already spread the word for you. Name, weight, time of arrival. Everything.

It really wound me up. More so than the Russian doctor, who kept referring to me as ‘mummy.’ (I am not your mummy! Stop calling me mummy! I know I am Addison’s mummy but I have a name! You referring to me as mummy, while I lie here with my legs spread while you examine me, is freaking me out. It’s like a terrible porn film! My name is Lexy! For the love of god! As if this wasn’t awkward enough!)

I acknowledge, that because of the thunder stealer, my page was littered with over 100 messages of support and love and congratulations, all professing how wonderful my newborn must be and how they couldn’t wait to see photos and how it couldn’t have happened to a nicer couple, but do you understand my annoyance?

The messages of support were lovely to read but it twas ME who wanted to update my facebook status with the good news! I had planned this status update meticulously and daydreamed of the reaction for months. This was the biggest update of my facebook career for god sake!  

I had planned to write;

The baby has arrived! Rock on! Pizzaface Doyle Ellis was born after 100 years of labour, at 8.40pm, weighing in at a whopping 4 and a half stone (so you see? I didn’t put ANY weight on at all really) The baby is gorgeous!

And then feed bits of information in dribs and drabs. Adding in sex and eye colour and real name a little later, after people have gasped ‘Pizzaface? That’s different!’ And rumours had spread far and wide of my name choice and discussions were firmly in place amongst everybody, as to whether Pizzaface, was a girl or a boy.

You know, I wanted to really milk it.

But what good would that be now?

I’d be like a Dognapper asking for ransom after returning the puppy. (Just so you know I would never steal a puppy.)

So thanks thunder stealer.

Thanks to you my first post birth status read;

My arse hurts.

What? Surely that was news too?

And surprisingly a fair amount of people liked it.

Steal that thunder.

Cowbag.

An introduction to Delicious Nessy!

Another introduction! Whoopeee i hear you shout in delight! Well this is a christmas introduction from the lovely, entertaining and truly inspiring Delicious Nessy herself! The cupcake connoisseur! Visit her wonderful site over at www.totaldeliciousness.co.uk

Ps – If you are not in to christmas, i urge you to read this post. By the end of it, you may find yourself welling up with the joy of it all! I certainly did! Enjoy!

….

I can hardly believe that we are already a week into December, only 19 days till Christmas. I LOVE Christmas. In fact, I don’t just love Christmas, I love the whole month of December: the twinkling lights in town centres; the busy, busy shops full of people – not buying for themselves – but for others, taking the time to think about what a loved one would really appreciate as a present; the festive songs (although I’m sure if you work in a shop you will disagree with this one); Father Christmas being so talented that he can appear in many different shops and centres across the globe, so that children can let him know their hearts desire this festive season.

I also love December as it’s my birthday (on the 15^th  if you’re interested) and the month in which traditions continue and for us, hopefully, this year we will start new ones. When I was living at home, we always got the tree on the weekend of or before my birthday. It was always there by the 15^th in the “front room” bay window for all to see. Adorned with a mix match of decorations we made at primary school and various random ornaments that we had collected over the years. There are clowns; little wire prams; hobby horses; bears and a bashed dove that I made when I was about 6, completely falling apart but until it actually does, it will always have a place on my parents’ tree. There is no fancy colour matching for the Hogg family, just a warm, inviting and fun tree (although we draw the line at tinsel!)

The tradition of random fun ornaments is now also in my house and over the last couple of years I have bought an array of lovely decorations. This year, we have a Baby’s first Christmas bauble for Sam. I’ve also got him a tartan bear for his Scottish roots and a wooden tree decoration with his name on it. Each year, he will get another decoration and when he is older with a house of his own, they will be his to take for his tree, with his family.

As we will spend Christmas Day in Scotland with my family, we got our tree on December 2nd. I have covered it with decorations. I have vintage style paper chains put up in the living room too and an advent calendar that hangs along our shelves with a little straw bag for each day. Although Sam has no idea about Christmas, he already loves looking at the twinkling lights on the tree. 

Christmas will take on a new meaning for us this year as we have our beautiful boy and with that there is a renewed magic and sense of wonder.

I hope that you all have a wonderful festive season full of love, laughs and happiness.

 Ness xx

Smuggle me a rock hammer.

 (Note; I wrote this in April 2010. Shortly after returning home from Hope prison. I mean, Hospital. )

There should be a bell, or passing out parade, or some sort of leaving doo for when you first step out of the hospital, on your own with your first born child in tow. There should, at the very least, be some sort of announcement! Lexy is leaving everybody! Let’s all give her a round of applause.

That sparkly, new, clean and empty car seat has been staring at me in the face for at least 4 months. I have been wondering, imagining, picturing and hugely looking forward to (and slightly dreading) having a baby to put in it. (Only dreading because I was a little scared. And because apparently, according to my single friend, having a baby means my life is over. I use the term friend, loosely here. Bitch.)

For the four days I have been stuck on the set of Girl interrupted meets Saw 10, the birth episode, I have all but given up hope of ever being able to bring him home. Not because he is poorly. No, I am very lucky, he is perfectly healthy, apart from the odd bit of jaundice. (And there was me thinking he had a lovely tan.) I only have myself and my easily torn anus and lady parts to blame, for why I have been held prisoner for an entire week. (Four days in some countries is a week ok?) I think I have been institutionalised, no, not think. I have been institutionalised. I am like Andy Dusfresne from Shawshank redemption, I am desperate to escape, I do not belong here! I am just an innocent mother, I have been wrongly accused by mother nature, of somebody who for some reason deserves internal tearing and blocked nipular ducts. 

How am I going to survive when I get out? How will I cope without morning rounds? (I will honestly miss 15 students, one midwife, a hairy doctor with a foreign accent and 2 nurses all gaping inside my flute while sighing and tutting. Honestly.) How will I cope without the gas and air? (They had to give it me after I caught the evil Russian doctor’s glasses with the heal of my massively swollen clodhopper. The gel was cold ok? It was an accident!) How will I cope without somebody poking at me with thermometers every half an hour? How will I sleep without the sudden thud of the metal bin by my bed every six minutes? How will Addison sleep without the constant bickering of breastfeeding vs. formula mums in the background? Or the 17 year old, (I am yet to lay eyes on, but who i will shortly see, as am about to stick my (now redundant) make up mirror round the curtain in true Andy Dusfresne style to get a peep!) who’s boyfriend hasn’t even seen her baby yet ‘and is fookin dead I tell ya! Ill lether him’ to lull him to sleep?

It’s going to be hard. Its going to be so quiet. There won’t be luke warm coffee on tap. Or random people bobbing their heads around the door before having a good stare and slowly losing all colour from
their faces before apologising and slowly backing out of the door, a whiter shade of pale. Even though I will clearly miss all of that, today is the day. Today I am being discharged.

However, as I am walking out of the hospital, it all feels a little underwhelming. I am leaving? Anybody notice that? I am taking the baby with me! Hello? Nobody care?

Where is my fan fare? Where is my police escort? Where are the paparazzi?

‘Lexy Dusfresne limped to freedom in spite of five hundred stitches poking out of her lady bits and many nights of stinky smelling foulness I can’t even imagine, or maybe I just don’t want to. Five hundred stitches, that’s the length of five football fields, just shy of half a mile.’

Ok so its not accurate. Or true. If it were true I am sure I would have been contacted by Guinness by now. Nobody’s arse is that long. But still, if Andy Dusfresne can have drama, why can’t I?

That’s much better than the truth.

Which was slipping and falling arse over tit, the minute my chubby boot clad, swollen ankle made first contact with snow. Landing fast and hard on my coccyx, tearing 2 anal stitches and being dragged, (carefully) kicking and screaming back in to the hospital to be repaired. Again. (That’s right. I said again.)

Not what I pictured during many nights of romantically staring at the empty car seat, picturing that first venture out in to the big bad world with my daughter.

But still, at least I didn’t have to crawl through a sewer.  I’m a bit claustraphobic.

Small mercies I suppose.