How to expect what you are not expecting.

There should be alerts.

There should be bells and whistles. Sirens and drum beats.  

At the very least there should be warning signs.

There is already?

No, i don’t mean, the ‘oh congratulations on your pregnancy’ type  slogans

‘Here is what you can and cannot do for the next nine (ten) months’ type pamphlets.

 I’m talking about the full on, honest, ‘trespass at your own risk, drink this bleach and your insides won’t be clean and sparkly, you’ll be dead’ type, easy to read picture and cautionary tale- warnings. Skull and crossbones, that type of thing.  

 ‘Don’t eat MacDonald’s, accept pain relief and avoid un-pasturerised cheese’ aren’t useful at all!

They are completely redundant! Like locking the gate after the bulldog has bitten the priest in the ball sack. (True story. And yes. He did take the lords name in vain. But i can’t say i blame him to be honest.) They are like taking your tarmac stained boots off after you’ve trodden it all the way across the new carpet. (How my friend’s husband isn’t dead right now, i really don’t know. The Irish one would be digging his own shallow hole. Brand new cream carpets! Tarmac – everywhere!)

I’M TALKING PROPER, HONEST, EASY TO UNDERSTAND WARNING SIGNS. 

I’m talking the kind of warnings you see on sign posts while waiting to board a great big scary rollercoaster. The ones you look at while you are waiting in line, and meticulously read, looking for some sort of get out clause. Or if you are a lover of roller coasters, the signs you read over and over again, while working yourself up in to a ‘woohooo i could have a heart attack, this ride is gonna be amazing’ frenzy. (I used to be the latter, now i mumble about how i have weakened pelvic floor and toddle off to the bathroom. Well, have you been on a bouncy, spinny, upside down ride since giving birth? I have. It was NOT pretty. Let’s just say i told people i had been on the log flume…)

Pregnancy, birth and motherhood is often described as ‘the biggest rollercoaster a woman can ride’ right? So why not?  Why not give appropriate forewarning?

Your doctor should provide adequate signals and information!  They could have them on the walls in the family planning clinic. They could swing over your head as you walk in to the gynae’s office. They could be stuck in pamphlet holders on your consultant’s reception.

Some bint in a smock could hand them out on the pregnancy test and condom aisle in Morrison’s. ‘Here you go love, just so you know. What to expect if you do, or if you are in the situation where you are with child, for the next 1-35 years. Thanks very much love. Have a nice day.’

I’m not talking any mamby pamby, watery, slowly break it to you type warning signs, here. I’m talking honest, straight forward, hard hitting, no beating around the bush, type signs informing you of the ride you are about to take;

by taking off the condom/ stopping the pill/ getting drunk/ allowing him to take his wellies off in the bath. – Delete as appropriate

Here are some examples of what i feel, the Side effects and cautions could be.

Do not ride – If you have a bad back. (As after labour you will affectively be crippled from the neck down. Walking around carrying a 23 pound boy with a snotty nose as well as having to push a trolley full of the Irish ones sausages and potatoes will ensure no sofa will ever be comfy again, and you will forever more inadvertently shout ‘oof’ every  time you bend down to pick up a discarded dummy. And yes, those jeans are a bit tight but yes again, you did just show the 68 year old man behind you the rather long crack of your arse. Perhaps tomorrow you should go back to the leggings….)

Do not ride – If you have a tendency to be dizzy. (As after birth you will no longer be dizzy, you will automatically find yourself, against your will or say so, upgraded to dozy bloody mare status. You can blame the Iphone all you want for sending messages such as;

• ‘I can’t wait to taste your cock’ to an old family friend. (Cooking, i can’t wait to taste your cooking!) or,
• ‘You are one hot mammal’ to a heavily pregnant  and slightly paranoid about her weight gain, friend. (Mama, you are one hot mama!) or even,
• ‘My hot cock tastes yummy’ to over 1000 people on twitter, (Chocolate, my hot CHOCOLATE tasted yummy!)

But ultimately you will only have yourself to blame. You were dizzy and you ignored the signs. You were already a bit dazed and you still embarked on the motherhood rollercoaster. Now you are just a dozy cow.  And yes, maybe the Iphone is a bit pervy, but seriously, at least something is. When was the last time you even had sex? )

Do not ride – If you have high blood pressure. (A mild nuisance can no longer be categorised as a slight irritant. A cat meowing outside your bedroom window at 11pm before birth, may have been considered cute. You may even have worried it was hungry and fetched a bowl of milk. Post birth, you will not care about being ‘an animal lover’ or even contemplate helping the neighbours call the ‘rspca.’  You will be looking for a shotgun. You will be fashioning a sling shot using a pair of old knickers and a heavy dirty nappy. (You can make anything when you are a mother.)

‘Wake the baby, cat? And feel the wrath of mother in a blind, red, furious rage!’

Do not ride – If you are a control freak. (Nothing will be routine ever again. EVER. Even your lists will change minute by minute. You may follow Gina ford (Swear word in our house) but on occasion you will not meet her standards. The house will be a mess.  No, you can laugh all you want. You can tell me you have OCD all you want. The HOUSE WILL BE A MESS. Even when it is tidy. Your trained nose will smell poo. And the cleaning starts again. IT NEVER ENDS.

Were you in control of your emotions before? You thought you were. But you got on the ride. Now you are out of control. Whether you like it or not. Now you are a snivelling, howling, hysterically laughing, sobbing, balling, shouting, walking round in circles heap of un – ironed baby grows.

Oh and there is a milk ring from the bottle on the tv stand. (Just letting you know!)

Do not ride-  If you suffer with memory problems. (What was i just saying? No seriously! What was i talking to you about? Damn it, it was really juicy! I haven’t seen you for ages. I wanted to catch up but i can’t finish a sentence. I just walked in to the kitchen for something. Er, hang on. What did i need?  I’ll just pop back in to the living room that will remind me. Oh yeah , feed the dog and put the kettle on for a bottle. No problem. So what was i saying? Oh yeah. If you have memory issues you are screwed. As after birth, when you are tired and… Was that the door? No? Ok, so yeah when you are… what was i saying?  Hang on. I’ll remember. Just let me give the dog a bottle and feed the baby some Pedigree chum.

• Have you seen my book? It’s in the fridge? Well what the hell is it doing in there?
• Do you know where my boots are? They are on the bed? Why the hell are they on the bed.
• Have you seen my eye liner? It’s in my hand? Oh yes, so it is.

I am not joking here. Auto-pilot is a fucker.

Do not ride -If you are not ready. (Hahahahahahahahahaha. When are you ever ready? I thought i was ready. I planned, i nested, i prepared. I was SO READY!! I was wrong. I was NOT ready! But then, are you ever ready to never sleep again?  To hold a tiny anus open to help find trumps? To pick your Childs stomach lining from between your toes?  Are you ever ready to constantly smell like an old sleeping bag? You know the smell. Musty, with a mixture of puke.)

Do not ride – If you enjoy sex. (Anal stitching is somewhat of a deterrent.)

Do not ride – As some effects may be too intense for some adults. (Anal stitching. Even the midwife cringed.)

Do not ride – As may be frightening for some people. (Tearing afore mentioned anal stitching. My Screams made the neighbours call the police. They thought i was being ‘maimed with a blunt hatchet’ (true story.)  

Do not ride – If you suffer from claustrophobia, agoraphobia, oooegraphobia (fear of eggs) or irritatingmanaphobia (phobia of irritating men.)  I may have made that last one up. (and the one before. But seriously, if you are scared of eggs, don’t do it. Kids love them scrambled! Awful, just awful!)

You ignored  ALL my warnings? You got on the ride anyway???

Well, in that case.

Please keep arms, hands, shoulders (knees and toes, knees and toes) in the vehicle at all times. Do not try and disembark said vehicle while carriage is still moving.  You will only cause unnecessary rocking of the proverbial boat.

Should you feel a little depressed, a little sad, a little guilty, and a little confused please seek help.

Should you feel like doubting yourself at every turn please try not to. You are amazing.

If you feel like crying every second day. Please seek help. You are not alone.

If you feel like knocking your other half out, please remove all sporting equipment from the home.

If you did not bond with your baby immediately, you are just like me. He is my world, now.

If you still wear maternity pants on occasion because you enjoy having a warm tummy, ahem… what? I have no idea what you mean? These are just my stretchy pants!!

If you sometimes feel you aren’t good enough. YOU ARE.

Is your child happy? Then you are more than good enough.

Are you struggling to be happy? Confide in somebody.

WARNING: ALL RIDERS DO SO AT THIER OWN RISK. THE ESTABLISHMENT TAKES NO RESPONSIBILITY FOR ALL CONSUMING LOVE, COURAGE ONLY A MOTHER KNOWS, PATIENCE ONLY A MOTHER UNDERSTANDS AND A FEELING OF CALM AND BELONGING, WHEN YOUR CHILD SMILES AND GRABS YOUR FINGER, ONLY A MOTHER CAN’T HELP FEELING PROUD OF.  

You made a baby. You are a superhero. (Would batman endure hours of labour, nipple torture and a forced episiotomy or anal tearing, and still smile at the end of is all? No he bloody wouldn’t. Batman is a frigging wimp. Bang! Pow! Wallop! My arse…(Literally.)

If you wish to ride again? (You are a mentalist.)

I am SO going to ride again***! 

 

*Park attractions are currently closed for routine maintenance.

*No they will not open tonight.

*In other words;  I have a bad back, I am a control freak, I get motion sickness, I am not ready and Ohmygod I suffer from Irritatingmanaphobia, so youve no chance. (Not for another 2 years anyway….)

Love is blind. (Now wash up!!)

I opened my sweet and simple, pink and bobbly valentines’ day card this year to find the message

‘I love you baby. You are definitely the one.’

Now don’t get me wrong,

• The fifteen year old inside me began to jump up and down and scream ‘he lovessss me, he really lovessss me! Before ringing every one of her friends and repeating the message down the phone in to the early hours, daydreaming about marriage and kids…
• The 20 year old inside me tilted her head to the side and muttered ‘That’s so sweet! Margarita? Acid tab? Come on, let’s dance!!’
• The 29 year old inside me read the message twice, looking for a hidden meaning ‘Has he typed the wrong name? Did he spell my name wrong? Does he really mean it? Is this card one of a pack? Just how many women does he have on the go?’
• The 30 year old pregnant woman inside me tutted and thought ‘I should hope so too.’

But in the present day and time, (31 years young! Or….. hold on?! Am I 32? Hang on, hang on….OH MY GOD!!…. no… no hang on, no I’m 31. Be still my pounding heart – it’s been a long year ok? And my brain doesn’t work as well as it used to! I just had to check with The Irish One. His response, in case you are wondering was ’31 dickhead’ which actually brings me nicely to my point.) Upon reading the handwritten note on the card, in the present day and time, my first thought was;

‘The one what? The one you want to maim with a blunt gardening tool? The one you want to bury under the patio? The one you want to attach a gag too? (To shut me up, because of my constant nagging – not because of any kinky sex game, (the 21 year old inside me just sighed in disappointment). ‘The one what? I am the one, what? I AM THE ONE WHAT IRISH ONE? THE ONE WHAT? I BLOODY HATE WHEN YOU DO THIS, JUST BLOODY TELL ME WHAT YOU ARE THINKING! YOU THINK I AM A BAD MOTHER DONT YOU ? NO? NO? YOU DON’T? WHAT EXACTLY IS THAT NO SUPPOSED TO MEAN? I’M NOT A BAD MOTHER BUT IM FAT? AM I? IS THAT WHAT YOU THINK? NO? NO? WELL WHY DID YOU RAISE YOUR EYEBROW? WHY THE HELL DID YOU …….’ (insert any mental meandering here.)

Because let us just be honest here.

This year has not been an easy one.

So hard, has this year been on the both of us, i did wonder at one point whether i would even receive a valentines card, and thought perhaps a death threat would be more fitting.

Don’t get me wrong (again) I love him to death, i really do. There have been times in the last year I have literally wanted to pummel him (with how much i love him) to death, but seriously?!?!

This first year of being parents, (Other than the obvious total joy of being parents and confirming our love yada yada yada) had been fucking tough!! (There is no polite way of putting that, i searched. There really isn’t. And ‘bloody tough’, makes me think of an old man in a cap with a sheep dog. I don’t know why. Maybe because of my Uncle David… he doesn’t have either. But he does say ‘bloody tough’ a lot. So i used fucking ok? It just has more emphasis. More boom. And the kids should be in bed by now, so i hope it’s ok. I hope its fucking ok, ok? I hope it is.)

When i was up the duffage (or when i had an excuse for being a lard arse – yes thanks dear) anyone who was anyone and every man and their dog would rush to my huffing puffing (and usually food –a-stuffing) form and with great glee, mirth and delight, gaily inform me of just how ‘hard’ having a new born baby is.

I would (continue to stuff my face while) whole heartedly agreeing with what each busy body all knowing patronising idiot, sorry, sorry, i mean, while whole heartedly agreeing with everything they said while ummming and ahhhhing and faux listening to all the cobblesworth (an Uncle David word) that every random stranger over enunciated in my direction.

‘Oh yes I know it will be hard,’ I’d say in between bites of lard ‘sleepless nights and all that. Yah yah!’ before slowly and precisely thudding my way back to the burger van.

Seriously? If a random stranger has the nerve to walk over to a ‘heavily’ pregnant woman (I was 6 months at the time – cheeky bitch) and inform her with a huge grin, i may add, of just how hard it is going to be, why couldn’t she just go the whole hog and be more PRECISE!

‘Not only is it hard but you will feel a surge of irritation for your other half, at times, that is unbridled in its devastation. You will speak all manner of ugliness to one another in the early hours of the morning. Sleep deprivation will ensure you forget your wifely duties with ease and when he does look amorously towards you, you will find yourself looking for something to hit him with.’  

There I said it.

‘Oh and word of advice? Remove anything from the home pre birth, that is too light in consistency or too precious, to be thrown, as the likelihood is, it will be sailing through the air towards his Irish head before you know your hand has even moved.’

‘Yes that includes the dog.’  

(I also wish i had been told that even when i lost weight, my body would never be the same. I am a TOTALLY DIFFERENT SHAPE!? I tried on a pre pregnancy pencil work skirt today (the time is creeping up on me, like the mould up my back wall…… And no i don’t mean i have a mouldy arse. I literally mean up my back wall. Next doors spout is dripping on it. And no i don’t mean… never mind.) and although i can zip it up (back to the skirt,) it is now baggy on my stomach and seam splittingly tight on my arse. So basically,

‘You will want to throttle the Irish one at times, this is normal’

‘During the aforementioned surge of irritation, you will attempt to throw a high chair and a poodle at him. This is normal’ (Nail that high chair down, seriously. I was shocked at how high I got it off the ground.) (Er, the baby wasn’t in it – don’t worry.) (Honest.)

‘You will lose weight from everywhere but your arse and upper back (I look like hulk Hogan from behind!) This is normal.’

Is that what you meant by hard little old woman? WELL IS IT?? USE YOUR WORDS!!!

Anyway, as it turns out, the card doesn’t mean he wishes I was THE ONE who was dead. (Over analyse? Me?) It means (and i quote) ‘One day i hope to marry you, i love you so much, i know this year has been taxing (PAH! Taxing?) on us, but i seriously love you for every day, for giving me a son and for being as sexy as the day i met you.’

Which was pretty lovely to hear.  (Nice try with the sexy. It aint happening. I’ve been up since 5am and smell like a mixture of calgel, calpol and puke. Maybe next year babe. You know, if i am still the one, by then.)

It has been a hard year.  (As well as wonderful and beautiful and we are still so in love yada yada yada) But the year is over on April 4^th when Woo turns one.

Apparently that’s when it’ll get easier. Relationship wise.

You never know.

But in the meantime, I’m busy baby proofing the house.  Covering plug sockets, moving all objects which aren’t nailed down and flushing all the bleach down the loo.

This has nothing to do with the fact Woo is about to walk.

Nothing at all.

This is normal. Apparently.

Oh my god?! It is normal isn’t it?

 

 

I know it may seem like i am trying to throttle him in this picture, but I honestly wasnt. Honestly! And, yes, it has been a hard year. But whoa, i love him. I am still IN LOVE with him, And oh my god, I couldnt have done it without him. We have had our moments, good and bad but we got through them together. He is definately my one. (you know, the one one. Not the one under the patio one..) And I do love him with all my heart. Its been easy really.. piece of piss.. (You know, in case its not normal…)

True colours (and fishy fingers.)

I am sitting in the Trafford Centre (yes, yes, I am here again!) with the love of my life.

He is currently, noisily munching his way through a Harry Ramsdens large cod piece (Seriously fish girl. That joke is not appropriate!) That I had been looking forward to all week.  

As he is the love of my life, and we are still in the honeymoon period (yeah right), I have sacrificed my buttery, battery treat of the week (yeah right) and relinquished it after much grabbing, shouting and pleading (on his part) and much attempted ignorance, forced persistence with the puree and aeroplane attempted whirring actions (on my part) to no avail.

He is chewing with his mouth open, smacking his lips together and babbling innocently about nothing. He has mushy pea on his eyebrow. Every now and then he throws himself backwards, flings a piece of fish in the air and shouts ‘YAYAYAYAYAYA.’  He loves dinner time. He loves his food.

He is definitely my son.

As I watch him wrap his perfect little chubby fingers around one of my chips, I start to slurp on his carrot and potato puree. What? I made it so it is obviously nutritious and delicious and I am STARVING!! (Look, I know the jar says Hipp on it ok? But it’s a recycled jar ok? I would never feed him food from a jar. Ever.  I am doing my best ok? I was up all night peeling eggs, or something similar, ok? Leave me alone…. STOP STARING AT THE JAR!!)

My happy, fish sucking angel, asks me in the way only he can (MAMAMADADADAAADADA OO OO OOO BLAAAA) to pass him his sippy cup, which i do obligingly.

He struggles at first, and i stop myself from jumping to help. Every old person I have ever met has told me i shouldn’t jump to help him all the time, or he will never learn anything himself.

After a couple of near misses, (and a quick tilt from me… Who me? *looks to ceiling and whistles*) he manages a noisy slurp and gulp marvellously. He then proceeds to SLAM the cup down on the table, thanks me in the only way he knows how (DADAYEEEEEEMAMAMAMAMAMAMAMAMA!!)  And lets out the mother of all burps. (I swear, sometimes I am in awe of the multitude and sheer volume of the sounds this child effortlessly produces. He is quite literally, a living, breathing, laughing whoopee cushion…..Not that i sit on him! Well not on purpose anyway…)

It is at this juncture during our happy little meal that I look up and my eye catches on two women sat feeding their little girls the perfect tidy little mouthfuls of puree from the perfect tidy little Tupperware containers.  Both baby girls are happy, content and smiling. Both women, however, are watching me and Addison with an air of disgust. (Did i say air of disgust? Their mouths are hanging open aghast and they are confidently and vehemently shaking their heads in my direction.)

‘Is there a problem?’ I ask somewhat timidly. (Which i know isn’t like me, but today is a bad day. Today I have done well to get out of bed. Today my happy little boy is all that is keeping me going. Please don’t judge me today, I plead internally. Please don’t judge me today.)

‘How old is he?’ Perfect mother type 1 asks, while shooting appalled looks between perfect mother type 2 (for back up. They hunt in packs the perfect mother types.) And little Addison, who for good measure, now has his fishy finger shoved firmly up his nose. (Yes thanks for that Woo!)

‘He is sixty six on Sunday’ i reply calmly ‘He looks young for his age, don’t you think?’ I smile back, willing her to laugh. Willing her not to tell me I am a terrible mother, willing her not to judge me, not today. Today is a treat for Addison and me. We are having a lovely day. I am out of bed and managing to smile. Please not today. Not today ok? Not today.  

‘Disgusting’ she spits before turning her head, muttering something to perfect mother type 2, who looks directly at Addison, then me, nods her agreement and turns back to her pureed gloop and perfect and very cute,  CLEAN, little girl.

‘BABABABAHAHAHAMAMAMAMAMAMA.’   Addison doesn’t have a clue why mummy is packing up the contents of the table with shaking hands.

‘YAYAYAYAMAMAMAMAMAMAMAMAMA’  Addison doesn’t understand why mummy has tears running down her face, all of a sudden.

‘MAMAMAMAMAMABAHAHAHADADADA’ Addison has finished his fish and wants to go and play in the ball pool.

‘AAAA?’ Addison doesn’t understand why his mummy is pulling funny red faces and taking us outside instead.  

Addison was so happy, having a lovely day with mummy.

‘DADADADAMAMAMAMAMAMAMA’  What’s wrong mummy?

Ok.

Last week I sat down to write a post about being a bad mummy. I had started or become involved with a tongue in cheek club on Twitter called the Bad mummy club. It was a club for mummy’s who were sick of the very real judgement out there about such trivial things like feeding our loved ones from jars and not being able to breast feed. It was a club I felt hugely part of.  

Every day I felt guilty.

• My son watches TV in the morning (Ahem, and sometimes in the afternoon too!)  
• My son sometimes eats from jars (he isn’t a jar licker, i feel i should add, i feed him with a spoon , from a jar! But you know I do baby led weaning too. GASP! PUT THE SPOON DOWN!)  
• My son sometimes doesn’t have a bath for 2 days. (He hates the water, screams blue murder. He gets so upset sometimes he makes himself sick. He is getting better, but yes, i will admit. On occasion i will avoid the bathroom for a couple of days!)
• My son sometimes puts the dogs tail in his mouth (doodle has been sterilised it’s ok.)
• My son once had a fish from the chippy. (And i let two complete strangers ruin our day and make me cry.)
• My son sleeps in our room with us still (He is 10 months, not 66. Although if i have my way…JOKE! I mean, if he wants to sleep in my room until he is…. no, ok no. That’s wrong. But until he is 10, that’s ok isn’t it? No? *Drags feet toward bedroom to move cotbed* *swears a little*)
•  My son likes to be rocked to sleep.  (MAY, and there are no definates here, but this MAY be why my back is buggered. No definates. He likes me to stand up. What?! I will stop before he’s big enough to pick me up ok?? *reaches for back brace*)
• Sometimes we co-sleep (GASP! GASPPP! GASP!)
• Sometimes I swear and he hears me. (I dare you to stand full force on an upturned plug in a darkened room and not swear. Go on, try it. You swear before you even realise you have said anything don’t you? Well? Don’t you? Exactly.)
• Sometimes I put him in the car during the day and drive around to help him nap. (Look, it is a total coincidence that the new drive-thru Starbucks is on route. Total coincidence.)
• My son has no real routine.  (Unless you count which programme he falls asleep after and which programme he eats after…ahem. Not every day! On Fridays he falls asleep after rhythm time! And you know, we play too.  But after playing we watch telly. You judging me? I honestly don’t care.)

As well as suffering with Post natal depression I have beaten myself up pretty badly about the above, for long enough.

But no more.

You hear me perfect mother types?

This week has taught me I am an amazing mother.  Yes. I really am. (Amazing and modest!)

I love my son more than life itself, and if it were to save his perfect little life, i wouldn’t think twice about laying down in front of a bus, or taking a bullet for him, and so would the Irish one.

This week

• I have held him while he emptied his bowels all over me. (I swear the male nurse was flirty up until this point. He retreated quickly and laughingly said ‘oh god. He isn’t well is he?’ REALLY? REALLY? GET ME A BLOODY DOCTOR NOW YOU FRIGGING IDIOT!! (He was a minger too! The cheek!)
• I have kissed his forehead through the mother of all fevers. (If it’s not one thing it’s your mother.) I have rocked him, and sang to him, cried over him and sat in a plastic back breaker chair with him for 24 hours. (They should put those chairs in the jungle. Those celeb types’d be screaming ‘get me out of here’ in minutes!)
•  I have prayed. Yes me. I prayed. (Er, hi god, it’s me Lexy. Yes, i know it’s been a while but er, can you make my son better please? I will wash up for a year…and shave (yes I know, my legs are indecent), and will love honour and obey too, if i have to.)
• I have argued with doctors, (Meredith Grey eat your heart out luv.) and have been right! Mummy knows best.
• I have argued with doctors. (Christina Wang don’t have nothing on me!) and have been 100% wrong! Mummy knows when to shut up and be humble.
• I have stayed awake and whispered stories and songs and memories to my best friend and boy who holds my heart in his hand, for over 48 hours, just so he knew I was there.
• I stayed calm when his temperature hit the 39+ mark. (If by calm you mean hysterical.)
• I stayed in control when his eyes went funny. (If by in control you mean shouting HELP!! HELP!! HELP!! MY SONS EYES ARE FUNNY, MY SONS EYES ARE FUNNY! At top volumes.)
• I have brought him home and held him, watched him, and slept only when I was confident he was breathing deeply enough. (Collapsed in the kitchen more like.)

I will take this opportunity to thank the Irish one for all his help. He truly is a wonderful daddy. He was very poorly too and when it finally got me, he took over and looked after both of us. Thankyou darling. (If you sense gritted teeth here, it is only because i had to relinquish control and wasnt happy….honest.)

• I have been a mummy.  (I put this as a bullet point as it sounded too up myself to write it without it. Also, you know, i was a mummy before….)

Someone very wise once told me. 

‘Giving birth doesn’t make you a mummy, it makes you a mother. You have to earn the title mummy.’

Well this week I feel I have earned my mummy badge. (In all honesty I think I earnt this badge with my stitches but you know, whatever…)

My son is on the mend.

We did it together, my son and me.

His first mouthful of recovery food?

A chip.

He chose a chip.

And I cried while he ate it. He is like me, after all.

Chips are the answer to everything.

Bad mummy club? I am sorry I won’t be able to attend any more.

(Don’t hold me to that. This high may wear off shortly…and besides, i’ll miss you all too much!!)

Bring on the perfect mother types! I am simply itching to throw some fish! (Mature? Nope. Totally worth it for the looks on thier smug faces? Yup.)

My son is HAPPY, LOVED and HEALTHY.

And Nothing else matters.

I see that now.

And yes.

He is sat in a noodle box playing with a piece of pizza. What of it?   
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I would also like to take this moment to extend a great BIG HUGE THANKYOU AND YOU ARE WONDERFUL TO MISS @theboyandme for some wonderful advice. She writes a beautiful, funny, inspiring and truly hilarious blog over at www.theboyandme.co.uk – please go visit.  She is wonderful.  The blog has everything! 365, listography, reviews and some cracking stories. If you havent read ‘Things they don’t tell you…’ you are missing out. It is HILARIOUS. Miss boy and me has the ability to both make me cry and howl with laughter with her stories. I have won some wonderful cards over there and visit regulaly for tales of the unexpected with the boy. I would love it if you would too. (And you would end up loving it too! and her!)

——————————————————————————-
Addison is lucky. I am lucky. I appreciate every day. We are both healthy and loved.

Unfortunately over 8 million children under five die needlessly every year. 

You can help keep their dreams alive at www.savethechildren.org.uk

I don’t usually do this kind of thing.

But today I pledged.

Because we are the lucky ones.

Don’t worry, I won’t judge if you don’t.

I just wanted to put it out there. I hope you don’t judge me for being cheesy and doing that.

————————

Ps – Wonder woman? Bring it on…

Monkey see, Monkey Woo.

‘Oh Lexy you must be so proud!!! He is gorgeous, he is absolutely beautiful, don’t you think?’

I am sat on a hospital bed 23 hours post hell on earth. My arse is in tatters, I’m terrified of having a wee and my legs are the size of individual century old oak trees. (Or those yellow tubes you see on building sites. They really did look like those yellow tubes. You know the ones that they slide rubbish down? The ones that, as a child, I used to think were actual slides the builders used to dismount the scaffolding, hence me telling anyone who would listen, aged 5, that when i grew up I wanted to work in construction. Anyway I digress. That is what my legs looked like.)

Why is all the weight still here? It was supposed to drop off?! I shake my bingo wing dispassionately and try to focus.

‘What?’ I accidentally spit out. ‘What was that?’

It is visiting hour. The deathly warm post natal ward is crammed full of crinkly pink and blue helium balloons and over excited grandparents shrieking and clapping and slurping at NHS luke warm tea. There is a metal bin directly adjacent to my head. If one more person slams it, they will have to transfer me from the Hormonal fatty ward (as I have come to know it) to the maximum security moose on the loose ward as I will undoubtedly stab them with my plastic, soggy curry fork.

In spite of all this going on around him my freshly brewed boy is laid in a heavenly, snuggly and beautiful bundle on my big fat lap. He is bloody gorgeous. His features are scrunched up in to a tight ‘Don’t mess with me or I will kick your arse’ face and he is bright orange. The labour was as heavy going on him as it was for me. (He is honest to god the most orange baby you ever saw. But it is ok. They are bringing a sun bed in for him later and I fully intend to get under it with him. I could do with a bit of colour myself.)

‘I said,’ my best friend repeats, ‘you must be so proud. He is bloody gorgeous.’

Proud?  Is she on glue? Proud isn’t how I would describe myself right now. AT ALL! Knackered, half the woman I once was, Amazed, transfixed, confused, tired, in pain, shocked, terrified, and a little bit angry (hormones) probably sums half of what I am feeling now. But Proud? Proud? Proud of what? It wasn’t like I had a choice in the matter! He had to be born, he had to come out, even though I changed my mind half way through and tried to get up and go home, and there is no lying here, I was a full on wimp. No, no I am not proud. I am in shock. I am a wobbly, thirsty mess. 

‘I really am proud’ I state loudly (what was I supposed to say?!) ‘I cannot believe I made him. He is so perfect.’

‘I can’t believe it either to be honest,’ she shakes her head in amazement, ‘he looks absolutely nothing like you, he is his dad all over don’t you think?’

That was the first time ever, myself and my bestest friend in the whole wide world had a little fall out. I was hormonal. I was in pain. I was fatter than a beached whale at the end of seal season and I was at the very start of the emotional rollercoaster of a lifetime. 

‘Get out.’
‘What?’
‘Get out.’
‘What?’

At which point I burst out crying and she hugged me fiercely. (I did say little fall out.)

Turns out she did me a favour. She was simply preparing me for what was to come. Every visitor, every midwife, every stranger who saw the three of us together , every check out girl, every family member, every random woman in the street, would share with me their opinion. He looked nothing like me. Was I sure he was even mine? 

‘Oh he looks just like his dad – Sorry Lexy.’

‘Oh he is the IMAGE of the Irish one – sorry Lexy’

‘My god he is just like daddy isn’t he Lexy?’

‘Ha! If you hadn’t birthed him I wouldn’t be too sure he was even yours, sorry Lexy!’

‘WOW! Is he even yours? Does he look like his dad? Sorry – random mother who looks like she may kill me.’

It always ends the same way. We will make a joke about how he looks nothing like you, break your heart in to a million pieces (a touch dramatic maybe) but none of it matters because we finish by saying Sorry. Essentially we can say what we want as we are putting a sorry at the end.  (I have so many uses for this!! OY troll face, you are a slutty bitch – Sorry shitforbrains. (Names have been changed to protect all involved.) 

‘Oh he has his dads EVERYTHING doesn’t he? He doesn’t look a bit like you at all! –Sorry Lexy.’

I have dealt with it now though. It doesn’t bother me at all. Go on say it, it’s ok. He is his dad all over, I know. Don’t be sorry. It saves on a paternity test. Not that we would need a paternity test. This isn’t some dodgy episode of Jeremy Kyle or anything. I am not sat here in a pair of jeans six sizes too small for me (liar) with my muffin top on show (liar) for all the world to see while smoking crack cocaine, beating up my husband, shagging my brothers girlfriend, punching my mum and letting the dog breast feed the baby. (Where do they find these people?) and besides, the last thing I need is another man shouting at me, telling me I should be ashamed of myself (really Jeremy? Really? Do you think they will be at this point?) No, don’t be sorry, when you laughingly tell me MY SON looks nothing like me, because whether he looks like me or not he is still MY SON. I don’t mind you telling me he looks NOTHING like me over and over again. Why would I? It’s not like I went through 65 hours or labour or anything.  It’s not like it makes me want to slap you across the face or anything, (..and breathe…) 

‘My god, he is a mini Irish One isn’t he? All he needs is a beard!’

He is a boy. My son is a boy. I am glad he looks like a man. I am sure if he looked like me he would have been even more stunning than he is now, but whatever. Don’t be sorry. It’s fine. Really it is. I don’t mind at all. Everyone says the same and that is ok. Honestly. It is fine; his dad is ok looking I suppose. I mean I fancied him enough to have his baby. So Addison should be fine.

Have you noticed though? He has my hands. Look! Look at his hands and then look at mine. You see? We have the same hands. So it is ok that he looks like his dad because he will always have my hands, and some people say he has my eyes too, but whatever. You know I don’t mind either way. He is gorgeous so you know, don’t be sorry. I am totally at one with the fact he looks like his father. It doesn’t bother me at all ok? Shall we move on?

(Is it just me that finds this rude and thoughtless? I mean, im not being funny but I did all the work. It would be nice if he looked a bit like me you know? I incubate, create and birth and daddy gets all the glory? It would be nice if the ODD person said he looked like me you know? I would know you were lying but it would make me feel better!)

But whatever. He has my hands, and his dad is good looking so it’s fine. No, honestly it really is. I may have 5 stitches in my arse, but don’t be sorry! My son is gorgeous. And just like his dad, like you said. But he has my hands. Have you seen his hands? And his feet! He has my monkey feet too. He is such a lucky boy! By the time he is sixteen he will be able to change channel with his big toe.

It’s a gift, it really is.

And anyway I have a fix for this problem.

I am mother. I can fix anything.

In the next few days I intend to copy my sons every move. So if he doesn’t look like me, I will eventually begin to look like him.

What do you think?

I think it will work.

Now, let me just stick some fish finger in my ear, yoghurt up my nose and we are good to go!