I’m in the closet.

Tomorrow night I am going out and I am dreading it.

Except I am not really dreading it, if you know what I mean. (Do you? Do you know what I mean? Because I’m not sure I do, so if you do, will you tell me? My brain has died!)

I am looking forward to it. I think. Underneath all the stress and anxiety of what going out actually means these days, that is.  

Do you know what I mean? (I have now cottoned on to what I am getting at.)

Since becoming a mammy, I don’t know how to go out. Does that make sense?

I used to go out in short skirts and figure hugging tops. I used to go out and get absolutely steaming with my friends and laugh until my sides hurt. I used to go out in fancy dress and dance the night away. I used to go out and not give a flying hoot about what my arse looked like (I had the confidence you see, those were, what I now refer to as the confident days) and I used to go out with butterflies of excitement in my belly.

I used to go out with no plan, and see where the night took me. I used to go out and enjoy the getting ready and the coming home and chatting until the early hours. I used to love going out.

(Fancy dress…………..Honest!)

Tonight, however, on the eve of my third night out since giving birth ( a year and a month ago. Did you hear me? A year and a month ago!) I have butterflies which are a little more annoying and a little more sinister. (Bats then, rather than Butterflies. I have bats in my belly.)

I am absolutely certain I won’t be pulling on the first thing that jumps out at me as I open the wardrobe (because I already tried 7 things on), but am more likely to huff and puff and strop my way through my entire wardrobe and still cry and scream and stamp my foot while hissing at the Irish One  ‘no i don’t look beautiful in this, You haven’t even looked!!!  I look like a hippo under a duvet. Look Irish one, Look! Look at my back fat!!! This is your fault, yours! You and your bloody sperm!’ (He is so sick of me. I don’t care. If it wasn’t for him I would still be thinner than my wildest dreams. I also wouldn’t have Addy, but that is beside the point. )

What will I talk about when I eventually get out? (Feeling like an elephant wrapped in cling film, no doubt.) I am no longer the confident woman I once was. Post Natal depression has whipped that woman from out of me and left me with a skin full of nerves and shadows. (Imagine a water balloon, but full of nothing, but still bloated somehow. Yup, that’s me.) 

I am a woman who has lost all her sparkle.

At least, I think I have, maybe I could find it, if I could concentrate for long enough to remember what I am looking for in the first place. The problem also is, I cannot remember what my sparkle looked like. It has been that long since I have seen it.

But on to more pressing matters, what handbag will I take? I don’t know how to leave the house without nappies and wipes anymore. Maybe I should take them anyway? You never know what you will run in to, and then I could just take the changing bag? I don’t remember what carrying a bag weighing less than a bowling ball feels like, and surely, If I am just taking my wallet, my phone and my house keys, I wouldn’t even need a bag? Oh god. I am not sure I can leave the house without a bag! What will I do with my hands? Where will I put them? What will they search for?

And while we are on that subject, what can I drink? I am no longer a woman who can mix beverages and order anything she fancies without worrying about the consequences. I will be up at Dawn’s crack the following morning, but nowadays, not because my head will be down the loo, but because there will be a clampit sticking his finger up my nose in an attempt to wake me up. Do I still drink willynilly and just live in the moment (and regret it in the morrow) or do I put my boring sensible foreboding head on and drink water between every drink and only half let my hair down in case i feel too rough the next day? In which case, shouldn’t I just drink soft drinks? But I want to feel a little drunk, I want to and need to throw caution to the wind! But what if, in doing so, I break wind? (No control over that yet either.)

I don’t know how to go out anymore!!!  I don’t know what to talk about!!! I don’t know how to act!!! I don’t know who the fuck I am anymore.

I know I’m not just a mother, but usually I am just a mother.

So for the six or so hours, tomorrow night when I am not just a mother, but a young (ahem) woman on the town, I don’t know who I will be.

I’m not the woman I was. I don’t know if I am the woman I should be, and I’m not sure I have the energy to be the woman I could be.

I suppose only time (and wine) will tell.

I’m going back to the wardrobe. (If I’m not back in four hours, call Gok Wan.)

See you on the other side

Who am I now? I just dont know!

(And yes I am grabbing my boob, but let’s just ignore that. This photo is a symbol of me not knowing who I am. Not what I am grabbing… Ahem.)

Can I still be me? That is the six million dollar question.

I will try to be me, I suppose. When I have worked out who me, now is.

Moaning Bitch Club. Get Off My Wick!!!

Hello, My name is Lexy Ellis and I am a moaning bitch.

Yada… yada… yada… There is no time for this.

I am about to burst in to flames.  

Moan sodding 1.

I can’t stand bad service, incompetent, untrained staff and company’s who refuse to accept liability for their shabby workmanship and who go out of their way to shove the blame, on anybody else but themselves. Namely, the customer.

I say companies, plural, as today I had a run in with Specsavers and last week I had a run in with Salford City Council. Whether they are a company or not, I don’t know but either way, shit service gets right under my wick. (On my wick? Over my wick? Either way im wikked ok?!)

I used to work for Disney World in Florida and in my opinion; all companies should follow their lead.

This is a company whose ethos is to treat every ‘guest’ like an old friend they haven’t seen in years.

Too cheesy for you? Well I like it. I want to be treated like an old friend you haven’t seen in years (although maybe not by my gynaecologist) and especially if I am paying good money for a service.

Specsavers is about to receive the mother of all complaint letters after my dealings with them over the last year.

Their systems didn’t ‘show’ I had paid cash, so even though I told them I did, I couldn’t have! (Are you calling me a liar?) The woman had sent my lenses back to the ‘depot’ after i ‘hadn’t contacted them’ (I have spoken to them 3 times in the last month) and last year (I should have moved to another company right there and then) a week after Addy was born I was summoned in for a  contact lens check (after my asking/begging to postpone due to arse stitches and new born having been denied ‘no check, no lenses’) to be told on arrival, my appointment had been cancelled, and in fact,  I didn’t ‘exist’, as I ‘wasn’t on the system.’

Believe me.

I exist. And I am about to exist all over your complaints department after overhearing the branch manager call me annoying to a colleague. (I exist, and I also have ears!)

‘Salford city council cannot answer your call right now as too many people are in arrears with their payments, so the lines are too busy, please call back.’ – this from an automated system. So it is my fault you don’t have enough staff? I am being blamed for others not paying, by a robot.

Lovely.

A message to all companies…
Don’t blame the system.
Don’t use jargon to try and confuse me.
Don’t stick me on hold and then cut me off.
Don’t pass me to somebody else without explaining why I am on the phone.
Don’t treat me like an idiot.
Happy staff = Happy customers.

Don’t forget I have a voice, and if you treat me badly, I intend to use it.

Moan sodding 2.

You may own a big fancy car, but that doesn’t mean you don’t have to indicate!!!!

I am this close to chasing you down and ripping out your liver.

A tad harsh?

My baby is in the car, you nearly ran us off the road and you are giving me the finger for beeping while you chat on your mobile phone/chat to your granny in the back/scratch your arse!?!?!

Watch your back, fancy car driver. This Polo contains a mad woman. (A mad woman who drives carefully.)

Moan sodding 3.

I am not a restaurant. Do I look like a restaurant? Let me assure you I am not.

So then why, WHY do all of Mother Nature’s creatures seem to assume I am gourmet?

I am not tasty, let me assure you.

I am not a restaurant and I am not a piece of poo. (Before anyone mentions flies around shit.)

I do, however look like a total lunatic as I am swatting away 17 midges’, a bee and a ladybird while trying to go about my daily duties.

I am under attack and my scratching is keeping the household awake.

While I have been typing this I have been attacked by 3 bomber Mozzie’s hurtling towards my eyes.

What in god’s name is that all about? Did their parents teach them nothing?!?! There is no meat on my face! Go for my arse! At least help me out a bit!

Moan sodding 4.

I hate summer.

I have nothing to wear.

I either look like I tried too hard (which would be fine if that didn’t mean it were true) or I end up leaving the house looking like a full on chav (which I blatantly am… not!) with my red thighs bursting out of tight denim (circa 1980) cycling shorts and my socks accidentally pulled up over my ankles and my belly hanging free from my baby-doll top.

There is no happy medium.

I am either a walking masterpiece (which takes 5 hours to achieve and lasts all of five minutes, before I get chocolate smeared round my boobs – and not in a kinky way) or a walking tragedy. (and not in an S-Club 7 way.)

Gok wan, help me out here ok? Just don’t bring that bloody 4D mirror.

The last thing I want to see as I am settling in front of the telly with a bag of mini eggs is my arse gleaming back at me…What’s that? Sky plus FAILED my Grey’s anatomy?

Thats it.

I’m sulking.

To the loony bin, and beyond!!!

Mammy mission Log.

. . . All signs point to this planet as the location of Sods Law’s fortress. . .

I am finding it difficult to write at the moment.  I have too much on my plate (and not in a good way.)

There is no time! There is no energy and there is no motivation!

My body is no longer my own. It no longer belongs to me. I am not pregnant, no! I have been invaded by a much deadlier and amusing force!

I have been invaded by the spotty baby and the anal abscess gremlins.  

. . . Mummy’s round up, It’s time to catch the show, It’s the onnnnnne with the chickeeeen and the great big hairy lump, yes it’s time for mummy’s round up, you reallllly must catch the show. . .

Addison has the chicken pox. Or does he? He is covered in spots, they do not itch and his fever has broken. So is it the Chicken pox? Who knows?

Doodle has an anal abscess. Or does he? Could he have been mauled by a cat? Either way he has a sore bum and is constantly running around in circles thinking something is biting him.  

The vet says it is the chicken pox. The Dr says it is an anal abscess.

. . . But there seems to be no sign of intelligent life anywhere. . .

No, wait, that isn’t right. Strike that and reverse it. I don’t have the energy to do so myself.

Either way, I have not had a minute’s peace since the dawning of time.

My biscuits are a burning, I am no longer the rootinist, tootinist cowboy in the wild, wild west.

Hang on. Wait, that isn’t right. Am I cowboy? I certainly don’t feel like one, but these jeans could now pass for chaps I suppose, judging by the size of the rip which is growing bigger daily.  

I’ll just ask Mr. Potato head if he would like a cup of tea. No, wait. I mean Daddy.

I am so tired!

 . . . stating all space rangers are to be in hyper-sleep until awakened by authorized personnel. . .
There are two things I wish right now.

One, I wish I was a space ranger in Hyper-sleep (I am not sure they could find a suit to stretch over my thighs though)

And 2, that Addison Jake Doyle Ellis would let me turn the TV over and put something else on!!!

But not, ZingZilla’s. Never Zingzilla’s!

I hate the bloody ZingZilla’s. If one more person (namely The Irish One) sings, ‘this week hasn’t been hard! It’s been a DISASTA!’ At me, I will not be held responsible for my actions. (That spade is never too far from reach.

. . .Buzz Lightyear to command! I have an Awol space ranger! . . .

It’s mammy. She has finally lost the plot.

She is stuck in a Toy Story 2 nightmare.

Is it normal to feel so drained of all energy that I am now wishing, nay, imagining myself as a life size Jessie doll? I love her hair. I love her outfit and at least if I was her, I could abandon the diet. She is so slim!

Is it also normal, that I have watched this film so many times over the last 4 days that it is burned in to my subconscious and now, without even noticing my accent has taken on a slight western twang and my dialogue is gradually becoming more and more Disney like?

I am too tired to diet and am too lethargic to shave ma legs. What is the point? But if I was Jessie. I wouldn’t have to. I could just kill some critters and yodellaaaayhooohooooo and hey presto, dang! Young lady, I am a size 10 again.

Would you care for a mini egg?

. . . I’m a married spud. I’m a married spud. I’m a married spud. . .

I have even started to dissect the plot.

The way I see it, if that broken penguin had never swallowed his squeaker, none of this would have happened. None! Do you hear me Stinky pete? None I tell ya!

There would be no Toy Story 2 if it weren’t for that pesky penguin and I would be a lot closer to sane, let me tell ya!

And while we are on this subject, why is Bo Peep Andy’s toy? She is off a lamp. I would love a Bo peep lamp for Addison but I struggle to convince The Irish One that him playing with Minnie Mouse makes him less Masculine so I have no chance. Maybe Andy’s mum has her husband well trained.

Does she even have a husband come to think of it?! There is no mention of him is there? How modern.

Does that mean Molly and Andy may not even be full brother and sister? Intriguing.

. . .Please hold all questions until the end of the tour. Thank you! . .

Right, I better go.

I have to figure out how to do a shop without leaving the house, how to clean a poodle size anal abscess without being bitten and how to lose 2 stone in just over a month. I also need to clean Addison’s bedroom, put a wash on and ask Specsavers if they will deliver me some more contact lenses before the morning or I will no longer be able to see. Aint nuthin funny about that ya’hear??

I also need to clean the loo.

Ma life is so exciting.

Mammy’s Roundup

Come on and gather ’round

Mammy’s Roundup

Where every stain is usually brown.

Dr’s  go runnin’

Whenever she’s in town,

She’s the rootin’-est, tootin’-est

shootin’-est, hootin’-est Mammy, in the whole damn town.

Oh for the love of god! Someone has poisoned the water hole!

Limp Much? (The final part.)

Sixty five hours ago, when this all started, I may have been a tad premature in my labeling of labour  as a doddle.  (Yes. Sixty FIVE hours ago.)

Perhaps I came across as a tad cocky. (If I had been walking I would have had a gangster limp. That’s how cocky I felt. As it was, I was limping because I developed bum grapes. Lovely.)

Did I really use the words ‘not even that painful?’

(I think I may have even repeated myself to the midwife at one point too. Oh the shame! I was pooing all over her 6 hours later….)

I am mortified.

Twenty  seven hours ago, all bravado I may have shown previously, positively ran screaming, like a rat on speed, out of the birthing room at a rate of knots, leaving an arrogant (and I can see now), massively big headed and idiotic  fat rat shaped hole in the wall. I cannot believe I had the pure audacity to call labour boring.

Just who the hell did I think I was? Mother Nature was listening, of that I am sure. And the bitch made me pay. 

They wheeled me up here an hour ago, baby on my knee, and promptly sent the Irish one home.

The baby was born by the way, did I not mention that? Yes Pleb was born eventually.

(Don’t you dare say congratulations yet either! I haven’t got my make up on and I look like a clapped out troll. You can say congratulations later when I’ve got the feeling back in my foof and my eye liner is back on my eyes and not smudged around my belly button. Don’t you dare utter the words. Now is not the time to be congratulating me. I just fainted on the toilet. Congratulations? Are you on glue? I am humiliated!)

Pleb is asleep beside me, his little fists clenched like Victor Meldrew. He looks a little peeved. If he could speak I am almost sure he would shout ‘I don’t believe it!’

And I would have to agree with him too. I can hardly believe it myself. It is finally over. He is finally here. And he is asleep. He is gorgeous of course. His face is a bit swollen and he looks a little like Mike Tyson but he is definitely mine. I have the body to prove it.

Contractions, by the way, are definitely not ‘just a bit achy.’ (Oh the shame!)

At one point I genuinely and honestly thought the only way the situation could possibly get any worse, was if somebody had started to harshly and repeatedly punch me in the face. That is how bad it was. In fact, at one point, I was thinking of asking somebody to harshly and repeatedly punch me in the face. I needed a distraction. That is how bad it got!!!

To get to where I am right now was probably the longest and most horrific journey I have ever been unlucky enough to experience. It certainly wasn’t the total joy of a voyage I had meticulously planned. (On the back page of my ‘natural is best, hypnosis is key’ handbook.) 

Ahh, my Birth Plan. My wonderful birth plan. It just wasn’t meant to be.

Oh no! My birth plan went straight out of the window the moment ‘pig sperm’ was mentioned.

Did you just gasp? Or was that me gasping involuntarily again?

My birth plan, was written and fondled with for hours, after the midwife advised me to ‘have an idea’ of what I wanted to happen, as to ‘aid’ with a pleasurable (lying bitch) and enjoyable (She is so gonna get it) labour. She did warn me (but not enough!!!) not to expect everything to come off as planned (ha!) but had also advised me with a big smile ‘it is worth having goals and ideas of what you would like.’ (See previous comment. She is so gonna get it. She wasn’t even there!!!)

My birth plan included;

• A birth pool. (Because it sounded cool and I like swimming.)
• Candles (Because I thought I would look thinner by candle light.)
• Music (I had visions of my child being born while Kings of Leon played sex on fire in the background. How cool would that have been? Turns out it was my ring that was on fire!)
• (Manageable) Drama. (You know. Just to keep everybody interested. Maybe I could dramatically faint or something?) 
• People telling me I looked radiant. (People could lie. I would still accept it.)
• Someone feeding me grapes. (Because I am the one doing all the work.)
• The midwife commenting on my perfectly manicured feet. (Do you have any idea how hard that was to achieve at 40 weeks pregnant? Forget climbing Mount Everest. Try bending down and touching your toes with a watermelon stuffed up your jumper. Ok, make that 2 water melons. (I ate a lot of pizza.)
• A quick labour (But not so quick that I couldn’t milk it. Obviously.)
• A nice anesthetist that called me brave and beautiful. (Because, well, why not? Everyone wants to feel brave and beautiful at one point in their life. Just call me Joan of arc.)
• An epidural, if I was simply too exhausted to carry on. (I would feign exhaustion. Poor me!)
• My other half telling me he loved me every now and again while I sighed and shot him dramatic dirty looks and midwifes whispered ‘poor pet’ under their breath ‘he simply has no idea of what she is going through, she truly is a heroin.’
• A bit of swearing off me. (Because that is what you are supposed to do isn’t it?)
• A bit of a giggle of the gas and air. (Re live my youth a little.)
• A touching moment where when the child appeared, everybody stopped to stare and marveled at its beauty and elegance. ‘Doesn’t he/she just look the image of his/her mother?’ At this point I would lie back with a sigh and would be presented with an award and a glass of water, while somebody mopped my brow in the background.

 It did, under no circumstances, include.

• Being sent home from the hospital twice due to a lack of beds. (Do they know who I am? Do they know what I have to put up with at home? Keep me in and peel me grapes! I am in bloody labour!)
• Being told repeatedly my labour wasn’t progressing so I should just wait. (Wait? Like heathens wait?)
• Being told to go for a long walk. (Off a short cliff by any chance? How rude!)
• Lots of haggard and tired looking midwives looking up my flute and sighing heavily. (Honestly, I had more tourist action today than the bloody London eye.)
• Being 3 cm dilated after 40 hours of proper labour. (PROPER LABOUR, did you hear me? Not every now and again mild labour, I mean proper, slap me across the head, beat me with a leather brush, call me Susan and inject me with ANYTHING you have handy, hell on earth.)
• Having Pig sperm (Gasp!) shot up my lady parts in an attempt to encourage the little monster to make a move down. (Apparently poking my stomach and shouting Pleb’s full Sunday name in a manner reserved for a pissed off parent, a manner I have heard plenty of times over the years, is neither productive of necessary. Sor-ry! Just trying to help. Jeez.)
• My other half popping home for a shower. (Yes, don’t worry dear, you pop home and refresh yourself. I do not mind at all. I will stay here, sizzling, like a lump of lard on a frying pan and scream to the bloody wall. I will stay here and shove a watermelon out of my arse while you have a shower and read the paper. No, honestly. You go.)
• Sandwich making. (Yes. Sandwich making.)
• An aneathsadist who was shaking like a shitting dog and sent my nervous system on a rollercoaster ride. ‘You may feel a little tingle’ was the understatement of the BLOODY year! While my leg shot up and out like gold member.)
• An epidural that didn’t actually work. (I swear to god, he was either a full on numpty, or my ferocious yelling of ‘Get the fark over here and give me some bloody drugs before I come over there, grab the needle off you and shove it in my own neck!!’ scared the living daylights out of him and he got so nervous, he did it bloody wrong! The Irish one says it was the latter. And apparently it serves me right. The Irish one has been walking with a limp ever since… and not a gangster limp either.)
• For one side of my body to be paralyzed while the other felt every single contraction. (There are no words…I felt like one half of my body was laughing at the other, while the other half was screaming ‘HELP ME, DON’T JUST SIT THERE, HELP ME! It was very conflicting, confusing and confounded. Awful.)
• Gas and air to be as much fun as it was. (It really was fun! Sorry Irish one, I know your name isn’t Jon. I don’t know why I found it quite so funny to repeatedly call you by the wrong name. And yes, I know that is my ex’s name… it really isn’t funny. You are right. No I am not smirking!)
• To be fully and properly induced. (Because, I am a half numb failure.)
• For induction not to work. (For the love of god!)
• To feel faint. (Real proper faint. Not dramatic swoon faint.)
• To have to wear a gas mask like Goose in Top Gun. (If I am honest, this was funny for a while. To me anyway. Although thinking about it now, nobody else was laughing at my ‘there’s a mig on my tail there’s a mig on my tail’ impressions. Ah well, as long as you can laugh at yourself.)
• For My baby’s heartbeat to slow right down. (REAL drama.)
• Lights, sirens, bells and whistles to scare the living day lights out of me. (Turns out real drama? Not so fun!!)
• After 65, yes 65 hours, to be told, if you don’t push now your baby may be brain damaged, as there wasn’t enough time for a c-section. (No words. I mean it this time.)
• While basking in the pure relief of him being born healthy and well. While enjoying a very much deserved moment of sheer joy, with him on my chest. While experiencing, without a doubt, the most romantic and loving moment of my entire life, for the midwife I shit on earlier (literally not metaphorically) to get her own back. Royally.

Her actual words. Are you ready?

‘Sorry to ruin the moment, but I just need to stick my finger up your bum, ok?’

(OK? Why bother asking OK? And why??? Couldn’t you have just waited a moment or two??… Turns out she was checking for tearing. Sigh.)

Do some of my smiles look shocked in the photos? Well now you know why.

And finally.  

• For my bloody baby girl to be born with a willy. (What the hell? It’s a boy!) 

So yes, 65 hours after my waters broke. He is finally here. 

His name is Addison Jake. (Jake, in memory of my beautiful older brother.) He is 6lbs 14oz.

Which means I have a whole 15 year old to lose in weight. The next year should be fun then.

Glass of water for me please! (I just had a baby. Get me a drink.)

A lovely doctor came up to see me a while ago and expressed very strongly that if I began to think he was Jesus, I should tell somebody. (Apparently there is such a thing as post birth psychosis, and as today is Easter Sunday, there may be a link. Is there such a thing as pre-birth psychosis? I asked her. Because I think I have always had that. She didn’t laugh and not long after I fainted on the toilet. God pissed off with me? Yes I think so.)

Addison has five fingers and five toes. Addison is perfect.

I have no idea what to do with him. Thankfully he is asleep. And I suppose I should be getting some sleep too. But I am too wired.

Are you aware that newborn’s can’t sit up? Random right?

I have never changed a nappy. Do the sticky bits go at the back? 

He is lovely but what the hell do I do with him? 

Bloody hell. What a day.

I remember shouting out, right after his head appeared ‘Did you cut me? Because if feels like you cut me! And if you did, make sure you stitch me back together properly! Make it nice and tight!’

A head duly popped up from between my legs, looking a bit worse for wear, and stated ominously ‘You will never be the same again love, it’ll be like throwing a penny in a bucket of water.’

Well ok the head didn’t actually say that. But it may as well have.

The head from between my legs, then went on to tell me that this time next year this will all be a distant memory.

Somehow head, I doubt that.

I really doubt that.

Happy birthday my beautiful boy.
(Mammy forgives you…)

This time next year…

As I was spooning coffee granules in to Addison’s bottle and formula in to my coffee mug this morning, it dawned on me just how mentally and physically drained I am feeling.

I glanced up at the calendar on the wall to see a beautiful photograph taken this time last year of a tiny little Woo lying in his pram wearing a pair of shades and clutching a teething toy for dear life. I remember that day as clear as if it was only yesterday, we had barely slept and with The Irish One just about to return to work I had decided, after another full night of no sleep to try and shed some of the much unwanted baby weight and take little baby Addison for a walk in his pram. The sun was shining, my stitches were a itching and I pulled on my pre pregnancy jeans full of hope.

We are going out today little one! Just you and mammy!

After 17 outfit changes, one strop from me, a minor strop from Addison and a bit of excitement off Doodle we finally managed to leave the house. We were like the three amigos, one with a full nappy, one covered in baby sick and one walking on all fours. (I could be either of those last two.)

We walked to MacDonald’s (the Holy Grail), where I bought a coffee, let Woo have a daydream and Doodle a bit of a sniff  and a roam around a discarded burger. I hung around outside wondering what to do next not accustomed to having all this time to do nothing (and everything) by myself and slowly began my new commute home.  

Not being in work was unsettling. Watching cars drive past, full of people with places to go and people to see, I looked down at my sleeping new-born and down to my happy poodle and thought there must be something wrong with me. I should be enjoying this time off shouldn’t I? Why do I feel so lost? Why do I feel like something is missing? My son is beautiful, the days are our own and life has slowed down (and sped up) at a new pace.

I will get used to it, I thought to myself pulling my jumper down over my empty bump ashamedly and shuffling back up across the road.

This time next year, I will be slim again; I will have had a full night’s sleep and Addison will be able to toddle along with me. This time next year, I thought to myself, all this learning and adjusting will be over and I will be settled in to the mammy role properly. This time next year, I will be just getting back to work and Addison will be making friends at nursery. This time next year will be perfect and all these worries I have now I will be able to look back on and laugh.

We continued on home with the thoughts of an afternoon of sterilizing on my mind. We were just reaching the last bend and I was breathing like an elephant from all the exertion when Addison coughed up half his previous bottle and nearly choked. My rush to get him unwrapped and upright, caused me to fumble with the brake on the pram, drop the dogs lead and spill a half empty cup of steaming hot coffee, all over my hands, down my front and on to my exposed flip flopped toes. Racing for the lead, holding the tiny baby and trying not to cry, I thought to myself, this time next year this will all be a distant memory.  

This time next year is my light at the end of the tunnel.

Fast forward back to this morning and here I am spooning Starbucks instant Via, full powered coffee in to my sons breakfast bottle.  Yes I have learnt a hell of a lot this year, I think to myself turning around and walking full on, in to an open cupboard door and nearly knocking myself out. I have learnt a hell of a lot.

The first thing being that maybe the fuses have blown in the tunnel.

• I have learnt to never EVER take for granted anesthetic. (Stitching round two? Sans numbness? Not so fun!)
• I have learnt to never underestimate the power of hormones (especially in relation to objects not nailed down.)
• I have learnt that not eating, means zero energy and minimal weight loss (and a pan au chocolate binge at the end of the day.)
• I have learnt to beat myself up over the smallest failings.
• I have learnt to beat myself up, over beating myself up over the smallest failings.
•  I have learnt that blue carpet will not hide white baby sick, no matter how hard I scuff it with my toe, as the doorbell rings.
• I have learnt to do what my gut tells me and only take advice if I absolutely believe in the advice myself. (Nothing wrong with him you say, give him proper milk, you say?)
• I have learnt I am not the perfect mother as she doesn’t exist.
• I have learnt to not pick arguments, but save myself for the hum-dingers.
• I have learnt having a baby is a massive strain on your relationship but you can get through it. Together. (But keep a spade on hand, just in case.)
• I have learnt the words to every single Bear in the big blue house episode, and now, most of Toy story 1 and 2 too.
• I have learnt that it is ok to cry. Just try not to do it at the supermarket quite so much. (Now I know why the check-out girls see me coming and grimace.)
• I have learnt to trust in myself, in those I care for and ignore those who‘s only purpose is to criticize, condemn and complain.
• I have learnt that no matter how much I screw my eyes closed and pray, morning still comes 20 minutes after I have shut my eyes. And then every half an hour on the hour until 6am.
• I have learnt that making a rod for your own back, is hard, but well worth it for those special moments I have enjoyed cozying up with my favourite boy.
• I have learnt patience. (Slowly.) And
• I have learnt,  that no matter what, I am always right. (Ahem.)

This time last year I was waiting for the light to be switched on at the end of the tunnel, and in many ways I am still waiting now.

But one thing is for sure. I am a different person this year to who I was last year. Yes, I am still a bumbling, grumbling, dizzy, overweight, unfit and struggling mother who is still trying to learn to function on minimal sleep and maximum hormonal imbalance but I am also beginning to understand, this time next year is a whole year away. Why not try to relish the here and now a little more? Why not try to accept present circumstances, a little more.

It is as I go to put the murky brown bottle to my sons mouth, and take a sip of piss yellow soya tea, that I laugh out loud and look down to see my little boy looking up at me, his eyes too, shining with laughter.   

‘Mammy,’ he seems to say ‘you are a goose, and you will still be a goose this time next year! Now go make me another bottle…’

And off I trot, but not before kicking the dog’s water bowl in to the door and drenching the car seat waiting in the hall.

This time next year I will be asleep, I think to myself hopefully, right before slipping arse over tit on the water, and nearly braining myself on the radiator.

This time next year I will be asleep.

Look at my Crystal Balls (up.)

Do you believe in fate?
Are you a subscriber to destiny?
Do you believe in the sixth sense?
Can you stretch your mind to accept the spiritual world may exist?
Do you believe everything happens for a reason?

I don’t burn incense, wear long flowery skirts and pray to the gods of the vanilla latte every morning (although maybe if I did I would get more freebies) but some things have a habit of freaking me out slightly.  Every now and again an occasional happening will occur that I am unable to explain, thus making me think to myself, I have no choice but to believe in some of the above.Then, there will be the type of days where other things happen (usually something untoward or just plain awful) and I think, there is no way this is meant to be (like stepping in poodle poo first thing on a Monday morning) and subscribe firmly to the chaos theory.

So if somebody was to ask me those questions above, I suppose it would really depend on the day/week/month I was having.

Right now? On the basis of the previous day/week/ month my answer would have to be, maybe, Sometimes, yes, yes and no.

Let us examine the facts.

Women’s intuition Vs fate.  Most women, mothers, fathers and folk who want to make you feel better for averting a scene will say at one point in thier lives  ‘ooo well done you! Must have been women’s intuition.’

I have even used the saying myself usually when I have a strong feeling something is going to go a miss, or usually when I can feel somebody (usually another woman) dislikes me or wants to out fox me in some way (this may also be known as paranoia but let’s not go there.) A man (code for; The Irish One) can easily put this down to ‘all women being a bit paranoid and bitchy’ (Mental note to self; stopover sharing girly conversations with the Irish One) but I would have to say I do believe in women’s intuition.

Take last Monday as an example, I spent an eternity trying to fit in to my pre pregnancy size 12’s and was delighted when I finally managed to secure the top button in place (using a crow bar, some butter and girdle that did nothing to help my asthma.) I looked in the mirror and for the first time in a while was moderately pleased with what I saw. I had hidden my 6 tiered birthday cake top (because muffin top does it no justice at all) with a flouncy, flowy type tent top and based on the fact every ounce of butt and thigh flab was woven so tightly in to the denim material (think anti -fat bastard cellophane in the full Monty) I had actually succeeded in looking thinner that I actually was. Walking, breathing and moving without looking like I was doing the faulty towers ‘don’t mention the Germans’ comedy walk proved to be a difficulty but still, it was a small victory and I was happy.

Now let’s call it women’s intuition, but I just knew at some point in the day one of the buttons was going to fly off causing some unsuspecting grandma to go blind or eventually the denim would give up its losing battle and they would tear. However, I did not care.

I left the house carrying everything but the kitchen sink and shuffling in an attempt to keep them from cutting off all circulation to my lower half.  We made it to the Trafford centre successfully with only a tinge of blue on my neck telling the untold story of me being unable to breathe. But sure enough, as I picked up Woo’s bag out of the car I heard it, the unmistakable noise of jeans giving up the ghost.

A tear from my crotch to my arse, not dissimilar to the one I suffered during childbirth. My jeans had bitten the big one. Women’s intuition and fate? I think so. But you tell me.  

Mother’s instinct vs. destiny.  On Thursday we had planned to visit Stockley farm up north, near where my cousin lives. For the record, and as an aside to this post, it really is a fantastic place to go with the kids. Addison loved it, I loved it and we came back thoroughly knackered after experiencing all manner of fun from sheep racing, to soft play to having a picnic with some escaped cows.

(Hello moo cow!)

But back to my original point, Addison is now 1, and therefore I feel I am passed the stage of worrying he will shit up his back. We successfully transitioned across from Huggies to Pamper’s at the back-end of last year and it has never happened since (That elasticated waist is the stuff miracles are made of, let me tell you.)

But for some reason on the morning of the day of the visit, I caught myself throwing a spare pair of jeans (for him) in to the changing bag. (I say I caught myself as I am currently operating on auto pilot and would be hard pressed to even remember packing the rest of the bag in all honesty)I do however remember thinking, the bag is full enough already woman! Why bother with a pair of pants you won’t need? But something (my mother’s instinct, not my mothers, she has her own instinct, I mean mine, you are still following right?) told me I should.

On the way to farm and minding our own business  singing to the wheels on the bus (code for; Rhianna) on the m6, a woman nearly ran us off the road. I absolutely shit myself and woo got a fright too as I had to break very suddenly and very hard. (She brought three lanes of traffic to a complete halt and carried on like nothing had happened. I was positively seething but thankfully my road rage was quenched when I saw the driver to my left giving her the middle finger and much, much more.) Sure enough, because of this, when we reached our destination his pants were soaked, and I couldn’t blame him either,  I could have done with a spare pair myself too.

Thank god for the spare jeans huh? (I realised afterwards he had actually been sitting on a wet wipe and the pants I had brought were from when he was 3 months old, so i didn’t have a hope of getting him in them but that is besides the point.) Mothers instinct and destiny? I think so. But you tell me.

Coincidence vs. the sixth sense. On Tuesday I was frequenting my favourite place again, yes you guessed it, the Trafford centre, to meet up with the wonderful miss Katie Bailey when I stopped at the corner of Selfridges to fasten octopus boy/Houdini in to his pram correctly.

As I was wrestling my Russian gymnast in the making back in to his seat an old friend I hadn’t seen for years popped in to my head.  I thought nothing more of it other than how long it had been since I had seen her and with Woo now clamped in, quickly moved on to meet up with my lovely friend and her gorgeous children.

Much later in the day, after we had been to soft play, had lunch and had a good natter (and I had watched in awe at what a fantastic mummy she was keeping two children entertained, when I struggle with just 1) we happened to be sat by a large fountain letting the children watch in excitement as the water nearly reached the ceiling and having a bit of a breather. You know where I am going with this right? (You clearly have women’s intuition) and who should walk past?! The old friend I haven’t seen in years and thought of randomly earlier in the day! The sixth sense? I think so. But you tell me.

The spiritual world Vs. healing.  It is a well-known fact my brother died in 2005. I will not go on to tell you how much I miss him as that much is obvious. We were quite close at points, as close as a brother and sister with 10 years between them and leading two different lives could be that is. We still had our fall outs but I have come to terms with that and this may sound like I am trying to soften the blow of losing my only brother, but sometimes I can’t help but wonder, and I can’t help but feel he is still around when I need him.

For example; not long after he died, one of his friends who shall remain nameless recommended I go and see a clairvoyant, which I did, having always been open to that sort of thing. I hoped it would bring me some peace and answer an important question that had been playing on my mind. I found this woman through another friend; suffice to say there is no way she could have known about my circumstances or my brother being dead.

I walked in and sat down and she began to tell me I was having troubles at work, which I was, but I was disappointed nothing had been picked up from Jason.

Not long afterwards she put the cards to one side and apologised to me. I asked her why and she explained, ‘your brother has just turned up and he says he is sorry he was late but was checking on his eldest daughter Phoebe.’ The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end and I burst out crying.

There is NO WAY she could have known. I continued to be absolutely flabbergasted by what she told me and the questions she answered on behalf of my brother over the next hour. She also asked me why he was repeatedly shooting me the  V’s. I had to laugh, this had been our thing. She told me things he had seen me doing the night previous (I had painted my bedroom black) and told me he hated the new colour on my walls before asking me what he meant. Flab.er.gasted. and hugely comforted too.

When Addy was born, I really began to miss Jason, wishing Addy could have met his uncle, who would have adored him. I had been home a few days and after such a long labour was exhausted. It was 3 in the morning and I was struggling to breast feed while sitting on the sofa with Addy on my knee. I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I knew Jason was stood in front of me and was screaming at me to wake up. I ignored him and tried to give him a cuddle but found I couldn’t move. It was then that I felt a sharp pain and a jolt in my left leg, ensuring I woke up in a panic. Heart hammering, my eyes shot open to find Addy was under me and had I not woken up he may have rolled off the couch or worse still been suffocated.

I whole heartedly believe my brother had kicked me awake from the other side. (Giving me a gentle prod just wasn’t his style.)

Thank you Jason.

Once again you were looking out for me and I truly believe you have seen your nephew. Addison will smile and laugh at the wall, or in to thin air on occasion and although it may be that he is just a mentalist like his mummy, sometimes I like to think it is because he can see his uncle Jakey making him laugh.  A tool used by the mind to help us overcome grief, or the spiritual world actually existing? I think the latter. But you tell me.

So to summarise, I guess sometimes I do believe, and at other times (like when doodle vomits on the play mat I have just washed) I don’t.

What about you?

Radio Silence.

Radio silence commenced last Wednesday morning.

I heard the birds outside gearing up for a full day of worm hunting and squirrel taunting, and knew instantly the moment I had been dreading since bedtime was upon me.

Damn it! It is morning!

As my ears tuned in, searching for the usual bedroom noises, trumping, yawning, scratching and Doodle Mcpoodle treating himself to a morning lick, I realised all was not as it should be. No morning noises were filling my ears, maybe I am wrong I thought, maybe it is just a bad dream! Maybe morning is still two weeks away!

But then I heard it. The unmistakable sound of giggling.

I prized my eyes open to see my 1-year-old manically grinning down at me while attempting to manoeuvre his ankle, think of a shoe that is too tight, backwards and forwards and side to side, in an attempt to get his full foot in to my overworked and underpaid and unsuspecting slightly dry, mouth.

My mouth is big some would say, (yes thank you Irish One) but not big enough to fit a size 2. (If I do say so myself.)

From the outside looking in, this could be seen as quite funny. And on a normal day I am sure it would have ensured I came to with a smile on my face.

However, unbeknownst to me, somewhere between the hours of 4am and 6am radio silence had commenced without prior notification.

I lay there looking at my beautiful son with a sinking heart.

I was no longer in control. My brain had once again been invaded by the post natal bloody aliens and my mind was unable to communicate. I liken it to somebody who has been possessed (but without the green vomit and the head spinning, no that wasn’t Wednesday, that was on Tuesday after a drinking session on Monday night…) I was no longer able to function normally.

As soon as radio silence commences, it feels like my mouth has been clamped shut against my will, my heart has been shut down and all the little men that live inside my body making things work (I was never very good at biology) have gone on strike and normal service delivery is brought to a complete halt.

I am unable to speak.
I am unable to think straight.
I am unable to snap out of it.
I am unable to feel and I am unable to function.
I am a zombie.
The post natal depression Zombie.

I can scroll down my twitter feed and I long to join in.
My fingers cannot type.
Nobody would want to speak to me anyway.
I am worthless.

I can watch my friends and family celebrating Addison’s first birthday and long to feel the relief and joy of the first year being over.
I long to congratulate my boy on being so cute.
I long to join in the celebration.
I can only operate on auto-pilot.
Nobody would want to spend time with me anyway.
I am worthless.

I can plaster a fake smile on my face, but why should I smile?
I am not worthy of anybody’s care or anybody’s love.
I am worthless.

I long to go to the supermarket and buy my son a delicious (and nutritious) meal.
But how can I leave the house and let anybody see me like this?
They will take one look at me and they will know.
I am worthless.

I am a terrible, horrible person who deserves nothing but terrible horrible thoughts and terrible horrible happenings.
I am worthless.

I am trapped in my mind like a prisoner.

I am claustrophobic, I am frustrated and I am tired of fighting back.

Every little comment made is a mountain to climb. Every little issue raised is a mountain to climb. I see evil looks and hear horrible comments where there are none. Every spill or break or fall is a mountain to climb. Every morning, afternoon and evening is a bloody mountain to climb. Getting out of bed each morning is a mountain to climb.

I am so tired.

Today marks the end of this dose of radio silence. I think.
I can feel it draining away.

I have been signed off work for 6 weeks and there it is in black and white.

Lexy is unable to work for six weeks. Lexy has Post natal depression. Lexy is a failure. Lexy is worthless. (I made the last bit up, but if you read between the lines it is there. I can see it.)

No one can help me fight back and I am so tired of trying.

Post natal depression 1. Lexy 0.

This time.

Maybe I will win next time.

If I had the energy to hope, I would say I hope so.

The self appreciation society!

When you look in the mirror what do you see?

I see humongous thighs, a flabby middle, a nose which is too big for my face and fat, wobbly, spotty (thanks again pregnancy!) arms.

I see a fat girl trying to be thin. (Because essentially, this is how I feel.)

I am not fishing for compliments. I wouldn’t hear them anyway.

I am simply sharing with you a mammywoo tale of woe. A tale of woe, I am absolutely certain, I am not alone in.

Motherhood changes your figure beyond belief. 

Womanhood changes your figure beyond belief.

You may run a marathon 6 times a year. You may never leave the couch (that’s me) but I would put money on the fact you still self abuse. (Because as The Irish one just said; women are never happy! Shall I hit him now? Or later? Or, god forbid is he right? )

When I shop, I find myself no longer shopping to buy pretty clothes, to look fashionable or to enhance what god gave me. (Yeah cheers for that oh wise one.) I shop to hide, all of the above.

The summer months fill me with dread.

How will I hide my thunder thighs and acne arms in a bikini? How will i hide my ridiculously long wookie toes in a pair of flip flop’s.  How will I get away with my bingo wings when I am dancing la cucaracha? Do they do light weight tents as beach wear?

After a good discussion with the Irish One, and the possibility of moving to Alaska thrown firmly out of the window, i realised, maybe it is time to stop abusing myself. And have another look in the mirror.

But this time, instead of going in for the kill, I will look at myself, through rose tinted goggles. (Just to see if there is any change. I am talking rose tinted goggles here, not beer goggles!)  

Yes ok, I am not Heidi Klum. I doubt the sight of me in a bikini would stop traffic (It might, but only if I used my arse as a roadblock) But at what point am I going to stop fixating on the negative and start focusing a little more on the points about myself that I do like?

And it’s not just body image either. I am constantly putting myself down for being thick, or being slow, or being a shite mother, or a bad cook, the list is endless.

So I am going to try something new.

Repeat after me, like a mantra.

Ignore the wobbly thighs, ignore the wobbly thighs… (You may want to do this under your breath if you are in Asda or somewhere public, you know, just to save yourself from a random beating off the lady walking in front…)

I have good hair. (Ignore the tufts, ignore the tufts…)
I have good bone structure. (Ignoring the spots, ignore the spots…)
I am in proportion. (Nuff said, nuff said…)

I am funny. (Ignore the tears, ignore the tears…)
I am intelligent. (Ignore the spelling mistakes, ignore the spelling mistakes…)
I can cook. (Ignore the burnt toast, ignore the burnt toast…)

Now it’s your turn!  (Don’t you dare sigh! You knew this was coming! I am not doing it alone!)

I pose to you, the following question. (I have my professor head on now, which is good as I rock the Albert Einstein look. Ignore the bird nest, ignore the bird nest…)

When you look in the mirror, what do you see?  BE HONEST WITH YOURSELF.

Now put on your rose tinted spectacles, GO ON!

Now, tell me, what do you see?

To put it another way;

What would I see if I looked at you? And what would you see if you looked at me?  I doubt I would notice the things you beat yourself up over. And I doubt you would notice the things I beat myself up over. (I’m hiding my toes.)

So with that in mind, and summer swiftly approaching, I set you a challenge. (I am setting myself one so you may as well join me.)

Every time I walk past a mirror, or a window, or catch sight of myself in the reflection of the telly while picking up Woo’s toys, (everyone knows the telly adds ten pounds!) Instead of beating myself up, grimacing and heading for my biggest, baggiest black jumper, I am going to compliment myself.

And I am starting here.

I have gorgeous nails. (Oh god! It was so hard to find something then! Which, is exactly why, I know i need to do this! I need to give myself some credit! And so do you!)

Out with the self abuse! In with the Self appreciation! (We are the self appreciation soooccciieeettty!)

I am a healthy, vibrant (ha!) Mother who will look good on the beach, not because of my apple bottom butt cheeks, but because I will be carefree (so help me god!!!) and laughing, while trying to stop the most beautiful boy in the world, eating sand/stones/his toes/a crab.

Go on, you try it now please.

Tell me what your best attributes are.

When you look in the mirror what do you see? (Pop on your appreciation specs!)

Don’t you dare walk away!

Come back! You can do this!

One word! One positive word about yourself!

I think you rock.

Moaning Bitch Club. Just get on with it!!

Welcome to the fourth official… ok screw that. There is no time.

It’s me, I’m back, I moan a lot.

I am about to implode.

As it is The Irish One’ s birthday today I do feel a little guilty about posting this. (But we all know guilt doesn’t last forever and as long as you eat chocolate, you will feel better. Luckily for me, my cupboards are full of chocolate.  So here goes..)

Moan bloody Nora 1.

I want to be happy.  I have everything I have ever wanted. I have a lovely little flat, a nice man, a baby and a poodle.  (I have to mention Doodle, or he gets jealous. He is a sensitive soul.)

So why, pray tell, am I acting like a total lunatic? At what point did throwing a full bottle of milk at the wall (ahem Irish One) in frustration and misery become normal? When will I feel better? When will this PND rollercoaster come to a halt? It’s been a year for god’s sake! I am sick of it. 

Do not call me Lexy anymore! Just call me the raincloud of doom! 
One day I am happy.  Manically happy.
The next I am crying. I cannot stop crying. I feel dead inside.
Then I am angry!!! I want to knock someones (ahem, The Irish one’s) block off.  
Then I am anxious and I cannot leave the house.
I am a total train wreck. (I love that saying. Do I sound american yet? )

People keep telling me there is a light at the end of the tunnel. But when???

Wouldnt it be my luck!

Moan bloody Nora 2.

Why does the hair on my eye brows grow at different rates? No sooner have I plucked them both, I awake to find one side of my face looking like a wookie, and the other still as perfectly preened as a bowling ball. What the hell is going on? And seriously mother nature, a moustache? And toe hair?

Why was this never mentioned in any of the pregnancy books?

I’ll tell you why! SO the human race doesn’t die out, that’s why. No woman with half a brain cell wants to look like bloody big-foot!

 
(This is me, washing the bottles. Which brings me nicely on to my next point…)

Moan bloody Nora 3.

There is no such thing as the bottle fairy, Irish one.

No. Such. Thing.

I am not a bottle fairy. I plod too much to be a fairy. (Thought you were being funny didnt you?) The bottles get cleaned because I plod to the bloody sink and I bloody clean them.

Waiting until five minutes before he is due for a bottle, and then deciding to fill the sink is unacceptable!!! When I ask you if they are clean, and you say ‘in a sec’ or ‘just a minute’ do you realise I actually want to maim you?

I am currently mopping the floor with a broom hanging out of my arse!!! Get up off the sofa and wash the bloody bottles!!!

Because, my dear, otherwise this mild green, fairy liquid bottle will not be used in the manner for which it was intended!

It’s not like the advert.  

Why does mummy have such soft hands baby? For wringing daddy’s neck with!

And I AM SURE Irish One, if you tried really hard, you could EVEN wash the knives and forks too!!

Anyway, I better get going, the changing bag isn’t going to pack itself is it?, and no one else would even dream of doing it would they? Grrrr…

 
Look at me. I’m not happy.

Happy Birthday Addison

 

This is the first photo mummy ever took of you.

You were 2 hours old.

You were lying on my flabby, empty bump (and the rest) on the hospital bed. I was so proud, I wanted to show you off immediately, so as soon as we were alone, I took this photo and sent it out to 18 people.

It was only the next morning in the cold light of day, that daddy pointed out you could see my nipple in the bottom left hand corner. 18 of my closest friends and colleagues and over 350 people on facebook saw my nipple the night you were born. Nobody ever mentioned it. This is the lovely world mammy brought you in to. (The photo has been photo shopped since.)

Yes Mammy, has made some absolute corker fark up’s since you were born, and they started that night. (Ok, they started waaay before that and you and I both know it. But still! I don’t blame you.)

Addison. Mammy wants to thank you for the best year of her life.

It has been long, as I havent slept.
It has been hungry, as I had 4 stone to lose.
It has been hard, due to post natal depression.
It has been filled with smiles, watching you learn new things.
I have been tired, as I haven’t slept. (Did I mention that already?)

But mostly it has been the most loving, overwhelming and beautiful experience of my entire life.

I have thought of myself as a bad mummy, a fat mummy, a good mummy, a useless mummy, a disgusting mummy, a great mummy, a lazy mummy and a lucky mummy.

The only one I agree with everyday,  is the last.

I am the luckiest Mammy alive. Because I have you.

I have tried my best, to do the best for you. That is all I can do. (And then a little bit more.)

If you are smiling, then that is all that matters to me.

This time last year I had never met you.
Now I couldnt live without you.

Thank you for turning my world upside down, baby boy.
Thank you for being my best friend.

I hope you enjoy your party… but please don’t put the plastic balls in your mouth! And no! Put that down… Addison don’t throw cake at Isla…. no come on, don’t put your finger in the plug socket…

Here is to the next year!