Second Verse same as the First.

‘Here we go again…’ I reluctantly swing my legs out of the parked car and plonk with considerable effort, my feet on to the hospital grounds.

Right in to a bloody puddle.

Watching the water soak up my trendy flares, so it will now look like I have decided to wear waders to my therapy session, I take a deep shaky sigh and close my eyes. Today is day 2. Everybody has wet legs on day 2. (The things you tell yourself to calm yourself down when you’re anxious are weird. Moving my legs out of the puddle probably would have been a better idea but I couldn’t.)

I re-open my eyes and sit motionless, staring at the denim on my shoes slowly changing colour before grasping on to my thighs and attempting to blow out all the anxiety through my mouth and calm my shaky core.

As I do this I look away from my shoes, which seem to also have some sort of blobby white stain on them, and up at the foreboding Victorian building sitting on the top of the hill like a majestic sturdy Grandpa who has seen it all.

I clamp my eyes closed for a second, feel around for my belongings and begin an attempt at preparing myself for what is about to happen.

‘I am henry the 8^th I am, henry the 8^th I am, I am’ I mutter to myself through gritted teeth in a failed effort at smiling, while remembering the advice the Irish one had given me last night.

Smile lots, he says. Smile lots and you’ll feel calmer.

He also thinks, that if that doesn’t work, in a separate and desperate bid to overcome my nerves I should go back to the courtyard where I was hysterically crying on Monday morning, and run around in circles clasping my head and singing I am Henry the 8^th  at top volume.

I told him last night that when I am here, I feel like a fly trapped under a thick drinking glass on a hot and sweaty summer day. Everybody is watching the fly for signs of madness and all the fly wants to do is fly away and go and party with its fly mates. (And, obviously ignore all of its issues and never come back to this place ever again.)

The Irish one believes behaving like this will get the nerves, over everybody watching me and thinking I am mad, out of my system, as it will convince everyone that I am in fact not mad. His logic being, that a mad person would never run around in circles in an institute, they would zig zag.

I am not sure about this, but I will see how today goes. (By the way, talking about zig zagging, if you ever find yourself being chased by a crocodile this is how you should run… take my word for it. This isn’t relevant. I am delaying the inevitable. I know this.)

I slam the car door, now managing a shaky and somewhat manic smile to myself and sing  ‘Second verse, same as the first…’

‘Pardon?’ A woman on her way to work pauses and looks at me questioningly, ‘Did you ask me something?’

‘Oh, er, no, nothing sorry, just er, talking to myself again’ I step towards her forcing myself to laugh loudly and therefore coming across like a deranged monkey. ‘I am just a bit nervous’ I say before turning towards my car and pointing my key at it, in an attempt to lock it.

This does not work as my key isn’t electric.

It is just a key.

My car has no central locking and I am an idiot.

I am hoping the lady behind me has walked onwards and up to the reception but unfortunately she seems to be waiting for me.  I mention something about leaving something on the passenger seat but still she just stands there. Waiting. Looking puzzled.

What I should have done at this point is walk calmly to the car, stick the key in the lock and turn it. But I didn’t. In my anxious and idiotic state I thought I would try again to lock it with an imaginary button. God knows what I was hoping would happen. Maybe the gods would smile kindly on me and inject me with the force or something. Needless to say it didn’t lock.

Eventually I accept defeat, shrug my shoulders and walk over to the keyhole.

‘Don’t know why I bothered, it doesn’t even have central locking. I feel like a wasp you know?’ I say without pausing for breath ‘No not a wasp, a fly, I get all nervous and I do stupid things and now you will think I am mad, and maybe I am, have you ever heard the song henry the 8^th? Well maybe I should tell you about this because The Irish one, well actually his name is…’

‘It’s Lexy isn’t it?’ She interrupts, her voice crisply cutting through the brittle morning air and in to the circle of craziness taking place in my brain.

‘Yes,’ I reply too brightly and run in to her personal space. I was expecting her to start walking but she hasn’t so now we are almost nose to nose. ‘Sorry,’ I gasp and step back in surprise, I thought you were going to move.’

‘Ill see you later today. Go and get yourself a cup of tea’ and with that she gives me a tight smile and wanders off in the opposite direction to where she was initially heading, probably to the place where sane people are protected from people like me. (If a gorilla is chasing you, don’t run in a zig zag, just fucking run ok? Don’t go confusing a gorilla with a crocodile; I am not getting the blame for that one….just be aware is all. )

My bloody nerves!

You see, this is the thing; this is exactly why I didn’t want to come back here today! Monday was exhausting; all that indecision about whether to open up or not and when I finally did, and I had exposed my core and much much more (not in a rude way, it isn’t naked therapy or anything) before I could process what I had done, it was time to go home.

For the past two days, because of this, I have found myself over examining everything. I am over examining myself at a rate of knots! (Again, not in a rudey got my kit off way, it really isn’t naked therapy!)

What if I don’t put the washing in the drier now, and go for a wee instead, what does that say about me?

What if I only kiss Addison on the nose, and realise he tastes delicious so lick his cheek, what does that say about me?

What if I eat a full packet of fig biscuits, a bowl of icecream and then some minestrone soup, what does that say about me?

Why do I know how to escape from random jungle animals when I live in a city, what does that say about me?

Coming back here today just amplifies this ten fold. After my run in with the lady in the car park, I am even more aware of the fact I am coming across Bonkers.com completely against my will.

If someone shouts ‘Act Normal!’ for some reason I grab my left tit and whistle the grand old duke of York. This is just the type of person I am.

The minute I get here I have this sense that all the doctors, psychologists and therapists are secretly examining my every little movement and metaphorically pulling apart every word that comes out of my mouth, searching to find the an underlying reason for my behavior, so they can truly analyze just how mental I am.

This sends me in to a state of total panic and I end up behaving like each and every character from an episode of Winnie the Pooh in just under 15 minutes. (Eeyore being my default setting.)

The day doesn’t end there either.

As I was walking up to grand old house at the top of the mountain, I noticed a uniformed member of staff walking towards me and out of nowhere I seemed to develop a dodgy gangsta limp.

All memory of being able to walk like a normal person was immediately wiped from my mind the instant I spotted the gangly, brown haired doctor walking towards me and I was instantly, and against my will, switched in to Lexy demo mode.

Gangsta limp, normal limp, skip, hop and back to gangsta limp.

AND then to make it worse! (Yes it got worse) I had a light bulb idea moment.

Remembering what the Irish One had told me the night previous about reverse psychohycology (I’ve given up trying to spell that word now), I thought the good doctor would obviously be able to see it was just nerves making me act random, and so decided to try and make light of it.

As he walked directly past me to my left smiling slightly and avoiding eye contact, I all but bellowed (bloody nerves)  ‘Yo!’ and flicked my fingers in that annoying way teenagers do, except I have never been able to do it, so it came across as a swipe, and I accidentally caught his hip bone with my nails.

He stopped and turned to look at me startled as I stood there finding this complete balls up hysterical, and doubled over laughing.  I was about to gasp my excuse for the behavior but sensing I was about to speak, he interrupted quickly before I could.

‘Its Lexy isn’t it? I’ll see you later.’

I decided to brush it off and walk onwards and upwards.

Spotting a young girl from my group pouring herself a coffee I shook off the gangsta limp and managed to stumble towards her in a desperate bid to make a new friend and in a frantic hope to quell some of the nervous behavior that was taking over my bodily functions.

My opening gambit?

‘Hi, how’s your crazy this morning? Mine is out of control.’

I thought she’d laugh. She didn’t.

She said she was fine and then very sneakily escaped while I was trying to find the button for black coffee.

Walking out in to reception carrying my cup and saucer I spotted both doctors I had seen this morning, chatting behind reception.

Immediately reverting in to hill billy mode I wave and shout howdy.

Unfortunately I use the hand which is holding the fresh brewed and very delicate (posh) cup of coffee.

I wince as it runs down my sleeve tracing a trail of pain from my wrist to my elbow, but trying to ignore the fact it has happened at all. (Much like someone who falls over in front of a group of people and then denies it ever happening by getting up and walking off on a broken ankle.)

‘Are you ok? That looks sore’ the one who’s hip I thwacked jumps up ‘ill get you some tissue.’

I plaster on a smile and dig my own grave.

‘Its ok, I like the pain.’ I proclaim proudly ‘And it smells lovely.’

They look at me with their mouths hanging open. I am a walking talking gangsta loving, imaginary star trek car locking coffee self harming crazy crocodile quoting mentalist.

I turn to walk outside.

‘Lexy?’ The therapist shouts.

‘Yes?’

‘Your key worker wants to see you at 3pm.’

I bloody bet she does.

I walked out singing ‘I am henry the 8^th I am…’ in response.

A Donut is as a Donut does.

For a split second as I was shaking vanilla powder on to my Extra skinny Extra hot Extra shot Starbucks Cappuccino, my heart jumped up in to my throat, the unexpected adrenalin thudded painfully throughout my entire body and the sound of me gasping sent a shockwave through my previously silent mind.

The above statement basically explains perfectly where my headspace is currently residing. For a split second I had thought it might be salt.

Not gun powder, not a bomb, not the end of the world, as we know it, just salt.

Why I thought, in that moment as the ground opened up and I fell in a hole I struggled to climb out of, that Starbucks would have a jar of salt stood proud as punch next to the chocolate and other coffee flavored memorabilia, I cannot tell you.

I am confused, I am exhausted from deep within, and I am one big twisted, angry, bitter, irritable, anxious, sad, hysterical, surprised, ashamed, unhappy knot.

My head is so far up my arse today; I am surprised the happy, spritely girls (who I want to punch) stood by the Krispy Kreme stand at Selfridges didn’t mistake me for an anxiety filled donut. (I would definitely be in the alternate, summer collection, squeezed in between Mentalist mango and Phsyco Surprise….)

The silence in my mind is actually not silence at all, it is white noise caused by too many thoughts jostling for position and assaulting each other in their attempt to be heard, with complete disregard for the damage they are causing to their surroundings, deep within my physic. (SURPRISE!!!… sorry. I’m losing the plot.)

‘Did you change the water in the Sterilizer?’
Maybe I should swerve the car while doing 60.

‘Why don’t you give Addison a kiss, he has missed you.’
Maybe I should just slice at my stomach where nobody will see.

Physical pain is easier than mental. Physical pain I can handle.

Is that too deep for a tuesday morning? I am sorry. Here, have a biscuit.

Group therapy is like being given a donut laced with arsenic. (You just put the biscuit down didn’t you?)

I am desperate to feel the light, delicious powdered piece of heaven on my taste buds but am terrified of the horrific, gritty powdery badness and how it will affect me, which it is surrounded by.

Inside good. Outside bad. My choice.

My choice.

I was stood in the courtyard, after having marched out of my first ever group session in a fit of defiance and a cloud of rather pathetic, weak arse drama that I made the decision.

Every part of my being was resisiting this change.

Sent in to fight or flight mode at the first inkling of trouble, all the thoughts, negativity and resistance to accept change, that had been nestled safely and comfortably inside me for so long, began to rise up in an angry panic towards the surface.

I became a walking talking cliché (a movie version of crazy) and a sitting duck all in the space of an hour.

My feet were tapping, I was picking at my fingers, my eyes were darting from the door to the window and back again, my back was killing causing me to jerk randomly, and very slowly my agitation building, and my mannerisms and quirks now out of control, it became all too much for my heart and brain to handle.

‘Lexy, please tell the group about your trauma.’

I refused to look at him, like a stubborn child refusing food, I turned my face away from him. I knew what I was doing and I didn’t want to, but the teenage me had taken over, I had no choice.

‘I don’t have any.’ I stropped.

‘Yes you do.’
‘No I don’t.’

‘Yes you do.’
‘Fuck off.’  an explosion of agitation, and I ran.

Stood in that courtyard, the sun too hot on my arms, my face burning and the realisation that nobody was going to come after me dawning, I cried the first real tears I have cried in over ten years.

No drama, no present circumstances. These tears were for me, from deep within me.

Who the hell, was I fighting against?

I did have a choice, and at that exact moment, I made it.

In my second session, defying my defiance, and telling the teenager and silent army of insolence and denial to be brave, I opened up.

I will be going back Thursday.

I am no longer intrigued to see what group therapy is about, It isn’t something I am doing for material, or just because I can, or for the experience, It is something I am choosing to do for me.

And as I sit here (in bloody Starbucks!) with tears rolling down my face and my heart on a plate in front of me for anybody to have a stab at, it finally dawns on me.

[In the words of Chandler Bing] Could I beeeeeee anymore scared?

It Starts. So it does.

Wow, so it turns out, according to the priory Nork scale (it may or may not be called that, although isn’t nork another word for tit? So maybe it is.) I am ‘severely depressed.’

So basically, I am a severely depressed tit.

It is 3.30 pm and my assessment is at the midway point, stuck somewhere between the intake of breath just before the admittance of defeat and the catch in the throat just before the tears roll.

Just about finished with assessing the level of my crazy, the good doctor looks up from the dog-eared clipboard resting on his knee and fixes me with a solemn stare.  He leans forward every so slightly preparing himself for what is about to happen, and in the hesitation of his actions, my heart begins to flutter. He is on the precipice of telling me something I probably do not want to hear. He senses my reaction may not be accepting and is selecting from the archives of his encyclopedic knowledge of the mind, the appropriate and suitable words to use, as not to cause more damage than necessary.

In his hesitation my mind races out of control. A smile is frozen across my cracked and sore lips caked under a quick flash of cheap lipstick and in my minds eye I get an image of myself as the joker from Batman. My body is overflowing from my clothes, my lipstick is smeared all over my face, I am panting like an exhausted bulldog and my shoulders are twitching at random moments. I am not dressed like a penguin. I am talking about the joker. Jack Nicholson plays a huge part in my afternoon of craziness; he seems to pop up everywhere.

In reality I am sitting perfectly still as if frozen in the moment.  This will be the photo I remember. A fly is repeatedly head-butting the window. It is the only sound in the room. Time has stopped and I am too hot. I am claustrophobic in my own clothes and the door is locked. The window won’t open.

The fly is trapped. How frustrating it must be, to almost, be able to taste the freedom you once experienced on the other side of that thick glass but lack the understanding of how to actually reach out and have it once again within your grasp.

The good doctor stirs in his seat. I avoid his eye contact but can feel his intrigued expression burning in to my right cheek as I try to distract myself from the fly by looking upward towards the sky filled with puffy white, happy clouds.

‘You ok?’ his words shock me. Are these the words he has spent all this time choosing? No I am not ok. I am in the priory. If I were ok I would be shopping with my boy, or laughing with my friends, spending a Tuesday afternoon working my old nine to five. If I were ok I would be out living, I wouldn’t be stuck in this glue like room, empathizing with an insect.

‘No’ the word splurt’s out of my mouth against my will.  I am instantly angry and embarrassed by myself. ‘Did I tick a box incorrectly?’ Images of a huge hotel on the side of a bleak and lonely mountain in the darkest of winter flash across my mind. Am I like Jack again? Am I all work and no play? My eyes dart nervously to the clip chart trembling slightly on his over caffeinated lap, I sprint backwards erratically in my mind, attempting to recall the questions or even the answers I circled on the quiz, which defines my mental state, but in my panic am unable to recall what I am even fearful about in the first place.

I remind myself, what if I had subconsciously and inadvertently scribbled  ‘poo bum’ across the form several times without realizing, instead of sensibly indicating the number, which corresponded with the level of my upset.

On a scale of 1-10 have you ever considered suicide?
Which end is which? How can you answer that on a scale of one to 10? Is 1 never? Is 10; I regularly jump off tram platforms, but so far have failed to die due to conscientious drivers and state of the art ABS?

Who came up with these questions? Professor Nork? Did he scale everything in his life? Did nobody ever tell him some things can’t be scaled?

On a scale of 1-10 how inappropriate do you think this scale is?

I chose 5. Bang in the middle. I am not suicidal. I am not, not suicidal. I am just average. It depends on the day.

Or had I? What if I hadn’t circled those numbers in the boxes, which we all clearly fit like a glove in to and instead written ‘All work and no play makes mummy a total mentalist’ over and over again without even knowing what I was doing? No wonder the doctor was hesitating.

Under all the plastic glitter and Arndale glamour was this woman carrying an axe? (LEXYS HOME!!! – note to self, must by plastic axe and try this level of crazy out on the Irish one. If only for comedy value.)

‘No box could have been answered incorrectly’ he breathes out a long shaky breath and his shoulders sag as he does so, his expression has changed, a sympathetic smile now plays on his lips. He is no longer intense. He is mellow.

I feel my highly-strung mind start to unwind and catch myself attempting to crack a joke about one flew over the cuckoo’s nest, but he doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t respond at all except for a cough which triggers his glasses to slip down his face and away from, what I can see now are innocent huge brown eyes which have been previously hidden by rectangular thick, I’m trying to be a geek, frames.

His eyes surprise me. In them I can see a life outside of his job. It unnerves me and I feel foolish.

He uses his index finger to push the trendy frames back up his nose and looks me directly in the eye as he does so. I am young, I have my own life, but I can swim, he says to me without speaking, I know what I am doing here.

I look away uncomfortable that he seems to have gained access to my mind so effortlessly but impressed by his self-conviction. If he wasn’t so blatantly gay I could probably fancy him, I think to myself distracted for a moment by the kindness and confidence in his features. It isn’t that he is sexy, or even my cup of tea, he just has the token mannerisms of somebody who I would assume would be nice to me. In the olden days, this was all it took.

‘You are severely depressed’ Boom.

‘Your treatment will be intensive for the first few weeks’ Boom.

‘I am worried about seeing you only as a day patient’ Boom.

He slowly leans back against his chair not taking his eyes off me.

‘I don’t feel severely depressed.’ Rumble.

‘I have been quite happy these past few weeks actually.’ Rumble.

‘Inpatient treatment is not an option that I feel is necessary.’ Rumble.

I laugh it off and fight him with every ounce of my being. I am not depressed. I am FINE.

‘We only know how we feel.’

The understanding of what he is saying smacks me hard across the face repeatedly all the way home and carries on beating me long in to the evening.

It is an answer for everything. His final word is a circle, which cannot be broken.

I do only know how I feel. Slap.
Maybe this isn’t how everybody feels. Slap.
I am a total embarrassment and I thought I was just happy. Slap.
I have a label. Slap.
I am one of those people. Slap.
I am a failure. Slap.
I failed at life. Slap.

‘Lexy are you going to wash those bottles?’ It is the Irish one interrupting the self-abuse I am becoming extremely proficient at.

‘I can’t babes.’ He knows what is coming ‘I am severely depressed.’

‘You are a chancer is what you are.’

‘Get me a biscuit. I am severely depressed.’

‘Fig or chocolate?’

‘What do you think?’

My treatment starts on Monday. Six weeks of intensive training for the severely depressed with great medical insurance. That is the name of the group. Yes. The group. It is group therapy.

I have group therapy all day Monday and all day Thursday for the next six weeks. I have passed all the requirements of the crazy test and am being admitted to the Priory as a day case patient forthwith.

I have the weekend in London, while at Cybermummy to discover and develop my crazy twitch, the ultimate accessory to group therapy. It shouldn’t be too hard to find, as this will be my first time away from home and away from Addison, since he was born and I am cacking my pants.

If you see me stood in a corner of the conference room looking like I may be on the verge of a panic attack, twisting my body in to all kinds of shapes and possibly acting out big fish, little fish, cardboard box, try not to worry.

I am on a journey of self-discovery.

Pass the Narna on the Left Hand Side.

I have been keeping a secret from you since starting this blog.

There is something I haven’t told you.

I feel dirty, sly and guilty about it nearly every day.

I have nearly come out and told you on a fair few occasions, but so ashamed am I about this nasty little pipit of sordid information that I have always glazed over it with crème Brule like glitter.

*I had a Crème Brule flavoured Krispy Kreme last night and I can’t stop thinking about it. I apologise now for the Crème Brule theme that will, without doubt run through the entirety of this post, because Jaysus that was one life affirming donut, I tell thee.

‘How a donut changed my life’ coming to a book store near you soon! Written by Fatty McWoo and edited by her seven dwarfs. (I don’t know why I have given myself seven dwarfs here, but go with it, they can help me clean and mop up poo, and if you need one I can lend you one too. But not dopey, cos he is my favourite, you can have grumpy; he’s a bit of a git to be honest…*

Anyway moving on;

I feel like I have effortlessly and at speed unveiled parts of myself in an overzealous flourish of flab and therapy, but hidden from you, a dark and vicious little secret, of which I am really not proud.

That isn’t to say I am proud of being 3 stone overweight, (who could be proud of themselves for finishing a supersize MacDonald’s milkshake for god’s sake………ahem, those things are massive!! Damn right I am proud! She says rubbing her gut and sighing orgasmically at the thought of a mahoosive chocolate bath sized drink of heaven, before remembering she is sat in Starbucks writing this and not in the privacy of her own home…)

That isn’t to say I am proud of the fact I struggled to bond with my son, while the midwife sowed thirteen stitches in to my rectum (Seriously, can you blame me?… Aww look at my newborn oof son! Isn’t he beautiful oof! His eyes are oof! blue….I have been waiting with baited breath for somebody to call me an arsehole post labour, but unfortunately nobody has (not to my face anyway) which is a shame……I should probably explain why…... Because the minute they do I fully intend on dropping my kecks, bending over and showing them an actual arsehole. What? It would serve them right, and in truth, come on! I had 13 stitches and I didn’t even get to show off my war wound! Where is the justice??)

That isn’t to say I am proud of the fact my relationship has hit rock bottom numerous times since Addison was born and that Doodle sometimes climbs in to bed with me at night for a cuddle, and that doesn’t actually mean I am proud that I prefer that to the possibility of sex… (I mean sex with the Irish One, not Doodle…..I mean I prefer a cuddle off Doodle to the idea of sex….Can we move on now please, before I get loads of weird ‘hot mummy likes doggy style’ type searches on Google? Doodle is my friend and I love him. We cuddle. He is a cuddly dog. I love him, but I don’t lurve him. Im moving on now. You weirdo’s. Goodbye. I’ve gone. Are you coming or not?)

But the difference with all of the admissions above which are true and have often been spoken about (except that bit bordering on bestiality, but that was you not me) not only is this hidden secret not something I am proud of, this secret is something I regret, something I am ashamed of and something I really do NOT want to share.

But unfortunately it is part of me, and I am getting a bit sick of feeling like a teenager hiding a £45 rabbit shaped purchase from Ann Summers under her bed from her parents (…never happened…) so before one of you wily minx’s (wily not willy. God you lot are obsessed!) grabs a torch and starts delving under my inner sanctuary of dust, old odd shoes and a quivering poodle hiding from a 1 year old and a dozing Irish man (all things you are likely to find under my bed at any given time) I will come clean.

*but let me just distract you for a moment here with a mouth wateringly good, creamy, rich, chocolate donut shaped delay tactic….mmmmmm creammmmy weammmy donnnutttttt…nope? You not falling for it? You want to know? Damn it. OK. Here goes…*

Let me transport you to back when through a foggy veil of nostalgia and 2unlimited singing no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no there’s no limits (lyrical genius), to 1996. (Please keep hands inside your carriage at all times…..ahem.) Imagine yourself if you can, like an invisible visitor to the south coast of Spain’s Aloha college Disco. You are the age you are now (you are old, so make sure you get your judgemental parent face ready ok?) and you have all at once, found yourself crammed in to a putrid smelling school bathroom with 4 far too scantily clad and annoyingly giggily teenage girls, who all seem to be huddled around a cubicle, excitedly and guiltily looking down at their friends’ hand and egging each other on about something.  Outside the cramped and airless bathroom the dulcet tones of 2unlimited changes to the classic hit ‘Jump’ by Kriss Kross and you can hear hundreds, maybe thousands of teenagers begin to jump up and down and start putting their pants on backwards.

You try to get your head around one of the over hair sprayed youth’s shoulders to see what they are up to; (no good can come of this, you think to yourself. No good! Someone is going to get hurt! This wouldn’t happen under my roof! What are the teachers doing? Why aren’t they in here?) But due to the amount of perfume these girls are soaked in, you are unable to get close enough to see, before your totally un-cool, invisible futuristic asthma starts flaring up and you nearly end up collapsing in an invisible futuristic heap on the floor, gagging and convulsing on a cloud of potent Anais Anais mixed with The body shop’s white musk.

‘Oh for god’s sake what are you all scared of?’ the obvious and self assured leader of the pack stands up, her tiny skirt barely covering her ample thunder thighs as she walks towards the mirror looking back at her compadres behind her in the reflection and giving herself a secret smile before throwing her blonde hair off her shoulder in one over confident flick. ‘It is just a cigarette for god sake! It’s totally cool, it is totally big and it is really clever. Let’s just get on with it! I don’t want to be the only girl in lower sixth who hasn’t smoked!’

With that, the other three girls jump up and start pulling stashed cigarettes from inside their bra cups and lighting up…

‘Are we ready for this?’ The cocky, frizzy haired idiot in the huge Dr martins and bodice top asks her mates before pulling the smoke in to her mouth, elevating her chest, so it looks like she is inhaling but actually isn’t (she is too scared to) before still managing to lose her breath and ending up coughing and spluttering the remains of her lungs out in to the sink.

‘Yes!’ they all chant back in glee as the ring leader vomits in to her mouth. ‘You look so cool!’

And there you have it. Before, old and wrinkly, futuristic you, can even think to scream invisible, futuristic  and boring warnings about Lung cancer and emphysema and other totally un-cool life threatening diseases, my smoking career had begun.

*With admittedly a hell of a lot of coughing and spluttering and vomiting at the start. And yes although I do feel quite bad that on that I day I may have inadvertently influenced a group of strong confident women (all dressed in fish net tights) who didn’t need to smoke, to go ahead and have a ciggie,  I can also totally forgive myself for it pretty easily actually, as those bitches never once told me throughout the entirety of that fateful evening  that the tell tale gusset of my bloody bodice was hanging down the back of my arse like a v shaped, and very embarrassing tail. OH No, they didn’t say a word. They let me walk out of that toilet and let Hubert (yes Hubert) the school God, ask me why my top was also my knickers, and why it was hanging down my back. It was mortifying.

(But not as mortifying as a year later, when I was caught by a teacher behind those very same toilets, very definitely getting up to no good with the very same Hubert wearing the very same bodice and in a very similar state of undress. Social Suicide in the 90’s with Hubert the school god. Bloody Hubert. I’d rather have a donut any day.)

So there you have it. My most horrific and shameful Mammy woo secret, out in the open. (And if you believe that… did you not just read what I was getting up to with Hubert? I had no shame for a LONG time! But anyway…)

I am a smoker.

I mean, I was a smoker.

I mean, I am a smoker who is trying to become was a smoker.

Dear Diary.
It has been 21 days since my last cigarette and I am ready to kill someone. (I am sure can all guess who, his name isn’t Paddy but it could be.)

Dear Diary.
People have suggested every time I have a craving for a cigarette that I try a banana instead, but that isn’t going to plan. No sooner have I lit up than the room transforms in to a Caribbean cook out and Addison starts singing ‘no woman no cry’ to me in the background with a comb magically stuck upright out of the top of his white boy ‘fro’, so that idea hasn’t worked out very well. Plus I feel like a dick smoking a banana.

Dear Diary.
This time it is for good. I am never smoking again. I may lynch somebody. But I am never smoking again. Ever. Never. Ever. No siree. No cigarettes for me. Nope. Not one. Ever.

What you don’t believe me?

It is ok. As a reformed smoker (ahem) I wouldn’t believe me either, and I am sure you will fall down flat on your faces in shock to hear that this ISN’T the first time I have quit. (I know, I know. Amazing huh? A smoker who says they have quit and then gets caught six days later red handed (and yellow nailed) with a fag in their hand, and a million reasons why this isn’t the right time to quit. Shocker.)

But this time you can trust me. Honest.

I have quit. This is the right time.

Do you want to know why or do you just want to see a picture of me smoking a banana?

Well either way, I feel I should first tell you that when I found out I was pregnant with Addison, I did smoke. Yup. I knew I was pregnant and I smoked. But wait, before you slam your laptop down and label me a heathen…

I smoked ONE cigarette to help me get over the shock ( I mean delight) at being caught out up the duff with an Irish boy I had only known 7 months, and then immediately retired my lighter and Marlboro lights (I know, I am so last season) for the entirety of my pregnancy. It wasn’t a hard decision.

I was 5 weeks pregnant. I was having a baby. I had a belly full of innocent arms and innocent legs and innocent lungs.

There was no way I was smoking.

And besides, every time I wanted a fag, I could eat! Result! This may or may not be the reason why I easily and without effort put 5 stone on during my pregnancy. Apparently you burn 20 calories every time you smoke a cigarette (40 for a banana) but let me tell you, you put 210 calories on for every replacement Drifter you eat.

The end result is obviously producing a baby that hasn’t been infected by nicotine and tar, but a post natal body that could apply for its own postcode. FA7 C0W.

So I assume that you are now thinking ‘IDIOT!’ of me again. It is ok, you can admit to thinking that back in the past too. Although what the hell were you wearing in 1996?? My bodice may have been flapping about in the breeze but I saw you. Camouflage combat pants, neon bracelets and a tank top, seriously? Who did you think you were? Alicia Silverstone? What-ever!

So, why did I spark up again after Addison was born? Because I am an idiot that is why. A bona-fide idiot.  But you knew that already. (MMMM Crème Brule…)

In my defence I didn’t know who I was anymore. I had a new body, a new title, a new baby, a newly refurbed and extended Vagina with a complimentary conservatory on the back and a gut the size of Texas. If you had seen what I had seen in the full length sado-mirror on the post natal ward that morning of the 5^th of April 2010, you would have been sparking up a cigarette too. (Ok, maybe not, but just go with me.)

Let’s come back down to earth a little here ok? It isn’t like I’m on crack. It isn’t like I’m addicted to methadone (although there have been some long nights where I probably wouldn’t have said no…) and it isn’t like I’m a down and out crack whore who sleeps all day (please refer to previous comment.) I never smoked in the house, I never smoked and then picked up the baby and I never pureed a banana I had toked on. (…No man!!)

So I am a smoker! So what?*

I will tell you what.

I had a dream and it wasn’t the martin Luther king kind of dream.

It wasn’t inspirational or moving, but it was bloody memorable.

I shit my pants and I haven’t smoked a cigarette since.

That was 21 days ago.*

Addison Jake D. Ellis, I promise you, that as long as I live, I will never smoke another cigarette again as long as I shall live and I hope that is a long time**and I do this for you.

Mammy wants to give herself a chance of seeing you make the mistakes mammy made. (Although not the ones mentioned in this post. Stay away from Hubert’s daughter.)

I made you from scratch so I may as well enjoy seeing you grow up, with a little less worry of being struck down with a self inflicted illness.

Maybe my dream will still come true. Maybe 15 years of smoking has already done irreparable damage but as cheesy as this sounds, If it has, and I do join the big Kahuna (my brother) in the sky because of a smoking related illness, I want my son to know that I gave up for him, long before I was diagnosed. I want him to know that I gave myself a chance.

*I do not judge anybody who smokes. How could I? This isn’t the point of this post. This is simply my experience of donuts and the impact they can have on your life.*

I have given up so many times, but thinking of missing out on Addison’s life means that this time I know I won’t go back. (If you see me behind the bike sheds next week then please knock before you walk around the corner, because the no good I will be getting up to won’t be nicotine influenced…….(and Doodle wont be there either! gross! There is something wrong with you lot.)

#OperationSkinnybint has now been replaced with #OperationSkinnyAngryIrritableBint…FromHell.

Has anyone got a drifter? I need a drifter.  GET ME A SODDING DRIFTER.

*21 days isn’t that long I know. At what point can I say was a smoker then?

** I may, however swear a little more. And stomp. You will definitely see more stomping.

Thank you Dad.

When I was born, he says, that he was the first person I looked at.

His face was the first thing I ever saw.

Which is pretty damn cool.  (I am not going to mention the nose. I have his nose so by default if I mention the size of his nose, I am in fact insulting my own nose too. So instead I just won’t mention it.)

I wish I knew what the first ever thing Addison saw was.

I would imagine it was his daddy’s face too, depending on at what point he opened his eyes that is. Well lets just say I am hoping the Irish One’s dopey face is the first thing Addison saw, because let’s face it, the other thing he could have found himself staring at doesn’t even bear thinking about.

Anyway moving on swiftly.

He says my eyes were bright blue but he just knew, that in a matter of time, they would change to brown, as he had dark brown eyes himself and he just knew they would be identical to his. My eyes are still bright blue, and he still says he is still waiting for them to change. He is adamant that one day they will. (I may have to buy some lenses.)

Although my eyes are a naturally a different colour to his (sorry dad, I think you may have to come to terms with this now, at hey! At least we have the same nose!…. Thanks for that by the way) there is no doubting that I am his daughter (did I mention my nose?) and that he is a living legend.

Like any other kid, growing up I used to love hearing stories ‘from when I was little and from the olden days’ and he would be the one that would put me to bed every night while either telling me tales about these very instances.

There are lots of memories I could share, but these moments of calm before my family went BOOM! Are the ones I treasure the most.

‘When you were born Lexy,’ he would say, kneeling down next to the bed ‘I was listening to United scoring a winning goal on the radio.’ This of course couldn’t have been true, as if it were, there is not a doubt in my mind that my mum would have killed him dead, but still, it jazzes up the bedtime story for a five year old and moves away from the no doubt actual gory details of the moments during which I was born. (I have very wide shoulders, my mother still winces every time she sees them.)

Some of my happiest childhood memories are of my dad telling me stories at bedtime. I would love when it was his turn to tuck me in as he would endeavor to make bedtime last forever! The stories weren’t read from a book, they were made up on the spot and they were hilarious! I wouldn’t be soothed in to a tender sleep at all! I would be rolling around the place howling with laughter and begging him to make it last as long as possible.

These stories I remember to this day.  These are the stories, which I cannot wait to pass on to Addison (as my own… ahem… only joking, he will know where they came from. These stories will live on for generations!)

What really gets me though, is that by Addison’s bedtime both I and the Irish one have had a full day and are both exhausted, so there is no doubt my dad felt the same. Getting home from a full time job, and then almost immediately having to spend an hour telling stories to his daughter, he probably could have really done without it! He probably would have much preferred some chill out time.

Thank you dad. Thank you for spending that time with me. I have never forgotten it, and to this day your tales of the crying bus and ‘oh god’ the giraffe with the short neck, have me in fits of laughter.

I feel incredibly lucky to have been brought up with a dad like mine. I feel massively blessed that I have always had at least one constant in my life.

I could honestly write a book, filled to the brim with memories of laughter and happy times we have shared but the truth is they are very personal, and as we were both there, he knows what I am on about, but I will say this.

He brought me up, and for this I will never be able to thank him enough. He has never let me down, ever. Even though I have let him down, on many occasions. He has hidden his disappointment (although not very well) at the numerous mistakes I have made growing up and even through gritted teeth has always picked me up when I have fallen over. Whenever I need a friendly voice, he knows exactly what to say, even if that is at 4 in the morning and I am sat on a tram stop covered in square crisps babbling about Take That and vodka.  He is the kindest and most generous man I know, and I don’t just mean with money, I mean with his kind words and caring persona. He wears his heart on his sleeve and will spend half an hour in the freezing cold trying to find a home for a lame goat without even questioning it. He can drive off a cliff and survive.

Did you read that last one?

Yes, this is the man who drove off a cliff. Like a proper cliff cliff, fell hundreds of feet and survived with only a small cut to the head and a few memory problems.

What?

I said a few memory problems.  (Babum tish! You don’t really have memory problems dad, it is ok.)

What?

He is the only person I know who can make me laugh with just one look, and he is the only person I know that has my back no matter what.

He has my back because I am his daughter.

Which makes me feel like the luckiest girl on this planet.

If I am even half the parent he has been to me, then I will have done a damn fine job.

I love you dad and so does Addison. (And Doodle.)
X

A letter from Addison,

Dear Grandad.

Vroom vroom, ning ning ning, vroom vroom waaaaa. (Translation; I love you very much now but please stop asking me things so I say no. I know I am cute but I don’t want orange! NO!) Ning ning kiss kisss. (Translation; I love you.)
XXXXOOOO

Ps – you ok?

Sing a Song of Sixpence a Pocket full of Poo.

Today has played out very much like a Disney movie.

In actual fact, the story began very late last night, in an old gnarly flat just outside of Eccles, where an innocent young mother was sat stroking her poodle (is it me or does that sound rude?) and happily typing away.

Here, in the dead of night, we find our heroine happily slurping away on a cold cup of tea and chatting to her beloved laptop, which obviously (this being Disney and all) chats back in a terrible ‘I’ve got two plums rattling around my mouth’ English accent. (Fruit plums. This is Disney. Stop being rude.)

But, alas, like most naïve maidens in Disney movies (who are all thin, do not dip their fish cakes in full fat mayo and have perky boobs) I was completely unaware of the drama unfolding around me and completely oblivious to the fact that seemingly without my consent, I had been given the lead role in this creepy animated and random adventure.

I was just sat minding my own business on the, quite frankly, filthy sofa in my, quite frankly, messy, living room typing on my, quite frankly, ancient but very much-loved laptop preparing to indulge my readers with a dark and, quite frankly, horrendous secret I have been keeping locked away in my, quite frankly, flabby gut.

I had finished baring my soul with an exhausted sigh and was staring off in to the middle distance imagining the horrified reaction my sordid little secret would undoubtedly bring early in the morrow, while unbeknownst to me, in the hallway leading to the bedroom, Doodle the poodle (in true Disney style) had begun drumming his paws on to the laminate flooring in an attempt to create a more fairytale like ambience.

The dog was brewing this movie’s first song.

By the time I had shut the laptop down and was busy checking the windows in the living room were all locked, ensuring all murderers in the undergrowth remained murderous in the undergrowth for the night, Doodle Mc. Poodle was in full flow, throwing his legs about around him and preparing for his first verse.

As the hard done to heroine of this movie, obviously I was still completely oblivious to all this musical mayhem going on around me, and was just wandering through the methodical routine of getting ready for bed totally un perturbed by the fact my four-legged friend seemed to be doing jazz paws and the splits in front of me while I had a wee and took out my lenses.

‘Doodle,’ I admonished after blindly tripping over him, ‘stop farting around and let’s go to bed!’

I stumbled in to the bedroom just as the orchestra prepared for their final foreboding crescendo. The trumpets had built up to a deafening volume and when you coupled that with the sound of hundreds of doggy paws tapping on laminate, it was a wonder that the Irish one hadn’t woken up to the noise and decided to do a bit of river dancing. (I didn’t hear any of this, by the way, as it was all far too high pitched for my delicate ears, but evidentially that bitch next door heard it all and was only too pleased to come over and have a jolly good moan about it.)

‘Yergen flergen, what she doesn’t know…’Doodley poo sings stage right, his hundreds of poodle mirror images copying his every move behind him, creating the illusion that there are 76 poodles all wearing lederhosen in my hallway ‘ is that tomorrow is going to be a bugger, a bugger, a bugggggggeeerrrrrrrrr!’

I don’t know why they are wearing lederhosen. It just felt right.

And with that, the fair and gentle (read; clapped out and falling to bits) maiden (read; slave) gently layed her head down on to her plushy soft pillow (read; plonked her head down on no pillow due to little prince of doom also sleeping in the bed with her and having claimed all pillow material for himself) and fell in to a deep and peaceful sleep about the local squirrel’s doing the washing up (read; got up 3 minutes later after being booted in the nose, to find the Bonjela.)

Doodle, exhausted and sore after weeks of rehearsal, also gets in to his own spacious bed and falls in to a deep slumber, dreaming of Oscar nominations and walking Angelina Jolie down the red carpet.

Ok so you get the picture.

I am a Disney Heroine and basically, I had a shit day.

My trusted and most enjoyed companion, who we shall call Dick van dyke for the purpose of this post, died a horrible, horrifying and horrendous death.

He could turn himself on but his screen would stay blank. (Too many jokes not enough time.)

Steve at the Kingdom of PC, who in this scene is wearing a long black cape and has pointy vampire like teeth dripping in fake blood, is shockingly, not very sympathetic.

‘Your computer is buggered,’ he cackles meanly, while comedy creeping behind baby Addison who, in this scene is wearing nothing but an oversized nappy  ‘Do you want a bite of my tasty Apple (mac)?’

(And sleep for 100 years? I wish!!!!)

At the thought of this Addison spins around and stares at the heroine, who in this scene is now currently attempting to keep her butt crack hidden and wondering why she thought these jeans fit when she put them on this morning.

‘Waaaaaaaaaaa!’’ Addison screams in fright as he sees the vampire behind him with the apple (which he is allergic to nursery! ALLERGIC TO!) and immediately fills his nappy.

‘Waaaaaaaa!’ Screams Mammy, realizing she has left the changing bag in the house in her rush to get to the Kingdom of PC.

‘Waaaaaa!’ Screams Mammy, as she realizes she will no longer have a tool to write on and could possibly have lost 220000 words of her, slaved over hot coals for, novel. And,

‘I told her, I told her, she didn’t know but I told herrrrrr’ sings Doodle back in a flat somewhere in Eccles as his little doggy soul senses something is a miss with both Mammy and Addy back in central Manchester.

And that is it really. I am the heroine without a clue. Addison is the baby with ability to shit up his back on demand and Doodle really should consider running away with the circus.

My day was rubbish.

The end.

….But wait….. What is that I can hear? … Is that a tap, tap tapping?  Disney movies always have a happy ending! Quick pan back to the action! Pan back to the action!!

The maiden is sitting on the sofa again, staring at the TV and thinking violent thoughts about Mr. Tumble when, what is this?

Enter stage right The Irish one on a donkey (we couldn’t afford a white stallion…) he was also unable to find a suit of shining armor (even though I had told him on numerous occasions where it bloody was!) and all the tinfoil had been used for making bacon sandwiches earlier (and was still stinking out the oven even though I had asked him plenty of times to move it!) so he was wearing his one summer outfit instead, consisting of white pants a white shirt and some brown sandals.

‘Wait! Heroin!’ He called nonchalantly before remembering that one really shouldn’t shout a word like heroin out, at the top of ones voice, in a place like Eccles, and quickly changes his plea to ‘Wait, Lexy!’

I look up surprised at the sound of his voice from where I am sat on a my rock-like sofa scrubbing out poo from under my fingernails and see immediately he is incredibly proud of himself over something. (Maybe he has finally found the Allen key for the crib!!)

‘I,’ He proclaims, using his best knightly voice ‘bloody told you so!’

I sigh internally as I remember he did, he did tell me so, but then squeal in delight as I also remember he is a stubborn bastard and even though he looks suspiciously like Jesus on that donkey, that I do love him and he never takes no for an answer.

‘Did you actually use the external hard drive when I specifically told you not to?’ I scream up at him  hopefully while stroking the Donkey’s nose. (Again, is it me? or does that sound rude?)

‘Yes,’ he replies back cockily before suddenly coming over all camp. ‘Yes, I did. That crap, unimaginative and unromantic present I bought you last month, just saved your bacon didn’t it? In fact, I just saved your bacon, didn’t I?’ he says waving his hand about like Graham Norton. ‘I, the Most Irish of Ones, am a godsend! Say it! Say I am a godsend!’

‘flababagrablabab’ I mumble back ‘I think Prince Addison has woken up…’

‘SAY IT!’ he bellows as the donkey poops all over the carpet in shock. (Doodle missed all of this, he was on the internet next door searching for more opportunities on stage and screen. One taste of fame and he’s gone. That is one fickle pooch.)

‘Yes.’ I respond back looking up at him. ‘Yes, you Irish One of Irish background are quite possibly a flabaglabaraglab, and you definitely saved my bacon, even though there may still be some at the bottom of the oven…if you fancied some…because you haven’t cleaned it…’

And with that, the humble maiden, the stinky prince and the donkey riding disciple wannabe all rode off in to the sunset clinging on to the external hard drive (Stop being rude!!) and arguing over what to have for tea.

The end.

Except, much like lord of the rings (Except not, because I have no ring, because even though The Irish One likes it he has so far failed to put a ring on it…) it isn’t the end is it?

Because I am sat here typing this now aren’t I?

This story is to be continued… and there is a happy ending.

And no, I am still not telling you my sordid little secret today. I will save it for another day. Or maybe, I will never tell you.

Maybe Dick van Dyke was trying to warn me not to tell you, by taking his own life… (Stop thinking about his plums. Mary Poppins will hear you.)

Maybe, this maiden should stay quiet.

but stay tuned for;

Dick Van Dyke 2.  The return of Miss Woo. The happy ending. (Starring Doodle as cowboy tight rope walker.)

Tappety tap tap tap…

You are a potato, but I love you.

‘If there was one thing you could have done differently or better in the lead up to having Addison, what would it have been?’ Shamoo the pregnant whale asked of me while trying to maintain the serious look in her eye and struggling not to lose her cool as she slowly and repeatedly sunk in to the sofa before floundering around in an attempt to free herself.  She literally looked like a harassed and fed up, beached, sea mammal. It was like Free Willy dinner theatre.

‘I would have used a condom.’ I replied looking up, considering ringing Greenpeace and trying to surreptitiously un-stick discarded bogey, that seemed to be welded on, from my right eyebrow.

‘No, Lexy, come on,’ she puffed, beginning to lose her cool and blinking like an escaped mentalist as sweat poured down her forehead and began to pool in the suitcases under her eyes  ‘stop trying to make me laugh and be honest, I am not in the mood for jokes, I need help here!’

It is at this point I stopped picking the remains of Addy’s crusty nostril lining from my face and looked up at my oldest friend aghast. Make her laugh? Not in the mood for jokes? What is funny about that? I wasn’t trying to be funny! Can she not see what I am being forced to do in a public place here? She may be struggling to stay afloat on that sofa but I am struggling to stay afloat in life for god sake!

‘Lou darling, I am sat in front of you picking Addison’s crusty nose droppings from my eyebrow! I had full conversations with at least 6 people this morning and the whole time I have had lumps of baby snot stuck to my face! Which part of ‘I would have used a condom’ do you find amusing?’

We both glared at one another for a second in a stubborn truce, before collapsing in to giggles at the absurdity of the situation. Pregnancy and motherhood is magical alright. It magically transforms you from woman to potato in one fail swoop. (Round, dense and covered in crap – just in case you couldn’t figure it out.)

‘Do you want me to ask behind the counter and see if they have a spare JCB or tractor lying around to help winch you from that sofa?’ I asked fighting hard to hide my amusement at her predicament

Before you start to think I am a total bitch here, I am honestly not being overly harsh. We have a love hate relationship. The entire time I was pregnant she referred to me as Madam Hippo in a comedy French accent. She would dance up to me, taking the Mickey, her lithe body twisted and contorted in to all sorts of amazing angles, while I sat like a Christmas pudding on the sofa, she would poke me with her finger ‘does madam Hip-po need a mud bath to cool down?’ she would ask before shimmying away in a cloud of thinness cackling like the cow bag she is. Seriously. I am just getting my revenge.   

‘Oh go on then,’ she laughed, her belly wobbling while with every giggle ‘and while you are there ask them if they can find you any deodorant, you smell like a skanky tramp!’

Excellent come back, she is a sly minx. She goes for my weak spots. I knew I should have showered at 3 o’clock that morning during the 8 minutes of peace I had while Addison slept soundly. Stupid of me really to instead, try and get some sleep myself. Addison is also a sly minx and also goes for my weak spots. I often wake up with tiny toy cars wedged in my mouth or raisins tunnelling their way down in to my inner ear, Co-sleeping has its benefits but sleep definitely isn’t one of them.

After we had moved from the sinking sofa and were sitting comfortably, well as comfortably as we could manage with an 8 month old bump sharing a table with us (basically meaning I was pinned up against the hard tile wall, with the table so close to my chest that my underwire has been made completely redundant as the table was was now fully supporting my saggy boobs, unable to breathe never mind move my elbow enough to lift a cup, and meanwhile she was slouched in front of me, her legs raised comfortably on another chair out in front of her and stretching and yawning like a new-born deer) she once again asked me if there was anything I would change or do differently.

‘So come on,’ she said seriously knowing there was no escape for me now ‘give a girl some decent advice…’

I couldn’t escape and she knew it, but her being my best friend, she also knew it wasn’t a question I could have answered nonchalantly and without thinking.

‘Can I come back to you on that one?’ I asked seriously, ‘You have 5 weeks remaining before you turn in to a loaded potato wedge and I am assuming you don’t mean the I would have bought more muslin cloths type advice, although I would have, so can I have a think about it and come back to you?’

‘Yes’ she sighs dramatically as I stretch my neck forward and just about manage to lick the top off my cappuccino  ‘shall we go? I feel claustrophobic here.’ (!?!)

Lying in the bath last night trying to wash the smell of tramp from under my armpits and remove teething poop from my behind my tonsils, I began to rattle the question around my brain.

I can honestly say, I don’t think there is anything I would change, other than the obvious winning of the lottery, smaller hips and a night nanny, because my experience has been my experience and even with the at times debilitating post natal depression chasing me through every stage of his first year, I have managed to relish and enjoy those special moments between me and my boy. I have learnt more in the last year than I have learnt in my entire life, and every day I literally learn something new.

Like yesterday as an example, I went for a ‘private’ check up at the Dr’s surgery. Due to nursery being incompetent and a total let down, I ended up having to take Addison with me. Having a female type examination is bad enough without adding to the mortification, a playful toddler who is intent on looking up the dr’s skirt while mummy is lying on the table legs akimbo. The busy, irritable Dr ended up plonking him, with an evil glint in her eye, on to my stomach, mid check, and asking me to ‘keep an eye on him here, I won’t be a moment.’  

Thus meaning that while she is digging around down there, attempting to find the lost treasure of Azerbaijan, Addison is attempting to stick his strangely huge fist, up my nose while at the same time, trying to prise my mouth open with his paddle feet, so he can play his brilliant fun new game, which involves him spitting directly in to my mouth.  

Bad planning? I think so. Smear test from hell? Definately.

Lesson learnt? Absolutely.

No woman is an island, BUT some women, (me) are multi-tasking goddessess. (Whether we like it or not.)

So, Louise, in answer to your question, no. There is nothing I would do differently, other than finding a child minder for my smear, but yes there are a few things I would do better if I could turn back the clock.

I would spend more time planning and less time worrying about planning. I would eat more, try to laugh off the tiny errors I made (don’t puree sprouts with banana, the banana won’t mask the taste) and look in the mirror a lot less in the early days. Nothing good came of it. I would rely on my friends a little more, accept their help and definitely not watch the WSPCA advert during a bout of the ’baby blues’, as I ended up giving an entire months maternity pay to a three legged donkey in Sudan.  I would accept my ‘potato’ baby brain status and allow extra time in to my plans for the numerous trip ups, mess up’s, spillages’, embarrassments and accidents I cause on a daily basis.

And that is just in week 1.

So Louise, I hope this kind of answers your question, as I now have to run; I am off to the Priory for an assessment ahead of the intensive day patient treatment starting for my post traumatic shock from having a baby. (Joking. Kind of.)  If I can be of any more help, please don’t hesitate to ask, and maybe some of my readers can help a little more than I have?

Is there anything you would do, dear readers, be it as simple as buying more crisps for the early days or smaller baby gros’s for the 8 stone baby you thought you were having, who turned out to wiegh 6 pounds, or something as monumental as moving house, making sure you have petrol in the car for when the contractions start or hiring Brat Pitt as a butler, that you think may help Shamoo on her quest with the baby orca? Any advice is welcome.

My old enemy, post natal depression is perched on my shoulder waiting to strike me down again so I really should be going. I can feel him there grinning evilly getting ready for his entrance in to my heart, but little does he know I am ready with a big wooden spoon and a week’s worth of exercise and positive mental meanderings to bat him away with.

Be gone be gone you demon of stupidity! Soon you will be vanquished for good!

If I manage to not head butt the Dr, inadvertently grope the receptionist’s bum or maim a passing goat somehow and do manage to end up feeling a little more human, I will keep you posted.

Click click, spoc spoc, may the spud be with you.

Operation Skinny Bint.

‘If you just lie back here and take a deep breath’ the midwife said pointing to the clapped out settee and dropping heavily on to one knee ‘I will check your uterus and your stitches again.’

With her dropping on to one knee, I had almost expected something a little more romantic and a little less mortifying to come out of her mouth but alas, at six weeks past my delivery date, this was not the instruction I had been hoping for.  

‘Do you really have to?’ I asked with a heavy sigh before climbing on to my sofa. ‘Surely I don’t need to be checked again? There is just something so weird about you doing this procedure while I am lying on my own couch, in my own living room, with the neighbourhood kids cavorting outside and The Irish One lurking in the kitchen.’

‘I know’ She replied with a sigh, having heard this every week at the same time for the last 5 weeks, ‘but this is the last time today Lexy, so just lie back and think of England ok? I’ll be done in a Jiffy.’

‘Right’ I sighed dramatically while lying back and dropping my kecks. ‘Oh the magic of pregnancy and childbirth. It just keeps on giving.’

While I rest my head back and attempt to stop Doodle jumping up on to my chest and grabbing five minutes of much needed, abandoned and forgotten ‘hey i’m your son too, so I will pin you down with doggy paws and lick your face whether you like it or not’ mammy and poodle time, Jane the unhelpful midwife plunges her hands in to the depths of my stomach.

She is elbow deep in flab and stretch marks when she looks up triumphantly and exclaims ‘Well you will be happy to know your uterus has now retreated fully back to where it should be, and your stitches are healing nicely.’ She pulls off her plastic gloves and begins to stand up, clutching her back for dramatic affect. (Yes my sofa is too low, I get it!  It is not my fault that the ‘wooden block feet’ were mistaken for ‘random bits of wood’ and thrown out during operation ‘sort out nursery.’ Move on! Have some phsyio!)

Meanwhile back on the sofa of doom, I gasp, splutter and stutter, ‘what do you mean my uterus has gone back in?’ I manage to spit out while pulling my knickers up and avoiding eye contact with Doodle. ‘It can’t have, it just can’t have. If it has, then what is all this?’ I cry, grabbing fistfuls of bump. ‘If my uterus has retreated then why do I still have a bump??’ I was horrified.

‘That my dear,’ says helpful Jane full of glee ‘is fat.’

And with that she packs up her assassin case of midwifery tools and heads towards the door. ‘Nothing a bit of exercise won’t solve, and now it has been six weeks you are good to go. Good luck.’ She calls out slamming the door behind her while I stand cursing the day Kfc, Pizza hut, MacDonald’s, Milkshakes, Burgers, Ice cream, chocolate and Square crisps had been invented and consequently eaten, continuously over 10 months (not 9!) of sheer gluttony.

‘But It was…’ I pondered to the wall forlornly, imagining a camera zooming in for a teary close up… ‘But it was meant to drop off?’

Looking 8 months pregnant six weeks post delivery is not something I enjoyed. Looking like a beer swelling lager lout with a belly that swayed when I rocked the baby was not something I found even remotely attractive on myself, and as if to add injury to insult for some ungodly reason that only mother nature can answer (sick bitch) I began to grow thick curly black hairs on it too.

Er hello? Why don’t you kick me while I’m down cowbag!

It isn’t like I was thin before. But you have to understand. I was told it would go. So being left with an overhang the size of Sicily flapping about my nethers, did not leave me in a good mood. (Obviously since then I have grown to love my belly, and have often been heard pronouncing ‘I paid for this’ while rubbing it fondly. But back then? I was not happy. Not happy one bit. Not happy one bit with a cherry on top. And a cream cake underneath…)

Why oh why couldn’t I have been one of those women you see swanning about the place with the perfect, and dare I say it? Sexy little bump, protruding from the front of their jeans? Why couldn’t I have been an example of the perfect weight gain? Why couldn’t I have only put 8 pounds on, had no morning sickness and been described as ‘suiting pregnancy’ on a day to day basis?

Because The Irish one introduced me to Pasta sandwiches as a cure for Nausea, that’s why.

For 10 months (not 9!) I was made entirely of Carbohydrates, little arms and legs booting me in the flute and Dolmio tomato sauce. So much so, that I started to look like the woman from the cartoon advert. At one point I even drew a mole on my face and spoke with an Italian accent for the entire evening. ‘You wanta some-a pasta ravioli Irish one-a? It’s a nicer place-a to stuffa your face-a!’  (He soon tired of this and introduced me to Magnums. I never spoke again. My mouth was always full of ice cream and chocolatey goodness.)

But oh! Had I been a thin and ‘healthy’ pregnant woman instead of a ‘whooooaaaa huge bump!’ and ‘wow you’re blooming!’ heavily set baby maker, I could have been a thin new mummy! You know the ones I mean.

You see them camping out around the baby aisle in Asda and pushing maxi-cosi’s on massive combine harvester type trolleys. They are so tiny, the trolley engulfs them. They are so thin and perfect looking you expect to see a 12 year old crammed in to the tiny maxi cosi, all legs and hairy armpits, humphing and moaning about how he is ‘not a child anymore muuuuummmm’, but are shocked and physically curled in irritation to notice the baby is only an hour and fifteen minutes old.

‘Yes…’ They shout merrily while doing star jumps and breast feeding concurrently ‘I exercised all the way through! Ate only a yoghurt and a donut daily and managed to push him out an hour ago while doing a sit up! Isn’t he wonderful?’

You plod away towards the cakes wondering where it all went wrong, but comforted by the fact your uterus hasn’t retreated yet so you have an excuse.

‘My uterus hasn’t gone in yet’ I would explain between mouthfuls of chocolate sponge ‘when it does, ill be thin again, like magic.’

Then Jane visits. The bitch.

Exercise? My son is only 6 weeks old for god’s sake! Is it morning? What is my name again? When was his last bottle? What? I’m feeding him now? Right ok, who are you? You are the father? Great! Can I go to bed? I can’t? I have to rub ice cold salt and vinegar on my nipples and then stick nails in them? Right ok. What day is it? Was that the doorbell? Did the visitors just leave or have they not been yet? Who the hell were they? Why am I still so fat? Where are my feet? I can’t see them! Has he had a bottle yet? Do you know what my name is? Where is the toilet paper? Go out in public? Are you on glue? I’m never leaving the house again. Where are the nappies? Do we have any wipes? Has he pood again? Have you burped him? Was that a burp? Please god say that was a burp, it sounded like a burp! Why has he been sick? Is it colic? Is that the doorbell? Who was that? I have no idea why these people are visiting! I have spoken to them once in my entire life! Do you want a cup of tea? Make it yourself I am steriliising bottles. What day is it? Has he had a bottle recently? Why has he been sick again? Is that poo I can smell? Was that a burp? PLEASE tell me that was a burp. Exercise?????

You have GOT TO be joking.

The point I am trying to make is; there is no way I was ready to exercise at six weeks post delivery. I am barely ready now. I think the whole six weeks and go, go, go! Thing is just too much pressure and not enough support on these poor women that pregnancy spits out.

Obviously there are those women who are the exception, those women who did not struggle in the weeks immediately after the baby was born, and those who hardly put any weight on, and all joking aside, I hate you. No really, I do. (Not really…. not much, anyway… I am just jealous… I really am…)

I wasn’t the perfect pregnant woman. I didn’t jump back on the cross trainer 6 minutes after he was born and I put on a hell of a lot of weight. Does the perfect pregnant woman exist? Next time (*Macaulay Culkin home alone face* Yes, next time… ) I will try harder to eat less lard and bend over more. That should help me maintain a size 800.

I was 15 stone 7 when he was born. I totally expected him to be about 3 stone goddamn it! I was like ‘6 pound what?????’  When the midwife told me his weight while holding him like you would a piece offering to the gods ‘6 fooking pounds???  Is that all???’

Right now, I am 11 Stone 7 (Give or take a few stone) and I still have a belly that still swings when I rock a 1 year old to sleep and my boobs are heading south for the winter.

I am JUST about to start some exercise as I am JUST about starting to feel normal again. (Your opinion may differ.)

15 MONTHS POST DELIVERY.

It was clearly a man who came out with the whole;  ‘all women will feel normal 42 days post tearing their arse out while giving birth! I, mister Man of Man street, Man land, came to this number by multiplying the number of times I think about sex on a daily basis, by the number of brain cells I still have remaining!’

Six weeks my arse!! (She says, grabbing it and remembering the pain.)

I have bought a stepper from Tesco and some weight watchers meals from Asda. (I am hedging my bets.) I am not joining fat club or slimming world or even a Gym. Any pressure and I will run a mile (or not as the case may be.)  I am literally going to do a bit of stepping here and there, and less chewing and swallowing there and here.

My goal is realistic.

Realistically by this time next year I fully intend on being the thinnest woman on the planet. Or at least a happy size 12 with thighs that make you go oooo! (MC Hammers lesser known track.)

When that time comes, I will then borrow a new-born baby and parade around town, pushing my Maxi Cosi while showing off my ‘post preggo body’ by wearing a full on leotard and imitating the dance to all the single ladies, by Beyonce . (FYI – When I say borrow a new born, I mean off a friend. I don’t mean from a hospital in a creepy way!) I will also sit my newborn on my rock hard abs while doing sit up’s in the banana aisle. (I will also find a supermarket which has a whole aisle dedicated to banana’s just so this post is not a lie.)

What? Don’t look at me like that!!

If you can’t beat them you may as well join them!!  

Kind of. And just for once I want to be seen as an upbeat new mother!! Instead of the heavy footed, slow walking, limping Eeyore type mother I was!

Wish me luck.

And will one of you, hurry up and get preggo so I can borrow your baby next year?… and remember…

Just cos your uterus is growing, doesn’t mean you have to!!

Bahahahahahaha!

It’s ok. You can slap me. I slapped my Aunty Kathleen when she said it to me.

And then went and made a pasta butty.

The Irish one was right (tell him i said that and die!)They are the perfect cure for nausea.

My thunder thighs curse him.

Operation #SkinnyBint Has commenced. Feel free to join me.

Or laugh at me from the sofa while I resemble Pat Butcher on a thigh master.

Your choice. My flab. One Goal.

Romeo Oh Romeo, pass me that Spade…

Relationships are hard.

That much is obvious, but can I ask a question here?

Why do none of the pregnancy and ‘let us prepare you for motherhood and the ensuing torture’ bibles, warn you about the fact that at some point you will no doubt find yourself, in the misty haze of after birth glory, wanting to maim your other half with a blunt object, over the head. Several times. Repeatedly. Again and again…..and just once more for good measure.

At no time during my experience of gobbling up ‘what to expect when you are expecting’ or ‘the best friends guide to the end of your life as you know it’  do I remember reading or even touching upon a chapter which explained to me, that post-birth, not only would my relationship change indescribably overnight, but that on a day-to-day basis I would be using the restraint of a saint, to not go down for murder and enjoy the peace and quiet of a life sentence. (They have telly’s you know! And some one cooks for you!!)

Sitting in a family venue this afternoon watching Addison excitedly lap up his favourite TV characters dancing around on stage, I found myself distracted by the couple sat next to us.

‘You are a lazy bastard’ she whispered venomously at her other half, as Makka Pakka dropped his sponge, and she turned her changing bag upside down and began searching for something manically, her breath coming out in gasps. ‘I can’t believe you didn’t put it in! How hard can it be, to just follow simple instructions? You are an idiot and I hate you. I really do! You don’t listen!!’

I glanced to the left surreptitiously to get a quick look, I couldn’t help myself. It was like listening to a recording of me and The Irish one from back in the early days, and sure enough, as well as an empty changing bag, she also had a tiny baby wriggling on her knee. Her hair was upside down and her crumpled features spoke of many a sleepless night and a whole heap of misheard, ignored and unhelpful situations between her and the man who gave her his sperm and therefore, in a way, I suppose, helped her create her child.

‘Stop shouting at me.’ Came the angry, badly whispered reply, as Iggle Piggle mounted the Ninky Nonk.  ‘I can’t be bothered listening to you anymore! Give me my son, you boring cow’

It took all of my strength not to slap him for her. Boring? Does he know what she is going through??? Outrageous!! (Ahem. I could have done with some plinky plonk. See what I did there?)

This discussion between them went on for the entirety of the show, and by the end I have to say, as awful as it sounds, I was just glad that what we had been like, seemed to be the norm. (I was also thankful that the nobbly nok woo noos had finally stopped screeching and appearing, as every time they did Addison would lurch forward, and my arms were killing. Ear wigging while holding a toddler is HARD WORK y’all!)

If it isn’t the norm then please don’t tell me. I like feeling normal on occasion.

As it is, I am sure things will get easier for Mrs.Boring and Nagging and Mr.Lazy and annoying, but I really do feel their pain at what they are currently enduring.

The Beginning is  SO HARD! And nobody tells you to expect this!!

A friend of mine, who I had not seen for years visited me back in the early days, and during a tour of my flat (which took all of 30 seconds) I remember her gasping as I opened the bedroom door. Thinking she was physically appalled by the cot bed shoved up against the bed, the wardrobes overflowing with unwashed clothes and 15 cold and stagnating cups of tea slowly fermenting on the windowsill I hurridley tried to shut the door in her face, before the state of my bedroom stamped out the human race forever.

‘Aww’ she cooed instead, to my surprise. ‘It’s so romantic.’ and a funny smile spread across her face and her eyes glazed over. I looked down to see her hand absent mindedly rubbing her uterus.

‘NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!’ I SCREAMED ‘ DON’T DO IT!!!! IT’S HORRENDOUS!!!!’

Ok not really.

But romantic?

Romantic was not how I would have described the faint smell of puke and baby trumps coupled with the lingering aroma of man sweat and stale formula. (No smells from me. I am perfect.)

Romantic?

Can she not sense the atmosphere in the place? It is foggy with disgarded anger.

The last event to take place in the bedroom that morning was about as far away from romantic as you can possibly imagine. World War 512, had errupted out of nowhere, or maybe World War 513, there were so many. I can’t remember.

Who knows what started it?!  During those early days, it didn’t really matter.

All I do know is; he was a complete and utter selfish arsehole who thought I was fat and had ruined my life and I was a paranoid, lazy bitch who was ungrateful, miserable and childish.

It may have been because there were no bottles clean, or something equally as monumental.

There are SO MANY BOOKS about babies and birth; I just can’t fathom why women aren’t warned about this impact on your relationship in detail! I am sure it would have helped me and the Irish One, to know that the turbulence was all part of learning to live as a three.

We wasted so much time over analysing the failure we thought our relationship was, when we could have been asleep!

Ok. I wasted so much time over analysing the failure I thought our relationship was when I could have joined him, and been asleep too.

So this is why I am sharing.

If you are in the midst of year one; Put down the spade. Take a deep breath and walk away.

You are normal. (All men are always wrong the first year. You are a saint for putting up with him. Ahem.)

Of course, if you are in year 2 and beyond and If your story was totally different from this and your romance lasted well after the baby was born and on into the first nappy change, first washing up debate and first ‘get out of bed please the baby has been screaming for 11 hours and I may be going deaf’ then, lucky you!

By that point I was plotting murder.

Needless to say, a year on, things are improving. Slowly. And I am here to tell you how.

I have been absent recently and for this I apologise. Let me explain.

I have been working on myself, my relationship, my figure and (hok puh!) my health.

No NO NO! Don’t stop reading! I am still me. I just couldn’t carry on the way I was. Something had to give. I hit make or break. We hit make or break. Everything hit make or break. The dog may now be named make or break. (Not really.)

So where have I been the last few weeks?

• We went to Spain for a family get away.

I nearly killed him on a sweltering beach at midday for letting Addison eat sand, but managed to bury my head in the suspiciously smelly gravel and scream out Spanish expletives’ to calm myself instead.

‘Me cago en la Mierda!’ – is a popular one round there, it means ‘I poo on the shit!’

I quite like this to be honest and may use it in Morrison’s to shock the geriatrics out of the way of the door, which seems to be a popular meeting point. ‘I POO ON THE SHIT, WHY MUST YOU STAND HERE FOR A CHAT!! MOVE BEFORE I RAM THEE WITH MY THIGHS!!’ – Yes. I like it.

We had a nice time in Spain. (She says through gritted teeth) but this is what I noticed;

Is there a points system in place between men and women that nobody told me about?  I had a lie in so what? Now you get the whole day to watch football and lie in the sun? And if I ask you to help in some way, you are allowed to remind me you earnt 10 points this morning while I slept?

And if this is the case, when do I get my points??

• We had a family day out.

I don’t want to talk about it. I wore a skirt. The Irish One suggested leggings. I went mad as I thought he was suggesting my cellulite was disgusting. I did not wear leggings, as a silent protest. It was very windy.  Addison wore dungarees and I forgot to pack spare pants during the commotion of thunder thigh-gate meaning that obviously Addison shat up his back, down his leg and in my hair and of course half of Blackpool saw my arse. (And my cellulite!)  

This was clearly all my fault as The Irish One had told me so.

Except, he didn’t actually say that. He wouldn’t have dared.   

• I started my diet.  

I won’t go in to huge detail about this just yet, as it really deserves a post of its own. This is how ridiculous it is! But I will say this; why do men insist on buying crap but extremely tasty food when they know you are dieting??  Not once in the last year has he brought a cream cake in to this house!

In fact, in the whole time I have known him I can honestly say I don’t think I have ever seen him eat anything other than pork and potatoes! SO WHY NOW?

Why now, when I am on a 500 kcal a day (and the rest- but if no one sees you eat it, it doesn’t count) diet, does he insist on bringing chocolate, crisps, donuts, pizza and Mc flurries in to my humble and podgy aboud?

Can I maim him yet?

• We pledged to spend at least one night a month without child in an attempt to stay young (and have a conversation without venom.)

Which means that on the 19^th of this month Addison will spend his first night in a hotel alone.

Joking. He is staying with his grandma. I am nervous. He hasn’t got a clue. My mother is nervous, although she isn’t letting on, and the kings of Leon should be nervous too. As this is where the Irish One and I are headed for the evening’s entertainment.

I apologise now if any of you are also attending the concert and you struggle to hear the music over the sound of me wringing his neck.

The night will be fun, but you and I both know, that at some point we will argue. There is just too much pressure for the night to be perfect. We are already arguing about it!

But it is a start. We are going out together. For the first time in a year. It will help. (But oh my god what will we talk about??)

I have just trawled through my well worn copy of ‘what to expect when you are fat and naive’  to check, and nowhere does it mention relationships, other than the token phrase;

‘Having a baby changes your life and may put pressure on your relationship.’

Pressure???

I am sorry Judge, please don’t send me down! (No really. Please don’t!) It was just a lot of pressure on my relationship.  I didnt mean to flatten his head with that high chair tray. It just sort of happened. ***

Is that what they are calling it these days? Pressure.

Good job we don’t have a porch.*

Or he’d be under it. **

*thing do get easier.

**apparently.

*** This is not to say I don’t love the Irish One. Of course I do. He is the light of my life, the ying to my yang and all that Jazz.

It is getting better. It is getting easier. I never stopped loving him.

Etc.

Honest.