Category Archives: Life after birth

Actual Social Suicide.

I didn’t see it coming.

I was trying to play it cool while carrying my tote bag, my handbag, Addison’s toys and a large red box in one hand, and the wriggling chocolate covered, sticky fingered juvenile himself in the other.

‘Can I just leave this here with you?’ I stoutly questioned the security guard on our way out of reception while fumbling in my pocket for the phone I had found on the three-story dismount from my office.

It’s a shame I am unable to step in a lift as if I could, none of this would have ever happened.

It would certainly make my life easier too, but alas, my fear of being stuck in a tiny unmoving box with a two and a half-year old, in the dark, ensures we always climb the stairs.

Up and down.

Up being no easier than down.

It adds an extra twenty minutes to my commute.

Addison comes in to work with me now, you see, at my brilliant new job for Elite magazine.

Unfortunately though, the office is on the third floor.

Which is great if you aren’t a two-year old who seems to believe stairs are magical concrete boxes which give you powers of aviation, so that usually ‘taking the stairs’ means mummy having to have the emergency services on speed dial, or mummy dislocating her shoulder and his wrist as she dangles him mid-air from each step in a bid to get him to ‘JUST BLOODY WALK PROPERLY!’

Sweating slightly as I keep one of the bags aloft with my teeth, I hand the phone over  ‘I found it on the stairs.’

‘Thanks.’ comes the gruff voice.

As I reposition the bag in to my hand and shift Addison’s weight on to my hip and place the phone down in front of him, all jute bag and rustling, I look up. ‘Is that ok?’ I squeak.

He is a lovely looking lad with blue-green eyes and incredibly white teeth.

He looks a bit like Harry Styles.

I am instantly hit with how carefree he seems to be, it is oozing off him from behind the desk.

Young, carefree, maybe a little hung-over and definitely relaxed.

As oppose to me.

Old, laden with crap, stinking of a night squidged in to a cot bed with a sticky two-year old and so rigid, I’d make a ruler jealous.

‘Yeah.’ He responds cockily, sliding the phone towards himself and then frowning in barely masked disbelief as Addison decides at that very moment to stick his tongue on my eye-ball and I yelp like a mauled mongrel.

I must appear to be the most harassed, overloaded, red-faced and agitated, carrying a huge stuffed finding Nemo plush under one arm, out of breath ‘associate’ in a suit, anyone has ever seen in this posh office building.

I smile back, after pushing my son’s face away a little and acknowledge I look a bit weird with a wink. Yeah I am weird and have responsibility but yeah, I am cool yeah? I can still be ‘down with the kids yeah.’ I can manage all of this, and still pull off sexy, calm, collected and cool yeah?

He smiles a little oddly at me so I decide it is time we move on.

I am probably coming across like a mental patient.

I huff like an elephant as I begin re positioning the weight of our belongings and start marching in the general direction of the exit.

And then everything happens at once.

As I turn to leave the busy reception area and get away from the crowds of young people, my phone starts to vibrate against my leg distracting me, I notice it is raining heavily outside, the clock on the wall tells me we are running very late for job number 2 so I speed up, and for some unknown godly reason Addison decides to stick his finger right up my nose.

I didn’t see it coming.

I was extracting a sticky knuckle from probing the depths of my inner face cavities and I was in a rush.

I heard the panicked shouts of ‘NOoooooo!’ from a few people in reception before I actually felt the pain, but by that point it was too late.

I, rather embarrassingly, strode in to very clean, squeaky clean some may say, Glass bastard wall.

I witnessed actual stars popping about my head cartoon like as I was tumbling backwards on my boots, boxes and bags, tampons and toy trains exploding from different parts of my person, in to the air around me before thudding to the floor and screeching across the classy marble in every direction.

I may have shouted an expletive in to the ether before hitting the deck and trying to stop Addison head butting me on the way down.

I may have shouted something a long the lines of someone’s mother being a fucker as my nose started to bleed and the stunned silence was slowly replaced by gasps of horror from all around us.

I could taste my embarrassment in the audible silence before I tasted the blood.

I didn’t know what to do.

It was too late to brush anything off.

I couldn’t limp off pretending it hadn’t happened.

It will probably appear on You’ve been Framed or You Tube at some point!

I couldn’t even open my eyes properly to locate my son, my god the pain was unbelievable.

Mortification and actual pain.

My face felt like it was sliding off my chin.

And the Silence was only serving to magnify my injured grunting and moaning, that oddly I was aware did sound a little sexual. (Very random.)

And then somebody sniggered.

I snapped my head to the left, holding my nose together, to peep through the tears at who the perpetrator was.

It was Addison.

He was rolling around on the floor grasping for his trains and trying to open my tampons in barely concealed delight.


And then he started properly laughing, the little sod.

And then the tittering from the rest of the room started.

So I just lay back on the floor staring at the ceiling as strangers passed me back my tampons and the security guard got me some tissues for my bleeding nose.

Me and my black eye are working from home from now on.

I used to be cool.



His name is Peter Smith.

As I crouched down next to him on the filthy concrete floor where he was laying on his side, his face almost resting in a puddle and his yellowing fingernails clutched around a wallet of sorts, I have to be honest; I did curse myself for stopping and becoming involved before I fully really realised what I was doing, especially while wearing my new suede boots.

While trying to grind his face in to the floor in an attempt to disappear, or feel more stable maybe, he tells me that his name is Peter Smith, but whispers that I can call him Pete.

I lean over him, my hand on his shoulder, and ask him how old he is.

He tells me he is sixty.

I tell him, while fumbling for my phone, that he doesn’t look sixty years old and as I am connected to the emergency services I notice out of the corner of my eye, his eyebrows raise ever so slightly and he tries to turn and make eye contact with me.

When he does, he smiles slightly, naturally, in surprise.

I smile back at him and want to cry, as people flood by us, without even a second glance.

I decide at this point to stop being such a selfish twat and be grateful for what I have been given.

With glum regard at knowing I am doing the right thing but still not being entirely sure I want to, I take my coat off and rest his head on it, it will be warmer, the inside is fur lined and at least now, this old man’s head is off the floor.

I am a human being and so is he.

If I were lying on my side on the floor next to a church at 10.30 on a Monday morning at sixty years old, I would hope somebody may do the same for me.

He thanks me and sobs.

I ignore him, feeling I too could sob, even more so as I witness him dribbling all over it.

His blonde hair is matted and in his ear, I notice, as I am leaning over to speak to him, he has encrusted mud.

Pete is sixty years old and he has mud in his ears.

His yellowing brown leather jacket, formal brown trousers and old lace up shoes do not tell me he is homeless, they tell me he is an old man who at one point took great pride in his appearance.

How does someone go from that, to having mud in their ears?

It was his shoes that stopped me in my tracks as I was on my way up the hill towards Wilkinson’s to buy christmas presents for Addison.

I may bitch about my new boots getting dirty and my coat (Sob!), but I didn’t even consider walking on, like those around me, I promise.

I couldn’t, even though people told me to keep walking, that he was here all the time, even though my common sense was telling maybe I shouldnt get involved, I stopped and I got involved, because the minute I saw Pete’s shoes, I was stopped in my tracks.

They were like a knife in my heart.

One solid lace up brown kicker type shoe, lying on the top of the other, his knees slightly bent, facing out towards the passing traffic.

Shoes like my son wears, sturdy brown shoes that are built to last.

Pete is somebody’s son.

Pete is sixty years old.

Pete has mud in his ears, and this morning Pete had half a bottle of Vodka for breakfast.

Pete has a story and I want to know it.

Pete has caused heartache to all his family and when the ambulance men get here they will roll their eyes and shout at him.

Pete tells me all this and sobs loudly.

He tells me he wants to die.

I look up to the sky and curse.

Of all the people in all of the world Pete, I am probably not the person you want to have sitting with you now.

Rolling as I am in the waves of a minor relapse.

‘Me and you both mate.’ Didn’t seem like an appropriate answer, so I stayed shtum.

He tells me he is a diabetic and an alcoholic and he wants to die.

He shakes and sobs as I sit back and watch the realisation of where he is dawning oh him over and over again.

It reminds me of the way the immediate and shocking realisation at my brother being dead hit me over and over again any time I got drunk in those first few months.

The pain would get more and more blunt each time.

‘Pete. What happened today can you tell me?’

‘I don’t know.’

And I can tell he doesn’t.

He doesn’t have a clue how he got here.

He tells me he wants to go home and a small part of me connects to something I can not put in to words.

I am connected to being lost.

When the paramedics arrive they address him like an old friend.

‘Hi Pete.’ The brown-eyed one says ‘You having a bad day mate?’

Pete sobs again and I move back after rubbing his shoulder one last time, to let them do their work.

They thank me, and promise me he will be ok, that they will look after him.

‘Bye Pete.’ I shout as I leave, and I blow him a kiss.

‘Your coat!’ he whispers hoarse and I bend down to retrieve it. ‘Thank you.’ He says and I know he means it.

Or maybe he doesn’t.

Maybe he won’t remember me by now.

He probably won’t.

My coat is in the wash; all traces of Pete will be gone soon.

But I have a feeling I will remember him for a long time.

I don’t know why.

It’s just got to me.

He was somebody’s son, and he had mud in his ears.

I wonder what his story was, or could have been, if it wasn’t for the illness, the addiction, and the alcohol?

My boots are fine by the way.

I wiped them down when I got home.

Life goes on for both of us.

I bought Addison a Transformer.

Motherhood Curriculum Vitae (Alternate.)

                    CV Lexy Ellis.

The institute of mental illness and chaos, 1 child -1 husband to be Road, Shatteredville, edgy town.

Can I one bell you? I honestly can’t remember it.

Date of Birth:
Sometime before now.

Personal statement.

An occasionally positive, occasionally suicidal, dynamic and passionate multi-tasker and head case, with 2 years experience of wetting herself in public for no apparent reason, repeatedly scorching her ears with hair straighteners, running around in circles clearing up poop, accidentally interrupting funerals by running over squirrels and then screaming very loudly at the atrocity of it all, and managing to stand on a plug each and every time I am found running barefoot, who is also proudly bringing up, nipple-less, I may add, a two year old with fully functioning bite reflexes.

Highly personable and honest with a great impending sense of doom I am consistently task focused on accomplishing an incredible number of missions during an unrealistic time frame – such as but not limited to – feeding the world, and making it a better place for you and for me and the whole damn human race, liking 75 of my friends Facebook status’, organising a wedding and acting as camp councillor for the dog who seems more depressed than I am, all before the bedtime routine starts at a time when I would rather stick my head down the toilet and repeatedly brain myself with the lid.

 I achieve all of this of course, while also smiling.

Work History;

Mum – 2010 – present.

  • To lead and develop a child in to a well rounded individual who doesn’t need therapy in his teens and who suffers no lasting damage caused by repeatedly having to have conversations with his mother while her head is down the toilet.
  • To ensure a consistent quality of service by not appearing harassed when the dog vomits in the car just after being de-bollocked, by always talking in calming voices even when one feels close to a mental breakdown as the child has once again proudly announced he too has now shit his kecks all over the shag pile, and by always ensuring 5 back up dinners are cooking on the odd chance the child may not fancy his actual meal, and then eating them yourself because you like beans on toast, jam on toast, fish fingers on toast really and by this point the idea of cooking seems less appealing that drinking a pint glass of one’s own urine.
  • To be positively, passionately and completely awake at all times. Sleeping with one eye open will only ensure you get poked in it, by a finger that smells suspiciously of bum.
  • To instigate all areas of play as if one could not think of anything better one would like to do with ones time other than make another play doh snake, make a digger dance the Macarena dance for 4 hours, bring the sandpit in the house, act out the role of trampoline, cultivate an ant farm and be force fed a worm, just to prove that people don’t eat worms.
  • To pretend to like the sound of whinging. To ignore the sound of whinging. To wish you have gone deaf to the sound of whinging. To eventually start whinging yourself, because if you cant beat them… to take this all out on your other half when he gets home and doesn’t understand why you have your head in the oven.
  • To take Post Natal Depression and being sectioned in to a mental hospital in your stride and to not slap people when they ask you stupid questions like – do you feel guilty about it? Or even better – Do you feel selfish? To not forget to take your medication and when you do to completely deny your mood has anything to do with that and instead blame the fact your child flushed the toilet while you had your head down it.
  • To pretend to want sex as much as your other half even when you haven’t slept in 8 months and you can smell something suspiciously like Bum. All. Of. The. Time.  To moan and groan and make all the right noises while surreptitiously planning tomorrow’s activities (washing, ironing, world peace acquisition, cleaning up poop.)
  • To mentor and coach and support your other half by consistently nipping to the local off licence and purchasing copious bottles of wine that undoubtedly increase productivity standards on his part. Using the time commonly known as ‘mummy time’ to set individual targets and feedback to your other half on why you are so much better than him at everything. Apologising like you really mean it when you sober up.
  • Thinking outside of the box to develop possible solutions for situations such as having no childcare and having to work, only having enough money to buy beans and hiding mental illness by repeatedly singing ‘old MacDonald had a farm’ instead of a song you recently made up, titled ‘Shoot me in the head. Shoot me in the head now.’
  • As a mother I have to consider and demonstrate sound and logical reasons for decisions such as ‘No eating poo.’ ‘No eating worms’ and ‘Stop putting your toys up the dogs bum.’  I also have to provide detailed and thoughtful responses to complex questions such as ‘Why is the grass green?’ ‘Why does the dog have a pink bum hole?’ and ‘What does dead mean?’

Normal Person – Up to 2010.

  • Never weeing when one sneezed and enjoying control over all bodily functions.
  • Judging all parents who didn’t seem to have a well behaved child. ‘God have they never watched Supernanny? My child will never behave like that!!’ 
  • Avoiding children at all costs but marginally feeling broody when I did see one, for like, a second before returning to my life.
  • Partying and showing my toned midriff. (Slight exaggeration possible.)
  • Having an idealistic view of how happy and relaxed family life would be for me in the future and how well behaved and beautiful my child would be and how my figure would simply ‘snap’ back in to shape after pregnancy. No Impending sense of doom, basically.
  • Lie in’s, without the sound of ‘Daddy’ screaming and losing control in the back ground, while I fight to stay in bed to the sound of all manner of chaos just outside the bedroom door.
  • Television that didn’t involve three Channel Five presenters dressed like cucumbers doing the Macarena at 6 in the morning. (How have they not been victims of a bloody good beating yet?)
  • Being able to call the Irish one by his name, instead of the now commonly used ‘Daddy’ or ‘Dickhead.’
  • Reading a book in bed without the use of a torch.
  • Sleeping.


Stretch marks.

Broken Perineum.

Nipples that graze along the floor.

Ability to smile in the face of a hell of a lot of poop.

Snapped back.

Sore Legs.

Bags under eyes that resemble extra cheeks.



“Drama Queen” (Me??!?)

‘You mean you aren’t just saying no?’

I pounce on him the minute I hear his keys jangling in the door.

His high collared coat is up around his neck protectively, his headphones still plugged in to his very red tipped ears. He detangles himself from his very ‘manly’ man bag (adjective added under duress) and plonks it on the sofa opposite me.

He fixes me with a look that says he isn’t impressed with my greeting and picks his son up off the floor, where he is busy playing with spoons, (Yeah, spoons – So glad we spent a fortune on toys) to give him a cuddle.

‘Hi babe!’ he responds to me sarcastically fashioning a stupid voice which evidently is supposed to be me, ‘Did you have a nice day? Yes thanks.’ he continues.

I just watch him silently wanting to smack him across the face and ask him why on god’s green earth, whenever he does an impression of me, he makes me sound like Joe Pascuale, all high pitched, and more worryingly, American.

He carries on answering himself regardless of my tense silence ‘what did you have for lunch today sweetheart? (Um… I don’t think I ever call him sweetheart?) Well Lexy I had…’

I stop this the only way I know how.

I pull my bare feet up on to the sofa underneath me so I am almost standing, but not quite, and jokingly begin to mark the catholic symbol of the cross across my shoulders and my head.

He stops talking and looks at me quizzically.

I just look back at him.

He raises an eyebrow.

So I pretend to pray.

‘What are you doing?’ he stammers, with Addison now trying to shimmy up his leg.

‘No idea, but it got you to shut up – So! Are you thinking about it? Are you Are you Are you Are you Are you?’

He shakes his head in resignation and falls on to the sofa beside me and kicks of his shoes, inadvertently sending Addison flying. (Not really.)

And… He says….



‘Irish one I need to know! I just need to know! If it is a no, which I am really hoping it isn’t, then it is a no… But if it is a yes then you will make all my dreams come true!!  (I jump off the sofa at this point and do a spin, imagining myself as Rapunzel)… But if it is a no, (I get down on my knees by his feet for dramatic effect and lay my face on his thigh) then I will just have to accept it. (I sigh and do my best sad face)… Although I am not sure how you would ever live with yourself (I look worried for him) or even more why you would even want to destroy all my dreams? Why? (I stand up again and stomp my foot)

Why would you want to do that to me? I just need to knowwwwwww.’  I whine.

He has become my Simon Cowbell, the Villain who holds the key to my soul.

My entire future is resting solely on his answer. (I really don’t understand why people call me a drama queen?)

I am poised to jump in the air and attempt a Fame-esque star jump over the top of Addison’s mop top the moment the ‘yes’ I so DESPERATELY need, the ‘yes’ I can almost taste, leaves his mouth but… alas… it doesn’t.

‘Look,’ he sighs, and for a moment I am sure I can hear music kicking in and am almost certain he is about to burst in to song; (God I would have loved it if he did!)

‘I am just in from work, it is a Tuesday!

All this on a Tuesday?

Can I not just take my coat off,

Maybe rub my feet,

Enjoy some time with my son,

Maybe, just maybe,

Eat dinner,


Before you jump down my throat, and behave this way, about this topic once more?’

(You are imagining it as a Disney song aren’t you? SO AM I! It would be amazing!)

I breathe out a massive sigh.

He doesn’t understand.

I slouch out of the room in a semi-tantrum to wash up.

He follows me in some time later in his Simon Cowbell Pyjamas.

‘Tell me about it then.’

So I do. Every last detail. The cake and the dress and the weather and the special guests and the rides and the hotel and the prices and the look I imagine on Addison’s face when he meets Buzz Lightyear. The free bar, the Lie in’s, the money we will save…

(I play to my audience – what can I say?)

‘Ok.’ He says some time later when we are lying in bed and I am staring at the ceiling thinking about who else I could potentially marry there, if he says no.

‘I know how much Disney World means to you, I know how poignant that would be for you, I know you have had some terrible memories there, and this would be a chance to start again for you so no, I am not just saying no. I am saying lets do it!’

I turn to look at him and he looks excited.

I won’t lie.

I jumped up and down on the bed for about half an hour.

‘But Lexy?’  He interrupts 3 hours later, in the early hours of the morning when my best friend and I are still gushing down the phone over the finer details.

‘Yes?’ I answer happily lost in a world of stuff I have never really cared about before.

‘I draw the line at Cinderella’s coach. I am a meat and 2 veg man. I am not getting in Cinderella’s coach.’

I nod solemnly to him as I hear my best friend whisper down the line.

‘What if it just turned up on the day by ‘accident?’ it’s not like he could refuse then!’

I try to hide my smile as he walks out of the room…

‘And Lexy?’ He calls as I giggle down the receiver plotting.


‘Try and remember this wedding is about me and you yeah? You aren’t marrying Julie. And if it does turn up by accident (HOW DID HE KNOW?) all bets are off.’

Damn it.

Foiled again.

I am getting married at Walt Disney World.

I need to work out a way of getting there without flying….  I need to overcome some demons… I need … oh god…

I’m going to be a wife. (Um… does that mean I have to peel his potatoes?)

How am I gonna get Cinderella’s coach?

… Kidding…

…Of course I would respect his wishes…


Bricking it Babble.

I always worry about dying on the toilet.

Is that weird?

Basically, being trapped in a toilet is my worst nightmare, but dying while on the toilet seriously worries me and flashes through my head each and every time I drop my kecks, but then I figure, well, at least if I die on the toilet at least ill be dead, you know? So then I can poo in peace.

Does anybody else get worried about this? Surely you must.

I wish I could drink a shot of tequila, because as I sit here on this 12.35 Pendolino to London Euston I feel like I not only need some Dutch courage to enable me to get through tonight but also the general sense of panic is ensuring my bowels are doubling over on them selves constantly.

So yeah, bollocks.

I need the toilet.

The fields are sprawling as far as my eyes can see, and as Alanis Morrisette is singing in to my ears about being sweaty her whole life and missing the rapture in every day tasks, of feeling forever incomplete, the terror building in my nether regions starts to reach crescendo point.

I put my hand to my chest and try to steady my breathing by staring at the stout and portly black and white cows we are speeding past.

They seem unperturbed by the train flashing past them with my green and sweaty face pressed up against the glass gasping for breath and instead continue as always, monotonously gurning on their grassy picnic.

I wonder if it ever gets stuck in their teeth?

Or if they ever wish for ketchup or some sort of condiment?

I can’t hear it, because like I mentioned, Alanis Morrisette is busy coming in to my ears, but I am sure if I whipped out my head phones I would almost certainly be able to hear the heady approach of a thunder storm.

Or maybe that is just my…. You know what? Nevermind.

It is when I am perilously wobbling on the verge of a full blown panic attack that I spot him.

It would be hard not to.

There he is, stood right bang in the middle of absolutely no where, wearing a foot to toe luminous orange boiler suit, propping up a metal gate.

The train slows to a stop so I can watch him.

He is looking about as if asking for help.

But from my vantage point sat at the top of this hill, I can see there is absolutely no one.

He is alone, dressed like an idiot, propping up a gate, in the middle of a huge expanse of space, that doesn’t seem to serve a purpose.

‘Mate, what is the point?’ I want to shout out of the window.

I am genuinely interested as to where he gets his sense of purpose.

As the black dog has recently been creeping back in to my room at night and curling up under my pillow (and I am not talking about Doodle) I have found myself asking that question a lot.


What is the point?

I am on the train on the way to the mad blog awards and I am excited.  Of course I am, simply being given the opportunity to attend again this year has been my ‘point’ all summer.

Does that sound selfish?

That I have a beautiful son who I adore and recently have a ring on my finger but really it is this, that at times has kept me going?

The thought of freedom, of inane chatter, of spending time with people where I can just be me.

I am excited. I Really I am.

I am also, however, absolutely trying not to crap my pants (because I am too scared of dying on the way to the mads, sat on the toilet.)

I pour my heart and soul in to my blog, and last night as I was dousing myself in orange cream, enjoying the smell of fake tan, it dawned on me, that I sometimes forget that people actually read it.

My honesty, as I sit on this train, safe behind a wall of mac glass, feels safe.

My feelings on the Internet, for anybody to read, behind a wall of mac glass, don’t feel that brave.


Oh my god.

Tonight? I wont be able to hide.

I have called myself a slag. I have written about my heart and childhood being raped. I have told people I didn’t bond with my son. I have told people I hated the Irish one. I have… oh my god.

There were no trams running when I left the house so I had to call a Taxi.

‘What do you write about?’  The driver asked me when we got on to it.


He leant his elbow on the steering wheel at the lights and turned to me with surprised blue eyes.

‘What the hell do you have to be depressed about? Sounds like you have a great life!’

And it is that little inconspicuous question that calms me a little.

I have nothing to be depressed about do i?

And yet I am.

Which is why I am so honest.

Which is why everything I do has a purpose, so even when I find myself stood in the middle of nowhere holding up a fence looking like a dick, thinking there is no point and I am worthless, it is that lack of understanding that reminds me.

What I have done in being so honest, and what I do has a purpose.

It helps me.

It has given me a purpose.

And the MAD awards have given me a purpose this summer.

So thank you Sally.

Oh fuck.

I described myself as a slag!

Oh god.

Doesn’t mean I’m not shitting myself though!!!

Poop Frogs. (And a Proposal.)

To be completely honest, I just wanted a one-night stand with the new Irish bloke that had recently started working in my office.

I thought he was fit, and I am a sucker for an Irish accent. I didn’t even refer to him by his name for the first month, instead calling him ‘Dublin.’

I was, and in lots of ways still am, that girl who is uncomfortable with any type of tenderness, will spit in the face of ever needing anybody and is absolutely terrified and repulsed by emotional intimacy.

I hate soppiness, I will positively beg for romance, but then when a moment is actually created, I will undoubtedly end up feeling like a bobble head doll, totally awkward, completely clumsy and usually absolutely detesting every single second.

I was that self-despising and arrogant girl, who’s self esteem was based solely on how thin she was and on having a boy, any boy who wanted her really, preferably one with an Irish accent to be honest, in her bed.

I was also that drunk and soiled girl who loved but also failed to understand why people hated her, who danced to her own loud and irritatingly repetitive beat and thought that being cool was not caring about anything and ignoring those who loved her.

I was a mess but I thought I had it all sussed.

Sure, there were times in my life that I had dreams of marriage but they were just that, dreams. I would dream just as easily of being a megastar pop star and dating Ryan Reynolds. I knew they would never actually happen.

When he walked in to my life, looking a lot like ‘the son of god’ in his white linen pants, with his bearded face and a tattoo of the crucifix on his forehead (joking.) All I wanted was to shag his brains out and then forget all about him.

** He is looking at me aghast as I tell him I have typed this, but I am not sure why, as he already knows this is the case, because when I finally did get to spend the night with him, right after the throes of passion (5 freaking weeks he made me wait, 5 weeks! And yeah the grand kids will hear it the other way around) I told him.

‘You were only meant to be a one night stand.’

And his response to that right now, in this moment?

‘I have never been a one night stand for anyone baby, that’s why I made you wait, Scoped you out, made sure you were gagging for it before I…’

He is still talking but I have stopped listening.


‘Do you remember the time I knelt down beside you at your desk to ask you something, and you sneeze talked and spat green gob all over me and then patted my crotch for no apparent reason? God you wanted me.’

Ok I am leaving the room.

But he is right, god damn him.

He did turn me from a cool confident… slag (I suppose) in to a woman who dribbled coffee down her front, walked in to walls while trying to be sexy, and sneeze spat in his general direction.

I was adamant we were going to take it slow, so of course after I finally slept with him, he never left.

And he annoyed the hell out of me.

All I was interested in was ignoring who I was, ignoring the pain over my brother dying by drinking, swearing, having great sex and having a laugh, and all he was interested in was… ok great sex, and the inner workings of my emotions.

We fought and battled and clashed almost daily.

My blatant denial to discuss my inner being and his blatant refusal to never be a puppy dog and bow down to what I wanted drove me crazy.

We often questioned why we were still together, and even though on numerous occasions I begged him to bugger off, he stuck around like a man made Velcro mosquito.

Pecking my head.


Making me fall in love with him.

There were times I really didn’t want to see a future for us, because he wanted intimacy and all I wanted was to punch him in the face most of the time.

He made me feel and I hated him for it.

Then he let me down.

It was bound to happen at some point.

He may look like Jesus but I assure you he is only a normal man.

I finally had a reason to hate him.

And I was gutted.

And just when it looked like it really all was going to come to an obliterated end, I found myself with an Irish bun in the oven.

And everything changed.

For a brief nine months, all I wanted, needed and got was emotional intimacy. We shared every moment of my pregnancy, I shared with him my heart and my soul and he in turn responded by being an amazing, beautiful person to me.

And then everything changed.


I imploded, we imploded, the world folded in on itself.

I couldn’t cope, I needed him to hear me, understand me and carry me, without me asking.


He is Not Jesus.

He is also Not a mind reader.

Just an Irish man.

A normal Irish man, who likes potatoes and has a penchant for saying ‘Bejesus!’

He couldn’t cope.

We would go days without speaking.

Not a single word.

We would work around the baby, and around each other without uttering a word.

It was miserable, distressing and lonely.

But why would we speak when the only words we could say to each other felt like razor blades being dragged across old scabs?

I couldn’t accommodate myself in to motherhood, to being this whole other person.

I was terrified of his massive Irish family who all wanted to offer support and visit, and cuddle, and chat and laugh.

I hated it.

I wanted to be part of his family, to feel part, but I didn’t know how.

I couldn’t cope with intimacy from him alone and the man has 4 sisters!

I was terrified of them all and resented being thrown in to a world I knew nothing about.

We decided to break up (for the fifty millionth time) the day before I got in the bath and told him I wanted to die.

(I don’t know why I got in the bath to tell him this. I just did. It seemed logical at the time.)

We had nothing in common I told myself, we didn’t understand each other, I didn’t know who I was, and I felt sure my baby would be better off without me.

In the weeks following, while I was in hospital, all the while he sent me flowers, looked after Addison, sorted out work, bills, the house and called me daily to tell me he loved me and wanted me to get better and would do anything for me, I slagged him off in group therapy to anyone who would listen.

And then I listened, and was taught, and started to realise, what I was suffering with wasn’t a choice, but an illness and I began to see how lucky I was to have this Jesus lookalike standing by me, doing my head in, loving me, trusting me and mostly, supporting me through the hardest part of my entire life.

And I also started to realise slowly, that actually he wasn’t a nightmare, he was brilliant, and funny, and loving, and annoying, and arrogant, and precious and supportive, and a fabulous dad and actually still very sexy.

I saw that him not being a one night stand, was meant to be.

And then what follows, a year and a half later, is a trip to Buxton where I am trying out how to be a bitch, he has packed nothing useful because men should never pack bags and Doodle has contracted doggy gastro- enteritis.


I was cleaning up shit from the hallway in our flat  (again) when he shouted me.

‘Lexy! Come in here I need you!’

‘Oh what now, for goodness sake! I think Doodle just shat out a tadpole! Can you imagine if it turns in to a shit frog?’

I shuddered at the thought of shit frogs taking over our home and ambled in to the living room.

‘Shit frogs, that’s all we need!’ I carried on, rolling my eyes, before stopping short at seeing Addison standing in the middle of the room holding something in his hand and giggling at me.

‘Poop Frogs I meant, Where is your daddy?’ I asked him confused.

‘Look mummy!’ he shrieked holding up what he had his manky fingers clasped around, closer to my face, so I could get a proper look.

It was a small box.

My heart kind of stopped.

And then in he sauntered in all his ‘son of god’ glory, looking, it has to be said, sexy if not a little terrified.

I was about to speak, I think, but then he shut me up by standing next to Addison and then getting down on one knee. (!!!!!!!)

I honestly thought at one point I was going to vomit all over his head in shock.

And then he just asked me.

I have to be honest, I did raise my hands to my face and gasp (and yes I had washed my hands) but I didn’t look in to his massive fearful eyes and answer ‘yes.’

It was all just so unexpected, and I had been cleaning up shit!!!

He asked me again.

And also, I was really, really shocked!!

‘Hello?’ He asked this time, taking the ring box off Addison and opening it as I just stared at him in disbelief.

‘Really?’ I blurted, ‘you want to marry me? Are you mad?’

And the romantic bastard smiled.

‘Yeah I do, but it is you, who is supposed to be answering me right now, you fucking nut. I love you. Will you marry me?’

‘But I’m a cowbag.’

‘You are a cow bag, that’s true. Will you marry me?’

‘But I am a nightmare!’

‘You are a nightmare that is also true. Will you marry me?’

‘But you want to marry me?’

He may have sighed at this point so I insisted we start over.

‘Ask me again Irish one, sorry ask me again. I’ll do it properly this time I promise.’

Addison had got bored by this point and wandered off.

He asked me again, one last time, beautifully.

‘Yeah I freaking will’ I responded eloquently before screaming and jumping up and down and scaring the absolute hell out of Addison, who was then summoned back from watching Tractor Tom to put the ring on my finger.

‘I love you and want to be with you forever.’ He said as he took me in his arms afterwards. (And I had to stop myself from vomming in my mouth a little bit.)

The end.

And Doodle still has the shits.

Ps – I know we could have been up a dobbing great big hill in some park, but I would have hated that. As it was he knew, that seeing me clearing up dog shit would be the perfect time to propose, and he was right.

Because he knows me inside and out and loves me in spite of this, and I know him inside and out and yeah, I think he is all right you know?

We have been to hell, and we have come back. Together.

I love him.

It really it is that simple.

These are the good old days.

PPS – This is for you Irish one because Pink Sums it up better than I ever could…

‘Sometimes I hate every single stupid word you say,

Sometimes I want to slap you on your whole face,

There is no one quite like you; you push all my buttons,

Now I know life would suck without you,

At the same time I want to hug you, I want to wrap my hands around your neck, You’re an asshole and I love you,

But I hate you, I really hate you,

So much I think it must be true love, you are my true love.’

God I hope we don’t get infested by shit frogs.

A proposal, and a Bucket full of Hamsters. (Yeah.)

‘Who the hell do you think you are Lexy? What kind of person are you? Tell me!’

I catch my annoying therapist’s eye very deliberately for a very brief, uncomfortable moment in the silence immediately following this onslaught; but instead of answering him, I lean down very slowly and purposely, to unlace my big brown boots with their big brown laces.

I wasn’t expecting James and his bucket full of dead hamster questions to be so direct today.

(I call them his ‘dead hamster questions’ because nobody likes a dead hamster do they? And It also kind of reminds me of the ‘Harry and his bucket full of dinosaurs’ song, so I often whistle it on my way in to therapy, and it cheers me up, but yeah, I’m weird I know this. But you get me right?)

I glance up at him once more, a little less confidently, it has to be said, as I pull my legs up underneath me and prepare to respond by reaching for and wrapping my arms around, one of the very many purple cushions with the gold tassels and Latin writing (Classy,) which share the sofa of doom with me.

I push it in to my chest, using it as a sort of shield to protect myself.


Now that I am all folded in on myself I may continue.

When I am ready.

I intend to make him wait at least half an hour before responding but then I remember this therapy is actually is costing me a fortune and he would probably love to sit there and have a snooze, so actually the sensible thing to do would be to get on with it. (DAMN IT!)

‘I am a manager. A tired one who bullies herself daily…’ I fire out like a machine gun in to the thick silence.

‘Not in your day job Lexy, I mean…’

‘I am not talking about my day job James;’ I interrupt boldly.  ‘I am talking about my life. I feel like a bloody manager all of the time, in that, I feel responsible for everybody and their happiness, all of the time. I feel pressured by every relationship I have in my life. I live in constant fear that I will let somebody down or upset him or her and then he or she will end up hating me for it. But then at the same time, I almost want them to hate me for it because then I no longer have those expectations and I can happily push them away and live in peace. Does that make sense?’

He doesn’t answer, so I begin to finger the cushion, (not in a porno way just to be clear here,) and continue to ignore his gaze burning holes in to my face, before I carry on.

‘I live in constant fear of letting people down, of not being enough, my insecurities are out of control, and I am exhausted.’

‘And if you let them down, that will mean they don’t like you, or that you are actually worthless?’

(Whahiiiiiii…that’s the sound of a dead hamster being tossed through the air towards me, by the way.)

‘It will mean I am not perfect.’

(PHALUT. That’s me batting the hamster away with a table tennis bat.)

‘Do you think you are perfect?’

(WHAhiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii… he bats the hamster back. Poor little dead creature.)

‘No. I personally think I am a dog poo. I just don’t want everybody else to see that. I want them to think I am a cool you know? So I end up putting everyone before myself and then when I do let them down, because eventually I cant live up to my own expectations I set for myself, I can push them away, cut them off, even if I don’t want to because I like them, and it is a relief. ’ (PHALUTTTTTTT. That ones brains exploded.)

‘This makes no sense.’

‘Welcome to my brain James, right now as we talk I am picturing dead hamsters flying through the air between us!’

His words catch in his mouth and he looks at me quizzically for a split second, before he raises his hand, refusing to take me up on a change of conversation, even a conversation about dead hamsters (everyone knows conversations about dead hamsters are intriguing!) And instead decides to plough on with the therapy. (Boring bastard.)

‘You have to keep people happy? That in its self is impossible. What if you aren’t successful, what if you don’t keep them happy? (Whahiiiiiii…)

‘Then I feel selfish and naughty.(Phalut.)

‘Naughty?’ (Whahiiiiiii…)

‘Naughty.’ (PHALUT.)

‘And what do these friends have to do for you?’ (Whahiiiiii…)

‘Nothing.’ (PHALUT.)

‘That doesn’t seem very fair.’ He responds.

I shrug, like a miffed teen.

None of this conversation makes sense to me anymore, how could he expect me to be following this with all these dead animals flying everywhere?

‘How would you feel about being naughty this week?’

Whahiiiiiiiiii…. Sorry what?’ I stop doing dead hamster sound effects and concentrate.

‘I want you to have a week off, shirk the responsibility be ‘selfish’, be ‘Naughty.’

As I positively bounced out of his big therapy house twenty minutes later, my big boots crunching over the gravel, I smiled a little smile to myself.

I will take you up on your challenge James; I need a week off from my brain! I need a week off to just be, to just be, without the guilt or the worry of upsetting people constantly, I want to just be! Without the constant insecurity that having an opinion or doing what I want to do will result in me being unloved. 

I am going to do what I want to do, be who I want to be.

OOOO what fun!

(Erm… I may have got a little carried away…) 

‘Have you packed for our weekend away?’ The Irish one asked me excitedly as I walked through the front door two hours later, all excited as he was taking me away for my birthday.

‘Nope.’ I responded happily launching my bag on to the bed with flamboyant disregard  ‘You booked it. You pack.’

And with that I lay on the floor and let my little boy climb all over me while the Irish one stood in front of me with a boc boc fish mouth, stumped and surprised.

‘Have you put petrol in the car?’ He asked me as we pulled out of the drive a few hours later, after I had watched him wandering around aimlessly trying to remember how to do stuff for himself, with an evil grin on my face.

‘Nope.’ I answered, flicking the indicator. ‘You think we will need some? Do you have money? You booked it.’

He didn’t fly off the handle as I suspected he might if I wasn’t my usual people pleasing self; he merely smiled between gritted teeth and advised me we would need to stop for some.

A little later on, once I had eaten cake for dinner because that’s all I wanted, once I had drank far too much red wine because that’s what I wanted to do and once I had refused to do anything remotely romantic because I didn’t feel like it, I gave him a hug, told him I thought I loved him (drunk me is even less self assured than sober me) and fell asleep with a fart. (The fart was for effect.)

The next morning he seemed a little disappointed when I refused to walk up a dobbing great big hill in the park, because ‘I didn’t feel like it.’

‘Do you think I am the hill walker type Irish one?’ I asked petulantly ‘I mean, do I look like I am the kind of girl that looks comfortable in wellies? DO you not know me at all?

(For the record, I told him earlier in our relationship that I loved hill walks. But that was when I was trying to snatch him in my lare, and I thought HE loved hill walks, if you know what I mean. So yeah, I lied about a tiny part of me, the anti hill walking part, so that we had more stuff in common. We’ve all done it!!! Right?)

‘Why are you being such a grumpy bitch?’ he mumbled kicking a stone towards the stream where Addison was currently trying to hand pick a fish, unfortunately downstream from where Doodle was helpfully having a poo.

‘I am not being grumpy Irish one. I am no longer managing you, or anyone else, for that matter. I am being like everyone else and not worrying about if you hate me when I say stuff I want and don’t like. And yeah I may be taking it a bit far, but that is my god given right as a WOMAN! I AM A WOMAN AND I DON’T LIKE HILL WALKING! I HAVE SPENT YEARS HILL WALKING WHEN I DON’T LIKE HILL WALKING DO YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN IRISH ONE? WELL DO YOU?’

‘Not really no.’ he responded before being distracted by the troublesome twosome and jumping in to action  ‘Addison NO! THAT’S NOT A FISH, THAT’S NOT A FISHHHH! PUT IT DOWN! PUT IT DOWN!’

He then turned back to me and smiled sadly before searching in his bag for bleach and a butt plug. (Antiseptic wipes really.)

‘Do you hate me?’ I asked him feeling a little guilty after my outburst and desperately wanting a hug, but not knowing how to ask for one, especially seen as he was now busy trying to save Buxton’s famous streams from being ruined in history forever by Poodle Squit.

‘No. I hate James. Come on lets go home. ADDISON PUT THE DOG DOWN!’

And off home we went, me in a guilty mood, him in a disappointed mood, Addison piss wet through and Doodle covered in shit with 3 tadpoles in his belly.

Ahhh good times…

*It didn’t end there … (HOW WAS I SUPPOSED TO KNOW HE WAS PLANNING TO PROPOSE????) But anyway…  I have to go now… because I want to go home and see my son… I’m sorry to cut off the story half way through… it really is a good ending too…. Do you hate me?

I want, I want, I want… (A Tantruming therapy Meme.)

‘Why is he screaming so bloody loud?’

The Irish one is finally home from work and I feel like hurling myself on to the floor and licking his £12.99 Reebok specials in appreciation.

‘He wants me to jump out of the window like next door’s cat did,’ I howl over the tantrum taking place beneath me, dodging kicks, smacks and tiny claws trying to scratch the skin off my ankles.

‘And because I don’t want to, clearly I am being very unreasonable and selfish!’

The Irish one smiles at me indulgently.

And I feel like smacking him around the face.

I sigh and grab my crotch as a size 4 heel connects with my pelvic bone.

‘He has been making ridiculous requests all bloody day!! And when I won’t for example, let him throw potatoes at the dog, at full force!!!! He has been throwing an absolute wobbler!!’

He throws me an ‘Alright calm down he’s only a 2 year old’ look and gets down on to his knees to address the feral beast my child has evolved in to.

‘Addison mummy can’t jump out of the window baby; mummy needs her legs not to be broken today. Come on now, stop crying, I know it would be funny to see mummy plunge to her death from the window* but we don’t always get what we want, calm down now.’

‘But I asked nicely!’ Addison responds before pounding the floor and shaking his fists at the unfairness of the world again.

Much later, after I had jumped out of the window (willingly) and he was in bed, it got me thinking.

He did ask me to break both of my legs for his entertainment, very politely.


2 year olds, or at least mine, see the world in black and white; they do not see anything wrong in asking for what they want.

They do not feel shame, or guilt, or fear of judgment, or anxiety over feeling silly for asking, they simply ask, and sometimes they get what they want and at other times they have a tantrum.

So simple right?

‘What do you want Lexy?’  A common question Jamie asks me in therapy.

A question I never answer truthfully.

Through the tears and the shame, I usually sniffle out that I don’t know.

And sometimes I don’t.

But sometimes, what I want, is so meticulously buried below a layered trifle of negative, self depreciating emotions, I wouldn’t be able to ask even if I did know.

So, with this in mind, I am going to try really hard to take a leaf out of Addison’s book.

I’m going to ask for what I want.

I am going to ignore the shame, push the guilt over being selfish away, snub the embarrassment over how petty I may be when others have real problems, blank the potential judgment that I may be shallow in asking for some stuff and mostly, stamp out the fear of asking.

I am going to damn well ask.

And if I don’t get the things I want?

Well then I may have a tantrum and I may punch the Irish one in the crotch (why not?) or I may just feel better for getting it off my chest.

SO here goes…

I want…

  • A lie in without being woken up by feelings of guilt and anxiety that there aren’t enough hours in the day and that I should be up cleaning, playing, washing, working…
  • A 22 inch waist with no stretch marks, just so I can wander around Selfridges in a crop top eating a huge piece of almond and chocolate cake while shooting superior looks to all the snotty sales girls who think that they are better than everyone just because they are tall and thin. (You are 19! Wait till you have kids!!!)
  • I want to never have suffered with depression, no overwhelming sadness, no constant anxiety, no relentless intrusive thoughts, and i want for all depression sufferers in the world to be legally allowed to head butt non sufferers when they mistakenly offer friendly advice such as  ‘Just smile more.’
  • My boobs to be bouncy and full of life again, instead of hanging from my chest like two used condoms off a coat hanger.
  • Free Starbucks all of the time.
  • A star trek transporter door thing, so I could say ‘Addy where do you want to go today?’ and I wouldn’t have worry about paying for petrol.
  • More cuddles off my other half that don’t necessarily lead to erections. I just want a cuddle. For the love of god. Why does every cuddle end in him grabbing my boob, or my bum and shouting ‘Honk Honk!’? Do men actually think this is a turn on? Do you think it is appropriate? I am crying!!! Stop feeling me up!!! I just want a cuddle!
  • Someone to buy my flat so we can live somewhere with more space and POSSIBLY think about having more children without having to worry about where we will all fit.
  • To be able to have more children without having to have sex. (I just wanted a cuddle!!!!!)
  • Consistent support from those around me and not to feel like a victim and hate it, when I need help.
  • A week or two on Necker island with my boys, including Doodle the poodle, so we can experience luxury and create family memories.
  • Calorie free square crisps.
  • To fly first class somewhere on a Monday morning, just once, just to see what it is like. With champagne. And paparazzi chasing me, looking fabulous, instead of heading to work looking like something the dog just sicked up.
  • My best friend to not live hours and hours and hours away, but to move in to my castle which also has a Starbucks in it and a heated pool and sexy lifeguard who only has eyes for me, but I am not interested.
  • My little boy to eat properly and not be frightened of food. For my little boy never ever to get poorly again and have an amazing healthy life where all his dreams are fulfilled.
  • For there to be no stigma attached to poor mental health.
  • To go skiing, the way it used to be, just one more time.
  • To be able to sing like an angel. To hit the high notes, and the low ones when I am feeling like a rock star in the car, instead of feeling like a rock star but sounding like someone is giving a cat a lobotomy.
  • My big brother not to be dead. For it to have been a massive and unfunny practical joke. For him to walk back in to my life and apologise for such cruelty while I instantly forgive him and cry with relief, hug him and spend all night laughing and joking and most importantly living with him.
  • To have endless patience to deal with my 2 year olds tantrums and to never forget that I love him more than myself, and that he has saved my life on more than one occasion and that his smile lights up my heart, my soul and my life, like a torch shining in a dark room.
  • To tell my son I love him, every day.
  • To never forget that thinking of myself doesn’t make me selfish, that occasionally lusting after material things doesn’t make me materialistic, that expressing an emotion doesn’t make me a drama queen and that no matter how many times a day I tell myself the opposite, that I am in fact worth something.
  • To have the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to fight for the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

And that is it.

I do kind of feel better, and that was fun!!!

What about you? I am nosy, I want to know what you would tantrum for, or maybe just ask for?

What would you ask for if you could see life like a two year old and there were no limitations? No anxiety over coming across shallow? No consequences? No fear?

The floor is yours…

I tag @theboyandme who’s friendship I am incredibly thankful for, every time we speak, laugh and share a good moan! And who’s blog is precious. What do you want missis?

@ lotsofspermies who I want to cuddle, but who deserves the chance to get to ask for what she wants and get it, more than anyone I know. Get asking!

@the_moiderer who inspires me every day and who has helped me more than she will ever know. What would you want?

@_katie_bailey who makes me laugh, and who’s virtual hugs and endless support has kept me going on many occasion. Tell us woman! What do you want?

@eliza_do_lots who is utterly bonkers and quite possibly the funniest female i have ever had the pleasure of meeting. I know she will have me howling and will take part because if she doesn’t I will hunt her down and poke her with an aubergine.

and @mrsceeeceee because, I love your work too! What would one like?

and finally @AdamPlum my bran spanking new twitter budster who has shown me such kindness recently even in the midst of his own troubles. What do you want Adam? If you could have anything at all?

Anyone else want to have a go? Just please link me back in so I can see them… and tag others!

*He may not have actually said this…

I Got Pee on My Stress. (Yup. That about sums it up.)

I am so tired I could quite happily sit on this sofa and wee myself.

Such is the effort I feel it would take to actually stand up and plod my aching hoofs with their mangled toenails, that once used to be described as ‘pretty,’ to the bathroom.

I feel like a giant yellowing elastic band stretched out tight between two points, tense, firm and poised to ping at any moment.

Except there will be no pinging or poinging here today, as I am too drained, too weary and I am not sure what a poing would actually look, feel, smell or taste like.

And also if I poinged, there is always that added worry of where I would end up.

Knowing my luck I would be poinged in to a giant steaming pile of eye eating bacteria, and I would end up blind and walking in to walls, and then my guide dog would eat Doodle and a catastrophic chain of events would follow culminating in me ending up unloved, lonely and housing 28 cats.

Perhaps I could fit a little breakdown in at some point today instead?

Yes a breakdown, that is what I feel I may need in the absence of any steam valve being fitted in to my brain.

I would actually very much enjoy a breakdown round about now.

That is, if a breakdown means I can turn off my phone, get in to bed, not play Thomas the tank engine, ignore the dog who is pleading to go out, throw the bills falling with a heavy thud on the mat every morning back in to the postman’s bag while telling him to get stuffed, strangle the Irish one for waking me up with a penis shaped prod in my back every morning and happily ignore the washing up pile for so long it starts to resemble the leaning tower of … GET THE HELL OFF ME, IT IS 6AM NO I DON’T WANT SEX!!!!! ARE YOU ON GLUE?

But again I am actually pretty sure I am unable to have a breakdown at this point due to the fact that whether I seem to like it or not stuff keeps happening and life whether you like it or not, goes on.

Mum is on the cobbled path to recovery now and is out of hospital.

This thrills me of course, but unfortunately I am now unable to shake intrusive thoughts of what could have happened had she not gotten there soon enough. They are keeping me awake at night.

Well, the thoughts and the fact Addison now believes and with utmost conviction is trying to convince me and the entire neighborhood that 3am is actually the time to put a Thomas Dvd on and munch on a banana while singing the wheels on the bus at top volume!

Damn the big boy bed and it’s unnecessary lack of restraint.

I need a big boy bed that comes with a cage.

A friendly child type cage that would not get me in trouble with the NSPCC or the RSPCA (because yes Doodle would be in there with him for company.) A cage that he loves. A cage that isn’t necessarily a cage, per se, but that also totally is.

Also, while I am fighting to get the devil child to stay in bed, trying to ignore thoughts of my parents dying, swatting away the Irish one and his insatiable libido (Once a month is plenty!!!) I am also being tortured by memory’s from the past week which I had overlooked at the time, as too much was going on.

At some point last week while visiting Momma bear, all stressed out and sweating, I rushed through a very busy A&E department and nearly fell over a very drunken and very proud Mancunian man.


You would expect to see a drunk in A&E.

Nothing new there.


This drunk and very proud Mancunian man had his trousers around his ankles and was brandishing his willy like a weapon (don’t they all?) while swaying to his own beat, singing an Ian brown song at the top of his lungs and failing miserably to pee in to a bottle.

The fact he winked at me as I accidentally barged past him (I GOT PEE ON ME!!) has had me shuddering for days and has basically just ensured my therapist will be paid for at least another five sessions.

Also our next-door neighbors just moved to China.



I blame the Irish one. (Because, why not?)

And Doodle. (Who would regularly amble in through their back door, wag his bum a bit as a greeting and then proceed to shit on their carpet. Something I am sure the Estate agent will fail to mention to the next potential tenants.)

But still, China?

That’s a little extreme.

Are we really that bad?

Also, thank you for leaving us with your fish.

There are now 9 of us living in this two bedroom flat.

And I have no idea what fish need. (I know what they probably don’t need though! Addison launching all and sundry in to the tank at random times of the day! So far I have found – a bottle of deodorant, 2 dummies, a lolly stick, half a banana and a handful of Thomas memorabilia in the tank with them. Doodle has gone in to hiding lest he find himself being unceremoniously dumped in there with them! I may call the RSPCA myself.)

Stress of life. Lack of sleep. Guilt over lack of sex drive, GET THAT THING AWAY FROM ME! Paranoia everyone hates me. Stress I am putting on weight. Lack of sleep, GET THAT THING AWAY FROM ME! Hunger, but I am too fat too eat. Feeling down on myself. Look at my manky toes. I need a wee. Stress. Lack of sleep, no Addy you cannot have an ice cream it is 3am! Paranoia I am crap at everything I do. Stress over bank balance. Lack of sleep cos I am sure my dad is dead when actually he is just in the bath. Stress we now have fish, and they may die. Paranoia I didn’t look after mum well enough. Stress I have missed work and now will have to catch up. So tired, GET THAT THING AWAY FROM ME!! Hunger for some peace. Feeling down on myself. Stress. Lack of sleep, panic attacks coming back. Paranoia, racing thoughts. Stress, car needs taxing. Lack of sleep, drunk man winking at me. Stress, bad girlfriend. Paranoia, he will leave me. Stress. Lack of sleep, GET THAT THING AWAY FROM ME!! Hunger. Feeling down on myself. Stress. Lack of sleep. Paranoia. Stress. Lack of sleep. Stress. Paranoia. Stress. Lack of sleep. Hunger. Feeling down on myself. Stress. Lack of sleep…. AND ON AND ON AND ON.

I want a breakdown. (Or just a break from my brain would be good too.)

‘I swear to the holy Lazarus Irish one, if that Dong comes near me one more time I will lob it off Elaina Bobbit Style!’

Oh shit. I need to feed the fish.

And I still need a wee.

And we need to do a shop…

And on and on and on and on and on…

I am so tried I could happily just wee myself. Right here.

Right now.

Another baby!!! (Really??)

What is wrong with people?

It is like a mental assault on a daily basis.

When did mugging someone’s privacy become conventional in idle chitchat?

It is happening at the moment, All. Of. The. Damn. Time!


Picture the scene.

I’m stood in the lift, it is 7am and I am busy minding my own business.

I am bleary eyed and trying to re-focus my mind before the day ahead.

I am barely awake myself but being a mother, even at this early hour, I feel like I have already lived a full day of emotions, having just abandoned a distraught baby at nursery, nearly ran over a woman at the bus stop while screaming at the baby in the back to stop hitting himself, spilling coffee all over my only work shirt because I’m now wobbly on sky scraper heels that seemed like a good idea pre child but now I am precariously tottering on, like a hippo on stilts, all the while clutching on to the remains of said coffee like a 2 year old to an Ice pop wrapper that used to be an airplane. (?!)

And in they come, one by one.

My tormentors.

Which one will it be today?

I try to avoid eye contact.

Stare at the floor. Stare at the floor.

Nope never works.

‘Morning Lexy! How are you?’

(Obligatory head cock of course if they know I went stark raving mental, and in a normal chirpy voice with no head tilt if they don’t.)

‘I haven’t seen you in ages!!! How old is your little one now? What is his name again?’

‘Oh, Hi person I have spoken to 3 times in my entire life and only in the lift’  I will respond politely  ‘Nice to see you too. Wow it is so early!’ (HINT – Stop talking to me!) ‘He is 2. Addison.’

The lift by now has began to fill up, the doors refusing to close as more people press the PING BUTTON (official name) just as we are about to depart upwards, thus ensuring we have now been joined by an uncomfortable audience of morning zombies trying to stifle yawns and checking their watches, and we are inadvertently shoved backward and pressed against the wall.

‘Wow 2!’ the person will expectedly gawp head bent at an awkward angle so they can continue the conversation over the top of another strangers head. ‘WOW! That has flown by!’

I of course, respond by sticking a slight smile on my face and widening my eyes obediently before nodding back as if I cant quite believe it myself.

Which FYI?

I totally fucking can. I haven’t slept in 728 nights.  (I just had to do 2 x 364 on my calculator to work that out! Before realising there are actually 365 days in a year and having to re-calculate!! That’s how tired I am!)

But of course, ever the people pleaser in case someone decides they don’t like me, or considers me rude (my worst nightmare), I will nod in agreement as I am supposed to, and maybe murmur a non committal ‘Mmmm’ or sometimes depending on which number coffee I am on, if I am buzzing my boobs off ‘Oh it really has! LIKE TOTALLY!! SO NICE TO SEE YOU!!!’

I do this in a usually failed attempt to avoid, escape or drown out the inevitable next question which always, always, feels like a massive intrusion of my privacy.

‘So, are you trying for anymore?’

‘So, do you think you will have another?’

‘OOOO shall we expect number 2 soon then?

And then the cheeky bastards ALWAYS glance down at my uterus, as if checking to make sure it is still there, and then I ALWAYS end up briefly sucking my stomach in and firing off a warning look, just in case they think I already am up the duff and have the audacity to ask when I am due.

At this point, after we have jumped the hurdle of my uterus never fully retracting (that’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it!) I usually sigh internally and wish I had the balls to be more like Roxy. My evil twin.

(I just TOTALLY decided I totally need an evil twin!!)

‘Yes actually,’ Roxy would respond for me ‘in fact the Irish one and I just had sex this morning but unfortunately the sperm splurted and glooped down my leg in the shower not long after. I’m devastated of course! But what is a girl to do? I said a little prayer.’

Ok, maybe an evil twin is a bad idea.

But come on!! Surely unless you are engaging in a full conversation with somebody you are relatively good friends with, then this question is a little personal, no?

What is the best policy for answering?


IS honesty always the best policy?

‘Look I just don’t fucking know ok? The thing is actually, my vagina is still pretty sore from the episiotomy I endured after a 68 hour labour, just over 2 years ago. I’m a little bit worried sex will always be painful now, and of course, what with all that nasty business of me being sectioned and almost going mad and killing  myself, I am just not sure if I am ready yet you know?’

Pause to get my breath.

‘The thing is, person in the lift, and 4 other strangers in the lift wishing they could shove their breakfast butty’s in their ears, the Thing is, we are only having sex at the moment on a Sunday, because the rest of the time I’m just too damn busy trying to sleep, and also really, cos I’m still trying to figure out how to work the pelvic floor muscles pregnancy left behind and to be honest, I only have sex at all on a Sunday cos I feel guilty that if I don’t, he will go mad over the credit card bill or start expecting blow jobs.. yeah, like that is ever gonna happen again! Haha!So another baby? Jaysus. I just don’t know.’

Pause for breath.

‘Also, Addison is a handful. He just started saying ‘For fucks sake!’ a lot, and very loud. I mean, I know it’s not funny but it’s hard not to laugh, could I put up with that in stereo and not lose my marbles again? What do you think I should do stranger in the lift? What are you going to do? Yes, what about you semi stranger? Have you abandoned condoms yet? How are your pelvic floor muscles? Husband’s swimmers ok? Does he like blow jobs? What is your sunday schedule?’

It’s just too long an answer for a lift ride. Isn’t it?

Yes, that’s whats wrong with that answer. Its too long.

But you know why I really really hate this question more than anything?

Because, I don’t actually have an answer to be honest.

(Ok. We do have sex more than on a Sunday…. Honest. (He told me to put that in here as a slight amenddendadum. Yeah I can’t spell it, but you know what I mean. Notice there is no amendadedendam on the blowys. Ahem.)

It is just all so complicated.

I just don’t know.

If I won the lottery, yeah I would be barefoot and pregnant constantly somewhere across the Atlantic taking my brood on fabulous holidays all the time, and I’d have all their names tattooed on my toes, but in reality? I’m not sure we could afford it.

I don’t mean that just from a money perspective either, although that obviously does massively come in to it , what I  also mean is, we can’t really afford it from an Irish perspective.

‘What if you go freaking mental again?’ He will balk when I bring the subject up. ‘Then I’d be responsible for a feet shuffling, god mumbling, suicidal pill popping wife, a ferocious 2 year old and a baby! Anyway why are we discussing this now?’

‘Some woman in the lift wants to know.’ I will respond munching on square crisps and swatting the child away ‘’Wait, hang on… Wife? I’ll be your wife? WHEN? You know I want a square diamond right?’

And that is usually as far as we get before he heaves himself off the sofa and wanders off muttering about priorities and medication.

What if the minute the sperm made contact with the egg I lost the plot again?

What if I wanted to die again?

What if I couldn’t afford square crisps?

What if my belly flopped back down to my ankles?

What if I can’t get pregnant?

What if I deserve to be punished because I tried to die when my baby was relying on me, and I die during labour and never get to see Addison grow up?

What if one day I want to die again and never get to cuddle Addison again or the new baby? What if the illness grabs me again and tears my soul out and I lose my little boy again, the baby, and myself, but forever?

What if I end up in hospital again and miss out on all the bits I yearned to feel the first time around?

What if my heart breaks open again?

Why am I even thinking of this?

I am happy at the moment!!

Oh yeah that’s right, it’s the seemingly dangerous after effects of idle chitchat with semi zombie stranger’s!!!!

I think on Monday I will respond;

‘Another one? No I couldn’t you see because, basically my vagina was so badly torn with Addison, right from chuff to anus..’

At which point I will bend over and show them a cutting hand movement from front to back, for effect.

‘So I had this gaping, flapping hole where my bits should have been, for ages!’

At which point I will pause again, and proceed to mime a gaping, wide flapping hole that lives between my legs.

I may even add in a ‘swoosh’ and an echo for affect.

‘So basically when the doctor eventually did get round to stitching it back up again, which took hours by the way, he ended up having to re route my birth canal out of my arse, so essentially if I do get pregnant again, i’d have to poo the baby out while squatting. That scares me a bit to be honest. Big poo’s hurt.’

At which point I may or may not imitate a giving birth squat, depending on my mood and the time of day.

Then, just as the lift doors open, I will stand up and grin before strutting out with a fabulous Timotei toss of my hair.

‘Have a great day!” I will shout.  ‘Enjoy your bagel!’

Bloody intrusive lift folk.

Another baby indeed.

Like it is that simple!

It is true though, my gaping hole is none of their business.