Forgiveness, with Extra Cheese.

He punches me in the face repeatedly.

Drawing his arm away first to muster up all his strength before balling his fist tight to ensure maximum impact, he throws himself at me again and again.

They land square in my face and I reel backwards as my head explodes with stars and my nose implodes from the force of the vicious attack.

‘Shut up.’ He says firmly. ‘Shut up.’

I don’t matter.

****

The room is cold and humid with the damp odor of a thousand tears shed.

It smells of last year. This makes me angry.

Outside, from the ledge on the roof, I spot old water hanging frozen in to stalactites that would be beautiful, I think to myself, if it wasn’t for the ingrained dirt and filth shining through the glimmering mirage. The imperfections are not what make them beautiful. If only it was clean water. 

James sits upright in his chair, his glasses perched on the end of his nose, his legs crossed, his Christmas moose socks peaking out from under his trousers, providing me for the briefest of moments with an internal grin, a respite from the cesspit of hopelessness I have become buried within.

Moose socks rock. I must remember to get some for Addison. I am pretty sure Chandler had some on Friends that Janice bought him. Moose socks would make me laugh more. I could drink my coffee in them. I hope Grey’s anatomy is back on soon.

Three chairs occupy the cramped room, all of them positioned around a small round table containing a telephone, and all of them taken.

We sit like sardines, all staring at the telephone. If it rings now we will shit ourselves. It is so quiet in here.

Actually, I am not sure why there is even a telephone in here. Maybe some therapy sessions go on a bit long and they have to order food in. I wonder if Domino’s deliver to mental hospitals. I’d have a pineapple one. With extra cheese. And dough balls and…

James coughs in to his balled up fist.

I shift in my seat, uncomfortable. I want a pizza.

I know I am stalling. I also know I need to stop stalling and thinking about cheesy goodness dripping with.. STOP IT!

They are both waiting for me to speak.

I need to stop thinking about pizza. With extra cheese and possibly mushrooms. Although that could be overkill.

The woman in the chair next to mine is a friend, just to clarify. And I’m not in a police cell in the mental hospital either. I know they have one of those, which is worrying but no,  I am in an experimental therapy session.

I just need to get on with what James has asked! He asked me to speak.

The silence lasts forever. I can hear her tapping her foot next to mine. So bloody impatient.

I hunch my shoulders over and sniff, bringing my right boot on to my left knee so my fat knee is pointing at her. I play with the laces on my boots. I am sat like a man. Like the alpha male. This isn’t how I wanted to come across at all. I am vulnerable! Shit!!! But if I move back now I will look weird. This is so uncomfortable. I need to speak. I am embarrassed but I need to speak. I’m also getting cramp and I need to trump. Damn.

I move my leg back quickly and say ‘ok’ loudly, in the hope it will mask the nervousness escaping from my bum.

At least I try to say ok, but I have been silent for so long it gets caught behind a ball of flem and I end up choking instead, which definitely masks the trump that was forced out by the cough, so I am relieved at this, as I gasp for breath.

‘Ok’ I try again, after my back has been patted and I have regained my breath and taken a sip of water. Good job my trumps don’t smell.

‘You are a good person missis and I love you. You are kind. Err… you care about others. You have looked after me. You make me laugh and you make others laugh when laughter doesn’t seem possible. Err…You have pretty eyes and a huge heart. You look after your friends and know the meaning of fighting for what you want and err…You gave your last tenner to a homeless person when you needed it to get home, because you care. I admire you for that. That was kind. You never put yourself first and will go above and beyond for somebody in need. You are not a bad mother, or a bad daughter or an evil disgusting person. Err…’ I shift in my seat. ‘…You have nothing to feel guilty about. You are not going to hell. You deserve to be loved. You deserve love. You don’t have to beat yourself up for the things you are unable to do. Erm…’

I trail off and slouch unwillingly back in to the uncomfortable silence, still unable to make eye contact while saying any of that, I am now looking down and weaving my fingers through my huge red scarf, that is sitting on my knee.

I feel fragile. I do not believe the things I am saying to my friend, but I feel I have to say them. She needs me to say them. She needs to know someone is there for her. She is a good person at the root of it, but she has caused a lot of pain too. Its hard not to judge her for that.

‘Can you make eye contact with her Lexy please?’ James asks softly and I feel her look up at me for the first time too.

‘No’ I whisper. ‘I’m sorry.’

They both sigh simultaneously. Once again I have failed. I feel mean.

‘Would you like to respond to Lexy?’ Jamie asks her kindly, inquisitively.

Her head shoots up and she glares, but not at me, at him. She seems angry. Aggrieved, pissed off. She is strong. She is intimidating when she is like this.

‘Not really.’ She barks pounding her fist on the arm of the chair.

‘Try.’ James implores kindly.

I take a deep breath. I am not sure I want to be here for this really. Maybe I should call a taxi. Maybe that is what the telephone is for actually. For when therapy goes wild.

‘You are wrong,’ she growls as she turns, taking a deep breath and switching her intimidating stare from him, in to the side of my head.

I’m not stupid enough to make eye contact so am now staring at the stalactites again.  But I feel it. Her fire is burning holes in my head. She scares me. I shouldn’t have come here today. I need to look after myself never mind her. I have enough going on. I want to go home for a pizza. Damn that bloody telephone.

‘So wrong.’ She continues while my leg jiggles about nervously ‘I am a bitch, I am selfish, I am wrong, and YOU’ she shouts now she is on a roll  ‘more than anybody knows that! I should be happy with what I have and I am not. I am spoilt and rotten in my core. What I have done cannot be forgiven! I took an overdose!! I chose death over you, and my child and my boyfriend and my parents, are you listening? I only think of myself!!! You may sit there and tell me you love me,’ she spits this out ‘but we both know you are only saying these things because James is making you. When we leave here today I won’t hear off you for weeks as usual and given that I am evil, I can’t say I blame you. I hate myself nearly as much as I hate you and your constant positivity telling me I actually deserve things and people and bloody love! You think by sitting in here and pretending you love me that this will all go away? I told my brother I hated him and he died. I was so selfish and I still am! I never put a wash on, on time, I am a crap mother, I can’t even cook, I bump my car constantly and I am never on time. I am lazy! LAZY AND SELFISH! I hate you and I hate myself!’

I avert my gaze from the frozen filth outside and take a deep breath as I turn to make eye contact with her for the first time.

She is beautiful and illuminated in her anger.

‘Yes.’ I whisper ‘I know you think you are all of those things but I disagree. One thing I will say though, is you are a bully. You bully me, and that needs to stop. I need you to hear that. I am fragile and you control me, but I want you to know I am here. I do deserve to be loved and I will not put up with your bullying any longer. I am going to fight back.’

Two tears roll down my cheeks as I blink.

‘Lexy’ I continue on speaking to the empty chair, the other side of me, the strong side of me, that is staring back at me angrily, in my mind. ‘You are worth it. You matter. You do a thousand things a day that prove that. You have to forgive yourself. You are still fighting. You are still here. I am fragile but I am ok.’

I am my own worst enemy and I am learning to fight her.

James leans over and pats my leg. ‘Good work today Lex, keep fighting the bully in you.  Take a few minutes and we will have a break.’

***

My eyes watering from the force of his punch I grab his hands.

I matter.

‘Addison. Mummy was telling you she loves you. We mustn’t hit, even if Special Agent Oso is saying something important, it will never be more important than mummy telling you she loves you. You are perfect and mummy will never tell you any different, but we mustn’t punch and we mustn’t be horrible. Do you understand me?’

‘Ice pop?’  He asks in return, a question sealed with an open mouthed slobbery kiss that catches more of my nose and leaves my face covered in pre- dummy gunk. Nice.

Yes son. You can have an ice pop.  You can also have my heart and you can keep that.  You are perfect and beautiful and bold and funny. But you will not hit me.

You are the reason I will keep confronting my bully and spend the time teaching you to love yourself.

You are my reason to fight.

You are perfect.

‘But throw the wrapper in the bin please and NO!! DO NOT SHARE IT WITH DOODLE!!! DOODLE IN TO BED! YOU HAVE A DODGY ENOUGH BOWEL WITHOUT SHARING ICE POPS!!’

For the love of…

I am a good mummy. The best.

It’s a start.

There is nothing wrong with who I am – that’s the goal.

I am having pizza for tea tonight. (In case you were wondering.)

What would you say to your bully? 

Addy, stop biting the lady now please.

There were five of us huddled outside of that shop, early on Friday morning, waiting impatiently, eager for the doors to open, and let us in out of the cold.

Most of us were sporting the very same bedraggled, I slept in a bush, hair-style, the same bin bag, I’m trying to hide I’m still in my pajamas underneath this coat, winter wear and all of us were staring at the warm and cozy woman on the other side of the glass with the exact same look of desperation etched on to our features.

Let us in you shop whore! We are bitter cold, we are dog shit tired and we are  all teetering precariously on the edge!

All of us except one, that is.

Cyndi Lauper is chanting ‘girls just wanna have fun’ over the outdoor tannoy and I can’t help but smile to myself as I picture her cavorting in leopard print leggings and a stomach revealing crop top, glass of bubbly in her hand singing this, while I furtively glance around at the clan of bag women surrounding me, a clan that I have inadvertently become a part of.

Fun was a thing we were all having when we got in to this mess, I mutter at Cyndi realising from my reflection in the sliding glass doors that I have come out of the house with no bra on; and by the looks of things, mascara only enhancing one eye, yesterdays eye-liner spread generously around the bags under it.

I look like a pirate, and Addison my yoghurt encrusted first mate.

There are four other beautiful bouncing babies joining us, my captain bonkers included.

One in a buggy sucking her thumb and playing with her hair, both nostrils flourished with a snotty garnish. One sleeping peacefully in a pearl coloured maxi-cosi, all new, her tiny fists scrunched up and angry. One stood patiently by her mothers side singing ‘everything is Rosie’, fruit shoot in one hand, lollipop in the other and mine, crouched down on the floor, face pressed up at the glass shouting ‘Thomas’ at top volume while pushing out a smelly one.

‘When the working day is done, when the working day is done.. girl’s just wanna have fun.’ Cyndi Lauper finishes serenading us from above, as the rain starts to pitter patter on the flag stone car park and we all shuffle a little closer to the protective haven of a very closed Mothercare.

‘Addison’ I murmur half-heartedly stifling a yawn and wondering what the hell I was thinking leaving the house at this un godly hour  (oh yeah, a vain attempt to wear out the child and give Doodle a few moments respite from having all manner of plastic equipment shoved up his bum)  ‘you’ll wake the baby up, try not to shout.’

My weak and futile effort to be a good parent in front of these other mums falls on deaf ears.

But hey, I think to myself proudly, at least I tried.

Although bearing in mind the only word he understands at the moment seems to be ‘jelly’ I don’t really expect him to respond.

‘Yes, please god’ I hear quietly from beside me, the woman rubbing her face ‘yes Addison, stop shouting, please god don’t wake the baby up.’

I turn and (unwittingly) stare at her (I am bog eyed, everything is a stare these days, while my brain catches up with my eyes) trying to decide whether or not to be angry that she has quietly admonished my little pooing angel, bellowing for his idol in between forceful grunts, or to smile warmly and ask how old her little girl is, and whether she has received her ‘Well done you made it to a month’ certificate yet, when the moment passes and we are interrupted by well put together woman.

The well put together and very smooth woman, who is immaculately dressed in black leggings, riding boots, a white coat (YES WHITE!) with hair spray finished beehive hair, interestingly enough, has no child by her side.

‘Aww’ she coos at me while watching Addison’s face turn beetroot from exertion ‘He’s adorable, so cute doing a poo, how old is he?’

‘Do you want him?’ I respond, my hand thrust in to the dark depths of my handbag, the wrong handbag, hoping that against all the odds that this handbag, the wrong handbag, also contains a nappy. ‘Because if you want him, you can have him.’

Clearly I am joking, but she doesn’t laugh.

‘What?’ she probes a look of confusion passing over her face, her hand automatically connecting with her uterus, leading me to believe that actually she is in fact brewing one of her own.

‘Just joking,’ I shrill ‘He is 18 months old.’

She says nothing more, my early morning (half) humor (half seriousness) clearly not touching her before we all return to our incessant faffing about.

Searching for wipes, quietly asking our children not to burp or shout ‘shit’ (not mine! Clearly everything is not Rosie…) Bending down to check they aren’t too cold. Removing a layer, adding a layer… it never ends.

Well put together woman is just silently watching us all, a slight look of disgust on her face, I cant help but notice.

At bang on 10 o’clock the doors open and Addison is off like a shot, the smell of poop following him in.

The tired woman with the small baby and the woman with the buggy smile at me as well put together woman marches in and over to the maternity wear.

‘She won’t get ‘it’ for at least another 10 to 12 months’ the one who’s child is now shouting ‘bugger!’ at top volume whispers to me as she hurries past and I laugh, thankful I am understood.

It is on my way to the Mothercare till, approximately 35 minutes later after running around after monster mash, locating a nappy , changing a bum, asking him to not touch everything he comes upon, please do not climb on the car seats, please leave the lady alone, just let mummy buy you some long sleeve vests, Addison please don’t do another poo, buying some nappies, changing another bum, prizing a Thomas the tank engine out of his hands that he already has,  surreptitiously reading him a book while I keep a look out for incoming sales assistants who would no doubt remind me it isn’t a library, grabbing some long sleeve vests, getting to the till realizing they are pink, chasing him out of the door and dragging him back in just before he runs in to oncoming traffic, locating the boy vests, asking him repeatedly not to throw all the sale items out of the basket by the window, removing his fingers from my eyes, and finally, finally, being in a position to pay and leave, when the same well put together woman appears behind me, her arms filled with tiny white baby –gro’s.

‘Do you ever watch Supernanny?’ she asks pointedly, clearly displeased that Addison is now attempting to bite her leg.

I remain quiet as I pick Addison up and tenderly give him a kiss while reminding him that we don’t bite strangers, type my debit card pin numbers in to the machine incorrectly twice, before finally guessing them correctly, much to my relief, all the while jiggling Addy about to keep him entertained, thank the woman on the till and turn to leave.

‘Yes’ I address the perfect goddess face to face ‘she is brilliant. God knows what I would have done without her. He wouldn’t eat for the first 12 months of his life, he wouldn’t sleep either, and we didn’t know what was going on. Turns out he is allergic to everything, so we are so pleased he is putting weight on, although we still only average about 6 hours sleep a night, that is actually brilliant in comparison to the first few months. I actually met Jo Frost and thanked her to her face, for all the handy tips which really helped get us to this point, right before I was institutionalized for post natal depression which nearly killed me. Yes, thank god for Supernanny, she really has been a godsend, he is like a different child now. He is happy, and so am I, finally.’

She says nothing but her ashen and frozen face speaks volumes.

‘When are you due?’ I ask back mightily pissed off but trying to kill her with kindness.

‘April.’ She almost whispers swallowing hard

‘Addison was an April baby too. Good luck.’ I say with a head cock and sympathetic smile. ‘I am sure you will be perfect.’

And with that my beautiful baby boy and I bounce from the shop followed by an aroma of coffee, farts and no frills wipes.

It is only when I get home I realise I paid, and left without my shopping.

Motherhood.

Flying the flag for black coats, red bull and going with the flow…

God I love it.

The perfect mother is one, who is yet to have kids.

Level 10, Space 46. R2W

Thursday the 22^nd of September 2011 is a date which has been looming in front of me, taunting me with its ever so slow creeping arrival, ever since Tuesday the 13 of March 2010.

I had clambered slowly up the 12 flights of bitter cold, rock hard and dirty, concrete stairs heading towards my car for the final time, my breath freezing in front of me in heavy bursts.

Heavily pregnant and facing the very real possibility I would need a lung transplant by the time I reached the top, and wondering if there would ever be a time I would feel confident enough to tackle the lift on my own, I remained ecstatic.

My enormous, 80% KFC/20% baby belly bulging out in front of me, swinging from left to right, my arse protruding out from behind me, the sheer volume of my weight increase ensuring it was now so heavy it bumped each and every step on the way up, I stopped for a breather upon reaching my floor.

Leaning heavily against the grimy, dirt stained car park window looking down upon the work place, which had been the absolute center of my universe for the last 8 years, I felt nothing but pleasure.

I was free.

I had a whole year off to play, I was the center of everybody who cared about me’s attention, I had a full month before he arrived to eat as much as I wanted without guilt and then the most exciting moment of my life was going to occur.

I was going to have a baby.

Me, Lexy Ellis, was going to have a baby.

The world would never be the same again.

Labour would be a cinch.

Everybody said so.

It would be a drop in the ocean; nothing in comparison to the years of magical moments and everyday tenderness that would herald his arrival.

Yes I have put weight on, I thought to myself, heaving myself back in to the standing position, my center of equilibrium massively squew-wif, nearly toppling over as I picked up the numerous bags crammed with presents from my work friends, but that too will drop off in a jiffy, everyone said so, so let my 12 months of freedom begin.

I will miss work, but it will still be here in a year’s time, maybe six months if I can get things organized quickly enough.

I am free and am about to have the happiest 6/12 months of my life.

I cannot to wait to see his little face, I cannot wait to cherish his every breath, I cannot wait to hold this little angel in my arms and feel like the world finally makes sense.

He will be my all, and in my all I will find my true happiness.

This will be the best year of my whole damn life.

This will be the best year, although he may not remember it, I will, of my precious baby’s life.

Great expectations and all that.

This morning as I scrambled from my car and headed in to work for the first time in 19 months, a slender size 14, with my nervous system ensuring I was encased within a permanent aroma of bum, I remembered back to that day.

How full of hope I was at what was about to happen.

How excited I was over the coming months.

How happily overweight I was.

How content I felt that everybody seemed to like me, love me during that time.

How bloody deluded I was about the weight falling off.

And how optimistic I was about my shared future.

I leant against that same window this morning, feeling melancholy, and looked out at the work place which had once been the be all and end all of my life, and which now, most unexpectedly seemed like an intimidating and daunting structure, and I thought back to the day I had left, arms filled with dreams and my heart filled with hope.

And I cried.

I did not cry the tears of a victim who does not want to return to work.

I did not cry the tears of a hard done to child who wants her own way.

I cried because I wanted to rewind the clock.

I cried, because I felt I had every right to feel that way, and yet still, there was nothing I could do about it.

I wanted to snatch back the moments I was supposed to have felt, the moments I was meant to have enjoyed. The moment when he first grabbed my finger and I had felt nothing, the moment when he first said ‘Mammy’ and I had shouted that I didn’t care, the moment when he handed me my first mothers day card and I had run to the kitchen in search of a knife to cut away the pain, the moment when he would come for a hug and I would run away as fast I could, and the many moments of hidden tenderness between a mother and her new born that I heard so much about but could not find or feel.

I sobbed because looking out of that filthy window on the world I was now heading back in to, I wanted to snatch back the moments, which post-natal depression stole so brutally from out under me, that I could never re-claim.

I sobbed because the journey I have actually been on, is not the journey I so desperately craved, felt I deserved and had longed for since I was a little girl walking around with my dolly dressed in dungarees.

I grieved for the person I once was, who still lay dormant inside of me, but of whom I had to let go.

19 months ago I was a girl on a mission to enjoy becoming the perfect mother.

Today I am a woman who has been broken, fixed, broken some more and glued back together, for the interim, while she still tries to find a few missing pieces.

I have to let go of the loss of my dreams, I have to let go of the person I was, and I need to release the guilt I have harbored for the little boy, who arrived in this world bursting with love, but who received nothing, from the one person who was desperate to give it to him.

I have to build new dreams, be the person I am now, and replace the guilt with contentment.

At some point I am sure I will be able to do all of these things.

After spending a few moments cleaning up the gunk now splattered across my face, the mascara from below my mouth and the snot from all over my hands, I turned my back on the window and began to totter unsteadily down the same unforgiving stairs I had fought so hard to climb up 18 months ago.

Still not brave enough to take the lift.

‘Hey Lexy.’ My boss had greeted me kindly. ‘ You look great, how are you feeling? Within a few hours, it will be like you have never been away.’

I couldn’t help but think, as I waited for my new gate pass, that it will never in one hundred years, feel like I have never been away, this I can guarantee.

How am I feeling?

Frightened, scared, anxious…. But ready for the next chapter of my life.

The one where my only expectation is to take every day as it comes, and to forgive myself for ‘my year off.’

It was not my fault.

They say, don’t they?

The first chapter of a book draws you in, but the second is where you find the real depth.

I am back in my office, and although my son is in nursery now, he is actually right here with me, engraved in my heart, so being back in work seems small fry.

I hate it yes, but in 3 hours I will see my son.

And once again, I am filled with hope.

And who knows?

Maybe tomorrow,  I will be brave enough to tackle the lift.

*This post was brought to you by Post Natal Depression, 1 last shove away from being gone. I hope.

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.

Don’t call me Mum. (The Journey.)

‘A woman with a child rediscovers the world. All is changed – politics, loyalties, needs. For now, all is judged by the life of the child… and all of the children’ – Pam Brown.

Yes thanks Pam.

Anybody who has ever had a bump the size of Albania bulging from under their t-shirt will be able to attest to the fact, that when you are visibly pregnant you seemingly and against your will, become public property.  

If you don’t believe me, I absolutely recommend you take a small dog, or perhaps a bean bag, and shove it up your jumper and head to the shops (Maybe not a small dog, the whimpering and squirming may put you off your stride) to test the theory.

Having a rather large bulge just above your nether regions (and I don’t mean a hiatus hernia) in simple terms, must just give the impression that you are simply desperate for everybody to come over and touch it, and/or offer you unwanted and mostly unwarranted advice.

Out of nowhere you go from not showing and having a romantic little secret, to showing and having every man and his dog run their hands/paws over your growing uterus while offering you words of wisdom and tiny pearls of poo. (I call them pearls of poo, because a lot of the advice I heard off strangers while pregnant, really wasn’t advice at all, it was poo. Pearl sized poo.)

Don’t reach up or the baby will be strangled on the chord… (Really, Aunty Pat?)
Try not to eat so much… (Rip, Sarah.)
There is no such thing as a due date… (Huh? I think you will find there is old woman!)
Don’t call the baby a stupid name… (We like Radiator Leak Doyle, what business it is of yours?)
You are huge, are you having twins?.. (SLAP!)

The list is endless, but the one which I heard, interestingly enough, from people who both knew me well and were mothers themselves (so I felt I should listen and believe them) was;

 ‘Motherhood will change you.’

‘What?’ I would stutter ‘why does everybody keep saying this to me? Do you think I need to change? You don’t think I’ll be a good mum as I am now? How will it change me?’  Was usually my nervous, insecure, blimp like and panicked reply.

‘Mwahahahahahaha’ they would cackle as they threw their heads back with evil glee ‘you will see! You will see!’  And with that they would sweep their flowing black capes from out behind them, with all their children clinging on for dear life and disappear in to the night, like terrifying visions of the ghost of Christmas future.

In fact I heard this phrase so often, combined with its partner in crime; You will feel a love so overwhelming you won’t remember life before him, that Leading up to my due date (that didn’t exist) I actually became rather worried that as soon as I had given birth, my memory of life pre-pleb (as we had nicknamed the bump) would be completely wiped out, and I would wake up as an entirely different person. Bette Midler maybe, but with a bigger nose.

Lifting my half numb legs, an hour post birth, up on to the bed that was to be my home for the next seven days, and with the little ferret parked in a plastic basting tray next to me, all wrapped up and looking like a cute prune, I began to worry, that other than being a little bit teary, absolutely knackered and in a huge amount of agony, I still felt like me.  I was officially a mother now, wasn’t I supposed to be a changed person?

Now, don’t get me wrong. I had just had a baby, so of course I was over the moon, overwhelmed and overweight, but other than the obvious changes to my anatomy, including far too many stitches and a drain, I had to be honest, I didn’t feel any different, and upon further examination, I could still remember my life before birth too. What was wrong with me? Wasn’t I supposed to have forgotten my entire life leading up to this moment?

‘Would you like some tea and toast?’ the floating head of a midwife appeared from behind my curtain and kindly asked me in a soft, sleepy voice.  

‘No, but could I please have a strong black coffee, a bag of square crisps and a pillow?’ was my reply.

Definitely still me then.

Maybe I will feel different in the morning, I thought to myself after spending an hour and a half trying to have a wee. Maybe you have to sleep on it.

We hadn’t been home for long before I was feeling intensly sleep deprived and hugely grumpy. Visitors came and went and for a while I wondered if The Irish One had started a guest house without telling me. I just wanted to shower, to sleep and then sleep some more.

(Wouldn’t it make more sense if the visitors came at least a month after you are home?  Because seriously, the last thing you want when you are having to walk like Jon Wayne and every second step makes you screech like a banshee, is a coach load of distant relatives traipsing through your house and man-handling the goods, you know?)

But anyway, moving on, The Irish One was constantly professing to me, his love for Newborn Woo. He was a doting daddy and it pissed me off. (I can’t explain this. It just did.)

‘I know,’ I would mumble, irritated, from underneath the duvet (the guests had got bored of me whacking my breasts out while they were trying to drink a brew and eat us out of house and home, and had finally buggered off) ‘I know, yes’ I would repeat as he droned on about knowing the meaning of true love ‘I love him too, but don’t tell me he is awake again, is he? He isn’t is he?’ I would panic, terrified the next round of nipple torture was about to start.

‘If you feel like that about him waking up to see you,’ he said pointedly, removing his (ginger) head from inside the moses basket, ‘Maybe it is time to stop breast feeding! He isn’t taking enough anyway and you don’t seem to have any coming out, so what harm can it do? Let’s give him a bloody bottle.’

‘Shut up!!’ I raged back! ‘How dare you!’ The pressure I felt to succeed at everything was immense. I resented his insinuation that I was failing. As it was, I am not sure that The Irish One even knows what the word insinuate means, never mind having had the energy or inclination, at that time, to follow it through! He was just worried about me, but I was too scared to see it.

Did I feel different when the decision to stop breast feeding was made? Nope. Stopping breastfeeding just confirmed my failure status. I had gone from probable failure to failure absolut with one sweep of a plastic teat. (The lanosil, is still in the fridge as a constant reminder of what could have been. I can’t be arsed to take it out. It’s next to the Jam that has been there since 2002. Some jobs I just never get round to.)

I was officially a crap mum, who could remember her past, and (shock horror!) even missed the easy going way it used to be!! I would have killed for an hour in front of the telly uninterrupted! I also wasn’t sure I was any different at all, other than my inability to hold my bladder when I sneezed, or stop eating mayo by the ton, motherhood hadn’t changed me at all!! And Yes I loved my son but (are you ready for this?) it wasn’t overwhelming!! (MONSTER!!)

I loved him because he was mine, sure. I loved him because he was gorgeous and I loved him because he was cute, and sweet and tiny. I loved him because he was my son and I had to love him didn’t I? 

I felt like I had to love him because if I didn’t who else would?

This is extremely hard for me to admit, and I have tears rolling down my face as I write this. Not because I still feel the same, but because nobody told me this could happen, so I thought I wasn’t normal. I beat myself up, and I broke my own heart. I became convinced I didn’t love him enough and there was something wrong with me.

Every new mother I spoke to would go on and on and on and on about how much they loved their child, and how easy it was, and how natural it felt to them, and how they had whipped up some mange tout while expressing breast milk in to a pre warmed bottle, while cooking a roast for their husband and then pleasuring him while changing a nappy. The pressure for ‘motherhood to change me’ and for my love for him to be ‘overwhelming’ was too much.  It hadn’t happened overnight. So I was officially a horrible, nasty, selfish freak of a person.

The health visitor arrived 8 years later, after many calls from the Irish One reminding her I still existed, to examine ‘A.J’, as she infuriatingly kept calling him, and to check on me.  She obviously had a thing about abbreviating and changing names as she surprised me by calling me ‘Mum’ while examining him. I was caught off guard and somehow ended up blabbing that I had stopped breastfeeding because of the pain. She shook her head in disappointment and said ‘That’s a shame Mum.’

Who me? I thought? Don’t call me mum! That doesn’t sound right. It doesn’t fit with me yet. I don’t feel like a mother or a mum. I can’t even breastfeed right can I? I am not his mum. I am just the person who cleans up poo, spends 40 minutes of every hour chasing an elusive burp and who will never again, drink a hot cup of tea.

My name is Lexy. Not ‘Mum!’

‘Do you feel depressed?’ she asked in response, using a totally inappropriate sing songy voice.

‘Me?’ I asked, while wiping sick of my filthy t-shirt with yesterdays knickers, ‘No! Not at all! I can’t believe he is here! He is amazing! Isn’t he beautiful? I love him so much. I think my heart may fall out. It is just overwhelming!’ I cooed while staring at him in pretend awe.

She left happy enough, after clearly ignoring all the signs, and the next time I saw her was 7 months later, when she was knocking on my door, because my Dr was concerned, I may be a potential suicide risk.

Addison had been very poorly for a good while, and I was exhausted from fighting with Dr after Dr to get them to listen. I wasn’t suicidal. I was just knackered and pissy, but nevertheless she left happy that day too. She hustled in, and hustled out. She didn’t want to help. One day I will write her a letter and tell her to get a job as a clown. She would be much better suited to a role with barely any responsibility, and her lipstick was always all over her face anyway, so it would make for an easy transition.

He is my son, and nothing will happen to him on my watch, I would profess to the Irish One during the endless days in hospital, all the while mistaking love for duty.

It was 3 months on from Allergy-Gate (as I now call it) when Addison was 10 months old and still had a grizzly bottom, that I finally snapped.

‘I bet you can’t remember life before him can you?’ My aunty Kathleen gushed at a family gathering ‘He is just simply gorgeous isn’t he? Isn’t it an overwhelming love? Motherhood just changes you completely don’t you think?’  

At the time, in fairness, Addison has just shat up his back for the third time in a three hour period and I wasn’t in the mood for a gushing, drunk relative, no matter how well placed her intentions were.

‘Actually Aunty Kathleen,’ I said bluntly, ‘Yes, I do remember life before him; it was only 10 months ago for Christ sake!! I had a baby, not a lobotomy!! I remember life before him, very well in fact! I used to get some sleep! And while we are on the subject, yes he is cute, and yes I do love him, but is it overwhelming? The only thing which is overwhelming to me currently is the need for a lie in!’

She stood glass in hand, staring at me, like a rabbit caught in headlights. (She has big teeth.)

‘And as for motherhood changing me?’ I raged in her face ‘the only thing different about me, is I am four stone heavier and my nails are constantly caked in crap!!’ And with that I flounced out of the room in search of the changing bag. (And a big glass of wine.)

It felt such a relief to finally be honest!  Although, thinking about it now, I should probably ring my Aunty Kathleen at some point and apologise.

My first Mothers day was possibly the darkest and most painful day I have experienced since having Addison.

‘Don’t give me that sodding card!’ I screamed at the Irish One, holding my beautiful boy ‘I am not a mother!!! I am just a babysitter!!! This is nothing to do with post natal depression!! This is because I am a freak!! I don’t love my son enough!! I can remember what happened before he was born!! I don’t feel changed!!! I am still Lexy!! I am not a mum!! I am a letdown!! A failure!! I hate you, I hate myself and I hate mother’s day!!! Just piss off and leave me alone!!

It was awful for everybody involved.

And then something began to happen, much like the phoneix rising from the ashes (you godda love the drama!) I slowly began to enjoy waking up at the crack of dawn and seeing my son’s face, instead of it being a chore, I began to enjoy the moments we spent laughing and watching him grow.

Instead of waiting for the light to switch on at the end of the tunnel, I began to run towards it. It happened naturally. My self-hatred slowly began to thaw and in its place something else arrived.

Hope.

Last night, exactly four hours before we were due to leave for the airport, on a holiday we have been looking forward to for months, Addison was sick. He was clinging on to me for dear life and burying his head in to my shoulder.

‘We are going nowhere.’ I told the Irish One instinctively ‘There is no way I am putting my son through this journey when he is feeling this poorly. I am absolutely gutted, but he comes first.’

Strangely, and without even properly thinking about what I was doing, I put my feelings of disappointment over a missed trip, to one side and got on with the job of cleaning him up and consoling him. He was broken, and it was my job to fix him, just like I had done all those times before.

And then, even stranger still, while walking in to the Dr’s office this morning, thinking about how I should have been landing in Spain and hugging my dad, I pulled my son to me, inhaled the smell of his head and was hit by a bolt of lightning. (Not literally, but if you had seen my hair you may have thought this was the case.)

The only thing that mattered was Addison.  I loved him more than life itself. The love I felt was; dare I say it?

Overwhelming.

‘Are you his mum?’ The locum asked while feeling his tummy for swelling.

 ‘Yes,’ I grinned back proudly, while kissing his forehead (Addison’s, not the locum’s) ‘Yes. I bloody well am.’ And against my will I puffed my shoulders out.

My boy is beautiful! And he is all mine!

I walked back to the car, dancing on air, clutching my son’s small head, to my bursting heart.

So as it turned out, motherhood did change me. It made me a better person. It just took me a while longer to feel and recognise those feelings. Yes I can still be a grumpy moose, but I am making progress.

I loved my son, I did. I just didn’t bond the instant I saw him. I loved him, but it wasn’t overwhelming from the first instant we met.

I see now, this doesnt make me a freak. This is just my journey. Everybody is different.

It took me a year to see what it is all about. It took me a year to recognise something I knew all along.

I forgive myself for that. (Except based on the fact, I did always love him, I did always care for him and I did always ensure he was happy, safe and fed, I am not sure there is actually anything to forgive myself for…)

If I was to see a pregnant woman in the street now, I would be unlikely to approach her and jump in to motherhood 101, but if she struck up a conversation with me, my advice would probably be;

‘Don’t pressure yourself in to feeling anything more than you do, in the moment. Everything you feel, at every step of the way, is unique to you and no matter what happens, the bond will grow and emotionally, so will you. Everything will turn out alright… oh, and good luck…. and join Twitter.’

‘When you are a mother you are never really alone in your thoughts. A mother always has to think twice, once for herself and once for her child.’ – Sophia Loren.

Now that, I can finally agree with.

Limp Much? (The final part.)

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

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

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

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

I am mortified.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My birth plan included;

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

 It did, under no circumstances, include.

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

Her actual words. Are you ready?

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

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

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

And finally.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bloody hell. What a day.

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

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

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

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

Somehow head, I doubt that.

I really doubt that.

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

On your marks, Get set… (A three parter. Pt 2)

My time as Queen of the world is running out.

I really have enjoyed being pregnant.

I have reveled in bossing people about, having an excuse to be lazy, and being the centre of everybody’s universe! (What? I’m only being honest here!)

And even though, I probably shouldn’t admit this, I have really enjoyed playing the pregnancy card at every available opportunity to get my own way. I do not care about women’s lib. I am pregnant. Get me a drink. 

But, alas, all good things must come to an end. (Everyone keeps telling me that after the baby is born it won’t be about me anymore. I just smile politely and ignore them because clearly that can’t be right?!?! It is always about me?? Helloooo!!!)

I have officially been in labour for approximately 16 hours and so far it has been as dull as a Mars bar.

Ok. Actually let me re-phrase that. (The labour bit, not the Mars bar bit. I stand by my opinion of Mars bars. Dullsville, Arizona. )

My waters officially broke 16 hours ago, all over the new carpet and the dogs bum. He was stood underneath me. (His fault. Not mine) And I have been experiencing random contractions for the last year and a half, and so far I am hugely unimpressed with labour.

I have been in labour forever. At least that’s what it feels like. I am so Bored! What is wrong with this picture? Where is the rushing around? Where is the urgency? Where are the screaming ambulance sirens and the running midwives? Where are the sweaty women clambering to hold my hand and screaming PUSH!! Why aren’t I shouting out expletives at the Irish one and threatening to cut his gonads off if he comes near me again? Where is the drama? I asked you a question! Did you miss it? I repeat, where the hell is the DRAMA?

I was promised drama!

Every book I have read over the last 10 months has regaled me with tales of Drama. I was positively wetting myself in anticipation. (That’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it.) I live for the drama! Labour is supposed to be high octave. Labour is supposed to be all Go! Go! Go! Isn’t it? I’ve waited 10 months for this moment for god sake! All previous dramas have been leading up to this monumental occurrence! This is the main event! This is what I have been in training for my whole life!

Surely, I am not supposed to be just sat here on a damp and fraying old towel, munching on a kit Kat while moaning about the weather, in my own home, watching The Irish one play Mario Kart? (I was bought a Wii and a Wii fit, last week as a ‘thank you for having my baby’ present. The Wii fit got broken when I launched it at his head. I asked for a rock knobhead… and no it isn’t hormones!!!) 

Up until about an hour ago, I was playing too, out of sheer frustration. (If you can’t beat him (literally) then you may as well join him) and if nobody was going to pay me any attention, then I thought I may as well enjoy my last moments ‘of freedom’ by kicking The Irish one’s arse with Bowser the wonder dragon! But, as it wasn’t going to plan, with my highly un-dramatic contractions beginning to distract me from the cause, I made my excuses to the Flower cup and bowed out. Gracefully. So technically I didn’t lose. I retired!

I am in labour. Get me a drink.

I need to stop thinking about Mars bar’s (I want one now) and start counting my contractions. The thing is, these random contractions are a pain in the arse. (No pun intended.) I can’t even time them. They are so totally random. When I feel one starting, by the time I have worked out how to use the stop watch on my phone, they are finished.

They don’t even hurt. They are just uncomfortable. They feel like a very sharp pain, followed by a bit of an ache and then as if I have leg cramp, but across my belly. Does that make sense? Not too bad at all. (Although that last one was a little bit stronger.) Maybe next time instead of timing them, I will name them. That would make a nice change wouldn’t it?

‘How long was that one Lexy?’
‘I don’t know Irish One. But it was called Veronica. And she was a bitch.’

Yes. I think I will name them instead. That would be much more fun.

Time seems to have slowed right down to a complete stop. So far the only excitement has been my waters breaking. And I swear that shouldn’t have happened yet. It was that bloody chilli and that freaky bloody film. I knew I shouldn’t have eaten that chilli. It was hot as hell and it is impossible to jump up and down when you are this pregnant. (Everybody knows that is how you cool your mouth down.)

Instead of being sat here now, I could be out shopping for post pregnancy wear. I miss shopping. I miss shopping and I need some new skinny jeans. Do they do skinny jeans with a kangaroo pouch? Because apparently I will be left with a kangaroo pouch. Hopefully It will go fairly quickly as I refuse to do sit ups. Maybe River Island do funky girdles. I want to go shopping!

I want to go shopping for post pregnancy clothes. I wonder what size I will be. 

I didn’t mean to put on so much weight. It just sort of, happened. I just sort of, kept eating. After every mouthful, every meal and every king size MacDonald’s meal I would promise myself tomorrow I will be good. I will eat healthy. But tomorrow just never came. So five stone later (at least one stone will be baby right? This baby is going to be huge.) I am a bit of a heffa. A pregnant heffa, and like I say, if this baby ever gets its arse in gear and moves down my canal, I will lose like, what? 3 stone immediately? It will be fine. I am not even supposed to be in labour yet! I blame Leonardo de Caprio.

The excitement, (have I mentioned it was the only bloody excitement so far?) began at 11pm last night. We had just watched Shutter Island, which by the way is a god awful film in my opinion. It’s dark and freaky and full of thunder storms and lunatics. Two things I cannot stand.

• Thunderstorms because as a kid, I got stuck in a bus shelter with my big brother during one particularly bad storm and he told me the clouds were banging thier heads together, as they were angry with me because I was such a naughty child. He also told me that if I got hit by lightening my head would fall off.

By the time I got home I was a five year old nervous wreck.  My brother thought this was hilarious. I never quite recovered. It was terrifying!

• And lunatics because I see too much of myself in them.  

I think it would be very easy for me to slip in to a quiet corner and repeatedly count to one hundred over and over again, with a tissue on my head. I sometimes think it must be lovely to be a lunatic, like taking a break from your brain. Which is precisely why I don’t like lunacy. It’s too relatable. And maybe I’m a bit jealous.

Anyway back to the exciting bit. So, I was stood over the bed trying to get it slightly more comfortable using 800 pillows, a broom handle (don’t ask.) and a hot water bottle, when my waters broke. I thought I was peeing myself. I stood up straight and grabbed my bump in shock (ooo drama!) before rushing to the toilet. (When I say rushing, I use this term lightly. Think of perhaps, what an elephant would look like rushing.) I called out to the Irish one who was watching the football.

‘Honey I’ve weed myself again.’ (And who said romance was dead?)
‘Ok babes, I’ll be there is a second.’ (He is well used to this by now.)

We have now officially been together a grand total of 16 months. The man has seen waaaay more of me than I had officially planned by this point.

Pregnancy; killing romance dead, fart by fart.

Anyway, It was while I was trying to remove my Basque and sexy thong, (ha ha yeah right! Have you ever seen an elephant in a thong? No? Well there is a reason for that! I was actually wearing the oldest tattiest jogging bottoms I own. They are comfy! Comfort is key at this stage! And with sex well and truly out of the window anyway why bother making an effort? (Did I mention the elephant in a thong?) That the water (slime…) continued to wane and gush out of me like a leaky tap, I realised this probably meant something more monumental than another bed wetting incident. (Yes, I did say another.)

‘Honey?’ (Starting to panic.)
‘Yes babes?’ (Shut up woman! I’m watching match of the day!)
‘I haven’t weed myself actually.’
‘Oh well done yourself, do you want a cup of tea?’ (That should shut her up.)

Sigh.

‘No I mean, I think my waters have broken.’
‘Is this another joke? Because I’m not laughing. It is not funny.’

Have you ever read a fable called ‘The boy who cried wolf?’ 

Let’s just say he has an annoying habit of not listening to me, and I have an annoying habit of trying to shock him out of his football reverie in order to get his attention (so he can get me a drink, or give me a foot massage, or something equally as necessary! I am pregnant. Get me a bloody drink!)

It was funny at the time. (The panic on his face, as he would come running in, bless him! Your waters have broken?!? No, I would say. I just want a drink. Ha! Serves him right.)

‘No I’m serious. COME HERE!’
‘You said that last time, piss off and get your own drink.’

Serves me right.

‘No, I’m serious. Please come here!! It’s everywhere and the dog is licking it up.’
‘That’s disgusting Lexy.’
‘COME HERE YOU BLOODY MORON!’
‘Coming….’

We rang the hospital not long after, and I was shouting and sobbing down the phone before they even picked up. (It heightened the drama.)

‘My waters have broken and I am scared.’ (Which was true, I was.)
‘Pardon?’ The midwife picked up, she seemed a little confused.
‘My name is Lexy Ellis, my waters have broken and although my due date is tomorrow I am really scared.’

It has begun!!! Surely you were waiting for my call with baited breath?? I mean, the world will clearly never be the same again, for I, Lexy Ellis am having a baby! Help me!!

‘And what do you want love?’ she sounded bored.
‘Er, well, I don’t know. I just thought I should inform you, as I don’t know what to do.’
‘Well, ok.’ she finally answered…… ‘if I were you I would go to the nearest hospital’
‘Is this not the maternity unit at Hope hospital?’ I shrieked.
‘No love, its Picolino’s Pizza on Oxford road.’ (I am sure she was creasing herself laughing but I can’t be sure.)

Arghhhhhh! Wrong number! Damn it!

Ok. Deep breath.

I dialled again. This time checking I had the right number, and was connected immediately.  

‘Hello? Are you a midwife?’
‘Yes. How can I help?’
‘Are you sure you are a midwife?’
‘Pretty sure, yes.’
‘And is this Hope Hospital?’
‘Yes’
‘And you’re definitely a midwife?’
‘Yes, how can I help?’ beginning to lose her rag now.
‘My waters have broken and I am embarrassed. And a bit scared.’
‘Ok, Are you having contractions?’ she asked patiently.
‘I’m not sure’
‘That probably means you aren’t.’

How rude!!!

‘But come down and see us and we will check you out anyway.’

So we did. And because my contractions were too random and pathetic, they sent us home and told us to come back when my contractions were five minutes apart. They are now every, either 17 minutes, or every hour. Depending on how they feel.

My due date is tomorrow. So maybe, like me, pleb is just hanging around as he/she likes to be punctual. There is nothing worse than turning up early for a party is there? So I understand pleb’s rationale to be honest. (Oh, we nicknamed the bump, Pleb.)

Maybe I will have another game on Mario Kart. Show the Irish One how amazing I am at multi-tasking. Or maybe I will make him go get me a Mars bar.

I am in labour. Get me a Mars bar.

But I tell you this. If this is labour? It’s a bit dull. And certainly a doddle! Why do all these women go on like its hell on earth? I can handle this!!

It’s not even that painful…

How it all began. (A three parter. Pt 1)

We weren’t officially trying. 

No. Under no circumstances were we officially trying. 

Officially trying would have meant some sort of commitment on my part, to think about the future. (Not something I am fond of. You only have to look at the numerous red letters that fall with a thud on my doormat every day to understand that.) 

Officially trying would have been stupid and irresponsible. (Something I seem to do well, without even officially noticing, actually.) We had only been together seven months. Officially trying would have meant we were officially stupid.

We were officially stupid.

Waking up far too early on the morning of the 14^th of June, heart hammering, head glistening with last night’s makeup and a half eaten pizza stuck to my face, was not something I had noted down in my planner. (I don’t own a planner.) It was Sunday morning. Sleeping was officially noted down in my planner. (See last comment.) Reaching for my phone and finding the battery had gone was not a surprise. Jumping out of bed and landing feet first on an upturned plug, was a surprise. 

For the love of all things holy. (To set the scene you must shout this at top volume, while hopping around on one foot, clinging the other and repeating at high speed a very rude word. A very, very rude word.)

So you’ve gathered by now we weren’t officially trying right?

So imagine my shock then, if you will, when I eventually stopped cursing the universe, turned my phone to ‘calendar’ and realised with a shaking hand, I had been incredibly mistaken during the throws of passion, about the dates, the evening previous.

The Irish one had spent the weekend climbing mount Snowdon and had come home happy and horny and ready for some loving! I had spent the weekend paranoid he was going to fall off a cliff, down a manhole or off the top of a mountain so was also happy he had returned in one piece! I wasn’t particularly horny as I had also spent the weekend cramming chocolate down my throat like it was going off the market. (mmm chocolate!) But at seven months in, with the I love you’s still to be uttered, he still got what he wanted, when he wanted. (All women know that once the ‘I love you’s’ are out of the way, it’s your decision. Until then, It’s in his hands. So to speak.)

So as we weren’t officially trying. (In case you missed that.) The Irish one, well, he was meant to, erm, ?!?! reverse. (I cannot make it clearer than that really, without being crude. And his mother may read this!) We were only having sex at the beginning and end of the month. I know, I know, I can hear you now – tut, tut, roll eyes, by the age of twenty nine I should know better. Good job I’m not a sex ed teacher. 

Climbing quietly back in to bed, (somehow the Irish one had slept through the commotion. Yet he still can tell me how many times a night I have trumped? ) and flicking through the dates of my cycle, it struck me that we had fulfilled our congenial rights as a couple who live together (again, his mum might read this!) slap, bang, on day 14.

Big hairy soggy Bollocks.

It sounds like a full on, hit me up the side of my head cliché, but I just knew I was impregnated. I just knew it. I sat there staring at the Irish one while my mind worked on overdrive and a mild panic started to culminate in my bowels. 

I should probably point out at his point, I suffer with the odd night terror and have a habit of sitting bolt upright at 3am (unbeknownst to me, I am still asleep) and randomly telling him things like;

‘Darling, there is a man stood at the end of the bed.’ or

‘Darling, I think I just murdered the dog.’

Not the best things to be hearing in a pitch black room in the middle of the night. (I have to admit, sometimes I do it for comedy value. Although I would never tell him that.)

So when the Irish one came to and noticed me staring at him, wide eyed, looking a bit demented and in a bit of a catatonic state, he shat himself.

‘What?’ Startled expression. ‘Who is here? Who have you murdered?’
‘Im pregnant’
‘Are you even awake?’ Bored expression .
‘Im pregnant! Im bloody pregnant! And I’m having a boy! A real life boy!’ (We had also watched SHRECK the night before.)
‘Shut up!’ Rolls eyes.

He went back to sleep without incident. But I couldn’t sleep. I kept counting the days back in my head and thinking of boy’s names. (I liked Micah at the time.)

Two days later…

‘How was your day Lexy?’
‘Im pregnant Irish one’
‘Do you want a cup of tea Lexy?’
‘Can you have tea when you are pregnant Irish one?’
‘Shut up Lexy!’ roll eyes.

He drank his cup of tea without incident. But I couldn’t concentrate. I kept counting the days back in my head and thinking of girl’s names. (I liked Lola at the time.)

Two days after that…(FYI no matter how early the pregnancy test says its accurate from – 2 days post sex is still way too early! – won’t stop you trying though!)

‘Lexy what are you doing in the bathroom love? You have been in there an hour.’
‘Having a poo darling, why?’ (Code for; six pregnancy tests darling why?)
‘You’ve been in there an hour!’ (Say’s he who has an hourly shit daily!)
‘I’m coming out now’ (After this one last test.)

The conversations went on like this for the next few weeks. Me counting back the days in my head, constantly. And him ignoring me and watching the football, constantly. (I can’t stop moaning can I?)

In the month of June 2009, pregnancy test markets across the world soared. Ok, well maybe not across the world. But certainly across Eccles. (Which is where I live. Just in case you haven’t gathered.) I must have bought and weed on that many sticks, the woman in the chemist thought I was a bit of a not-right. She even asked me at one point if they were all for me. (No I’m buying enough tests to send to third world Africa! Of course they are for me! Whatever happened to discretion. Hellllooo?) The sympathetic smiles soon turned to worried glances, which in time turned to frowns and eventually ended in her having the tests ready and slamming them down on the counter with the force of a small wrestler the minute my unkempt head would appear around the door.

Why she was so bothered by me I don’t know. I mean, surely my contribution to your profits this month is quite high? I thought, at the very least I deserved a freebie.

Unfortunately, she didn’t agree. Each time I visited, I searched every shelf and read each box meticulously. (Actually, this is probably why she was getting annoyed. No shop keeper likes a lurker. Especially a nutcase one.) Guaranteed early result!! 98% accuracy guaranteed!! Ultra hormone sensitive!!! Were all advertising slogans etched on my brain. 2 blue lines – positive. 1 blue line – negative. 1 pink square positive, no pink square- negative. 1 smiley face- positive, no smiley face- negative. (Although, in all honesty I find that last one a little inappropriate and insensitive. What if you don’t want a smiley face? That smiley face then becomes smug doesn’t it?) All results were always negative.

But as I don’t like being wrong, I didn’t give up. I didn’t give up because, I just knew. (To be fair though, and in the interest of complete openness and honesty, I had just known for the past 6 months too. Hence the Irish one not being too arsed.)

I was sitting in my favourite Chicago coffee house a few days later droning (I see I was quite droneful looking back) on about how sure I was, that this time my mistake had been valid, while repeating my endless tirade of how I knew I was pregnant, when my best friend finally lost her rag. I was one whole day past the point of no return. I was having period pains, (not that I was about to admit that.) and god love her, she suggested I try a very well known digital brand. Now, I hadn’t tried this particular brand before as it was fairly new on the market and my local establishment of drugs-R-us didn’t stock it. (So, looking back, grumpy pharmacist lady did have a right to be grumpy actually. She had a shop full of not-right lurker’s and crap tests!) 

I rushed to the local high street chemist like a woman possessed, NEW DIGITAL TEST!! 99% ACURATE!! (ooo!) UP TO SIX DAYS EARLY!! (Double ooo!)

I purchased four. Well, you can never be too sure. And I may need them again next month. (Not that I will make another mistake, honest.)

During my very many conversations with the Irish one leading up to this epiphany of ‘the digital age’ he had made me promise that if I was going to do a pregnancy test, I had to wait for him to be at my side, that we would share the joy/terror of a positive result together. (But look, ok, technically I didn’t keep this promise. But technically I didn’t break it either. Each and every time I took a test I would stand next to a photo of us on the mantelpiece (I didn’t pee near the mantelpiece! What are we animals?) to get the results. All the while telling my unborn child, that daddy was here. In spirit.)

But ok, yeah, I had bent this promise (satisfied?) on so many occasions and received negative results that I felt this may be why they kept coming up negative. Maybe god could see me, (BENDING) the truth and was keeping the actual truth from me. (Catholic guilt.)  So, on the evening of the 2^nd of July I waited. I knew in my gut this would be the positive result I felt I deserved at this point, and I didn’t want god teaching me anything. So I waited.

However, I did not set a scene. I did not wait until he had relaxed upon arriving home from work. I did not make a casserole, (chance would be a fine thing) put on some soothing music and light a candle. I did not casually mention it to him half way through a foot rub. I was like a woman possessed. I all but peed on him the minute he walked through the door.

‘Honey I’m home!’ (Ok, not really but I’m setting a scene here!)
‘I bought a pregnancy test Irish one.’
‘And?’
‘I haven’t done it yet’
‘Good! You are NOT pregnant!’ Quite frustrated at this juncture, he was. (sorry I don’t mean to sound like Yoda.)

‘I like, totally am. You will see, I am, I know I am, I went online and….’
‘Do the bloody test’ 

Ten minutes later. Staring us up in the face as clear as day from the digital wee stick.

‘You are one to two weeks pregnant’
‘Told you I was officially pregnant’ – Me.
‘Holy shit you’re officially pregnant’ – Him.

‘Bollocks’ -Doodle. (Dogs can sense these things. He knew then, I am almost sure, his reign of all things below 2 foot high, was coming to an end.)

And that’s where it began.

9 months (well 10 actually, but never mind.) later. My little Boy (a real life boy! Or girl, you know whichever..) started to make his/her entrance…

And all hell officially broke loose.

How to expect what you are not expecting.

There should be alerts.

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

At the very least there should be warning signs.

There is already?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well, in that case.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Are you struggling to be happy? Confide in somebody.

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

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

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

I am SO going to ride again***! 

 

*Park attractions are currently closed for routine maintenance.

*No they will not open tonight.

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

Made to make your eyes water.

Seven months ago at this very moment, I was watching the Irish one spread mustard on a home made, ham sandwich while trying to huff, puff and focus myself through a never ending and incredibly painful contraction. I had been in labour for 55 hours and was only 3 cm dilated. While I was busy losing the will to live, the Irish one was merrily spreading Colman’s on a ham butty.

This pretty much sums up the Irish one. Even in times of trouble, the man has to eat. And no, not just a corner shop bap. He has to eat exactly what he has a craving for. And it has to be made by him. This is one of the many perils of falling in love with a man who can cook. (The other peril, is when you are being force fed Coddle. Never heard of it? Its probably for the best.)

The one thing I should probably clarify however, is how supportive the Irish one was during labour. Mustard or no Mustard. He was nurturing and caring, he held my hand while I was muttering all manner of expletives, and he understood when, high on gas and air, I began to call the drip doodle. (The drip going in to my arm. The Irish one is not the drip in this scenario. I love my poodle and I obviously missed him, so I named the drip after him. The drip in my arm. Not the Irish one. Make sense? I would NEVER call the Irish one a drip… honest.) So in summary, he was amazing. In all fairness, I couldn’t have done it without him.(The Irish one, not the drip.) That better love?

If I was to write about my ‘birth story’ it would take me forever (not only because most of it is hazy but because it went on forever.) I could, if I had a few years to spare, give you an hour by hour blow of what happened and I am sure it would make for good reading, it was dramatic, it was funny and it was painful, and yet, writing it all down seems pretty pointless. As you already know how it ends.

Seven months later here I sit, eyes held open with matchsticks, while a beautiful and healthy baby boy sleeps beside me. (Yes I know I should probably be asleep too but I have never been able to sleep while he sleeps. If I am asleep? And he is asleep? Who can check he is breathing every two minutes????)

This time last year – at this very moment (and I know this because I keep a diary, and I was reading it this morning.) I was 5 months pregnant and staring in to the unknown like a woman possessed. Looking back now my little meanderings, seem so funny and unimportant in the grand scheme of things. But at the time they were monumental! As well as howling with laughter at how idiotic I sounded, it really made me see just how much has changed in a year.

So much in fact, I thought I would share a few of my more ridiculous nuggets;

The meanderings of a 5/6 month pregnant drama queen. Written 4/11/2009.

1. I am not sure what to wear for labour. I think I am going to go and buy a nightdress from marks and Spencer’s. I definitely do NOT want everything to be on show and yet I want to look half decent. Yes I know I will be in labour but I still want the Irish one to fancy me afterwards. Hope I don’t have to spend too much money. (Brilliant! Him fancying me afterwards was the last thing I needed or wanted in reality! With five stitches holding my arse together I wouldn’t have minded if he had never felt the urge ever again! And as for not having everything on show? Did I mention the five stitches holding my arse together?)

2. I love being able to eat again. It is so weird to think, everything I eat my baby is trying for the first time. I wonder if when I feel sick it is because the baby doesn’t like the taste of something? (I am clearly a mentalist.)

3. We have the 20 week scan a week on Wednesday. I wish I could have a scan every week. We are trying to decide whether to find out or not. The Irish one thinks it is a girl, but I know it is a boy. I just do. But sometimes I think I am just convincing myself of that because I would like a girl. I only want a girl so we can watch the princess films and I can buy pink things. Plus how do you clean a little willy? I know it’s a boy. As long as the baby is healthy, that is all that matters. Healthy and cute! (So there you have my complete honesty! I was hoping for a girl at the time. Now I wouldn’t change him for the world and I cant imagine myself with a girl! Funny how times change! I learnt how to clean a little willy pretty quickly!)

4. I wonder if The Irish one will propose while I am pregnant? That would be nice. (Nope!)

5. We can not agree on any names. I like Sam and Sebastian for a boy, and Sienna for a girl. He likes random names. I figure I should be able to choose seen as its me who has to go through it! (Told you I was a drama queen! Turns out the Irish one chose the name, as 2 minutes before I went in to labour I went off Sam and had a bit of a meltdown.)

6. I am definitely going to breastfeed. Apparently you can lose all your baby weight by breastfeeding. My friend told me you can burn 1000 calories a day. Which means I don’t feel guilty about all these bacon sandwiches! (Yes those are the right reasons for breastfeeding Lexy. Because you lose weight. Not because it is best for the baby or anything!? Also I couldn’t breastfeed in the end. I was gutted and although Woo did very well on formula – and still does, I am still a happy size 14/16.…. And no where near as selfish! Honest.)

7. I worry about doodle. I love him so much. I hope I still get time to spend with him and that he likes the baby. I will have to watch the dog whisperer and get a few tips. (Doodle is fine. Woo is fine. Cesar Milan was busy.)

I could continue to regale you, but these were the funniest. I wonder if this time next year I will look back at today’s entry about how I know my boy will be a well behaved toddler and laugh?

Here’s betting I probably will.

Oh and just to finish off nicely, here is how my birth story ended. (There is a new born baby on my chest but i felt it a little too personal a moment ,to include. I hope you understand.)

 

But can you see the mustard on the windowsill?

Drip!