Love is blind. (Now wash up!!)

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

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

Now don’t get me wrong,

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

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

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

Because let us just be honest here.

This year has not been an easy one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There I said it.

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

‘Yes that includes the dog.’  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You never know.

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

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

Nothing at all.

This is normal. Apparently.

Oh my god?! It is normal isn’t it?

 

 

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

Dear Mother Nature…

 

I am writing to you today, as I am unable to get through on your 24 hour helpline. I am growing increasingly annoyed due to having been placed on hold countless times, before being connected briefly and then being cut off, as you ensure something else goes a miss, usually in the form of a screaming baby, a shitting vomiting dog, or this morning (thanks for this one by the way) both at the same time. As you are no doubt aware, I then have to hang up my praying hands and call back later.  (The middle finger at the sky is unnecessary; i understand that, however it is just a reflex at this point. You go too far sometimes ok?)

And besides, your automated system is awful. Continuously asking me to call back later (Magic 8 ball – seriously? If that is not a copout then I don’t know what is! Who thought of that little triangle of frustration? A MAN! A MAN DID THAT’S WHO! AND YOU MADE THEM TOO!) When later is too late. I need to talk to you right this second! I have looked for an address for your complaints department but am unable to find one, another example of your shoddy workmanship, as of late. 

I will not, however, be swept under the carpet like a discarded fish cracker. I will write this letter and I will bloody ensure you receive it on a wing and a prayer. (I will not send it with UPS who seem to LOSE EVERYTHING!!!) 

Basically Mother Nature, my complaint goes a little like this. 

• I wee when I sneeze.
• I wee when I bend down.
• I wee when I laugh.

This used to amuse me.

TEN MONTHS LATER?!?! Not so much. I am sick of buying Tena Lady. Quite frankly I still feel embarrassed and uncomfortable at the checkout. It’s as though buying Tena Lady gives every checkout/new mother/granny an opening to tell you about how leaky they are too. DO I LOOK LIKE I WANT TO KNOW THESE THINGS?!? I just want to buy my wooden cucumber and chocolate bar  (The secret girls guide to a great night in… with the twitter band, OBVIOUSLY) and be done with it! 

• I have no control over my fart reflexes and you know as well as I do, I am back at work soon.

 I do not need to elaborate on this. JUST STOP OK? Just stop!!! 

• I still cry at the Dogs trust advert/anything remotely soppy/tramps and every time ANYTHING sad comes on the telly.

Not good when you are sitting at a friend’s house and Mr lopard (handy frigging Manny) loses his cat (although in fairness it was awful, he was desperate!! Even Addison was wimpering!!) Do you not want me to have friends?? Well don’t you?? Someone asked me if I wanted to sign a petition against child trafficking the other day. It took me 9 minutes to sign it, what with all the tears and wailing about the poor trafficked children. It was for the BODY SHOP! She was way out of her league and kept offering me free lip gloss. (Which I took.) 

• My hair is still falling out but now you have added to my embarrassment by growing it back in tufts at the front. I am, against my will growing a mullet. Not a good look on me.
•  My stretch marks seem to be going nowhere, I appear to have been run over by a sixteen wheeler, or mauled by a tiger in the dead of night. 
• My back is fucked. There is no way of politely putting this. I am like a geriatric. I wince and groan and oof whenever I stand up.

I am 31 for godsake! And now my fingers and wrists seem to be seizing up too!?! What is all that about??

• I have no control of my anger. If I throw the remote/full bottle of milk/poodle at the Irish One, one more time he will leave. (Hopefully. I don’t mean that….. ahem….. oh poor Irish One… here come the tears…. Let me go hug him… poor soldier…. …………………..Wanker said he was too busy for a hug!!!… Ill BATTER HIM!!!.. …..See no control!!)

And finally, 

• Why have you removed my ability to say no to chocolate??  

I used to be able to say no?! Now I find myself sweeping my arm along the confectionary aisle in Morrisons. I have no self control!!!

You’re a bitch is what you are.

Forgive my anger and disappointment, but really, I am sure, even you can understand my utter disbelief at these, simply disturbing and horrifying games you seem to be enjoying playing.

So my question to you Mother Nature, are you taking the piss? What happened to the customer is always right?  As mentioned previously I cannot express in words my disappointment with your recent service.

And before I go on, please rest assured I have not always felt this way, hence my current disappointment. At one time I found myself in wondrous awe at the magnitude of brilliance you seemed so easily to fulfill.

I have watched trees blow in the wind, snow fall in April, and little lambs playing with their sheepy mothers in May. I have seen kittens take their first steps, watched in awe at waterfalls and all manner of beauty over the last 3 decades. I have constantly respected and sang your praises.

However, at this juncture in my life, I have to ask you again.

Are you taking the piss?

What the hell were you thinking when you created childbirth? 

I can’t even enjoy sex anymore. 

You ruined that too. I know how it ends.

I am waiting with NO anticipation for your reply. Although I am sure it will come. I am sure you will rain it down on me in your usual un-adultered and tremendous way.

I will not be wearing white trousers tomorrow.

Just so you know!! I am one step ahead of you!!!

So you’ll have to go away and think of some other way to torture me!! I know I am three days late on my cycle, but I know the minute I reach for those white trousers you will ensure it arrives!!!!

I may be unable to poo without wincing, but I ain’t stupid. I see you coming. 

Yours sincerely.

MammyWoo.

PS –OHMYGODIAMTHREEDAYSLATE!!!!

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!