Home is Where the Vomit is. *

‘Time waits for no man but true love lasts forever.’

Well, except when it doesn’t.

Because lets face it I am sure we have all ‘fallen in true love’  a few times, at some point.

You know, back in our histories, back when true love didn’t involve cleaning vomit out of our eyelashes at 3am, we must have all, at some point,  lay in our beds at the age of 19 or 13 or whatever and fantasized and Romancasized (and other words ending in ‘sized,’) about this ‘one true love’ we just met!!!

And we all also no doubt whittled away countless hours day dreaming happily and excitedly to ourselves before falling in to a contented sleep about this amazing ‘true love’ who we had totally ‘fallen for’ who we really believed was the dogs gingganggooli’s.

(Sorry. I could have just written the ‘dogs bollocks’, but I have been trying to get ging gang gooli’s in a post for so long now and I saw this as my opportunity. Go on… it’s ok. Sing the song! I am! Ging gang goooli goooli goooli gooli gooli, ging gang goo, ging gang goo!)

Because that’s what girls do!! It’s the whole fairytale thing!

‘This is it. This person is ‘the one! THIS is TRUE LOVE’ we surely have all smiled to ourselves excitedly in bed, picturing the wedding and the ring and, well usually I would think about how fabulous and drunken my hen party would be but whatever, this isn’t about me, this is about us, ‘this person is the one!!!’

Yes you.

Me and you. We have all done it.

Me as in the one writing this, and you as in the one reading it. Ok? Admit it. Even if it was Jason Donovan you were picturing, you pictured it. I know you did. You did? Right?

And now we, (us) can undoubtedly and inevitably look back on those failed flings and relationships and think ‘how did I not see back when I was with him that he had a penchant for, I don’t know, watching animals fornicate or something. (Seriously reader, you have been out with some right weirdo’s!!) How could I have not seen what an absolute Tool he was back when I first starting dating him?’ and we shudder and carry on washing up, changing a nappy, cleaning up sick bleary eyed or talking to the wall or something.

So the tagline for the film ‘Forever Young’ a 1992 classic starring Mel Gibson, (bear with me this will all make sense in a second) isn’t exactly true but whatever, I am willing to overlook that for the purpose of this post.

Have you ever felt homesick for a time that has passed?

Mel Gibson is a soldier or something, don’t quote me on that, and in this breath catching, stress popcorn eating film, he basically asks his friend to freeze him cos he thinks his girlfriend is dead. (As you do) Which his friend actually does for him (FYI- what kind of friend does that?? Why couldn’t he just, I don’t know, let him grieve at the pub or whatever? And seriously! Who has a person freezing machine handy anyway?! ‘Oh come in, make yourself at home! This is not a sunbed no! It’s my cryogenic coffin, just in case you fancy becoming an ice pop later!!’ I mean it is so bizarre but anyway.) What ends up happening (spoiler alert!) is that he wakes up forty years later in 1992 (which is such a coincidence cos that’s the year they made the film) and his whole world has zoomed on forty years and it turns out his girlfriend wasn’t even dead and they find each other, and well she turns in to a frog.  (That last bit may not be true but I didn’t want to ruin it for you if you hadn’t seen it.)

But basically the point I am making is, that is how I have felt for the last two weeks while I have been ‘home’ in Spain. (But without the dead girlfriend, the frog and the friend who wants to cryogenically freeze me. Because with friends like that, who needs enemies??)

I sat on my dad’s wall one night while I was there, staring at the coastline lit up by the clear night sky, legs dangling down on to the rocky mountain below, glass of wine in hand and feeling a bit well… melancholy.

The silence, as I sat there, drinking it all in, was only broken by the odd echo of a car horn in the distance and the ever present night time sound, the deep hum that gives away the baseline to a party that is no doubt happening somewhere without you.

It came as a shock to me right then, with the palm trees rustling and blowing in the wind beside me to my left, and the humid air dancing around my shoulders, that I had been homesick for a very long time.

It was overwhelming how acutely this speared through me.

I must (seriously!!!) be an idiot not to realise how homesick I have been. Why has this never come up in therapy? Had I blocked it out because it was just too painful? Or was I really, just a flipping idiot, and had not realised?

Every light, every car horn and every twinkle has a memory attached, but, but… it isn’t the same as it was…  everything has moved on, has changed, has evolved.

I pressed the side of my forehead against the cool air-conditioned car window as we weaved down strange roads during the daytime, roads, streets and alleyways, which I used to know and adore, like family.

Every corner had a memory attached, every smell made me inadvertently close my eyes, breath in and secretly smile to myself.

But when I would open my eyes, having seen and felt myself so vibrantly in the moments of the past, heartbreakingly, everything was different and I couldn’t recognise the place it now was.

Different school children running down the street, not my friends or their younger siblings, instead faces I would never know, could never have known, and would never recognise.

10 years have passed.

How could 10 years have passed?

My friends all grown up now, and with children who vomit on them at 3am, all of their own.

The flats where I lived, where I spent my happiest years, demolished. A Starbucks and a shopping center instead, stood majestically and polished in the place where I laid my head every night, and grew up.*

That night I sat on that bloody mountain (with my ever present glass of wine) and I re-lived the way it was.

I took in as many deep breaths as I could and I smiled.

I remembered the laughter (3 girls all squished on my moped piss drunk at the age of 14?) and I laughed.

I remembered the tears (1 of the 3 girls crashing my moped because she encountered a rock and didn’t know what to do – DRIVE OVER IT LAURA!) and I cried for the way it was, for the times I didn’t appreciate until right at that instant.

I remembered my home, when it was my home and I was sad. Sad that now people were drinking frozen Frappuccino’s in the exact place where we buried the dog. *

And maybe it was never as perfect as I remembered it, but if I could just go back and touch it, revisit it, for just one evening, I would.

My childhood. (The good bit.)

Because I miss it, and I am pretty sure that is how Mel Gibson must have felt when he woke up after 40 years of being a human choc-ice, and found out his girlfriend used to be a tadpole and he had made a stupid choice and missed all the bits in between. (Like the bit where she grew legs and hopped out of the pond.)

Before I licked the wine glass clean though, I caught sight of the stars.

And I smiled.

The stars were still exactly the same.

(Look reader, if you study astrology then you are probably dying to comment right now and tell me that they aren’t the same as they were 10 years ago, as we see them how they are five years ago or something, but I am asking you nicely not to ok? I need the stars to be the same SO JUST LET ME THINK THEY ARE THE DAMN SAME, OK?)

The stars, I noticed, were still EXACTLY THE SAME. Still winking mischievously at me, and cleverly reminding me that I can see them from where ever I am, at any time. (Obviously not in the mornings, but you know what I mean.) And that I carry my memories with me. And they can never be stolen. (Except maybe by dementia, but let’s just ignore that for the moment.)

The stars reminded me of one simple truth, and eased my pain.

Home, is now, and will forever more be, wherever Addison is.

And that is the future for us to carve.

And that, Dear reader is fine with me.

————————————————-

*Why does Addison only every vomit at 3 am?

*How cool is that??? A Starbucks where I used to live!!! Its destiny is what it is!!! I’m like Mel Gibson! Maybe true love doesn’t die?? MAYBE STARBUCKS IS MY TRUE LOVE!!! Oh my god!!! It’s a total sign!!!!

** Not Doodle. Doodle is alive and well. Just so you know I would never bury Doodle while he was still alive.  Well not totally anyway, having fun in the sandpit doesn’t count does it? DOES IT?

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.

Sometimes.

 
Sometimes I feel I cant breathe,
Like I’ve no energy left for this fight!
There is all this routine and this pressure
For a mother to get everything right.

We could throw all the dishes at the wall,
And leave the frigging house in a tip!
We are all so frightened of failing,
We could all disappear on a trip. 

Sometimes we feel like dancing,
And wish we could just be free,
Sometimes we feel like escaping,
And having some time just for me!

I am told I am a good mother,
But really I know I am not.
How can I succeed on autopilot?
Walking around like a frumpy robot.

Sometimes we look in the mirror,
And all we can see is the lard!
We were expecting motherhood to be difficult,
But who knew it would be this hard?

Sometimes we are walking through fog,
We don’t always want to be boss!
‘I just need someone to cuddle me.
I am feeling so isolated and lost.’  

Sometimes I feel like screaming,
I want to spend a day in the sun!
Do you even know who I am anymore?
I used to be so much fun!

Sometimes we lie there and wonder,
If things could be different somehow?
If we were alone, single and rested,
Would we feel a bit better right now?

We know deep down in our hearts,
We are never really alone,
There are plenty of mummy’s just like us,
Just at the end of the phone.

My baby and my friends keep me going,
When everything feels a bit rough.
With them I don’t need to keep smiling,
To hide the more worrying stuff.

We do miss the freedom and independence,
We are guilty of having this thought,
But we wouldn’t change a thing to be honest,
Because these moments with you cant be bought. 

Sometimes I feel like running.
But my heart lives here with you.
Sometimes I feel like escaping,
But Mammy couldn’t live without Woo.

The ‘perfect’ mother.

I am desperate to breast feed but I am struggling.
I shouldn’t give up? Breast is best?
My milk hasn’t come in at all yet the health visitor said.
So he is feeding on fresh air.
My nipples are bleeding and cracked.
I am in agony.
I should pump more and suck up the pain?
Its my fault. I’m a crap mum.
I should have had the perfect experience. Like you.
I should have prayed every night to the tit gods.
I should have learnt about scientology.
I should have re in forced my nipples with wrought iron.
I should have howled in pain like a banshee and continued to feed.
I am such a crap mum.
If only I was perfect!!

Which formula is the best?
We use SMA? The Midwife suggested it.
I should be on Aptimel? That’s better?
Aptimel has got more vitamins in it? SMA is bad for them?
He seems to be thriving on it. He is alert and nearly taking 7ounces.
He is such a good boy.
I should have read each and every label and made an informed decision?
Its my fault. I’m a crap mum.
I should have bought a cow and freeze dried its milk organically. Like you.
Not a lot of cows in Eccles.
But we could have had one in the spare room I suppose.
I could have saved up. Built an extension.
We could have had a cow farm!
I am such a crap mum.
If only I was perfect!!

We are only on 1 night feed now! We are really pleased.
He should be sleeping through?
I should try bath, massage and bedtime?
Addison hates the water. Screams blue murder
He just wants a feed. Little love.
He is overtired? I should make the bath a relaxing environment?
It’s my fault. I’m a crap mum.
I should have swam the channel in preparation. Like you.
I could have grown webbed feet if I had tried hard enough.
Turned in to a mermaid and lulled him to sleep.
I should have built a pool next to the cow farm.
I am such a crap mum.
If only I was perfect!!

Have you started weaning? It’s fun! He is always hungry!
Ive started too early? I should have waited?
He is way too young?
But he seems to love Cow and Gate rice pudding.
He likes soft carrots too. Always a bit worried about choking though!
You would NEVER give your child pre packed baby food?
It’s my fault. I’m a crap mum.
I should have gone to culinary school. Like you.
I have a phobia of eggs. They terrify me.
I could have written to Paul McKenna. I could of inspired him to write a new book. I could have befriended Delia.
I could have learnt to cook without eggs while milking the cow and doing the front crawl.
I am such a crap mum.
If only I was perfect!!

He is six months today! He rolled over. I am so proud!
He should be sitting up? He should be standing?
He is falling behind?
He seems to hate tummy time though. Loves being on his back.
Such a playful little bunny.
I should be encouraging him more?
Its my fault, Im a crap mum.
If only I had gone to the gym more during pregnancy. Like you.
I should have bought new trainers.
Ignored my dodgy knees. Put a bit of effort in.
Addison could have been running the four minute mile by now.
I could have ridden the cow, at the side of the pool, while flipping an omelette and wearing new trainers.
It’s my fault. I’m such a crap mum.
If only I was perfect!!

It is all my fault.
I am a terrible mother.
I don’t try hard enough.
I don’t make enough effort.
I am not perfect enough!!

I must try harder.
I must… I must…  I must….
Stop comparing myself to others.

My son is six months old.
His name is Addison.
He does not sleep through.
He is not reading war and peace.
He is on formula.
He likes rice pudding.
He hates the bath.
He likes ‘The bear in the big blue house.’
He likes to be cuddled when he cries.
He laughs when he hears the dog bark.
He is on his own time.
He sleep talks.
He is proud of himself after a big poo.
He is happy.

I am 31 years old.
My name is Lexy.
I am not married.
I like programmes like ‘Drop dead diva.’
I breast fed for a short time only.
I am scared of eggs.
I am over weight.
I beat myself up a lot over many ‘failures’.
I love my son.
I would do anything for my son.
I will be a working mother.
I am dreading it.
I am proud of myself every day.

I love my son.
I love my son.
I love my son.

I am trying my best.
I am doing my best.
I am trying my best.

I am not perfect.
I am not crap.
I am Addison’s mummy.

The miracle of birth? Yeah, ok.

 Picture the scene. It’s Six forty five on a Saturday morning. The house resembles a subsidiary of the Eccles and Hulme tip. It is a bomb site. It literally looks like we were up all night with six thousand of our closest friends and their newborn babies enjoying an all night sit in feeding rave. There are three milk bottles on the arm of the sofa, slowly beginning to curdle. There are sleep suits and vests, miniature trousers and jumpers and dummies and wipes, tea towels and bibs splattered in every direction of the once tidy room. Man sized socks stuffed down the side of the fire place (I’ll kill him). Towels directly out of the drier sit forgotten in a pile on the kitchen work top, there are dog biscuit crumbs all over the once-blue but now grayish spit up stained, living room carpet. It’s like the dog feels too good to eat in the hallway and insists on carrying his tiny bone-shaped biscuits, one at a time, in to the living room and munching them on the carpet where he can watch the show. His version of a doggy TV dinner, if you will. The show, of course being a bedraggled and smelly overweight woman, her hair tied back with a pair of old knickers, sitting like a creaky kneed elephant on a crusty old sofa. The baby’s breakfast is all over her top, she sits squinting through one contact lense (didn’t have time to put both in) while clutching a cup of coffee like her life depended on it, and a squirming baby. Mickey mouse is on the TV in the corner dancing and prancing around inviting his viewers to ‘come inside, its fun inside’
‘Oh bugger off’ she mutters under her breath.

 Because really? What does Mickey know?

 It’s me, by the way, as if you hadn’t figured it out. Im the overweight dumbo wannabe, currently sitting on the sofa with Addison, watching Mickey Mouse attempting to locate his club house. Addison evidently loves Mickey and is kicking and flailing about like an over caffeinated octopus. I got up at 5.45 this morning, with the intention of getting some much needed house work done while the baby slept, but find myself, like I usually do, sat catatonic on the crusty vomit stained (once magnificent) sofa, staring avidly at nothing in particular while devising a few choice places Mickey Mouse can stick his clubhouse, and reminiscing on what I thought motherhood was supposed to be like. Back in the ‘innocent and naïve’ days.

 I’m not in a bad mood. I’m just exhausted. Being awake at five forty five on a Saturday morning is not what I signed up for. Leaky boobs, fat thighs and sleepless nights is not what I signed up for. 3 stone overweight, losing hair from my head like an oversized malting Alsatian with creaky, broken knees is not what I signed up for. All my beautiful clothes being stretched to within an inch of their lives, walking round with more muffin top than a Greggs outlet while my size 10 jeans slag me off  behind my back (I hear them every time I reach for my leggings) is not what I signed up for. I need to contact the motherhood union and explain in no uncertain terms this motherhood lark is not as easy as countless celebrities promised me it would be on the covers of glossy magazines.

 And I have help. (I mean in the form of my other half, not an army of servants. And he is actually, as much as I hate to admit it, really rather good! Don’t tell him I said that.) It really makes me wonder how single mummies do it. Fair play and utmost respect to each and every single mother out there in the ‘mummy club.’ You are unsung heroes. Really you are. It also makes me wonder how teenagers manage. There is no way at the age of 17 I could have done this. Every time I see a young teenage girl walking down the road I have to fight the urge to run up to her and scream in her face ‘DON’T HAVE SEX!! JUST DON’T! YOU WONT ENJOY IT YET ANYWAY! HE WILL NOT ‘LOVE YOU MORE’ AND YOU COULD END UP LIKE ME! LOOK AT ME! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD LOOK! (This is the point I would whip out my flappy belly and destroyed flower for all the world to see) ENJOY YOUR LIFE! FORGET SEX!’ but the sad fact is a lot of young people in my area get pregnant and have babies so they can get housing and not end up on the street. That is the country we live in, but Im not getting in to that.

So what did I sign up for? I signed up for a gorgeous basket ball bump, 10 months of people treating me like the queen, a perfectly short and painless labour, a perfect little pink bundle which slept right through, any weight I had put on would obviously drop from my chubby arse immediately, leaving me waif like with gorgeous thick, full hair. I would also clearly have the perfect little girl who I could dress in pretty pink outfits and show off while the paparazzi, so amazed at the beauty of my bundle, would swarm around me, making me millions and we would live happy ever after. (I always wondered what it would be like to be famous and this was my daydream after all.) But alas, I am not famous. At all. Unless you count that one night at the Chinese karaoke where I fell off the stage and exposed my breasts to an entire room of cheering and slightly drunken business men.

 So imagine my surprise when I did not have the perfect basket ball bump, but instead I piled on fat everywhere! I piled on fat in places I didn’t know existed. On a bad day, up until the 32 week stage and depending on what I was wearing you were hard pressed to even see the bump I had so desperately wanted to show off. (And then came 32 weeks and I began to resemble Mr. Greedy.)  And then the labour. Oh god, don’t even talk to me about the labour. My waters broke on Thursday the 2^nd of April and 65, yes sixty five hours later I still hadn’t managed to push the little monster out. I can’t talk too much about this. I truly believe I am still suffering with some sort of post traumatic stress disorder. I do remember though at the time, legs spread, gas and air in hand, 63 hours in, shouting at my other half ‘I have present traumatic stress syndrome. I do. I need some counseling NOW!. Never mind a doctor, Get me a therapist!’ to which he had had the audacity to reply that he understood. Really? REALLY?

A close friend who recently admitted she is pregnant, asked me while we were having lunch last week, what labour felt like. Now this is dodgy ground. I remember asking this of many mums when I was pregnant. I remember thinking, if they told me I could prepare myself mentally. But the stock answer always seemed to be ‘you’ll be fine’ or ‘I can’t remember’.

At the time it really wound me up. I felt like there was some sort of conspiracy! I wanted to yell ‘I can handle the truth just tell me!’ But I have to admit, when my friend asked me, I finally understood why I had been lied to. Because honestly? You don’t forget that pain. You may not be able to describe it, but you don’t bloody forget it. I just couldn’t do it to her. So I muttered, (looking everywhere but in her eyes) ‘It’s not that bad. And it’s really quick in comparison to the REST OF YOUR LIFE, you’ll be fine, I can’t really remember. Just enjoy being pregnant.’ which may have been a lie but in my mind was a lot kinder than ‘It’s absolutely horrific and excruciating. The stuff horror films are made of, imagine your worst nightmare, double it and while you’re at it try to imagine shitting a watermelon out of your bum hole, ring sting included.’ Or as my cousin summed up six hours post birth last week ‘if the pain had got any worse I’m sure I would have died’  (In this instance I feel the truth would definitely not have set her free)

 I also signed up for a girl. So when Babywoo finally decided the time was right and made a bid for freedom, I was shocked to see, she’d had the nerve to show up with a willy! I had a boy! No pretty pink outfits for me. Football, mud and worms, that’s what little boys are made of, that’s what I was destined for! Bloody football, mud and worms.

 But oh god he was gorgeous. A squirming mass of gorgeousness lying in my arms, grabbing my finger and staring up at me.  The absolute most amazing, breathtaking moment of my life was seeing him for the first time. My other half and I had discussed prior to my labour starting, do you think you will cry when you see the baby for the first time? The response he had given me was ‘Me? Cry? I haven’t cried for years, I doubt it.’ Enter stage right a blubbering lump of mush who goes by the name of daddy. (or ‘dick head’ on the odd occasion too.) He was crying like a little girl. He cried more than I did! The midwife had to shout his name twice to remind him to cut the cord.

 So I suppose it’s not all bad. I suppose this motherhood lark, albeit one great big challenge (banana crisis included) is hugely enjoyable. And I suppose the weight will drop off eventually. And I suppose if I have to, really have to, I can smile my way through the sleepless nights and the five forty five on a Saturday morning get ups.

But I do wish sometimes magazines like HEAT and OK! would stop printing these stories of what motherhood in an ideal world is like, then maybe I would have been slightly more mentally prepared. Although saying that, I suppose if they did, the human race would die out. Because I suppose you have to go through the crap you didn’t sign up for to truly enjoy the moments you did sign up for.

Like tomorrow we are going swimming for the first time and I can’t wait! Addison has just gone down for his nap. Ive had a shower, tidied up a bit and feel a little more human. My other half and I are sat admiring him while cuddling up on the sofa. He’s hugging me with such lovely closeness. The mother of his baby. I’m the mother of his son! How special am i! It’s nice to get some mammy and daddy time too sometimes. We are so lucky. A happy, healthy, beautiful little boy and I…….what’s that ? Sex?

 You have got to be kidding!

Random advice i could do without.. thanks.

Yesterday I was visiting a friend in a Posh little village outside of Manchester. I was stood outside Marks and Spencer’s while she nipped in to get some caviar (or something equally as posh). I, on the other hand, am far too scruffy for ‘Marksnsparks’ so was stood outside staring in to my I-phone (as usual) chatting to my twitter friends while trying to ignore the looks of disdain my Quinny was getting from the BUGABOO mums.

It was a lovely day, as it always is in cheadle, peaceful and posh. I had given Addison a heads up earlier in the day. No tantrums in Cheadle little boy. Cheadle is far too posh for tantrums. But evidently he had decided to ignore me. He woke up from a nap, and decided that in no uncertain terms, he wanted out of his buggy. THIS INSTANT! It was such a surprise, as he is usually such a happy little chappy, so tranquil and smiling. (and no Im not bragging, Im just saying. – although clearly if I’d brought War and Peace he would have been happy to sit and read that… again.)

I quickly and in a mild panic (it was really, really loud screaming and also being a new mum – baby cries? Pick baby up. Gina Ford piss off.) I began the ‘untangling baby’ dance. Clip one, rope 2, button 3, twist 4 , jump up and down on your left foot 5, clasp undone 6 and he’s out! I wrapped my arms around his little trembling, tantrumy body and began my vain attempt at soothing him. Clearly something was the matter as usually he would stop crying the second he is picked up. (yes, yes rod for my back, I know.) I felt around his person for the usual suspects, belly (wind), bum (wet patches) and neck (eczema) but all seemed to be behaving. He continued with his somewhat angry crying and I began to search for his dummy.(tsk tsk)

While we are on this subject, can I just say that dummies have special powers. They can disappear and re-appear at will. And multiply! I spent half an hour searching for one the other day. I turned the house upside down only to find one, rinse it, drop it and find three at my feet! Anyways..

 I finally located the illusive dummy and was about to shove it, I mean gently place it, in his gob when out of nowhere a head thrust itself towards us. A little old lady in a green mac, a green scarf and a green head wrap with interestingly green teeth had broken all rules of personal space and was literally shaking her nobbly little head in what seemed to be disgust, a mere inches away from our faces. Addison immediately stopped crying for a second due to shock and ill be honest, I was gob smacked and just stood there like a total lemon, mouth hanging open.

‘Hello?’- me (step back slightly alarmed)
‘You know what you want to do?’ Posh, clipped and pretentious.
‘No?’ – me. Tired, gormless and confused.
‘Put a muslin over his face’
‘What?!?’
‘Put a muslin cloth over his face, that’ll soon stop him crying.’
‘EH?’

Seriously?! Put a muslin cloth over my sons face to stop him crying?! Yeah, thanks for the advice but I’m not gonna do that.

This has been playing over and over in my mind since the dotty old Disney villain wannabe  uttered the words. She wanted me to put a muslin cloth over my sons little face, to stop him crying. So basically she wanted me to suffocate my son. Yes Im sure it did stop your son crying missis. Im not sure a baby can cry and gasp for breath at the same time.

As we were walking away from the shops. Me holding a bag over Addison’s face, (JOKE!) It got me thinking about how total randomers seem to think its ok to stop and give you advice on being a mother. It’s like being part of the ‘mummy club’ means every man and their dog can assess you and your skills at any given time and offer totally unnecessary and unwanted ‘advice’. On a very rare occasion it can be helpful (usually off your own parents) but mostly I have found ‘stranger danger advice’ to be totally incorrect and utter crap. These ‘pearls of wisdom’ range from a little odd to full on ‘get your coat Addy, we’re off.’

This advice sharing starts from the second you develop a bump, in my opinion. (that and the touchy feelers, but again that’s another blog). So as I was ambling home I started to mentally Blog some of the other ‘nuggets of crap’ I have received over the last year. 

So here goes..

When pregnant – ‘Don’t reach up or your baby will be strangled on the cord.’ Thank you random woman in supermarket.

When pregnant – ‘You are definitely having a girl you are absolutely enormous, you should buy all pink, definitely.’-Thank you MR bus driver.

When pregnant- ‘Don’t have the pram in the house , its bad luck’ – Thank you random grandmother in Mothercare. (This one REALLY annoyed me.)

Life after birth - ‘He’s gorgeous but Im not sure I like the name Addsion. Theo is a nice name for a boy.’ -Thank you cash register girl.

Life after birth - ‘I can’t believe you aren’t breast feeding. You should be breast feeding’ – Thank you random passerby at Starbucks the Trafford centre. 

On losing baby weight - ‘You shouldn’t have eaten for two until the last trimester’ – The last time I saw this person they were hobbling from a swift, hard kick in the shin. You know who you are!

 I have so many more but I would love to hear some of yours.. Because I am absolutely sure it is not just I, who is subjected to this intrusion. And if it is, then what the hell am I doing wrong??  And also if Im honest I could carry on regaling you but ‘Put a muslin cloth over your baby’s face to stop him crying’ is a clear winner. It doesn’t get better than that. Ladies and Gentleman, round of applause for Granny Green. Disney’s newest villain.

So come on let’s hear them, if you have them. I’d love a good laugh!