Passion is the Genesis of Genius.

I am a genius.

A genius wearing more colours today than is strictly necessary on account of having to get dressed in the dark, due to an electricity failure in the bedroom coupled with the fact that yesterday, in a moment of sheer madness I bought myself some new clothes and wanted to wear them all at the same time, in preparation for today’s therapy session, but a genius nevertheless.

There is something about a new top, or a new cardigan, or new trousers that really make me feel special. Yes I cant afford them, and yes I told the lady to forget the bag so the Irish one wouldn’t see me coming home weighed down by more credit card debt, but oh it is so worth it.

Wearing new clothes I feel, I don’t know, special, attractive, young and well…unburdened by the everyday humdrum of depression and the unrelenting routine of motherhood.

Do you know what I mean?

My new top meant I didn’t mind when I woke up to find the light switch had given up, the very thought of it sat there, waiting to be worn, motivated me to get dressed even though I couldn’t see what I was doing and once again, experienced the seemingly monthly inconvenience of bounding out of bed to the dulcet tones of my baby screeching, directly on to an upturned plug.

My new top closed it’s ears to me swearing at the Irish one and threatening, like one may do a teenager, to throw out his items if he didn’t pick them up!

(This year alone, I have stood on three upturned plugs. THREE. I will need surgery if it happens again. SURGERY!!!)

My new cardigan meant I didn’t mind when I let Doodle out and he wandered back in, while I was in the kitchen trying to find the coffee I finally remembered to buy, muddy footed and jumped straight on the sofa to eat Addison’s toast.

The thought of my new trousers, waiting patiently in the cupboard for the day when I eventually shed the last few muffins worth of top, did not however, keep  me focused on happiness, when I stepped in to the shower and found myself shin deep in used grubby and bitty Irish water.

My home is slowly falling to pieces, much like my mind, but unlike when I try and fix my faulty mind, I am able to think logically, unlike the man in my life, and rectify the wrong doing in a matter of moments.

The drain has been blocked in the bathtub for weeks. (Ok, so maybe not moments, but I got there in the end.)

Threatening to buy a plunger, call a plumber and buy some drain unblocker for weeks, I finally gave up on the Irish one and took matters in to my own capable and shaking hands. (I think my meds need tweaking. I am currently walking around shaking like an old Volvo going up a hill, and can literally do nothing about it.

‘Are you ok?’ The woman at starbucks asked me yesterday when she handed me my coffee and I proceeded to scatter it, like one would someone’s ashes, all over myself.

‘Yes’ I replied smiling and thinking on my feet ‘I’ve just had a shock that’s all’  which I thought was probably a better response than ‘Yeah it’s just the concoction of anti-psychotic med’s I am taking to stop me going completely mad that make me shake.’

Turns out I should have been honest.

‘Oh no what happened?’ she asked nosily.

And of course I had to make something up on the spot.

‘I thought someone had stolen my son, but then realised they hadn’t.’

First thing I could think of. (Which does actually happen on occasion though in fairness. Again it is the meds.)

‘OH my god!’ she gushed ‘Where is he?’

‘At home with his dad’ and I shrugged.

I left her looking confused and fled. She may think I am an idiot, but she is completely unawares of my genius status, so I will let her off.)

Sometimes though, I do wonder why my brain doesn’t step in and gag my mouth in times like this, but genius that I am, I can only cope with so much.

Wearing my new top, my new cardi and promising my new trousers I would see them soon, I took drastic action on the plughole.

There are only so many times I can listen to ‘I promise to fix it tommorrow’ off himself, especially when I am knee deep in his Gak so I seized the hoover nozzle off the Dyson, and yes I know the correct term is vacuum but it’s a hoover ok? Just like a tampon will always be a Tampax to me, even if it isn’t. Life is too short to split hairs, which actually brings me to my point nicely, and stuck it over the plughole.

With a whoosh and a phaaalunk 7 years worth of hair (sorry if you are eating right now) was sucked up by the magic flute and hey presto!! The drain was unblocked.

Now I know this isn’t an inspiring tale of recovery or a poignant tale of woe but still, it felt important enough to share. (I am in therapy in an hour, so I promise the next one will be better.)

As I looked down at the ‘hoover’ now grumbling and whining, sodden and severely pissed off at being used as a make shift plumber, horns and trumpets started celebrating my ingenious plan.

The water ran down that plug hole like horses galloping towards a finish line at the grand national!

I was victorious.

Too too too toooot!!!

And yes ok, now the hoover smells like something died in it, and yes maybe with it being an electrical item it probably wasn’t the best idea to plunge it in to a bath of water but hey! My hairy shins are now free from second hand water, and that feels marvellous!

I do sometimes wonder about the need for the Irish one.

If Doodle could get a job, I would probably marry him, to be honest.

Because my man, can do a job…eventually, if he has all the right equipment, and the right light, the universe is pulling in the right direction and it is a Tuesday in May, but sometimes, just sometimes, it isn’t worth the wait.

Especially when one owns a Dyson.

If you want a job doing?

Get me round.

I am a genius.

Anyway, I am off to therapy… and then I need to call an electrician about the bedroom lights… or do I?

Hmmmm.

The One That Broke The Camels Back.

I am currently inexplicably wedged in to an enormous brown leather armchair munching on a gigantic and sticky Starbucks caramel waffle, so although I feel for the main part, like a bit of a hog, (Starbucks sofa’s must be made for people who weigh nothing! I am actually sinking!) As the gooey caramel lodges itself between my teeth, all over my lips and down my front and while the crumbly biscuit exterior makes best friends with my inner thighs (currently fighting to push each other away and failing miserably) the writing of this post feels strangely apt.

I am about to ask you a question,

She says cocking her head to the side, trying to take on the role of nurturing therapist while continuously munching away and slowly descending in to the back of the couch with every bite, so that my feet are now at a 90% angle above me,

But I would like you to have a good think about this question, and all the possible responses you can imagine before answering.

Ok?

Here goes.

I am about to offer you one of my Caramel waffles.  Really, they are delicious, delectable, mouthwateringly gooey, appetizing, and scrumptious and completely calorie free.

Stay with me here.

They are the ultimate biscuit, a biscuit to rival all other biscuits in their category and you desperately want one. By the time I have finished showing you the full delights of the super tasty taste sensation, and by the time I have finished wafting it under your nose so you can smell the super sweet-scented smell sensation, you are so desperate for a bite you almost snatch my hand off.

And you can have it if you really really want it (a zig a zig ah) but as always in life, there is a catch.

Each and every time you take a bite of this waffle, the waffle you simply cannot imagine turning down at this point, for the disappointment would be too great, I am going to thump and twack you over the head with a bloody big stick I have been surreptitiously hiding behind my back.

(You may have to help me up first though. I think I am actually stuck. I am typing this laying completely flat on my back but still sat on a sofa… only at Starbucks…)

This is the scenario you find yourself in ok?

The waffle is sat on the plate in front of you, calling your name, willing you to have a lick, just a single, tantalizing lick, but out of your peripheral vision you can now see me stick in hand poised and waiting to twat you across the head with every munch you try to enjoy.

(I am a full on bitch in this scenario, I know this. And really I am ok with it.)

So what would you do?

Stop reading now please, look away from your screen if you have to, and deliberate.

What would you do?

I REALLY REALLY want (ah zig a zig ah) for you to have a little think about it. (Get them cogs a-turning folks!)

Last week, while I was still existing on the ward and before I came up for parole, and therefore release, I was asked this very same question.

I mulled it over for a full 7 days.

Arriving back in my support group this morning, the air thick with dismay and rising damp, I was the epitome of smug Sally Wanker. (There was a girl in my class called Sally Wanker. There really was… or maybe that was a nickname. I cant remember, but either way she was smug.)

‘I know what I would do James.’  I proclaimed to my therapist, plonking my bag down, taking a load off (quite literally, I had dressed for Antarctic adventures but somehow it was now 80% and snowing outside…what the hell is going on with our summer??? Anyway, I digress…) and whispering hello’s to the rest of the mentalists with no identity at all. ‘I totally, full on, know what I would do.’

‘I am assuming this is about the waffle Lexy, but before you tell me, and as you have asserted yourself to speak first (damn,) could you please tell me about your week, we have missed you around here, what has been going on for you?’

‘Not much’ I say, keen to get this out of the way and finally be able to give him my answer to Waffle-gate.

‘I notice you are wearing full make up today, including lipstick, that’s a change from the norm, what has been going on for you?’

‘Are you saying I look like a transvestite?’

‘Did it sound like I was saying that?’

‘No. But I think I look like a man.’

‘Ok.’ He smiles kindly ‘I don’t.’

‘I am also wearing Skinny jeans James. Have you noticed my ultra skinny Jeans? I thought I would look skinny in them, well at least that is the effect I was hoping for, but as it is, I can hardly breathe and you may think I am wearing deep purple lipstick James, but it is actually a lack of circulation to my upper reposotries, to be honest.’

‘Your upper what now?’ He asks, concern pushing through the joviality in his voice.

‘My upper reposotaries.’ I retort confidently.

‘Did you make that word up Lexy?’

‘A little bit yes.’ I smile.

“I am sensing that you are (completely mad) a little all over the place this morning, so let us start simple. Tell me one thing this week that made you smile secretly to yourself?’

‘My son.’

‘Stock response, something else.’

‘He did though.’

‘I am sure he did, what else?’

‘Well I smiled when I saw a beautiful friend, and felt truly content for the first time in a long while.’

‘Great but again, stock response, anything else? And really try to hear my question now. Please tell me one thing this week that made you smile TO YOURSELF SECRETLY.’

‘As in, is there something I am secretly proud of myself for?’

‘If you think that is what I meant, then yes.’

(FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!!!!!)

‘I’m taking back control?’ I state, as if asking him permission for this to be true.

‘From who?’

‘Everybody.’

‘Who is everybody?’

The million-dollar question.

Who is everybody?

I know my answer to this, and I am sure in our own way, we all know our own answer to this.

Who shreds our confidence, who pushes our buttons and who do we have to fight to regain some of ourselves back? Each individual story is completely unique, but sometimes (and just to be completely enigmatic here) sometimes the person who commits all these heinous crimes against us, is us, Isn’t it?

Sometimes we need to take control back from ourselves, before we can even consider attempting to win it back from others.

I know I do.

How many times do I beat myself up with a big bastard stick? How many times over a 24 hour period, do I call myself incapable, stupid, fat, ugly, thick, not as good as that person over there, unhealthy, miserable, idiotic. The list is endless. And ok, I may not say them out loud. I may not say;

‘Hey Irish one, sorry I burnt your chips, it is because I am a thoughtless, worthless great big lump of wasted blood and organs ok?’

I may not say it out loud. But I think it.

I may not say;

‘Hey Irish one, please don’t look at me, or try it on with me or touch me because since having this baby my body is truly disgusting and the very thought of you touching it makes me want to curl up and die in shame. I hate myself and I would really prefer if you did too, thanks.’

I may not say it out loud. But I think it.

(I may actually try being honest next time, as I am quickly running out of excuses to not be intimate. Last night I literally told him I couldn’t, as there was a strong possibility of me having scurvy. Luckily, he has no idea what scurvy is, and I assume he imagines it to be a long the same lines as having thrush. Either way I got an early night so all’s well that ends well… Except it isn’t. Because I miss him, and I hate feeling like this… Damn houseboat. Anyway. )

I beat myself up constantly.

And not only that, I allow others to do it too, usually because I am in complete agreement with them.

I deserve to be hit with a huge stick while eating a waffle.

Don’t you?

‘Would you eat the waffle Lexy?’ James asks, eyes wide open.

‘Yes James, I would eat the waffle, I wouldn’t mind so much really,’ I pause for dramatic affect ‘the pain of being hit, because the waffle would be worth it.’

I state this sitting smugly in my bubble of insightful intuition I have learnt over the last three weeks.

He urges me to explain further.

‘I know now,’ I explain thoughtfully ‘after being here for three weeks, just how much pain and torment I can handle, it is nothing new. So the waffle would be worth it you see. Sometimes a small amount of discomfort is worth the enjoyment…’

‘Would you now,’ his eyebrows knot in intrigue ‘you would eat the waffle, are you sure?’

‘Yes. I would eat the waffle.’ (FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!!)

He is thoughtful in his silence, before looking at me once again and continuing.

‘You would eat the waffle, even while being hit with a great big cricket bat?’

‘Eh? I thought it was just a stick.’

‘Ok. Now it is a cricket bat. Would you still eat the Waffle?’

‘Yes.’

‘What if the immense pain the cricket bat was now causing, began to completely outweigh the enjoyment of the tasty waffle, then what would you do?’

‘I would run away with the waffle James.’ I roll my eyes wondering to myself why I didn’t think of this response sooner. Running with the waffle is the ideal solution. I would be burning off the calories immediately (mine isn’t calorie free) and would avoid being battered.

‘Both of your legs are broken. Would you still eat the waffle?’

‘Do I have a wheelchair to escape on?’

‘No! Would you eat the waffle?’

‘If I had two broken legs?’  (Is it me, or is this getting a little out of hand now? It’s a bloody waffle. They aren’t that nice!)

I sigh, ‘I would have probably given up on the waffle by now to be honest.’

‘So’, his turn to pause for dramatic effect ‘You would deny yourself the pleasure of the waffle when it became too painful?’

‘Yes,’ I reply with a deep sigh ‘If you had broken both of my legs I would be most displeased as not only have I just bought new shoes, but I cannot eat when I am pissed off and although Starbucks waffles are delicious, I would not want my legs broken, so I would leave the waffle where it was.’

I am aware that I am waffling (no pun intended) but when I stop he urges me to go on.

I falter slightly before believing I finally grasp what he is getting at and ploughing on with what I deem to be his revelation full steam ahead ‘because some pleasure isn’t worth getting hurt for is it? I wanted the waffle, you offered me the waffle, but it isn’t worth the pain, so leaving the waffle seems the perfect solution. Even though I miss out on what I wanted…’

He smiles slightly before leaning slowly back on his chair, not losing eye contact with me once.

I am completely confused.

Now I have said it out loud, that doesn’t seem right at all.

The room is deathly quiet.

‘Can I ask you something Lexy?’

‘Go for it.’ I say shitting myself now; sensing something important is about to happen.

‘Did you never consider, even for a moment, that you could just take the stick off me?’

I hadn’t.

‘…And eat your waffle in peace, with no pain, just enjoyment?’

I hadn’t.

Had you?

*This post was brought to you by Postnatal Depression. Finding the inner courage to take the stick away, personal insult by personal insult, believing in myself little by little and opening up and peeping from behind the wrought iron door, tiptoe by tiptoe.

‘Hey Irish one, I burnt your chips because I was busy being a brilliant mummy playing with Addison, and I set the oven a little too high. Ill bang some more in.’

Shit happens.

Want a bite of my waffle?

Operation Skinny Bint.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then Jane visits. The bitch.

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

You have GOT TO be joking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

15 MONTHS POST DELIVERY.

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

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

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

My goal is realistic.

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

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

What? Don’t look at me like that!!

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

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

Wish me luck.

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

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

Bahahahahahaha!

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

And then went and made a pasta butty.

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

My thunder thighs curse him.

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

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

Your choice. My flab. One Goal.

If she is a size 12, i am a supermodel.

God I wish I was naturally thin.

I don’t know about you, but the word ‘diet’ makes my skin actually crawl. The word ‘gymnasium’ makes me want to shove as many salt and vinegar square crisps in to my mouth, as quickly as I possibly can until I feel like I am happily chewing on broken glass. (Anybody who loves square crisps as much as I do will know all about the pain/enjoyment factor of said square crisps.)

Both words spoken in the same sentence, and I automatically want to hide behind the sofa and sleep. I’m being honest. Just hearing them used in the same sentence exhausts me. And if you even mention the dreaded WieghtWatchers , I instinctively reach for the Revels.(A grab bag that is. Not a single bag. Obviously.)

 If I close one eye, when looking in the mirror. I can lose half of my body fat, in an instant. If I take out my contact lenses, I am transformed in a heartbeat, in to a blurry, foggy, squirming mass of gorgeousness. I can be any shape I like, and I choose waif -like please! If I close my eyes and concentrate on the fantasy; I am a size 10.

 Unfortunately though, when I have my contacts firmly stuck (usually as crispy and dry as Ryvita, the perils of being awake 23 hours a day) in both eyes. I am what I am. And it is what it is. I am a size 14. (Code for; 16, possibly an 18 on a bad day.) And right now this instant, there is nothing I can do about it. (This simple fact however, will not stop me from having a major strop, throwing all my clothes out of the wardrobe, my dummy out of the pram, giving my other half a load of abuse and bursting in to tears at any given point. It will also not stop me from ordering a Chinese later tonight either, so go figure.)

I have never ever been thin. Even at my slimmest, according to the pie chart of doom at the doctors office, I was still obese. Which at 5ft 3 and 11 stone strikes me as a bit harsh! Ok, 5ft 2 and 12 stone.. But still! There is no need to be rude!! So even when I was slim(mer) than I am now. I was still curvy. I was still voluptuous. (I hate that word!)

 It was right after the evil pilot had been knobbing the slutty hostess at 32 thousand feet  (see; once upon a time in a fairytale) that I lost a lot of weight. Seemingly, playing the part of the jilted wife made me angry, and even seemingly-er, the only time I can not eat is when I am angry. (Who knew?) So even though I was obviously devastated *reaches for tiny violin* I was actually secretly thrilled by the affect all this anger was having on my dress size. So much so, that I fraternised with it. I encouraged it. I supported it, and I invited it in to my daily routine. I was the hulk! (but thinner and less green.. ) Sponsored by starbucks.

 I drank coffee like a woman possessed. I ate nothing but fruit. Meaning, if you needed me. I was usually in the toilet. (TMI? Tough!) It was the first time in my life I was proud of my body. It was the first time in my life I felt good on the outside. It was the first time in my life I could shop in the high street shops and experiment with my style. (Everything fit me! For the first time ever!) It was also the first time in my life, it began to dawn on me, that maybe ‘the outside’ wasn’t all that mattered. (Clearly being dumped and shit on from a great height (do you see what I did there? No pun intended…much!) had inadvertently made me less shallow. Another of the very many, great lessons, I learnt that year. The most important being – never trust a pilot.)

 My body began to fall apart on me, bit by bit. It was like a modern version of Death Becomes Her. I was suffering heart palpitations, dizziness and I was prone to hot flushes and fainting. (Most embarrassing moment ever; fainting in the buff while trying to ‘impress’ my other half!) I was permanently cold and permanently paranoid! (I convinced myself over a six month period, that I had a number of different ailments, ranging from the more common of cancers, to the Ebola virus. How my other half did not have me put down I will never know. I was Annoying.com)

 And yet walking in to the doctors office with a nasty cough, (another awful side affect – I constantly had flu symptoms!) Dr. Quock took one look at me and gasped ‘Wow, look at you, Im very proud of you! Congratulations! I bet you feel so much healthier don’t you?’ (Patronizing cow.) No. Actually knob face I don’t. I may be ‘in the green’ on the pie chart. But I couldn’t be further away from ‘healthy’, than if you rammed my mouth full of lard and kicked me in the elbow. Which just goes to show, actually, how absolutely inconsequential and unimportant those pie charts are….

Getting pregnant soon put the brakes firmly on the ‘I want to be the slimmest woman that ever lived’ trip and pressed the accelerator down hard on the ‘I can eat what I want now I’m pregnant and I intend to, so fuck off’ voyage. Yes, I wanted a healthy baby, but really my actions were selfish. I just wanted to eat. It was a relief. I felt able- bodied, ‘bright eyed and bushy tailed’ (and lots of other annoying ways to describe healthy), in what felt like an instant! Safe in the knowledge that when the baby was born it would ‘drop off’ right? That’s what everyone told me!!

Turns out everyone frigging lied.

There’s me shoving chocolate down my face at a rate of knots, telling myself (with my mouth full) that it didn’t actually count. As it was pregnancy chocolate, and pregnancy chocolate magically drops off! Lying bastards.

In all honesty I have probably lost about 3 stone (code for; 2 stone) since Addison was born. Its been hard work. And I probably have another 2 (code for; 3) stone to go before I reach my ideal weight. (I hate that term. Ideal weight. Because my ‘ideal weight’ if we are being totally honest with one another here, is about 7 stone. But only so I could eat my way back up to a healthy 10 stone!) The problem though, is my lack of motivation. I am SO unmotivated.

 The way I see it, I feel healthy and I think I look half decent. Im a new mother for gods sake. (Although in all honesty, I’m not sure how much longer I will get away with that) Plus Im busy. He is teething! Donuts dont count if you eat them before the sun comes up!!

 And seriously if Vanessa Feltz can happily look the world in the eye and state she is a size 12 (lying cow!) Then So can I. (I’m also a lying cow) Because its your state of mind that’s most important isn’t it? She is happy (apart from the break down!) and I am happy (apart from the PND) so clearly being thin is a state of mind!!

In which case, I am a River Island size 10! (Which everybody knows is an 8 really….)

Sweet and sour chicken anyone?

 Or maybe a revel?