NightSwimming. (Me, Dave, and the cast of Chicago.)

She locked me in the toilet.

It was not fun.

Last night while staring with unbridled rage at the back of the Irish One’s innocent, unknowing and gently slumbering head, while trying unsuccessfully to get to sleep, my brain (which clearly hates me) seized the moment and escorted me on a not- so magical -mystery tour of my youth.

In all honesty I was seconds away from venomously flicking this bruise that currently lives on the back of the Irish Ones neck, such was my frustration and jealousy at his peaceful sleeping form (and in all honesty I hate that he swans off to play football, so it serves him right for getting a bruised neck, he’s lucky I haven’t punched it, its big enough to have it’s own name) so it was probably best that my attention was averted away by my brain (the brain that still clearly hates me) on to yet more memories I had long forgotten.

Insomnia at it’s best ladies and gentlemen.

Like he hasn’t been through enough, bless his little Leprechaun socks, my subconscious must have been thinking.

But ‘Thwack!’

Just imagine how great it would feel to flick it though!

Then I could totally pretend I had done it in my sleep, or even better! Just deny it ever happened at all, with a casual and groggy ‘what? You must have been dreaming honey but I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU WOKE ME UP!’

I could pretend I was in Chicago the musical and burst in to song! (You know! Like in the Cell Block Tango? ‘I DIDNT DO IT!’ I could sing,  ’He ran in to my finger! He ran in to my finger, 9 times!…’ actually forget that. That sounds a lot ruder than I wanted it to… we aren’t that kind of couple… I mean there have been times when I… you know what? Lets move on.)

Oooo just thinking about it is making me grin. (The musical…)

Ahhh nighttime frolics, how times have changed. (Ahem.)

Anyway.

Bruise flicking aside, I am actually, usually quite a nice person, honest.

This leaves me unsure at to why my brain decides to regularly torture me for hours on end, when I am ravenously desperate for sleep, with dragging me on silent but very painful journeys, jam packed with my biggest regrets, most embarrassing moments and greatest and most horrifying adrenalin pumping life memories.

Dave. Dave is what the bruise should be called.

Insomnia is too calm a word to describe not being able to sleep.

Who comes up with these names?

Maybe I should apply for a job doing that.

In honesty there is a fair few I would change.

Insomnia being the first, I would immediately change it to Headfucknia.

I would also change the spelling of diahhorea diahorrea diaherria diahorria, (case and point)! And change it to Bumburnsplateria.

Anyways.

I assume that this particularly high voltage memory came as a courtesy aperitif to what will no doubt be tonight’s action packed main course of fuel jammed adrenalin anxiety 4am deliberations.

On Sunday we are flying to Spain.

Those who know me, will know I hate flying almost as much as I hate Dave the bruise.

Yes, Dave suits him.

My house wont be empty though, for any would be amateur burglars out there, no it won’t be empty at all, it will be full of massive burly German Shot putters wearing lederhosen and weedy but clearly dangerous mafia types in trilby hats all smoking cigarettes and whispering about their collection of guns and knives and er, stuff. I am having these house sitters flown in from… well… Germany and Russia…. to er… protect all the valuable foot tearing toy trains and cars and… Shall we move on?

DON’T BURGLE MY HOUSE. Seriously, it’s not a healthy place for feet.

Anyway, during this particular memory, I was flying home to visit my father for his 50^th birthday.

I had glandular fever and was pissed off.

Not just because I had glandular fever but also because…no it was mainly because I was stuck on a plane and had bloody glandular fever.

Me feeling hopelessly dizzy, dopey and rough, of course meant this trip was bound to involve a hefty amount of embarrassment for me and of course, a dopey, ditzy, and not very apologetic flight attendant.

The very same flight attendant that ended up locking me in a tiny toilet coffin (did I say coffin? I meant… well… coffin) at 800 million feet above sea level.

As if being stuck on a fuselage attached to two enormous steel gasoline and match holders, cleverly designed to look like safe engines at that height wasn’t bad enough, I was now trapped in a cubicle with a loud swooshing hole that dropped the poop out.

‘I can’t get out!!’ I had screamed, upon hearing a lock clunk from the outside and dropping a big one.

I never lock toilet doors, just to be clear, on account of being incredibly anxious in small spaces thanks to being scarred for life by Virgin trains and their electronic door invention, which resulted in me being trapped in a shit stinking toilet from Manchester to Brighton for 7 hours (!!!) at the age of 25. (And if that wasn’t bad enough, I was on my way to visit a potential boyfriend at the time, And let me tell you, no amount of channel number 5 masks the stench of sweat, cheap bleach and condensed commuter poo. Marilyn Monroe clearly never traveled on a ding a long, or whatever those swinging trains are now called…)

Anyway, back to my memory.

I had immediately, still sat in the squatting and weeing position kicked the flat of my feet up on to the offending door, to check what I had just heard was in fact the sound of prison.

The door, much to my disappointment, and most likely the relief of the people sat in the first few crushingly tight rows, did not open.

‘Let me out!!’ I screamed jumping to my feet and banging on the door still mid wee but so much blood rushing to my ears I swear I may have blacked out momentarily.

With my voice having been ravaged by my aching glands, my breath coming out in raspy glandular spurts and with the wee running cold down to my ankles I tried not to cry  ‘I didn’t lock the door but now I can’t get out!!’ I howled.

‘I know!!’ what must have been the orange shiny faced flight attendant yelled back relatively calmly from behind the metal door, ‘I locked it for you. Twas left open.’

‘I know!’ I now shrieked trying to steady myself and banging my elbows off every available surface in the process, ‘I know!’

What felt like an eternity of turbulence passed and when nobody responded I began to hammer on the door again and tried to push it open with all the puny feverish strength I could muster.

‘I am agoraphobic!’ I begged pathetically loudly to 245 passengers ‘ please UNLOCK the door, unlock it, unlock it, oh please god unlock it!’

‘Your agoraphobic?’ came the female voice again ‘Well you should be alright in there then, it’s tiny.’ She sounded confused.

‘NO!’ I had shouted now at full force. ‘Let me out!!!!’

‘Just unlock the door.’ She had calmly whispered back in her Liverpudlian accent. ‘You’re being very loud. It is simple. Just unloccccchhhkkkk the door from the insiiiide.’

In an immediate whirlwind, I grasped at the lock, slid it to the unlock position and with the force of a highly steroidal midget body builder, burst out of the cubicle like a hot rat out of a saucepan.

A hot semi naked rat, out of a saucepan, that was also covered in urine and shaking like a shitting dog.

A hot semi-naked rat covered in urine and shaking like a shitting dog who had just inadvertently mooned, front bum and back bum, 75 rows of skint Malaga to Manchester holiday makers.

The bastards actually applauded.

Oh the shame.

‘AGORA-PHOBIC’ I had stuttered directly in to her face, trying desperately to salvage any pride that may have remained, while hurriedly trying to pull up my jeans and hide my face, as well as ignore the horrified gasps coming from the old man sat in seat 1A, who got so close at one point he nearly got a bite of my left cheek instead of his soggy salad, ‘is actually a fear of not being able to escape.’

‘Oh.’ She had retorted blankly ‘I thought it was a fear of open spaces. How do you get on in lifts then?’

I don’t really remember much from here as I actually did black out and was escorted off the plane and in to the arms of a mustached Spaniard supporting a first aid box (we landed first) but I do remember that air stewards face very well and so help me god if I ever see her again… (I’ll go bright red and wish for the ground to swallow me up whole.)

It really was as simple as that, one minute I had been lying in bed not flicking any bruises and the next minute… well I was still in bed but on the back of that memory my heart was pounding and I was literally curled under the duvet in shame.

Bloody insomnia.

Bloody glandular fever.

Bloody Virgin trains.

Oh I was curled up like a donut!

Not for long though.

I’m resilient; I soon went back to staring at but not flicking Dave and planning and stressing out about my wedding. (He hasn’t asked yet, but you know, I am sure he will! I am such a catch!)

On Sunday we go to Spain.

We are travelling back to my birthplace!!

(I wasn’t actually born there, I was actually born in Rochdale but that’s wholly beside the point, I should have been born in Spain and totally would have been too if it wasn’t for the fact my mum and dad lived in Rochdale at the time of my birth… )

I won’t be using the toilet on the flight unsurprisingly and plan on fashioning instead an adult size pair of pull ups out of a bandana and 25 Tena lady’s first thing Sunday morning right before I down 3 diazepam, 6 anti depressants and a bag of square crisps.

(The square crisps are just in case I never get to eat any again.)

I do realise this cocktail will undoubtedly ensure I miss Addison’s excitement at being so close to a plane and not being a drooling blob (he was 9 months last time) and I am sure, like his daddy (and Dave) he will love flying, but alas, it will be the only way I will make it through.

Wish the Irish one luck.

I won’t need it.

I will be off my face before we even leave terra firma.

I better apply for a passport for that bruise, as it’s probably going to spread somewhat.

God love Dave.

He’s part of the family.

(… And he’s got it coming…he’s got it coming…)

I love me a good musical.

MammyWoo’s guide to Tot Traveling.

God I hate flying.

If I could, I would never step foot on a big metal bird ever again and would travel everywhere by boat (with champagne in my hand and my hair blowing in the wind.)

I hate everything that is involved with taking to the skies, but nothing terrifies me more than the fact that for 2 and a half hours at any given point, my quaking bones will be at the very minimum, a midgie’s dick away from the final frontier and a midgie’s forskin away from potentially plummeting 32 godzillion feet to my untimely and not very romantic death.

It is not the actual death bit that scares me, because I figure, wherever I was before I was born I was fine, it is more the plummeting part that puts the fear of god up me.

You have to admit. Flying is not natural. Flying is shit and I am shit at flying.

It’s a means to an end though, and if i can happily sit and speak to thousands of people I don’t know on my iphone, then I must also accept and deal with the fact that I will have to fly every now and again.

I am a strong woman. Honest.  So I will cope.

This week started with me sitting on a Goodfella’s pepperoni and will end with me mounting a bird of death to Spain, to visit my dad and the various wild animals and hairy Spanish murderers (all lurking in the undergrowth) dotted around his colonial style Spanish finca which literally sits on top of a beautiful mountain in the middle of nowhere.

If we were just a little bit richer and a little bit famous, we could probably build a bouncy castle type landing pad on top of his balcony (not the bit with the turret) and just parachute out of the plane and right in to his living room, instead of having to endure the shaky, achy decent on to the runway of doom in to Malaga. (I hate take off and landing and the bit in between, come to think of it, the most.)

Unfortunately though, I have bled my father’s bank account dry over the last year (thanks dad, love you!)  and as I am not famous at all, (unless you count the time I fell off the stage, exposing myself, at the chinese karaoke) the theme park esque landing pad will have to be put on hold for now. (Maybe when we win the lottery eh? )

That said, I love visiting my dad, I love going home, (when I lived there we lived in a trendy, hustling, bustling town further up the coast, but when I left papaaa went local and decided to move the family home to el campo where he now spends his time gardening, spotting wild boar, wearing plaid shirts and ringing me for advice about how to download ‘stuff’ like that ‘angry bird shit’ from ITunes. Although it has to be said, his landscape garden is absolutely beautiful and his quality of life is enviable) and finally I love watching Addison spend quality time with granddad.

Addison adores his granddad almost as much as I do and I can’t wait to spend a week laughing and enjoying the company of my three favourite men. Unfortunately Doodle will be staying here so our matching poodles will not get to cavort in the sun together. (Matching poodle’s are the ultimate accessory.)

After my last visit to Spain which involved amongst other things, me forgetting the word for nappy (panales!) and having to play charades with an unsuspecting commuter at 8 in the morning (1 word, 2 sylables, mime having a poo.) I have put together a list of things; you simply must do if you are travelling abroad for the first time with your new child.

MammyWoo’s guide to travelling with a tot, if you will.

1)      Don’t do it unless you absolutely have to.

2)      If you can go by boat then please lend me your boat so I can go by boat too.

3)      On arriving at the airport don’t announce to your partner, you have in fact, forgotten the changing bag. This will only enrage your travelling companion and cause massive argumentus errupticus over international waters.  Just buy a new bag in the departure lounge; it isn’t like he is going to notice!

4)    Squeeze baby’s tummy gently so he/she poo’s before you get on the plane.  (JOKE!) Aeroplane toilets are designed by people with no elbows so take a plastic knife.

5)      Hack your own elbows off with the plastic knife during takeoff, in preparation for in-flight flatulence and follow through. (The baby’s, not yours.)

6)      Take toys your baby has never seen before, this will keep him entertained for at least 12 seconds before the screaming begins. (Yours not his.)

7)      Unwrap the toys before you get on the plane as asking for ‘a knife to slice the twiddly bits of my box’ may alarm the homosexual (but fabulous) air steward.

8)      Take a local language phrase book. Learn the word for ‘fucking hell’ and ‘bollocks’ so that people know to get out of your way when you begin to lose the plot.

9)      Never give a six month old a prawn. (BELIEVE ME.)

10)   Make sure you take enough formula to last the duration of the holiday. If you have never breastfed, massaging your tiny boobs in a desperate attempt to produce milk, will only serve to send the wrong message to your partner and ultimately your baby will still be starving after you have fought him off.  

11)   Never say yes to sex until he has promised you at least an hour, of child free sunbathing.

12)   Always find out where the nearest Dr’s office is for any eventuality including but not limited to; 

• Severe sunburn.
• Severe annoying tendency illness (The Irish One not me.)
• Gastro enteritis (the Baby.)
• ‘A bad stomach’ (the Irish One.)
• ‘The shits.’ (me.)
• ‘Get out of my house you smelly bastards’ (my dad.)

And finally;

BUY A TOTSEAT FROM BABY LOVES SHOPPING!! Some of the high chairs over there are dodgy as hell! Do I want to tie my baby in to that hammock using string and an old Labrador? Er, no gracias.

See you on the other side people. I love you long time.

Are you ready for some babysitting dad?

Una cerveza porfavor!

From 360000 feet with love…

It is so bumpy, this flight!!!

There have been moments, over the last half an hour, where I have been on the very precipice of a real life, lose the plot, screaming, shouting, throwing myself on the floor and begging the pilot to land, panic attack. (Yes, I hear you gasp in shock. It really isn’t like me!)

I have informed the Irish one if this turbulence continues, they will need to let me off the plane. I need to get off this plane. This fear is awful. Terrifying even. (Not right at this moment like, as I’ve had two beers and I am undeniably calmer. I have learnt in the most recent past on a night involving a lot of darkness, a mountain and an axe murderer hiding in the undergrowth, that with a beer, most things are easier to handle.) But earlier on,  post Stella Artois, I was totally serious.

The Irish one, being as pragmatic as he usually is, just looked at me and said  ‘please do NOT TELL the air hostess you are in labour or something. You do not look pregnant. That woman was bang out of order, and you had just had a whopper.’ (Some Spanish bint in burger king was busy fondling Woo when she turned to her husband and professed how brave i must be to be pregnant again so soon. I speak Spanish. This little tete a tete did not end well.) And damn it he knows me too well.

Another beer then.

It is bumpy now. Holy hell it is bumpy now. Did I mention I am drinking beer to calm me down? It seems to be working so much better than lavender oil.  I am a whole decade calmer than I was an hour ago, plus I can see land and for some reason that totally puts my mind at ease.

Let’s not start to question how absurd that notion is right now. We can examine that when my feet are firmly placed back on Mancunian tarmac.

Right now all I want to do is ensure Woo stays asleep and my over pumping, harassed and confused, medicated heart does not flop out of my mouth and land with a wet splat and a warm thud on Addison’s forehead. (I would also like to ensure the plane doesn’t , well, you know, I can’t actually bring myself to utter the words i hear so often on air crash investigation at 36000 feet. (Mental note to self stop thinking about air craft investigation) but needless to say that one is out of myyyyyyy bloody control.) Fuck it is bumpy. I Bet we are over France. Even French air space is hostile towards me. (I swear the French, yes the whole nation, hate me. I worked there for six months in 2002 and made many enemies, few friends. It had a lot to do with my being English and nothing to do with me thinking ‘Zut alors! On coule! Was a good conversation opener! Damn tricolore GSCE French! )

Quick look out the window… yup, I can still see land.

Another beer please.

The time should be 6.15 pm as we have an entire hour left of this death flight. Instead, the time at the top of my (switched to death flight mode) Iphone reads 2.15am, as Monarch delayed us by a year and a half, to carry out routine maintenance on this very aircraft (of death.)  I don’t mind so much the delay. It was the fact Burger king closed too early and by the time i was hungry again i couldn’t have another whopper (baby) implanted in my belly. Also the El Starbuckso shut at 8pm. Which is ludicrous. Absolutely ludicrous. I shall be writing a letter of complaint.

My holier than though, buzzy bee, hackney knee, all things sweet and sour, VERY BLOODY BUMPY JAHAYSUS IT IS BUMPPPYYYYY. The seatbelt sign has been on and off once already. I bet it comes on again now. That is never good. They should change the please fasten your seatbelt sign to; there is a damn fine chance we are about to plough in to the side of a mountain please sit down sign, at least that would be more honest. And you could prepare, say your last goodbye’s etc

Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god. It is bumpy. Some woman once told me when I felt the fear like this I should picture myself somewhere that makes me calm. Picture yourself in a calm, loving, stress free environment she said. An environment that makes you happy.

I am having a lie in curled up with Doodle.
I am having a lie in curled up with Doodle.
I am having a lie in curled up with Doodle.
I am thin.
I am thin.
I am thin, 

What?! It’s my bloody projection!

There is also a mountain of Swiss chocolate.
There is also a mountain of Swiss chocolate.
There is also… oh who am I kidding?

Another beer please!

Still bumpy.

The Irish one has fallen asleep. If this bumpiness gets any worse i shall have to wake him with a swift sharp jab to the nether regions. (And not the ones we are currently flying over!)

I thought it was only supposed to be Ryan Air that had turbulence this bad for god sake! (If you don’t believe me, ask anyone who has been on a Ryan air flight and they will  no doubt, readily regail you with horror stories of Irish turbulence. A Ryan air flight could turn a seasoned pilot to a lump of quivering mess, I am sure of it. I can only assume this is because, A) the flights are so cheap they completely cut a corner, because they cannot afford not to, and miss out the entire semester of flight school that includes how to fly smoothly, or B) more likely because the fact they are in fact pilots, they are too busy shagging slutty scouse air hostesses at 23000 feet to give a shit about, you know, their passengers, being shaken about like a jelly on a thigh master. But hey ho! It’s not like i am bitter or anything. (If you have no idea what i am going on about. That is probably for the best. But feel free to read my earlier post about bumping in to an ex. That should explain it all in perfect detail. Oh and if you do read it, my boobs don’t leak anymore either. So yes, it does stop.)

OH MY GOD I CAN’T SEE LAND!

Where the hell has the land gone? How can land just disappear? That is ridiculous. Oh my god it is soooooo bloody bumpy. I will have to write a letter of complaint.

Oh for the love of god.

Addison just followed through in his sleep (I am shocked I haven’t joined him, and I cannot say I blame him) but I am unable to move from the seat to go and sort the situation as the seat belt sign is back on and last time I checked I still had elbows, so this woman on my left can stick her nose up all she wants, but the smell will have to stay. (Ok, I may have pumped once or twice.)

On the upside I have had a fantastic fortnight, so if I plummet to my death now, at least I will have gone out on a high.

Addison got his first tooth.
I survived a night with an axe murderer.
Addison learnt to walk instead of bounce.
I sprained my wrist.
Addison saw the sea for the first time.
I ate my body weight in prawns.
Addison sat in a forward facing car seat for the first time.
I suddenly developed car sickness and had to sit in the front. (Sleep ploy!)
Addison got gastroenteritis.
I had a screaming fit in my sleep.
Addison had the time of his life.
I had the most wonderful christmas I have had in a very long time.
Addison got to know his granddad.
I already knew he was the best.

And last, but not least I got 12 hours sleep on my first post partum night out. (I Had to mention it again. I am still thrilled by this, even if by now it seems like a distant memory.)

I should probably be trying to sleep now instead of writing this note, but I can’t. I am too stressed out, and besides we should be landing soon.

ARGHHHH yes. I have to go.

The plane is dropping! And with it my arse!

But where is the runway?

WHERE IS THE RUNWAY?!?!?!?!
THERE IS AN AXE MURDERER ON THE RUNWAY!!!!

I am at home, I am thin, I am drinking a vanilla latte.
I am at home, I am thin, I am drinking a vanilla latte.
I am at home, I am thin, I am drinking a vanilla latte.

The power of christ(mas) compels you, Santa!

‘Fuck.’ I sit upright in bed.
‘What?’ as the Irish one turns over groggily.  
‘It’s four am!’ Pulling the covers back and tearing open my swollen lids.
‘Fuuuuuuuck.’ Pulling the covers back over himself and pretending he doesn’t care.
‘Get up NOW!’ throwing the baby over my shoulder and kicking the bed.

And that is how, the day I had been dreading since time began, (A slight exaggeration maybe, so ok, I will amend it so it is a less dramatic- more truthful version!) That is how the day I had been dreading since Addison’s time began, (See?  For those of you who don’t like creative writing? Now I am managing both dramatic and honest) commenced. Badly.

We had overslept. 

Of course we had! Both mobile alarms had been set for days, months, YEARS! (I really can’t help the drama. It’s in my blood.) And yet somehow we still managed to oversleep. How?? I really don’t know. (Mr Sod at his bloody best) I am pretty sure I didn’t even manage to get 4 winks, never mind the pre-promised 40 and yet somehow we managed it. We had overslept by a full, planned to a tee, lets get ready at a relaxing pace, let mammy get her bowels in order in preparation for the flight ahead, hour!

At this point, so early in the proceedings (4am!!) I would love to be able to introduce you, once again, to the Benny Hill theme tune. Except, I do not need to, as the general ambience of both my own mood and that of the Irish one, while running around in a wide eyed, big haired panic was summed up perfectly by my mobile phone shrieking out ‘The Exorcist’ theme tune at five minute intervals. (The Irish one had set this theme as a joke earlier in the year, thinking it would be funny to have as an alarm, and as a ringtone for err, well, for someone scary. Ahem. I have no idea who he could have possibly meant? I’m not due back at work for months so what gives? He is so out of order! My boss isn’t scary!  But anyway! Cough cough cough whistle whistle.) So as it turns out, given my nerves and my uncensored, stomach clenching fear of flying, the theme tune was extremely poignant. (I literally had to force myself not to start running in slow motion while looking back over my shoulder, with a terrorised look on my face, just for kicks. Ok, I did do it, but no one saw me. And only for a moment!)

So! Disaster averted! We woke up late. But ahaaaaa screw you sods law! Because we still managed to be ready and out of the house on time with minimal drama! (I did catch my ear with my GHD’s, so now have a nice welt slowly growing out of the side of my shell like, but that’s another story. I only screamed once. See??? Minimal drama. )

Unfortunately though, cockiness goes against me. As the next potential crisis was hiding in the shape of sodden tights (Addison’s not mine. And yes even though he is male I do put him in tights. It keeps his legs warm. And nobody will know. Well, nobody other than you. BUT again, it is all material for his 21^st birthday, so I am unable to promise that this secret will be kept) and a wet patch growing on his beeeehind.

Basically as the doorbell buzzed and awoke each dormant corner of the house, my boy, mid wee, got the fright of his life. Couple that with the general confusion of being fully dressed at 4 am and, ladies and gentlemen, you have yourself a squirter. 

‘Babes?’
‘What Irish one? For the love of god! The Taxi is here! Help me with these cases!’ (She says applying powder in the mirror, in an attempt to look less dead zombie more mother goddess. (Yes I know it will take more than a sweep of blush. Bastards.)
‘Has Addison sat in something wet?’
‘What?’ (At this point I pause mid dab, a bead of sweat forming on my top lip.)
‘He’s a wet bum.’ (Irish for; he HAS a wet bum.)
‘For the love of all things holy!!!’ (Drops make up brush in the loo and runs to grab Woo) ‘Give him here!’

NOW cue the Benny hill theme tune.

And that was just getting out of the house! Do I need to tell you what happened next?

Between Eccles and Spain, a lot happened (that’s what!) The following is not for the faint hearted.

• I tripped up in to a queue full of yawning and moaning, tired and grumpy passengers, accidentally grabbing a hairy and tall mans arse to stabilise myself. (I am still cringing.) The worst moment? He winked and said he didn’t mind. He winked! (I vomited in my mouth a little.)
• Our bags thankfully were under weight. (Even my suitcase shoves its skinniness in my face!) We realised on arrival we have forgotten ALL THE FORMULA! (I say we, but it’s not like I will EVER accept blame for this!) AND I only brought one extra pair of shoes! Can you believe it? I left room for the bloody formula. What is it with these airlines? 20kg is not enough! I have needs too you know! Anyway no drama. We picked some up in the supermarket immediately. Same brand, everything. (Its not too hot or too cold either! Wink wink smile smile.)
• We finally pushed through the sea of bums and backs and legs and heads to arrive at our seats, fanny around with belts and bags and whistles and wipes, finally get settled and ready for take off, and there it is. Poo face. We hadn’t even taken off yet and there he was proudly squeezing one out for mammy. (I can not type my reaction to this, quite frankly, personal attack on my well being, in here. It was far too upsetting for words. But I will say this. He knew what he was doing. As I passed him on to his daddy’s knee, I am sure he mouthed the words ‘America’s next top model’ at me. I knew flicking from the Disney channel would come back to bite me in the arse one day.)
• Jam sandwiches are a bad idea for a 9 month old when you are not in the comfort of your own home. (The smeared, sticky gentleman on my right hand side promised he didn’t mind. But then, if that were true? Where did he go after his chat with Stewart the steward? Didn’t mind my arse. Have a habit of vanishing in to thin air do you mate??)
• Changing a nappy at an altitude of 36000ft in a toilet I can only assume has been designed for people who don’t have elbows, was my idea of hell on earth. (All of a sudden I was all elbows; Woo was all feet, and all swively hips. Could I whip the nappy off and get a new one on in ten seconds flat,  like I do at home? Could I bollocks! Couple that with a few good jolts of turbulence and I began to panic. I very nearly left the comfort of that midge sized bog, with a shitty bum of my own, carrying a shocked baby and screaming WE ARE ALL GONNNA DIIIIEEEE!! Thankfully, though,  I managed to hold it together long enough (secret swig of vodka) to get back to my seat quietly and composed. (Ignoring the shakes, and my knees giving way, in front of the drinks trolley (another sneaky swig.)
• 2 hours of screaming. (Addison.)
• 2 hours of panic and apologising. (Me)
• 2 hours of sighing heavily, (Irish one) and assuring me we weren’t going to A) crash in to another plane on decent, B) fall from the sky due to double engine failure, or C) die in a horrific mountain meets air random and unexplained plummet. (I really need to quit watching Air Crash Investigation.)

On the plus side, when I had finally stopped shaking, and had finally finished kissing the ground and thanking my lucky stars for our safe arrival at Malaga Aeropuerto, the first thing I spotted, with my beady un-caffeinated and frazzled eye, was An EL Starbuckso!!!

A Christmas miracle!

Cue my first Spanish Latte de vanilla con leche desnatada porfavor.

OK, half a Christmas miracle.

The other half being, Addison slept through until 8.30 this morning!!!!! (A full nueve horas!)

So ignoring the fact I kept waking up in a cold sweat, thinking the bed was shaking (turn that bloody Excorsist theme tune off Irish one! It’s not funny, it never was!!) or that my head was about to start spinning off my shoulders in a sickly green rage (Just a normal day in the woo household then) I very nearly managed a full 40 winks.

‘And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof.
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
down the chimney St Nicholas came with a bound.’

Until he saw Mammy woo, suspended in air,
Green in the face, with very big hair,
You may be special, but don’t eat my pies!!
He fled through the chimney and took to the skies!!

Merry Christmas to one and all!

And to all of the nutbags who keep me sane (you!!) I hope you have all had a lovely christmas day. I love you all x

Houston? We have a problemo.

I am nervous.

I would even go as far as to say I am shitting myself.

This time last year I was heavily pregnant with only a few months to go. (Turns out I had no idea what being heavily pregnant even actually meant by that point.) What a drama queen I was. (No surprise there.) ‘Oh my bump is so big, I can barely walk, oh my back, oh I feel like shit. Poor poor me.’ If I could go back now and tell myself to hang on another few months, as by then I would have a full understanding of what the enormity of being humongously pregnant meant, I would.

Yes, I can picture it now.  Time traveller’s wife – the pregnancy edition.  (Cue voice over.) A fat, uncomfortable and thoroughly fed up (even with her own moaning) 39 week pregnant Lexy, visits a whiney, chubby, and relaxed 26 week pregnant Lexy and slaps her around the face
‘Quit your wining, you aint seen nothing yet… And put that burger down!!’
It would be a best seller. For sure.  

Anyway sorry about that tangent. I am so tired, it is hard to focus.  (I haven’t been to my new drive thru Starbucks yet today. YES DRIVE THROUGH! It is the most amazing thing that has happened to me this year!!!!!! Erm, you know, except for the birth of my son, obviously. Ahem.) 

Ive done it again haven’t I?  What was I saying? Oh yes.

This time last year, I was probably snoozing and idly looking forward to a lazy Christmas and a bit of turkey. (While questioning if it is normal for ones thighs to grow at the same rate as ones bump… ‘I’m not eating that much…’)

Right now, however, have I mentioned? I am absolutely laying an egg about Christmas. What a difference a year makes. (Except for, you know, the drama and the moaning.)

The reason why my bowels are doing the Hokey Cokey (and shake it all about!) currently?

A week on Thursday, I am travelling on a plane, for the first time, with Addison Jake oh my god ill just scream and puke for the hell of it, Doyle. Destination, Spain.

I am not a very good flyer, I’ll be honest. The whole rigmarole just makes me shudder. Violently.

I hate the anxiety. I hate the packing.

Oh how I hate packing.

I hate the mad dash to leave the house. I hate the ‘have you got the passports?’ conversation which is usually repeated at least a million times. (YES, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD YES!) ‘Just check one last time.’ (OH FOR HEAVENS SAKE!) I hate airports. I hate airport trolleys (They all have dodgy wheels! And I don’t have the stomach muscles to control wayward luggage mobiles anymore!) I hate searching for a number on a huge screen full of bloody numbers. I hate the queue to get on the plane. I hate the tunnel of doom and the smiling troll welcoming you on board. I hate the false smiles and unnecessary checking of the boarding pass, (‘Ooo 27A, you will find that particular seat, 27 seats down, just past the guy with the massive arse, bending over his chair, for no reason whatsoever, on your right. Its the seat that says 27A in letters above it.’ Really? REALLY? Well thank god for you. I’d have never have found it otherwise.)   

I hate all the touching and rubbing and polite, passively aggressive ‘excuse me’s!’ involved in getting to your seat. I hate the cabin crew. (You know why… remember the pilot who slept with the hussy?)

And finally?  I hate being whizzed down a run way at a million miles an hour. It is just not natural.

At the thought of that first dip and wobble, (you know the one, just before you reach the clouds) my internals are literally on a Benny.

In fact, hold that thought. I need the loo.

Right, sorry about the wait. (Don’t go in there for at least half an hour ok?)

So, yeah, a week next Thursday (Christmas eve, yes) we will be leaving the comfort of our own home, the home that has nappies. The home that has bottles, the home that has a steriliser, the home that has a cot bed, the home that has Playhouse Disney and most importantly the home where my two feet are always, solidly placed on the GROUND. We will be leaving my comfort zone and we will be heading for the heavens. The clouds. The unknown. A place where there is no ground. Did you hear me? NO GROUND!

Yeah, sure the flight is only 2 and a half hours, but have you any idea how much chaos a 9 months old ill just be sick on that nice lady over there because she grabbed me off mummy in the commotion baby boxer will undoubtedly cause in that amount of time? (Serves you right, troll.)

And don’t even get me started on all the new stuff, I will now have to accomplish while shitting my kecks during every wobble. (Turbulence can’t harm a plane? Tell that to the Apollo 13 crew.)

The not being able to bring formula through the barrier, the queues, and the can we sit here? No? Do you want the aisle seat? How does this work with a seatbelt? Does he sit on my knee?  What the fuck is a bulkhead? He has been sick, where are the wipes? Well what the hell are they doing up there?

What I commonly refer to as,  the changing a nappy at 32000 feet nightmare. Because it will be won’t it? And what if we forget the changing bag? Or he screams the whole way? Or his head falls off because of the altitude?

I need the loo again.

I may be some time.