Whiplash…

I guess, in the grand scheme of things, I do take a lot for granted.

It seems however that perhaps I should be more appreciative of stuff.

Like, my neck.

I never truly appreciated the momentous amount of effort my neck puts in everyday, not only keeping my humongous Sindy doll head with its erratic and uncontrollable bonce sitting on top upright, but it also seems to have some influence over my voice box too.

Who knew?

The neck and the voice in cahoots, I wonder if any medical people are aware of this phenomenon? Maybe I should write to … um… er… Google?

For the past week having been suffering with some pretty intense whiplash following on from my surprise fondling session with a glass wall, it has dawned on me just how much of my life I owe to my neck.

‘You are taking it a bit far Lexy. I am sure you could speak normally even if you are unable to swivel your head!’

The Irish one was frustrated with my whiplash.

The Irish one was wrong (as usual) as I had tried but totally couldn’t do ANYTHING normally without my neck agreeing.

It was like my GSCE drama was coming back to haunt me and for some reason I was really getting in to character.

As a Dalek.

Not only did I find myself having to walk and operate generally like I was in some dodgy parental version of Dr Who, but I was also, on account of my (Immense and fabulous theatrical background – seriously you should have seen me in the local theatre’s version of Drop dead Fred! I was the most life-like tree you ever saw!) I was also beginning to sound like a Dalek too.

‘Talk normally!’  He bellowed as he approached me from behind (not in a dodgy way) in the kitchen.

‘I ser-iou-sly carnt.’ I had mechanically responded turning slowly around to face him with my shoulders, a look of horror etched on to my face.

Just before this happened you see, I had been in the throws of attempting to erect a makeshift splint for my neck made out of an empty KFC bargain bucket and seven ice lolly sticks all glued together.

Addison, who had eaten the 7 ice lolly’s in a bid to seem useful was now swinging from the light fixtures screeching like an over sugared Russian monkey gymnast. Seriously, only dogs could hear him.

So upon shuffling in to the kitchen to fetch more glue for my whiffy chicken sponsored neck upholstery and discovering as I felt something remotely poo like squidge between my bare toes (as obviously Dalek’s cant look down) that Doodle had released his bowel all over the floor, I totally felt it normal if not necessary to shout.

‘EXCREMENT!! EXCREMENT!!’  In the most mechanical Dalek voice I could muster.

It just came out naturally, actually. (Which is also how doodle later explained himself.)

I have noticed though, that having whiplash is also akin to having just given birth.

In that, you are in all this pain but no one gives a damn cos now there is a baby (ours who was by now licking the windows,) you may as well be a lump of whale skin. (Although saying that, I’d make a nice lipstick me. They could call me – Shit Tinkle Brown.)

So anyway, here are my new years resolutions.

1) Stop walking in to glass walls as this ultimately leads to runny poo ending up between your toes and you being unable to clean your feet cos you cant bend down without either a) screaming like a girl or B)…. Screaming like a girl.

2) Keep the fish alive, because when the fish are dead they hold no entertainment value and a ‘holiday down the toilet’ is now just not cutting the mustard with the child. He is also now starting to believe, on account of us having to change the story, that to get to heaven, you have to flush the loo. Awkward.

3) Do more stuff that involves vodka.

4) Stop forgetting to take my medication.

And that’s me out.

‘Irish one!’

‘What?’ he replies a look of concern passing over his features.

‘Lick my poo toes!!’ I snort at how funny I think I am.

‘You are gross. I can not believe we are getting married this year!’

OH MY GOD.

I want to walk down the aisle dressed like a Dalek!

‘HE MUST OBEY! OBEY!’

I wonder if Disney would allow it? I bet they have the costume and everything…

Limp Much? (The final part.)

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

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

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

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

I am mortified.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My birth plan included;

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

 It did, under no circumstances, include.

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

Her actual words. Are you ready?

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

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

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

And finally.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bloody hell. What a day.

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

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

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

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

Somehow head, I doubt that.

I really doubt that.

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

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

We weren’t officially trying. 

No. Under no circumstances were we officially trying. 

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

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

We were officially stupid.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Big hairy soggy Bollocks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Two days later…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that’s where it began.

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

And all hell officially broke loose.

Dear Mother Nature…

 

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

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

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

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

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

This used to amuse me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And finally, 

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

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

You’re a bitch is what you are.

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

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

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

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

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

Are you taking the piss?

What the hell were you thinking when you created childbirth? 

I can’t even enjoy sex anymore. 

You ruined that too. I know how it ends.

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

I will not be wearing white trousers tomorrow.

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

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

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

Yours sincerely.

MammyWoo.

PS –OHMYGODIAMTHREEDAYSLATE!!!!

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!