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.

On your marks, Get set… (A three parter. Pt 2)

My time as Queen of the world is running out.

I really have enjoyed being pregnant.

I have reveled in bossing people about, having an excuse to be lazy, and being the centre of everybody’s universe! (What? I’m only being honest here!)

And even though, I probably shouldn’t admit this, I have really enjoyed playing the pregnancy card at every available opportunity to get my own way. I do not care about women’s lib. I am pregnant. Get me a drink. 

But, alas, all good things must come to an end. (Everyone keeps telling me that after the baby is born it won’t be about me anymore. I just smile politely and ignore them because clearly that can’t be right?!?! It is always about me?? Helloooo!!!)

I have officially been in labour for approximately 16 hours and so far it has been as dull as a Mars bar.

Ok. Actually let me re-phrase that. (The labour bit, not the Mars bar bit. I stand by my opinion of Mars bars. Dullsville, Arizona. )

My waters officially broke 16 hours ago, all over the new carpet and the dogs bum. He was stood underneath me. (His fault. Not mine) And I have been experiencing random contractions for the last year and a half, and so far I am hugely unimpressed with labour.

I have been in labour forever. At least that’s what it feels like. I am so Bored! What is wrong with this picture? Where is the rushing around? Where is the urgency? Where are the screaming ambulance sirens and the running midwives? Where are the sweaty women clambering to hold my hand and screaming PUSH!! Why aren’t I shouting out expletives at the Irish one and threatening to cut his gonads off if he comes near me again? Where is the drama? I asked you a question! Did you miss it? I repeat, where the hell is the DRAMA?

I was promised drama!

Every book I have read over the last 10 months has regaled me with tales of Drama. I was positively wetting myself in anticipation. (That’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it.) I live for the drama! Labour is supposed to be high octave. Labour is supposed to be all Go! Go! Go! Isn’t it? I’ve waited 10 months for this moment for god sake! All previous dramas have been leading up to this monumental occurrence! This is the main event! This is what I have been in training for my whole life!

Surely, I am not supposed to be just sat here on a damp and fraying old towel, munching on a kit Kat while moaning about the weather, in my own home, watching The Irish one play Mario Kart? (I was bought a Wii and a Wii fit, last week as a ‘thank you for having my baby’ present. The Wii fit got broken when I launched it at his head. I asked for a rock knobhead… and no it isn’t hormones!!!) 

Up until about an hour ago, I was playing too, out of sheer frustration. (If you can’t beat him (literally) then you may as well join him) and if nobody was going to pay me any attention, then I thought I may as well enjoy my last moments ‘of freedom’ by kicking The Irish one’s arse with Bowser the wonder dragon! But, as it wasn’t going to plan, with my highly un-dramatic contractions beginning to distract me from the cause, I made my excuses to the Flower cup and bowed out. Gracefully. So technically I didn’t lose. I retired!

I am in labour. Get me a drink.

I need to stop thinking about Mars bar’s (I want one now) and start counting my contractions. The thing is, these random contractions are a pain in the arse. (No pun intended.) I can’t even time them. They are so totally random. When I feel one starting, by the time I have worked out how to use the stop watch on my phone, they are finished.

They don’t even hurt. They are just uncomfortable. They feel like a very sharp pain, followed by a bit of an ache and then as if I have leg cramp, but across my belly. Does that make sense? Not too bad at all. (Although that last one was a little bit stronger.) Maybe next time instead of timing them, I will name them. That would make a nice change wouldn’t it?

‘How long was that one Lexy?’
‘I don’t know Irish One. But it was called Veronica. And she was a bitch.’

Yes. I think I will name them instead. That would be much more fun.

Time seems to have slowed right down to a complete stop. So far the only excitement has been my waters breaking. And I swear that shouldn’t have happened yet. It was that bloody chilli and that freaky bloody film. I knew I shouldn’t have eaten that chilli. It was hot as hell and it is impossible to jump up and down when you are this pregnant. (Everybody knows that is how you cool your mouth down.)

Instead of being sat here now, I could be out shopping for post pregnancy wear. I miss shopping. I miss shopping and I need some new skinny jeans. Do they do skinny jeans with a kangaroo pouch? Because apparently I will be left with a kangaroo pouch. Hopefully It will go fairly quickly as I refuse to do sit ups. Maybe River Island do funky girdles. I want to go shopping!

I want to go shopping for post pregnancy clothes. I wonder what size I will be. 

I didn’t mean to put on so much weight. It just sort of, happened. I just sort of, kept eating. After every mouthful, every meal and every king size MacDonald’s meal I would promise myself tomorrow I will be good. I will eat healthy. But tomorrow just never came. So five stone later (at least one stone will be baby right? This baby is going to be huge.) I am a bit of a heffa. A pregnant heffa, and like I say, if this baby ever gets its arse in gear and moves down my canal, I will lose like, what? 3 stone immediately? It will be fine. I am not even supposed to be in labour yet! I blame Leonardo de Caprio.

The excitement, (have I mentioned it was the only bloody excitement so far?) began at 11pm last night. We had just watched Shutter Island, which by the way is a god awful film in my opinion. It’s dark and freaky and full of thunder storms and lunatics. Two things I cannot stand.

• Thunderstorms because as a kid, I got stuck in a bus shelter with my big brother during one particularly bad storm and he told me the clouds were banging thier heads together, as they were angry with me because I was such a naughty child. He also told me that if I got hit by lightening my head would fall off.

By the time I got home I was a five year old nervous wreck.  My brother thought this was hilarious. I never quite recovered. It was terrifying!

• And lunatics because I see too much of myself in them.  

I think it would be very easy for me to slip in to a quiet corner and repeatedly count to one hundred over and over again, with a tissue on my head. I sometimes think it must be lovely to be a lunatic, like taking a break from your brain. Which is precisely why I don’t like lunacy. It’s too relatable. And maybe I’m a bit jealous.

Anyway back to the exciting bit. So, I was stood over the bed trying to get it slightly more comfortable using 800 pillows, a broom handle (don’t ask.) and a hot water bottle, when my waters broke. I thought I was peeing myself. I stood up straight and grabbed my bump in shock (ooo drama!) before rushing to the toilet. (When I say rushing, I use this term lightly. Think of perhaps, what an elephant would look like rushing.) I called out to the Irish one who was watching the football.

‘Honey I’ve weed myself again.’ (And who said romance was dead?)
‘Ok babes, I’ll be there is a second.’ (He is well used to this by now.)

We have now officially been together a grand total of 16 months. The man has seen waaaay more of me than I had officially planned by this point.

Pregnancy; killing romance dead, fart by fart.

Anyway, It was while I was trying to remove my Basque and sexy thong, (ha ha yeah right! Have you ever seen an elephant in a thong? No? Well there is a reason for that! I was actually wearing the oldest tattiest jogging bottoms I own. They are comfy! Comfort is key at this stage! And with sex well and truly out of the window anyway why bother making an effort? (Did I mention the elephant in a thong?) That the water (slime…) continued to wane and gush out of me like a leaky tap, I realised this probably meant something more monumental than another bed wetting incident. (Yes, I did say another.)

‘Honey?’ (Starting to panic.)
‘Yes babes?’ (Shut up woman! I’m watching match of the day!)
‘I haven’t weed myself actually.’
‘Oh well done yourself, do you want a cup of tea?’ (That should shut her up.)

Sigh.

‘No I mean, I think my waters have broken.’
‘Is this another joke? Because I’m not laughing. It is not funny.’

Have you ever read a fable called ‘The boy who cried wolf?’ 

Let’s just say he has an annoying habit of not listening to me, and I have an annoying habit of trying to shock him out of his football reverie in order to get his attention (so he can get me a drink, or give me a foot massage, or something equally as necessary! I am pregnant. Get me a bloody drink!)

It was funny at the time. (The panic on his face, as he would come running in, bless him! Your waters have broken?!? No, I would say. I just want a drink. Ha! Serves him right.)

‘No I’m serious. COME HERE!’
‘You said that last time, piss off and get your own drink.’

Serves me right.

‘No, I’m serious. Please come here!! It’s everywhere and the dog is licking it up.’
‘That’s disgusting Lexy.’
‘COME HERE YOU BLOODY MORON!’
‘Coming….’

We rang the hospital not long after, and I was shouting and sobbing down the phone before they even picked up. (It heightened the drama.)

‘My waters have broken and I am scared.’ (Which was true, I was.)
‘Pardon?’ The midwife picked up, she seemed a little confused.
‘My name is Lexy Ellis, my waters have broken and although my due date is tomorrow I am really scared.’

It has begun!!! Surely you were waiting for my call with baited breath?? I mean, the world will clearly never be the same again, for I, Lexy Ellis am having a baby! Help me!!

‘And what do you want love?’ she sounded bored.
‘Er, well, I don’t know. I just thought I should inform you, as I don’t know what to do.’
‘Well, ok.’ she finally answered…… ‘if I were you I would go to the nearest hospital’
‘Is this not the maternity unit at Hope hospital?’ I shrieked.
‘No love, its Picolino’s Pizza on Oxford road.’ (I am sure she was creasing herself laughing but I can’t be sure.)

Arghhhhhh! Wrong number! Damn it!

Ok. Deep breath.

I dialled again. This time checking I had the right number, and was connected immediately.  

‘Hello? Are you a midwife?’
‘Yes. How can I help?’
‘Are you sure you are a midwife?’
‘Pretty sure, yes.’
‘And is this Hope Hospital?’
‘Yes’
‘And you’re definitely a midwife?’
‘Yes, how can I help?’ beginning to lose her rag now.
‘My waters have broken and I am embarrassed. And a bit scared.’
‘Ok, Are you having contractions?’ she asked patiently.
‘I’m not sure’
‘That probably means you aren’t.’

How rude!!!

‘But come down and see us and we will check you out anyway.’

So we did. And because my contractions were too random and pathetic, they sent us home and told us to come back when my contractions were five minutes apart. They are now every, either 17 minutes, or every hour. Depending on how they feel.

My due date is tomorrow. So maybe, like me, pleb is just hanging around as he/she likes to be punctual. There is nothing worse than turning up early for a party is there? So I understand pleb’s rationale to be honest. (Oh, we nicknamed the bump, Pleb.)

Maybe I will have another game on Mario Kart. Show the Irish One how amazing I am at multi-tasking. Or maybe I will make him go get me a Mars bar.

I am in labour. Get me a Mars bar.

But I tell you this. If this is labour? It’s a bit dull. And certainly a doddle! Why do all these women go on like its hell on earth? I can handle this!!

It’s not even that painful…

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.

How to expect what you are not expecting.

There should be alerts.

There should be bells and whistles. Sirens and drum beats.  

At the very least there should be warning signs.

There is already?

No, i don’t mean, the ‘oh congratulations on your pregnancy’ type  slogans

‘Here is what you can and cannot do for the next nine (ten) months’ type pamphlets.

 I’m talking about the full on, honest, ‘trespass at your own risk, drink this bleach and your insides won’t be clean and sparkly, you’ll be dead’ type, easy to read picture and cautionary tale- warnings. Skull and crossbones, that type of thing.  

 ‘Don’t eat MacDonald’s, accept pain relief and avoid un-pasturerised cheese’ aren’t useful at all!

They are completely redundant! Like locking the gate after the bulldog has bitten the priest in the ball sack. (True story. And yes. He did take the lords name in vain. But i can’t say i blame him to be honest.) They are like taking your tarmac stained boots off after you’ve trodden it all the way across the new carpet. (How my friend’s husband isn’t dead right now, i really don’t know. The Irish one would be digging his own shallow hole. Brand new cream carpets! Tarmac – everywhere!)

I’M TALKING PROPER, HONEST, EASY TO UNDERSTAND WARNING SIGNS. 

I’m talking the kind of warnings you see on sign posts while waiting to board a great big scary rollercoaster. The ones you look at while you are waiting in line, and meticulously read, looking for some sort of get out clause. Or if you are a lover of roller coasters, the signs you read over and over again, while working yourself up in to a ‘woohooo i could have a heart attack, this ride is gonna be amazing’ frenzy. (I used to be the latter, now i mumble about how i have weakened pelvic floor and toddle off to the bathroom. Well, have you been on a bouncy, spinny, upside down ride since giving birth? I have. It was NOT pretty. Let’s just say i told people i had been on the log flume…)

Pregnancy, birth and motherhood is often described as ‘the biggest rollercoaster a woman can ride’ right? So why not?  Why not give appropriate forewarning?

Your doctor should provide adequate signals and information!  They could have them on the walls in the family planning clinic. They could swing over your head as you walk in to the gynae’s office. They could be stuck in pamphlet holders on your consultant’s reception.

Some bint in a smock could hand them out on the pregnancy test and condom aisle in Morrison’s. ‘Here you go love, just so you know. What to expect if you do, or if you are in the situation where you are with child, for the next 1-35 years. Thanks very much love. Have a nice day.’

I’m not talking any mamby pamby, watery, slowly break it to you type warning signs, here. I’m talking honest, straight forward, hard hitting, no beating around the bush, type signs informing you of the ride you are about to take;

by taking off the condom/ stopping the pill/ getting drunk/ allowing him to take his wellies off in the bath. – Delete as appropriate

Here are some examples of what i feel, the Side effects and cautions could be.

Do not ride – If you have a bad back. (As after labour you will affectively be crippled from the neck down. Walking around carrying a 23 pound boy with a snotty nose as well as having to push a trolley full of the Irish ones sausages and potatoes will ensure no sofa will ever be comfy again, and you will forever more inadvertently shout ‘oof’ every  time you bend down to pick up a discarded dummy. And yes, those jeans are a bit tight but yes again, you did just show the 68 year old man behind you the rather long crack of your arse. Perhaps tomorrow you should go back to the leggings….)

Do not ride – If you have a tendency to be dizzy. (As after birth you will no longer be dizzy, you will automatically find yourself, against your will or say so, upgraded to dozy bloody mare status. You can blame the Iphone all you want for sending messages such as;

• ‘I can’t wait to taste your cock’ to an old family friend. (Cooking, i can’t wait to taste your cooking!) or,
• ‘You are one hot mammal’ to a heavily pregnant  and slightly paranoid about her weight gain, friend. (Mama, you are one hot mama!) or even,
• ‘My hot cock tastes yummy’ to over 1000 people on twitter, (Chocolate, my hot CHOCOLATE tasted yummy!)

But ultimately you will only have yourself to blame. You were dizzy and you ignored the signs. You were already a bit dazed and you still embarked on the motherhood rollercoaster. Now you are just a dozy cow.  And yes, maybe the Iphone is a bit pervy, but seriously, at least something is. When was the last time you even had sex? )

Do not ride – If you have high blood pressure. (A mild nuisance can no longer be categorised as a slight irritant. A cat meowing outside your bedroom window at 11pm before birth, may have been considered cute. You may even have worried it was hungry and fetched a bowl of milk. Post birth, you will not care about being ‘an animal lover’ or even contemplate helping the neighbours call the ‘rspca.’  You will be looking for a shotgun. You will be fashioning a sling shot using a pair of old knickers and a heavy dirty nappy. (You can make anything when you are a mother.)

‘Wake the baby, cat? And feel the wrath of mother in a blind, red, furious rage!’

Do not ride – If you are a control freak. (Nothing will be routine ever again. EVER. Even your lists will change minute by minute. You may follow Gina ford (Swear word in our house) but on occasion you will not meet her standards. The house will be a mess.  No, you can laugh all you want. You can tell me you have OCD all you want. The HOUSE WILL BE A MESS. Even when it is tidy. Your trained nose will smell poo. And the cleaning starts again. IT NEVER ENDS.

Were you in control of your emotions before? You thought you were. But you got on the ride. Now you are out of control. Whether you like it or not. Now you are a snivelling, howling, hysterically laughing, sobbing, balling, shouting, walking round in circles heap of un – ironed baby grows.

Oh and there is a milk ring from the bottle on the tv stand. (Just letting you know!)

Do not ride-  If you suffer with memory problems. (What was i just saying? No seriously! What was i talking to you about? Damn it, it was really juicy! I haven’t seen you for ages. I wanted to catch up but i can’t finish a sentence. I just walked in to the kitchen for something. Er, hang on. What did i need?  I’ll just pop back in to the living room that will remind me. Oh yeah , feed the dog and put the kettle on for a bottle. No problem. So what was i saying? Oh yeah. If you have memory issues you are screwed. As after birth, when you are tired and… Was that the door? No? Ok, so yeah when you are… what was i saying?  Hang on. I’ll remember. Just let me give the dog a bottle and feed the baby some Pedigree chum.

• Have you seen my book? It’s in the fridge? Well what the hell is it doing in there?
• Do you know where my boots are? They are on the bed? Why the hell are they on the bed.
• Have you seen my eye liner? It’s in my hand? Oh yes, so it is.

I am not joking here. Auto-pilot is a fucker.

Do not ride -If you are not ready. (Hahahahahahahahahaha. When are you ever ready? I thought i was ready. I planned, i nested, i prepared. I was SO READY!! I was wrong. I was NOT ready! But then, are you ever ready to never sleep again?  To hold a tiny anus open to help find trumps? To pick your Childs stomach lining from between your toes?  Are you ever ready to constantly smell like an old sleeping bag? You know the smell. Musty, with a mixture of puke.)

Do not ride – If you enjoy sex. (Anal stitching is somewhat of a deterrent.)

Do not ride – As some effects may be too intense for some adults. (Anal stitching. Even the midwife cringed.)

Do not ride – As may be frightening for some people. (Tearing afore mentioned anal stitching. My Screams made the neighbours call the police. They thought i was being ‘maimed with a blunt hatchet’ (true story.)  

Do not ride – If you suffer from claustrophobia, agoraphobia, oooegraphobia (fear of eggs) or irritatingmanaphobia (phobia of irritating men.)  I may have made that last one up. (and the one before. But seriously, if you are scared of eggs, don’t do it. Kids love them scrambled! Awful, just awful!)

You ignored  ALL my warnings? You got on the ride anyway???

Well, in that case.

Please keep arms, hands, shoulders (knees and toes, knees and toes) in the vehicle at all times. Do not try and disembark said vehicle while carriage is still moving.  You will only cause unnecessary rocking of the proverbial boat.

Should you feel a little depressed, a little sad, a little guilty, and a little confused please seek help.

Should you feel like doubting yourself at every turn please try not to. You are amazing.

If you feel like crying every second day. Please seek help. You are not alone.

If you feel like knocking your other half out, please remove all sporting equipment from the home.

If you did not bond with your baby immediately, you are just like me. He is my world, now.

If you still wear maternity pants on occasion because you enjoy having a warm tummy, ahem… what? I have no idea what you mean? These are just my stretchy pants!!

If you sometimes feel you aren’t good enough. YOU ARE.

Is your child happy? Then you are more than good enough.

Are you struggling to be happy? Confide in somebody.

WARNING: ALL RIDERS DO SO AT THIER OWN RISK. THE ESTABLISHMENT TAKES NO RESPONSIBILITY FOR ALL CONSUMING LOVE, COURAGE ONLY A MOTHER KNOWS, PATIENCE ONLY A MOTHER UNDERSTANDS AND A FEELING OF CALM AND BELONGING, WHEN YOUR CHILD SMILES AND GRABS YOUR FINGER, ONLY A MOTHER CAN’T HELP FEELING PROUD OF.  

You made a baby. You are a superhero. (Would batman endure hours of labour, nipple torture and a forced episiotomy or anal tearing, and still smile at the end of is all? No he bloody wouldn’t. Batman is a frigging wimp. Bang! Pow! Wallop! My arse…(Literally.)

If you wish to ride again? (You are a mentalist.)

I am SO going to ride again***! 

 

*Park attractions are currently closed for routine maintenance.

*No they will not open tonight.

*In other words;  I have a bad back, I am a control freak, I get motion sickness, I am not ready and Ohmygod I suffer from Irritatingmanaphobia, so youve no chance. (Not for another 2 years anyway….)

Dear Mother Nature…

 

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

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

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

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

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

This used to amuse me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And finally, 

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

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

You’re a bitch is what you are.

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

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

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

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

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

Are you taking the piss?

What the hell were you thinking when you created childbirth? 

I can’t even enjoy sex anymore. 

You ruined that too. I know how it ends.

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

I will not be wearing white trousers tomorrow.

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

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

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

Yours sincerely.

MammyWoo.

PS –OHMYGODIAMTHREEDAYSLATE!!!!

Made to make your eyes water.

Seven months ago at this very moment, I was watching the Irish one spread mustard on a home made, ham sandwich while trying to huff, puff and focus myself through a never ending and incredibly painful contraction. I had been in labour for 55 hours and was only 3 cm dilated. While I was busy losing the will to live, the Irish one was merrily spreading Colman’s on a ham butty.

This pretty much sums up the Irish one. Even in times of trouble, the man has to eat. And no, not just a corner shop bap. He has to eat exactly what he has a craving for. And it has to be made by him. This is one of the many perils of falling in love with a man who can cook. (The other peril, is when you are being force fed Coddle. Never heard of it? Its probably for the best.)

The one thing I should probably clarify however, is how supportive the Irish one was during labour. Mustard or no Mustard. He was nurturing and caring, he held my hand while I was muttering all manner of expletives, and he understood when, high on gas and air, I began to call the drip doodle. (The drip going in to my arm. The Irish one is not the drip in this scenario. I love my poodle and I obviously missed him, so I named the drip after him. The drip in my arm. Not the Irish one. Make sense? I would NEVER call the Irish one a drip… honest.) So in summary, he was amazing. In all fairness, I couldn’t have done it without him.(The Irish one, not the drip.) That better love?

If I was to write about my ‘birth story’ it would take me forever (not only because most of it is hazy but because it went on forever.) I could, if I had a few years to spare, give you an hour by hour blow of what happened and I am sure it would make for good reading, it was dramatic, it was funny and it was painful, and yet, writing it all down seems pretty pointless. As you already know how it ends.

Seven months later here I sit, eyes held open with matchsticks, while a beautiful and healthy baby boy sleeps beside me. (Yes I know I should probably be asleep too but I have never been able to sleep while he sleeps. If I am asleep? And he is asleep? Who can check he is breathing every two minutes????)

This time last year – at this very moment (and I know this because I keep a diary, and I was reading it this morning.) I was 5 months pregnant and staring in to the unknown like a woman possessed. Looking back now my little meanderings, seem so funny and unimportant in the grand scheme of things. But at the time they were monumental! As well as howling with laughter at how idiotic I sounded, it really made me see just how much has changed in a year.

So much in fact, I thought I would share a few of my more ridiculous nuggets;

The meanderings of a 5/6 month pregnant drama queen. Written 4/11/2009.

1. I am not sure what to wear for labour. I think I am going to go and buy a nightdress from marks and Spencer’s. I definitely do NOT want everything to be on show and yet I want to look half decent. Yes I know I will be in labour but I still want the Irish one to fancy me afterwards. Hope I don’t have to spend too much money. (Brilliant! Him fancying me afterwards was the last thing I needed or wanted in reality! With five stitches holding my arse together I wouldn’t have minded if he had never felt the urge ever again! And as for not having everything on show? Did I mention the five stitches holding my arse together?)

2. I love being able to eat again. It is so weird to think, everything I eat my baby is trying for the first time. I wonder if when I feel sick it is because the baby doesn’t like the taste of something? (I am clearly a mentalist.)

3. We have the 20 week scan a week on Wednesday. I wish I could have a scan every week. We are trying to decide whether to find out or not. The Irish one thinks it is a girl, but I know it is a boy. I just do. But sometimes I think I am just convincing myself of that because I would like a girl. I only want a girl so we can watch the princess films and I can buy pink things. Plus how do you clean a little willy? I know it’s a boy. As long as the baby is healthy, that is all that matters. Healthy and cute! (So there you have my complete honesty! I was hoping for a girl at the time. Now I wouldn’t change him for the world and I cant imagine myself with a girl! Funny how times change! I learnt how to clean a little willy pretty quickly!)

4. I wonder if The Irish one will propose while I am pregnant? That would be nice. (Nope!)

5. We can not agree on any names. I like Sam and Sebastian for a boy, and Sienna for a girl. He likes random names. I figure I should be able to choose seen as its me who has to go through it! (Told you I was a drama queen! Turns out the Irish one chose the name, as 2 minutes before I went in to labour I went off Sam and had a bit of a meltdown.)

6. I am definitely going to breastfeed. Apparently you can lose all your baby weight by breastfeeding. My friend told me you can burn 1000 calories a day. Which means I don’t feel guilty about all these bacon sandwiches! (Yes those are the right reasons for breastfeeding Lexy. Because you lose weight. Not because it is best for the baby or anything!? Also I couldn’t breastfeed in the end. I was gutted and although Woo did very well on formula – and still does, I am still a happy size 14/16.…. And no where near as selfish! Honest.)

7. I worry about doodle. I love him so much. I hope I still get time to spend with him and that he likes the baby. I will have to watch the dog whisperer and get a few tips. (Doodle is fine. Woo is fine. Cesar Milan was busy.)

I could continue to regale you, but these were the funniest. I wonder if this time next year I will look back at today’s entry about how I know my boy will be a well behaved toddler and laugh?

Here’s betting I probably will.

Oh and just to finish off nicely, here is how my birth story ended. (There is a new born baby on my chest but i felt it a little too personal a moment ,to include. I hope you understand.)

 

But can you see the mustard on the windowsill?

Drip!

I dont have post natal depression.

I don’t have post natal depression.
I don’t.
I just feel down sometimes.
I don’t have post natal depression.
I don’t.
I just cry sometimes. 
I don’t have post natal depression.
I don’t.
Im just too self involved.
I don’t have post natal depression.
I don’t.
Because how dare I? 

How dare I feel down? When I have everything I have ever wanted. My whole life. Waiting for somebody who would love me for me. Somebody who would need me, like I needed them. Somebody who would laugh in the face of my faults and love me all the more. Somebody who would put their arms around me and let me cry. 

I don’t have post natal depression
I don’t.
I’m just a drama queen.
That’s what everybody says.
So It must be true. 

How dare I be a drama queen? When I have the most beautiful, happy and healthy baby boy. A baby boy I have waited for. A baby boy who smiles and whose smile says  ‘I love you mammy’. A baby boy who can take my breath away. 

I don’t have post natal depression.
I don’t.
I laugh too much. 

I laugh to myself when I catch myself feeling sorry for the man living on the street. I laugh to myself when I think of how much I miss my brother and how he should be here to see my son. I laugh to myself when I feel like breaking down at the thought of my little doggy, my first baby, feeling left out. I laugh when I catch site of myself trying to look pretty. I laugh when I feel low. 

I don’t have post natal depression.
I don’t.
I have no right to be sad.
I have everything ive ever wanted. 

What right do I have?