Passion is the Genesis of Genius.

I am a genius.

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

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

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

Do you know what I mean?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Turns out I should have been honest.

‘Oh no what happened?’ she asked nosily.

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

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

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

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

‘At home with his dad’ and I shrugged.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was victorious.

Too too too toooot!!!

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

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

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

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

Especially when one owns a Dyson.

If you want a job doing?

Get me round.

I am a genius.

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

Hmmmm.

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.

Weather warning! Where the hell is Sophie?

I have never been very good at prioritising my work load. (Was it yesterdays mascara smudged under my eye bags that gave it away? Or Doodle the poodle staring hungrily at his empty, crusty dog bowl?)

I am not what you would call an organised person.

A very good friend of mine swears by lists.

‘Make lists in diaries’ she says passionately ‘you can’t fail if you have a list, it helps you stay on top of things, helps you focus. Then you get a great sense of accomplishment when you cross completed activities out.’ 

I think, at the time this conversation took place, i mumbled something about being unable to find a pen and wished her good luck in all her endeavours. (I love my friend to bits but make a list?! Who has time to make a list?! Is she on Glue?)

Anyone who truly knows me, has seen the inside of my house and/or has spent an hour (who am i kidding, 10 bloody minutes) in my company will attest to my scatty nature instantly. (It’s not something I am proud of, but it is what it is.)

Within two minutes of arriving anywhere (…Starbucks, friends houses, home, Starbucks, the car, Asda, soft play, Starbucks, the dr.’s office, the hospital, Starbucks..) there is invariably a wailing baby, a wrung out de-caffeinated and panicking mother (with Rusk in her eyebrow) and a whole heap of bits, bobs and clobber scattered in every direction, covering every available surface.

The sweaty and desperate mother (me) in this picture, is searching for something to placate the red faced and angry baby with, but the embarrassed and muttering mother  (still me) is unable to locate, reach, ascertain  the desired  object from within the jumble sale bin (aka; changing bag), and eventually a now howling and spitting baby results in the full and untidy bag being upturned on the (un-sanitary and usually bloody wet!) floor and the swearing and dishevelled mother (yup, you guessed it) looking completely confused and very close to tears herself.

‘Where the hell is the thingy mi bob hoobiejoobie?’ I pant, a little exhausted, a little panicked and a little mortified as people begin to gawp as if it were a show, ‘I am sure I put it in here somewhere!  I know I did!! I packed this bag meticulously this morning!!!’  (Your definition and my definition of meticulously may differ somewhat.)

By now the slightly overweight (because who has time to diet? Did i say slightly? I must be gaining some confidence as time goes on) and haggard mother is beginning to lose the plot. She is getting no closer to placating the baby, and she knows, if she doesn’t find this hoobiejoobie soon! All hell will momentarily break loose. 

The fat mother (ah well, it was good while it lasted) will then do what any dog-tired mother would do in this situation.

She methodically begins to pick up each and every discarded object off the floor, one by one, checking that, each and every discarded item definitely isn’t what she was looking for. (Please nappy! Please change in to the thingy mi bob! Please bottle! Please change in to the hoobiejoobie!)

When that doesn’t work, she does the next tried and tested technique any dog-tired mother would do in this situation.

She tries to convince the furious baby, that he doesn’t actually want the thingy mi bob or hoobiejoobie.  What he actually wants is this random t-shirt instead. She waves it in his face and tries to make it seem more interesting than the desired thingy mi bob could ever be!

‘Look Addy- look! It’s a t-shirt, look! Do you want to play with the t-shirt? It is much more interesting than the thingy mi bob isn’t it? Look, its blue! Oooooooo! And oh! What’s this? (Pretend gasp!) It’s got arms and everything!’ She laughs manically and begins singing a song, using the t-shirt as a puppet.

It does not work.

Addy looks at mammy, and for a split second he is stunned in to silence by her sheer audacity! He then begins to wonder what planet she actually lives on and continues to scream like a banshee on all hallows eve.

(While we are on the subject of all hallows eve; Do you watch Charmed? I love that episode! I want their powers! KAZAB!!The object is in my hand! It would make everything a hell of lot easier wouldn’t it? I am a witch! KAZAB! Hoobiejoobie found instantly!…. I don’t want her dodgy barnet though. A bowl cut? At 31?…. No thanks, just the ability to shut the door, carry the shopping in from the car and change a nappy with the blink of my eyes please. Thank you. )

(…..aaaaand back to the post…)

NOOOO! He seems to scream! I WANT MY THINGY MI BOB!! (He can’t pronounce hoobiejoobie.)

Mammy stops cooing encouragingly and with a deflated sigh goes back to panicking magnificently.

 ‘Where the HELL IS THE BLOODY THINGY MI BOB?’

She is interrupted in her search.

‘Are you ok there?’

This has been going on far too long and somebody has wandered over for a closer look. Rubber -necking git. (Waiter, Barrista, friend, policeman, stranger danger!! Alert alert!!)

‘Yes, I am, I just can’t find Sophie! I don’t know where she is?’  I gesticulate like a mentalist. (And you are just adding to my frustration. Piss off!)

‘Oh my god!!!’ the person squalls alarmed ‘Is Sophie your daughter? How long has she been missing? When did you last see her? What does she look like? OH MY GOD! You must be worried sick, shall I call 999? What can I do to help…?’

I have not heard any of this, as i have my head in the empty changing bag (Just checking it really is empty) and am (at the same time) in the throes of turning the pram upside down (ready to give it a good shake with my superhuman mammy strength), removing my jumper, checking the baby’s hood and looking around despairingly.

‘Huh?’ I come to, trying to ignore the bleeping in my head (WARNING! WARNING! ANXIETY LEVELS DANGEROUSLY HIGH! SIT DOWN AND DRINK COFFEE IMMEDIATELY OR RISK MELTDOWN! WARNING WARNING!)  ‘What does she look like? Well she is tiny with a soft, spotty back and a really long neck, we only just got her and if she is lost we will be in so much trouble!  I don’t understand it! She was here but a moment ago!’

‘What?’ the person asks visibly confused. ‘She has a spotty back?’

‘What?’ I say back between breaths before stopping to properly look at him. ‘Yes, a spotty back!’ (Really, stop wasting my time! What has her back got to do with anything?!?!)

‘Your daughter is missing, and the only description you can give me, is that she has a spotty back?’

‘WHAT? NO!? I don’t have a daughter!’ IDIOT! Sophie  is so much more vital than that! ‘Sophie is a giraffe. I can’t find her and it is literally the end of the world!’  

I am aware, I am gesticulating like a mentalist again.

‘A bloody giraffe?’

‘Yes, Sophie is a bloody giraffe.’ I’m angry now; not only is he impeding my search and rescue but he also doesn’t seem to understand how imperitive the safe return of this bloody giraffe is! ‘It is his favourite teething toy. We can’t live without Sophie!’ I shout, really annoyed, sweaty and on the verge of a breakdown now.

‘Is Sophie, the giraffe, currently in your son’s mouth?’ He speaks slowly. As if to an idiot.  

I whip my head around and am astounded to see Addison chomping on Sophie’s patella, ‘now, where the hell did you get that from? I looked bloody everywhere!’ I gasp before plonking my over sized arse down and wiping my shiny, red brow.

In all the commotion (I had caused) I had not realised my son had quietened down and it was actually me, now causing a scene.

Sophie was found. Drama over.

(To this day I still can’t figure out where he found her. I am beginning to think he had her stashed down his trouser leg, and only shimmied her out when he knew I was past the point of no return. Little monster is torturing me on purpose to make a point! (GET IT TOGETHER MAM! And next time when i say i want to go to soft play, bear this in mind! I am the boss here, you are my puppet! Let this be a lesson! I am sick to death of sitting in Starbucks! – he seemed to say.)

Suffice to say, that since this event (and many others just like it) occurred, I have tried really hard (ok, let’s just say i have given it some effort) to be more responsible and methodical (and other big words, that essentially mean get it tobloodygethermam!) in my day to day role as primary care giver.  

Which brings me nicely to my point (Finally!)

This weekend we are going to up to Carlisle to visit one of my best buds. (Yes. WE. Meaning all of us. It’s ok there is a Starbucks there, I checked.)  We leave tomorrow and I really want to ensure the weekend in its entirety is bedlam free. We need the break.

We need the break as a couple as much as we do as a family. It has been a tough few months. (Who am i kidding? It’s been a tough bloody year!)

Waking up this morning and running through the amount of stuff we have to fit in the car, reminded me of the conversation about lists.

To prevent utter chaos and the theme tune of my life (Benny hill) from playing on repeat in the back of my head, i thought ‘why not? May aswell.’

So I gave it a go.

I made 3 lists of all the things i needed to achieve today, to ensure the total prevention of events like the one above occurring on my relaxing weekend away, that Woo and the Irish one appear to be joining me on, and my first night out in months which they definitely won’t be joining me on.

List 1 – Addison.

• Pack bag for Addison.
• Find bag to put Addison’s stuff in. (Where has his bloody bag gone? It was in the cupboard!!)
• Put a wash on. (Where the hell are all his socks?)
• Find Sophie. (I think she is in the car.)
• Put Sophie in the bag. (Once you find her.)
• Don’t forget wipes. (Damn it there is none left! How did this happen?!?! I just bought some!)
• Buy wipes.
• Buy potatoes. (The Irish one has eaten them all.)
• Feed Addison Potatoes.  (Act like you don’t care. It is the only way he will eat them.)
• Stop Doodle stealing Addison’s potatoes.

List 2 – My list.

• Try on going out outfit to make sure you don’t look like a pig. (I look like a bloody pig!)
• Get tanned, you’ll feel thinner. (Orange me up woman!)
• Get nails. (Decent ones.)
• Pack bag with stuff you need. (Once you find bag.)
• Find stuff you need. (Where the hell are all my socks?!?)
• Don’t forget hair straightner’s. (They are still in 2 bits sat on the side.)
• Re-Gaffa tape hair straightner’s.  
• Buy Gaffa tape. (This can be used on the Irish ones mouth at a later date.)
• Clean car out. (It looks like tramps have been living in it!!)
• Find car keys. (Check under sofa cushions.)
• Get bin liner.  (For rubbish.)

List 3 – the journey.

• Check you have petrol.  (Take manual filler up spout watering can thingy – just in case.)
• Buy petrol. (NOT DIESEL THIS TIME! PETROL!)
• Buy water.  (To drink. But also for wipers. In case you get stuck in field again.)
• Don’t forget to pick the Irish one up from work. (Really. Don’t forget.)
• Drive. (Not around in circles.)
• GET DIRECTIONS!
• Find satnav.
• Find satnav charger.
• Read satnav instruction manual.

Those lists, took me the best part of an hour before i gave up.

Organising a list is impossible! Never mind my day! It’s too time consuming!!

I tried. I did! YOU SAW ME TRY!

But, I’m sorry. My way works better.

It’s simple.

‘One in, all in.’ – (As my dad used to say.)

 

(FECK!!!!! I just remembered Doodle isn’t coming with us!!!! BIG HAIRY BALLS!!! (Doodle’s. Actually, no, not doodle’s as they are more, small hairy balls. But you know what I mean.)

‘Out of the suitcase doodle – OUT!’

*Runs to call dog sitter*

I hope you are ready folks.

Hurricane Woo is a big one! And it’s heading up north!!

An introduction to Northern mummy with southern children.

All this week i will be introducing you to some more fantasic blogging sites. The reason behind this being, i love to read. And i want to share with you a couple of my favourite blogs. My first being this young lady from Up north who now lives Down south! This was one of the first blogs i found and it inspired me to start my own. Without further adue, I give you the hilarious, and very talented, inspiring and truly lovely yummy mummy! @northernmum1.

You will find the link to her site on my blog roll, and at the bottom of this post. And in my Iphone. And on my fridge. And on the pc at my mums house, and my dads house… and in the apple store… i am a big fan…

The cost of a third child.

I do like a bit of guest blogging, and even better when I get to blog up here in manchester.  Not quite my home town but it’ll do.

Sorry I should introduce myself properly.  My name is mummmmmmmmy, I used to have another one but it was such a long time since anyone used it I have completely forgotten it.  I have three children, twin boy, twin girl and baby beautiful; again upon their arrival into the world I did give them ‘real’ names but I suffer badly from baby brainitis so most days it is easier to refer to them by their gender or developmental stage.  I also share my home with he who helped create them, but true to form in the blogging world he does little but work, sleep, fart and watch football.  Should you wish to read more on these topics I suggest you head over to either Top Gear or Soccer am’s site immediately.

Although now I come to think of it trumping played a role in the conception of baby beautiful.  I had been banging on about having another baby since the twins could crawl, some would say because of my love for the little creatures, ones that know me better would argue it is because I am a lazy sod who enjoys coffee mornings on maternity leave far too much.  Anyways after the stress of raising two bambinos at once he who helped create them was not as keen to bring another rather demanding mouth into the world.

However as my mother will tell you I have a tenancy to ‘keep on’ and it took me three years but my dedication to moaning, and writing letters to santa entitled ‘I want a baby’ seemed to be paying off as we approached easter 2009. 

The first sign was when he who helped create them wouldn’t let me ebay the car seats, because we may need them again.  The next sign was when I caught him musing through photos of the twins in their baby years with a cute half smile on his face.  The final clue that he had finally been worn down was when he lay in bed one night after a most delicious curry and asked me;

” How much do you want another baby?”

My response was a mix of desperation, pleaing and guilt inducing cries of;

“More than anything”

He turned to me lovingly and smiled as a sound barrier breaking noise erupted under the sheets and the whiff of vindaloo reached my delicate nostrils.

“If you can put your head under the blanket for two minutes now we try for another baby.”

And there it is twelve months on, baby beautiful lies contentedly in her cot and I still feel a sense of shame as I make my bed on the morning.

just one more thing I have done for my children!

Find more hilarious tales at www.northernmum.wordpress.com



So much for being a stepford wife…

One of the very first Blogs I ever found and fell in love with was www.Thisismommyhood.com.

Her name is Elle and she is a mother to a toddler who is like a hummingbird on crack. Her blog title made me howl with laughter and her humorous and beautiful way with words had me hooked from day dot. It was her, amongst few others, that inspired me to start this blog. It was Elle that taught me it was ok to admit to being a little less than perfect, it was Elle that taught me that being a little less than perfect could be great reading! Today I am lucky enough to add to my blog,  a guest post from Elle herself.  Visit Elle’s  blog over at www.thisismommyhood.com. ENJOY!!

  So much for being a stepford wife. I’m as undomestic as they come….

When I was younger I thought when I got married and had kids I would be Martha Stewart before I knew Martha existed. I thought I would always have dinner ready when my husband got home from work. I thought I would be a cleaning goddess and everything would sparkle like a Mr. Clean commercial.

I thought I would be crafty and teach myself to knit, learn how to use a sewing machine and make my future kids costumes for Halloween and school plays. I thought I would be a perfect hostess to friends while making an effortless meal without breaking a sweat.

I thought I would be perfectly dressed, not a hair out-of-place, make-up always flawless. I thought every word that would come out of my mouth would be kind and encouraging to my husband. I thought my MIL and I would be best friends (okay that might be pushing it). Oh, the beauty of only being 10 years old when I thought these things.

I guess I thought I would be some pod person, some stepford wife, some robot. Then I got married over 15 years ago and reality set in. If your trying to do the math, I’m 24 years old…..in my dreams. Try as I might, and I do try, I can’t cook if my life depended on it. I found out very quickly that I hate cooking. The microwave and I have developed a very special bond over the years.

I like things to be clean yet I’m not a cleaning goddess by any means. I tried to teach myself to knit years ago. That lasted, um, maybe a week. I still have an interest in learning to sew but right now I don’t even know where I’d find the time with a toddler.

After several years of marriage we’ve only had friends over TWICE for dinner. The first time my hubby did the cooking. He also accidentally set plastic wrap on a burner that was on….I can still smell it. The second time, I did the cooking and made a Mexican feast.

To put it bluntly, it sucked balls. The dinner I made was fine but most of the time that our friends were over, I was stuck in the kitchen all sweaty and cursing like a sailor. It was definitely not the nice, relaxing evening with friends that I had hoped it would be.

I spend most of my days, not in perfect outfits, but in yoga pants and a t-shirt. Sometimes it’s a shirt and my pajama boxers. Those are the days when even yoga pants are a little too fancy schmancy for me. When it comes to wearing make-up, Ha! I’ve only worn it once in the past couple of months.

I do take some time to do my hair or I just feel blah all day. I have naturally wavy hair and if I just blow-dry it I look like Bozo the Clown so I have to straighten it too. Even by putting in my best efforts, I usually have a bad hair day most days.

There are times when my husband annoys me to the core of my being and I say things to him that I regret as soon as they come out of my mouth. We don’t fight very often but when I try to discuss something with him, it’s like talking to a brick wall.

I always tell him I’m sorry but that’s not good enough for me. I need to work on keeping the snarky remarks to myself. Better yet I should just put them on twitter. When we do argue (meaning me arguing and the hubby just standing there with a blank look on his face) it’s about pretty typical things when it comes to a couple who’s been married for over 15 years.

The longer that we’re together, the better our relationship becomes so I think that’s a very good sign. We’re both improving. A lot of the relationships I saw when I was younger consisted of yelling matches and marriage getting worse year after year. I actually used to think that’s the way relationships were supposed to be.

When it comes to my MIL, I’ve pretty much given up. I know that the relationship she had with her mother-in-law was really bad. My husband has told me how things were usually very cold between them. What’s ironic is I feel my MIL is basically treating me how her MIL treated her and she doesn’t even seem to realize it.

She actually commented before about how she doesn’t understand MIL drama and that she’s so easy to get along with. I just nodded and on the inside I was laughing my ass off. I still am.

When my husband’s grandmother was alive I would hear how she made my MIL feel bad. Then my MIL would tell me how frustrating it was. Um, hello? She questions everything I do and puts me down. It’s more like she body slams my feelings. So for now things are civil but I do wish she could treat me with just a little decency.

I’m a less than perfect cook who loves yoga pants sans doing the actual yoga, who’s never going to like cleaning and can’t sew, who sometimes lashes out at my husband and whose relationship with my MIL is lacking.

I still have issues with not being the perfect phucking stepford wife but it’s something I’m becoming okay with. What’s made me realize I need to accept who I really am is my daughter. She doesn’t care about all of those other things. She just wants love and cuddles. And whatever I have on my plate therefore leaving me hungry most of the time.

What’s something you thought you would do differently?

Sometimes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The 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!

When i get older, losing my hair…

As I child, I remember having to sit crossed legged on a hard, cold and dusty wooden floor in the school assembly hall singing random songs every Monday morning, enduring an excruciating hour of ‘music class’. Sometimes they even gave us tambourines. The memory still makes me shudder. I had been squidged, like a hippo in a ballerina outfit (I was a fat kid, there is no denying it), in to a hand me down school uniform that belonged to a distant cousin of my next door neighbor and best friend Laura. I remember feeling desperately uncomfortable as the tights wedged themselves further and further up my bum crack. I remember thinking what the hell is the point in all this? Why must I wear this god awful outfit? Why must I be at school when I know everything already and most outrageously, why are we sat on the floor? (What were we animals? Where were all the chairs?) AND why on god’s green earth, are we being taught a song about some woman who is wondering whether or not her other half will send her a valentines card, when her boobs are hanging down around her ankles and her hair has all fallen out. (I remember my granny’s boobs seeming very low in comparison to my mothers and she was very nearly bald. I was young! I apologise for any offence caused.)

 It was also around that time, as you’ve probably gathered, I developed ‘an attitude’ and for the first time ever in my life, I remember feeling overcome with the sheer mortification of my parents. It was almost as if over night they went from being my hero’s to being the bane of my existence. I remember there was a parent/ teacher night, which horrifyingly, in my school usually involved cheese and wine (looking back now it hits me what a recipe for disaster this was.) All the children were banished to a classroom while the parents discussed their little angel’s performance with the teachers while downing copious amounts of Rioja (I grew up in spain) and munching on Queso. These evenings always filled me with a sense of dread as, as well as being fat and a little bit nerdy I was also a ROYAL pain in the arse. I hated school. I wish id tried a bit harder now, not that id ever admit that to my parents.

 It was on the drive out of the car park on one of these ‘occasions’ that my mother began to question my obvious hatred of school. We had a heated debate for all of 30 seconds (me – against, Her- for) before to my absolute horror in a vain attempt to pummel her point home, she began singing ‘When Im 64’ badly and at top volume. Her point being I should try to enjoy school while I could, as one day I’d be 64 and old…maybe? I don’t know. Either way she began to sing and then as if things couldn’t get any worse. My dad joined in. (My dad was the designated driver, he wasn’t even drunk! What was his excuse?) All my ‘friends’ and the cool kids were still in earshot! It was like they didn’t care about me at all!

Fast forward 6 years and I’m 15 years old. Wearing ‘illegal’ Dr martin boots with my school skirt rolled up to my once podgy bum cheek and still being forced to endure music lessons.(by now we had been given proper instruments. Can you picture it? Thirteen 15 year olds absolutely murdering the Spanish national anthem every Monday morning between 9-10am.) Also by this point, I was at the stage of pretending my parents were a distant visiting aunt and uncle I had been forced to live with by my real mother – the princess of Sweden (Clara).

 In my opinion, at the time my parent’s behaviour was totally uncalled for, irrational and horrifyingly embarrassing. They NEVER let me out late like my friends were allowed, they NEVER bought me ANYTHING and they totally did not understand my vibe man. What is the point in choosing options when Im going to be a famous actor right? And when I grew up and had kids, I would let them do WHATEVER they wanted, WHENEVER THEY WANTED. And while they ‘were under my roof’ they could do whatever took their fancy…

 I need to add at this point for the record, my poor suffering parentals were absolutely right not to let me out until dawns crack! I was 15! And I feel it necessary to add, before the phone starts ringing, and I get an earful, I was spoilt rotten (Yes dad you were both great parents…)

 Fast forward 24 years and Im buckling my little one in to my new four door mammy car. (who’d of thought ay? I was definitely having a motorbike). My little angel looks up at me, grabs my hand and smiles. Smiling back and giving him a quick kiss, I push the door shut and walk round to open the driver door and it hits me. In a moment of blind panic all of the above comes screaming back to me. I get in the car and pause for a moment, the colour draining from my face. In a few short years it will start. I will be the bane of his existence! Yeah sure, right now, he is grabbing my hand and smiling, I am his everything. But in a matter of moments I will be the one, embarrassing the hell out of him, doing his head in and saying things like ‘if all your friends ran off a cliff would you?’ and ‘money doesn’t grow on trees you know!’ and all the other non-sensical sayings my parents used on me. The sayings, I now see, get passed down from generation to generation.

 Of course he won’t remember me sitting up at 4am feeding him, of course he won’t remember me holding his butt cheeks apart, in a vain attempt to help him to trump during the longest nights of Colic induced crying (He will, however be reminded of that particular night on the evening of his 21^st birthday. It would be rude not to include it in perhaps, his wedding speech? Anyway..) He will see me as a mother whom he loves dearly (I hope) but who is a constant source of embarrassment. And I see now. It all makes sense. It doesn’t matter, none of it matters, because I will love him unconditionally. I will love him more than he will ever know. All the while he is pretending I am a distant relative only looking after him while his real mother (lady GaGa – or whoever is cool at the time) is out of town, I will love him.

 Its with that, I put the car in to gear. Switch the nursery rhyme CD to track 8 and sing ‘When Im 64’ at top volume. (Because I get it now, I think, I don’t know, maybe I need some wine but whatever.) Im singing away, both of us ginning like lunatics. Him because, well he’s five months old, he could be grinning because he realises he has a nose. Me because I am so excited by everything to come. For him and for me! He’s gonna have a great little life, and if he’s anything like me a great little attitude! Embarrassing or not. I’ll be there for him 100%. Just like my parents were for me.

 Oh, and when I returned home I did in fact give my ‘long suffering’ (I was told to write that) parents a call and apologised for all the years of attitude I put them through. I think it was a long time coming. Although my dad just laughed and said ‘we had fun didn’t we?’ (I think he’d had a drink.) I also thanked them for ensuring I didn’t ‘ruin my life’ by getting that tattoo of a Chinese symbol on my arse, to which my mom replied ‘that’s ok love, bet your glad you didn’t  now aren’t you?’ (It’s not like they’ll ever find out! It’ll be fine! As long as they never see me in a bikini it’ll be alright.) Its not like they read my blog properly…

Shit the phones ringing. Got to go…

Moments in time…

There are moments in my life when i suddenly think to myself, i want to remember this exact moment forever.
And then promptly forget all about it.

Life can be such a rush when you have a baby. life is a rush anyway but since having a baby it has speeded up a few thousand notches. You are so busy planning, concocting routines, ensuring you have everything you need, arguing about who gets to sleep when, questioning yourself and your mothering ability and worrying about the silliest things. Like – will that big daddy fox eat doodle the poodle for dinner? What if when my son grows up he needs to sit on the naughty step? We dont have a step!? The tiredness obviously does not help either as most things end up needing to be redone. These are the moments you put a teabag in the babys bottle and formula in your cuppa. You get two minutes for a wee, and forget to go… and then you sneeze….with all this going on, i sometimes find my emotions misplaced and i actually forget to enjoy the experience.

This morning i was in the kitchen at 7am multi-tasking like only a mother knows how. Boiling the kettle for the essential injection of caffiene, making the babys breakfast, making the dogs breakfast and wiping down all available surfaces, all the while dancing to keep a watching baby entertained. I took a penguin plate out of the cupboard while wiggling my oversized arsicle in the direction of said baby when i heard a cough. I turned around, mid routine, to find a bemused Addison staring at me with a smile playing on his lips, his eyes wide as saucers. I was struck immediately by how much i love this little boy and this hectic, mental lifestyle he brought with him. Never before have i danced around to mickey mouse club house at 7am on a sunday morning. Never before sober, anyway.

I instantly knew i wanted to remember this happy occurance for the rest of my life and knew i had to start a blog. I threw caution to the wind and plucked his podgy little bum from his high chair and smothered him with kisses. We then proceeded to dance around the kitchen like lunatics both of us in hysterics. 4 minutes later the breakfast routine re-commenced and no harm was done.

There have been so many moments like this one in the past five months where i have wanted to stop and savour the moment but have been ‘too busy’. Well not anymore. The house is a bomb site but at some point it will be cleared. The breakfast dishes are soaking in the sink and my other half is allowed a lie in. I commit to tidying while Addy sleeps. I want to enjoy his awake time. I want to remember this stage in his life, where i am off work , with no real worries, being able to enjoy the day to day development and fun with my little boy.

I may not get this chance again.

I will enjoy it while i can. This is my pledge.

However, i must dash… i really need a wee and the dogs licking English mustard off the counter… Sigh!