I AM (post partum) WOMAN! HEAR ME ROAR!

I am a mother on Maternity leave.

Therefore by default, the Trafford Center belongs entirely to me. (And Woo!)

I am also a creature of Habit, (as if you didnt know this) and for the last 8 months I have visited the Trafford Center coffee house, each morning, between 11-12 for a Grande, skinny (because you have got to make an effort with weight loss.) Vanilla shot (because you have skinny so you can have a shot!) cappuccino (because it sounds sophisticated.) and a chill out with my little monster.

It is wonderful, and relaxing and calm. It is a weekday. The big children are in school. Most people are at work. It is peaceful. People Amble! How lovely! We sit like ladies and babies of leisure, me sipping on my Mocha. (Oops I mean skinny cappuccino!!) and Addison chomping on a slice of pear while making poo noises. (He makes poo noises while he eats, I don’t know why. He just does. Hopefully this will rectify itself before his first date…)

We sit together and watch the passing fashion, (ooo great bag! Ooo great shoes! Ooo you shouldn’t be wearing that top love (…she says stuffed in to her post partum girdle like a sausage in cellophane.) Or in Addison’s case (as he watches the baby fashion!) ooo Nice wheels, Ooo nice (foot) muff, ooo your mum looks nice and slim (…sideways glance at my gut! I see you child!) and it is wonderful. It is at times like this, I wish maternity leave could last forever.

So I have to ask, Christmas shoppers! Just who the heck do you think you are?

There are no seats, the high chairs are splattered with gloop, there are long queues, MY parking space is taken, there are teenagers sat on MY sofa, (…which makes me wonder about ‘FRIENDS’ and how odd they always got the sofa… I shall have to look in to it!) and worst of all? Addison is no longer the center of attention! He has competition! When he gurgles at people now, they choose to ignore him! He is baffled by this, and I am outraged!

There is no ambling anymore! People are stressed. People hussle! People tut and sigh and roll their eyes when faced with my pram. A (now worse for wear) woman literally walked directly in to Addison’s high chair as if he didn’t exist!! She knocked him flying! She didn’t even apologise! (Mummy? Why did you kick that woman in the face? Because i am post partum woman darling, and anybody who hurts you or does not smile indulgently when faced with your gorgeous big blue eyed smile gets a beating…. Not really, but in my mind I gave her a Jackie Chan ass whooping. Ninja styleeee… I mean, i dont want to labour the point here but just who the hell do you think you are? He is 7 months old! You are at least 28! Grow some manners!! and pass me a mince pie….. )

The Christmas approach is truly awful! And don’t even get me started on half term!

We are not going back anytime soon.

Which means, if you know me? Expect something off eBay.

And as for you Christmas shoppers?

 The Trafford center belongs to me! Have some decorum! (And pass me another hot chocolate! ….oops I mean….. Oh sod it! Ill have some whipped cream too…)

 

This was first published as a guest post on www.westoncommunications.org.uk

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

God I wish I was naturally thin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Turns out everyone frigging lied.

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

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

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

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

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

Sweet and sour chicken anyone?

 Or maybe a revel?