Have you tried ginger?
Have you tried hot lemon?
What about crackers?
Hmm OK, have you tried warm lemonade?
What about standing on your head in a bath full of urine on a Tuesday at 3pm while farting the national anthem?
Yes I have.
Nothing helps. I am as sick as fuck.
Oooo *obligatory head tilt* ‘Must be a girl then.’
You have no idea the terror that fills me with, but let’s move on.
I said this time would be different. I said I would be ‘all bump’ and as well as being ‘naturally’ slim I would be one of those women star jumping in front of the gluten free aisle at 34 weeks. I would eat healthy, drink no caffeine and I would clearly post a video of me horse riding and cross country running 2 days before labour on you tube.
‘Look! Look at that healthy pregnant woman!’ people would gasp. ‘She looks like Joan of Arc!’
So yeah, that was the plan.
Instead I have immediately morphed in to THE AMAZINGLY LUMPY ELEPHANT WOMAN and spend my days either vomiting up my innards and pulling noodles out of my nose or trying not to wet my pants whenever I sneeze. (Funny how quickly that little wonder returned!)
I also desperately wanted this pregnancy to be all about the baby as last time I was unwittingly depressed and miserable and I still feel guilty for making it all about me. I was going to be bloody serene! SERENE I TELL YOU!
But nothing is going to plan.
I don’t think I’m built to be a thin pregnant woman and I hate horses anyway.
I look like a portaloo with legs stuck out the bottom.
I am too sick to apply make up. I am too sick to make conversation. All I want to do is lie in bed groaning. My hair is greasy, my eyes are hanging off my chin and my back is permanently arched and sweating.
The Irish one has been understanding.
Apart from that one time he asked when I would be up for ‘sexy time’ again.
I told him in no uncertain terms, while stinking of vomit, bloated like a dead fish and omitting smells of death from my arse, that if he found me sexy he could absolutely take a mental picture and go and have a wank. (And then I climbed back in bed to continue groaning.)
He hasn’t asked since. (Bless him.)
Last time I beat myself up a lot. I mean it was constant. I was too fat, and I was too miserable, my thighs were too big, my arms wobbled, my uterus didn’t retract quickly enough, I didn’t feel like pounding sex every night while my boobs flailed about like udders beneath me. I was just not enough. I wasnt good enough at pregnancy. I compared myself to other women constantly, I failed every day .
This time, although I have come to realise I am not going to be thin, nor I am not going to be willowy or have any inclination to do cross country (the idea of cross country running makes me want to kill wildlife – seriously.) I am trying to be ok with it. I am not going to compare myself. I am not going to feel like a failure.
I realise this is the last time I will do this.
So I may as well make the most of it and at least try and ‘enjoy’ my big cellulitic chin.
I am not Joan of Arc. I am an elephant.
And I am trying so hard to be ok with it.
I am a fat, sick as fuck, plodding pregnant lady who is not enjoying pregnancy at all.
And I am OK with it.
And I am OK with it, OK?
Did I say it enough times to convince you?
I am sulking.
Today has been a hard day.
Today marks 2 weeks off the pills.
Today I read my baby might have a heartbeat.
Today I also read that 21 whales have died on the beaches of the west coast because of sonar testing the army are doing. These whales get confused and die an undignified death suffocating in the sand.
Then I read about how calves are stolen from the their braying and begging mothers only a day out of the protection of the mother’s womb to be placed in tiny sheds where they can’t move for 4 weeks and then slaughtered for veal. They are confused and hurt and they want their mummy’s and instead the humans at their charge keep them chained, preventing them from even standing up.
Then I read about the children in Syria.
Today I am emotional at 7 weeks and 2 days.
Today I am wondering what the hell I am thinking bringing another child in to a world where grown men bully and victimise women and children and millions are killed because of the colour of their skin.
A world where a man can cut a dogs leg off and throw it in a sewage pipe when it sits on a crisp packet for a week, dying slowly and alone.
Today I am wondering what the hell I am thinking.
My first midwife appointment is the 18th of February. It is with the mental health midwife.
I will tell her I am fine because it is not like they can give me more anti-depressants.
I don’t want the Irish one to ask me if I am ok again, I do not want him to hug me, I want him to leave me alone. I want him to kick me in the stomach and bounce on my head, gouge my eyes out and punch my face.
Today I want to take the pain for the animals. Today I want to be eradicated. Today I want the human race to be eradicated.
I read this morning that coming off anti-depressants suddenly (like I have) can cause emotional instability.
I read that this is ‘normal’ and will pass.
I know in my heart this will pass but that won’t make Today any easier.
Bring on week 8.
His crinkled frowny face was a mixture of ‘what the hell were you thinking?!?!?’ And ‘don’t you worry your pretty little head, one way or another we will sort this.’
He isn’t Texan.
My GP surgery is not in the mid-west of America. (Much to my dismay, due to my continued desire and to pick up a Yanky twang or two.)
Alas no, my doctor is thigh slappingly British and appears relatively stiff with it, soooo I have no idea why I imagined his facial expression to communicate with me as a ranch owning cowboy boot clicking spurs wearing Robert Redford lookalike, but such is my ‘imagination.’
I sat down in front of him and nodded.
‘It’ll be fine.’
He put his arms behind his head momentarily and exhaled, probably contemplating the magnitude of the task at hand. Thing is, he didn’t lean back or anything with it, so essentially he was just sat upright in front of me, showing me his pits.
His sweat stains were shaped like North America. (Told you. OBSESSED.)
I tried not to look at them directly and instead focused on his crotch, WAIT NO, DON’T LOOK AT HIS CROTCH -WHAT THE HOLY FUCK JUST HAPPENED!!
He saw me look at it his knob shape, then we made eye contact.
So much fun.
He pulled his arms down and crossed his legs, turning rapidly towards the computer.
‘So holy shit balls, I am pregnant.’ I slapped my thighs in an attempt to cover the AWKWARD.
‘Yes you are.’ He boomed, and also slapped his thigh. Which did not cover the Awkward at all, not even one little bit.
So then I did the only thing seemingly left to do and accidentally LOOKED AT HIS CROTCH AGAIN. GOOD GOD WOMAN STOP LOOKING AT THE DR’S CROTCH!
He turned around again and began feigning interest in the computer screen.
Kill me. Kill me now.
‘SO. Let’s talk about medication…’ he coughed ‘you are on high doses of a few different happy pills at the moment you mad bitch, and as we don’t want you going mad again, because let’s face it last time you cost the nhs and Bupa thousands, I think we should put together a plan.’ (This is not a verbatim quote.)
I’ll be honest, I don’t remember much else as I spent the next 20 minutes telling myself not to look at his penis while focusing on a box of tissues on his desk.
It’s good though. (Not his penis. I mean it might be but I … let’s move on.)
I am not sure I managed to convince him I am stable but we did agree I could come off medication in a staged and timely manner, if I wanted to. (Which I do.)
The NHS are going to take my psychological care seriously though, unlike last time.
I have been referred to see the head mental woman at St Mary’s and if I need any help I am to ring the bat phone and I am assuming batman in a white coat will come running.
It will be fine.
It’ll all be fine.
Today I found out I was pregnant.
Today is huge.
Today I took a picture of my semi flat stomach in preparation for comparison. (Hahahaha semi flat stomach! Oh I make myself laugh sometimes.) Today I took a picture of my wobbly, baby-free, saggy skinned belly, for comparison later on.
Today I ran around with my hands in the air in celebration, saying (quite quietly as not to wake Addy) WOO a lot and then I shoved 2 pieces of cake down my neck. (To welcome the baby OBVS.)
The Irish one doesn’t believe it. He thinks I’m climaxing too soon, celebrating before the event has been confirmed, putting all my eggs in an imaginary basket.
He wants a Clear Blue £90 test to spell the word PREGNANT out to him. Then he says he will believe.
This is annoying me.
A line isn’t a line unless it’s a clear line- he says, but I know different.
Millions of us women know different.
Today there is a second faint line and it changes everything.
I’m pregnant motherf*cker!! Woo! (I was recently advised swearing shows a lack of intelligence. I’m ok with that.)
I have only experienced a second line on a test twice before, and both times have felt significantly different to how I feel right now.
The first time I will not speak about.
The second time I jumped for joy (because I felt like I should) and then realised I had ten long months without gin and cigs and to be honest I felt a bit bereft.
This time we argued at length as to whether there was a line or not (there is a line you muppet!!) and then I left for work with so much joy radiating through my body I could barely concentrate on the road.
It keeps coming over me in waves. I feel sick, and excited and like this time everything will be different.
It immediately feels different.
I am happy in my core.
I know what to expect.
This time is not about me at all, it is about the baby.
I cannot wait for the baby to arrive.
I even bought a Disney baby grow.
I am not going to put on as much weight, I am not going to spend too much money and I am hoping unlike last time, these moments of pregnancy will pass quickly so I can meet my gorgeous boy.
I wasn’t sure this morning but now I am.
It is a boy.
I have not thought about my mental health.
I am sure this time will be different.
It’ll be fine. (I hope.)
‘So I need to buy a colouring book?’
‘There is more to it than that, but yes, a colouring book would be a good start.’
‘So what, I just sit and colour?’
I am incredulous.
How could that possibly help?
And when? When on god’s green earth am I meant to sit and pissing colour?
‘And at what point am I meant to sit and colour James?’ I bark, ‘Before I put Addison to bed when he is wittering on at me about wanting the iPad instead of dinner, Or after when my husband is wittering on about the potato famine? OR perhaps I could get up at 5 am and squeeze in an hour in before work….’
My rant goes on for a while…
‘If you don’t want to sit and colour you could think about other ways of finding mindfulness Lexy. Your intrusive thoughts, the constant fight of flight response your body is experiencing, is not good for you. Stress and anxiety are hard going physically as well as mentally. The thoughts you have repeatedly told me about are distressing you yes? So you have two choices. Shut up and put up or find ways to deal. You cannot control them, you need to learn to watch them like a movie and let them move on. Mindfulness will help you do that, it keeps you focused in other ways.’
I sigh deeply and huff. ‘For like what, ten mins a day?’
‘Let’s start with two… two minutes a day and we can build up from that.’
‘So what if I don’t want to colour?’
‘Can you afford a massage?
‘Does that sound more appealing?’
‘It may not keep you focused but it may shift the focus from your mind to your body.’
‘Then try that. It may relax you, help you find peace in your mind. Try and focus on your body.’
‘Ok. I will try that.’
Three days later I had a massage and a facial.
Because that is what I HAD to do.
It did not help me find peace.
Things I thought about during my facial and massage.
1) This room smells expensive, I wonder how easy it would be to slip some of these products in my bag.
2) Is David Bowie really dead? Or is he just back with Steve jobs in the Glitterati. No wait, it is not Glitterati, I mean that thing with Angelina Jolie and the triangles. I wonder how you join.
3) Does Beyoncé Hula Hoop?
2) (When therapist leaves the room and re-enters) “What if it’s not her and it’s a serial killer?”
3) Shit, I think I left my straighter on!!
4) I wonder what she’s thinking about while doing this. I wonder if she hates my fat back. I wonder if she has ever had ring worm. I wonder if she is a serial killer who keeps heads in her bath. I didn’t say goodbye to Addison.
5) (While face-mask is hardening over entire face and mouth with only my nostrils to breathe through) “this is probably how Fred and Rose West’s victims felt like…..*reality check*, no, probably not.
6) Oh fuck, I need to fart!!! What if my house is on fire? Would the neighbors save Doodle the Poodle? He’s flame right up.
7) (As she starts to massage my feet and legs) “Bollocks, I forgot to shave!”
8) I wonder if she ever gets asked if she’d like to earn some cash-in-hand.
9) Was that her tummy rumbling or mine?
10) I’d definitely get caught if I tried to steal some of those products!
I need to buy a colouring book.
You’re brash, you’re common as muck and you dress ten years too young.
This from a guy I have spoken to maybe three times in my life.
He thinks he is being funny, but actually I find his words shocking, incredibly rude and mildly insulting.
In fact no, I don’t believe he thinks he is being funny, I think he knows very well he is pushing the limits of what is acceptable to say, but is choosing to say it regardless, safe in the knowledge that I will take it on the chin and walk away.
Because I am me and he thinks he knows me.
Of course, I don’t say any of this.
And I do walk away and I do take it on the chin, because I am me.
But he does not know me.
I laugh, touch his shoulder, thank him for making such ‘hilarious’ observations on my character and I walk away, with my head held high.
As long as he doesn’t know he has upset me, that is all that matters.
And I know I’m not any of those things anyway right?
I got to thinking about this ‘exchange’ on a two hour drive up to Carlisle this weekend.
I am a strong, loud, extroverted and confident woman with a penchant for wearing Adidas, who would put a stranger before herself if it meant making a difference to their life. I have good bits and bad bits. I can be self-centred, selfish and blunt. I can be kind, generous to a fault, and funny. I can be your best friend and your biggest pain in the arse. I can be intuitive and thick, I make mistakes and I make a difference. I am a mum with a full time job who has to parent like she doesn’t work, and a working mum with a 5 year old son who has to work like she isn’t a parent. I am a friend, a wife and I used to be a sister.
I would never go out of my way to make someone else feel like shit and I cannot understand or begin to empathise with people who do.
Knowing all of this about myself, and having had years of therapy learning about negative people and how to protect myself against them, why on earth am I allowing his inconsequential voice to continuously repeat itself on a never ending loop?
Why did I walk away and laugh, effectively allowing these things to be said?
His throw away insults about who I am as a person barely disguised ‘as a joke,’ and now not only did I allow it to happen, I am giving him head space.
I am now wasting energy, internally arguing with him about why he is wrong.
Which of course (deep down) means I think he is right.
His barbed words are illegal squatters in my house, and they are rearranging my furniture.
I have a lot going on right now.
I have too many lodgers, too many unwelcome guests and too many fair weather visitors as it is.
Intrusive thoughts, grief, mild auditory hallucinations, exhausting depression, a five year old son I do not stop worrying about, a full time job, a highly strung Irish man who gets stressed when he can’t brush his teeth the second he wants to brush his teeth (he told me to shove my eye liner up my arse) because I am just finishing my make-up, anxiety, insomnia and finally self-esteem crushing weight gain.
Everything is happening all at the same time as absolutely nothing is happening.
The noise is stretching its spindly old man fingers in to every shadow of my brain, and for the first time in my life I truly feel as if my brain is not my own, there is no quiet place to hide.
All of my drawers were upturned on the floor anyway, and now here he is, with his throw away comment re-arranging the damn couch.
Am I as common as muck? Am I brash? Do I need to spend less money on Addison and more on my own wardrobe?
And if I am brash and common as muck, am I bothered?
Funny how his ‘joke’ really isn’t funny now I have spent a weekend fighting to remind myself his words do not define me.
James has suggested I try mindfulness to help regain some control, help clear out the clutter.
Supposedly it helps you find calm.
Supposedly it will help me regain my own space.
I am skeptical.
But the couch doesn’t go there and the cushions are scattered like I’ve been burgled.
Do you have someone who rearranges your furniture?
How long are we gonna allow them to do this to us?
I need to get my house in order.
He needs to get out of my damn house.
For 9 o’clock in the morning on New years Eve, the queue at Asda opticians is ridiculous.
It curls around the sunglasses stand like a lizards tail and much to the disgust of the tutting lady chemist in the white coat behind me, is beginning to encroach on the pharmacy.
I can’t even mess with the sunglasses as my hands are filled with booze.
I’d love to try some £3 glasses on and take a selfie. It’s like, totally, my favourite pass time and I don’t care if you judge me.
It is an outrage.
The miserable looking, slow walking woman ‘serving’ at the mobbed till some 800 yards in front of me seemingly agrees.
‘Is it New Year’s eve you bloody bunch of cunting twats!’ she silently conveys with an eyebrow raise, a deep sigh and a roll of her eyes, as yet another customer steps up (squinting) and asks for another emergency broken glasses appointment. ‘No! Fuck off!! You blind Badger looking knob!!!’ she wishes she could say (it’s obvious.)
I join her in her deep and frustrated sighing, her cleavage straining against her lime green Asda shirt, mine drooping around my waist, as my phone buzzes in my pocket and the woman waiting in front of me coughs up her right smokers lung. She thinks I don’t notice her inconspicuously stifle a sneaky fart out at the same time, but I do. Dirty tramp. I turn away disgusted (as only an ex smoker could) before my nostrils are offended by either last nights bean tea or flemmy chest germs.
One email received.
One email received!!!
Oh my god this could be it!
‘Thank you so much for your submission, unfortunately we will need to pass at this time….’
I close out of IPhone Mail instinctively, without reading the full details of how I am a failure again.
I do not need to see the rest, I have read this mail many, many times over the last 12 months.
Now what I must do while I wait behind the bog of eternal stench, is tell myself why this rejection, just like all the others, doesn’t matter, when it really really does (all the while literally swallowing a strangers farts. What is it the kids say nowadays? FML?)
Another standard big fat negative.
It could have been a positive, it might have been a positive, it could have changed my life, it might change my life!
But it didn’t. Because I am not good enough. I swear too much, I use too many brackets, I need to be more descriptive, add a subplot, find another way of saying ‘my vagina was in shreds… Stop saying cunt and say C-word instead.’
Another failure to round off the year consistently.
2015 will always be remembered as the year I failed miserably.
I mean this literally too.
Because I failed a lot let me tell you, and each and every time I learned of a new failure, I was desperately miserable.
When I think about all the times I failed in 2015 the first thing I want to do is curl up in bed and sob. I had these dreams of becoming a published author and working from home. I had dreams of a second child and walking round Asda rubbing my growing bump, holding my sons hand. Choosing baby clothes together. I pictured summer days filled with laughter and love but like a slow running sepia time lapse of success my show reel caught fire every time I pressed play and all I was left with was failure and tears. Long days where I waited for news, for possibility of a brighter future to come knocking after putting my heart and soul in front or umpteen ladies who could make my life happen. Gasps that quickly turned to crashing disappointment as emails were received with big fat negatives, just like month after month of one lined pregnancy tests.
And yet here I now am, still breathing, still getting out of bed, still fighting and now playing the same sepia movie with 2016 written on it.
Apparently, according to James my faithful therapist, this makes me a success.
It’s a nice thought, but I am not sure it is true.
Because how can it be? Nothing is happening.
How can nothing happening mean you are success?
All that is happening is failure, and nothing.
Take this blog for example, I have wanted to write for a while, but all I have to say is the same old shit I say every time I write, so why bother?
Same old writing, same old stuff, same old boring ‘samesy’ blog.
I wrote a different post last week about fresh starts and new beginnings.
I spent 25 minutes writing it and then deleted it immediately before downing a glass of gin.
Because it is boring.
Because I was bored of me.
And it’s bullshit.
When you have depression you lose the ability to have a fresh start.
You may have a ‘good week’ or a ‘good six months’ which may feel like a ‘fresh start’ but eventually the illness is gonna drag you out of bed by your leg and carry you off down the corridor at 3 am, in to the darkness again, and there will be fuck all you can do about it. Like paranormal activity. It’s coming to get you bitch, don’t you forget it. You’ll be there innocently brushing your teeth and it’ll grab you by the hair and smash your face off the toilet.
And what do you do? Well you smile through it of course, while it knocks your teeth out.
You keep on fighting, keep on smiling, keep on struggling.
Keep on looking over your shoulder and warning off the intrusive thoughts.
(Although actually, intrusive thoughts? These are new. And NOT enjoyable.)
No one wants to read any of this. you’ve read it already. You’ve been reading it for the last 3 years.
I am still not pregnant Blah, blah, blah.
I am still suffering with depression (I am having a bad week – can you tell?) Blah. blah. blah.
I still don’t have a literary agent Blah, blah, blah.
I bought new boots because my legs are getting fat and rather than giving up pizza I figure high heel boots will stretch the fat out blah. blah. blah.
I hate going to ASDA optician because smokers fart all over me, and the woman behind the till sends me abusive psychological psychic messaging Blah, blah, blah.
And I don’t have anything interesting or new to say because I keep failing at everything.
Apparently this makes me a huge fucking success, according to my therapist.
But what does he know.
I put my bottle of prosecco down in the end.
(To be clear, this was not a review for Asda.)
I’ve thought long and hard about sharing this.
I’ve tossed and turned.
I want to be a private person, I don’t want my life on the internet.
‘Bit late for that – you published a book you Daft Mare.’
He is right, and you all keep asking for more, so fuck it.
We are having another baby.
Well, I suppose that is a little presumptuous.
We are having sex with wild abandon in the hope we can have another baby.
That’s more accurate.
Well, when I say wild abandon, I obviously mean quietly, scheduled and with some serious doubts about whether we are doing the right thing.
It’s taken a while to get here, I have been back and forth so many times I feel like a badger on a bunjee rope. (Completely blind, a little scared and mostly on all fours #justsayin.)
I am mentally ill.
I have mental health issues.
Yeah yeah, you know all this.
I also have a five year old who now regularly calls me a loser (as in – ‘See ya Later loser!’ at the school gates) and reminds me he is growing away from the googly eyed staring at me from the shopping trolley eyes full of love, days with every moment that passes (‘Please stop shouting ‘I love you’ across the playground mummy!’ Ouch!)
Yeah yeah, you miss the baby stage, we have all been there.
Yesterday in a flourish of slut dropping, a large bottle of tequila and with cake all round my face, I turned a not very graceful 36.
I am now officially closer to 40 than I am officially comfortable with. (Just to be clear though, the bearded late bloomer working the register at the co-op (seriously poor bugger, he looks like a wrestler but sounds like Orvil) said I didn’t look a day over 27. #justsayin.)
Yeah yeah, you are worried you used all your eggs already!
‘Irish one! Stop with the negativity!’
‘I am just saying that online it states quite clearly that over the age of 36 you half your chances… And also you would now be considered a geriatric mother.’
I drunkenly glare at him.
Yeah yeah, I should be regularly putting folic acid in my system not 5 rounds of tequila. But it’s my birthday ok?
And I am still not sure what I want.
And also I ate a lot of lemon tonight, so there is some goodness where tequila is concerned! All is not lost YO!! (I am so down with the kids!) And as long as I don’t eat any salt for like, a week, I should be fine.
‘We need to try if we want another.’ He pulls the duvet away and jokingly rubs the bed beside him invitingly ‘Do we want another?’
How many times back and forth, back and forth. Back and bloody forth.
I am mentally ill…. But it would be managed this time around… but what if it wasn’t?
I am happy in my marriage now… we are awful to one another when we are tired…
I have a great job I love… which I could go back to… but I like my life now…
I like my life now.
I have a five year old who can dress himself and I sleep all night….
I can go out and drink tequila, go to the cinema with my boys, I have money!
I can hula hoop in our spare room.
We can go for meals, we may be going back to Disney…
I miss the smell, the sound, the cuddles, the love, the general babyness, the pushing of a pram, the feeling of mothering a baby, the enormous milk filled boobs that make me feel like Pamela Anderson. Hell I even miss the nappies, the tiny toes, the cuddles…I want Addy to have a Sibling, I loved having a brother, I miss snuggling with a newborn, the laugher of a 2 year old, I don’t wanna get to 40 and regret not trying… but what If i do get pregnant? I hated it last time, I was so… disconnected, lost, troubled… fat and miserable.
‘Will it be different this time Irish One?’
‘No idea. Probably. You know what to expect.’
‘But they are all different, what if the new baby is a nightmare?’
He looks at me with disgust.
‘The new baby would be our baby you idiot. How could you think something like that?
‘I am a nightmare… it would be half me.’
‘Good point.’ He pulls the duvet back over him. ‘So we aren’t trying then?’
‘We are trying!’ I stumble towards the bed trying to be sexy, but a wave of nausea overcomes me as the room spins, the double vision sets in and I see two annoyed Irish men glaring back at me ‘I think I am gonna vomit.’
‘I have never found you more attractive.’ he huffs as I stub my toe on the door in my haste to get to the bathroom, let our a string of faux whispered expletives as not to wake the 5 year old in the next room and head to the bathroom to drunkenly cry over the toilet.
I am too old for this shit.
This month I am throwing caution to the wind. I am going to have sex with wild abandon! (On the right days, quietly and with serious doubts I am doing the right thing.)
Wait though, am I doing the right thing?
I am like a Badger caught in headlights.
Whasssssuppppppp. (Random picture of Addy as a Baby, because interestingly I do not have a picture of me dressed up as a badger- I will sort this out asap.)
I was getting comfy in bed.
Doing that arse wiggle you do, where you shuffle and bounce around, trying to find the idyllic lean position that perfectly compliments the hand to eye to phone ratio.
The illusive position that enables at least 2 hours of elbow pain free Facebook stalking.
I am addicted to facebook. I am not even going to try and hide it. It is an illness.
Anyhoo, no sooner had I got settled when I stumbled across this little gem of an article.
The link to which is here; http://metro.co.uk/2015/06/29/15-signs-youve-found-the-one-5253420/?ito=facebook
Opening my caramel ice cream bar and smoothing down the covers over my growing bump (I am not pregnant by the way, before you start congratulating me, I am just a summer stress eater) I began to read.
And then I began to stress eat. (Told you.)
Basically Metro, what you are saying is, I have not found the man I am going to marry yet?!?
And… I have husband….
Well this is awkward.
Not one to take defeat lying down, I stomped down the stairs grabbed another caramel bar out of the freezer and decided to write my own version.
I have decided to call this helpful article;
15 signs you know you have met the man you married.
1. They’ve seen you at your worst – and they still think you’re the best.
‘Irish one! Irish one! Have I shit on the table? Have I shit on the goddamn table?’
A midwife swishes away a huge piece of what can only be described as crêpe paper, (read: crap paper) from under my struggling buttcheeks and disappears around the table I am lying on like a huge slab of meat, towards a big yellow bin with a bio-hazard sign on the side. Oh the horror, the horror!
‘Did I just shit on the fecking table?’ I ask him one last time, mortified by the none-stop glamour experience labour has been up until this point… ‘Stop staring out of the fecking window and tell me!’
The Irish one does not make eye contact with me for the following three years whenever this subject comes up.
He did buy me a wii- fit though, following the birth, to help me lose that extra baby weight.
So thoughtful, I told him, as I launched it at his head.
2. Your worst parts are his favourite parts.
‘Do my thighs look thick?’
‘Thick?’ his eyes flick nervously to my thighs and back to my face. ‘Thick?’
‘Yeah. Thick. It is the new in word for curvy I think. Like, Beyonce has thick thighs.’
He stares at me with a tinge of fear in his eyes, a slight stress dew cumulating on his top lip.
‘Well?’ I put my hand on my hip. ‘Do I look thick in this or not?’
‘Yes.’ he says very definitely, evidently having chosen his answer and feeling most determined to stick to it. ‘Yes you look like one thick bitch.’
Charming. I glower like a campfire.
‘There was no right answer to that question Lexy! You just wanted an argument!’ and we both storm off in different directions.
Him to play the PS4, me to cry in to my thick thighs.
3. They don’t judge your eating habits.
The freezer door slams.
‘Have you eaten all the caramel bars already for fecks sake?!’
‘Are you calling me fat?’
‘If you have eaten 3 caramel bars in an hour then ….’ he trails off as I clutch my heart and pull my mock hurt face ‘… I will have an apple.’
4. They put up with your insufferable mood swings.
We can’t talk about the last one, it is all still a bit too raw.
Needless to say I apologised to the lady dressed as Tinkerbell while he assured her she didn’t need to call the french fairy police, or whatever.
But in my defence, how was I supposed to know she was trying to blow Addy ‘a wish?!?’
Any woman would have seen that and thought the same.
That fucking fairy is flirting with my husband.
‘I don’t care if she is a fairy Irish One!!! Any woman would act the same. Flirt with my husband and i’ll rip the fairytale right out of you.’
He shakes his head and increases his speed as I run along side the buggy trying to keep up.
5. They support your tacky taste in films.
‘Want to watch pitch perfect 2 with me tonight?’
‘Fuck right off.’
Well ok then.
6. They are nice to your family, even the weird members.
I don’t think this one counts.
I am the weird member in my family…
7. They like you even when you don’t like you.
‘Oh my god I can’t believe I started on a fairy. I am such a horrible person.’
‘I can’t believe you ate all the caramel ice cream bars.’
‘Irish one! You are supposed to like me even when I don’t like me!’
‘Remember what your therapy taught you. You aren’t always a bad person, just every now and again… or something.’
I spit my tea out.
‘You mean, just because you do a bad thing doesn’t make you a bad person?’
8. They happily listen to your work dramas and pretend to care.
‘Fuck those daft bitches. State of them. What’s for tea?’
9. They want to do spontaneous things with you.
‘You never wanna do spontaneous things with me Irish One.’
‘I do. I am always grabbing your boobs while you wash up. You always tell me to get lost!!’
Do I need to go on?
10. Whatever your doing together, you’re happy.*
*Terms and conditions apply. If we are abroad, and fed, and not on a time limit, the washing up has been done, neither one of us has been up all night, it is the day after payday, the child is behaving, nothing has been spilt, he is not hungry and I am not on – then yes… maybe. Unless there is football on, it is too hot, there are crumbs on the sofa or Addy needs a bath, the dog hasn’t been out yet and the car needs petrol.
11. You’ve planned your lives together.
‘Shall we go back to Disney one day?’
‘Jesus Christ what is that smell?’
12. You get excited about buying them things.
‘What is the budget for xmas this year?’
‘Please don’t ever buy me another barbed wire-esque toilet seat.’
‘Oh for the love of god are you ever going to let that drop? You said you liked the ones in Rain Bar!’
13. Being drunk together is actually fun.
No. No it really isn’t. Ok well, sometimes it is. But… Terms and Conditions apply.
‘It is fun until the vomiting starts.’ The Irish one thinks he is funny.
I need to make one thing clear here, I am not sick all the time. Just sometimes.
‘Just when you drink…’
I am ok on gin.
‘Except for when you aren’t… and then everything is my fault.’
Let’s move on.
14. You couldn’t picture your life without them.
I probably could in all fairness.
I wouldn’t want to live my life without him but I could picture it.
It would be a life with significantly less washing up, no constant ‘are we having another baby or can we go back to Disney World’ arguments, and a lot more TV time for me.
I wouldn’t want it though, just to clarify.
Well not all the time anyway.
15. They Love you for you.
‘Nobody wants to be the bloke that dumped his mentally ill wife.’
‘Oh.My.God I cannot believe you said that!’
Well this is awkward.
From the award winning blogger Mammywoo, pegged by The guardian as ‘the one to watch’ comes a new hilariously funny and deeply moving memoir about dealing with mental illness while still reeling from the Magic of Birth.
Lexy wanted to be the perfect mother, she wrote this down numerous times in her planner (ok she doesn’t own an actual planner, but the back of an unpaid bill still counts right?) Her journey through motherhood would be calm and serene. No dummies, no drama and she would most definitely slip back in to her pre- pregnancy wardrobe, immediately!
What could possibly go wrong?
From accidentally breastfeeding the dog to romantic laxatives, therapy and beyond, this is an honest, very real and sometimes quite disturbing tale of woe, set in the wilderness of what was meant to be a year spent relaxing, with a baby.
Now available to read across all platforms.
Barnes and noble, nook, kindle, and iBooks. It’ll be in print this week. iBooks is a dream come true. A dream come true. All hail apple formatting. Here is the link-
I Used to be Cool.. by Lexy Ellis
All Paperback and Kindle Proceeds are being paid to MIND. Mental health charity.