Up to our eyeballs in poo.

There has been a spate of ‘poo explosions’ recently. It’s truly astonishing how so much poo can come out of one tiny person and how, inexplicably, said poo gets EVERYWHERE.

Hubs and I settled down with a bowl of homemade meatballs last night when the continuation of the family name decided he was hungry. Hubs being the caring, considerate man he is leapt to the task, honourably accepting he’d be eating his dinner cold. However on removing our little prince from his bouncy chair we noticed a big yellowy-brown stain on his leg, and all over his back. To be honest, it seams Wills had done a stealth poo as usually you can hear him pushing and his face goes bright red.

I don’t know who had the idea of designing baby vests so they could be pulled down in a poo related emergency, but they deserve a Nobel prize. Removing the baby grow down spared Will from getting poo all over his head. As wipes only seem to move poo around William had his bedtime bath early. As Wills was hungry and baffled as to why he was stripped, washed and redressed he was screaming blue murder by the time we’d finished. I do sometimes wonder if the neighbours think we’re torturing him.

This morning after, placing Will in his beloved bouncy chair I noticed (and how neither of us spotted is last night) that there was a huge poo stain on it. Thank lordy for vanish powder.

It’s crazy how this is the norm for us now, and even more weird that I am frequently covered in the brown stuff and I don’t really mind that much, that’s the power of love right there.

In other news:

Marms celebrated her three year adoptiversary yesterday.

Captain has a habit of standing on his hind legs and looking into the moses basket when Wills is having a meltdown. Todays meltdown was because his bottle wasn’t ready IMMEDIATEY, Captain looked in and turned to me with a look of horror on his face as it to say ‘You’ve broken the bald kitten!’

We’re taking William on his first holiday soon, the list of what we need to take for him is, quite frankly, eye-watering.



Settling into motherhood.

I have  now been a mother for eight whole weeks and am starting to get the hang of it. For a few weeks now our little Angel has been sleeping through the nights which most definitely makes the days easier. But that’s not to say all the days are easy! A week or so ago I was taking William into work so I could have lunch with colleagues. We stopped off at a supermarket on the way to get William some milk when I realised I hadn’t got any sterile bottles with me. So we had to go back home. I dashed into the house to retrieve them and on the way out tripped over the hem of my maxi dress and exposed my boobs on the drive. I was only wearing the dress because a) it fits, and b) is long enough to not show my bum when I bend over. On the rather agitated drive to work I felt like such a bad mum. How could I forget his bottles and not for the first time? Why didn’t I learn after the first time? I also forgot his muslin cloth, what am I going to clean his face with if he’s sick?

The doubt set in and I started to cry, I genuinely thought ‘Why an earth did I think I’d be a good mum when I’m not good at anything?’

It was time for a reality check, reality check was said aloud, in the car, through massive sobs, and ladies, if in doubt pay attention, it’s a reality check for us all:

So you forgot some bottles? Big deal! You’ve sorted it! You are a mum, you are a good mum, YOU GREW AND BIRTHED A BABY, a brand new tiny human, YOU’RE A FUCKING WARRIOR, so what you made mistake? And what? It’s not the end of the sodding world so stop dwelling on it and STOP JUDGING YOURSELF SO HARSHLY.

Mammas if you are ever having a wobble, give yourself that reality check. (Maybe don’t say it around the kids I’m aware there are some naughty words in there and the last thing you want is your four year old dressing up for Children in Need and announcing to class and teachers he/she is a fucking warrior. …)

I am still struggling with my wardrobe. Mum tum is still very much present and I can’t say I’m doing much to get rid of it. William has taken to screaming blue murder in the mornings which has resulted in some questionable outfit choices and no make up. This is unfortunate because I’m a woman that needs make-up.

Wills had his jabs Wednesday and although it was bloody hard to watch it is definitely better than the alternative! I was so proud of how quickly he recovered, my brave little soldier! He was quite sleepy afterwards so much so that I put him in his cot an curled up in bed, both cats joined in the napping action, the first time we’ve all been asleep in the same room since I was pregnant. The house looks appalling but mamma needs sleep. I just won’t be inviting anyone around for a cuppa.

In other news:

Captain is becoming a feature of Williams bath time. Knowing my cat like I do, I suspect it won’t be long before he tries to climb in the tub with him.

Marmite has, on two separate occasions, left a live mousey downstairs for us. We are (through necessity) dab hands at catching and releasing them, however if Marms doesn’t witness this she will wait for them to resurface for hours. She waits in prime tripping spot. My life has flashed before my eyes so many times this week I could write my autobiography in great detail. (Spoiler alert, it wouldn’t be terribly interesting.)

We had a prolific poo explosion this week. Hubs had poo all over his arm, Wills had poo all over his body, there was poo all over the nursery (and I suspect some poo may have escaped from the mass clean up operation). Being too much for wipes we just put him in the bath.



I’ll never be the same again…

Well tonight was nice. I’m currently on maternity leave but tonight was the leaving do of our Chief Executive. Leaving William in the more than capable hands of daddy I washed my hair, donned my pulley in pants, applied make-up and set off to the venue.

It felt so lovely to see colleagues and attack the buffet and drink sweet alcohol. I was out! At a party, with grown ups. But one thing was very different to everytime I’ve been out before….

Now I’m a mummy.

I loved being out dancing and chatting to friends but William was never far from my mind. I missed him. I feel lonely sometimes, on the days I don’t see people. Some days we go to the park with other mummies or we see grandparents or aunties. But other days we are at home with no phoncalls or visitors and I can feel lonely. Today I looked forward to my evening. But the whole time I was there I felt like part of me was missing. I missed my son.

I have a son!

I have often thought of myself as a selfish person. And I genuinely worried that my selfishness would affect how I was as a mother. But (and I really don’t want to sound clichéd here) the love I feel for that wee bundle trumps everything. It magnified the love I have for my husband, and our son is my world.

So tonight was different from before. When hubs picked me up I had to peek at Wills in the back. I kissed him goodnight (he was wearing his dinosaur onsie) stroked his head and went downstairs content that I am home and with him. I am a mummy now. That changes EVERYTHING.

In other news:

Sir Legsalot seems to have found himself a wifey.

Ginormo spider with no name has been caught and released. Apparently he had mates…

William is sleeping through. Captain is waking me up with his revolting cat-breath  and insistence on licking my face.
















































































































































My house the zoo…

Last night I might have accidentally drank too much red wine, leaving hubs to put me and baby to bed. I think it’s easier to put a 10lb baby to bed than an 11 stone (11 stone!!) woman. Having not had alcohol for such a long time (especially not in the quantities I had last night) I had forgotten what hangovers feel like, I don’t like them. Hubs and I don’t mix drinking a parent duties so last night hubs didn’t drink (I did more than enough for both of us), so I was free to pass out and dream about living in space. (It involved hovering if you’re interested.)

Anyway, this morning I’ve woken with a sore head and breath that could be weaponised. I’ve had to dispose of a dead rat left on the carpet by one of the cats and I’ve had to lock the cat flap in order to get Marmite to the vets this morning. This has not gone down well. She likes to eat and then bugger off for hours on end. As this wasn’t possible she and Captain have been getting rid of excess energy by fighting, stopping only to see is the cat flap has magically opened. I’d had enough of the growling and hissing (all coming from Marms, I might add) so decided to remove the antagonist. It is not fun chasing a cat with a hangover. When I finally caught the little sod (Captain) he dug all his claws into the carpet so I’m lifting and he’s not shifting. Finally managed to untangle him and shut him upstairs and hear Marmite growling at the cat flap. She then scouted the living room for an alternative exit, upon not finding one, she decided to do a poo in the litter tray. One I can’t remove until she’s in her cat box or at the vets (clever Marms, very clever).

Whilst cat mayhem is ensuing I notice the collection of spiders is growing. Phil Mitchel is nowhere to be seen but whilst on the phone to my sister I noticed one on the curtain by the front door. This in itself was a sign it was a big bugger because I didn’t have my glasses on and I still saw it! I can only assume it was an extra from the film Arachnaphobia. If that’s how you spell it, I am quite frankly too hungover to care. Anyway, I don’t mind Sir Legsalot but this is an entirely different kettle of spider, latin name Fuckingus Massiveus, to catch and release I’d need to put  a wheelie bin over it and slide a pool table underneath.

Hubs (my knight in shining armour) has managed to successfully wrestle Marms into her cat box and is currently sat at the vets. William has taken the opportunity to do a massive poo. The sound effects were really quite something. I now have the dilemma of how to change his nappy without chundering on him.

Wish me luck.

In other news:

I’m never drinking again.

Never work with children or animals.

Yesterday I had a super day, the kind of day when I only nearly cried once, made a dinner from scratch and kept the house from looking like a squatter’s den. Today is definitely not going the same way.

My son, aka the blue eye fog-horn is exercising  his lungs like a pro this morning, if fact if there was an Olympic medal for screaming the place down I’m quite sure he’d win. Now he only got up twice last night, which some might think gives me every reason to feel smug. However after his four fifteen feed William wouldn’t go back to sleep. When baby ain’t sleeping, mamma ain’t sleeping. So I’m not feeling particularly joyful this morning as the fog horn was up just before 7 and has been making himself heard since. This coupled with the current plumbing situation, whereby every time a water outlet is used in this house it sounds like a large ship is coming into harbour you have one very grumpy mum in need of ear plugs.

The animals: Yesterday’s domestic godessness was almost shattered by my two house panthers. During the night feed Marmite was trying to catch a mouse in the living room (a mouse she had brought into the house) thankfully she caught it and took it outside, a few weeks ago she ate one in front of me and William.  In the morning as the foghorn was laying on my bed Captain decided it could be a good idea to lick his head. Wrestling a cat is not a fun way to start the day but I’ve seen some of the places that tongue has been, I don’t want it on my baby’s head! Then after making meatballs and leaving them to  cool (I made the meatballs, not the cats) Marmite managed to eat two of them. I was only in the next room but she’s a stealthy little git. (That’s when I nearly cried) I then watched both cats coordinate efforts in order to commit murder. There is the body of a large rat and a small bird on my lawn. I suspect this will cause at least one of them to throw their food up on my carpet. Knowing I was furious with her Marmite didn’t enter the house again until hubs got home, and lavished him with affection. (The tart).

So in short yesterday cats bad, baby good. Today I fear all three are off the wagon. William hasn’t settled and I’ve seen the cats staring into a hole by next door’s fence which I suspect they are going to try and use as a means to liberate either a chicken or rabbit in a game of ‘Let’s brutally murder something.’


In other news:

My son has only just stopped crying, I sneezed, he began screaming again. Captain went all wide eyed with concern and rushed over to peek in the Moses basket. Satisfied the baby was okay, he went back to eating Marmite’s biscuits. (God forbid either of them eat their own food.)

We have a plumber coming to check out the noisy pipes. If he fails to return like the last one, I will hunt him down ‘Taken’ style.

My husband brought me Harry Potter and the Cursed Child. I am over the moon and looking forward to reading it, I reckon I’ll have time when William starts school.


Am I coming or going?

William is now four weeks and one day old. I am continually surprised by how quickly he’s changing and how me and hubs made something so beautiful. Being a parent keeps you very busy. Some might say too busy, I’ve got very good and controlling my bladder.

This morning our darling son decided that after being fed and changed he was going to scream the place down unless he was laying on my chest. He looked around his beautiful blue eyes taking in the details of my face (bushy eyebrows, black bags, remains of make up I actually managed to put on yesterday) , and he yawned. Call me silly but if you’re tired why not put less energy into screaming, more into snoozing? Apparently deafening mummy is more fun. EVENTUALLY he fell into a deep sleep and I was able to put him in his basket without him kicking off. I then enjoyed a cup of tea.

My house is disgusting. The kitchen is sanitary, but the mess everywhere else is quite frankly upsetting. My bathroom is crying out for a deep clean but a quick squirt of bleach down the loo will have to suffice for the time being! The sheets need changing on the bed too, our cats are quite partial to napping on the bed, often seeking refuge upstairs if William is being particulary vocal, this means sheets don’t stay clean for long.

I don’t think I put deodorant on today, I’ve washed my hair but had no time to dry it so I currently resemble Hagrid. I only got stretch marks on the top of my legs in the last week of pregnancy. What I don’t understand is why the ones on my left leg are growing? I’m still bleeding *ahem* downstairs, when the hell does that stop? And why does no-one tell you how much blood is involved in labour? I spent a considerable amont of time wondering if I was, in actual fact, dying but I didn’t want to freak out and cause a scene. I can’t help but wonder if personal grooming will be a thing ever again.


In other news:

The f*#king cat has eaten the sausages we were supposed to be having for tea.

This has taken a few hours to write because my son hasn’t stopped screaming.

Sir Legsalot is missing, I have spotted a huge spider stalking round the living room, I suspect a turf war of some form. I have named the new spider Phil Mitchel. If you saw him, you’d understand why.


Clothes size: Just a number?

Yesterday, in my infinite wisdom, I decided to sort through my clothes. My wardrobe is crammed full of winter and maternity clothes and my summer clothes live in a plastic box in the winter months. They’ve been in the box for longer this year because I’ve been too fat (pregnant) to wear them. Optimistically hoping for another couple of months of warm weather I set about reuniting with old favourites from my summer box. However, post baby some of these favourites don’t actually fit yet.

Shorts: Nope.

Jeans: Hell no.

Tops that show just a peak of tummy: I think I’ll keep the wrinkly skin sack that was once an almost acceptable tum to myself thanks.

Bodycon dresses: I fear my bodycon days are over.

Self esteem well and truly knocked (hubs had to help me out of a couple of dresses) I moved onto the wardrobes. After removing what was too small and too hideous the wardrobes are now very sparsley populated.

A glass of wine later and having to be rescued from a dress became a slightly fuzzy memory.

This morning I’m feeling rather philosophical. Essentially clothes size is just a number, but the higher the number, the worse I feel about myself. What I need to accept is that my body is never going to be exactly like it was before. From my mum tum to my ladyparts and my now unusual nipple, it’s all changed, but it grew a human. And that’s a pretty awesome thing to do.


In other news:

Sir Legsalot is NOT dead.

I drank wine last night and am feeling it this morning.

William did a giant poo in the early hours, according to hubs, the biggest yet.