I want a drink.

Before I became pregnant for the second time, I quit drinking. I’d reached my officially fat weight. According to my BMI. (Body Mass Index). So I thought I’d pack in the adult pop. Cut some calories. Did it work?

No.

I quit drink and developed a hankering for filled donuts. After spending a family pamper evening sans booze and weighing myself the next day to find I’d actually put on weight since my personal prohibition, I thought ‘fuck it.’ Hubs and I walked to the pub on a glorious sunny day and I worked my way through three little bottles of prosecco and had a very wobbly walk home. I’d gone several weeks without a drop and thought why torture myself in perfect drinking weather by abstaining for no reason.

I was officially back on the booze and off the donuts. I found that psychologically I figured not drinking freed up so many calories, donuts, crisps and large amounts of cheese would simply be cancelled out. (No human could drink enough booze to cancel out the cheese and donut calories I got through without killing themselves.)

Now there is a very real reason why I can’t drink, and whilst I’m glad for my (albeit brief) dry spell as it has made stopping again much easier, I (for the first time in my pregnancy so far) would really like a glass of red wine. A nice wine, in a lovely glass, that I can sip from over an evening. Rich and dark and a little sweet. One that warms the insides as it slips down. I can almost smell it.

Will I have a glass of wine?

No. There is no known safe limit of alcohol during pregnancy. So no, wine will remain a fantasy for the foreseeable future. And yes I’ve tried the alcohol free wine, it’s bloody awful. Truly bloody awful.

In other news:

The boy had his first haircut at the barbers today. He was so good! He looks very grown up!

Pregnancy hormones have meant I’m crying at everything. Mostly at shit videos on Facebook. This will only get worse.

I was feeling hungry and not at all sick this morning, as I tucked into my scrambled eggs on toast ceebeebies decided to show a weird cartoon with a chicken crying because it couldn’t push it’s egg out, the other animals were ‘helping’ by trying to pull the egg out the rest of the way (I kid you not) I was a little bit sick in my mouth and breakfast went in the bin. Curse you ceebeebies!!

Advertisements

The Bump Chronicles – The first trimester.

So. We did it again. Officially up le duff again.

So far I’ve spent 13 weeks trying not to throw up or explode at someone. Apparently my tolerance for stupid severely decreases when I’m with child.

Ritz crackers have been my saviour, the salty little gods. My first trimester aversion to fruit and vegetables shows little sign of abating and I suspect I might give birth to a Happy Meal.

I have desperately been trying to hide my bump at work. With limited success. I’ve seen them look, but are too scared to ask if I’m pregnant in case I’m just fat. We’re past that now, to say I’ve ‘popped’ is an understatement. More like exploded, you could float me over London to protect the city from ariel attacks.

My skin is NOT glowing, the only place my hair is getting thicker and more lustrous is my chin and as I’m already the mother of a toddler getting plenty of rest has been out of the question. I fell asleep in front of the boy the other day and he started smacking me with a plastic banana.

So thirteen weeks down, 27 to go, (if by some miracle baby arrives on time) so expect 27 weeks of whinging and perhaps a little more information than you’re comfortable with.

X

Just keep swimming.

I took the boy swimming today. We haven’t been since he went on holiday last year. We are going away with hubs’ parents this year and whilst he’ll be under constant supervision in the pool, we’d like him to have recent experience of being in water.

As it’s the summer holidays there are plenty of sessions on and after checking the timetable this morning I thought I’d strike whilst the iron is hot.

To my relief as I was checking said timetable the boy did a big poo, meaning i only had to worry about the boy floating in the pool…

I told the boy we were going swimming and he seemed excited. So I’m not sure why, when it came to actually leaving the house he threw an epic tantrum. Crying, folding his arms, throwing himself on the floor. The works. I remained calm. But in these situations ‘What the fuck is wrong now?!’ Is never far from the tip of my tongue. After coaxing him out of the house I carried him to the car still sobbing. I have no idea why he was crying.

We got to the pool and headed to the (slightly grotty) changing room. There were two old ladies getting changed after their swim who told me Will had ‘such an angelic face’ ha! I wonder what they’d have said if they’d seen him 15 minutes earlier. As the ladies were changing he stared at them. I broke out into a cold sweat. This could go one of two ways. 1: he’ll point at their bodies and shout ‘yuk’ as he does to me on a now daily basis. Or 2: he’ll try and ‘tickle’ them which basically involves grabbing body parts and laughing hysterically. Thank god I had my swimsuit on under my clothes! If there was an Olympic medal for speed changing, I’d have won the gold.

We did the walk of humiliation past EVERYONE to get to the pool. The boy was unsure to start with but when he got onto the water enjoyed shouting ‘splash!’ at the top of his lungs, pointing at my boobs and shouting ‘yuk!’ And pulling the front of my swimsuit down. I also got kicked in the fanny repeatedly.

I definitely helicoptered in the pool but I guess when the alternative is him drowning, helicoptering is important. His head went under once, and whilst he wasn’t happy about it it went down better than I expected. Lessons have now been booked on a Daddy can share the ‘fun’.

I couldn’t help but think parenting is a lot like this swimming experience. Sometimes you feel out of your depth, sometimes you can barely keep your head above the water. Sometimes no matter how hard you try, it feels like a constant kick in the fanny. But one day, you’ll not only be floating, you’ll be swimming.

In other news:

The boy is talking more and more, but every now and again will shout something that sounds a lot like ‘dick’.

I have given up on a tidy house. The boy is the anti-tidy.

I shall attempt to make a cake with the boy later, something I may very well regret…

…and I’m broken.

The day started with the boy sat in a puddle of his own urine, and nappy so heavy with the stuff it could have been used to anchor a cruise ship.

We’ve played with the play-doh (two colours only, which I’m pleased to say have not been mixed) watched a few episodes the Twirly Woos (as many as I can watch before I want to slit my own throat. This number is rapidly decreasing.)

Then we went out. Our fridge is empty. Not empty but I could easily whip up two meals… it’s empty empty.

Knowing never to shop on an empty stomach I took the boy into M&S for some lunch. Will decided he wanted to sit on my lap, as that was the best place to be to wipe pasta sauce all over my clothes. Refusing to eat most of his pasta but giving all my food a good fingering I gave up on the whole lunch idea and headed to Tesco. I had the pushchair but Will was not strapped in, he was walking beside it. That way if he gets tired it’s there but I can also put my shopping basket in it and avoid the whole trolley tantrum scenario.

As we neared Next I decided to pop in and check the sale for boy’s sandals. The smell coming off his is quite frankly a health hazzard but due to the fashion season all I can get in the shops now are wellies and winter boots (just in time for August!) crocs and croc like shoes are available but no way in hell am I putting my boy in them. It’s bad enough pretending I don’t know my own mum when she insists on wearing them on holiday.

We got to the entrance and Will stopped in the doorway. He kept saying ‘bus’ I assume he meant the both shit and astronomically expensive kiddy ride outside Tesco. (A quid?! You can fuck right off!)

He wouldn’t move. And started to cry. No biggie. I tried the old walkin’ away trick. He moved closer but then started wailing so I decided the best course of action was to put him in his pushchair. That was a mistake.

He unleashed the demon.

And I burst into tears. In a shop. In public. I tried to power through. The boy was still screaming and I received a filthy look from a woman with a perhaps nine year old boy, obviously suffering from memory loss. Either that or her son was a robot.

Turns out I was unable to power through. Instead of buying much needed groceries we went to the car. Will looked confused as he was strapped into his car seat by a blubbering mess. The mess that sat in the car park for five minutes (crying) before driving home (still crying).

We got into the house, the boy had clearly forgotten his tantrum and tucked his Hey Duggee ‘Happy’ soft toy under my arm. (No, the irony was not lost on me.)

I’m not cross with the boy. He’s just being two. But I’m furious with myself for letting his tantrum get to me, and putting on such a spectacular public show of how not to parent. Or even adult. Surely I should have this down by now? To to be perfectly honest he’s done worse and that hasn’t made me spend the afternoon crying on and off.

I think I’m getting a migraine. Icing and cake much?

In other news:

Apparently when will yells ‘Fanny’ he means ‘rain’.

The boy pulled my dress up when I was getting off the loo, pointed at my lady parts and said ‘yuk’ earlier today. Do I top myself now or later?

The cats are taking advantage of the wet weather to get filthy and leave footprints all over the duvet. A hobby they’ve not had the opportunity to indulge in for quite some time.

It’s too hot. There, I’ve said it.

Our little island is not blessed with good weather. Most summers are short and wet. But not the case this year. It’s hot. Frigging hot. And we couldn’t be less prepared.

The fun thing about England is that as soon as it hits 18 degrees, we’re out. Parks and pub gardens fill with pasty limbs protruding from shorts and t-shirts. BBQs are lit, garden parties are hosted and kids play in paddling pools. Other countries are still sporting coats as we rush to wear our seldom used summer clothes.

Not this year though. Weeks of high temperatures have scorched the earth and shortened tempers. There isn’t a fan to be found in stock anywhere. We’re fed up of burnt sausages. Our children are forever coated in a greasy film of high factor suncream, and public transport has been rendered risky for all with a working sense of smell.

Now I appreciate this sounds very ungrateful and I too have wished for a hot summer that lasts longer than a fortnight, but we simply aren’t prepared for heat.

The heat has also made one stroppy toddler. A hot, sweaty, stroppy toddler. As a nation we’ve been advised to stay out the heat where possible. I can’t take the boy to the park as the play equipment is hotter than the sun. Most places I’d take him to are sans air conditioning. Soft play is a warehouse that gets comparable to an oven on mild days. I am genuinely concerned that children will just cook in this heat. I’ve been distracting him with tv during the hottest parts of the day but we’re like a cross between hermits and the mole people. Yesterday giving him an ice pop caused a tantrum of epic proportions, bedtime causes a similar meltdown and we haven’t put him in pyjamas in over a month. This Friday we’re set for temperatures to reach 33 degrees Celsius. Weather we quite enjoy on holiday. Where there are swimming pools. Or the sea. And it’s socially acceptable to drink ice cold beers in the day.

Perhaps I’ll miss it when it’s gone, but I’m more of an autumn girl anyway. It’s prettier and there are less armpits to avoid. (Why is it those who should use deodorant rarely do?) I can also take Wills out with worrying about him boiling in his own skin.

I never thought I’d say this, but rain would be great about now!

In other news:

Monday marked Captains three year adoptiversary! He cost us more than all my other pets combined in vet bills but we love the big hairy git.

Our son has the smelliest feet I’ve ever encountered.

It’s my uni besties wedding on Friday! I’m going to be ugly crying for most of the day.

When will people start minding their own f*#king business?

When will people start minding their own f*#king business?

A while ago I had a rant about how women are expected to bear children and the ones that chose not to are treated like lepers by some members of society. They’re told all sorts of shit things like: ‘you’ll change your mind’, ‘it’s different when it’s your own’ and my personal, most detested phrase ‘You never know love until you have a child’.

Utter bollocks.

Well move over women who would rather not procreate, there’s a new leper in town:

People who only want one child.

Yes, gasp away, the horror of the family that decide one child is enough! Someone I know put an article on Facebook the other day about how ‘only children are actually quite normal, according to science.’ Now, I do know that she only wants one child, I don’t know why, but let me refer to the eloquent title of this post; It’s absolutely none of my fucking business. Now it seems she has had to defend her decision from people who collectively need to mind their own fucking business. And yet, just like women who choose not to have children she feels she needs to justify this decision to the judgemental society we live in.

*I’ll add in here, I contacted her asking if it would be okay to reference her in this post, she agreed and told me that she wanted ‘lots of babies’ before she had HG. For those of you who don’t know what that is, it’s Hyperemesis Gravidarum. It’s like morning sickness, if morning sickness was on crack. And apparently if you have it in one pregnancy, you’ll get it again, but worse in the next one. It makes for a long and miserable pregnancy. In the days before the drip, some women died from HG. Because when you can’t swallow water without throwing it up again, you need medical intervention.*

When will we learn: No kids, one kid two kids, seventeen kids: not your business.

And here’s what else is not yours to pass judgement on: age of mother/father, sexual orientation of parents, what the parents do for a living, if it’s a single parent raising the child/ren, whether the mother or father stays at home or works full/part time.

None. Of. Your. Business.

There seems to be an unspoken rule that once you’ve passed a tiny human out of your bits, you are now public property. I remember being asked by a complete stranger whether I was feeding William. (No I send him into the forest with a spear and let him fend for himself!!?) I am assuming she meant am I breastfeeding him. He was in his pram, I should have said ‘yes, right now in fact, I have a very long invisible breast that is flopped out, running across the floor, up the side of the pram and into his mouth, please don’t come too close, you might stand on it.’ I was being asked if I planned on having anymore children before my fanny had healed from the first one!

Here’s something else you don’t get to comment on: Gender.

If someone has a boy then has another baby boy, it is certainly not a ‘shame’. (And vice versa) if someone has carried and given birth to a healthy baby it is never ‘a shame it’s another girl’ and anyone that asks ‘Will you keep trying until you get a boy/girl?’ will be poked with a pointy stick until they put more effort into not being a total dick.

Curiosity killed the cat they say, you never know when you might get bludgeoned to death for asking shitty, insensitive questions that also happen to be; none of your fucking business.

In other news:

The niece turns a whole three on Saturday.  Let’s hope there are no punch ups between her and Will at the party. (There will probably be at least one loud exclamation of ‘that’s miiineeee’).

Our bathroom is soaked owing to that fact that when I was in the shower the boy held the curtain open so he could watch the bubbles go down the plughole. (When will I get to shower in private again?) Seeing as the alternative is him sneaking off and drinking my (expensive) foundation I let it happen.

Hubs and I are out for a curry tonight avec friends and sans boy! Time to go wild (but only until about half nine or so.)

 

 

 

 

Mummy said no so I asked…

I saw a t-shirt in a window on holiday that filled me with so much rage I simply had to write about it.

I was a cheap touristy gift with the words: Mummy said no so I asked Nanny and got two!

Or some similar shitty sentiment.

There are many variations, Nanny, Grandad, Aunty, Uncle, on t-shirts, hats and onesies.

Well let me tell you, in no uncertain terms: THIS SHIT HAS TO STOP!

I want to get a new t-shirt printed: Mummy said no, so I asked Nanny and she also said no because she respects my mother as a parent.

(Insert grandad/Aunty/Uncle as appropriate)

Parenting is hard enough, one day there’s just the two of you and suddenly two become three (or four or five) and all of a sudden it’s your responsibility to keep this tiny human alive and have it grow up into a responsible adult. You need help and support. Not contradictions.

If Mummy or Daddy say no, but Nanny/Grandad/Aunty/Uncle say yes, what kind of message is that sending to kids? Saying no isn’t always easy but what kind of adult are you creating by denying a child nothing? What kind of message are you sending by undermining parents? Worse still you’re putting it on a shit t-shirt!

On holiday my niece asked my sister for something, she said no. This was not the answer my niece was looking for so she asked me the exact same question, in-front of her mum. My reply was simply ‘What did Mummy just say?’ Niece knew she was facing a united front and didn’t ask again. (But made her feeling on the whole ‘no’ thing very clear!)

This is what children need to see. United fronts. It’s perfectly natural that if they want something they’ll keep asking the assembled adults until they get they response they’re looking for. But show respect for your child/sister/brother by following their wishes about their child. You might not agree with their choices, chances are your family didn’t agree with yours it seems to be a cycle. I am fully prepared for a few sceptical eyebrow raises when William brings home his own bundle of joy, but I’ll keep them to myself and if Will and his partner say no, it’ll be a no from me too kiddo.