Our first football ‘lesson’.

Hubs and I have a tendency towards couch potatoism. It’s not conscious it’s just we’re always tired and we like watching telly. We don’t, however, want to pass our potato ways onto the boy.

I want him to get involved in activities he’ll actually enjoy but I can tell you now I’m not going to be one of those parents who takes her kid to EVERYTHING. If the Bald Kitten wants to try something so be it. But I’m not signing up to everything just so I can have a pissing contest with other mums.

You see them boasting about all the groups little Tarquin goes to, how he’s so busy, how they go straight from school to karate, then an hour in the pool, not forgetting the private tutoring in the evening. Saturday morning is Rugby training, more swimming, photography club. Sunday morning football practice etc, etc, ETC!!

When does little Tarquin get to do his homework or play with friends? Would you need the tutor if you didn’t insist on exhausting the poor thing week in, week out?

Ask yourself: am I signing them up for this or for me?

Anyway, I digress. First football ‘lesson’. Hubs told the Bald Kitten he was going to play football. So that’s all I heard. All morning.

‘We play football today Mummy?’

‘Are we going to football?’

‘I’m playing football today Mummy’

‘Shall we go into the garden to play football?’

And whilst we were driving to the venue and I got a bit lost: ‘Mummy, are we going to play football today?’

When we finally found the venue (a smidge late) we hurried to the building. Well, I hurried until I heard a little voice say ‘Slow down Mummy you’re going too fast!’

The session was ‘unstructured’. It was a big room with 3 pop up goals, pop up tunnels and about 45 footballs. (I counted them). The man running the session was zipping around all over the place interacting with all the children.

The Bald Kitten was off! There were balls flying all over the place. He loved it! He was kicking balls all over the place. In his enthusiasm I did get an elbow to the nose and a football thrown in my face. Not quite sure he’s premiership material yet but he enjoyed himself and that’s what matters.

We did have a bit of a strop when the balls were put away, accompanied by a sulky declaration that he didn’t like football. He soon cheered up, and is looking forward to next week!

In other news:

I have had a lovely chat with the breastfeeding team. Feeling much better equipped to start boobie feeding.

Tried to have a relaxing bath today, was joined by the Bald Kitten who as soon as he was stood in the bath had a great big wee.

To make pregnancy EVEN MORE fun, I think I’m getting tonsillitis.


36 weeks pregnant and thinking all things boob.

Four weeks until B-day! I’ve been to see the midwife this morning. Apparently I’ve put on 4kg since the beginning of my pregnancy. That meant sod all to me so I used a converter and have put on just over half a stone. This is definitely less than last time. But last time I had a penchant for fast food. (And I didn’t feel sick for 17 plus sodding weeks.)

Blood pressure is fine, size of tum fine so basically we’re just waiting. Baby is not yet engaged but pointing the right way and tomorrow the Feeding Team are coming to visit me.

The Feeding Team promote breastfeeding and they’ll give me some tips on how to get started and answer any questions. I’m hoping they have a ‘there’s no such thing as a silly question’ policy.

I didn’t breastfeed the Bald Kitten. I had decided to try and not put pressure on myself. For lots of reasons it’s not something I continued with. This time round I am putting the pressure on. I want this, and seeing as when Little Pea is born my uterus will be closed for business, this is the only chance I have to experience this. I can’t help but remember the toe curling agony I felt last time and being confused by the conflicting advice:

‘breastfeeding should NEVER hurt’


‘There may be some pain during the initial latch’

I remember sobbing behind the curtain every time he latched on (or sort of but not quite latched on) and starting to cry every time he did thinking ‘please god not again, don’t hurt me again’. And I also remember beginning to resent him. The new postpartum mother is a hormonal one and I actually believed he was hurting me on purpose because he didn’t like me. It seems to me that by a hugely ironic twist of fate that just after having a baby is not a time to start breastfeeding! Or at least not for me.

I remember that sodding yellow breastfeeding guide I kept getting given every time I asked for help, I could recite it word for sodding word but couldn’t seem to get the hang of feeding.

Except I think that maybe I did have it. But what I didn’t get was honesty. All I needed to be told was ‘This might feel a bit shit for a bit, but stick with it. It’s normal for babies to want to be on the boob very frequently, you won’t be like a fully fledged dairy cow for a few weeks. Your baby is not starving.’

I’m not blaming anyone ultimately I made the choice to bottle feed. (And I have absolutely no regrets about that.) I thought I could just pump milk from day one and put boobie milk in a bottle. (It is not recommended to pump straight away. Again something I wish I knew.) But in it’s admirable mission to get more women breastfeeding, it seems to me NHS staff are very cautious about what they do and don’t say. Like they’re scared they’ll put us off. Being told it’s shit but it will get better was what I needed to hear, but I imagine it wasn’t on the list of stuff they could say, should it look like they’re not promoting it. I’m not saying everyone struggles, I can’t speak for all women. My bestie took to it like a milky duck to a dairy pond!

What I have done to encourage le boobie feeding this time round is not got any formula, perfect prep machine or bottles. (Will still has some for his bedtime milk) I’ve got nothing to fall back on. I know that it means hubs can’t help with night feeds (he did pretty much ALL the night feeds on paternity leave so I could sleep) but, my anxiety has me wanting to control everything so actually even though I probably won’t enjoy them, I need to be doing the feeds.

I’ve also asked hubs if we can go to a coffee shop when he’s on paternity leave so I can experience feeding in public with someone there. To be honest that’s one of my biggest fears. Public feeding but I’ll be buggered if we’re staying in all the time. There is also the financial side. Formula is expensive! Boobs are free, mine used to get drinks paid for, now they’ll be providing them!

In other news:

On Monday the Mothership and I will be getting the last bits for my hospital bag. Baby’s is sorted.

I’m trying to find good snacks for labour, I’d completely forgot about including them and apparently a quarter pounder with cheese meal, is NOT classed as an appropriate snack.

Word on the street is the baby has found the bike it’s getting for big brother…

Just. Let. Me. Sleep.

It’s currently 4.49 in the am and once again I am wide-a-sodding-wake.

I’m knackered, and I want to be unconscious but I’m not.

This is absolute bloody torture for me. I love sleep, I need sleep, I want sleep yet it’s proving more elusive than Nessy at the moment.

At 34+1 I potentially have six more weeks of this shit. 6 WEEKS. That can fuck right off. I’m praying baby gets to term at 37 weeks and thinks ‘bugger it, I’ll see what it’s like out there’, unlike it’s brother who hung in until he was encouraged out.

I feel guilty for wishing the short time I have left with just the Bald Kitten away but I can’t cope with this.

To add to the fun that is insomnia, when I lay down in bed my arse starts hurting. Ever had an achey bum after an intense gym session? Like after you’ve done A LOT of squats? It aches like that but in all honesty, I can’t remember the last time I did one squat let alone a gym session. Maybe my body is auto toning and as soon as baby is out I’ll have a flat stomach? I mean, it’s unlikely but I can dream. Oh look 5 am. I’m about three hours away from being awake for 24 hours. I’m going to be an absolute frigging delight today.

I did mention my sleep woes to le midwife and she said something about hormones and progesterone being abundant and probably why I’m ‘having trouble’. I think that everything inside my body is now actually progesterone. It’s the only logical explanation.

In other news:

Hubs and I have been to a magical wedding today, I thought dancing like a loon would guarantee sleep. Turns out I was wrong.

The baby we brought the Bald Kitten for Xmas has gone down an absolute storm. Fingers crossed he’s this nice to his sibling…

For whatever reason I am not friends with my pregnancy pillow. The cats on the other hand adore the large bed nest. Not together, it’s something else to have a turf war over.

‘Unusual’ baby names. We’ve gone too far.

I am a member of a parenting group on Facebook, it’s huge and in addition to women posting obviously positive pregnancy tests and asking what everyone thinks… (We think it’s positive. Because it’s positive. Like the example on the box that the test comes in. And the instruction leaflet contained within the box…) people ask for name ideas.

The most common post is something along the lines of ‘Baby girl/boy due in x weeks, really struggling for names, give me your unusual baby names.’

Always the want of ‘unusual’. Then they come, many sound like they were thought up under the influence of strong non-prescription drugs.

Now I’m not here to tell you what to call your child but for goodness sake your child has to live with this name. They have to write it on marriage certificates and drivers licenses and have it called out in school and during appointments, it will be the first thing potential employers know about them. So perhaps spread your net a little wider than Facebook.

The problem is everyone is so obsessed with their child being unique.

Your child will be unique. They will be the only the only version of themselves. They’ll grow and amaze you and make you proud. They’ll excel at some things, and struggle with others. There are so many ways they will distinguish themselves and their name will just be a name.

My name is not common and it’s a boy’s name. And I hated it as a child. I could never (and still can’t) find it on pens, key rings and bookmarks in souvenir shops. I didn’t know a single other person with my name and I longed for a ‘normal’ name. I cursed my mother for not calling me ‘Jenny’. And for having the following conversation too many times:

‘Yes Chesney, yes it is a boy’s name. Yes I’m a girl. My mum thought it suited either. No, nothing to do with ‘Chesney Hawks’ yes I’m sure, I was already in school when his song came out. Oh right now you’re singing I am the one and only. No that’s not the first time I’ve heard that joke. Actually it’s after Chesney Allen. No not many people have heard of him. Do you know the song ‘Run Rabbit’ from the Second World War? No I don’t suppose you do. Well he sang that. Yes I do know there is a Chesney in Coronation Street. No I don’t watch it. Can you excuse me I’d like to go stab myself in the face.’


Or imagine this:


‘Yes, Sunset -Rose-Ocean-Banana?

‘How did I get my name?’

‘A random stranger on Facebook suggested it sweetheart’

Really? Arsecloud is rather unique as a name for a person but you won’t find me rushing to get it on a birth certificate.

So please, think about this. There is a very fine line between ‘unusual’ and ‘stupid’, I think we’ve all seen enough internet to know society won’t be kind.

In other news:

Got the glitter glue out earlier. The boy actually enjoyed being creative. We’ve just got to wait four years for it to dry.

I correctly predicted that I wouldn’t sleep last night and have been a bit of a shouty mama today. I have zero tolerance for Paw Patrol related tantrums.

I thought it would be nice to have a hot chocolate with the Bald Kitten earlier. I was wrong. It’s all over the sofa, all over him and for some reason I can’t fathom he kept putting his fist in it.

Simple Pleasures

I’ve had a lovely day today.

Well after all the rejection I suffered this morning! I heard the bald kitten get up at around 5.15am, hubs was fast off so when the boy staggered in I asked if he wanted to get in with Mummy. ‘No’ was his simple, swift and chirpy reply. I felt a tad put out so when I heard Captain miaow I felt smug as Captain is a mummy’s boy. Imagine how I felt when he blanked me and curled up on hubs! That stung. Furry little ball bag.

After being shunned by all the boys, we started with something festive, off to the garden centre to see all the Christmas decorations, the boy was good for a bit then put a swift stop to that and was SATAN for the remainder. I’ve made a large mental note of all the decorations I’m going to buy when I get paid.

After the morning fun/wrestling an angry and unreasonable toddler we dropped him at my parents. His cousin is there as it a ginormous crate of Lego. The boy has been finding all the wheels and scooping Lego up into a cup and pouring it back into the tub. I think he likes the sound. But it should keep him amused for a while.

We popped back home and got to do all the things we don’t really get to do on a weekend. I had a bath, a deep bath, with the bathroom door closed. No bald kitten to add a boat, then ducks. Then himself. Then make me put cold water in. And I’m pretty sure every time the boy gets in the bath with me he has a wee.

The real magic happened when I got out the bath, I read my book, in the middle of the day THEN I HAD A NAP! An actual nap. Without being poked in the face, jumped on or shouted at! There has been NO PAW PATROL on in this house this afternoon. I got ready to go out without a toddler gouging chunks out of my makeup. And applying brow powder to the side of my face whilst exclaiming ‘ahh, that’s better!’

I’ve had a full face of makeup on. I took full advantage of being able to do it uninterrupted and I’m pretty sure I’m wearing a little bit of every cosmetic I own. Probably look a bit OTT, but have no regrets. Then we went out, for a meal. At quarter to 8. Quarter to 8!! I can’t tell you the last time we left the house at this time! We ate with family. Not a single Fruit Shoot was ordered. Hubs and I hadn’t brought a single car with us. We didn’t have to ensure another plate of food was a suitable eating temperature before starting our own. There wasn’t that point when we had to leave early because a tiny human can’t and simply won’t sit at a table whilst grownups talk about boring crap that isn’t the Paw Patrol. Hubs and I ate safe in the knowledge that if anyone did a poo, they’d be sorting themselves out! No mid dinner bum changes for us! Huzzarh!

I’ll feel sad tomorrow though. I love the sound of his door opening and him coming in for cuddles. (Even if they aren’t for me!) When he decides it’s time to cuddle Mummy and wriggles his little bottom towards me, shoving Miaow Miaow into my face for cuddles too.

Hubs and I have work to do, so however early I want to retrieve the bald kitten, jobs first! We are clearing the soon to be nursery so it can be painted. Work that is quicker and easier without a two year old ‘helping’. The plan is Madre is popping round tomorrow and we’ll get it painted. The only thing to do after that will be brave Ikea to get the furniture. Then hopefully I’ll be feeling a lot more ready for Little Pea’s arrival. The Bald Kitten has been cuddling bump a lot recently saying ‘Hello baby, see you later baby!’ Hopefully he feels the same way when baby gets here…

In other news:

My innie is now an outie and I can’t tell you how much it freaks me out!

I have eleven weeks to go. (Shiiiiiiit)

Last night my MIL laughed so much she gave herself a nosebleed. Good times!

Is today over yet?

Someone has stolen my son. They have replaced him with an angry unreasonable demon that I can’t wait to put to bed.

Hubs has popped out for afternoon tea with a friend (how very British!) and I’m stuck with the spawn of Hades. He’s poured squash on the carpet. Tried to pour it in the wheetabix tin. Tried to kick Captain and laughed at me when I told him off, demanded an apple that he’s not frigging eating and had an absolute shit fit when I sat down with some cashew nuts. He didn’t want to share he wanted them all. So stormed out of the living room into the hallway, shut the door only to (frequently) open it and shout ‘That’s mine mummy!’

Can’t a girl eat a bowl of nuts in peace? Can’t she do the ironing without the little sod throwing a ball at her? Can’t her offspring listen when she tells him to stop pouring squash over his trousers?!

Not. Today.

I am in the ‘very to extremely’ pregnant bracket now and tired. I’m so tired I could cry. All I was is a nap and a snack I can eat without being shouted at. That’s not unreasonable is it?

He’s been affectionate at times today, but that’s mostly involved climbing on me and jabbing bump with all his pointy limbs. In fact most of his affection today has been downright painful.

In my head, there are so many things I’d like to do. Like carry on sorting the room THAT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A FINISHED NURSERY BY THE END OF OCTOBER!! I need to get the pictures up in the hall. The same pictures I’ve been meaning to do for over a year. I need to dust the light on the landing that has now become a giant spider palace. I need to get that last bookcase out of the ‘nursery’ I need to investigate why the bald kitten from Hades’ teddies smell mouldy and I need to wash them. I need to clean the cupboard by the cooker. It’s truly revolting in there which is weird as it’s mostly got boxes of tea in it.

And I need to get my head around the fact that I’m having a baby in February. Because I haven’t got my head round it yet. Not even close.

But I don’t want to do any of those things.

I. Just. Want. To. Sleep.

That is not an option. So we I’ll try and neutralise the demon with a bubble bath…

In other news:

I’ve been listening to Christmas songs. This will form my daily soundtrack from now until NYE.

90% of my house is sticky.

I think the bald kitten is having a poo as I type. This really is the day that keeps on giving.

Caution! Lurgy house.

The Bald Kitten has tonsillitis. He has been prescribed penicillin for this particular ailment but trying to get that in to him is like tying to wrestle a screaming, crying squid. It’s horrible, hubs and I feel awful administering the meds but he has to have them. Would just get them down him easier if penicillin came in the form of Paw Patrol yoghurts.

As is that wasn’t fun enough, it seems he’s developed conjunctivitis too. I keep wiping bright green slimy nodules out of his eye and trying to mop up the abundance of snot that keeps pouring out of his nose before it gets wiped on his hand/the sofa/me. Or as I noticed earlier he just licks it away.

I’ve cracked out the Dettol. The house is starting to smell like a hospital. But my cleaning mission is being interrupted because the bald kitten needs lots of snugs! I have the fun task of boiling his flannel and pillow case and pretty much anything he’s touched before we’re collectively know as the ‘snotty eye family’ I’ve also been dodging a biscuit the boy keeps trying to shove into my mouth because Zeus only know what germs are lurking on it.

Speaking of food, he’s just not into it. Anything he asks for I give to him. Of the 70 million biscuits I’ve given him today (because he asks for them) he’s only eaten one. The others get locked, nibbled a bit and discarded. I may pick him up a Happy Meal tomorrow, he likes their chicken nuggets and I’m heartbroken to find his little round belly is not to round today.

Safe to say this week has not been fun. The boy gets upset in the very early hours and gets into bed with us. Daddy loses the most sleep because will like to cuddle him then start chatting or demanding he goes downstairs to get him a drink.

Fingers crossed the medicine suddenly works it’s magic and we get our little boy back, with all his exuberance, snacking and general ruling the roost!

In other news:

I have officially started my third trimester today.

The Nursery is still not decorated.

Staying awake all day is something I now rarely achieve.