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?


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!!


The terrible twos… three months early.

The boy is entering a new phase. One that I hope will be over soon. Our once angelic, blue eyed, golden haired boy has changed to a blue eyed, golden haired tantrum machine. His brand new today thing is to shout ‘ow!’ When you try to move him/strap him into his car seat/ put his shoes on.

To the passer-by it looks as if this poor boy is being mistreated by his witch of a mother. To me (and others experiencing a similar phase) It’s the reason why we drink. Toddlers don’t care how loud they scream or how many people are around when they do it. To be perfectly honest I don’t care that much either but why do they insist on being at their worst with an audience? When I’m trying to get us home and he point blank refuses to get in the car:

‘Come on William, get in the car.’

‘We’re going home to see Daddy and the pussy cats.’

‘Come on in you get!’

*Resist urge to shout GET IN THE FUCKING CAR WILLIAM!!! Go to take his hand to lead him in*

He pulls away crouches in the street screaming. I pick him up to put him in the car, he arches his back screaming ‘No no no!’ Get him into car, try and get him in car seat he starts planking, try to bend child so I can get his seatbelt on. Child. Won’t. Bend. Wonder when my child was replaced by steel girder. Child become less plank like as occupied with hitting Mummy. Use window of flexibility to click in seatbelt. Say in calmest voice can muster ‘We don’t smack’, tighten seatbelt to ensure child safe. Child starts shouting ‘Ow! Ow! Owww!!’

Try and placate child with favourite toy.

Child throws favourite toy.

Clamber out and climb into drivers seat with toddler wailing in the back.

Ignore glares from passers by. Drive off with child still wailing.

Question life choices.

Every time we’ve got in the car today.



He’s also doing the fun thing of wanting something (food, toy, seat) then instantly changing his mind when he gets it. This causes a tantrum. We are at the mercy of the whim of a toddler. If you need me, I’ll be hiding in the summerhouse drinking wine.

In other news:

Writing this post was interrupted when the boy broke his ‘splat mat’ the one that only yesterday I insisted to friends was ‘very strong’. The boy thought pouring the water that was in it onto the carpet was lots of fun. I grabbed it off him, chucked it in the sink then started mopping up the puddle on the living room carpet. Whilst I was clearing up, the boy pulled the splat mat out of the sink and started pouring the water on the kitchen floor. Spinning round to ensure full cupboard coverage too. I got mad, he laughed at me.

Captain has been trying to catch bees in the garden. It’s obviously been a while since we’ve had an expensive vet bill.

My two year old niece (for reasons unknown) did a poo in her back garden today.

The witching hour.

Wills is in bed, his chunky form has been securely zipped into his sleeping bag, he has been lowered gently and silently into his cot, his tiny chest rising and falling with each sleepy breath, floppy rabbit placed near him, a comfort should he wake. Peace.

Until the shitbagging cat marched in for an impromptu, (full volume), miaow-a-thon. At least Wills was delighted to be woken and find a cat in his room. Mummy was decidedly less impressed. Thankfully he was two feet into the land of nod and settled quickly. I now find myself in the witching hour, the time the house takes on a silence it never seemed to have before Wills. The time when I try to cram in resting/catching up on hobbies/ self maintenance/drinking wine.

As hubs is out enjoying himself at a beer festival I decided to cook myself a Chinese, thank you, Mr Gok Wan. I can’t tell you how much I’d rather have ordered one but I’m yet to find a nice one close by and just ordering for one doesn’t qualify for delivery and picking it up is not really an option with a baby. So far I have managed to burn the rice, something I seem to do with alarming regularity at the moment. But I did buy a huge bag of prawn crackers so I won’t starve.

I did intend to sit in my clean and tidy living room and enjoy an evening by myself but after an earlier emotional crisis and a couple of hours spent sulking in bed I’ve managed to hoover. That’s it. The sofa is covered in ironing, the carpet in biscuit. Wills’ toys remain scattered about and the draining board is stacked with washing up. Luckily I’m too exhausted to care, I’m sat on the floor, the cat on the sofa (he’s in my spot).

So it’s ten to nine, I’m sat on the carpet drinking wine, in a messy house, starving but thoroughly enjoying my witching hour!

In other news:

The boy crawled today, it turns out Captain was all the motivation he needed.

Hubs has assembled a work bench today, he now feel like a fully fledged dad.

Wills noisy habit of blowing raspberries for hours on end has returned with a vengeance.