My husband, Jay, hasn't exactly got, what you might call, a way with words. I mean, he tells hilarious jokes, (he never forgets a good punchline, unlike yours truly,) and he can do great accents, (my favourite is his Irish one, it's delicious -I would have married him in seconds if he'd used that on our first date!) and when he's working he uses a silver tongue in all his sales pitches. Yet when it comes to describing things Jay will almost always favour his own terms, sound affects and actions over the language of a standard Oxford English dictionary.
It took a while before Jay and I truly understood each other. Not that we have a lack of communication or anything, it's just that I am, in Jay's words, 'a posh Surrey tart,' with a love of the English language and he is a typical west -end London lad that knows and uses virtually every form of cockney rhyming slang ever invented, (and some that I'm pretty sure he's invented himself.)
You want me to give you an example don't you? Hmmmm, well he once called me and said,
'I've just gotta rub over me Baked Beans before we go out tonight. Should I wear my Scooby's or my Gloria Gaynors?'
Which roughly translates to,
'I've just got to iron my jeans and should I wear my shoes? ('Scooby Doo's') or my trainers? '
Gradually, as time has rolled by, we've managed to find a compromise between our two languages so we can chat like any other couple, though I still use terms he finds hilarious and he still says things like, 'tune, by the way,' when a good song comes on the radio or, 'it ain't about that,' when he finds something he doesn't like so much.
One of my favourite characteristics that my gorgeous man possess though is his ability to do Blockbuster sound affects. Seriously he can make the strangest noises. He can simulate a car or a plane or any other motor for that matter, and can make machine-gun noises that wouldn't be out of place in any violent movie. I think it's a talent he shares with the majority of his kind, (the males species that is,) because I've noticed that lots of boys can do it. (Perhaps they learnt at the secret lessons boys had at school, the one where they also learnt to set their farts on fire and to make paper aeroplanes that really can fly?!)
Anyway the point is I am now pretty much used to the way he communicates and thus wasn't surprised when he just pointed out that instead of his life being, (*whistles* a happy tune,) it's more, ('dun, dun, DDDDUUURRRNNNN!!!')
(What he means to say is that instead of everything being easy and simple in his life, it always seems to be complicated and dramatic.)
And this, I'm afraid is where I have unknowingly influenced him. You see my life is always a little dramatic too, I almost always take the hard route and those things that old people are always on about, that are 'sent to test us,' always seem to be sent directly to me. (Perhaps I should redirect my mail?!)
Drama always seemed to follow me around, yet now it appears to want to follow Jay too. Which is why my husband is currently stranded approximately 170 miles from home up in Middlesbrough.
It's a long story, (which involves the loss of a car key and the lack of a spare,) and the conclusion is that instead of being home with Mummy and Leo, Daddy is wearing yesterdays clothes, smells like a tramp, (I imagine, because he forgot to take a towel to use after taking a shower,) and is awaiting the arrival of the spare key which should be with him before 9am tomorrow morning, (according to the very nice lady at the post office whom also kindly informed me that I'd forgotten to actually seal the envelope containing the spare key. Ooops.)
So anyhow I am now technically home alone. Little Leo is spending the night away with Nanny Sandie, (which was arranged during the bizarre hour during this afternoon when it was suggested that I would act as courier and rescue my hubby by taking the 4 hour (and £77!!!) train journey up to meet him,) and Lorelei is still down at Nanny Annie's (and I'm missing her like mad!)
I've got my Tilly and my Jack (both of whom act like Rottweilers, will keep away the burglars and thus will, for one night only, be allowed to sleep on my bed tonight!) – I've got my Tinkerbell (although she hasn't been home for a while, dirty little stop-out) and of course I have Woody and Lucky (the two ducks in the garden) but other than that I'm on my tod.
I'm a 21st century chick. An independant woman. I don't need a man. I enjoy my own company and will saviour this time alone. Ah who am I kidding?! I miss them all already. And I don't quite know what to do with myself.
I have toyed with the idea of drinking Jay's Stella's in the fridge and then belting out a few tunes on the karaoke machine (yep, we must be the only family in Britain to have a karaoke machine in our living room! lol) but singing solo to a couple of mutts seems a little sad, even for me.
I have also toyed with the idea of clearing Lorelei's room and getting cracking on the makeover I'm going to perform as a surprise for her when she returns home. (I've been all inspired by 60-minute makeover and have concluded if they can do a whole house in an hour (give or take the tea break they have half-way through, lazy buggers) I can certainly do a room in 2 weeks!) - Yet I just can't bring myself to tackle the mountains of bits of plastic and play-dough and broken or unused toys.
The telly is somehow displaying billions and billions of channels but still absolutely nothing worth watching and the housework is beckoning but I'm on strike. No way am I going to spend the evening scrubbing thank you very much. (Though I am aware that it is Wednesday and therefore I need to 'do the bins.' Yet since this is Jay's job I'm not really sure what, 'doing the bins' actually entails . . . anyone? lol)
I could go out. Except I have about a fiver in my bag and cash-card is up north. I could invite some friends over, (except we've nearly run out of toilet roll and I don't think it's very good etiquette to invite guests over and ask them to bring their own.)
What did I used to do before I became a Mummy and a Wife? It seems an age away . . . let's see . . . If i wasn't in the pub, or out dancing the night away I might have been in the gym, (Katy and I used to go together. We'd weigh ourselves first, then work-out, then weigh ourselves again, then go and have a Maccy D's to console ourselves on the discovery that we hadn't lost an ounce. Lol) – or failing that I think i would have been at home pampering and preening and beautifying myself.
Yep. That's what i'm gonna do. Stick my ipod on shuffle. Spend an hour in the tub. Deep-condition my hair. Exfoliate. Moisterise. Face-Mask. Slip into my softest PJ's and chill . . .
And just like that. Suddenly I'm not feeling quite so lonely after all ;-)
When I was at school, the subject of Science appeared on my timetable merely to bridge the gap between the subjects that I, personally, found more stimulating. Like Drama and Lunchtime. Three times a week I was provided with the perfect period in which to smoke fags in the woods and re-do my make-up and thus my entire scientific knowledge could probably be written on the back of a shopping receipt.
Yes I know that H20 is the periodic code for water, (and J2O must, therefore be the code for juice, lol) and I know that gravity is the force to blame for the sagging of various body parts in the latter stages of life. I also know a little about genetics.
My knowledge of the human anatomy came directly from the problem pages of J17 and More magazine and I have never, ever dissected a frog, or any other animal for that matter.
Science bored the pants off of me and I wasn't about to waste what little time I did spend behind the school gates being bored. Perhaps if I could turn the clocks back I would have concentrated a little more, smoked a little less and saved some dosh on foundation and mascara, but then again perhaps if I'd have concentrated a little more I wouldn't be quite so open to non-scientific theories on life in general.
Astrology, alternative therapies and the paranormal are far more likely to gage my interest. I'm not really religious but I'd sooner buy into the story of Adam, Eve and the Snake than I would details of The Big Bang and Evolution. (Not just because I love a good old romance and a bit of nudity, I hasten to add,) I'm ashamed to admit that I am not intellectual enough to grasp the basics of evolution – I've always wondered, for example, if we evolved from monkeys, how come monkeys still exist? Surely they should be humans too? Or did only a percentage of monkeys evolve and the rest simply remained monkeys? You see? I am absolutely hopelessly clueless.
I particularly, whilst I'm on the subject, loathe Science Fiction as a form of entertainment. The entire concept of fusing Science, which by definition is based on fact, with fiction born from the minds of geeky teenaged boys, just doesn't do it for me. I think the two should be separated completely. Either we believe the men in the white coats or we take the imaginative route instead, thank you very much. (I don't mean to offend anyone here by the way, I've never actually seen Star Wars, but I've heard it is quite good and I know that Princess Leia was very beautiful with a fabulous hair-do!)
What I do love is the Supernatural. Not the programme, (which Jay watches religiously, I'm not a fan, though do tune in for the Sam and Dean deliciousness) but the idea of ghosts and angels and life after death never ceases to amaze me.
I am a firm believer in the existence of 'something else,' - not just because of my own, 'magic powers,' (which I won't tell you about for fear you'll think I'm even nuttier then you ever thought before,) but because I cannot comprehend the idea of one coming to the end of their lives and dying into absolute nothingness. (Ooooh I was half expecting a red squiggly line there but apparently 'nothingness' is actually a word.)
Without getting deep and meaningless and starting the 'life – what's it all about' age-old debate, (which one should only ever indulge in after taking drugs or drinking lots anyway, because otherwise it is too complicated a subject for the poor human brain to take on,) – I do have my own little theory and that is that I believe life is all about learning. You live, you love and you learn and when you die your soul carries the traits and the knowledge you've gained from one life, right on to the next. It's reincarnation, but not as we know it ;-)
I also believe that we have the ability to tune into other zones and thus that we can indeed communicate with those no longer living in the 'zone' we're in right now.
Some communicate with the powers of mind, some use ouigi boards, some go to spiritualists church's or mediums, some ring those ridiculously expensive telephone numbers in the back of magazines. But me? I use the powers of the almighty baby monitor . . .
Our house is old, (don't ask me how old, I haven't a clue,) it's a cottage built from stone and decorated by a blind person with very little patience, (I assume? Though that's pretty irrelevant anyway) – and very often one can feel the strange sensation of a kind of 'presence' in the place.
Some strange things have happened, objects have been moved. (I once came down the stairs to find the telly was tilted and facing a wall . . .) and then I went with my pal Tasha to a spiritualist church and guess what they told me? They said my house was haunted.
To be more precise they said that the spirit of a small child might just be lurking around the joint. A week later Jay found some peculiar old toys in our loft. (The little hairs on my arms are now standing to attention, how's yours?!)
So this was months and months ago and although a few eerie things have happened since, none quite so eerie as the episode the other night.
My hubby and I were laying in bed at about 3am, when the lights on our baby monitor suddenly flashed red, detecting movement in our sons bedroom. These lights were accompanied, not so strangely, by the sound of a baby crying. I wouldn't have batted a sleepy eye lid if it wasn't for the fact that our baby was at that moment in time laying in his fathers arms.
We've since heard a number of peculiar noises coming from Leo's baby monitor. The sound of a small child singing, (whilst my other small child was sound asleep,) - the hushed voices of adults talking, Country and Western music, you name it, it's been bought to directly to our bedroom via the monitor.
The simple explanation of course is that our monitor is simply picking up the signal from somebody else in the area, which is totally plausible as many a fresh baby has been born in the village and at least one of the families must have a monitor like ours, yet at 4 in the morning there is something a little scary about hearing a man who isn't my husband chatting away in my room. Lol
Common sense is, I imagine, an extremely beneficial quality to have when one is responsible for taking care of 2 children, 2 dogs, 2 ducks, 1 cat and an entire house. Unfortunately though it is not a quality that I appear to possess.
I hadn't realised that my common sense had up and left, (I'm sure it used to be here somewhere?!) yet today it became all too apparent when I single-handedly tried to burn my house down.
I nearly killed myself. And how tragic it would have been too. Not merely because you'd all miss me, (yes, you would) but because I imagine during my funeral the priest would have to mention how the accident that had ended my life had occurred. And everybody would then know exactly how much of a stupid fool I really am, (or was.)
As it goes, for some odd reason I am going to risk humiliation and utter embarrassment by telling you how stupid I am here anyway. So please don't laugh.
The recipe, on the back of the packet of yeast I purchased yesterday afternoon, told me I was to put my carefully measured (by total estimation, since I don't yet own a pair of weighing scales) ingredients into a 'warm' bowl. And so, considering the cupboard where my bowls live is quite chilly,I decided to warm my bowl using the crappy broken hob on my even crappier cooker.
I placed said bowl upside down on top of the broken hob (which, providing the mains is switched on, is permanently hot) and I continued to potter around the house.
And then I noticed a peculiar smell fumigating the kitchen. I ran into the thick smoke that had gathered at the scene. I gasped, I swore and I flapped my arms around lots and then I realised that the bowl was in fact a plastic one and that plastic does in fact melt.
The bowl was by then more of a misshapen plate with a huge hole in it and was carefully relocated to the junk corner of the garden. And armed with an old knife, some kitchen roll and my dirt-buster I proceeded to spend the rest of the afternoon literally scraping cold-rock-hard plastic from my hob.
I did manage, eventually, to clear up the mess and continued, with caution, in my quest to bake some yummy bread. I kneaded the dough, wiped flour in my hair (just so I looked the part) and left the dough to rise, in the airing cupboard, balanced on the hoover. And then I baked it in the crappy oven .
And guess what? It was delicious. Well worth nearly dying for ;-)
So the moral of my story ladies and gents is that the pursuit of becoming a domestic goddess does indeed require a little common sense, (but if you really don't have it, just invest in a fire extinguisher instead.)
x
Never mind airing my own dirty laundry, what I really wanna do is tell you all about my best friend and her sagas. Seriously Katy's life is so much more exciting than mine. Hers is a never-ending twisting tale of woven plots, peppered with more characters then Eastenders, it would make a fabulous novel which one day I shall pen, but until then, despite receiving permission to use her life as blogging material, from Katy herself, (when she's drunk, which is probably about 70% of the time) I am keeping schtum and proving myself a loyal friend with very good secret-keeping skills.
Besides which I am saving the dirt for future blackmailing ammunition, should I ever require it :-) (Hear that Kate? You really should buy me more presents to keep me quiet ;-) lol)
It's odd really, how very different our lives now are. It used to be that I was the troublesome one and Katy the sensible friend, forever coming to my rescue and bailing me out and always on hand with good advice, (which of course I would never listen to.) Oh how the tables have turned.
I've married and had babies and learnt how to be a home-maker (lol Not that I actually 'made' our house, but, you know what I mean . . . ) and Kate has gone travelling, joined a women's football team and learnt how to drink any respectable man under the table. (Meaning she has learnt until she has, herself, fallen under the table. Literally.)
Yep, she's a bit of a wild-child is my best friend, alas so long as she is happy then so am I.
Despite speaking almost everyday on the phone, I don't get to see Katy that often these days, in fact I don't get to see many of my friends since we moved 'up north.' (technically we live in the Midlands but anywhere north of the Thames is classed to most of my London and Surrey buds as North.)
My social interactions lately have been conducted mostly via the wonders of Facebook and the World Wide Web and thus have been, 'virtual.' - (i.e. We've drunk virtual champagne – (and gotten virtually drunk) have virtually poked each other (Oh god I hope you know what i'm on about or i'll sound like a right odd-ball) and we've commented on each others status' and it's got to the point now where I spend such a lot of time socialising on Facebook that I 'think' in status' now . . . ('Stephanie is walking up the stairs,' 'Stephanie is switching on the bathroom light, 'Stephanie is running a bath . . . ') - Does that make any sense? I think i am slightly insane. Or should that be? 'Stephanie thinks she is slightly insane.'?! Lol
I love the net, for many reasons, not just because you can chat to ex boyfriends about how fabulous your life is now, whilst you sit in your spotty pyjama's with greasy hair and not a scrap of make-up on, (not that i do this of course, honestly Jay darling i don't lol) but also because it requires very little effort. Yet I don't want to be idle and lazy. And now that I can wear my heels again i owe it to them to get out and about once again in the real world.
So i've been on a mission to meet some new people and make a few new friends in the area. Specifically a few pals who, like me, spend their days watching Peppa Pig, changing nappies and wiping snotty noses. And where better to look than the Bumps and Babes session down in the town?
Bumps and Babes, contrary to what my friend Corny expected, is in fact a mother and baby session, aimed at pregnant women and mummies of babies, (Pretty self explanatory unless you're a young man with a one-track mind and thus imagine that the 'Bumps' part probably indicates boobs and the 'babes' part means sexy women.)
Sure there are breasts on display, (behind the heads of hungry babies, so not exactly sexy) and of course there are yummy mummyies there too, but the group mainly exists so that we Mummies can form new friendships.
Except making friends isn't that easy when you're grown up. Not unless you're drunk. And they don't allow drinking at Bumps and Babes, (actually I don't know whether that's true or not, perhaps i will ask next week?) - Making friends is especially not easy when you're ordinarily a shy gal, (what do you mean 'Bollocks?' it's true! I am! Lol) So considering it's now Summer holidays I decided to take my lovely Lori with me today to show me how it's done.
At five years old my Lori has very little inhibitions. Almost the minute we walked through the door she was peeling her layers off (rain mac, cardigan etc) and yanking off her wellies before chucking it all in a heap on my lap. And then she was off. Constructing a tower out of soft cushions, dressing up as a fairy in the dress-up area and then riding around like a lunatic on a little car meant for a two year old.
Within about 5 minutes she had shacked up with a little blonde-haired boy. Whom she made friends with by sticking her little face close to his, her eyes twinkling with excitement, and giggling, 'Chase me!' before setting off in the opposite direction.
I eyed the room as I settled down on a chair with the baby. I spotted the only man in the room and toyed with using Lorelei's friend-making tactic but concluded that the man's wife might not have been at all impressed by my gesture.
We spoke to a few of the other Mums, Leo and I. (I say, 'we' because I'm ashamed to admit to being one of those people who constantly refers to her baby as though he is involved in the conversation, 'Oh we've been there too, haven't we Leo?' lol (baby, meanwhile sleeps peacefully on my shoulder, oblivious to the conversation he's participating in.) - We also had a cup of coffee and a bottle. And then we said goodbye at the end of the session and headed out in the pissing rain to trek on over to ASDA's.
Oh yes. I am quite the social butterfly with engagements that Paris Hilton herself would be envious of ;-)
We're going again next week and I'm full of optimism. There are plenty of new friends to be had, we just gotta keep at it :-) (And if all else fails I will sneak some vodka into my handbag for next time! Haha, Just kidding!)
Love to all
Steph x `
'Never air your dirty laundry in public,' was just one snippet of advice given to me by my darling Nanny Madge.
Responsible for the little soft Scottish voice in my head that whispers, 'Never get your hair done by a hairdresser with bad hair, ' should I so much as step foot in a salon, my Nanny Madge has been on hand throughout my life with her words of wisdom.
I too love to dish out advice if ever it's needed, I'm a bit of an agony aunt like that, yet when it comes to my accepting advice given to me, the rebellious teenager within always seems to surface.
Hence my choosing to make my own mark on the world by airing my dirty laundry in an extremely public fashion, here in my beloved little blog on the world wide web.
It harbours some of my deepest, darkest secrets, some of my most intimate thoughts and of course it documents virtually every incident and event ever to have shaped my life thus far. Yup my dirty pants (and such) are visible for all to see. Ooops. But you know what? I figured my washing really isn't any dirtier than anyone else's ;-)
I write for a number of reasons. Firstly I find it therapeutic. It's cheaper than finding myself a shrink, (even though there is a part of me that would love to have a shrink, there's something uber cosmopolitan and chic about dropping in, 'my shrink says . . . ' into conversation lol) and it doesn't contain calories like chocolate. And when I'm low, when I hit rock bottom, when I lost my darling son, Harrison, last August, for example, this blog (and other stuff I've written) was my lifeline and the support I received from you lovely people was unbelievably valuable in helping me through it.
I receive some wonderful messages and have formed some fab friendships through my blog entries, which is another reason why i love to write, and without sounding like a speech from an awards ceremony, I feel so honoured to have you guys here with me, sharing the highs and lows of this crazy little journey we like to call, 'life.'
Writing is such a passion of mine, but more than that, it's a necessity in my life. Like breathing and buying shoes. It just makes me happy. So here's where I need your help.
Please, lovely people, please (and I am smiling very sweetly and fluttering my eyelashes at my laptop like a right nutter,) help me fund my shoe-shopping habit and keep my blog alive by sending anyone you think might fancy a little snoop and a little read of my stuff, in my direction. If you think you know anyone who might enjoy reading, 'Give a girl the right pair of shoes . . . ' Your Mums, Grandma's, Neighbours, Mates, Partners, Aunts, Sisters, Brothers, Cousins, In Laws, er Pets, (you catch my drift) – please do direct send them over here :-)
In return I promise to continue to try to amuse and entertain you. To make you laugh, cry and of course cringe or to just generally provide you with another excuse not to work ;-)
If you haven't subscribed to the blog yet please do so, just type your email addy into the box to the right and I'll be delivered directly to your email inbox! I also have a page dedicated to this blog over on Facebook, so you could become a fan or indeed suggest the page to your pals so they could become fans too :-)
Now don't worry, I'm not gonna badger and beg you all the time, after-all my powers of persuasion aren't what they used to be and i'm a rubbish sales person, but I just figured you wouldn't mind if I asked for your help just this once! Next blog I'll be back to my usual self . . . (though whether that's a positive thing I do not know . . . lol)
Many thanks for your support!
Love to all
Steph x
My laptop is broken and so too is a little of my heart. Coincidence? Probably not. I think I'm getting writing withdrawal symptoms. I am, therefore, attempting to write my blog today on our teeny, weeny ickle laptop with the teeny, weeny, ickle keys. Not an easy feat for a lady with talons that are much too long and a tendency to type very fast and with great force when pissed off.
I shouldn't be pissed off. Not really. It's a waste of energy that, thanks to sleepless nights, I don't really possess at the moment.
What I really want is a cigarette, alas I no longer smoke. So I'm settling for a Latte instead, in which I pretend I have poured a shot or so of brandy.
My gorgeous little boy, (and he really is gorgeous, though I say it myself) is two weeks old today and absolutely perfect in every way. His Mummy on the other hand has sort of gone to pot . . . (Oh how I wish I was actually going to pot . . . still you know what I mean.)
It's been a tough two weeks I have to admit. Not because of my darling baby, not at all, but more because of my body and my recovery rate.
I thought I'd recovered pretty much overnight, alas I hadn't. A week after giving birth, (this time last week in fact) I found myself with feverish symptoms and travelling, once again in the back of an ambulance to the hospital, where I spent the entire night laid on a trolley in one of those hideous open-backed gowns in A&E having things done to me that would actually give you nightmares. I can't tell you too much about it, not without dying of embarrassment. I'm trying to claw back any dignity I still had after the labour and erase the events of Bedford hospital from my poor memory forever more. But just for the record, after Douglas Road, last Saturday night will officially go down in history as the second worst night of my life.
My body is still not 100% back to normal, but it's getting there slowly. My mind is another matter. Maybe it's hormones? Maybe it's the dreaded PND or perhaps it is just me? I don't know, but I do know that I haven't managed to get through longer than about 12 hours without crying for some reason or another.
Lorelei is still getting grief at school from the brat a few years above her. It breaks my heart to think of her suffering at the hands of some hairy and considerably ugly seven-year old, especially when life at home has suddenly become so very different since the arrival of little Leo. I've been so concerned for Lori having to suddenly adjust to the new member of our family anyway that it's made me so angry to think that this little brat is ruining Lorelei's school time. Seriously it takes the piss when your 5-year old is too frightened to go to school for fear of being bullied. I have to leave the matter for the school to deal with, I know that's the sensible thing to do, and I'm gonna give them this their third (and final) opportunity before I strut round to Brats house, guns (and hormones) a-blazing and have it out with her myself.
On Tuesday morning I had my first major breakdown as a Mumma of two. Lorelei's sports day. Leo's first Bumps and Babes session. Jay back at work after only one week of his 2 week paternity leave, and my first attempt at being Supermum. We were late. Lorelei's Summer dress was un-ironed and subsequently I got to just around the corner from the school before practically collapsing into a heap and acting out a very public display of emotions. (Thank god I had my shades and could hide the mascara trails and panda eyes in manner of a Hollywood starlet.) Fortunately I was rescued by a couple of my friends and neighbours passing by.
We've been permanently busy since little Leo's arrival. We've been up to Lincolnshire and down to London. We've had relatives visiting, friends over and we've attempted a night of letting our hair down, (Monday night, which, come to think of it, probably contributed greatly to my subsequent breakdown on Tuesday morning) We've tried to keep on top of the mountains of washing and continuous housework, we've squeezed in a few trips to sit in the pub garden and we've attempted to juggle everything and to be honest with you, dear blog, I am so exhausted already.
Looking after the children alone, spending time with them, feeding, bathing, clothing and cuddling them is an absolute dream. It's the shit that comes with it that I don't like. (Excuse my swearing . . . alas this latte is not enough, even with the imaginary brandy.)
The other thing that's effecting me immensely at the moment is Jay and his work commitments. I don't want to say too much on the matter, because it's his business and I don't want to cause any upset, but my husband is in demand at the moment, work need him more than ever, as do I. Yet I cannot afford to pay for his services . . . and thus work wins.
I know, I know, Money makes the world go round, who am I to argue with that? And now we are a family of four, (if you exclude the 2 dogs, 1 cat and 2 ducks) we need the extra dosh. But God I hate money. It is absolutely the root of all evil.
I knew Jay would have to get back in the work saddle and we'd all have to learn to adjust but I didn't know he'd have to leave before I'd recovered from the entire, 'producing another human,' ordeal. I sort of feel like I've been thrown in the deep end before I even had a chance to dip my feet in the water. I'm home alone, absolutely miles and miles away from my family and closest friends. I have no car during the day and live in the countryside where buses do not exist, (though you can get hold of just about anything else in our village lol) I'm isolated and alone and I miss my best friend, partner in crime, boyfriend, husband and baby's daddy more than ever.
The trouble is I know he's finding my high maintenance at the moment. Not because I'm demanding lots of clothes, shoes and handbags (not yet anyway . . . ) but because I need quite a lot of TLC. I'm more temperamental than, well . . . , something very temperamental, (add your own, I cannot think of anything lol) and I'm a little too hot to handle right now. (Ooooh, the weather. More temperamental than the British weather, there you are, that'll do.) - Even I am getting pissed off with myself.
It's like that Katy Perry wrote that song about me . . . ('You're hot then you're cold . . . ') and I don't even like her. Lol You see one minute I have everything under control. The babies are both fed, clean and happy. I'm cooking up a storm in the kitchen that even Ramsey would be impressed with. The washing machine is whirring away and I'm happy as Larry, (whomever Larry might be) and the next thing you know I'm in bits crying and wailing and throwing things around like a mental woman. (I like to throw objects when I'm cross. Especially breakables. They're my favourite.)
Jay tries so hard to keep me sane. He puts in such a lot of effort. And then I feel guilty for the amount of weight he's carrying on his typically Taurean (and extremely sexy) shoulders, and fall into self-pity mode whereby I spend hours and hours wondering and over-analysing (as only we women can) until I conclude that he has no reason whatsoever to want to be with me . . . And then I yell at him, as if to demonstrate my unworthiness. I know I should stop. I should remember that Jay and I are compatible in almost every way possible and that we, under normal circumstances have a cracking relationship, one which I hadn't known could exist prior to us getting together. Yet when you've just reached the end of almost 14 months of pregnancy, have been through labour, have been poked and prodded like a bloody animal in a zoo and are tender, sore, looking a little shabby and feeling a little sensitive, it's hard to imagine you're worthy of anyone's love and attention.
We'll get through it. We all will. We've been through a lot worse. I just wish that with all this money Jay's earning we could buy a little time for ourselves now.
Steph x x x
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