Just a quick post today to update you all and thank you from the bottom of my heart for all your kind messages, thoughts, love and support over this past week or so. <3

I'm shattered right now, totally drained, so I'm gonna keep this short 'n; sweet :-)

Firstly we are absolutely delighted to let you all know that this afternoons scan revealed a very happy and healthy bubba in our oven!

Bambino numero three is totally PERFECT!

With 8 fingers (2 thumbs!) and 10 toes and a precious little face very much like Leo's! And we are completely over-the-moon!

It is with a big sigh of relief and a dopey grin that I can now relax and begin to truly enjoy this, my third (and final!! lol) pregnancy and I'm going to cherish *every second. (*As much as a pregnant woman can! lol)

Finally I just wanted to say once again how grateful I am to be surrounded by so many amazing people. I was so overwhelmed by the lovely messages we've received from so many people and at the risk of sounding like a tree-hugger, I truly believe that all those thoughts and prayers helped to ensure the fate of our new addition! 

I'm definitely gonna be counting my blessings tonight and promise to count you guys twice! ;-)

Thanks again,

Love to all

Steph x

P.S Don't forget to check out my Pregnancy project and join the panel if you can!!
Picture
 
 
Everyone who knows me knows I can be very sentimental. (N.B Sentimental not Slightly Mental, though the latter is quite appropriate at the moment.) I always have been and I imagine I always will be.




Tokens of my past, old gig tickets, photographs, christmas cards and newspapers from decades ago lay standing the test of time in boxes and boxes that I've accumulated over the years. Anything that reminds me of something, anything that means anything at all to me, is preserved never to be thrown away.




Actually I could probably start charging people to visit the museum that is my loft come to think of it.




The thing is I don't just hoard the objects that produce fond memories, I keep the sad stuff too, the sort of stuff that I can barely look at without getting choked. And every now and then, when I feel like delving into the depths of my past, I'll lose myself in the boxes, ransacking for hours and drowning in the pieces of puzzles of days gone by.




Today was one of those days. And as I type this, rather impromptu blog post, I am surrounded by the evidence of my latest brush with the past.




I'm sure most of you know that this week has been a bit pants for our crew because I had a routine appointment with my obstetrician and he gave us a little news that has thrown me off balance a bit. (A bit?! Ha, what an understatement.)




I'll try to keep this *brief, it's a bit technical and a little brain-numbing, but here goes.




(*Steph's definition of the word 'brief' may or may not be the same as that of a standard Oxford English dictionary.)




As you know I am currently 15 weeks (plus 4 days) pregnant with bambino numero three. Except this is not my third pregnancy. It's actually my sixth.




(Now I know what you're thinking . . . and we do indeed have a telly in our house. And hobbies too. It's just that it seems my husband needs only to look in my direction and I'm pregnant again! It's quite spectacular really! Lol But that's enough of that!) ;-)




One of the most tragic situations we have faced in our relationship is having our son, Harrison, diagnosed with a variety of fetal abnormalities whilst he was still in the womb, back in 2008.




I was 16 weeks pregnant with Harry when we first learnt that something was wrong. I'd had a triple bloods test taken and the results returned stated I had a high level of HCG in my blood. They called me in for a scan within a matter of days and Mr. C and I were informed immediately that our little man had a number of problems with his little body.




He had a gastroschisis for starters (which is when the intestines are floating around on the outside of the abdominal wall) – it's not uncommon and can usually be sorted with a quick op after birth, so it didn't worry us on it's own a great deal.




We heard he had 'rocker-bottomed' feet, meaning his soles were convex as opposed to concave and this could cause great difficulty in his future, with walking etc. Harry also suffered from hyperflexed wrists and arms.




We had numerous appointments, we visited 3 different hospitals over a period of 4 weeks. And finally at week 19 we learnt that Harrison had part of his bladder missing. A meeting with a top surgeon operating in Great Ormond Street Hospital confirmed our worse fears, that our son's problems couldn't be fixed and he would face a life time of suffering.




At 20 weeks I went into labour and gave birth to Harrison Connolly on August 4th 2008. But he was already living with the angels by the time I got to see his little body.




I can't express how heartbreaking the experience was, but I cannot forget the pain even for a second.




Harry's funeral took place a few weeks later, and the results from the autopsy were never shared with us, his parents. So we didn't really know what had caused his problems.




My husband and I had our DNA tested and the Genetics department informed us that we wouldn't have the results of the DNA and genetics tests for some time.




A mere six weeks later we discovered that I was once again expecting. And this time I was absolutely petrified.




I visited a special consultant early on in the pregnancy and had a number of ultrasound scans. They took good care of me and put my mind at ease and my pregnancy progressed smoothly.




Until I went, alone, to a meeting with a specialist from Peterborough one afternoon, and not understanding the nature of the meeting, was totally unprepared for what I heard.




'Otopalatodigital Syndrome Type 2' was what the genetics doctor suspected Harry had suffered from. A genetics disorder that is considered to be 'incompatible with life.' It affects one in four pregnancies and is more common in boys.




She shook her head and tutted when I informed her that I was currently expecting. She made me feel like an utter fool.




And so I broke down outside of the hospital, clutching my bump and wailing like a wally. Because my dreams of having a healthy baby boy had been shattered.




Until at 17 weeks I received a letter from the genetics bitch (oops 'consultant') which stated that Harrison did not suffer from OPD2 or any other kind of disorder. All of his abnormalities were isolated, none had anything to do with the other, it said. So what had happened to Harry was just bad luck. Devestating, but bad luck and there was every chance on earth that the baby I was carrying would turn out to be absolutely fine.




And at 20 weeks we went for our scan. No gastroschisis, No rocker-bottom feet, wrists were perfect, bladder intact and the cherry on the cake? Our gorgeous healthy baby was another little man. Still makes me laugh when I remember how Jay and I clung to each other, grins like soppy teenagers, squealing with excitement, joy and, above all, relief in the hospital waiting room.




Leonardo Harrison Connolly, (Leo) was born happy and healthy on 19th June 2009. He is our little cherub and the perfect addition to our little family.




And you know what? I am possibly the most grateful girl on the planet these days. I count my blessings every night before I go to sleep and boy are there a lot to count. I know how lucky I am, sometimes I feel like the wealthiest woman in the world.




So it hurts me even more when something comes along to knock the wind from my sails. And that is exactly how I felt when I went for my routine appointment with the Obstetrician on Monday.




You see they had a letter from the genetics bitch too. Only their letter did not say all was fine. Instead it said they suspected my son did indeed suffer a genetic problem. Something to do with the X chromosome from what I could read, (upside down.)




My OB, one of the kindest men I've ever met, assured me he would ask his secretary to gain clarification from the genetics bitch. He said he'd get to the bottom of the matter and find out the truth for us.




I told him that if I had received the letter as I should have, I may have thought twice about conceiving once again.




Mr. Ob then referred me to the ultrasound department, he told me that, given the fact that I am at the stage of pregnancy when Harrison's problems were detected, a scan would be just what we need right now for reassurance. So off I went to the ultrasound department.




'It's very unlikely we can give you a scan,' says the pig behind the desk without looking up from her screen, 'it's not our procedure to deal with things like . . . this.' She tells me. 'things like this,' I take to mean, situations such as mine, though she may as well have just addressed my situation as some kind of freak-show in a circus.




'I'll have to talk to my supervisor. We'll call you.'




I told her I'd wait. That I would rather know now whether I would have an appointment soon. She rolled her eyes to heaven and continued, 'we don't normally do scans at 16 weeks so if my supervisor says no you'll just have to wait til you're 20 weeks to be scanned.'




I managed to hold back from flying over the desk and flooring the bitch, though I could feel hot tears threatening to spill.




'Do you know my situation?!' I asked her, she shook her head. 'Didn't think so, I'd hope you'd have a little more sensitivity if you did.'




Eventually the supervisor appeared and much like her colleague began speaking in a tone that suggested she A. Could not be bothered with me and B. had already decided she was going to be difficult.




'Right. We can't check for abnormalities til 20 weeks.' she says, (true in most circumstances perhaps, but my experience shows that it is possible to detect problems earlier than that.) 'It just isn't possible. So we're going to give you a very brief scan. Only 15 minutes, and no more.' She glares at me as though I'm a whingy woman who just wants to view her baby for no real reason other than to see how cute it is.




'Really it won't give you any reassurance at all so it's hardly worth us doing it.'




Not worth doing?! Well it might not have been for her, but it sure as hell was for me. So I stood firm and told her I'd go along with that.




And then with my scan safely booked on their screens I asked,

'Will either of you be performing the scan?'




'No . . . ' Replied the first pig.




'Thank fuck for that.' I spat, unable to help myself.




And so I left with a heavy heart and a head full of muddled thoughts. Thoughts of the past, fears for the future.




I have decided, thanks to advice and support from so many wonderful friends and family, that I shall go to my scan next Wednesday and I will be as nice as pie to the sonographer, then I shall lay in protest until I feel that my unborn bubba has been examined thoroughly and adequately. Just let them try to move me. ;-)




Despite the tears and worry that I have suddenly found weighing me down I am going to continue to count my blessings and remain positive.




And inspired by my thoughts, ( that and a copy of the wedding slide-show that I found during today's ransack) I'd like to present you with this, extremely soppy, sequel to the first movie :-)




Whatever we have to face we're doing it together and for that I shall always be grateful!




With Love From (a very hormonal and emotional)

Stephie x x x

 
 
*The Pregnancy Project* 
As you know, I'm on a mission at the moment to capture the truth, the whole truth and nothin' but the truth on the subjects of pregnancy, labour and beyond. And no-one knows the journey quite like you, my fellow Mumma's and Mumma's to be. I've built a little forum, a place in cyberspace for you lovely ladies to lay down the law, share your suggestions, ideas and opinions and let me know what subjects you'd like to see included in the book. Please visit if you have a mo!

(Yep, still writing novel too in case you were wondering! Am tying to multi-task! Haha!)

Hope you are all well!

With Love

Steph x
 
 
I’d like to begin today's blog entry by offering my sincerest apologies to the commuters on the 10:11 East Mids Train service to Bedford. Calling at Wellingborough, Kettering, Steph’s Booty and Bedford. And to satisfy any curiosity you may have, this is what I look like from the front. ——>

Had you had the opportunity to actually identify my face you would have witnessed the horror that I attempted to disguise as nonchalance, but my blushes would have given the game away. It was indecent, I know, and I am so sorry. However the exposure of my arse is an extremely infrequent occurrence and I can assure you all that it will *not be happening again. 

If it might be of any consolation to you, I’d like you to know that, my bottom, contrary to the eyeful you got this morning, was once one of my worthiest assets.

Indeed twas in fact the bearer of one of the most prestigious awards I’ve ever won. You see, ladies and gents, what you saw this morning, that sort of resembled a Belgium bun, was actually once awarded the title of Brannigans Bar’s ‘Rear of the Year!’ (in 2002 I think?! Either way it was a million moons ago. Ooops, pardon the pun!)

Yup! So really, if you think about it, you’re kinda lucky you got a quick flash for free. ;-)

Of course it isn’t often that my derriere gets to see the light of day. Not since it tried to battle gravity and sort of lost a bit. But today it seemed that my trusty butt fancied a cheeky glimpse of the outside world, so it took it’s chances, waited for a bit of wind, (not THAT kind of wind!) and escaped out of my flappy shorts.

Unfortunately, at that precise moment in time I had found myself trying to negotiate my way out of a mud puddle, (gimme a pair of heels and I can strut across the globe any-day, but put me in flats and I’m pretty much useless.)

My trainers squelching, my arms stretched out for balance and my face raspberry-red and sweaty. And that’s when the wind blew. And that’s when the train passed. And that’s when I decided to buy some nicer pants. (Oh and ensure I always, always include my bottom when slapping on the fake tan from now on.)

I’m not sure about weight, but I always manage to lose my dignity whenever I exercise.

Alas I have little choice at the moment. Not since it became very apparent that I have been carting evidence of some of my passions on my hips. I’m not kidding. It’s all there. All that sugar from when I replaced my nicotine habit with chocolate instead, all the yummy bread from my bread-making escapades, the extra wobbly bits from spending too long sat writing my book, the baby weight from my delicious babies (I didn’t eat them, you understand! (Though babies were about the only thing I didn’t eat whilst carrying my children.)) And now, much like Shakira’s, my hips are most definitely not lying.

And so, modesty intact or not, I’m on a mission to find that inner goddess (I didn’t eat her either, in case you were wondering,) and bring my sexy back. Yeah. (Did I mention, by the way, that Justin Timberlake is actually my other husband?! Yep. It’s true. Just thought that you should know.)

Of course the exposure of my arse isn’t the only tale I have to share with you on the topic of my new fitness regime, I have lots and lots to tell. But you’re gonna have to wait, because my bottom and I have already spent far too long sitting at the laptop for one night. ;-)

Steph x

* Unless under the influence of lots of alcohol / being paid ridiculous amounts of money / becomming so skinny that my trousers accidentally fall down lots.  
 
 
If your body really is a temple then mine isn't exactly what you'd call 'architecturally outstanding'.




I think it's safe to say that the Taj Mahal I am not, (though I am similar to the Taj Mahal Indian Restaurant down the road, in that I am full of yummy takeaway food.)




I am no longer carrying around a real baby in my bod, but instead seem to have unknowingly adopted a jelly baby in his place, it's not a pretty sight. And since this weeks marks the week of my post-natal check up, and thus means I am officially a 'normal' woman again, I figured that right now is where my temple reconstruction should begin. So hard-hats at the ready please folks, cos this could be dangerous.




Of course the simplest and easiest way of getting back into shape and looking a million dollars is, as everyone knows, to apply to be on 'Extreme Makeover.' To have ones imperfections carefully perfected by the surgeons knife, courtesy of the lovely people at LivingTV. Naturally this is at the top of my to-do list, but on the odd chance that they don't pick me I'm gonna begin the journey by taking the old fashioned route, diet (yawn) and exercise.




This is not gonna be an easy feat for a gal like me. I love food. I love to cook. And most of all I love to eat. And I eat all the naughty stuff too, like pasta and bread and chocolate. If it's even slightly sinful I'll have it. Mealtimes are a big deal in this household, I cook, Lori lays the table, together we eat and usually watch an episode of, 'Come Dine With Me,' whilst we enjoy our grub, then Jay washes up. It's a ritual we've always enjoyed and would love to continue. Nope, as much as I'd love to, I don't think I'll ever be one of those, 'just a stick of celery and a bit of carrot please,' kinda girls.




Exercise, on the other hand, should be fine. In theory. In practise however I appear to lose more dignity than actual weight.




The other morning, for example, whilst exercising my hands with the wonders of the Sky+ remote (which i very rarely get to hold since it is almost always attached to my husband,) I stumbled upon the 'FitnessTV' channel where I found a whole array of workouts and programmes including one, seemingly produced specifically for me, called, 'The High Heeled Workout.'




Within minutes I had kicked off my slippers and stepped into my very beautiful Roland Cartier stilettos and I was shaking my hips and strutting my stuff in my living room-come-dance studio with 'Natalie' as my very own personal dance instructor.




About a half hour in, with my glass of water in hand and my butt giving Beyonce a run for her money, I found myself getting a little hot and thus slipped off my t-shirt so that I was down to my bra, pj bottoms and heels. Of course this was the moment that the postie decided to cycle right past the living room window and (rather rudely) peer in. Oh the shame.




Still I shall not be defeated by the embarrassment that my exercise regimes seem to induce, (click here for a reminder of my running escapades, - am I the only one that can't perform physical activities without making a fool of herself?!) - I am keeping my head held high, (after all tis my head that's the only part to date that I can hold up high and that has not been defeated by gravity.)




I've noticed lately that I'm not the only one that's watching her weight, lots of my Facebook pals and fellow new mummies are also fighting the fat from what I can gather. Now that we have our babes in arms it's time to get our bods back and we are determined women, (after all we have survived the wonders of pregnancy and child-birth, so what's a little dieting?!) together we can do anything ;-)




I've mentioned before that one of my er 'hobbies,' if you will is, (and i say this with slightly shame at the sadness of it,) making lists. I write lists all day long. To-do lists, shopping lists, wish lists, lists of clothes I'm taking when i go on holiday etc. And I'm thrilled therefore to have stumbled upon a site that will combine both my love for lists and indeed my new temple reconstruction. It's called, Fitday and it' a website for tracking ones weight, diet, exercise regime and even moods. I've been using it for the past three days now and every day before bed I've been logging a list of absolutely every* calorie I've consumed during that day, as well as every form of physical activity I've performed. (* when I say 'every' I obviously discount the odd sneaky bite of chocolate, since that doesn't count – chocolate is good for you, it's a scientific fact. I think.) Tis a very useful website, I'd definitely recommend it if you're also about to embark in a reconstruction of your own temple.




I imagine this could take a little while, (after 14 months of pregnancy it's bound to be a bit of a mission,) alas I am determined to have the bod I once had.




Temple or no temple, either way it deserves to be worshiped ;-) Now . . . Where's Mr. Connolly with that massaged he promised me . . . ?




Steph x

 
 
My darling baby boy.




I know you're there. I can sense you around me every day. It's a wonderful feeling. Your presence wraps around me like a warm cocoon, and I'm so very grateful, Harry, I really am.




It should have been my job to make you feel safe. I should be guiding you, teaching you, loving you. I wanted that so much. Alas I regret I know now that I could never have rescued you, the way that you have rescued me.




I've been thinking a lot about when we had to say goodbye to one another. It was exactly this time last year. August 4th 2008 in a little hospital room in Peterborough. You laid peacefully in your crib. Your tiny head barely bigger than the single yellow rose that lay by your side. I left you sleeping, of course your soul had already gone and the image that haunts me now is just that of your little shell.




Walking away, down the corridor, whilst my son slept in a little crib in a room all by himself was the hardest thing I've ever had to do Harry, and I'll never forget the emptiness, the loss, the fear and the panic that I felt when I had to leave you.




I don't know why we had to experience that loss. Why you and I didn't get the chance to get to know one another the way that a Mummy and her child should. I still don't know what caused the problems you had with your little shell. I guess i never will.




When a life is formed, so too is a sense of hope. The stronger the heart beats the larger the hope grows. Thoughts of the future, plans, aspirations all begin to form. Yet for us those hopes were weakened with every hospital appointment, every ultrasound scan. Until, bit by bit, we were left with a very different future ahead of us.




I knew you were destined for great things, my gorgeous man, but I had just assumed that i would get the opportunity to witness your achievements. Your first smile. Your first steps. Your first day at big school. Yet fate had different plans for you. Greater roles and tasks.




That morning, a year ago today, whilst Mummy was in labour with you, a single black and red butterfly searched for an escape between the blinds and the hospital window. He fluttered back and forth, for hours, desperately seeking the rush of air to free him. Eventually, of course, he found it and off he flew into the blue skies. Some creatures are just meant to stretch their wings.




He comes back to visit me, that handsome butterfly. He was here, in our house the day we moved in. He once sat with us in a restaurant, peacefully perched next to Lorelei and I took a picture on my phone. I use that same picture now as my screen saver. Last week he was trapped in our fish-tank and yesterday he was sat on the wall outside my kitchen, watching me do the washing-up.




Every cloud, they say, has a silver lining. Well it is only very recently that i discovered our cloud is dripping with a silver lining so sparkly and bright it makes the crown jewels look plain. My silver lining is so beautiful and precious and such a blessing. My silver lining has my eyes, framed with Daddy's curly eye lashes and he is as handsome as his big brother Harrison and as amazing as his big sister Lorelei.




I see now that in order to give us the gift of baby Leonardo you had to sacrifice your own life and time with Mummy and Daddy and Lori. If we hadn't of endured the pain and heartache of losing you, our precious son, at the halfway mark during our pregnancy, we would never have been blessed with our second son, little Leo.




Bitter sweetness is the expression I think they use. So very bitter and yet so very sweet.




Harrison Connolly, my little love, you will always be with us, in our hearts, Mummy and Daddy and your big sister Lorelei shall continue to think of you every day and to pray for you every night. And your baby brother, Leo, shall never live in your shadow, yet shall learn of the miracle his arrival was and what a gift he was.




I've always said you'd be my hero Harry and boy have you done me proud.




Forever blessed,




Mumma x x x

Picture
Butterfly - M. Carey

I have learned that beauty
Has to flourish in the light
Wild horses run unbridled
Or their spirit dies
You have given me the courage
To be all that I can
And I truly feel your heart will
Lead you back to me when you're
Ready to land

Spread your wings and prepare to fly
For you have become a butterfly
Fly abandonedly into the sun
If you should return to me
We truly were meant to be
So spread your wings and fly
Butterfly

I can't pretend these tears
Aren't over flowing steadily
I can't prevent this hurt from
Almost overtaking me
But I will stand and say goodbye
For you'll never be mine
Until you know the way
it feels to fly

 
 

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 `

 
 

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