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