Mama Do 19/01/2010
 
Pregnancy is broken up into lots of different phases. I’m sure you’ve heard of them.

First there’s the ‘morning sickness’ phase. The title of which is such a false pretence for something that lasts ALL DAY.

Then there’s the ‘glowing phase’ - when a pregnant woman starts to show evidence of the extra pounds she has gained since being granted permission to scoff for England. And the extra weight makes the plumper woman sweat a little. And we say, ‘My aren’t you glowing!’ because we can’t say, ‘my god you’re so sweaty!’ to a hormonal woman.

Next you have the ‘nesting phase’ whereby the, now, extremely fat and sweaty woman makes a feeble attempt at a little housework, when the reality of the situation dawns upon her and she realises that perhaps she should have done a little tidying and washing once or twice in the previous 8 months after all.

And then there’s the phase that the books don’t tell you about. The one phase I don’t remember being warned of. It’s a secret phase you see. I’ll probably be frowned upon by authors of all pregnancy guide-books world-wide for sharing it with you. But it does indeed exist. And it usually occurs right before your bundle of joy comes *flying out.

I don’t know what its scientific name is, but I call it the ‘FREAK-OUT phase.’

The FREAK OUT phase, as if you need me to explain, pretty much does what it says on the, er, tin. In that it’ll make you, er, freak out.

Of course, there are variations of the phase. No two women will ever experience the same level of ‘freaking-out-ness’ for example. For some it’ll be horrendous. Like that point on a rollercoaster when you are slowly creeping to the highest peak, aware now that the height of the ride is much more impressive than it looked from the safety of the ground. You’re gradually reaching the point of no-return and any moment now you are to be plunged into the depths of the unknown. Spiralling into a series of stomach-churning, knuckle-whitening, thrilling and sickening loops. And there is a chance, just a chance, that you might not make it out the other side.

My own experience of the FREAK-OUT phase was not quite as bad as that, (thank god, cos the older I get, the more I like to keep my feet firmly in my shoes on the ground,) but it was scary all the same.

When I reached the point of no-return, when it became apparent that I was about to become somebody’s Mum, I did what I always do when there’s a crisis. I made a cuppa and then I wrote a blog.

You see I was frightened, not of being a Mother, but of losing my identity as an actual person. I wanted to be a Mum, but I wanted to be a Steph too. And I didn’t know you could do both.

This is yet another piece of advice that I wish I could have shared with my former self, it would have saved such a panic (and thousands of calories in chocolate and ice cream to help cure me from the effects of my ‘Freak-out’ phase.)

Cos I now know that there is no such thing as just a Mum.

A Mum, is a woman who has at least one child or more. She has nice neat hair and wears an apron. (This is my blog and therefore my interpretation.) She is very wise and kind, and insists on ‘teeth-brushed-before-bed.’ That’s a Mum.

I don’t own an apron. Not yet anyway. And my hair is very rarely neat. (It’s long, thick and there’s masses of it, so it’s usually sitting in a scruffy top-knot at the nape of my neck, in case you were wondering.) I am very wise and very kind, but I normally forget to remind my child to brush her teeth before bed. Because I am a Mum, but I am also a Steph. And ‘Steph’s’ can be scatty creatures from time to time.

I wish I wasn’t quite so scatty though. Because there is such a lot that occurs in this house on a day-to-day basis that I would love to have tattooed firmly in my mind for all eternity. Alas my scatty brain destroys most short-term memories to make space for gaining new knowledge. And I find myself forgetting such a lot of good stuff.

Lorelei lost her first tooth last week (not because I forgot to remind her to brush it, I hasten to add!) And  it was the highlight of her little life (spanning just shy of 6 years) so far. Honestly I have never seen her beam with such pride before. For hours she carried her tiny tooth around with her, to show it to all and sundry and later she began to refer to her ‘gap’ as though it were a new friend or something.

‘I can’t believe today is going to be my first day at school with a gap!’ she explains happily, her little tongue visible through the new hole, ‘I bet some of the children won’t even recognise me!’

Lorelei and her gap have been getting along famously ever since. Even though the Tooth Fairy very nearly forgot to come and leave a pound (still the going rate, you would have thought it would have increased by now?!) under her pillow.

(The tooth fairy as aforementioned is very scatty and adding to this was drinking lots of champagne at a wedding, when said tooth wobbled it’s way out  . . . Such a naughty tooth fairy she is.)

Well anyway, would you believe it, Lorelei’s baby brother has managed to cut his first ever tooth in the same week that Lolly lost hers and, what’s more, Leo’s first tooth is growing in the exact spot where Lori’s new gap is! I realise this may not sound nearly as thrilling to you as it is to me, but I wanted to document it anyway.

I love my role as a Mumma, it's a job and a journey that goes so well with being a 'Steph' too. I love those children more than i could express and I don't wanna miss a thing.

X

 

 

 
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It's been a little over eight weeks since my little man made his début on the outside world. During this time I've mastered the art of juggling, can multi-task like never before and have learnt many a very valuable lesson, but mostly, over everything else I've learnt, I have come to understand the true meaning of the term, 'Mummy's Boy.'




My goodness that child, though I say it myself, is completely delicious. I could get lost in his enormous baby blues, when he gazes at me, his eyes wide like deep blue pools, I become completely mesmerized. And his head, oh the sweetness of the scent of his little bald head, I wish I could bottle the fragrance and smell it forever.




If I actually owned an apron, it has to be said, I think I would tie my little Leonardo to the strings with great big bows.




And I used to seriously despise Mummy's Boys, honestly I did. (Though perhaps it was the actual Mummies I despised more than their Boys.)




Perfectly good men have been kicked to the kerb, many a mobile phone number erased and several, otherwise promising, matches have been burnt-out on account of all the boys sharing one common trait, f'ing awful Mothers.




To give you an even clearer indication, I once dated a guy who had to be home every evening, without fail, at seven o'clock sharp to share an evening meal with his mother. His mother had a particular thing against girls being in the house, and since I did not actually posses a penis (though had more balls than most men I know,) I of course was never actually welcome to stay and thus had to wait for the duration of the meal, (usually three courses) outside. In his car. Oh yes, his car. He was 21.




Seriously 21 years old and unable to invite a girl in for tea?! Nor to even perch quietly on the couch whilst he ate his tea. Utterly crazy. I guess you know it's time to ditch 'em when they rush a dinner date with you to be home for a second date with the mother.




Now I've always been nice and polite and respectful towards those women whom bore the sons that I took interest in. I always tried to be friendly and I always ensured my skirts were never too short nor my heels too high upon meeting the parents, yet it was a rare occasion when my manners were returned by the Mums, (though Dad's have always seemed quite pleasant.) And typically those fortunate enough to not have dragons as mums were usually the ones I wasn't all that bothered about in the first place.




I suppose if I were to really analysis things it was the single Mums, the Mums who had single-handedly taken care of their little boys, who were always the most unpleasant. And I totally get it, they'd invested time and love and effort into the life of their strapping sons and were so frightened of being left along when, or if, that son flies the nest. I can understand that, of course, yet the upset I felt by being snubbed by this breed was enough to make me vow that if I ever had a little boy myself, I would be different, no matter what my circumstances.




My Nanny Brenda says, 'A daughter is a daughter all her life, a son is a son 'til he finds a wife.' Now I don't know if that's true, but is enough to make me want to lock my little Leo up in his bedroom for years and years, away from the temptations and troubles of girls like me. Unreasonable, yes. Stupid, yes, but true nevertheless. Alas I know from my own experience that to breed and raise yet another Mummy's Boy is unnecessary and frankly cruel to any would-be suitors out there.




Fortunately my own Mother-In-Law has managed to do a pretty perfect job of raising her offspring to ensure he has the perfect balance of Mummy's Boy Syndrome in him. He loves his mother, adores her in fact, he respects her and can get her to do all his ironing with just a little wink and a smile, (pretty much the way he gets me to do most things too lol) and yet he does not share a freakishly unhealthy or abnormal relationship with her at all. I definitely think I could take a leaf out of my mother-in-laws book, and I'm not even saying that just for the brownie points either. :-)




It is my intention to raise my little boy to be a happy, healthy, kind and caring young man, with all the qualities of a gentleman, the courage of his namesake - the lion, and of course the strength of an ox. I know, I'm striving for absolute perfection, but I do like to aim high :-)




I have come to realise, within these past few weeks, that the methods of which I use to raise my little Lady however differ from those I use with her baby bro.




Not that I treat my children unequally or love them differently or anything, I am absolutely head over heels for both of them, it's just that I've discovered that raising a little boy and raising a little girl are two completely different tasks.




I can't quite put my finger on the actual differences between the methods I use though, it's odd. I suppose it stems from my wanting different things for them perhaps? Different aspirations and different ideas of the kind of people that my two little cherubs might grow to be. Of course nobody knows what the future holds for either of them, all I can really do is prepare them for the paths I imagine they may take.




And let's face it, certain qualities are more beneficial for certain sexes. I don't mean for this to sound old-fashioned or chauvinistic or anything. It's not like I'm going to teach Lori how to sew and bake and powder her nose and all that and then teach Leo to make paper aeroplanes, play keepy-uppy and construct a number of weird and wonderful things from wood, (haha, can you imagine?!) - It's just that I believe there are separate foundations for each gender that need to be laid down before the building can commence. (I realise I make reference to building and stuff quite a lot lately, blame my mother for getting me hooked on, 'The Home Show,' and then blame the gorgeous softly-spoken George for being way too irresistible to switch off! Lol – Sorry Jay.)




I'm not going to stereotype my kids according to their sexes, despite my own personal preference for men to be men, (rugged and tough) and women to be women, (flirtatious and feminine) I won't be upset if Lori becomes a mechanic and Leo comes home wearing make-up (though Daddy might have a thing or two to say I'm sure! Lol) just so long as they are happy, I'm happy.




And on the off chance that this blog still exists in, ooh i don't know, 20 years or so, I'd like to make the following declaration to those who may have the pleasure of falling for my children, they way i have done . . .

I, Stephanie Connolly, hereby promise to never wind up being an absolute dragon of a mother-in-law, (just so long as you take care of my babies :-) )




x

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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

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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 ;-)

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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 `

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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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Yesterday my 5 year-old daughter, Lorelei, had her lovely blonde locks pulled by a nasty little brat 2 years above her in school.

I was called to the classroom and told of the incident, which occured whilst the kids were waiting in the dinner queue. Mia, (hereby known as brat-face) had, for some unknown reason, decided to get her grubby little hands on one of my daughters plates and had yanked it out, resulting in lots of tears from Lori.

This isn't the first time she's done it either. She's pinched and pushed Lorelei in the past, but this time she was caught out by one of the teachers. She was asked to write a letter of apology, (in which she demonstrates really shit spelling, which makes me loathe her even more - yes I know she's only seven but that's no excuse,)  and Lorelei, (who is normally a very bright and happy child) was clearly upset about the whole thing, ('she doesn't pick on anyone except me, she obviously hates me . . . ' she tells me whilst sucking on her little thumb.

It broke my heart and I know this is going to sound completely unreasonable, so i apologise in advance for this next statement but the idea of ANYONE picking on my little girl has me so outraged and pissed off and underneath it all i'm battling furiously to refrain from hunting brat-face down and  tearing her hair out.

Of course this wouldn't get us very far, (other than jail perhaps) so i have opted to take another, less satisfying route. I'm letting Lorelei stand in her own two shoes. After all we all know that bitches exist in all corners of the world and she's gotta suss out a method for dealing with them for herself. Still this is not a lesson I'd anticipated she'd have to learn quite so soon.

She's cool though, has put the incident to the back of her mind and is back to being her usual entertaining sweet-self. So i'm putting my faith in her abilities and I'm sure it'll all blow over.

And if not? Well then it'll be handbags at dawn! :-)

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