Ho Ho Throw!

Ah Christmas. So exciting, thrilling and magical. Really, a truly wondrous event; little eyes gleaming in amazement at the twinkle lights and the presents stacked temptingly under the tree.

I must admit to being quite excited this year myself, as my eldest is at the age where the magic is truly alive. Christmas through the eyes of a 3 (nearly 4!) year old is something that could warm the centre of even the hardest hearts.

So with joy in our hearts my husband and I took the children to a neighbour’s Christmas Eve gathering and partook in some festive mulled wine. Yum. I love mulled wine. I’m probably a bit obsessed with it to be honest. Ahem. Anyway, when we took the boys home at about 7pm and put them to bed (after sprinkling Reindeer dust outside the front door and checking for Santa numerous times- eeek- so exciting) we set about turning the living room into a Winter Wonderland; a veritable grotto of delight. There were carols playing, mulled wine on the stove (yes more – don’t judge me) and even a log fire crackling away nicely- on the TV – we don’t have a fireplace you see. And so we wrapped presents, sipped our wine, chatted and were genuinely having a lovely time getting everything in order for the next day.

11pm: WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!

The glow was instantly gone as I jumped up panic stricken. If you’re a parent you’ll know the inexplicable feeling of dread that you get when you hear your child’s cry and know that it’s not a fake attention seeking cry but a cry of utter pain and desolation.  What the hell had just happened? Everything was fabulous a minute ago.

WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!

google images

Google images

We ran into The Beast’s bedroom to find him writhing in agony and so I picked him up out of his  cot and……..BLEEEEEEUGH! WHUUUUUUH! WAAAAAAA!

It was like something from ‘The Exorcist’. There was sick dripping from: the curtains; my hair;  my pyjamas; my husband’s arm hair!! Without even really having time to process this the  writhing began again as we tried to relieve him of his sleeping bag, you know that gorgeous  invention that keeps them snuggly at night but in a crisis you can’t get the bloody thing off!

WAAAAAAAAAA! This scream was me by the way as the projectile diarrhoea started to squirt this way and that. We scrambled into the bathroom, whilst stripping off clothes and trying to ensure that the damage to property was minimal.

Christmas Eve culminated in my poor husband standing in the bath with the screaming Beast, whilst I showered off any liquids that decided to appear from the Mount Vesuvius style eruptions wracking the poor thing’s body – liquids from both ends! And so as Christmas day began we were: stone cold sober; knackered; dishevelled; soaking and cuddling a little boy in a towel on the bed. But you know, writing this now and looking back on it all, the only thing I’m seeing is love. There’s no one else in the world that you would do this for and there’s nothing worse than seeing them in pain but as we got him re hydrated and clean again and cuddled him as he fell asleep, love was clearly in our hearts and surely that’s what Christmas is all about?

Hang Over???

It always seems like a great idea at the time doesn’t it? Going for a few cheeky drinky poos with friends. Only a couple though because you have to get up at ridiculous o’clock in the morning with the baby!

One more? Umm I shouldn’t really but oh go on then I will have one more……….ugh!

How does this happen? Well it’s obvious really. There’s something fantastical about going out and not having a rugrat biting on your ankles as you’re trying to have a conversation. Something stupendous about the fact that you can go to the toilet on your own, brush your hair and put your lipstick on (gents included). Something phenomenal about the way you can have a drink without it going all over your outfit! And as you’re obviously having such an amazing time you’d like it to continue, even though your ‘mummy conscience’ is screaming ‘Nooooo! Stop it! Go to bed you silly woman you’re up in four hours’!

This weekend was no exception and I had the incredible misfortune not to listen to the sensible side of my brain as I decided to just ‘try’ a cheeky vodka or three!

Oh dear me. Deary deary me.

Friday. That was an interesting day. Really interesting. So interesting that I really don’t think I can ever drink again!

It began like a scene from ‘Shaun of the Dead’ – smelling like a brewery and a small fat man screaming in the distance. I knew almost immediately that I could not be in charge of a baby until I’d had some form of medication; my head was banging like a pneumatic drill! I had to stagger to the medicine cupboard and take a Brufen 600! The biggest baddest painkiller we possessed – that’ll do nicely. Well, I say that but it didn’t even seem to touch the tempest raging in my skull.

As I have been told that I seem to be slightly schardenfraudian, imagine my delight upon discovering my husband in a similar world of pain as I! Brilliant. If you’re going to be rough it’s much better to have someone writhing in the quagmire of doom with you isn’t it? It makes it slightly more bearable surely? There was only one problem…he had to go out and leave me with the two boys!! What? Aaargh! You must be joking? I couldn’t even speak let alone deal with the Tasmanian Devils!

So I assumed the only position that I was capable of: I lay on the floor. Thus enabling said children to: crawl all over me, pull my hair, wipe snot on my face and generally have a jolly good time abusing mummy.

It didn’t get any better than this, even when my husband returned a couple of hours later. He felt absolutely shocking as well and we proceeded to have a day of doom! Shaun of the Dead pretty much summed us up to be honest.Image

It was of course, all self inflicted and nobody will ever have any sympathy for us but my goodness, it’s hard to nurse a hangover with small children. Really really hard.

Does this mean that I should never drink again? Wait until the boys are capable of wiping their own bottoms and noses before I partake in a lovely cocktail or two? Or at least wait until they wake up at a more reasonable hour in the morning? Yep, I think so. Definitely. The only problem is we’re going for a steak tonight and it does go so well with a large glass of red!

Thar She Blows!

I have been noticeably absent these past few months but now, just like a humongous whale I am rising up to take a breath!

Image

It’s just been far too hectic: I started a new job in September, the boys started Nursery and we moved house: ridiculous! Whose idea was that?

I had a rather funny notion that once the new school term started I’d have some time on my hands and I’d be able to go to the gym and look like the skinny supermodel I’m truly supposed to be! I thought by November I’d be… lithe?? And possibly…svelte??? Oh the allure of those two words. They’re so appealing when I say them out loud; they practically dance off your tongue as only slim words can.

However, reality bites, or rather I’ve been biting….far too much. As it turns out being a part time worker and a Mum that does the Nursery run, I’ve seen myself snacking on ‘healthy oaty breakfast bars’ and such like. There’s nothing easier in the morning than grabbing one of those little blighters and eating as you drive. But herein lies my folly. They are ridiculously packed with sugar and no more good for me than having Candy Floss for my brekky!

Hi ho, hi ho it’s off to the gym I go….but it seems that my three sessions a week just aren’t going to cut it this time!! As a, shall we say, slightly more mature Mummy, those baby pounds are clinging on for dear life. The love handles of DOOM just aren’t going anywhere I tell you.

I’m beginning to panic! This isn’t what it said on the tin! I’m sure when I decided to half my income and go part time it was because I was going to rediscover my old body! And possibly, create an even better one. Hmmmmm….

So it’s Action Stations! I am going to try a ridiculous fad diet this week and get back to some writing; things that will hopefully see me regain some control! Or just lose some friends, as apparently eating cabbage soup for a week plays havoc with your social life!

By the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes!

photo: sheffieldtheatres.co.uk

Photo:
Sheffield
Theatres

If you are at all familiar with Shakespeare’s ‘Macbeth’, then you will know the lines that read ‘By the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes.’ I felt that this quotation was particularly apt for my frame of mind at the moment. You see, although the ‘wicked’ in the play is personified by Macbeth himself, my ‘wicked’ is the threat of doom looming overhead. It is the huge shadow that is blackening my current ‘mummy time’. It is the plain and simple fact that my Maternity Leave is coming to an end and this time next week I’ll be back in WORK!

AAAAARGH! NOOOOOOOO!

I don’t think I can. Honestly.

Well actually it’s really just as simple as the fact that…. I don’t want to go back. Ever.

Why you my ask? Well, quite honestly I’m not sure why it’s causing me such distress at the moment but I do know that it’s not because I’m an ‘Earth Mother’ or something similar as I’m most definitely not (read other posts for clarification on this issue). I honestly cannot imagine anything more difficult than being at home with your baby(ies) all day EVERY DAY! No….no….no…that’s not for me. You’d have to have the patience of a Saint for that and patience, really isn’t one of my virtues. Being a stay at home mum is one of the hardest jobs in the world and I take my hat off to those that tackle it and indeed, those that relish it.

So if it’s not the fact that I want to be with my children all day, then why am I bothered about going back? Did I say ‘bothered’ in a nonchalant way? I meant to say why am I in turmoil, distress, and despair? Why do I abhor the very idea of waking up and putting on ‘work clothes’ at the start of next week?

Well to be honest it’s a number of things. Just because I’m not a helicopter mum that wants to coo over her children 24/7 doesn’t mean that I’m not going to miss the little guy’s chubby cherub cheeks and gurgling gorgeousness or the big guy’s dinosaur roars. I’m going to worry about the fact that I’ve had to ask a friend to take care of the baby for a couple of weeks and that I still have no childcare sorted after that! I’m going to hate how tired I’ll feel after a day’s ‘performing’ and about how I won’t be able to interact with my own babes as I’ll just want to get into bed. And I’m really going to worry about my ‘Baby Brain’.Oh deary me the ‘Baby Brain’! I’ll explain all in my next post – far too much to put in here! Needless to say it’s not really going to help when it comes to conversing with adults, or, just stringing a sentence together!

I am also worried about the impending stress. It’s hard enough to deal with a 5 month old and a 3 year old and not lose the plot but dealing with other children and adults…ugh. I feel the need to lie down in a darkened room already!!!

So, much like The Witches in ‘Macbeth’, I’m anticipating the dreaded inevitable and bracing myself. There is one saving grace though now that I come to think about it…………..I might lose weight!

Maternal Moulting!

The toll on the female body when creating life is immense and it is only afterwards that you see quite how powerful hormones are!

Holy Hormones Batman I’m…..MOULTING!!!

And not just a little either. I am beginning to get rather concerned about my post pregnancy plumage!

My hair is coming out in handfuls, fistfuls, bucketloads! I’m scared.

I feel like the witch in ‘The Wizard of Oz’….’I’m Moulting….I’m Moulting!’

Apparently I am in the throes of ‘Post Partum hair loss’ and it’s quite common. It’s quite common for your hair to lose its grip all of a sudden and detach itself from your scalp at an astounding rate! What’s not so common is the feeling this elicits.

For all my male readers, I now understand the fear of the receding hairline. The fear that with every brush of your hair you notice a little more scalp than last time. The fear that when you wake up tomorrow, you may well have no hair left at all. I don’t want to belittle this feeling by saying that it’s acceptable for men to be bald but you have to agree that it must be far easier to be bald if you’re a man compared with  being a bald woman.

Why would I say this? Well it’s obvious surely? Lustrous locks are inextricably  linked to feminine beauty and allure. Think of all the adjectives that are used to describe your ‘glossy mane’ and ‘crowning glory’ and then imagine, as a woman, losing that symbol of femininity.

Google Images

Google Images Gail Porter

This led me to reflect on Gail Porter. For those people who don’t know who she is, she is/ was a presenter and achieved notoriety after posing naked and having the image projected onto the Houses of Parliament. I think she gained an army of adoring ‘lad mag’ reading fans from this too (oh can it get any better?). Well, for those of you that don’t know, Gail developed Alopecia and for someone who had been a bit of a pin-up and a prominent presenter, losing her hair must have been awful. I mean really, truly awful. I’ve been thinking about what she must have felt as her hair fell out with no explanation and no idea of when (or if) it would grow back again. She lost a lot and I’m not just talking about hair.

The amount of hair that I’m finding on my brush and floor prompted me to read up about post partum hair loss and how far it can go. Hmmmm. Shouldn’t have done that. Now I’m convinced that I have ‘Post Partum Alopecia’ and I will lose all of my male ‘Maternal Mayhem’ readers (ahem) as the weeks go on and my crowning glory winds up down the plug hole!!! Don’t even get me started about my eyebrows!!!! I mean honestly, why can’t I lose the inconvenient hair? The hair that I have spent years of my life shaving, plucking and preening so that I don’t look like something from the 1500s! The hair that Julia Roberts forgot to shave and caused an outrage with – remember that? Julia….no!

Google Images Julia Roberts

Google Images Julia Roberts

Google Images Gail Porter

Google Images Gail Porter

A woman’s self-esteem is a fragile thing and we are often our worst critics but at least I have an idea that when my raging  hormones calm down a bit, my hair should grow back. However, if you do see a new mother out and about, don’t mention her hair, eyebrows or the lack thereof; it’s probably a very touchy subject!!

We Can Rebuild Her!!

I seem to be spending a lot of time lately worrying about weight!

After last week’s post, I began thinking about how much the parachute belly bothers me. I am not, nor ever will be a Supermodel. Clearly.

I read a post by another blogger this week about his concerted efforts to exercise and how various ailments were hindering his progress: mainly age, weight and recurring niggles! Go to http://scottkennedy.co.uk/2013/03/04/we-can-rebuild-him/  to read the post and see what you think.

I can empathise with this post and the feelings it evokes. When you’re feeling bad about: your health, your shape, your appearance, nothing can really lift you out of the quagmire of doom….apart from ACTION! And so, although I am mainly a ‘glass half empty girl’ ( ‘No way’ I hear you cry! Ha!) I have decided that I am…… The Bionic Woman!! Ooooh yes! We can rebuild her!

That’s right readers…just call me Jaime Sommers!!

I already have the extra sensitive hearing. I can hear a baby cry from four miles away! I also seem to have a left arm that can carry a small chunky boy with no bother whatsoever – obviously a bionic arm in place there methinks cos he’s not light!  However I need a new physique and a general improvement of appearance; something that I’m guessing most post partum ladies are desperate for.

Therefore the treadmill beckoned me back this week, and with the help of a lovely friend who looked after my exceptionally squidgy little baby, I hopped back onto the rolling nightmare machine.

Aaaargh! Why does it hurt so much? And why does it feel as if razor blades are cutting into the back of your throat as you struggle to breathe?? If something is so good for you then why does it feel so bad? And why when I glance down at the display does it say I’ve only been on the blasted thing for EIGHT MINUTES!! What??? NO WAY!!

Am I thin yet?

Surely that torture should produce immediate results? Alas, the world is a cruel cruel place. I am clearly not thin, nor less rotund than I was…eight minutes earlier!

Along with my treadmill endeavours, I have joined a class for mums…oh yes I have (I hate things like this but desperate times and all that). I have joined… ‘Buggyfit’!

Now for all you child free lovelies out there you can carry on sniggering at this but mark my words, you may also find yourself at ‘Buggyfit’ in future years and believe it or not it’s actually very enjoyable. I didn’t do anything like this with my first child as the Post Natal Depression was so crippling that I couldn’t face leaving the house but this time I’m branching out; trying new things and seeing whether I can get myself integrated back into society a little sooner.

Well what on earth is ‘Buggyfit’ I hear you cry! Well as the name suggests you keep fit with your buggy/pram/stroller whatever you want to call it. An exercise class outdoors (or in a big gym/hall) where you can take the baby and work on fitting back into your jeans. It’s also a place where it doesn’t really matter if your baby screams and then throws up all over the place because everyone’s in the same boat; no one’s going to tut at you or be put off by a wailing child – quite refreshing really. I’m actually enjoying going to these sessions and would definitely advise new mums to join something like this, especially if you have Post Natal Depression – it’ll show you that no one copes and that you’re actually doing ok!

After a week of exercise, much heavy breathing and a very red face, I am well on my way to regaining some sort of self confidence. Now all I need to do is sort out my hair, nails, plucking, waxing, underwear shopping……….

A Weighty Issue

As a new mum I am currently in the throes of ‘trying to lose the baby weight’.

No pressure! Yeah right!

In ‘Celeb-Land’ it seems the norm to pop out a sprog and look incredible mere days later…or hours…or minutes! How? How do they do this? It seems as if some magical transformation takes place; a Fairy Godmother appears with her magic wand and..POOF… all fat  dissipates, dissolves, disappears! Hooray!

Just look at the stars that have had babies recently and the transformations that have ensued. Claire Danes at the Golden Globes for example! Really? Come on!

The 70th Annual Golden Globe Awards in LA

Claire Danes google images

This is Claire one month after having her son. ONE MONTH! I mean honestly, how does this even happen? It’s not just sour grapes on my part is it?

I looked at her on the red carpet and then looked at myself: milk-stained pyjamas; big M&S Granny knickers; greasy hair scraped on top of my head and the unforgiving parachute belly (we’ll get to this in a minute). How was she doing it? We’d had our children within a week or so of each other. Why didn’t I look like that?

Google Images

Victoria Beckham google images

What about Victoria Beckham? As you can see from some of the first pictures that were taken after the birth of her fourth child, she’s not carrying an ounce of extra weight! Grrrrrr!

In one way it’s amazing to have such women as role models. It shows that if you work hard and you want something enough then you can do it. On the other hand, it’s totally unrealistic for the mere mortals of this world to achieve these results weeks after giving birth. We don’t have the time, help, money or resources to enable us to concentrate solely on our figures.

I remember reading an article about the Supermodel Giselle when she’d had her first baby; probably around about the same time that I’d had my first son and was feeling like the walking dead. She gushed about how amazing motherhood was and…how easy it was to get back into shape. If I remember rightly her typical day went something along these lines: get up and have breakfast with the baby; go to the gym for three hours; come home and have lunch with the baby and then go and take the baby to watch daddy at his football practice.

Hmmm. Ok then. Yes I could probably see why it was easy to get back into shape. Three hours in the gym may indeed sort out the parachute belly!

Now if you’ve never had children you won’t be aware of the parachute belly, although you can probably imagine. After ten months of pregnancy your big stretched preggy tummy expels it’s precious cargo and you’re left with…..well I can only describe it as a parachute without any wind. Perhaps a deflated hot air balloon will allow you to picture it more clearly? Either way it’s rather disconcerting to say the least; even more so because of the exceptionally hard stomach that you’ve been waddling around with.

Where do the celebrities store their parachute bellies, that’s what I want to know??? They mustn’t have them – it’s the only answer!! Nearly every friend of mine that’s recently had a baby is talking about their weight, or their tummies and how on earth they’ll ever regain their previous figures. After my first child it took me eighteen months to get back into my jeans!! Eighteen months! That’s unheard of in celeb-ville!

I have therefore come up with the following as possible explanations as to why, with an 11 week old baby, I don’t look like Claire, Victoria, Adriana Lima or Allesandra Ambrosio..

google images Allesandra

google images Allesandra

  • celebrities are all really tall – at least 7ft and so at 5ft 3in I am bound to look like a fat hobbit in comparison
  • they never eat – ever (I can’t do this)
  • if they do happen to eat it’s only lettuce and steamed fish – mmmm
  • they only drink water from natural springs located in the Scottish Highlands and so have amazing skin
  • they have magical powers
  • the skin on their stomachs is super elasticated and snaps back into shape within minutes of giving birth
  • they also have abs like Superman, which, like the elasticated skin, pull all internal organs back into their previous postions beautifully
  • their babies sleep
  • then feed calmly once a day
  • then sleep again, thus enabling said celebrity to have at least 10 hours of sleep a night
  • a Fairy Godmother looks after their baby during the night and most of the day when they will be at the gym, enabling them to have a serene demeanour in all paparazzi photos..

I think I may be spot on with these theories. There can’t really be many other explanations can there?