A Complete and Utter Let Down

The anticipation had been building for weeks.
We weren't sure exactly when it would it happen, which only added to the suspense.
Each morning was filled with hope. Excitement that today might just be the day.
But no. No change. Not yet.
Try again tomorrow.
We wondered what it would be like.
Would we love it?
Or had we built it up too much?
It had been a long wait, but it would be worth it - right?
We heard whispers on twitter that there had been progress.
Every spare moment was spent waiting, hoping to catch a glimpse.
So many near misses.
Then finally, just before a Sky+ episode of In the Night Garden, finally, we saw it.
The cBeebies Springtime song.
Oh.
Nope.
Wasn't worth the wait.
What a complete and utter let down.
Oh well, perhaps it'll be a grower?

This is a light hearted take on prompt no. 2 at Josie's writing workshop this week:
What eagerly anticipated experience turned out to be a complete and utter let down?
And for the record, no, I haven't really spent the last few weeks eagerly anticipating it. Though I was getting pretty bored of the fake snow ditty before every Night Garden.
(The 'Zing-Zillas' however, well, I do hope that's as good as it looks... ;)

Don't forget to head over to Sleep is for the Weak and check out all the less foolish entries - there's a serious chunk of talent over there every week, so clear an hour or two, grab a cuppa & enjoy.

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When my little man grows up...

It's workshop time again over at Sleep is for the Weak, and prompt number 3 got me thinking:
What do you secretly dream of your children doing? We all know they are not us and more than anything we would want to see them happy, but sometimes a wish to live vicariously through them is unavoidable. Confess your secret dreams for them.

As The Little Dude's birthday looms ever closer, I've been doing a lot of pondering about how fast it all goes, and a lot of suddenly realising 'oh my god, he's actually going to like, grow up and stuff?!' - because when I was pregnant, I always knew I was having a baby - but didn't really give a lot of thought to the fact that my baby would soon turn into a toddler - then a child - then (OMG) a teenager - and eventually - (gulp) - a grown-up!
So then, what are my dreams for The Little Dude?

Well, obviously, I want him to be happy and healthy and content, whatever he decides to do with himself.
I want him to live life to the absolute max, to explore, have adventures, and as much fun as possible along the way. (Preferably without breaking any laws, please and thank you.) 
I want him to find the love of his life (who I will instantly approve of & we'll get along famously for evermore) and be blissfully happy.
But all of those, while very good intentions, don't make for a terribly exciting blog post. So, let's get vicarious.

I want him to be rich and famous.
Rich enough to be able to say 'There you go mummy, there are the keys to that huge country manner you always wanted.  And yes, you have your very own pond, complete with ducks.'
Famous enough for 'Hello!' to call me up asking for an interview & wanting to do a photoshoot at my fabulous country manor home, just because I'm his mummy.

But, not so rich that he loses all sight of what really matters in life, and not so famous that he loses all his privacy and has to search through streams of gold diggers to find his true love.
Johnny Depp's a good role model - superstar - talented - gorgeous - but still a proper family man, with his head screwed on. That'd do nicely.

So, how to achieve this stardom?
The Daddy and I differ there - he's hoping our little man will be the next Steven Gerrard & captain the England squad to world cup glory. That, or become the next big thing in Hollywood (presumably so he could pull strings & let Daddy realise his own acting dreams!).

Me, I'd rather he was a rock star. If there's one thing I hope to pass down to my baby boy, it's a love of music.  (He's already showing a leaning to loud Indie rock, which makes mummy very happy!)  I'd love him to see the world while playing to huge arenas of people, singing amazing songs he's written that will still be around for his children to enjoy. That said, I'd be constantly worrying about him hooking up with whoever fills Amy Winehouse's shoes in years to come. *shudder*
Perhaps a famous TV chef instead - the next Jamie Oliver? That would be brilliant. He could come to The Manor and cook us scrumptious feasts.  And Jools Oliver is lovely - so theoretically, chefs find nice wives? Well, we all love a man who cooks I suppose!
Or maybe, he could invent something so spectacular that mankind ends up wondering how they ever lived without it?  Then he could be rich and famous beyond his wildest dreams, but still be anonymous if he liked.
(Would you really be able to spot Bill Gates in a crowd? I honestly couldn't!)
Of course I'd also love him to inherit my artistic talents, and if he could make his fortune from it, then fantastic!  But even in a vicarious daydream, I know the term 'struggling artist' exists for a reason.

Ultimately though, it really is all about him being happy, healthy and content.
So long as he achieves those, my work is done.
And however he decides to go about it, I'll always be proud of him.
And however tall he gets (I fully expect him to be towering over me by the time he's 12!), he'll always be my little boy.
And I'll always love him more than I ever thought possible.

So - what are your wildest dreams for your offspring?

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The day my body let me down.

[Edited to add: Having just read Sally's post here, I just wanted to clarify, this post is NOT about me feeling like a failure.  Hell no.  I actually think I'm doing okay - The Little Dude is nearly one, has had no brushes with death, and is generally a cheerful, contented little man. All good, right? The post is in a relation to a prompt about one's body letting one down, which mine did, but only at the last minute - and to be fair, it had just done nine month's hard labour making a baby. So no hard feelings body. And I promise, I'll sort out that post-baby-muffin top any day now.  Really.
Anyway, as I was saying...]

This week at Josie's Writing Workshop, prompt 4 is: Tell me about a time your body let you down.
As The Little Dude is one next month (gulp), I've been doing a lot of looking back, and have been pondering the idea of facing my fear and writing about 'the birth' - which I've pretty much skimmed over before now as the memories aren't exactly happy. I'm hoping it might help to work through those memories I've done so well to squash in a corner at the back of my mind and ignore. Let's see.

April 20th 2009 - The day my body let me down.

Sunday, April 19th - I was 10 days overdue.
I felt like a hippo.
I was tired, achey, and liable to punch the next person who said 'still no baby then?' or offered another stupid old wives tale about how to kick-start labour.

At about noon, I felt a twinge.  Nothing major, but definitely different.
The Mr was at work till 3, so I decided against ringing him, didn't want to get his hopes up.
By the time he got back, the twinges were leaning towards uncomfortable, and more frequent.
'Shall we go to hospital?!' mr asked - desperate to meet his little boy.
'No' I said, 'It'll be ages yet, they'll only send us home. Just keep me distracted.'

So he did.
He was amazing actually. made me dinner, ran me a bath, put on my favourite dvds, made me lots of hot drinks, noted down the times of each contraction, checked the time about 12 times an hour, made sure his phone, my phone, and the camera were all charged. Repeatedly!

By 4am, the contractions were every 10 minutes, and officially hurt. A lot.
Time to go to hospital.

I remember being strangely (foolishly?) calm.
I wasn't scared. I wasn't panicky. I just wanted to get on with it & take my baby home.

We checked in, The Mr got me unpacked, a midwife came in to examine me, I was 5cm dilated.
I felt quite chuffed with myself for lasting so long at home.

I mooched around the room, trying to stay mobile, keep moving.  Still pretty calm.

The next few contractions kicked things up a notch.
I screamed. I swore. I may have almost broken The Mr's hand. (Sorry honey.)
The midwife said the birthing pool was free if I was interested.
What the hell, I thought, worth a try.

Four hours of bobbing about in agony later, my contractions were 5 minutes apart, and unbearable.  I felt like I was barely catching my breath after one before the next one started. I was exhausted.
'Jump out & we'll see how you're doing' chirped the midwife. God I wanted to slap her for being so cheerful.

Still 5cm dilated.
She had to be joking.
She wasn't. I cried.
I was exhausted.
I felt like I couldn't take another ten minutes, and they were telling me it would probably be hours.
My body was giving up.  I had nothing left.
I agreed, reluctantly to an epidural, thinking at least then when it was finally time to push, I might have replenished some energy.
A very tall, very German man came to stick a needle in my back.
'Keep very still' he kept saying. My body had other ideas. The contractions were getting more and more frequent, and the gas & air was doing nothing.
Finally, it was done.
'Your legs should feel numb and pain should stop in around 10 minutes' he said, and left.
Twenty minutes later, the contractions were still coming thick & fast.  And I could definitely still feel them.

Turns out, my body didn't fancy an epidural.  It had failed.

The midwife examined me again. By that point, I was hooked up to a big bleepy machine to monitor mine & the baby's heart rate.
She looked at it, wrote something down, and said she was just going to get a doctor.

Panic.

I grabbed The Mr's hand - what was going on?
Seconds later, there was a doctor, 2 midwives & a nurse around me, muttering about contractions, and failed epidurals, and tests, and positions.
I squeezed The Mr's hand tighter, holding my breath, waiting for what felt like an eternity for them to say... something?

'Your baby has changed position and his heart rate is spiking everytime you contract. We need to get him out, quickly. We need you to sign this form so we can do an emergency caesarean.'
I looked at The Mr with eyes full of tears and panic, pleading, begging him to make it better.
My body had tried so hard to get my baby into the world, but it was so tired, it couldn't finish the job.

From there, it's all a bit hazy.
I remember The Mr telling me it was all going to be fine, he'd be there the whole time.
But he wouldn't.
He was pushed out the door 'just while we prep you for the operation' someone said. I screamed that I didn't want to be on my own. Nobody listened.

Next thing I knew, I was wheeled into a stupidly bright room. There were about 8 people buzzing around above my head, none of whom were my baby's daddy.
I was crying uncontrollably.
A tiny Asian woman with a shrill voice asked if I could feel pain.
A tall man with kind eyes tried to calm me down.
I sobbed and told him I wanted my boyfriend.
He said they'd let him in in a minute. He lied.
I heard the shrill Asian woman say I was 'too unsettled'.
That's the last thing I remember.

I woke up at 10.30am. With a mouth like sandpaper and a banging head.
For a second I wondered if it had all been a dream and I was actually waking up to the world's worst hangover.

But there at the end of the bed, was The Mr, holding the most beautiful little baby I'd ever seen.

He explained that after they'd wheeled me off, they'd given him scrubs to change into while they 'prepped' me.
But instead, because of the state I was in (ie. crying uncontrollably due to being terrified and on my own) they'd made the decision to 'put me under', so he wasn't allowed back in. He'd had to sit, on his own, and wait. They'd brought the Little Dude through to him at 10am. He was born at 9.55am.

I still have a lot of unresolved anger and resent about the way things panned out.

I didn't agree to the GA. I wasn't even consulted. The decision was taken out of my hands.
I wanted to be conscious for my son's arrval, and that was taken away from me.
My man wanted to be there when his son was born, and that was taken away from him.
I still get angry and upset thinking about it, because I can't help wondering, if they'd just given me 5 minutes alone with my man, he could have calmed me down, 'settled' me, and made for a very different experience.



At the time though, looking at our gorgeous son, it was hard to feel anything but delirious happiness.
And even now, I can look at it all as a 'means to an end' - It wasn't pretty, but despite my body failing me, I got a beautiful baby boy in the end. 

I am lucky, and grateful, and blessed.

Reminding myself of that doesn't make the other stuff go away, but it does make it easier to deal with.

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Under (Self Inflicted) Pressure & The Gallery: Three

As the song goes, Three, is a magic number. I heartily agree.
This week's photo for The Gallery, features the three biggest loves of my life. The baby boy, watching The Daddy & The Puppy* having a run around in the park. 
It's not the best photo in the world, but I love it because it captures one of those perfect moments in a perfect day where I really understand the word family.  And it makes me happy.

I'm going to multi-task here, and mention Josie's writing workshop, where one of the prompts this week is 'What is making you feel under pressure right now'.  The answer to that, is me. 
I am my own worst critic, always have been. 
I'm also a neurotic loony with a tendency to overthink things and get all caught up in my own head.
I have a compulsive need to be super duper organised, always ready, always prepared, always ahead of the game.  Turns out, all that stuff is not so easy to accomplish with a little person who needs all of your attention all of the time on the scene. 

In turn, I beat myself up because the to do list never gets any shorter. 
I exhaust myself trying to squeeze as much productivity as possible into every single day. 
I want to get on with the hundred bits of decorating that need doing, I want to focus on & make a real go of my own business, I want to be the best mummy ever and take LD to allsorts of wonderful baby activities, I want to make lots of new mummy friends so that he has lots of little play mates, I want to de-clutter my wardrobe, I want to be a perfect little housewife & put a delicious feast on the table every night, I want to get rid of the last little bit of wobbly mummy tummy, I want to start painting again - I want to be able to chill out & relax while the little man naps without mentally listing the million and one things I still need to do.  
I have a boat load of dreams and ambitions and goals, and the trouble is, I want it all now, if not sooner.  I never was very good at patience.

But I'm learning. Being a mummy is definitely making me stop, or at least pause, and re-assess what's really important.
Yes, it does my head in that we're living in an un-finished mess of a house, but the little dude doesn't care. He has somewhere warm to sleep, food in his belly, and a mummy and daddy who love him to pieces. (And a stupid amount of toys.)  He's happy.

And I am too.  Because I am incredibly lucky.  I just need to remind myself now and again.  And I need to spend less time putting pressure on myself & fretting about what needs to be done, and more time at the park with my THREE favourites - my Man, my Baby, and my Dog.  My family.

(*The Puppy, is actually 4, but she's little, and bouncy, so we still call her The Puppy.)

Don't forget to go check out the rest of The Gallery at Tara's blog, and the rest of the Writing Workshop at Josie's.

Oooh, and while we're talking about family, a quick shout out to Bec over at Beetroot & Gherkins, whose gorgeous family is going to be getting bigger in the very near future - wishing you lots of love & luck miss - and sending *superfastandeasylabour* thoughts a go-go :) xxx

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This time last year...

This year, in her world famous* writing workshop, amongst other things, Josie asks us "What were you doing this time last year".  Well, let's see...

This time last year, I was very very pregnant. (The LD was due 10th April. He actually made an appearance on the 20th- longest 10 days of life!).
I was lucky, in that I had a 'nice little bump', or so people kept telling me.  Personally, I felt like a freakin' whale, and by this time last year, I was perpetually exhausted. (No change there then.)

This time last year, I was getting ready to finish up at work.  I was neurotically making lists and cheat sheets and post it note after post it note of helpful tit-bits for my replacement.  I hated the idea of handing over my responsibilities & my execs & all their little quirks.  I truly did have every intention of going back.

This time last year, I spent most weekends shopping with the Mr, picking out teeny tiny little babygrows and hats and sleepsuits. Every purchase brought squees of 'loooook, it's SO lickle!!'.  Never got old.

This time last year I was reading about my pregnancy a lot.  I got almost obsessive about knowing how big my baby was getting in relation to fruit & vegetables. (16 weeks, about the same as an avocado - 27 weeks - a head of cauliflower.)  I blame the hormones.

This time last year, I needed help to remove myself from the sofa.  And God help me if I tried to sit on the floor.

This time last year, I spent a lot of time convincing myself that labour couldn't be that bad. Could it? (Yes, it could, you deluded fool.)

This time last year, I had no idea how to change a nappy.

This time last year, I had no idea just how little sleep a human being can survive on.

This time last year, I'd never even heard the word Tombliboo, much less knew what one was.

This time last year, I hadn't even met the little monster who now simultaneously rules my life, and makes it feel complete.

What a difference a year makes.

How about you?  What were you up to this time last year?


...don't forget to take a reip to the shiny new-look Sleep is for the Weak & show the other entries some love- there's always a whole bunch of good stuff to read.

(*The world being that of a select group of Mummy Bloggers who think it's cool. Which is good enough for me!)

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Caution: Severe Slush Ahead

No, no, we haven't had another dollop of snow, I'm talking slush as in mushy gushy ♥ lurrrve ♥

You see, I am doing a little multi-tasking & getting all romantic, because a. Claire, over at The Good, The Bad & The Ugly, is holding a Valentines Carnival (because she might act tough, but she's a big sappy girl really ;) ), and b. I haven't made time to play over at Josie's Writing workshop in ages, but this week, option 3 is: Write a post on the theme of ’soul mates’. Do you believe in them? Have you found or lost yours? Or are you still looking?

So, without further ado, may I present a bit fat chunk of sun shining, birds tweeting, song in your heart, lovey dovey goodness. (Don't panic, normal service will resume soon!)

♥..................................................................................................................................♥

Do I believe in Soul Mates? Oh yes. I met mine nearly 13 years ago, and have never looked back.

Was it love at first sight? Actually, yes, I think it was.

We met, completely by chance, at a night club. I had no idea he even existed before that night, and now I can’t imagine life without him.

That first night, we just clicked. We spent four hours sitting outside under a big full moon, just talking, and freaking each other out with the amount of spooky coincidences and similarities there were between us.

In the previous year, we’d been at 3 of the same parties, 2 of the same gigs and both been to see the same play, on the same night, yet never even bumped into each other. It was almost like fate had been trying to throw us together, but had a bit of a rubbish aim… until then.

I had never felt so instantly comfortable with anyone before, ever. Believe it or not, I'm generally pretty shy around new people. Not with him though. It was like catching up with an old friend I hadn't seen in years. It was just a perfect fit from the start.

We moved in together after two weeks. How mental is that?
Our friends & families thought we were loopy, but we didn’t care. It felt right.

And it was. It still is :)

We have been through so much in the last 12 and a bit years.
Good stuff, not so good stuff, and some frankly amazing stuff.
We’ve travelled, we’ve explored, we’ve had adventures.
We’ve strolled along the beach together at sunset, and we’ve toddled along it at sunrise, after many an epic night out. (Tenerife, 2002, in particular, was a bit special!)
We’ve been wild & reckless, rocked out at more gigs & shows and bars & clubs than I can count and got up to allsorts of mischief.
We’ve done scary grown up stuff neither of us had contemplated before – like mortgages & joint bank accounts!
We’ve supported one another through anything and everything.
We’ve laughed, we’ve cried, and shared everything in between.

He makes me laugh a lot, and he knows exactly how to make me smile when I'm down.
He gets me.
He’s the only person who really knows everything there is to know about me.
He is my rock, my voice of reason, my partner in crime, and my best friend.
He’s also pretty easy on the eye, but don’t tell him I said that ;)

And of course now, he’s my baby’s Daddy!
The Little Dude is by far our biggest adventure yet, and I can’t imagine a better person to be enjoying it with. We are loving every second.

Sure, there have been hard bits, and I have no doubt there will be more in the future, but so long as we take it on together, I know it’ll be fine.

Because I do believe in soul mates, and I feel incredibly lucky to have found mine.

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Guilty, Your Honour.

WHAT a day.

It started so well - LD slept through till 7am without a peep. Awesome. We had breakfast, we played, we sang, we read, we had lunch, we watched Makka Pakka be all OCD-like with his stones. All good.

LD went down for a nap at about 1 ish. Woke up screaming at about 1.03.  Yep, seems tooth no.3 is finally on the way - right at the back, can just feel it starting to poke through. Every time he tries to sleep, it kicks off.  Poor little dude :(  He finally crashed about an hour ago. I don't have high hopes for a restful night.

But enough whiney stuff, let's talk guilt.  But the good kind.  The pleasurable kind.  That's right lovely blog readers - we're talking Guilty Pleasures.

For you see lovely @porridgebrain asked on twitter yesterday for writing workshop prompt suggestions, and she only went with my idea - woo! Given my big love for the workshop, I am super flattered!  Of course now, I must play the game & confess to my own guilty pleasures.  So, here we go:

1. Cult Teen Movies.  Honestly, I don't really consider myself a grown-up.  Even now with my 30th birthday & a seven month old son under my belt, my brain still thinks I'm 20.  And so every now & then I indulge myself and watch Heathers or The Lost Boys and imagine what life would be like if Christian Slater or Corey Haim were my boyfriend. *wistful sigh*...

2. Trashy chick-lit.  I got an A for A Level English Literature. I can converse about Shakespeare and Hardy & Austen with the best of them, and I truly do love proper novels - both of the old and modern variety.  But sometimes, I do rather enjoy just switching my brain off & reading a vacuous of tale of love and betrayal and shopping.

3. Biscuits for lunch.  At least once a month (yes, often when mother nature is a house guest), I will secretly skip anything of nutritional value at lunchtime, in favour of sitting with a big mug of tea (and perhaps one of those fluffy novels mentioned above), and work my way through a whole packet of biscuits.  Shameful? Probably.  But SO good.

4. Facebook Stalking.  There are SO many people on my friends list who are only there out of politeness. Who I rarely see, only know through friends, or just don't really care about (don't judge me - bet you have some too!), but I do quite enjoy checking up on their statuses and the like - particularly when they're bitching about other pseudo-friends they don't realise you know. It's like a little real-life soap opera :)

5. Inappropriate crushes. I'll happily tell anyone who cares to listen about my deep love for Johnny Depp and David Tennant and Robbie Williams... ... ... sorry - got distracted ;) - but I also have several less high-profile crushes that I tend to keep to myself - Andrew Castle on GMTV is probably old enough to be my dad, but he's everso dishy.  Mister Maker on cBeebies - the LD is a long way off cutting and sticking, yet we watch every single day.  And Simon Cowell.  Yes, even with that hair and those trousers.

I could go on, but I think 5 guilty confessions will do for now.

As always, all of the prompts over at Sleep is for the Weak are brilliant, so go have a peek. I may still have a go at some of the others myself, but for now, there's a little boy starting to stir who needs my attention.

While I do that - consider the comment box a confession booth - what are your guilty pleasures?

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Not exactly wordless Wednesday...

This is me multi-tasking like a proper mummy - you're impressed, right?

The photo, counts as a Wordless Wednesday, but by cheating, and adding a few words, it's going to magically turn into my entry to this week's writing workshop over at Sleep is for the weak.  Clever eh?

I was all up for doing No.1 this week & treating you to a bit of a photo walk, but the weather had other ideas. So, I'll save that for another day & go with No.4: Tell me about something precious you gave away.

First up, here's the photo:

[caption id="attachment_182" align="alignnone" width="500" caption="scary how fast time flies when you're a mummy!"][/caption]

The one on the bottom, is one of the LD's current sleepsuits.  The one on top, is one of his very first.

Despite being 10 days late, and weighing in at a pretty respectable 7lb, none of the newborn or 0-3 month variety we'd stocked up on fitted him - he was so skinny, the daddy had to do a mothercare run to pick up some 'tiny baby' ones so that he wasn't swamped.  Looking at those tiny little suits now fills me with a mixture of emotions - amazement that my now 18lb monster ever fitted in them, nostalgia for those early days where all I could day was stare in wonder at the wrinkly and gorgeous baby I'd just had and heartache when I dwell too long on the memory of a traumatic birth & the hard bits of those first few weeks- breast feeding tribulations, LD's trouble gaining weight, having to take him back into hospital... *shudder*.

Mostly though, it's happy memories of what seems like a lifetime ago despite being just seven short months.

As I mentioned in this post, I'm a terrible clutterbug, and too sentimental for my own good. I hadn't got rid of a single piece of outgrown clothing before this week. Now, I've made a start. I sorted through & pulled out all the tiny baby sleepsuits, vests & babygrows, threw them in the wash, and ironed the lot. I bundled them all up with a few soft toys and blankies, and donated them to our local SCBU.  Because as precious as they are to me, they'll be far more useful to the next mummy who's baby makes an early appearance & is in need of something tiny to keep them warm.

I let myself keep the one in the picture though.  Well, it's not as though it takes up much room ;)

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One day...

Work shop time over at Josie's again!  This lovely mummy is still not 100% fighting fit, so go show her some love.  Despite being poorly, she's still put together some excellent writing prompts - because she is a trooper & generally brilliant.

So, this week, I'm choosing No. 1: Write about what you hope for ‘one day’.  Sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin...

One day, I'll have this whole mothering gig well and truly cracked. I'll know exactly what to do in any given situation.  I won't doubt myself, I won't let myself think 'oh-my-goodness-i'm rubbish at this', I won't assume that everyone else knows better than I do.  One day.

One day, I'll be a proper domestic goddess. There will be no perpetual pile of laundry, the ironing mountain will be vanquished, the floors will be clean, the cupboards will be full & there will be something delicious in the oven for dinner every.  single.  night.  One day.

One day, I'll cross everything off my to do list.  There will be no unpaid bills, no post-it notes on the fridge advertising the jobs I keep avoiding, no little pile of 'to deal with later' letters on the table, collecting dust.  One day.

One day, I'll have my old (ie. pre-baby) shape back.  My skinny jeans will be rocking the park & playgroup scene rather than hanging trapped in my wardrobe, dreaming of former glories.  One day.

One day, we'll be comfortable.  Living each day without worrying about cashflow, those stupid bills, budgeting, snapping up bargains, stretching every penny to breaking point.  We'll have enough to be happy and occasionally even silly, rather than just 'getting by'.  One day.

For today though, I'll make do with stretching the grocery budget & feeling a bit podgy in my 'fat day' jeans.  I'll be happy with the quick & easy chilli we're having for dinner, and that pile of washing & ironing can wait another day.  Because today, I've been playing with my little boy.  My gorgeous little man whose big blue eyes & cheeky monkey grin make me do the same - he could care less about the house being immaculate so long as can reach his toys & his favourite book for story time.  And his daddy will be home soon.  My best friend and the love of my life - who insists he doesn't care about the baby belly & actually bloody loves my chilli.  Suddenly everything else doesn't seem all that important. 

And besides, I'm sure the rest will all fall into place... One day.

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Writing Workshop Catch-up...

Lovely Josie over at Sleep is for the Weak was a poorly bunny last week, which sadly meant no workshop, but was also sort of lucky for me as due to The Mr being on holiday and generally playing havock with my routines (in a good way really - love you honey!), I didn't get a chance to do anything for Workshop #4.  Soo, I shall take the liberty to do so now...

I'm picking No.1: Write about an overheard conversation.

(Please note, what follows is a true story. You can't make this stuff up!)

The Little Dude & I are in Boots, stocking up on 3 for 2 Christmas presents.  Well, I'm deliberating over presents, LD is chattering to his cuddly fox rattle.  It's all good. 

I'm looking at a set of In the Night Garden figures - perfect for a friend's daughter, when I see a little blonde boy of about 2 gleefully pressing buttons on any and every noisy toy he can get his chubby little hands on.  Cute, I think.  He gives me a cheeky toothy grin & shoots off to stare in wonder at all the festive sweeties.

Suddenly I hear someone screech 'Shandon! Get here, Naaaaa!!' - hate to sound all posh, but it was a voice that wouldn't be out of place selling apples in Albert Square.  You know what I'm talking about.  I look up to see the little blonde boy being grabbed by the arm & fastened into a double buggy next to a little blonde girl. 'You're doing my f**king head in today!!' she continues.  Nice.  I can't help feeling sorry for the little guy - he wasn't being naughty as such - I can't STAND it when people swear in front of kids, and oh my God, what sort of name is Shandon anyway?  'Just sit still and behave - be good like Moet.' ...penny drops.  Shandon, is in fact, Chandon.  And his sister is Moet.  Uh-huh, mother of the year named her children Moet & Chandon.  Altogether now, W . T . F ?

Don't get me wrong, naming your little darlings is one of the most important and personal decisions you ever have to make - and if you love somthing, you should go with it, regardless of what anyone else thinks.  But there's a limit, right?  I know us mummys are supposed to support eachother, solidarity and all that, and call me judgemental if you like, but I think anyone naming their children after beverages needs to have a serious re-think.  But then who knows, perhaps their cousins had already used Bacardi & Smirnoff?  Proper classy like.

Amazing what you overhear when you're trying to stretch the Christmas budget!

Don't forget to go & check out the rest of the great posts over at Sleep is for the Weak.

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Recipe For a Perfect Day...

It's workshop time again over at Sleep is for the Weak (I know, where does the time go?), so go have a look for some great writing and inspiring prompts to get your creative cogs a-turning.

(Click here for the prompts, and here for the links to all of this week's entries.)
(But read mine first, or I'll pout.)

This week, I chose:

2. Write a recipe for something abstract - i.e. a recipe for a good/bad day, recipe for a perfect Halloween, recipe for a happy mummy/daddy etc.

 

(And don't worry, you don't need to be from the house of Nigella to give this one a whirl :D)

Recipe for a perfect day.

Start with a base of sleeping in until at least 8am, with mummy waking gently from slumber to the sun shining, birds tweeting, and baby chatting contentedly to himself.

Smooth over a thin layer of milk, plus peach & banana porridge for baby, and a thicker layer of coffee for mummy. (For best results, use proper coffee, made in a pot, not instant.) Add Nutella filled croissants to taste.

Combine with a couple of large cups of morning playtime. Equal measures of singing and dancing and cuddles.

Snuggle up with a slice of good reading and quiet time, then set aside for a minimum of one solid hour napping time.

Once rested, blend in a portion of lunch – perhaps granary toast with mushed up avocado for two, with added strawberry fromage frais. Add a liberal pinch of mess – it’s all part of the fun of learning!

Mix in a lovely walk in the sunshine, adding your choice of park or seafront. Be sure to thoroughly marinade with all the sights and sounds along the way.

Cover with an afternoon nap. Once chilled, blend in something delicious for baby’s tea and leave to settle while watching Hollyoaks together.

When the daddy gets home from work, generously apply more cuddles.
Combine daddy & baby, and gently whisk in more milk, and the bedtime story of your choice.
Place baby in cot, sprinkle with goodnight kisses.

In a separate bowl, combine mummy, daddy, some tasty dinner and at least two large glasses of wine. (Can be substituted with bottles of beer as a variation.)

After all the ingredients are combined, gently simmer and enjoy the warming satisfaction of a perfect day.
And don’t forget to save the leftovers for tomorrow!

 

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Everyday Inspiration...

Mummy Porridge Brain is putting us to work again in her Writing Sweatshop Workshop :D
Hop on over for more brilliant prompts to exercise ye olde grey matter & get your creative juices flowing.

This week, I toyed with opting for No.1: You get a day off. No kids, no housework, no responsibility. Where would you go? What would you do? - but all I'd do is a. sleep, b. make like a potato and veg with dvds, junk food & readables, or c. retreat to my wonderful magical room of fantasy. Given that c sadly doesn't exist, and a&b wouldn't make for terribly exciting reading, I have decided to go with:

5. Sit in a room of your house you spend a lot of time in. And really LOOK. Notice all the details you usually miss, and describe them with all the creativity you can muster. Let the every-day inspire you.

Sitting comfortably?

Me too. On my sofa, in my living room.

My living room, which, once upon a time, was a haven of carefully selected, 100% colour coordinated, classy, comfortable, chic. Deliberately positioned cushions, perfectly aligned coasters on polished coffee table, pretty photo frames and other objects dotted here and there (always grouped in threes - it's an interior design thang sweetie), no mess, no clutter, everything had it's place.

Then I had a baby.

An almighty inflatable donkey attached to a felt play mat sits on the floor to my left. To accommodate the overflow of my growing boy, he's been joined by a safari themed playmat in all the colours of the rainbow. They don't match eachother, much less the rest of the room. They are strewn with various rattles and cuddlies, a muslin square, a baby whoozit, and what looks like a lump of half eaten - yep, it's a chunk of chewed-round-the-edges rusk. (note to self - pick that up.) To my right, there's a bouncy chair. A bright blue bouncy chair, covered in frogs and turtles. That is definitely not in-keeping with the decor.

A few feet in front of me, my once Mr-Sheen'ed to within an inch of it's life coffee table, is now littered with... stuff. Let's see, there's an empty little stars pot and a bib, smeared and smelling of strawberries. There's a copy of Cosmo which I think I managed to read about 4 pages of before a certain someone decided that pretty, glossy magazines make great noises when ripped and crumpled. There are 2 cold half cups of coffee, a distinctly drool-covered remote control, and oh look, another chunk of rusk.

Other side of the table, the faux-leather magazine rack that used to be where the uncrumpled glossy magazine loveliness lived, now houses nappies, wipes, and a selection of creams. And, there's a bright blue changing mat propped up against the wall. (At least it matches the bouncer I suppose.)

Right of the coffee table, is the other sofa (those still match too. Just.), and on that, sits the love of my life. My Mr, My other half, The Daddy, My best friend. He's half watching TV, half falling asleep, and in his arms, is the reason for the inflatable donkey, the froggie bouncer, the nappies and the empty little stars pot - our son. The tiny little person who somehow comes with more stuff than the Mr & I have put together. (even including my bags & shoes. really.) Our precious little baby boy who came along and turned everything we had gotten to know as normal completely upside down.

Sure, a tiny part of me misses the serenity of the way this room used to be.

Yes, I'd love to sit and drink a whole cup of coffee while it's still hot, while nonchalantly flipping through a glossy magazine.

And no, I probably wouldn't miss playing 'hmm, wonder what that new stain is?'.

But the thing is, I'm a mummy now, and I love it.

I love the toys everywhere and the general sense of disarray & mayhem.

And I wouldn't have it any other way.

(Though the neurotic tendencies do still insist on coordinated cushion covers and the groups of three - gotta have some standards!)

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Josie was right - the everyday really can be inspiring! - Have a go yourself - it's very fun.

And remember, the first rule of Writing Workshop, Is that you don't talk about Writing Workshop.

Except actually, you should. Lots. To everyone. It rocks.

 

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A room of my own...

The very lovely Josie over at Sleep is for the Weak, has kindly set us all some blogging homework, in the form of some very fun writing prompts, head on over to check out Josie's surreal new conspiracy theory plus all the other great submissions.
(After you've read this one here, obviously :P)

Anyways, I've gone for option no.3:

Imagine an extra room in your house just for you. Time would freeze as you stepped through the door, leaving your life frozen behind you and giving you unlimited guilt-free time to spend there. What would you fill it with? What views would it have out the window?

Sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin.
Firstly, the room is going to have to be tardis like, in that yes, it fits neatly inside my house, but once you're in there, is far far bigger than any of the other 'normal' rooms.
On entering, there's a delicious waft of freshly baked cupcake smell, as low & behold, Johnny Depp, my personal cupcake chef, is hard at work in one corner. And yes, he lets me lick the bowl ;) (hahaha!! shameless, sorry.)
In another corner, I've got THE sofa from central perk in 'f.r.i.e.n.d.s', huge plush beanbags and vintage cushions GALORE, plus shelves and shelves of all my favourite books and all the sure-to-be-great reads I'm yet to get to.
To the left of the library, there's the walk in closet. Yep, just like the one in Ugly Betty, choc-full of utterly delicious vintage dresses and gorgeous shoes and bags and accessories and needlessly pretty other things.
Don't get too hung up on the couture though, we've just reached the huge bay window, where - what's that? ah yes, it's Mr Alex James, of Blur fame, sitting in my big retro egg chair, strumming a guitar, seranading me at will.
And if you'd care to take a peek out the window, I'm sure you'll enjoy the view - remember the land of chocolate & candy in Willy Wonka? Well that's my garden, uh-huh, I know, fabulous.
In the last corner (yes, I know I've had more than 4 corners - nobody said my perfect room had to be square), it's craft heaven. There's an easel set up (in perfect light, of course) with dozens of brushes and paints in every colour of the rainbow. There's a huge table, which I never have to clear, and a wall full of drawers and boxes, stuffed full of beautiful papers and beads and embellishments and glitter and buttons and ribbons... it's almost even better than Johny's cupcakes. Yes, it's that good.
And in the middle of the best room ever, for when I tire of cupcakes and art and literature and fashion (unlikely, but sometimes it's nice to take a break), there's a huge fluffy rug, and a whole bunch of tiny puppy dogs. Because no matter how bad your day's been, everything is better with a puppy on your lap.

Now then. Who do I see about having this fabulous room installed in my house please?

While I deliberate, don't forget to go check out all the other great posts at Sleep is for the Weak - and if you're not a follower over there - why not?? Fix it! And join in on the wonderful weekly workshops.
Oh I love alliteration :)

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