Who’s asking for the vote?

Who’s asking for the vote?.

I’m leaving myself open to the public vote… Ooh. Exciting.


Who’s asking for the vote?

So, I know I’ve been a bit lax on the posting-front (and by ‘lax’ I mean shit, obviously) but, you know, I’ve just made my own personal puke, eat, poop-machine and I’m still getting used to the continuous cycle of puking, eating and pooping… I’ve decided to take my time and take it slowly, getting into a routine, considering this will now be my daily life for the next 18 years (damn the crappy sex-ed classes of my youth that seem to have left so much of the important stuff out)! Haha.

Funnily enough, I have so much to tell you (considering I’ve left it so bloody long since the last time) that I’m struggling to know what hilarious, charming and relatable (!) story of Motherhood to share with you first…

Consequently, I shall give you a choice and ask you to vote for which story you’re just dying to hear from my exciting and wonderful (!) life:

A) baby poo and the mishaps thereof.

B) how I (and my Mother) managed to spend most of my labour keeping our friends informed of all the lovely, gory details (like contraction and how many centimetres I was dilated) on Facebook, as they were occurring.

C) registering my baby today and how, even in those 10 minutes, I was able to make myself look like a cretinous, blubbering mess.

Just leave a comment and let me know.

I aim to make an embarrassment of myself, for your amusement. And that.

I’m so cool…


Who’s reliving labour?

So, like, 8 days ago I tried desperately (for over 36 hours) to push a human being out my special places. And failed. Quite dramatically (yes, this IS how this entry is going to go… Be warned, it will probably go downhill from here, too).

Talk to anyone who knows me (they don’t even need to know me well or even partially, just a name and a vague, two word description like “hot cripple” (!) would do) and they’ll tell you that I’m somewhat of a Drama Queen. And, thinking about it, it’s even worse than that. That’s far too simple a description. I’d readily admit I’m a Drama Queen BECAUSE drama seems to find me and latch onto me like paparazzi onto Britney Spears’ wonderful parenting skills.

Keeping this in mind, I’d like to share with you a very delicate and beautiful bedtime story, fit for all ages, detailing the miracle of how I bought life into this world. And that:

Once upon a time, in a magical land called my Mum’s house, where children scream obscenities at adults whilst trying to kick each other in the eye (“’cause he licked my Milky Way”), I woke up one morning to find that my underwear looked like a train-wreck and my pelvis felt like it was trying (and failing) to separate itself from my uterus and escape through my lady garden (I mentioned this on the day, right? I’m sure you remember it vividly)… Turns out, this was the early stages of labour.

A couple of hours later, after spending the morning crawling around the front room, clinging onto anything that (I hoped) wouldn’t slide along the floor, and getting stabbed in the ovaries every 7 minutes whilst trying not to fall flat on my face through panic every time the pain hit me (attractive images, no?), I decided to go into the local Maternity Unit where trained professionals could start the wonderfully dignified (!) process of hooking me up to monitors, prodding my massive baby belly about (further speeding the pain up) and sticking fingers where strangers’ fingers should never, ever go. You’re going to have to trust me when I say that all this had to be the most enjoyable part of the entire birthing experience (apart from the ending, obviously).

Just picture the scene that follows. To recap; my morning’s a bloodied train-wreck of pelvic-escapist, uterus-stabbing, fun-time; my afternoon’s a magical, wired-up, contraction filled, wonderland. Next; tachycardia, possible infection, contractions 3 minutes apart. Contractions 3 minutes apart, contractions… What contractions? That’s right, boys and girls, all that work and my contractions slowed down overnight, deciding (without my permission) to stop at 6am. Yeah, thanks baby (!). Just throwing this out there – I’m not a huge fan of consistent and seemingly never-ending pain – but when it’s working towards an important goal AND has the audacity to keep me up all night, I’d prefer it to rapidly progress to the end as quickly as possible than end abruptly. I s’pose, on the plus side, baby was polite enough to stop for breakfast. Mm… Single-serving Weetabix.

Like the majority of pregnant women, I spent a lot of my Maternity Leave cooing and crying (simultaneously) over “One Born Every Minute” and studying how to/how not to act during labour. I always laughed at the women who cried a lot and threw things at the Midwives whilst shouting obscenities at all inanimate objects in sight like… Like my half brother and sister, actually. I always swore I’d not cry or shout because, you know, you’ve gotta go through it and you’ve had most of the year to prepare so, get over it. Or something. So… What did I end up doing before begging like a child for an Epidural? Yes, that’s right. I cried. But I didn’t just cry. I sobbed. And snotted. And dribbled. Lush (!).

After this, Epidural in, antibiotics flowing through my veins with a side order of IV Paracetamol and heart monitors telling me we were both still tachycardic, catheter goes in, Midwives’ and Doctors’ hands start delving into places I’ve since lost the care to hide and, 30-something hours into my labour, surviving on 2 hours sleep since it all started, I’m told – even though I’m right at the end and ready to go – I need a C-Section. Bastard. I’m pretty sure you could hear my heart break all the way in Australia, if you’d paid attention.

Believe it or not, I’d managed to keep relatively calm until that moment (apart from when they couldn’t get the Epidural in, or when I started panicking over the fact that, if the Midwives’ examinations hurt, how was I meant to get a person out of me? For examples) when suddenly, my patience unravelled and I found myself crying hysterically for my Mummy to “swap places with me and take the pain away”. Yeah, like that was possible (!). I wish.

The Epidural hadn’t been working properly for a while, we were both in distress (no kidding!) and apparently my ‘child-bearing hips’ weren’t so child-bearing, after all. If only I’d known this beforehand, eh!?

And, this is where the story (almost) ends. Full of needles and wires and drips coming out my bloody ears (!), drugged up to my nose-hair and wondering what the hell my name was let alone what was going on anymore, baby finally made her appearance out the sun-roof. Crying before she was even fully out.

As the surgeons held her up so, in my drugged up, sickening and shaking state I could see my precious little screamer for the first time, through tears of joy/relief/confusion/ecstasy/quite a bit of pain my first thought was “she’s massive. No wonder she wouldn’t fit”.

After that, it all got a bit hazy.

But, in short, my daughter definitely follows in her Mother’s unnecessarily dramatic footsteps.

And they all lived happily (dramatically) ever after (we hope).

Would I do it again? (you ask) 100000% – she’s perfect!


Who’s saying hello? Who’s saying goodbye?

When I was a kid and I still believed in something ‘more’; on rainy winter days I’d look out the window and think that the rain was falling because God was crying. Then I grew up and realised that was probably just Fairytale kids’ stuff. Bollocks I made up to make myself feel better about the fact that it was wet and miserable and I couldn’t go outside. But, it’s times like this that make me look back on those moments of pure innocence and think I must’ve been right.

Now, I know I promised a lot of people that my next entry (I.e. this one, in case you’re not paying attention) would graphically expose the hideous details of my labour in my usually cynically charming and hilarious manner (hmm…) but, given recent events, such pleasures will have to wait until next time.

Today, as I sit in my chair all cosy and warm, with my precious bundle of strawberry-flavoured loveliness (yes, I have turned into a real ‘Mummy’ now) sleeping deeply next to me and God cries on the other side of the weathered pane of glass just metres away, I’d like to take this opportunity to share with you how glad I will be to see the back of 2012 – a year full of heartache and helplessness – and the suffering that went with it.

I’m all for life throwing us obstacles and challenges, testing our strengths and giving us different perspectives on the same issues… It’s all part of living. And to live is to learn. But sometimes, just sometimes, life takes the piss.

I have a theory (it’s one of many, of course, considering how neurotic I am). It’s a new theory. A theory I’ve made up in the last 17 days. The theory is this:

there must be a shortage of stars in the sky and an urgent need to burn them. In the space of 17 days, two of the brightest, most beautiful of all have been taken from us, back to where they belong, watching over us and leading our way.

On Monday, 19th November, my Grandad was laid to rest. Group Captain J A Porter OBE. His 70th birthday fell on 20th November. Mr Porter – a man loved by many and admired by all.

On Tuesday, 20th November, talented Jazz Pianist, caring Father and all round party animal, Joey Bethell, passed away. He was in his 20’s. Mr Bethell – a man loved by all and admired by many.

Fancying myself as a writer, I tend to associate certain pieces of music with certain historic or important moments in my life and, as I play them, I pretend I’m in pretentious, new age, silent film – sitting on a bus and contemplating life – or something (don’t say you haven’t tried that yourself at least once).

For me, these are 2012:



Sometimes, life’s challenges are character building. And sometimes they’re worth the challenge/hassle/pain, however you wish to see it. Having my baby, for example, was a challenge worth all the pain in the world and something which, if you give my bits and pieces some more time to go back together, I would do again in a heartbeat (probably). But sometimes, life’s challenges are so painful, they only serve to leave you wondering what the hell happened.

This month alone, the world has lost two of it’s brightest stars and gained a gaping hole where they once proudly stood, never to be refilled or replaced.

But, given the circumstances of these tragic losses, they have taught me something. Something I wish, like the rest of my life, to share with you…:

life, however tough at times and however long or short, is a precious gift we are able to give. Be grateful for the lives you touch and those that are lucky enough to touch your’s and make sure, above anything and everything else, you let those closest to you know how precious they really are to you. Don’t take it for granted.

So, at times like this, whilst God cries onto the concrete outside, enjoy every last drop of it whilst you can (just for the record, I’m not religious, yes?)

2012 can go f*ck itself!

Farewell but never goodbye… X