Who’s insecure?

Who’s insecure?.

I hope pregnancy hasn’t really turned me into Jabba the Hut and John Prescott’s love child. But maybe it has…!


Who’s insecure?

So, like, it’s been a while since I last posted. But considering the world was meant to end today (yeah, where are all the Zombies, then?) I thought I’d mark the occasion by rambling incessantly at you for the next few minutes. You know, because I can…

Now, a lot has happened since I last said hello (although some people think I do nothing all day. What’s that about? I have a baby). Where do I start? Let’s start with the logistics (boring, I know, feel free to bugger off and get a cup of tea at this point. I’ll let you know when the juicy stuff begins).

Baby turned 5 weeks old yesterday. This is an issue for me. It’s an issue for me because I seem only to blink and days have passed. It feels like only a week ago, if that, that I was puffing away on my first ever dose of gas and air and freaking out because it made my eyes go wobbly (yes, I am a massive pansy, but to be fair, my body was playing homage to ‘Alien’ at the time and feeling pissed-up was the fragile icing on the blood-filled cake. Lovely image for you there. You’re welcome). Before I know it I’ll be grey and sagging and SHE’ll be changing MY nappy (Well, she’d better. Why else do you have children other than to secure your old age?). Essentially, she makes me feel old. Particularly when I spend my Saturday nights, at 24 years old, folding newly washed baby clothes and watching obscure films with my Mother (love you, Mummy).

Due to the undeniable fact I feel hideously old and boring, I seem to be spending a socially inappropriate amount of time examining my new body in front of any reflective surface I can find (at this point I just want to say that it’s not through any repressed desire. I don’t think I’m attractive).

Certain places that were once firm and youthful (yeah, they were. I’m telepathically winking at you right now. Gross) are now soft and heading south. But not just south. So far south they’re currently already half way to Penzance. And things that I’d once quite gladly show off to anyone that would look (get your mind out the gutter! Not that) I now hide behind baggy clothes and oversized, fleece hoodies that I will still be wearing in July.

I took a picture of myself (fully clothed, I add) the other day. Purely for reference. So I could give myself a little ‘before and after’ inquisition (ok. Inquisition is probably not the right word, but you get what I mean). Comparison, if you will.

This is me before my beautiful little angel (you have permission to get the sick bucket) was even a twinkle in my eye:


This is the picture I took of myself the other day:


I know what you’re thinking and, alas, it is true. Giving birth has not only made me flabby, old and soft but it’s also made me change species (!). Quite poetic, really, considering so has Star Wars now it’s part of Disney (I’m so funny)!

I’m so convinced of this that this time last week a man asked me, sweetly, to the cinema and I nearly had a panic attack. Well, that sealed the deal then, didn’t it (!). Instant sweaty palms and a complete verbal breakdown are a sure-fire way to secure a follow up text from this lovely guy (!).

It looked something like this:


Still, this whole experience has taught me something, at least…

Never have sex again.

If I do, I may end up like this:


And that’s just not nice for anyone.

Happy Apocalypse!


P.s. there was no juice. Sorry.

Who’s got a clingy baby?

I’ve decided, in the 22 days since I became a parent (how weird is that? Sounds so grown up and… Oh, who the hell am I kidding? I still have the personality of a petulant 12 year old, throwing a temper tantrum in the local shopping centre because Mum says they’re too old to visit Santa’s Grotto) that dummies and swing-seats are a lazy Mummy’s best friend…

When I say “lazy Mummy”, what I actually mean is “clingy baby” and when I say “best friend”, I actually mean “plug” (yes, you may now laugh at the hilarity of this joke).

Since baby’s 22 days old, she’s currently just getting over a very odd phase. Again, one of those phases that the lovely, middle aged women who loved to relive their birthing stories for me when I was up the duff (classy) forgot to mention (strike 2, ladies). It’s that of, I assume, realising that they’re no longer in the womb.

As funny as it is to watch my tiny baby flail about and jump in her sleep occasionally at all the space suddenly appearing around her (I do laugh because it is funny. Shoot me. I’m mean), it means that whenever she finishes feeding and moves over onto my lap (since breast milk is like some sort of drug I need to try sometime), she almost immediately starts whinging as if I’ve completely abandoned her… And, no matter how much I tell her, “no-one likes a grotty baby, baby!” she carries on until she gets what she wants – her rightful place on my chest.

As much as I absolutely love cuddles with my baby, it’s gone on so long this way that I have become a prisoner in my own armchair! I mean, it would be ok if it were an occasional thing, but she’s pinned to me from the moment we go downstairs of a morning until the moment we go to bed at night. I can’t even put her down to go to the toilet without her screaming the house down (although, she’s still cute when she’s angry)! My big moon-bum and jelly-belly will never go away at this rate.

If she’s still this way when she’s 18, we could have a problem.

Just sayin’.


Who’s making a scene?

I’m starting to think that Motherhood has had a profoundly negative affect on my writing skills. Not only do I struggle to find the time to get the thoughts continuously swimming around my hilariously neurotic head (I wish that was sarcasm) down on (virtual) paper, but I also now struggle to find the bloody words, too. It’s as though attempting (and failing, remember?) to squeeze a human being out of my special places has left both my, once toned and feminine, figure AND my IQ in tatters of immense proportions. This could be an issue. Considering I’m studying to become a professional script writer.

So, after I posted my last entry – “who’s asking for the vote?” – I wasn’t surprised when it didn’t get much attention or much of a public vote!

However… For the 5 people that did, indeed, take the time to tell me what they wanted to hear (thank you, 5 people) this is the story of how I registered my daughter’s birth this week and managed to make myself look like a cretinous, blubbering mess:

Due to the undeniable fact that I have social skills similar to those seen by a glass of flat coke, all I really had to do was step out the house and dare to merely open my mouth to answer the Registrar (yes, I’m afraid the story is that simple, but I’ll make an effort to pad it out a bit).

It didn’t help that, after waking up late (hey, baby likes her sleep, if she lies-in, I will too!), I had 45 minutes to get both baby and I ready to go to the Registry Offices. Now, you’re probably thinking (all you established and experienced parents out there who can do a thousand things at once) that this is more than enough time. You’re probably thinking about how you manage to get yourself, your 5 children and your 3 cats ready for school every morning in half the time, so why am I making a big deal out of it, eh!? Truth is… I’m horrendously useless at everything and it takes me 45 minutes just to get in and out the shower in the morning (!).

Ok, yeah, 45 minutes. Ooh, it was tight (because I’m useless)! So tight that I had to play one of those really annoying people you see in the school-run traffic jam of a Monday morning, brushing their hair in the rear-view mirror whilst trying to check if all their kids are actually piled successful into the car all together. You know, the kind of person you sigh and shake your head at as you think, frustrated and amazed, “just get up 10 minutes earlier every morning if you can’t cope”! I hate those people.

Anyway, hair hardly brushed, no time for make up and hiding behind a pair of out-of-date prescription glasses, my Mum pulls us up to the Office and the adventure begins…

The Registrar was a nice bloke. A funny bloke. The kind of bloke you’d want as a distant Uncle, who you would rely on at occasional family gatherings (like weddings and monumental birthdays) to give you a fiver and cheer up the kids with cheesy magic-tricks that went out with Flared Trousers in the 1970’s. But, in his efforts to be nice and make the process even more lovely than it already was (I was excited, I’ll admit it) he kept calling me “Mummy”. I’ve only been a “Mummy” for just over 2 weeks… “Mummy” to me is my Mummy (I’m 24 and do still sometimes call my Mum “Mummy”, I’m afraid. You have permission to lose all respect for me, now)! So, every time he said the word “Mummy” I automatically looked to my Mother for an answer… In modest social circles I believe this would be known as an ‘Epic Fail’, I just call it “looking like a completely twat with the IQ of a sea-sponge”. And that’s being generous.

I make no secret of the fact that I’m not only incredibly socially inept but I’m also very repressed, emotionally. This means that when I cry, I get so inherently embarrassed that, no matter what the situation, I instinctively try and hold the tears back and, as a result, ALWAYS end up making a weird snorting noise as I fail and the first tears fall down my, probably tomato-red, face and it makes me sound like a dying pig. Needless to say, as the Registrar printed out baby’s birth certificate and declared her a legal person, through happy tears and much to everyone’s horror, I inevitably showed myself to be – not only a complete twat with the IQ of a sea-sponge – but a dying pig, too…

And, as I tripped over the door to leave the Office with snot pouring down my reddened nose and a pocket-full of damp tissues, I left the registrar with the wonderful knowledge that he had just signed a legal document declaring this beautiful, innocent, baby girl the daughter of a complete twat with the IQ of a sea-sponge who sounds like a dying pig and can’t even control her own legs, let alone bodily functions.

I’m never leaving the house again…