October 2008 Archives

Six months after giving birth to The Kid I accepted that I'd lost all the baby weight possible simply by having the child. It was time to think of diet and exercise... OR slimming pants!

This seemed like a much better option for a wedding that I was due to attend. I put them on ready for the big day, and skipped to the mirror expecting to see a svelte, shapely girl like the one pictured on the box. What I actually saw was a fat person squeezed into an oversized, beige, opaque sock. Not a pleasant sight.

I wore the 'fat sock' anyway hoping it might improve my fully clothed silhouette. It didn't. To add to my woes the fat sock began to roll down as the day wore on. By dinner time I had a large sausage shaped elastic band cutting off the circulation to anything below my rib cage.

My worst fears have been confirmed. The Moll (the suspiciously fat, tortoiseshell cat) has found a special place on the living room carpet, all of her very own, to quietly piddle all over.

I've had my suspicions for a while now - a lingering smell every now and again, usually whenever she'd been locked in. I'd been searching the carpet for damp patches but hadn't found anything until yesterday when I picked up a carrier bag from the corner of the room and it was dripping wet.

And if that wasn't enough to prove what she'd been up to, today, she was actually seen doing her business.

She has to go. It's a decision I've been putting off for a long time. Each time I suspected something I'd let her off, 1) because I couldn't quite prove it and 2) because I'd always told myself it wasn't really her fault. Which it wasn't, until today when she wandered down and didn't even attempt to ask (in her own cat like way) to go out.

If we could have a cat flap, I wouldn't be writing this blog. We used to have one, a really fancy one with a magnetic operating system and everything. But one day we had to lock The Moll out, and, The Moll being The Moll saw this as a challenge and did nothing more than smash straight through it. This rendered the locking mechanism useless and opened the door for loads of Tom cats to wander in and do whatever they felt like while we were out.

Considering I'm supposed to be a working mom, I haven't been doing much of that today. I had an inkling that I might not be spending Fridays as I usually do when The Kid projectile vomited yesterday's lunch all over me last night. And if being soaked in chunder at tea time wasn't a big enough clue, then unsuccessfully trying to point him at the toilet at 3am was.

He hasn't been sick since he went on solids so it's quite a worrying time. It's horrible when your little ones aren't well. He's not too bad now, off his food, just getting some much needed sleep. I'll have to wait till the other half gets home from his legendary performance on the football pitch after work before I can do the same.

I suppose, in a way, it's nice. Having time where you just have to sit, watch, hug, love.

(And watch Sex and the City for the 3rd time, whilst oh so quietly trying to unwrap a weeny bit of chocolate.)

Starting to cry in the bank this morning and getting better customer service as a direct result has got me thinking. Is it ever okay for a person to cry to get what they want? Is it as desperately manipulative as it sounds, or is it just being honest with the world?

I've never done it deliberately, but a tiny, guilty part of me has thought about it once or twice.

If a woman cries in public, she's branded as neurotic. Surely she's just being honest with the world and not doing as we all do so much of the time, which is to suppress our feelings till we can go home and vent.

If you'd have popped into my bank this morning you'd have seen quite an upset mom doing laps round the queuing podiums in an effort to keep her toddler in the pushchair happy.

In fairness to The Kid, he was actually quiet and happy for the first twenty minutes (yes twenty minutes) we were in the branch.

I suspect I may have looked stressed, but this is how it is for women who go about their daily lives with a pushchair in tow and the most simple of things don't go according to plan.

All I wanted to do this morning was close my account. That's all. Not get a loan or a mortgage or the manager's first born child, not that you'd have thought that judging by the amount of time I was there.

Congratulations to Rebecca Piper, who gave birth to a beautiful baby boy in a bus stop outside Macdonalds on the Bristol Road.

I loved reading her amazing story. Wouldn't it be grand if all births could be as quick? "By the time the lights were green he was in my trousers." Absolutely brilliant.

You can't beat a good birth story, and they don't come much better than that. Well done to Rebecca and of course to her mom and partner Paul.

I was disturbed to see how dark it was when I got up this morning - this was partly because The Kid had decided to wake at the ungodly hour of 6am AGAIN, and partly because the winter mornings are drawing in.

Bleary eyed and tired, I began to warm the milk for porridge and make my tea, and wonder (as I often do on a weekday morning) how on earth I'm going to get through a day at work? My usual answer to this question is a lovely large cup of coffee on arrival, followed by many more lovely large cups of coffee as the day unfolds.

Would I feel any different if I were like one of my stay at home counterparts, I wonder. I'd still be just as tired, AND I'd have a one year old toddling small rings around me all day. Sometimes I have a romantic vision of what it would be like be a stay at home mom, but the reality is I don't know how I'd cope.

Pregnant Sarah is considering a homebirth. Her first labour, (although quite long) was relatively problem free, and with that in mind I have to say I think a homebirth is a great idea.

Many women cringe at the thought of not having every type of medical intervention known to man in the next room while they go through what should be a natural process.

Going to visit a new baby yesterday did nothing to quell my recent feelings of broodiness. The little man is 5 weeks old, and not much more than 11lbs! I don't remember The Kid ever being that small, let alone The Boy!

I was so jealous; I loved nuzzling him and getting big whiffs of that beautiful new born smell, and I LOVED hearing his angry little screams!

This was the slogan I saw written boldly across the pretty pink T Shirt of a 7 year old girl today. I cringed when I saw it. I mean, how awful? I just can't get over it, there are so many things wrong with this, I don't know where to begin.

First of all, even creating T Shirts like this, deliberately aimed at very young children is sick. I can't think of another word for it. But then, what 7 year old buys their own clothes?