I've Been On A (Blogging) Holiday

Just in case you've been missing me, I've done a guest post on another blog. World Domination Handbook. Here I am.

Don't read it if you like stupid questions, or if you are opposed to general ranting and use of the word fuck. A lot.

Pillow Talk: Don't Text The Ants

Mr B was falling asleep the other night and treated me to this observation:

Mr B: I like sleep. Warm inside. Warm. Warm. Cold outside. Brrrrrrrrrrr like a penguins. Penguins don't sleep.

Me: I'm fairly sure they do.

Mr B: Yes but you wouldn't sleep in the cold, would you? *thoughtful pause* Oh, but you're not a penguin. I wonder if ants sleep.

Me: I'm fairly sure they do.

Mr B: Find out for me tomorrow. Write it in your phone. Now. Now's good. But don't text it to the ants though.

Conversations With Mr B : The Crossword Part Two

Scene: The night after the first crossword incident The scenario is pretty much identical.

Mr B: What's another word for a high-pitched cry? I thought screech but it doesn't fit.

Me: Squeal

Mr B: Squeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaallllllllllllllll

Me: Yes

Mr B: What are you on about?

Me: That's the answer to the question

Mr B: Oh.

Conversations With Mr B : The Crossword - Part 1

Scene: Sat at home. Baby B has just gone to bed after a day of screaming. I am sat with a hot cup of tea, minding my own business and enjoying the peace and quiet. Mr B is sat in his armchair with coffee, the latest copy of the newspaper and a pen.

Mr B: What's the opposite of tired?

Me: Erm... awake? Not tired? Why?

Mr B: I'm doing the crossword. The clue is the opposite of tired. I think it's untired. That fits, I'm going to write that.

Me: I'm not sure that's how the crosswords work. You're meant to answer the clue.

Mr B: I have. Untired.

Me: You're meant to answer it with a real word *

Mr B: Next clue. Unrefined. That's airs and graces isn't it? That would fit.

Me: No. That's not unrefined.

Mr B: But why? It fits. It has the right number of letters.

Me: It doesn't answer the clue.

Mr B: Why not? It has the right number of letters.

Me: That's not how the crossword works. You answer the clue with a word that is actually the answer to the clue, not something totally random.

Mr B: Right. Some kind of exotic vegatable pulse thing beginning with an M. Eight letters, fourth letter is B.

Me: Mung bean.

Mr B: That's just made up.

Me: Nope, it's a real thing.

Mr B: I'm consulting google.

Me: You do that.

Mr B: Oh

Me: So it is real then?

Mr B: Yes, but it can't be right because it doesn't fit with airs and graces.

Me: But that's not the answer to unrefined. Unrefined is someone who doesn't have airs and graces.

Mr B: Yes, so it must be that, it fits.

Me: I don't care if it fits, it's not the f*cking answer.

Mr B: I think it is.

Me: Can you stop talking now?

Mr B: Why?

Me: I preferred listening to the teething child.


* Disclaimer: his newspaper of choice thinks this is a real word, I disagree and am backed by the spell-checkers on my computer which are going crazy with squiggly red underlining that means "what the f*ck are you on about? This is not a word. Sort yourself out". Unrefined was "rough and ready" (not airs and graces) and Mung bean is a real thing and was the answer to the clue.

Chocolate

I promised you a picture of chocolatey goodness in my last post. I always deliver. Here it is:

Chocolate brownie with ice-cream (nom)

Hot chocolate. 

These pictures are giving me the craving. Guess where I'm going after my doctor's appointment?

A Few Of My Favourite Things

* Raindrops
* Roses
* Whiskers on kittens
* Bright copper kettles
* Warm, woollen mittens
* Brown paper packages tied up with string

Wait. Wait. Wait.That's not my list at all!! That's a very different list of favourite things, although I do like mittens. And brown paper packages.  Don't panic, I haven't turned into Julie Andrews and started wearing skirts made of curtains and bouncing around full of happy, or surrounded with an army of small, sweetly singing children. That's not very me (not even pre-medicated me!).

Here's my list of my favourite things. In a loose sense of the word. In fact, it would probably be better for me to call it a List Of Things I Like. Sort of. A little bit. It's part of that whole happy-ish thing.

My Stack Of Books To Read

                                 

This picture only contains a handful of the books I own, but have yet to read. I have loaned a number of them to friends who I know will enjoy them, and who might as well be reading them whilst I can't. It's impossible for me to concentrate long enough to read an actual book. Or rather, I can read, but if I don't read the whole book in one sitting, I lose track of the plot and it becomes very confusing. In fact, this also happens if I read the book in one sitting, but at least I manage to get to the end of it so it feels like I've read a book, even if I haven't retained any information whatsoever from doing so. The books on this stack that I am most keen to read are the Joanne Harris and Jasper Fforde ones. I'm saving them for when I'm less stupid, because I really want to enjoy them, and I know I won't if I read them right now.

My Notebook

                               

I started this book on S's advice. It would appear that she shares a little of my love for Paperchase and seriously pretty notebooks. Armed with a sense of righteousness that can only come from being instructed to buy a pretty notebook ("and make sure it is a pretty one"), I went to Paperchase and brought home this beauty. It's a shame really that I fill it with my nightmares, my anxieties, and my general misery, punctuated with lists of things and a colourful variety of naughty words (of the F variety). In fact, probably the only positive thing I've written in it was a copy of Gala Darling's "Sad Trombone List" : a list of things to do to cheer yourself up. So, when I'm in a bad cycle I can look at the list, and make myself feel worse by pointing out that I couldn't possibly do any one of those things. Maybe one of these days, I'll progress and actually do something.

Hot Chocolate and Brownies

There are few things in life that a hot chocolate and a brownie from Gareth James Chocolatier's can't put right. I don't know what kind of witchcraft goes into making his brownies but they are beyond amazing, and I say this as a hardened chocoholic, who has eaten a LOT of (frankly inferior) brownies. I defy anyone to tell me there's a better brownie out there. I really, seriously wish I had a photo to add to this, but I've neglected to take any!! That's going to have to be my new week resolution: get a photo of hot choc and brownies from Gareth James (which won't be at all difficult to achieve). Add into that chocolately mix some of the friendliest people you will ever meet in a shop and you have the perfect place to get your chocolate fix. Go now. If you don't like chocolate, try their ice-creams: I highly recommend the mint choc chip and hazelnut praline.


A Box Of Smiley Faces

Because, who could continue to be miserable when faced with a box of chocolatey goodness. Even better, the chocolatey goodness came from friends of ours as a thank you present (they totally didn't need to get us a present, but they did anyway), so it is virtuous chocolate. I'm sure this means it is guilt free and calorie free, which may go a little way towards explaining why I have eaten it all.

My Knitting


                                      

There's something oddly relaxing about knitting. Click. Clack. Click. Clack. That's the noise of the needles, not just me being random. It should be an irritation, but it isn't. I also find counting stitches and rows and following a pattern oddly calming. I think mainly because you don't have chance to get distracted by random thoughts. I have just finished knitting a number of lovely patterned squares for a charity blanket, and am now working on a knitted waistcoat for the small boy.

Mollie Makes

This is my favourite new find. Or rather, thing that J introduced me to. Grown up friendship bracelets, felt toys, quilting techniques, crochet patterns, knitting patterns... What's not to love? It's an oddly inspiring magazine, and so pretty to look at. Mollie Makes is made of proper paper (not that shiny sh*t that other magazines come in) and has a really old-fashioned feel about it, whilst still being awesomely cool!! I've just got the latest edition today and I'm looking forward to the opportunity to curl up with a cup of tea, flick through it and decide on some weird and wacky projects to start. 

My Boys

I have nothing to say about this that won't make me sound crazier than I am. I can't help smile at them!!

And finally, just in case this was getting too sickly sweet....


Baby B's Pregnancy Test



Well, not actually Baby B's pregnancy test, for the obvious reason that he is far too young to have impregnated anyone. Fortunately, I have many years ahead of me before that possibility rears its ugly head. This is, in fact, the test I took (and passed) when I found out I was having baby B. Don't worry, it no longer smells of pee as I have removed the pee part of "pee stick" and disposed of it in an entirely sanitary fashion. I just kept the stick part with the funky symbols Baby B used to say "ha ha ha ha, you thought you had a chest infection but I'm a baby, ha ha ha ha, see you in 9 months"!

Breaking The Cycle

I'm supposed to be practising being positive (aka not being a miserable cow), but lately I seem to have got myself into a very negative cycle. It starts off with one bad day, and spirals out of control until you realise you've been in the mother of all bad moods for several days / weeks/ months and you can't really remember how you got there. It's difficult to explain to other people, but I'm going to try.

Imagine a regular bad day for you. Prior to this, a bad day for me would probably have involved travelling to a far away office, having my train delayed, being late for my work appointment and worrying about this, only to find the person I was meant to be meeting isn't in the office, and eventually ends with being late home because (you guessed it) my train was delayed. Or something like that. The solution? Watching trashy TV with a bar of chocolate and a huge mug of tea. You might include a rant to your significant other / parents / confidant of your choosing. Perhaps even have a take away tea. The point is, it doesn't take a lot to shake off a normal bad day. You go to bed, you wake up and everything's pretty much okay again. Obviously, this doesn't work for more serious bad days and awful life events, just regular bad days.

Now a bad day starts with waking up feeling as though I've never been asleep, or worse still, like I've been giving birth in my sleep. I can't imagine giving birth is fun any which way you try it, but my version is decidedly nasty. Sometimes I will wake up with funky marks and bruises where I've clearly been beating myself up in my sleep. That's a bad start. Let's face it, no good day ever started with a bad night's sleep, did it? Then something will add to that bad start: S will be growing a tooth and grouching, the buggy will break, something else will break, I'll get a letter or email that's far too hard to deal with, have to go to the hospital, lose my house keys or whatever. All boring mundane things that add to a regular bad day, but which suddenly feel like the end of the world. My default position is to stuff my face full of chocolate (because chocolate boosts your happy hormones), except all that does is make me feel like a blimp, which makes me mad at myself. Not just a little annoyed, but really mad. I'll take a couple of sleeping tablets and decide to have an early night: tomorrow's another day and all that. Then I won't be able to sleep, because my mind is spinning with things I can't pin down, or stupid things that are irrelevant to life, the universe and everything in it. I'll spend half the night worrying about something that doesn't really warrant worrying about, or something that does warrant it, but which I can't do anything about. And so the cycle begins. After a few days, I can't even remember what made me mad in the first place. I will find myself wide awake at 3am typing out a complaint letter, or (better still) watching back to back episodes of Buffy (The Vampire Slayer) with mugs of weak, milky tea, whilst doodling on a piece of paper, or when that runs out, my leg, because why wouldn't you draw a picture of a tree up your leg at 3am? I didn't say it made sense. It's a negative cycle. It just does what it wants and goes on and on and on and on and on until something breaks it.

Well, it turns out, I'm meant to be the one to break it. Supposedly by focusing on happy things, or setting goals or something. It was S's idea (S, the fabulous person who takes care of my Mental Elf, not S the baby). So, in that spirit, I decided to do a post of happy. Ish. To be fair, it's probably going to be more ish than anything else, but I'm doing it all the same. It is a post of my current favourite things. Actual things, not ideas of things (like world peace) or things I can only have if I win the lottery (a house in the Lake District).

It's coming next. I just wanted to warn you so that you didn't keel over from the shock of me posting something less grouchy.

You're welcome.

Demons

Sometimes you have to live with your demons.

Sometimes you have to give them the cold shoulder and pretend they don't exist.

Sometimes you have to give them a good kick in the backside.

Living with my demons isn't an option, and trying to deny their existence hasn't been working out that well for me. So, I'm going all Buffy on them. Metaphorically speaking. Although actually kicking them in the backside could be fun. I'd like to think I look pretty cool doing it, like some superhero with my pants outside my trousers and a funky costume. It is much more likely that I would look a complete tool. I don't think "underwear over outerwear" is this season's new look. I'm not sure what this season's 'look' is to be honest. I think it has something to do with neon colours, judging by the number of people wandering around in poorly matched neon clothing. I don't think I could pull that off. I don't have the right skin tone. 

Anyhow, I have it on good authority that setting fire to the face of your demons is not socially acceptable, especially if your demons include people and places of local interest, and, you know, yourself. Setting fire to yourself is definitely frowned upon. I'm not sure if it's more or less acceptable to set fire to other people and places of local interest. I don't think trying it would be the best way to find out. 

I've decided to take up running. Yes, that's right, I plan to outrun my demons. Stop laughing. I'm being serious. I've been running one and a half times. Go me! 

The first time went well. I went to a place of local interest that harbours some of my demons and I sprinted round it. Turns out that sprinting around something that size does stave of the feelings of sickness and weird flashbacks. It leaves you with a felling of achieving something. It also makes your lungs feel like they want to explode and results in aching muscles. For three whole days. No, I'm not even kidding. It hurt to breathe. Who knew that my ribcage had so many muscles? 

The second time went less well. That's why it only counts for half a time. I set off running. My legs began to complain. I told them to get a grip. Out loud. Whilst I was running. It turns out they were just the start of my bodily complaints. After a very grand five minutes of running, I was treated to a pain across my section scar which I can only describe as a combination of ripping and shooting pains. Fortunately, my scar is still in tact. Unfortunately, 24 hours later, it feels like it did when I first came out of hospital: I am constantly expecting to stand up and see my insides fall out of me. This is probably not good. So, I hobbled home, had a nice hot shower and sat myself on the sofa with my knitting, a mug of tea, a bar of Galaxy and another episode of Buffy, who was actually kicking her demons. Literally. 

But, it's totally the thought that counts, isn't it?

Conversations With Mr B: Weighing Me Down

Scene: Bedtime. Mr B is snoring away to himself. I am reading. Mr B suddenly sits up and yelps.

Me: What's wrong?

Mr B: Why?

Me: You don't seem very happy

Mr B: It's my bright.

Me: Your what?

Mr B: I'm too bright

* Mr B flops dramatically onto his pillow*

Mr B: It's weighing me down.

Me: Weighing you down how?

Mr B: I'm too bright and it's heavy and it's weighing me down.

Me: Where?

Mr B: Where I am.

Me: So your brightness is weighing you down to the bed them.

Mr B: Yes

Me: Ooooookaaaaaay

Mr B: No comment. No comment.

Me: Huh?

Mr B: You have the right to shut up and be silent.

Me: Why?

Mr B: I said shhhhhhhhh. No comments.

Conversations With Mr B: The Penguins

Scene: Late at night, reading in bed. I have started a new book, and been struggling to sleep the last few nights.

Mr B: Don't read all that book in one go, because if you do, you'll be up until it's light again.

Me: Okay.

Mr B: And then what will happen to the penguins?

Me: What penguins?

Mr B: Shhhhhh.

We still have no idea about the penguins, but I did finish the book. Hopefully no penguins were harmed by my doing so.

How To Celebrate Your Hubby's Birthday On A Budget...

If you're tuning into this blog post expecting to read about some kinky shenanigans, then you may as well leave now. That whole 50 shades craze is passing me by. Thankfully.

Our little boy was born four days before Mr B's birthday, which has been rather inconvenient to be honest. Last year, it meant I was in hospital, smacked off my face on medication (of the very legal kind), whilst our boy was nursing a sore head and poor Mr B was celebrating by going to work, running around shopping for my whims (which I seem to recall were a nightie, a notepad and a pen), finding the cards I had bought him before the whole giving birth thing kicked off and had hidden in an unspecified 'safe place', driving to the hospital to watch me sobbing uncontrollably because my 'baby blues' had kicked in, then visiting a sleeping Sam on special care whilst I sobbed uncontrollably to a visiting friend, before heading home for a chinese takeaway for one. That is totally the birthday that dreams are made of, isnt it? I know. I know. I am, frankly, the most awesome wife that ever lived.

This year, I thought I would try to top the previous year's effort (without the whole giving birth part, as I'm not particularly keen on repeating that). This was not going to be an easy task. Once again, our little B eclipsed Mr B's birthday celebrations by turning one and, let's be honest, being one is far more important than being twenty eight (not to mention little B has more friends than his daddy). We decided to celebrate S's birthday in style, ignoring the fact that Mr B's birthday was a mere four days later. Conveniently, pay day arrived after Mr B's birthday, meaning we could not do anything else extravagant, having used all our extravagance on the boy's birthday. So, in vintage Mrs B style, I set out to make a birthday out of virtually nothing. Here's how it went:

1. Turn the Baby Wall of Fame into a Husband Wall of Fame

Take down all photos of the small child, except the ones which feature the small child and the big child together. These can be left because they are sentimental or something, and they fill space.

Realise that two photos is not enough to make a wall of fame.

Search the house for photo albums with easily removable photos (note, stopping to look at your wedding album and marvel at how much more like a blimp you look these days is not conducive to getting things done). Find a box of old photos. Do not get distracted with irrelevant pictures.

Realise that you do not have a huge selection of photos of your husband considering you have spent ten years of your life with him. Try not to wonder whether this demonstrates that something is lacking in your relationship. That is not important.

Pin the small child into a highchair with snacks whilst you scramble over the table and attach the photos to the wall.

Your wall of fame is complete. Don't stop to admire it. We do not have time for that.

2. Recycle the Decorations

You have recently held a party for a small child, which presumably involved decorations. If there were no decorations, we need to discuss your party planning skills, or lack thereof. If you have tidied them away, then this is the point at which to chastise yourself. Slatterns rejoice! Your time has come and your workload has been significantly reduced.

Do bear in mind the age discrepancy between your husband and child. Hide anything that indicates the "1st birthday" aspect of the first party. For balloons, this means turn them around so the writing becomes invisible. Banners will have to be taken down, folded over to cover the "1st" leaving only the "Happy" and "Birthday" visible. You don't need to move the decorations from their current places. It will be fine.

3. Find Willing Friends With No Social Plans

If you have left it too late and all your friends have social plans, then you need to rethink your friend list. Seriously. Having a life is soooooo last year. Invite your friends round for a surprise birthday tea. They will think you are awesome for saving them from an evening in front of the TV, and your husband will think you have planned a thoughtful meal. Or, if like mine, he actually knows you, he will just think you're winging it - this is nothing to be ashamed of. It is the Mrs B way of life. Follow me and I shall teach you more...


4. Raid the Freezer

Your freezer is your friend. There is bound to be something in there you froze some time ago and forgot to eat. In my case it was pork chops. It could easily have been wellington boot, with my freezer it's hard to tell.

Try to find something you can slow cook. Virtually anything can be cooked slowly. This instantly conveys the impression of fanciness.

5. Raid the Fridge

Discover cider. Cider and pork work well together. Cider also works well with chicken. Less so with beef or lamb. This is my wisdom, what you choose to do with it is your own business.

6. Raid the Veg Rack

If you discover potatoes, you are saved. If you don't, you're going to struggle. Also, why don't you have potatoes? Everyone has potatoes. What is wrong with you?

5. Raid the Baking Cupboard

Rustle up the ingredients for a cake. If you don't have the exact things, make them up. You can substitute a small amount of self-raising flour with cornflour, which will have the advantage of making your sponge lighter and fluffier. Don't overdo it though. You aren't trying to make a sauce.

Don't forget to check the corners of your baking cupboard for hidden decorating gems, such as icing pens and hundreds and thousands. Every little helps.


6. Frisk Your Sofa

There is bound to be some loose change, or if you're lucky a hidden note down there. This should be used sparingly, and to buy small things with a big impact. For what it's worth, my fiver (yes, I was lucky) went on a camembert for a starter (baked with things to dip in, always a winner), veg for the main course and birthday candles. I am the last of the big spenders.


7. Enlist the Help of a Small Child

Find a huge piece of paper and some art supplies. Let them loose. Their wacky creations are endearing.

8. Tidy Up

For those of you prone to spending hours cleaning, you need to find your inner slattern. Hide things in things, under things or in the spare room. Polishing is all well and good, but if you're pressed for time, waft a cloth over things. Always squirt some polish in the air by the front door to convey the impression you have been cleaning for hours. Bleach down the toilet is a must.

You have my wisdom. Go forth and party plan.

Conversations With Baby B

Scene: At home. Watching TV. Baby B is crawling around the living room.

Mr B: Hello

Baby B: Ehhhhhhh

Mr B: How are you?

Baby B: Brrrrrrrrr

Mr B: Why are you chewing a peg?

This is not how I thought my life was going to turn out.

Dear Muppet

Dear The Muppet Who Left Her Pyjama Pants On The Cycle Path,

Please explain to me, in detail, precisely how one goes about misplacing one's pyjama bottoms on a cycle path.

They have been there for a few days now. I have thus far deduced that they belong to a woman (they are pink) and that they are no longer attached to her person (there is no body in close proximity to the offending article).

I can just about fathom how you might lose a cardigan, or a baby's sock, but your pyjamas, really??

I do hope nothing awful occurred to facilitate the loss of your pyjamas, but given the volume of pizza boxes and beer cans in the general area, I have concluded that a good time was probably had by all. I do hope you haven't been doing unprotected shenanigans and forgotten to dress yourself afterwards. That would be most unfortunate. It would likely mean you have been indulging in reading Fifty Shades Of Shite, and that would be terrible indeed.

This being the case, please do retrieve your trousers (and your common sense) and locate some decent literature.

Kindest Regards,

Mrs B x

All Grown Up

My baby boy is all grown up. He turned one on Saturday. It would not be unreasonable to say I am distraught. Even if the fact that he has woken up the last few nights wanting a bottle and a bottom change proves he hasn't grown up that much (or perhaps I am wrong and he will still want a bottle and a bum change in his teens). Sigh. What do I know?

Here's how we celebrated:

1. By embarrassing the boy by putting pictures of him all over the dining room, including photos we have affectionately titled 'Colonel Gaddaffi Baby' and 'Baby Burrito'

2. With a cake made by yours truly (I am available for children's parties, and any event where the actual state of the cake isn't overly important).

3. With a proper cake made by Gareth James Chocolatier. It did not disappoint. I did not (*did) hide a huge slab of it in my fridge for future consumption.

4. With a bouncy castle. For the children. I tried to bounce on it, but it was not happy with me. I sank into a big heap in the middle whilst small children laughed at me and my "friends" took photos!

5. By letting our small child eat the stones. Clearly, we were not providing food at this BBQ.

6. By proving my inadequacy as a parent for not being able to remove jelly from jelly moulds. This was meant to be a jelly ring. There was meant to be a car, a bunny and a random wobbly shape. The car disintegrated. The bunny melted. The wobbly shape landed in a washing up bowl of dishes. 

I know. I'm setting the bar sooooo high for future birthday parties. 

The Happiness Project

Happiness is....

Go on. Someone fill in the blank for me. I'd genuinely like to know.

This is one of the down sides of being a permanently miserable cow. You can't remember what happy feels like, or what is meant to make you happy so you can fake it until it works. You can sort of remember what you used to enjoy doing, but find yourself wondering why you ever enjoyed it, because suddenly, being happy and enjoying things seems like very hard work.

I've decided to start trying to be happier. I don't really think it's working, but I am doing more things I used to do before I became terminally miserable. I have started blogging again, I have done some knitting. I decided to try reading again, and what better place to start than with a book aptly titled 'The Happiness Project'. I liked the name of it. I am generally good at projects, especially if they involve reading and writing lists. I am less good at projects which involve actually doing something; for evidence of this, please see my garden and my kitchen. 'Nuff said. So far this book is about reading and making lists. So far, so good. We might hit a sticking point when I actually have to do something.

It was the lovely J who introduced me to this book. On her ipad no less. I am quite a fan (of the book, and the ipad). I'm not stalking J, or trying to be her or anything, though I will admit to having a minor infatuation with her happiness and her optimistic outlook on life. It's infectious and inspiring, and it makes you feel like you're really missing out on something by being a miserable cow. So, after meeting her last week and becoming infected with a desire to be happier and have a more positive life, I downloaded the book. Sadly, not to my ipad, but onto my kindle, which is the next best thing. 


It's starting to have an impact. I'm getting in touch with some of my old hobbies. I'm feeling a little inspired to create things again, I'm knitting. These things might sound boring to you but they're a part of the old me that I seem to have lost over the last year. I don't think reading a book and clacking some needles together is going to fix my life. Of course it isn't but it will be a start.

I'm feeling tentatively happy about that.

Conversations With Mr B: Upside-Down Tennis

Scene: Mr B is laying on the living-room rug watching the Olympic tennis upside down.

Mr B: "It's odd watching tennis upside-down"
Me: "Yes, I imagine it is"
Mr B: "It's hard to work out what they're doing"
Me: "Hitting a tennis ball I expect"
Mr B: "Yes, but the angles are all wrong and everything"
Me: "That's probably why they broadcast it the right way round"
Mr B: "That's a very good point you make"

That Girl

I've been known as That Girl a lot in my 27 years of life.

I have been:

That Girl who reads the books (when it was not cool to read).

That Girl with the orange hair and braces (sometimes it's best not to ask).

Just "That Girl" at a friend's wedding in response to me saying I knew the bride from school. I'm still wondering if that's a good or bad thing.

That Girl who instigated chippy Thursdays in my last job.

That Girl who was pregnant in my most recent job.

Most of these, I've managed to shake off. I no longer have bright orange hair or braces. I never have to see the people from the wedding again (aside from my friend who has the bizarre habit of referring to me by my actual name). I left my Chippy Thursdays job, and I am (thankfully) no longer pregnant. I still read, but it is not quite the oddity it was when I was at school. It is now just accepted that people do read.

In the last year, however, I have taken on a 'That Girl' title that I fear I will never shift: That Girl who had the failed section. I am an official freak show. I'm pretty sure you could stick me in a cage at a circus and charge people to stare at me. In fact, this might be my next business venture.

I know you think I am exaggerating and causing a drama where there is no drama to be had. I'm not. At a recent health check for my son, I was told that the Health Visitor recognised my name. I had no idea who she was. She then asked about my birth and I said "I had a failed section etc" to which she replied (you guessed it) "Oh, you're That Girl". People I don't even go to see have also heard of me. My neighbour had a planned section some months ago, and in the build up to this event, had a mild panic and consulted her obstetrician friend about the likelihood of a section failing. I had never met this person and he didn't even work at the hospital I delivered my son at. He had, however, heard of me and delighted in telling my neighbour: "I've heard of That Girl".

If people aren't advising me "you're That Girl who had the failed section" (as though I didn't know), they are busy thinking I am stupid and that I don't actually know what happened to me. A recent exchange with a consultant gynaecologist went as follows:

Consultant: What kind of delivery did you have?
Me: Well, I had a failed section, followed by forceps (in short)
Consultant: You mean they didn't do a section?
Me: No, they did one. It failed.
Consultant: Are you sure?
Me: Fairly confident.

I'm getting rather annoyed at healthcare professionals failing to read their own notes, or at least find out the basics of my situation before seeing me. I'm debating getting a tattoo on my head, or possibly on my nether regions - I think that could be more appropriate since it seems to be the place everyone wants to stare at. It will say "I'm That Girl who had the failed section" on one part and "Yes, I'm sure" on another. This would avoid any confusion about the situation. 

Or, you know, people could just read my notes.

Flying Monsters

Dear Flying Ants,

What is your problem? Really. I'd like to know. Maybe we can sit down and have a mediation session to work this thing out. There's no need to be so aggressive.

All I did was go for a nice walk out and a chat with a friend. We were minding our own business. You did not have to start attacking us and eating us in your thousands.

Also, I did not invite you into my home. I am sure vampiric beings are meant to wait to be invited in. You were definitely not invited in, so stop sucking my blood and go home.

Kind Regards,

Mrs B x

Can Anybody Find Me....

No, I am not having an existential crisis and trying to find myself (you can breathe a huge sigh of relief now). Nor am I trying to find somebody to love. I am, however, desperately trying to locate the following missing (and rather important) items:

1. My house keys
2. My engagement ring
3. My camera

I think Little Mr S might have something to do with their disappearance, but he is pleading the fifth amendment and not owning up to it.

So, if you have any ideas where the above items are likely to be hiding in my house, please do let me know.

Reward for information leading to the retrieval of these items is one cheeky, blonde-haired, blue eyed baby (and accessories).

Please form an orderly queue.

A Moment...

I'm probably not going to post many things about how awesome motherhood can be sometimes, but tonight my boy has made me smile, and I feel the need to share. So here, have a bucket to puke in whilst I have my twee mummy moment, ok? I promise not to let it happen too often.

Mr B is out with work tonight, leaving me to take over the bedtime routine. This virtually never happens because I do not have The Magic Touch to make S sleep. I have the Magic Touch of 'Turn The Baby Into A Monkey'. I followed the routine precisely. I bathed him, I brushed his teeth, I let him attempt to brush my teeth (and actually brush my chin) I dressed him and gave him his bottle. I thought I had cracked it. He'd fallen asleep on me. So far, so good. I crept up the stairs like the quietest quiet thing you can imagine. I did not breathe at all for fear of making him stir. I put him down carefully in his cot. He did not stir. I put his monitor on. I did not creak a single floorboard on the way out. I did, however, do a silent victory dance. I was about to close the door.

Then he opened one beady little eye in slow motion, rolled over and gave me the cheesiest grin before climbing up and giving me a cuddle. Then he started laughing. Like a loon. Whilst bouncing up and down.

He's in his cot again now. Asleep.

I'm going to attempt to make and drink a hot cup of tea, watch Buffy and knit some bunting.

I am living the high life.

Here's The Thing

For a brief, vomit-inducing moment, I considered titling this post "My Fresh Start". I was going to tell you about how having a baby has changed me, how I want to become more positive in my blog posts and how you may have to adjust to a toned-down version of the infamous Mrs B's Furious.

I was going to tell you these things, until the twee-ness of my unwritten words made me want to choke on my own vomit.

Of course, having a baby has changed me. At this precise moment, I am sat on my door-step, balancing the laptop on my knee and awaiting my take-out pizza (I am nothing if not classy). I am sat here for the sole reason that my child is asleep in the car, and I am paranoid about leaving him there without constant adult supervision. This is how having a baby has changed me: 12 months ago, you wouldn't have caught me sat out here typing a blog about how things have changed whilst waiting for a takeaway pizza. Not me. I'd have been sat on my sofa in my PJs. Admittedly still waiting for the pizza, but you get my point.

It has changed me in other ways too. I have become one of those people who will sniff their small child's crotch-area to check if a nappy change is needed, I have started to talk in a language understood only by babies and cartoon characters, and I think nothing of leaving the house covered in baby bogeys. My body has changed beyond all recognition. I have learnt (and regularly sing) nursery rhymes (with or without my baby present). My idea of a good night involves crawling into bed at around 8.30 and sleeping undisturbed until a sociable hour of morning. None of these things are especially relevant to the topic of my post.

Since having my baby (almost 12 months ago), I have not been well. I don't just mean vomit-inducing moments and child-related paranoia as outlined above. I mean in the head. You know, that thing we don't talk about. That. Yeah.

So, I stopped blogging because everything has changed. Nothing is really that amusing at the moment and even when something seems worth writing about, I get distracted easily (for example, I started this sentence and then wondered for a few minutes about whether or not it is grammatically correct to start a sentence with 'so'). Sigh. I don't really enjoy many things or get that excited about them now. When I am angry about something, it is less 'The Furious' and more that child from The Exorcist with the spinning head. I don't remember what sleeping feels like. Actually, I don't remember what a lot of things feel like. It doesn't make for good blogging really. Writing does not come easily to me now. Pretending anything else would just make my blog a bit pointless really, wouldn't it? But I don't want to give up my blog because things have changed. Change is a good thing, right? Maybe finding a way to write about things without making my readers reach for a shot-gun will help. Perhaps trying to find the funny side of things which have happened, and are happening, will give me a perspective outside of my black hole of doom. Who knows. Stick with me, and maybe we'll find out?

The Wondrous PacaPod

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a mother in possession of a credit card must be in want of a PacaPod changing bag. Well, either a credit card or a very impressive bank balance, but let's gloss over that for now.

They are, quite simply, the most fabulous changing bag I have ever met*. Yes, I appreciate my excitement will not be shared by everyone; this is either because you do not have a small child of your own, or you do not share my love of organisation.

I have to thank my new baby group friend J for introducing me to them on the very day that my freebie Parenting Club changing bag decided to shed its stitches and resign from its post. To be fair to it, it worked hard in its short lifetime, but I do wish it had worked some kind of notice period before leaving me in the lurch.


I do have to cram rather a lot of stuff into a changing bag. S has an amazing talent for excreting out of his nappy at inopportune moments when you do not have a change of clothing, will fill several nappies in quick succession when you haven't brought enough, and will inevitably demand a bottle when you are least expecting it. My old changing bag was just not prepared for this. My PacaPod is prepared for everything (even the apocalypse). It has separate pods for changing and feeding, a pocket to store anything you like in, a pocket for my purse and another for my phone. It also has a very helpful strap for attaching house keys, so that I will never again be stood on my doorstep, in the rain, emptying everything I own out of a bag in order to locate them. 


I don't think their use should be limited to baby changing bags either**. I think anyone with a love of organisation needs one in their life. Of course, you might want to use the changing pod for storing something other than baby changing equipment to save any awkward questions as to why you are carrying nappies and nappy rash cream around with you. Perhaps use it for storing toiletries instead. Think of the possibilities. The PacaPod could be the ultimate overnight bag: toiletries packed and organised, snacks packed and organised,   safe storage for your purse, phone and house keys, and space to store a change of clothes. What more could you possibly want from life?


* I'm not even kidding. 
** PacaPod, if you haven't already thought of the many other ways you could put your design to good use, we should talk. I have a million ideas (well, a few at least).

Birth Boasting Baby Groupers

* Disclaimer: I do not have anything against the vast majority of people I have met through baby groups. Most of them are quite nice and we get along very well. There are, however, a small group of birth-boasters who get right on my wick.*


Dear Birth-Boasting Baby Groupers, 


Yes, you, the ones who think that it is absolutely necessary to share every minute detail of your fantastically, wonderful birth stories with a room full of strangers. Not everyone has been quite so lucky as you. Not everyone wants to hear the intimate details of your child's birth. Not everyone actually cares how you got your precious bundle of joy into the world. Most of us are fully aware of where babies come from. 


You do not have to wear your birth story like a badge of honour. "I got to 6cm dilated and I hadn't even felt it". Well, bully for you Little Miss Six-Centimetres, would you like your certificate now, or later? I'm not entirely sure what to write on the certificate though, perhaps we should agree on some kind of scale of pain of dilation before I do it, so that we can be sure you are getting the full recognition for your achievement. 


Little Miss Water Birth, your prize is in the post (the prize being for most irritating birth-story of the century) : "the water just took all the pain away." Really? Well, thanks ever so much for sharing that. No, really, my life is now complete.  Do you have any concept of how pain actually works? A bath of water cannot block the pain receptors in your brain, unless you are doing it wrong. You may wish to look into this. 


Finally, to Little Miss 'I Sneezed and He Popped Out', I would give you your award, but I think you have more pressing matters to attend to: there is clearly something terribly wrong with your pelvic floor muscles if you didn't even notice a 9lb baby popping out during a sneeze. Run along to the hospital now, there's a good girl, and do stop hassling me with your birth story. 


I am warning you, I will not be held responsible for my actions if I have to listen to one more pain-free sneeze-birth story. I will set fire to the person's face. I am not normally a violent person, but there's just no need for it. Hurrah! You had a lovely birth experience, that's great for you. Stop rubbing my nose in it.



Thanks ever so much, 


Mrs B x