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.
Monday 30 July 2012
Sunday 29 July 2012
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"
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"
Thursday 26 July 2012
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.
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.
Tuesday 24 July 2012
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
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
Monday 23 July 2012
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.
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.
Friday 20 July 2012
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.
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.
Thursday 19 July 2012
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?
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?
Monday 16 July 2012
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).
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).
Sunday 15 July 2012
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
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
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