tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-100093392024-03-18T03:03:40.767+00:00PEAS ON TOASTI AM SOMETIMES PROFANE.Peas on Toasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03349482085062035903noreply@blogger.comBlogger2210125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10009339.post-60371252941346052852017-01-29T11:05:00.000+00:002017-01-30T09:33:02.299+00:00the final postSaying goodbye is hard.<br />
<br />
This is why it's taken me months to do so. But last night I realised that I need to make it official.<br />
<br />
I'm hanging up my hat on Peas On Toast after twelve years.<br />
I have dragged my heels, as this blog has done so many things for me. It wouldn't be right to just up and leave without some sort of eulogy for the place that has been my creative outlet for the better part of my 20s and 30s.<br />
<br />
Back in 2005, when writing thoughts on the Internet was relatively unknown, I loved that I could share all the things with five people who didn't know me. It caught on, and suddenly it took me to the dizzying heights of Z-grade Internet celebrity status in South Africa; something quite bizarre and unexpected; it gave me a platform I never knew was possible. As a result of of this little blog, I can attribute it to helping me get a book deal with a major publisher, help me get a job at a wonderful company that I would never have dreamed of previously, got me freelance work, my own column, and most importantly, throughout it, served as a place I could write about my daily trials and tribulations and feed my own creativity, no matter what was going on in the world and in my life.<br />
<br />
I have so much to be thankful for, and am so grateful for the readers that have popped by daily, weekly and monthly. I have also met some incredible people directly and indirectly because of my blog.<br />
<br />
But it's also time to face facts. My life has changed. I don't have much to say at the moment. I am a mum, and how my brain works, has changed. Parenting, for me, is made up of brief, little moments, all bunched together, haphazardly. This just doesn't serve the creative outlet I need right now. I just don't know how to write currently, to be honest. While I sadly lamented this massive missing piece of me recently, I know that it will return. And for the moment, there are other ways I can share and piece together the chaos that is my life at the moment. I am on <a href="https://www.instagram.com/peasontoast/?hl=en" target="_blank">Instagr</a>am, so please do find me there if you are interested.<br />
<br />
This platform has taken me through hugely transitional phases of life; starting with the trivial and run-of-the-mill (heart breaks, moves, travels, marriage, parenting, children, etc) to the more serious and less common (losing a child, having twins, immigration, etc). I will leave it just as it is. Pink and unformatted, unedited, just as my life is. Maybe it'll still be here in a few years, and maybe it won't.<br />
<br />
To date, I have written a mind-boggling 2211 posts. I've had 20691 profile views and 1,126,000 pageviews. It's not a fuckton, but it's enough for me. The reason I have banged away at this for so long is because it forces me to write, find structure in chaos, be an outlet for frustrations and revelations. After my small peak in popularity, I continued to do it for years and I am so glad I did. It serves as a document, small section of history for the most transitional stages of my life.<br />
<br />
For my children: you'll find a lot of swearing and bad things in here. By no means does this mean you can do it too. I'm still your mother. And I love you more than words, pictures or thoughts could ever express. You might find this one day, and you may be strangely amused or entertained, you may even be horrified or appalled. I had a lot to learn. You will too.<br />
<br />
You (three) are everything my life has led up to - anything beyond the achievement of having you is small fry. Having you healthy, happy and loved is all I want for you, Sebastian and Florence.<br />
<br />
So this is me, signing off. I'll be back. And I'm still floating around on social media, because there are moments in life that are meant to be shared. I am so proud of you both.<br />
<br />
Thanks for everything, interwebs.<br />
<br />
Yours,<br />
Peas On Toast<br />
<br />
xxx<br />
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<br />Peas on Toasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03349482085062035903noreply@blogger.com268tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10009339.post-88092121097917463982016-12-09T21:13:00.001+00:002016-12-09T21:25:37.492+00:00'tis the seasonWow. To think I stuck blogging on this guy for almost 11 years, and now I kind of drift in and out every 8 decades.<br />
<br />
Kids. Life. I'm in full survival mode still, and on days when I have the time or energy to brush my hair, put on a wash, while tending to my hatchlings, then I do that rather.<br />
<br />
One thing I have noticed lately, is a spate of mums coming out about Post Natal Depression. Perhaps I've noticed it because that's what I 'have.' Either way, it's extremely comforting to know that some of the most successful, perfect mums out there have troubles too.<br />
<br />
I explained to my husband that on my current drugs, I don't feel especially happy, but I don't feel especially sad either. You're kind of just sitting on the midline. It doesn't solve everything, and you still have to work through it all, but I do feel stronger and more self-assured in general.<br />
<br />
Post Natal knocks your confidence. It knocks you a bit sideways, in that you feel like you can't cope, hate your situation, and you descend into this hole where you don't want go out, feel inadequate, and that you're a bad mum, all the things. No inclination to do anything. Each person experiences different things, and one thing I will say is that I did connect with Florence instantly. I loved her, and missed Sebastian terribly during those early days - I never didn't want my children, circumstances. My heart feels fuller than it has in a long time, and my little family is my world. I just didn't/don't think I'm up for the task. The huge task of raising them properly, ensuring they get the best opportunities, endless love, good manners, healthy food. After not being able to breastfeed, I felt like I couldn't provide. That this was the downhill slide into being a bad mother. I really did.<br />
<br />
I've relaxed a lot since those early days, and let a lot of things slide that I don't bother to fight battles on. You can't fight everything, you have to choose your battles and make the most of what you have, while just trying your best. Sometimes my best is giving Sebastian ten Time Outs because he is behaving badly, or he bit Florence's fingers again, and I lose my shit and then feel pangs of guilt for hours afterwards. There are some gruesomely bad days, when everything goes wrong, everyone is sick, or I just feel like <i>I cannot deal with this right now. I just want to run away.</i><br />
<br />
I feel like that on many days. Then every now and then I'll come back after a long day and think, "Wow. I'm so proud of my little rug rats. I have to have done <i>something</i> right so far. Right? Right?!"<br />
<br />
Motherhood is a crazy tough gig. There are plates flying everywhere, and you have to catch them all. Sometimes they fall, all at once. But if there's one thing I've really learnt, is that everyone has their shit. Everyone.<br />
You have to really remind yourselves sometimes, as you scroll through beautifully filtered photos on Insta and endless smiling pictures, that it's only a tiny slice of the whole story. Social media can really pull you down if you let it.<br />
<br />
Everyone has their hardships, sometimes you have to dig deep, but you can bet, anyone with kids:<br />
1) has days they struggle and wonder if they made the right decision<br />
2) sometimes wants to run away<br />
3) have relationship problems with friends, family, husbands - kids change dynamics with almost everyone you know. Many take strain.<br />
4) doubt if they're cut for the job<br />
5) is exhausted<br />
<br />
We're not in the Victorian times anymore, where a village helped to raise your children. Where we weren't all dispersed far and wide from our families across the globe, where school is expensive, and at least if you live in a place like the UK, you just don't have help. You gotta do it all. And while it's super fulfilling, it is full on.<br />
<br />
But no one is an island, and making and meeting some lovely new friends in our new town has really helped. I went in thinking I was going to keep my options open; not to judge any books by covers, be completely myself, be honest about how I find motherhood, and be a completely open book. In turn, I have met some wonderful people I probably never would've crossed paths with before. Other mums who I can be open with, while equally taking delight in our little people, together.<br />
<br />
It also goes without saying that my Brit really steps up when the chips are down. He is amazing with his children, and has been my number one support. It's hard, but we are making more effort to reconnect after a busy week where we pass each other like ships in the night tending to our list of responsibilities each day. He has a genuinely golden heart. <br />
<br />
Tomorrow we fly to South Africa for a month, and I am both excited and fearful. All of us (being my family) under one roof can get slightly dysfunctional, but at the same time I can't wait to present Florence to her Grandad for the first time, and have Sebby look for birds with his grandparents, and be doted upon by them.<br />
<br />
They are my pride and joy. I am so incredibly lucky.<br />
<br />
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Packed and ready to go - Sebastian's little Gruffalo Trunki </div>
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Florence, my little rainbow</div>
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Sebastian, my hero</div>
Peas on Toasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03349482085062035903noreply@blogger.com39tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10009339.post-69152595247960581472016-11-10T21:15:00.000+00:002016-11-10T21:15:04.510+00:00conversations with a 2.5 year oldTime to fire up this old bad boy again.<br />
<br />
Conversations with my 2 year old, as a start.<br />
I am having a lot of fun with Sebastian these days, as his vocabulary is exploding and he is beginning to challenge things, asking questions and expressing himself.<br />
<br />
Some conversations are fantastically hilarious; others are fantastically mundane and repetitive. Believe me, you repeat shit day in day out. All the time. To the point where you can predict exactly how your next conversations will go. You can be twelve steps ahead without even having to think, (which is a bonus, really.)<br />
<br />
Just this week:<br />
<br />
"Mummay?"<br />
"Yes?"<br />
"Mummay? Mummay?"<br />
"Yes Sebastian, I am downstairs."<br />
"MUMMAY."<br />
"I am HERE."<br />
"MUMMAY. Are you downstairs?"<br />
"I am downstairs."<br />
"MUMMAY? Are you downstairs Mummay?"<br />
<br />
"Do you need to go to the potty Sebastian?"<br />
"No. Don't need pottay."<br />
"Are you sure?"<br />
"No don't need pottay."<br />
"Do you need a pooh?"<br />
"No don't need a pooh. Need a wee."<br />
"OK, let's go to the potty then."<br />
"No, don't need pottay."<br />
<br />
[Five seconds later]<br />
<br />
"Mummay! I have a pooey nappay!"<br />
"And why didn't you tell me so we could go to the pottay?"<br />
"No, don't need pottay."<br />
<br />
"Have you finished your supper Sebastian?"<br />
"No, ALMOST."<br />
[Four years later]<br />
"You havent' finished your supper, I had better eat it."<br />
"NO MINE."<br />
"Well, no pudding until you've finished."<br />
"I want pudding!"<br />
"You have to eat your cucumber/broccoli/beetroot first. Then you can have pudding."<br />
"I want pudding!"<br />
"No pudding. Right, mummy's going to eat your cucumbers."<br />
"NO MINE. I eat dem."<br />
"Are you finished yet?"<br />
"No ALMOST."<br />
[Repeat ad infinitum.]<br />
<br />
"Fwonce [Florence] is crying Mummay, go and swaddle Fwonce."<br />
"OK I'll be just a minute."<br />
"I coming too Mummay."<br />
"You wait here Sebby, otherwise she will wake up."<br />
"NO."<br />
<br />
"Look Mummay, it's a robin."<br />
"And why is it a robin?"<br />
"Because it's got a red breast."<br />
"That's right my boy, well done. And what is that bird?"<br />
"It's a sruss.[thrush]<br />
"Is it? I thought it was a crow."<br />
"No it's not a crow, it's a sruss."<br />
"OK then."<br />
"No it's a crow."<br />
"OK it's a crow."<br />
<br />
"I had sweet dreams Mummay."<br />
"That's good my boy, what did you dream about?"<br />
"Horses."<br />
"Oh that's nice. And what did Woof [his current obsession/carries everywhere soft toy] dream about?"<br />
"He dreamt about dinosaurs. And birds. And cars."<br />
"Oh wow.<br />
"No, he didn't sleep very well. He didn't have sweet dreams."<br />
"Right."<br />
"He dreamt about sand."<br />
"OK."<br />
<br />
Addressing Florence:<br />
"Where's your dummay little girl?"<br />
"I don't think she needs it right now my boy."<br />
"OK, I put it in the tray."<br />
"Thank you, that's very helpful."<br />
"Fwonce is tickling may."<br />
"Is she?"<br />
"Yes, Fwonce you are tickling may. I love you Fwonce."<br />
<br />
"Mummay, are you changing Fwonce's nappay?"<br />
"Yes, my boy."<br />
"Has she done a little pooh?"<br />
"I think so, yes."<br />
"Oh look, she has pooh all over her willay."<br />
"Florence doesn't have a willy my boy. Florence is a girl, so she has a ....[fuck, what should I call it? Why haven't i thought this through?]....foo.<br />
"Fwonce has a foo. And you have a foo. And I have a foo."<br />
"No, you're a boy so you have a willy."<br />
"I have a willy and you have a willy."<br />
"No, you and daddy are boys, so you both have a willy. Florence and Mummy are girls, so we have a foo."<br />
<br />
"Mummay, how old are for you?"<br />
"How old am I? I am 36."<br />
"And how old am for me?"<br />
"You are two."<br />
"No I three."<br />
"No you're two. You turn three in March." [gulp]<br />
"And how old are for Fwonce?"<br />
"She is four months."<br />
"No she is ten weeks."<br />
<br />
"Daddy's gone to work."<br />
"That's right, he will be home later my boy."<br />
"Did he go in the aeroplane?"<br />
"No, he goes to work on the train."<br />
"Granny went on the aeroplane. To Africa."<br />
"That's right. And we are going on the aeroplane to South Africa for?"<br />
"For Father Christmas."<br />
"For Christmas, yes. And if you're a good boy, Father Christmas will visit."<br />
"I not naughty boy. I a cheekay monkay."<br />
"Yes, you're my cheeky little monkey."<br />
"I want Father Christmas."<br />
"He only comes at Christmas time."<br />
"He give me toys."<br />
"Yes, if you're a good boy."<br />
<br />
And finally.... <br />
<br />
"What are you Sebastian?"<br />
"I a twin."<br />
"Yes. Who is your twin sister?"<br />
"Molly. She lives in heaven."<br />
<br />
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My world.</div>
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"I funnay, Mummay."</div>
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Little Bird. She is my bird or my worm. Seb is my monkey. </div>
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"Look, Mummay, Fwonce is a ghost! She likes it Mummay!"</div>
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<br />Peas on Toasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03349482085062035903noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10009339.post-812138970469042752016-10-17T10:39:00.000+01:002016-10-17T10:39:14.282+01:00fourth trimester doneSo. how are we?<br />
<br />
For the most part, just fine. The fourth trimester is officially over. Florence is just over 3 months now, and is gurgling, smiling, interacting, pudging up - generally being <i>absolutely fucking beautiful</i> when she isn't crying or not sleeping. I am enjoying her immensely.<br />
<br />
It is much easier second time round, [once the fourth trimester is over.] You are much more relaxed, and you do trust your own instincts and not everyone else's unsolicited and [mostly stupid actually] advice. I am enjoying being with Florence and Sebastian, albeit am more exhausted than the most exhausted person, who is at his most exhausted.<br />
<br />
Still on the Zoloft. It fixes most things, but it doesn't make other people better. You just get a higher tolerance for them.<br />
<br />
I have learnt to compartmentalise - in fact, I learnt this years ago, that when one aspect of my life is spectacularly bad, I can more or less stuff it in a box for a few hours, completely ignore it, and focus on the other good 80%. This has definitely led me in good stead. And especially when it comes to having children. When you don't have enough time to focus on anything for longer than two minutes, so you're forced to compartmentalise and put it out of your brain. It's the best way to survive anything. Trust me.<br />
<br />
Well, I'm doing that. With a few things lately. Choosing to box up and ignore.<br />
And focus on me and my children.<br />
<br />
I have made a few mum friends now. I've kept this door wide open, and befriended a bunch of new mums in the area. Who knows if we have much in common beyond our children, but who cares? Right now it's all about connecting with someone who smiles, has kids my children's ages, has a vague sense of humour, and is willing to go on playdates and grab a coffee, or maybe even a cheeky glass of wine in the future. It's made life around here much more bearable.<br />
<br />
I've also joined a few groups and baby classes, so my calendar is full. Pretty much always. With local stuff.<br />
<br />
Florence is now pretty much exclusively on on formula. I've kept one last precious bag of milk in the freezer for her to have when she has her last set of MMR jabs, then that's it.<br />
I try not to think about this too much. This formula bottle thing that haunts me so. Because it makes me sad. So I also try and push this out of my mind and focus on the fact that she is a healthy, fed, happy little baby.<br />
<br />
Our house renovations are almost finished. The painting, fixing up, furniture-buying phase anyway. I'll post some pictures soon. Throwing myself into making my nest comfortable and lovely has been so much fun. Even if that's a stupid thing to focus on.<br />
<br />
I've been out on a few girls night too! Involving wine and everything. With people who have kids, and people who don't. Which means I can talk politics, decor and news, too.<br />
<br />
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My precious little angel. Obsessed with hair bows. I put a new one in her hair everyday!<br />
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Precious siblings. My absolute world.<br />
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Exploring the Kent countryside with a little friend.<br />
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Running amuck on the nature trails of Kent.<br />
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Some of my favourite daily moments are rocking her to sleep in her nursery.<br />
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My happy girl.<br />
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Heavenly big blue eyes.<br />
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My sproglets.Peas on Toasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03349482085062035903noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10009339.post-16347521600213360762016-09-19T12:17:00.000+01:002016-09-19T12:17:00.522+01:00the new lensSo I've been on Zoloft for two weeks.<br />
<br />
Seratonin-reuptakers FTW. <br />
<br />
It hasn't been a picnic; the side-effects of anti-depressants aren't amazing. Nausea pretty much all day long, upset stomach, dry mouth, the shakes and dizziness. But for the first time, these have started to subside and there's just a very subtle change that appears to be happening.<br />
<br />
When I think about things, things that would usually overwhelm me, or cause me anxiety (ie: everything), the world just seems a tiny bit softer and lighter. Things that I'd ordinarily react badly to, I'm far more chilled out about. I haven't woken up and suddenly everything is bright and sunshiny and beautiful (far from it - suddenly it's autumn here), but there is a definite shift, and I am starting to feel a lot more myself again.<br />
<br />
'Myself' being someone who has the ability to laugh at shit, and be less uptight about <i>everything.</i><br />
<br />
This award-winning book-writing blogger (hey, that was me once!), sums PND up excellently. <a href="http://hurrahforgin.com/2016/09/08/its-not-just-you/" target="_blank">I love her.</a><i> </i><br />
<br />
Florence is also 10 weeks. She is starting to settle easier, is chubbing out (so I get to squeeze her little legs and kiss those soft, fat cheeks), and doesn't mind lying down somewhere for 2 minutes (that's her record) that isn't my arms. I am fully aware that this is the last time I'll be doing this.<br />
<br />
The Ugly Volvo (another amazing book-writing blogger whom I love) <a href="http://www.theuglyvolvo.com/this-is-the-last-time/" target="_blank">sums this up very well too.</a> So I am now starting to really embrace the fact that my little baby is going to be the last little baby I have. I nestle in her hair, I allow her to lie on my chest for longer than necessary, I am trying to live for every moment with her where possible.<br />
<br />
I've joined a baby class. It's the same sensory class I did with Sebastian, and it's bought back lots of memories. I am sad that he is no longer a baby I can do this with - go figure. I hope to meet some mums there, although my self-esteem isn't helluva great right now. I don't like the look of myself in a mirror, and I am not sure what to say to these mothers who are shiny, and spritely and skinny and local.<br />
I'll get there. I'm not as anxious or worried about it as I was last week.<br />
<br />
I'm an outgoing introvert, so this will take time.<br />
<br />
One thing I am fucking terrified about: the Brit is going to Singapore tomorrow for a week for work. A week. I don't know how I'll logistically manage drop offs and pick-ups to Sebby's nursery, and not sure how I'll manage doing everything for that long before dying from exhaustion.<br />
<br />
Maybe I'll surprise myself.<br />
<br />
I'm trying to think of it like an athlete thinks about their next triathlon. Preparation is key; do your best.<br />
<br />
We'll see.<br />
<br />
It was my birthday last week. I am now officially on the wrong side of 35. (Although I insist 40 is going to be great. My kids will be old and sufficient enough to dress themselves, and I foresee a lot more freedom and sleep in my future.)<br />
<br />
The Brit was wonderful, and treated me to spa treatments for an afternoon, lunch away, a gourmet feast which he made at home, and a beautiful necklace. It certainly helped, as one doesn't exactly feel 'birthdayee' when they're tending to children and babies all day, and one day rolls into the next.)<br />
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My little bird.</div>
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Getting beautifully chubby (could eat her for breakfast)</div>
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My boykie officially in his big boy bed!</div>
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<br />Peas on Toasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03349482085062035903noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10009339.post-56237717024449368182016-09-03T20:13:00.003+01:002016-09-03T20:39:25.765+01:00seeing through the darknessI'm treading water. Sometimes a wave will knock me sideways and I splutter for air; but mostly it feels like the big waves, the tsunamis, have cleared for now.<br />
<br />
Mum left a couple of weeks ago, and for about that long, it didn't feel like we sat down once. If we weren't juggling our baby while simultaneously preparing a meal for our toddler, or washing something while soothing cries, I was steralising bottles and washing my face at the same time.<br />
<br />
It's been thoroughly mental.<br />
<br />
A few things have dominoed over this time:<br />
1) superhuman multi-tasking skills;<br />
2) food poisoning (the Brit and I, three days after my mum left, rendering us half-dying and trying to do all the above while lying horizontal while emitting fluids from both ends);<br />
3) the above knocking the wheels off breastfeeding completely, which threw me into what has now been diagnosed as post-natal depression;<br />
4) establishing "systems" and routines to cope with everything.<br />
<br />
The first point is something I'll pat myself and the Brit on the back for. Together we have managed to tumble our way through to Flo now being almost 8 weeks, where she is now crying less, sleeping a bit more, feeds stretching to almost 4 hourly. While tending to Sebastian's life, while the poor little chap battles through potty training, and therefore, peeing and poohing everywhere/on things.<br />
<br />
We seem to mostly have a handle on this now. It's full-on-full-go all day, everyday, but by the end of of the day when they are both tucked in and sleeping, we can even enjoy a glass of wine and watch <i>Stranger Things </i>on Netflix like other normal people. I can brush my hair sometimes. I can wipe vomit from my trousers before I leave the house. I can leave the house!<br />
<i> </i><br />
Point 2. Don't get food poisoning when you have a newborn and a toddler. Honestly, besides thinking we were going to die - delirious, aching, vomiting, the whole hog - I had to get up to breastfeed Flo every three hours, while also checking on Seb who I hoped wasn't turning the gas on downstairs as we groaned and yacked in bed upstairs. To his credit, the little guy mostly got on with things, while running in every little while to say, "Mummy, Daddy poorly!" He knew. Bless him.<br />
<br />
The problem with food poisoning, or any affliction, is that Florence had just started breastfeeding properly. Latching, drinking, not fussing and crying so much at every feed. This knocked it all out again, and I also got the beginnings of mastitis in my (then) engorged boob, so after a few bottle feeds I was back at square one all over again. She just doesn't like feeding from my boobs.<br />
<br />
I was too tired to go down the feeding-her-with-a-tube thing again, so here we are: bottle feeding. I express about 5 times a day to at least give her breast milk for most of the day, while she is on formula at night.<br />
<br />
I steralise about 8 000 bottles a day, and this is where the "system" comes in and my trying to be organised, amongst the chaos.<br />
<br />
Not being able to breastfeed has hit me tremendously hard. After all the trying and succeeding in the beginning, only to fail now, it launched me into a depression I didn't think was possible. In my logical mind, I know my baby is happier and fuller on bottles, and we are generally less stressed. However I am so sad I can't breastfeed her. I never thought I'd feel so cut up about it, but here we are. She rejected me, not the other way around. So I should just go with it. But with all the pressure and subliminal messaging (and ease and convenience) of breastfeeding, I really feel like a sub-optimal mother.<br />
<br />
I'm finally getting over myself, but it's taken some time. I have cried and cried and I feel down as fuck. Post Natal Depression, or PND, affects 1 in 10 in the UK. And apparently, I am now one of them. I am taking this on the chin and I'm going to sort it out. Starting Monday, depending on what the doctor prescribes me. Anxiety, constant worry, and just general sadness is what I have become; and I don't want to feel like this anymore.<br />
<br />
That said, there are three small things I've discovered that can make and break a day when you have a new baby in the house. Three things that make the survival easier. Because that's what it is; it's survival, until you start to see that light at 12-15 weeks.<br />
<br />
1) Go for a walk/leave the house once a day.<br />
2) Make time for a bath/something just for you. It restores everything.<br />
3) If you can get a nap, in between it all, you've bonused out.<br />
<br />
An excellent day is if you can do all three in one day. Most days I get to do one or two of these things. A daytime nap is rare; sometimes I may steal 10 minutes because I am slumped on the couch with her on my chest and I fall asleep while sitting.<br />
<br />
But one or two of these a day, is good innings. This is what I'm telling myself.<br />
<br />
I have also made a new friend; someone I vaguely know through another friend - a Saffa who is also a mum. This is terribly exciting, and the familiarity of having someone around who is from the same background but who also lives in this town, is just wonderful.<br />
<br />
I've also had a few friends come and visit, whisk me out for some wine, and helped me get an hour's break to put the world to rights.<br />
<br />
I still feel anxiety at an unprecedented scale. But I can see a small twinkling of light at the end of what feels like a dark and unrelenting tunnel.<br />
<br />
I love them so much. I look at my beautiful children and still cannot believe they're mine. Florence is smiling, and Sebastian is saying adorable things like "Ooh, I'm balarmed!" (Alarmed). He has also acclimatised to having a new little person in the house, and his tantrums are less.<br />
<br />
It's going to be OK.<br />
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My blue-eyed baba. </div>
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Sebastian 0; yoghurt 1.</div>
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Smiling for mama</div>
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Sleeping in his sister's moses basket. Because he's a baby too. </div>
<br />Peas on Toasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03349482085062035903noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10009339.post-41182431870206899942016-08-10T09:44:00.003+01:002016-08-10T09:54:25.485+01:00one month onThis Friday, Flo will be one month old.<br>
<br>
Has it gone quickly? Yes, of course it has. Have the days that roll into nights that roll into days that roll into more nights and then more days, gone quickly? Not a fuck.<br>
<br>
I've <strike>single-handedly </strike>[husband helped too, to be fair] trained my daughter to feed from a tube, while sucking on my finger, therefore training her to like my nipple again. No bottles, and helping to 'outgrow' this tongue tie that they think she has. But not 'serious' enough for the snip.<br>
<br>
Basically, it's been balls, but I have got there in the end with her now exclusively breastfeeding. Where's my medal. No, come on, WHERE'S MY MEDAL PLEASE? With all the pressure (subliminal as it is - it is never direct pressure, oh no, it's always little chirps like, "Breast is best!' and 'It's your choice, of course it is, formula is fine,' with a not a helluva ultra-convincing grimace, but there you go), there must be some kind of ACCOLADE I get for persevering like a motherfucker here?<br>
<br>
(Yes yes yes, I know breast is best. I fed Sebastian a la boob for 6 months, and I can only hope I can feed Flo for as long as my udders allow - God knows I'm expressing after most feeds to keep the old supply banging away...)<br>
<br>
Anyway, thanks everyone for your lovely comments, advice and support on the below post; desperate times. As someone so correctly told me, "The difference between hope and desperation is a night's sleep." Well, I still haven't had a 'night's' sleep in four weeks, but I feel like we are all coping better and getting into our groove.<br>
<br>
That's until my mum leaves in 10 days, and then the apple cart is probably going to veer off the road and hit a tree, apples running amuck about the place. With me running after them, two children on my hip, not having brushed my hair in five days.<br>
<br>
We have ventured to the park again a few times (the one where I had a fight with a chav about whether her precocious 8 year old son who had kicked a ball into the side of my head, was lying about the fact that I said "Ferfucksakes" to him.*)<br>
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Anyway, here are some adorable pictures of my offspring, because even amongst the chaos, they're mine though.<br>
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He loves her, really.</div>
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That was an explosive one...</div>
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Double-timing.</div>
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Now. I should probably join some mum's groups and get out there soon and make some friends...and get to know this area a bit. My confidence is pretty darn low right now, so this may take some time... <br>
<br>
<br>
*I <i>almost </i>said it, but willed myself to stop with my throbbing ear. He then accused me of swearing while I said he should damn well apologise, and then his mother intervened and said, "Oy. OY. Didju just swear at me son?" No I bloody didn't, but you should teach your son some MANNERS and apologise for kicking this ball into my pip. While my breasts are leaking milk down my dress.<br><br>Peas on Toasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03349482085062035903noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10009339.post-21861047911313619712016-07-29T09:06:00.001+01:002016-07-29T09:06:10.123+01:00help<p dir="ltr">The honeymoon period is well and truly over. This comes to you from deep in the trenches. It's brutal.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I am so sleep deprived, I tried to put on Florence's babygrow in the middle of a breastfeeding clinic yesterday, thinking it was my own shirt. It took a good 40 seconds to register that it wasn't mine.</p>
<p dir="ltr">She isn't latching on or feeding properly, and by first assessment, tells me she has Tongue Tie. In order to see how bad the Tongue Tie is, no teats allowed for a week and have given me these miniscule little tubes to feed her with. <br>
Nightmare.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I have to express every feed.<br>
She hates my boobs.<br>
She still isn't up to her birth weight.<br>
Sebastian has also decided that while he lives his sister, he loathes us. And has become 'that' child - smacking us, throwing his milk all over the floor, tantrums, basically anything for attention, even if it is negative attention. </p>
<p dir="ltr">I have a cold. </p>
<p dir="ltr">I have the baby blues. I miss Clapham and a neighbourhood I know. When I do venture out, all I seem to see are weirdo's and chavs (have we made a massive massive mistake?)</p>
<p dir="ltr">I had an altercation with one at the local park a few days ago and never want to go back.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I want to pack it all in. </p>
<p dir="ltr">I have to decide whether Flo has a small op on her tongue, or just turn to bottle feeding and hope it outgrows itself. </p>
<p dir="ltr">While feverishly trying to read up on how to deal with my toddler who hates that he isn't the centre of our world anymore. I feel so hurt and sad for him, and am trying to give him undivided attention when I'm not feeding/changing a nappy/rocking to sleep. </p>
<p dir="ltr">Flo is luckily a lot more placid than Sebastian, and for now, doesn't mind being put down to sleep for a few hours. Please dear God may that not change.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Life with two children is HARD. Especially if things aren't going as planned.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Crikey. When does it start getting better again? Someone tell me things start to look up in a few weeks. Nevermind the three hourly feeds, but how will we do this on our own when my mum leaves? </p>
Peas on Toasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03349482085062035903noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10009339.post-91303654133378657972016-07-20T12:57:00.001+01:002016-07-20T13:44:47.126+01:00florence's birth storyWell, Flo is just over a week old and I've come up for some air.<br>
<br>
My whole experience of this birth and this baby has been so, so different from when I had my twins.<br>
<br>
Starting from the beginning.<br>
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<i>This is me. At 38 + 6 weeks. About to go into labour. Good thing I'd finished washing my hair, unlike last time.</i><br>
<br>
I started feeling a bit crampy, a bit weird, and just 'ready' the night before I was due to go in for my planned c-section. By 3am, I was on the phone to the hospital because I was pretty certain labour had started.<br>
<i> </i><br>
(My husband: "No it hasn't. You're fine<i>." You're arguing with a woman who is in labour about not being in labour? Have you learnt nothing?</i>)<br>
<br>
By 5am, we were in the car roaring to hospital, as I was having contractions every 5 minutes, and things were starting to escalate.<br>
<br>
I was strangely calm with the pain this time. When I was induced last time, it all came on so quickly and painfully, there wasn't time to get into any kind of Zone.<br>
There were a few of us booked in sequentially for sections, and they shoved me to top of the queue once they'd seen I was dilating fast and a contraction was now coming every 30 seconds.<br>
<br>
Should I have continued and gone natural/vaginal birth? I didn't think my pelvic floor was up for it, and by now, I was fully signed on to have my section. So off I went to theatre.<br>
This time I wasn't rushed in there on a stretcher at 2am. I put my scrubs on, and was walked there, suddenly highly emotional, scared and all the feelings, so walked through the ward sobbing as they led me and the Brit towards the same room I had my twins extracted.<br>
<br>
I bawled and bawled and they had to calm me down between that and the contractions.<br>
I had such a lovely aneasthetist - Caroline - who told me she had had four c-sections, had done four years at Groote Schuur and another hospital in South Africa, and was generally amazing.<br>
"This must be hard for you," she said, after administering my spinal tap, rendering me numb from the tits down.<br>
"This is where you had Sebastian and Molly, wasn't it."<br>
She had read all my notes and all the fine print. She probably didn't need to know my twins names, but she did. What a difference that made.<br>
<br>
They even put some Magic FM on for me. So we could bring Florence into the world to a background accompaniment of one of the Bee Gees hits. Pure class.<br>
<br>
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<i> I woke up like this.</i><br>
<br>
We were excited this time round, not excited and terrified and sad. They pulled her out and showed me, and it was the best feeling in the world to see her for the first time. Like her brother and other sister, she has a shock of thick brown hair, and while she looks a lot like Sebastian, she looked most like Molly with her pointier nose. Even so, she was different - she was unique all unto herself.<br>
<br>
A really nice weight, at 3.58kilos, and an excellent Apgar rating. We were ecstatic. They lay her on my chest, and I got to know her while she gripped my fingers with her little hands.<br>
<br>
I wasn't knackered this time, having not had to undergo 18 hours of labour. I was itchy as all fuck, as one of the side affects of the anaesthetic was an itch, and mine had <i>game.</i> They had to give me an antihistamine for that, as I was starting to look a little scratched, after pawing away at my face and arms.<br>
<br>
Florence also managed to latch on a lot easier than Seb. Being three weeks older than Seb at birth made a huge difference in terms of her sucking reflex and strength. Poor little Seb was so small and weak; breastfeeding the first few weeks was a harrowing experience. Flo has thus far been really easy on that front.<br>
<br>
I could have tea and toast after a few hours, and the Brit bought me some of Chelsea's finest sushi.<br>
<br>
But possibly the best thing about this experience was being able to go home 36 hours after having her. Last time I was stuck in hospital for another week, (and a week prior), so I went a bit mental/nearly had a breakdown by the time they released us from there.<br>
<br>
It made me realise how small, frail and poorly my little Seb actually was when he was born. On antibiotics, needing heart and brain scans, having rounded feet from being cramped in the womb with another little soul. The repeated jaundice and needing to sit under lamps. The low birth weight. It all seemed endless and helpless, and I had no idea what I was doing.<br>
<br>
Hobbling around and recovering from major surgery is so much easier and nicer in the comfort of your own home. It's been bloody painful, I can't discount that. Getting in and out of bed is fucking sore, I am still on painkillers 8 days later, and it's not easy.<br>
Florence has had a littlebit of jaundice, so has been sleepy and lost quite a bit of weight - but she is on a three hour eating plan and getting better without the need for lamps or hospital intervention thus far.<br>
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The heatwave hasn't helped the sleepiness - I have to feed her while wiping her down with cold wet wipes.<br>
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<br>
But she is a little dream. Sebastian just adores her. All he wants to do is hold "Baby Fwowence," and he goes up to her constantly, to stroke her hair and say, "It's OK,' if she starts to cry. He is so doting, and it makes my heart burst.<br>
<br>
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<i> Meeting his sister for the first time... </i><br>
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<br>
I'm so lucky and grateful to have my mama here to help though. Ay yay yay. Sebastian still needs [more] attention than ever, and he has found a best friend in his granny. They have such a sweet little relationship, and he now calls for her in the mornings - not for the Brit or me! They have little conversations and she has helped me so much when it comes to meals and cleaning and passing me shit I can't reach because I'm flat on my back.<br>
<br>
The sleep deprivation is something no new parent can get past, you just have to fight your way through it. And waking up every three hours is not pleasant. We're zonked. But again, perhaps it's because we are in our lovely new home, it's mid-summer, and we are not grieving this time - it's just not as bad.<br>
<br>
She's still spanking, shiny new, so who knows what she will be like in a few days or few weeks. I don't want to jinx anything, but her first week has been relatively chilled.<br>
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PS: There's also a real sense of relief now. I won't ever need to have a c-section again. I have had three children; and with two extremely special miracles before me, my cup is full. I don't need anymore. </div>
<br>Peas on Toasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03349482085062035903noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10009339.post-71018194208736695062016-07-15T20:54:00.002+01:002016-07-15T20:54:59.163+01:00our spanking new additionWanted to introduce our beautiful new bundle.<br />
<br />
World, meet Florence.<br />
<br />
Florence Imogen.<br />
<br />
Utterly smitten, exhausted and all the things. But with a heart so full, I'm fairly sure it may burst wide open.<br />
<br />
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<br />Peas on Toasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03349482085062035903noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10009339.post-40450705119898983132016-07-11T16:07:00.000+01:002016-07-11T16:07:03.416+01:00one more dayOh my goodness. I am having a baby tomorrow.<br />
<br />
<i>I am having a baby tomorrow.</i><br />
<br />
This is all so different from last time. For obvious reasons. Last time was an ordeal; it was chaos; it was joy and anguish, it was the unknown.<br />
<i> </i><br />
Now, it's all very planned, clinical, scheduled in. I can say things like, "By noon, I'll have a new baby."<br />
I've been debriefed about what to expect by having a c-section (as I sat back wryly, thinking I've done this all before, and I wasn't given any pre-orders, I was rushed down a corridor and my twins were extracted in a flurried frenzy), how to roll out of bed (ouchie. I remember this, getting out of bed is the worst after a c-section), that sort of stuff.<br />
<br />
This time, I was sitting with a group of women, cracking jokes about how we're going to order mahoosive platters of sashimi the moment we are given the go-ahead to eat, and how we'll see each other "bright and early in the morning!" big smiles, excitement, jangly nerves.<br />
<br />
I'm nervous and so excited and so goddamn emotional. I've almost made it. I am still too scared to say, "this is it." Only on Saturday I had a scare; a horrible wobbly where I didn't feel her move or kick for a few hours. I am so acutely aware of her movements and rhythms, that when there feels like there's a gap, I start to go through the motions. I lie on my side, prod my stomach, drink the ice cold water. No one else knows about the sea of panic I face when I realise she hasn't moved in a while. I don't tell my husband or anyone. I just tap into my safe place and concentrate.<br />
<br />
Saturday no amount of prodding or poking or anything seemed to rile her. I started to shake, panic and cry. I hit a level of panic I haven't done yet in this pregnancy, where I worried that if she had died, I may never come back myself. This would be me; check me into an asylum.<br />
<br />
We roared to the hospital around the corner and they hitched me up to a monitor (after waiting for what seemed like hours). All was OK. Panic over. Just a few more days, just a few more days.<br />
<br />
Besides the surgery and obvious stillborn-related worries, I am also acutely aware of two other things: my last few hours with my son as an only child, and my final afternoon nap.<br />
<br />
I tried to have one this afternoon. Too many thoughts and nerves and excitement in my head to actually sleep, while deeply contemplating the irony of this as it is my last afternoon nap for what could be years.<br />
<br />
I'm scared of the sleep deprivation and three hourly feeds. The 24 hours cycle that feels like it will never end. No amount of mental preparation prepares you; but maybe previous experience helps to soften the blow.<br />
<br />
Just a few more hours, and we will have a spanking new daughter. <br />
<br />Peas on Toasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03349482085062035903noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10009339.post-87529919500405807062016-07-06T11:53:00.000+01:002016-07-06T11:53:04.750+01:00our new homeWe are in!<br />
<br />
It's been days of unpacking, sorting, deliberating and mainly <i>marvelling at the fact that we own an actual house.</i><br />
<br />
And that we can't hear each other from floor to floor.<br />
And that each room has enough space to host an archery lesson.<br />
And that there's a garden, with actual sun in it.<br />
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This is the dining room. It has high ceilings, wooden floors downstairs, it's a Victorian house built in the early 1900s. High maintenance, but bucket loads of charm. <br />
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My morning view. Complete with little boy playing with his fire engine downstairs.<br />
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Our garden and patio.<br />
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Hallway looking into our kitchen. The kitchen is pretty much the total size as our lounge, kitchen and bathroom was in our flat.<br />
<br />
I didn't leave the house for the first three days, in between unpacking and having to go and have a lie down.<br />
We haven't painted, that will come a month or two after the baby is born (less than one week, oh my goodness oh my goodness - we made it. We made it into our house before I exploded), and I have ordered 8 000 different things to be delivered here, including three wardrobes from Ikea for the children and spare room alone.<br />
<br />
It's heaven. It's true what they say; you often don't realise how toxic a place or environment is until you leave it. Our flat worked for us most of the time. But now looking at it, the awful women who lived above us, the damp, the fact that we were all on top of each other, all these little things, just weren't ideal. She made it Hell for us, and living in cramped space is just not for me anymore.<br />
<br />
Suddenly we have bright, airy rooms, with sunlight streaming in, and a really good feeling about the place. We felt it the moment we first saw this house. I thought, "I could definitely live here." There's just a homely vibe as you walk in. The bathroom isn't pokey and windowless; it's a proper, large family bathroom with natural light, overlooking our garden.<br />
<br />
I feel so lucky, and so relieved.<br />
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Seb's room is coming along, as is hers. <br />
<br />
Commuting in and out is going to be interesting; but that's next year's problem. Apparently it'll only take me 15 minutes more than what I did from Clapham, so I'm hoping that's true.<br />
Sebastian started a few stelling-in's at his nursery and without tears. It's a much smaller nursery than where he used to be, and sadly on the top floor so I just hope they take them out regularly to the garden. They seem nice though, and today he started a full day.<br />
<br />
I have to go into a hospital a few times to be monitored on that [harrowing, painful-memory-bringing-back] device, the same one I was attached to to monitor Sebastian for a week after Molly had passed. <br />
<br />
Other than that, my last few days before having our baby girl will be filled with building flat-pack furniture, hanging shelves and pictures and <i>not doing very much.</i><br />
<br />
Which suits me just fine, given life is going to be 24-hours sleep-deprived busy from now until, like, 2020.<br />
<i>Scarily, that's not even an exaggeration.</i>Peas on Toasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03349482085062035903noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10009339.post-29955730773560126942016-06-30T09:43:00.001+01:002016-06-30T09:48:27.757+01:00our last day in claphamAfter some pretty rigorous last minute to and froing, after what our buyers did to us (I'm keeping it exclusive for the London Evening Standard, as much as I want to detail in point what them and our evil French neighbour did), we finally exchanged and closed on our house yesterday.<br />
<br />
We own a house. A big, adulty, mostly freestanding, house.<br />
<br />
After seven months of uncertainty, and having this almost fall through at least four times. After buyers pulling out, and houses having to go back on the market. A domino of six houses in the chain, where if one falls through, the rest follow.<br />
It's a miracle anyone can buy a damn house in this country at all, given the system here.<br />
<br />
I can only vaguely remember what it actually looks like inside; I have to pull up the agent photos, but even then, the proportions and dimensions are a bit shirky to mind. I am helluva excited to get in there tomorrow - <i>ermergherd termerreh -</i> to start measuring things, dreaming up wall colours, making it our home.<br />
<br />
Sebastian isn't going to know what to do with himself. He'll have two floors of stairs to climb, a big [for London] garden, what seems like miles of uninterrupted space to run around in and potter around. He'll start a new nursery next week for a few days a week; and not so sure how this will go down, to be honest. He has made two firm little chums at his current nursery; and they're thick as thieves. I'm really sad to be taking him away from that.<br />
Big changes ahead for him - new home, new nursery...and new sister.<br />
<br />
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This is the chaos that surrounds me right now, as I wallow on the couch with swollen feet. Thank goodness for my mum and Brit and the packers doing the heavy lifting around here, is all I can say.<br />
<br />
Can't believe it's the final night in our flat tonight. <br />
The end of a chapter living in what is deemed to be "London," in a lock-up-and-go; a place where we bought home our first baby, lost a baby; the first official home I owned (with someone).<br />
Living our summer days on Clapham Common, only moments away. Clapham has been my home, really, for the last 6 years I've lived in London. Moving to a new borough is a big move for me.<br />
<br />
Now we are in the family life phase of our lives - a house, garden, 'family-friendly suburb' of Greater London/home counties, living in a commuter town, with a new baby on the way. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Beckenham" target="_blank">Beckenham</a> awaits.<br />
<br />Peas on Toasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03349482085062035903noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10009339.post-61091639140185775562016-06-27T10:59:00.003+01:002016-06-27T11:15:13.092+01:00disbelief<p dir="ltr">Three things.</p>
<p dir="ltr">1) Cry my beloved [adopted] country;<br>
2) I have one whopper of a story I'm going to be giving the London Evening Standard about the housing market/what's happened to us with buying this house. It's the most unethical heathen of corrupt awfulness you could ever imagine;<br>
3) I'm 37 weeks pregnant. I've never been 37 weeks pregnant before.  </p>
<p dir="ltr">Like so many people in the country at the moment, I am in mourning. So many of us (including those who actually voted 'Leave' and admitted that they didn't know what they were doing), did not expect this outcome.</p>
<p dir="ltr">The country is in turmoil - no plan, the lies that were told to bolster their campaign, Article 50 not being triggered before Cameron resigned, Scotland saying they'll cock block the decision (Yay for the Scots!), people realising fast that the only thing that is will change from being out of the EU is the decline of our economy and isolation of ourselves.<br>
Immigration, so-called £350m 'funds' being given to the NHS (I mean, what kind of bullshit...), none of this is going to be capped or stopped - as they've all since admitted.</p>
<p dir="ltr">It's a mess. Which is why 3.7 million people (and counting) have signed a petition for Parliament to trigger another referendum altogether. Given the difference between Leave and Remain was 1 million votes, this is pretty telling.</p>
<p dir="ltr">On point 2. You will not believe what has gone down when it comes to us desperately trying to move into our house this coming Friday. If we manage to move by Friday. We have lost our minds in this process. Lost our minds and are on the brink of nervous breakdown.</p>
<p dir="ltr">On point 3. My mother reckons my belly is still not as large as when I had twins. (But we can safely say the rest of my body definitely is.)<br>
I am waddling around like John Wayne and struggling to walk anywhere without huffing puffing and feeling the burn in the pubic area as she has dropped down now. I never experienced the 'drop down' last time either, as I had to be induced at 36 weeks.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I'm rather uncomfortable to say the least. Two weeks to go. It's total crunch time now.</p>
<p dir="ltr">At least, at this stage in the race, I don't have a massive pile (yet), or infections, like last time. The heartburn sets my throat on fire multiple times a day, and I'm chugging on the Gaviscon, but generally it is easier carrying one than multiples at this stage.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Kind of dreading the move though. Good God. <br></p>
Peas on Toasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03349482085062035903noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10009339.post-21415096754160501382016-06-20T13:39:00.002+01:002016-06-20T13:49:07.132+01:00the eu referendum and maternity leave<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-R3Q1ahVPvfE/V2fj29jumGI/AAAAAAACQuU/GBiCoaKqPJMcNaVlIRqNIwGmhJeS3RCHQCLcB/s1600/giphy.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-R3Q1ahVPvfE/V2fj29jumGI/AAAAAAACQuU/GBiCoaKqPJMcNaVlIRqNIwGmhJeS3RCHQCLcB/s320/giphy.gif" width="320"></a></div>
<br>
Maternity leave, at least until your baby actually arrives, is a weird sort of limbo where you don't do anything, but feel as if you should be doing something.<br>
<br>
Make no mistake, last week was <i>sensational.</i> I was clocking two naps a day, snacking almost continuously from the fridge, and meeting up with mummy mates who don't work, for coffee and shopping breaks.<br>
<br>
Meeting mum friends for coffees, without the distraction of my 2 year old, is a first for me. While Sebby was at nursery, me and a mate cruised the aisles of Peter Jones in Sloane Square for Father's Day gifts and dribble bibs. I could actually go to a shop and <i>browse.</i> Look at shit. Walk. Stop for cake.<br>
It's a wonderful sort of purgatory, that you know will only be a matter of weeks, but it's more relaxing than any holiday I've taken in two years.<br>
<br>
I have also booked in the day I will have her. C section is booked in for 12 July. That's in <i>three weeks.</i> Yup, when I sit and really think about this, I freak out. In three weeks, it's going to be chaos. All this muffin-eating, shop-hopping, nap-having freedom - doing stuff for me - will abruptly be over. For years to come.<br>
<br>
This week, things have ramped up a little. My mother has come over, and we are starting to get into packing mode. We should hopefully be able to move on 29 June. We will know today or tomorrow for sure. I mean, we are inching so close to the finish line, I can smell the sweat. Just a few more signatures and we can go. I can almost touch and taste it. <i>COME ON.</i><br>
<br>
I just hope I can discipline myself enough to step back from the packing and boxing process, and let them get on with it. The Control Freak Me wants to watch everything, make sure nothing gets broken, bumped or stolen, and it's all packed into the right boxes. The Pregnancy 36-38 Week Mama Me knows that the best thing to do in this situation is back the fuck off and leave for the day.<br>
Having mum here is meant to help, but it's not helping like I'd hope: she stresses more than I do.<br>
<br>
In the big, wide world outside of our moving and baby bubble, the country is poised, on its knees, while the Leave and Remain campaigns rage on.<br>
The EU Referendum campaigning has really really annoyed me. You cannot trust a thing any politician has to say, as they are blatantly feathering their own nests, and, from both sides, throwing out inaccurate and misleading figures and facts. Both preying on fears; economy versus immigration.<br>
<br>
And let's not even go into the vicious murder of MP Jo Cox.<br>
<br>
While I've always been a 'mostly Remain' kind of girl, I have ventured across the line to Leave a few times. Then back again. Then on the fence. Then unsure. Now sure. I've entertained most scenarios. I believe most people have, and are. My Brit is still largely undecided, but leaning into Remain.<br>
<br>
I withdrew from listening to the debates with any seriousness a few weeks ago, and have only looked at third party or 'expert' opinions, and myth debunkers. I'm only listening to people who don't have an agenda, and who actually know what they're talking about. <br>
<br>
The conclusion I have come to is that both campaigns are inherently evil.<br>
<br>
While one we would cast a vote in complete darkness, not knowing the future; the other is casting a vote for something we know won't really change. (If Cameron hasn't managed to change it in his negotiations now, why would he if we continue to Remain?)<br>
<br>
So I've chosen to vote for the one I think is slightly less evil than the other; the one that has slightly more credibility and stability than the other, and the one that would suit mine and my family's needs for the future - because that's what this is about. The businessmen that support Remain do so because it is in their interests; Richard Branson, for example. So while Remain gets my vote on Thursday, it only <i>just</i> gets my vote.<br>
<br>
I'm in.<br>
<br>
I believe that the UK will remain in. The population tends to go for status quo; and the poster children for Brexit aren't exactly credible. Besides, I do dream of one day retiring in the sun in France or Spain if my final days allow me. <br>
<br>
And that's not because they branded my child with a sticker on the streets over the weekend. <br>
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(And no coincidence that he is sporting an ice cream moustache - of the authentic <i>Italian gelato </i>variety.)Peas on Toasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03349482085062035903noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10009339.post-75427249287382574862016-06-08T09:43:00.001+01:002016-06-08T09:52:04.205+01:00almost transition time<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
It's my second-to-last day at work. Crikey, I can't believe we're finally here. It feels like I've been scaling a vertical wall for the last few weeks; and when I walk it feels like I am moving my way through mud. I'm slow, shuffling and waddling, I break into a sweat, and getting anywhere is just not easy anymore.<br />
<br />
But here we are. A year stretches before me, sans office.<br />
<br />
I've decided to look at this as a job rotation this time round. While I may be swapping my 9-5 with caring for a baby, I'm transitioning into an entirely new job. <a href="http://mushypeasontoast.blogspot.co.uk/2014/09/24-hours.html" target="_blank">Maternity leave is not a holiday.</a><br />
<br />
I am merely doing a rotation; until summer next year. I'm scared. It is harder to be a full-time mum to a newborn than it is doing a job you know well, has a manual, you have years of experience in, and you can leave at the end of each day. Full-time motherhood is 24 hours, unpredictable, incessant, sleep-deprived firing-on-all-cylinders, <i>madness</i>, if I'm honest. It is hard, hard work.<br />
<br />
I'm girding my loins.<br />
<br />
Needless to say, I don't feel terrified to do this like I did the first time. I have done this before and survived; and I at least have some experience under my belt. I cried when I left work last time; knowing that my life was going to change forever. This time, my life is already changed. It's just going to get more intense. And there will be more than one child in the mix.<br />
<br />
Yeah, I'm scared. Can't lie. The juggle scares me. How will I tend to Sebastian while also tending to a baby, I hav<i>e absolutely no idea.</i><br />
My mother is coming over from South Africa for a while, and I will be relying on my husband <i>a lot. </i><br />
<br />
Seb might need to learn how to make himself a sandwich over the next few weeks.<br />
<br />
But not only that - how am I meant to teach him how to crap in his potty while trying to get my newborn to latch on? I just don't know how this will work, I can only trust that billions of mothers before me have managed, so will I.<br />
<br />
Then there's the other big thing happening, pretty much as I have my new baby. We are moving to our house. We are desperately hoping we have a week's grace period in between actual moving and me exiting 1 x human out of my abdomen. But the way things are going, I am imagining torrid scenes of my waters breaking while boxes are being hauled into our new abode, and/or fervent rummaging through my hospital bag, trying to find my TENS machine because I start getting contractions, brought on by stress.<br />
<br />
I would like a c-section, and earlier than my 40 weeks, because this way I feel like I have one element of control over this process. And the sooner I can hold her, alive and well, the sooner I will be able to stop worrying. Or this worrying will be taken over by new worries that aren't stillborn-related.<br />
<br />
We'll forget for a minute that we are moving into a three storey house with lots of stairs that I won't be able to climb for a few weeks because of the c-section.<br />
<br />
Tomorrow, my team and I are going for a lovely little high tea at the Sanderson Hotel as I bid adieu to overflowing inboxes, having to wear clothes that aren't made of tracksuiting, and things like high teas in the middle of the city. Phrases like:<br />
<br />
"This story is getting massive pick-up;" and<br />
"That will only aggravate the news cycle;" and<br />
"That's not part of our Q3 strategy, we can't prioritise that;" and,<br />
"He calls himself a journalist? This is nothing but clickbait piffle, I'm calling his editor."<br />
<br />
I'm swapping PR for BR. Babies Room.<br />
<br />
"What colour is her pooh meant to be at this stage, green or yellow?"<br />
"Have you steralised the teat?"<br />
"Ouch, my f$^cking nipple."<br />
"She smiled, didn't she? That was a smile. C'mon on my liddle widdle coodie woodie, smile for Mummy."<br />
<br />
<br />
I'm so excited to meet her. Peas on Toasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03349482085062035903noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10009339.post-5251941291488596472016-06-02T11:32:00.003+01:002016-06-02T14:06:52.533+01:00don't read the news if you're a motherSometimes you read something that really affects you, to the point where you cannot stop thinking about it, having flashbacks about it, feeling all the feels about it.<br />
<br />
Usually it's something shit, that you read in a shit, horrible paper. Like the Daily Mail.<br />
<br />
Well. For three days now, I feel like I actually have post-traumatic stress disorder. It's like I saw the story, and while not even managing to finish it for fear of having a mental breakdown, the bear facts scorched themselves deep into the recesses of my cranium.<br />
<br />
I shan't wish to spread this link anywhere, even though awareness and outrage is what this incident thoroughly deserves. In short, a story about a little boy in Scotland, 2 years old, called Liam. Who was so badly child abused, that the authorities say it's the worst case they've seen in years.<br />
<br />
I have a two year old boy. I am pregnant. So you can imagine that this would've gone down like a lead balloon with me to start with. I can't stop comparing Liam's little face with my own son's; I can't stop thinking about how small Liam's little jumpers were, what words he was saying, how he eats, how he cried, how he might've felt. Because my son is exactly Liam's age.<br />
<br />
He was the son to a woman, who had a lesbian lover. Together, they beat him so badly that they killed him. I shan't describe any more detail, because it makes me start shaking with rage, and when I did only have to glance over the unspeakable things done to him - detailed - gratuitously mind you - in the fucking Daily Mail and Sun - I had to walk out of the office and go home.<br />
<br />
Which is exactly what I did. I couldn't cope. I went home and sobbed for two hours. And as much as I want to stop thinking about this little boy, and the awful things they did to him, and the frustration, outrage, incomprehensible idea that while the nursery and childminder reported their suspicions to a social worker, it slipped through the cracks. And Liam never made it. And in some way, he was put out of his sheer, awful misery of suffering through every day with these appallingly inhumane and disgusting women.<br />
<br />
I have been to some dark places in the last three days. Unimaginable places where I freeze, and find it difficult to even breathe and then have a panic attack. Then physically shake myself out from thinking about this little boy and his cruel plight. How do I share an island with these beasts? How do I share a universe, a world?<br />
I'm stunned and just want to scream and beat my fists on the floor; how and why?!<br />
<br />
I can't read the news anymore. My job involves the news, we <i>make</i> the fucking news, but when it comes to subject matter involving mothers, child abuse, children, (like the refugee children drowning and being washed up on beaches in Turkey, like Aylan, the little boy everyone mourned for), I just can't do it. I actually feel like I need counselling.<br />
<br />
I trust you are at peace now little Liam. And that wherever your soul lies, you are finally free and finally protected. And may your 'carers' burn in the hottest, most evil fires of Hell.<br />
<br />
PS: And then there's the gorilla versus child versus parents story. And EVERYONE has to weigh in on that too, don't they. Peas on Toasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03349482085062035903noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10009339.post-18693983534461663342016-05-31T11:14:00.002+01:002016-05-31T11:23:10.733+01:00weekend by numbers<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>In a rare moment of tranquility, Sebastian contemplates the life of ducks.</i><b><i><br /></i></b></div>
<br />
<b>Seven - </b>the number of commutes I have left into work.<br />
<br />
<b>33 - </b>the number of weeks I am. Heightened awareness in comparing my last pregnancy - Molly had stopped growing now.<br />
<br />
<b>1 - </b>scan tomorrow. And possibly booking in the day this little baby will make her appearance.<br />
<br />
<b>1 - </b>'VBAC' appointment. In case I do go into labour before then, or suddenly decide I want to do this all via birth canal. (Vaginal Birth After C-Section. They tell me what to expect basically. And I will tell them in turn, that I expect an epidural and a shorter labour this time around, thanks.)<br />
<br />
<b>12 - </b>estimated number of tantrums Sebastian had this weekend, with the absence of his father. (The Brit went on a lad's winetasting weekend to Burgundy. Not resentful about this at all.) Sebby has now realised that there is, in fact, something growing in my massive belly, and has started waking up in the middle of the night to have a massive tantrum (these are especially fun at 3:00 in the morning), or otherwise throughout the day with screaming and hitting and kicking. Let's just say it wasn't the relaxing son-mother bonding bank holiday weekend I was hoping for, not through lack of trying.<br />
<br />
<b>4 - </b>the approximate time in weeks that we are told we may actually move into our new house. Give or take a few massive hurdles to jump before getting there; and crossing fingers these all come right.<br />
<br />
<b>5 - </b>the approximate time in weeks that I may have this baby.<br />
<br />
<b>1 - </b>entire chocolate swiss roll. I devoured. Myself. This weekend, unilaterally, out of boredom and stress. <br />
<br />
<b>800 - </b>the amount of times I thought about socialising/calling people/making an effort, and then realised that I couldn't be bothered. Too tired to bother. <br />
And that, in the near future, with a new baby and no time or sleep, the inclination to want to socialise would be even less, so actually I should just batten down the hatch and for the next five years, live comfortably as a hermit trying to survive through the exhaustion and feeds without feeling like I need to call anyone back.<br />
<br />
<b>1 - </b>that said, did see a lovely friend yesterday. An old friend from school, who bought along her children to play with Seb (who, with this distraction, was extremely well-behaved - obviously.) So sometimes it does help to make a <i>teensy</i> bit of effort. Sometimes.<br />
<br />
<b>1 - </b>whole year. That's how long I'm (likely) to be on maternity leave. It may be slightly less, but it may turn out to be a year. We will see how it goes. It's quite a long time off work....<br />
<br />
<b>3254759 - </b>Houzz and Pintrest boards I've created while fantasising about our new house.<br />
<br />
<b>98753876 - </b>tables I am fantasising about dining around.<br />
<br />
<b>567 - </b>annoying thoughts about people who always seem to somehow land their bums in the butter. <i>Without having to work too hard for it. </i>Somehow they managed to get the big house in the expensive area, the 2.0 kids with no birthing complications, who can be privately educated from when they're 4, the part-time working week, just like that. Because they're born rich. Or work in finance. While I don't believe we <i>aren't </i>privileged and lucky. I also feel like I work <i>my ass off. </i>Just to keep afloat. Just to pay the bills. Just to ensure the security of my children's future. To afford the mortgage on a house that we won't pay off until we are 75.<br />
Most of these folks have nannies, and/or extra help. It's not like a resent them - well actually, after this weekend I kind of do - it's just that I feel that with all the working in the world, I still wouldn't be able to afford that.<br />
<br />
And for some reason (read: pregnancy) this is really. Really. Ticking. Me off.<br />
<br />
Never thought I'd be one to say it, but: fuck the rich.<br />
Or the rich that just get whatever they want with minimal effort.<br />
<br />
<b>34</b> - feelings of guilt after sending Sebastian to the naughty corner at least five times this weekend.<br />
<br />
<b>7 - </b>the amount of times I've thought about sleeping in the last hour.<br />
<br />
<b>7 - </b>the amount of times I thought about the moment we meet our little girl for the first time, since I woke up this morning.Peas on Toasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03349482085062035903noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10009339.post-27374551018237839462016-05-19T15:22:00.001+01:002016-05-19T15:30:31.772+01:00counting down<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
I am officially counting down.<br />
<br />
As my temper rages, and my pregnancy hormones hijack my rational thoughts, I am counting down to maternity leave. I have 12 more commutable journeys in, and 12 more out. I have just over 3 weeks left at work.<br />
<br />
Three weeks feels like a fucking lifetime, thus I've broken it down into actual commutes and taken out the weekends.<br />
<br />
I'm not even going to try and explain why commuting on a tube packed full of aggressive Londoners that bash my bump is the tenth level of Hell, just believe me when I say it is.<br />
<br />
Everyday there is something else with our house. A new obstacle to overcome, or a new piece of paperwork we have to get someone to sign, or the mortgage broker wants to see something else, or something. My husband has taken on the brunt of all the to'ing and fro'ing in the hope to save me from having a complete meltdown, but things are slowly progressing.<br />
<br />
In our six house chain.<br />
<br />
And I have taken to Pintrest with a vengeance, feverishly pinning everything from modular kitchens to Farrow & Balled Welsh dressers to children's bedrooms.<br />
<br />
I simply can't help myself at this point. I'm desperate to nest, so I'm doing it virtually. I'm also filling up my eBay watch list with reclaimed dining room tables and vintage French mirrors.<br />
<br />
I'm obsessed.<br />
<br />
Then, on the other side of my brain, I'm thinking about far less shallow things. I'm 31 weeks this week. I thought I'd be more anxious this far into my pregnancy, but I'm actually surprisingly chilled. It helps that my hospital has me on a Code Red list, where I am booked in for a check-up or scan or test every two or so weeks at the moment.<br />
<br />
But I am also so very aware of her movements. I wait for certain times of the day when she kicks and take huge gratitude when she does. I just want to feel lots and lots of kicking. The Brit is also anxious and constantly asks me, "Have you felt her kicking today? When last did she kick?"<br />
<br />
Molly stopped growing at around 32-33 weeks, and this sticks in my mind. I want to know the measurements, I want to know that she is growing, and I want to know that everything is on course. I will be vigilant and watching.<br />
<br />
We have mostly settled on her names (her first and middle ones - for a long time we didn't know which to put first, and I am 99% certain...), and I am so so excited to meet her. Terrified for the c-section (if that does happen) and sad that Sebby's little world is going to crumble for a while, but I am looking forward to feeling more complete than I have for a while, knowing that my daughter is safe in my arms.<br />
<br />
I keep saying her name out loud; and her second name. Over and over again. It's so different from my first pregnancy when I didn't even know the sexes of my twins. This time I've made so much more meaningful, knowing she is a girl and therefore knowing her name. Whether this is a good idea or not, I can't help myself. <br />
<br />
I hope my brain remembers how to do everything newborn. I have not quite mentally prepared myself, as I haven't thought too deeply about the reality of it. The reality is: it's shit. The first few months are incredibly hard. The sleep deprivation, the routine, the endless and constant throng of feeds, latching on, nappies, rocking to sleep.<br />
<br />
I'm knackered as fuck now, so I can't imagine what it's going to be like when she actually arrives. I'm just going to try and roll with it. Whatever it brings.<br />
<br />
I feel so unprepared. I'm really solely relying on subconscious memory to kick in for this one. Peas on Toasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03349482085062035903noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10009339.post-71385188911152669302016-05-10T16:44:00.000+01:002016-05-10T16:44:04.480+01:00i'm alive<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
Everyone bangs on about how painful it is to get your wisdom teeth extracted, or how horrendous bronchitis and pneumonia are, or how undergoing active labour without anesthetic is, like, <i>the worst pain ever. </i><br />
<br />
Sure. I shan't dispute that.<br />
<i> </i><br />
When someone says "think of one of the most physically painful things that's happened to you," what do you think of?<br />
<i></i>Maybe a leg being torn off?<br />
Maybe less shocking and vitriolic; haemorrhoids. Ja. Those are pretty painful. A stye in your eyeball? Sciatica?<br />
<br />
All painful, but not diabolic.<br />
<br />
What I'm getting at here, is that there is an affliction that runs amok humanity, that is simply not documented enough.<br />
<br />
It's called <i>SINUSITIS. </i>I've italicised and capitalised because if you're sensible, you'll fucking memorise that. In your head. When you think it's going to explode like a fucking watermelon.<br />
<br />
'Oh, sinusitis?' you say. 'When you have a little bit of snot stuck in your face?' you say. 'When you have a little bit of snot and a little bit of post-nasal sniffles?'<br />
<br />
No. That is a <i>cold.</i> Sinusitis is the single most painful thing to happen to my face since I had my wisdom teeth taken out and they hadn't deployed the morphine yet.<br />
<br />
Oh, there is snot alright. But it's stuck. In your face. And it accumulates such that it exerts a force of pressure so acute, onto your molars, teeth, temples, eyeball sockets, brain, that you honestly believe - and wish - in your darkest hour - that you would just explode in a shower of mucus.<br />
<br />
The short story goes like this. I got a cold last week. I largely ignored it, because mother and because had stuff I had to get done at work, so I just trucked on.<br />
Over the weekend, we went out to enjoy the sunshine, and my head started to throb. The throb turned into a full-on, 'Oh my fuck, I think I have an abscess growing under my molar."<br />
And for the first time in this pregnancy, I took paracetamol.<br />
<br />
It just about took the edge off, for like an hour. But to say I didn't sleep at all for the last two nights is to speak the truth. I haven't. Not even with a cold, refrigerated gel pack pressed up onto my face.<br />
<br />
Apparently this face-fucking, molar-melting, mucus-manufacturing thing is more prevalent in women in their third trimester, [be warned, it's coming for you], so just want to put it out there.<br />
<br />
Everything you have learnt about pain is not largely a lie. But like how dinosaurs are omitted from the book of Genesis in the Bible, so is sinusitis omitted from the book of Common Everyday Painful Afflications.<br />
<br />
I'm on the antibiotics and the paracetamol. If I wasn't preggo, I'd be on the morphine. I'm not throwing shade on your own versions of pain; but don't judge until one side of your face is so swollen that you have to cut your food up into teensy little pieces because your mouth is too swollen to open properly.<br />
<br />
That's all.<br />
<br />
<br />Peas on Toasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03349482085062035903noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10009339.post-90506754705850414612016-05-04T13:59:00.002+01:002016-05-04T16:16:44.375+01:00five things i've found to be true<br />
<b>1) If you were big your first pregnancy; you'll be a whopper your second.</b><br />
"Surely you should've been bigger the first time as you were having twins?"<br />
<b> </b><br />
No. I am bigger the second time <i>because </i>I carried twins.<br />
Everyone is bigger second time round, I'm just a little bit bigger than they are. <br />
<br />
I was the size of a rhino by the end of my twin pregnancy. I am already the size of a rhino and I've only just hit the third trimester.<br />
<br />
My maternity jeans don't fit me. I've had to undo the buttons so I can sit down. I'm wearing maxi dresses the size of yurts. I appear to be bearing a baby <i>out of my ass.</i><br />
<br />
I am a big, fat, heaving mama. And while I'm only carrying one baby this time, it feels like I'm carrying 5.<br />
<i> </i><br />
Why is this so?<br />
Because, biologically speaking, your body has done it before. It's stretched itself to ginormous proportions, your stomach muscles might've slightly split the first time (like mine), and relaxin, the hormone that loosens your muscles sets in a lot sooner and quicker, so everything just kind of gets bigger and goes south.<br />
<br />
For those people who have had four kids and never had any type of reconstructive surgery? I don't believe you.<br />
<br />
<b>2) In the same sentiment as 1), you get tired quicker and your back hurts like f£%ck</b><br />
Relaxin again. I am battling to sit in one position for anything more than half an hour at the moment, and I'm only 28-29 weeks.<br />
My back has really taken strain this time around. Similarly, I am as tired as I was with the twins because I am running after a toddler when I'm not running after the press, at work.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>3) You will get sick when you feel 1) and 2), and your husband is away in Texas</b><br />
I'm clawing my way through this week by the string of a congested, gravely cough, hugely rotund, shell<b> </b>of myself, and there isn't enough Vitamin C in this world to take the edge off, even just a little bit.<br />
<br />
<b>4) While I should be focusing on my bump and baby, I'm instead stressing about whether we will have a house by then.</b><br />
The fun and games, chain of endless nightmares, continues.<br />
<br />
<b> </b><br />
<b>5) There's always a plus side</b><br />
I'm due to finish work in less than 6 weeks.<br />
I waddle around very slowly to conserve energy.<br />
I am excited. <br />
The sun is shining, and when you're pregnant your body temperature goes sky high, so I'm walking around in dresses made for the Costas.Peas on Toasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03349482085062035903noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10009339.post-10199578236818059702016-04-28T11:59:00.000+01:002016-04-28T11:59:07.810+01:00three yearsSome respite from our day-to-day lives yesterday: celebrating our <i>third</i> wedding anniversary.<br />
<br />
For a pregnant mama, it really was one of the best days spent. My husband pulled it out of the bag, and because the sun shone and<i> it snowed </i>yesterday (WTAF. It's practically May and it's it's farking snowing...), well, it was a very special day indeed.<br />
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Us three years ago. Look at our rested, skinny, happy little faces. No sleep-deprivation. No grief. Being 'fun' adults.<br />
How far we have come...and survived. Thus far.<br />
<br />
We driopped Sebastian off at nursery and had the entire day off all to ourselves. Just us two. It's a rare thing. I can't remember the last time we shared a breakfast together in a restaurant without having to ensure our child doesn't lob food onto the floor or squeal, "I don' wan' it."<br />
<br />Or walk around hand-in-hand through sunny central London stopping for a coffee, perusing shop windows, generally <i>browsing, </i>just taking the day in our stride.<br />
<br />
We started off at the Breakfast Club, a local place down the road from us for a stack of mile high pancakes and coffees. What good anniversary day doesn't start with a mahoosive breakfast?<br />
<br />
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Then, we headed on down to Carnaby Street, while taking in the shops along Regents Street - I simply never go to shops in town anymore, but here we were - where the Brit then turned to me and said he had a surprise; a top-to-toe 1.5 hours of pampering at the <a href="http://www.cowshedonline.com/spa/locations/uk/soho/carnaby" target="_blank">Cowshed.</a><br />
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It was sublime. My back is taking serious strain at the moment, so having some one scrub, buff, oil and massage me up is literally the best present he could've given me. (In turn, because it's our third anniversary, and third is 'leather,' - I got the Brit a buttery soft leather weekend bag. He needs one. And this one is flash, yet subtle.) <br />
<br />
I walked out on a cloud. We then headed over to Soho and had some pulled pork sliders, while watching the world go by in front of us.<br />
<br />
In the evening, the Brit had booked a sitter, and we went to a local restaurant he's always wanted to try for ages but we never have got round to it, one of those gourmet foodie types of places, which are difficult to get into, but this one not as pretentious as the menu suggests (The Manor, in Clapham).<br />
<br />
We did the taster menu, (not usually my bag; the Brit is definitely more of a refined foodie than I am. He loves this kind of stuff. Where they have to point out that the minuscule blob on my plate is in fact lemon puree, to pair with the teaspoon of monkfish sitting next to it,) albeit, I ate my words and the meal - it was delicious. <br />
<br />
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This is one of the starters of the 9 course taster menu; venison and pork and sage 'salumi' (apparently not a spelling error...), complete with chicken butter smeared on a rock.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://twitter.com/WeWantPlates?ref_src=twsrc^google|twcamp^serp|twgr^author" target="_blank">We Want Plates </a>would have a field day.<br />
<br />
Everything is served on a rock, piece of slate or Spanish floor tile. I find this all a bit over the top myself, but the meal was delicious.<br />
<br />
A happy anniversary, and everything the doctor ordered.Peas on Toasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03349482085062035903noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10009339.post-66756113042485859672016-04-25T11:45:00.001+01:002016-04-25T11:56:34.811+01:00pregnancy blues<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
I'm feeling a bit redundant and sad at the moment.<br />
<br />
<br />
Redundant because I am tired, can't perform at 100% at work, feeling like the world is going on without me, and in general, I find it hard to "check out" even if everything in my body is telling me to.<br />
I just can't not be involved in everything, and I just feel like I'm kind of the fat, pregnant lady sitting in the corner, not able to contribute on everything anymore, because I also leave work at 5pm on the dot to rush and see my son.<br />
<br />
Being the best at two things, mother and career, while pregnant, is an impossible feat. But it still makes me lie awake at night and wonder if it's all going to be OK.<br />
<br />
Last night, I tossed and turned - like how an elephant would. With effort. I have to wake up to turn my belly nowadays, there's nothing natural about the way in which I have to move while sleeping.<br />
<br />
All the thoughts were jumbling around, the usual thoughts that keep me awake at night, like, will we get this house, will we sell our flat, will we get our mortgage, will my baby be healthy and fine, can I ask for more scans starting now. Then, is any stab at making a contribution to society now gone forever? Being a working mum to one is difficult enough, but two? Is my career all but completely lost?<br />
I used to be that girl who got a book deal at 26, and got head-hunted for a job at one of the most successful companies in the world.<br />
These feats are nothing in comparison to being a mother, I love being a mother, in fact, perhaps too much so. Being a good mother now takes precedent over everything I do; nothing is more important to me.<br />
<br />
But I still feel sad and redundant. When everyone else goes for drinks together after work, but I can't because I'm pregnant and I need to get back to see my baby off to bed.<br />
When there's a late, but important, meeting I can't join because I need to pick up my baby from nursery.<br />
I can't fly to America for a big conference next month, alongside the rest of the team, as I'm too big/pregnant.<br />
I don't feel like I have my finger on the pulse; everyone knows more stuff than I do these days, because everyone else has more time to know these things.<br />
<br />
These are my choices, and I wouldn't have it any other way, don't get me wrong. My biggest priority are my children, hands down. But there's no doubt I miss out on all the things I used to love about my career - the team bonding, the gossip, the fun.<br />
<br />
And for someone who likes to over-achieve, and who likes to pull out all the stops, it's quite hard to embrace the back seat.<br />
<br />
Then there's something else happening. I'm currently poring through old videos of Sebastian when he was a little baby, and going through all of his baby clothes as I try to nest and somehow figure out a way of carving out some space for our new baby girl, if we are still to be in our flat when she arrives.<br />
<br />
Folding and refolding his old baby clothes, smelling them. Hating to part with some of them, but know I have to because she won't wear something with tractors all over it. (Well she would, wouldn't she. It's just me wanting to put her in dresses and pink cashmere...)<br />
<br />
<br />
I'm mourning him as a baby. I want Sebastian to always be my baby, but he's not going to be my baby anymore. And he isn't.<br />
He now says, "Bye mummy, see you later!" when I drop him off at nursery; the clingy stage was far from ideal, and it was heartbreaking leaving him there crying, but I also feel like he is suddenly independent and doesn't need me around so much anymore.<br />
<br />
I also know, that if I have a healthy, bonny baby in July, this will be the last time. Which means I'll never have a little boy baby again. This all sounds so silly, but because I love little boys so much, I am sad that I'll never have the chance to have another baby boy again. I only want two children. In some ironic way, I have now managed to have 3 children, but you know what I mean.<br />
<br />
I miss my baby boy, and I am feeling completely emotional that I'll never get these years with him back.<br />
<br />
All I can do is try to plod forward - but try, I mean try and not bang my head against a wall out of frustration because I can't organise or plan anything right now - and focus on my growing baby girl.<br />
<br />
I can't wait to meet her. If only my heart didn't feel so sad for Sebastian.<br />
<br />
Is this all normal? Probably not. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Peas on Toasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03349482085062035903noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10009339.post-44011477536116105002016-04-18T14:10:00.004+01:002016-04-18T14:19:06.761+01:00nesting syndromeWhile Housegate rages on, something else has started happening.<br />
<br />
I've hit 26 weeks; and perhaps it's my sheer size, but the need to nest has suddenly kicked in.<br />
<br />
And it's driving me <i>absolutely bananas.</i> No, I think I might need psychological assistance.<br />
<br />
We've realised that at this point, we won't be in a house by the time the baby comes. Which means we'll inevitably move with a newborn and toddler.<br />
<br />
You don't understand. I am <i>fretting something chronic. </i><br />
<br />
And the need to nest is now so strong - it really is an actual thing - that I have been at work 6 hours and yet to be able to concentrate on anything, except this:<br />
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<i> </i>These are the jumbled thoughts of storage and compartmental obsession that are on cyclical loop and taken hostage of my brain right now.<br />
<br />
Those are meant to be flow diagrammes to arrange my thought processes.<br />
They won't make sense to a normal, stable human being, but perhaps other pregnant women can decode it.<br />
<br />
It's pregnantese for "Help me I need to organise stuff or I might chew my first off."<br />
<br />
The Brit: OK, don't worry. Don't panic.<br />
<br />
Peas: [hyperventilating] [trouble breathing] <is a="" attack="" is.="" it="" panic="" this="" yes=""></is><br />
<br />
The Brit: We can use my wardrobe. I can live out of a suitcase for a while. I'll come to work in the same clothes everyday like Zuckerberg.<br />
<br />
Peas: [Heavy breathing] That's sweet. Thanks.<br />
<br />
The Brit: We can put stuff in storage for a while.<br />
<br />
Peas: It all needs to be accessible. The issue here is that he needs to be able to get to his stuff on a daily basis, and she needs lots of stuff easily accessible too. Which means it needs to be in one place all arranged. For toddler meltdowns and newborn poonamis.<br />
<br />
Then I start sweating and go back to my diagramme.<br />
<br />
Please can we sell our flat soon please can we sell our flat soon please please please.Peas on Toasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03349482085062035903noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10009339.post-70774857931769031362016-04-11T15:17:00.002+01:002016-04-11T15:29:02.632+01:00buy a house. or die trying.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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This is what has happened on our Buy A House front:<br>
<br>
Found a house.<br>
Put in an offer.<br>
Offer got accepted.<br>
Put our flat on the market.<br>
Got an offer in.<br>
Accepted their offer.<br>
<br>
Three months pass. Waiting for our house people to find a house.<br>
<br>
Our buyers pull out.<br>
Because one little graduate twerp at the bank [Lloyds. C$nts] wrongly valued our flat <i>twice.</i><br>
Buyers remove mortgage with Lloyds.<br>
Our people find a house.<br>
They get pressure from their new house sellers to start moving.<br>
They try to bribe them by saying they'll wait if they pay them £10 000. [Yes. Really.]<br>
They tell them to fuck off.<br>
Nevertheless, 'our' house people are forced to put their house back on the market.<br>
<br>
[No irony here: we waited 3 months for them to find a house, only to have them now put 'our' house back on the market because they can't wait for us to find a new buyer...]<br>
<br>
The market, in the meantime, has slowed down due to the referendum, housing bubble, property stuff.<br>
In those 3 months.<br>
Which means we now have to <i>reduce</i> the price that we are selling. By around £35 000. [I'm chewing my fist as I write this, while simultaneously holding my ever-burgeoning belly.]<br>
Feverishly crunch numbers.<br>
Can we still afford 'our' house if we sell for asking price, and that's even if no one else puts in a higher offer in the meantime, which means we may get into a bidding war?<br>
<br>
Might I remind the world - if indeed one gives a shit - that I am due to have 1 x human exit my body in July. If not sooner.<br>
<br>
I am stressed and wondering how we will fit this extra human into our flat; while the Brit is manstruating, because there is no other appropriate word to verbalise at how he is coping with this either.<br>
<br>
So that's where we are in terms of trying to adult and move on with our lives to bigger, greener spaces.<div><br></div><div>Stress is tangible.<br>
<br>
In the interim we've celebrated Sebby's second birthday with a party that involved a cake so delicious, we all had glazed eyeballs for three hours afterwards.<br>
It was cute as fuck.<br>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Not high. But close.</i></div>
<br>
<b>He hasn't tantrummed for ages too, which is fairly gratifying. </b>Perhaps it's because I'm getting the hang of what might tick him off now, and when. I know I won't avoid them pointe blank, but I have to say bribing is a very useful skill to have as a parent of a 2 year old.</div><div><br></div><div>No one should be adverse to blackmail. Seriously.<br>
<br>
Me: Right, we are going to nursery now Sebastian! Hooray! Come and get in your buggy.<br>
Sebastian: No, don' mon it. ['I don't want' it applies to most things]<br>
Me: Do you want some RAISINS?<br>
Sebastian: Mummy, raisins please?<br>
Me: OK, get in your buggy first.<br>
<br>
He climbs in.<br>
<br>
Sebastian: Mummy raisins now.<br>
<br>
Me: No problemo, knock yourself out. [Hands him raisin box.]<br>
<br>
The other thing I've noticed is that if he says he doesn't want something, he actually means <i>I do want it.</i> It's just that he wants it five seconds after he's said he doesn't want it.<br>
<br>
Sebastian: Don' need it Mummy. [Hands me dummy after sleeping.]<br>
Me: What a good boy! That's right you don't need it, you're a big boy.<br>
<br>
[Put it back on shelf]<br>
<br>
Sebastian: NO NO NO, DUMMY! MUMMY GIVE ME DUMMY! [Roars/cries]<br>
<br>
[Hand it back to him. He immediately shuts up. Has a good suck. And then, twenty seconds later:]<br>
<br>
Sebastian: Here mummy, don' need dummy.<br>
<br>
And we do this a few times. Until I bribe him with raisins.<br>
<br>
<br>He's also become annoyingly cute when it comes to the Naughty Corner.<br>
<br>
Me: Sebastian, you throw your spoon ONE MORE TIME and you're going to the naughty corner.<br>
<br>
Sebastian: No naughty corner. I don' mon it.<br>
<br>
Me: Don't throw your spoon then.<br>
<br>
Sebastian: No throw boon. MY boon.<br>
<br>
[Throws it.]<br>
<br>
Me: Fine, off we go to the naughty corner.<br>
<br>
Sebastian: No no no! Mummy hugs? Hugs mummy. Throws little arms around my neck. Clings on for dear life.<br>
<br>
I melt. And we hug it out. The end.<br>
<br>
<b>Then finally, conversation I had in Primark this afternoon. </b><br>
<br>
She Who Also Loves Tweed accompanied me to go and buy myself some extraordinarily large pants.<br>
By pants, I mean: <br>
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<b></b><br>
<br>
Because my bottom currently only houses half a pant at a time. In that, the current status of my ass is such that a normal pair of pants fits around only one butt cheek.<br>
<br>
<i>Je suis enorme.</i><br>
<br>
I am growing a baby out of my backside.<br>
<i> </i><br>
So I take a set of three ginormous XL 'full' pants up to the till, which is being manned by a fellow that looks like Jimmy Saville with a pageboy haircut.<br>
<br>
I also have a pair of maternity pajamas, of which he thinks are perfect material to start firing off some bants.<br>
"You don't even have to hoick these up," he says, flashing me a massive, but creepy smile, "as there is a functional placket<i> built-in."</i><br>
(What is that even?)<br>
<i> </i><br>
"It's so the midwives have easier access...you don't need to hoick anything up, the seams come undone."<br>
<br>
Brilliant. Then he picks up the pants. Starts waving them around.<br>
<br>
"Ooh look, XL ey?"<br>
<br>
Oh God. Just put them in the bag Jimmy.<br>
<br>
"Bet you never had to wear XL before ey?"<br>
<br>
Oh for God's sake Jimmy, don't make me tell you about my haemorrhoid. Just put 'em in the bag, stop waving them around. <br>
<br>
He meant well, but as anyone would know: pants don't equal bants.<br>
<br>
Especially if they're XL.</div>Peas on Toasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03349482085062035903noreply@blogger.com7