Hold Me Close, Tiny Mama

Mermaids & Lingerie

2010-06-25T12:34:00.000-07:00

Went to Westfield today, which basically took the whole day (poor D-Bubz!) Anyway, I bought up most of the stock on offer, including a visit to Rigby & Peller who are currently having a sale. I have always coveted their undies, in particular that kind of scaffolding-like corsetry that Gok Wan loves to squeeze his banger-tastic ladies into on his makeover show.

So I found myself a couple of cheeky little numbers (a few stages down from the actual scaffolding, thank christ) going for a vastly reduced price, and waited with an increasingly irritated baby for the salesgirl to get off the phone (no-one else visits without arranging a fitting, apparently) and give me the damn bras before I got even sweatier contemplating my overdraft and left.

Eventually she was done, and I thought I'd better ask, notorious as I am for changing my mind, if they were returnable. Looking like she was about to burst into tears at the very notion of that kind of thing, she shook her head sadly and mumbled something about exchanging. "Well that's OK then" I said, "I can come and change them for something else if they're no good". At this, she looked even more sorrowful. "No exchanges either. If you buy it, you can't exchange or refund". It was a bit like the scene at the end of Splash where Tom Hanks is getting all excited thinking he can go and become a merman and live with Daryl Hannah but still come back and visit his fun brother John Candy in the holidays, and she's shaking her head no, no because he can't ever come back, not ever, it's either/or (presumably the tail would be a hindrance).

So, it got me thinking. Do mermaids, specifically New York-based ones, wear underwear? No, SATC impresh over, it didn't. But it did make me think about Splash, one of the best 80s films featuring a crimped mermaid ever. In fact, THE best. I watched that film so many times as a pre-teen that I was single-handedly responsible for destroying my mum's VHS video player. I even memorised the lyrics to the song at the end, recorded it onto cassette so I could listen to it anytime (its a terrible dirge, btw, called 'One Fine Day'), and spent many hours squinting into the sea-bed at the end deciding I could definitely see Mermaid City in the distance. Never mind that these days, Daryl Hannah is more often to be found smoking a zoot up a tree than being a fish, just as Tom Hanks spends much more time being jowly and unmasking dastardly religious cover-ups while being pursued by crazy monks, than he does running around Cape Cod trying to drown himself and yelling "Madison!" Which pretty much sums up how wrong its all gone since then.....ah 1984, you weren't sinister at all.

Takes one to know one...

2010-05-04T04:22:00.000-07:00

Catching sight of my reflection earlier - hair pulled back into knot, black tux jacket - I suddenly wondered if I was channelling Stella McCartney or, possibly worse, Kate Moss (never good to channel eye bags and too many fags, iconic face or no) and then I remembered that I am actually channelling Kate Winslet, so it's okay. (She too is a semi-secret smoker, I believe, as are Cheryl Cole, Kelly Brook, Paris Hilton, Emma Bunton and many others I don't know about, but she seems to be getting away with it so far.)

Except I don't have an Oscar to accessorise with, so I'll have to make do with my baby, who is golden only in terms of his hairline and aura (only?), and not think about the scarcity of comparisons between my life and hers....at least I've less divorce and children by just one the father, which makes me pretty much the aristocracy (doesn't it?)

Still, it made me think. Stella is around my generation, albeit a few years older than I (only three), and there she is heading up her latest collection, this time for the lucky kiddies whose parents shop at Gap Kids (and who are not averse to parting with £35 for a 1-season t-shirt), the latest in a long line of profitable collaborations and successful womenswear collections for the smug Beatle's daughter. And yes, I am aware that she was pretty lucky in terms of whose offspring she is, as its undoubtedly helped her to get where she is today, no matter what her people would tell you.

And her mate Kate is more of an entrepreneur than mere model; her friendship with tycoon Philip Smith and their Top Shop love-in is clearly based on more than his cash and appreciation of her as resident clothes-horse plaything - they're twin souls in terms of their cold-hearted business reach, and probably stay up til 4am discussing their respective plans for world domination, as if either were not already rather familiar with that concept in their fields. But they are difficult women to channel despite all that I know that is negative regarding them and their privileged circle - Winslet, whilst she'll have you believe that she, too, is one of the girls - just a working mum who has no time to play the drama diva at home - is as much a part of this circle as the others, and throwing on a black jacket and a hairband is where the channelling ends for me - mine has baby sick on the shoulder, and is sported to take the baby to the park. But somehow in the doing I absorb a bit of the sheen in my own little neighbourhood way.....at least I like to think so...

Ah the election. Daily spam count (which is 80% Tory, a bit like our road) is numbering x4 missives a day!

Cleanin out ma closet

2010-04-26T03:17:00.000-07:00

I spent the weekend reorganising my wardrobe, bedroom, and life in general, barely emerging from trackie pants until Sunday night's shower when my hair rediscovered the fact that it is, indeed, blonde, and not a dusty dark brown. I also found some old pics, which is always licence to waste a happy half hour reminiscing...in this case, the pictures of Brazil in 2004, including my 30th bday stay in a rather fabulous old colonial pousada in the city of Olinda (I used to want to call a daughter that, and D-Bubz could have ended up as Recife (pronounce the R like an H) if he were similarly unlucky. I have big hair, and a bigger hot tub. Anyways, it feels great to know that all my winter clothes are banished, and even my currently-too-small-summer-clothes have a place (bottom left side of bottom drawer). I've got rid of two whole binbags to charity, and am feeling very clothes-detoxed.

Also spent some of the weekend in the garden with the bubz, who had a lovely time playing with our neighbour's little girl, getting into practise for the arrival, a week late due to volcanic ash clouds, of his big sis this Wednesday. I can't wait for her to see how much he's changed, so that's going to be a lot of fun, and am expecting lots of moments like this one with Mehlina:

...he loves little girls and being mothered by them, and is incredibly docile as they drag him onto their laps etc.

Anyway, I never mentioned that D-Bubz is now a bona fide model, with a Littlewoods shoot under his belt. I registered him with an agency some time ago, but have been unable to go to a casting until they texted with one a few weeks back that wasn't too far from me, so off we went, Grandma (who was staying) in tow. It took place in a studio in SW London and was relatively painless: he just had to try on a couple of outfits and grin at the photographer. Later that day, I caught Grandma flicking disparagingly through a babywear catalogue and saying somewhat darkly: "There's that Archie from the audition, pretending to be a girl under that pink blanket - says it all really" to D-Bubz, who didn't look too worried.

We got a call on the Sunday night that they would like him to come to Hove (Hove!!) the next day to take part in the shoot. Of course we couldn't say no, but it was a major mission driving down there on a Monday am, but eventually we got to the stunning location house right by the sea. It prompted a major fit of lifestyle jealousy on behalf of all the parents who were there (all pretty nice I must say, though Archie wasn't there - guess we pipped him to the post). There was a Monty, a Kitty, a Kiki and a Reuben. And my Dylan, the only one who couldn't sit up un-propped. Later that day, after a quick sojourn at the beach and on our ridiculously congested journey home, I got a call saying they wanted to use him again the next day back at the audition studios, so off we went again. Unfortunately, despite him doing his solo shot like an absolute pro, none of the crying which the other bubs were indulging in, the photographer couldn't get rid of a shadow on the background of his shots (he was lying down while the other precocious snotbags were sitting), thus all the potential outfits for him to wear after that were taken away for the arrival of the next boy baby, and my dreams of seeing him all over the Littlewoods catalogue all dashed, bar the one group shot from the Hove shoot. I'd also left my wallet in the car when I was dropped off, so had to beg for assistance and was granted a cab home (it was amazing actually and far beat getting public transport so thanks to the production team), which just added to my sense of being a stressed mum about town who forgot to wipe the puke of her shoulder.....anyway, not heard from the agency since, so just waiting for the cheque.

In other news, D-Bubz is now taking the odd bottle of formula, and seems to suddenly love it - hallelujah! With the slight drawback that as I'm using Nannycare goat milk formula (available in health food shops), when he voms it smells of goats cheese. But hey, at least I'm not having to get them out 4x times a day, its down to x3....far more discreet I must say....

Mother In The Hood xxx

2010-04-25T00:17:00.000-07:00

Torn between Supernanny USA or George Lamb's breakfast slot on 'surely they can't bin it' Radio 6 this am, I wisely plumped for the latter and got the usual excellently eclectic mix of old and new inc some seriously booty-shakin' disco. I always want to note down half the tracks although that's rather more like studying than entertainment. D-Bubz has feasted on water with watermelon juice, porridge, yoghurt and banana so I am feeling like a good parent, but this is often a temporary state. I can make myself cry just thinking about my failings thus far, and am not sure whether listing them here will be cathartic but for the record they include, 1) using baby wipes within days of his birth (you should only use water and cotton wool but the sink in his room wasn't connected to the mains and so I found out too late after our plumber's departure that I really needed hot water in there - that's actually a major failing on its own). 2) Giving him Cow & Gate non organic baby porridge at 4 months, instead of expressing milk and giving him Organix or something - when I switched, his poo got noticeably lighter. 3) Going silent and abstracted whilst engaged in changing or dressing him, often ignoring him for minutes on end. 4) These suddenly sound very trivial and I can't for the life of me remember the others right now, which is probably a good thing.

"The hallucinations were growing. Now, every time she turned from unloading the dishwasher in either the morning or dusk light, he was there, for a second. She had given up trying to ascribe this to a trick of the light, or her over-fertile imagination, it was too frequent and the clarity of the visions too strong. She was definitely being haunted, and the ghost was definitely him. She sensed no malice, but ever time her stomach churned with adrenalin, he seemed close enough to touch, to talk to, to push. But there was no way she was moving, or talking, or shoving."

Flying without wings

2010-04-24T00:34:00.001-07:00

Aside from the obvious issue of crushing the travel dreams of millions, not to mention making it tricky for acai berry devotees to get their fix down at that there Selfridges, it felt pretty amazing to see nothing but blue, blue skies for a whole six days (as well as just a tad eerie, but as a child of the action blockbuster, I quite like the feeling of the calm before the armageddon). As the world's planes were grounded, out came the sun, and The Orb's 'Little Fluffy Clouds' was oft to be heard in our garden (about as close to the husky-voiced angel from that track I'm ever going to get, unless the (clearly loving it) Icelandic prime minister is right and that was simply a rehearsal for the big performance to come imminently, in which case we'd all better get a little more seafarin' in our ways).

The D-Bubz, of course, had no idea why we were all getting so worked up about the lack of vapour trails, and continued to be gamer than Stu Francis post-cabbage hurl. Apart from when emitting puppy style whimpers, although what better excuse for acting like a baby than being one? So every time he looks at me imploringly while doing his best impression of the Andrex labrador pup, I remember that one day he'll be the one trying to get me to let go of his hand and refusing to submit to any PDAs. These are golden times, and whatever lies ahead - be it the end of air travel, the rising of the tides or the loss of the global bee population - my boy will face it bravely, and I will be by his side.

The Divine Miz

2010-04-21T01:52:00.000-07:00

I watched last night's 'The Delicious Miss Dahl", or whadeva it's called, with a mixture of screaming lifestyle envy and disbelieving hilarity (esp when they filmed her winsomely wandering with a pout on reciting poetry), but by the end I had grudging admiration for her and her array of "transporting" (she said it many times just so we'd get it) travel-inspired dishes from variously India, Mexico and New England (her granny lives in Martha's Vineyard doncha know). Not sure what dish I could conjure up in memory of my dear departed gran and her one-room bungalow in Southcote, Reading, but it certainly wouldn't be clam chowder - more like toffee-flavoured blancmange made with gold top milk, and you'd take out your teeth to eat it, but that's by the by.

What the BBC have cottoned onto with their blatant and effective creation of the nation's New Nigella TM, is that not only can Sophie talk chicken brothy froth with a nice line in intelligent delivery, but she has the anecdotes to back it up; whereas Nigella would never rhapsodise quite so eloquently re the joys of being crap at making rice, she's too busy being perfect while we're too busy wondering if she really does have blowtorch attachments on her breasts (great for the tops of creme brulee). Sophie, however, can empathise, even if it is from the lofty position of moneyed successful model turned slightly odd writer, turned, with a definite whiff of home-cooked inevitability, into the new titillating female chef on the (marble, Magnet) block. How many male chefs are there who combine the qualities of marinading and pulchritude to such an extent? The answer is zero, and I bet none of them have grannies in Martha's Vineyard either.

Am off to see if I can find her recipes online - her dahl (geddit?), sweet potato and lemon pilau looked, as was suggested, like the perfect Sunday night dinner, and if I can cook it, maybe I'll turn into a rich and successful renaissance woman too?

Ella's Orgasmic Crack Den

2010-03-31T01:01:00.001-07:00

I've come a long way since the days when I imagined motherhood to be a combination of sleepless psychosis, uncontrollable weeping and functional footwear. In fact, I have got to the point where I can definitely agree that having a baby can be very empowering, and its a beautiful thing to feel my confidence increase by the day. The boy is flourishing, British Summertime has officially kicked off and everything in the garden (especially the camelia bush, which has just bloomed rather gloriously) is lovely.

But I have a confession to make. I have purchased ready-made baby food. To be precise: brightly-coloured squeezy tubes of fruit and vegetable purees going under the rustic sounding banner of 'Ella's Organic Kitchen'. Ella, bless her, is the sweet Charlie and Lola-alike on the website, and some might say excellent marketing tool for her caring daddy who is now (apart from, presumably, rather minted) committed to bringing Britain's babies the right kind of nutrition without any of the yucky add-ons which previously characterised the options for Parents Who Don't Make Their Own.

I would like to emphasise that I am not one of those, oh no. But I bought a few one day to try as they looked tres handy for 'on the move' type scenarios, and indeed they were, plus the D-Bubz LOVED them, although I was slightly disturbed that the Carrot, Parsnip & Apple one smelled of Bloody Marys. However, I have since realised that to buy these for my little darling is akin to a day out at the races with Beelzebub without a padlock for your soul, because these cutesome snacks are actually very misleading, and contain much more fruit than veg in the youngest age bracket - ie, Broccoli, Pear & Pea was 78% pear, 14% pea, and a measly 8% of the brocc stuff. So they should really call it 'Pear, Pear, more Pear and a Smidge of Greenery'. This is really not acceptable and explains only too well why the kiddies take to them with such alacrity (I know a woman whose one year old refuses to eat anything else - in his world, it's fruity puree forever - he even slurps them from the carton like a tiny junkie).

Anyway, I have decided that buying the fruit-only ones is no problemo, so the D-Bubz continues to feast on Banana & Apples (but not Strawberry & Apples, which I won't buy on principle as its only 8% strawberry). But seriously: how minted is Ella's daddy? Answers on a flattened puree pouch...

Procrastinate much?

2010-03-16T06:31:00.000-07:00

Long time no blog, for various reasons involving tiredness and/or babies. I would elaborate but in these flakey times (socially, not skin, though I suppose either is valid), not much explanation is required of me re the gap between what I plan to achieve and what I actually do. This is mainly because I am at liberty to say something like "Sorry I couldn't do it/get there/send it, my breasts were overflowing into milk pails and had the feel of concrete bunkers" or "The baby had screamed for so many hours the previous night that I slept nary a wink, and was forced to neck several Prozac and a whisky/formula cocktail", and then whoever was doing the asking would wish they hadn't. So all my deadlines are moot, because the one thing I have to without question achieve that day - feed, wash, change, entertain and deal with all other issues pertaining to my boy - takes precedence over everything else.

For example, I recently tried to send a package to a friend. When I finally got around to sealing it and queueing at the post office counter to send it, it had assumed such monstrous proportions in my mental to-do list that I completely forgot I wasn't really ready to part with the contents (some of D-Bubz's old clothes). Thus the subsequent days consisted of me trying to bite back sentimental tears every time I thought of his little cardigan and vests, which wasn't really the effect I was going for. Then there's my plans to a) sell stuff on ebay (it helps if you actually post the items), b) become my partner's manager and organise various PR strategies to shoot him into the meeja stratosphrere (it helps if you can persuade him this is a good idea) and c) which is the sub-project of another project I am mentally project-managing and has raged out of theoretical control (it helps if you have a more concise project).

Other, lesser priorities which are constantly being re-shifted down to somewhere near the bottom of the whole hellish pile include finding somewhere else to live (it must be near a coastline, have several acres yet be close to good hairdressers and Japanese restaurants - year round sunshine would also help); getting rid of some of my books (this has been on the list for some years now, so post-baby the odds of this actually happening are around 1 gagillion:1); and of course writing my book. HA. I have, to this end, penned several synopses and chapters of various fictional scenarios, but the problem appears to be keeping up my momentum. So obsessed am I getting with the whole fiction conundrum (lacking: a room of one's own), that my dream last night featured me running around getting into scrapes whilst trying to write them all down in a notebook. Ever since my MA in Creative Writing at Goldsmiths College (which I finished in 2002), I have been lurching from one creative non-event to the next, until the chances of me actually finishing said book seem about as likely as me becoming a keen daily body brusher.

However. I have spent the last few days, since visiting my mum with the D-Bubz, thinking about my dad. Part of my MA course involved me writing about him: his premature death from MS in 1980, his career in computer technology, working for Rank Xerox who later became IBM, and being present at events such as the viewing of the first robot. His time in Germany as a Jewish man who refused to let post-war racial nervousness dent his equilibrium (he famously turned up for his first day running the systems office in Dusseldorf wearing a brown shirt, and cheerily remarking "Not many Jews in today, are there?" as he bounced through the door. His strange encounter with Yoko Ono (which involved a table cut in half, and the fact that he got bad vibes in the manner of seeing his ex-wife). His friendship with Bill Gates, and other influential figures in the world of late 60s/early 70s technology. And more, much more.

My pompous memoir turned into magical realism (his ghost came back as a young man, unfortunately replicated in recent chick lit novel 'Twenties Girl' by Sophie Kinsella, which is distressingly good, although very different from my own idea apart from the central 'young ghost' theme), and now, many years of procrastination and denial later, seems to be turning itself back into a memoir. Whether this is as precursor to a more exciting fictional/script outing, I cannot say. But one thing is for sure: while I may have just celebrated my first Mother's Day, it is daddy cool who is on my mind. The McGarrys have a motto: spe labore fide, which means 'a strong man is a good man'. Lets hope that one day I can finally do that long-departed strong, good man some literary justice - or at the very least, recount the hilarious tale of the Kit-e-Kat curry...

Shoes, solids and a big hello to the Source

2010-02-16T03:15:00.000-08:00

Hola folks! Its good to know that I am now out and proud for the gorgeous (seriously, you look fab today: loving the hair) readers of www.thesourcemag.net to peruse at will. I solemnly promise to try and entertain you in between bursts of self-obsessed vitriol and shoe lust and the like, not forgetting the many twists and tangents which reflect the flighty state of my postnatal mind. I started this blog (ugh, I know - its a terrible word, have been thinking so ever since my friend Josie pointed it out, and now I'd quite like to rename it something less reminiscent of berks in lumberjack shirts) because I love to write, don't do it enough, and felt that waxing comical re being a ditzy new mum could be fairly appropriate when living in an area so brimming with bundles of joy that they're as common as a sperm at a wife swap. So in short: welcome, wilkommen, bienvenue, shalom - it's great to be here *does cyber-skip*.

Now: shoes. Don't worry, am not one of these SJP types who wears my Louboutins (or even owns Louboutins) to Sainsburys of a morning, but this week I have had a MAJOR shoe moment (and yes, I feel like a tit for saying "major shoe moment"). Was taking a stroll down Portobello Market, thinking about the shadowy mogul types trying to take over the area by means of stealth purchase; a very depressing muse which led to a dash into Office to check out the sale rack. And there they were: one pair of purple, snakeskin sandals in the multi-strappy, vertiginous style which has been a la mode ever since I got knocked up; distant, mythical symbols of girlydom which have got me weeping with lifestyle jealousy when flicking through the fashion pages of any publication. And there they were. In my size. Marked down from £80 to £10. Wowzers.

So of course I had to have them: at that price, its worth it just to have them casually lying around the living room as if at any moment I could be about to slip them on with a sparkly shrug and an oversized (though not quite large enough to stow a changing mat) clutch. Just listen to the online description: "Super-tough but sexy strappy slingbacks with a skyscraper of a stiletto heel. Series of straps and buckles link up to a gladiator-style leather front to make a serious statement." Does that piece of provocative alliteration sound anything like the shoes required by a new mum-not-really-about-town? They are divine, and I have literally no use for them whatsoever. Unless you count wearing them to feed the D-Bubz his porridge (which I have), or teaming them with ski socks for some classic 'lounging @ home' chic (which I haven't...yet).

Seriously, I don't know when I'll next be dancin', really dancin' (and wouldn't be, in spiky 4-inchers, for long - I'm not a Saturday, or even Girl Aloud), or going to a semi-posh party. In fact, the D-Bubz has yet to encounter any kind of babysitter. So to commemorate my first Source blog and ensure these bad girls get a public airing at some point, can anyone suggest a suitable venue that's both child-friendly and uber-glam? (All suggestions welcomed.) This whole shoe episode just reminds me that I should be reading Home & Garden, not Glamour: I feel like I've taken voluntary fashion redundancy and am now in a river in Egypt. Ooh, chunky bangles! Very practical when you risk giving your wee boy a shiner every time you pick him up. Little halterneck number! Fabulous with a nursing bra. Latest eyeshadow trend! Just what you need at Baa-Baa Babies. I could probably wing it through my days with nothing more than some concealer and a good pair of boyfriend jeans, although where's the fun in that? So I continue with my purchasing and flicking through the mags and cooing at anything sparkly: delusion, it's so 2010.

In other news, D-Bubz is now On Solids. This doesn't mean he is ordering steak cooked medium rare and casually butter-and-salting bread rolls; rather, he is now the enthusiastic consumer of baby porridge, and it's quite a milestone in his young life. It's also quite a scary one for moi: not only do I now have to keep stuff sterilised, but am starting to realise the extent of his appetite. I am going to be feeding him pretty much forever, and the worst thing is, I think I like it. But it's yet another reminder that my gorgeous little boy won't be little for long - the strange thing about motherhood, which no-one really mentions, is the slight sadness marking every development. Like when his baby hair suddenly fell out at 4 weeks to be replaced soon after by his proper hair; I actually cried. Bittersweet, it is, and I am trying to savour every moment, every tiny change.

In other other news, I am increasingly concerned by The State Of Our House which is reaching crisis point - the heap of clothes in my bedroom has recently acquired a small flag on its summit - and so I think it could be time to bite that crunchy metal bullet and phone a friend. To get her cleaner's number. But cleaners and me, we don't really work. I remember my mum having one when I was younger: a total glamazon with waist-length blonde hair and improbably long scarlet nails for someone in the habit of wielding a hoover for others. She was also sarkier than Russell Brand after a shag-free week, which I took as a side-effect of having to sort out our washing. Anyway, she scared the beejesus out of moi, and that was the end of my cleaner experience until many years later, when sharing a house with three other women, all reluctant to do the bathroom on a regular basis, when we enlisted the services of another glamazon, this time the nearly-6-foot, basketball playing Scandinavian Iva, who mopped her way like a towering whirlwind for several hours every other Friday. I was so mortified about having her come when I was, to all intents and purposes, a student, that I would hide away to avoid having to communicate with her athletic and capable (yet slightly English language-challenged) self, but we developed quite a good relationship in the end, based on me skulking and her jumping out at me.

Iva's days were sadly numbered when she gave Carys' trailing spider plant a geometric bob without asking (to be fair, it was taking over the kitchen), which we only found out after each housemate had been interviewed re said plant bobbing and all sworn we hadn't touched it, guv (while it annoyed the piss out of everyone, we still didn't have the brainwave of attacking it with scissors). Anyway, she probably wasn't too upset - I'd have hated to clear up after us lot. And the rest is messy history - to get a cleaner, you have to sort out your clutter, and I'm the kind of person who only wouldn't have clutter if I didn't have a stick of furniture, and even then I'd probably just make a pile on the floor, so the thought of bringing one into our lives always felt like an act of cruelty (towards the cleaner). But I grow weary of this never-ending attempt to become anally retentive, and weary of my shock and awe when I visit the spit and polish-scented abodes of more sensible friends, like a child visiting Disneyland and getting a hug from Captain Jack Sparrow. So in the next couple of weeks, I'm giving the cleaner thing another whirl. Otherwise, I could end up dusting the bookshelves in my new shoes, which is a pretty dangerous scenario for everyone...

Mother In The Hood xxx

Twit-twoo & Tenerife

2010-02-12T23:43:00.001-08:00

Some things on Twitter are very how I expect them to be - like Kirsty Allsopp and India Knight's love-in, which I discovered at around the time of the Labour conference, and had them talking dirty re Peter Mandelsohn (until this other chick, who I assumed was the guest star in their threesome, got a bit carried away and reprinted the lyrics to Mandy in capitals; India advised her to open a window and BREATHE.) Actually I must go and see what they're saying about McQueen, although I shouldn't as it makes me want to celebrate his genius by going and blowing my life savings on a collection of his frocks then drinking Bellinis in a gorgeous hotel bar and toasting him repeatedly, both of which are not really an option right now.

What I'm trying to say is, that kind of pithy warm celeb/meeja-banter between two 'mind-like-a-steel-trap-but-still-va-va-voom-to-the-max' types reminds me why - despite being a recent addict of Facebook "for crap signal" Mobile, which is great when I'm feeding Dylan but means I can't read the really long email thread I've been on for a year (it has been updated during the year, mind you, or I wouldn't be able to open it at all - to paraphrase one of its participants, those girls can really talk, and so can I, though rather more sporadically since I co-created the D-Bubz) - I don't really do Twitter.

Aside from the small matter of having 7, now unaccountably 6, followers, and not having said much since "Wish i liked daytime tv, this waiting is getting v v dull. On the agenda today? Cleaning out fridge. I rest my case.. " back in the summer when I was eager to drop my sprog already, I feel too inadequate to get out there and start trying to trade asides with the likes of Stephen Fry (Twitter edition - frank and touching missives, although on the touchy side, bless and love him), and the various Fearnes, Frankies and even bloody Peaches who are doing quite a bit more with their day than me right now. And I realise I didn't have to look them up, but somehow it happened. So please take this as an invitation to add me on Twitter if you can be bovvered, because I secretly want to get it happening over there... www.twitter.com/lisamcmama

Anyway, I was going to publish my long diary bit on the first few days of our trip to the Canary Islands, but the html won't copy and I need to give my infant some attention before he starts wailing like Scooby Doo after a faux ghost sighting. So I'll give you a few details off the cuff instead. The hotel we stayed in Tenerife (excuse me while I check my toiletries) was the Iberostar Anthelia (I'd love to know who their marble supplier was, because that reception was pretty spectacular, although I didn't manage to get any pics of it). http://www.iberostar.com/EN/Tenerife-hotels/Iberostar-Anthelia_3_24.html?pest=228

Here's a link to rave reviews on Tripadvisor, apart from one moany one, but there's always one, isn't there? http://www.tripadvisor.co.uk/Hotel_Review-g315919-d285140-Reviews-Iberostar_Grand_Hotel_Anthelia-Adeje_Tenerife_Canary_Islands.html I thought our rooms were stunning, we had two adjoining ones as a family, both with gorgeous bathrooms and lovely balconies, I had no complaints whatsoever, and I thought the buffet restaurant was pretty fabulous too - after missing the first day of the trip due to our effing cancelled flight, when we finally arrived the following evening I was most gutted that I'd missed 2x dinners and 1x breakfast, and FYI you can have Cava with breakfast - highly recommended although I sadly couldn't indulge in case it all went very Pete Tong (or indeed not Pete Tong enough).

Hope you like the picture of little Miss H in the saltwater pool - I wish I'd got to spend more time there, but the kids wanted the heated one, always a good sign when the barman brings round mini cups of sangria as the clock strikes 11am, don't you think? I also didn't make it to the beach, but the hotel had fabulous sea/mountain views. J went on a mountain biking trip with the other dads, which Miss H was loath to let him go on but I felt one of us needed to see the surrounding countryside. Me, I saw the countryside of the local shopping centre on a much-needed stress-busting meander with the Danish and Swedish mums, where I bought a bright blue trench in the Mango sale for 25 Euros, which (although more luggage was the last thing I needed, we had insane amounts of stuff for a week long trip) has been on my back pretty nearly every day since we returned, I love it!

Oh and I was sent the link to the video of our audition and interview, which is incredibly cringey but I suppose I should share it...here you go *screams*:

http://video.aol.co.uk/video-detail/competition-to-win-a-trip-to-the-canary-islands-canary-islands/3455209259

I'm off to hide...

Burgers and milkshakes and fries, oh my!

2010-02-08T06:54:00.000-08:00

Gluttony has cast a sizeable shadow over us this weekend (we took my mum to the Belvedere and then spent Sunday's luncheon at a gorgeous pub in Potten, Cambs), and spilled into Monday, where we've ended up having lunch at the diner on top of all that over-indulgence (there's really no excuse for burger with extra gherkin + shake + fat fries + onion rings, under banner of breastfeeding or otherwise) but anyway its been fab. Still haven't managed to post my Canaries blog, which I need to finish off but as I'm writing it like a weekly diary, which I didn't keep on the hol as there just wasn't time, its not quite done. Thought I'd pop in in the meantime to say that despite the gluttony and the wishing ourselves back in the Canary Islands, now I feel energised and ready for spring, although its still a long way off we've still got lots of things happening and it seems a time of possibility on many levels.

Dylan getting that bit bigger is also making me more serene; he's turned four months and has just started on a small daily bowl of baby rice as well as his milk. He LOVED it the first two times, got the hang on it on the second go, but wasn't so keen yesterday when I made it slightly thicker due to scanty supply of milk, and had just woken up after a car journey. Anyway, its a big step, which I took very seriously against the current NHS guidelines of waiting til they're six months, but I think thats partly them trying to protect a new generation of impoverished youngsters against the horrors of blended Big Macs before your first birthday. So as Dylan's a big boy and a hungry one, I've gone old school on his ass, just to see if he likes it. He slept through last night for the first time in nearly a month, so it may already be chilling him out.

We're so lucky, though, he is the happiest baby in the world; doing his Janice from Friends laugh with shining eyes, and is always really chirpy in the mornings (a bit like me). And he was so good during our various restaurant visits, either sleeping or looking around the place - at the Belvedere, he slept the entire time, enjoying the sound of the pianist as he drifted off, and didn't wake up until after the ride home. Thanks D-Bubz! He's looking very chunky and blokey all of a sudden and has now got proper leg definition, no more Mr Chicken Legs.

So I would still sell my soul for a cleaner (although J is still against it and I can't particularly justify it except to say I'd have more time to do other, more creative things) and am going through the household products like mad. Talking of products, apparently Fairy are bringing back the old style bottle for their 50th anniversary - should go down well with the current love of all things retro, and while I am not old enough to actually remember what they made with them on Blue Peter (honest guv), it still gives me a pleasantly nostalgic feeling, embarrassing but true.

Anyway I'll be back, soon....hope you're all well. Can't believe how much this winter is flashing by, think that week in the Canaries really helped, on which I will finally be dishing the dirt any minute now. Sorry to be so crap but I've been working on a fiction project in those few moments when am not busy with mothering/chores/relaxing when baby asleep....its inspired by my younger years, pregnancy and Gok Wan and I think its got potential!

The Shitwick Chronicles

2010-01-13T12:57:00.000-08:00

Just our British luck, eh? Rubbish airport making sure we really earn our free hol and look like ten tons of crap by the time we actually get there.

Its enough to make you weep: after a snow-free few days, we were due to travel on the day that Gatwick airport got another three flakes and decided to cancel all services. But instead of being upfront about their inability to clean the runways, they took the shrewd route of pretending they were going to open at 12, thus luring us to make the journey only to be disappointed, and pointlessly spend £40 on their crappy car park which no doubt is non-refundable. So now we are supposedly going from Heathrow tomorrow via Madrid, adding another 2 flights to the itinerary, and making me worry even more about D-Bubz' delicate ears.

It was a pretty shitty day. I couldn't stop kissing the top of his head like worry bead punctuation, remembering that there was no point getting worked up with infants about. Little H was very good as she dealt with the cross country journey across London to end up back where we started. So its round 2 tomorrow, and thank god we don't have to deal with the inept folk at Gatwick again, but we're not out of the woods yet.

Snow way out

2010-01-11T13:06:00.001-08:00

Amid fantasies of becoming Tilda Swinton in The Chronicles of Narnia, (complete with sleigh, but passing on the dodgy dreads, issues with woodland creatures, and tendency to anger large carnivores) I battled my way to Lincolnshire for the weekend, despite the heavy snow and heavier weather warnings. It was possibly a foolish move, given that were I to get stranded, it'd be no Islas de Canarias for this guapa, but the prospect of being beaten by the weather was not a pleasant one, and so I strapped up my huskies (mentally) and left.

Despite several friends' flights being cancelled, and more dire reports on the good old Ministry of Misery (aka the BBC), I made it to the land of cabbages and casual bigotry unscathed, bearing my young in his woolly papoose, utterly bewildered by the preponderance of white stuff, but taking it in his usual bug-eyed stride. And wouldn't you know, it did look rather like Narnia in my mum's back garden, into which she disappeared like Captain Scott twice-daily with her pack of dogs frolicking at her heels, making me long to ask if she may be some time, but fearing that was indeed the case.

And so there we were, snowed in for several days whilst would-be baby admirers cancelled daily, and D-Bubz took it as the perfect opportunity to stop sleeping through the night, which he'd been blissfully doing since just before Christmas, and revert back to the 3.5 (half)-3.5 (one)-4 formation which blighted my nights for so long. Not sure if its the upheaval, or a power game, or what, but I even gave in and tried him on the dummy again, which this time, being a big boy and all, instead of acting like he was choking he grabbed onto, and sucked balefully like Maggie Simpson - the only problem being, as a friend with bub of similar age pointed out, that its OK until they drop it, and then you run a chance of becoming Dummy Bitch. Still, better Dummy Bitch than Sleepless Bitch I suppose.

And then I got ready to grapple with public transport once more. It sucked: from having to stand outside the loo because I was on an old-skool train without any of those nice seats with room for the pram, to getting to Kings Cross all a-fluster and getting the Piccadilly line without checking for station closures, to having to go back to where I started and get the overground from Euston, before finally arriving home after a cross-country trudge over Queens Park. All of which did nothing to make me more confident on the trains - apart from the scary gap between train and platform which I worry I'll drop the pram down every time, there's the irritating business of having to find someone to help with the stairs...and asking them if they hold some kind of qualification to prove that they won't drop their end mid-flight would, I suppose be churlish, so I'll just carry on with the ulcers.

So here we are, at the final hurdle, everything crossed for a safe take-off on Wednesday. D-Bubz has a brand new pushchair, I once again forgot to get the factor 50, and I am still trying to find out for sure that they have cots in the hotels, of which we are staying at three, all with fabulous reviews on tripadvisor.co.uk. Communicating our five star status to J's 6-yr-old daughter was a simple matter of describing the estimated size of the breakfast buffet: finally, she realises we're going to be travelling in style. Fruit AND toast AND pancakes AND sausages? Her cup runneth over, and so will ours if we get there without drama, so come back soon to find out...

Happy holidays

2009-12-27T06:49:00.000-08:00

What do you give the neighbours who, such is their capacity for etiquette, present you with a card printed "You're Great Neighbours" featuring a picture of a peaceful snowy alpine village (just like our hood, init)? They also sent flowers during weekend building work, and champagne on the birth of D-Bubz. They are impeccable. So how did we, their shambolic alter-egos, react? By giving them a cheapo card and a half-eaten box of chocolates, and oh how I wish I were joking, but on the bright side they didn't catch me shoving the dubious booty through their letterbox.

Apart from that, it was a lovely crimbo, though now traditionally a time for whisky and despair as throughout the land the whirring of cashpoint mini-statements reminds folk just how much cash they've wasted on being festive instead of saving it up for the season of drear, unless you're one of those peeps for whom life really kicks in with the January sales, in which case enjoy being trampled by the masses in competition for that ghastly DFS sofa on spesh...I wish I had your iron constitution.

Sorry. Its just that I saw the advert for www.cashforgold.co.uk, whose services I shouldn't really be advertising unless I want to endorse His Ronsealness (aka Dale Winton)'s cadaverous appearance urging all the rentachav, overdraft-mired types to start flogging their jewellery by mail to receive an alleged couple of hundred or so 24 hours later, like some blinged-up Ghost Of Christmas Just Past. The contrast between this grubby cashing in and the fabulous lives of those celebs I envied so much in the December issue of Marie Claire (if you must know, Kimberley from Girls Aloud featured heavily, and yes I KNOW about the accent but still suffer from the jealousy), couldn't be more poignant. It makes me angry in the same way seeing Anthea 'Sugar-flavoured snot' Turner advertising GMTV Bingo to desperate housewives - if your career is on the slide, can you really justify espousing such shady causes just to relight your bank account? But of course you can. Of course. Anything goes these days, and to be fair if I had any gold right about now, I'd definitely be thinking of flogging it, such is the power of dreadful advertising (and craggy-faced TV has-beens).

But sod all that, getting v excited re our incredible freebie holiday which was increased when lovely friends round the corner lent me their baby beach tent. So now Dylan is free to indulge his fave pursuit (grappling with a blanket, or in this case lightweight sarong) while being hopefully less likely to get sand in his eyes. Yeah! Although I am still gripped with night-time terror re dropping him off a boat, or accidentally sending him to sea on a lilo. Not that I 'do' lilos, but there was this one incident in Thailand where we acquired one blown along the beach which we fought over for several hours until karma made it blow away from us too, and I can report that it was excellent for lazy snorkelling, although there may not be so much of that in the Canaries, given that a) there is no coral reef, just lots of lovely sand (I think) and b) I will not have my mind on the job, worrying about my baby sitting innocently on the beach prey to every passing mossie and mistral (no, not the painter in the televised melodrama of yesteryear, but rather a sudden mini-tornado the likes of which I don't know the Spanish word for but had better find out).

In other holiday news, I am wondering how we will pack five islands into seven days, and whether that means we have to be ready to go at all times (probably a good idea considering our penchant to spread chaos across any hotel room in a matter of hours, but a bad one for the same reason); as well as anxiously waiting delivery of my two purchases from Bravissimo of their uplifting swimwear, and wondering whether I should have gone for the very tailored, slightly boring yet undeniably St Tropez-esque one piece number instead of the disco Barbie, less supportive, belly-baring numbers (a leopard doesn't change its print) - but only time, and their delivery service, will tell.

So eek, I am going on holiday in two weeks and that is still not enough motivation to force out a single sit-up. Not even J's daughter's helpful assertion that I still look a bit preggers can make me buy a Wii fit, that new shouty Davina workout DVD, or consider joining a gym. Plus am so bored of the park that my daily trip there (which I promised myself as way of getting back in shape) has turned into a weekly event. I am too fecking lazy to exercise unless it happens accidentally (sex, housework, lifting baby, stressing out). Even when I worked in a gym and had access to all free facilities, I didn't exercise. Am a lost cause!

Anyhoo, another exciting postal development was the arrival of D-Bubz' passport - collective aaaah! - he looks so sweet and serious in his pic and more than ready for some fun in the sun, as befits one born in the swish district of Westminster with a mother who listed her occupation on his birth certificate as 'writer', based entirely on this blog. He's a bohemian rhapsody, a west Londinium dandy, and now he's even got a top that says dude (although true to babyish form was more taken with the wrapping than the actual pressie, and quite right too).

I did quite well on the present front - for a start, I won't be needing to purchase handcream until at least 2012, and managed to control my gift envy (beware of assisting one's partner too well in the buying of presents for other females, else you'll find yourself in the same predicament, ie wanting to rip said gift from recipient's hands on basis of underwhelming response), but have now entered the realm of being just as happy with gifts for my son as self, although this may not be a lasting state. And something else now I am a parent - this is the first year that NYE has been a cause of zero anxiety, planning, or even headspace - I think we're just staying in with some booze and the breast pump, Jools Holland may even feature - and that in itself is very, very strange....but strangely calming too. No tickets, no guest lists, no drama....WTF?!

Ding dong merrily, I'm high

2009-12-23T00:43:00.000-08:00

We won! We are going on a fabulous trip to 5 of the Canary Islands on the 13th-20th Jan, and I'll be telling you all about it as it happens. 5* accommodation, loads of activities, and average January temps of 25c. YAY!

It still feels unreal as generally I do not win stuff, esp stuff I really want, so somehow the good karma fairy has found us and done her swishy wand thing: you rock, fairy. Its going to be amazing, and J's 6-yr-old daughter is coming too, making him really happy and completing the familial picture. So its going to be a very merry Christmas for us all...ho ho ho!

Normally, I hate January. Now I've got Dylan, its a bit different, as its hard to hate anything when you've been blessed with such a beautiful, smiley, joyful baby, but I still wasn't exactly looking forward to it, and suffer from SAD, which is rubbish when you live in the UK. So this really is the shiz, and I'm sure he knows that something is up, as he's being even more happy than norm. And I've kick-started the post-baby holiday wardrobe (always a tricky one) after impulse-buying a gorgeous ruffled navy shift and hot pink faux-Chanel clutch (I'm all about the practicality, but as I'll be clutching a baby too it luckily has a tuck awayable, over-body strap) from New Look - if it's good enough for Beyonce, its good enough for moi: http://www.marieclaire.co.uk/news/fashion/431262/spotted-beyonce-wears-20-new-look-dress.html, so I'm feeling not only festive, but fabulous too. Tackling the swimwear is another issue, however: I can theoretically still fit into my old bikinis, and they'd look great on a Pirelli calendar shoot, but as I'd like people to talk to my face, not my chest, and be able to swim without fear, I think I'd better go find the budget version of cruise collections pronto...

Right, I'm off to do last-minute panic shopping! Christmas, doncha love it?

Beat the winter blues (if we're lucky)

2009-12-18T23:02:00.000-08:00

So Wednesday was rather exciting, because we went to a casting to become ambassadors for the Canary Islands, which would involve taking a 5* trip there in mid-January (oh, dear, the things one does to be an ambassador!), under the banner of 'Say no to winter blues', which we certainly would. We dressed Baby D as a Christmas elf, and it even helpfully snowed to complete the festive picture, which seemed to amuse the panel of judges from the Canary Island tourist board no end (although hopefully increased our chances due to bad weather keeping other families away).

It was strange turning up at a casting event with nipper in tow; cool young singles vying for the opportunity cooed 'Ahhhhh!' as we trotted past avec pram, feeling a bit like aliens. But D couldn't have been better behaved - he slept all the way there, woke up for the interview and then failed to whinge til we'd finished. If we were being judged on cuteness of baby, we'd be a shoo-in.

There was one sticky moment where J metioned Formentera, which we'd visited on a trip to Ibiza and loved - the panel thought he was confusing it with Fuerteventura, clearly a taboo. But I think they realised he didn't mean it like that...must be like confusing the Isle of Man with the Isle of Wight. Or Penrith and Penryn. Actually, I think you could be forgiven for that last one. But the rest of the interview went smoothly, and we were filmed afterwards talking about the experience, which was fun and made us think we maybe had a chance. The trip itself sounds amazing, in fact I don't dare to hope as it would transform our winter. And we have to wait until the 23rd to find out, so am keeping everything crossed until then. PLEASE PICK US! If they do, you'll be hearing alot more about the fabulous Canary Islands, so watch this space...

Go comp-aaaargh

2009-12-08T23:34:00.000-08:00

This morning I woke up with the song to that advert for the comparison search engine site in my head, you know, the one starring the fat twizzly-moustached tenor and his floating arias, urging folk to stop thinking about the clever branding of that other comparison site (which has used the differences between the words market/meerkat to such fabulous effect), and click on his instead. He even has an online identity - Gio Compario (a productive afternoon was clearly spent in the pub by the creative department), and, like his furry nemesis, a Facebook fan page (2687 members compared to Aleksandr Orlov's 615,766 -I mean who would you rather be a fan of, a comedy-accented playboy version of the cutest animal on the planet or a fat annoying faux-Italian? Simples!)

They have achieved this early morning seepage into my weary psyche by coming up with a jingle so brain-drillingly catchy that even Pete Waterman must be asking how they roll. It, though this may well have featured in the pitch literature as a plus point of the campaign, makes me want to garrot Gio Compario with his twizzly moustache, then feed him to the cast of True Blood. "GO COMPAAAARE! GO COMP-AAAARRGGHHH!" In fact, if that was the follow-up ad, I'd visit the site for sure.

Anyhoo, it doesn't matter much, as I find myself with precious little needing insurance (except my son, and I haven't got around to it yet - I'd say several million to protect the perfect sphere of his head with another couple of mill for his pointy little chin) as the year draws to a close. No car, no new electronic gadgetry, and as for bling - I'm not that kinda girl (although I wish I was). I've been thinking I should make a will, being a mother now and all, but the fact is - I don't have much to leave, so the process could prove rather embarrassing: "To my son, I bequeath my laptop, which may have some kind of virus and is very slow to load Facebook these days" - at least he'll get away without inheritance tax.

One thing I do have in abundance right now, although it might not work in a legal context, is flesh. About an extra 10 kilos, if my mum's scales are to be believed. While it is very sweet of all who have said "You've really got your figure back!", what they are neglecting to mention is that I've also got some of somebody else's, and would quite like to give it back.

Trying on clothes is interesting: I have to squeeze and force bits of errant jelly into stiff material which would rather not receive it, thank you very much. And here's the thing: although I know I have enough fat reserves to deal with the extra 500 cals a day breastfeeding requires, so this and a sensible diet are all I need; now I feel cheated if I haven't had the requisite man-sized portions, extra butter and chocolate snacks of a morning, and think nothing of adding dollops of mayo to everything I eat (even the choc). Serves me right for listening to mother at the onset and deciding that 3000 cals a day was the way forward. For the record, its not. Hold the front page!

Before I gave birth I was convinced getting back into my size 8s was a simple matter of walking briskly round the park avec pram a few times a week, I now realise that was stupendously optimistic. But god bless optimism, where would we be without it? I even bought some control pants (the kind of garment I'd previously looked at with a patronising smile and pitying shake of the head), but optimism led me to buy them in a size so small it took a good 5 mins to get them on, which was good for my fragile (compared to before, and I don't need Gio's website to tell me) ego. Ditto not understanding that the chest of a milkmaid requires a size larger than 12. Denial: not just a river in Africa or a stubborn infatuation, but the mind of a postnatal woman. God bless.

Slippery nipple

2009-12-05T00:52:00.000-08:00

You know what, breastfeeding is actually the shizzle. I really thought I would resent it quite a lot, being that it would prevent me from returning to a pre-pregnancy state of mind and all that for a few more months, but honestly, its more effective than an AA meeting, and more rewarding too. Nothing can replicate the maternal joy of seeing his little boot button eyes stare up at me while sucking noisily, that unconscious and total dependency (as well as the fact that in Baby D's eyes, a nip and some of the white stuff is as much of a party as it gets - he's gonna go nuts when I start him on the baby rice), making me realise (as its easy to forget in our sciencey times), that I'm an animal and proud of it. And, the big sell if you're as lazy as moi, its easy - no sterilising, no bottles, no heating, no testing, just whip it out and you're good to go.

Consequently, the electric breast pump I purchased at great expense and in a state of high agitation ("I NEED NEED ONE NOOOOW OR THE WORLD WILL END") a whole month back, remains in its box, as do the 'pump and save' milk bags (its like a 24-hour garage around here). I also have the steriliser, and ditto - for some reason, I am in complete denial re getting into the expressing zone, and its starting to get embarrassing.

I need to get a move on, if I want some festive drinkie fun - apparently its not an instant thing, either, and your boobs need to get used to making the extra. And the most important issue, which may make the whole enterprise a major problem, is that my little boyo needs to be willing to take to the bottle. And at this stage of his development (8 weeks, fact fans), he doesn't even know what a bottle is. Are we rating my chances? Not so much, but I'm finally on the case...

Mine's a large one. Hold the milk!

Mother in the hood

2009-11-22T00:27:00.000-08:00

That first week with a newborn is rather like the start of a torrid love affair - dazed grin, chafing nipples, pillow perm - with the obvious differentation that should your object of lust require their nappy changing six times daily, it may well dampen the ardour. Walking around (or in my case, doing a John Wayne) in a bubble of love, overwhelmed by the presence of this new little dude in our lives. Beaming smugly as the compliments started to flood in, nodding vehemently at every affirmation of his cuteness and general loveliness, on top of the world like a Carpenters song.

Once the shock of his presence had started to wear off, however, I started to run the whole gamut of emotions (I used to think 'gamut' was a slutty Audrey Hepburn, but apparently not) - checking the rise and fall of his chest every time he slept, fretting over milk production, and bursting into tears at the thought of being responsible for something so perfect, with Philip Larkin's most famous words constantly ringing in my ears. Would I fuck him up, however honourable my intentions? Then back to happy happy joy joy, then oh shit how will we afford the school fees, then suddenly he's 17 and demanding expensive footwear, and then I'm weeping over a nappy spillage like stain remover was never invented. But, god - not wanting to change anything, so overwhelmingly amazing becoming a parent is. No wonder Kensal Rise was overrun with them - it really knocks spots off the office.

My hormones went into overdrive (and it didn't help that the magic shrinkage of my belly ceased around day 6, just as I started to believe in the power of the cheesecake diet). Having always been something of a weeper, I now had to avoid nature documentaries in case of encountering cruelty to baby animals (the leopard seal bit in Life, where he kills the baby penguin, was worse than the Exorcist in the horror stakes), tiptoe around emotive language (when a friend, not known for her subtlety, turned up in week 2 and started a casual convo re cot death, it unleashed a storm of upset which lasted an entire evening - this made me feel a bit stupid until another friend, also a mother, confessed she couldn't even say the 'C' word), and try and rein in my overactive imagination (empathy is both a blessing and a curse). It was a wibbly wobbly time. The first time he really cried, cross at having his nappy changed on day 3, I stared fascinatedly at his red face, little tongue protruding, all the effort he put into showing displeasure. He was a sentient being, not some offshoot of our vanity, and this the most overwhelming thing of all.

Welcome to the jungle...

2009-10-17T05:06:00.000-07:00

I did it! I gave, like, birth. Didn't think was going to, for a while - in fact, I thought I could well end up as the world's first eternally pregnant woman, and was already imagining the various ways I could make a living off the back of that fact (This Morning, Loose Women, even Oprah if I was as lucky as old Susan Boyle). But then I went into labour, just before the official dawning of the '2 weeks over' date. Yes it hurt. But yes it worked.

It started on Tuesday evening (that's Tues 6th Oct), shooting out of bed at 4am, at the mercy of a rather violent stomach cramp. Nuts, I thought. It would happen when I'm tired. Of course, that was only the beginning - they escalated slowly through Wednesday, and by the evening I was variously puking, cranking up the currents on my Tens machine, cursing the imbecile who decided it was a good idea to advise me to try and sleep between contractions - er, only if you enjoy waking up from a pleasant doze into a screaming nightmare - and pacing up and down the lounge, grim look plastered to face, pillow tucked under arm (I have no idea why) to soundtrack of reggae courtesy of Augustus Pablo (again, I have no idea why), just daring J to laugh. When I could handle no more (about 1.30am, showing me to be a remarkable model of reticence), we somehow manouevred me and my belly into the car (seatbelts not an option at this juncture and, indeed, junction) and J drove like the proverbial clappers to St Mary's Birth Centre, Paddington. As I lurched down the road, clutching my stomach and weaving, I was given an aggrieved look by a staggering drunk, who clearly thought I was busting his style (and I suppose I was).

You may remember me waxing rather descriptive about the joys of the birth centre, and indeed you'd be right - there are white fluffy towels in abundance, soft and beauteous to the touch, large birthing pools which scream 'heeled mules or Moscow Mules' and the fabled purple glitter disco birthing chair. However, it is only in the heady throes of labour that the real nature of the birth centre becomes apparent. Apparently I thought it a good idea to book into a place where pain relief consists of sucking on gas & air - to clarify, this only gets you high when you are not, in fact, in agony - staffed by midwives who are qualified to assist in the pushing/dragging business, but not to insert morphine into your jacksie, unfortunately. And only when firmly ensconced in the second stage of labour (thats where it really really REALLY hurts, as opposed to merely really really hurts) did the colossal stupidity of this commitment hit home. I was now going to have to endure one of life's most painful gifts armed with nothing stronger than a full set of fingernails and a gimp-esque mouthpiece worthy of an S&M bash. And as for the purple disco birthing chair - this, I can report from grim experience, would not look out of place in the dungeons of the Marquis de Sade, or possibly Bluebeard; Donna Summer wouldn't touch it with a purple disco bargepole.

Towards the end of the night, when I had thoroughly exhausted the midwives on duty whose shifts were due to end at 7am, I realised there may not be a coward's way out of the whole situation. Until then I had been holding on to a faint hope of salvation - that baby would fall out, or compress itself into a tiny being capable of squeezing through a keyhole, a la mice. But sadly we were dealing with humans, and as I settled in to the agonising business of pushing babs out, one excrutiating half inch at a time, I realised that this was what all the fuss was about, that this was it. No 'whoosh plop' for me, no sirree - more of a 'go on, that's brilliant, well done, well done!' 'is it nearly out yet?' 'er no, but you're doing just great'. Whoopeedoo, pass me the party hats, grrlfriend!

Growing weary of such snail-like progress, I hopped off the iron maiden, sorry birthing chair, and dived bumpfirst back into the birthing pool - hold the front page, this delivery was CANCELLED. It hurt TOO DAMN MUCH, so sayonara to that. If they wanted the baby out, they could flipping well cut it out, sod the stomach muscles and slow recovery. Or tempt it out with a bit of cheese, as a male friend helpfully suggested a couple of weeks back. I had already lost my dignity (turns out that when you push, other substances may emit prior to babies, and may possibly be caught in a net by your erstwhile, modern partner, and that you will barely even notice; similarly, that gas & air may make you puke heartily all over said fluffy white towels without a hint of regret), I sure as hell wasn't going to lose my mind to boot. Boot? You see, time to stop the madness, right now.

Luckily, the exhausted midwives' shifts had finished, and two other midwives, bright-eyed and bushy-barneted, rocked up. They weren't standing for any of my nonsense (currently, this consisted of attempting to get dressed and walk my way up to the labour ward to find the good stuff even though, as people kept telling me, it was Too Late). So they nasty-copped me into sitting back down in the (burning) hot seat and giving things another whirl. With the result that, at 8.47am on the 8th October, my baby slithered (the best way I can think to describe it) out, was placed on my chest, and stared at me noiselessly with huge dark eyes. So this was the person I'd been carrying around, this was the strong heartbeat which had comforted me throughout the entire pregnancy, boom-boody-boom-boody-BOOMBOOMBOOM, this was.....my son? Yes, it was a boy, and J leapt into the air with shining eyes, I looked at his willy to make sure, and I lay back, insensible with relief, to savour this moment that I'd sweated, screeched, and pushed for. I don't think I'll ever forget it...

Just sing already, fat chick

2009-09-28T02:13:00.000-07:00

OK, so resembling Mr Greedy post-Haagen Dazs binge is starting to get a little old (rather like my placenta). Its got to the point where tapping someone on the shoulder in a shop to ask them to make way is a weary pastime - they glance, they move a fraction; I tap them again, they look down, their mouth slackens in disbelief; they swiftly shift as if to let Moby Dick and the participants of Celebrity Fit Club make passage, flattening themselves against the baked beans and just resisting a shout of "Thar she blows! To the boats, and may God protect ye!" as I pass.

I feel like a comedy prop (Tweedledee, back end of pantomime horse, Jo Brand) of the highest order: personally, if I was talking to me, I wouldn't be able to hold back a giggle or three, or restrain myself from pushing to see if I wobble like a Weeble (but don't fall down). I just look really, really funny, and am spending at least 20% of my time thinking about waists, hourglasses and belts cinched tight around ribless bodies, or pressing my size 8 high-waist Warehouse shorts caressingly against my cheek and murmuring "Soon, my pretties, you will be on me once again.....or will you? Will you??" And then I weep. Well, nearly.

So I grow weary of feeling like the punchline to a joke, and never was this more apparent than while encountering a traffic warden recently, accompanied by two equally preggers friends. Seeing him standing sinisterly by the car, we all started to uber-waddle across the road, waving our arms to make him desist from issuing the ticket...."But look...we're PREGNANT!" It was too late, but am sure he's had a few sleepless nights since, and dined out on it a few times: "So I look up right, and there's these three pregnant women running towards me...well trying to....I thought they were gonna drop right then and there...boom boom!" (Drum roll, appreciative laughter, more wine, cheese straw.)

Hey ho, it'll all be worth it I know. Am now half a week 'late' and showing no signs of incipient labour (apart from the gigantic gut). Baby is clearly very comfy in there, despite the lack of guest bedroom or incense. I am pretty comfy too, considering - my hands have stopped feeling like hams, my feet not too sore, my backache non-existent - really, its fine. But every encounter with a normal-sized friend reminds me that I am in fact a pot-bellied pig, and even J has started sighing wistfully in rememberance of abs past. "I just want my skinny baby back" he admitted bleakly the other day, when trying to lift me up and finding my feet stuck stubbornly to the floor. And I am pretty sure he wasn't referring to the svelte nature of our unborn child...

Oh and I made apple crumble the other morning. At 8.30am. I think that says it all.

Bulking up

2009-09-21T12:38:00.000-07:00

I've noticed something about my shopping tendencies in late pregnancy; rather like my body, my purchases have tripled in size. I am no longer capable of buying a 2-pack toilet roll without serious misgivings - no, dammit, gimme an economy-sized, bumper 24-pack, and throw in a month's supply of kitchen roll while you're at it. 3-for-2 deals are the stuff my dreams are made of, and I actually purchased a 4-pinter of milk for the first time in ever the other day. Can I be - gasp - turning into a right old mum??

Anyhoo, only time will tell, as I am now officially a day past my EDD (that's estimated delivery date, baby virgins), and have 13 more before those paedos (that's paediatricians) in white coats lean on me to go down the road of induction (that's having labour artificially started, rather than a week of pints in the hospital staff room and being the recipient of multiple timetables) and all that it entails - namely increased pain, probable need for epidural, and being unable to try delivering in the purple disco birthing centre. Hopefully this scenario will be avoided, although all the walking, shagging, scoffing of curry and pineapple and quaffing champers (surely this last was made up for pure enjoyment's sake) will not change a thing if the baby really isn't up for coming out before the 42-week cutoff point.....come out, little dude/ess, the lack of water's lovely!

On the other hand, it could happen at any time, a knowledge simultaneously exciting and paranoia-sparking - I am now restricted to a 2-mile radius in my solo wanderings, less J gets worried, and was completely confused when a swine flu-afflicted friend called me in tears earlier and asked me to cover her shop for a few hours - hello, I can't be put into any position of responsibility, don't you know I am a TICKING BOMB? I could go off AT ANY MOMENT! In front of a customer! I think she was delirious....either way I declined, for the good of the neighbourhood (and my dignity).

So finally, le hospital bag is packed! I know you're meant to do it about 3 months before labour starts, but I've always been lame that way, so today it was finally done properly like. And I am really happy with the amount of stuff, the way I packed it, and the bag itself. I've been admiring it from all angles, esp the way the Decleor washing bag is perched so jauntily atop. Its a red tote, btw, with a charming drawstring fastener. Now you may think all this focus on the accoutrements of labour is a kind of denial re the visceral truth come baby-day, and you'd be right. A vajayjay is for life, not just for suffering hideous pain, thus I hope you'll forgive my reluctance to dwell on the seamier side. I'll be there soon enough.....tra, la, la *puts fingers in ears*...

Avin' a geezer...

2009-09-16T02:11:00.000-07:00

I was lucky enough to meet Ray Winstone a couple of months back, when he popped into my office to do a voiceover. As I had to speak to him regarding script, and was wearing a tight dress that day, he clearly felt obligated to mention my emergent unborn child: first by pointing knowingly, as if letting me know I was, in fact, knocked up; and then by asking if I'd found out the sex.

"Er no", I replied, going into my usual slight fluster when confronted by the prospect of conversation with a male celebrity, "I mean I can't decide which I think. Sometimes" I added, displaying spectacular stating of obviousness, "I think it's a boy...and sometimes a girl," (wisely refraining from mentioning that dream I had where it was a little of both, Jamie Lee Curtis stylee).

Ray nodded knowingly again, father of several to first time mum. "You're carryin' it all in front, init" he said sagely. "You're avin' a geezer".

Well, if Ray said it, it must be true, right? Instantly I was confronted with mental images of my son popping out, betting slip in hand, the only sound the crackling of his tracksuit as he stroked his pitbull and looked around for a burger. Not a comforting thought. The alternative, of course, was to doggedly assume the opposite of Mr Winstone's blithe assertion, but this simply meant avin' a bird - who would no doubt emerge St Tropez-fresh, smelling of biscuits and looking for her clip-in hair extensions. Way to get inordinately worried regarding issues of gender!

It is strange, though, how confidently people predict the sex of a baby based on the shape/size/position of the bump, and to be perfectly honest, over these last few months its rather got my farmyard animal. For a start, there's a 1 in 2 chance that every guess could prove to be the right one - who wouldn't fancy those odds - and for afters, we didn't find out the sex of our child for a reason - ie, we didn't want to know. Friends (and random folk on the street) have been scandalised to learn that we haven't performed the foolproof ring test (you know, the one where you hold a ring on a piece of twine/hair/intestine over the bump and determine the sex from the manner in which it rotates - yep, and then you can repeat the process and discover the sex of your dining table's child aswell), as if, should the NHS take this method on board, there would be no need for pesky peering at scans to look for something dangly, or not.

The other 'method' of telling me the sex of my baby tends to base itself on 'vibe' - as in, "I'm getting a boy vibe", and while I am not one to knock the powers of intuition, I am still sceptical regarding the effectiveness of this method - for example, a rather scuttered male friend, at a party (one of about 2 I've been to this summer, before I mislead you to think I've led a kicking preggers social life - kicking only in the literal sense, unfortunately), told me he got a strong girl vibe because "you're so feminine, I can't imagine anything male coming out". Flattering, yes - stupid, also yes. But there we go - everyone's an expert when it comes to babies, it seems, and if we had found out the sex, we'd have missed out on the speculating fun....because it is fun, in a faintly irritating way...and also, presumably, have a little less cream and beige in the baby's capsule wardrobe.

A melon-choly feeling

2009-09-12T23:41:00.000-07:00

I've been so busy recently wishing away the last days of my watermelon status that I didn't even stop to think that losing the bump could be a bittersweet feeling. It may even be the last time I experience this, my one and only preggers period to inform my life. And when you put it like that, its definitely a choke-making thought (to be fair, it doesn't take much right now). This could be the only time I can watch my stomach lurch around a la Alien, feel the vibration of tiny hiccups, or watch myself stretch and change daily in nature's time-honoured, mystical tradition.

I have been in the early stages of pregnancy before (twice in fact) when younger, and that knowledge has definitely tinged this experience with a little sadness for what might have been. If its been this easy as a 35-yr-old, would I have breezed through it aged 17/28? Also, the fierce protectiveness I feel over this little life, which of course will only grow when it bursts into the world, has made me prey to all kinds of random mental scenarios - I have dreamed about being stabbed in the stomach, of tiny lungs collapsing with the strain of breathing solo, of freak fires and floods and abductions....you name the paranoid parental landscape, I've dreamed there. And over and over it confirms how much I already love this little person I don't yet know: how I, and things, will never be the same; and what a huge responsibility this is, and how dependant my future happiness will be on the happiness of my child.

From the second that cord is cut my baby will be an independent being, slowly forming his/her own desires and opinions, and no longer my own little belly prisoner, bringing out the maternal emotions whilst not spoiling any of the innocent, pre-reality fantasies of how I will raise and love my child. What's not to miss?

The Fear, and not in a Lily Allen way

2009-09-09T11:03:00.000-07:00

Its been creeping up on me (as these things tend to, the fuckers) for a few weeks now, but yesterday I got the bigtime fear. It started innocuously enough: I had popped to the deli for some delicious home-made pesto and a perfectly-ripe avocado, paying a mere £90 for the privilege (yes dahling, one lives in Kensal Green), and outside the deli and next door Gracelands cafe I suddenly realised that either I was living in Lilliput, or there were a hell of a lot of children around. Like, obscene amounts. A positive abundance of reproduction, even for here - several couples enjoying a coffee, avec pushchair, at the outside tables; several more wandering about, some accessorising with occupied carseats, others preferring the more relaxed format of sling across body, screaming toddler hanging casually from arm. Three little folk milling around solo, of unspecified ownership: one of these engaged in crawling up the steps of the cafe, ostensibly on its way to the counter to order a decaf mocha and a nappy change. Two of them, not including my own, temporarily residing within the body of an adult female. And that was before we got to pram-pushing stragglers further down the road, anyone in school uniform, or those actually within the shop and cafe. In short: you could rename this place the Baby Square Mile.

It wasn't so much that I realised we were dealing with a major coals to Newcastle scenario here, or even that soon, Jack and I will be similarly unable to leave the house without several appendages of the flailing-limbed creature/pushchair/carseat/mini diary-room chair variety (as one who is accustomed to winging it with a clutch bag and single front door key, its clear that I will shortly be having a rather major wake-up call). Its more than that: I have gone from underbelly to overbelly, I am on course to become one of those people who orders lunch at 11.30 because they've been up since 5am. Worse, I will become a baby bore, indulging in socially sanctioned pastimes rather than stumbling in at 6am with my false eyelashes stuck to my chin. I may even take up religion as a means to getting my little darling into the school of choice, like my friend Annie who combined all nighters with afternoon tea with vicars, and managed to control her shaking hands long enough to pour his Rooibos and proffer a french fancy. And its not like I wasn't aware of this before, its just that yesterday it hit me slap bang in the face like an errant football.

Excuse me, I'm going down the garden to expel a primeval yowl.

Disco birthing and baby shower!

2009-09-07T07:52:00.001-07:00

So my lovely friends in Sarf London threw me a baby shower on Friday, hurrah. It was lots of fun and proved I can actually drink alcohol without weeping, as I consumed 3x small glasses of prosecco (over a 7-hour period, but still) and thought I was very hard indeed. Apart from the amazing cakes (strawberry pavlova, pictured *drools*) and cucumber n watercress sarnies, I was lucky enough to get some gorgeous presents too - uber-trendy unisex baby clothes, bunny-eared towels, a brightly-coloured cuddly centipede (which makes noises!!) and lots more - as well as being the recipient of many compliments re my fecund state. Weirdly though, I found it really hard to hold actual 1-2-1 conversations along the lines of 'so what are you up to at the moment, how's the job/man/house/kids?' Either inescapable proof that Mr Brain has long since departed, or due to the prosecco and the arduous journey (Bakerloo/Victoria lines, no fun in my condition)....either way, I guess I got away with it....although I am still clueless as to most updates in certain friends' lives! Is there anything more self-centred than a preggers chick? Its all me me me with me....may explain why I am currently loving the name Mimi...

Saturday saw a trip to the birthing centre at St Mary's hospital, complete with flat screen TVs, slings to swing off mid-contraction and swanky-looking birthing pools which just needed fillng with Bollinger to complete the Las Vegas vibe. However, my personal favourite gadget was definitely the purple glitter birthing chair....more disco than Donna Summer, and more proof, if were needed, that the extended porn mix of 'Love to Love You Baby' will be No1 on our i-Pod playlist (yes, they have docking stations too). Of course, there is a payoff for these beauteous surroundings courtesy of the embattled NHS - in this case, that would be the lack of anything stronger than gas n air to get you through contractions, and should you wish otherwise then its off to the 70's-inspired labour ward with you, milady (am sure, on my last visit there, I saw a small boy with page boy hair on a tricycle being terrified by a semi-decomposed, bath-dwelling ghost but that may well have been a paranoid hallucination), so if I do end up yelling, in true yummy mummy style, 'JUST GIVE ME THE DRUGS YOU BASTARDS', I will hopefully be too far gone to be on the lookout for Mr Nicholson and his axe ("Heeeere's Caesarian!")

Well, I'm off to order my Tens machine and think positive. Our zany Canadian midwife has urged me, every time I receive a text (does she KNOW how often that is right now?) to practise a little light perineal massage, but I am sadly coming up with every excuse in the book not to comply. And hey, its not always appropriate. Sometimes it's hard to be a woman.....and sometimes, its a genuine trip into the unknown. Eeeek!

Bob, the lonely penguin - but a perfect wannabe house-husband

2009-09-02T11:35:00.000-07:00

Am nesting like crazy (more on that later: too damn tired) and for some reason can't stop thinking about our trip to Birdland the other week (we had Jack's daughter with us, it wasn't a gratuitous trip), in particular about Bob the king penguin, all on his lonesome as his peers frolicked in couples around him. Doggedly he perched through feeding time, looking away into the middle distance, almost as if he were sulking, or looking out for more flightful birds; it turned out he'd been like that for 5 days - you see, male penguins take shifts keeping the egg warm, and Bob was in the full throes of a phantom eggnancy.

Apparently, when it had come to mating time that year, no-one had wanted poor old Bob, despite him giving his "helloooo, ladies" call loud and clear - the females were either taken, or on the lookout for more exciting prospects, such as Feckless Frank, who had already fathered 2 of the penguins at Birdland, although had no idea they were his children - proof that the lady birds love a bad boy? - and solid dependable Bob, who wanted nothing more than to be a fahmily man, was left on the sidelines as the rest paired up.

Well, in my hormonal state it was a bit too much, and I had to leave swiftly to the owl enclosure (where I encountered a rotund northern family staring agape at the dead baby chicks left for the owl's nosh, convinced they were other exhibits who had carked it - I didn't want to burst their bubble). The moral of the story? Envy the lucky penguins who take shifts with the foetus-minding (apart from those knocked up by old Frankie-boy), and be glad that my own fellow egg-sitter combines the best qualities of both.

Here's to hoping that Bob finds a good woman next year.....

Countdown is progressing - uno, dos, uno dos tres quatros!

2009-08-28T06:41:00.000-07:00

I am a human balloon, which is pleasing. Instead of a wasp waist, I have a tweedledum. People do their utmost to avoid stressing me out in public places, and to this end I have travelled first class on trains several times with an economy ticket. Any residual guilt is countered by the knowledge that in a few weeks time I will be a second class citizen all the way, my only vehicle a baby sling, and the only baggage that needs declaring the dark circles under my eyes.

Ah, good times. In this blog I will attempt to make sense of mama-dom, treading a path that so many have before, but hoping to put my own unique spin cycle on it. Please visit me in the process!