Happy holidays

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

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)

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

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

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

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...

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...