It takes two to tango

"Make sure your phone is fully charged and on you at all times."  Those were the stern words delivered to DD as he started his working week. You see my prediction that baby number two would arrive convienently over the weekend as number one had done had been predictably wrong so we were starting the week with an overwhelming sense of anticipation. 

All business trips had been completed or scheduled around D-day and the hospital bag had finally been packed. We were as ready as is possible when juggling work and a toddler. But in London nowhere is close. On a good day it takes DD well over an hour to get home, and there is always the looming threat of tube delays or bad traffic. So even the most meticulous planning and discussions surrounding every possible scenario could not guarantee DD would make it to the hospital in time to witness the birth of his second child. And this was something we were both worried about, in fact we would have been devastated if he wasn't there for as much of the labour as possible. So with a recent study concluding it isn't always a good thing for a partner to be present during childbirth I started thinking about why it was so important for me personally that mine was by my side.

Firstly it takes two to tango. So while us women are tasked with the responsibility of carrying the precious package around for nine months and the unenviable job of pushing him or her out into the world the least they can do is wait on us hand and foot while we do so. Whether it is rubbing our pork chops of feet at the end of a long, bloated day. Dealing with our cravings or putting up with our hormonal, irrational moments. Maybe it's assuring us we are "all bump" when really we are anything but. There are things that can help ease the pressures physically and emotionally and I believe making sure those needs are met are a partners responsibility. 

The same goes during the childbirth itself. Giving birth is exhausting, unpredictable, emotional, painful and at times really scary. So they might not be able to take the pain away, but they can give us their hand to be crushed, rub our backs for hours on end or assure us we can do it when we honestly feel like we can't. How can support in any shape or form be a bad thing?

When asked what it was like watching his wife give birth the musician Robbie Williams said it was like watching his favourite pub burn down. While the comment was obviously meant as an amusing observation I have heard stories of men that have found childbirth a harrowing, distressing and life changing experience. I have a bit of sympathy for them, I'm sure watching your partner go through such a painful thing can be scary. But then again if the birth isn't a straightforward, pleasant experience then you can bet that as traumatic as it was for the man, it was 100 times more so for the women. So when it comes to this side of things I'm sorry but I have to say the phrase 'Man up' could not be more appropriate. 

They probably do feel helpless with everything taken out of their control, but childbirth is out of anyone's control, and like DD said to me when I exclaimed that I didn't think I could finish the job, you have to, there's no choice. The baby has to come out and I can promise that like women report that the pain is forgotten when the baby arrives I'm sure the same can be said for the fathers.

But one of the main reasons I wanted him there was that I wanted him to see what I had to go through.  You don't get a medal for having a baby, but at the very least you should be able to get some heavy duty respect and praise from your other half. I wanted him to see how brave his wife is, how tough and how despite what he might have thought how high my pain threshold really is. I wanted him to appreciate what I had to go through to bring this baby into our family. To fully appreciate the consequences of his actions! I think it helps in the days following for the man to have seen first hand how exhausting the process is so that they make sure they step up and do as much as possible after the birth. Same as you want people cheering at the finish line of a marathon, it's nice to have your biggest supporter in life witness your finest moment.

Lastly I wanted my husband to be there for his sake. I wanted him to be one of the first people to meet his son or daughter. To witness their first breath, first cry and marvel in all their, squishy, gooey gorgeousness. I wanted us to have that first moment as a family. A moment that we could look back and remember whenever times were tough, during the sleepless nights and the long tiring days...

Doors

“When you're following your inner voice, doors tend to eventually open for you, even if they mostly slam at first.” Kellly Cutrone


I was asked today to complete a questionnaire for a magazine featuring women in business. I am a women yes but I'm not in business, yet. You see I was asked because of my role creating a charity event Newsroom's Got Talent. In a way I suppose NGT was a bit like a business, it certainly involved blood, sweat and at time tears. And like with a business it revolved around money, making as much money as possible for the charities it supported to be precise. And luckily NGT was a success, we created an event from scratch that became an established event on the calendar of the media industry. It had very high profile supporters and most importantly it raised a lot of money for amazing causes. But filling out this questionnaire made me realise why exactly I loved NGT so much. I loved being my own boss. Every idea I had I could attempt, even if that idea wasn't the greatest. I had no-one to say no, no-one to put a limit on my ability and most importantly no-one to say, without really saying it, "you are not good enough"

I realised today that this is where I've been going wrong in my career to date. So far I've relied on others to spot my ability, determine where my strengths lie, and believe that I can achieve the things I desire. This is a huge gamble. What if you work for someone that is blinkered to your ability or misconceive, or ignore, your strengths of worse decide for whatever reason that you won't/can't achieve what your heart desires. If that is the case no matter what you do are you really going to be able to change their minds? Or will you just loose your self-believe, passion and confidence in the process of trying...

That is all about to change. I'm starting my own business. One which I hope and pray will be a success. But you know what if it's not I will have no-one to blame but myself, and I don't mean that in a harsh self-critical way. I just mean that I will be able to take my destiny in to my own hands. By becoming my own boss I'm making sure I'm the one who will be judging my abilities, my strengths and determining whether or not I have what it takes. It's all down to me. Now I just have to remind myself that I can achieve all my hearts desires and I will be set.

A step in the right direction

I have just seen the news that a well known former model and television personality has taken her own life, or committed suicide.  I vaguely recall someone once telling me that you shouldn't use the term "committed suicide" as it implies the person is making an informed choice, or was that taken their own life? I'm not sure it matters really, when it comes down to it, she is gone.

It is sad, incredibly sad actually, when anyone takes their own life, and when that person is high profile suddenly the issues surrounding their death becomes high profile too. People are often shocked at why someone who seemingly had it all would end their life. Surely being successful, beautiful, talented is more than enough to conquer any kind of mental health problem. It's not.

The thing about mental illness is that it can affect anyone, like cancer it's a bit like a postcode lottery. Sure you can try and do things to keep your mind healthy and happy, same as someone can try and do the right things to prevent themselves from getting sick, but at the end of the day you can only hope that the big black dog doesn't choose you to invade because if he/she does you're in for a battle...

It doesn't matter if you are young, middle aged or elderly. If you are successful or have a loving family. If you have a mental health problem all of that can pale into insignificance compared to the pain you are going through.

I'm talking as if I understand what it's like to suffer from a mental health problem, but I don't. If I did I might have understood a little more of what my father was going through before he took his own life in 2002. For years he had battled depression,aggravated by an incident at work that unfortunately wasn't handled as well as it could have been. I knew that my dad, the most loving, witty and generous man you could hope to meet, could have days where he couldn't get out of bed, would sleep on and on in an attempt I guess to block out the world. But I didn't really get it. With the naïveté of a teen I used to tell him to go for a walk or join a squash club as excercise was known to help lift moods. I'd tell him off for being down, didn't he know how lucky he was compared to so many people out there? He seemingly had it all so what was his problem?! If only we all knew then what we are starting to know now.

I know it's only a little over a decade since my dad's death but when it comes to society's attitude towards mental health it could be a lifetime ago. Back then no one talked about depression, or suicide. I remember after Dad died people, friends, being so shocked that he had been unwell, not many people knew just how strong and brave he had been for so many years. More alarming was the number of people we knew that then spoke out about their own battles. People who had contemplated suicide, or attempted it. People who had loved ones who had taken their own lives but had always maintained they had died of something else. These were all successful, wonderful people. It made me realise that my family was what I had always believed it was, terrific, unfortunately being a terrific family doesn't make you immune to depression.

At his wake my god brother, yes in my family we have these, said that I should think of suicide in the same way as cancer. Some people survive cancer and some no matter how hard they fight just can't defeat the disease. I really like the analogy. Maybe if we started treating mental illness with the same gravity, openness and reverence as cancer we wouldn't loose so many?

With suicide comes a terrible fear of stigma. I remember my main concern after dad died was what would I tell people? I knew I wasn't ashamed of him, in fact I was proud that he had fought his battle for so long. But I also didn't want people to think badly of him, those that might not know him might make assumptions about him that were wrong or might make assumptions about us as a family. I remember bumping into an old school teacher a couple of weeks after he had died, one that I always got the impression wasn't my biggest fan. Suddenly, and in front of a group of people I didn't know she asked me what Dad had died of. Panicking and also sensing this was not coming from a place of concern but rather a place of curiosity I blurted out that he had suffered a heart attack, it had come out of nowhere and it was massive, he didn't stand a chance. The town I come from is a small place, to this day I'm sure she already knew what had happened, she just wanted to get it from the horses mouth. I went home and cried about how I had betrayed my dad. My mum told me not to be silly, I was protecting him. She said I would know who to tell and who to lie to, I still follow this advice.

Very few people that didn't know me before dad's death actually know what happened. I always worry that people will judge, or even worse will pity me. I know I'm not alone, work is a breeding ground for stress, anxiety, depression so there's no way some people there haven't experienced some kind of mental health problems themselves or have loved ones that have. But unlike other illnesses there's no way any of us are going to say anything. I have sat and listened as people around me have used the most offensive terms when discussing a news story that involves mental illness. Yet these are the same people that preach about what term to use when describing suicide. Ironic much? 

At the time I said that one day I would use my position, whatever that might be, to speak out about mental illness. Show people that it can happen to anyone. I still haven't had the guts. But there is still time.

I'm starting to realise that I am part of the problem. How can I preach about how we should all be talking about mental illness and how people should stand up and shout if they are struggling if I myself am not brave enough to so.

At the moment it's easy to tell ourselves that suicide isn't really there, it's just something that happens in the darkness, only exposed when it happens to a celebrity that people 'care' about. And yet the statistics are frightening...

1 million people across the globe die by suicide each year. That’s one suicide every 40 seconds.

* More people die by suicide each year than by murder and war combined.

* Suicide is the second biggest cause of death worldwide among 15-19 year olds.

* 100,000 adolescents die by suicide every year.

* Suicide is estimated to be under-reported for reasons of stigma, religion and social attitudes. Many suicides are hidden among other causes of death, such as road traffic accidents and drowning.

(Source: International Association for Suicide Prevention)

 

I'm going to post this now because I'm worried that if I pause I might chicken out. I apologise for any spelling or grammatical errors I don't really want to read it back to check. I hope that by writing this I'm taking a step in the right direction, a direction that I vowed at my dad's cremation 11 years ago that I would go.

- In memory of Thomas O'Toole and all those affected by mental illness.

Juggling act

I remember when I told one of my colleagues I was pregnant, after the obvious congratulations and how are you feeling conversation she turned to me and said "get used to disappointing everyone."

She went on to tell me how when you are a working mum you spend your life letting someone down. When you are at work you are disappointing your children by not being with them and putting them first. When you are not able to work because of family commitments you disappoint your work place. It was, she described, a vicious circle where you are the main loser.

I've been back at work for 12 months so I feel that I now have some thoughts to add to the topic.

I can see where she was coming from. When you are a working mum it is a massive juggling act and invariably there are times when you drop the balls. There are not enough hours in the day and despite postings on social media sites implying the opposite, it is impossible to do, or have it all. 

But from my limited experience I wonder if some of this disappointment or pressure is heaped upon us,  not by our partners, children or bosses, but by us ourselves?

Take last week for example. It was particularly busy at work with a project I'm responsible for reaching a climax. DD obviously aware of the situation and being the new age man that he is told me to take it easy in the afternoons, I work from from very early morning til mid afternoons most days. He said he would sort dinner when he got home. But of course I didn't listen.

Instead I rushed home from work, collected the pickle from Nanna, raced around the supermarket, raced home, plonked her down in front of her favourite tv show. Made a cup of peppermint tea. Started chopping onions. Decided I was a terrible mother for offering my child Upsy Daisy's attention rather than my own. Turned off the tv and took her to the park. Put her in the swings and attempted to answer work emails whilst pushing. Realised this was as bad as the TV situation so put phone away and played properly in the park for another half hour. Raced home, via Morrisons as I had realised we didn't have any yoghurt for desert, got home, continued making dinner while singing to a pickle who was attempting to climb out the doors to the balcony. Put away the dvds that had been scattered around the loungeroom. Feed her dinner while cooking our own. Give up on dinner when she showed how much she didn't like the vegetable korma I had slaved over the night before by smearing it through her hair and throwing the bowl across the room with distain. Cleaned up korma. Cleaned up child. Put a load of washing out. Put it back out again after she had pulled all of it off the clothes horse. Read her a book. Put the now prepared dinner in the fridge ready for baking later. Packed away the DVDs that were now being used as ice skates. Smelt a disastrous nappy. Contemplated whether it would be considered cruel to leave her in said nappy until DD was home. Decided it would be so changed offending nappy. Had a drink of very cold and horrible peppermint tea. Raced around throwing toys in playpen in attempt to create a 'calm and welcoming environment' and breathed a sigh of relief at the sound of a key in the lock. DD was home. And it was time to be a martyr.

"My god I'm knackered" I exclaim before he has a chance to get in the front door.

"I haven't stopped since I got home."

"Oh Petal I told you to take things easy, you shouldn't have gone to any trouble." He replied innocently.

"The house is looking nice."

" Yeah well I've spent the afternoon cleaning, cooking as well as taking pickle to the park"  I say, sounding far more bitter than I mean to.

"You shouldn't have, I said I'd do it" He answers sounding slightly perplexed at the sour mood.

"Yeah well I got home first so I guess it's expected of me. But you know I've worked just as long a day as you, it's just that I started long before you." Now I'm really getting worked up. 

And that my friend is how a lot of evenings go. It's the feelings of guilt that you should be doing more, that you should be able to do a full days work, have the energy to be fun mum as well as keep a clean house and cook a nutritious meal that spur you on to try and achieve the often unacheivable. And we have to ask why? Who does it benefit? Certainly not the child that would have been much happier with a mum that took her to the park for a leisurely play and then sat with her as she watched In The Night Garden. And certainly not the husband that would have preferred coming home to a chaotic and messy but stress free house where steak and chips are served with a smile rather than some fancy quiche served with a grimace. And certainly not me, who was completely wiped out from a marathon of an afternoon.

You feel like you've got something to prove, but to who I'm not sure? Yourself?

Maybe we should stop trying to prove anything and just accept that all we can do is our best, and sometimes that's not good enough. We can't do it all, it's not possible to be the perfect wife, mother, employee, the whole time. All we can do is our best juggling performance and hope that with time and lots of practice we only drop those balls occasionally, and not in front of too big an audience.

I am who I am

I am who I am because I knew you.

I am who I am because I loved you.

I will be who I will be because I lost you.

Grief

It's consuming, overwhelming and inescapable.

It is the missing of someone you might not have seen in a long time. 

It's the longing for conversations that are yet to take place.

It's the regret of time wasted and thankfulness for time spent.

It's hours of blissful forgetting followed by that single, breath taking moment of remembering. 

It's memories that provoke a smile while at the same time producing tears.

It's all consuming but isn't exclusive. 

It can make someone feel like the only person in the world. It's an emotion shared by all in this world.

It binds strangers together. It can rip loved ones apart.

It's an internal pain buried deep within your soul and an external pain shining from your eyes.

It makes your heart hurt and your soul cry.

It's filled with unanswerable questions; what if, if only and why?

It's a constant companion that never leaves us but falls a few steps behind over time.

It allows us to remember and it forces us to never forget.

It lets us know how greatly we loved and how great love can hurt.

It brings us to our knees. It gives us the strength to keep breathing.

It is death. It is life.

In that moment...

There are plenty of things we take for granted. I think when life is going well it is normal to expect that it is going to stay that way, it is natural to get a little complacent. And then life comes and gives you a giant kick up the backside...

Our kick came today and I think it is going to be a long time before we take the simple things for granted again, in fact I would like to think we never will again.

I think one of the scariest aspects of life is the unpredictability of it all. You very rarely, if ever, get a warning that something untoward is going to take place. You will be going about your day and then bam something happens that can change everything.

That moment happened to us today. Before I start I have to put that thankfully this story has a happy ending.

Today's bank holiday meant the chance for one of us to have an extra sleep in and today was my lucky day. So while I slept soundly DD got up with the piglet and gave her breakfast, which he later remarked wasn't very large, but at the time he put it down to her being a little gummed up with a cold. She was tired apparently so had a morning nap, again nothing unusual with this, the morning was textbook.

When she woke an hour or so later DD decided enough was enough and that daddy daycare was closed for the morning so bought her in to me for a cuddle. Terribly congested she kept snuggling into my neck which was welcomed but slightly unusual, as since she has learnt to crawl she wants to be on the move all the time and cuddles just slow her down. 

"Wowsers she is a hot little bunny,"  I casually remarked.

"I think it's time the winter sleeping bag was retired for the season"

"Haha look she is trying to stop herself from falling back" joked DD as the piglet did a jerky movement while sitting.

But then she jerked again. And then again, and in that split second our smiles were gone.

Our baby was fitting.

In all honesty the following sequence most likely took seconds, but it did feel like an age. 

First she was fitting, her eyes rolling back and I was picking her up from the bed. Then I was throwing her at DD who ran downstairs with her whilst I scrambled to put clothes on. It is funny the things that go through your head in moments of crisis but I remember having an internal arguement with myself over whether I had time to put on a bra...

Running for the lifts I tried not to look, I think I knew that if I gave myself a chance to process what was going on I wouldn't be of much use to anyone. DD later explained how it felt like he was holding a dead person, how her body was limp and her eyes not blinking. I'm glad I didn't look.

The lifts in our complex have been playing up so after a few seconds of nothing we made a run for it. Normally when we go down the stairs piggy makes a little sound with each step, a noise that's a bit like a mix of a burp sound and a humph. Today the only sound I could hear was DD pleading with his monkey to make any kind of sound at all.

The hospital is 8 minutes away, today it took 5 minutes. I'll probably get a speeding fine, but I don't give a damn. Half way there she started whimpering. It was a 'thank god' moment when we were given a clue that things might not be as bad as we first feared. I think that was when DD and I started to breathe again.

The medical term for what happened today is a febrile convulsion. It should be called giving your parents a heart attack. They take place when the body suffers a huge spike in temperature. Apparently they are quite common. DD had one when he was the exact same age. But although bloody terrifying, they are not overly serious. There are several causes, illness is the most common. A small percentage of babies have one after they have had their immunisation shots. Piggy had her shots on Saturday, but as we found out today she has a bad virus, so either or both could be to blame in this instance.

A few distressing tests, some pain relief and some monitoring over a few hours and we were discharged. We were told to keep an eye on her temperature,to keep her cool at all times and were assured that this would most likely be the end of it all.

It was after we had put the pickle in her cot for the night that the tears started. Neither of us bothered to justify them, we both knew exactly where they were coming from. A mix of relief and a horrible sense of what might have been.

I'm writing this from the floor of her room, I'm taking the first shift. Tonight I won't grumble if she wakes in the night for no other reason than she wants a cuddle. If she wants a night feed she has got it, to hell with 'the routine'.

We had one hell of a day, certainly not the nicest way to spend a bank holiday but tonight we are the luckiest people in the world. We came home with a poorly but otherwise healthy little girl. Many other parents are going through much worse right now and my heart is hurting for them.

The cliches are true, moments like this put it all in perspective. Nothing is more important than the health and well being of our loved ones. We could have the best, most fulfilling jobs in the world. We could be super rich and be able to buy whatever, whenever we wanted. But if we, and those we love don't have good health we have nothing at all.

I hope I remember this the next time I feel hard done by...

D-day

There's not much you need to know about the day the piglet was born. To be honest childbirth isn't the most pleasant of dinner table topics. Nor is it something I really want to relive in minute detail as I try and turn it into some kind of meaningful prose. Therefore this isn't going to be the longest of chapters.

Thank god I hear you say. For a moment there I bet you thought I was going to tell you how my waters exploded straight into the face of my unassuming midwife. How she got a little more than she bargained for when she went poking about quite late on in the piece...

Likewise I won't write about how nothing, and I mean nothing, can prepare you for just how much those contractions hurt. Not even watching the omnibus of One Born Every Minute gives you the heads up.

Watching OBEM was handy however when it came to instructing DD on how to behave in the delivery suite.

One relevant episode saw a D2B (Dad to be) fall asleep during his partners labour. Now to be fair to the man it was a very long labour and his only companion for the duration was his incredibly boring mother-in-law. But still, he did manage to snooze through a fair amount of screaming so I'm wondering if he snuck some earplugs in? At one point he even asked her to keep the noise down. I don't think I need to tell you her response....

Anyway, nothing was said at the time but I did notice that DD was watching that episode quite intently.

"Can you please make sure you get some cans of redbull for your hospital bag." Requests DD a week before D-Day.

"Nah, it's ok. I've been told water and sports drinks are better during labour. But that's cool that you have been thinking about what I will need to get me through, very sweet." I say, feeling very smug that I should have such a caring, thoughtful husband. "Not for you, for me!" He reply's passionately.

"I need you to make sure I have plenty of redbull to hand ok, so can you please make sure you buy a 12 pack today and put them in the fridge so that they are chilled and ready to go."

"I'm sorry are you confused? Is it you that will be giving birth? No! In fact I have the honour of that particular task. So why the hell are you the one that will need the energy drinks?!"

"You know how I have a habit of falling asleep easily." He answers.

This was true he did sleep like a baby (this was obviously written by someone who had never had a baby as they do not sleep, making this analogy entirely misleading in my opinion.)

"You could have a long labour and I'm worried I might get sleepy like that guy on TV and you'll go nuts."

"Umm I think seeing your first born entering the world will provide you with enough adrenalin to keep you awake dont you?"

"Mmm I wouldn't want to bet on it. Remember that time I fell asleep in the middle of that huge argument.."

I do remember, I also remember wacking him around the head with a pillow to wake him up. He had a point. A 12 pack of redbull was purchased the very next day.

In the end DD only needed 4 cans and we managed to avoid any pillow walloping.

As I mentioned before my waters breaking was a highlight to all in the room, other than the midwife obviously. And apparently the gas and air made me sound like Darth Vader. A fact made more amusing when I turned to DD after one particularly intense contraction and declared that I had just "made that contraction my bitch."

So after 6 or so hours of conquering some pretty intense contractions a little person entered the world and I can't begin to describe how it felt. Anyone who has had a baby will tell you it's the most amazing, surreal experience you will ever have. They are right.

We decided not to find out the sex of the baby before the birth and actually we were so happy that everything seemed ok we forgot to find out after. So after about 10 minutes or so the midwife said we really should find out what we had got, lifted the baby off my chest momentarily, and declared it was a girl.

A girl. I had a daughter. And what a perfect, pint sized, scrumptious, utterly edible daughter she was.

It's true what they tell you. In that moment every ache and pain, sickness and swelling, contraction and agony is worth it. In fact it suddenly disappears. You know that you've been in the most intense pain of your life but you honestly can't remember it. You have your baby in your arms and that's all that matters.

Eating for two

"Honey do you really need that? It's your second helping, and you had a pretty big starter."

"Oh my god are you saying I'm fat?!"

"No of course not! It's just since the pregnancy you have kind of put on a little bit of weight."

"Oh my god I can't believe what I'm hearing! So yes I did put on a bit during the pregnancy but that's totally normal by the way. And I'll admit it I haven't been that quick to loose it but I have a new baby for gods sake! I'm tired, I'm doing my best you know. I'm sorry if I'm not like those celebs that lose their baby weight in a matter of days. I think my hormones are still over the place to be honest. I can't believe I'm even having to justify myself, to you of all people. You should understand. I've just had a baby..."

"But that's the thing darling, you didn't actually have the baby, I did...."

Crimes against maternity

I don't despise many people. Apart from the obvious, dictators, tyrants and the like. But there is one group of people I despise to the very core of my being. I am of course talking about women who get their figures back weeks if not days after giving birth.

It might surprise you to hear that I don't include the Victoria Beckhams of this world in this category. No I'm able to come up with plenty of reasons why she looks the way she does when she emerges from Great Portland Street Hospital, her latest designer baby in tow. Apart from the whole no eating thing celebs have teams of nutritionalists, personal trainers and chefs, all working their butts off to ensure said butt is as small as it can be. No I can tell myself that if they were in my position they too would have a baby bump months after the baby is out in the world.

No my real bug bear is with those mere mortals amongst us that go straight from the hospital into their skinny jeans faster than you can say Atkins.

I think you have probably gathered from my tone that I unfortunately don't fall into this category. Now before you call me bitter and jealous I fully admit I am both these things. But I don't think I'm alone when I say that along with changing room mirrors a new mums worst enemy is the fellow newbie that is back to looking her skinny assed best within weeks.

Now if you are reading this and are getting offended, don't be, you are obviously lucky enough to be one of those women who bounce back after birth, rather than just bounce as the case may be for the rest of us.

If you are reading this and are nodding away furiously then just know you are not alone. Maybe you, like me, are still a long way off looking your pre pregnancy best. Maybe you've grown a little too attached to your maternity jeans and can't imagine ever fitting into your favourite pair of Diesels ever again. Or maybe you've just said sod it and swapped those jeans for nice comfy, stretch leggings...every chubby girls friend.

You might be surprised to learn that my personal battle with the bulge didn't really kick in until after the piglet was born. Helpfully I seemed to loose my usual cravings for all things sweet and instead had a constant hankering for crushed ice and mandarins. In fact when I look at the photos taken in the days following the birth I look ok. Sure my tummy was hanging around my pelvis, but apart from that my months of swimming leading up to the birth seemed to pay off.

But then it all went wrong. You see when you have a baby everyone wants to see Him or her. Which of course is lovely but it means that you need food to give them. Now as I was spending most of my time on the couch with a baby attached to my boob the food shopping fell on the shoulders of New Nanna or Devoted Dad. We didn't have a problem when NN was in charge of the trolley. A plethora of fresh fruit, houmos and other healthy snacks would appear. Although the lady isn't a saint there was also an extensive selection of cheeses and crisps on offer too.

DD on the other hand should have taken out shares in cadbury for all the biscuits he purchased. On one particular jaunt to the shops he returned with 3 varieties of biscuits, 2 huge bags of crisps, a chocolate cake, 3 dips and crackers, oh and some cucumber to be fair. So you can see why the weight quickly piled on. Sure I could have ignored the junk, no one was forcing me to eat it, but when your surviving on little to no sleep and are spending any waking hour with a little person attached to your body, willpower goes out the window. I remember a fellow newbies response when I said to her that I was thinking about going on a diet."You've got to have something nice in your life" she said mournfully. Her baby was a particularly bad sleeper.

And while I'm ranting there is something else I need to get off my chest. There is a myth circulating that I know could cause a lot of new mums harm. Despite rumours to the contary I can tell you once and for all...Breast feeding does NOT mean you can eat whatever you like.
Sure it does help your stomach move back into position slightly and certainly doesn't hurt but does it negate all the crisps and chocolate biscuits? Most definitely not!

One helpful midwife told me you burn up to 500 calories a day BF.

"It's like going for a 10km jog every day" she declared gleefully.

Well I lapped that up. Having always dreamed of being one of those women who jogged daily and ate like horses I was excited to finally be joining that club. For a good few weeks I had a little spring in my step as I moved from the couch to the fridge, and back again.

Bring on the pasta! Another biscuit? I don't mind if I do. Shall we have Indian takeaway for dinner? Oh no that's fine get every variety of naan bread, I'm breast feeding remember, I'm losing weight as we speak...

2 little teeth = 1 big problem

"Teeth are a bloody nuisance. They are a nuisance when they come in, a nuisance when you loose them, and a nuisance for most of the time you have them"

Those were the wise words of my 95 year old grandmother and I couldn't agree with her more.

We have had it good. We somehow managed to have a baby that loves her sleep and started sleeping through the night at 7 weeks. But as we, and most likely countless other smug newbies soon found out, all good things come to an end. And it is all because of tiny pieces of bone known as teeth.

The piglet had started showing signs of teething very early on. Hands in the mouth, drooling etc. Everyone told me I was imagining it, a baby didn't get teeth at such a young age. But after seeing a documentary that showed babies being born with teeth I knew otherwise.

So it didn't come as much of a surprise when from out of her little gums emerged a pinprick of white that quickly turned into a milk tooth, a second popping up to make a perfect pair the following week.

I don't know why they are called milk teeth because I'm telling you now teeth plus breast feeding does not a happy mummy make.

You see babies soon become curious as to what their new little buddies do and what they seem to work out remarkably quickly is that they allow them to bite. I'm not going to go into any more detail than that, you know where I'm going...

Then there's the small matter of using your boob as a teething ring. Why use a teething ring that is the latest in pain relief technology when you can use your mothers nipple...

Not only do tiny teeth cause breast feeding to become a bit of a health hazard, they seem to cause babies a huge amount of pain and discomfort. Some get rosy cheeks, others get pimple like spots and most that had been in a fairly good sleeping pattern take a few steps back in the wrong direction.

Our poor little darling has had the lot, minus the rosy cheeks. Her chin resembles that of a pubescent teen and the lack of creativity in this chapter is reflective of the lack of sleep myself and DD have been having of late. I used to consider 6am as a disgustingly early time of the day, only to be seen if staggering in from a night of epic proportions. I now consider it a sleep in.

As I write this I know we have nothing to complain about, compared to some we have got it good. I had a coffee with a fellow newbie the other day and she went positively green with envy when she heard that the piglet wakes at 3am. Her daughter wakes every hour on the hour. But still I can't help wondering when it is going to end. We are only 4 down, approximately 20 to go. This is going to take years and honestly I don't know if I can handle that much breakfast television....

Pumping - the ultimate passion killer

There is nothing sexy about breast pumps! Nothing!

Those that have had the pleasure of placing their boobs in a plastic funnel and letting it work it's magic, will not need to be told that at best it's weird and uncomfortable, and at worst, it's bloody painful.

It's also very boring. We made the rookie mistake of not picking a pump with a silent feature. This means that when using our pump it sounds like an air raid is taking place. It's very loud, but strangely hypnotic. For the first few weeks DD was in that 'we're all this together' phase and was happy to lip read his tv shows while it droned away.

Unfortunately the novelty soon wore off and I found myself sitting in the hallway mournfully watching tv through the doorway as the pump slowly whirred away.

Last week I had had enough. You see since having the piglet night times have become precious. A beautiful hour or two where you can lie on the couch, rather than walk around in circles with a baby that doesn't like people sitting down, and enjoy a cuppa while it's actually hot. Bliss! So I begrudged spending it sitting in the cold having my boob molested by a plastic funnel.

So I took the pump to bed with me. The piglet had moved into her own room the week before, meaning I could sit up in bed and whir away to my hearts content.

I think DD had hoped that the moving of rooms would signal the return of the kind of activities that had got us into this position in the first place. So you can imagine his face when he eagerly jumped into bed that night and was met with the sight of me pumping.

Now they warn you to be very careful with contraception after the birth of your munchkins and so avoid any little surprises. I can tell you now that you don't need contraception if you've got a breast pump, it's more than enough. Just ask DD.....

Little white lie...

"This thing tonight goes for an hour right?"

"Mmmmm" I replied non-commitedly.

The thing Devoted Dad was referring to was our first pre-natal class. We had enrolled in these classes to get us ready for birth, and, to be honest, to tell us how to be parents. The reason I mmm'd a response was because I knew full well that tonight's class was going to go for at least two and a half hours, not the mere one DD was expecting.

You see, persuading DD that sharing the most important moment of our life with complete strangers had been hard enough. Throw into the mix that the classes were being held on a week night, straight after work and it was like selling meat to a vegetarian.

So let him go blindly into the meeting thinking he was going to get home in time for dinner and the much anticipated Chelsea game. Who am I to shatter his dreams? Plus, it serves him right for not reading the email.

As DD was coming straight from work it made sense to met him there. But there was a problem. We located the house really easily, meaning we found ourselves by the front door with 10 minutes to spare. "So what's the big deal?" I hear you say, "head straight in and get yourself a good seat." Well that might have been the answer for other couples in our position but DD was reluctant to be there in the first place. Being the first ones there was simply unacceptable.

"Right! We will have to walk around the block" he declares.

"But it's freezing out, and I don't have a coat!" I reply.

"You'll be right" he says marching off, his voice swallowed up by a massive gust of wind.

Wow! There I was thinking being 8 months pregnant allowed me special privileges, obviously not!

So off we go, sticking to the shadows in case any fellow newbies happened to be arriving at the same time. After 10 minutes or so we return to the house, now frozen to the core and me with the sorest feet thanks to having to walk a long distance in heels. (Well I was hardly going to meet prospective friends in flats was I? Plus, I didn't know that we were going on a hike!)

Our walk appeared to have done the trick and we were the last couple to arrive. This meant that all the comfy couches were taken and DD had to sit on the floor. Poetic justice if you ask me!

Now as I explained earlier, DD and myself didn't really know anything about babies before entering that room. Obviously we had figured out how to make them (high five!) but we didn't know how to give birth to them or what to do with them after they had arrived. But we had been watching a LOT of 'One Born Every Minute' and I'm not going to lie, that kind of made us the experts of the group.

The first hour seemed to go well. Thanks to the aforementioned TV show I knew the answers to quite a few of the questions and found some holes in the leader's responses. Apparently it was quite embarrassing when I drilled her for half an hour over her vague statistics regarding haemorrhaging, but I'm sorry, don't throw statements out to a room of journalists if you don't have the statistics to back them up!

To be fair, I was the only journalist in the room, and I was obviously missing work because I questioned that woman like she was on trial at the Hague. But I think the group appreciated the clarification...( I later found out they did nothing of the sort and shared DD's impatience to get the hell home)

Anyways after 'haemorrhage gate', our now slightly frazzled leader announced it was time for a break. Instantly six heads popped up as the men in the room woke themselves up from their boredom induced comas.

DD jumped up from the floor. I say jumped but to be honest it was more of a part jump majority heave as the effects of spending the best part of an hour sitting on the wooden floor took effect. After a rather embarrassing moment of role reversal that saw DD having to be winched to his feet by 4 heavily pregnant women, we were on our way into the kitchen for the promised meal break.

"Help yourself to a biscuit and there's the option of a glass of juice or cup of tea" our leader declared proudly to the room. "And those that are eating for two can have seconds."

Wow did the smiles fade fast as it dawned on us that this was what was meant by 'food will be provided'. You should have seen my DD's face! He looked like someone had clubbed a baby seal in front of him as he looked first to me in panic then to the biscuit tin and back again.

"Don't worry" I whisper, "you can have my second biscuit."

From that moment on it was like being involved in a kind of middle class version of Chinese water torture. Each helpful fact was punctuated with the grumbling of DD's stomach. As his blood sugar levels decreased so too did his patience. It's not often he gets upset or annoyed but when a fellow newbie asked yet another quite obvious question, pushing us over into the three hour mark he was a man on the edge.

We did eventually get out of there and DD's humour was restored with a little detour through the local Maccy D's on the way home. We had several more classes after that one and learnt a lot.

We learnt how to give birth. How to bathe, feed and dress our impending arrival, all useful facts. But most importantly we learnt to never, ever believe it when the pamphlet says 'food will be provided'...

Do these Louboutins come in size cankle?

"Wow, your feet have really puffed out!" declared devoted dad as he whipped off my socks for the perfunctory nightly foot massage.

"Really" I reply, "I hadn't noticed."

Not picking up on the sarcastic tone, or maybe wisely choosing to ignore it, hormones can be a bitch, DD continued on...

"Yeah they are so cute" That's more like it. "Just like little pigs trotters!"

Charming!

I don't know what it is about DD but my body parts always seem to remind him of food. Maybe I don't feed him enough, but over the years I have had legs like chicken drumsticks, my spare tyre has been described as 'gristle that I just want to chew on' and now it seems my toes resemble 'little pigs in blankets.' How attractive do I feel...

That's the thing about pregnancy it changes your body in ways you can never imagine. Sure, you know you can kiss goodbye to seeing your toes for six or so months, but there are some other lovely surprises along the way.

For me the worst thing has most definitely been the swelling. Bad swelling in the feet can be a sign of the condition preeclampsia but luckily mine isn't that. But it is bad.

Imagine Cumberland sausages in the pan when you've forgotten to prick them and you've got the idea. And it's not just my feet that have doubled in size, my hands now resemble slabs of meat.

I find the fluid retention in the feet the most distressing, especially after one helpful friend pointed out that sometimes they never return to their pre pregnancy size. You mean I could be stuck with these galompers forever...? Please God no!

You see I've always had a good working relationship with my feet, in fact i would go as far as to say they are my best body part friends.

Unlike other parts of my body my feet never betray me by suddenly not fitting into certain skirts. They don't decide to use my love of chocolate against me, nor do they choose to expose my times of over indulgence, unlike the traitor that is my backside.

Also feet are the perfect shopping companion. No matter how much weight you have put on, or how rubbish you are feeling you can always find a pair of shoes to fit.

Sure I may not be as tall as some of my friends, nor do I have the fast metabolism that seems to have been given to all those celebrities that "eat whatever I want" "Oh chocolate and chips are my weakness!" We'll, they might be your weakness but you clearly don't eat any of it, ever, you skinny....

Sorry I digress. What I'm trying to say is, I may not be the perfect size 8, or to be perfectly honest, size 10. But I do have lovely and lithe size 3 & 1/2 feet.

This allows me to be quite smug when all my big footed friends are despairing as they search amongst the Kurt Geiger sale rack..."Oh gold sequinned peep toe heels... in a 3 & 1/2... I don't mind if I do...!

Carnage on the central line

'Always carry a sick bag with you'

Those were the sage words of advice from my trusty midwife when discussing my daily commute to work, words that I promptly dismissed.

A sick bag, I don't think so...the only bag I carry with me has two little letters D&G embossed on the side. Ok, between you and me it is a knock off from a very persuasive street seller from Piazza San Marco,Venice. But still, I firmly believe that one should only use a paper sick bag when flying.

So instead I performed the much classier act of throwing up in my mouth and holding it in until the next stop. Now those that have ever visited Chiswick will know that its high street is particularly long, and busy. Therefore I found myself standing by the door of the bus frantically waving at my mouth, as if trying to magically wave away the vomit. A bit like when you wave at your eyes when trying not to cry, and it seems this is just as ineffective. When the doors of the bus finally open I thrust myself out on to the pavement and promptly empty the contents of my stomach. To be precise on the doorstep of Marco Pierre White's restaurant Frankies. Please note the fact that said restaurant has since closed down is coincidental and has nothing to do with me.

So here I am, my tight clad legs spread wide in an attempt to try and save the high heels from splash back, one hand holding my hair, the other clutching the all important handbag.

Like some modern day hobo, all that was missing was the brown paper bag. Which, as we have now ascertained would have prevented all this in the first place...