Friday, 27 February 2015

The Modern Daddy.

This one's a thank you to the modern Daddy;
The baby carrying, push-chair rocking, changer of the nappy.
The night-time bouncing, muslin dousing, king of the sling,
The story-reading, face-to-get-peed-in, human baby-gym. 
Thank you for the night-feeds, that give my boobs a break,
Thanks for making me cups of tea, while I cry into an enormous cake.
Thanks for ordering pizza, when I've made a total shit of dinner,
Thanks for pretending my dressing gown actually makes me look thinner.
So this one's for you, our modern Daddy,
The night-time driving, colic surviving, chap that still looks happy.
Thanks for Friday night wine-time, where mummy gets a little bit plastered,
And thanks for being such an awesome Dad, and a goddamn lovely bastard.

#moderndaddy



Wednesday, 18 February 2015

The Three Shades of Newborns. Uncovered.

I'm 8 weeks in.

I can feel my face again… I can almost hold an adult conversation… and I no longer spend every moment the baby isn't awake in the foetal position, rocking, sobbing and spooning Nutella into my mouth with a Sophie the Giraffe…

Yes.

I can see the light at the end of the liquid-yellow-shit-stained tunnel, and there's mascara, wine, and underwired bras there… *stares wistfully off into distance at the thought of real underwear again…*

So now that the newborn fog has begun to clear, let me impart my wise learnings from the past 2 months...


1. Changing.

There will be poos. Many poos… More poos than you ever thought possible for a 60cm human being to produce. And after the first 24 hours of attempting to clean stringy-korma-mustard-turd off of a tiny wrinkly scrotum sack with cotton balls and sterilised tears, you too will be Amazon-Priming the shit out of the Johnsons's baby wipes like the rest of us. Fact.

NB - If your baby isn't pooing, simply dress them in white, put on a nice top, or attempt to leave the house on time… and watch the poonami commence.

2. Sleeping.

The internet told me that newborn babies like to sleep for 18 hours a day… *pauses to wait for hysterical cry-laughing to stop* and I can see the funny side of this now that I've realised the internet is a FULL OF MOTHER-FRIGGING LIES. (and is mostly cats.)

Besides, if you slept when the baby was sleeping, when would you fit in your gin? That 20 minutes IS your only #ginwindow; your time Tanqueray, tears and reminiscing about the area you used to call your vagina… and now looks like something a fox threw-up...

Babies are pretty boring during the day though… perhaps because need to get their rest in during daylight so they've got the energy to really f@*k your shit up at at night.

3. Feeding.

If ever there was a time where you considered your breasts our own… those times are gone. Long gone… like the elasticity of your stomach skin and labia…. You are one giant on-demand udder. Held together with clicky-clippy nursing fastenings. *flinches* 

In the beginning, there was plague, famine, death and destruction. Then. There was Colic. Which is totally actually worse. And mostly consists of feeding your child. Then watching them explode like an tiny, angry, milky baby-volcano, while you shout something like… WHERE THE F@*KING TWATTING TWAT IS THE MUSLIN. DEAR GOD IT'S IN MY EYES. NOW IT'S DRIBBLING INTO MY MOUTH. GOD. WHYYYY. WHYYYYYYYYYY….

Then finding the muslin in your hand.

And crying.

And probably doing a shot. 


#ginwindow
#foxyfanny







Friday, 13 February 2015

Valentines Dos & Don'ts for Knackered Mums & Dads

Valentine's Day means very little in our household, my priorities lie firmly with crying on the toilet, finding human shit behind my ear, discovering new ways to hide vegetables in cheese products, and other important life skills like that…

But, never one to shy away from an opportunity to guilt-trip the husband, here's my take on injecting romance into what would otherwise be another soul-less ear-faeces-laden day.


Do - remind each other how flipping awesome you are, despite the fact you are being forced to have that conversation whilst your wife expresses with one hand and does shots of wine with the other… You've made humans. ACTUAL HUMANS. And there was NEVER a better reason to reward yourself with an M&S dine-in-for-two meal...
Don't - waste a shit evening in a packed restaurant with a ton of other couples trying to resist the urge to check their twitter feeds over an over-priced steak. You'll be forced to wear a proper underwear… and let's face it. Bras just aren't for you any more.

Do - get off F-ing Facebook for the night… and try an actual 'con-ver-sat-ion'. About something other than ear-faeces if possible.
Don't - spend the entire night on social media feeling equally irritated and jealous as all your twatty child-free friends post pictures of their actual 'florist-bought' flowers along with smug pictures of jewellery and handbags oh-so-originally captioned 'the boy done good'…. F@*kers. One day, their vaginas will know true pain, and what's it's like to never wish to be near a thong or penis ever again…

On a separate note, can I just take this opportunity to say thanks Timehop. You total shit. For flagging up today's photo of me, 5 years ago, thin, with in-tact vagina, in Venice, smugly holding a Marc Jacobs bag, captioned 'the boy done good'. Oh… Shit.

Do - buy each other gifts that aren't made out of pasta and snot, or bought from the Tesco garage on the way home…
Don't - make jokes about how long it's been since you've had a blowjob thinking this might 'inspire one'. It doesn't. Mulberry handbags and Louboutins do.

Do - pack the small people off to bed early, (preferably in a different location - a friend's, Granny's, the garden… etc) and enjoy some 'Mummy/Daddy time'… 
Don't - use the word Valentines as a verb or out of context... For example; 'I am going to valentines the shit out of you', or, 'tonight, to make things really special, let's shave your valentines together.' No. just no.

Do - get yourself weighed. Make a note of it. Purchase this many pounds of chocolate. And tuck in using only your face. Ahhh the romance...
Don't - make the mistake of thinking fruit is sexy. Once you've seen a toddler take a shit after eating raspberries you can't un-see it… So scrap the berries. Unless you want to give up all hope of ever getting that blow job. Ever.


The End.

*Heads off to express and do some wine shots* 

#HappyBastardValentines.








Monday, 9 February 2015

The independent toddler's guide to gaining a sibling

Dear fellow big sisters, big brothers, scab-pickers and other completers of the mega-tantrum,

Welcome.

Please relax, (if this causes you to fart, remember you now have a baby to blame this on...) and allow me to enlighten you on how to turn the 'sibling-situation' to your advantage.

  • Firstly. Use this opportunity to ask for a new bedroom, full iPad rights, the destruction of all vegetables and 2-ft of real blond hair. So that you can complete your transformation into Elsa for once and for all.
  • Cafes present a new domain of terror for Mummy now… you don't need to run… you just need her to know that you could. If you wanted to. Or if she didn't buy you cake. 
  • Any time the baby is sat on someone's lap, you are too. BECAUSE THAT'S JUST HOW IT IS NOW BITCH. 
  • No. You can't see the problem with watching Frozen for the twelth time in back to back sittings... But you can however see why Mummy needs Spanx. And a lot of make-up. And highlights.
  • Develop a new laugh for this new period of your life... One that is in fact a shout and ends in you taking a shit underneath a randomly selected piece of furniture. Because you can.
  • Ask for a nappy for your favourite doll... Everyone will think you're so cute. Until you place a human turd in it and eat it like a f@*king sandwich.
  • Photobomb your new sibling wherever you can... Own that shit. If you still get ignored break into interpretive dance. Any where. Any beat. Any time. With knives.
  • Need Mummy's attention? Begin by affectionately stroking your younger sibling's head or face, move on to a gentle kiss on the cheek, then when everyone expects it least use a packet of strawberry wriggles to spell out the words 'YOU'RE NEXT…' on their forehead... That'll teach the bitch to check twitter when she's supposed to be taking part in your three-hour disney-dance-a-thon.  
  • If you want to earn brownie points with the folks, be really helpful when your younger sibling is having their nappy changed... Pass mummy a nappy, or the baby wipes, or a section of your ear severed off with a Hello Kitty knife and placed in a box with a note written in the ear-blood reading 'why don't you love me anymore...??' or something…
  • And finally. Remember. You don't need to acknowledge adults now. You can just ignore them. This is your time to shine… or sit around fiddling with your fanjo until someone brings you a hobnob. Same thing really. 

Good luck guys. See you on the other side (with your hobnobs).

WallyBubba xxx


Wednesday, 14 January 2015

Boobs, boobs, boobs... My anti-love-affair with breastfeeding...

Let's talk boobs.

Boobs…. Boobies…. Back-breaking-balls-of-big-baby-feeding-bustiness…. Breasts.

I can't deny mine have taken quite a battering in their time… I can't quite look at them directly, eye-to-nipple, without wincing a bit and remembering a time before my areolas were the size of plates...

And it's fair to say my relationship with breastfeeding is love/hate. I love it for its ease, the lack of washing up, the milk-drunk effect and for the occasional times it doesn't feel like a nail-bomb has been let off behind my nipple by some kind of tiny tit-terrorist… but then I hate the social awkwardness of the strategically placed muslin in front of the in-laws, the 'where the f@*k are all the chairs with arms' moments, the lonely night feeds and the wholly undignified experience of pumping, in front of your husband, a person whom you'd like to view you as something other than a giant veiny udder who cries a lot… 

I also hate the stigmas, the stereotypes and the constant judging of breast versus bottle feeding parents. Why the f@*k are we all so obsessed with how other mums feed their babies?! And why do we have to invoke such guilt?! God forbid an intelligent, healthy mother makes the decision that breast-feeding is not right for her, or to *cowers in fear of disapproving glances* combination feed … MAY SHE BE STRUCK DOWN BY THE FORCES THAT BE AND FORCED TO SEW UP HER VAGINA FOR THE SAKE OF ALL MANKIND FOR-EV-ER.

Jesus it's a bloody nipple-tastic over-opinionated minefield out there… I for one cannot wait to introduce a bottle, (and a break for my poor, permanently-semi-erect dinner-plate-nips), and have some bloody guilt-free time off. With WIIIIIIINNNNNNNNEEEEE…. Yes. I just want to be left alone to feed my child the way I bloody want to, whilst weeping into a kitkat and remembering a time I wasn't terrified to step out of the house without nipple pads.

Rant over.

Sorry about that.

It's probably just the sleep deprivation...

*gets back to kitkat and weeping*


#platenips


Tuesday, 6 January 2015

The Second (Wally) Coming

The WallyBoy's here!
I say with a cheer,
But try not to cough, sneeze or laugh...
For second time round,
You daren't make a sound,
In case your uterus falls out of your arse. 

My little chap has arrived,
My vagina survived,
Though it won't be winning contests for beauty.
With a full fanny-fro,
I can tie my labia in a bow,
But can confirm that it still did its duty.

The first days were tough,
I couldn't be festive, I looked rough,
The toddler took a shit under the tree...
While I sat in my PJs,
No idea of the week days,
Terrified to fart, poo or wee.

My boobs feel like sandbags,
The size of bloody handbags,
My nips are actually bigger than his head.
I sit lubing up each tit,
From my crusty dressing-gown pit,
And they say; with two, the romance is dead...?

So hurrah for the WallyBoy,
Our little bundle of Christmas joy,
Let our life as a foursome begin.
Life might not be glam,
But it's worth it for this tiny man,
Now someone pass me a goddamn super-sized gin. 


#WallyBoy
#FannyFro
#gin



Friday, 19 December 2014

A #Prangry Due-Date Post to My New-Baby Self...

Dear me,

First of all. 

You look like shit. 

But that's ok. Because your compared to your vagina right now you're a vision of beauty...

And. 

No matter how tempting it is, do not sneak a peak with the hand mirror. You should have learnt your lesson from last time. #roadkill

Second of all. 

Well done. 

Seriously. 

Well-f@*king-done. 

Because if you're reading this back then you've made not one, but TWO goddamm human beings with your fanny, given up alcohol for 9-months TWICE and now you deserve a bloody big bastard pat on the back and a visit from Jesus himself by way of apology for the vag-damage. In fact. Scrap that. Gary Barlow should be writing a song in your honour right now to celebrate your awesome contribution to society and is probably definitely on his way round with Howard, Mark and some fucking trumpets to serenade the shit out of you and your awesome person-producing uterus.

So here's some advice from your pregnant/angry (#prangry) self which I need to impart incase you ever think pregnancy is a good idea again...


  • Remember yourself right now. You have the circumference of Russia. And if that isn't enough then this is the moment to get the hand mirror out. 
  • Two words. FACE GIRTH. 
  • You're so emotional you were actually on the verge of needing counselling after the John Lewis Christmas Ad. You are still yet to watch the Sainsbury's one the entire way through and that is best for everyone.
  • You've only survived pregnancy with a two year old because of Frozen. But it's been a double edged sword; yes you've micro-napped your way through several hours of disney baby-sitting, but now every time you hear 'Let it Go' you have to punch yourself in the face and do a Gaviscon shot just to make it to the end…
  • The toddler has forgotten that cooking ever happened and now believes all food comes to the door via 'The Pizza Man'. You supplement with carpet raisins. You don't even care. You're eating a cheesy garlic pizza bread with no hands as you're typing this… 
  • Stairs. They're just not for you anymore. 
  • And anyone who thinks pregnancy is empowering hasn't ever tried to get out of a roll top bath on their own whilst full term.
  • When you sit down, your bottom now forms a little shelf behind you which the toddler can use to sit on… If it wasn't so horrific, it'd be quite practical. And if only 'Bumbo' hadn't already been patented eh…
  • There is an actual roll of fat where your wrist meets your hands. Yes. You have developed actual arm-cankles. Or wrankles
  • From nip to naval you look like you've been carved out of blue stilton. Yes. Veiny. Beautiful. #stiltontits
  • No-one should have to shoe-horn their feet into socks. 
  • Also. Your maternity leggings are actually too small. TOO SMALL. Thanks for that little boost H&M, it was exactly what my self esteem needed after harbouring a tiny man in my womb for 40 weeks without any f@*king wine to numb my enormous face.
  • I think Wrankles deserves another mention. 


#neveragain
#wrankles
#ginnowplease




Tuesday, 9 December 2014

Pregnant near Christmas (what a f@*king shit)

Pregnant near Christmas...
What a f@*king shit.
No boozy parties, just excessive amounts of smarties,
While only your dressing gown will fit.

Pregnant at Christmas...
What a bastard arse.
Just half a glass of champers, while you re-arrange the pampers,
Your glam factor just dropped by half.

Pregnant for Christmas...
What a twatty plan.
Everyone else is up to sunrise, while you're comatose via mince-pies,
Adding to your already impressive span.

Pregnant this Christmas…
What a stupid idea.
Sod the festive magic, while I'm feeling this tragic,
F@*k Band Aid, f@*k Elf on the Shelf, f@*k Reindeer.

Pregnant over Christmas…
I'm really rather bereft.
So thank Baby Jesus himself, that by the bloody twelfth,
I'll only have one-pissing-week left.


#HappyF@*kingChristmas
#BahHumbug
#PregnantNearChristmas




The Modern Daddy.

This one's a thank you to the modern Daddy;
The baby carrying, push-chair rocking, changer of the nappy.
The night-time bouncing, muslin dousing, king of the sling,
The story-reading, face-to-get-peed-in, human baby-gym. 
Thank you for the night-feeds, that give my boobs a break,
Thanks for making me cups of tea, while I cry into an enormous cake.
Thanks for ordering pizza, when I've made a total shit of dinner,
Thanks for pretending my dressing gown actually makes me look thinner.
So this one's for you, our modern Daddy,
The night-time driving, colic surviving, chap that still looks happy.
Thanks for Friday night wine-time, where mummy gets a little bit plastered,
And thanks for being such an awesome Dad, and a goddamn lovely bastard.

#moderndaddy



The Three Shades of Newborns. Uncovered.

I'm 8 weeks in.

I can feel my face again… I can almost hold an adult conversation… and I no longer spend every moment the baby isn't awake in the foetal position, rocking, sobbing and spooning Nutella into my mouth with a Sophie the Giraffe…

Yes.

I can see the light at the end of the liquid-yellow-shit-stained tunnel, and there's mascara, wine, and underwired bras there… *stares wistfully off into distance at the thought of real underwear again…*

So now that the newborn fog has begun to clear, let me impart my wise learnings from the past 2 months...


1. Changing.

There will be poos. Many poos… More poos than you ever thought possible for a 60cm human being to produce. And after the first 24 hours of attempting to clean stringy-korma-mustard-turd off of a tiny wrinkly scrotum sack with cotton balls and sterilised tears, you too will be Amazon-Priming the shit out of the Johnsons's baby wipes like the rest of us. Fact.

NB - If your baby isn't pooing, simply dress them in white, put on a nice top, or attempt to leave the house on time… and watch the poonami commence.

2. Sleeping.

The internet told me that newborn babies like to sleep for 18 hours a day… *pauses to wait for hysterical cry-laughing to stop* and I can see the funny side of this now that I've realised the internet is a FULL OF MOTHER-FRIGGING LIES. (and is mostly cats.)

Besides, if you slept when the baby was sleeping, when would you fit in your gin? That 20 minutes IS your only #ginwindow; your time Tanqueray, tears and reminiscing about the area you used to call your vagina… and now looks like something a fox threw-up...

Babies are pretty boring during the day though… perhaps because need to get their rest in during daylight so they've got the energy to really f@*k your shit up at at night.

3. Feeding.

If ever there was a time where you considered your breasts our own… those times are gone. Long gone… like the elasticity of your stomach skin and labia…. You are one giant on-demand udder. Held together with clicky-clippy nursing fastenings. *flinches* 

In the beginning, there was plague, famine, death and destruction. Then. There was Colic. Which is totally actually worse. And mostly consists of feeding your child. Then watching them explode like an tiny, angry, milky baby-volcano, while you shout something like… WHERE THE F@*KING TWATTING TWAT IS THE MUSLIN. DEAR GOD IT'S IN MY EYES. NOW IT'S DRIBBLING INTO MY MOUTH. GOD. WHYYYY. WHYYYYYYYYYY….

Then finding the muslin in your hand.

And crying.

And probably doing a shot. 


#ginwindow
#foxyfanny







Valentines Dos & Don'ts for Knackered Mums & Dads

Valentine's Day means very little in our household, my priorities lie firmly with crying on the toilet, finding human shit behind my ear, discovering new ways to hide vegetables in cheese products, and other important life skills like that…

But, never one to shy away from an opportunity to guilt-trip the husband, here's my take on injecting romance into what would otherwise be another soul-less ear-faeces-laden day.


Do - remind each other how flipping awesome you are, despite the fact you are being forced to have that conversation whilst your wife expresses with one hand and does shots of wine with the other… You've made humans. ACTUAL HUMANS. And there was NEVER a better reason to reward yourself with an M&S dine-in-for-two meal...
Don't - waste a shit evening in a packed restaurant with a ton of other couples trying to resist the urge to check their twitter feeds over an over-priced steak. You'll be forced to wear a proper underwear… and let's face it. Bras just aren't for you any more.

Do - get off F-ing Facebook for the night… and try an actual 'con-ver-sat-ion'. About something other than ear-faeces if possible.
Don't - spend the entire night on social media feeling equally irritated and jealous as all your twatty child-free friends post pictures of their actual 'florist-bought' flowers along with smug pictures of jewellery and handbags oh-so-originally captioned 'the boy done good'…. F@*kers. One day, their vaginas will know true pain, and what's it's like to never wish to be near a thong or penis ever again…

On a separate note, can I just take this opportunity to say thanks Timehop. You total shit. For flagging up today's photo of me, 5 years ago, thin, with in-tact vagina, in Venice, smugly holding a Marc Jacobs bag, captioned 'the boy done good'. Oh… Shit.

Do - buy each other gifts that aren't made out of pasta and snot, or bought from the Tesco garage on the way home…
Don't - make jokes about how long it's been since you've had a blowjob thinking this might 'inspire one'. It doesn't. Mulberry handbags and Louboutins do.

Do - pack the small people off to bed early, (preferably in a different location - a friend's, Granny's, the garden… etc) and enjoy some 'Mummy/Daddy time'… 
Don't - use the word Valentines as a verb or out of context... For example; 'I am going to valentines the shit out of you', or, 'tonight, to make things really special, let's shave your valentines together.' No. just no.

Do - get yourself weighed. Make a note of it. Purchase this many pounds of chocolate. And tuck in using only your face. Ahhh the romance...
Don't - make the mistake of thinking fruit is sexy. Once you've seen a toddler take a shit after eating raspberries you can't un-see it… So scrap the berries. Unless you want to give up all hope of ever getting that blow job. Ever.


The End.

*Heads off to express and do some wine shots* 

#HappyBastardValentines.








The independent toddler's guide to gaining a sibling

Dear fellow big sisters, big brothers, scab-pickers and other completers of the mega-tantrum,

Welcome.

Please relax, (if this causes you to fart, remember you now have a baby to blame this on...) and allow me to enlighten you on how to turn the 'sibling-situation' to your advantage.

  • Firstly. Use this opportunity to ask for a new bedroom, full iPad rights, the destruction of all vegetables and 2-ft of real blond hair. So that you can complete your transformation into Elsa for once and for all.
  • Cafes present a new domain of terror for Mummy now… you don't need to run… you just need her to know that you could. If you wanted to. Or if she didn't buy you cake. 
  • Any time the baby is sat on someone's lap, you are too. BECAUSE THAT'S JUST HOW IT IS NOW BITCH. 
  • No. You can't see the problem with watching Frozen for the twelth time in back to back sittings... But you can however see why Mummy needs Spanx. And a lot of make-up. And highlights.
  • Develop a new laugh for this new period of your life... One that is in fact a shout and ends in you taking a shit underneath a randomly selected piece of furniture. Because you can.
  • Ask for a nappy for your favourite doll... Everyone will think you're so cute. Until you place a human turd in it and eat it like a f@*king sandwich.
  • Photobomb your new sibling wherever you can... Own that shit. If you still get ignored break into interpretive dance. Any where. Any beat. Any time. With knives.
  • Need Mummy's attention? Begin by affectionately stroking your younger sibling's head or face, move on to a gentle kiss on the cheek, then when everyone expects it least use a packet of strawberry wriggles to spell out the words 'YOU'RE NEXT…' on their forehead... That'll teach the bitch to check twitter when she's supposed to be taking part in your three-hour disney-dance-a-thon.  
  • If you want to earn brownie points with the folks, be really helpful when your younger sibling is having their nappy changed... Pass mummy a nappy, or the baby wipes, or a section of your ear severed off with a Hello Kitty knife and placed in a box with a note written in the ear-blood reading 'why don't you love me anymore...??' or something…
  • And finally. Remember. You don't need to acknowledge adults now. You can just ignore them. This is your time to shine… or sit around fiddling with your fanjo until someone brings you a hobnob. Same thing really. 

Good luck guys. See you on the other side (with your hobnobs).

WallyBubba xxx


Boobs, boobs, boobs... My anti-love-affair with breastfeeding...

Let's talk boobs.

Boobs…. Boobies…. Back-breaking-balls-of-big-baby-feeding-bustiness…. Breasts.

I can't deny mine have taken quite a battering in their time… I can't quite look at them directly, eye-to-nipple, without wincing a bit and remembering a time before my areolas were the size of plates...

And it's fair to say my relationship with breastfeeding is love/hate. I love it for its ease, the lack of washing up, the milk-drunk effect and for the occasional times it doesn't feel like a nail-bomb has been let off behind my nipple by some kind of tiny tit-terrorist… but then I hate the social awkwardness of the strategically placed muslin in front of the in-laws, the 'where the f@*k are all the chairs with arms' moments, the lonely night feeds and the wholly undignified experience of pumping, in front of your husband, a person whom you'd like to view you as something other than a giant veiny udder who cries a lot… 

I also hate the stigmas, the stereotypes and the constant judging of breast versus bottle feeding parents. Why the f@*k are we all so obsessed with how other mums feed their babies?! And why do we have to invoke such guilt?! God forbid an intelligent, healthy mother makes the decision that breast-feeding is not right for her, or to *cowers in fear of disapproving glances* combination feed … MAY SHE BE STRUCK DOWN BY THE FORCES THAT BE AND FORCED TO SEW UP HER VAGINA FOR THE SAKE OF ALL MANKIND FOR-EV-ER.

Jesus it's a bloody nipple-tastic over-opinionated minefield out there… I for one cannot wait to introduce a bottle, (and a break for my poor, permanently-semi-erect dinner-plate-nips), and have some bloody guilt-free time off. With WIIIIIIINNNNNNNNEEEEE…. Yes. I just want to be left alone to feed my child the way I bloody want to, whilst weeping into a kitkat and remembering a time I wasn't terrified to step out of the house without nipple pads.

Rant over.

Sorry about that.

It's probably just the sleep deprivation...

*gets back to kitkat and weeping*


#platenips


The Second (Wally) Coming

The WallyBoy's here!
I say with a cheer,
But try not to cough, sneeze or laugh...
For second time round,
You daren't make a sound,
In case your uterus falls out of your arse. 

My little chap has arrived,
My vagina survived,
Though it won't be winning contests for beauty.
With a full fanny-fro,
I can tie my labia in a bow,
But can confirm that it still did its duty.

The first days were tough,
I couldn't be festive, I looked rough,
The toddler took a shit under the tree...
While I sat in my PJs,
No idea of the week days,
Terrified to fart, poo or wee.

My boobs feel like sandbags,
The size of bloody handbags,
My nips are actually bigger than his head.
I sit lubing up each tit,
From my crusty dressing-gown pit,
And they say; with two, the romance is dead...?

So hurrah for the WallyBoy,
Our little bundle of Christmas joy,
Let our life as a foursome begin.
Life might not be glam,
But it's worth it for this tiny man,
Now someone pass me a goddamn super-sized gin. 


#WallyBoy
#FannyFro
#gin



A #Prangry Due-Date Post to My New-Baby Self...

Dear me,

First of all. 

You look like shit. 

But that's ok. Because your compared to your vagina right now you're a vision of beauty...

And. 

No matter how tempting it is, do not sneak a peak with the hand mirror. You should have learnt your lesson from last time. #roadkill

Second of all. 

Well done. 

Seriously. 

Well-f@*king-done. 

Because if you're reading this back then you've made not one, but TWO goddamm human beings with your fanny, given up alcohol for 9-months TWICE and now you deserve a bloody big bastard pat on the back and a visit from Jesus himself by way of apology for the vag-damage. In fact. Scrap that. Gary Barlow should be writing a song in your honour right now to celebrate your awesome contribution to society and is probably definitely on his way round with Howard, Mark and some fucking trumpets to serenade the shit out of you and your awesome person-producing uterus.

So here's some advice from your pregnant/angry (#prangry) self which I need to impart incase you ever think pregnancy is a good idea again...


  • Remember yourself right now. You have the circumference of Russia. And if that isn't enough then this is the moment to get the hand mirror out. 
  • Two words. FACE GIRTH. 
  • You're so emotional you were actually on the verge of needing counselling after the John Lewis Christmas Ad. You are still yet to watch the Sainsbury's one the entire way through and that is best for everyone.
  • You've only survived pregnancy with a two year old because of Frozen. But it's been a double edged sword; yes you've micro-napped your way through several hours of disney baby-sitting, but now every time you hear 'Let it Go' you have to punch yourself in the face and do a Gaviscon shot just to make it to the end…
  • The toddler has forgotten that cooking ever happened and now believes all food comes to the door via 'The Pizza Man'. You supplement with carpet raisins. You don't even care. You're eating a cheesy garlic pizza bread with no hands as you're typing this… 
  • Stairs. They're just not for you anymore. 
  • And anyone who thinks pregnancy is empowering hasn't ever tried to get out of a roll top bath on their own whilst full term.
  • When you sit down, your bottom now forms a little shelf behind you which the toddler can use to sit on… If it wasn't so horrific, it'd be quite practical. And if only 'Bumbo' hadn't already been patented eh…
  • There is an actual roll of fat where your wrist meets your hands. Yes. You have developed actual arm-cankles. Or wrankles
  • From nip to naval you look like you've been carved out of blue stilton. Yes. Veiny. Beautiful. #stiltontits
  • No-one should have to shoe-horn their feet into socks. 
  • Also. Your maternity leggings are actually too small. TOO SMALL. Thanks for that little boost H&M, it was exactly what my self esteem needed after harbouring a tiny man in my womb for 40 weeks without any f@*king wine to numb my enormous face.
  • I think Wrankles deserves another mention. 


#neveragain
#wrankles
#ginnowplease




Pregnant near Christmas (what a f@*king shit)

Pregnant near Christmas...
What a f@*king shit.
No boozy parties, just excessive amounts of smarties,
While only your dressing gown will fit.

Pregnant at Christmas...
What a bastard arse.
Just half a glass of champers, while you re-arrange the pampers,
Your glam factor just dropped by half.

Pregnant for Christmas...
What a twatty plan.
Everyone else is up to sunrise, while you're comatose via mince-pies,
Adding to your already impressive span.

Pregnant this Christmas…
What a stupid idea.
Sod the festive magic, while I'm feeling this tragic,
F@*k Band Aid, f@*k Elf on the Shelf, f@*k Reindeer.

Pregnant over Christmas…
I'm really rather bereft.
So thank Baby Jesus himself, that by the bloody twelfth,
I'll only have one-pissing-week left.


#HappyF@*kingChristmas
#BahHumbug
#PregnantNearChristmas