And then Santa comes down the chimney….Hang on.

DISCLAIMER: You probably shouldn’t let your kids read my posts anyway…but  you definitely shouldn’t let them read this one. I refuse to be the Grinch who stole Christmas.

Ok. So as I was wrapping Christmas presents for our little puff pastry I began to think about what Christmas would be like for her – not so much this year, but in a few years time. This year I’m well aware that the cheaply printed Christmas paper and excessive package protectors (aka bubble wrap) will be the highlight of her day. So I bought her some new womens Mavi jeans. Kidding! Anyway. I started writing on her little present tag and thought, “Maybe this one should be from Santa?”

Can I tell you the cyclonic short circuit this caused in my mind.

I thought, “Well, maybe it could be from Santa…but she doesn’t even know who Santa is (never mind the fact that she doesn’t know that she knows who we are)…and when am I going to tell her?...and WHAT am I going to tell her?”

Bam. There it was. I was conflicted about introducing my little chubby cheeks to the imaginary man with the big sack. When I re-read that sentence I can see why.

I immediately flashed back to my memories as a little kid and my parents telling me the infamous “Santa isn’t real”. I’m fairly sure I cried and I definitely chastised my parents for lying to me all those years. Poor Dad was out mowing the lawns while Mum broke the news to me only to come inside to cop the wrath of an eight year old who had her dreams destroyed.

I can so clearly remember at the time feeling terribly confused through my tiny tears – why would parents do this? Why would they make up such a delightful story that they know they will have to rip away from you right when you need it most? Wasn’t being at school and beginning the first real motions of routine and responsibility enough, without telling us that Santa never existed. And while we’re at it neither did the Tooth Fairy or the Easter Bunny. WHAT???!!!! But what about the letter the Easter Bunny left saying he knew that we’d gone away for the weekend so he left the eggs for us? Dad wrote it?! Are you kidding me?! I told everyone in the street that I had a legit letter from the B-Man himself. More fool I.

Deep breath. The pain will go away one day.

Understandably after that little plunge back into childhood trauma I was even less sure about whether or not I should plant the seeds of this untruthful game. Some of you may ask – but don’t you believe in fairies? Why, yes, I do. I’m certain they flit about in the garden helping the flowers grow. So I’ll tell hubba bubba that, but I won’t then wait until she’s older and then tell her she can’t believe in them anymore.

But what if I didn’t want to tell her about old Mr Claus? Would she then become the mini Grinch running around daycare telling the mini elves that Santa isn’t real? I'm aware that there are many families who don't spin the Santa story, but they don't celebrate Christmas full stop. It's much easier for a little kid confronted with a non-believing munchkin from a Christmas free family to think "Well, you don't even have a Christmas...that's just code for Santa not wanting to give you presents. I see through your story."

I feel trapped. On the one hand if I don’t embark upon the Father Christmas fantasy I might up her chances of being involved in Childcare Fight Club; but if I do allow the charade am I supposed to tell her that an obese man that no-one really knows will wait until we’re all asleep and somehow break into our house, eat our food and if he’s feeling festive and we’ve behaved ourselves, he’ll leave us a present? It seems a little weird.

I’m fairly sure that bubbikin’s cousins will grow up listening out for the old “Ho, Ho Ho!” and we spend our Christmas days with them. Maybe we just have to raise her to be a little spy baby that lives a double life of Santa belief. She knows the truth, but she also knows your kids can’t handle the truth.

Whilst all this was nutcrackering around in my mind I still had a present unlabelled that needed a tag.

So I wrote on the label...“from Santa”. 

I like to keep my options open.

I figure this year she still doesn’t recognise the words ‘Mum’ and ‘Dad’ – Santa aint gonna stick in there. 

End note:
I would really, really love to hear from anyone who has shared my traumatic dilemma and found a solution. I may have bought myself a year people…but time is ticking. 

Round 2?

James and I had an interesting conversation a few weeks ago. It began something like this:

James - "Let's have another baby"

Me - "Are you serious?"

James - "Yeah, I want her to have siblings so they can grow up together."

I was a bit shocked, a bit taken aback. But then I thought, well I guess it's a possibility.

You see I'm from a family of two. My brother is nine and a half years older than me - he a pleasant surprise and me a much more considered arrival further down the track. So I grew up with the belief that once you've had one bub you wait quite a long time before you get back on the baby bandwagon. James is pretty much the exact opposite. He was just shy of his 13-month birthday when his little bro came along.

This really got me thinking - what's the ‘right’ time for us to be trying to have another child?

If I were one of those ‘look at me and I fall pregnant’ girls then it would all just come down to the age gap we wanted our babes to have. But I’m not one of those girls. At least, I haven’t been up to this point. It took us over a year and a half of really ‘earnest’ trying, with a couple of miscarriages thrown in, before our little mini muffin started baking.

Some people will tell you that once you’ve had one your body knows how to do it, so it’ll be heaps easier next time round. Unfortunately it seems this little post pregnancy perk can be pretty easily cancelled out by the fact that LAB (life after birth) equals less sleep, less romantic getaways…and generally less activity that gets the baby there in the first place. Yeah, sex. I was just being coy.

I was talking with a friend of mine the other day speculating what it would be like if we did bring another tiny tot into the world and she gasped and replied, “You can’t. I know this woman who had her first two really close together and she reckons the eldest never quite got over it. Grew up too fast, you know?” Is that the case for all kids born close together, or just this poor little tacker? Then I remembered James and his bro. James swears that his brother is still his best mate to this day because they grew up so close in age. Seems to me that it’s just luck of the draw?

After my second miscarriage I was diagnosed with two autoimmune clotting disorders which makes me part of a cool club called the ‘high risk group’. My obstetrician joked at my 6-week check up, “Right, you’re good to get going again then. We’ll have a sibling for Sunday this time next year.” I laughed it off as a man ensuring the sustainability of his business but, on reflection, I’m just not sure now if there was something more to it? I suppose in a way, if you’re going to put your body through a high risk situation, you’re smarter doing it while you’re young and presumably at your healthiest?

So I thought about it. If I fell pregnant right this second, (which I couldn’t -‘cause James isn’t even in the room) but let’s just say IF I could…that would make me 32 when baby #2 rolls into town. And then I was reminded of that thing that haunts every woman wanting to have a child in her 30’s (or beyond) - The Biological Birthday Cake Police. If they count up the candles on your cake and you’ve got 35 or more, then you get a big asterisk put next to your name in their Biological Birthday Cake Police Notepad. Talk about gender-age racist. There’s nothing like the fear of the ‘you’re just too old I’m afraid’ speech to put the wind in your sails.

So do the sum of all those factors equal us trying to procreate again?

At the end of the day, I’m incredibly grateful that we have one gorgeous, perfect, amazing child. If that’s all we get, then fine. I’m well aware that only just over a year ago my acceptance was around the possibility of not having a child at all.

For the time being I’m just happy delighting in every moment our little bag of fairy floss smiles, burps or makes some kind of completely unintelligible sound. 

The neighbour's dog

Look, for the most part he’s a lovely dog. One of those oafish, friendly Labrador-Golden Retriever type pooches. He enjoys his home and often likes to partake in the neighbourhood canine conversation. Which is fine, except he chooses to place his doggy soapbox by the fence right underneath our gorgeous girl’s bedroom window.

So I’m playing sounds of the Serengeti to our little world child as she drifts off into peaceful bliss land and he’s lecturing the pups down the road on the current state of the economy. Or that’s what it sounds like, I don’t really understand dog language that well. 

He obviously can’t stand anyone disagreeing with him either ‘cause whenever one of his pals in the street has something to say he feels compelled to shout it right back at them. But ten times louder.

I have to confess though, whilst pretty freaking annoying, it doesn’t affect me the way that it did while I was pregnant. For some reason the hormones turned me into a hyper sensitive sound detector. I would be sitting in the lounge cooking my little bundle of life (AKA sitting on the couch part way between snooze and watching the Bold & The Beautiful - or Huey’s Kitchen, I can’t remember) and he’d let out of one of his flustered and emphatic speeches regarding the US dog dollar. I would catch myself mid sentence yelling (you know when you yell but you gradually get slower and quieter as you realise you sound totally crazy?), “Shut your f$#king dog up or I’ll…BE GIVING him A…‘SPECIAL’… meal.” Now that’s not nice. Especially when I really like our neighbours. (I tried to write that like it sounded. I’m not sure it translates.)

Then there’s the other embarrassing issue I’m sure he doesn’t want me to talk about. His neuroses for his owner.  Whenever the familiar ute pulls up into the driveway (also conveniently placed under the above mentioned window) he bursts into fits of “OMG!!! I TOTALLY can’t believe you’re home!!! my life has changed forever!!! just come play with me right now!!!!”

Don’t get the wrong impression; this is no man-dog bark. These are shrillish, desperate, lady-dog screams. No dog his size could possibly be proud of that. I’m embarrassed for him. Imagine what the other dogs think?

But you know what? Most of the time the little mini person upstairs just sleeps through it. So chill out Mum. The dog can bark. Maybe she just dreams about lions and giraffes that sound like lady-dogs? And she also learns a hell of a lot about doggy dollars while she’s at it.

The other day he caused quite the kerfuffle. Out of nowhere amidst the familiar barks and chatter he introduced a new, much more manlier sound - the growl. I was a mixture of regular annoyance that mini munch was trying to sleep upstairs and joy ridden pride that our furry friend had discovered his manhood. 

Until I looked over the fence to see what was going on. 

Mr Macho was standing there gripped with fear as a teency, tiny baby bird lay confused and frightened on the ground in front of him. I'm not sure how Tweety got there but she certainly was NOT feeling the love. 

It was time for me to take control of the situation.

I coaxed and comforted Mr T, congratulating him on his find and reassuring him that everything was going to be just fine. As he edged closer to the fence to hear more about how fabulous he was, Tweety looked at me with a twinkle in her eye and made the slow mo dash to the bushes under the fence. It was that way you walk when you're playing What's The Time Mr Wolf? and you have to make as much ground as possible but be ready to freeze at any given moment. She did it well. 

Before I could finish my speech of "You're so clever, yes you are. Yes you are." Tweets had disappeared off into a fort of foliage, hopefully never to be seen again by our canine captor. 

Crisis confusion averted and Doggy Wall Street was back in business barking up a stock market storm. 

True to form babycakes slept her way right on through it. 

(I must stop lacing her milk with whiskey.)

(Of course I'm kidding.)

(p.s. how ridiculous is that picture I found?!)

mother's guilt

There’s something that happens when you have a miscarriage. Speaking to other women who have suffered in the same circumstances creates an unspoken bond. We all feel it differently but the truth is, unless you’ve had a miscarriage, there’s no way you can truly appreciate the effect it can have on you – physically, mentally and emotionally.

That’s not in any way a criticism, just the reality of the experience versus the imagination.

I expect it’s similar with women who have embarked on that good old fun-ship called IVF. I’m deliberately sarcastic about the ‘joy’ of IVF because by all accounts I’ve been given, it’s one of the most grueling journeys you can take yourself on.

It always makes me wonder about people who are against the premise of IVF from an ethical standpoint (and if you are, that’s fine, we’re all here to speak our truth). My take is, if you have a couple, and most particularly a woman, who is willing to put her body through that amount of pain and stress in order to have a child, then you’ve got a woman who really, really, REALLY wants a baby. Surely they’re the kind of people we want to be having babies in our world? Not just the girls who are walking fertilization machines and have kids because the baby bonus sounds like a good deal. I DIGRESS.

Where was I?  Ah, yes.

These bonds that we form through our shared struggles  - be it miscarriage, infertility or IVF, can be incredibly comforting, especially at times where the future of ‘family’ is blurry to say the least. These are the people who you know ‘get it’. No awkward conversations, no not knowing what to say – no well meaning but really frustrating advice.

I remember times after my second miscarriage where I felt like these were the only people I wanted to talk to, that it was just too heartbreaking to speak to other people who loved me dearly, but who didn’t know what to say.

But then something happened.

I fell pregnant.

And this time it stuck.

I embarked on such a ridiculously happy time in my life. All those dreams and wishes were finally coming true. But through all the elation, excitement and joy there was a pang of guilt, and if I’m to be honest, a little bit of fear. How was I going to tell those women that I knew and loved that I had broken the curse? What had I done differently that scored me a golden ticket into the baby factory? I knew for the most part that they would be over-the-moon happy for me. I also knew a little part of their heart would break as they were reminded that their journey was still unfolding....and they might have a really, really long way to go.

The reason I know this is because I’ve felt that very same heart break before.

I know that there’s also a heap of women out there who want babies but who haven’t yet met that special person they want to bring tiny little people into the world with. But there’s something different, something even cruel, about putting so much of your heartfelt energy into trying to make life – to even get a glimpse of what it would be like – then to have it stolen away from you again. It’s for those beautiful people, who have been told by the universe that their efforts aren’t good enough that I ache.

It can all be negative though, right? I guess on the flipside I can serve as a beacon of hope. While I’m feeling guilty for finally getting my embryo to talk to my uterus, maybe they are thinking, “Well, if she can do it, so can I”?

Or maybe they're not even thinking about me at all.

Because let’s be honest, as any woman who has been trying to fall pregnant will tell you, no story about some miracle feat by another women falling pregnant makes one teency bit of difference to you when you keep getting a single pink line on that little stick.

I then have to ask myself if it’s really guilt I’m feeling, or just fear? Do I feel reluctant to share my happy news with them to protect their feelings or am I just trying to avoid the relationships that connect me to a particular set of memories? Am I trying not to feed the fear that tells me my new life is a dream and if I’m not careful I’ll wake up from it?

Maybe it’s a bit of both.

I can tell you one thing for sure though. If I could, I’d play mother stork and drop a gorgeous little bublette onto each one of their doorsteps.  With a little note attached saying:

 “You deserve this. xx”

Sorry…Sorry…Sorry.

I don’t think I’ve ever said “sorry” so much in my entire life.

To be fair, I’m not the most spatially aware individual when it comes to gross motor skills. I have been known on more than one occasion to walk into a doorframe or a wall. I put it down to my long limbs. It should be no surprise to me then that I am equally inept when it comes to driving a pram.

Look, I realize that we didn’t buy the smallest pram available, but I think it’s the best thing ever. I feel like an elite athlete as I’m pushing First Class passenger #1 down to the shops…or the cricket ground…anywhere really. It’s one of those all terrain prams that has a matching all terrain sunshade and storm cover. I’m a little bit in love with it. Cue sponsorship deal with Mountain Buggy. Mini Michael Schumacher loves it too. She lets the wind rush through her poppet Mohawk, taking a breath only to draw back for a little sneeze from the hay fever laden air. Not only does it give her the thrill of her life, this thing is so amazing that it will have her asleep within 4.45min of getting on the road. Amazing indeed.

So whilst I’m totally infatuated by it, I’m not sure if the rest of the world is.

I would consider our suburb a reasonably ‘pram friendly’ suburb. Most shops have enough room in their aisles for you to twinkle toe your way through. I like the term ‘twinkle toe’. It’s what I think my pram looks like as I tip it forward onto its front wheel only to squeeze it through those pesky narrow spaces.  But while in theory many places accommodate our F1, in reality I feel like a big shade clothed nuisance.

The other day in the little organic shop where I buy our coffees I had to ask the shop assistant to mind the kit and kaboodle (baby being kaboodle) while I went down the back to order the drinks. There were just too many crates of Bonsoy and perfectly organic bananas in my way. Every time I tried to twinkle toe I’d bash clumsily into another crate, potentially adding another bruise to those already well bruised bananas. Why do organic bananas always look bruised? I know they are chemical free, but what are they doing – beating the bugs off with a cricket bat?

Of course the shop assistant was incredibly gracious and pretended to keep an eye on her until I arrived back. Happily for everyone Ms Schumacher was well and truly into her 4.45 pit stop so was none the wiser.

Off the topic completely, but interesting nonetheless – our little miss likes to have the sunshade down when we’re out and she’s ready for a snooze. If I don’t put it all the way down she feels obliged to stay all wide owl eyes and stare off into the blur of objects that whizz past her. We roll the piece down and off she goes into happy cocoon land. So we’re often cruising around in this state and I realised today that I was getting curious looks from other mums and dads with their bubs. 

Then it hit me – they think our baby girl is a celebrity tot! 

It’s true, she does look like she’s trawling incognito around the leafy streets. It’s a dark and menacing piece of shade-cloth apparatus; reminiscent of some big black Hummer you’d see dropping P.Diddy off at a red carpet event. You can’t see her in there at all - happily for her if she wasn’t so lulled into it’s blissful sleepiness, she’d be able to see everything going on outside of it. So I figure we’ve got the streets around home completely owned. These other parents must be thinking, “Who has she got in there? The new Honey Boo Boo?” – either that or they’re thinking, “It’s not even that sunny today. She must be one of those hardcore helicopter parents”.

Anyway, I’ve realised whilst I might think this pram is totally rad, I’m not actually that good at driving it, and I’m fairly sure I’ve pissed a few people off with it. I have to confess the other day I ran over James’ feet. I say ‘feet’ instead of ‘foot’ because both copped a crushing. First one, then the other. Once you’re in a situation like that though you’ve got to commit. No reverse and recorrect – you just end up looking like that scene out of Austin Powers. A full ram raid is the only way to get through it. James stood there in disbelief and amusement as after running over the initial foot I remained focused and unshaken, rolling straight over the second. That’s just the way it’s gotta be.

BUT.

Some people are really pram racist.

When you’re walking down an obviously two-way footpath, my feeling is that it’s one per direction. I can happily pass you with your bag of groceries, but I’m not going to cop being faced with you and your flower-carrying friend. That’s not fair. Just because I’m wheeling the goods doesn’t mean I should have to get out of your way. And I often find that I’m prone to giving way to compensate for my insecurity of being a less than amazing driver. But why should I have to apologise for myself? I’m just trying to be a functioning human who’s allowed to leave the house to buy a few groceries without breaking the law for leaving the bublette at home on her own. Nevertheless I find myself sadly sputtering “sorry” out of my mouth every time I negotiate past a duo of less than caring shoppers.

I ALWAYS say "thank you" if someone obligingly drops into line so we can fulfill my one per direction dream. I consider myself very polite. I find myself a little disheartened when someone eyes off the baby machine and opts to make my life even harder, like I should be punished for needing to use a pram for my baby. “You were a baby once too lady! I’m sure at some point someone wheeled you around and I bet you weren’t ostracized for it!” 

Here I am feeling as though I’m doing my little bit by not taking the car and giving bubsicle some fresh, blowaving air, and for some people out there I’m public enemy number one. It doesn’t seem very fair, or more to the point, very sensible. 

We should be embracing our wheely friends people!

Happily there’s a group of society that don’t despise me for my three-wheeler wielding ways. For the most part I find there’s an unspoken understanding between fellow pram pushers – even if it’s a narrow, rickety footpath we all find a way to become the let-in or the let-inerer. (Technical road terms of course)

A nod and a smile and we’re on our merry way; cognisant of the “sorry” each of us may have begrudgingly offered on our way to this spot in the road.

So I’ve decided, no more Mrs Nice Pram Lady Guy. Did I mix my references? 

I am taking a stand – for myself, and for all other baby wheel challenged people out there. If you try your two down the one-way tricks, from now on I will proudly and unashamedly take my place on the path.

I will not swerve.

I will not twinkle toe.

I will not say sorry.

I hope that you all will support me in my endeavour.

And FYI – I’m one of the best reverse parkers you’ll ever meet. I’ll take on any guy who thinks he can do a better job than me. In ANY car. 

I feel better after saying that. 


(Pic: http://www.boatdesign.net/forums/attachments/sailboats/38148d1260417491-dinghy-foiling-hummer-h3-wooden-wagon-wheels.jpg)

Look out - it's an avalanche!

I decided to write this post as I found myself shoving an armful of wet, sweet, sticky clothes, cushion covers and towels into the washing machine.

Don’t get excited, this is not some raunchy story about how James got me pregnant.

Let’s rewind to the 30 mins prior. James had cricket later in the day and knowing I’d be with Miss Munchkin for the whole arvo offered to give her the next feed. Brilliant. A little bit of time to pop down the street, grab some things (in that Mum  ‘I’m-just-popping-down-the-street’ way) and get him a coffee. As I left he was just sitting down with bottle in hand and baby in arm.

For anyone who knows me, ‘down the street’ is literally only two minutes away. So my maximum round trip could only be like 15 minutes. Even with a coffee order. I’ll pause here for a moment just to interject that James is an amazing father. One of those guys who was born to parent. He’s totally natural and not afraid of the pint sized human like some guys can be. I trust him implicitly with our precious person and have no doubt in his ability to parent her. Ok. Just needed to have that on the record.

So anyway, unbeknownst to me while I’m chatting to the barista about how Sunday Reed had a lover along with a husband and whether we knew of any other girls (besides our cherub) called Sunday, some kind of freak situation was unfolding back at the ranch.

As I victoriously walked through the door with coffee and juice I was greeted to a scene from Texas Chainsaw Massacre – but with milk instead of blood. There’s James standing there in shock, the bath has been set up in the middle of the room and is in post bathing state, and freshly washed baby poppet is lying naked and somewhat confused (but nonetheless amused) on the floor by the heater.

“Ummmm, what happened here?”

“The milk…it just exploded…she was drinking…and the top came off…you mustn’t have put it on properly…and it just went…EVERYWHERE. We’re ok though.”

“Thank god you’re ok.”

I’m sure I’ve heard of heaps of cases of death by milk avalanche. We’re lucky to still have our little girl. Heaven knows if she had of just had one ml extra in that bottle I might not be telling the same story. It’s funny though that out of the hundred or so bottles I’ve given her the top has never just flown off like a possessed spinning top? Pretty sure James was leaving out some of the finer details; like how he had decided to adjust the bottle top…and maybe didn’t put it back on correctly?

The thing with James is, he doesn’t just make a little bit of a mess. He manages to spread his handiwork across the spread of an entire room. It was like dodging those old WW2 landmines trying to pass the towels and pieces of baby clothing that were littering the floor.

I then spent the next 10 minutes preparing a new bottle (for a now impatient, starving child), emptying the bath, finding a new set of clothes (for bub AND dad) and removing the fabric war scene from the floor.

What a refreshing little outing that was! Just to get away and not have to do baby stuff for a minute! Thanks heaps for helping James. That was awesome. Really feel rejuvenated. You’re the best.

But seriously - I love you. It was just really funny. 



Pic: http://asprinklingofmagic.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/12/spilt-milk.jpg

George Michael knew it.

Freedom, I won't let you down, I will not give you up...

FREEDOM. And I’m right there with him. 

Ironically, when I’m more bound to the house then I’ve ever been, with a tiny human relying on me to survive, I feel the most freedom I’ve felt in two years.

When we experienced our first miscarriage two years ago I began to make at first smaller, then bigger, changes to my lifestyle in the quest to get that bun cooking in the oven. Initially I was just reducing bits and bobs until I became more focused and conscious about what was going to work best in my body. I can’t even remember the last time I had an alcoholic drink. I’m being serious.

Once the baby bun was actually cooking I scrapped coffee, in fact any caffeinated beverage…and then the hardcore heartburn meant chocolate went off the list too. Don’t worry about health retreats people – just get pregnant with a baby who wants to grow lots of hair. That heartburn will pull you right into line. She has her Mohawk to prove it. Follow that up with a long enduring dose of the ‘rhoids and the diet becomes even more scrutinized.

So with all these consumption rules my lifestyle became quite strict. (That’s omitting the sausage roll binges) On reflection I’m not sure how much of the restriction was necessary, or was just me wanting to be able to control the uncontrollable. It’s funny how our little neuroses come to play whenever Mr Pressure points his finger at you.

Now that bub’s here and is completely detached from me as her life support system I’m aware of my leave pass to wreak havoc on my body. But boozy nights and eating marathons? I’m not sure how interested I am. The sushi and ice cream sundae that I thought would rock my world once bambilicious was here; didn’t. The thought of a nauseating hangover at 7am when there’s a smiling little face wanting playtime doesn’t get me excited either. I had well and truly enough nausea for the first 18 weeks to last me for quite some time.

But that’s not the point. If I WANTED to, I could. And I wouldn’t be doing anybody but myself any damage in the process.

It’s not just the food freedom that I’m relishing in; I’ve got the time freedom too. I’m one of those people who hates being late. If I’ve got a flight to catch I’m nervous until I’ve checked in, bought my bottle of water, gone to the toilet and am sitting patiently at the boarding gate. If I’m meeting friends for dinner, odds on that I’m the first one to get there. It’s just how I am. For me being late means I am implying to somebody that I’m more important than them, or that their time isn’t valuable. I avoid it at all costs.

Cue baby. No one has actually spoken to babies in-utero about the social niceties of life and therefore she has no issue with running to her own schedule. Truth be told I scored higher than ‘normal’ on the post-natal depression evaluation that the maternal health nurses do, and I’m pretty sure it’s because I answered ‘yes’ to the ‘anxiety for no good reason’ questions. In the first few weeks the thought of making a doctors appointment, or appointment of any kind, when I had no idea when she would be asleep (or awake) gave me heart palpitations. Knowing I needed to be strict with my pumping schedule didn’t help. If I fed baby face when we were out I had to make sure I made up for that feed in pumping when I got home…and if it ran into the next feed…then I was in pumping trouble. There’s only so much one cow can give.

I realized something though as I scrambled into the waiting room with a bewildered bambini in tow. They expect you to be late. Who? Pretty much everyone. Those mothers who have gone before me have paved the way for relaxed outings and flexible appointment times. Carrying a baby capsule is like waving an access all areas pass to a Michael Jackson concert (RIP) but instead of awesome seats and hang time with MJ you get doors opened and understanding nods from receptionists. In fact, they seem really proud of you that you made it there at all!

So whilst I’m not about to become one of those people that says they’ll meet you there at 12 and doesn’t get there ‘til 3, I feel much more relaxed about sending a text to say I’ll be a few minutes late. For someone who has been so time conscious it feels AMAZING. Simple pleasures, huh? Couple that with the fact that my primary career is making sure babycakes is having a good time. Life is good.

If you’re not careful you’ll catch me wandering in an hour late smashing a block of chocolate washed down with an espresso martini. Isn’t it interesting how the relative goal posts change? Three years ago you may have read that sentence and thought, “that’s how you arrived last week”, minus the hour late bit of course.

For now I’m really, truly happy with my chai latte, a couple of sneaky squares of chocolate if I feel like it and making it places on time, most of the time.

I tried to find some other lyrics from George's Freedom to finish this post. Nothing quite fit. Maybe I can go with this;

But today the way I play the game is not the same 

No way
Think I'm gonna get myself happy

Or just picture me as a supermodel in a bathtub. Is that creepy?