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?