That's not my Daddy ...

In the first of an occasional series, pictures T has pointed to and said 'Daddy'. Today, the 'barrow boy' from The Elephant and the Bad Baby by Elfreda Vipont*.


Please excuse the crappy image, I had a frantic tidy up this morning ahead of a friend's visit tomorrow, and the camera charger has gone AWOL.

For the record, my husband has a flat cap, and facial hair, but to the best of my knowledge has never worn winkle pickers.

*As an aside, I've never noticed the author's name before, although we've had this book for ages. Elfreda, one to put on the list for the new baby perhaps?!?

Skin

I am modelling a lovely attractive patchwork effect at the moment. My face is grey, and the skin under my eyes is dry and scaly. My jawline is spotted with erm, well, spots, and my chin is a mass of blackheads. So desperate am I to find a solution, I've resorted to buying some of that clear skin face scrub stuff advertised by Vanessa 'High School Musical' Hudgens. The clue is in the name, high school, I'm not 16 any more! It's made not a jot of difference to the blackheads, despite my liberal slathering and rubbing every morning and evening, but the cheek scales are now more flaky.

The joy doesn't stop on my face. I made the mistake of wearing leggings yesterday (in a 'with boots under a dress' way, rather than a 'Stretford Arndale Centre 1990' way, honest) and only noticed the 'calf dandruff' when I went to put them in the washer last night. Yes, the dry skin has spread and I'm now coming away in layers. I don't know whether to be distressed, or pleased that if this continues at a rate of one dermal layer a day for 200 years or so, my calves would be thin enough to wear knee-length summer skirts.

I have to admit to being a bit behind the times when it comes to lotions and potions. My approach to beautifying myself is minimal. I (shhhhhhhh) don't even wear moisturiser. I've not worn make-up this year, a fact which says as much about my social life as it does about my cosmetic skills. This isn't because, as some people assume, I consider myself above such improvements, the very epitome of yummy mummyness, it's because I don't really have a clue. Oh, and I don't have much cash either.

So if anyone could recommend a magic undrying yet degreasing face cream and something to make my legs look human again, I'd very much appreciate it.

Memory

My husband was trying to explain something about memory to me the other day. Apparently all of our remembrances are false, they're not recollections of an actual event, rather of the last time you remembered it. This explains why stories are diluted and changed over the years, and why pieces of folklore, added in for the telling on various occasions, slowly with time become ingrained in the original tale.

I'm not sure how much I believe him to be honest. I have memories, mainly things I'm ashamed of, or which are so excruciatingly embarrassing that they make my toes curl up in horror, that are as clear as yesterday. But of course there are also whole swathes of months and years from which I can recall very little. We were discussing whether, for all the days out, holidays, love and stories, T will ever remember a time without his younger brother or sister, due when he will be two years and one month old.

I think back to my earliest memories.

My Mum and Dad's bed was a big old pine thing. Wasn't everyone's in the 80's? It has a gently curved headboard and footboard, and carved acorns sitting on cubes of orange wood on the four corners. The sheets were dark green. I don't think from those days to these I have ever seen dark green sheets again. I remember getting out of my bed, going into their bedroom, carefully untucking the hospital folds at the bottom end (my Mum's fussy about bed-making) and climbing over the footboard and up between my parents to snuggle in. I can't tell you how old I was, but it was young enough to be indulged. I can't even remember which house we were in, for the bed followed us until my parents separated years later. I remember the feeling though, the burrowing, the warmth, tunneling through the swathes of material to find the light and those I loved.

The culinary highlight of every childhood Christmas (based purely on the fact that my mother, by her own admission, can't cook) was a giant tin of Marks & Spencer Continental Biscuits. The tins were silver, with green and gold labels stuck to the sides, and contained thick dark chocolate coated delights, and those wafer curls you sometimes get in ice cream at Italian restaurants or at my Mother in Law's house. Each January, the last of the biscuits consumed, we'd carefully peel off the labels and repurpose the tins for something 'useful'. I remember carrying one during a house move when I was four. It was summer and the large tree in the front garden cast a dappled shadow on the driveway at Fairholme Avenue. I was looking at the patterns, moving as the tree sang in the breeze, and not at my path when of course I tripped over my own feet and fell flat on my face, the silver tin spilling its treasure of Lego pieces all over the drive. I was picked up, dusted off and made a fuss over. It was one of a series of spills for a bookish, clumsy pre-schooler off in a daydream world. I wonder even now if I wouldn't remember this at all were it not for the tin, still bashed in one corner where it hit the floor, that continued to hold our Lego for many years afterwards.

Neither incident is particularly notable, except for its clarity in my mind. My sister doesn't specifically feature in either memory, although I know she was around when we moved house. I don't remember her being brought home from hospital, I don't remember my Mum being pregnant, much more significant events. She has just always been there, without question. There is a gap between us of two years and one month.

I wonder then what T's first memories will be. 30 years from now will he sit at the table, as his own children eat home-made cake, and feel warm and secure in his earliest recollections. And will he be glad that we gave him a sibling, a brother or sister who he feels has just 'always been there'.

Stuck

Well wasn't that a big old adventure.

I had planned the day with military precision. Pregnancy yoga (free! with a free creche place for T! thank you SureStart) followed by a snack and then a nap in the car whilst I winged our way to Harry's third birthday party in Lancaster.

We started well. I boinged on the birthing ball and enjoyed the luxuriant almost-asleep of Yoga Nidra. T played in the garden at the Children's Centre and scoffed a hot cross bun before dropping off to sleep in the car seat. I turned up Popmaster, and headed for the M6.

Then we slowed down. Then we slowed down some more. Then we stopped.

Years of winter commuting from North Manchester to first Sheffield and now Leeds means I am well equipped for an unscheduled motorway stop caused by snow, ice or the many faceted foibles of the M62. My car contains blankets, spare coats, a shovel, plenty of de-icer and flourescent jackets in case we need to get out on the hard shoulder. It is March though, a particularly mild March, and it soon became apparent that none of these things would be necessary. In fact, a fan would have been more useful.

Within 10 minutes, a direct spot of sun on his face, T woke up. By now it was lunchtime and he'd slept for only half an hour, both guaranteed grump-makers. He squirmed in his car seat, taking in the stationary cars around us, and began to scream.

A flurry of texts passed to a friend and her daughter, stuck 20 cars behind us, also headed to the party. I thanked my lucky stars I didn't have the 'pre-schooler who needs a wee' issue, but wished my son was old enough to understand that Mummy couldn't make us move again just because he wanted to.

I turned off the engine, opened the window and took a deep breath.

'You put your left arm in ...'

T has developed hitherto unknown deep love for the Hokey Cokey. When he wakes in the morning, I hear him singing it to himself via the baby monitor. Well, he yells out a body part, does the 'woah' bit loudly (I imagine him throwing his arms into the air, and lie still, praying all this exertion might have the effect of sending him back to sleep) and then sings the rest 'do do do do do do'. So it's 'head. woah. do do do do. eye. woah. do do do do'.

The chap in the flat bed truck next to us wound up his window and reached over to turn up the radio.

I finished 'you put your whole self in' and paused. T started to cry again.

I began again with a new raft of body parts, you put your nose in, you put your left ear in, you put your fingers in, you put your tummy in (reach over and tickle). I trailed off. T was now covering his ears and shaking his head. Singing just wasn't cutting it. 'Are you hungry?' Well it was lunch time. Frantic nod. I reached into my bag and felt around, then felt around some more. Errrrrr, small problem. In an attempt to stem my morning sickness, on the first part of the journey as T slept I had scoffed my emergency rations, the spare hot cross bus and a banana. I began to feel sick again. Not because I was hungry, but because he was. T was crying properly now. Two lanes away, the father in a family car got out, walked around to the boot and pulled out a cooler the size of my fridge. Sandwiches shared between his brood, he got back in. I was really panicking now. What if we were here all night? I had 1/3 of a sports bottle of water between us. I had visions of having to call the Police to ask them to bring emergency provisions for a disorganised, selfish mother who was starving her own son. In the flat bed truck, the driver tipped a can of drink vertically into his mouth, trying to drain the last precious drops. Not just me then.

I found some emergency raisins, and said a prayer of thanks to the mysterious force who ensures that all mother's have a ready supply. T scoffed them. I offered him the water bottle and he was entertained for 10 minutes pulling off and pushing on the lid. We'd now been stationary for around 90 minutes and, still half an hour from Lancaster, had missed the party.

Then, as quickly as we'd stopped, we were moving again. Past the scene of the accidents that had caused the pause in our journey (another prayer of thanks, this time that we were stuck behind, rather than in, the crash site) and on two miles to Forton Services. We parked and I did the sort of frantic dash only found in women who need a wee and regret not having done more pelvic floor exercises.

There was a small crush inside M&S. I chose us a sandwich each, some juice, grapes and T grabbed a packet of hot cross buns (curse toddler accessible shelves). Such was my guilt at having trapped him in his carseat for more than two hours I didn't even complain when, after a few cursory bites of egg mayo, he ate three whole ones at 'barely touched the sides' speed.

On the way home I resolved to pack a new emergency bag for the car. Fewer blankets, more drinks and snacks.

If by the next morning the mechanics of a toddler routine might have caused me to forget my plans, the sweet, raisiny hot cross bun nappies did not.

What's with all the raisins?

Inspired by the wonderful More Than Just a Mother, the contents of my changing bag. For those with a thirst for details, it's a green swirly patterned one from Next (not specifically designed as a changing bag) with long handles and an unidentified stain on the bottom left hand corner.

Three library books* - miraculously not overdue

Tommee Tippee sippy cup with an ill-fitting mismatched lid containing water with bits floating in it. The lid means that most of the other contents of the bag are mildly damp

Three disposable nappies and one cloth nappy

The World's Most Expensive Babywipes (TM) - purchased under duress at Center Parcs when I realised I had forgotten to pack any wipes for our week long holiday

Slightly grease-stained Pizza Express napkin

Sunglasses - a triumph of hope over reality

Organix carrot cake bar and packet of two Gingerbread men

Raisins - Two packets (one half eaten) and seventeen loose

39 pence in coppers

One pinecone

Small rubber elephant

A handful of grit which is now stuck underneath my fingernails

This makes me sound relatively organised, although there are some obvious holes in my preparation. I don't have any spare clothes, and have been stuck more than once with a filthy cloth nappy and nothing to wrap it in. My toy collection is also sadly lacking in entertainment value. The elephant had tried to 'eat' the pinecone repeatedly at restaurants, in waiting rooms and on public transport. T wasn't impressed the first time and now cries loudly whenever my emergency props make an appearance.

*That's not my bear ...
I like it when
LOOK at YOU! WOW, WHAT A BODY CAN DO!

I am also woefully underprepared for traffic jams. But more on that later.

Post Office

I've always imagined it must be quite interesting to work in the Post Office. There's a constant stream of customers, each with their own specific enquiry, probably utterly divergent to the one that went before. Airmail to Spain? Of course. Car tax. Do you have the correct documents? Electricity meter cards. Currency Exchange. One of those annoying red cards which means you have to queue up to collect a parcel that was delivered during the only ten minutes you left the house yesterday? All in a days work.

And then of course there are the idiots like me providing plenty of extra entertainment.

We are off to France in May. Complicated maths with the Tesco Clubcard points we have saved for almost 2 years means we've been able to book a completely free apartment on the outskirts of gay Paris for a week. There's only one small problem, which is that until now, T has not had his own passport.

I get the forms, fill them in, retrieve both of his parent's passports and write the numbers in the correct box with black pen being sure not to go over the edge. I carefully fold his birth certificate and put it in the envelope. Just the small matter of the photos then.

Our nearest passport photo booth is inside the Post Office. It's one of those clever ones that gives you three goes at the photo before it prints. I find four pounds and feed them into the machine, each giving a satisfying clunk as it falls. Whilst the electronic voice blathers on about taking off your sunglasses and looking 'neutral' I spin the stool upwards to make it the correct height and sit T on top. Only the top of his head is showing on the screen. Hmmm, OK. I begin to think that perhaps this was a bad idea. The booth is now telling me to press the big green button when I am ready to start taking photos. T's fingers stretch out, magnetically attracted to anything pressable. I mange to catch them just in time. I try to make the seat taller, but I've obviously rotated it to the top of the thread. The two halves come apart in my hand. T is running for the exit. I catch him, wedge him into the booth with my leg, slide the top section of the seat back onto the pole and commence plan B.

I wind downwards again and stand T on the stool, holding him around the middle. His head is now in the correct position, but I am in the way of the screen. The booth gets fed up of waiting for me and starts to take the photos. My (not insubstantial) backside appear on the screen, a small shock of toddler hair visible over one hip. 'Would you like to keep this photo?' I press red for no and the booth goes back into wait mode, I must press the green button when I am ready.

I take a handful of dungaree in both hands (disguising my fists in the folds of his too-big cord overalls) and retreat behind the curtain. I am just trying to work out how to press the button when T decides that standing up is not what he would like to do and goes jellylegged. As I grab him through the curtain, controlling his movements Wizard of Oz style, the booth takes another photo. This time there is a red-faced toddler at an odd angle struggling with what looks like two giant woollen octopus tentacles.

I press the 'red for no' button and hiss at him to 'stand still'. I'm ashamed to admit that I also told him there wouldn't be a holiday if he couldn't have his photo taken, a threat that a) I wouldn't carry through and b) he couldn't understand anyway. By this time the staff behind the Post Office counter are laughing so hard there are almost tears. One has even come out to have a look.

I stand him back on the seat, hold, press and hope. He looks at the camera like his world is ending. Big, sad eyes. He's in the middle of the frame though, my arms are out of shot and I have entirely run out of patience. The bloody booth has the cheek to put all three photos on the screen and ask which I would like printing. I toy with pressing the left hand key for 'fat bottomed Mummy' or the middle one for 'woollen octopus', but I'm also out of pound coins, so 'grumpy toddler' it is.

I wait by the booth for the photos to print, ignoring the still giggling Post Office clerks. A kindly woman in the queue tells me about a service at Maxx Spielman where they entertain your toddler and take a picture without fuss.

I resolve to do more research next time!

IKEA

I like IKEA. I'm not ashamed to admit that in bored moments (especially on rainy days) it's the ideal place to go for a day out. There's lots to look at, especially for toddlers who like shiny things, patterned things, and lights of wonderous shapes and sizes, and they have a great (cheap) cafe.

In the interests of fairness, I have to say there are some parts of the Swedish furniture behemoth I'm not so keen on. In the hunt for photo frames (admit it, there is not an adult in the UK who doesn't have at least one Ribba in their house) I took a teeny T for a push in his car seat at around 5 weeks old. I was impressed by a poster in the shiny shiny giant lift which promised free baby food, bottle warming (didn't need either of those, but still impressive) and a 'nursing area for you to feed your baby', complete with a lovely picture of a breastfeeding Mum cradling an infant on a sofa complete with fluffy cushions. Once I'd figured out where the entrance was (those lifts are confusing!) I stopped a blue and yellow clad worker and asked them where this magical milk-making haven was. They pointed me to a rattan chair in the disabled loo. In the fog of sleep deprivation I didn't quite have the strength to make an argument about whether said staff member would eat their lunch in the loo. I would have felt bad anyway, I don't think the embarrassed old fella who went a rosy shade when the first letters of the word 'breast' passed my lips had any say on where Ikea put their chairs, or whether the posters in the lift were a true representation. So I did what I should have done in the first place, queued up for a slice of Dime Bar cake, sat in the cafe and fed T, and myself, in one fell swoop.

So anyway, 17 months later I find myself back at IKEA, toddler in tow. Flat-packs procured, I decided we should have lunch before the journey home and our afternoon music class. Children's organic pasta and sauce, with Parmesan, is less than a quid! They even provide disposible bibs, cutlery, plastic cups, bowls and plates and more highchairs than you can shake a stick at.

We sat. I ate.
T pulled off his bib.
I moved his plate.
'You can't eat that without a bib on'.
I retied the bib and passed back the plate.
He pulled off the bib.
I removed the plate.
He grabbed a handful of food from my plate (momentarily unguarded) and stuffed it in his mouth.
I retied the bib, moved my plate and passed his own back.
He screeched and knocked half of it on the floor.
'Ooooh, he knows how to wind you up' said a helpful lady on the next table.
I cleaned up the pasta mess.
T knocked over his drink.
He pulled off his bib. And started to cry.
'Ooooh, he's really playing you' said helpful lady.
I smiled, through gritted teeth.

By this time T had procured my plate. I ate from his plate. After about 5 spoonfuls he started to throw my food on the floor. He pulled off the bib again. Helpful lady muttered to her friend. I don't speak 'under breath' but I'm pretty sure it was a slur on my parenting. I shovelled the last of my pasta into my mouth and moved the 'firsts' away. I retied T's bib and tried to rescue the situation with a yoghurt. It's funny, when you become a parent you seem to become an expert in pretend enthusiasm in the face of adversity. Grumpy toddler? 'Oooh look, it's strawberry flavour, do you want to help Mummy take off the lid, would you like the green spoon or the blue spoon?' T pulled off his bib and smeared a handful of yoghurt on the table. I gave up. Using the plastic cutlery, I spooned in Ella's finest. 'Mmmmmmm' I said, thinking I might tempt him into wanting it back. T smeared harder. Helpful lady was on her feet now. Going via the 'baby station' she stopped at our table. In a falsetto voice she said 'you can't eat that, you haven't got a bib on'. Then she tried to tie a bib round my neck.

Then I cried.

Irrational

I love these toddler times more than I ever thought possible. When my tiny newborn son was placed in my arms after his birth, my gas and air fuelled stating the bleeding obvious ('it's a baby') quickly gave way to a wash of pride and adoration which filled me to the very brim and made me feel like a queen. I never thought I could top that, I never thought my heart could swell more than at that moment. But then he smiled. Well, not right there in the delivery room of course, weeks later. Long, sleep-deprived weeks. Then he cooed, he crawled, he spoke, he walked and now every day I see my little red-headed baby become more and more his own boy.

I am no longer Mama, or Momma, but Mummy. Mummy, I'm someone's Mummy! T can follow instructions, and express himself. He can count to three. He has new words every day. We're currently going through a food explosion, in the last few days he's asked for cheese, curry and jelly. Not together though obviously, that would be rank.

It seems almost cruel then that this magical transition from dependent baby to independent child is accompanied by toddler tanrtums. These crisis level situations are the cause of such bone-shaking, heart-wrenching tears that of course they are not irrational to him, only to me.

For months T and I have showered together every morning. As a tiny babe I held him and dipped us under the stream of water to get rid of the sour milk smell that seemed to follow us both like a tail. Later he crawled at the end of the tub with his toys. Now he toddles up and down the bath, sticking his foam letters to my legs and admonishing me to wind up the clockwork flapping dolphin 'again, again, again'. The routine at the end of the bath is always the same. I get out, wrap in towel, fetch his towel, rub his hair, wrap him up and we sit on the loo (lid down) he on my knee, to clean our teeth. This morning though there were big, fat, screaming tears. T was heartbroken, clutching at the trickle of water running down the plug hole, trying to hold in in his fat fists to prevent it from draining away. At that moment to him it seemed like there would be no more baths, or showers, ever. No more drinks, no more swimming. These were the last drops of water in the world and he, their protector, had to stop them from escaping. I picked him up, wrapped him gently and sat him down. I demonstrated the tap. Look, there's more water here! I promised a splashy bath with Daddy before bed tonight. I wet his toothbrush, and my own, and even allowed him to 'brush' my teeth.

My boy, finding his way in the big world and learning how things work. There are obvious ways I know to protect him, he wears a coat in the cold, has a car seat the size of a small tank, a Little Life backpack to prevent him from running into the road. But how can you protect a child from the heartbreak of something like this that to me isn't even an issue? I thought the newborn days were hard, and they were of course, but so are the toddler months, just in a very different way.

An anatomy lesson

One thing my husband is very good at is waking T when he leaves for work in the morning. Sometimes it's in the slam of the bathroom door and the creak of the shower screen, sometimes it's in the stomping up the attic stairs to find a CD to listen to in the car on the way in, and sometimes (like this morning) it's the noise caused when he tips a pocketful of change out on the carpet and picks it all up in a big jingly heap (what is it about men and change? I never have any coins, well, I never have any money at all really, but he's never without half a pound of assorted copper, plus a few random Euro and a couple of Dimes).

One thing I am not very good at is being tolerant when this happens. I have found out the hard way that if I fully wake up at 4.30 am, that's me for the day, no amount of counting sheep or deep breathing is going to get me back to sleep. This morning then, in true grumpy pregnant wife style, I grunted something about him putting T back in with me to resettle, and rolled over and went back to sleep, my personal hot water bottle sleeping horizontally with his head nuzzled into my shoulder.

It was a bit of a shock then to be woken with a poke, then another, and then a very hard pull. Welome to the toddler anatomy lesson, your baby's way of saying he cares. This morning, I half came too with the small fingertips pushing at my nose, and the hot breath saying 'nooooooose' right next to my cheek. I rolled over, sure it wasn't yet time to get up, allowing a small finger the opportunity to explore my 'eeeeeeeeeeeeeear'. He pulled my 'aaaaaaair', yanking my head back onto the pillow. I scrunched up my eyes, sure that this must be happening to someone else, remember the days you naturally came too? Sun peeping in at the window? Birds tweeting? Long gone I'm afraid. He poked me in the peepers .... 'eyyyyyyyye' he said. Then he clapped. I muttered something vaguely related to 'well done darling, very clever', and rolled over again, putting the pillow over my head to protect my face for a few more early morning moments.

'Boooooo!' he yelled. I sighed, and got up to go to the loo, the sound of his exclamations growing only slightly fainter as I closed the bathroom door. Someone remind me of this the next time I get excited about some new words!

8+2

This is me ..... :-D

Yup, big smile. I had my early scan yesterday and on the screen was a large butterbean, just starting to grow arms and legs, with a lovely thumping heartbeat.

My husband applied boy logic to the whole thing. Proclaiming both that 'everything's going to be fine' and 'the clinic always runs at least half an hour late'. He was right on the first and wrong on the second, and arrived from a meeting that had run over just a few minutes too late, having missed the whole thing.

To be fair, based on previous experience, the scanning department running to time was fairly unlikely. There's something about a room of full-bladdered women, ordered not to relieve themselves until after the scan, that fills me with dread. I am a stickler for instructions and will follow them to the letter, going above an beyond if I can. Thus an hour before the scan time, when advised to drink a pint of water, I drink a litre. All good, until clinic runs forty minutes behind, which is something that will make you wish you'd done the prescribed 200-a-day post-natal pelvic floor exercises (OK, maybe I'm not that much of a stickler for instructions). I have become the master of the discreet 'foot to foot hop' which seems to relieve some of the pressure, oh, and of staying away from the water cooler. It's an oldie but it's true, trickling water will make you want to pee!

Of course I am being facetious. I understand that not all scans are simple, and that the NHS is over-stretched and under-resourced, and that of course the sonographers don't keep women waiting, especially in 'full to bursting' discomfort when they don't need to.

Yesterday though, I was called from the waiting room on time, wriggling toddler under one arm, childcare notably absent. 'Will he sit still whilst we scan you?' she asked? Hmmm, to lie or not. I went for it. Worried that even a fifteen minute delay might cause my bladder to jump up and out of my belly button in protest once the probe was pressed on my abdomen. Actually though, T was wonderful. Entranced by the dark room and the grey blue lights on the monitor, he didn't make a peep, even when his wet old Mum shed a small tear at the sight of his brother or sister on the screen.

Obviously we're not at the magical 12 week tell-the-world mark yet, I have four weeks to wait before my next scan, and in the mean time I need to book in with the community midwives. I am allowing myself to start to dream though about the birth, names and life with two babies!

Holiday report

We're back from our week in the Lakes and a lovely time was had by all. In alphabetical order, our holiday mainly consisted of ...

Birthday presents (Wiiiiiiii!)
Boston Legal on DVD (how have I missed this before?)
Ducks
Lots and lots of new words from T
Napping
Squirrels (we have been twice to the red squirrel reserve at Formby and not seen a single one, thankfully they seem to be in [relative] abundance at Whinfell, and were more than happy to be watched!)
Snow
Starbucks (decaf caramel latte, an expensive habit to develop)
Symptom spotting*
Walks and
Water slides (baby ones for T, big ones for Daddy)

In fact we had so much fun, did so much swimming and walking (and pointing at trees, and swans and puddles) and sliding and climbing that T managed to sleep a previously unheard of THIRTEEN HOURS A NIGHT as well as having a 2-3 hour daytime nap each day. In an attempt to recreate this, Daddy's taken him to the football today in the hope the fresh air and excitement might kid him into that holiday feeling and tire him out. He's wearing his mini football kit over his snowsuit, creating an attractive Michelin Man effect. Well, what the MM would look like if he was from Colchester.

*I am horrible to live with at the moment. If I'm not moaning about having morning sickness, I'm worrying because I feel slightly better than yesterday and am thus convinced something must have 'gone wrong'. I hate myself for having become this self indulgent, whining person. I worried during my first pregnancy, but now I have T, and know what this little baked bean might become, everything seems much more fragile this time round. I have my early scan this week, and fingers crossed for good news, not just for me but for the sanity of my husband who is resolutely providing love and support in the face of this irrational, hormonal harpie.

The Lakes

We're off to The Lake District tomorrow for five days of family holiday fun. T has an exciting teething/cough combo meaning he's mainly (not) sleeping in our bed, I have hideous all day (none of this morning nonsense) sickness and my husband is bringing up the rear with a grand old grump.

What better time then to spend a week in each other's company with only woods and trees for company?

See you next weekend.