Author: Katie Milward

It’s 2019 and following on from a lovely Crimbo, we decided to take the Sprogs to Woburn Safari Park. (This was mainly based on the fact that my mum had gifted us all with an annual pass, so we could actually afford to go. Because it was free.)

After much discussion on what would make a suitable picnic, packing the obligatory “nappy bag” (which contains a shit load more than nappies) and finding winter clothing, we were off.

The boys are now in their stage 2 car seats, so Finley (9) is wedged between them both, whilst Jonty and I sit in our spacious front seats with heated arse holes. If only there was a screen between us…

After the short journey to Woburn and a million requests to “sit on Daddy’s lap” from Leo, we arrived and off we went around the “Road Safari”. Incredibly, despite the 4 degree temperature, we saw loads of animals – rhinos, buffalo, deer type things, giraffes and elephants – all from the comfort of our Tuscon, shovelling cheese sarnies into our faces.

As the driver, I was in charge of navigating the wilds and avoiding killing any endangered animals. I got slight road rage with a woman in an Alhambra – (She was road hogging, then stopping at inconvenient times and places and generally being a shit driver.) I also panicked when various big animals started heading towards us and I think Jonty was worried I’d lob his chorizo sanga out the window to save the fam, so I wacked the car into second and blasted through some of the enclosures.

Then, the monkeys. My god they know how to put on a show. We queued for an eternity watching the little rascals jump over other cars (FYI to the Citroen, you took the piss: you stayed too long) and then we approached the main monkey corner. The kids were so excited that we may have a furry visitor on our roof and then suddenly, boom. Boom, bang, scratch oh and an anus, pushed onto the windscreen. It was quite awesome to see these little buggers enjoying the warm bonnet and wing mirrors and get a real close up when they romantically “made love” in front of us. Needless to say I was very unimpressed at the female, who felt the need to cuddle and stroke the clearly uninterested male afterwards. Too needy if you ask me.

And it did our marriage no favours – Jonty pointed out how “loving” she was. *eye roll*

Just as we were leaving the monkey madness, an adult decided to not only rip my wiper blade off, but also take a dump down one of the windows. Hugely disrespectful but the boys found it hilarious – especially when we had to peel it off with a stick.

Once out of the car and into the Baltic conditions, we ambled around the various other enclosures – poking lemurs and oohing and ahhing at other random animals. We even got to see the elephants on a walk, all holding each other’s tails.

All in all, it was an awesome day. There’s nothing better than spending time with family, laughing at defectating mammals and calling in at Coop on the way home (at 3.30pm) to purchase three bottles of wine.

#winning #wineing

In years gone by, the blow of getting home from a holiday was buffered with the joys of putting on my skinny jeans and a white tee and receiving comments about my fantastic tan, beachy blonde hair and spotless skin. This year, there is more chance of those prickhole Ryan Air shitflaps not delaying our flight for 2.5 hours, than that happening.

As I write, I am sitting on a beautiful balcony, with what is essentially a pint of wine, sea crusted hair, dark circles under my eyes, four billion mosquito bites and paler than when I left. The reason? We are on holiday with three children.

Many years ago Jonathan and I met in Mallorca, when my bestie from school took me on one of her family holidays. It was there I met the quirky, shy “skater boy” with the bluest eyes I have ever seen. Years (and many holidays) later (and after confirmation that in fact Jonathan couldn’t really skate that well and the glistening eyes and sultry gaze was as a result of too many  “drinks” acquired from African merchandise salesman on dark corners of the beach at 2am), we are here with our two boys and my step son Finley.

It was never going to be easy, in a non-air conditioned apartment, with stone floors and hardwood furniture designed with concussion as their primary function and a balcony with railings spaced just wide enough to potentially lose a child through, but we made it here (no thanks to the bastard Ryan Air fuckplanks, who made us wait on a runway with not even a gin to numb the pain of an overtired 8 month old and bored 2 year old).

We are a week in and Jonathan still hasn’t unpacked his suitcase. I’ve barely got a tan line, despite the sweltering heat. None of the boys have accepted that suncream is a necessity and neither Jonathan or I are any better at putting those shitting UV suits on the small ones. I swear, putting a leotard on a disgruntled goat would be easier.

Once adorned in their “Dancing on Ice” style swimwear, suitably creamed, the packing of the beach bag begins. Nappies, wipes, drinks, snacks, dummies, towels, armbands – the list goes on.

“FUCK I forgot the hats.”

”It doesn’t matter, we won’t be out for long”

”One of the children is ginger – in the time we have taken discussing the hats he has already burst into flames…”

Once we have hit the beach (at 7am of course), it’s a full 30 minutes of stopping one from drowning, one from eating sand and one from tormenting seagulls. Then home, for the third breakfast of the day and stopping Ralph (8 months) from cracking his head open/eating a pine needle and Leo from buggering off out the door.

It is important to note that we are staying next door to Jonathan’s parents, my in-laws, who (god bless them), tolerate us all raiding their fridge, causing chaos in their living room and have stocked our fridge with wine. At the start of the week it was very stressful to stop Leo from running out the door, but now we basically leave it open as he trots off to Nanna’s to help “flush a big poo” down a blocked bog (sorry Susanne).

Nap time is glorious. We tag team, so one stays up with the little ones whilst the other puts zero cream on in an attempt to get some colour in the blazing sun. The time is often spent on father in laws boat, drinking wine at an unearthly hour and enjoying competitions for the “best jump” with Finley (9). Then it’s lunch and time to consume obscene amounts of Parma ham with Brie and an array of “picky bits” – the boys eat anything so thank god are pretty easy to keep alive in terms of nutrition.

Afternoons consist of more sun cream, more leotards and lots of getting in and out of the sea, before bed time.

By 9pm we are knackered and so after the usual married couple rows (mostly about why it’s inappropriate to have “adult time” whilst sharing a room with a baby (thank Christ for that baby)), we head to bed, also known as the “kiln”, to get feasted on by bugs.

Then it all begins again.

What I’ve neglected to mention is that all of the kids, when they’re not pricking off, are an absolute joy to be around and seeing their little happy faces makes it all worthwhile.

I’ve just been “checked out” by two men (teenage boys) whilst sitting on the balcony. Well, either that or they were pointing and smiling at the entertaining parrot in the apartment below us…

We are so lucky to be here and not only that, be here with our three boys and our family – so don’t misinterpret my moaning for complacency.

BUT, I am really looking forward to not having to baste the kids and wipe sand out of their arse cracks. And I’m hoping Jonathan unpacks his suitcase once we get home. And those fuckcrack Ryanair shitc***s sort their fucking lives out!

PS. Jonathan edited this and added the majority of the swearing.

PPS. My father in law got called a C*** by an elderly Spanish lady today, for starting his outboard engine too close to the shoreline. I forgot to shoehorn that in earlier but was too hilarious not to mention.

The last time I wrote a blog post I was probably semi-pissed on a tiny wine, having eliminated booze from my diet for so long, thus protecting the tiny human from alcohol poisoning via boob milk.

Now, I’m just semi pissed on a huge wine, hoping that the alcohol will go straight to tiny human number two’s veins, thus creating a perfect night of only 3-5 ‘wakeups’.

When we found out we were pregnant with Ralph, Leo was 7 months old. Almost instantly, I began shovelling cream cakes into my mouth, ditching the diet (which if I’m honest, never really began) and mourning the loss of brie, gin and anything else alcoholic – it was brutal, as I had breast fed Leo until 6 months, so I only had 4 glorious weeks of reckless drinking.

We had always wanted two kids close in age and when we found out we were having another boy, I was over the moon. I think a lot of people believe that most people would like ‘one of each’, but we are not ‘most people’. And as a dance teacher who has taught many, many girls, I can confidently say that I’m happy with my two little men. (I’m also planning on becoming a sort of Mafia Mum that they adore and will do anything for – including killing my husband etc…)

I was very lucky with my pregnancy with Leo and annoyingly for some, with Ralph too. Sure, I gained loads of weight, forgot what my feet looked like, had mood swings like you wouldn’t believe and didn’t sleep because everything hurt (and I mean EVERYTHING*), but I didn’t puke and the little dude was happy and comfy.

The hardest thing about being pregnant and having a 7 month old for me was the guilt that I was somehow ‘taking’ time away from Leo. (I’ve since been assured by a lovely friend that in fact I was giving’ him a sibling; which is very special and I love her for supporting me.) I spent the 9 months of pregnancy doing everything I could with Leo – swimming, soft play (vom) lunches and even spending hours watching him watch television – intermittently making him kiss my bump in a vague attempt to let him know what was going on.

When I was pregnant with Leo I really got to know him before he arrived. With Ralphie however, I didn’t have the time to sit and dream about what this baby would be like, or caress my massive bump whilst taking a long bath. It felt like (to be brutal), the bump was just a big inconvenience – stopping me from running around at Soft Play, carrying a sleepy toddler or forcing me to live on Rennie.

But as cheesy as it sounds, the moment that little guy arrived on his due date, (at 7lb 1 in the exact same room his bro was born – and thankfully, after a vastly shorter labour) I was in love. And a further 24 hours later, once home and fully acquainted, I knew him. And he knew me.

Of course that’s all gone to shit now – I have no idea what he wants, he seems to have zero appreciation for my ‘me time’ (non-existent) and spends 90% of the time clawing at my boobs, like a tit-crazed zombie.

But we’re cool.

One of the most common things I’m asked is ‘Does Leo get jealous?” In a word; no. Leo is such a cool cat that Ralph’s arrival has only enhanced his little world. He has always been very gentle and kind (bar a few smacking on the head incidents) and most recently, loves bossing him about and showing him toys – which Ralph loves. We are both hoping this little friendship continues to develop and although there is no doubt going to be arguments and quarrels, we are sure they wont last long – mainly because Leo is pretty butch and at this point, Ralph doesn’t stand much of a chance.

So, we have two boys. I live a house with three boys. When my step son is here, that’s four boys. That’s four penises missing a toilet…send help…send wine…send bleach.

*Vag

It’s been a long time since either Jonathan or I have been able to write a post – tiny human most certainly keeps us busy and the brie, wine and sausage rolls are not going to consume themselves.

Leo will be five months old on Christmas Day and quite honestly, I cannot believe he has been here that long – or that I am not yet a size 8.

We have had lots of people ask for ideas about what he might want for Christmas and because we are scroogy and he has no clue as to what is going on half the time, we have suggested either an obnoxious bright toy or cash into his bank account. I was wrapping bits for his Christmas stocking the other day and decided it looked a bit thin on the ground, so Leo will be opening a bottle of Calpol. What a lucky boy!

Big brother Finley (my step son) is beside himself with excitement and we have of course taken him to see Father Christmas. We went to Ham House and thoroughly enjoyed a festive treasure hunt for facts about Oliver Cromwell and an overpriced lunch. After queueing for twenty minutes to see the big guy, we were taken into a room with what can only be described as the shittest Santa we have ever seen. His beard was cotton wool, you could see the elastic and he looked like he had been on a massive bender. As  you can see from the picture, Leo appears to have guessed. None the less, he asked all the appropriate questions – Have you been good? What would you like? And even asked Finley if he could name all of the reindeer for an extra present. Finley couldn’t so I, like the dutiful step mother, reeled off every god damn reindeer at top speed and kept the special present for myself. I felt there was a lesson in there somewhere…

Our Christmas tree is up and it’s a bit ridiculous. Last year Jonathan was less than impressed with the size of our tree, so I went big to prove a point. The result of which means that every decoration I have ever bought (tacky or not), as well as two sets of mismatched lights (one white and one coloured), is currently residing in the corner of our lounge – smooshed up against the wall on both sides and limiting our living space significantly. Between the two of us we have also managed to eat ALL of the chocolates – and by ‘two of us’, I mean me.

Having family all over the place means that we have a lot of driving and places to be over the festive period. Letchworth, Old Windsor, Christmas dinner with 34 at Iver Heath and then back to Stotfold for Boxing Day, where everyone comes to us. This is a very sensible plan, as we basically get all the left overs and picky bits. There is currently a whole frickin’ serrano ham leg on our kitchen side – the trotter is centimetres away from Leo’s ‘bumbo’ chair. Im waiting to walk in on him chewing it.

So as the big day approaches, the Christmas wrapping is almost done. In fact last night, whilst Leo was asleep, I managed to wrap all of Jonathan’s pressies. It took bloody ages because I couldn’t find the scissors, so had to tear the wrapping paper to size and chew the ribbon – I’m not going to lie, they look pretty awful. Im sure it was because of the lack of equipment, rather than the goblet of wine I was drinking – it is very important to stay hydrated.

After popping into Hitchin today to look for a chocolate orange for my darling husband (which I did’t find – though admittedly I didn’t expect to in New Look), I have now come home and am sitting with a large cup of tea and more Christmas tree chocolate. This is what it is all about. A snoozing baby in his car seat, listening to the sounds of a hairdryer, whilst I am surrounded by washing to do, baby puke covered muslin and terrible films on the TV.

The thing is, apart from the fact that Jonathan and Finley are not here, I think I am the happiest I’ve ever….oh wait. Baby awake. Teething. And he managed to shart up his own back.

Joy to the world.

So, the tiny human is now nearly 11 weeks old and unsurprisingly, life has changed in many ways for me. I am a Mum.

Sometimes, this role is incredible – watching your little person grow and learn, seeing their face light up when you look at them and my favourite, endless baby cuddles.

But sometimes it’s shit. And I’ve learned that it is ok to say that it is shit.

Being a stay at home Mum is a huge responsibility and the days where the baby screams constantly for no apparent reason are the hardest. My liver cries for gin and my lungs for nicotine, but I cant. For I am ‘Mum’. And I will have to get on with it. And I do. And then, within no time at all, this small and loud being is laughing and giggling again. Talk about mood swings…

Since Leo has arrived, I have been determined to continue life as before. We have been abroad, shopping, out to dinner, taken him to Thorpe Park and I have even taught a dance class with him strapped to my chest – he slept through all of these! For the first 9 weeks I regularly found myself in town, at a friends, driving somewhere and generally not being at home for any significant amount of time. Apart from being exhausting for both myself and Leo, I felt like I wasn’t getting the most out of the time I have with him.

So, I made a change. I make sure that we have at least two days a week at home, where I can spend the whole time learning about my kid. Learning what makes him laugh, cry, giggle, jump and whinge, what his favourite part of the obnoxious playmat is, how long he can actually stay in a swingy chair (as opposed to how long he wants to) and so much more. I have just laughed my ass off at how disgusting my child is – it was a mega ‘poonami’ which took out a baby grow, leggings, towel and the majority of my nasal senses – all whilst vomiting (him, not me). But when he looks at me with his giant blue eyes, for one singular moment, we connect and I know that he understands that wiping shit off his balls is rancid and we get even closer.

Apart from seeing my lovely friends and venturing to the COOP for more ginger biscuits (my husband cant just eat a few; he demolishes the whole pack), the only thing we HAVE to venture out from ‘babyland base’ for is, Baby Massage.

I know what you are thinking – I thought the same. Why in the name of all that is good and pure does a baby need a massage? Feeding, sleeping and cute-ing isn’t stressful? I can honestly say that the class run by Isabelle at The Secret Garden in Hitchin is fantastic. And Leo loves it. Check out their Facebook page for classes, lunches and generally wonderful stuff for Mums, babies and toddlers: Secret Garden Pop-up

Along with other new Mums, we all gather and lay out little lads (an all boy class by coincidence!) on mats, in a lovely cosy room with relaxing music and the sweet aroma of zero judgement. The course is 6 weeks long and each week, we cover the different massage techniques for different parts of the body. Leo has been unfortunately blessed with my thighs, but adores the exercise where they are wiggled – basically, we jiggle his fat. Poor boy.

Isabelle guides us through the sessions brilliantly and as we avoid being peed or pooed on (babies are all naked), the babies get a lovely massage with baby safe oil. When the massaging part of the session is over, most of the babies are hungry (they have worked SO hard…) so we sit around, boobs and bottles out, sipping squash and politely only taking one biscuit. Talking with the other Mums, it becomes clear that everyone goes through the same stuff when a new baby arrives. Everyone has the same doubts, worries and fears, as well as the almighty highs that mum-hood brings. Leaving that baby massage class each week, I feel rejuvinated and confident that I can do this. Breast feeding a baby whilst on the loo is not embarrassing or shameful – it’s a damn skill and I’m proud of it!*

So, do i have to be sociable? No. Do i want to? Yes.

Because getting out and slagging off your kid with other new mums, as well as your partner, the cashier in the COOP for making a comment about the volume of ginger nut biscuits being consumed and anyone else that has inferred with a single look that you’re not perfect, is good for me. It reminds me that I am a human. Not a robot, super wife or anything equally as skilled.

I am a Mum. And sometimes, I am shit at ‘Mumming’. But sometimes, I am awesome.

*I’m not proud of it. But I had no choice**.

**There was some choice. But I only realised this afterwards.

As my own pregnancy is coming to an end and little man cub is due any day now, I cant help but feel relieved that I wont have to stop myself round-housing people in the face. (Yes. I can still roundhouse at 9 months pregnant.)

 Everyone is excited about a new baby on the way – friends, family, neighbours and of course random people who feel the need to shoe horn their way into your personal life and make comments on your ‘situation’.

 After the initial fun of telling people who asked when I was due that I wasn’t pregnant (when I was clearly 6 months pregnant) wore off, I found myself getting more and more fed up with people’s desire to comment and inadvertently and unintentionally, offend.

 Here is a list of ACTUAL comments received by my pregnant friends and myself. I am sure you will agree my restraint has been outstanding…

 “Congratulations. Was it planned?” 

Did you plan on being a snide-y a-hole today? 

“Wow, you are getting big now!” 

 Thanks. There is only another 20 more weeks to go – I am aiming to go the full ‘Shamu’ by the end.

 “I didn’t recognise you!” 

 Pointing in someone’s face is rude at the best of times, let alone when the finger is being circled and looks judge-y. 

 “You look exhausted” 

 Yes, I am exhausted. I am still working full time, dealing with fuck-wits like you and growing a human. 

 “You don’t have much room left in those” 

Thank you for drawing my attention to my dungarees. I had forgotten I was pregnant and expanding and you pointing out that my baggiest most comfortable clothing item is soon to be defunct, has really made my day.

 “Still eating?”

 It’s a friggin’ buffet. Of course I’m still eating and I’m not going to stop until the last sausage roll has gone.

 “How are you? Tired? Oh, you wait!” 

I’m fully aware that I will be soon having less sleep. but that does not mean I am not tired now. I play pillow jenga every night trying to get comfortable and pee at least 17 times before 3am. 

“When I gave birth I tore front to back”

 Thank you for enabling me to imagine your destroyed and mangled vagina.

 “Ah, you have the pregnant waddle now, It’s your thighs rubbing together.” 

 No. Just, no. You cruel bastard. 

 “Have you thought of any names? Oh. I don’t like it.” 

Oh you don’t like it? Shit. What do you like? Let me make sure YOU are happy with the name of my future child. You are THAT important to me. 

 “Are you sure it’s not twins?”

No, it’s not twins. But it is one giant baby that is so huge that he will have to live in my uterus forever, for I will never be able to push it out of my tiny she-bits. Thanks for noticing. 

“Don’t worry, the weight will drop right off you!”

 What if it doesn’t? That is a sure fire way to put a shit ton of pressure on a new mum to get back into shape. It also means that when I’m caught eating my fourth cream cake that I will feel judged. Most probably and ironically, by people much larger than me. 

 If you know someone who is creating a life force in their uterus, spare a thought for their feelings and just tell them they are doing a good job. Then buy them ice cream and walk away. 

Now that d-day is fast approaching, excitement is certainly building in the Milward household.

There is just 1 week to go until baby M is due to grace us with his presence and with maternity leave underway, I’m completely powerless to to act against my hormones’ wishes, which currently consist solely of tidying and organising like a shrewish 1950s housewife. Skirting boards, oven, bathrooms and of course the absolute car crash that is the spice cupboard. Am certain that the new addition will appreciate all of my efforts…

Does anyone else write things on their to-do-list that they’ve already done, just for the satisfaction of ticking them off?

One of the hardest things about preparing for the newbie, for me at least, has been packing the hospital bag. It feels so final and important, which is why I have packed and unpacked it several times. It is impossible to know what size he is going to be, how many nappies he might need and more importantly, how big will my arse be immediately after giving birth – it is going to shrink back to pre-baby size on the day, right?

Im sure I have forgotten something, but thankfully we don’t live far from the hospital, so will definitely be able to get anything we need short notice.

At least I have the two ‘gin in a tins’, provided by my mother in law. God bless that woman!

At every midwife appointment you need to provide a urine sample. This is not too challenging at the beginning of pregnancy, but when you reach the final months it becomes almost impossible.

Do you have any idea how hard it is to pee in a tiny tube as a woman? Now imagine trying to do it without:

a) pissing on your own hand

b) pissing all over the non-water proof paper label. It’s pretty embarrassing handing a wet tube to a midwife, who 9 times out of 10 doesn’t wear gloves…

c) missing the tube completely and wasting the three drips of urine you have squeezed out

d) being able to see your own bits

Having had to perform an advanced yoga move in a doctor’s surgery bog at my last appointment, I was more prepared at the 38 week check up. I couldn’t bring myself to carry a full measuring jug through the waiting room, so settled for a nice round Tupperware box.

After spending the morning drinking litres of fluid to make sure I could ‘go’, I did my business in the loo/Tupperware box at the doctors and tipped it into the tiny tube without any issues. Tupperware box was then rinsed out and placed into sealable food bag and shoved it in my unusually small handbag.

Midwife appointment was fine, baby in ‘head down’ position and measuring perfectly. I was also chuffed to hear that there was no sugar in urine at all now, so kidneys have sorted themselves out and I can continue to eat cake.

Following the appointment I immediately popped to the local Coop to stock up on healthy pregnancy food* and whilst paying at the till, had to search for my purse. In my normal disorganised way, I proceeded to unload the contents of my bag onto the desk – including Tupperware box, piss dripped food bag and tiny tube of my urine. Forgot to mention that the Midwives hand it back to you at the end of the appointment for you to dispose of.

Cue disgusted look from cashier and an embarrassed snort from me, I paid for my wares and repacked my handbag.

Next time, I am just going to piss on my own hand and be done with it.

*cake

In Summer 2015 we went on a holiday to Cuba to celebrate our first wedding anniversary, and although that was the official reason for the trip, it was also what we knew would most likely be our last chance to go on such an extravagant holiday. We’d had loads of discussions about procreating before and we both knew a baby was on the cards, but it wasn’t until we were there that my husband actually officially said he was ready. This came in the form of a long and very romantic hand-written letter. Paper anniversary and all that. This written (and in my eyes 100% legally binding) contract instantly made my dreams a reality and we spent the remaining days of our Cuban holiday floating in a pool or the sea, blissfully discussing our future – hammered.
As a woman, I found knowing we were trying for a baby quickly took over my life. It became a huge distraction and I found myself constantly noticing cute kids, babies and every pregnant woman that waddled passed, excited that I could potentially soon be one of them.

The first month went by and all the tests came back negative, and although I knew it was early days, I still felt pretty crap about it.

In October we went to a wedding and the next day, after drinking my bodyweight in gin and performing ‘the worm’ on the dance floor, I was feeling a little worse for wear. The long drive home with my lovely in-laws, step son and husband was a struggle; I felt sick. Morning sick? No, car sick. And hangover sick.

After shovelling a McDonalds into my face I felt a little better and managed to keep from chundering for the whole journey. When we finally got home, I suggested we took a test and together we waited as my dark yellow hangover urine soaked into a cheapo paper pregnancy test we’d bought in bulk from eBay.

Negative. Oh well. I was fine. It was FINE. I wasn’t emotional at all – it was the hangover, honest.

Two days passed and I’d tried not think about it and get on with my life. It was silly to get depressed over not getting pregnant in the very first month. Some couples try for ages before they get any luck. My period was a little late but that’s not uncommon for me. However, when it got to about a week late, I thought it might be time for another test. It was pointless though. It would be negative. My ovaries were obviously just useless, hollowed-out walnut shells.

5 minutes later, I walked downstairs and into the lounge. My husband turned to see a face paralysed with a combination of fear, uncertainty and excitement. There was a line on the test. A very faint line. I think. Was there a line?

We dashed frantically to the Co-Op to buy a “proper” test. Only the overpriced Clear Blue Digital Plus with the LCD screen would do at a time like this. Twin pack.

We took the first test and after a short wait,  1-2 weeks showed up on the screen! My heart (and apparently very much functioning, non-walnutty ovaries) skipped a beat.

My womb wasn’t a desert after all. It was a rich, tropical jungle, bustling with activity. Our lives were about to change forever. I did the second test just in case. The same! I was pregnant!

Shit. I should have had just one more gin…