January - and time to update the blog



Have you seen the girl who used to write the blog?
Me, second row, second from left singing with
Encore.



Marian has inspired me again. La Keyes has posted an updated newsletter on her website and it made me think of this sad neglected little website - where the blogs have been less than plentiful of late.

 I admit, hands up, I've been taking a kind of head-in-the-sand approach to blogging. Life in the last year has become so insanely, very busy that not everything is getting done.

But reading Marian's update I thought, well, I'll try and at least once a month update what is going in in my life.

First of all - writing. Well, If Only You Knew managed to sell quite well and garner quite a few positive reviews. This made me very happy indeed as it was the toughest writing experience of my life. It did get one spectacularly hilariously bad review in the form of an anonymous letter from a reader who was aghast at my use of "bad words". "Who wants to read about that 'fecking' and virginity losing?" she asked.

I can confirm to you dear reader than no virgins were harmed at all in the course of the book - and the fecking was fairly mild. Swear to God. I'm a good girl really.

That aside, Feels Like Maybe came out in Norway, which was very strange and also wonderful. No anonymous Norwegian letters have arrived with me - yet.
With If Only You Knew out of the way I started work in earnest on my sixth book, which will be known as 'What Becomes of the Broken Hearted?' and tells the story of Erin and Kitty - two women whose lives intertwine through Kitty's bridal shop 'The White Room'. Erin is planning her wedding to Paddy, who is battling testicular cancer. Kitty is dealing with the unexpected disappearance of her husband Mark. I promise lots of heartache, tears, laughter and a wee bit of fecking (see above) - but it will be done in the best possible taste.

Outside of writing - well my children continue to grow, as children do. The boy will be 8 at the end of this week. The girl will be three in March. This FREAKS ME OUT. But both, bar a recent dose of tonsilitis, are happy and healthy which is something I am very thankful for. The boy is obsessed with football. The girl is obsessed with me - as in totally, limpet like, stuck to me like glue obsessed. Which would be very endearing and lovely if I never had to do anything but sit and play with her. Even toilet trips are accompanied. And we'll not even mention her accompanying me to a certain kind of examination ladies get every three to five years. Let's just say the words "What's up there, mummy?" will stay with me forever.

Writing with two children, especially the limpet, is no easy task - but they do give me some of my best material. And they do give great hugs.

As for myself - I'm still a proverbial wreck. My depression has been back - it's still lingers but I'm taking tablets and taking steps to make myself feel better. I know I'm forever going on about being on diet - and yes, I've started again. And it's working, for now, and with God's help it will keep working and I'll start to feel better physically as well as emotionally. Winter, I find, it always a tough time mood wise. So the glimmer of light I spotted when leaving work on Friday at 5pm was very welcomed indeed.

My other big saviour has been singing, with my choir Encore, each Thursday night. The craic has been fierce and we've managed to sound good. Just before Christmas we played a sell out concert at Derry's Waterside Theatre - which was daunting, exhilerating and wonderful.

We had a recent bus trip to Dublin to see Sister Act and we sang and laughed the whole way there and back like a big pack of eejits - and it was the most fun I'd ever had on a bus. (The show was good too).

2012 has a lot in store. I'm getting a new niece or nephew in July. The boy is making his First Holy Communion in May. 'What Becomes of the Broken Hearted' will hit the shops in late August. Who knows what else we'll experience - but please God it will be more good than bad.

Random conversations with the girl

C: Can we go to granny's? My want to see granny.
Me: No, honey, granny is sick today.
C: Ach, why? (standard response to most things these days... complete with Ach first).
Me: She has a wee bug in her tummy.
C: Ach why she have a wee bug in her tummy?
Me: She just does. But she's getting better.
C: Why she have a wee bug? Where did she get a wee bug?"
M: She just did pet.

C wanders off a little confused and comes back later.
"Mammy, why does granny have a wee caterpillar in her tummy?"

Growing up too fast

So, the deed is done. My son was deposited back to school, shoes polished and hair cut into a neat and respectable style. His new, slightly too big, uniform was pressed to perfection and his schoolbag was stocked with new HB pencils, a collection of sharpeners and rubbers and some brand new colouring pencils.


He was excited to go back. He jumped awake at some time around 6.30am and declared, with a punch of his hand in the air, that “Yes! It’s a school day”. I spent the following two hours trying to convince him that we had plenty of time and no, there was no need to leave just yet.

He did hold my hand a little tighter as we walked through the school gates but he had no sooner set sights on his group of friends than I was dropped like a cold snotter and left to walk back through the gates to the car alone.

I’ll admit it. I felt a little emotionl. Actually I felt a lot emotional. Even though this was the fifth time I had left him at the school gates, surviving the emotional upheaval of nursery school and everything after there was still a part of me which realised we had reached another milestone.

He’s in P4 - officially out of the infants section of the school and officially one step closer to being one of the proper big boys. He’s put aside a lot of his childhood things already. His toys, the bits of plastic he couldn’t live without for years, are lying in their drawers replaced by a Nintendo DS and a football in the garden.

His spaceship themed bedroom - which we considered to be his big boy room - has been repainted in red and white, in honour of both his beloved Liverpool and his beloved Derry City.

He rolls his eyes when his baby sister wants to watch CBeebies, changing the channel to Sky Sports News at every opportunity. He no longer needs mammy to read him a bedtime story and wriggles about in an embarrassed fashion when I remind him of all the nights sat on the rocking chair reading ‘Bunny My Honey’ or ‘Guess How Much I Love You?’.

He turns scarlet with embarrassment when I remind him of the songs I sang to him as a young child and when his sister and I launch into a chorus of ‘Ba Ba Black Sheep’ he declares it dumb.

He’s most certainly not my baby boy any more. When he looks at me I see a young man stare back at me. His baby features are all gone. His face is thinner, his features growing more manly day by day.

His gapped tooth smile - a mix of tiny baby teeth and adult teeth which seem too big for his head, smile back at me. There’s not a hope of getting him to wear any clothes which are not football related and when he goes for a haircut he demands wax and wants to style it like a footballers.

I still remember when his hairstyle could only be described as “ frizzy curls” and when his baby face would grin up and me and no matter what I did, or said, or sang I was always the coolest mammy in the world.

Time, I feel, is just passing too fast. So when I dropped him off and school, and skulked back to the car - my hand still warm from where he had held on - I felt myself choke up with emotion and had to fight the urge to ugly cry right there and then amid the hoardes of other parents dropping their wee ones back off for the first day of term.

Of course I know that he will always be my baby - and that is especially true of a Derry son and a Derry mammy. We’ll always have that link - but there are times when I wish I could press the pause button for just a bit. Or even the rewind button to relive those moments I wished away when he was smaller.

I’m tending to take things at a slower pace with his sister. I’m tending to savour the moments more and not crave the milestones. She still, much to the horror of my health visitor and many right thinking yummy mummies has a dummy when she is tired or unwell. She still drinks her bottle of milk at bedtime. The potty training is coming along well, but part of me looks at the nappies with a certain (sick) affection and feels not ready to let go of that particular vestige of parenthood.

I’m already mentally counting down in my head to next September when I’ll hold her hand and walk her through the gates to nursery school. There is a fair chance they will need to sedate me on that day.

A friend very wisely said to me last week that while childbirth is agonising, it’s nothing compared to the pain of letting your children grow up and do their own thing independent of you. It’s a curious feeling - pride at how far they’ve come, overwhelming love, of course, and an almost uncontrollable urge to pull them back to you and hold their hands for ever.

Aged about 2

First day at Primary One, aged 4

Summer 2011, Aged 7 and a half.

So last week I wrote...

And I decorated - kind of in an avoidance of the writing kind of a way.
We redid the baby's room (I say baby, I know she is two and three months. I know I am in denial of that fact. The dummy/ nappy police will be battering at my door soon enough over the head of it) - which especially now that it is freshly painted is my favourite room in the house.
How I love the vintage Cath Kidston-esque inspired patterns on the curtains and the wall hangings and the bunting. I could go into raptures about the bunting because, yes, I am that sad.

Her room is small, but perfectly formed and I have indulged every girly fantasy I've ever had with pink throws and spotty lamps and a wee doll's cot to match her own cot.
A white table lamp which I bought for about £15 years ago is one of my favourite pieces and I re-glossed it to give it a bit of a shimmer and now I could happily sit in the room for hours.
The girl took umbrage at her room being out of bounds for two days while we painted and tidied. "My bedroom is all broken," she would tell anyone who would listen in her lisping tones. "But my daddy is fixing it all up".
Mammy helped too. Honest.  Even though she should have been writing.

You just don't do it again....

I read this article in the Daily Mail (I know... I know...) today and instantly I felt angry, and sad, and concerned and  I suppose bereaved a little bit.

This article is about a woman who has hyperemesis - not morning sickness - but hyperemesis. Surprisingly I would say the majority of people, even women, don't know what Hyperemesis (Also known as HG) is. It's not morning sickness - it's not cured with a ginger nut biscuit, or a Rich Tea (but thanks for offering). It's full on.It's vomiting multiple times a day. It's feeling nauseous. It's vomiting blood because your innards are in shreds. It's dehydration. It's weakness. It's feeling like you have a parasite inside you and not being able to fully appreciate the baby you are growing. It's horrendous. It makes you have horrible thoughts. It drove me to the brink... it's NOT MORNING SICKNESS

Readers of the blog will know I suffered from HG when I was pregnant with Cara. And I'll be the first to put my hand up and say my condition was pretty low end compared to some people. I had one three day hospitalisation. I took daily medication. I threw up every day. In one week I lost 11lbs through dehydration alone. And that was at the lower end of the HG spectrum.

While all that was going on I had to work, I had to care for my then four year old (who became so used to his mammy being sick he would rub my back for me). I had to try and keep my sanity. What I put my husband through in those nine months was horrendous and I'm amazed he didn't walk out. I cried. I suffered panic attacks. I prayed for an early delivery even though it would have been harder for my baby. When a msicarriage threatened earlier on I spent a good amount of time wondering if it would be a good thing because this was the most horrible physical and emotional experience of my life.

When my daughter was born, (five days early, mercifully) she was healthy as could be. I stopped being sick as soon as she was delivered (after throwing up violently throughout her delivery). I still feel physically sick whenever I'm anxious. It takes very little now to make me ill but we are both fine and happy and I'm a very contented mammy. She was worth it.

But would I do it again? Not a chance. My pregnancy and HG is the primary reasons I will never have any more children. Even if I won the Lotto and could afford to be at home and raise them all in a luxurious, yummy mummy fashion (my other stumbling blocks to motherhood) I wouldn't do it.
I could not put myself through it. I could not put my husband through it. Or my children. Or my family. I could not countenance ever willingly doing that it myself or any of us again - so I won't.

Do I grieve over that decision? Some times. Generally speaking I feel done. I feel lucky. I have two healthy children - one of each flavour -and they are a delight to me. Some times though I get that urge - that maternal feeling - that urge to hold my own baby. The biggest high I ever had in my life was when my daughter was put on my chest after a wonderful delivery. I'd love to relive that moment.
But I cannot relive the 9 months which preceded it. Still, I am grieving for the glowing pregnancy I never had. My first pregnancy was marred with antenatal depression and I was determined to enjoy the second... well, that never happened.

I could never risk it again. And I don't understand how the lady in the article can keep going, with two terminations under her belt, knowing what the risks are. Some times the best decision is to just stop - you don't do it again. I hope she finds the peace to make that decision herself.

I never thought I would potty train a Tiny Tears



Cara feeding 'Baby Cara'
before the cries for "pee pees"
went up



The baby (now officially two and a toddler) has started to take a very slight interest in all matters toilet related. She has decided the most fascinating thing in the world is to look at her soiled nappies before they are deposited in the bin and has started talking about the potty and the toilet.

On Sunday she asked to change her dolly's nappy (the dolly is a Tiny Tears, bought out of sheer nostalgia) and then almost went into orbit with excitement at the revelation dolly - now known as 'Baby Cara' - has a potty all of her own and actually, if you give her a drink - she pees.

"Make dolly pee pee" was the cry as I filled the tiny toy bottle (sorry breastfeeders!) and allowed Cara to feed her baby Cara some water. Then it was a matter of tipping the doll in the right direction as quickly as possible and watch for the trickle of water from her nether regions into a small pink potty.

I have to say there were a couple of accidents. I don't think 'Baby Cara' is quite ready for big girl pants just yet. And mopping up the trickles of pretend pee from around the living room, I'm not sure I'm ready for the real Cara to give it a go either.

The best is yet to come

I had the most delicious day with Miss Boodles yesterday.

Dressed in her own creation of wellies (on the wrong feet), vest with poppers open, slightly sagging nappy, her safety reigns, a pink plastic necklace and her apron she asked me to lift her "Mup" - which of course means "up" - while I was starting to prepare their dinner.

I was having one of my very rare Annabell Karmel Super Mammy Moments and has decided to make the children mini pizzas (slice a muffin in half, coat with pizza sauce, let the children do their own toppings... voila!). Joseph who has turned into a tiny teenager (ie: sits, watches football, plays football, talks about football, dreams about football and grumbles about football) didn't want to get involved. He was too busy watching football... but the baby she shouted "Mup" at the top of her lungs. So I lifted her "Mup" and pointed out what I was doing.

"Cara help" she said (she actually says her own name like Kyra, which is very cute). I figured as she is only three seconds old (am in denial about approaching second birthday next week) there was no way she could help but decided, in a moment of madness, to try it anyway.

Standing on a chair she carefully ladled pizza sauce onto the muffin bases before sprinkling cheese almost methodically and then eating most of sprinkling ham on top again.

When done she was delighted to see the pizzas go into the "big burny" to cook before running to tell her daddy she helped.

It was such a precious, lovely mammy/daughter moment. To see her exert her own personality, her own determination to do just what the big kids do was so heartwarming. I got a glimpse of what's to come and for the first time maybe I didn't feel sad that time is flying by so fast and she is no longer a teeny tiny baby - I got excited about what is to come.

Oh we are going to have so much fun.

Next week I'll train her how to use the hoover.

It was only a cosy toes

It was only a cosy-toes. One I forgot I had, to be honest.
It's pink (what other colour could it be?) and it went on her buggy - the one my aunt keeps in her house when she minds her.

This morning my aunt gave it back to me. Cara is too tall for it now, she said. Maybe I knew someone else who could make use of it?

I looked at it and then at the toddler, with her hair in braids, her mini Uggs on and her trademark smile and a part of my heart just broke.

She's gorgeous. She's lovely and sweet and funny. Last night before bed we listened to Matt Cardle sing 'Just the Way You Are' and I sang it to her while she stroked my face.

I love her. My heart actually aches with the love I feel for her. I crept into her room late last night and just stroked her face, her fine, brown hair damp with sweat against her cheek, her gorgeous toddler hands peeping out over the top of her duvet. I stood there and I told her I loved her.

I love the wee lady she is becoming. I love her cheeky personality. I love how when I look at her I see nothing but love and trust staring back at me.
She's gorgeous. And I don't just say that because I'm her mammy - she is actually a stunningly beautiful child. People still stop me in the street to tell me that and I swell with pride.

When I saw her wee red patent shoes sitting on our bathroom floor later again I felt something in me shift. My child. My daughter. My baby. A Chara. My friend.

I feel as if I have just woken up.


But when the cosy-toes was handed back to me and I realised that almost two years of her life have already passed and that I have missed so much of it my heart snapped. And I had to hold back the tears.

My darling, precious, gorgeous baby girl. I will try harder.

Sssh! I really wanted a girl....

The world of the celebrity gossip mongers has gone into overdrive this week with the news that Victoria Beckham is expecting her fourth baby.


The Beckhams, who have three boys already, are expecting bambino number four in the summer.

Already chat forums and Facebook status updates the world over have declared their delight for the Beckham family and the hope is that Victoria finally gets the baby girl she has always longed for.

Even though she is clearly devoted to and besotted with her three sons Posh has often spoken about her desire for a daughter and it is one that I can understand. Before I had my little girl I felt as if there was a part of me not yet complete. Such a view is controversial and there are many out there who would beat their chests and shout that every child is a blessing and you should always be grateful for what you are given.

To an extent they are right. I would not swap my boy for the world - and if the stork had delivered a second blue bundle two years ago instead of my pink one I would have loved that baby with every fibre of my being.

But there was a part of me which always longed for a daughter and that part of me which occasionally feels completely overwhelmed with joy at the realisation that I have a gorgeous wee girl all of my own. (I am assured that may well change once she hits her teenage years... but for now I’ll enjoy it.)

Shallow as it may sound I will fully admit I love visiting the girls’ section of Next and chosing outfits with matching tights and hair accessories for Cara. When it comes to choosing shoes for her I’m in seventh heaven and when we can sit together occasionally in my bedroom and play dress up - with her pretending to plaster on my make up like a true pro I am at my happiest. When we played together with her Tiny Tears on Christmas day I was almost delirious with joy (that could have been the flu, right enough...)

Having a particularly close relationship with my own mammy, I look forward to seeing how our relationship will grow over the years and hope that, as her her names suggests, she will always be my friend as well as my daughter.

It’s not that I don’t feel overwhelming love for my son, but the love is different. As much as I adore him I do find it hard to get as enthused about buying tracksuit bottoms, hoodies and the latest football rigs as I do about tiny Uggs and stripey tights. We don’t have dress up sessions and he’s not a bit interested in baby dolls and play kitchens. I don’t know my Torres from my Gerrard and I’m useless at Mario Kart. He does however, give the best cuddles in the entire universe. He is so witty and funny that he lights up my life every day - and when it comes to offering a unique perspective on life the boy is the king.

I’d go as far as to say that if I was suddenly overrun with a bout of absolute insanity and decided to have another baby, I’d love a second son - and my life wouldn’t be complete without him either - but there is something about having a daughter which fulfils me like nothing else.

The gender of my children was so important to me that with both pregnancies I opted to find out what I was having before they were born. With the girl I went so far as to book a private gender scan while we were visiting family in England as I knew she would be my last baby and I wanted to time to get grips with things if I had been carrying a boy. I wanted the birth of my children, regardless of gender, to be experiences of joy where I wouldn’t have a secret hankering one way or the other for any outcome other than the safe arrival of my baby.

The moment I was told the gender of both my children will be indellibly inked in my heart forever. Both were moments of great joy - but hearing that our family would be completed at “one of each” was extra special.

Of course mammies of all boys will be shouting at their papers by now. Not everyone understands or experiences a fierce preference for one gender or another. I know, of course, there are women who would welcome a baby of whatever sex who cannot conceive and who must now be making voodoo dolls in my image. I know my words must infuriate and upset them. I know my feelings, also, are essentially very selfish.

Expressing a preference for one sex or the other is still very much a taboo subject. You almost get looked at as if you have horns on the top of your head if you answer the old, “What do you want?” questions with anything other than a tilt of the head, rub of the tummy and, “I don’t mind as long as it’s healthy”. I was once told I had committed a “sin before God” for finding out what I was having. I tend to think I was just being honest.

So if Victoria feels an ounce of what I felt about her pregnancy then of course I hope she gets her little girl - but most of all I hope she feels complete when her baby is placed in her arms. Regardless of gender there is no more magical moment than those first cuddles.

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow

Yesterday was Cara's first real snow. I say her first real snow because last year she was too eeny to really make much sense of it. Yesterday however the verdict was in. Snow is good. She loves it almost as much as her brother.
Snowed in and "forced" to spend the day playing on the floor with my kids and watching cheesy movies, I had one of those "Would it be great if it was like this all the time?" moments.

Fleeting as it was it put everything into perspective even if just for a short time.

My baby's baby

I have caved recently and bought my baby a baby of her own. No doubt there are "pink stinks" campaigners out there who would have me hung, drawn and quartered for caving in to gender stereotypes but I care not.
When I was wee I loved my baby dolls and after almost seven years of Bob the Builder, Ben 10 and Star Wars I was very much looking forward to reliving my own childhood years so when the baby yelped with delight at the sight of baby dolls in the local toy shop I didn't need to be persuaded too strongly.

The problem is, I think I may have developed a problem. Along with the doll I have bought several outfits, a baby blanket and those wee dolly nappies. I should stress that my daughter wouldn't care if she was just dragging around a naked dolly with its arms hanging off but me, well I'm a little more particular about my fake grandchildren.

I'm already delirious at the thought that, when she is big enough (my baby, not the fake baby - I know th fake baby won't grow) I can buy accessories for me her to play with - the likes of tiny playpens, car seats, slings, and those magical bottles which fake empty when you turn them upside down has me jumping with joy.

And no this doesn't mean I'm broody before any one gets smart. I'm just enjoying the wonderfulness of being the mammy of a little girl after years of boyness.

Hush little baby

We put the baby in her cot last night. Yes, I know she is 16.5 months old but from the night she came back from the hospital she has slept in beside me, or us, or her daddy - in the musical beds that our house has become. No one wakes up where they go to sleep and no one ends up waking up beside the person they went to sleep with.
So, we decided, enough was enough and with one near falling out of the bed despite a bed guard incident on Saturday night which put the fear of God in me (it could have been nasty, believe me) she went into her cot last night.
Much was made of “Cara’s bye-byes” and “Cara’s big girl bed”. We let her play in it for a bit and I changed the sheets - washing them nicely and huggled her as she drank her bedtime milk before kissing her and laying her down to sleep.

It took 2 hours for her to go to sleep - mostly she sat up, sang, chatted, barged a little, stood up and lay down until she eventually passed out upside down in her bed.

She slept quite well there - while I felt bereft at the missing baby beside me. After all the wee critter has been beside me for 16.5 months and had been in my tummy for the nine months prior to that. We are not used to not sleeping together.

Joseph woke at 3 and decided he wanted sleepy snuggles with mammy. Hubby was still awake so (cunningly) sneaked into the boy’s bed while the baby, now disturbed, wanted to make the most of using her bed as a newly discovered trampoline.

Joseph slept through it. I didn’t. I tried, thinking no, I wouldn’t give her any attention at all. I broke at 5.30 when the call of morning and getting up for a long day at work was getting too much. She went into the boy’s bed with her daddy. I stayed in our bed with the boy. I slept fitfully until it was time to get up for work and they all slept on while I got ready.

It would be very easy to give up and accept that I have made a rod for my own back and may well take my oil. But I have to start cutting the umbilical cord at some stage.
I guess we will try again tonight.

First shoes

The baby got her first proper shoes.
She has started to take faltering steps... a few at a time and my heart is both filled with pride but breaking.
I read somewhere once about how buying a baby's first shoes is a difficult time for a mammy. Of course I'm delighted she is progressing, growing, developing and becoming independent. Of course another part of me knows she is one step closer to being completely independent.
She is my last baby... there will be no more... so I want to cherish every tiny little moment as much as possible. The shoes, the smiles, the wee bunches in her hair, the cheeky grin, the penchant for singing Lady Gaga (change the words to Ma ma ma ma ma ma ma ma baby face and you have a perfectly acceptable song to to sing to your child...) the need to do everything for herself... yesterday.

Oh baby, I love you. Just don't grow too fast.
xxx

Denial isn't just a river in Egypt (Part 2)

Just got an email from a certain parenting club to which I have subscribed.
"Your baby is 13 months old" it said.
No, said I. She isn't. You dumbasses. She only just had her first birthday.

Realised that was four weeks ago.
Realised that they are right.

May have just lost a month of my life somewhere.

And the last day have gone like this...

The baby who never sleeps has exceeded her previous non-sleeping record.
She is teething and and she has a cold. This does not make for a happy baby. Nor does it make for a happy, or indeed productive, mammy. In fact how I got out the front door this morning is a little beyond me. I have vague memories of staring into the fridge trying to remember what I was doing and even vaguer memories of sort of coming too in the shower as I tried to get ready for work.
Sunday night was the most fun most traumatic yet. Madam woke, and coughed, and boked. We changed her and changed the bed sheets and she cuddled down beside me for the night. Except she didn't sleep. She woke. Sat up. Coughed. And boked. And then lay down, face first into the sick.
So we changed her, and bathed her, changed the bed sheets and she cuddled down beside me for the night. Except she didn't sleep. She woke, coughed and boked. You get the general picture.

Let me state now, there is no dose of prozac strong enough to cope with prolonged sleep deprivation. I feel as if I am losing my mind, slowly (or maybe not so slowly).

So if this is a little rambling then please forgive me. Normal service will resume - probably in about 18 years.

In other news, the WeightWatcher weightloss total has reached 11lbs.

I could have posted all last week about how wonderful she is

But I spent it out and about in the sunshine with her - just enjoying her wonderfulness.

I have fallen in love - hopelessly, stupidly, crazily in love - more in love than ever before and I look at her and her brother and I wonder what did I do so right to deserve them?

We went for walks. We went shopping. We sat on the floor and had a mock tea party with her dolls and we pushed her toy pram about. We sang songs. We had our photos taken. We ate cake (well, she ate cake... I had some wine).

It was bliss.... utter bliss.

Denial isn't just a river in Egypt...

I think I am in denial. The baby turns one tomorrow. I have not bought a card, or a cake or a present.


I refuse to believe that a year has passed since she was born - since I held her soft, wee precious body in my arms and muttered words of welcome in her ear.

I refuse to believe that the baby months are gone - no more pureeing food, no more making up bottles of formula or sterilising.

I love the stage she is at now - full of craic and mischief with four teeth which form the most precious smile in the world but there is a part of me twanging at her age and wishing she would stay small forever.

Emotions-a-rama

As a small (big) aside

This picture was taken this day last year.... my last pregnant picture before my baby arrived.

She is turning one on Thursday - perhaps this is why I am uber emotional (but not at all broody... honest).

Do you like it?

Isn't it just lovely? (if we ignore the wee 'Bestelling' error as this was hot from the designers)
This is the start of a whole new look for my books and I'm really looking forward to seeing what they are going to do with book four 'It's Got to be Perfect'.
Oh, and for those who wondered - the baby who does not sleep went back to her usual behaviour last night. She did however, creep around me a bit by offering loads of cuddles and saying "aaaaawww, aaaaaww" as she did so.

Monday was an uncharacteristically good day

First of all when I dressed for work, my skirt waistband felt looser. This made me feel good - not twig like or anything but good.
Second of all when I went to the dreaded weigh in in Weight Watchers I was delighted to discover I have shed 3lbs. I did have to resist the urge to a post weigh splurge - but I did. I had some toast with Low Low cheese when I got home (within my points) and it was lovely.
Thirdly of all, I wrote about 750 words which was lovely.
Fourthly I have decided on a working title for book five which until further notice will be known as 'The 30 Something Crisis Club'.
And finally....



Drum roll please....





THE BABY WHO NEVER SLEEPS SLEPT THROUGH ALL NIGHT.

I thank you.