Mummy's Little Helper

Joseph is going through an independent stage. Nothing wrong with that you all say. Well actually yes there is. It’s costing me a fortune and involving a lot of cleaning up on my part.

In the past week he has gone through 3 bottles of shampoo and a bottle of shower gel. OK, you’d think I would learn to move it from the side of the bath but no, I mistakenly thought that trying to reason that you only need a bit to wash your hair and to put on your sponge would be a better idea. He won’t let me do it any more you see ‘Joseph do, like mama does’.

This ‘like mama does’ phase has also stretched to other areas ranging from helping himself to apple juice from the fridge and dispensing it himself, inevitably most of it ending up on the floor, to putting one single pair of his underpants in the washing machine and then pouring a ¾ of a bottle of detergent all over the place, I reckon a cap full of it probably ended up where it was intended.

Now Papa doesn’t get off lightly either, ‘like Papa does’ things this week have included using half a tub of hair gel to plaster to the back of his head and watering the herbs on the balcony, hmm, when I say watering the herbs what I really mean is drowning the herbs and the balcony and showering the balcony below with soil and a couple of gallons of water. A new favourite is rampaging around the home armed with a fly swat shouting ‘get fly, get fly!’ to be fair mind, he’s not that bad at swatting them.

Also on the list is cleaning his Papa’s beloved fish tank, (I wonder why the only two things t’husband actually cleans in the apartment are his fish tank and his PS3?) Joseph will now fetch some toilet roll and the glass cleaner and proceed to clean the glass, leaving a trail of sodden bog roll and smeared glass behind him.

Oh well, maybe after a couple of years practise and a few hundred quids worth of wastage he will be fully accomplished in all aspects of the housework and I can put my feet up. Here’s hoping anyway.

A Question of Class

Inspired by reading the blog ‘you’ve got your hands full’ has got me asking myself, just what ‘Class’ am I?

Growing up I aspired to be working class, I came from a single parent family, 3 kids, 3 different dads, none of whom stuck around. Indeed the first two hadn't even stuck around past the positive pregnancy test! I spent most of my childhood on or below the breadline, benefits, free school dinners, cheapest of cheap school uniforms and shoes were the norm, broken only a couple of times when a couple of substandard step-dads took up temporary residence. I left school at 16 with a handful of GCSE's and went straight into a job, university was never considered as I knew there was no money for it.

I envied my working class pals, with their fathers. Fathers who worked and seemed to me to have such high principles. So much so that come my late teens & early twenties I actually became working class, fraudulent though it was. I was quite militant and staunch Labour, back in the days when Labour was old and most definitely left! I didn't agree with private education or health care, was anti Thatcher through and through and always joined the union wherever I worked. I stayed up all night to watch all the Tory MP's fall in 1997.

Fast forward a few years and I am now married to a very middle class man with a degree in Economics from Nottingham Uni, funded throughout I might add by a generous allowance from his wealthy parents. I am not sure where I fit in, once again. Am I middle class by marriage? I am a SAHM but before moving to Spain I held a Junior Management position with company car and an expense account, so in essence a middle class career. However, we are not living what I would consider to be a middle class life. We live in an agricultural part of Spain in a modest apartment in a predominately working class village (OK, so we do half own a villa which we use as a Guesthouse). We've never even looked at a Boden catalogue and pretty much all of our furniture came from Ikea. My husband with all his straight A’s and his 2:1 degree is now a fishing guide on the River Ebro, instead of some city hotshot.

We‘ve been talking at length about moving back to England and what we would do career wise, t'husband is talking of becoming a teacher. Where would we live? Certainly not the working class area of Nottingham that I came from, but the area that he hails from, close obviously to good schools. Hmm that'll be middle class again then.

Have my views changed any? Yes. I wouldn't think twice about private health care now, especially for my children. Christ, I might not even vote Labour next time! I would like to think that I still wouldn't go down the route of private education but if I couldn't get my kids into a decent school and the only option was a bad one, I couldn't hand on heart say I wouldn't.

So I ask myself again, what class am I? Am I working class now but could well become middle class should our circumstances change? I am middle class with a faint working class accent? Are you what people perceive you to be or what your parents are? Can you change your class, is that allowed? Why is it so bloody complicated and the biggest question of all, does any of it even matter?

Postcards from Catalunya to so and so… (dos)

Dear Neighbour

Thank you for taking the time out to have a moan at me (or maybe that was with me, I'll never know) about the general bad state of our apartment lobby. For future reference Pepita you will probably find me slightly more conversational and less ‘duh’ if you speak to me in Spanish instead of Catalan. For what it's worth I completely agree, it's a disgrace!

Muchas gracias


Dear Manager of the Local Mercadona Supermarket

Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you! If I wasn’t already married and up the duff I would marry you and have your babies.

Yours enjoying the mature Irish Cheddar again. xxx


Dear Mum at School Gates

I am not entirely sure why I needed to give you €10 today, I am sure it will all become clear in time. However, when you need to ask for money from me in future can you speak a little louder and not whisper in the middle of a throng of screeching 3 & 4 year olds, my Spanish is OK but I need all the help I can get.

Yours hoping I am not supplementing some secret brandy drinking habit.

Dearest J

Socks and Crocs really don’t go, I know that you probably think at 3 that you can get away with these kinds of fashion misdemeanours but you can’t. Not when you have alternative footwear going begging.

Love you lots

Mama xxx


Dear Flaixbac Radio Station (pronounced Flashback)

Just what is your fascination with the Chumba Wumba Tubthumping track, I swear it comes on every time I get in my car. Although I do admire the band for throwing a jug of water over John Prescott at the 1998 Brit Awards I can’t say that the song fills me with fond memories, in fact given that it seemed to be played before, during and after every 1998 World Cup England game then it reminds me of losing to the Argies (again). Bitter? Me?

Yours faithfully listening in the hope that you revise your playlist soon.

Dear Floor

Please could you stay clean for more than ½ hour. I really, really can’t be arsed to sweep and mop and would much rather wile away the hours whilst J is at school surfing t’interweb.

Yours lazily

Over The Top - for Meme??

Many thanks to the lovely Muddling Along Mummy for this award.




The rules for the Over the Top Award are as follows:

Use only one word to answer the following questions. Copy the questions and change the answers to suit you then pass it on.

1. Where is your mobile phone? Kitchen

2. Your hair? Clean
3. Your mother? Irritating
4. Your father? Unknown
5. Your favourite food? Curry
6. Your dream last night? Bizarre
7. Your favourite drink? Avoiding
8. Your dream/goal? Happiness
9. What room are you in? Dining
10. Your hobby? Eating
11. Your fear? Dieing
12. Where do you want to be in 6 years? England
13. Where were you last night? Sofa
14. Something that you aren’t? Stubborn
15. Muffins? Apple
16. Wish list item? Laptop
17. Where did you grow up? Nottingham
18. Last thing you did? Ate
19. What are you wearing? Maternity
20. Your TV? Peppa
21. Your pets? Fish
22. Friends? Overseas
23. Your life? Slow
24. Your mood? Moderate
25. Missing someone? Friends
26. Vehicle? Touran
27. Something you’re not wearing? Socks
28. Your favourite store? Internet
29. Your favourite colour? Purple
30. When was the last time you laughed? Today
31. Last time you cried? X Factor
32. Your best friend? T'husband
33. One place that you go to over and over? Toilet
34. One person who emails you regularly? Sara
35. Favourite place to eat? Table

And so to pass it on....

I've just come across notSupermum's blog and I liked it so that's where it's going.

More Bling!

Wow, I have been honoured with 3 awards this week.

In no particular order....



Rules:
1) Add the logo to your blog
2) Link to the person from whom you received this award
3) Nominate 5 blogs
4) Leave a message on their blog – letting them know that they are ‘One Lovely Blog’

OK, so here we go. Many thanks to Emma at Me, the Man & The Baby for tagging me.

The 5 lovely blogs I am passing this award on to are:

Insomniac Mummy
SnafflesMummy
Barbara's 365
Mummy Do That
The Wife of Bold

The next one is The Queen of All Things Awesome! Oh yeah!



Thank you to Fraught Mummy @ Brit in Bosnia for this prestigious award. This one doesn't seem to come with any instructions so I'll pass it on to the following awe-summ blogs:

Lost in translation - poo and headlice all in one post, now that's what I call awesome.
3 Bedroom Bungalow - the inspiration behind the Dear So & So's.
Maternal Tales from the South Coast - more poo, hmm I seem to be drawn to poo

Right, onwards and upwards, next award...



Thank you very much to Snaffles Mummy, who shared 7 personality traits with us. I kind of did that with my Good Read Award, so I'll tell you 7 random things I miss living out here in darkest Catalunya instead, just because...

1. Being able to ring up for a takeaway, or better still a home delivered meal. Having to cook every night sucks!

2. Being able to buy painkillers from the supermarket instead of waiting for the pharmacy to open.

3. Choice. Of everything, shampoo, margarine, baby stuff you name it.

4. Rainy days, OK it does rain over here but it's more like massive storms than the grey drizzle that Brits are familiar with.

5. Bonfire night.

6. The Sunday Times, you can buy the paper but it doesn't come with all the supplements.

7. Being able to speak with thinking about exactly what I'm saying.

So, 7 lucky recipients to receive this award...

Really Rachel
Bringing Up Charlie
Hot Cross Mum
Muddling Along Mummy
Babyrambles
Sleep is for the Weak
Bare Naked Mummy


Right that's all folks, I'm off for a lie down, my brain hurts.....

I spy with my little eye something beginning with J

I am sitting at my ‘puter humming the James Bond theme tune, getting louder when I reach the ‘dun-na dun-na na’ bit for emphasis. Yes I have taken up espionage, what could possibly be so exciting in a little rural village attached to vast plains of rice fields you ask? Well? Nothing really just my son at school! The sound of a needle being scratched across a record is now very audible in my head (and yours probably). Yes, I have taken to spying on my son.

First it was purely by accident-ish, I’d been shopping and happened to arrive back home and notice it was playtime so I casually and kerb-crawler slowly drove past the school to get a glimpse of J. I did see him but he looked a little bit sad playing on his own in the gravel. Oh no, my poor boy! I then did the same in the afternoon and again the next morning. Worried that I might get myself arrested or something, although there probably isn’t a law against it I’d surely be a bit of a laughing stock amongst the more hardened Catalan Mamas, I needed to find another way to see what was happening.

As luck would have it I discovered that if I stand on my balcony, at the very edge on the right hand side then I can see the last 3rd of the school playground some 250 metres up the road and also the very classroom door that J is sat behind from 9 till 12 and again from 3 till 5. So there I am at playtime, which incidentally seems to last a long time 10.45 to 11.30, getting the occasional flash of orange hair and whatever clothing ensemble he is wearing that day. I find myself willing him up the top end of the playground so I might be able to judge whether or not he is having a good time. My mission is somewhat flawed by my inability to see that far due to my shortsightedness and the fact that t’husband takes the binoculars to work with him. *Note to self – sneak binos out of t’husband’s rucksack when he’s not looking*.

I know that J is enjoying school, he goes in fine and unlike some of his classmates who wail and cling onto their Mamas for dear life, J just kisses me and skips off to join the back of his snakelike queue for his class. When I pick him up he’s full of the joys of spring and bragging about pee-peeing on the toilet (quite whether this is true or not remains to be proven) so is the spying necessary? No of course it’s not, but I can’t help it, maybe because it's too easy to! Oh well, only 3 years until he moves up to the next school which is further along the road and definitely out of view from any point in my apartment, I know, I've already checked.

A Costly Catalan Education

So J started school this week at the tender age of 3. Not 3 ¾ or 3 ½, no 3 and 1 month, well 1 month and 2 days to be exact, a tad early for my liking but when in Rome and all that. Now I was fully expecting him starting school to tug at the old heartstrings but what I hadn’t expected or indeed banked upon was the ginormous strain on the purse strings it would evoke.

We’d already forked out €78 for random things which included a couple of books, paper and photocopying, the cost of the photocopying alone was €55 I kid you not! Next was a €20 charge to join some social thing, god knows what it is, I translated the letter using Google translate and am still none the wiser other than it seems to be obligatory.

We show up on day one somewhat lacking stuff, apparently I would have been given a list when I was supposed to collect his books but we were in England on the day they had assigned. Hmm OK, I take the list and promise to get all the stuff on it as soon as possible.

Back to Google translate and a rather bizarre list is emerging. Amongst the sensible stuff like a summer and a winter change of clothes, a cup, wipes, and a small hand towel are some more random items, bucket & spade set, 2 boxes of tissues (do they not provide bog roll?) and a cushion with his name on in ‘lletras de PAL’ which google didn’t particularly translate well so I have no idea what it is, I’m guessing capitals but who knows? OK, all that bought add in another €20.

But there is more, a dodgy polyester tracksuit with the school badge, an apron type thing and bag, these are school specific but no-one wants to share with me how you actually get your hands on them or indeed how much they cost, I’m reckoning another €30, plus everyone has embroidered their kids names on them (actually maybe that what the ‘lletras de pal’ are, bugger, should have married a bloke with a shorter surname if I have to chain stitch 15 letters on 3 items). Better add in some embroidery thread and needles to the cost, another €3.

That must be it surely, ah wait there is something on the other side. A list of stationery products by the look of it. Very specific too, with a note at the bottom both in bold and capitals that if it’s not exactly what is listed it will be returned to you!!! Still, how much can a bit of plasticine, some wax crayons, paper, pencils and cardboard stiff you for? A few cents short of €50 apparently.

So far then just over €200, did I mention he was only 3? Apparently it gets much worse as they get older, I was speaking to a fellow expat whose 2 kids are both at the High School, she’s had to pay out over €700 for books alone. Thank God they don’t have to wear uniforms.

Tuesday Bitch...

My spots have spots, my eye bags have bags, my hair alternates between straw-like and grease riddled, and my chins are doubling on the hour, every hour or so it seems and the sunkissed tan (sorry just snorted to myself) is fading fast to pasty.

Pregnancy, don’tcha just love it? Well no, not really! Some women glow and look fabulous, not me. I have put on so much weight that I have been driven to google the Catalan word for twins (it’s 'bessones’ for future reference, should we need it). I am having a major wardrobe malfunction in that none of my normal clothes fit and it’s too early to start wearing obvious maternity clothing even though I probably need to. Even my maternity bras are getting tight.

Then the things you can’t see, the chronic insomnia that doesn't permit sleep between the hours of 2am and 6am, the resulting crippling tiredness and obvious grumpiness that partners it and constant headaches. Poor me! What can I possibly do to cheer myself up? I know I’ll watch some television, a catch up on the soaps should do it, I haven’t seen Corrie or Eastenders since Christmas at least.

Bingo! Now it’s not often said that Eastenders has the ability to cheer anyone up, let alone a maudlin pregnant woman but oh joy of joys. I'll say but just one thing...

Danniella Westbrook – the years have not been kind…

Miaow…

Awards and Memes

Well I say, I am somewhat overwhelmed, it's only my second week of blogging and I have been given the Good Read award not once, but twice and been tagged for a Meme. Woo hoo! Not sure what I'm doing right but I'll carry on...

So firstly the thank-yous to Insomniac Mummy and Really Rachel for bestowing such an honour on me and to The Dotterel over at Bringing Up Charlie for tagging me for my first meme. Not sure if I've answered in the correct manner but hey ho, I'm new to all this!

Secondly, I'll tackle the Meme which co-incidentally is about 2nd things...

1. your second boy/girlfriend?

Darren R, he had a dodgy eye that looked in the opposite direction to his other, he dumped me for an extremely obese girl who did rude things with a hairspray can (allegedly)

2. Your second day at school?

Far too long ago, can’t even remember my first.

3. who your second best-friend was?

Sarah T, we drank, we smoked, we shoplifted, we told our mothers we were staying at each other’s houses but camped out in the local fields – with boys. We got caught obviously, doing all of the above and subsequently spent most of our teenage years grounded.

4. the second LP that you bought?

Probably something by Soft Cell, I think I was a bit of a weird child.

5. the second house you lived in?

A lovely little terrace on James Street.

6. the second car you drove?

A very clapped out brown thing, can’t remember the make but it was old.

7. your second-favourite band?

Currently? Hmmm…. Vampire Weekend

8. the second-best book you ever read?

Memoirs of a Geisha by Arthur Golden

9. your second-favourite film?

Grease! Was going to say something high brow or at least Oscar worthy but I’d only be lying to myself.

10. your second-favourite blog?

Why yours of course. (The Dotterel)


Thirdly comes the 10 things about me which seem to be on a 'happy' theme, Insomniac Mummy wrote of 10 simple things that make her happy and Really Rachel talks of 10 random happy memories. I am also going to change it slightly and list 10 things about me that make me happy about myself, as I think we are all too quick to pull ourselves down and we need to reflect more on our good points.

1. I am a very, very good listener and think I give good impartial and non-judgemental advice.

2. I laugh a lot, I think you need to find humour in pretty much everything, it really helps you get through the shitty times.

3. I'm a rather good cook.

4. I don't suffer fools gladly. I am unable to be two-faced. T'husband thinks that this is a flaw in my character as it doesn't always make me the most people friendly person, but so what! I can't be doing with being false, what's the point?

5. I love knitting, it's a great way to relax and you get something at the end of it.

6. I'm a good person to have on your Trivial Pursuit team, a good all rounder I'd say with no particularly cheese colour favoured.

7. I can tell a Sauvignon Blanc from a Chardonnay by smell alone.

8. I can eat stupidly hot curries.

9. I am quite a balanced person, I think I take life in my stride and don't get carried away with highs and lows, I've also got quite a thick skin which probably helps.

10. I am loving my new pregnant breasts.

So finally, to pass it on. This week I have mostly been reading these lovely blogs so would like them to have a Good Read award...

Brit in Bosnia, loving her work blogging both as a mummy and a fellow ex-pat.

Secret Diaries of a Wannabe Yummy Mammy, everyone should read her blog if you haven't already, something must be able to be done about her plight

Me, the Man & the Baby, a great blog and a rather nice picture on Monday.

The Bump Wear Project - me thinks I shall be reading you a lot in the coming months.

Postcards from Catalunya to so and so…

*Disclaimer* nowhere near as good as these from Brit in Bosnia or these from 3 Bedroom bungalow.

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Dear Maternity Bra Makers

Please could you make a bra that isn’t so full in the cup, I would like to be able to wear a scoop or v-neck top without showing the world my hideous bra.

Yours in hope of being able to show these new puppies off.

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Dear Manager of the Local Mercadona Supermarket

Please, please, pretty please, can you start stocking the Irish Mature Cheddar again, and oh maybe the Colman’s sauces, not all of them, just the Horseraddish, Mint and English Mustard.

Yours googling bad words in Catalan to paint on a placard.

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Dear Body

You are only 6 weeks pregnant not 6 months, please slow down your growth rate.

Yours pleadingly

Bathroom mirror

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Dear Neighbours below,

May we have the many balls that J has thrown off our terrace onto your balcony below back please. Especially the Little Einstein’s one.

Yours gratefully

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Dear French Bloke of the X-factor

Seriously! What were you thinking?

Yours exasperatingly

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Dear J,

Please sleep tonight. All night! Mama is very tired.

Love you sweetie

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Dear Sister,

Have been meaning to ask but how many of your 794 friends on Facebook do you actually know?

Yours enquiringly

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Dear In-laws

I know you’ll guess that I’m pregnant seeing as I won’t be drinking but can you be really nice and pretend not to notice, don’t go overboard though and tell me I’ve lost weight or anything because, I’ll know that you know, that I know, that you know, that I know, blah blah blah

Yours expectantly

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Dear Next

Please can you sort out your payment system so I can order stuff and pay with my Spanish debit card that really doesn’t have a security code attached to it, if all else fails do what all other high street stores do and use Paypal for overseas customers.

Yours needing to burn a whole in t’husband’s pockets




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No Cheese Please, we're British...

I am tired and emotional, my hormones are rioting as though they were at a West Ham V Millwall match and J is coming down with something so we've had a bad night again. Still, the in-laws arrive tomorrow and a few essential items need to be picked up. T’husband has used the last of the cheese in my breakfast omelette so naturally this is added to the shopping list and off I pop.

I've filled my trolley with all the items on my list, just the cheese to get so saunter down the chilled aisle until I come to the resting place of the Irish Mature Cheddar, but wait, something is wrong, the Irish Cheddar is there in its normal place of residence but it’s not Mature, no ladies (and gents), it is Mild. Mild? MILD?? WTF! If I wanted to eat tasteless cheese I would buy Spanish. I want my cheese to know its cheese, to have balls, to kick ass, to have some attitude. I don’t want toddler cheese, I want adult cheese, strong cheese, MATURE CHEESE. Where is it???? It seems to have been replaced with this wishy-washy pissy mild stuff. I am not amused!

It’s not the first time this particular supermarket has pulled a stunt like this – Mercadona I will name and shame you! Not long ago it decided in its wisdom to piss off the ex-pats who shop there, of which there are quite a few, and stop selling its range of Colman’s sauces, we Brits do love our condiments and to be able to buy Horseraddish, Mint Sauce and English mustard at not overly inflated prices was nothing short of brilliant, but they just vanished overnight, never to be seen again.

To add further insult to my cheddar induced injury, t’husband tried some of the mild variety – well obviously I bought some – and declared that it didn’t taste any different, but then he does come from Yorkshire where they do weird things with cheese like put it on top of mince pies and fruit cake, like you do!

So anyway, I don’t know what to do now, no other supermarket close to us sells cheddar, well not nice cheddar anyway, some do that plastic sliced stuff but that’s rank. Maybe I need to gather all the ex-pat people I know and start a petition or stand outside the supermarket with a placard stating my disgust in my bestest Catalan. If nothing else it will give me something to do whilst I am not eating Cheese sandwiches…

Reasons to be Cheerful

1. It’s Friday!

2. T’husband has all weekend off work

3. In-laws are arriving on Sunday (I am in a probably rare position of actually really liking my in-laws)

4. The sun is shining

5. It’s September, cooler weather is just around the corner (hopefully)

6. England are playing tomorrow

7. It’s not my turn to cook

8. J was a little star at the hairdressers

9. My freezer has been re-stocked with frozen fruits of the forest yoghurt

10. The potty training is going well

Toddler Induced Insomnia

02:38 A small ginger boy is hovering over my head with his cup demanding ‘more milk’, I get up and replenish his supply and tuck him back into bed.

02:50 Hear a light snap on and small feet padding across the apartment, go to investigate and find J playing on his floor, I offer to get into bed with him for a cuddle, he accepts. I lay squeezed into his converted cot bed for a while before I think maybe he has a poo? ‘Have you got a poo?’ ‘Yeck’ J replies. We get up and change the nappy – there is no poo! We get back into his bed for what I consider an adequate length of time for a night-time cuddle, bearing in mind I am squeezed between his knees and the bed guard so tell him ‘Mummy is going back to her bed now so kiss kiss nan night’ he gives me a cuddle and a kiss and tells me ‘nan night mama’. Job done!

03:25 Light filters through the apartment again and I hear a little voice pleading ‘maagiiic kiiiiiissss?’ repeatedly, I get up and give the proffered hand a magic kiss and re-tuck J back into bed, he yawns promisingly.

03:33 More noise and light back on, I get up again, patience seriously thin by now, ‘more poo’ he says pathetically, I pull back his nappy – it’s clean! ‘No, more poo, more poo’ he demands, I rather roughly I admit whip his PJ shorts down and take his nappy off to show him that there is no poo. He promptly bursts into tears and tells me ‘you naughty spot!’ ‘Yes I’ll go on the naughty spot if you get into bed’ for some reason he seems pacified by this and all is good in the world.

03:53 ‘More milk!!’ Grrrr! More milk despatched. Surely now…

04:00 Quiet! Woohoo

04:50 ‘Watch Milkshake!’ Deep breath… ‘Milkshake isn’t on for another couple of hours, back to bed’.

04:52 I hear footsteps going upstairs, I follow him up and snap on the TV ‘look it’s not on yet’ rapid change of channel as I realise the TV had been left on Playhouse Disney which obviously runs programmes 24 hours a day, bugger, quickly find channel 5 and am relieved to see highlights of the Ashes. Thank God. ‘Look’ I reason ‘it’s dark outside, that means it’s still night-time, Milkshake isn’t on until it’s light’, his little face shows comprehension of this and then promptly crumples into a thousand tears. We have a cuddle and then go back downstairs. He starts to head towards our bedroom ‘sleep in Mama’s bed?’ ‘No, sweetie, Papa’s sleeping, why don’t we sleep in the spare bed together’ I surrender. ‘Yeck’ comes the reply.

05:36 (times are now approximate as the clock in the spare room hadn’t been reset since the last power surge and is flashing 00:00).
Gentle snoring, yes! But now I’m cold. The air-con vent is right over the bed and there is only a thin sheet, I clamber about trying not to wake up J and search around in the dark for the blanket that is usually kept in there, no luck. I lie awake for a good while, shivering, occasionally stealing body warmth from J who seems to be quite warm, eventually sleep takes over.

08:18 Still shivering and squashed against the wall (it’s a small room) whilst J is stretched diagonal across the other 3 quarters of the bed, I am awoken by some strange farmyard noises, seems A is up and attending to his Farmville farm, great! I slowly slide myself out of bed so as not to disturb J and of course the first thing I see is the blanket!

Wordless Wednesday: My new favourite picture

Early pregnancy symptoms they don’t mention in the text books….

I am newly pregnant, five and a half weeks – ish and I’ve dragged out all my pregnancy books again, looking at those chapters about the first few weeks and ticking off all the symptoms. Tender breasts which are rapidly changing shape and becoming bluer by the hour - check. Having to get up on the hour, every hour, during the night to pee - check. Tiredness – check. Insomnia – check. I’ve yet to get to the nausea and food craving stages but I didn’t have those with my other two pregnancies so I’m not really expecting them. And if history is to repeat itself then the acute sense of smell won’t kick in until 8 weeks. So what about all the rest?

Having had two pregnancies close together I have noticed some definite trends…

Dead arms from the elbows down, usually where I’ve slept on them. It can be really painful whilst subsiding with bad pins and needles.

An acute sense of disorientation, this is either just after falling asleep and then waking up with a real bolt or when getting up for a pee in the middle of the night. It’s quite scary actually and I’ll certainly be glad when it passes.

Hair growth (down below). Now my maintenance in this department has gone downhill rapidly since J came along (poor A!) but I swear it’s not been that long since I trim and edged but you certainly wouldn’t know it. Don’t worry I won’t be including photos!

Clumsiness. I suffer from this anyway but I can barely turn around with spilling or breaking something or tripping up at the moment.

And finally, my real bug bear. Flatulence. Oh my word!! The silent but deadly type. It’s a good job I am practically housebound with J potty training otherwise this would be an even worse situation, I shudder to think how I would cope if I had to work in an office. I have found myself going to the supermarket mid afternoon, siesta time, as it’s usually really quiet at that time so if I do drop one in the fruit and veg aisle I can peg it over to the tinned goods section double quick before anyone figures it’s me. It doesn’t seem to matter what I eat or drink, the effect is the same. I am seriously challenging A in the ‘whose are the smelliest’ department, I think I may just have the edge!