Stuff and nonsense as per usual

I wish I could lie to you and tell you that the reason I haven't been in touch for so long is solely due to the children and tiredness and illness etc but actually I can't lie, it's also because of the Real Housewives of New York City. I have become obsessed with the ladies. One happy afternoon the four children were playing together upstairs and Cybil needed a feed so I sat down with the remote and happened upon them. It has changed my world. Two hours a day, every week day, my Sky Plus records a little bit of happy for me. So whenever I have some time I sit and feed Cybs for far longer than necessary and sit and watch these skinny women flit between The Hamptons and NYC and occasionally St Barts acting as if they are incredibly important people.

I don't have an awful lot in common with them. In fact I would say there are two things - all but one of them have children and they are all women (I am watching it from the very beginning so I am going on the original crew). Oddly, I am not even jealous of their lifestyle - it is way too high maintenance for me and a few of them have that 'hungry' look about them which I can't stand; (there is a very fine line between skinny and looking like you might suddenly crack from hunger and start devouring small children and babies). Also I would be a social pariah out there because of my weight. Especially now. Not even the bathroom mirror is being lenient - it shows me exactly how fat I am. My stomach has taken on a very peculiar consistency. It is a bit like what happens when you add cornflour and water together. When I lie down it looks like it might be solid, but the minute you move or touch it, it wobbles and moves like a liquid. In fact if you push your hand down on top of it, it sinks convincingly beneath the waves of fat and you can easily lose a finger or two under the liquid fat. It is odd, I'm sure I've never had liquid fat before. It has always had a firmer consistency. I wonder whether losing the weight before I got pregnant made all my fat cells really saggy and when they filled up again they are so droopy and lack lustre that I am now left with a cornflour and water stomach. It is a tad on the depressing side but it isn't forever and I am close to thinking about dieting again. I don't want to rush in to anything. I'm not over my chocolate and cake phase yet. I'm sort of on the cusp - half of me wants to rapidly lose weight and get 'my thin' again (it's relative obviously so I have to call it my thin and not thin. The RHONYC would still view 'my thin' as 'fat') and half of me yearns to just eat myself so fat that I become one of those bed bound people that can't do anything apart from eat, use a remote control and press the button that moves the bed up and down so I can sit up to eat. Sometimes I look at these people with a strange envy. I think it shows a great deal of balls to eat 10,000 calories a day until you get to a point where someone has to wash you and cook all your meals etc. I don't have the balls to do it, even though I know I could eat all day long, I know that people think I exaggerate but seriously, I could. It is only vanity and the need to look after the children that stops me. I don't have anyone to take over from me so if I got so fat I couldn't move, K would not take kindly to having to look after the children, or buy my food, cook it for me and do the washing up afterward. And I think having to give me a bed bath and clean in between the folds of my fat would tip him over the edge. Not that we can afford for me to get that fat at the moment. At the moment I am cold and hungry and we have no money for food or gas. We are slap bang in the middle of birthday season in this house and every penny has gone on the presents and parties. We literally have no money for anything. Mercifully a cheque clears tomorrow so I don't need to suffer for long. Fear not.

Anyhoo, where were we before the RHONYC? Hmmm. Oh I was ill. I have only just started to feel better - Thursday will mark the third week anniversary of my cough. I have become quite attached to it actually as it sometimes gives me that husky, deep voice which sounds so much more exciting and sexy than my squeaky, high pitched prim and proper voice, although, after four children and a lack of self discipline on the pelvic floor front, a very heavy cough is really not ideal. However after a hideous week or two with no sleep - the pinnacle was a 4am start - I finally seem to have sleeping children again. It has literally been a life saver. I was concerned that that was it and my life would never be 'normal' again but things seem to have finally turned a corner. Plus I've got my staycation at mum's to look forward to as Friday marks the start of Half Term. Thank the lordy lord.  Free food and the closest I'll get to my dream of lying in bed all day getting to weigh half a tonne. I still have to do stuff, obviously, but she does the lion's share of everything and I can spend more time than I rightfully should, sat on my expanding arse being fed. Plus her house is always very warm.  And the cups of tea just keep on coming. She is so overly attentive to a breast feeding mother, her concern for my thirst is unparallelled. She brings me more tea and glasses of water than it is possible to drink. I can't wait.

How I wish she was here now. We are so short of money that I couldn't afford to replenish the tea bags today and I am incredibly partial to a cup of tea. Luckily I was clever enough to ask K to 'borrow' some bags from work before he left so I will be able to enjoy a cuppa in the morning. It was a master stroke on my behalf, I might get him to do it more often to save money. When I used to work we never bought loo roll. I saw taking a loo roll home in my handbag every few days as a sort of 'corportation tax'.  I worked as a fairly lowly person in the PR world so I was paid a total pittance, and not wasting money on crap (ha ha) like loo roll all helped make the pittance go further. In fact, the way I played fast and loose with the petty cash to help me pay for the train journey home on a number of occasions, could potentially fall on the 'theft' side of things but it was a jolly long time ago so lets just gloss over that. Still, one of the advantages of having children relatively young (again, I wasn't a teenager - on some estates in the UK I would have been quite old having my first at 25 but I was the first of my circle of friends to have a child by quite some years), is that K and I have NEVER had money so we haven't had to adjust our lifestyle or expectations that much since having them.

I have relatively little to tell you about actually. Life is incredibly uneventful. Bea has had her birthday, birthday tea party and official birthday party (you can see why we have no money) and K and I attended his cousin's wedding in Essex which was very enjoyable, especially as the children were not invited so it was just us and Cybs. The wonderful Replacement turned up bang on time on Saturday morning and I basically threw her two children and told her where to pick up the third from, before we ran off to get to the church on time. The Replacement was, as usual, totally unfazed by the whole thing and set about making chocolate cornflake cakes and doing puzzles with them. And doing a load of washing so that they had sheets to sleep in. She really is quite legendary. And this is where you are going to disagree with me, so be prepared. I know that since I last wrote, a man has fallen to earth from space and lived to tell the tale but to me, this is not something that amazing. To be honest I think it's selfish. I know I know, it furthers mankind etc etc but I hate all this radical stuff. Take Ellen McArthur and her solo trip around the world. I don't see the point. She put her family through all that worry and trauma, she went through all that worry and trauma, plus she could have died on numerous occasions and all so she could end up where she began - not to mention the huge sums of money both stunts cost and really what for? For some reason these acts of severe selfishness are revered and celebrated. The man that fell to earth could have died from so many different things -  in particular, his blood could have boiled - I cannot even imagine such horror and his whole family where there watching. Plus, as far as I can see it was all a huge publicity stunt for Red Bull which doesn't seem worth dying for, but K assures me it was a huge leap forward for mankind and scientific discovery, plus he broke some records. Big whoop. Anyhoo, my point is, there are rather wonderful non-publicity seeking selfless people all over the place who are far better than Ellen and Felix Baumgartner. I hasten to add I am not one of them, I am deeply selfish. I have had more children than the world needs or than K wanted just because I wanted them. That is the most obvious example but I know there are loads more. I don't want to put you off me by listing them all now.

I've gone off on a tangent and I'm too tired to get back from it. I have to go.  Let's reconvene after the half term when I am refreshed and refuelled and reheated.

Arrivederci

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The week that was

was shit. I won't sugar coat it. I mean in comparison to war and famine it was a breeze but in my world it was rubbish. It should have been great as there was good stuff planned but after a lovely Sunday at a pub lunch celebration in Essex, and an uneventful Monday I went to do the school run on Tuesday morning and all hell broke loose. Due to G's insistence that I MUST speak to his teacher before he went in to school and inform her emphatically that he must not be made to sing in his harvest festival, I made the mistake of temporarily placing the baby in the buggy without strapping her in. She had been crying whilst I was talking to my friend so I had got her out and cuddled her, then when G called me over I put her back in but didn't bother with the straps as it was all very hurried. Whilst I was away from the buggy, Ted decided to climb in to his seat which sits directly underneath the baby one, which is a clipped on car seat that perches (securely) on top. It sort of forms a Z shape if you are struggling to visualise - the baby is the top of the Z and Ted is the bottom. Anyhoo, as Ted attempted to clamber in, he must have fallen back which caused the whole buggy to tip backwards and hit the floor with enough power to make Cybs a human catapult. She 'flew' about a metre and landed on the tarmac of the playground, on her head. One of the dads apparently scooped her up and then all the mothers kicked in to action. One came and grabbed me to take me to the scene and I was handed a screaming and grazed baby and confronted with a dazed and bleeding Ted who had a nose bleed from the accident and I looked down to see that G was still holding on to my leg as I hadn't yet managed to tell the teacher he didn't want to sing.

So, I managed to cuddle them all, calm them down, wipe up the blood, the baby stopped crying and Ted got fed up with all the fuss and got back in the buggy. A friend called an ambulance, another started trying to convince Ted to let them take him to nursery and I answered all the questions needed by the emergency operator and then took G to his class (and I did remember to tell her about the singing), another lovely friend gave me nappies and wipes and took the offending buggy away so I could go in the ambulance. When I got in and sat down and the very calm and unflappable paramedic started asking me questions I did fall a bit to pieces. Although the baby was seemingly fine, with just an angry red graze on her beautiful head, I had convinced myself that she was bleeding profusely internally and that she was in mortal danger. She started crying again so I fed her and the unflappable paramedic said that was a good sign. So, when K rang back after responding to my incredibly teary message left with a colleague, I was mid sob when he asked how she was and I replied 'She's fed' which was meant to reassure him like it had me. Unfortunately he didn't hear the 'f' and thought I'd said something that rhymed with fed and would explain why I was so upset. Luckily I reassured him within seconds but I will always feel guilty that I made the poor man think, even for a few seconds, that his latest offspring was dead. To cut the rest of this story short as I'm bored of it now, we got to hospital, I stopped crying after about an hour, and half an hour later we were discharged as they could see no obvious sign of any damage, she was awake, alert and cooing and smiling at the doctor assessing her. I wasn't happy with their diagnosis and probably for the only time in history I was desperate for them to keep up is in. I was adamant that she needed an Xray at the very least but I'd also like a CT scan to be very sure, however they wouldn't do anything but take her BP and shine a light in her eyes. We were told to go home and watch her for 48 hrs. I couldn't believe that Ted could fall over in our hallway and break a bone but she could fly at 8 weeks old and land on her head and be totally unscathed. I just couldn't accept it and kept thinking she would start fitting or vomiting blood or something that would fit with her injury.  Luckily she didn't, she remained perfectly well and still does. It is the Oddest thing, but also incredibly lucky and I am very, very thankful for that and I ALWAYS make sure she is strapped in now.

Oh and I did go to that sodding harvest festival in the afternoon. I left Ted with a friend and took my poor flying baby with me to sit in the school hall and listen to G not sing. True to his word, he got in, sat down and then promptly got up and sat next to the teacher throughout all the very jolly singing about conkers, with his mouth tightly closed. I sat on a bench at the side waving and trying to jolly him up whilst simultaneously terrified that the man standing on the bench next to me might fall on my baby and damage her further. He did not. G did not relent and open his mouth even once and it all ended very quickly. The whole day left me feeling very shaky and as if imminent danger was always around the corner. I am still a little 'have I locked the door?' about Cybs being strapped in and check her at least ten times a journey. For the next few days I did the morning school run with her in a sling and the afternoon pick up in the car. I have only just put the bottom seat back on the buggy and I am very nervous when a child goes near her head or I have to leave the buggy for any length of time.

On Wednesday I began to feel ill, but had to go and get my BP checked (more normal now thankfully) and pick up my prescription and then go and buy all of Bea's bday presents. Another lovely friend (and Cybil's Godmother) had us over for lunch which brightened up the day but by the evening I was feeling very, very cold and quite unwell.  K came home early and I went to bed. Thursday was horrid, I had to do the school run as K had to go to work and then look after the little two at home all day feeling horrid. K popped home to give me painkillers and Ted was unexpectedly good so I did get a modicum of rest and Thursday night the baby (probably conked out from the drugs I was taking) slept from 8.30 til 1.30 - which is a record - so all in all I shouldn't probably grumble but it wasn't particularly nice. I felt really cold then very hot, everything ached - especially my underarms which was made much worse by holding a heavy baby to breastfeed - and I felt very shattered. I felt slightly better on Friday but only marginally. Enough to try and cut Ted's fringe so it stopped getting in his eyes, making a huge hash of it and having to get an emergency appointment at the hairdressers at the end of the road. Miserably the hairdresser was over excitable after running half an hour late and cut it far too short - all his curls were gone in one hideous curl massacre. I went home and cried to K over the phone. I'm still not used to it. He looks like a different child. The angelic curls which helped to offset some of his naughtiness have gone and I am left with a small boy. When he is naughty it is just plain irritating and not at all cute.  On Saturday K had to go to work which is very rare but still very irritating when you're not feeling well. I managed to get Bea to her dance lessons and show rehearsals and bake a cake for her birthday with G and keep Ted alive until K came home to take over but I fell asleep during X factor I was so tired. Sunday finally saw things pick up again as my mum was staying with newly married sister so I drove the children up to her new flat and we all went to London Zoo together for Bea's birthday treat.  The sun shone, the children were thrilled with their surprise and I revelled in having my very own 'SWAT' team of helpers to race after 'the flight risk' Ted or hang around looking at snakes with G for far longer than anyone else wanted or go and get spare maps with Bea after Ted ripped hers. If only every day had a SWAT team in it. Things would be so much easier and I might also have a chance at resting enough to get better.  I am STILL ill and it is really beginning to bug me. For two episodes in a row now I haven't managed to stay awake for the end of Grand Designs which is the rather crucial part.

So, I have been ill, the baby nearly met a sticky end at Ted's hands and Bea has turned 8 - oh and actually we have discovered that as well as being long sighted and probably dyslexic, Bea has a hearing issue. I took her to have a hearing test at the hospital today and she failed it miserably. Stupidly, i didn't think about the actual test which was in a sound proof room because the test required total silence - I had in my possession a baby and a Ted. Luckily I managed to stick a boob in one mouth and a bag of teddy bear sweets in the other and Bea managed to get her test done. The upshot of the test is that they have cleaned her ears out and are going to monitor the fluid behind the drum so nothing drastic - just more guilt on my part that I should have had her assessed far earlier. That is it really. Actually I can't tell you anything else as I'm falling asleep. 

I am getting so dull. I shall be back with something more interesting next time. If I can stay awake long enough to tell you about them.

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Mind Games

Good Day. The stars have aligned and I have a small window of opportunity to write.

If I have had the odd half an hour in the last few weeks I have been busy downloading photos, printing them out or trying to organise them in to a photo book online. I have always loved taking photos. Lots of photos. I still have a drawer full of around 200 photos from a school ski trip I enjoyed around twenty years ago - but with the arrival of newbie my penchant for photo taking has reached another level. A peak, I hope. I am obsessed with recording almost every day and every outfit of her life. I know I have said it many, many times before but because she is the last I have to document every day so that when I forget, I can wade back through 3000 photos and try and remember. Also I have to make sure that the amazing wardrobe she inherited (affectionately known as 'the collection') from the last five girl babies in the family, is fully appreciated. There are so many, many outfits I seriously do have to put her in two a day to get through them. She is growing at a rate of knots and it is no exaggeration to say that I feel slightly stressed from the pressure of getting some 'use' out of the collection. Kent sister is expecting a boy and Newly Married Sister does not want to inherit 'The Collection' as it is largely pink and all very 'pretty' which is not her taste. She wants white and black and 'high fashion' baby clothes. She would rather have a naked baby than one in Mini Boden or Cath Kidston.  Anyway, the point is Cybil is the last benefactor of the full collection and the pressure is on to get every possible outfit out and on the baby before she grows and it is dispersed throughout the land. 

Every time she grows out of an outfit I put it in the different piles (Kent Sister, Magician Godmother, Kent Godmother, Special box for the girls etc) and I can see how quickly the time is passing as the piles mount up. This too makes me anxious. My entire life up until this point has been about having babies. It has been my only 'drive' of any description. In fact my earliest memory is of a baby. When I was two and half I was taken to hospital to meet Baby Newly Married Sister.  Funnily enough she wasn't what I actually remember. Although I was there because of her, what I remember was walking in and turning to the right to see the hospital bed and a plate of cakes on the bed. I couldn't even tell you if the baby was in the room. But there and then my two loves were formed. Cake and babies. Actually my mum and dad were there too, so assuming the baby was indeed in the room, the reason I probably remember the occasion was because I was most likely at my very happiest. The baby was yet to steal my thunder or my toys, everyone was happy, I felt secure and excited and to top it all off there was cake. I doubt anyone was that concerned that I went straight for the cakes - at two and a half it was probably quite normal.. Miserably three decades later I have to learn to stay away from having babies and cakes. Poo. 

I am forbidden from having any more babies by K and a recent trip to the Doctors means I really do need to start weaning myself off the cake at some point too.  I wasn't really looking forward to my six week check with the Doctor as it is usually carried out by a quite irritating doctor who spends about 45 minutes on the appointment and spends a vast proportion of that time, talking about the importance of attachment parenting and keeping the baby close to you. I find that impossibly annoying as I tell him each and every time that I sleep, eat and bathe with the baby and most of the rest of the time is spent breastfeeding. I physically have to have them off me to cook, push in the buggy and go to the loo but other than that I'm not sure how much more 'attachment' I could do.  However luckily the annoying Doctor was not doing my final six week check, and instead I got the one I really like. I'm not sure why as he is quite brusque and not particularly 'warm' but I think it's his public school arrogance. I have no idea if he actually went to public school but I would bet that he did. Anyway, he is also slightly attractive so I was a TAD embarrassed when he whisked out the scales and made me stand on them. OUCH. He had just taken my blood pressure which was still frighteningly high (probably because I stopped taking the medication rather stupidly) and when I asked if it was anything to do with putting on 'quite a bit' of weight during pregnancy he didn't even pause before replying 'undoubtedly'. He then jumped up and dragged the scales over. Did I mention that during this time he called me 'Ma'am'? Throughout the entire appointment. It was most odd. (Perhaps a cultural thing?). It made me feel very old. And then he made me stand on the scales and confirm that I was fat. Fat and old. Nice. So, I now know that I have definitely put on three stone. (I have taken off a few pounds because my lowest weight was my PB, which isn't fair to count as a starting point for weight gain, so I have added on a few for a more usual weight and taken off a few from the top number for boob weight. They are huge and filled with milk as well as fat so that is totally not fair to be included in the end point for measuring my weight gain.) Mercifully due to his brisk nature my new obese status was quickly and efficiently dealt with and another prescription for my blood pressure pills was printed and, after we had ascertained that Cybs had put on a lovely load of weight, we were dismissed.

I got back to the car and calmed myself down. Luckily there were a few loose Eclair sweets in the bottom of my bag which helped me. As I sucked and then chewed I felt annoyed that I was already being instructed to lose weight by an 'official'. I had only 'just' had a baby. It was ridiculous to expect me to cut down on food already. Also, I reasoned, it was highly unlikely he had been sleep deprived for nearly seven weeks and as he has obviously never breast fed, he had no idea the hunger it induced or the need for edible rewards just to keep one going. Plus, I hate having my beliefs proved wrong. I had managed to make myself believe that I hadn't put on that much weight and my blood pressure would have rectified itself.  If I don't want to believe that something is true I am most excellent at creating an alternate reality where it isn't. My bathroom mirror is also very good at colluding with me and my reality. I don't know why, but it is truly magic. It is annoying that it wasn't there at the Doctors with me. If I don't want to believe that my children are ill behaved or have broken bones then I don't. If I don't want to believe that we don't have enough money for whatever it is I want to do then I don't. Do you see? So handy.  So, by the time I arrived home and finished all the Eclairs, I had managed to talk myself out of needing to lose weight. I went straight to the bathroom mirror, breathed in and reassured myself that I was right. I do have to keep going for weekly blood pressure checks but I have also managed to talk myself around to the idea that that will also magically reduce itself without me doing anything. My mind is a great friend at times.

At other times it is largely useless. I have been doing some quite ridiculous and/or embarrassing things recently. For a start, whilst at the Doctors I was standing behind a woman as I waited to return a form to the receptionist. The French woman, who did not speak English, was trying to communicate to the receptionist about making an appointment for her children. The receptionist was unable to understand a word she was saying. I decided to leap in and help and started speaking French to the woman with the children. She looked pleased that someone was helping. But my limited memory of the french language was not getting us any nearer to working out whether her children could make an appointment during school hours so I sat back down. It was whilst I was sitting there that I realised she was in fact Spanish and not even vaguely French and I should have waited to hear her speak more of her mother tongue than 'a' and 'la' before deciding on her nationality. The recepetionsist then said she didn't speak Spanish and couldn't help until an interpreter was available. I went visibly red. Luckily no one actively pointed at me and laughed about me butting in with my 'ecole' and 'les enfants' which was just as useless as the receptionist speaking slowly and loudly in English. This was the pinnacle of a long line of silly brain related let downs. I have never been a huge fan of the term 'baby brain' as it makes us sound like silly little women who are in need of being patronised but it would appear that I have one; I ended up at the school gates the other morning before one friend looked at me like I had two heads and kindly pointed out that I had failed to rub in my under eye concealer and had made the journey down there with two large and very obvious daubs of Touche Eclat across my face. I had obviously put it on, gone to the crying baby and then failed to rub it in before a very hurried departure; Last Friday I spent half an hour having a panic about my cash card. It was not in my purse, in K's wallet or anywhere at home. I finally realised it was still waiting for me behind the bar of the pub where I had gone for lunch the Friday before. For one whole week my cash card had been sitting patiently in their 'tab' folder. I had paid in cash, along with everyone else, so managed to totally forgot that my card had been used to start the tab; Shortly after I wrote the last post, I cooked mash and sweetcorn for the children. I realised, as it was cooking, that the mash and the water was looking an odd sort of brown colour. By the time it was fully and finally cooked (it seemed to take forever) I was very concerned and decided to taste a bit - it tasted hideous and left a lingering bitter taste and I was finally convinced that something terrible had happened and some chemicals had clearly got in to the saucepan before I used it so I binned the mash and served up 'baked bean soup' as a hasty back up. I finally realised, after things had calmed down sufficiently (newbie screaming, children complaining, heat from the cooker, music from the radio for Ted to dance to etc etc) that I had decided to make the most of a spare two minutes earlier in the day to 'de-scale' the kettle with a huge dose of citric acid. It had worked beautifully and the kettle was now limescale free, but I had obviously forgotten to empty the kettle and therefore used the water inside it with all the citric acid to cook the potatoes for the mash which explained the extremely bitter taste and brown tinge. I had also used a slightly watered down version for the corn on the cob. I made them eat the sweetcorn once I realised it wasn't life threatening. G didn't bat an eyelid. Bea complained; Anyhoo, these are the worst - but there have been many more incidents of me walking upstairs and not remembering why, making myself two cups of tea in the morning because I forgot I had already made the first one, washing the wool blanket I knitted for Ted in the normal wash and now it is half the size, forgetting to do up my nursing bra after a feed so I am walking around with one boob hanging considerably lower than the other.....etc etc. Newbie has most definitely taken the toll on my brain capacity. Either that or it is the lack of a night's sleep in nearly eight weeks. Maybe it's both.

So, not much to report except fairly peculiar behaviour and that I am now back firmly in the 'obese' category on the weight scale and I have to go through it all again - all the walks I walked, all the cake I declined, it all needs to be done once again to get me back in to my old wardrobe and back off the 'at risk' register. But not now. I am absolutely fine for now. I have only just had a baby. I can't do anything for months. Maybe longer. I just need to make sure I ask for a different Doctor from now on.

I need to get off and order Bea's birthday presents. I shall be back once my first baby has turned 8. Until then peeps. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Six weeks in....

Howdy. I have five minutes to chat. The big two have been dropped off at their respective schools (Bea has now moved up to Junior School) and Ted is happily ensconced in his Nursery (he has started three mornings a week) with a woman he has 'adopted' as his own called Margaret and for a few minutes, Newbie is sleeping, so I am going to make the most of it. To be honest there is actually too much to tell you which is a bit daunting and has put me off trying up until now. Oddly,  having nothing much to tell you is far easier to write about. Nearly six weeks of happenings is far too onerous a task to take on, so I will just try and remember bits and pieces and we will have to make do with that. Also my brain isn't exactly funcitoning on all cylinders so do bear with me if it is not quite up to scratch.

I last left you all aglow with post birth hormones.  The following day I hatched a plan to steal my children back from my mother. It worked beautifully and after a practise run to Essex on the Monday to introduce Cybs to K's family I set out first thing and drove for three hours to find my children and mother on holiday on the Suffolk coast. They were surprised to find me at the front door to say the least, but it was definitely a brilliant decision on my part. My children met their sister in my favourite place on earth, in a beautiful holiday home that Cupcake Sister was renting and then Kent sister arrived as well, so it was a fabulous party atmosphere and I could not have been happier. Cybil met all but one of her cousins and her siblings in the space of 48 hours. The day was a whirlwind but just lovely and one I will remember forever.  I took G over to the beach and paddled in the sea, I bought ice cream with the boys, watched Bea in the sea and I spent the day being overwhelmingly happy that we were finally all together (bar K but we filmed the introductions and sent the footage to him at work so he was sort of there). K never takes very long for his paternity leave - he never actually takes paternity leave as the pay is so rubbish so he just saves up his holiday and takes around a week off. Ted was the longest I got - he took two weeks then and only went in to the office on the odd day during that time. After the glorious day by the sea I spent a restorative week at Hotel Mum. It was the best post birth experience ever. The sun shone, too hot actually, the children ran around with their cousins enjoying all the facilities Chez Mum which now includes a treehouse, Newly Married Sister arrived with husband and they played with the children, BBQ'd up a storm and cooed over the baby, Mum ran around like a headless chicken all day every day (even on her birthday) making sure I didn't over exert myself (she repeated many, many times that when she had babies in her days they spent two weeks in bed), K arrived and thrilled the children with his frog finding skills and we ate, drank and were very merry. All in all it was totally perfect. It is hard to think of a better time. The cherry on top was that Kent Sister was now visibly 'showing' as she is carrying on the grandchild boom and expecting mum's tenth grandchild in February. In fact she is one of newbie's Godmother's which means that every one of my four children have a pregnant Godmother. Bea and I will not be short of a baby to cuddle for quite some time to come.....

Enough of the baby bubble hormone glow, it all seems like years ago now - it's hard to believe it was only 5 weeks. In fact it feels like we have always had Cybs and the fact that she is quite a giant baby means that she feels a lot older than her six weeks. Oddly enough this baby is the one that has affected me the least. She is the same as all the others in that she is very needy, not a fan of being out of my arms, feeds A LOT, cries, sleeps etc but I don't feel like I have freshly given birth - in fact the only reminder that I have is the three or four extra stone of fat that hangs around my various body parts (mainly my stomach) and the fact that I keep having to attend irritating post birth appointments. The most detested of which is the Health Visitor visit. If it were up to me they would remove the 'Health' aspect of their title. They do nothing but annoy, in my long history of knowing them, they should called either Visitor or Irritating Visitor.  The one I had for Cybs spent an awful lot of time sitting in silence and writing. She asked occasional annoying questions and told me i should go to A and E immediately so they could look at Cybs because she had a slight tinge of jaundice in the corner of her eyes. I declined rather abruptly by laughing at her and saying there was no way I would be going to hospital with four children and wasting everyone's time. She did many various annoying things including asking me at least three times if she was a 'planned baby' and constantly referring to K as 'baby daddy' - it is more annoying than you might imagine - but she reached an irritating crescendo when she started asking me the names of mine and K's parents and siblings. I had humoured her by answering stupid questions and looking at her brochures on PND, contraception etc but this was 40 minutes in and I was losing my sense of humour. I asked her why on earth she wanted this info. She said (very slowly) that she was drawing a family tree. I gave her more info about our siblings. I asked why. She showed me the family tree - pointing out how it worked - 'these are your parents, these are the baby daddy's parents and these are your children'. Clearly she thought I had an IQ similar to hers. I informed her, slowly, that I knew what a family tree was but I wondered why on earth was she drawing one for me when I was WELL AWARE OF MY IMMEDIATE FAMILY ALREADY. She said it was to show me what support I had. Honestly, I cannot imagine what idiot thought it would be a good idea to irritate a new mother by telling her what she already knows about her own family. People tend to know if any of their family members are supportive or not. I did tell her that she might want to remove mine and the baby daddy's fathers as they are both very unsupportively dead. Anyway, mercifully she left and I am hoping to be out the next time she calls round. Particularly as I promised her I would take Cybs to the Doctors before we went on holiday to get the slight jaundice checked out.  I did not, obviously.

On to that holiday. Two weeks and two days after she was born the newest member of our crew set out in the car seat for her very first holiday.  Sadly for her it was a camping holiday. 'Luxury' camping, but to be honest, it would appear that luxury is a very subjective term. Yes, our safari style tent had a wood burning stove, wooden floorboards, beds and a loo but it was not luxury in my world. The farm it was situated on was not the Disney version of a farm I had envisaged when I booked. It was a very real farm. There was an unpleasant smell and A LOT of mud. And poo. And muddy poo. And pooey mud. All the animals were muddy and very soon after arrival the children were very muddy too. Added to this, the luxury tent was situated under trees, and not having an electricity supply, our bedrooms never ever got light and the main part of the tent always seemed to be in perpetual gloom even on sunny days. And there were no comfortable chairs which was irritating for someone who needed to spend most of the time sitting and breast feeding. And don't even get me started on the showers - they were outside so rather cold in the evening and the button you pressed to start the luke warm water flowing gave you a mighty 25 seconds (I counted) of water before stopping and you had to press it again whilst standing on the wooden slats which had a particularly unclean feel to them. Having said all of that, the children absolutely loved it and so did K so that made me love it. The wood burning stove also meant that K had to get up at 6.30 every morning to start the fire and warm the place up for us. I got lie ins. Lots of them. It was oddly more restful than being at home so I did get more of a holiday than I had imagined.  We went on day trips, we went on a filthy steam train, we went to the cinema, we went to Corfe Castle, we even got some sunshine and days at the beach which is my favourite part of any holiday, but most of all we were all together 24 hours a day whether we liked it or not which was just what we needed after the many weeks we had spent apart. Due to there being no TV, K and I were even thrown together. It got dark from about 7.30pm, so we sat there in the silence every evening, staring at the glow of the fire in the wood burning stove - it turns out that staring at a small box of orange light is a perfect replacement for the crap that is on Sky TV - we talked, he cooked for me, I ate and most evenings the baby slept. All in all it was a magnificent success and by the end of the holiday I was quite sad to be leaving.

Although I was particularly keen to get back to a washing machine. In the panic of packing up to leave I  hadn't thought through all the mud and the children getting dressed in the morning and going out and being covered in mud within 10 minutes. To be honest, the packing up was the hardest part of the holiday - even including the six hour journey to get down there (we got stuck in a traffic jam on the M25 for about an hour which didn't help). I very nearly didn't go on the holiday with the stress of trying to pack everything everyone needed for a week in between breast feeds and with a time constraint and three excitable children asking how much longer and a husband reminding me not to pack  too much so that we could all fit in the car. In fact there were a number of tense words between K and I in the lead up to departure. Bea was probably thrilled. She is very keen for us to get divorced. I know, it is not usual but over the summer holidays she got in to watching a programme on CBBC called 'marrying Mum and Dad'. Originally I wanted to stop her watching it, as my Mary Whitehouse opinions immediately kicked in and I tutted and bored her rigid with my rant about the changing times and society, however, after I watched an episode I realised it is actually rather lovely and the children organising the weddings were totally adorable. Having said that, the downside is that Bea is magnificently disappointed K and I are married and has asked me a NUMBER of times to get divorced so that she can organise my wedding for me on Marrying Mum and Dad. I have no idea how desperate the couples are to get married who agree to be on the programmes, but it must be pretty damn desperate as the children get to choose everything to do with the wedding - dress, venue, food etc. One woman ended up marrying her 'baby daddy' dressed in a Tarzan outfit, in a zoo, feeding monkeys as the 'entertainment' and eating BBQ food her son cooked for the reception. Bea assured me if I agreed to get divorced she would find a beautiful indoor venue with no animals and she'd put daddy in a suit and me in a stunning white princess dress. I still won't agree.

Oh, I forgot to say that Ted had his cast removed. In a stroke of joyous luck, I opened the post K had ignored whilst I was staying with my mum and found a letter informing us that Ted's appointment had been changed from the morning of our holiday to the day before. In fact the day I opened the post. After some hasty rearrangement and the wonderful Replacement arriving to help (K was at work), we popped off to Lewisham hospital and got the smelly and well used cast cut off.  When we saw the Doctor afterwards he questioned how it was that Ted had a tattoo on his arm. I quickly assured him that it had been on there when the cast was put on, but he seemed to imply that I had somehow managed to take the cast off and taken the opportunity to apply a temporary tattoo of a smiley yellow face.(there was a small communication problem as he had a heavy Indian accent which I struggled to understand) I have no idea why, but people in the medical profession seem to think i am a shockingly bad mother. Much like the woman who nearly ran over Ted the other day. We were on opposite sides of the road and he decided to cross in front of her moving vehicle. She swore very loudly (her window was open which was lucky as she heard me scream) and she just sat there staring at me as I crossed the road to retrieve the shaken Ted and then walk back across the road with him. Still, the good hting about having four children is that I no longer give much of a flying fig about what other people think of my parenting skills. I do things my way and so far so good. It's like the whole 'sleeping in a bed' furore. I have always had my babies in bed with me and I have always fed on demand. I really don't agree with all of this 'babies as master manipulators' rubbish. When she cries and can't be soothed, I feed her. It doesn't really bother me how long it has been since the last feed. She just gets fed. I also sleep with her. The health visitor was not keen that I couldn't answer exactly how often she was fed and she couldn't take in the idea that I slept in a bed with her so in the end I agreed that she slept in a moses basket next to my bed and not in my bed - it was just easier. She wasn't any fun to fight so I gave in to set her mind at rest and she could tick whatever box needed ticking on the papers she was so fervently filling in.

Back to the happenings - once we returned from the holiday we went straight in to Ted's third birthday. It was in fact, the very next day. Within half an hour of us getting out of the stinky car from Dorset, K had to get back in to it to drop Bea off at a sleepover party, get birthday balloons and all of Ted's birthday presents I had managed to reserve at Argos on our way home, all before the shops shut. He managed it all and the birthday itself was a massive success - Ted seemed extremely thrilled with his thrown together birthday and hastily bought chocolate cake with G's old '3' candle on top and presents wrapped in Christmas paper. Once all gifts were open, K went and sourced a spiderman cake for his party later that day and also enough party food to sink a battle ship. The party was not a typical three year old party as such - I had just invited five of my friends and their numerous children (round here having four children is not that unusual) to a scout hut and hired a Scooby doo bouncy castle and a set of sumo suits. Kids sumo suits are incredibly good fun by the way - especially if you have a lot of older boys to entertain. It turned out to be one of the most enjoyable kids parties ever as I had to do relatively little - Cybs even slept through the entire thing. Tidying up afterwards was even a breeze as a lovely friend and her husband did most of it. Even with all of that, I am still rather proud of myself for pulling it all off. Camping holiday, third birthday and party and newborn fourth baby. I think my bottle of sparkling wine that night was entirely justified.

So after the excitement of the birth, grandma's, holiday and birthday party the children had to get ready to go back to school. Shoes were hastily purchased, a final hurrah! on their last day was spent at a local paddling pool in the park in glorious sunshine with tea in the cafe afterwards (my first solo day trip with all of them) and in all honesty I was vaguely sad to see them go. Although obviously relieved when they were all gone and I returned home to the mess with only a baby for company. Since then life has gone back to normal, constant mess, huge piles of washing, rushed mornings, homework, fraught afternoons with grumpy and hungry children and the constant cry from me for someone to 'jiggle the baby' so I can do whatever it is I'm trying to do. We even have the Extra Child after school again. It's as if the summer never happened.

Although obviously the screaming baby it left behind reminds me that it very much did. When I had Ted I was so scared about managing the school run. Bea was just about to start full time school and I had to take her down there seven days after my new baby was born, knowing that very soon I was going to do it totally alone. I can still remember the fear and the tears when K went back to work. This time around it has made little to no difference. Yes i have to get up earlier, spend far less time getting dressed and on my hair and makeup  (around 3 minutes for all 3) and I have to make sure the newbie is fed sufficiently before we depart, but all in all it is far more 'doable' than I had envisaged. Last week I had a particularly successful morning where I managed to grab a shower and hairwash and still get them all dressed, packed lunches made and the big two to school on time. It made me feel slightly superhero-like. Mainly because I do it all on my own. Not because K has left me but he doesn't 'do' mornings. Oddly enough this isn't something that annoys me now. In the early days I fought it and we used to have epic fights about him not getting his lazy arse out of bed and being 'like everyone else'. Now I have accepted the indisputable. K is NOT a morning person and never, ever will be. I, on the other hand don't find it too tricky to get up in the morning but I get particularly panicked when the clock strikes 10pm in the evening and if I am not near to being in bed, I may start hyperventilating. Conversely K deems 10pm to be 'early evening' as he rarely falls asleep before the early hours of the morning, and so it is that we have come to do our parenting in shifts. Therefore anything I achievee with a newborn baby and three other children and still get to the school gates by 8.50am means that I feel victorious.

I have to hold on to these moments of victory and self congratulation as there are definitely moments when I actively and loudly wonder why I had even one child. It is exhausting. I am more often than not, ready to throw in the towel by 4.30pm, I feel like I achieve nothing almost every day, I yearn for days when I can go to the loo in some degree of peace and enjoy a stress free bath and I miss, miss, miss, miss with a deep yearning longing, my old wardrobe and body and I also cannot wait to wear clothing which doesn't have to allow easy access to my boobs - or 'milkies' as Ted now calls them. However, another benefit of her being my fourth is that I know that this time where she is constantly demanding and ridiculously cute is fleeting and before I know it she will be 'big' and I will have to face the reality that I will never again hold a baby of mine in my arms. For now I am taking the bad (being up around 6-7 times a night on a bad night what with Ted's cough and cold, G waking up once at 2.30am thinking it was morning, Bea crying in the night from a nightmare and K waking up downstairs and then coming to bed at around 3am, not to mention the odd breastfeed for the newbie) with the good - a constant, 6 week stream of gifts and cards to welcome Cybil's arrival, all four of them in the bath together, the other three being totally in love with her (although it IS irritating when they fight over their 'go' with her) and the general mayhem and chaos of residing over a house full of children which was oddly enough, all I have ever wanted. So, i shall leave you now and prepare myself for everything the rest of the day may throw at me. Although again, not all of it is bad, I have just collected the post and not only is there yet another lovely congratulations card but there is also a £100 voucher for Boden which I won in a prize draw after buying a dress for Cybil online. Happy Days. Onwards and Upwards.

(I will just say she hasnt been asleep for this whole time - I have fed several times, picked up Ted, fed again and now I am writing one handed as she sleeps on my lap. It took a lot longer than five minutes to fill you in.....)

Until the next time........ xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"You don't always get what you want....

but if you try sometime, you just might find what you need."

So, at the grand old age of 33 I finally have four children and have learnt some very valuable lessons. Humility, patience and a lot more in between.

Due to an irritating peak in my blood pressure to worrying levels, finally on 8th August, I was sent to hospital for monitoring and then induction. For those of you who have been with me for a while, you will know how much I hate hospitals, how I only like to give birth at home and how I am a raging snob. The idea of being in King's with a great mix or the general public and a load of medical people telling me what to do was one of the very worst outcomes possible for me. Luckily, by the time it had got to August 8th I was so over being pregnant I was almost grateful for an induction and I had had a few days to mull over the incredibly sad news that Gary Barlow and his wife's fourth baby had arrived stillborn. So, although I was very stroppy and a tad rude to K and to the incredibly lovely midwife who had come to see me, i packed a bag and allowed K to order a taxi.

Full of misery and foreboding we got to King's and every one of my groaning, misery laden predictions were unfounded. We were seen straight away in the dreaded Maternal Assessment Unit, quickly dispatched from there to the Labour Ward where there were indeed lots of beds available and due to my midwives ringing ahead and making sure everyone knew i was a stroppy but loveable woman who hated hospitals, we got a side room with ensuite facilities and within half an hour my waters were broken and we awaited the onset of 'proper' contractions. It was extremely odd. When labour begins spontaneously you are excited, wary and quite importantly, caught unawares so you just have to deal with it. When you are awaiting the pain to start and you know that whatever happens it is coming, the apprehension is horrid. Coupled with the knowledge that you have to start contracting or a very surly and idiotic female Consultant seemed impossibly keen for me to be strapped to a monitor and also pumped full of a drug to help 'speed things up' it made for a very uncofmratbel atmoshpere in the room. To cut a very long story short, my waters were broken at 1.15pm, contractions finally commenced at 4.15pm ish and by 6pm when I was examined I was disappointingly only 3cms. (Again, massive apologies to the woman who gave birth back in March who I 'dissed' for making a fuss at only 3 cms when I was stuck overnight in King's - having had the last two at home I have no idea how far along I am at which stage - now I know, I shall NEVER judge again, I promise).  Everyone assumed I was not going anywhere fast and I was very despondent. The Consultant and the King's midwife brought up the subject of the Synto drug to speed things up again and denied me a birth pool in case I needed to get out and be hooked up to a drip to receive the blasted drug. I knew I was in pain and wanted the relief of a pool.  I gave up a bit. The contractions got worse, I started on gas and air and started to cry. THEN an angel appeared. One of My dedicated midwives (the Oakwood Midwives - for anyone based in SE23 you HAVE to have them - i cannot tell you enough how totally brilliant they are) turned up. Caroline. She scooped me up, metaphorically not literally she isn't a body builder, and got my shit together. She got bossy, found me a room with a birth pool, ran the water and told me we were getting it out. I was then very grateful to be in hospital as the birth pool was fabulous. AND there was a radio in the room and the music was perfect. Just at a point where the pain got ridiculous Florence and her Machine urged me to Shake it Out and it helped immensely. I did as instructed by Florence and by 8.09pm I pushed incredibly hard under Caroline's expert guidance and Cybil Love Colley was born weighing a healthy 9lbs 5oz. She HURT. A LOT. She does have a big head. She was a big baby.

So, I learnt that hospital births are actually very good if you have a dedicated midwife who only has your interests at heart and that their gas and air NEVER runs out. THANK GOD. Also you don't have to wash out or empty the hideous leftovers of the birth pool. Mixed in with the usual disgusting birth residue I unfortunately relieved myself whilst pushing much to my total horror. You have no control over such things otherwise I really would have tried. K is ridiculously squeamish about anything bodily function wise and I was cognitive enough in between body-ripping-contractions to be aware of my embarrassment and humiliation. K was excellent though. He didn't drop me (he was holding me up in the pool from outside) he carried on holding on to the gas and air so I could bite the crap out of it and he was amazingly supportive. It was actually really nice having him there. Ooh, I should mention at this point that due to the overdueness and high BP, all the children had been dispatched back to my mother's for fun and frolics there. Again, this was the last thing I wanted but turned out to be exactly what we needed as it would have been a total nightmare trying to organise them and worry about being in hospital at the same time. Plus it meant and still means, that K and I are getting a lovely 'babymoon' period where we are able to spend time being 'new parents' with just one. Cybil is getting a ridiculous amount of attention and the garden has had a total makeover - he never normally has time to spend hours on end outside without me getting cross so this is a major 'plus'. Also, I had to be kept in for observation after the birth as my BP remained high even after delivery. Again, due to befriending another lovely midwife and complaining about the noise and lack of sleep, I managed to acquire another 'side room' which helped but by Thursday evening I had had far too much of people coming in and 'observing' me and Cybs and there was no TV so i did something I have never done before, i self discharged. It wasn't a brilliant idea as my BP was still worryingly high and cybs was apparently in potentially grave danger after they found a positive test for some scary bacteria from a swab I had done back in March, but I no longer cared and knew I was unlikely to die as long as they gave me the drugs to go home with and that I could identify if my child was in mortal danger. So, I signed a slip of paper saying that against medical advice, i was discharging myself and my child from hospital on the grounds that I was 'tired and wanted to go home'. We have been here ever since and so far, so good.

So, we are now complete. 2 boys, 2 girls - K is very proud of his ability to deliver two of each. Both boys born at home, on the 1st of the month. Both girls born in hospital on the 8th of the month. All four are born on consecutive months of the year. As soon as Cybil is old enough to get 'proper' birthdays and parties we are screwed. August, September, October, November and then K and I have our birthdays and then there is Christmas. I really will be the biggest lover of January ever. Also Cybil was born on the birthday of K's late grandmother (whose family name gave Cybil her middle name) and my niece, so maybe, just maybe it was always her destiny to be born on that day and nothing I did would have ever got her out sooner.

I think that is all I can manage for now. I am muchos tiredos. I have forgotten a lot. 1. Labour hurts more than I ever remembered. 2. Breastfeeding hurts and is annoying. 3. Babies are very full on in their need for attention. 4. Sleep deprivation is worse than I remembered.  5. Being fat is a tad on the depressing side but breastfeeding makes you more hungry than ever. And not just for fruit.

Having said that, I feel complete, happy and thrilled with another baby girl. I am having an epic amount of fun dressing her up and taking pictures. I whoop with joy whenever she is sick so that I can change her in to yet another outfit. I also have the luxury of time to just sit with her asleep on me which is extraordinarily lovely.  BUT I am also DESPERATE to get my other children back so that they can meet her and we can all be together. I was meant to be reunited with them tomorrow but my mother is the original child snatcher and is whisking them away to the seaside for another mini-break, so I won't see them until Wednesday now. I am literally chomping at the bit to be with them but again, I am so grateful to have had this 'recovery' time so that when we are together it is joyful and not tearful.

I have no idea when I shall be back in touch. Once I am back together with all of them I should imagine spare time will be a thing of the past. At least you can relax now, knowing my suffering is finally over.  Along with the Olympics. Let's hope the TV scheduling for Autumn is amazing to help you get through.....

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Do not ask. No. I have not. It turns out that you cannot tell an unborn child when to be born. This is irritating. I am honestly not lying when I truly thought I had such power. It is ridiculously frustrating that I was wrong. As you know I am never wrong so it has been a total shock to the system. As well as an all over pain as the baby is now very big, I am unable to walk with my legs even vaguely together and every time I roll over, pick up anything, bend over etc I make a massively unattractive grunting noise. My mood is vile. There is no other way to describe it.

I really thought I had made Ted come out on the day I wanted with various resting, blanket knitting (I refused to finish the blanket until 10.30pm on the 31 August to ensure he didn't come until the 1st as I wanted) and finally a curry. I used acupuncture and a helpful midwife giving me a membrane sweep to get G out and I thought that by doing all of these things over a few days it would surely make the baby come out according to my timetable. So. Lesson learnt. Acupuncture, reflexology (2 sessions), walking, making exciting plans,  membrane sweeps, sexing, pineapple, curry, long walks, organising everything, shopping etc etc do not have any bearing whatsoever on when you will go in to labour. I hope this helps you all. Annoyingly I have had two false starts where I 'enjoyed' 3-4 hours of contractions which then stopped. That is magnificently depressing. Thinking you are at the end and then having to carry on the next day still pregnant and in pain is the pits.

So, on the plus side, I got to enjoy the Olympic Opening Ceremony undisturbed by my own opening ceremony. I have realised the  problem with me is that I am not particularly patriotic. Plus, as we all know, I'm not really particularly sporty. I like to watch tennis and figure skating but I'm not exactly a sports fan. So, I was not enthralled by the Opening spectacle. It was nice and all, don't get me wrong, and I'm sure the whole 'brief history of Britain' will be incredibly useful to get the majority of children through their history GCSE, but I didn't feel emotional watching it all. I didn't feel proud or indeed proud to be British. I don't really see how you can feel pride in someone else's work. I had nothing to do with it all and just because I was born in Britain doesn't mean that I feel pride in other Britains.. I like Britain obviously, I am extremely glad I live here as I like the climatet, I speak the language quite well, there are no civil wars going on, we have more than enough food and water and, as was pointed out rather emphatically in the ceremony, we have the NHS. But, if I were French I would probably be equally as happy there. And I'd be more stylish and I'd speak French properly, not just random words I mix with English ones. Same is true for quite a few countries actually. I doubt if I was born and lived in Barbados I would have watched the opening ceremony and heartily wished I was living in South East London. So, I don't get people crying as they watch the ceremony, i don't understand why it was chosen to mark the very deprived NHS in an extravagnt and hideously expensive Olympic opening ceremony (surely rubbing salt in an already infected wound?) and I'm not sure why it had to start so late. I know I like to be in bed early and not everyone shares that lifestyle choice but 9pm? It wasn't a club. Why couldn't they have begun earlier? It would still have been dark by the time they got to the fireworks and lit up beds. I DID like the light up pillows and duvets and the children jumping on the trampoline beds, but I was very concerned about how late it was for the jumping children and how they should have been in their actual beds, asleep and that what with their journey home etc it was going to be an incredibly late night for them. My favourite part of the whole thing was watching the Queen's face. I know, just by the look, that she and I were thinking the same thing. We're old, we're tired, we're not really big fans of Mr Bean and we'd much rather be in bed with a cup of tea. Luckily for me I didn't have to be there and was at least able to go to bed whenever I liked, she had to stay there for the whole thing.

As much as I found the lead up to the Olympics slightly irritating it turns out that it has actually had little affect on my life as a whole. It appears that people have taken the whole 'end of the world, keep out of London' signs literally and driving around is now rather pleasant. I went to a BBQ on Sunday at Sporty Godmother's house and it took half the time it normally would have done. The BBQ was a welcome distraction to pottering around the house being pissed off. I think Bea and K were very relieved to be in company too. What with my moaning about missing the boys, annoying and inconsequential contractions, being too big, being too uncomfortable, being hot, being tired etc it came as a welcome break to be with normal and jolly people and with good food. Plus I discovered who on earth would download the Olympic Opening Ceremony music. AS I was told it was available for download on the TV it did worry me that there were people out there who would do such a thing and there she was, a lovely school friend, right in front of me, saying she had already downloaded the album. Mystery solved. I should admit that I have got quite 'in to' wathcing some of the Olympic coverage. Turns out synchronised diving is totally amazing. I mean, it is incredible. I would have thought it was a physical impossibility if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes. I have watched the male and female events. The bodies of the Italian female divers were totally awe inspiring. I don't know if their swimming costumes were cut better or they were just fantastically 'fit' in the looking sense but it was amazing. No offence to China, I know they are diving masters, but they have a long way to go on the body front. I hope Italy can take comfort in that - they didn't win a medal but they should have got a 'highly commended' for looking the best. In my world that counts for a lot. Also gymnastics is fantastically fun to watch. That bar they all fall off - so fun! I even got Bea in to watching it as we both sat there waiting for someone to fall off the bar (particularly if it is a full on straddle fall) or when they come off the parallel bar thingys  they swing from - they even have a designated man who keeps swooping in to catch them if they fall every time they do a complicated move - the suspense really adds something to the whole event. Unfortunately I don't know all the technical terms for the equipment yet so I hope you know what I mean.  I know we think the vault is the dullest part - the chances for error were minimal and no one hurt themselves.

I shall leave you with good news. My Maternity Leave will be officially over this afternoon as K is leaving work at lunch time and driving to Suffolk to get me back my boys! I am SO over excited. It has been ten days. TEN WHOLE DAYS without them. I never thought it would be so long.  The break has been nice in that I have had lots of rest and sleep, Bea has had a useful insight in to life as an only child (she insists it is preferable - traitor), and I have got to the bottom of my washing and ironing pile but I really have missed them. It is amazing how quickly you get used to not having them around and no doubt I shall be amazed by how quickly I will be annoyed by them being back in the house, but I do prefer it when we are all together. I don't like being a fragmented family.  Also, the health visitor who is coming to check 'all is well' at my house of child torture, left a message for me to call her back and I have yet to do so as I just feel that me saying 'actually I haven't seen the suspected abuse victim since his arm was put in plaster' would not go down that well on the scale of good parenting practise. So, I think, get the suspected abused child back, get his cast off  (appointment tomorrow am) and then ring her and assure her 'all is well'. I have already decided that I could explain away the delay in my response to her message by blaming it on my mobile voicemail service being up the spout. So. As of tonight I shall be back at the helm and although I am slightly concerned over my ability to cope, I am looking forward to having all the beds filled. There is also the excitement of surprising G with his 'new look' room. In his absence the bunk beds have arrived and his and Bea's room has been totally transformed. (I also threw away an awful lot more toys and general detritus from their room which has been incredibly pleasing). I think the excitement of the new beds and room layout will get me at least a few hours of entertainment. I hope. My mother has provided constant entertainment, craft activities and excursions for the last ten days and I'm a little scared that the allure of Sky TV and a new bed will wane far quicker than I suspect. I would say that the arrival of their new baby might give them a bit of excitement but I am not convinced this is the 'coming out' type of baby. As my mother KEEPS telling me, she was two weeks late with all four of us, which is totally unhelpful. Firstly it is massively irrelevant as I have been three days late with the three I have already had and secondly, telling an already miserable woman that she may have another week to go is just silly. I am unlikely to welcome the idea.

Yet again I shall bid you farewell and hope that at some point in the near future I will divide neatly in to two people and although I will still be crying at some adverts and most films, be exhausted and overwhelmed with tiredness, I will finally not be pregnant and the joy of that should counteract some of the more negative aspects of having a new  baby. I will, as ever, let you know.

Ciao xxxxxxxx

Drama and peace

Well hello and how do you do. I am on maternity leave! It is an extremely odd feeling. I have no children with me. The boys have been dispatched to mother's as of 2pm on Sunday and Bea is on various days out with her friend at art activity days and park trips etc. So, this is my maternity leave. It is an extremely odd sensation and whilst I miss the children I do not miss looking after them. Or tidying up after them. Or cooking for them. Obviously I am caring for Bea when she is here and making her food but she is marvellously amenable and will accept pasta as an evening meal almost every day. She even got her own breakfast and took the milk in and put it in the fridge whilst K and I slept this morning. I had a lie in til 8.15. It is quite extraordinary.

Not that I don't need a good rest. Sunday was ridiculously fraught. On Friday, my last day in sole charge of the children, we had friends over in the morning and then Bea had a Bugsy Malone party to go to in the afternoon. All fairly straight forward stuff for a pro like me. Then, I decided to go to the loo one more time before we left for the walk to the party and in the few seconds it took me to wee, Ted managed to fall over bea's scooter in the hallway. Again, no biggie, except he was screaming a lot and still lying on the floor when I got to him. He eventually got up and cuddled me but was screaming a lot and I assumed he was winded and shocked. After all, he had just tripped over a scooter. I managed to get him in the buggy but he cried all the way to the party and all the way back. I managed to calm him on the sofa where he fell asleep and I thought all was sorted. To cut a long story short he woke up in a better mood but still quite tricky and it wasn't until he had a bath and some Ibuprofen that he returned to 'normal'. He stayed that way throughout Saturday, only crying if he used his right hand to do anything strenuous like hit K and then he cried again, but other than that he had a great time in Essex with his Nana and seemed extremely happy and 'normal' all things considered. He did hold his hand in front of him and was using his left hand for most things but he could move his fingers of his right hand and hold things so I thought he just had a bad sprain after falling oddly on his hand.

Cut to an excitable Sunday morning where the boys were findng it hard to contain their joy about their trip to grandma's and Bea was beyond excited about becoming a temporary only child. We went over the road to thank the old folks who live there for the gifts they had dropped off for the children, when Ted tried to climb on to a wall and I grabbed his outstretched hand to steady him. As I grabbed his right hand, he screamed, I heard a click and all hell broke loose. I kept saying shit, Ted was screaming, the old folks couldn't understand what was going on and why I was over reacting quite so badly about holding his hand and were trying to talk to me. I ignored them and the other children, ran back across the road, told K to get the other two (he was unkeen as he was in his pyjamas and the bottoms have an inappropriately placed hole but thankfully he could see my hysteria and he did as he was told), Ted had begun shivering with the shock and I couldn't stop crying at his obvious pain. We tried to offer him something cold for his hand/arm but he wouldn't let us go anywhere near it or administer medicine and so we decided to take him to hospital and get it checked out. He cried all the way there but He calmed down when we got to A and E as there were revolving doors which he thought were pretty exciting (we really don't get out much) and after quite a wait in the children's dept and some ibuprofen he seemed back to his old self and I was vaguely hopeful that I was over reacting. Miserably, after a hideous episode in X-Ray for which K had to be in sole charge of as I wasn't allowed anywhere near due to the pregnancy, a considerable fracture across his wrist was finally confirmed and the immense guilt hit me full on. He had to have a cast put on from above his elbow all the way down to his fingers. He was screaming so much as I took him in to the room to get the cast put on, I had little hope of them getting anything done - he was convinced they going to inject him or do something else totally barbaric. Luckily two amazingly lovely nurses were in charge of the procedure and Bea was on hand to draw on a whiteboard to keep him distracted so he quickly calmed down and they were able to poaster him up. In the end he was quite enjoying all the attention and thanking the lovely nurses for helping make his 'owie' better.

Finally, I thought we would be free to go after one final debacle in the x ray dept to double check that the cast was in the right place and there was no other damage to the bone, but unfortunately the doctor then called me in to a room for a 'chat'. I instinctively knew what was coming. She looked nervous. She asked me why it took me so long to come in and seek treatment for Ted. My stomach sunk. I was obviously feeling bad enough about the whoe thing as my face was make up free and still tear stained. I told her it was because he had only tripped over in our hallway and I was on my own and in charge of three children and heavily pregnant and it didn't really occur to me that he might have broken a bone. She went on to say she believed that the swelling on his wrist was quite obvious to anyone and she would have expected me to come in sooner. I explained that he was running around and happy and fighting with his brother and no one one had ever broken their bones before (except my toe) but I was pretty sure that people with broken bones didn't act like that. She said that in cases of this type and where there has been a delay in seeking medical treatment they have to refer the case. She went on to Say that someone would be calling at my house to check that 'all was well' and that they don't use the words social services, they say it is a health visitor. I was obviously very British about the whole thing and said absolutely, I understand, she was also very British, started being very apologetic and saying she wasn't accusing me and was sure it was all fine but it was standard procedure. I became flustered and said 'yes absolutely, you must double check I'm not a child molester'. I was flustered and tired so I got the wrong word, I meant abuser obviously. I then went on to ask if it would look even worse if Ted wasn't actually there when the 'visitor' came by as I was still thinking of sending him off to my mum's in Suffolk for the week. Again, she must have thought I was mad.

Anyway, she ignored my 'molester' comment and agreed that Ted would be fine with my mother as long as she knew to keep the cast out of water and look for swollen fingers but did say we would have to wait to be officially discharged by a senior doctor who wouldn't be around for about half an hour. The children at this time had already been there for two and a half hours and I was vaguely concerned that she was actually holding me there for the police or something and I did not want them to witness me being led away by the police so I asked if ted actually needed to be there to be discharged or if the x rays would be enough. Mercifully it was agreed they could all go if I stayed. So, relieved, I waited and waited for the police and or Doctor to see me. Luckily I was over reacting at that point and forty minutes later it was just the doctor, who was actually very nice in the end and obviously just doing her job, told me I could leave.


So, a health visitor who will not announce herself as being from social services will be calling at my house to check I am not regularly beating my children. I'm not sure how they can tell. I am unlikely, if I were the type of person who beat children, to do it in front of a woman who was there to judge me on my parenting abilities. Also, from my experiences last week in the MAU at King's and the children's waiting room at Lewisham at the weekend, it is a tad ironic that I am having someone visit me. I never once fed them coke, threatened to beat them if they moved, grabbed them harshly by their clothing and pulled them about or uttered the fabulous line 'stop crying or I'll really give you something to cry about' etc etc. Still, as I mumbled to the doctor, it is a good sign that these procedures are in place to help children who really are in need of help so I am refusing to take it personally. Well not totally.

As we returned home I was then faced with a horrible decision as to whether I still sent the boys on their merry way to Suffolk. It was early afternoon but K couldn't take any time off work to do the journey during the week so I had to decide there and then if they were still going, cast and all. The decision became decidedly easier when Ted started running around and hitting K and G with his new 'weapon' or cast. So, they were all ready and at the door when I finally realised that mum wasn't using her 'concerned' voice on the phone it was her 'ill' voice. She then admitted that she was in fact feeling quite ill and had been on the sofa for most of the day. What with my already heightened hormonal state and extreme tiredness from the exhaustion of the day and night that far, I was a little floored. At mother's insistence that she would be fine and with the boys chomping at the bit to go I just gave in and sent them regardless of all the 'signs' that I should not. I waved off my broken baby to be delivered to an ill pensioner. And K on yet another long return journey. His weekend involved seven hours of driving all in all. I was particularly tearful about the whole situation. Still, after K's safe return, a good night's sleep and a great day of rest yesterday I feel a lot Better about the situation. Mum is well, Ted is not letting anything get in the way of him having fun and was on the trampoline the minute they arrived and mum has been wrapping his arm in Cling film and plastic bags so that he can enjoy the water a little bit in the heat. He is so happy, he answered the phone to me this morning with the words '(sigh) what is it mum?'. Nice. He may not be missing me but I keep sporadically bursting in to tears over him. G is fine, he doesn't even want to speak to me over the phone, but this is the longest I have ever been away from Ted and he is still my baby until the new one finally makes an appearance so I am finding his absence a bit tricky.

But, the stress of the weekend is slowly subsiding and I am beginning to get everything sorted in the house and have commenced operation 'entice the baby out'. I am off for acupuncture shortly, I have reflexology booked for Thursday and if all else fails I am getting the midwife to come and give me a sweep on Friday. I am doing everything I can to get this thing out. The sooner it's out the sooner I get to see Ted so I am now extremely determined. Ted was so good when I was pregnant with him - he came on the exact day I had said he could and had planned around - the 1st September. He was due 3 days earlier but I was not having him being the youngest in the year so I spent the three days knitting his blanket and lying in bed so that nothing could accidentally start off the labour. At 5am on the 1st, things started to kick off and he was born 3.5 hours later in a very efficient manner. I just hope the newbie is aware that I take being born on a day I have not sanctioned appropriate, as a display of gross disobedience and will be dealt with accordingly.

I have nothing else to tell you. Unless there is an extremely long wait for the baby, this is likely to be my final post before the birth. It is very fortuitous that this is also my 100th post so it feels like a great place to go on official maternity leave from this too. I won't bore you with how big I am, how tiring it is or how hot I am now that Summer is finally here - it is best that you are spared all the dull details. I shall miss Sprautumn immensely. It was great while it lasted.

I shall hopefully return when I am two people and not just one monster mountain of hot sweaty flesh. My lovely friend pointed out that she wishes I hadn't told her I am having it on Friday as every time she hears about the 'opening ceremony' she has a very different mental image to the Olympic stadium in all its glory. This has kept me considerably amused. I am very pleased to have stolen a small portion of the Olympics' big day. Even if it is only in the mind of one person. So, with any luck there will be two dramatic openings on Friday and I will finally be released from my pregnancy prison. I will let you know.....

Until then! Xxxxxx