Full of premenstrual rage.

And regret at late-night drunken Facebooking.

I have flip-flopped from needing people’s support to trying to offer it.

On Monday I will go to see Dr Bagg.

What will I say?

Am I better?

I laughed out loud today, for the first time in ages (my husband got stuck in the car).

Am I better?

I truly don’t know.

If I had a blade right now, I would cut, but is that habit rather than emotion?

I want to hurt.

Eleven questions

I felt very honoured this week, because for the first time ever, I was tagged in a meme by Single Married Mum. The challenge was to answer her 11 thought-provoking questions, and then think up 11 of my own for 11 more bloggers. It’s an interesting one for me, because although I blog a lot about what’s going on with my children, I don’t think I give much away about myself. So, here I am, in 11 random facts…

What word or phrase would you ban?
It has to be, ‘What can I do now?’ as uttered a squillion times a day by The Boy. You have not just a roomful of toys and books, but also an imagination. Why don’t *you* decide? Once upon a time, driven to the brink of insanity, I wrote up a list of 50 ‘things he could do now,’ including tidying his bedroom, dusting the lounge and doing his homework. Strangely, he found something to do then… Continue reading

The quest for shrinkage

I am so cross with myself.

Back at the start of the year, I was the heaviest I’d ever been. At 9st 13lb and five foot tall, my BMI of 27 put me officially in the Overweight category. I knew exactly how I got there; a combination of post-pregnancy sag, reintroducing dairy after six months off it in an attempt to help The Baby’s reflux, reducing to three breastfeeds a day having been doing anywhere up to 12 in a 24-hour period, and, most significantly, too much food and wine.

I hated the way I looked. Until I had children, I’d never had to worry about my weight. As a teenager and young adult, I was tiny. I could eat anything I wanted without changing shape or size. When I got married, 10 years ago, I was under 8st. People used to warn me that my metabolism would change and my weight would catch up on me one day, but I never gave it too much thought. Continue reading

The trials and tribulations of a family cat

We knew our cat was a softy when we got her. The Boy was three and a half at the time, so much as I wanted a cute fluffy kitten, our top priority was a mog who would be tolerant with children. When we met 18-month-old Poppy at the Cats Protection centre, and she immediately prostrated herself at The Boy’s feet, we had a pretty good idea that she’d be good with kids. We weren’t wrong.

Typically, for all his begging and pleading, the novelty of having a cat wore off very quickly for The Boy. DH has never liked her – he’s allergic to cats, and while he’s desensitised to Pops, he resents her on principle. I *do* like her, but I could live without the muddy footprints, wilful destruction of doorframes, dead squirrels and moulting (never get a monochrome cat; they shed white fur when you’re wearing black, and black when you’re wearing white). Continue reading

Mind the gap…

Once upon a time, back in my staffer days, I remember writing a feature about the best age gap to leave between having children. I vaguely recall one of the experts I interviewed postulating that the best gaps are either less than 18 months (eek!) or over three years. These gaps, the expert said, were the most likely to lead to harmonious sibling relationships, unburdened by jealousy and rivalry.

With my five and a quarter year gap, I should, then, be onto a winner. And indeed, for the first, what, 14 months of The Baby’s life, the relationship between my children was pretty much perfect. Yes, there was the occasional wail of, ‘Stop her eating my Lego!’ but in general, brother and sister were the best of friends.  Continue reading