Mumaleary's Blog

Cheaper than therapy

Labours, everybody needs good labours. (Please read in the Neighbours theme tune)

I am not sure quite how to start this post.
It is a pretty awkward topic to be honest. I don’t habitually find myself wanting to discuss the weird and wonderfulness which is the female genitalia and the mind blowing, life changing, dignity destroying event which is childbirth but, I did promise and, as I have temporarily lost my blogging mojo I am scrapping the barrel of human decency to bring to you my tale… It seems that some of the information is out there anyway- I met my mum and her friend for a coffee the other day; first question… How is your undercarriage? I nearly fell off my chair laughing and, since the object of the game is to make people laugh, I don’t mind.

Deep breath- here goes
When I was pregnant first time around I was utterly deluded about what lay ahead of me and my very kind friends shielded me from their own experiences.
Mr L and I booked on to a Hypnobirthing course and into a birthing centre envisaging a candlelit water birth with the iPod knocking out various Norah Jones/Eva Cassidy type tracks.
I want to sound a massive claxon in the old me’s face.
What a dick.
I was the size of an actual whale (there is actually a life sized sculpture of me hanging from the ceiling in the Natural History Museum) my GP wasn’t happy with my measurements but the hospital refused to rescan me so, I rocked up at the birthing centre a few days prior to due date, the woman took one look at me and took me for a scan. Low and behold I was too big to deliver there so I was induced, in hospital, less than 48hrs later.

Friday- arrive in hospital to be induced at 5pm and genuinely think that by this time tomorrow I’ll be strolling out in skinny jeans, with a proud as punch husband and the worlds most gorgeous baby.
Picture the scene- whale music playing through my headphones whilst a soft American lilt reminds me that this is what my body was made for, labour does not need to be painful if you breathe and visualise a positive outcome.
On the bed to my right is a lady in the early stages of labour. She is alone and does not speak any English so the midwife is giving instructions to a relation on the lady’s mobile and then passing it over to the woman who can barely hold the phone to her ear. A surreal moment indeed and I quickly arrive at the conclusion that the yank on the cd is talking rubbish!
A sweep and pessary do nothing to bring on labour but happily do bring on further embarrassment as I swear in front of a lovely male doctor who is being so respectful, kind and apologetic for hurting me. 😦

Saturday- booooooring. I am mostly bed bound as the doctor wants to monitor the baby’s heart.
My self created deadline comes and goes. I am bored, in pain and tearful. On the plus side I am waxed, manicured and fully made up. (This is almost definitely the last time this was the case!)

Sunday- more pessary, more internals and no freaking movement. Console myself with the idea that I must have made a very comfy cosy little home for our baba.
Just as I am getting into George Gently- my waters break. Sweet Jesus.
Had this happened outside the confines of the labour ward I am sure I would have spotted mice and other small mammals being swept away in a virtual tsunami using match boxes as rafts and clinging on to dandelions and daisies to escape the deluge.
A nurse has to mop the floor FFS. Unbelievable.
My bed sheets are changed 7 times.
This is made worse when I slip on my own bodily fluids and nearly break my head.

Once this bit is over I am left to my own devices and am bouncing in time with Eminem basically feeling like the first woman in the world to have ever done this and, like I am owning it to be perfectly honest.
I am snapped back to reality (to quote the above rapper) when the contractions seriously kick in and I am allowed to move into delivery and see my husband.

What follows is akin to a scene from The Exorcist. I accept every drug offered and Mr L barely recognises me, my eyes roll, my speech is slurred, I am an utter mess- worse than any end of term drink the bar dry.
The labour doesn’t progress and I need an emergency c sec. I have to put on a tie at the back gown and then add to the glamour by puking all over myself. Beastly. As we go into theatre I sniff the nurse who is giving me my meds.

Is that Poison?


No love, this is just some medicine to stop you being sick.

(I was actually referring to the perfume- I am not a total loon).

Baby A arrives safe and well at 13:50 and doesn’t even have a squashed up face as she came out the sunroof. She is utterly, utterly glorious.

Fast forward 16 months and seconds out, Round Two!

Arrive in a different hospital to be induced- again (size of whale, again) blah blah blah.
Hero through early labour having quite a nice time. It is a treat to have some time just me and the hubster! We play the logo game. GET THIS. It really helps to pass the time, we loved it.
Time wears on and, during one particularly breath taking episode I thrash around, my drip catches on the end of the bed and tears out. Blood spurts all over the place and I lose my serene inner self.
Accept all pain relief known to man which has no impact on the pain in my hips but does slow down the contractions. Aaarrrggghhh.
I am reduced to behaving like an utter dickhead, you know when you are drunk but are pretending not to be?…

Excuse me, I’d like a cesarean now please.

Qualified, experienced, sane midwife

that’s not possible now, you’re nearly there (and other such guff you have no wish to hear at that moment).


HELLO- Why isn’t anyone listening to me? I’ve asked really nicely for a c section and you won’t do it. I NEED ONE. I CAN NOT DO THIS. I AM NOT DOING THIS ANYMORE.

Qualified, experienced, sane, endlessly patient midwife, (let’s call her Audrey)

You can do it and you will because there is no other option (or words to that effect).

Me– ”

waaa waaa waaa.

And other sulky, tantrummy sounding noises (plus the noise you make when you are pushing out a really stubborn poo- or baby as it turns out).

And then, all of a sudden, there are quite a few people busying themselves down at the business end.
I have an episiotomy and Baba B is literally pulled out by the hair (the medical term is ventouse delivery) she is perfectly, beautifully, brilliant.
I on the other hand am in all sorts. There are people counting swabs in and out of the undercarriage and there is a woman sewing down there for longer than it took to complete the Bayeux Tapestry. It is a new low to be honest!
Needless to say I did not leave in skinnies and I haven’t ridden a bike in awhile.

Next time: A stitch in time!

PS- I can not get my head around the fact that in a month or so Kate Middleton will be in labour too. I am not sure how such demure, softly spoken women manage to get through the whole labour thing without peppering the process with expletives!

Flip- Wills, this is raaally not too comfortable you know, Harry get out you cad! I said no snaps of the Royal muff
“. πŸ˜‰

Bless her. XxxX


Ego a go go (or my first recipe and restaurant review!)

Yo dudes. Happy Saturday.
Hope you are well and looking forward to the long weekend. WOO HOO. Shame that the weather doesn’t sound like it will be up to much but still, I won’t let this dampen my spirits. Glass half full and all that.

As we all have 3 weekend nights to play with, I thought today would be the perfect opportunity to offer up my first restaurant review and recipe. Perhaps you could give one (or both a go this week end).
Now obviously, if you are a parent, nothing is as simple as it once was. You can’t just decide to go out on a whim, so I have helpfully drawn up a list of pros and cons on why you may or may not want to go out: (you are very welcome to add your own suggestions in).

The case for:

1) You have a reason to dress in something other than jeggings, trackies or a onesie and put some make up on.
2) You will be able to spend the evening with your partner/loved ones without having to use a high pitched voice or talk about absolutely ridiculous topics just to respond to your baby’s pointing and babble (I have been reduced to describing the differences between fences, walls and bushes on our little walk to nursery just to keep the chatter going! I feel so sad for the girls that they have to listen to me!! But I have basically fallen into the realms of Roy Walker whereby I ‘Say what I see’ Catchphrase style).
3) You don’t need to cook
4) You don’t need to wash up
5) You don’t need to see how much you drank the next morning.

The case against:

1) You have to dress up. This means sniffing your clothes until you find something suitably clean and posh to be seen out in.
2) You will have to scour the remnants of your mind for appropriate conversations to have with grown ups. That means no talking about Iggle Piggle, Ben and Holly, weaning and other parenting woes because, and lets be brutally honest here. That is some boring shit to talk about 24/7.
3) You need to find and book: a restaurant, a taxi, a babysitter
4) You will have to pay for the above
5) You can not fall asleep directly after the meal (possibly dribbling). Point to note- I have done this in an amazing restaurant in Harrogate. I later fell out of the restaurant. 😦 (second point to note- this was before children and an even lower alcohol tolerance level. Awkward).
6) You will need to retain the air of responsible parent on return home (it is difficult to pull this off with aplomb if you fall and sprain your ankle when removing your stupidly high-I’m still young and cool- shoes…yep, still me btw)

It is a tough call!

If you are not a parent but are hoping to become one- you are currently in the most deluded part of your life. I know what you are thinking- bless her, she seems to be making quite hard work of this old parenting malarkey. I can’t see that our lives will need to change too much at all- can you Jasper? (this is the name of your imaginary husband. You’d better hope that he earns an imaginary million too otherwise your life WILL be changing, quite significantly. FACT)

Anywho, on to the review….

Last Friday night my sister and I went to the relaunch of a local restaurant called EGO.
Ego is a Mediterranean style restaurant which opened in Heswall in 1997 (from memory!) and there are now several dotted around the North West. Click here to see if there is one near you.

Sooo- Our local Ego closed for a total refurb/over haul and reopened to much fan fare last Friday night.
There were fire eaters, people on stilts and free fizz so that was a good start but what of the food…
You might think that, as I have all the culinary ability of a frog, (see my snap of the cucumber I disposed of this morning whilst clearing out my fridge; the eagle eyed of you will have spied that it went out of date on 18/04/13…need I say more?) that I would be grateful for whatever is offered to me.
Not so my friends, not so. I am a proper picky individual and am constantly tutting at average food, poor customer service and a can’t do attitude. (If you have a bacon sandwich and chicken and avocado salad on your menu, you have the ingredients to make me a bacon and avocado sandwich you idiot. I am not asking for the moon on a stick).

I had the following:

Tuna carpaccio to start with.
I will gloss over the fact that a girl on the table next to me complained that it was too rare. Don’t embarrass yourself love, next time just go straight for somewhere that serves chips and egg. You are out of your depth (and probably still would be in a Wimpy).
It was really excellent. Crisp rocket salad, yum yum.

Lamb with a herb crust for main. Served pink on a bed of risotto.
The old me would have asked for the risotto to be in a dish on the side but I am now a fully fledged grown up and don’t want to encourage weirdness in my children so I have it as is. Fabulous. Big portion and, I didn’t have any need for side dishes but if you are a big rugby playing type (or a bloke) you might feel differently.

If I was going to make a teeny tiny point, I might mention that we waited for quite awhile between starters and main. I didn’t think this was an issue because the atmosphere was brilliant, very buzzy, busy and friendly. If you are going to eat out without children, enjoy the experience rather than timing it.

Finished off with a sticky toffee pudding which is yet another reason why I should just shut the hell up about my blancmange like belly. I didn’t need it but it was lush.

In short then;

Atmosphere: 5/5
Service: 4/5 – I don’t think I will ever give 5- if you do, what do people have to work towards!
Food: 4/5
Value for money: 5/5- Particularly good value for me as I didn’t pick up the bill ha ha. But- Ego always has a wide variety of offers on including the brilliant steak night on a Tuesday. Check the website for more info.
Family Friendly- 3.5/5 – Perfect for lunch times and early evening meals and the relaxed atmosphere means that you shouldn’t feel too stressed if your kids aren’t the seen and not heard types.
Baby changing facilities downstairs and colouring pencils etc provided. Great value, healthy childrens food. Click here for full children’s menu.
There isn’t a massive amount of room for prams etc when the restaurant is busy but the staff are really accommodating and made a fuss of our girls when we went in.

Clearly, if I was a professional restaurant reviewer I would remember what my lovely sister had but, as I was more focused on the wine menu I don’t want to make something up. Oops. Will do better next time.

Alternatively, if you are trying to wow people with your housewifery skills here is a brilliant, easy recipe taken from the brilliant Nigella Lawson. It is ideal if cooking for quite a few or if you are in the mood to get a bit organised and cook and freeze ahead.
I have made some subtle changes to her methods- namely I cooked mine, not in a neglige with soft lighting and big hair, but in a dressing gown dotted with baby sick and a sleeve covered in snot! (Yummy. Enjoy).
Additionally, because I have a mind like a sieve, I have missed out at least one ingredient every time I’ve cooked it.
I imagine that if you put everything in it would taste even better.
Best thing about this recipe is that it is best cooked in advance so allows you to look like an organised, serene domestic goddess because all of your stressy, sweary nastiness will have been completed 48 hrs before the arrival of any guests. Perfect.

Have a wicked weekend peeps.

***HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY BEAUTIFUL, COMPETENT COOK OF A COUSIN, BECKY.*** XXXxxxXXX*** next week, I’ll try making your cake!
***HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO THE GORGEOUS ARTHUR… You were cooking during the whole embarrassing Harrogate affair! Have a brilliant 2nd Birthday. *** (ps, if it is actually you reading this Arthur, you ARE very advanced!)***



In which I decide to become a racist.

Bloody Muslims. Uuughh. I hate them.

Especially you Mo Farah, you flipping hard working, charity giving, Arsenal loving, Olympic winning nasty piece of work.

Oh, and you Mohammad Jawad. I am disgusted by the pioneering plastic surgery you gave to Katie Piper after that nice White British guy threw the acid in her face. Why don’t you just go home to help other victims in your own country. Oh wait, you do. Uuughh, I hate that you provide a service to the NHS over here and divide the rest of your time between private clients in the UK and other victims abroad.

Not forgetting you Fareena Alam. I can not abide your open minded and thought provoking slots on Radio 2’s Pause For Thought. (Incidentally my favourite part of the Chris Evans show, I have been known to shed a tear! Looser that I am)

And finally you Mr Nitin Ganatra. Your hideous depiction of a real life Muslim guy who is friendly, funny, flawed (and fictitious) is annoying to me. Please stop this immediately.

I could go on but instead I have decided to focus my time, energy and attention on the nice, kind, white British people that are very very welcome in my Great Britain.

The late Fred and Rosemary West
The lovely Mark Bridger
The delightful Mick Philpott
Clever old James McCormick.
Cheeky Richard Littlejohn- I’m not putting a link here as it will drive traffic to the Daily Mail site!!

***Just a little disclaimer for the total idiots that might confuse this post with reality***

I have seen so many ‘I’m not racist but’ posts on the back of the tragedy in Woolwich yesterday I wanted to highlight how utterly ridiculous it is to label a whole race, religion, culture, sex, age etc as anything.
My lovely Grandma once told me that ALL the gays love to cook and clean. Bless her.
I’ve overheard someone say ‘Aren’t the blacks happy’. Um- what was that now?!?

Statements like this are beyond idiotic. People are individuals. They are responsible for their own actions and need to be held accountable.
Lets not confuse acts of hate with acts of genuine religion shall we.

Lots of love.

PS- I reserve the right to still hate idiots. TOWIE- you are all on this list.

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Mum’s gone Mad.

Evening all.

I know what you’re thinking. Tut tut, she’s fallen off the blogging bandwagon already. Sad really. She started so brightly. Oh well, I can now get on with all the usual tasks and chores that I’d be filling my time with rather than perusing these little ramblings.

Well- you are right, I did fall off the wagon. Helped in part by the reopening of EGO Heswall on Friday. I went out for an actual meal with an actual grown up (not really, it was my sister!!) and had way too much wine which resulted in a head down the toilet start to Saturday morning. Incidentally that event coincided with Baby A finding her recorder. Hooray. So, I am slightly behind where I should be.
I should now be posting a blog on how brilliant Ego looks now it has been refurbed, how fantastic the food was and how efficient the staff were but, because I am an imbecile, I have instead written this… I promise I will write the restaurant review tomorrow.


Once upon a misty Monday mum was going mad.
All because the kids were screaming,
Crying for their dad.

She took them to the park,
They made dens in the dark,
And mum even built a humongous ark.

Once upon a Chilly Tuesday mum was going mad,
All because the kids were screaming.
Crying for their dad.

She stood on her head.
Let them bounce on the bed.
And they even cooked some really posh bread.

Once upon a Windy Wednesday mum was going mad.
All because the kids were screaming.
Crying for their dad.

They all went out to fly a kite
And on to a cafe for a bite,
They even had a pillow fight.

Once upon a Thundery Thursday mum was going mad.
All because the kids were screaming.
Crying for their dad.

She plaited their hair.
Wrestled a bear
And even opened a tiny fair.

Once upon a frosty Friday mum was going mad.
All because the kids were screaming.
Crying for their dad.

She juggled with cats.
Pulled rabbits from hats.
And even sung in a choir with bats.

Once upon a snowy Saturday dads brain was going funny.
All because the kids were screaming,
Crying for their Mummy!!

Oh no said dad, don’t give me that.
You lot sound like spoilt brats.
Climb up here. Up you come. I bet you don’t behave like that for mum!

I bet Julia Donaldson and JK Rowling are shaking in their boots!!!

Test it out on your kids and let me know how it goes down. Xxx

Night all πŸ™‚


More stupid things people say…

Since we had Baby A’s op on Friday I am hoping that this will be the last occasion I write a post like this…

Popped into Tesco last week with both babies. Both wearing pink btw!
An elderly couple stopped to look at the girls, ask me how old they were etc. I told them and we got talking- as you do when you are in a rush to get to Rhyme Time and you meet people you don’t know in the veg aisle.
The gentleman (let’s call him Walter) said to his wife (let’s call her Enid) LOOK. ISN’T HER EYE AWFUL UNSIGHTLY. (This isn’t a mistake, he had two hearing aids so was shouting!!)
Enid replied that yes, her eye did look dreadful, the crust made it look quite sore. Ah- cheers!
She was saying it in such a nice voice I couldn’t say anything mean. I told them about the op and- turns out Frank, their son had just the same. Got it sorted in the eye hospital no drama.
I carry on walking and get to the end of the aisle at which point Walt and Enid only bump into Marg and Alf. (Old friends, known each other for years, their girl Barbra went to school with Frank)
Alf comes over- oh yeah, poor lad. LAD?!? I’m sure he’ll be just fine. Franks had no worries has ‘e!!
We are now in tandem and go down the aisles within a few steps of each other. Brilliant, this isn’t awkward at all.
Just as I get to the panty liner and other womeny stuff which no doubt the girls will be picking up and throwing about in years to come, Enid stops and turns to me- I meant to tell you; ‘She’ll be fine, it’ll be you with your heart breaking as they take her down for the op.’ Bless old people, they aren’t all bad.

I say thanks and bye. As I am walking away I hear Walter. HEY E- SHALL I PICK UP SOME MORE OF THAT FEMMY FRESH STUFF FOR YOU LOVE?!

I nearly did a little bit of wee!!


Being a parent.

Today we have been to Alder Hey. Baby A has got a blocked tear duct and needs a small operation to sort it out. No biggy.

Walking in to the hospital we passed the Ronald McDonald House. A home away from home for families of very poorly children which allows them to maintain some sense of normality amongst all of the trauma, treatment and check ups.
My breath caught in my throat, what if something else turned out to be wrong with our beautiful, perfect, precious first born child? It happens to someone, why not us. How would we cope?
It happens. It is happening to someone, somewhere today, even as I write this a families life is changing for the worse and, there but for the grace of God go any of us.
I know two families currently struggling through the fog of their child having cancer. I can not begin to imagine how they are getting through each day. They must have considered the awful prospect of life without their babies. The very idea of that makes me sick to my stomach and I am thinking of them all and wishing it all better.
I read a blog the other day about a parent dealing with the loss of his child now. He lost his daughter just two days before our second daughter was born. It is a very moving read.

It seems to me that becoming a parent means becoming at the same time, stronger and weaker than you ever thought possible.
To want to take on the pain of another just so they wouldn’t have to bear it themselves takes a special kind of love and that doesn’t have to come from the physical act of giving birth or from getting someone pregnant.
It seems to me that being a parent is more to do with what happens after that life changing day when you meet your child for the first time.
It is more to do with the day in, day out. The mundanity of getting the weetabix, of accepting that you will never again come first- not even when you are on your own!
It is the soothing when they cry for a ridiculous reason, it is the playing when you’d prefer to be partying and it is the clearing up of pasta, puke and play dough from the kitchen floor on an almost daily basis.

Some parents opt out of this, some do such am horrendous job of raising their child/children that they don’t deserve to share the word parent with the rest of us. It is absolutely incomprehensible to me that some children in hospital will be there because of the way they have been treated, or mistreated by others. To think that Baby P’s parents and carers must have heard him cry in pain and know that they’d caused that time and time again absolutely beggars belief. But, hopefully, the system is changing and improving to allow others to step in where birth parents can’t, won’t’ or shouldn’t be raising their kids. The foster carers, kinship carers, the step mums and dads, the adoptive parents and aunties and uncles and grandparents. Thank God for you.
If you are loving, protecting and trying your best for the children in your lives you are my definition of a parent.
And, for all of this you get the smiles, the gabbling, the cuddles, the kisses and the indescribable ache in your heart that is being a parent. I totally, totally love it.
There is no off switch.

As it turns out, for us, all is well. Our beautiful baby needs a little op but it is a simple procedure and the consultant does not foresee any issues.

Lots of love to all of you.
Night night.

PS- an aside about Our beautiful, precious, perfect Baby B…
Baby B on the other hand, was regularly crying A LOT from when she was very small. It broke my heart and made me feel totally inadequate as a mother not to be able to sooth her and make her feel better. I wanted to understand what was hurting her and sort it out and to not be able to do that felt pretty crappy.
A friend suggested that we try something called The Bowen Technique. It has been a life changer. I am so so pleased to have taken B, she is genuinely like a different baby. She is relaxed, smiley, contented. Brilliant. I had never heard of it before but it basically (very basically) it is a drug free, non-invasive therapy which is very gentle and done over light clothing.
The lady that we have been going to is called Ruth. She is based in Wallasey on Wirral but there are practitioners worldwide and the therapy is used on people of all ages with a wide variety of ailments.
I would honestly give it a go if your baby seems unhappy or distressed and you don’t know what to do or how to sooth them. I am so chuffed to see my baby girl so much happier. (Embarrassed myself again at Puddleducks because I started crying to see her so calm, relaxed and happy- what a geek!)

Might be useful if you are struggling- just a suggestion. XxxX

PPS- I read this blog today which made me smile. πŸ™‚

PPPS- last thing, I absolutely promise- one of the children with cancer is my brother in law and the other is my cousin. They aren’t children any more but they will always, always be someone’s baby. I love you both from the bottom of my heart.


Oooh- I’ve only gone and bought myself a bag!!

Evening All!
I hope that you all had a lovely week end? Mine was significantly better than last week and I put this mainly down to The Bowen Technique (something that Baby B has been having with a lovely lady called Ruth and I will write about shortly)

Point to note- this post is probably only going to be interesting if;
A) you want a bag to accommodate baby stuff
B) you like gimmicky things
C) you simply love reading my musings!
D) you think mooning is funny- even though you are over 13 years old.

Here goes…

By nature, I am a very ‘all or nothing at all’ type of character.
Take this blog for instance, rather than do a bit of reading about how to start a blog, get a site that looks nice, will be picked up on search engines etc, I just jumped straight in and now have a page which I need to alter so that it does what I would like it to do. Sooo, I just threw some money at the problem and bought two books; Blogging for Dummies and Get Rich Blogging. (I wish!)
Guess what, I haven’t had the time to read the books so the page looks just as it did before and I am carrying on doing the bit that I find fun rather than deal with the nuts and bolts stuff.

The same goes for my plan to become an actual grown up. I am attempting to buy my way out of the chaos.
To that end, I have bought myself some Tupperware and a bag. beautiful, beautiful bag!!

Now, because I am a fool, I expected the bag to magically transform me into an amazing and organised yummy who would laugh in the face of the disorganised slummy and say kind things like “not to worry, I always carry a couple of spare Muslins incase of situations like this”.
The bag, although lovely, is only a bag and you will (as my mother has pointed out) still need to fill it to make you into the kind of person deserving of such a purchase. It will not turn you into Mary Poppins which is a shame as I have long coveted her parrot head umbrella and also her tape measure but I digress.

Anywho, because I am high on the smell of leather and the desire to become utter maternal perfection, I check out what the peeps at Pacapod say about what you should pack for a stress free day out. See here for their suggestions
I must highlight at this juncture that I very much wanted to prove the website wrong and return the bag with a haughty note because I used my eBay profits to buy it as they accept Paypal on the website. Too. Damn. Easy.

BUT, it turns out that everything you need DOES fit in it. Humph. Look, I even took some pictures to show you. (This is what becomes of you when your husband works away. You become an utter nerd!)

Here comes the science bit…
The idea is that even if you have a baby bag (which I have never, ever had before) you will spend time rooting around looking for all the things you need for various times during an average day out. Sooooo Jaccqueline Waggett designed a bag containing two other bags; one for feeding and one for changing. There is also a separate bit for your stuff. I LOVE IT. It even has a thingy to attach your keys to!
I fitted in everything I needed for both babies and we were out all day. TOTES AMAZEBALLS.
You do need to pack it in advance though as it takes some careful folding and organisation to get everything in but I guess that would be less important if you only had one.
It means that, if you are sending someone else to the bathrooms to do the changing bit, you don’t need to take the bag off the pram (it has pram attachment clips). You just remove the changing bag bit and voila, off they pop whilst you sit back and relax!
NB- this is best done against a backdrop of the French Riviera with a flourish of- I think you’ll find there is everything you could ever need in there because I am freaking amazing but also works in the car park of Homebase!
My only gripe with this particular bag is that the long strap is a bit thin for it to feel comfortable when worn like a satchel and also, it is expensive. I am justifying this to myself by thinking of it in terms of cost per use, how lovely it is and because I paid for it via eBay sales. There are loads of others to choose from though and they also have an eBay store which sells their seconds, prototypes etc.

Now, what I am very much hoping, is that the quite amazing team at Pacapod, will send me another bag for me to give away as a competition prize to my readers… Obviously, this is only a possibility if lots of people read this post so- please like, share and above all comment so that I can show how much we would all appreciate it!!! What do you say Pacapod?!

I was very concerned that becoming an organised mother would mean the end of this blog, after all, what am I to write about if I don’t have chaos and disorder in my life anymore.
Turns out I needn’t have worried as Baby A saw fit to pull down my pyjama bottoms yesterday whilst I was making coffee for the gardeners. I had two cups in my hand and so, for what felt like an eternity, I was mooning in my kitchen which has two sets of French doors just as the gardener came round the back with his pruning shears. Not Embarrassing at all.






Quite a big rant about ungrateful Ebayers.

Sooooo…. As I’ve mentioned in pervious posts, I am on maternity leave and doing a lot of Ebaying to bring in some extra money and ensure that our home does not become over run by clothes and baby stuff which we are no longer using.

I have sold quite a bit so far with reasonable profit and good feedback so it has been pretty trouble free apart from an issue with selling one fridge twice and then sending the hubster over to deepest darkest Birkenhead to give the man a refund. Mr L did not fancy getting into a row about what exactly was owed so we probably have back more than was paid initially but happily he still has the use of all limbs so can’t complain really.
Not my finest hour.

Anyway- I checked my feedback today and had my first ever negative post. As soon as I saw it my back was up.
Who in Gods name is daring to sully my 100% feedback record? Now down to 90.9%. Devo’ed.

Was too annoyed to let the little red minus sign out of my head so clicked on it for details;

Blinking back at me was the following comment;

“Not as described. Horrible.”

Um- I’m sorry- what?!

Now you may be wondering what the item in question was.
Obviously for someone to be that annoyed they must have paid a bit of money to be so disappointed with the quality.


The item in question was a bundle of newborn clothes, 11 items in all which I described in absolutely anal detail including 8 pictures. Count ’em-, EIGHT.

Oooh- how much did that bundle rake in?

99 frigging pence. Are you fucking kidding me. Get a life.
This basically works out as less than 9p per item.

Now, what I should have done, is just thought to myself ‘what a dick’, and then carried on with my very exciting and grown up life.
What I actually did was email the penny pinching little twit to ask what the issue was.

She responded within seconds to say…

“Just not what I expected I wouldn’t sell them to anyone fair enough I only popped in last minute to bid and paid like 99p but I don’t think you should have actually put them on there in the bin .. Thanks anyway.”

To say I am shocked is an understatement.
Hummm- do I respond with my teacher head on to advise her of the incredibly poor grammar and punctuation in her speedily composed message?
Should I mention that what she has written makes little/no sense because of her lack of comprehension of the basic rules of the English language?
Do I go so far as to direct her to Amazon and the category entitled English for dummies?!

Nooo- what I actually do (because I am so mature) is simply reply;


Thought that would be the end of it. Wrong again Leary!!

“Wow? That’s exactly how I felt when I opened the parcel :)”

Aargh. I hope you choke on your abacus beads you tight ass.

Right. Lets go through the facts of the case again shall we?!

1) You are looking on eBay for second hand clothing bundles.
2) You could look through the description and the pictures.
3) You bid 99p and win the whole 11 items
4) I have to post the whole bundle all the way to SCOTLAND.
5) You have the audacity to complain about the quality of what arrives even though it is all exactly as described and photographed.
6) I make a loss after factoring in listings and postage.

Complaining in these circumstances is like being shocked you are eating pony hooves when you’ve purchased Asda basics lasagne.

I am now scheming how I can purchase something from her and then make an unnecessary and unjustified complaint. I need to get out more (and not just to Rhyme Time!!)

Unbelievable!! TFI Friday peeps! Have a lovely week end. Xxx


May Day. May Day

And so to the end of another Bank holiday week end.
The May bank holiday week end is possibly the time of year where the difference between the haves and have nots is at its most stark and here’s why!

The Bank Holiday of the have nots…

Friday after work drinks gets a bit messy even though you promised yourself it would only be a quickie after your ‘Thursday is the new Friday’ drinks and subsequent hang over.
Saturday morning doesn’t exist for you- why would it, so you get out of bed with the sole purpose of getting a paper and having endless cups of tea accompanied by bacon sandwiches and a nice bit of Danny Baker on the radio (probably on catch up because it starts at 9!)
You actually read the paper- in amiable silence, occasionally mentioning a news story to your other half who makes a sort of interested noise.
Mid afternoon you might amble to the shops without the hindrance of buggies, babies and bawling. Casually browse around as many shops as you wish looking for clothes for your forth coming holiday- it’s long haul.
Go home via the pub where you check over your purchases, shandy in hand.
Obviously it is sunny.
Depending upon how you feel, you either luxuriate in the bath and then get ready to go out OR, luxuriate in the bath and get ready to stay in. Ether way this will happen in your own good time.

Repeat the above for Sunday and Monday with a sprinkling of friends, meals out and disposable income.

The Bank Holiday of the haves.

Friday after work drinks get a bit messy even though you promised yourself it would only be a quickie having checked your bank balance and pass out situation with the other half.
The arrival of the week end proper is heralded by the sound of your off spring crying sometime circa 4:03am.
Get up in a hungover haze (because you can no longer hold even a minuscule amount of alcohol) and attempt to settle baby back to sleep to no avail so you are downstairs feeding by 4:30.
Get marooned just out of reach of the TV remote so you are stuck watching advertorials of ‘Tap Out Extreme Fitness Craze’ which only serves to remind you exactly how blancmange like your stomach now is and how little time you have to solve this issue.
Around lunch time (actually 7:30am) your other child and husband join you downstairs.
Attempt to plan the day around who will take which child swimming, who will pack the bag, who will have the luxury of a shower.
Because all of this happens to a background of crying it sounds as though you are shouting at each other and the temperature in the room drops by 10*C.
Decamp to swimming lessons and think murderous thoughts about the cost and the fact that they are called lessons when what you are actually doing is singing in a warm pool with your feet on the floor whilst pacifying a crying child (don’t worry, it is your child!).
Repeat for child B.
Feel so god damn knackered that you actually cry.
Feel so god damn unattractive that you actually cry.
Count down the minutes until bedtime (for you and the children).

To kill some time you head to the supermarket- this is clearly where you now buy your clothes for finance and convenience reasons. Feel harassed and frazzled.

To kill some more time you head to Homebase and look at the garden furniture. Realise that the likelihood of you getting the opportunity to sit on said furniture is minuscule and you may as well have strapped your money to a firework.

Bump into someone you used to go to school with, they are with their kids too. Note that they are looking absolutely knackered with sunken eyes and a vacant expression. They are wearing clothes just like yours (bought in a supermarket) and are peppered with baby sick.
Go over to say something along the lines of ‘Jesus Christ you look rough’ and realise you are in fact in the Mirror department.

Head home for bathtime and further renditions of Incey Wincey Spider and The Wheels on the Bus.

Repeat as above for next 18 years (obv not the bath stuff- that would be weird).

Good night all.



Just a little rant about Closer Magazine!

Before I start, let me say- I know that this is going to be a divisive post. Lots of my friends are big fans of weekly hairdressing salon type magazines. Looking in on what’s going on in other people’s lives but I don’t like them.

It is possible that subconsciously I don’t let myself like them incase I get addicted to them (the same goes for Christmas cake, Thai food and pastry).
Someone that shall remain nameless, very kindly babysat for us on Friday so Mr L and I could go out-together-in the evening!
We had a great time watching Russell Kane at The Philharmonic but, to my horror, I found a copy of Closer (other bits of tat are available) left in our home come Saturday morning.

It makes for grim reading.

For research purposes only I have flicked through the aforementioned weekly and here are the top five things that I learnt;

5) Parents in ‘finding it tough to spend time alone together’ SHOCKER.
Denise Van Outen and her husband Lee (some guy with a really posh coat or something) both have jobs and therefore find it hard to spend time together on their own when they factor in their daughter too.
Shit, that sounds dreadful. I wonder how they’ll manage. What on earth would I do if we were in the same situation. Oh hang on- I’m a parent therefore I am in that situation. (Not exactly the same as I’m not technically working but you get the picture).
Deal with it.

4) Husband in hand holding SHOCKER.
Danielle Lloyd’s (?!) husband held her hand throughout their 20 week scan.
OMG, that’s like sooo unusual. He must be a real keeper Dani. BORE OFF.
4a) Danielle Lloyd is having a third boy. She’s been nice enough to document that she was disappointed by this- that’ll be nice for him to read when he’s old enough (possibly never).

3) Eating less and exercising more leads to weight loss BOMBSHELL.
Sonia Jackson of Eastenders fame is offering advice on how to drop a dress size.
Her pearls of wisdom include;
Try a low fat cereal bar instead of a chocolate bar. Yep- they taste the same.
Play a favourite song while you work out- hum… That’s about 3 minutes of your life Cassidy- I’m sure you’ll be a size 6 in no time.
Exercise with a friend- pretty sure that Gaffney’s free these days.
In short- this advice is priceless. Worth the cost of of magazine alone.
What a load of old Bollocks.
We all know how to loose weight, we just can’t be arsed to commit to it properly, not when Spanx exists.

2) People who stand up straight look slimmer.
Ke$ha (which, btw, isn’t even a proper name) looks better when
*she is aware she is being snapped,
*is at an awards ceremony
*and wearing a dress and heels. Go figure.

1) some girl from Corrie is moving in with some guy from TOWIE.
But- that’s not all.

She might want to put some of her own things in there AND- one day- they might want to move.

Don’t even get me started on the woman who married her car, the fat teenager or the couple addicted to plastic surgery.
Β£1.50’s worth of absolute crap. Full of not famous, famous people.

My heart broke a little bit the other day when I asked a friends daughter what she wanted to be when she grew up.
Answer- famous.
I presumed she meant in a genuine, worked hard at school, chose something that she enjoyed and was good at and then spent years learning her craft like the brilliant Sir Richard Attenborough or perhaps the fantastic Dame Judi Dench.
Nope, she wants to be the next Jordan.
Oh sweet Jesus. No.
PS- I think Jordan is almost the worst of them because she clearly has a lot of drive and business acumen and could have done so many other things rather than clock up husbands even faster than I’m clocking up wrinkles.

How do people explain to their children that the oxygen thieves in these magazines aren’t people to aspire to be like? Answers on a postcard please.

I’ll be sticking to my preferred magazine- Your Cat. A monthly publication full of facts and advice on how to please your pussy. Invaluable.

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Bristol Betty

The semi-coherent thoughts of yet another Guardian-reading middle-class mother

Molly Gunn

Journalist | Editor | Copywriter

Born in 2011

Emma Cantrell writes


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