Mother Nature has kindly returned my post-partum fertility which The Beard only knows too well as he’s spent the last week suffering my raging PMT. I think he sensed the change in my hormones when I marched down the stairs screaming “ARE YOU TAKING THE PISS OUT OF ME? DO YOU THINK I WASH, DRY, FOLD AND PUT AWAY THE BABY’S CLOTHES FOR YOU TO THROW THEM EVERYWHERE LOOKING FOR ONE FUCKING PAIR OF PYJAMAS?” It got so bad at one point that he thought I was up the spout again. As a result of said visit from Mother Nature I am constantly ravenous and have devoured a Quorn lasagne, two egg custard tarts, two bowls of cereal and a chocolate brownie in the space of 3 and a half hours. I feel like The Very Hungry Caterpillar except there’s no chance of me getting two weeks rest in a cosy cocoon.
I wouldn’t feel too bad about my menstrual overeating if I had only stuck to my new year’s resolution of going to the gym at least twice a week. Unfortunately, it’s now the 18th of January and I still haven’t even been once. I joined the gym last July and have probably been a grand total of five times including the two classes I booked on to. The first of these was a Thursday morning Aqua Zumba class which I thought would be a nice and gentle bit of exercise to get me back into things after birthing my live young. When I rocked up I was the youngest there by at least forty years and as I watched the staff assist the old man with one leg into the pool I thought ‘well this is going to be a piece of piss’. Kudos to bloke with a limb missing because I was fucked after half an hour and I can’t say for certain if I did or didn’t wee in that pool at some point but I know for a fact that my pelvic floor wasn’t performing at it’s best. Anyway, at least it didn’t matter that I hadn’t had chance to tidy up my bikini line because nobody else had bothered either.
The second class was a spin class which I assumed would just be riding a bike quite fast to music. I probably couldn’t have underestimated it more. At risk of sounding over dramatic I think I almost sweated to actual death, not to mention the fact those bike seats are probably uncomfortable at the best of times, let alone seven weeks after the River Vag had burst it’s banks and washed up a small human. When I got back from my spinning class that day I crawled through our front door and found The Beard holding The naked Baby at arm’s length and the living room floor covered in an explosion of shit. “It’s everywhere” The Beard cried. I’m not sure which one of us had a worse time that afternoon but lessons were learnt on both sides.
Despite spending much of today stuffing my face with shite, I have actually managed to complete a number of household chores including hoovering the stairs, doing the 125th load of washing this calendar year and cleaning the living room textiles after The Baby painted them with Dairylea. I even showed my face at Wednesday afternoon Baby Club where The Baby resorted to eating the contents of the sandpit out of hunger since he had smeared his actual lunch into my carpet. We’re experiencing some minor difficulties with The Baby’s eating habits at the minute. He no longer allows either of us to spoon feed him and throws the finger foods I lovingly prepare for him on to the floor in disgust. As a result of this, he is currently surviving on breast milk and rice cakes alone.
Which is going to be a problem come tomorrow because I ate all of the rice cakes as well.
Me, The Beard and The Baby 