An Age Old Question

Do you have a 'scary' age? An age far enough in the distance that it seems un-obtainable yet common enough you know you'll reach it before Goldie Hawn. An age when you believe you should know what life is all about but you'd prefer to let others reach it and just tell you about it?

As a little girl (let's say 10 years of age) 25 was my Wow-You-Are-Now-An-Adult age. I distinctly remember daydreaming that at 25 I would be married with a major career - in what I had no idea but it would take me around the world - and would've popped out at least two kids. At 10, 25 seemed to me the ideal age. I would be old enough to be taken seriously, would've moved out of home and could go out whenever I wanted. How fabulous! Besides, if you were 25 you weren't too old to be, well...old.

25 was cool but as I reached the magic number, the thought of marriage and children left me cold. Marriage was for someone who was, you know, 30!

Now back in the day, 30 was the OMG-Now-You-Really-Are-An-Adult age. It was the year I assumed life got on track. As my Mum and Dad were in their 30s when they had me, their third and youngest child, I always believed I'd be in a similar position when the big 3-0 hit. Ha ha ha!

As someone who turned *insert drum roll here* 32 over the weekend, I'm still waiting for this magical track to appear and the Adult Wand to wave over me and declare that I am now a responsbile person with her s#^t together.

"Um...hello? I'm over here." Nope, the Master Wand Waver obviously can't find me among all the other 30 somethings holding on to their youth with gritted teeth, because despite the increasing figures hanging over my head, I am yet to see any evidence that I am gaining in maturity to warrant the increase in age.

Yes, I have a child but he's half the reason for my hesitation. Most days I'm rolling around on the floor with him, eating food off the floor after him and cleaning dirt, vegemite or poo off my clothes because of him. How can I be a big kid when I'm behaving like a little kid?

So this year I made an executive decision. Instead of getting older I would simply celebrate the second anniversary of my 30th birthday. It has a certain je ne sais quoi, don't you think? No? Ok then, I'll just blame my age increase on the Carbon Tax. That'll work.

When Underwear Is Overdone

‘What size are you?’ the helpful sales assistant asked me. 

‘Um, 12 something,’ I said in reply hoping the woman could read my mind and know instinctively what I meant by ‘something’ so I didn't have to admit my small boob size out loud. To a stranger.  

‘You look like a B, but you could be an C,’ she said staring directly at my breasts as if her eyes could weigh and measure them in one scan. 

Ha! I laughed heartily on the inside. C. I wish! And with that, Roxy signalled for me to raise my arms so she could measure the circumference of my chest and back including Thelma and Louise – which, after 15 months of breastfeeding, look like two droopy, pitiful dog ears. 

‘Yes. 12B it is,’ she declared triumphantly with herself.

There I was, in a self-imposed hell, with my new friend Roxy at David Jones attempting to purchase a bra. I didn't care which bra, just as long as it wasn't covered in mould from breast milk stains and sagging at the nipples. 

You see, it has been close to two years since my last bra purchase as I have lived every day in the same three maternity bras. One black, one white and one flesh-coloured, all bought on the same day when I was approximately 5 months pregnant with E and growing at a speed of knots. 

I was so desperate to buy anything that fit and wouldn’t make me scream in pain with each body movement, so I selected three of the ugliest bras you could find and have worn them everyday since. Their mission: Satisfactorily accomplished. Now it's time for the bin.

Gee, I feel like a young child kneeling before you in a confessional, but it’s true. Two years! I can’t remember the last time I felt the silky touch of a La Perla undergarment between my fingertips as I daydreamed I could afford such an item on the way to the Bonds section. 

And why stop there, while down here helplessly in front of you, dear reader, I may as well admit it’s also been close to three years since I bought a pair of knickers. GASP!! Please don't tell anyone. 

But I wonder, is an admission of that magnitude as bad as revealing that I don’t brush my teeth before bed or I use the last of the toilet paper and don’t replace the roll? Apparently so.

A few of my girlfriends think not buying new underwear – bra, knickers or the like – every month or two should be punishable by law. And here’s why:

Friend A: ‘Eeeew! How do you respect yourself if you don’t buy new underwear every so often? Just buy a new pair with your weekly shop at Woolworths.’ 

Friend B (after she composed herself from the shock): ‘Are you serious? Doesn’t new underwear help you feel special for those moments?’  

Friend C (my personal favourite): ‘Do they offer any support or suck you in like they should?’ 

My response to all of them was the same, “I haven’t bothered to think about it while I’ve been playing Mum. It never crossed my mind that I should buy new underwear.” Obviously, that is, until now. 

One morning as I was getting dressed for work, I looked at my underwear draw with new eyes – or should that be with my Mummy eyes removed – and suddenly everything I owned seemed old, out-dated and plain daggy. 

Now E is down to one breastfeed a day and I’m planning to return to a routine that semi-resembles a life I once knew, and for some reason, underwear has become my clothing du jour to celebrate said transition.  

 

Now, while I’m not the kinda girl who spends $50 on one pair of briefs only to hand wash them and lay them on a towel in the shade to dry (who could be bothered?!), I will purchase several bras and pants of the same style and colour if I find they not only fit well, but will potentially last forever. I’ve even been known (to myself) to purchase designer underwear on sale if the tag reads: Machine Wash With Like Colours. Jackpot! 

But that was another life. This past year and a half I have been quite content sitting around the house in my granny undies. And who seriously cares if I do? Side note: perhaps this is another reason why I haven’t headed back to the lingerie section for some time? That and I’ve felt like Brittany Spears on hiatus of late (i.e. all junk food and no exercise or personal grooming of any kind). 

But that day, before work, a wave of embarrassment came over me and I headed to DJs on my lunch break.

“Try these on, and this and... this,” Roxy said handing me 4 different bras, French panties and a lacy camisole. 

I told Roxy I had run out of time and promised I’d be back the following day to buy the items she selected for me. I smiled, handed back the garments and left. 

I hated lying to my new friend, especially one who had supported me so nicely for those past few minutes, but she knew without saying a word, that all I wanted was a t-shirt bra and some comfy knickers to keep me going. She smiled back at me, knowing only too well I was headed for Target.   

She was right! Now I am the proud owner of more new underwear than I could have hoped for in DJs and I won’t need to go back until E’s at school. That’s 4 years away. Score! 

Image: Model Eva Herzigova in that Wonderbra Ad

The Games We Play

Is the hand brake off?

Peekaboo is E's favourite game at the moment. He knows to sit behind the curtains in the living room and wait until Teach or I start calling out for him. We play it up of course and call out the required, "Where is he?" until you hear him giggle. He chuckles so much his little legs lift off the ground because he thinks he's the smartest little person for fooling Mummy and Daddy (well, he's right!), then as if by magic he appears again with a smile as wide as a see-saw. Gotcha!

We all know entertaining a toddler can be tiresome, but somedays there's nothing I love more than crawling under fun-size tables (my polite way of saying small), playing trucks and peekaboo 1,000 times because his heart-warming laugh and hugs of appreciation are not worth swapping for all the Tea in China. 

E's other must-play games with Mum and Dad are singing and dancing to Justine Clarke (a CD I will buy every new Mum from now on as it has saved us A LOT), climbing over cushions on the floor piled up like a mountain and rolling off, pushing his Tonka trucks across the room, spinning the wheels on said trucks, rolling a bouncy ball back and forth and generally playing with anything that makes a noise.

You name it - or hear it - and we've got it but cars, trucks and trains are his never-fail pick of the bunch everytime. He even makes a Brrrrrrrrrrrrrroom noise like a car engine when he flips the pages of his books about cars and trucks...he loves them that much! :)

But we're now slowly coming to a stage where he's seeking more. So I'd love to know, what games do you like playing with your little one? Got any tips for home-made games for that 1 to 2 year old age group?

I'm very keen to hear how other Mums and Dads play, learn and grow with their Bubbas.

Glamour Girl v Grubby Mummy

Sometimes I wish I was a Glamour Girl, not a Grubby Mummy. I usually wish this when I only have 20 minutes to shower, shampoo, blow-dry, dress and slurp instant coffee between mouthfuls of cold toast before running to catch the bus to work in the mornings. A Glamour Girl rarely arrives late to work because she had to find (and iron!) another clean shirt after the first one was smeared with peanut butter, yoghurt and bread crumbs by her delightful one year old. 

Actually, Glamour Girl is most unlikely to have breakfast at all and just pick up a double shot decaf, skim soy latte on her way to the office.

I love the total Glamour Girl look. The polished nude pumps, a well-shaped, non-chipped pale pink mani/pedi, a perfectly pressed crisp white shirt tucked into a black tailored pencil skirt with diamond stud earrings completed by an elegantly pinned chignon at the nape of her neck. 

I would wear a pair of this season’s Mimco open toe ankle boots, the delightful florescent orange harem pants by sass & bide, a flowing blouse and a statement necklace if I were a Glamour Girl. 

And I must meet a Glamour Girl’s make-up artist. The never-coming-off dewy complexion she achieves is always the perfect blend with her natural skin tone, while her cheeks are glistening with a sun-kissed rouge that puts even Gisele to shame.  

I’d have every OPI pastel nail colour at my Tiffany & Co adorned finger tips so I'm never caught out in a nail emergency, plus I'd pop my Yves Saint Laurent Touche Eclat and a Lancome Juicy Tube in to the inner pouch of my Chanel quilted leather clutch for subtle touch ups during the day.

On weekends I’d slip into my comfy 7 For All Mankind jeans, throw on my Stella McCartney cotton top and Chloe ballet flats before driving off in my Mini Cooper convertible for a light lunch with the girls. Afterwards I'd pick up my new Marc Jacobs (fed-exed from New York) dress for cocktails and dancing in the evening.

If I were a Glamour Girl I’d look good 24/7, even in bed, because it is a never ending production to be her.

But today, and tomorrow, I will be Grubby Mummy. I live in 12 year old brown Birkenstocks, a beige (colour formerly known as white) Espirit singlet and faded blue Witchery linen shorts with a stretched waistband. I have three-inch regrowth in my long blonde, unwashed hair and dirty, torn nails from playing in the garden with my son.

If I were a Glamour Girl I would be envious of Grubby Mummy and want her no-fuss, affordable life and amazing family. I would want to be me.

E learns to play the drums

Entertaining our sick little monkey

E has been suffering from a cough and cold for the past week or two. If his nose isn't pouring like a tap, he barks up a cough loud enough to scare our neighbour's dog. Either way, there has been a never ending cycle of snot and saliva running from our little monkey at some stage during the day...and night for some time.

Despite his flu like symptoms I know in my heart of hearts that he isn't sick enough to warrant a visit to the doctor but he's too sick to risk picking up more bugs from the park or daycare, so Teach and I have been coming up with ways to keep him (and ourselves) entertained in the house.

The other day we decided to teach him how to play the drums. Homemade drums to be precise. His new instrument consisted of three stainless steel mixing bowls from the kitchen cupboard, a wooden spoon, a whisk, a saucepan lid for a symbol and a tupperware container full of rice for extra sound effects.

He had a ball discovering the many different sounds he could create. He found out which items make loud noises, which ones make really loud noises and the unbearable noise Mum makes when they are all dropped on the kitchen tiles at the same time....I'd compare the latter to a cat screaming as she gives birth to a cow. Neither pleasant nor pretty.

Following our success with the drums (and after a cup of tea to calm my nerves), Teach and I decided to slow down on the toy buying bonanza for his first birthday (just around the corner) and create a new instrument from kitchen utensils each week. I'm not sure if this decision was made more for E's enjoyment or ours, but it beats the singing the flu blues!

What have you created for your little ones to play with at home?

Flowers for my Mum

My beautiful Mother is recuperating from surgery on her foot and has been ordered to stay off it for six weeks in order to heal. I know this will be very difficult for her because my Mum is the one person who does everything for everyone without question or fuss. She doesn't sit still for a minute (unless she is watching her favourite TV show The Good Wife) at home or at work, so I have a feeling she might be going a little stir crazy at the moment... or catching up on some chick flicks which no doubt is driving Dad stir crazy.

Unfortunately I'm not able to be there to help Dad play Nurse so I'm sending Mum these gorgeous flowers and a big virtual hug to say, 'Love ya Mum. Get better soon.'

(Picture from Cup of Jo)

How To Be A Domestic God-Awful-Mess

What do Nigella Lawson, a White Chocolate, Coconut & Raspberry slice and I have in common? Other than we were all in my kitchen at the one time (one of Nigella's books that is, not the fabulous woman herself), absolutely nothing!

This mind-blowing discovery dawned on me last week when I was elbow deep in melted butter, white chocolate and descicated coconut, holding E in one hand while trying to pour the mixture into a slice pan with the other. As I attempted to spread it evenly across the pan, backwards and almost upside down, the mixture dripped down my arm and across the stylish pages of Nigella's classic cookbook How to be a Domestic Goddess.

'Sorry love.' I kept saying to her as more and more mixture fell on the book instead of the pan. 'It's all I can manage I'm afraid.'

I was working hard to create the tasty treat for our weekly Mother's Group get together, but I should have known when moths flew out of the open (and very old) Self-Raising Flour bag that my attempt to emulate Ms Lawson and wow all the other Yummy Mummy's with my home made decadent slice would not be a success.

It started a few hours earlier when I'd finally decided I'd attempt to make something. The slice seemed like the easiest option because I had most of the ingredients in the cupboard, sans white chocolate, but I knew I could duck into Coles quickly on the way home from taking Teach to school and have it ready for the 11.30am catch up. Easy.


After waking E from his comfy car slumber to race in and buy said chocolate, then wrestling him back in the car seat - all while singing 'Doin' It' by the lovely Justine Clarke so he'd grin along with me and forget I was pulling him from pillar to post - we arrived home with just enough time to get the ingredients mixed, in the pan, baked, then out the door again. Ok...Go!

I don't know what came over me or why I was so determined to make something. Anything. I wanted it to be interesting, a little different, yet completely delicious and satisfying. If the ladies uttered the words 'Bloody Marvellous' I wouldn't have been disappointed. But baking only makes me crumble under the pressure.

My last two attempts at baking desserts were miserable. I left the kitchen leaving a trail of nutt-meggy baking powder fluff in my wake. One cake sunk so much in the middle it could have passed as my Year Nine Geography Volcano Experiment.

This time though, I read the recipe several times before I started. I had everything pre-measured, weighed and ready on the kitchen counter, E was happily playing with his new truck in the living room and Nigella by my side.

'You can do this.' I said to myself. Hang on. What page number was it on again? D'oh!

After what felt like an eternity looking for the recipe (which was starting to induce a skin-of-the-teeth panic in me), my preparation went out the window when E decided he must sit between my legs, play with my toes and whinge if I moved my feet. The butter had melted so much in the microwave it was now boiling and the white chocolate had formed into a hard sludge in the pan. Bugger. Poo. Wee. 

Why can't I ever bake anything? 

I picked E up off the floor and was determined to start again. 11.30am start time be damned. I was NOT going to let a five step recipe beat me.

COME ON!

I managed to scrape all the ingredients together again, get it in the pan and bake it before we had to haul ourselves across town. The thought of showering and dressing up for the occassion had me spinning too, but we got there in the end.

E and I arrived dazzling, fresh faced, smiling and slice in hand. Eventually.

'Hi Sian. Hi E. Wow, did you bake that?' Our host asked. 'It looks lovely.'

'Thank you, yes.' I replied and looked down to see the gladwrap had started to melt over the still-warm slice. 

Not thinking, I had just picked up the original baking pan, wrapped it up and ran to the car. I didn't even put the slice on a serving plate. SHIT!

I asked our host for a dish to serve up the slice and walked away from the kitchen thinking, 'That'll do Donkey. That'll do.'

Sleep Training: One Tired Parent's Diary - Part Two

Well it seems our endeavour to teach E how to self-settle during the night has ended before it really began...

I'm not sure if it was my initial resistance (covered by cocky confidence), levels of anxiety or desire to sleep and 'deal with it later' that overcame me, but I woke up today vowing to find another solution. Anything must be better than hearing my darling boy cry. In short, I gave up.

Sleep Training: One Tired Parent's Diary

After more than four months of E's constant night waking - ranging from every 4 hours to every hour - Teach and I have decided to try and teach E to self-settle during the night.

Self-settling is also referred to as Controlled Crying (CC), Crying it Out (CIO), Sleep Training (ST) and Controlled Comforting (again CC). No matter what you want to call it, it's a controversial subject. Many wise women before me *cough* have prepared papers on the pros and cons of CC, some declaring it causes psychological harm on the child and instils a sense of abandonment. Others say allowing a baby to cry and fall asleep on their own (without being fed, rocked, nursed etc...) will not harm them in and infact could teach children resilience.

Shopping made easy for men

The school holidays brings a sense of excitment to our lives because it means Teach is on holidays too and he can spend more time with E during the day - when he's at his most playful - and me - who tends to be slightly nicer before exhaustion sets it around 5pm when he usually gets home. Unfortunately, school holidays also means other children and their parents are on holidays too. This brings a sense of fear and trepidation to my life...especially when I have to go shopping!

Groovy Manna

For as long as I can remember, I always imagined myself as a groovy Mumma when I grew up. You know the type, where my son's friends would love to come over and hang out because 'You're Mum is, like, totes cool. We can stay up all night and eat ice cream out of the container,' etc... I wouldn't dis their music choices with 'What is this noise anyway?' because I love a little funky doof doof or bang bang music when the occassion calls for it, and I'd have my finger on the pulse of what was happening in society from Twitter, to Facebook, to YouTube, to iPads, to, um, others.... I'd never lose touch of what was happening, because I simply couldn't imagine getting (insert shiver down the spine here)...OLD!

Career Girl or Working Mum?

Unemployment. It has a certain ring to it, doesn’t it? Unfortunately not the ring of cash registers or a flawless 2crt platinum princess cut Tiffany ring, but a ring nonetheless...

5 Signs Of Sleep Deprivation

The online medical dictionary Web MD defines sleep deprivation as: a sufficient lack of restorative sleep over a cumulative period so as to cause physical or psychiatric symptoms and affect routine performances of tasks.

Two Lives

I am a walking contradiction. I came to the realisation on Saturday afternoon as Teach and I sat in front of the television, chowed down on McDonalds and played with E. I heard myself say, 'Now E this is rubbish food, you don't want any of this.' His little eyes watched us closely as we demolished lunch in desperation, not hunger, but desperation to get rid of the evidence that we proactively bought and consumed fast food. It tasted so good, I was disgusted with myself!

Shopping aint what she use to be!

Shopping has always been enjoyable for me. Ever since I earnt my first pay packet, the first thing I do is decide which clothes I have to have then race out and get 'em. It seems money burns a massive hole in my pocket and if I don't spend it immediately it'll vanish. Because of this, clothing became my drug. The more I had, the more I wanted. It was mine, mine, ALL MINE (insert evil laugh here)!

A Baby's Point Of View

Mamamia is a fantastic website featuring stories/columns on everything from relationships, careers, gossip, news, travel, food, parenting and general wellbeing. I love receiving the Daily Update in my Inbox - sometimes more than once - and reading what Mia Freedman and her contributors have to say. 

Today, I found this fantastic story by Richard Glover highlighting several rebuttals to the very popular book Go the _____ to sleep! Richard sheds light on why some tiny tots across Oz can't sleep.

Darwin or Bust

Our holiday was not going well and we hadn’t even left the airport yet.

Teach, E and I were off to Darwin for five days to celebrate a friends wedding. We’d been looking forward to our little getaway since the couple announced their engagement six months earlier. I’d been to the top end once before and knew what to expect, but for Teach and E this was a new adventure, plus it was our first family holiday.

Yep, it was going to be great. A trip we’d always remember and have fond memories of. The gorgeous weather, pictures of a happy family living it up with friends away from home. Oh, how we’d laugh and share memorable moments when we returned....

Reviews for Brisbane Mummas

As many of you know I joined a Brisbane mothers' group a while back. It's for professional women on maternity leave in 2011 and I'm LOVING it - and not just because I know many of them read this blog!

E and I really look forward to our weekly catch-ups, getting to know other new Mums and their gorgeous tots, sharing our experiences plus having a few old fashion belly laughs for good measure.

Each week we plan to meet in a new cafe, park, movie theatre or sometimes even a member's home in order to get out and about across our lovely city. The coversation almost always turns into one of 'will it be practical for a large group of Mums with Bubs?' 'Can we all fit?' 'Where do we park?' And so on....

This common conundrum got me thinking - why isn't there something online that helps Mums out? There are hundreds (if not thousands) of groups meeting each week somewhere across Brissy and I'm sure they all have the same question, 'Where is the most convenient and baby friendly place to meet?' Even if you're not part of a group, I'm sure you'd like to know more about a cafe, park or shopping centre before carting the baby/kids along only to find you can't fit the pram in, you have to walk miles from your car and it's not child friendly at all!

So I've decided to put my former Tourism PR hat back on and help Brisbane Mums out. Each week I will take it upon myself to visit a new cafe, park, library, movie theatre, gallery, shopping centre etc..., etc... across Brisbane and give it an honest motherly review.

Bubs in Brissie will rate the location's parking options, child-friendly environments, nappy changing facilities/general amenities, playground equipment (if applicable) and most importantly the coffee and cake! I'm sure it'll be bloody hard work but I'm willing to take one for the team in an effort to preserve your sanity.

Now, where should I go first? Where is your favourite spot for an outing?

Check back here on Friday (29 July) for the first "Mummas & The City" review.

Home is where the heart is at 5am

E is waking at 5am these days. He's decided because it's winter and 5am is usually the coldest part of the day, he'd have some fun and make Mumma get up and start her day. He giggles and laughs when I come in to get him in the morning. 'Yay, she's here and out of her warm bed. Woo hoo! That's 27 to E and zero to Mum.'

5am. I haven't had two 5 o'clocks in my day since I was footloose and fancy free. Living the single life with verve, vigor and my good friend Vodka. Oh, I remember those days so well - I think? Girlfriends and I would start the night with a few drinks at my inner-city apartment then walk into the Valley for a dance and one or... cough, two beverages. This was before the days of a 3am lock out when you were allowed back in if you happen to go outside to take a phone call or leave your friend in the loo...I digress.

5am was a respectable hour to be awake back then. It was a badge of honour. Something you'd boast about at 9am on Monday morning when your boss asks why you smell like a brewery and sound like a man. 'Um, I've only had 2 hours sleep,' I'd whisper. My boss, bless her cotton socks, would love this news and load me up with extra work and have me out at meetings with clients to ensure I worked harder than normal. She had just as much fun with me as E does now.

Today, 5am is punishment.  After a night of E waking each hour, 5am is not a badge of honour but more a trumpet call of parenthood. YOU'VE ARRIVED! With eyes falling out of my head and a cup of tea glued to my hand, I try to start the day. I think of Bridget Jones at her Mother's Turkey Curry Buffet and agree, I should have my head in a toilet like other normal people not singing Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes to a five month old... Aaaaargh!

Despite my protesting I can't imagine life any other way. Even if I wasn't a proud Mumma, I'm not sure I'd want to be out late anymore. Who has the energy? More importantly who has the bloody money!! $15 for a glass of wine...tell 'em their dreamin'. Nope, give me a friday night in with my two favourite boys, a big serve of homemade lasagna, a glass of vino (from a bottle that costs less than $15) and I'm the happiest woman in the world.

Yes, I'm a Cancerian. We're a notorious bunch of home bodies but I don't think I'd go out even if I could. Home is my safe haven, my office, my playground, my favourite restaurant, my cafe, my movie theatre and my disco-tecque. Home is where my heart is even at 5am in the morning and I wouldn't change it for the world. 

Ready, Steady, Motherhood!

I'm toying with the idea of penning a book detailing everything no-one tells you about labour/delivery/being a Mum. Yes, I was well informed that becoming a Mumma was hard work and that you can never really prepare for it. I can cope with that. Learning on the job is expected, understandable and somewhat exciting. Books were my friends during my gestation period. I was ready...bring it!

No, I'm talking about those memorable events that have happened since joining the ya-ya-sisterhood that I was not prepared for or at least forewarned about, yet are somewhat universal. WTF?! Um... give a woman the heads up please ladies. Geesh!

So for the sake of full disclosure for all soon-to-be-Mums here are three little ditties* I would've loved to have known about before they smacked me right in the kisser. 

1) Sir Burp-alot.
Everyone I came across during my pregnancy explained the brilliant virtues of breastfeeding. It's fabulous bonding between Mum and Bub and is the best way to provide nutrition, blah, blah, blah... We all know this but I'm not discussing feeding techniques here. Nope. I bring your attention to burping. Honey, I don't care how you feed your little tucker, if he doesn't burp after a feed you're in a whole world of pain. I discovered this world in Myer last week when I was trying to do three things at once and decided it would be faster if I didn't burp E and just put him in his pram in a bid of time saving efficiency. Ha, Ha, Ha! As soon as his little bum went down, my superhero was up, up and away. His crying screams lasted for what felt like eternity because he had a pain in his belly which a good solid burp could have eased. The story continues, but the point of the tale is ALWAYS burp your rug rat - especially when you think he's fine. Breastfeeding might be the best for bub, but burping is just as bloody important. A fact no-one ever mentions but assumes you already know.

2) Aim...FIRE!
As the gorgeous Gisele Bundchen explained, 'They don't call it labour for nothing'. Again... NOT a surprise. I had pysched myself up so much for the excruciating pain that I didn't know where my pain threshold was. Is this as bad as it gets, or is there more? It bloody hurts now, but what if this is only the beginning? Can I ask for pain relief now or is it too early? I eventually got through 19 hours of labour only to be faced with the delivery. This is the part women around the world forget to highlight. For the sake of keeping it clean, I won't go into (any further) detail but if you're after more information or an idea of the type of pain the delivery is I recommend putting your va-jayjay in a roaring fire for at least half an hour. My lovely Midwife said, 'You'll feel a burn then it's over.' It sounded so easy like she was asking someone to pass the salt at dinner. It was a mere side thought. What she should of done was bring out the guitar and bring it home with a rousing rendition of 'Burn, burn, burn. The ring of fire. The ring of fire.' It would've made Johnny Cash so proud and me a little more prepared for the HELL that followed.


3) It's not over when the pregnant woman screams.
The last piece of insider information I'll share with you is this...for approximately one week after your bundle of joy arrives (for me it was a week), each time you feed the little man a sharp pain shoots through you like you're being zapped with electricity. Um...Hello? It would've been nice to know this incase you find yourself feeding in front of your in-laws and the sudden shock of pain makes you jolt and almost drop the new grandson. 'What the hell was that?' I asked my confused visitors. My girlfriend explained it's just my uterus being told my baby was out and feeding so it could go back to where it came from. Charming! I'm very grateful it's done its job and served E and I well, but again, it would've been really nice to know the clap of thunder through my womb was normal before I dropped a few f-bombs with my Mother-in-law in ear shot.

What did you discover the hard way only to find out it's universal? Why are some things about pregnancy and labour on a top secret no-need-to-share-this list?


*This blog post is for entertainment only. Every woman is different. If you have any queries please contact your health professional.