Soft play

So my new year resolutions are basically the same as 87 per cent of the population: eat less, exercise more, drink less, blog more. It’s not going too badly so far, I ate one less biscuit than I might have done on Tuesday, and I’ve gone a couple of days without drinking (today isn’t one of them). And here I am blogging. Not quite ‘job done’, but I’m putting my best foot forward.

Today I took O to his first soft play zone, and can confirm that most* other children are evil. I don’t know why they all made a beeline for my PRECIOUS BABY, I guess it was because he was the smallest and cutest. Anyway, none of them seemed happy unless they were treading on him, or pulling him over, or squeezing him just a little too tightly. They made sure to do that sort of half look at me while they were at it, the cautious yet hopeful look that children who are ‘testing their boundaries’ always do, the one that asks ‘am I getting away with this?’. 

As usual, my response was multilayered – laidback and carefree with a subtext of murderous intent.  “Maybe you could stop picking him up by the neck? There’s a good girl!”  Delivered in an easy, breezy, sing-song voice, with a look in my eye that says ‘don’t make me kill you, you little shit’.

O, of course, thought it was all rather marvellous. So many balls! A mirror! How thrilling! He looked a little non-plussed when a pair of three year old twins tried to pick him up and drag him across the room, but otherwise he remained unfazed. 

And where were their parents? In the café of course! Which is exactly where I’ll be once O is old enough to trample the other kids. You’ll find me in the corner I imagine, slipping Bailey’s miniatures into my skinny lattes, as I listen to the sing-song voices of Mums saving their precious first borns from my stampeding toddler. Hurrah!

*excluding yours – obvs.

Exercise for new mums

Yesterday I did a free taster session for British Military Fitness. Doing push-ups and crunches in the mud on Wormwood scrubs, in torrential rain, may not be everybody’s idea of fun. And it wasn’t mine either.

I saw my mistake almost immediately. Balance has never been my strong suit – I once broke my foot standing still on a pavement; I can turn an ankle just by looking at it. Running across scrubland in the dark seemed reckless for ankles as delicate as mine. Everybody else was sprinting, while I gingerly picked my way across the boggy ground.

But that wasn’t the worst of it. There’s nothing like a series of jumps and squats to remind you that you’ve hardly done a pelvic floor exercise in nine months. “WHY AREN’T YOU DOING YOUR STAR JUMPS NUMBER 30?” shouted the instructor. I had to take him aside and explain a few postnatal facts to him. But by then the damage was done. Luckily the driving rain covered up the fact that my pelvic floor had abandoned ship. Imagine if I’d been in an aerobics studio! The shame! My main concern was that he’d ask us to leap frog – that might have been unpleasant.

But I couldn’t help coming round to BMF. Surely this is the perfect exercise class for new mums? During the cool down I surveyed my exercising comrades, standing in a dark field, covered in mud, soaked to the bone, who’s going to notice a wobbly tummy and a bit of wee? No one!  

So today I’ll be stocking up on Tena Ladies and signing up for my next session. And doing a few pelvic floor exercises….

London roots

Now I'm back in Acton, I've returned to my old Acton High Street beauty salon.

I'm pretty sure I've blogged before about what a disheartening experience the bikini wax is in the UK, and how hard it is to find a good one. I fear I was rather spoilt in the Gulf, where pampering and customer service is unbeatable. I regularly walked out of salons not wanting to jump off a bridge - which was a novelty.  But it was back to earth with a bump today, as I returned to waxing - London style.

"Your thighs are fat", the beautician informed me, as I balanced half naked and vulnerable on her plastic table, "you should go on a diet". Oh thanks for that. I'd had a suspicion I had huge, whale blubber thunder thighs, but it's nice to have it confirmed.

It wasn't all bad, apparently my calves are "alright". She also told me my arms were "ok", but she said it with a look on her face that suggested that by 'ok' she mean't 'hideous'.

Of course I didn't take it lying down, (though in a literal sense, I did) - I got my own back by only giving a nine per cent tip - ha!

Medical mishaps and motherly mismanagement

Last week we had more medical emergencies than an episode of Casualty.

I started the week cooing with pride as O learnt how to climb the step in the bathroom. "Come and see!" I called to N, who arrived just in time to witness O yelp as he flung himself head first at the only sharp corner in the room.

A couple of days later, I took O, now sporting a rather fetching cut and bruise on his cheekbone, to the Lakeland Wildlife Oasis to see sad Snow Leopards, odd looking hares and handsome red squirrels. I gave him his lunch in the cafe - my extra special homemade cheesy rice balls - which he happily smeared all over his face. Sadly, the cheese i'd used

Baby fat

The best thing about being pregnant was that I was supposed to have a big tummy – my stomach was something to be proud of at last. Instead of saggy skin left over from years of dieting, I now had a taut tum full of baby, rather than brownies.

Those days have gone however, and now, seven months after giving birth, the stomach remains, but without the prenatal glow. I in fact weigh exactly the same as I did when I left the hospital. How can that be?

I remember watching an episode of

Back in the blog

Hello! I'm finally back! And hasn't a lot happened.

Little O was born on 28 Feb 2012 after 10 hours of labour. I won't go into details (my mother forbids it - I think she's worried I'll put potential new mothers off and jeopardise the future of the human race), but in short: it kind of hurts. I only have myself to blame - there were epidurals and other modern wonders available, but I had

Labour of love

I'm 34 weeks pregnant and have entered full labour day preparation mode.

I've watched 22 episodes of 'One born every minute'. With an average of 3 births per episode, that's 66 hair raising labours i've sat through - nails bitten back to knuckles.

I've been practising bouncing about on my birthing ball, breathing deeply and squeezing my bits in (sometimes all three at once - whilst watching Sherlock). I am having a bit of a problem remembering to do my pelvic floor exercises enough though. People keep advising me to do them every time I stop at a red signal or clean my teeth - well those are both fine ideas, but