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

Nocturnal manoeuvres in the dark

This baby in training seems to have inherited his mother's fidgeting and his father's love of late nights. It's cute and everything, and it's nice to have regular reminders that he's alive and kicking (literally) - but I can't sleep*. Partly because i'm being kicked in the stomach all night long, and partly because I can't help but lay awake worrying about what this says about this

Midnight...at the oasis

Well, like all women, I know what it's like to have men talk to your chest instead of your face, but last night I experienced an entirely new phenomenon.

For want of anything else to do, we saw the New Year in at the pub downstairs from our apartment. It's a smokey meat market dive, but it had a DJ and a live covers band, so we thought it would be fun - and it was. But from the moment I walked in I was acutely aware that all the men in the place were staring at my bump. Really staring. They would stop dead in their tracks