The funny side to life as a working single Mum. My stories of embarrassing escapades, toddler tantrums and great expectations.
Showing posts with label humour. Show all posts
Showing posts with label humour. Show all posts
Friday, 3 August 2012
The Moth and The Chamber Pot.
I spent what I consider a considerable amount of time simply maneuvering myself out of the bath like something more reminiscent of a creature from some Japanese horror story of revenge and doom than the glowing earth mother I am in my mind. Having relaxed and feeling rather proud of managing to hoist myself from the bath I suddenly felt an onset of unusual pains. Embracing my inner big screen demon I wandered around a little, sat on the sofa, had a crack at bouncing on the exercise ball. Imagine if someone shagged one of the zombies from 'The Walking Dead' and got it pregnant then then left it to get on with it in an airy flat by the sea. Imagine a potential victim of Jeremy Kyle, who even he couldn't find the right synonym for 'scum' because, well, she's dead and trying to eat him. Now that would make daytime TV far more interesting but that's a whole other story.
Back to my toilet/moth story. Feeling tired after all that undead action I headed to my chamber pot only to find that even this would be a challenge to face. When will it stop? Still feeling unusual I reclined and realised nothing was happening down there, other than the original pain. I would apologise for too much information but if you didn't get a vibe for the subject matter from the heading I refuse to take responsibility for your lack of responsibility. Already uncomfortable, it was at this point I fell off the toilet seat, which appears to have broken somehow. Probably because of my massive arse or belly weighing it down. After 9 months it has just given up. Oh, the irony.
This pretty much covers the whole toilet fiasco, except for an uninvited guest. The moth. It may have been a tiny beast but it seemed determined to make my afternoon toilet adventure even more eventful. So, here I am at now over 9 months pregnant, in a bath towel, looking and acting like a zombie on the toilet. Falling off it, getting back on. Fighting a moth all the way through Read into that whatever metaphor you will. I am just wondering whether Beyonce was in the same boat as she prepared to head to the hospital floor she had rented with her millions.
Wednesday, 1 August 2012
The good, the bad and the ugly.
I will start with the good but believe me, it is all downhill from here! People tell you about the pregnancy glow right? They may even tell you have it. In the early stages when you have been projectile vomiting for longer than the girl in 'The Exorcist' or even the parody of this legendary scene seen in 'Scary Movie 2' this is a ridiculous. As you move further on in pregnancy and seem to become more tired and aged than the coverage of the Olympic ticket farce already has done it feels on the cusp of offensive. Either this or blame the hormones. While some people may be saying you have the glow on a day when you really do look like shit to try and perk you up, I do believe there is some truth in it. I am not saying we have some kind of teen vampire sparkle but looking back at photos of myself I can see some truth in the preggo glow myth. Either that or blame the hormones. Again.
Next I come to the bad. There are plenty of bases to cover here. A base of constipation with a filling of piles and heart burn all topped off with stretch marks for good measure. Lush. This isn't to say that these aspects of pregnancy have been unbearable or are in any way not worth the final outcome; they are largly just amusing really. My own Mum saw my stretch marks just the other day and seemed surprised but told me, in her Rosie the Riveter manner to be proud of my stretch marks and what they represent. Outstanding advice in my opinion. Hence why these are only finalists in the category of bad. I am talking about the bad which are what I like to call baby wardens, belly monitors or the bump police. We all know them, those people who just love to comment on the size, shape and implication of your bump. They feel the need to tell you either how massive you are and what a beast of a baby you are going to have to push out of your nether regions or how tiny and lucky you are but that your baby will clearly be a tiny, malnourished specimen which will just pop out no trouble! In my case it was the later. From people I actually know to taxi drivers, it seems that bump development could be considered an Olympic spectator sport. I am sure they mean well but take a minute to think about it. At what other point in life do you approach a woman and tell them what a fat bastard or skeletal creature they are?
Time for the best bit. The ugly. If you have ever heard the phrase 'bumping uglies' I may have found where it originates. The challenge of the beaver in pregnancy. Let me take you back to my time in Ghana. My volunteer friend and I were getting dressed for the day and suddenly realised that with a lack of consistent running water or clean facilities we were beginning to develop an au natural approach to tackling said beaver and couldn't wait to tackle that bad boy on our return home. First on the list was a cheese sandwich and cup of tea. Next was the battle of the beaver. Let me tell you something, what I thought was a beaver discovery in Ghana was merely a simple squirrel in comparison to what has emerged over the past 9 months. In the beginning and for some time I was gaining points in the beaver wars but as time progressed and my view of the beast became even more limited I was forced to hold up my white flag and surrender. In the battle of Cat vs Beaver I am sad to say that beaver has well and truly won. KO.
You may as well laugh at the ridiculous bits of pregnancy. Otherwise you might just cry. Or maybe this is all the hormones talking yet again.
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