Why a massage is never really that relaxing

I've been feeling rubbish recently. Rubbish, rubbish, rubbish. Tooth ache, back ache, arm ache, foot ache, stomach ache. You name it. If there's an ache to be had, then I've had it. I'm not sure if it's the fact that Summer is almost over and my body is, therefore, grieving, or the fact that my husband is off on a work trip for 30 days in just three days time (more on that over the next month I'm sure). But whatever it is, I seem to have been sent into a downward spiral and I could really do with a pick-me up.

A couple of days ago, in the midst of my general moaning and wailing, I remembered that I actually had, in my possession, a voucher for an hour's full-body massage, bought for me by my lovely husband, four whole months ago as a birthday present.

Now I'm not quite sure why I hadn't yet got round to relinquishing the voucher, apart from the fact that...

I NEVER BLOODY HAVE A SPARE SECOND.

Can you tell my toothache hasn't quite subsided? (I actually have an emergency appointment booked in one hour's time, so please bear with me).

But desperate times and all that....

So off I limped whilst husband stayed at home to look after the mini terrorists.

The thing is, however much a massage is needed, or coveted, it's never really that relaxing is it?

I mean, as soon as you've settled down on the couch, hoping beyond hope that the therapist, poor love, won't adjust the blanket that you've carefully positioned to hide the over-stretched, definitely-seen-better-days g-string that you were determined to remember not to wear, but forgot anyway and the 'I've-had-two-children' wobbly bits, so inexpertly held-together by said g-string, do you then remember that you've also forgotten to shave your legs, or any other part of your body for that matter and each time she runs her hands up and down your legs, you flinch because not only are you worried for her safety (the bristles are fairly sharp), but it isn't all that comfortable for you either.

Of course, I'm not saying that this was what happened (ahem)...just that that's what normally happens in a massage. Isn't it?

And then after you've got over the embarrassment of wobbly bits and needle-like leg hairs, the temperature of the room, which you assured the therapist, only a moment ago was 'just right', suddenly becomes a bit too cold and all you can think about is that freezing draft of air that's making your feet feel as though they might just drop off.

But then when the therapist asks if everything's 'alright?', you still say 'yes', because, well, something else becomes even more distracting, like the fact that she's pumelling the one spot you didn't want her to touch and she's doing it with such aplomb that you swear she knows you're in pain and she's secretly paying you back for the leg hairs and you want to tell her to stop, but you're embarrassed because you told her you liked it 'firm', when at this precise moment, you'd like it anything but firm.

But then she moves from the now extremely tender point you didn't want her to touch and it's actually beginning to feel ok, possibly even rather relaxing. And the sound of the waves and the flickering of the candles and the smell of the lavender aren't even remotely annoying and you have a feeling that you might even drift off to sleep...

Until...

Oh no. Surely not. Please no. But you can feel it coming. Your heartrate quickens in panic. And your butt cheeks become so desperately tense in an attempt to stop the one thing that you were dreading.

A fart.

Yes, I said it. A fart. And it's coming. And you know if it does you might as well put your clothes straight back on and walk out because the embarrassment will be too much for your poor shame-faced self to handle. But she seems to be pumelling in just the wrong place and you so desperately try to hold it in, but all your attempts are futile. Of course it serves you right for having had that take away curry the night before, but you didn't think about the consequences as you were tucking into your chicken masala and onion bhaji.

Times freezes...

But there isn't any noise.

Phew.

Maybe it didn't happen after all.

But then you realise, with horror, that it did.

And you realise that if you know it did, then she knows it did too.

But she's continuing to massage and some tiny part of your brain thinks that maybe you should say something. It's not so much a case of there being an elephant in the room, more like there's an elephant in the room and he's just left a huge pile of dung in the corner.

Like I said, this wasn't my massage. Heaven forbid...

And any attempts to rescue your dignity are further scuppered when you're asked to turn over and you fear that one look at your poor, 'I-once-breast-fed-my-children-for-quite-a-long-time' boobs will put the therapist off having children for life.

And then the hour is finished. And part of you wishes that it could have gone on just a wee while longer, but part of you is ready to dash home just as quickly as your poor bristly legs can carry you.

And that's all I'm saying on the subject of massages.

I think I will just have to look for a pick-me up elsewhere. In the meantime, I'm just off to the dentist.

Sleep deprivation? Not on your nelly...

When you're a blogging kinda gal, you get close to those around you - so when Josie from Sleep is for the Weak announced that she would be hosting a 'Sleep Deprivation' carnival, I wanted to help her out. The ony problem was, apart from laying awake all night trying to think about what to write for her (which she assured me didn't count as 'authentic' sleep deprivation), I really didn't know what I would write.

You see, the thing is, although I'm a Mother of two small children, I don't really suffer from sleep deprivation, as such. Yes, my favourite thing to say when people ask me how I am is 'exhausted', but that's more about the fact that I've been up fiddling around with the computer all night, rather than the fact that my children haven't been sleeping.

You see, they sleep rather well. Amazingly almost.

This morning I had to wake Renée up at 8 o'clock so she had time for breakfast before school. And Edie followed shortly after. They had both been in bed since 6.30 the night before.

And they hadn't woken up.

At all.

Seriously.

When I tell people about my children's sleeping, they often think I'm lying, or else, they tell me that I'm extremely lucky.

Lying. Why would I? When my child does a poo at a smart garden party and I manage to step in it, I tell you. When I am in tears because I think my (then) unborn child has a cleft lip, then I tell you. Why would I lie about their sleeping? It would be much more fun to tell you that they've both been up all night and I'm currently dying of exhaustion (and I'm sure it would elicit far more sympathy too). But that wouldn't be the truth.

But am I lucky? Well, yes, of course I am. BUT, that luck didn't just happen. I like to think that I made it.

There was once a time when I was dying of exhaustion, believe me. After giving birth to Edie, I was miserable. I was over the moon to have two beautiful children, but in truth, it was so much more work that I could ever have imagined. I loved having one child. I loved everything about it. I loved gazing at my adorable newborn and imagining that I was the only person ever to have such feelings of happiness. I slept when she slept, revelled in my new role as natural mother and truly thought I had found my vocation in life. So when Edie came along, I thought it would be even easier.

I was wrong.

Not only did she not sleep.

At all.

Ever.

But she fed like a demon and I never seemed to have enough milk for her.

I remember when she was a tiny baby, she'd be awake all day and then I'd pray for her to sleep at night. Just an hour. Anything. But she wouldn't. Instead she'd toss and turn in her moses basket, fidget next to me, cry and fuss on top of me. And I'd cry too. So much. And just when she'd finally drop off to sleep, I'd catch a faint whiff of her tiny newborn nappy and I'd know that she'd have to be woken up for a change.

It was soul destroying.

When she would eventually find the knowhow to drop off to sleep, her big sister would wake up, full of joy and full of the energy of a two-year old.

In those early days of having two children I reckon I had two hours sleep a night and never was that in one go.

Like I said, I was miserable.

But instead of driving myself insane, which I could easily have done, I decided that I absolutely, definitely had to do something about it.

My husband works away from home a great deal and therefore, although I'm married, I often feel like a single Mother. And that means that the children are my responsibility, 24 hours a day. If the children don't sleep, then I don't sleep. And if they stay up all night, as my French in-laws would have them do, then I would never have a moment to myself. As much as I adore my children, I don't find that a very welcoming prospect.

So what did I do?

Controlled crying is what.

You've probably heard of it. And if you have then you either find it a barbaric thought, or you swear by it. I fall into the latter category, as does Really Rachel who wrote a post about it too.

I'm not sure you need boring with the finer details. I think Really Rachel gives a good account.

All I can say is - it took three nights. That's all. Edie was about seven or eight months old. Not yet able to pull herself up and rattle the sides of the cot or shout 'Mama' (as Renée had done a couple of years earlier). It was hideous, obviously, to hear my darling child cry and wail. But it was more hideous, for both of us, to get no sleep.

They are now five and almost three and they both sleep like a dream.

I don't wake up in the morning feeling like I've drunk five bottles of wine (chance would be a fine thing). And they don't spend the day getting cranky or whiny.

They love their sleep.

And so do I.

Night night my friends....

Award Overload

Right lovely people, brace yourselves for an award overload. There are rules and lists that come with these, but please, please don't ask me to do them. I'll be here for two days instead of just one! And besides, by the time you read to the end, you probably would have fallen asleep anyway.

Ok, first award. It's the Zombie Chicken given to me by Really Rachel. Thank you lovely lady. This is my favourite award (which, ahem...I think I have already, but I can't ignore the passing on bit). So here's the bit that goes with it...

"The blogger who receives this award believes in the Tao of the zombie chicken – excellence, grace and persistence in all situations, even in the midst of a zombie apocalypse. These amazing bloggers regularly produce content so remarkable that their readers would brave a raving pack of zombie chickens just to be able to read their inspiring words. As a recipient of this world-renowned award, you now have the task of passing it on to at least 5 other worthy bloggers. Do not risk the wrath of the zombie chickens by choosing unwisely or not choosing at all."


And here are the very worthy recipients...

Another Day in the Madhouse
The Potty Diaries
A Mothers' Secrets
The World from My Window
The Wife of Bold
In the Gutter
Frogs and Sprogs
Metropolitan Mum

The second award is the Over the Top Award given to me by Muddling Along Mummy. Now despite it being called 'over the top', I am assured that this is meant in a 'your blog is fabulous darling' way, so thank you kind lady, I shall pass it on to some more 'over the top' blogs...





Not Supermum
Lady Mama
The Audacity of an Optimistic Pessimist
Brits in Bosnia
And 1 More Means 4
New Mummy


The third award was given to me by the wondrous Amy at And 1 More Means 4. Thanks honey. It's the Great Read Award (ahem, cough...have it already), but must still pass it on. So without further ado, here are some more Great Reads...

Being a Mummy
Mummy Do That
Clareybabbling
Most/Least
Not Wrong, Just Different
Not Waving, but Drowning
You've got your Hands Full


Now it won't surprise you to learn that the 'hardly a wallflower' Rebel Mother at Another Day in the Madhouse has given me this award. It's the Bloody Brilliant award and will sit very nicely next to my other, rather rude award in my sidebar. Thanks sweetie pie. Oh yes, I almost forgot - some worthy recipients...





Babyrambles
Reasons to Be Cheerful 1, 2, 3...
Snaffles Mummy
Muddling Along Mummy
A Mother's Ramblings
Insomniac Mummy
Life with a Little Dude


Ok, last one I promise.... This is the I Love Your Blog given to me by Snaffles Mummy. Thank you, thank you ever so much. I love my blog too!!! Hee hee... And the final list - I hereby pass it on to some more blogs which I love, love, love.

Brighton Mum/Teenage Angst
Really Rachel
Diary of a Surprise Mum
West of the Pennines
Café Bébé
Magnumlady's Blog
Working Mum on the Verge


And if I haven't given you an award today, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. It might be because I've already given you one or because you already have them, or just because my brain is frazzled and I've lost track of who I've given what to. Please don't take it personally!

And if you did get an award, then please let me give you this little bit of advice - DO NOT hang on to it for as long as me, or else you'll spend the best part of a day putting the post together! I can not tell how long this has taken me to compile.

Ahem. Hubby is not happy!

It's the small things...

So I'm sitting here tapping away at the computer, annoyed, frustrated and generally extremely pissed off because the car has chosen to break down on the one morning that I really need it.

And then Edie runs in, shouting,

'Mummy, Mummy. Look at me. Look what I can do. Mummy look.'

I glance up, struggling to muster a smile, all thoughts elsewhere, but I manage it, for Edie's sake.

Judging by the tone of her voice and the excitement with which she's demanding my attention, it will be something new and wondrous.

Instead she lies on her back and kicks her legs in the air like an upside down tortoise.

'That's fantastic Edie', I say, not wanting to burst her bubble.

She stands up and leaves the room with pride etched all over her face.

And now I'm smiling.

I tell you, when you're a parent, it's the small things that make you feel all glowy.

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In the meantime, New Mummy is hosting the bi-weekly British Mummy Blogging Carnival. Click HERE to have a peek. There are 42 posts.!!!! Yes...42. Could take you all night to read them...

I don't care - As long as it's healthy

So what's one of the first things people ask you when you tell them that you're pregnant? (Well, yes, apart from How did that happen? and Was it an accident?)

One of the most common questions is:

Are you going to find out the sex of the baby?

Well I, for one, who can't keep a secret, hates not knowing everything and is a tad impatient, absolutely had to find out.

With our first child, it wasn't quite so simple. The baby just wasn't letting us know and despite running up and down the hospital stairs, munching on a bar of chocolate and going to the loo in an attempt to get the baby to change position, it refused to move its hands away from its privates.

'It' turned out to be a 'she'. We called her Renée.

When I then became pregnant with my second, people seemed to be keener than ever, on our behalf, to find out the sex.

You must want a boy?
Don't you?

Erm, no not really. A girl would be just as good (if not better)!

But yes, again we wanted to know the sex. I wanted Renée to know if she would be having a brother or sister more than anything. I wanted her to bond with the baby before it arrived.

It just so happened that my husband was away for the 20-week scan, the anomaly scan, the scan where they can tell you the sex of the baby. He was working in New Zealand...just about as far away as was possible. But it didn't matter. He'd been there for the 12-week scan and I was planning on texting him the news just as soon as I heard. He was waiting. As were friends, grandparents on both side, brothers and sisters. Everyone wanted to know.

I'd left Renée with a friend whilst I went for the scan. The last thing I wanted was a wriggly, impatient toddler to deal with. But as I sat there in the waiting room I wanted someone to share the moment with. I was excited and I wanted her to be excited too.

The sonographer called me into the room and after a bit of chit-chat, they squirted the cold jelly on my tummy and showed me my baby's heartbeat on the screen.

I held my breath.

"I'd like to know the sex, if possible" I said.

I didn't want to jump ahead, but I couldn't contain myself.

"All in good time", the sonographer replied, smiling at me.

I looked at the screen and saw the clenched fists and jerky legs of my baby, the large head and the long spine and I knew that I could never be disappointed, whatever the sex.

I looked back at the sonographer again, smiling as I did so. She didn't look at me this time. Instead she left the room and returned with what looked like another sonographer. They pointed at the screen, looked at each other, spoke in medical terms I didn't understand, looked over at me and then at the screen again. And then she came over to me.

"We think your baby has a cleft lip, or a cleft palate - we can't be sure. Are you familiar with what that is?"

I nodded my head, but I couldn't speak. I thought about the pictures of babies and small children I'd seen in the newspaper supplements - "Donate £1 and help give these children a better life". They all had cleft lips - where both sides of their faces hadn't fused properly and the lips are left unjoined right up to the nose.

I wanted to cry. I wanted my husband, my toddler, anyone.

"Are you alright?" the sonographer asked.

I nodded again.

"Oh, and she's a girl by the way."

I was lead back out to the waiting room. How different everything looked now. In the space of five short minutes the whole room had changed. There were people who I had chatted with before, still sitting, waiting for their turn. They smiled at me.

I just stood there shaking. A baby girl. With a cleft lip. I knew it wasn't the end of the world. I knew it could be fixed easily with surgery. But still. I wanted my perfect baby to be blemish-free. Renée was beautiful. I didn't want Edie, because that was her name now, living in the shadow of her elder sister. I didn't want her to be the ugly one. I felt protective of her already. Protective and just a little bit sad.

I was lead into another room and offered tea with lots of sugar. I hate sugar in tea, but they made me drink it 'for the shock'.

Three doctors stared back at me.

"Lots can be done you know. Surgery these days is fantastic. Don't you worry. We'll put you in touch with the right people. You'll hardly see a scar."

I don't remember saying much. But I do remember leaving the hospital, standing on the street corner and crying. And then I remember wanting to hear my Mother's voice. So I called her.

"Mum, it's me."

"Darling! Is it a boy or a girl? We're all dying to hear."

I burst into tears again.

And then I texted my husband in New Zealand.

"Can I call you? I need to speak to you."

I got a text back.

"It's the middle of the night. Just tell me. Is it a girl or a boy?"

I texted back.

"It's a girl. And she has a cleft lip".

He called. And I cried. And he cried too.

Ten days later, when he returned from New Zealand, I had another scan. This time the specialist was called in. He wasn't sure whether she had a cleft lip or not.

"Possibly not" were his words.

We weren't sure.

I spent the next four months trying to be brave.

And then I went into labour. And I warned the midwifes that she might have a cleft lip. I didn't want them to be shocked and not know how to tell me.

It was my first question when she came out.

"Does she have a cleft lip?"

Turns out she didn't.

Unbelievable.

Girl or boy. I don't care. As long as they're healthy. And that's the truth.

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This post will be featured on A Mother's Secrets, the new website from Peggy at Perfectly Happy Mum. Do click on the links to read other Parenting posts.

My 5 of the best

Today the lovely people over at Fuel My Blog have awarded me the very prestigious Blog of the Day Award. To mark the occasion, I have decided to give you my five of the best.


Forgive me if you're a loyal follower and have read these already. You know you want to read them again...

Pregnant? Wondering what to name your child? Well good luck. Just please don't choose the name Helga... What's in a Name?

Ever said 'Congratulations' to a woman who wasn't pregnant? Oh the shame. Forgive Me. I know not what I say

Now why do sheep give birth so easily, whilst we're at it for days? I tell you, I'm almost jealous. Childbirth and Sheep Farms

You've scoffed yourself stupid for nine months. And then the baby arrives. And then you realise that it wasn't just the bump after all. Pregnancy Weight - it's just so depressing

Ok, so I couldn't give you my five of the best without including at least one poo story. But don't worry, it's not the graphic image that will stay in your mind forever, nor the one where I ate the stuff. Nope, this right here is my favourite poo story of the lot. Poo Stories RIP

Enjoy the read. I'm just off to break open the champagne x

Get in shape without setting foot in a gym? Erm, not quite...

It is a truth universally known that I piled on the pounds during my pregnancies. I won't bore you with the finer details. Suffice to say that it did take me rather a long time to shift the weight, hampered somewhat by the fact that I am also a tad lazy. Not lazy, as in I like to slob in front of the TV every night, but lazy as in I never go to the gym. Never ever. In fact, I don't even have membership to a gym. I mean, seriously, there's no point in fooling myself. I'd just never go.

So when I received an e-mail asking me if I'd be interested in reviewing some trainers, I smiled. A smile that said 'If only you knew what I was really like'.

But then I looked a little closer at the e-mail.

Trainers that help you get in shape without setting foot in a gym.

Now they sounded like my kind of trainers. I read on. The Skechers Shape Ups, it claimed, were designed to :

• Promote Weight Loss


• Strengthen the back


• Firm calf and buttock muscles


• Reduce cellulite and tone your thighs


• Increase cardiovascular health


• Improve posture


• Reduce stress on knee and ankle joints

Ok, so I had been in France and I had been forced to eat rather too much French cheese and saucisson and I could have done with shifting a few pounds. And besides, Skechers were responsible for making my all-time favorite flip-flops which I had worn constantly for about five Summers until they had died a death and left me devastated in the process.

It was a no-brainer. I agreed to review them.

So when they arrived in the post, I was more than eager to put them on and start off-setting the thick layers of peanut butter that I had smeared all over my toast that morning.

But, alas, before putting them on it was recommended that I watch an instructional DVD. Now let me just paint a quick picture for you. This is mid-Summer holidays. I have two children. Under no circumstances am I allowed to watch anything on television other than Peppa Pig and Dora the Explorer without encountering so much resistance that I know it's futile to continue. And besides, an instructional DVD for a pair of trainers? Oh purlease. I may be verging on the lazy side, but I have worn a pair of trainers before.

So I tossed the DVD aside and slipped my feet straight into the superior quality uppers of durable leather and breathable mesh. Well you would, wouldn't you?

Big mistake.

I almost toppled over there and then.

If only I'd watched the DVD, I would have heard the words of wisdom...

Take a moment to find your centre of balance.

But fret not. I managed to steady myself against the wall and as I did so I realised I could almost touch the ceiling. These trainers were huge. It felt like I was standing in five-inch heels, without the elegance or sophistication that heels bring, unfortunately. In fact, it felt like someone had tied two bricks to the bottom of my feet...extremely soft and comfortable bricks, but bricks nonetheless. And what's more, they made me about six foot tall. Now in the brochure that accompanies the DVD (which I quickly sat down and read just in case I was missing something important like 'under no circumstances should you put these on your feet if you are over five foot tall'), it states that;

With proper use, your body will appear taller.

The thing is, I don't really want to be taller. I'm quite happy being 5ft 8 already (ok, ok 5ft 7 and a half). No, but seriously, I'm above average height for a woman and my feet are definitely larger than average too. And trainers in particular have a way of making my feet feel like boats. And the Sketchers Shape-Ups, well they may be the QE2 of boats, but they're still boats.

However, I am a fair kinda gal and an open-minded one at that (no one mention poo please, this is a serious trainer review), so I regained my balance (not quite as easy as it sounds) and strode straight out of the front door to put them through their paces. Four hours later I returned home on what turned out to be the hottest day of the year (just my luck) and released my poor, sweaty, sorry feet. They were in agony. As were my legs, my buttocks and even my back.

When I did eventually watch the DVD (much later when the girls had gone to bed), I learnt that...

Shape-Ups will probably feel awkward at first.

Hmmm. Well, they're not wrong there. And it goes on to recommend that...

You should start by wearing them for short periods of time (ie 15 to 20 minutes).

Ok, so it serves me right for not having paid attention to the instructional DVD, but even if I had, it does state that...

Consistent use may result in soreness during the first few weeks of use. As your muscles strengthen, aches 'should' subside.

So how long is 'a few weeks'? Aches 'should' subside? What if they don't? Do I really have the time or inclination to wear a pair of trainers which are 'awkward' feeling and cause me pain for a few weeks, on the off-chance that my buttocks might be firmer? Anyway, who said I wanted firmer buttocks? My husband has never complained.

And then I watched the DVD again, just to make sure I hadn't missed anything. And do you know what they suggested? A series of exercises entitled Kick Back, Rock & Roll, Roll & Rock & Roll and The Lean. Exercises? But I thought they were supposed to tone up without exercising. Or was that without going to the gym? But isn't that the same thing? I mean, people who don't want to go to the gym (me), hardly want to stand with their palms pressed against a wall whilst they bend their knees and stretch out their leg muscles in repetitions of 5, do they?

Ok, so this is the thing. There's no denying that they look good - when I first saw them in the box I was impressed and there's also no denying that they're comfortable - the four separate cushioned linings see to that, but they're just strange-feeling. Kind of un-natural. And in fact, the brochure says that Skechers Shape Ups teach you to walk in a different way. But that's the problem. I don't want to walk in a different way. This is England. If I start swinging my hips and pretending to be on a catwalk then, apart from feeling like a prize plonker, I'll probably be beaten-up. And I'd really rather not be.

Soooooooooo. That's my review. Well, they did say in the e-mail that they wanted an honest review. And as one of my esteemed readers told me only a few days ago, my blog is one of the most honest ones she's ever read.

So there you go. You can't say fairer than that.

I'm sorry lovely people at Skechers. But seriously, my feet are still hurting...

A Few Thankyous

Ok, so I've been saving some of these up a while, but it's getting silly now and I'm just going to post them before, well before I decide to go to bed...because that's the only other option I have tonight and it's looking very tempting.

Thank you to the amazingly wonderful and talented David McMahon who writes Authorblog. If you haven't ever visited him then do pop over because his blog is enthralling and to use to the words of Rebel Mother, he's also really rather dishy. Anyway, back in May I was a nominee for 'Post of the Day' - for Responsibilities and Head Wounds. I may not have won, but just a nomination is cause for celebration in my eyes (have you seen how many followers he has?). So thankyou David....it's an honour.

Way back in June Pippa at A Mother's Ramblings gave me this award, which although I already have, doesn't stop me from passing it on to five other 'Lovely Blogs'. Now this award has been around for a while and I think most of you have it already so I'm going to choose five blogs which are fairly new to me, and thus possibly don't have it? Forgive me if that's not the case.



Chic Mama
Lost in Translation
2 Brits, 2 Yanks and a Dog
Hot Cross Mum
The Life of the 20-Something Mum


Next up, this award was given to me by Josie at Sleep is For the Weak. So I'm passing it on to five other blogs that I deem to be a great read. If you haven't read them yet, then what are you waiting for?

Flower Fairies and Fairy Cakes
40 Not Out
Single Parent Dad
NixdMinx
Baby Baby



Almost finally, this award is my favourite of the day. Given to me by Kathryn at Life in Italy it is explained as follows...

"The blogger who receives this award believes in the Tao of the zombie chicken – excellence, grace and persistence in all situations, even in the midst of a zombie apocalypse. These amazing bloggers regularly produce content so remarkable that their readers would brave a raving pack of zombie chickens just to be able to read their inspiring words. As a recipient of this world-renowned award, you now have the task of passing it on to at least 5 other worthy bloggers. Do not risk the wrath of the zombie chickens by choosing unwisely or not choosing at all."


So here are my five worthy recipients...

Sleep is for the Weak
Notes From Inside my Head
Home Mum of 2
WAHM-BAM
Who's The Mummy



And finally, Joanne Mallon at Parentdish has awarded me something special (Best Blog Pic of a Ginormous Poo). There's no award picture as such, but if you missed the original post which inspired the award then click here. You won't be disappointed.

A huge, huge Thank You to everyone for the awards.

Now I really am off to bed.

Look at the size of that (sorry)!!

I once visited a friend who was in the middle of potty training her two-year-old son. Renée was just a baby and was still in nappies and up until that moment I had never had any cause to see a toddler's poo.

That was until the toddler, having proudly deposited a very-fine looking specimen, carried the potty over and showed it to me.

I almost keeled over there and then. It was huge. More than huge. It was enormous. It wasn't a toddler poo at all. It belonged to a grown adult. And as I looked at the size of the little boy and the size of what he had just produced, I couldn't help but stand in awe.

Cut to this weekend in Gloucestershire. Visting some good friends and keen followers of this blog. Well they say keen. I think they may have read one post, a very long time ago. But I won't hold it against them...

Anyway, we'd only just returned from France and I don't think Edie's, ahem, motions, had made it back to British time and it had been a few days since she had, well...you know...

And then it came.

And at the insistence of Edie, hubby disappeared upstairs to help with the wiping, as you do with a two-year-old.

When he returned, he was beaming from ear to ear.

"You will never believe the size of Edie's poo. You just won't believe it."

I was slightly dismayed. I hadn't been there to witness it. Call me strange. Call me odd. Call me whatever you want, but I am her Mother and I had wanted to stand in awe at my daughter's achievements too.

Hubby clocked my crestfallen face.

"It's ok darling. I just took a photo of it for you."

A man after my own heart.

So here it is. And I'm sorry if it offends you. I have to say I thought long and hard (hee hee) about whether or not to post this, but the four of us adults did spend rather a lot of time tittering over the photo and I know you will too (secretly perhaps).

I just have one last thing to say. Thank God she's out of nappies...

In the meantime, there are 3 blogging carnivals happening as I type. I'm a bit late with this one, but Sparx over at Notes from Inside my Head has been hosting a Poo Carnival (yes that's right - a Poo Carnival - you see I'm not the only one obsessed). Steffi from Mummy Do That is hosting a Bi-Lingual Carnival and ClareyBabble is hosting the bi-weekly British Mummy Blogging Carnival. So do pop over and have a read. There are some hilarious, insightful and downright silly posts for you to peruse. Enjoy.

And one final thing. Thank you so much if you've commented on my previous two posts. I'm not ignoring you - I just haven't had much access to a computer. I'm now back at home properly and I promise to reply to all your comments as soon as I find the time to type...