Our house, in the middle of the street

This post is part of the Gallery prompted by Sticky Fingers. The idea is to take or find photos on a different subject each week. This weeks prompt is "the view from my front door"

The view from our bedroom window across all our neighbours gardens - taken during our 'white Christmas'

I love my house.

I am sitting on my front door step, where the sun is beaming down on me warming my cheeks. I have a hot cup of tea and half an Easter egg by my side.

Little Miss P is fast asleep in her pram enjoying the sound of the bluetits in the tree above.

Mr Scruff is mowing the lawn.

A year ago this was just a dream. Now it is a reality. Will someone come and pinch me please.

Pansies in a pot by the front door!

More pansies growing along our drive!

Little Miss P mopping the front door step!

Eight months ago when I was visiting a friend, I saw a For Sale board going up outside a small white cottage with a sloping green roof in the middle of a street of rather smart houses. We were the first through the door the next day. It took our breath away. It was everything we had dreamed off...and more. It was in a deplorable state, having only had one previous owner and needed complete redecoration. But that didn't put us off - it's because of its bad state that we could afford it...just!

The next day I sat outside the estate agents door waiting for them to open. Six weeks later me moved in.

We still have everything to do and it's a twenty year project - at least! But we have a roof over our heads, flowers growing in our garden and a home to call our own.

a rare rant: Sick and tired? Then stay away.

I'm not one to court controversy, I rarely rant in a public domain and debate is something I approach with a diplomatic head.

Is it because I am a people pleaser? Afraid to upset the apple cart, scared of creating a negative attitude towards myself, fear that I will offend? Probably - the insecurities of my teenage years are hard to shift. But every now and then something crops up that really makes my blood boil. It irks me so much that I feel the urge to phone someone, anyone, to let off some steam.

If you, or your child has been mopping a sweaty brow, moping around in slippers and gown, unable to face the world, don't come knocking on my door.

If you want to tell me how you have spent the morning cleaning up your/ your childs poo and sick, send me an email or give me a call and yes, I will be sympathetic. Tell me to my face and I will take a step back.

If you have dragged yourself out of the house, onto the tube and into the office, I don't admire your tenacity, your commitment to your work. I am actually rather annoyed.

Please, go home. Have a Lemsip. Drink some soup.

Yes, yes, I know I cannot wrap myself or my children up in cotton wool. I should know. My daily commute involves germ dodging, but if I catch something from holding the pole in the train carriage that's just down to bad luck.

At a recent Messy Play class, whilst the rest of the under twos stripped down to their vests and got dirty in the paint, one child spent the entire forty-five minutes in his mothers arms. His face flushed bright red, brow clammy, eyes sad, expression gormless, nose streaming, cough chesty. He was clearly unwell and I am sure would rather have been at home in his pj's watching Thomas the Tank Engine. His mum meanwhile spent the entire forty-five minutes yapping to her chums about which local schools she has visited. I spent the entire forty-five minutes keeping Little Miss P a safe distance from the spluttering.

On another occasion, I met up with some mum chums for a play date. I instantly observed how one of the little 'uns was looking a bit peaky, he was not acting his usual bonny self. "Is he alright?" I asked. "Well no, he's had this gastro whatsit that is going round - diarrhea, the works," said mum breezily. I could feel my breath catch as my chest tightened and back bristled. "Well lets keep the kids in the prams and do a circuit of the park," I quickly suggested.

I understand how a trip out to a group, a tea, a play date is something we look forward to but honestly, there's always next week.

Friday Fashion Fix!

A quick update on the maternity leg issue. The Jeggings (snigger, snort - I can't help it, the very idea is just ludicrous), are surprisingly comfy. But a word of warning. I teamed mine with a blouse and cardie. Said blouse is not a maternity style and although it fitted very nicely over the bump, the overall look was met with a puzzled expression courtesy of Mr Scruff. Apparently according to my new style advisor, such tight trousers should not be worn with such a fitted top. A long t-shirt is fine, but if I am going down the blousy route (his words, not mine), a more loose, flowing number would work best.

Baxter maternity jeans, £40 by TopShop

Moving onto maternity jeans...mmm. A touchy subject. I purchased the TopShop Baxters with the elastic waistband across the front replacing buttons and a zip. I am disappointed. Very. In the changing room, they looked fab - fitted nicely and really comfy. But after about an hours wear, they feel like they are sagging half way between my bum and knees. I am constantly, and I mean constantly, having to pull them up. "Maybe I should have bought the smaller size," I mentioned to Mr Scruff. "No don't worry you'll grow into them," was his reply. In future I have asked Mr Scruff to keep his style opinions to himself.

I'd love to hear which are the best maternity jeans. I'm stuck with these now, but my fashion curiosity is intrigued to hear which are the high street hits.

Wellies! Little Miss P walked to the end of the garden and back, which resulted in me spending all afternoon washing her coat, Startrite shoes and trousers. Action has been taken. Wellies have been purchased.

Little Miss P is only a size 3, but all the shops I visited start at size 4, except in Shoe Zone. Where? I am not sure if it is a chain but every local high street has an equivilant. You know, rows of shoes hanging on hooks - the knitted ugg boot style and granny slippers. And kids wellies! I got these pink ones in a size 3 for £6.99. They also came in red and blue!

(top tip: We also got her a old navy parka in a charity shop for a matter on pence. Perfect for getting grubby in the garden and park!)

Marks and Spencer are selling a brilliant Hunter style pair for £8. They are the most delicious fire enguine red with the obligitory buckle and hunter style heel for sloshy mud. I like. A lot. Boots Mini Mode also have a nice pair - not too cartoony, which are also £8. For the really style conscious toddler a pair of Hunters are a must. These are the sort of thing I'll never by my own child (bit pricey) but would make a brilliant gift for a fashion savvy mum chum.

                                                                               Marks & Spencer £8

 

Mini mode at Boots, £8

                                                                             Hunter Kids, from £23 at ASOS

My parents have just returned from a weekend in Hungary (where my dad is from). Look what they brought back for Little Miss P! This is adorable. It's hand embroidered and yes will make her look like a national costume doll, but heck if you can't dress them like this when they are this small, when can you? Poor child!

Who am I?

 
 my wellies at Bestival - 8 months pregnant. It rained. A lot. Not my most sensible moment!

This is a question I have been pondering for some time. Then along came the Gallery carnival over at Sticky Fingers. Bloggers are invited to post a picture they have taken that represents 'me'. I consider myself a creative person and have been wanting to take part in the gallery, but this prompt has left me stumped, unable to know where to start. So I thought I'd write a post about it...easier said than done, I can tell you. There is nothing that makes your nose wrinkle more than taking a good look at yourself!

Is this me?

My job
I have a good job, a nice job, some would say a dream job. I plod along quite nicely and am in a position that I am proud of. I have got here by being good at what I do and a nice person to work with - there's no blood on my soles. But what does that say about me? There's a risk in this funny world I work in to get carried away by it all - the glamour, the luxury, the access all areas. Reality becomes a mere memory. Although my toes have occasionally dipped into the sensational sea (and enjoyed the tingle) they remain on the side line, merely observing.

My relationship
Mr Scruff and I are self proclaimed 'peas in a pod'. We are the same but very different. Eh? Well, we want the same things in life, we share the same dreams, the same goals, the same outlook, but we just have a different way of going about things. But who am I in this partnership? I am the one that giddies us up. If there is a house to be lived in, I will find it, a holiday to be had, I will book it, a birthday, a party, a wedding, I will get us there. In all this whirl my feet often lift off the ground as I hop on board a flight of frenzy yet Mr Scruff very gently and with his very long Mr Tickle arms, lowers me back down.

My daughter
The sort of mother I am and the sort of mother I thought I would be are two different people. I was expecting Earth Mother, embracing motherhood like it was second nature. But she didn't show up, tish! Instead a lunatic knocked on my door. I will admit I struggled. Not to love Little Miss P - that came before she even did - but with the commitment, the responsibility, the routine, the whole 'mummy thing'. Now over a year on, I am in my swing. The lunatic within me still loiters but I am more laid back. But how has having her around molded me? She's my purpose. Whatever I do I now have a reason to do it. The inhibitions and feelings of self consciousness that have been tickling at my shoulder throughout my life, get brushed off when I am with her. She makes me smile. She makes me realise what life is all about. She makes me rich.

I'm loyal to my friends but rubbish at staying in touch. I love a party but never celebrate my own. I am messy and clumsy but glide around unseen. I like nice things but have no need for luxury. I am quiet, private, shy, yet am always the last one standing. I live in the city yet  I am most at home by the sea. I am down to earth yet I often find my head in the clouds. I am self-conscious yet considered quirky.

Confused? I am.... but maybe that's just me.

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20 weeks and panic is setting in!

After a long and anxious wait I finally had my 20 week scan today. I am beaming from ear to ear as all appears to be ticking along nicely. The initial scares and fears of markers and growth defects seem to have corrected themselves. Hip, hip horray. I feel like my toes are a few inches off the ground wiggling with delight. Now, at the half way mark, I feel I can finally embrace, enjoy and accept there is a new bean on the way.

As excited as I am, I can also feel panic rising through my spine. Two under two. Oh my! I have been scrutinising the mums in the park. What buggies do they use? The popular choice around my neck of the woods seems to be the Phil and Teds buggy made for two. It doesn't look too cumbersome and those pushing don't seem to be huffing and puffing from the weight too much. Yet I am reluctant to trade in my current model. You see I have a Bugaboo, which seemed a frightful expense at the time but has more than paid for itself in making our lives easier. I love the ease and lightness of it and Little Miss P is so cosy in there, enjoying her daily nap snuggled into it's fleecy lining. Also the idea of being able to sell it on to pay for an upgrade seems unlikely as the Boo has been loved and used so much that it already looks - a mere fifteen months old - knackered. Could I possibly get away with keeping this? I could put a board thing on, or pop baby in the Baby Carrier, or use our cheap travel buggy when we go out en famile. Mmmmm.

I hadn't thought about how old kids are before they hop into a big persons bed. Now I am thinking about it. Another cot seems a ridiculous expense, so is eighteen months old a good age for Little Miss P to come out from behind bars?

And what about giving Little Miss P the right attention. If I am occupied in the ground hog day that is the first six months of bringing up baby, will I neglect her needs, take my eye off the development road. But wait a minute, what about the baby, do I have enough love for two? How can I possibly double or even share the love I have for Little Miss P onto another. She's my all and everything. Do I have enough love to pass around?

Ah, I'm exhausted just thinking about it all. Deep down I know that I will manage, just like billions of mums have done so before me and will continue to do so around me. I know I will love this baby as much as I love P and she will continue to blossom into the posey she is becoming. But I wouldn't be me without fretting a bit now, and no doubt even more as we get closer.

Chill out, relax, let nature takes it's cause, make life easy for myself? Nah, thats far too sensible.

Friday fashion fix!

I have lots to cram in today as I missed last weeks Fix due to a computer blip. All week I have been egging friday along so I can share my last few finds with you!

First up, the pursuit of a new dress for Little Miss P continues. The christening is in three weeks! But I have to admit, I've lost focus, distracted by other bits to buy. You see the mid season sales are on, and I do love a bargain.

Mr Scruff had the day off last week so we treated ourselves to breakfast (it's the new 'going out' in the Scruff household). We went to Banners in Crouch End, a trendy neighbourhood in North London. Breakfast was great although I had serious food envy. Yes I enjoyed my kippers but Mr Scruff had a Mexican feast with guacamole, sour cream, refried beans - the works (note to self. You are pregnant. Do not opt for the low fat option). I digress. We had a quick mooch around the shops and stumbled across Soup Dragon. It's jam packed with kiddy delights. It sells clothes - a really bright cheery collection, fancy dress outfits and brilliant toys. Not only did we buy Little Miss P a 99p ladybird-shaped castanet (last of the big spenders us), but I bought this corduroy dress by Feu Follet. It was reduced to £14, which I think is a bargain as it is so individual - frillier than I would normally pick, but I liked it.

Gap has a big sale on too. They had a great seahorse print playsuit which reminded me of British seaside weekends - building sand castles, plastic windmills and crazy golf. Alas they didn't have the right size but I did pick up this seahorse print T shirt (£4.99).

Also Zara has a promotion on their basics range. I tend to only buy from this collection and I am always impressed (although I do think the sizes come up quite small). I got this white polo shirt for £2.99. I think it will become one of those wear and wash daily tops!

I am loving the denim range from H&M, but not actually the denim (eh!). I'm drawn to all the crisp white blouses and smock tops and easy wear sun dresses in gingham and cotton.


And look what else H&M had! Little Miss P's first fairy skirt (a mere £2). What could be better for doing a spot of gardening!

Finally a trip to M&S to buy a sandwich had me deviating via the kids department. I found this yellow dress reduced from £20 to £9. At first I was not sure as I thought it a bit too twee but actually its quite long on P which I think gives it a bit more character! I'll dress it down with these Adidas trainers I have spotted in Office Kids (although I have yet to convince Mr Scruff she needs these. He thinks you wear one pair of shoes until they fall apart!) I also bought a new swim suit for her...£4...bargain.


Now onto me! My bump is huge. When I tell people I am only 19 weeks pregnant their eyes widen and mouth drops. I was huge with Little Miss P and I lived in tent and smock dresses. This time I feel like being a bit more daring.

I bought...wait for it...deep breath....JEGGINGS!!!! ha ha, it makes me laugh out loud just saying the very word. I would never be seen dead in these normally (images of stuffed sausages spring to mind) but I saw a pair in TopShop maternity and thought..."If there is ever a time to wear skimpy, its when I am pregnant!" Yes I do look like two stuffed wursts, but I've got the lovely big jacket spud at the front to balance it out! What a picture I paint.

It's not often in life you meet someone this special

This post is in response to a writing workshop prompt set up by the lovely Josie over at Sleep is for the weak.
Prompt title: Tell me about someone from you past who you lost touch with and who you often think about.

When I was seven months pregnant with Little Miss P, Mr Scruff and I jetted off to Sardinia for a last 'just the two of us' holiday. A time for us to relax before the baby arrived.

The best perk about being a beauty editor is occasionally I get to try out a spa. This was one such occasion. This is a real pinch yourself opportunity. When it's left to Mr Scruff and I, we opt for backpacking around the Greek islands, staying at little family run hotels. Or camping in the UK - we even went to Cornwall for our honeymoon packing walking boots rather than honeymoon heels. So you can imagine our gasps of delight when we walked into our suite. The penthouse suite. The PR, Christina, took great pride in telling us this was the room that the Beckhams stay in. Even royalty has rested their head on that super king size bed surrounded by panoramic views of the Sardinian coastline and hills. The terraced balcony had its own pool and sun deck. and you could easily fit two of our flat back in London in that one room.

For two days we lived like Lord and Lady Muck. Swimming in the crystal clear sea, basking on the sandy beach. Padding back to our 'room' for a dip in our pool and some pistachios and crisps on the balcony (a holiday must, surely), before heading down to enjoy the hotels various restaurants.

Then on day three things took a turn. Mr Scruff suddenly felt ill. Out of nowhere he was doubled over in pain. He was sick, really sick. I had no choice but to call the hotel doctor who, at 2 in the morning, gave him an anti sickness injection. The shame I felt having to call the workman in the unblock the Beckhams loo. "Tut, the Engklish," they must have thought. But after another day things were no better. An ambulance was called and Mr Scruff was taken to hospital. It was at this point that Christina, the hotel PR, stepped in. She insisted on going with Mr Scruff. "A hospital is no place for you in your condition," she said to me. "And I could act as an interpreter." And so I waited, and waited. Eventually Christina returned, alone.

The next day we took a taxi to the hospital to meet with the doctors. As I waited in the office they wheeled Mr Scruff in. I couldn't believe my eyes. How could one night have had such an effect? He looked a shadow of his former self. Pale, weak and thin, so thin. He sat wired up to machines and pumps. I knew it was not good. The doctors spoke no English so Christina translated and explained they would have to keep Mr Scruff in hospital indefinitely.

During the drive back to the hotel, Christina squeezed my hand. "I will look after you both," she said. And my god, she stuck by her word.

Over the next four weeks, Christina arranged it so i could still stay at the hotel (in a far more modest room to our suite, I am actually relieved to say). Even when the hotel closed and played host to conferences only, she made sure there was always meals for me when I returned from my four hour round bus trip to and from the hospital. She telephones the doctors everyday for an update on Mr Scruffs progress, which was a godsend as no one spoke English (except one student doctor who kept saying Helena Boneham Carter). When we were finally able to fly home, she arranged for all the medical notes to be sent over to us and even got us a taxi to the airport.

"You don't have to do all this for us," I said to her one day. I felt guilty that I was imposing on her life and the hotel.

"You are not a guest at this hotel," she answered. "You are our friend. And we always help friends, right?"

When we returned to London, I wrote to Christina to thank her. Then on Christmas Eve I got a missed call from her. Perhaps she was ringing to wish us Merry Christmas and to see how we were getting on with the baby, but I was actually in labour.

Once Christmas was over and I felt more settled with Little Miss P, I tried to call Christina at the hotel, but she had left and had taken a post in another hotel in another country. I had no other details.

I often think about how she is getting on and would love to fill her in on all our news. But mostly I think about how kind she was and how she put her own life on hold for a month to look after two complete strangers.

Forget penthouse suites, fancy hotels and spas, its people like Christina that make life rich.

My name is Mummy Bear, I am computer illiterate.

Now I know I have a brain. I've used it on more than one occasion. Yet when it comes to computers I am quite the dunce.

So bad is my technological knowledge that I will describe myself as middle aged. I recoil with horror at this notion yet cannot deny its truth. As a youngster I mocked my parents tirelessly. I'd roll my eyes as they tried to work the video recorder and when it came to teaching them to text, well curses, there were a few. Yet now here I am in my mid thirties totally and utterly stumped, filled with the fear that Little Miss P will despair of her mummy's naivety, her eyes will roll behind my back.

I use a computer everyday. I am a writer and as much as the idea of pad and pen appeals, I tippy tappy my features on 'word'. I can cut and paste and file my features to my editor. I can email, search on google, load my camera photos, heck I can even shop 'online'. But when it came to starting this blog my ignorance was exposed.

You will notice the look of my blog is the most simplest of layouts. I would love a picture across the title but that goes beyond my knowledge. I can upload pictures on my posts but when it comes to writing little captions underneath in a smaller font, I meet a brick wall. I have tried on several occasions to download (or is it upload?) a method of tracking my visitors, but alas, this has eluded me. When I read words such as 'technorati', 'ff's', 'readers' or 'RSS', I scratch my head, puzzled.

Bloggers, or indeed, anyone out there must be shaking their heads at me, tutting. Am I really alone in my inability to get my head around the vehicle that is shaping the future? I feel I am falling behind the times and I desperately want to understand how it all works, yet I struggle to get my brain to absorb the information.

I love to blog, I love to communicate with the virtual community and I know that with a little more know how my experience can be even better. I plead for some assistance, a light to direct me. Where, brains of blogging, do I start?

An update on Little Miss P's Diary

Ever since I found out I was pregnant with Little Miss back in, oooooh, April 2008, I have been keeping a diary. Just little jots on what I have been feeling at various stages of pregnancy and motherhood; notes I wrote in my anti natal classes and copied out of books (mainly breathing techniques that I thought would be vital but actually just got thrown out the window when b-day came), and then once Little Miss P arrived I have been noting all what she's been doing - her first smile, when she sat up, her sleep routine etc. It's a lovely idea and I think in the future when dates become blurred I (and hopefully Miss P) will appreciate the effort. But as time is going by and daytime hours seem to be slipping through my fingers, entries are coming fewer and far between. It means I am having to look back over weeks at a time in order to remember all the things I want to log.

Today, after a whopping four week lapse, I picked up pen and paper. With Mr Scruff's assistance, we made a note of all the things Little Miss P has been up to. It really brought a smile to our faces, so I thought it would be nice to share some of these gems with you.

When ever we lift Little Miss out of way, say for example, when she's barging past our legs to rummage in the fridge, her little legs keep running mid air, cartoon style. We call it her Scooby Doo legs.

In the mornings at about 7am we start to hear a little conversation going on next door. "Ba Ba Ba Ba Ba," is the general flow. We can leave her for a good half an hour, whilst we get her bottle ready, and she happily jibber-jabbers away. When we open her bedroom door she is nose pressed up to the character stickers on her cot. Her best listeners.

At our weekly monkey music class, I am often told off (which actually rather annoys me), as rather than sit on the floor nicely in between mummy's legs clapping along to the music, Little Miss P would far rather take a turn around the room, go up to each fellow monkey and give them a smile and a wave. She even likes to show the class that she has learned all the moves and will stand center stage to demonstrate. Now, I'm not one to encourage showy behaviour, but she just genuinely wants to be up on her feet dancing!

Nothing gets her fired up more than a good bout of soft play. Mr Scruff is turning our Little girl into a tom boy. He will literally fling her on the bed and tickles her. She laughs hysterically, legs and arms flailing everywhere. She gets herself so worked up she starts throwing herself on the pillows, duvet, mattress. Meanwhile whilst those two have a riotous time I am shuffling along side the bed, arms out like a goal keeper, trying to prevent her falling off the side. Its like a new sport.

Now where was that in the job description?

A techno blip

OOps, what happened there?

It seems my blog was shut down for a couple of days to be investigated for spam...mmmm. Should I be insulted? Take it personally? Being a techno dunce, I have no idea why I was picked on, or what it even means!

Anyhoo, all is well again here at She was Not at all domestic. We are back up and running again, and I am itching to post.

Apologies if you tried to leave comments! I'll just pop the kettle on and get tip tapping.

Happy Mothers Day!

Mummy Bear xx

The pitfuls of pregnancy

At 18 weeks I had expected to feel fabulous. I did the first time around. With Little Miss P I had the usual 16 weeks of morning sickness. The smell of food made me run a mile. I still cannot quite stomach Italian - its the garlic you see. But when that passed, my energy levels surged. If you dared me to run the marathon, I would have been sure I could do it.

Yet now I find myself in a slump, literally. The sickness still lingers. I am not off food, quite the contrary. I am in a permanent state of hunger, my tummy rumbling at a constant pace throughout the day, yet any morsel of food that passes my lips leaves me feeling like a rather queasy puffer fish. And the tiredness, oh the tiredness. I am positively narcaleptic.

Lets talk about dehydration. At this precise moment, my lips are tingling as I desperately resist the urge to yet again give them a lick, my throat feels sore as it gasps, yet merely seconds ago I downed a pint of water. I wake in the night with a mouth that feels like it has licked the carpet. In fact, so gross is my dryness that I could, should I wish, scoop the roof of my mouth with my hand. Ew.

The nose. The sinuses. Blocked. Permanently. Yes I am aware that it is still minus something outside and yes, the central heating is causing all of us a bit of jip, but seriously, I can't breath! So desperate is my plight that I have purchased a Neti Pot. A whaty pot? A Neti pot. It was recommended to me by my pregnancy yoga teacher (I joined last week). Quite simply it is a little watering can which I fill with warm water and salt. I then tip my head to one side, stick the spout up one nostril and all but the kitchen sink comes out the other, thus unblocking my sinuses. Nice. All it has achieved this far is to freak out Mr Scruff.

I was warned by mums of multiples that the second time around is different. Less time to find the zen. Perhaps this is the difference between expecting a boy, compared to having had a girl - the start of things to come? And I am fully aware that at the end of this 'bumpy' road lies a lifetime of emotional ecstasy, as I bring another little Scruff into the world. But boy, it's a tough ole ride.

A wedding and a revelation.

Mr Scruff has a force ten hangover. More than a few pints a guinness followed by some cheeky whiskeys, initiated by our Welsh pal and dance demon Dylan, has hit hard.

I, due to my ever increasing bump, relied on the fizz of coca cola to keep my dancing toes frisky.

Our first wedding of the year, oh what a pip.

Being sober at such an event, certainly has its upsides (being relatively able to deal with Little Miss P's 4am poo), but it also opened my eyes.

We are not the cool kids anymore. We have turned into our parents.

This hit me as hard as a giant tango orange hand round my face on the middle of the dance floor. A band called the Indy Kidders (the clues in the name), were in charge of rallying the troops. A trio of hip young skinny jeaned, eyeliner clad lads who felt the 'Wembley Stadium' vibe in their hearts as they rocked out to the suited and frocked crowd.

The Killers, Kings of Leon, Kaiser Chiefs all boomed out, but the tunes that got us really excited were the likes of The Clash, Green Day (Paranoid...toooooon!), heck even The Kinks. "I saw Green Day play," I yelled to my dance floor comrade, feeling cool as. "When," she asked. A moment to think. "Twenty years ago." TWENTY YEARS AGO.

Granted it is hard to let go and unleash your inner dancing queen when wearing your finest peacock feathers, but seriously, I used to bust some moves. I was a dance floor favourite. I'd shoulder shrug to hip hop, nod to Nirvana, swing and shuffle to Jackson. Now I felt awkward and self conscious, aware that those arm moves I just made are in my very own mothers repertoire, and what was that hip shake about? The kids cringed. And did I just spin?

As for the conversation. We talked babies, work, would we have botox, the standard of the buffet, who made the cake, sofa quality, the evening chill, butter or margarine. Don't get me wrong, I loved the chat, relished in it, which I fear, is the problem.

And what about home time. Yes, I was tucked up in bed at 12.30...no all night raves, mini cabs to a house party, kebab shop stop. I have gardening to do today, and the ironing. And a chicken to buy for dinner.

Is it really time already to pass the baton? To embarrass the cool young things, as opposed to join them. Judging by the state of Mr Scruff, I should say so. Bacon sarnie and a cup of tea?

Friday Fashion Fix!

It's been a quiet week on the clothes spotting front. I am on the look out for a dress for Little Miss P to wear to her cousins christening but so far its been a disappointing search - it appears all the styles are sleeveless, so I may have to think about some cunning layering! Hopefully next week I'd have unearthed some gems.

So as a self indulgent treat this week, I thought I would share a little sneaky peek into Little Miss P's 'working wardrobe!' She certainly has her favourites - namely her Buzzy Bee feet. When I put them on her, she is overwhelmed with a jitterbug urge. Quite the effect.





I have my first (and sadly so far, my only) wedding tomorrow. I do love a confetti fest - as long as it's not my own - my 'special day' was planned in three weeks and couldn't have been smaller or cheaper if we tried - maybe one day I'll tell you about it, although we still haven't even printed a picture off yet!

I am not one for the matching hat and outfit combo, preffering to play it down. The top perk of working on a magazine is that I do get to try before I buy. My good friend, the fashion assistant, has lent me a selection of hair accessories to rummage through. Here's what I picked out...

There is so much to choose from in the shops (all the above are from the high street - Dorothy Perkins, Monsoon, TopShop, Miss Selfridge and New Look). From huge netted bows, to feathers, to sequins, any style and taste is catered for.

I'm giving the sequined head band the thumbs up and am off to TopShop tomorrow to buy it (it's under a tenner - whoop, whoop)! It'll add just the right amount of celebration sparkle without making me feel like an extra in Four Weddings! Ding Dong!

12 Week scan and the worry of Down Syndrome

A quick update: yesturday I revealed that I am pregnant! Whoo hoo! But there have been a few hiccups along the way. I am writing about my experience over two posts as to not overwhelm my fingers nor, indeed you, dear reader. Thank you for all the wonderful comments to yesturdays post.

The twelve week scan

Mr Scruff and I decided to have a private scan at twelve weeks. I have a history of severe endometreosis (which I promise to blog about soon), so when I found out I was pregnant with Little Miss P, my gynecologist recommended it as they do the nuchal test there and then, whereas my hospital didn't at the time. It was such a treat (great pictures, a good hour oogling at the screen and instant results from blood tests to put our mind at rest), so we decided to go for it again.

Arriving at the Fetal Medicene Clinic in Harley Street, we both felt very nervous. For me, it was because I wanted to know the sex.

Lying on the bed, the doctor went through all the measurements. "Whats the sex," I tentatively asked. "I can be 80% confident that it's a boy," she replied. I was stunned. I have very good intuition and I was convinced it was a girl. I will hold my hand up and admit I wanted it to be a girl. They are what I know. It sounds silly but I have all the girly gear - the pink blankets, the clothes, the nack, the confidence. I laid there in shock, gathering my thoughts. Mr Scruff squeezed my hand. "It's good," he said. "It's a new adventure for us." I still get blown away at how Mr Scruff, and all his faults, manages to put his own excitement to one side and always say the right thing at the right time to comfort me.

At the end of the scan, the doctor went through her findings with us. All was not well. There appeared to be a problem. A marker that suggested a risk for Down Syndrome. My head swirled, I felt dizzy. The doctor spoke in a thick accent and her voice was very quiet. I couldn't hear or understand what she was saying. I remember nodding but to what I know not.

Mr Scruff and I found ourselves sitting in the waiting room with our coats on. Neither of us spoke and neither of us quite understood what had just happened.

During the tube journey home, we tried to make sense of what we had be told, but neither of us could. I phoned my hospital and they booked me in for a scan the next day.

The scan at my hospital confirmed the fears. I was referred immediately to the consultant.

At last I was able to talk to someone and have my situation explained to me. The previous forty eight hours had been a blur. She explained that all of my blood tests were good and my risk level considered positive. But there was a defect, a 'marker'. She explained that such a marker is present in 2% of 'normal' babies. Because all my other results were good she advised I wait until 16 weeks to give it a chance to correct itself and then be booked in for an amnio. She told me to think about what I would do if the baby did have Down Syndrome but also to keep my fingers crossed that our little fellow was one of the 2% 'lucky ones'.

The waiting game

How we got through the next four weeks, I will never know. I am writing this in retrospect as at the time, I could not find the words to describe my heartache. We told no one except for close family, but even then we could barely speak to them about it. Just thinking about it made me sob. I felt guilty, so terribly guilty. Maybe it was me that brought this on. My initial shock at finding out I was pregnant. Doubting that I wanted a boy. Maybe I had jinxed it somehow. Going to work everyday kept me strong. It forced me to focus on something else. And of course being with Little Miss P was my saviour. She brought a smile to my face when all I wanted to do was cry.

Our lives seemed to float. We existed but on auto pilot. Hoping that it would all be okay but at the same time knowing our chances were so small. 2% I kept saying to myself. That's barely a number, let alone an odds.

As for the bump. I was growing, really growing. I don't know what we were going to do about continuing with the pregnancy if the results were negative as we had decided to cross that bridge and monumental decision when we needed too and not before. But I did find my mind wandering, imagining names, picturing him. I would stop myself dead in my tracks. I felt I had to have some distance, some disconnection.

Finally...The sixteen week scan

Finally our appointment date came. Its funny as we had both longed for the day to come, yet when it arrived we didn't want to have to face it. I felt sick and had an upset tummy brought on from nerves.

We went into the room and I hopped onto the bed. Our doctor was chirpy. "Right then, lets have a look," she said very matter of factly. She measured all the bits and pieces she needed too and then announced in her frank but jolly tone. "Well it's good news, there is definately signs of improvement." And that was that.

Again, Mr Scruff and I found ourselves sitting in stunned silence in a hospital waiting room. So we just go home. No tests, no amnio, it's all alright?

Where do we go from here?

A few days after the scan I had an appointment with the consultant. Once again she was able to explain clearly to me, as by now I was like a bowl of spaghetti. The results of the scan were very reassuring. I have to go again at 20 weeks, when the baby is bigger so they can have another look to be completely satisfied that all is well, but in the meantime I can breath a sigh of relief and feel confident that my pregnancy should proceed as normal.

So here I am today. I plucked up the courage yesturday to tell my boss, and have started to tell friends my good news. But more importantly I am starting to tell myself that I am pregnant and that I can embrace this and enjoy it. I have started to touch my belly more and Mr Scruff and I have already bickered over name ideas!

Despite my own relief, I do feel incredibly sad. I keep thinking of a room full of one hundred little babies, two of them will be 'normal'. All going well at twenty weeks, I feel blessed with this baby and lucky that I have not had to make any life changing decisions. I have an unbelievable amount of love and respect for people who have.

So now it's business as usual. The Bio Oil is out, the maternity trackie b's ready and waiting (still unwashed from the last time!), and panic already setting in - two babies! What fun!

Drum roll...I"M PREGNANT! But its been a rocky road

I have been a bit quiet lately. Not my usual chatty self. You see I have had things on my mind. The last two months have been a roller coaster of emotions and I have had to keep them all to myself. It is only now that I can, at last, share the diary I have been keeping with you.

I have a lot to get off my chest, so if I may be so self indulgent, I will spread my tale over several posts, if only to allow me a chance to collect my thoughts and take a few deep breaths. I am going to be honest, as what else can I be?

So. Deep breath. I am pregnant. Again. Baby number two is cooking in mums tum. Seventeen weeks and counting. A smile is growing across my face. But this smile has not been easy to come by. Up until now, this pregnancy has not been easy.

The blue cross shock!

I joked with Mr Scruff today that I think I am pregnant. "That would be an effing disaster for our relationship!" he said laughing (from the guy who never swears). I laughed. I mean he's got a point. Our, cough, sex life has plummeted since Little Miss P came along and I hold my hands up and take the blame. I mean I know it only takes one time, but that would really take the biscuit. Thing is, I really do think I am pregnant.

Okay, where the hell has this tummy come from. I am looking bloated. Really bloated. My mum tum was looking pretty good. Heck my skinny jeans slipped on last week, now I can't do them up. What if I really am pregnant. I mean, surely I wouldn't be showing already?

I have only had one period since I stopped breast feeding, but if my cycle has returned to how it was pre Miss P, I should have come on by now. Little Miss P is asleep. I pee in a deodorant lid. I dip the tip of the pregnancy test in my wee and go off to make my bed. I mean, I don't even know why I'm bothering. There is a blue cross. I feel dizzy. I feel sick. I start to cry. I phone Mr Scruff.

I am not ready for this. I am going back to work in a week. I'm looking forward to it. I can't go back pregnant - what will people think? What will they say about me? This was my chance to be me. We've got no money. I don't want a baby yet. I want my body back. I want a drink. I like it being me and Miss P. Oh god. This is a disaster.

"Whatever you want to do, I will stand by you," says Mr Scruff trying the read between lines. Is this what I am contemplating? No, of course not. Not to love this baby because I am scared to tell my boss, or because I want to go out once in a while. This is a blessing. Get a grip.

I am watching Little Miss P play with her toys. She is babbling away to her jigsaw puzzle. She will love having a little brother or sister to play with. I know it will be hard in the beginning but hopefully they'll be good friends and look after each other - either that or sworn enemies!!! I am beginning to get my head around it all. The news is sinking in. Heck I am getting excited. A family. What could be better?

Morning sickness. Bleugh.

I feel sick, I feel horrible. In the pit of my tummy I feel crampy and crappy. I feel empty, hungry but I cannot face food. I cannot be bothered to get up and make something. I don't know what I want. I want to go to bed. I feel a bit dizzy, My mouth feels like I have licked the carpet. Its snowing outside and I am cold. Little Miss P is in bed. God I hope she sleeps for a while as I cannot be bothered to play.

I had my first appointment at the hospital today. Talk about deja vu. Sitting in the waiting room, it felt like only yesturday I was here pregnant with Little Miss P. Except this time my emotions are completely different. Then I was excited. I couldn't believe my luck. My head was swimming with thoughts and dreams. I was hungry for information. Now I am apprehensive, anxious. Worried about how I am going to cope. I know we will, but I am still worried. I still feel incredibly sick and I am recovering from flu.

I am not going to tell anyone - not even close friends in the office. If anyone knows it will be green light to indulge this sick feeling. Let me just out on a brave face and get through the day.

Tomorrow: The twelve week scan.