The Poo Diaries

It's the taking part that counts...

2009-06-02T02:16:00.000-07:00

Tampons in Skirts

2007-07-09T05:16:00.000-07:00

Tampax launch their new "dog and dress lovers" range: 3.23pm, yesterday.

Given that I have about 36 minutes left before I have to re-earn my advertising crust (well, the soggy bread of direct marketing to be strictly honest, but I've never been one to let small details get in the way), I've been making a vague attempts at paying attention to what's going on on the small screen these days.

I'm heartened to see that little appears to have changed when it comes to the 30 second product push. The genius of Cilit Bang and Barry Scott are still doing their shouty thing, JML continue to forge innovatively ahead with their bemusing pet mit and full body stocking range, and all brands of tampons are still offering us the chance to take up a slice of la dolce vita.

Now then, it's quite an expensive business, this being a woman thing. Even if you happen to have a small squeaky child that sucks up your cash like an ice-cold camel in Alex, there's still the essentials that you need to splash out on. Sadly for me, sparkly bikinis, heels and handbags are now off the obligatory list, but I have been known to indulge in the occasional bout of hair cutting, food shopping and, um, sanitary protection over the past year.

Naturally, the humble tampon is big business in the UK. With over £370 million a year spent on the blighters (and not just by my good self, I might stress), it's no surprise that the ads literally tumble over themselves to try and persuade us that buying their particular brand will meet our every need.

Perhaps I should just stop watching Channel 5, but I am quite glad to see that they're no longer just amazing at soaking up some suspiciously blue coloured liquid and, in fact, can be a truly life-enhancing choice. After all, I've often fancied being able to stroll out and stop a line of traffic with the flick of my hand, jump in the back of a pick up truck whilst a high-pitched Diva sings “wooooahh” dramatically in the background, and serenely fling my pants out of a New York window as I stand there, gorgeously flaunting my Agent Provocateur's. So thank heavens that the TV and the ad men are there to show me how to do it.

I have to confess though, some of the products do seem a little, well odd. Tampax's scented range, for example, may have appealed to some but, quite frankly, made me feel all a bit confused and itchy. Thankfully, to relieve the itch, it's good to know you can now buy a towel made virtually from pure silk, or perhaps go for the exciting, and somewhat bewildering “tampon in a skirt” option. Sadly, there's no available explanation as to why you might need to go out with your tampon all suited and booted, but presumably it's something to do with offering you the vital added protection you've been missing all these years.

I can't wait for what the next generation of these ads brings. Personally, I'm holding out for the “Life Coach Pad”, to help me write a killer CV, vet my boyfriends, remind me to drink some water when I've had one or two many glasses of wine, and clean up after Lucy has helpfully wet herself on the carpet. Again.

Now, when that one comes out, I'm definitely buying...

Argument # 5,679

2007-06-18T03:33:00.000-07:00

The woeful contents of Lucy's toybox; 4.32pm, yesterday.
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Maintaining cordial relations with Lucy's dad is, it seems, a tad tricky these days. In fact, were I of a more pessimistic bent, I might be tempted to conclude it's nigh on bloody impossible, m'lud.

Having called the ceasefire on our relationship, you'd think that a fashion of peace could ensue: S no longer has to gameplay the dutiful father, whilst I no longer have to torture myself with thoughts of his other daughter and the bountiful Ms. Haythornthwaite. Ergo, we should both be happier, leaving me to concentrate on more pressing matters: like the washing up, my imminent return to the workforce, and just how many times I have to tell Lucy "no" before she stops trying to eat her way through all her dirty nappies. A surefire recipe for success that even Delia would be proud of.

Or so you'd think. Alas, it seems that there still isn't a subject borne in God's green land that we can discuss without a razor-bladed tongue or two and stake-burnt voices at the ready.

As a typical example, the latest topic for discussion has been my housewifery, or, to be more precise, my complete lack of it. Now then, it's true to say that Freud himself would have struggled to make the case for my housewife's psychosis, and those that know me well will freely admit I'm no Anthea Turner: I haven't got a clue about towel folding etiquette, have never paid a visit to my toilet with a lemon and some flat coca cola in hand and, more importantly, am clearly and very thankfully not married to Grant Bovey.

These things aside, although I'd probably not encourage my guests to lick the cistern, my flat's never truly hideous. It is, frequently, a complete mess; particularly when Lucy has been helping matters by distributing the entire contents of the fridge, washing machine and all my bookshelves across the floor with joyful abandon.

However, it seems that S has now decided that he's had enough of my scruffiness. And it really is a bit much to expect him to see his daughter when the toys are not safely aligned in their box and the carpet has not been scrubbed in honour of his visit. I can apparently expect the social services to come round and remove Lucy any second now, on the charge of my home being "a mess" and, more ominously my bedroom being "a complete state".

Clearly, I'd better engage a damn good lawyer in the face of such frightening accusations. I just hope the courts don't object to the pile of used syringes that I like to keep on the floor for Lucy to peruse at her leisure, when she's bored of her favoured collection of old condoms and fag ends that we collect after I've taken her out for a night's hard drinking.

Hmm. Perhaps if I keep them in some nice coloured boxes it'll be okay...

In The Name of The Father

2007-06-07T12:59:00.000-07:00

Some confused children; 9.59pm.

Unless the phrase "nanagooie da!" has recently made an entrance into the Oxford English Dictionary, I'm saddened to report that, at the grand old age of one, Lucy has yet to say her first proper word.

Now don't get me wrong, she's brilliant at syllables. A veritable Jedi Master, in fact. From "aah" to "gah", and all the way through to "pah", there's not a far-rhyming couplet she can't make. And, had the mighty James Murray had the foresight to include these in the OED, he would surely have needed at least 5,000 extra pigeon holes to verify the sound provenance of Lucy's utterances.

However, when it comes to stringing them together into something a bit more like recognisable speech, she's, well, not quite there yet. With foolish enthusiasm, I did hope she'd finally managed to break into the world of talking way back in December, when "dada" made it's way into the conversational fray over present opening on Christmas morning: much to the delight of her actual Daddy, who happened to be there at the time.

And, for a while, it seemed that she was "dada" mad - muttering it away to herself at every opportunity, like a drunken 80-year-old on a crack & Werther's Original high. I'd open the curtains to an excited "dada!"; change nappies and remove carrot from my hair to yet more "dada dada!!"; walk for miles through the rain to it; and, excitingly, make lunch, do dinner, wash up and bathe my precious one to it.

Everything, in fact, was accompanied by a delighted high-chorus of da-bloody-da, whilst I quietly grated my eyeballs in the background and gave her an extra hundred lines on the benefits of the far more appealing "mama".

Since then, my digits haven't exactly worn themselves out in the mammoth task of counting how many times she's set sight on the clearly thrilling "dada". However, I am pleased to reveal that she has finally taken the hint and now knows "mama". She's not quite so free and easy with the expression though: "Mama", it seems, really is reserved exclusively for me.

Though, on occasion, the washing machine, the laundry basket, her pram and the settee do get greeted with the "M" word. But clearly when she says that, I know she's just trying to find me there. And I do often hide myself away with the dirty clothes. Honest.

Letter to Le Jig Jog

2007-05-24T08:58:00.000-07:00

A sentimental old fool; 7.21am this morning.

It's been exactly a year to the day since that very nice man, wearing blue overalls and slightly suspicious plastic clogs, sliced me open and introduced you – my beautiful Lucy Lamorna - to the world.

And what a year it's been. To say that it's all gone a bit quickly is, well, more understated than an entire convention of Understaters. The crust on my eyes has barely twinkled, and yet many, many things have changed. I've gone from being an overly anxious, slightly drunken career girl in a dwindling relationship to a single mother, and yet I wouldn't alter a thing.

The first days and weeks with you felt eternal. I couldn't tell if you were hungry, tired, bored, cold, colicky, or just frustrated at having missed the first few episodes of Big Brother. All of a sudden, my day's normal activities were replaced by a constant barrage of crying, nappy-changing, feeding, burping and rocking. Even when you were asleep I couldn't rest, and had to check every second that I hadn't mistakenly managed to kill you in some hideous National Enquirer incident. Danger seemed everywhere: malicious nappy bags threatened to release themselves from their packet and float over to your cot to choke you; the evil asbo sun would try to sneak through your curtains to burn you; and villainous books prepared to throw themselves from far-off shelves to bash your precious head.

Thankfully, things gradually got easier: with the help of good old Gina Ford, I was able to get some sleep, and some days even managed the herculean tasks of both eating and dressing in the shaky knowledge that there'd be at least half an hour in the day when you would give me some rest. Then suddenly, the days started to drip with oil and slipped past so quickly that I could barely catch them. And now, now you're one, I can't believe how fast it's all happened, and how much I've learnt over the simple course of a year.

For a start, I can now block the hearing in one ear as surrounding wine glasses shatter at the onset of your crying. I can peel and massage a parsnip whilst simultaneously stopping you from emptying the entire contents of the washing machine and crawling inside for a swift spin cycle. My favoured topics of conversation now include a thousand and one tips for removing carrot stains and which songs about frogs and row boats I would take to a desert island.

Impressively, I can now also keep a straight face whilst you trump like an untrained fishwife in a queue of strangers. I've paid for shopping with odd brown streaks on the back of my hands, and learnt that (thankfully!) most people are too polite to mention the fact that I've left the house again with baby vomit on my top and yesterday's knickers hanging out the bottom of my jeans.

But more than all that, I've found such joy in the smallest things of you. A mere twelve months ago, I would rather have grated my own flesh than face the thought of a daily clothes wash and twenty thousand nappy changes. But, now even the most deathly-boring and menial of tasks has a point. And, Daddy may have left, but I've come to realise that I am enough for you and when we're together we are more than complete. Unfortunately for the distilleries of Scotland, I also now know that a smile from you is more warming than the finest single malt; and I would give up the riches of Midas to know that you are happy, safe and well.

A good year indeed. The strangest thing of all is that I can hardly remember a time when there was no you. You are the beginning and the end of me, and the one thing that finally makes sense of it all: whoever you become, wherever you go - I will always love you.

Happy Birthday, baby.

x

Care in the Community

2007-04-19T00:53:00.000-07:00

A stunning picture of me; 2.59 pm yesterday. Fortunately, I have since shaved off the beard & 'tache.

If one thing has become apparent over the past year, it has to be how undoubtedly shit I am at real life. It's been almost twelve whole months since Le Jig Jog made her entrance, and at least six since her daddy finally, and most resolutely, left the building. Yet still here I am, umming and arring about the possibility of a return to the workforce, quaking at the thought of single motherdom, and wrestling like a WD40-basted blindman over the idea of putting my most precious thing in the care of anyone else.

Still, at least there's consolation in the thought that the past 360 or so days haven't been exactly the easiest in the run of a normal life. For a start (and most predominantly for me), there's the fact that I've been hiding from for a while. That Lucy actually has a half-sister. Virtually her age (in fact, born on Lucy's due date, as luck and life would have it), and borne by an Australian Artist of Oranges and Still Life Trees. At any rate, citrus fruit and silver birches aside, it's been good to know that her half sibling's mother was a more exciting prospect and more child-worthy than me: oh SH, you of the sperm donation in car parks and lying text messages - hail to thee!

Life's knocks and knuckle-dusters aside, there is much to be said for the fact that here I stand (or, at least, sit and type - if you're of a pedantic bent). And, much as I would love to take the credit for being able to withstand all, there are many, many people this year who have tightened my stitching and made sure the ballast was secure.

First (and co-incidentally evermore) there is my family. Despite being possessed of a genetic wit to rival Oscar Wilde's and a wry humour that Dorothy Parker would have envied, we don't say much, us H's. But please know, despite my blushing fingers, that without you this year I would have been lost, lambasted, and fruitlessly sucking dry sand on a sinking oasis that had long since fallen to Eden. Every phone call, every visit, every card and every text has been ridiculously appreciated, and I would swim after the African Queen in a force-9 gale to tell you so.

Next in the list, of course, come my wonderful friends. It's impossible to know where to start or where to end in the honours list, because you have all been amazing. But in particular, I will never forget the fact that there is A, who sent me a baby monitor when I'd merely mentioned the fact that I was glued to Lucy's door to check she was breathing (and who keeps on being an astonishing pseudo-aunt as every day unfolds); that K & D came to my door early one work-day morning just to sign some forms for Lucy's passport; that C brought me wine, a smile and an amazingly generous amount of money one rainy October afternoon; or that 40p Man has always made sure he's there with some dinner and a crap DVD and will never leave without the assurance that all the lightbulbs in my flat are burning brightly and that the smoke alarm is on. There really are too many acts of kindness from all and sundry to mention here. Please forgive exclusions (and the foray into cliche-land), but I can't thank everyone enough.

Finally, and most oddly of all, I have to offer thanks to the people that don't even know my name. From the chemist's assistant who charges round the shop with my pram when Lucy's screaming like an untrained banshee in a brothel, to the Budgen's checkout girl who clears an entire queue to serve me first. To the newsagent who runs outside with my paper when we're storming passed, or the doctor that cuddles my daughter for an entire appointment on her knee. To the entire online community that eagerly stretch out their compassionate keyboards to calm the discovery of anything: from the emergence of a new spot my chin to the discovery of some missing condoms in S's washbag and some nasty scratches on his back from when he last went to Bangkok.

The coming year, hopefully, will be a little better. I may even be able to stop leaning on all of you and help out instead. But for now, I'm glad that you've let me lay down my sword and take shelter in your shields. My armour was getting a bit rusty, after all.

Supermarket Sweep

2007-02-22T11:57:00.000-08:00

At long last, life is looking up: Budgens unveil plans for their 9th annual Drunken Trolley Dash, 2.54pm, Thursday.

Having once wet myself on an ex-boyfriend's chair, it's probably fair to say that I'm no stranger when it comes to the odd drunken incident or two.

In fact (if my fingertips can stop blushing long enough to impart their shame), my 20s were a veritable world record attempt in filling phoneboxes with hive-breaking tales: starting with the more standard pulling of pigs and rolling out of unpaid taxis, going through a brief spate of shoplifting Hello* from the local garage, and ending with a merry dance involving some tramps and a lute player on the Embankment plus the odd broken bone or two.

Jesus. It's probably quite clear that I shouldn't drink.

Happily, since entering my third decade and unfolding the joys of motherhood, the ferocity of my drunken antics has been somewhat dampened. After all, it's pretty hard to get ratarsed and make guinea pig noises in restaurants when you're in every night weighed down with the responsibility of childcare. Plus, Lucy tends to get really annoyed with me when I try to tell strangers on the bus that I love them, so I've pretty much given up.

Or so I thought.

A couple of Thursdays ago however, I managed to get reasonably merry with Lucy's dad as we struggled through the very last showdown of our relationship. Finding the wine stocks dwindling, I ventured out to my local Budgens for another bottle. Swaying round the isles for a while, I also managed to get some other essentials, which for some reason I had neglected to ever purchase before: two large Battenburg cakes, some corn plasters, a sewing kit and a make your own fairy wings set.

Perhaps there was a hint in my other shopping that I was a little bit more drunk than I'd thought. Or perhaps the biggest hint came when I got to the till and loudly accused the lady in front of me of stealing my bread (which, cunningly I hadn't even managed to put in my basket, let alone drag to the till).

The poor accused woman, of course, looked at me as if I was slightly deranged. Sadly, the look turned to something more like pity when I demanded that she turn out all her shopping bags and clothing, and angrily slurred for the manager to come and sort the "shoplifting pickpocket" out.

How on earth I thought a pickpocket would get a huge loaf of bread down their trousers I do not know. Hell, I'm not even sure she was wearing trousers. But I was still muttering about it as they saw me to the door.

Needless to say, I haven't been back, which is slightly ridiculous given that it's the nearest shop to me. However, I am working on my fake moustache and french accent so that I can venture in there again: three weeks is a long time to go without bread, after all.

*Please accept my apologies for my choice of reading matter. Must have been extremely pissed that night.

Blight Club

2007-02-09T04:00:00.000-08:00

Sadly, Gingerbread Man had forgotton the first costume rule of Blight Club.

This morning, Lucy and I decided to forgo the excitement of our weekly music gathering, and traipse along instead to the local Gingerbread group.

For the happily uninitiated amongst you, Gingerbread offers support for the more, erm, alone parenting folk out there. In retrospect, I should probably have joined the second my urine inked its blue truth along the pregnancy test. But, being undeniably stubborn, not to mention flakily hopeful, I've managed to ignore everything and put it off until now.

Useless personality traits aside, another reason for my delay has been, well, unmitigated terror. It's weird and bad and scary enough joining normal baby groups with their tireless renditions of Wind the Bobbin Up (now sadly an absolute favourite of mine, and well deserving of its no. 3 spot in my personal top ten of songs). But the thought of sitting in a room watching 15 or so single women pouring their partnerless bile into tea-cups and dunking their digestives into the bitterness of desertion has never really been up there on my list of things to do before I die.

Fortunately, the envisaged bile-fest was not in evidence this morning. True enough, there was plenty of tea, and there were certainly a fair few women in attendance, but not a single wisp of embittered gossip was to be had. Not even a smidgen: not a single tale of an ex-husband caught "testing" condoms with the next door neighbour; no shared experiences of previous partners flying off for yet another exotic whore tour; and not even the remotest breath of extra-marital breeding in Sainsbury's carpark on dogging Wednesdays.

Ah well. No gossip, just lots of dull advice on housing and benefits instead. Mind you, it does look like they've got a slightly more interesting schedule for the rest of the year, if the "Keep Your Pecker Up" leaflet that I was given is anything to go by:

For example, every third Wednesday there's a tartan-clad outing to Hampstead Heath for a major reenactment of the battle of Colloden. On Thursdays there's a cunningly named "sew and sew" afternoon, which will give me the opportunity to finally finish off that fluorescent, 3-D version of the Bayeux Tapestry that I've been working on (oh to be able to find the right shade of yarn for a popped eyeball!). And to top the activities off, every second Friday, the group apparently have ten sambucca shots each and take it in turns to pin the tale on Stephen Hawking.

Truly, I can't wait.

Olympic Bid

2007-02-09T01:31:00.000-08:00

Lucy, modelling the new British Swim Team 2010 kit*; 1.24pm, yesterday

*Kindly sponsored by the Steroid and Tan Fan! Association

Do forgive the slight hiatus in blogging: for reasons far too complex and acid-steeped to mention, my mind has been somewhat otherwise engaged of late.

However, in amongst the wide swathes of life's crapness, I'm pleased to report that Lucy and I have been doing our bit to promote British excellence in sport; by competing in the astounding and, erm, challenging event of baby swimming.

Now then, as is manifest in the sadness of my thighs, I'm clearly no expert in the whys and wherefores of any kind of sporting venue. Nonetheless even to my naive eye (and sorrowfully dimpled leg), if the state my local pool is anything to go by then Britain has more than a moonwalk to go before our facilities can pass anything like an Olympian muster.

Entry into my pool is, you see, a bit like well, walking into a chlorine-scented abattoir. A set of cheery, vacuum-packed doors permit entry into the changing room. Here, the flesh of 20 purple-flecked mothers is revealed - all nervously preparing their young on a set of verruca-soaked bassinets, ranged jauntily alongside the sweating, petri-dish walls.

I could go on through the bath of horrors. But fortunately it seems that Lucy has not inherited such a jaundiced view of either the world or of North London's amphibious attractions.

She has, in fact, been unrelentingly joyous at each session: gurgling as yet another arc of stranger's wee is aimed straight onto her towel; chortling when dunked under the sweltering (and slightly yellowey) water; gleefully chewing on the chemicaled floats; and quite literally pissing herself laughing as she yet again manages to undo my bikini top in front of the Polish New Man Dad who insists on calling my daughter Lucian and keeps telling me how "handsome" she is.

Ahh - gender-confusion, a risk of legionnaire's verucca and the exposure of my hideous body - all be damned. As long as Lucy is so clearly delighted I guess it's worth it, and there's always the glory of British sport to consider.

I'll just have to remember to pack the goose fat, plastic socks and slightly less atollian swimwear for next week. Not sure I'll be setting up camp next to Polish New Man Dad again, though.

G'Night John-Boy

2006-12-06T01:17:00.000-08:00

Lucy, following successful gender re-assignment and reconstructive mole surgery; 9.13pm yesterday.

Considering her tender age and heady list of accomplishments, it's almost an embarrassment to take Lucy out these days. I'm not normally one to boast, but I have honestly seen other mothers turn green as Lucy yet again dazzles the playgroup with her reflections on the philosophical works of Kant, her knowledge of Super String Theory and, of course, her falsetto version of Chesney Hawkes' "I am the one and only".

As if that weren't enough for a 6 month old, when she's not banging on about the potential of supersymmetry or Copernican revolutions in philosophy, Lucy also manages to fit in a dazzling (if slightly deranged) smiling habit, the ability to dribble on demand, and, erm, the capacity to eat things that are not milk. So, all in all, I'm not that surprised other jealous parents are starting to avoid us.

Mind you, in this high feast of development, Lucy's new love of food is actually quite disconcerting: for kinky motherhood it seems, has unexpectedly turned me into one of the Waltons. I've uncovered a fierce desire to feed my precious one only the finest homecooked mush, and have been cheerfully steaming & pureeing more organically-grown, corn-fed, homeopathically-massaged parsnips than is strictly good for a girl.

Jesus. Pretty soon I'll be earning an honest crust in the woodbarn, resplendent in a gingham headdress and contentedly browsing through the Puritanical smock rail in Topshop after Wednesday's Church Club.

The other disturbing result of all this is the frankly startling, erm, "output" from Lucy; whole technicoloured dreamcoats of poo that Joseph himself would draw back a thousand curtains to behold.

Please forgive me, but it may interest the sicker folk amongst you (or perhaps just Joseph) to know a few more details. Swede, for example, is the same bright yellow at either end; chicken casserole looks, if anything, a tastier dish on the return journey; and avoid beetroot unless you particularly want to be confronted with an internal hemorrhage in your gurgling child's nappy. Oh, and going in or coming out, the damn stuff gets everywhere.

So yes - with homecooked gingham, and swapshop nappies - truly I am a fully paid-up member of the Ma Walton Impersonators' Club. And who cares if I'm regularly seen in public smeared in a £3.99 all-you-can-eat puree buffet? The men of North London may no longer be beating a path to my door, but I bet the hungry men of Walton's mountain wouldn't say no to a suck on my jumper.

Dear Jim

2006-11-20T01:01:00.000-08:00

Truly, the undead stuff of nightmares: 02.34am, Wednesday.

For the past couple of weeks, I've had the misfortune of enduring a recurring, semi-erotic dream featuring no less a man than, um, Jimmy Saville.

In the interests of public decency I'll obscure the finer details, but those of you not wishing to cover your keyboards in vomit should probably look away now. For, suffice it to say that the amount of processed leatherette flesh on display would have made a DFS sales manager blush. Oh, and octogenarians really should think twice before they go running through my head brandishing gold lame whips, flicking skin-clogged hair balls through the air and whispering sweet "now-thens" into my cringing ears.

Jesus: as a newish mother you expect to experience the odd broken night or two. Maybe even three or four, but I can honestly say I haven't been this disturbed by my mind's nocturnal wanderings since a colleague and I compared penises over a pig's milk latte back in 2004. (Mine, in case you're wondering, was far superior in girth, but unfortunately lacked the impressive length displayed by Dominic.)

Sadly, having once flirted with psychoanalytic theory, I'm well aware that all this probably betrays my inability to come to terms with my female castration and inferiority. Indeed, Freud is now undoubtedly rubbing his bony hands in glee at the dark, dank, hellish continent of my sexuality; but quite frankly I don't care. I don't care whether it means I fancy my entire family and am secretly terrified of what tall buildings really represent, I just want it to stop.

So, I have decided to send Sir Jim a letter. I think it may do the trick:

Dear Jim

Fuck off.

Yours hopefully,

Cx (aged 31 3/4)

P.S. If you could still fix it for me to mime with Bucks Fizz and the ugly one from A-Ha in a hot air balloon, that'd be great. New Year's Eve is good for me: we could fly over Big Ben at midnight.

The Churchillian Connection

2006-09-24T01:46:00.000-07:00

Lucy modelling the Autumnwear collection from Mothercare. Cigar range and teat suitable from 3 months +

On good days (when I can still feel my nipples and have managed to prize Lucy away from her cherished Norris Mcquirter Annual), my daughter and I sometimes make it along to the local baby music group.

To say there's an odd eclecticism about these gatherings would be, well, something of an understatement. They're a bit like going to your first ever non-school disco: you're there with a complete mish-mash of people all gagging for a healthy slug of 20-20 to ease things along. Then you realise there's no way they'll serve you at that time of day, and all you've really got to play with is a load of crap music and, um, babies.

In my group, the Barely Teenage mothers sit in one corner; a cliche of government statistics dripping in oversized trainers and 9 carat hair gel, with each pore straining for a sneaky fag as soon as the strange woman with the guitar isn't looking.

To the right there are the Breastmilk Knitters, steadily growing their green-rushed tights and mistily wondering how soon baby Appleogeon will take to produce the next batch of fertiliser.

Swaying jerkily around this group you'll find the nervous token man blushing into his song sheet. And then there, somewhere in the middle, are a few like me: early thirties-ish and each of us completely bemused as to how the hell we ended up sitting cross-legged in a cold church hall singing songs about bananas.

However, wherever you fit and whether you're fully aware of the actions to Tie Me Kangeroo Down (Sport), one thing you absolutely can't avoid is comparing your offspring to everyone else's. Politeness naturally forces you to coo and compliment each child, whilst secretly tightening the screws to your jaw and mumbling sweatily about Winston Churchill when faced with the, er, uglier babies. And trust me, if my group of misfits is anything to go by, there are some real howler monkeys out there.

For, after no longer than it takes to sing Row, Row, Row Your Boat, you'll swiftly learn that those who herald every baby as an identikit of old Whinny, have never even seen a child; let alone sat amongst an entire wailing wall of them on a blustery morning in North London.

Now then, don't get me wrong. Our Winston undoubtedly had his good points: tremendous at flicking backwards V signs at the odd paparazzo, and unrivalled in semantic play on the ends of beginnings, so I hear. But, not exactly a looker, and definately not the one-size-fits-all baby cast that some would have you believe.

It is true that most babies are bald and a bit squashy. But that really is where the connection ends, and anyone that even whispers the WC word in front of you is in no way being complimentary. Yes, there may be a few that are referring to Winston's infamous Hello makeover, published shortly after his VE day celebration photoshoot. However, most have in mind the slightly less glamourous side of our wartime hero: a Churchill tortured by rumours of Ribbentrop's superior mastery of the Playstation and suffering after one too many consolation drinks with Chamberlain in the Dog & Duck.

So, which Winston is Lucy? Well I'll admit that she does often look more boy than girl and is rarely at her best in the wee small hours, but I can honestly say I've yet to find a hint of our Greatest Briton about her either.

Mind you, if I did...I'd still love her. Hell, I'd probably love her if she looked like the love child of Frida Kahlo and Brian Blessed. In fact, yes, I'd love her even if she had 27 hair lips, a full-on beard and 'tache and went around smelling of the Folies Bergers.

After all, Mothercare do a nifty line in pastel burqas these days, and there's absolutely nothing in the lyrics of the Banana Boat Song that precludes even the most hirsute of babies from joining in.

I Am Become Broadband

2006-09-04T16:53:00.000-07:00

Talk Talk's new "Quit your jibber jabber" tariff. Installed free, forever, at a maternity unit near you.

Had you met me a mere 4 months ago, you'd have been forgiven for thinking that the phrase "British reserve" had been coined exclusively with me in mind. I've never really been a great one for small talk you see; tending to clam-up, all sweaty palmed and blushingly confused, if asked by strangers to part with anything more personal than the time or the most efficient route to the train station.

But then...ah, then. All of a sudden, along comes Lucy, and I've found that I can't actually stop talking. Perhaps it's something to do with the fact that I'm confined with a 3 month old baby, but it now seems I literally can't help chatting to people I barely know. My local newsagent, for example, knows the names and peccadillos of all the sexual partners I've ever had, the postman knows my dress size and some poor woman at the bus stop will probably be haunted forever by my sorry tale of a morning's hard labour, removing mould from my bathroom grout.

One of the other things that has happened in the realm of this new, oddly talkative me is the fact that I now spend hours in conversation with Lucy. Given her young age and her understandably incomplete grasp of English, we often adopt Babyspeak; frequently and merrily "agoo-goo-ing" and "agida-wida-ing" together for hours.

Slightly perplexed by this, and concerned that I might actually be talking nonsense to my most precious creation, I ran this morning's conversation with Lucy through Babelfish. Fortunately, as you'll see from the translation below, I have nothing to worry about: I have a little to learn on the goo-goo grammar front, but in general, my grasp of the language seems sound.

However the results (although warped slightly in translation), may serve as a contraceptive warning to you all:

ACT 1, SCENE 1

A bedroom at about 6.45am, somewhere in North London. The action centres on a cot and nursing chair. Various baby equipment (nappies, wipes and strange mono-coloured toys) can be seen throughout.

ME: Good morning, my beautiful daughter. What a fine head of snails you have on you today.

LUCY: Morning, Mummy. I have done a big poo in my nappy.

ME: The sky is a lollipop, and I am your uncle.

LUCY: Listen, I'm not joking about the poo: it's really quite big and sloppy. Any chance of a change. Kind of nowish?

(Nappy change commences)

ME: Have you seen the big dolphin, in my head?

LUCY: That's better. Mind if I do a large fart now? Oh sod it, I'm gonna do one anyway...

ME: Beef has gone up to £3.47 in the circus pavillion.

LUCY: Oh, and another one. Any chance of some food? Your breasts do look lovely, Mummy.

ME: You are a sloppy giuseppee, gobstopper smackhead...

LUCY: Yeah, yeah. Could you possibly stop talking bollocks soon? I am hungry you know.

ME: ...the light of my liver, and cunning to boot.

LUCY: Where's my bloody food?

ME: Juicy. Lucy. Wooosy.

LUCY: If you don't stop jabbering and feed me, I'm gonna cry 'til I go really, really red. You've got about three seconds...

ME: Food, you say? The harvest moon rises in the North.

LUCY: Are you drunk again, Mummy? Ah, here's the food; can we have a bit of silence now?

(Finally, breakfast is served. Only weird, snuffly sounds can be heard)

ME: I love you

LUCY: I love you too, Psycho.

CURTAIN

Because I'm Worth It

2006-09-01T11:48:00.000-07:00

Bob Crutchens*, a spanky, shiny whitebait : lounging on Brighton Pier, 2.26pm, yesterday.

Many, many moons ago, when I was young, Lucy-free and pretending to be single, I once spent an illicit weekend in the alleged shag palace that is Brighton.

As with most of these things, this weekend had been made more exciting by its forbidden nature. He was you see, ahem, slightly attached (if living with your girlfriend really counts as such these days), whilst I was deep in the murky death throes of a 2 year old "friendship".

Nonetheless, though it now shames me to admit it, we'd both been eager partners in the weekend's planning. Having met romantically by the vodka luge at a crap work do, we'd moved swiftly through flirtatious water-cooler action into more erotic text messages than a heated Beckham could handle, and finally reached the exchange of underwear in the internal post: quite literally, it seemed, we fancied the pants off each other.

Alas, his pants were probably the most exciting thing about him (and even they were part of a faded 3-pack from Marks & Spencer). For, although initially thrilled by the offer attached to his smalls of a rendezvous by Nash's Pavillion splendour, the weekend was, as it turns out...well...quite crap really.

For, after weeks of erotic prohibition, we arrived separately at the B&B booked by my would-be-lover. Whilst I was stuck in weekend engineering works, he'd texted news of his arrival: hence, I dashed excitedly up to the room. Only to be greeted by a candlewick bedspread, the erotic smell of mothballs and the sight of my lover: newly denuded and in possession of unmistakably bandy legs.

Jesus. Perhaps it was the sea air, the circling seagulls, or maybe the strange stench of camphor, but there's really nothing like a bow-legged lover standing in a proxy of your gran's bedroom to make a girl think twice about consumating an affair.

In desperation I discovered a sudden desire to visit the Sea Life centre, and forced asaid lover away from the charms of the Dunroamin B&B and into the realms of Brighton's deep water tanks. At first it was a relief to be away from the bedroom and amongst the safer world of Brighton's piranas, but all of a sudden I was hit by a cold, slimy sensation whilst leaning over the fish. I glanced up to see that someone had clearly thrown a full bucket of what appeared to be whitebait into my hair.

Fearing retribution from my intended lover's girlfriend, I took a closer look. And yes, there really were whitebait. Many, many, many whitebait. And indeed, clearly all over my hair: all slimy and giggly, running through my locks with unmistakable delight.

Lover had, by this time, scarpered, leaving me to face a Sea Life centre employee; paralysed with embarrassment, but adament that I had got in the way of feeding time and his need to perform the stroking trick on the stingrays, if only I would move, please madam.

So, lost for lovers and for dignity, I ran for it. Really, really ran for it; wafting small fish from my 'do as I made for the station, all thoughts of old bandy leg wiped from my mind...

Looking back, I kind of wish I had a photo from that moment: disappointed in lust, but clearly charged into action by odd sea-life. I guess it's partly because I learnt an important lesson that weekend: I may never again go for a work affair, may still smell vaguely of fish and break out in hives everytime I even think of the south coast, but hey - my lordy, you should see the shine on my hair from those whitebait...

*Some names in this post have been changed. After a couple of Stella's, it's extremely unlikely that the whitebait will answer to Bob.

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The Innocence of Tansy

2006-08-22T01:20:00.000-07:00

Tansy, 10.23am, yesterday. Sadly, not a titled Jilly Cooper heroine; more a lovely, very friendly type-bod, nonetheless.

Those of you still traumatised by my experience with the evil smoothie (http://poo-diaries.blogspot.com/2006/08/innocent-until-proven-guilty_04.html) can finally breathe a sigh of relief.

For, though unfortunately I still haven't had the painters in (in either sense, although I'm pretty certain my contraception covers the event of the odd fumble with a soft drink or two) , I'm happy to report the cessation of violence in the Blackberry Wars.

For, unbeknownst to me, a concerned friend had decided to enrole herself as peacemaker. Manfully, she took stock of the situation, girded her formidable loins and contacted the perpetrators of the affair with my sorry tale.

And hence, one not-so-sunny morning last week, I awoke to the sound of vicious hammering on my door. On opening, I was greeted by a slightly halitosid young man, thrusting a large brown box eagerly into my trembling hands.

Given the previously shocking events, it's perhaps understandable that I was somewhat nervous of opening this offering; particularly when its contents were revealed as a deep row of smoothies, all standing to attention and clearly ready for action. Suddenly, a thousand images of potential war and terror flooded my mind - pictures of the bastards storming my flat with shot and shell, sabring my newborn's throat and contaminating my lounge with their uzi-ripe breath.

But then. Happily it turns out I had nothing to fear: these smoothies had come in peace. For on further investigation, I discovered this small note, attached to the underside of the box:

"Hello

Your friend Kirsteen told us of your unfortunate experience last week. Here is our little sorry on behalf of the stroppy smoothie - it's just they don't much like being kept out of the cool fridge. Congratulations on being a new mum.

Enjoy...Tansy."

Aww. So instead of the feared nest of terrorists, there I was holding a huge free box of smoothies, and a lovely little note? Oh Innocent, in the name of your brand, your copywriters, and of course the lovely Tansy, I salute you.

All peace is resumed.

The Boston Tea Wash

2006-08-18T16:24:00.000-07:00

Introducing my new cleaning lady: great for comedic scenes involving pianos and stairs, the odd tea party and those vital "chimp in a toupee" moments...
Less successful at washing your smalls.

Much as I'm loathe to admit it, this whole having had a baby thing may have slightly affected my cerebral abilities. When you're expecting, you hear a lot about how pregnancy and childcare can reduce your IQ and make you act slightly oddly: a bit like a Blairite occupation dumbing-down your brain.

Fortunately in my case there have been no noticeable signs of this. As anyone will tell you, my neurons are still as spangly as a whole pocket full of 5 pence pieces newly delivered from the Royal Mint. And besides, surely everyone puts salt in their coffee, comes on to bus conductors and insists on being called Edith Marie by bemused Saturday girls in Topshop?

Or so I thought. However today I have begun to suspect that my intellect may be not quite as shiny as once it was, and that some of my actions are possibly becoming, well, a bit bizarre.

For there I was, taking a break from motherhood with a relaxing stint on the washing machine, only to be greeted by the puzzling stench of builders and an accompanying cast of slightly damp, sepia-coloured clothing as I opened the door.

30 minutes and an irate call to the Persil Careline later, I discovered the source of the problem. The very earnest Judy in Customer Care had suggested that I might, inadvertently you understand, have put the wrong thing in the wash cycle; thereby causing all my clothes to turn beige and smelly.

To my shame, and Judy's evident distress, I laughed cruelly at her suggestion. But then I spotted the completely unopened box of washing powder sitting alone next to the kettle. I reluctantly checked the machine, and made the discovery that I am, in fact, a complete moron.

For there they were, two bags of PG's finest Tips, sitting in the place usually under bicarbonate occupation: all passion spent, and enjoying a crafty post-coital fag as they chuckled over the wreckage of my clothes.

So, evidently I'd rather rinse my smalls with tea bags than with Persil, and can only conclude that my neurons may have become the tiniest bit smaller since having Lucy. Politeness and common sense demand that I hereby offer the sincerest of apologies to Judy, and steer away from anything more complicated than breathing for the foreseeable future.

Mind you, simpleton or not, every cloud does at least have a lining, and I'm happy to report that my official range of pyramid-shaped clothing launches later this month. Predicted to be huge amongst the tea-party going chimp population, apparently.

Powers of Horror

2006-08-07T11:46:00.000-07:00

Clever old Mother Nature: 9.45pm, yesterday.

The first time Lucy projectile vomited, I thought I'd reincarnated an original cast member of The Exorcist. As if further proof were needed, she followed this with a virtuoso faecal performance; most of which ended up on the back of my hand, where it remained for the afternoon.

Apologies, Dear Reader, but I do have the shocking misfortune to report that baby care is often this gross. What's even more shocking is the fact that, whilst a normal reaction might have been to undergo a swift scrub-down in a darkened room before casting Lucy aside forever, I merely shrugged and carried on with the day.

But how? How, in the name of all that is good and holy, is this possible? Why aren't millions of new mothers leaving their young in the waste disposal at the first smell of that over-filled nappy and the first sight of vomit chuckling its way down their best Versace trousers? Surely no force in the world is enough to help you park your disgust and pay happily for your Tesco's shopping with a faeces-caked hand?

Ah, but enter stage left, Mother Nature: a clever old stick if ever there was one. There you are, dripping in a rainbow of infant bodily fluids and along comes sly old MN, whispering in your baby's ear that now might be a good time to smile at you.

Yup, that's it: just a single, tiny, fleeting smile. But somehow it's everything and enough. Suddenly the entire world stops moving and it's like ten thousand shards of happy glass have pierced your heart.

And trust me: it might not get your nails clean, but it's a feeling that wipes even the most vesuvian of bowel movements right out your head.

Gina, you rock my world

2006-08-06T05:20:00.000-07:00

The wonderful Gina Ford: an unlikely, slightly squashy looking angel.

Returning to life is pretty hard once you've had a baby. All of a sudden your day's normal activities are replaced by a constant barrage of baby crying, nappy-changing, feeding, burping and rocking. Throw in a huge dose of anxiety and the continual worry that you've mistakenly killed your newborn, and you're suddenly alone in a cold, sleep-parched landscape, finding it impossible to keep up.

Until a couple of weeks ago I was stuck in that place. It would often get to 6 or 7 pm, and there I'd be: sitting in just my pants with the curtains open, having managed to eat a whole slice of ryvita and suddenly realising I hadn't been to the toilet for over 24 hours.

Now then, flashing the neighbours a bit of arse and dining frugally on rye is all very well, but when your urine starts to turn orange, you know its probably time to act. And thankfully I did, with the purchase of The Contented Little Baby Book written by one Ms. Gina Ford.

For the uninitiated amongst you, Gina Ford is nanny extraordinaire to the Stars and proles alike. Her philosophy is a simple, if fantastically strict, one. Babys need a structure, apparently, and to achieve any kind of peace from your squawking monster, you need to turn your home into a tough boot camp.

On Gina, a 7am wake up call and nappy change is followed by a 39.678 minute breast feed, 20.2 minutes playing with an odd red cube, and 2 seconds of noisy gurggling whilst you look on adoringly. You're then allowed the breakfast of your choice before selecting the least drool-covered outfit to wear for the day and putting the baby down for a short nap. The afternoon continues in much the same vein, and you finally get to go to bed no later than 11.27 at night.

Jesus. Pre-Lucy if anyone had so much as suggested I try to turn up at work at the same time everyday, I'd probably have punched them. And yet here I am, slavishly lusting after Gina's every breath and marching through the regime like a demented Sergeant Major.

And the odd thing is, it really does work. Though I can account for mine & Lucy's movements down to the last half second of the day, I do know there'll be at least a period where she'll be quiet and not crying or hungry or hot, cold or indifferent. At the moment, for example, Lucy is sleeping sweetly whilst I am strapped to a milking machine, singing a rousing World War II battle song and rinsing all the neighbourhood's smalls through an 80 degree hot wash programme.

Ah Gina. Gina, Gina, Gina...With your weird squashy face and frighteningly processed hair: you're a hard taskmaster, but from the bottom of my heart I thank you. Your regime may be as punctilious as a Nazi parade, and I still feel all a bit helpless, but at least it means I can now attend to the important things in life.

Like passing water, for a start.

Innocent Until Proven Guilty

2006-08-04T11:35:00.000-07:00

Now then, it's not every day you wake up to the sight of a bloody massacre in your front room. And yet this morning as I stumbled around trying to shake off sleep and the relentless sound of my daughter crying, an appalling sight hit my eyes. Dark blood was spattered everywhere: from wall to ceiling, floor to sofa, everything was covered in a sticky red mess, leaving my room looking like Stephen King's first foray into interior design and smelling sweetly of road kill.

Slightly panicking, I looked around for any bodies and an explanation of the curious night-time events. Perhaps I had left the front door open: a clear invitation for East Finchley's notorious psychopath to enter and slaughter a range of small rodents by the dining table? Maybe Lucy had been up late again watching Driller Killer and decided to experiment?

Or was it more sinister? Oddly, the only thing untouched by goo was the latest IKEA catalogue. Could the local branch of Swedish furniture lovers be to blame, angered by the absence of any Besta Jagra storage combinations, and the fact that a paltry two tea lights were the only lighting solution on show?

And then I saw it. A small, not so innocent smoothie bottle, nestling smuggly on my top shelf: bleeding its last between Middlemarch and Captain Corelli. The bastard had decided to ferment and explode in the middle of the night, leaving its innards all over the room.

So yes, it really has come to this - 31 years of life and here I am obsessing about an exploding drink, and elbow deep in cleaning products trying to get the stains out of my carpet. My advice to you all? Just don't leave bottles of blackberry juice on the arm of your sofa. Innocent my arse: they only get all lonely and enraged, and they're a real bitch to clean up.

2006-08-04T11:25:00.000-07:00

Police photos indicate the terrifying nature of the assault.

2006-08-04T11:21:00.000-07:00

Earlier CCTV footage shows the vicious smoothie, staking out its victims.