'Ooh ma'am you mustn't eat so much, you're too fat!' said the thoughtful and sensitive Filipina behind the counter in 'Splash' after I had revealed that I was three months pregnant. 'You are so big!'
Quite. I knew this anyway, a glance in the mirror would've confirmed this assertion, but this comment left me in no doubt. This was further confirmed by the disasterous purchase of a 'pregnancy belt'. For those who aren't in the know, these belts fit over your normal trousers, which can then be left unzipped, post-prandial style, and perfectly concealed beneath the belt. The result should be a tailor-made type appearance as the trouser fit perfectly, all lumps and bumps hidden.
Unfortunately for me I never got to wear the belt as trying to get my favourite trousers up past my knees turned out to be more challenging than anticipated.
I’m only three months pregnant but within the space of 2 days I went from looking as if I'd eaten a rather substantial lunch to looking 5 months pregnant. Collecting the kids from school has become an exhausting affair of explanations and affirmations.
-‘yes, yes I am pregnant' I will smile.
-‘yep, yep, I know, where did that come from, ha ha?’ I chuckle.
Everywhere I go people are double-taking as I pass by. It’s not just the apparent sudden pregnancy, it’s the trail of four brawling children which adds to the head-shaking disbelief.
I often wonder at these women that we read about in classy publications such as ‘Chat’ and ‘Take a break’ who don’t know they’re pregnant until the baby appears on the bathroom floor. ‘I had no idea I was pregnant’ whines the headline above a photo of Destiny standing pasty-faced and disappointed as she points to the floor of her bathroom.
Anyway, I promise myself and my readers that I won’t turn this blog into ‘secret diary of a dull pregnant woman who has nothing else to talk about but her dull pregnancy’. I don’t need to, Jules Oliver has already turned it into an art-form.
I’ve got nothing against Jules….after all she is expecting baby number four, so maximum respect to her; although having more than two children seems a tad less reckless when your husband is a multi-millionaire. Good luck to her, but please, no more pregnancy diaries… really, what is there to say other than ‘I feel sick, I miss lying on my stomach and I'm wearing something even my mother would think twice about’.
I must admit that some of these lifestyle books do appeal, despite the fact that everything in them is obvious and preachy. One of my current obsessions is the ‘Why French women don’t get fat’ series. For someone with as dysfunctional a relationship with food as I have, this approach makes a lot of sense to me. The idea that over-eating is encouraged by bulk-buying from hypermarkets is entirely logical. The French have known for decades that buying local, fresh and in-season produce is far better for you and leaves you less likely to binge.
I try to live by this principle but unfortunately the most enduring effect this has on my house is that there is never anything to eat in it. Fed up with dry crackers and 2 month old tangerines as a snack, my exasperated daughter the other day snapped ‘we’re NOT French mum, buy some food!’
It’s not meanness that keeps my cupboards bare, but like Oscar Wilde I can resist anything but temptation and so it's easier to leave all the fattening carb-ridden snacks on the supermarket shelves.
I used to take a much keener interest in cooking, but like many things (weekend lie-ins, pelvic floor muscles etc..) kids spoiled it for me. There's no bigger waste of time than spending a couple of hours cooking for your family only for them to rush in, eat in the space of 90 seconds and then disappear again leaving nothing but a food covered floor. And going to all that trouble for myself and DH just seems indulgent.
However, the other night, faced with the paltry offerings of the Showtime satellite network, myself and DH found ourselves watching 'The naked chef' on the telly. Of course, the first 20 minutes were spent guffawing and imitating Jamie's 'mockney' attempts at being a 'geezer'. However, we eventually fell silent as he started to work his genius on some pork chops and a roasted chicken. It was magic!
-'I'm hungry' complained DH, the beans on toast having obviously not been sufficient.
-'yeah, me too' I concurred.
I disappeared out the kitchen in search of snacks but all I could find were babybels 'lite' and some withered baby carrot batons.
I went to bed hungry but inspired and the next day found myself in Spinney's buying all the necessary ingredients for a pork chop taste sensation!
The chops (purchases from the special pork/satans-flesh counter in the supermarket) turned out OK. DH, overjoyed at such a treat, lavished praise every three bites, clearly hoping this might become a new feature in his life (For the record, it lasted precisely two nights).
One 'lifestyle' author I've always steered well clear of is Gina Ford, the child-rearing guru and author of 'the contented baby'. Her methods have always left me feeling cold as she's famous for coining the phrase 'controlled crying', which basically means ignoring your baby when it cries but feeling you're being a good parent by doing so!
Besides, the idea of leaving your baby to cry in a controlled manner on the advice of a woman with no children has always sounded slightly oxymoronic to me! It's like taking dieting advice from an obese woman, or having your hair coloured by a blind person! Besides, how can a four month old baby possibly understand that you're leaving it to cry for it's own good and to avoid issues in later life? If anything I would have thought it would have completely the opposite effect. Abandonment issues.....anyone?
I realise my child-rearing methods, while highly effective as babies, will probably leave all four children seeing shrinks by the time they're 25, but at least I have children so I've earned my opinion, and I've NEVER left a small defenseless baby to cry in some misguided attempt at asserting authority early on.
I wonder what Ms Ford would have made of them the other day at my daughters school play... For once I had roped DH into coming along, which I knew would make my life much easier in the sense that two threats are better than one. As the play started we waited for my daughters grand entrance. Twenty minutes in no sign of her, 30 minutes, still in the wings. Forty minutes and nothing... in fact my daughter didn't appear until the very last scene (she had cleverly opted not to tell me this or I wouldn't have shown up until the last ten minutes).
It's not that I dislike school plays, I accept they are part of the parenting contract and are to be endured, but bringing small children along to these events inevitably create problems..
-'I see your bum bum' pipes up three year old.
-Shhhhhhhhh!
-'I see your big bum bum' replies five year old.
-'I wanna sit on the step!' demands three year old.
-'No, sit down and be quiet' I hiss.
-'I wanna', he whines.
-'So do I' lisps five year old.
-'No, now both sit down and I'll give you a treat after wards if you're good' I bargain.
-'Can we go to the toy shop and get a Sonic toy?' asks five year old.
-'Yes, yes, later on... just please be quiet, people are looking at us' I beg, feeling eyes boring into the back of my head.
-'But I wanna sit on the step with the kids' lisps five year old again.
-'Yeah...pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease??' they both beg.
-'Oh go on then' I give in.
Off they toddled to the steps in the middle of the auditorium where several other smaller siblings were watching. Of course this just made it worse because now they were out of my reach and I could no longer whisper death threats into their ears.
-'I see your willy' I hear from the steps.
-'You big bum bum' (this has pretty much been their entire repertoire for the past couple of years).
-'That mans an idiot!!'
-'Stupid idiot!'
The man closest to three year old was clearly growing more and more vexed with them...throwing furious glances at them every couple of minutes.
Since they were no longer near me I tried to pretend I didn't know who they were.
Finally nine year old daughter appeared on the stage (without her costume...she was supposed to be a fisherman but had left her costume in the art room and so was wearing a pink summer dress).
Three year old, overjoyed at her sudden appearance yelled her name at the top of his voice. The entire audience turned to look at him. So he did it again.
Luckily the play was almost over so we could escape. On the way out several parents thanked me for the side show entertainment, several threw withering looks. Well, you can't please all the people all of the time, and who knows, had I left them alone and crying as babies they might have sat quietly at my side throughout the performance. Somehow I doubt it.
Quite. I knew this anyway, a glance in the mirror would've confirmed this assertion, but this comment left me in no doubt. This was further confirmed by the disasterous purchase of a 'pregnancy belt'. For those who aren't in the know, these belts fit over your normal trousers, which can then be left unzipped, post-prandial style, and perfectly concealed beneath the belt. The result should be a tailor-made type appearance as the trouser fit perfectly, all lumps and bumps hidden.
Unfortunately for me I never got to wear the belt as trying to get my favourite trousers up past my knees turned out to be more challenging than anticipated.
I’m only three months pregnant but within the space of 2 days I went from looking as if I'd eaten a rather substantial lunch to looking 5 months pregnant. Collecting the kids from school has become an exhausting affair of explanations and affirmations.
-‘yes, yes I am pregnant' I will smile.
-‘yep, yep, I know, where did that come from, ha ha?’ I chuckle.
Everywhere I go people are double-taking as I pass by. It’s not just the apparent sudden pregnancy, it’s the trail of four brawling children which adds to the head-shaking disbelief.
I often wonder at these women that we read about in classy publications such as ‘Chat’ and ‘Take a break’ who don’t know they’re pregnant until the baby appears on the bathroom floor. ‘I had no idea I was pregnant’ whines the headline above a photo of Destiny standing pasty-faced and disappointed as she points to the floor of her bathroom.
Anyway, I promise myself and my readers that I won’t turn this blog into ‘secret diary of a dull pregnant woman who has nothing else to talk about but her dull pregnancy’. I don’t need to, Jules Oliver has already turned it into an art-form.
I’ve got nothing against Jules….after all she is expecting baby number four, so maximum respect to her; although having more than two children seems a tad less reckless when your husband is a multi-millionaire. Good luck to her, but please, no more pregnancy diaries… really, what is there to say other than ‘I feel sick, I miss lying on my stomach and I'm wearing something even my mother would think twice about’.
I must admit that some of these lifestyle books do appeal, despite the fact that everything in them is obvious and preachy. One of my current obsessions is the ‘Why French women don’t get fat’ series. For someone with as dysfunctional a relationship with food as I have, this approach makes a lot of sense to me. The idea that over-eating is encouraged by bulk-buying from hypermarkets is entirely logical. The French have known for decades that buying local, fresh and in-season produce is far better for you and leaves you less likely to binge.
 |
| I want to live in France... |
I try to live by this principle but unfortunately the most enduring effect this has on my house is that there is never anything to eat in it. Fed up with dry crackers and 2 month old tangerines as a snack, my exasperated daughter the other day snapped ‘we’re NOT French mum, buy some food!’
It’s not meanness that keeps my cupboards bare, but like Oscar Wilde I can resist anything but temptation and so it's easier to leave all the fattening carb-ridden snacks on the supermarket shelves.
I used to take a much keener interest in cooking, but like many things (weekend lie-ins, pelvic floor muscles etc..) kids spoiled it for me. There's no bigger waste of time than spending a couple of hours cooking for your family only for them to rush in, eat in the space of 90 seconds and then disappear again leaving nothing but a food covered floor. And going to all that trouble for myself and DH just seems indulgent.
However, the other night, faced with the paltry offerings of the Showtime satellite network, myself and DH found ourselves watching 'The naked chef' on the telly. Of course, the first 20 minutes were spent guffawing and imitating Jamie's 'mockney' attempts at being a 'geezer'. However, we eventually fell silent as he started to work his genius on some pork chops and a roasted chicken. It was magic!
-'I'm hungry' complained DH, the beans on toast having obviously not been sufficient.
-'yeah, me too' I concurred.
I disappeared out the kitchen in search of snacks but all I could find were babybels 'lite' and some withered baby carrot batons.
I went to bed hungry but inspired and the next day found myself in Spinney's buying all the necessary ingredients for a pork chop taste sensation!
The chops (purchases from the special pork/satans-flesh counter in the supermarket) turned out OK. DH, overjoyed at such a treat, lavished praise every three bites, clearly hoping this might become a new feature in his life (For the record, it lasted precisely two nights).
One 'lifestyle' author I've always steered well clear of is Gina Ford, the child-rearing guru and author of 'the contented baby'. Her methods have always left me feeling cold as she's famous for coining the phrase 'controlled crying', which basically means ignoring your baby when it cries but feeling you're being a good parent by doing so!
 |
| Leaving your baby to cry is the devils work... |
I realise my child-rearing methods, while highly effective as babies, will probably leave all four children seeing shrinks by the time they're 25, but at least I have children so I've earned my opinion, and I've NEVER left a small defenseless baby to cry in some misguided attempt at asserting authority early on.
I wonder what Ms Ford would have made of them the other day at my daughters school play... For once I had roped DH into coming along, which I knew would make my life much easier in the sense that two threats are better than one. As the play started we waited for my daughters grand entrance. Twenty minutes in no sign of her, 30 minutes, still in the wings. Forty minutes and nothing... in fact my daughter didn't appear until the very last scene (she had cleverly opted not to tell me this or I wouldn't have shown up until the last ten minutes).
It's not that I dislike school plays, I accept they are part of the parenting contract and are to be endured, but bringing small children along to these events inevitably create problems..
-'I see your bum bum' pipes up three year old.
-Shhhhhhhhh!
-'I see your big bum bum' replies five year old.
-'I wanna sit on the step!' demands three year old.
-'No, sit down and be quiet' I hiss.
-'I wanna', he whines.
-'So do I' lisps five year old.
-'No, now both sit down and I'll give you a treat after wards if you're good' I bargain.
-'Can we go to the toy shop and get a Sonic toy?' asks five year old.
-'Yes, yes, later on... just please be quiet, people are looking at us' I beg, feeling eyes boring into the back of my head.
-'But I wanna sit on the step with the kids' lisps five year old again.
-'Yeah...pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease??' they both beg.
-'Oh go on then' I give in.
Off they toddled to the steps in the middle of the auditorium where several other smaller siblings were watching. Of course this just made it worse because now they were out of my reach and I could no longer whisper death threats into their ears.
-'I see your willy' I hear from the steps.
-'You big bum bum' (this has pretty much been their entire repertoire for the past couple of years).
-'That mans an idiot!!'
-'Stupid idiot!'
The man closest to three year old was clearly growing more and more vexed with them...throwing furious glances at them every couple of minutes.
Since they were no longer near me I tried to pretend I didn't know who they were.
Finally nine year old daughter appeared on the stage (without her costume...she was supposed to be a fisherman but had left her costume in the art room and so was wearing a pink summer dress).
Three year old, overjoyed at her sudden appearance yelled her name at the top of his voice. The entire audience turned to look at him. So he did it again.
Luckily the play was almost over so we could escape. On the way out several parents thanked me for the side show entertainment, several threw withering looks. Well, you can't please all the people all of the time, and who knows, had I left them alone and crying as babies they might have sat quietly at my side throughout the performance. Somehow I doubt it.
