Road Trip

9:45am
I'm having a mini adventure! In fact, I am so excited to get out of dodge town, that I'm finding it hard to contain myself, sitting in this cramped corner of a fast train to London Marylebone. I wiggle in delight and a bearded gentleman to my left gives me a stare. I'm suddenly aware of my plunging floral neckline and so I zip up my jacket a little to protect my modesty.
I have a meeting with a dear old friend at high noon. She is one of my old pre-baby crowd, with whom I shared my life in the Caribbean. Unlike me, she is still having adventures - although these days they are more urban than oceanic. We are planning to DO lunch. How wonderful that sounds. Normally I simply have lunch, and often the lunch has me - my hair, my clothes, my kitchen floor (thank you Sofia)...
There is a small gang of intimidating youths in hoodies wandering up and down the train with apparently no purpose but to say 'fuck' as loudly and as many times as possible per minute. They have already checked out my shiny iPad. Time to put it away. (Must make myself less of a target, not more. Better put away the cleavage too then!)
3:25pm
I am on a bus. After meeting my friend for lunch I found myself wandering around somewhere in East London far far away from any tourist zones, as lost and lonely as a cloud, feeling distinctly over (or under) dressed in my racy little sun dress and designer shades. When I came upon a crime scene where a police riot van was still present, the windows of a flat blacked out, and a pile of floral tributes indicating some terrible violent event...well, I decided to get on the first bus I saw heading west! Not sure where I was, and I'm not sure where I'm going but what's the worst that can happen!
4:05pm
I am back in central London having a cappuccino on the pavement of a street cafe. I knew I was OK as soon as I saw street vendors flogging union jack flags and t-shirts that said "I ❤ London".
5:20pm
A dear friend was slightly concerned when he found out that my return train was leaving London at 5pm - the heart of Friday rush hour. His advice was thus:
"OK. Listen darling, you need to get on that train fast. Expect chaos. Don't wait, don't think 'Oh I'll just go get a sandwich' - NO! Just run for it! As soon as you see the platform number! (or you will be screwed)."
Now, I didn't want to get screwed thank you very much, so I was at the barrier in plenty of time, eyes locked on the departures screen, fingers tense around my ticket outta here, my leg muscles ready to leap, my hooves ready to gallop. I snorted and huffed when a suited man tried to elbow into my starting position, his brow furrowed with stress. Another city filly inched forward, but I checked out her outfit and knew she would never be able to take me in those heels. Something changed on the board, six hundred ears strained to listen to the announcement....and....we were OFF!
I hit the barrier first, waved my ticket, burst through, slung my bag over my shoulder and legged it. I was a flowery pink blur, all skirt and lots of action. I risked a look back over my shoulder... HA! None of those suckers were even close! Needless to say, I had my pick of the train and was already chilling on a table seat with my iPad and a Mars Bar when the crowd dashed past the window.
I'm looking forward to a shower when I get home. (My baby girl is staying with her grandparents tonight) I'm sure that the London underground has left a layer of dirt on my skin. In fact I am feeling SO filthy that a long soak in a deep bubble bath with a large glass of wine may be the only cure.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:London

Mothering Sunday Carnage

Nothing says Happy Mother's Day better than a shower of projectile vomit.

I retired to bed the night before full of excitement about my second official Mothering Sunday. I laid out Sofia's specially selected outfit - a beautiful white dress with embroidered flowers and petticoats, and was looking forward to a day at my parents with the whole family.

The morning dawned and with it the scene of carnage in Sofia's cot. Looking at her sheets it was evident that I gave into lazy parenting the evening before and fed my angel greasy fish and chip shop supper with plenty of ketchup.... Ugh. Not sure I can look at a tinned row the same ever again...

I blamed myself for an unfortunate choice of dinner and after breakfast, got her dressed for the day.

A few minutes later the white dress was unrecognisable, and completely awash with regurgitated weetabix and banana.

Suddenly it was obvious that she had the dreaded sickness bug. The friend I met for coffee yesterday admitted to having the norovirus bug just a couple of days before, when it had spread like wildfire throughout her whole family. She's such a sharer and clearly didn't want me to miss out on the action! (Who needs enemies when your friends do such a good job of raining (vomit) on your parade?)

By Sunday night I caught it too and my house was the scene of devastation.

Mothering Sunday 2012 ended up being a day that required me to be the best mother I could possibly be, to use every parenting skill I have learned. I had to pull out my last reserves of energy to get us both through the sickness. There was much mopping, cleaning, cuddling, stroking, soothing, and singing. In fact, if Mother's Day is a recognition of the role of mother to child, then I have never felt it more profoundly, and never been a better mum to my baby girl.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

A Duvet Day

I'm having a lost day. Usually on Friday, Sofia's father collects her, and I wave goodbye, and then become a domestic whirlwind of tidying, cleaning, and organising; merrily ticking off my 'To Do' list, while humming a jaunty tune.
It's now almost 3pm and I am still wearing the same dressing gown I had on since first thing. I spent 2 hours hiding under my duvet earlier, (from who I'm not sure). Today I am sick of being a stay-at-home-single-mum and the thought of never doing anything different, or being anywhere different fills me with a cold dread. On days like today in the past, I would have booked a flight to somewhere far away and wonderful, and been gone before the month is out.
Tempting... but impossible, and I'm sure there's another underlying reason for my restless spirit today.
Maybe I will just bake some dazzling cupcakes instead, like a good stay-at-home-single-mum, and greet the return of my daughter later with smiles and tickles and smears of icing sugar on my nose.
...And nobody will ever know how much I wanted to run away (except for you...)

Back From The Void

You may have noticed the yawning chasm that is this blog; started enthusiastically in late November 2010, full of promise, perkiness and the kind of spirit that comes with the territory when you are imminently expecting your first child.

What's interesting is that in my effort to find inspiration as well as an original title, I searched for other similar blogs at the time, and found many that were surprisingly underpopulated or indeed, completely neglected. I remember feeling rather miffed that someone had reserved a great domain name for themselves (i.e. 'Mum's The Word') and then done absolutely nothing to advance it beyond a lonely title and a blank page. Fifteen long months later, mine befell a similar fate and now I finally understand why.

Becoming a parent is the single most difficult, all-encompassing, mentally and physically draining, devastatingly wonderful, world shattering event that will EVER happen to you.



Prepare for change, commitment and exhaustion beyond anything you have ever imagined.
Prepare to experience a love so true that it feels as though you wear your heart on the outside instead of within.




As for blogging...forget it! Even if I had found the time, my creative brain was long gone, leaving only a creaking sign in a tumbleweed wasteland that read, "Back Next Year - Possibly..."

Here I am, though. Now it's time to fill the void with some recounts from the last fifteen months.