Sick, sick and more sick

Tuesday, 10 February 2015

Harry has got a sick bug. My husband had it first, and Ollie is tossing and turning in bed and I have this horrible feeling that we will all get it.

It is 22.35 and Harry and I are lying on a waterproof sheet on my bare mattress because he's projectile vomited over two sets of our bed linen, and his own cot linen twice. So my husband is downstairs supervising hot washes one after the other and getting stuff dry in between, and I am here, administering sips of boob and clearing up when it repeats itself. 

I hate it when my babies are poorly. Obviously any mother does. And Harry is too young for this, he doesn't understand at all what is happening which is breaking my heart. But I don't think I ever feel as much of a mother as when my babies are ill. It's a very primal need in me to be needed. 

Today, quite aside from the sick, was a very tough day indeed. I realise that Ollie has entered an entirely new phase. "Terrible twos" doesn't cover it.

I feel guilty and judgmental being critical of my child, my own mother is very critical and I fight myself if ever I sense negativity on my lips. BUT, in the interests of being honest and sharing what I am sure is a common issue for mums, it is so bloody hard once they start playing up, and he can be a little nightmare!

At the moment, it's boundless energy, extreme emotions, and anger. He was always such a calm and placid baby- everyone always told me I must be doing such a fantastic job to raise such a content child, and now I realise that I don't recognise him sometimes and it was really all down to him. He has developed such strong emotional responses- which when manifested positively, I find marvellous- but which means that when he is frustrated or bored or upset it is like WW3. Both my husband and I are emotional so I should have seen it coming, and I love when he cries at a sad film, when he shakes with excitement and joy, when he caresses and kisses his baby brother. He shows such love and warmth and heart. But the negative emotions he displays, coupled with his obvious inability to understand or control his behaviour, because he is TWO for gods sake, can mean we have really naughty, destructive actions. Like stamping on his brother's head and screaming. Hitting other children in the soft play, in fact, deliberately trying to inflict as much pain on other children as he can.

A lot of this is a response to feelings of jealousy and envy towards his brother, even though he so openly adores Harry. He is constantly desperate for attention. He is also extremely clever and ahead of himself for his age. He will explain to me in hot shouty long full sentences why he is so angry that I will not give him a biscuit, and throw himself around because of it. But at least I know what it is, because he tells me. 

He is naughty and mischievous because he knows it gets my reaction. And I am trying so hard to do what I should and not rise to it. Because if I shout he shouts. But I am a shouty, emotional person, as is my husband, as is he. So I am spending most of my time pretending to be calm and cool when really I want to scream at him because he's pinched Harry and run off, smashing everything in his path as he goes.

I feel like the worst parent in the world some days, when all I want is to love and protect them and this parenting game is so much bloody more than that.

But then they get ill. And need you in a very legitimate and pitiful way and your heart breaks because you have never felt more needed. And when Ollie wakes tomorrow morning, hopefully after a sick-free night's sleep, he will come upstairs and kiss his poorly brother good morning. And I will have faith restored that we will get through all this eventually.

Thanks for reading xx

Getting Better

Saturday, 31 January 2015

Part of my PND councilling 'homework' has been keeping a diary and giving a lot of time over to self reflection. I feel good today. I feel sad today. Etc.

It's occurred to me over the last couple of weeks that the sad days are becoming less sad and aren't really full days anymore. Obviously I'm dumbing it all down a bit- the truth is I haven't felt hopeless or desperate or despairing. At all. For really quite a long time.

And I have realised that the depression has, in part, left me. I am still mind-numbingly exhausted but that is simply because Harry wakes every two hours at night for milk (he's still breastfed, and GIGANTIC), so of course I'm tired. I still have moments where I want to throw myself on to the floor and scream but I actually think that's pretty normal too as I am at home with two under 2.5 and Ollie likes to jump on his brother and trash the house in "scary dinosaur" fashion, whilst Harry screams for more milk and dinner is ruined as I forget to turn the stove down....

When you start to recover from a period of extreme depression it's an odd sensation. One I have, happily, experienced now twice. For one thing, "normal" feels like ecstasy, overwhelming joy, hilarious brilliance, etc. It can actually be a little embarrassing to be wandering round a supermarket and not feel the need to cry from despair and then feel so grateful and happy about it you want to cry from relief. Every normal positive sensation is magnified a thousand times over. If you remember that moment I blogged about when I was overwhelmed by 'the feeling of being alive' when I breathed in some icy winter air- well I keep doing that. Keep having moments when I'm very aware of how alive I feel. And that makes you realise just how bad it was before. How you didn't even feel like you were living.

Because life must have happiness. It must have joy. It must have hope and faith and laughter and acceptance and contentment. To some extent at least. If you can't find any of those things it is an extremely dark and horrible state to be in.

As part of all this, I have discovered a lot about myself. I am 28 and I think, without sounding like a total twat, that I'm only just beginning to understand who I really am. It was quite shocking, actually, to suddenly discover things about yourself that you had buried away or never taken the time to notice. A lot of what I discovered was not nice to realise. One thing, is that I have become such a negative person, even though I think I am often outwardly so positive. I hide behind a mask so much. I give a huge amount to this persona and to other people. I want to be liked more than is probably healthy. I don't have any street cred and am a total wimp and even though I am always trying to look after other people it's actually, deep down, because I want to be looked after myself. I am lazy and bloody-minded when it comes to things I don't enjoy doing, like house work. I can be stubborn and selfish. I'm over anxious and a control freak.

But I also really want to get better. To be the best version of me there is. To be better. To embrace who I really am and just bloody enjoy life a little more. My husband and I are both guilty of allowing stressful jobs and no money bring us down into an endless cycle where we don't stop and appreciate what we do have. And now, we have two beautiful sons and a beautiful house to live in and really good friends and family around us. Who could ask for any more?!

Here's to a better start and a better year. A better outlook and a better state of mind. A better time of it, all round. Starting now.

Thanks for reading xx

A Day in My Life...

Thursday, 22 January 2015

I am asked a lot what I do with my days, so I thought Id give you a blow by blow account of what it's really like. Thursdays are my most potentially stressful day as we have no specific activity. On Mondays we go to a music class with a friend and then often have a walk and lunch together. On Tuesdays we go with the same friend and two others to a large toddler stay and play with two soft play areas, craft room, sensory room etc (it's bloody amazing) then lunch together. Ollie is in nursery on Wednesday so I have a relaxed day with Harry and go to baby yoga. Ollie is again in nursery on Friday morning which is when I clean the house and do a food shop. Afternoons are taken up with naps and often little play dates with friends before tea.

Thursdays, however, with no classes and all friends in work/at nursery, are a potential nightmare....

Thursday 21st January 2015.

Harry woke for feeds at midnight, 3am and 6am. I remember sleepily glancing at my phone clock as I laid him back to sleep at 6.38 and then looking at it again at 6.51 as I was woken by Ollie thumping his way up the stairs. Someone has left the stair gate on his bedroom door off, possibly me, so suddenly he is in our room, hand full of small hard Schleich sea life creatures, climbing into the bed and loudly saying "want to watch max and ruby please mummy". Possibly biggest parenting regret is allowing him to watch cartoons on YouTube on my phone one morning whilst in extremis with morning sickness with Harry- which led to daily request ever since (and normally allowance) of cartoons being watched. 

Struggle out of bed and start trying to find clothes to wear. Husband is already downstairs about to leave for work. Harry wakes up and simultaneously does massive poo. As I change Harry Ollie runs off and goes downstairs* to his room, then brings up more sea life creatures. Gets cross when I won't enter into role play pretending to be a dolphin because I am now breastfeeding Harry again. It seems poo has opened up more space to be filled with milk. Ollie stomps into our en suite, climbs on loo seat so can lean into sink and fill it with water to "wash" his octopus. I eventually intervene when Harry is finished and somehow get downstairs with both children, grabbing clean clothes for Ollie en route from basket of folded clean washing, which is now not folded and crumpled as had to dig into it to find socks.

Ollie goes down stairs on his bum faster than me and due to sock-search delay, I find him in kitchen pouring cereal into a bowl which is overflowing onto floor. Remind self to move cereal onto high shelf in the pantry cupboard.

Put Harry on play mat, gazing happily at dangling jungle creatures, and sort out cereal for Ollie, whilst also clearing up kitchen mess from night before that went untidied. Get phone call from husband who is now at work and Ollie speaks to him for a bit as I laboriously load the dishwasher.

Manage to convince Ollie to allow me to dress him as he is momentarily subdued by substantial quantity of cereal, then put on 'the Gruffalo' (recorded from bbc special at Christmas) whilst feeding Harry AGAIN and discussing with Ollie what we shall do with the day.

Decide to go and get Harry weighed at local clinic first thing, so take approx half an hour forcing both children into layers of woolly clothing and hat scarves etc, then car, packing change bag with endless paraphernalia in under 30 seconds, getting into car myself to realise am wearing one thin cotton top under my Barber- which is actually not warm whatsoever and has cream cheese finger prints all over it from Ollie's friend Emily who sat on it whilst eating her lunch yesterday. 

Look in car mirror to check appearance and see have last night's mascara and sleepy dust caked under eyes and a coldsore! Joy! Try to rub off mascara smudge so as not to appear too ridiculous in front of health visiting team, whilst driving to clinc. Get there and negotiate with Ollie to wear reins and not pull me over into busy oncoming traffic as cross precarious busy road outside health centre, holding sleepy Harry (now awake) with one arm. 

Inside health centre leave Ollie to play with toy kitchen, telling everyone in the room that he is making pizza and chips in the oven (disapproving glances as clearly they think that's all I feed my child). Get Harry weighed and dressed and trudge back out to car. Try to get Ollie into car whilst holding Harry one handed which results in him scrabbling into front seat and pretending to drive car and honk horn whilst I strap Harry in. 

Then drive to local library. Again have to park on main road and negotiate safe exit from car onto pavement. Drag sleeping Harry along in car seat this time and return massively overdue library books. Can't pay fine as have no cash but persuade librarian to allow us to borrow some more books. Choose seven books in childrens section whilst Ollie interrupts father spending quiet time with his one year old son, positioning himself between them and trying to loudly join in with story telling.

Borrow books from library using weird computer system that keeps beeping at me whilst Ollie presses buttons inappropriately and tries to shove receipt back into machine.

Get back to car, buckle them in etc, and drive to local garden centre with soft play 'area'. This time realise enough is enough and get pram out of the boot and transfer Harry. It is 11 but Ollie tells me he wants lunch. Haven't brought a snack so decide to just get early lunch for us from garden centre cafe. Ollie won't wait in the queue and runs over to our table and starts climbing on it. Grab him, tell him off, lose space in queue and start again, holding wrestling child under my arm. Order myself a bacon and Brie sandwich and hot chocolate as a treat and get Ollie a child's meal of ham sandwich, yoghurt, orange and cookie. Return to table and Harry who was abandoned, asleep, in pram (within view at all times!) Ollie refuses to eat sandwich and wants to eat cookie first. Have lengthy discussion about best order to eat food in and eventually succumb (weak mother). 

After enjoying food and warm drink with Ollie strapped into high chair and distracted by food, feel quite relaxed. Call husband and say hello. Then let Ollie loose in soft play room which I am seated right next to so can see in through the glass. Have discussion first about what the rules are for soft play.

Me: " what are the rules Oliver?"
Ollie: "no hitting the children mummy" (as though they are all imbeciles and he is actually 20.)

Watch with pride as Ollie plays nicely with other children, popping in and out when fear his 'dinosaur impressions' (ie making loud ROAR noises whilst going down the slide) are frightening other children. Realise he has buddied up with an older boy who is telling a Chinese Grandmother who is sitting in the soft play bit, supervising her granddaughter, that "she isn't English. He hates French people". Stand there shocked and not sure whether to intervene. Grandmother tells boy she is not French but Chinese, as is her granddaughter, and he says "she's not my best friend, he is" and grabs Ollie, who is loving the attention. Grandmother scowls at me as my two year old child is now clearly racist by association. I mutter "let's all play nicely", separate Ollie from older boy and encourage him to get into ball pool bit.

Then realise Harry is awake and crying and alarmed parents are trying to get my attention through the glass. Bring Harry into the soft play and sit in the ball pool trying to subtly breastfeed. Start being talked to by over-keen mother who is pregnant with her second and is amazed by Ollies speech. He clearly knows he is being talked about and starts showing off, asking her questions about her red handbag. Then Ollie suddenly (still showing off) runs out of soft play room and door closes behind him. I yank poor Harry off my boob and run after him. 

Boob is flapping under my top as I run after errant child who is squealing with glee and sprinting across garden centre which is filled with obstacles, such as tables stocked with glass vases and a million garden knomes. Harry is, quite rightly, very pissed off at being disturbed and now lurching all over place as I run, so sicks up entire feed all over me. I finally catch Ollie by doors to the car park. Realise he has done a poo. Take about half an hour to take self and children and all belongings from our table to toilet. Can't fit buggy in so have to ask nice looking grandmother to watch Harry outside loos, whilst feeling like dreadful mother. 

Eventually leave garden centre feeling fraught. Drive home and pray ollie nods off en route. Get back and park in drive. Ollie not asleep. Tell him it's time for a nap and just sit in parked car waiting. Miraculously after about 3 minutes he is asleep so unload car and Harry and take Ollie upstairs to bed, managing not to wake him whilst removing his shoes coat, scarf, hat, jumper, trousers. 

Then bring Harry upstairs and get into my bed with him. Give him a feed, a burp, another feed, burp, new nappy, and watch him fall asleep on my side of the bed surrounded by pillows. Gleefully anticipate bring able to nap as both children asleep but get distracted by texts on my phone I haven't had time to reply to. Suddenly realise Ollie will wake soon so close eyes for a nap...and then hear Ollie has woken up early. Again, am greeted by sea life creatures being plonked on my face. Grab Ollie and pull him under covers with me, trying to get him to fall back asleep for a bit. Enjoy five minutes of being in bed with both children snoozing on either side of me, when Ollie wakes up and dashes off downstairs. Harry has done a poo (always seems to bloody poo when he wakes up) so change him. Ollie reappears and in less than two minutes has gone all the way downstairs to the family room, grabbed one of his felt tips and drawn all over his leg. Shows me leg proudly. Take Ollie into bathroom to wash it off. Get both boys downstairs. Is 4pm.
Decide to bake some cookies with Ollie but spend next hour repeatedly reading through his new library books at his insistence, whilst Harry practises tummy time. Harry rolls from front to back several times and we cheer and dance around to celebrate. Then do some jigsaw puzzles and decide cookies "will be too messy mummy". Ollie amazes me as manages to do 12 piece Thomas the tank engine jigsaw for age 3+ with no assistance. Reach for phone to text husband and battery dies.

Need to feed Harry so we all go into living room and put on 'Chicken run' as I feed him. Harry is really fussing and has trapped wind, also seems to be teething and dribbling endlessly. Sicks up mixture of saliva and milk all over me. Use my sleeve to clean up as no wipes to hand. Realise it is now 6pm so leave Ollie watching 'chicken run' with a pot of grapes and a tangerine, and take Harry with me into kitchen to make dinner. Homemade chicken kievs with mashed potato and carrots and peas. Miraculously Harry falls asleeps in his bouncer as I cook. Ollie runs into kitchen and tries to "help". Suggest he plays with his toys but he wants to drag his chair into kitchen (so as to stand on it to help by cooker). Take eyes off him as attending to boiling veg and hear a scream- he has climbed on chair and then fallen off it and hit head. Spend next ten minutes comforting crying toddler, trying to place frozen peas against lump on his head, and administering calpol. 

Then have to hold Ollie whilst finishing cooking, therefore doing everything one handed, as I won't let him stand on chair next to cooker and he wants to be 'involved'.

Harry obviously wakes as I sit down to eat with Ollie at 7pm (far too late), so eat one-handed whilst cuddling baby. Leave dirty plates on table and portion set aside for my husband then we return to sitting room for one episode of peppa pig before bed. Harry seems to want to feed again, first does massive poo, ollie "helps" change it, then as I feed him Ollie strokes his head. Burp Harry and again he is a little sick which is a bit worrying. Again use sleeve to wipe it. Have moment of reflection. Coldsore is stinging and I smell of sick. 

Go and make Ollies warm milk, then go upstairs carrying milk, Harrys gripe water and syringe for administering it, Ollies favourite toys, Ollies pyjamas which are downstairs from breakfast change, seven new library books and Harry. Leave Harry on spare room bed surrounded by pillows with dummy in and do quick bedtime routine with Ollie which involves two stories and one song. Can't believe luck that he goes down really quickly without a fuss. Return to Harry and feel very guilty that haven't spent quality time with him. We go up to my room on top floor and I spend half an hour making him smile and talking to him. Get him changed and give him final breastfeed with about three burps in between. Try to call husband whose phone is off so he is obviously delayed at work. Rock Harry to sleep in my arms and realise this is becoming a habit and he needs to learn to self soothe. Put him in Moses basket and on second attempt he stays asleep. 

Go and do a wee and wonder if it's the first time I've been to the loo all day. Check time- it's 9pm- husband isn't home yet. Go downstairs to clean up mess.


So that's that. Please note that we don't normally have head injuries, vommiting babies, or meals at such stupid times. Ollie should also probably not go up and down stairs unaided but sometimes I have to relent if I am with Harry and he actually is perfectly safe and capable at it. 

It is now 10.20pm and I've written this all out. My husband has just called saying he's leaving work so I'll go and warm up a plate of food and put some washing on.

Welcome to my life!! Ha!

Thanks for reading xx

Not the best start...

Wednesday, 14 January 2015

Sometimes there is so much I want to write about that I feel overwhelmed by it, don't know where to start, and end up not writing anything at all. The last fortnight has been like that. Too much to say. 

I've decided the way out of this is to just give you a point by point update on what's going on right now with us, and then if I choose to I can elaborate in future posts. 

So firstly, the weight loss mission. Not so good. 1st January rolled around and I just could not be bothered. I have this huge desire to be half the size I am now and somehow just can't translate that desire into motivation to actually get off my arse.  It didn't help that over Christmas I stopped weight watchers for a week and lost 4lbs (yes I know, who loses 4lbs over Christmas?!!) ... That sort of stuck in my head and made me feel that I could eat what I want and still lose weight. But the fact is that I was so stressed and low over Christmas I barely had time to eat, whereas the last fortnight of January I have eaten LOADS and not done weight watchers at all. It seems I have lost about a pound though, which is probably because Harry is breastfeeding so much, but a pound a fortnight is not the rate I want to be losing and I need to get my self together.

A possible motivation is the fact that we have booked a holiday for June. I am flipping excited. Greek sun, sea, sailing and a reportedly fantastic kids club. We haven't had a foreign holiday since our honeymoon to Italy 5 years ago and my husband has never been to Greece so I am really looking forward to it. There's not a lot better than moussaka cooked in a traditional Greek oven and the mountains over the Ionian Sea. Heaven. 

The children are good. Harry feeds all the time and whilst he sleeps well at night and settles quickly between feeds, he still wakes hungry at least twice. Ollie is the kindest sweetest soul one minute and smothering us all in kisses and the next is on the rampage, running all over the house screaming. He can be very destructive and wilful and is also going through a "hitting" phase. This caused a bit of a drama at a local soft play recently with a very stroppy mother who was clearly in denial that her son is equally boisterous. It is very hard being a mum to a "lively" boy sometimes, especially if you yourself are quiet and don't like making a scene. Sometimes I wonder if Ollie will ever stop. Sometimes my breath is taken away by how forceful and naughty he can be. Sometimes I worry he will always be like this. I know, he is TWO! So I need to calm down and do the best I can. 

I'm seeing a wonderful councillor and I feel I am managing my depression. It isn't better or worse. Some days I want to sink into a hole. Above all else, I put on a massive front, and then when I'm alone I just sit and stare into space and do very little good or productive. And then cry. I am not going on antidepressants because for now, I want to continue breastfeeding. I saw my doctor about it who was a complete ARSE and kept referring to depression as "feeling a bit low" and then said "someone as intelligent as you can definitely just pull yourself out of this. People with high IQs sort themselves out, it's people who aren't intelligent who can't cope".

Yes. I know. I'll let that sink in. 

What a wanker.

Suffice to say, I am managing to keep going, and I am still getting up every morning. I'm very lucky that my husband does so much in the house and is very supportive. Our relationship has suffered massively recently and I want things to be okay again so much.

Maybe the holiday's just what we need.

How is your January going so far?

Thanks for reading xxx

My Weight Loss Mission

Saturday, 3 January 2015

Your blog feed is probably inundated with weightloss posts. New year, new me. That sort of thing.

I normally whack out a blog post on the spot, on my blogger app, without giving it much thought. But this post has been playing on my mind. 

I've been thinking about how best I want to discuss my weight loss mission that looms ahead of me. I've considered being brutally honest and uploading half naked photos of myself and measurements in some sort of shaming process. I've mused about the emotional reasons why I over eat. I've gone through all my excuses- that I have a large-ish frame (true) and crap genes (true) and that anyone who says genes don't play a part in your figure need to look at photos of Abbey Clancy's mother in a bikini. I've considered telling you all about the fact that my frame and being freakishly tall during my childhood, (before all my friends caught up with me during our teenaged years), meant I have always felt big, even when I've not actually been overweight. That I've always hidden at the back when someone calls for a group photo, that I've never worn a strappy top without tensing my upper arms and trying to melt myself into a smaller person, that I haven't worn a dress cut above the knee since I was 16. 

But the bare reality of it all is that I weighed myself today and imputed it into a bmi calculator and I am obese. So however I dress this up. However I talk about it or excuse my way out of it and shine a different light on it, the reality is, I actually need to bloody do something about this and just deal with it. 

The funny thing is, two healthcare professionals have told me I am not obese in the last fortnight. I was at my doctors discussing antidepressants and he asked me about my appetite (which often fluctuates with depression) and when I told him that I had no appetite but I wanted to lose weight so it was no bad thing, he said "oh don't be silly, it's not like you're obese".  And my mental health councillor Mary was talking to me about my cripplingly low self esteem and I said I hated being overweight and she said that I had to remember the good things about myself and that I was "hardly obese".

Well apparently I am folks. Bmi of 30.8. Maybe I don't look it which is no bad thing. But the weights there. Whether I do actually have miraculously heavy bones or not, the weight I am carrying around on me is way too much. And I am fat. Let's not kid ourselves. I have massive wobbly thighs and thick knees and bingo wings and a permanent muffin top even when I haven't got clothes on. I might be a size 16 and fit into a lot of my size 14 stuff, but I am seriously overweight.

It's been a long battle for me. Since I was about 18. I love food, I love eating, I comfort eat. I have appalling self control. My mum left a large packet of miniature shortbread biscuits after Christmas and I've literally been shoving handfuls of them into my mouth every time I go into the kitchen, just because they taste nice. Some people can get away with overeating. All my petite skinny knobbly-kneed friends who went to the corner shop every day after school and gorged on sweets and crisps and not me, the girl who wasn't allowed more than one packet of crisps a week by her paranoid mother who chastised her, yet still was the biggest of them all.

Since I was 18 I've gained weight, dieted, and gained again. I've been heavier than I am now. I've done weightwatchers 4 times and always lost weight. But when I'm not on weightwatchers, when I'm just eating "normally", the weight creeps on. So my idea of normal is actually eating too much. And therein lies the problem.

Another problem is I've felt fat, or big, for so long, that I've forgotten what it's like not to be. Sometimes I look at the number on the scales and I flinch because it hits me just how heavy I am. Sometimes I catch sight of myself and can't believe it. My mum once asked me about my growing weight, and I realised that for me, and I suppose others, that you just get used to it. You get used to being bigger and heavier, the higher numbers get more familiar. You just accept the fact that you're now a size 12, or 14, 16, 18.... You bury your head further in the sand and it gets further and further out of your control and you slowly give in to it. I used to assume that people who manage to stay slim are just lucky, and whilst some are, a friend I spoke to a while ago admitted that she weighs herself weekly and if she goes over 9 stone she is furious with herself and goes on a detox until the weight comes off. I didn't stop the weight going on early enough. It was on, then more was on, then more, and I didn't act and I accepted it and I got used to it. Time after time. 

I am doing weightwatchers again because I know it gets weight off me quickly but steadily. One thing I need to address though is how I am going to turn this into a lifestyle change and not another diet. I need to also start exercising. I look at bloggers and women on Instagram who have completely transformed themselves and I know I can do it. I am so determined. Determined that by the age of 30 I will feel decent about myself. That I will wear a fitted dress and strappy sandals and not feel like a whale in a condom. I can see the outfit in my mind now and I am going to look good in it. I was a size 12/10 when I met my husband and I want to get back there, because that was the lowest weight of my adult life and I felt so differently about myself. Even though I still wanted to be slimmer and still was a bit overweight. 

Kate Moss caused a furore in the nineties by quoting the line "nothing tastes as good as skinny feels". Because everyone associates the word skinny with anorexia nowadays, she was heavily criticised. But actually, I think there are a lot of positives to take from that quote.

The temporary, fleeting satisfaction of putting something that tastes nice into your mouth, does not give you the same satisfaction of having a healthy body which you are proud of. Of being able to wear an outfit you really like without worrying about control underwear and wobbly bits. Of going to the swimming pool with your children and not cringing with embarrassment because of your thighs. Of actually being able to go to a public swimming pool full stop.

We are hopefully going to go on a hot summer holiday this year in August and I want to wear a bikini. It will be high waisted, because I haven't come to terms with my stretch marks yet, but I want to wear it and feel like I look okay. I really hope I will start a new job next September and be able to buy some size 12, or even size 10, smart work clothes and feel that I look professional and well put together and not like a frump.

This is the year that I finally, really want to know "how skinny feels", in the metaphorical sense. I want to lose three stone. I've already lost two and a half stone from the weight I was at 40 weeks pregnant. So a heavy baby, breastfeeding and doing weightwatchers during November (I had a Christmas hiatus), has made the numbers a lot less scary. But another three stone to go please. 

And it's doable. 

I just need to do it.

Thanks for reading xx

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