I want candy

So the last few days have been shit. For the naturally thin amongst you please stop reading now. Not only will what I have to say mean nothing to you, it will most likely offend as frankly, I hate you. Yes, that's right, YOU and your stinking metabolism that burns a squillion calories simply by dialling a taxi to take you from the couch to the biscuit barrel. YOU, who can say things like 'oh I can eat whatever I want and never put weight on'. Seriously? Feck off. One day I hope you are run over by a cake truck.

Bitter? Moi? Abso-frickin'-lutely. Not only am I blessed with the metabolism of a hibernating tortoise but also am still adorned with a delightful pair of baby handles which have not fallen off from breastfeeding / pegging it after Mcmini / the shock of finding that the hippo you keep spotting in windows as it wanders about the house is actually your reflection, despite what Holly Willoughby, Penelope Cruz and Heidi Klum told me. Liars, liars, pants on fire.

Ok, maybe I shouldn't have left it til 10 months after I squeezed Boo out to start thinking about shifting the baby weight but if I'm being truthful, I think I developed a taste for patisserie whilst rather aptly, baking my little bun. In fact if he'd been available for the day I would surely have chosen Mr Kipling for my birthing partner so that he could stuff Fondant Fancies into my howling gob mid contraction.

Embarrassingly (and I'm not sure I should mention this lest it destroy my reputation as a glamorous sexpot *heeds universal snigger*) I am also still wearing some of my maternity clothes. Yes, I am aware that I gave birth to wee lederhosen nearly a year ago and thus should no longer require them but blimey O'Riley, they're so pigging comfy.

They have to be of course because pregnancy usually comes with its own suitcases, hand luggage and Winnebago filled with aches and pains therefore, clothes need to swaddle, snuggle and soothe. If they aren't and cause us hormonal sprog vessels to be irritated further in ANY way we would surely be impelled to find Mr Mothercare, shove his sewing machine up his pile-less anus and and burn his stupid house down.

I haven't cared that I look like a deflated Mama Cass or that the maternity bras leave my baps swinging so far south that penguins use them as pillows, you simply don't throw seriously comfy threads away without good reason. Or without one's husband prising them out of one's perpetually chubby pinkies and ceremoniously burning them along with your muumuu and gargantuan over-bump antenatal knick knacks.

But this week something changed. This week I looked in the mirror and saw a pregnant woman. Which is not good when you're not one. So this week the diet began.

The first day was a piece of low-fat, no sugar, pine nut and wheatgrass cakey. Day two was slightly harder as Boo spent its entirety whingeing in that low hum of a whine that international intelligence organisations use as torture and makes you want to do a double Van Gogh (but instead of posting your ear flaps to your lover sending them to God with a note attached that reads: 'The whimpering noise that my wee misog makes? You created that you did. What the jiggery pokery were you thinking? You did bad. Naughty step for God.')

By day three I had started licking the telly every time an ad for pizza or ice-cream or dog food was shown and on day four I got angry, very very angry. Especially when The Hubble came home from work and made a chocolate sandwich sprinkled with biscuits and a pie garnish. Well, I may have hallucinated that snack but whatever it was I wanted it and if I had to gnaw off my beloved's mitt in the fight to get it, so be it.

The excuses have started to rear their fat little heads too. This morning I woke up with a genius cover story poised for the moment my pious little conscience appears on my shoulder when I shift stealthily toward the Doritos:

"Oh yes, I see your point but I neeeeeed the extra calories for running around after plinkyplonk all day! I can't let myself run on empty or else I will burn out and that simply won't do will it? I'd end up in hospital and no-one would be around to look after my schmoo and then Arnold Schwarzenegger will be sent back from the future to destroy me and prevent Boo, our planet's saviour, from fulfilling his destiny..."

Oh no, hang on, that's the plot of Terminator isn't it? See, lack of cake has made me delusional.

So today I am searching Amazon for fridge padlocks and an electric fence to install in front of my larder. I have also begun training the pooch to nip my ankles if I make a run for the bin (seriously though, you never see a fat tramp do you? Maybe eating out of trash cans is the way to go non? Ooooh hello Monsieur Lightbulb, I think I may have invented a new celebrity diet. I cannot WAIT to see pics of Jennifer Aniston papped in a poo stained trench coat, ferreting about in her neighbours wheelie-bin looking for a half eaten doughnut).

The thing is, I clearly have the willpower of Homer Simpson and if I am ever going to fit into clothes that can't also be hired out as a wedding marquee then extreme measures need to be taken.

I will call this lard-proofing and will go about my day being electrocuted, bitten, flummoxed and thwarted at every turn until I learn by association, in the way you would teach a stumbling ninny of a cow not to wander from the field or lick pylons, that candy ain't dandy and too many sweeties a meaty mum makey.

Wish me luck and keep a look out on the local news for a singed woman with a dog hanging off her shin, gibbering like a loon about Vienetta being admitted to hospital after a ballsed attempt to mainline sugar. Ah, fame at last...

Wee ones wobble and they DO fall down...

Eee by gum last night were a bad 'un. I spent from dusk til dawn waiting by the phone expecting Barnardo's, Social Services or Esther Rantzen to tinkle and tell me in no uncertain terms that I am a terrible mother, utterly incapable of looking after little yum yum and that basically, I smell.

Thing is, yesterday evening around din-dins (the time is firmly implanted in my mind as I recall chocking on a piece of stuffed crust in horror) I noticed a honking great bruise on the side of Boo's spam.

Now, I know I have a tendency to overreact and am, at all times, trembling with a sort of wibbly neurosis (well, maybe a little more than wibbly - think the possessed chick with the spinning noggin from the Exorcist) and in reality the bruise is probably about 1cm square. Ok, EXACTLY 1cm square. I measured it. I need to know these things so I that I can leap to my feet and squeal 'OBJECTION!' (I've always wanted to do that) in response to evidence brought against me when I am inevitably summoned to court for being a neglectful wench. Nothing like a bit of make believe drama to make things seem a whole lot worse now is there?

Am I being ridiculous? Yes, probably. But will knowing that I am being a hammy moonbiscuit about all this help at all? No, probably not. Still, wingnut or no, the fact remains that my perfect wee Boo has suffered a knock and I feel like I have failed in my role as safety net / bouncer / sheep pig.

Remember how poor old Kevin Costner was haunted by his absence at President Reagan's attempted snuffing at the beginning of The Bodyguard? Well, *sniffle* I feel his pain. I just hope I don't have to boff Whitney Hoowoo to get over it.

The reason behind scrumple stiltskin's injury you see is not as mysterious as it may seem - Boo has started cruisin'. I hate this term by the way, it makes mini muffin sound like a lechy wee kerb crawler in a grubby mac and pedal powered Ford Cortina.

And cruisers, as you may well know, are like drunken tramps out ferreting through bins for half eaten kebabs and the odd dribble of Special Brew. They think they can stand, they even think they can walk but then, all of a sudden, SPLAT! Oopsy-daisy, heap of baby on floor / tramp in bush.

So I have two options here, two ways of dealing with my intrepid, albeit clumsy, little platypus. I can either strap a number of well-fed gerbils to Sir Poop-alot's tiny bonce to cushion his fall or just suck it up and accept the fact that sproglets tumble. They twat their melons. And no amount of pigging baby-proofing is going to change that.

It's a hard decision to make but, as gerbils allegedly create a lot of mess and one hairy smellbag is enough for one house (poochface not Hubble, although saying that...), I guess I'm just gonna have to gather my marbles, tighten my loose screws and man up. *Puffs out chest and salutes poster of Private Benjamin*.

With pookie's 10 month review on Wednesday (I am setting up his Powerpoint presentation and flip chart as we speak. We are both hoping he gets a pay-rise and well-deserved promotion) I am hoping the consultant looks kindly upon me and more importantly, upon Boo's bonk blemish.

If you see me on Crimewatch next week however, with a bounty on my head and a sign across my chest that reads:

"WANTED: BAD MUMSIE AT LARGE WITH MAIMED INFANT IN TOW. EASILY IDENTIFIABLE BY 1CM SQ BRUISING TO CHILD'S SPAM AND TINY USELESS JEREMY BEADLE HANDS OF MOTHER THAT COULDN'T CATCH A COLD LET ALONE A TUMBLING TOT",

then you know the bint squealed.