Before I launch into my first tirade of lunacy, I shall tell you a little bit more about The Marleys.
Prince Cock Face and I met 10 years ago when we struck up our romance in the work place. There was a lot of post-work drinking and frolicking during this time (as you do when you’re 20 and barely responsible for yourself let alone anyone else) and we discovered after one particularly boozy evening that we not only got the same bus, got off at the same bus-stop but that we also lived a road away from each other. As such, more drinking ensued back at his place, interspersed with a bit of awkward flirting. He then charmingly walked me home (though I’m sure it was more of a stagger at this point!) and I gave him a statue of a chicken from my parents garden, and that pretty much appeared to seal the deal! He was smitten. Who can resist the unbridled sexiness of a chicken statue, afterall?! PCF then spent the next 7 years trying to avoid having to marry me – but eventually in April 2012 he caved in to societal pressure and popped the question on our 7 year anniversary celebration. In a beer garden. We then proceeded to invite all of our friends down to celebrate this momentous, historic event by getting completely shit-faced. And to this day it remains one of my fondest memories 😉
Having waited so long for The Proposal, I decided that I really couldn’t be arsed with a long engagement of any sort, so we got hitched 6 months later in September 2012 and it was a truly wonderful day!
Aaaw. Aren’t we cute? Mini says ‘Cuggle!’ when she sees this 🙂
Approximately 3 days post-wedding during our mini-moon in Benidorm we threw contraceptive caution to the wind (mainly for a laugh more than anything else) and our offspring was created. Don’t worry, I really won’t be elaborating any further on this other than to say that this is how our precious little lady came to be. As I was convinced we were having a boy it was our intention to name her Ben in honour of the location of conception – but she ended up being born without a penis so we had to scrap that idea!
Prior to the birth of Godzilla (as she is sometimes affectionately known) I led a fairly unremarkable life working in an office, having a few beverages on a Friday, sleeping in on weekends, eating / drinking / shitting at my own discretion and conversing with PCF without constant interruptions. All of which are now of course distant memories of a carefree life gone by.
- You only realise that you haven’t washed in a very long time when you wake up one morning and quite unexpectedly find yourself asphyxiating from a toxic odour that appears to be emanating from your own arsehole. This has happened to me frequently since the birth of my child, who helpfully entered the world during the sweltering summer of 2013. There really is nothing better than having to sweat profusely through the entire newborn fog. The complete and utter shock of suddenly becoming a parent is simply enhanced by being really fucking hot the entire time. I highly recommend it.
- It’s no longer that big of a deal when you get a bit of poo on your finger. This is a gradual process of course as initially, it is a very big frigging deal and goes something like this: “What is that? Oh my god.. *realisation dawns* OH MY GOD.. *gags dramatically*. Is that SHIT??! There is fucking SHIT on my fucking finger!!!!! It’s actual shit!! Jesus Christ get me a wipe!! Get me some bleach! Fuck it, just get me a knife and i’ll cut the fucker off!!!”. This is of course eventually replaced with a mere shrug and the addition of snot, puke and piss alongside the presence of human faecal matter taking permanent residence somewhere on your person.
- You eat food that your child has already chewed and spat out. I like to think of it as a kind of pre-chewing service. I’m not sure if this is a cultural thing, being of Italian and West Indian descent whereby the wasting of food is on par with puppy slaying, but nonetheless I often find myself absent-mindedly eating a partially chewed cheese cube or a regurgitated slice of cucumber. This being one of the many contributing factors to my exponential arse expansion. Nothing to do with the donuts and quite frankly I REALLY RESENT THE IMPLICATION!!
- You quite literally piss yourself on a fairly regular basis. This is a direct result of the decimation of what was once your vagina through the ‘miracle of childbirth’. I never really understood the significance of the pelvic floor prior to this particular life experience, but it becomes a part and parcel of daily life to feel that familiar trickle every time you cough, sneeze or laugh a tad too vigorously. I strongly advise that you get cracking with the fanny clenching, girls! As its decidedly uncool to be incontinent at 30. You don’t see Kim Kardashian pissing down her PVC get-ups do you?? No. You do not.
See? There she is. Not pissing. And looking a bit like a very shapely cumberland sausage.
Next on the agenda is:
Personal Space… (or lack thereof)
- Taking a shit on your own is considered ‘me-time’. Yes. The act of defecating without a small human chattering at your feet, pulling on your knickers and trying to assist you in the wiping of your own arse is in fact quite the treat! When PCF is home and on daddy duty, I find myself gleefully announcing to him that “I’m going for a poo!”, and off I trot to bask on my solitary throne.
The Space Invader doesn’t stop at having to be involved just with poopy time of course. They generally have to be glued to your face during every waking moment. Mini Marley has a particular talent for trying to be so close to me it sometimes appears as if she is actually attempting to claw her way back inside my vagina. Which would be a pretty impressive achievement given her healthy stature! And don’t for one second think that you will be able to cook dinner without encountering a series of near death experiences. No darling, you can’t climb into the oven / stick your face in the pan / drink the bleach / juggle the knives / spear yourself in the eyeball with a fork, and so on and so forth. Be a dear and go and watch Mr Tumble for the 7 billionth time today, would you? This incessant usurping of one’s soul doesn’t stop at bedtime (well not for me anyway) as the Night Shift often involves my being curled up in the foetal position of Mini’s bedroom floor stroking her hair with one hand, patting her bum with the other, and rubbing her back in an anti-clockwise circular motion with my foot. These being the optimum sleep-inducing requirements. Which brings me conveniently onto my next subject…
- Although ‘tired’ isn’t really an adequate term, is it? Back in my pre-baby existence, I frequently used to moan about being tired. I look back on this now with such incredulous amusement that I would love nothing more than to travel back in time to tell my childless, clueless self that ‘You have NO. FUCKING. IDEA. what being tired is, dickhead, NO IDEA!!’. And then punch myself in the face just for emphasis.
You sometimes fantasise about being in a serious but non-fatal accident which would result in a hospital stay and thus the rare opportunity to sleep THROUGH THE NIGHT. However, should you actually encounter the freak opportunity to sleep for more than 5 consecutive hours your body enters into a state of convulsive shock, a bit like anaphylaxis, and you end up feeling like utter shit. Yes, that is correct. You are now allergic to a normal, human amount of sleep.
- As a direct result of this heinous and prolonged sleep deprivation, you eventually lose your mind and have no idea what day it is, how old you are, why you walked into the bedroom, where your bag/keys/shoes are or why there is a sock in the fridge. You will constantly lose your phone and your jacket and please be prepared to purchase 3,000 sippy cups over the course of a year. Tommee Tippee will never go out of business. But as long as you don’t lose your actual child, you’re doing really well 🙂 Give yourself a pat on the puke-stained back, ladies!
And on that note – I really must tear myself away from the laptop as Mini Marley has awoken from her 17 minute siesta and is currently shouting “Muuuuummm! Muuuummm! Bee!! Gog!! Titty!!” (That’s bee, dog, kitty to you and me) and I feel duty bound to go and inspect her room for domestic animals.
Until the next time…. TTFN!