I'm committed to actually updating (and keeping it in that state) my blog.
What's spurred me on?
Well, Bryan has grown tired of my rants. He's my husband for those of you not in the know, although we have been married for a good year and a bit - yes it has been good. Admittedly not a whole year and a bit of being good, that would just be weird and Stepford Wife-y, but for the majority of that year and a bit it's been amazingly amazing!
This is the rant following off from another rant part coming up. Being married is great. It's actually the best legal contract I could ever wish to enter into. But it's weird. It's like those American films where the kids go off to "college" (we Brits tend to stick to calling it Uni) and end up with room mates that they have to adjust too. If any of you have never lived with A Boy before - brother's, uncles, cousins, fathers, step fathers etc don't count - you'll understand my perspective on the subject.
You start to admire Bruce Lee. Eating as much as you like? Sure. Go for it. There's no girls to sit with and have those "Oh I'm so fat and here's a list of what I ate today" conversations. Dirty bathroom? No problemo.
Uh, wait a second. Did I just say dirty bathroom?
Why, yes, I did.
Okay, so maybe it is a tiny bit of a problem. And not only does the bathroom start to be a problem...other rooms start to get messy. The bedroom. The living room. The kitchen. And before you know it the landlord is calling you up to tell you that a flat inspection will be carried out because they want to re-evaluate the property and so you're scrubbing, polishing and stuffing things in over-stuffed wardrobes 'till midnight and setting an alarm for 7am so you can get up and finish the job before your eviction notice is served.
See, being married is all about team work. You yell at each other over who should do what in terms of housework but then you snap out of it and like a whirlwind you pull your resources together when the Health Visitor/landlord happens to "pop by."
Oh, and talking of Health Visitor this brings me abruptly to my next point; we had a baby boy on the 9th of February of this year (2010).
I got pregnant within a few months of being married. A few nosey people who I don't particularly care for have asked us "So did you plan this pregnancy?" as if we were two 16 year old chavs who'd feel very welcome on the Jeremy Kyle set. Of course, the answer is yes.
I'll spare you (and my boy who might read this one day) the details, but yes, it was planned. I used to feel a mixture of nausea and laughter whenever people said they "planned" their pregnancies. We just decided why wait for this to happen? And I'll be honest I thought it would take a good few years for any little people to appear on the scene so I felt ready.
Then the Boots bought pregnancy test revealed I was pregnant and my World crumbled. I don't mind saying that, or having it on the World Wide Web for every one and their Granny to read. I'm more than aware that there are many childless couples out there who suffer all kinds of heartbreak and more than ever I really felt for them when I was pregnant.
No joke intended. I thought more and more about those couples who have their hearts broken at the thought of never being pregnant and here I was, up the duff and miserable with it. It didn't really lift for the whole pregnancy. I don't know what was up, but it was weird. I didn't wish my baby any harm whatsoever, but I really didn't feel excited at the thought of it all. I felt scared at the thought of giving birth - actually, more than scared because I had it in my head that my family don't do "easy labours." Not even middle of the road labours. Every labour story I'd heard that came from family members was like a scene from some scary film. Everything seemed to go wrong for them and their labour took about a week to produce any baby.
I'd been building up these stories for years. Making them worse in my head.
Then I went into labour. I got on with it. I breathed through my pain. And yes, okay, I cracked and said "I can't do this, you're all wrong I'm weak!" and "Get me to hospital and get me an epidural." Then we hit the hospital and I was back to being Mrs. Calm.
Yes, I did end up with an epidural but that's a whole other story. For another time. 'Cause this entry has gone rather long and now you might have some insight into what it's like in the Life of Bryan ;).
So for now I bid you a farewell!