Milestones.

I have decided this will be a Cute Attack kind of blog, with a little of the serious stuff of what's going on with us (and by "us" I mean me and Roman) and a hell of a lot of cute. Yep. I said HELL. It's okay to say in Scotland.

A while ago I spent ages writing up a blog about what happened in October and hoped it would be ready long before now. Well, that hasn't happened. I need to re-work it because it's loaded with pictures (unseen) and I'm scared it will crash people's computers - so until I work out how jumps work don't know when that will be I can say that that blog is lost in the drafts until then.

So, on with November and what's been happening with us...

Well, last week I was getting out of bed (where I had been living for the past two weeks due to being struck down with a cold and then the recovery of the cold) and as I was steadying myself against the wall I bashed my hand off the wall. I hit my knuckles and on further inspection saw that my mole (hate the thing) that is on my right hand also took a hit.

Of course, as it always does, it started to bleed heavily. I freaked out because years ago someone told me if you cut or have a bleeding mole then you'll cause yourself cancer. I don't know if that's true (I'm willing to bet it isn't) and I'm too scared to Google if it's true (in case it is...but it sounds like crap to me!).

Here it is...The Disfigurement. I think I have Mole Dysmorphia...but seriously, this thing has been the bane of my right hand for a long, long time! Oh yeah and the photo is out of  focus because it's hard for me to use my left hand to take photos...wish my Dad had passed on his left handedness to me at times like these! ;)

So after much humming and hawing, off to the doctors I went. He took my hand (ooh err, first time I've wanted to be called a lady - you all know I hate it being assumed I'm a "lady" and yes I am a woman, but a lady I am not!) and had a look at it. "Oh yes, I see what you mean now," he said. "If we cut it off, it will leave a small scar. I'll refer you to the minor surgery department for that."

Say what? Minor surgery? 

All of you who know me, know I've never had any kind of surgery - apart from in 2009 when I had another sort of minor surgery colonscopy.And anyone whose anyone (especially my big sister and she knows why!) will know I HATE this mole on my hand. I've waited my whole life for a doctor to say those words to me before. And today, within 5 seconds of explaining my issue, it was a lovely referral. I'm aware this will probably mean I'll get it hacked off. In twenty years time. When I have 50 children. The NHS are notorious for their waiting lists and I'm hoping this cancer thing isn't true as I'm freaking out if I wait any longer, the cancer will get more aggressive...

And this is not a joke. These are the things I actually think. I'm actually quite crazy if you think about it.

I was also informed today for the millionth time that ME/CFS (I call it CFS when I see a doctor because they can't handle the abbreviation of two letters) doesn't have a cure. "It comes and goes." I can't complain, though, the doctor was the best I've seen in a long while and is, oddly enough, doing more tests for me. I know said tests will come back clear - as they always seem too - but I'm going along with it for now so that he can satisfy whatever curiosity it is he has over my health. I just hope these "tests" aren't that treadmill running thingy...because I will pass out before I get on the treadmill. Seriously.

My brother visited today and I hadn't seen him since September. He had this weird facial fuzz going on and when pressed for my opinion...well I said he should shave. Seriously Fraser, I know it's winter, but I don't want kids mistaking you for a red bearded Santa. Just teasing, of course. It was great to have him around and he took Roman out for ages and ages today - yay, the vacuuming got done.

When Roman got back I didn't want to put him down - there's a weird thing when you have a kid. Before I became a parent I was very much a person who was good around kids and loved the company of children. BUT I had this feeling at the bottom of my mind...they get boring and a little bit annoying after a while. I was scared being a parent would equal boredom with the children but I can hand on heart say that I am not fed up of Roman - in fact, every day I feel like it's a new adventure. It's got challenges, but I never think "I'm a celebrity, get me out of here!" (maybe that will change, maybe it won't) and I never wish him away.

We walked around together and he held onto the furniture...I just can't believe what I'm seeing. I know in a few months time this novelty will wear off and it will be a given...but walking is such a miracle we take for granted and it's such a blessing to not feel the frustration at not being able to move around and be free. I always feel quite grumpy when older people say to me "Well, hen, at least you have your health!" and I feel like punching them in the face. Several times. But do you know something? It's true...well, not really...but I can walk. I can move my legs and get around if I need too AND if I want too. I look at Roman and he's absolutely overjoyed at the fact he can hold himself up and not bothered about running five steps ahead to walking on his own, holding onto a table or a sofa is enough for him.

I love these jeans he has on. They're cosy and cute. I have good taste, what can I say? (Except I bought them as a bundle from eBay! Ha!).

And as if today wasn't filled with perfection enough in the form of vegetable crisps (chips) and humus, it SNOWED down my street! :).

Here's some "awwww" for your eyes:

Is it just me, or....

I go through phases of loving different types of baby clothes/designers of baby clothes (ha! Who would have thought I'd be fixated on such a thing?).

http://www.peterandjanestore.com/tops-25-c.asp

And right now it's Scandinavian designs (namely Nordic prints/Danish designers) that I am in love with. Smafolk, Plastisock, Molo and Ida T to name but a few. Now, I know these type of designers have the hefty price tag attached, but do you know what? So do the "green" British/American made clothes!

And those don't come with cute prints...well they're okay but I just feel like there's nothing special (apart from complying to organic/greenie standards, which is lovely) about these clothes. That they are sometimes very plain and seem to hammer home the stereotypes of how green kids are dressed.

In fact, when you compare prices, you actually save money buying from a Scandinavian designer and if you take into consideration the costs of shipping from the States, you save a heap more money.

Anyway, enough of the boring stuff. The ways in which I have found myself saving money and reducing my carbon footprint is to buy new/used clothes from eBay. It's been great because I've saved myself the hassle of trailing round the shops and being bombarded with choice and wasting my energy walking round shops looking for the best buys - yes I actually do this...plus I am indecisive so the time it takes me to buy something is bordering on ridiculous. It also allows something the charity shops don't really: the luxury to type in the designers I want and to end up with those brands.

Now, don't get me wrong, I've bought new stuff for Roman. I love doing it. But I have bought bundles of clothes for myself from eBay (plus a laptop, computer, monitor, games, shoes...lots of shoes and much more) so why would I discriminate when it comes to him? Especially if it's more affordable and I get a lot more done in one bid than I would in two weeks worth of shopping for his clothes and deciding what he needs.

When I bid on a bundle on eBay I get to see what clothes a previous parent has laid out - I am paying for someone else's experience. I can type in "babies winter bundle of clothes" and up pops a snow suit, 2 hats, 2 pairs of mittens and various other items. Items I'm not really sure I need but am thankful for once they arrive because yes we could get by on a few outfits and rotate them (but not really) but once I see them and unpack that brown packing material it's then that I realise my white charger has come to save me - this is exactly what I needed for Roman.

Thank you previous parent, thank you eBay, thank you bank balance for holding out. 

So...fully loaded with all this knowledge and my new found love for all things Scandinavian I have been on an eBay frenzy and although they don't have a lot, it's enough to satisfy my desires for now. I just need to remember to outbid Geordie_Mam one minute before the auction ends.

Is it just me or do other people look up de singers on eBay in hopes of finding them cheaper?


Also, I really hope I win this*:

*And I did! :)

Misty Water Colour Memories...

If you are blessed with a mathematical brain (of which I am not) then it will be very easy for you to work out the fact that we spent some un-pregnant months as a newly wed couple. Oh and about two or so months into those un-pregnant newly married months, my brother lived with us. In our one bedroom flat. On our sofa.

My only wish was that we had a bigger sofa. It just wasn't big enough for two medium and one ample (mine, don't worry I'm not down trodding myself...I was just blessed with a generous butt size) sized bums. So we would (Bryan or my brother) would sit on the upturned punch bag. We also had some more interesting bits in our furniture collection: a cardboard box as a table and a suitcase as a wardrobe.

I can't remember when the mould moved in, but I think it was after winter time.

Our landlord - a lovely guy named Ken who my Gaydar told me was gay but I was totally wrong because I got the shock of my life when I called up to say our rental payment would be late by a few days one day and his wife (a woman) answered - had used mould resistant paint on the walls. I knew this because my brother and B found a tin of the stuff in one of the hall cupboards and I decided to Google it in case we needed more and it had been discontinued. Unfortunately it didn't do a very great job at resisting the mould.

We had crappy electric storage heaters. As soon as my sister saw the heaters she gave me the look that said it all and then proceeded to warn me about how much money these little beauties (ha) ate up. And she wasn't wrong! £20 a week is what they cost us - and that was having it on three days per week for about an hour or so. It was fuh-reezing in that place. Our oil froze over it was so cold. Our breath was visible. My lips turned blue at one point and I honestly didn't think I'd thaw out. We also had a pay as you go meter which was hilarious if you were in the shower and it suddenly conked out. One time it did that to me and showered me with some vitalising cold water then conked out! 

I went crazy thinking Bryan was playing a really mean joke on me but he looked completely clueless. We worked it out that our electricity was gone and so we plugged in our first "emergency fiver." Those with these kinds of systems will know what I'm talking about. For every one else there's South Western Electric to explain it.

I am thankful we did have that kind of meter because one time I was running out the door to go to a job interview and I left the radiator plugged in and turned on...with a towel on it. I never do things like this, ever. I'm the kind of girl who unplugs the hair straighteners, goes back to check they're unplugged, has breakfast, checks they're unplugged, goes out the door, comes back, checks they're unplugged...and then I will text my younger brother to unplug them. He'll say they're cold, sitting on my bed and unplugged already and I will ask him to check again. Seriously. This actually happened once.

And no. I don't have OCD. A person with OCD would not be so laissez-faire about leaving a storage heater turned on and plugged in and forget about it. 

I remember when I first saw our little love nest for the first time. We were frantic about finding a place of our own (you all know our wedding story and if not, wait for February while I re-tell it for the fiftieth time on our Second Anniversary) and very desperate that we didn't live with B's parents. I love them but I can't imagine starting married life on that note. I have lived with people I would walk to hell and back for and wanted to murder them in their sleep after a few weeks of sharing space with them. Love really doesn't conquer that whole living together thing. It makes you homicidal. And it's nice to enjoy the people you should enjoy.

So when we saw an ad in an abandoned shop window after we'd prayed to find a place we phoned up Ken straight away on the mobile. He agreed to see us that afternoon and I felt sickeningly hopeful and positive - although very nervous and anxious we weren't being shown around a pit of a place, like a few of the other properties we'd been too. 

And in one case it wasn't so much the state of the property, it was the creepy estate agent who kept saying "do you understand?" after every sentence as if we were his lab rats. He honestly spent forty minutes lecturing us both in B's parents living room...and I don't know why. It was like we were being interviewed by God. Except God isn't creepy. Or middle aged. Then he took us to the property and kept stressing we basically whisper in our own home because there was a sweet old lady across the way who didn't like noise. Or young people. Or children. Or...well I'm hard pressed to assume she liked anything.

So, I was anxious. Ken led us into this lower property flat with a charming Spanish style (or so I thought) hall way. I'd seen properties like this on that TV show my Mum likes so much where British people move to places they can't speak the language and it all goes belly up. Then it was into "our" living room. I loved it. There was a screen separating the bedroom and the living room - now, right now, as I'm typing this it sounds like my worst nightmare, but this was nearly two years ago - and I remember thinking "this is so Japanese!". Haha. I was young. The kitchen wasn't memorable, but it was a good size. The bathroom shower was massive - I wasn't concerned about having a bath at all, we were child free and I'd been having showers for the past eighteen months I had lived in London. 

I wanted to sign on the dotted line there and then. Then Ken announced he had another flat above the one we were viewing. Not wanting to pass on an opportunity like this we agreed to see it immediately. I was quite aware that he might have used this as a tactic - show them the smaller flat, which is cheaper, then show them the bigger flat which is more expensive. But to be honest, it was only £30 or so more expensive so it wasn't a big deal.

We went up to the bigger flat and I honestly felt so excited. I knew it was where we'd live. I'd have my own kitchen. My own bathroom. My own bedroom. My own sofa bed. I was giddy with excitement because I'd never had this level of independence before. 

I loved our first flat, but then when the mould appeared it ruined my feelings towards it. I wanted out badly. I tried everything I could to get rid of the mould, but no matter what I did, it would grow back! Mould with a vengeance. I can see the crappy B-list pound shop DVD on the shelves already. 

There was a World of other stuff going on with everything in my life, as well. Like having no jobs or money - put that in your pipe and smoke it, self righteous tax payer. I didn't really have anyone to talk too because I wasn't at that "let it all hang out" stage of a friendship with anyone close by. And I think, deep down, I was ashamed of myself and my situation.

Looking back, I realise things happened out with my control. People get sick, they lose their jobs and there's not a damn thing people can do about it. Except receive all kinds of treatment and judgements and snippets of advice from all and sundry. Some good, some bad and some ugly.

All I know is my truth and I'm quite happy to laugh at all the other things in between because that's what keeps you fuelled - laughter.

After I tested positive (and had a freak out) when I did a pregnancy test, I knew we were going to outgrow our flat very quickly. I was a mess in the first few months of pregnancy. I wasn't sure what I wanted any more and again feeling very isolated didn't help matters. 

We of course pitched up our camp in Falkirk and we faced another set of equally scary and exciting challenges ahead of us. My brother moved out to live with our cousin and Roman moved in.

So the dynamics didn't change at all. We went from two boys and one girl to...two boys and one girl

...but I wouldn't have it any other way.

Thanks for stopping by...tell me what you think of this entry at the bottom of the page!

And spare a comment so I can put happy faces onto these sad faces.

Happy Birthday To You...

Today was my husband's birthday.

Bryan turned 24. And this meant a few things. First up it meant guilt-free cake. Not that I feel terribly "guilty" at eating cake usually, I don't eat it a lot (because I'm busy eating other junk, I suppose. Ha!)...but it was a moist, tender, cake fest.


Secondly, this is the time of year where we're both 24. It feels funny to be with someone whose younger than me - snagged myself a toy boy - but I also love it because if you don't know him, B is very sensible for his age. And mature. Despite the rumours ;) - just kidding.


So here's how I spent the day:


With a sick baby :(. A sick baby who wouldn't sleep! Now, normally this would be very stressful and a pain in the rear but today I was okay with it. I made peace at 2.30am in the morning that he wasn't giving up the fight to sleep. That he was staying awake so long as his sinuses were blocked. And although we dosed him up on Calpol he did sleep from 2.40am to 7.30am. Which is pretty good going for a first-time sick nine month old.


But from 7.30am to 7pm tonight: wide awake little man.

So I had no choice but to put him on my kitchen floor after he'd napped in fits and starts (and woke up crying about five times, then put himself back to sleep for a couple of seconds) and turn what was to be the Birthday Cake onto a plate. This somehow ended up all over the kitchen work top. And Roman was trying to eat "bits" off the kitchen floor. So I had to scoop him and the cake up - yes, at the same time. As the cake was still warm I did quite a successful job of moulding it into some kind of shape that looked like a circle.


I let it cool down and went back through with Sickly Chops so he could drool and nom a pillow - he loves doing these two things when he's sick, apparently...it's actually quite disturbing how much he does drool.


So what were Bryan's presents? An army surplus bag and some empty bags to put sand into. Honestly, he is a strange one. He uses them to work out. I don't know any more details than that. Other than said army bag clogs up my living room. But as a lot of the clogging things are a majority of my possessions I let it slide. And it doesn't really bother me if I'm honest.


He got money from his parents and a card from my Aunt. I asked him if he wanted a card from me or Roman and he said they were a waste of time...so I figured it wasn't worth getting but regretted it once I didn't get one - oh well, serves him right (said in a non-aggressive tone).


Roman's face lit up when he saw the candles on the cake - it was so bitter sweet to watch his little face as I brought it in.

And even though it was mashed and misshapen, I think Bryan loved it too. After all, it's going to be smashed up a lot worse where it's going ;).

The cake was great. Tasted like a huge brownie. With chocolate fudge on top. 

This is definitely us moving up in the World. Last year we didn't even have a cake to speak of! And who is happy to let their wife blog at 0.22am on their birthday? This man is the best Dad for Roman and the best husband for me. 

Happy Birthday to the best husband in the World! I hope it's been awesome for you. Love your wife.