The Proud HFF Motto: Nunquam Paratus

In retrospect, my period should not have taken me by surprise last night at all. I wasn’t particularly expecting a pregnancy, you understand, despite copious amounts – too much, in fact! – of encouraging EWCM earlier in the month. I knew it would be along at some point. I just wasn’t expecting it right now. But I should have expected it, for a number of reasons.

Firstly, I have fallen behind with the laundry, so I have no appropriate big baggy grey underwear or clothing to hand. And in the last two hours I have soaked a super-plus tampon, used the hell out of two nightime towels, stained my jeans and saturated two pairs of knickers. I am now wearing… wait for it… cream trousers. Coz they are the only clean and dry things I have that conceal my unshaven legs. And we’re leaving for the soft-play barn shortly!

Secondly, I am low on sticky-backed duvets (Nuts in May ™). I am convinced that my uteri lurk, malevolent and unpredictable, unleashing the tsunami on the exact day that I am least prepared for them. They do not generally bleed exactly in sync, which puzzles… just about everyone, because they should. Obviously one of my cervi is a retentive bitch. But occasionally they do gang up and organise their collective onslaught with exquisite viciousness. For the rest of the painting and decorating episode, they fight like cat and… ummm, cat, because they are two cramping, unhappy little uteri in a space that is only designed for one.

Thirdly, I had also started to sob at the least provocation. I will spare you a long list of random and ridiculous snivels, bar three.

1) Yesterday, Hubby, upon being scolded about leaving his socks in the hallway, balled them up and playfully batted them straight at my head. They hit me smack between the eyes… there was a second’s pause in which Hubby commenced his Shot! victory dance to an invisible audience at the far end of the hall whilst I stood frozen… and then I started to cry. Aghast and dismayed by this dampener to his celebrations, he cut them short mid-prance, and hurried down the hall to administer cuddles. His self-congratulation turned to self-castigation. I wasn’t going to tell him that I wasn’t hurt, merely surprised and weepy. Why should I be the only one here to suffer?!

2) Yesterday, I let Mrs Brahma out of her run and chased her down to the garage to meet her successfully incubated (and now teenage) chicks. She was far more interested searching for the partially decomposed and entirely flattened-by-car-tyre frog that she had joyfully discovered earlier on the driveway (Mrs Black had, in fact, stolen it at this point) and refused to give them even a glance.

I kept telling her she was a Mummy – and it made no difference! It’s as if she didn’t recognise her own eggs when she saw them again! Useless hen. I eventually got sad and frustrated and started wailing.

3) Harry would hardly eat again yesterday, so I cried with rather more reason. He’s only had a few spoonfuls of breakfast and lunch today, but has finished a small helping of supper. We had an improved thursday and friday last week, followed by an indifferent weekend. I’m sure it is reflux – in fact, I know it is – and I’m pouring infant gaviscon down him, but he is still barely eating half of what he did before, even on a good day. On a bad day, he manages maybe 20% of his normal intake. Yet his activity levels are as maniacally demented as ever, so unsurprisingly he lost 6oz last week (in spite of copious application of high-calorie tooth-rotting drinks and extra Mummyboob) – and I’m dreading what the scales will say tomorrow. I have another appointment at the GP tomorrow afternoon, but I have a feeling I will walk out unsatisfied, as Harry is undeniably lively enough in himself. But I’m completely depressed about it: his weight has slid rapidly from the 25th to the 9th centile for his adjusted age, and is plummeting from the 9th to the 2nd for his actual age. He’s never been a big baby, (although he did get delightfully buddha-like at Christmas-time)

 Harry Bathies by you.

but he can’t sustain this for much longer. I think I shall be obliged to tap my finger on the GP’s desk. Or cry. Again. That’ll work. That’ll make the bugger produce the magic healing wand that they keep in the desk for special patients fast enough.

Other news in the HF Family today: the Moreton show approaches, and I have not yet A) made my pot of jam, B) decorated my cake, or C) taken the photographs for the photography classes that I have entered. The cake is, fortuitously, 

judged on decoration only.  Except that I didn’t have a 6 inch tin, so I made it with a 5 inch one and added thick extra layers of marzipan without allowing time for them to dry…

the cake has suffered blow-out and is now fighting a distinct battle of the bulge. I’m not sure I can retrieve the situation with icing, either. 

Our collie-cross-leopard:

is in season, and next door’s dogs have noticed.

It’s about -10° out there with wind-chill, pissing down, and she’s not even here. Nevertheless, he has the air of a dog who is rooted to the spot by the weight of his balls.


Annnnnnnnd I’m back from the play-barn, and I’m officially in a mood. They had to either like my stubbly legs or lump them, because the cream trousers never made it as far as the car. I suffered a slight incident – my bath now looks like this–  during which I have, charmingly, lost a clot bigger than my thumb. And I have chunky thumbs. And Hubby let Harry drop his mobile phone in the bath (a different bath!) earlier, so he is conveniently uncontactable, having fucked off to farm for ‘I won’t be very long’, two hours ago. Grrrrowl.

4 Responses

  1. I see exactly what you mean!
    Wonderful post as ever, so much I wanted to comment on, but that would mean writing a mini essay!
    Maybe you could turn the cake blow out in to a decorative feature…

  2. Oh God. I only have one uterus, and it gives me enough leaking clotty grief, the horrible little bitch. I think if I had two I’d retire to my couch and refuse to ever get off it again. For anything. Ever.


    I think the Doctor need Firmly Telling. Doctors only work when Firmly Told.

    Good luck with the cakery.

  3. well that’s quite a period. Sorry to hear about the demise of your cream trousers. Ouch.

    Love the harry pic, although I’m sure it works better when you can see the lovely ladies – it took me a while to work out where they are!

    I wish I had the magic wand for harry. Does it work if you let him feed himself? That’s worked well for a friend of mine – give up on purees and just let him eat finger food…

  4. And I thought five weeks of post partum bleeding was sucky enough after a blessed 36 week menstrual vacation. Thank you for reminding me that it is just as sucky when it happens for a week and a half every few months as well…….I’d almost forgotten!


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