Oh dear I am a bit tired today. I am hovering between the oxytocin high and the inevitable crash which will result in tears and not being able to get self off couch/turn off Scooby Do. Am holding it together, just, with No Help AT ALL from those dreadful children of mine. There have been numerous peeing in pants episodes, concluding with Master Noah sitting on my knee, sans knickers, playing with Lego, and then saying in a small but fairly nonchalant voice “Oh! Sorry Mum” – whereupon I look down at the small wet patch spreading across my knees. Mmmm nothing like a bit MORE wees to cheer me up. And then there is the climbing up the curtains malarky, the Custard Screams – a little vice Custard has always had where he just looks you straight in the eye and opens his lungs and screeches until you pay some sort of attention to him. And the fighting between Barnaby and Noah which ALWAYS ends in someone getting whacked in the head with a metal toy car. So boring, it hurts to witness it again and again.

My solution has been the emptying of an entire 250gram box of Valentines Day Lindt chocolates. I know that this will not help me in the long run, but short-term, it has improved the feeling of being mercilessly bullied by a tribe of short, snotty, underwearless boys who permanently carry a whiff of ammonia about their persons. That, and a sneaky glass of some leftover Christmas wine and an episode of Glee, with the volume on high.

Mark, dear husband, has been terribly stressed at work,  and so has been reminding me that he has been Feeling Very Tired. I have held my tongue. As anyone who has ever squeezed out a baby knows, Labour Trumps ALL, and everyone else must keep schtum about their own issues until the Pain of Labour/Breastfeeding/Getting Up at 1am,3am and 6am is a distant memory.  A sore throat is not interesting to hear about when you have icepacks down your knickers and hot dinnerplate-sized nipples which sting at the very idea of being in the shower. This is not a new observation, but I am reminded of its truth. Honestly, SHUT UP AND PAY ATTENTION TO ME. This cold sore and sticky eye are proof, if proof really is needed, that I win the tired/rundown/need rest competition bigtime.

But on a better, kinder, more generous note, I have been very pleased to be back home, and have been practising the gadding about with the double-buggy and the baby in a sling. We are officially The Weirdest Family in W2. We barely fit through doors, and I look like one of those women who have not quite got a handle on natural family planning yet. Especially when all wee-stained with chocolate smeared around the corners of my mouth. It is going to take awhile before my former composed self is brought back from wherever she is. In the meantime, I am the one pushing the orange buggy in a slightly white-knuckled, panicky way.  There may be more sweat about the brow than is necessary for a snowy day, and I may be gripping onto a 3 year old’s arm a little too tightly, maybe muttering what sounds like a threat under my breath. I do feel some sort of generous post birth present is in order, and could kickstart the Becoming Myself Again process well and truly. It has been suggested that a Chanel bag would suffice, and I have always fancied a Tiffany Celebration Ring or a vintage Rolex, but fear I am delusional. And a £1400 bag is not something you can just buy for yourself and hope it will slip under the radar, right? Right? (Hmmm…)

Anyhoo, afterall, I did get a jolly nice baby out of the ordeal. Check him out: