Newborn to 3 Month Favourites .

Right, so, very quickly fast forward a year, because I am useless at keeping up with this. ..behold, the wonders of pregnancy and motherhood!

I’m in the process of writing up my pregnancy and birth blog, but it’s weird because I keep remembering different bits, and then have to confirm if/when/what actually happened with the husband and my mother! So for now, I shall skip past the messy bit and move on to the fun bit…shopping!

My baby is now just over four months old. I thought I’d write down some of my favourite products from the first few months of baby’s life. Things that I loved and am keen to share the wonders of!

Bennett nipple cream (I hated lansinoh). Lansinoh is excellent, but I found it sticky and it was everywhere. All over baby’s beautiful mug etc. Much preferred Bennett’s which I got from Asda. Lansinoh does make an excellent chapstick though!

Next babygrows. I loved the quality and they wash/dry so well. I completely overestimate many babygrows I’d need and had loads but actually, having 5-7 good quality ones is more than enough. They also have the built in scratch mitts which don’t fold back over in the night.

Grobags/grosnug : Grobags are for use in babies over 8lb (if I remember right, but I may be wrong.) Baby was 8lb 15oz at birth bur I still didn’t feel comfortable putting him in a grobag till he was about 8 weeks. Grosnug are gorgeous and I felt much happier wrapping him in one of those in the first few weeks.

Weleda calendula Nappy cream. Wonderful stuff, can’t recommend this enough! Bought from amazon, lasts AGES, keeps skin moisturised but dry. Baby has (so far) not had nappy rash.

Top tip: Always dry baby’s bum after using a wet wipe but before putting bum cream on. Dry skin doesn’t chap. Also, always pull out the little wings on nappy legs, the gusset inside contains the poo, these wings stop it leaking.

Cj’s butter. Hard to track down in the UK. Usually available from the kingdom of fluff website. I don’t use any chemicals on baby’s skin. We are still using water wipes, which, don’t need to be overused. You can clean a wet nappy using one wipe. Two for a poo! So cjs butter, which is all natural and gentle is our moisturiser of choice. (My favourite is ‘Monkey Farts’) Made with shea butter and essential oils, it’s wonderful, doesn’t drag skin, no funny reactions, smells incredible. Both me and Daddy Woolf use it too. We basically all just smell like banana.

Soft velour type blankets. For cuddling on the couch with your snuggly, gorgeous, newborn. Tk maxx often have a good selection. Awesome for tucking into the car seat, pram etc too.

Tuppence & crumble starsnug. Get one, seriously. I’ll never buy a pram suit again, I’m just upsizing to bigger. Soooo much easier than trying to post a baby into a pram suit. They are brilliant whatever the weather. Super for use in conjuction with a sling and far less stressful with tiny baby arms and legs in a car seat.

Poddlepod/Sleepyhead. Somewhere to dock the baby while you have a wee/brew up/get nothing done because you can’t bear to leave the room even if the baby is completely spark out and you just want to watch him snore in wonder. Maybe just me there then. Poddlepod only for use with daytime naps, needs to be supervised, not for overnight use. We have it full time in the living room.

Terry towelling nappies. Another amazon buy. Never been used as a nappy. But for under bum/drying bum during nappy change. Never underestimate your newborns ability to poo mid change. Protect your furniture! When they poo, wait 5/10 minutes, they like to wait till you’ve got their nappy off to bring the real thunder. Meconium is no joke! Also excellent to have on hand for under chin sick mop up while you’re winding.

Extra long charger lead (multiple) There is no torture like having just fed, changed, soothed a baby off to sleep only to realise that you’re on 3% battery. Especially when it’s 4:15 am and the house is in silence. Always keep your charger close by! Have a charger in situ in your chosen feeding stations. (Will revisit ‘feeding station’ in another post)

Night light. I couldn’t turn the light off at night until baby was about 10 weeks. I woke up frequently to check he was still there. My dimming night light (another amazon purchase) was a godsend in my over-anxious, pedantic, neurotic neq Mama state.

Water bottle (litre capacity). Get two, have one upstairs, one downstairs. Breastfeeding makes you thirsty as heck. But even if you’re not breastfeeding, you need to keep hydrated.

Mam dummies. Just my preference really, we got one free at a baby show and he took it at a few days old, really helped with soothing. He has one intermittently now. I didn’t have an opinion either way on dummies but they’ve worked for us. Having one handy in the first few days is something I would recommend, even if you never have to use it.

Bodum thermal mug. Only way I got a hot drink in the early weeks. Plus, I was so frightened of spilling anything warm on the baby I was letting drinks go cold before I’d attempt them. These are good quality but cheap enough to have a couple and take away the stress of potentially knocking cups over while trying to negotiate moving while holding a tiny baby. Not completely drip/spill proof from the lid but better than a mug and keeps drinks hot for when you make one, then forget about it for four hours.

Haakaa. It’s good, but I struggled. Baby has always been a wriggler (Plus tongue tie feeding issues, but thats a story for a different day!) I found it easier to use to collect when pumping on the other side.

Medela swing electric pump. If you intend to express to store or you need to increase supply, get this one. Well worth the £100 price tag. I had a hand pump, it takes an eternity. Electric all the way for this!

Cheeky wipes. We don’t take them out, but have them for home. Really easy to keep going as you just wash the dirty ones with the rest of your baby whites.

Connecta sling. Hands down, the best piece of baby equipment I’ve purchased. We’ve not worked out whether Lawrence is a velcro baby or if it’s actually just me who’s clingy and he puts up with it. But it’s already paid for itself a hundred times over when the stress levels dropped as I could easily and comfortably cart baby round the house instead of trying to dash about and do everything in snatched increments when he would consent to being put down! I got ours from Koala slings.

Funky giraffe bibs. Just for funsies. They’re ace! I’ve got loads, they’re addictive. I love the personalised ones, and they’re lovely to put on baby when you get round to going to baby clinics and classes.

There’s probably more. But these things have been my favourites!

The Man, the Worrier.

Things that have made me cry this week:

• the bank advert with the running horse.
• Nacho looked sad when I wouldn’t give him a second treat.
• Mr Starky moved the smoothie maker to a different plug socket. (This has been a week long power struggle)
• My Mam text to say she enjoyed the peanut m&ms I got for her.

Things that have made me angry this week
• Mr Starky has a cold (not the flu, it’s possibly a virus, but it’s definitely NOT the flu) but he is a hypochondriac. I left him medicine out, he didn’t take it.
• Next door parked a van in front of my drive briefly.
• Time. Because it has become glacial.
• Somewhere nearby a man had a bonfire, and the smoke blew towards my house, and he spoke, so the dogs barked.

So safe to say, it’s been a rollercoaster. He’s awake now, Mr Starky. He’s a right miserable moaning bastard when he feels ill. He would say that he’s not been poorly for over 3 years. You’d never know it, he never stops whinging!

It’s not a headache, it’s a brain tumour. He’s not pulled a muscle, it’s it’s a hernia. It’s not a trapped nerve, it’s sciatica. I don’t take him on. Not because I’m cruel (although I probably am) but because I have zero sympathy for self imposed illness. Most of his injuries stem from dicking about in the gym (although by dicking about, I mean excersizing)

This latest cold, sorry pneumonia, would have been gone last week had he listened to my advice. Taken a couple of paracetamol and a nytol chaser, blown his nose and gone to bed at a normal time on Monday. He didn’t. As it is, it’s stretched right through till Thursday so far, with no sign of it abating.

Although me screeching “Taking a vitamin C capsule and moaning that you’re tired isn’t going to make you better! I’ll shove these sudafed up your arse when you’re asleep if you don’t take them now!” As you can tell, I’ve got a fantastic bedside manner. Florence Nightengale eat your heart out!

He doesn’t help himself. So I lose patience. If he had done what I’d told him (which he today admitted was right, obviously!) then he would have felt better much more quickly! I’m especially lovely however at the moment, because I’m about 6 weeks pregnant and scared of getting ill! We are delighted, but keeping very quiet as yet!

So far I’ve been incredibly lucky, I wake up every day expecting to feel rotten, It’s not happened yet, but I’m waiting. I am made from methane though. As Mr Starky said I’m 90% gas and 10% sass. He got into bed last week and woke me up patting my arse, “babe, I think you’ve pooed yourself, I’m just checking!” I asked him what he’d have done if he’d put his hand in poo, he wasn’t sure! But that’s how bad I smell. My husband thought it was reasonable that I smelled so noxious that I’d shit the bed in my sleep.

Telling Mr Starky was about the most anti-climactic thing that has ever happened. First I had to wait for him to wake up, then I just sort of showed him the test. “Ovulating are you, babe? climb on then” It was a proper test, not a scrappy opk! “Noooo, I’m pregnant, two lines, see?” “Aaah, we’ll have to wait and see then” proving that he has not listened to a single one of my very interesting lectures on hcg levels!

So, knowing him as I do, I left it to sink in. And about 12 hours later he went “My balls DO work then, I knew they did! And you doubted me!” And then a day or so later, more to himself than anything “I’m going to be a dad…wow” I knew it would take a while but he’s made up.

And then he became super obnoxious about me doing terribly strenuous things like carrying a shopping bag, or bending over to stroke the dog. He’s got over that a bit when I explained that if he followed me around trying to be helpful then he wasn’t going to live much longer. What will be, will be!
So we’ve let in sink in for a couple of weeks, I’ve got my first midwife appointment lined up, I put off ringing as long as possible because im a superstitious weirdo! But, we shall see, I still maintain that if I didn’t know I was pregnant then I wouldn’t guess. But if my luck continues remains to be seen!

Either way, Mr Starky’s had a rougher week than me, I don’t know if that’s ’cause I’m much harder than him or what. I’ve always had a stomach of steel whereas he’s a bit more delicate. Poor lamb. But I’ve been otherwise lovely! He actually said “I think you’re nicer when you’re pregnant, it suits you!” So he basically prefers me with two people’s hormones that just mine, which says a lot about my attitude when I’m PMSing I think!

I’ve only been cross with him once when he got in from work at about 4am and started shouting me in a really panicked voice! I was sparko, so didn’t immediately answer, plus I was busy having heart palpitations from being shouted awake. “Wha?! S’wrong?!” He thought I’d had an accident. Why? Because the lights were on downstairs. “I thought you’d fallen down the stairs!” Sigh “If I’d fallen down the stairs, wouldn’t I have been at the bottom of the stairs? Where you were stood…shouting me?”

It transpired that I’d been sleepwalking like a champ. My favourite trick since I was tiny was to wander about and turn everything on, usually light switches, but occasionally the TV, the oven, the kettle. I’ll unlock doors and open windows. Get dressed/undressed. Hoard biscuits. And have no memory of it in the morning. I only really do it when I’m unsettled. So the house was lit up like the Blackpool illuminations. I’m glad Mr Starky didn’t catch me mid-wander, because I’d have scared the bejeesus out of him, he’s not used to it and a meandering zombie wife would have freaked him right out.

He’s now suggesting that we baby proof early, he means Starky proof. He’s absolutely terrified of me having an accident, slipping, banging my head, burning the house down etc. We are trying to wait till 12 weeks to tell anyone, but I have a feeling he might try and move my sister in full time soon. He’s not coping with going to work and leaving me, a grown adult woman, on my own for a few hours. I’m humouring him, I don’t think his nerves could stand me being stubborn at the moment!

“Listening Skills” A Comprehensive Guide To Winding Your Wife Up.

They say you are destined to marry someone like your Dad, well I didn’t. I married someone like my Mum. I am too much like my dad to have married someone like him. Which is odd, because me and my dad get on like a house on fire! I can build an ikea wardrobe with my dad with an understanding of what our jobs are and no problems.

When Mr Starky and I first moved into our home together it took 15 minutes of attempting to assemble a bed. We were still mid argument when i was phoning my mate for the name of her DIY fella. I decided shortly after getting the instructions out that the £100 a day fee was far preferable to spending the next 3-5 years in prison for aggravated assault with an allan key.

Mr Starky thinks like my mum. He’s got fifteen different things going on in his brain and not one of them is concentrating on the information I’m trying to convey.

Which leads to a lot of discussions with “well you never told me that!” “I definetly did!” “No, you never!” I went through a mini passive aggressive phase of writing a post-it with a time and date of when I’d told him something.

But that didn’t work, because if you refer to an earlier blog post, Mr. Starky moves all things which are not his. So my passive aggressive post-its were redundant, because when I came to produce one and it had moved, which of course led to the “what have you done with…?” “i haven’t touched it” issue.

But he does, his mind is often far away, thinking about what records he’s going to break on a dead lift. If we’ve got enough tuna for the next three days. How many eggs does he need between now and half past six to ensure he’s getting 150g of good protein a day.

So when I asked him to deliver a box of shoes to my parents house en route to the gym, I should have anticipated the palaver. My Mum had “accidentally” ordered 2 pairs of new shoes to our address.

We live in their old house, so I didn’t think too much of it until my dad rang and confirmed she wasn’t supposed to be buying anything online “Accidentally, my arse! She’s doing that thing where she thinks if she hides things in the boot of the car for long enough and then wears them I won’t notice they’re new! But I clean her car out! And polish her shoes! I’m not daft!” And I agreed we’d drop the package off at some point in the day.

So I’d explained all this laughingly to Mr Starky, but then I made my mistake. We had a conversation about his work shoes. I should have known that trying to have two conversations about two pairs of shoes wouldn’t work. That’s too many pairs of shoes.

Now the work shoes need a “decontamination steam clean”. In case you didnt know, I made that up.

Mr Starky is obsessed with his feet. They spend a lot of time in trainers but he is meticulous about keeping them clean and dry. But he’s got like a mental clock which counts down to the day each pair becomes “dirty” and therefore needs to be discarded. Something to do with “bugs” and “viruses” which live in his feet, in summation, the mans bonkers.

Trainers get about 2 months. The work shoes, which are Clarks and in pristine condition (I love shining shoes with polish, I pretend I’m a cockney scallywag roaming the streets and blacking boots for tuppence ha’penny.) have been going for about 10 months. They’ve been living on borrowed time since October really.

So he announced he was throwing them out! I can’t stand waste so of course I shrilled “Don’t you bloody dare! My Dad will decontaminate them with the steam cleaner and they’ll be good as new!” Literally, off the top of my head came up with that! And then I whittered on about how it will kill all the (imaginary) bugs and once more his feet will be safe from bacterial invasion! I don’t even know if you can steam leather shoes.

I was just going to get my Dad to stick one of those odour – eater things in them, leave them hidden in the garage for a week and then shine them up and present them as brand spanking new a few days later! He’d never know the difference!

My dad went along with this fib seamlessly at the dinner table which did make me wonder momentarily if I had actually made it up or if it was a real thing! My dad had, at that point drank two beers and a glass of port though, so I probably could have announced my intention to become a Mexican drug lord and he’d have agreed with me, if only to annoy my Mother!

Mr Starky is my mum’s absolute favourite. If he said the sky was orange she would probably agree with him, and when I challenged it would say “well it does have hues of orange! Especially on a summer’s evening!” So you can see what I’m up against!

I told my Mum about the work shoe dilemma and she said “I’ll just buy him a new pair! We’ll go to Clarks on Monday!” Which totally defeats the object. So I tried to explain that he didn’t NEED new shoes, it was all in his mind! And while I was at it, asked her if I had decided at 16 that I had a phobia of micro feet bugs, would I have got new shoes every six months!? To which she replied curtly “you’ve had enough, you’re spoilt, he’s probably never had new shoes”…”Mam, he’s 37 and from Wales, not Victorian London”

But back to My Mums shoes, I had put them, helpfully, in front of the door. You virtually had to fall over them to get out. I’d also put the post for my parents on top of the bright red box. I must have said 4 times “now don’t forget those shoes for my Mum, and the post…what are you not going to forget?…tell me what you won’t forget?” And each time he dutifully replied “the shoes and the post, babe”. Excellent, thinks I! I’m really getting through to him!

And off he went, 5 minutes later, the house phone rings. It’s my dad “Guess what your husband forgot!”….It was the shoes! Mr Starky had taken his work shoes, presented proudly them to my dad, with the post. But had not picked up the giant red box with KG emblazoned all over the front, which was still next to the front door. Moved about 6 inches to the left. So he’d seen it, touched it, acknowledged it’s presence…and still decided “no, this is not what I need to take with me” despite all evidence to the contrary.

Mr Starky phoned about 10 minutes after that full of richeous indignation claiming I had confused him! “It was your fault! Making me misunderstand!”

Quite how I made him misunderstand I’m not sure, but I’m just really keeping my fingers crossed that our children have my aptitude for memory and recall! Otherwise I’m going to have to microchip them in the manner you do puppies to make sure I always know where they are. I wouldnt bother microchipping him, he’s only ever in one of three places (work, gym or bed) but even with that limited geography, he’s a nightmare to get hold of. You’d think with the invention of mobile phones it would be easier to make sure we communicate effectively, but then what would I chuckle about hours later?

Plus Mr Starky doesn’t really like technology. He sort of views it in the same manner as psychics and witchcraft. It’s not to be trusted. So even if he answered his phone and didn’t just leave it in the car for days at a time, by the time he’d got to the end of the phone call I can confidently assume he’d have forgotten what it was I called to say.

As I type he’s complaining about the hoover and how much dust he’s just emptied out of the filter! “Babe, it’s a hoover, that’s LITERALLY it’s job, it’s only purpose is to collect dust”…”well, I know that! I’m just telling you though!”

He didn’t need to hoover, I’ve already done it once today, he watched me do it. But he’s bored, so it’s easier to just let him find a job and get on with it thinking he’s being helpful. Sometimes I make a mess specifically so he can complain about it and clean it up. Who says romance is dead?

Dangerous Liasons with My Clumsy Husband.

Mr Starky is a big lad. He’s about 5,10 or so but is 17 stone. That doesn’t sound like a lot, but I’m 5,2 and about 9 stone (on a good day) so he’s approximately twice my weight. In addition to this, he’s a body builder. So he’s muscley as balls! Which is fine, except for when he forgets.

He’s a gentle soul, very affectionate and sensitive. Which, given that I’ve seen people cross over the road when they see him coming, doesn’t really make sense. But he is as wide in the shoulders as he is loving and kind. And I’m grateful.

I’m less tactile, other than when I’m in New Look when apparently “you need to touch EVERYTHING! Why do you need to touch everything Starky?!” (Because, for reasons, dear husband!)

However, Mr Starky forgets he is not a dainty morsel of a person, he’s a three course meal with coffee and cheese plate after. He does not know his own strength, and I’ve fallen foul of this a few times.

Once, he came in for a kiss, swooped at an angle, and headbutted me full in the face. He went to work mortified while I waved him off with my eyes watering and a hanky shoved up my nose to stem the flow of dripping claret. I rang my Mum and she had to put the phone down on me she was laughing so much!

He’s winded me more than once with nightime boxing. Being the flaily bugger that he is, he turned over and with the force of a hulk fist, aimed a perfect body shot into my lovely soft mid section. It’s no joke being winded in your sleep, I woke up thinking I’d been assassinated by a nocturnal ninja!

Another night he must have been having funny dreams because he was mumbling away and being all twitchy. By this point in our relationship, i knew it was better to gently extracate myself from bed to avoid a sleepy pasting.

So, i went and got a cup of tea and a biscuit. By the time I returned, brew and wagon wheel in hand (the jammy ones, I don’t mess about when it comes to biscuits, me) he seemed to have settled a bit, so rather than being cold and sitting downstairs, I thought I’d get back into bed and read for a bit with my tea, lazy Sunday morning style (except it was about 5 am on a Tuesday).

I vampired myself into the duvet with barely a sound, he didn’t move. Picked up my book, nestled in and Bang, out shot Thor’s hammer, straight into my thigh…. Dead leg. Now when you’re nine and your cousin gives you a dead leg, you go and tell your Grandma. I had nobody to limp off to and grass him up!

He shut my fingers in the car door once when he knocked it slightly and it slammed shut. I’m not an over dramatic person (absolute lies) but I thought my hand had been severed! I howled the mating song of a banshee. A cat came and sat on the garden wall and looked at me funny (we were parked on our drive). I ended up with one slightly pink finger! So I didn’t even have anything to show for it! Which was even more distressing!

He’s given me a fat lip when he was hoovering the stairs with earphones in and I tapped him and made him jump. That one wasn’t so bad, but only because it was so funny! If you’ve never seen a grown man sashaying his hips and singing along to The Bangles, I can recommend it. I lean back limbo style and poke him with the end of a clothes hanger now to avoid a repeat. (He nearly fell down the stairs, just desserts? I think so!)

I could go on (I usually do!) But my point is, he’s got the spacial awareness of a bumble bee! He’s so careful so much of the time, that when he’s not, he’s horrified! He tries his best, but accidental injuries happen, and I’ll probably sustain many more over the years.

I suggested we do ballroom dancing thinking he’d tell me to kiss his arse, but he surprisingly seemed quite into the idea. As he sees it “I was a boxer, I’m good at dancing, I’m very light on my feet!” Whether he’s actually light on his feet will remain to be seen but I’m pretty sure he won’t be light on mine! (I can just see him in a sparkly shirt and shiny shoes though! The man thinks he’s Patrick Swayze.)

My Husband & His Fung Shui.

My husband has issues. Well he must have, he married me! (Badum tchhh!) But honestly, he can be an absolute nightmare. I mean, I love him so completely and he is truly wonderful. But he messes. He calls it “potching” and what that means is, if he begins to potch, and you’re not following him round like you would an inquisitive two year old, you will never see your belongings again.

You may as well say goodbye, print off a eulogy and throw a flower on an imaginary grave while lamenting “but my hair bobbles were so young! They didn’t deserve this!”

I am absolutely sure that he doesn’t mean to do it! But there is a black hole in our home, a vacuum of time of time and space which once opened, has never closed. We’ve moved house twice and each time it’s followed us. It only appeared when I met him. Weird, eh?

A mystery, you say? A mystery indeed! How can things; property, articles, important letters, when placed deliberately and specifically in a particular area then disappear completely? Witchcraft? Sorcery? Magic?

I’ll answer you, openly and honestly; Mr Starky is a knob.

He has an uncontrollable urge to move things which absolutely and unequivocally don’t concern him, and more importantly, do not need to be moved. Because he’s not actually moving them with a purpose. They’re not being put in a “proper place” which I could understand.

“Oh this television remote control which I’ve found on the stairs should be in the front room, where the television lives” That kind of thought process I get. But when it’s “here is a phone charger, it appears to be plugged in and in use, it’s not for my phone, but this goes in a box, at the back of the wardrobe, my wardrobe, where I keep my socks which my wife has lovingly laundered and paired up”

And the clincher here is, he then can’t for the life of him remember WHERE he’s
put it. The other tactic he uses appears to be to deny all knowledge. “Babe, I’ve never touched it, I promise you I haven’t seen it, I don’t know where it is but it definitely wasn’t me”

And apparently my logic of “you are the ONLY other person who lives here! Unless the dog has developed thumbs and can fly, it HAD to be you!” is flawed. Because it wasn’t him.

I’ve come to the conclusion that he does it absentmindedly, it’s not a conscious thing. So when he says he can’t remember, or doesn’t know, he’s telling the truth. He really doesn’t know, because he wasn’t paying attention.

He is, at this moment, faffing about in the kitchen. He’s doing the washing up. Then he’ll rearrange the kitchen cupboards as he puts it away. The pans won’t be put in the pan cupboard, of course not, they’ll be squirreled away behind the coffee machine which gets used twice a year when my Grandma and Auntie Pat come for tea and cake.

It will be placed like some kind of crockery buckaroo. Any move could mean a cast iron grill pan lid becomes dislodged and gently rolls to freedom, and before you know it, has landed on your foot (three bruised metatarsals later!) Causing you to howl and screech expletives while you hop round like a demented flamingo, flapping and doing the kind of ugly crying which you never see in films.

Because my version of organised doesn’t tally with his. Despite the fact that I do ALL of the cooking. He doesn’t even need to be in the kitchen, I’d prefer it if he didn’t go in there.  It took me 45 minutes to locate the cheese grater the other day and I’ve still not found the sieve. He’s huffing and puffing “this baking tray doesn’t go here, it goes with the teapots”

There’s no rhyme or reason to it, and to be honest,  I’ve given up. There’s no point in arguing about it, ill just wait until he goes to the gym and move it all back. It gets on my nerves and occasionally winds me up to the point of an actual heated discussion  (The Great Photo Album Hunt of ’14) but for the most part, I’m learning to let go.

But also partly because I’ve been hiding his stone wash dungarees for three years. He thinks hes misplaced them. But I don’t love him enough to step out of the door with a man who looks like the love child of Brian Harvey circa 1993 and The Wurzels.

And so it begins…

When faced with a blank page in Microsoft Word, the world went a bit weird momentarily. The horror of the realisation that I’ve probably not done an “essay” for the best part of ten years since I royally tanked a Social Sciences degree. My ‘E’ key sticks a bit (that’ll be the tea I spilled on the laptop 5 years ago then) and I’m having to get used to typing on an actual keyboard again (which doesn’t autocorrect your spellings) and means you have to stretch your fingers.

One thing is abundantly clear, I’m going to have to cut my nails. They keep pressing the key above the key I’m supposed to be pressing and I’m seeing a lot of the little red squiggle of doom (not AF, the incorrect spelling one. Second only to the green squiggle of doom which means ‘your grammar is shit Starky, did you forget that full stops existed?’)

Hang on, I’m really going to have to trim my talons. I don’t know where the nail clippers are though. Mr Starky will have helpfully tidied them away to the most unlikely place ever, they’re probably in the dog basket.

I decided to do some actual writing before spending the next 16 hours deciding how my blog is going to look. That also takes me back, to a time before Facebook when there was only MySpace. And I’d spend days perfecting the theme. Changing the title song, faffing with tickers and putting my name in a glittery font. Changing the order of my ‘Top friend’ on a rotation so nobody felt left out. I looked at the blank blog page and I was 17 again! But don’t worry, I’m not half as maudlin as I was then and you wont be greeted by Avril Lavigne wailing plaintively every time you visit. (I have got her on you tube right now though, for nostalgia and posterity!)

I feel like a hipster, having a blog. In my mind I need a pair of thick black rimmed Joe 90 glasses and a jaunty beret. It wouln’t match my current outfit of pink Ugg boots, polar bear jammy bottoms and a Hogwarts hoody (Go Hufflepuff!) but i’d feel infinitely cooler. I definitely need a “Blogging hat” I’ve got one which is essentially Grover from Sesame Street, that’ll have to do.

Where do I start?! Probably with some stats! So, I’m Starky, Im 29 and me and my wonderful husband decided to start trying for baby last November or so. Its been a minefield of Ovulation predictor kits, charting cervical mucus and being confused as balls!

I’m genuinely gobsmacked at how hard it is to make a person! All those stories you’re indoctrinated with as a 15 year old “IF YOU BRUSH UP NEAR A WILLY YOU WILL IMMEDIATELY GET PREGNANT AND HAVE TWINS AND YOUR LIFE WILL NEVER BE THE SAME AGAIN!!” Now, I fully agree with discouraging school kids against it, but when you get down to the nitty gritty, it’s a shock to discover that actually, its really bloody difficult! it’s a surprise to me that the human race even exists!

So its been a journey so far, and I’ve been fortunate enough to find a wonderful bunch of equally hysterical, slightly psychotic and utterly lovely women who are on the road with me. (Via the internet of course, its really tricky to talk about in real life!) It was them who encouraged me to start a blog. So this is for you guys, the Hugh and Doreen massive. We’re like a gang, but less street crime and backwards hats and more wine, biscuits and basal temping.

On a side note, I did start a gang once, but it was just me and my mate. We had a handshake and everything but she kept forgetting it and it was only me who took it seriously. Thug Life. Peace Out.

(The nail clippers were on top of the washing machine, nestled between a measuring jug and the iron. The obvious place to keep them i think you’ll all agree.)