2 little teeth = 1 big problem

"Teeth are a bloody nuisance. They are a nuisance when they come in, a nuisance when you loose them, and a nuisance for most of the time you have them"

Those were the wise words of my 95 year old grandmother and I couldn't agree with her more.

We have had it good. We somehow managed to have a baby that loves her sleep and started sleeping through the night at 7 weeks. But as we, and most likely countless other smug newbies soon found out, all good things come to an end. And it is all because of tiny pieces of bone known as teeth.

The piglet had started showing signs of teething very early on. Hands in the mouth, drooling etc. Everyone told me I was imagining it, a baby didn't get teeth at such a young age. But after seeing a documentary that showed babies being born with teeth I knew otherwise.

So it didn't come as much of a surprise when from out of her little gums emerged a pinprick of white that quickly turned into a milk tooth, a second popping up to make a perfect pair the following week.

I don't know why they are called milk teeth because I'm telling you now teeth plus breast feeding does not a happy mummy make.

You see babies soon become curious as to what their new little buddies do and what they seem to work out remarkably quickly is that they allow them to bite. I'm not going to go into any more detail than that, you know where I'm going...

Then there's the small matter of using your boob as a teething ring. Why use a teething ring that is the latest in pain relief technology when you can use your mothers nipple...

Not only do tiny teeth cause breast feeding to become a bit of a health hazard, they seem to cause babies a huge amount of pain and discomfort. Some get rosy cheeks, others get pimple like spots and most that had been in a fairly good sleeping pattern take a few steps back in the wrong direction.

Our poor little darling has had the lot, minus the rosy cheeks. Her chin resembles that of a pubescent teen and the lack of creativity in this chapter is reflective of the lack of sleep myself and DD have been having of late. I used to consider 6am as a disgustingly early time of the day, only to be seen if staggering in from a night of epic proportions. I now consider it a sleep in.

As I write this I know we have nothing to complain about, compared to some we have got it good. I had a coffee with a fellow newbie the other day and she went positively green with envy when she heard that the piglet wakes at 3am. Her daughter wakes every hour on the hour. But still I can't help wondering when it is going to end. We are only 4 down, approximately 20 to go. This is going to take years and honestly I don't know if I can handle that much breakfast television....

Pumping - the ultimate passion killer

There is nothing sexy about breast pumps! Nothing!

Those that have had the pleasure of placing their boobs in a plastic funnel and letting it work it's magic, will not need to be told that at best it's weird and uncomfortable, and at worst, it's bloody painful.

It's also very boring. We made the rookie mistake of not picking a pump with a silent feature. This means that when using our pump it sounds like an air raid is taking place. It's very loud, but strangely hypnotic. For the first few weeks DD was in that 'we're all this together' phase and was happy to lip read his tv shows while it droned away.

Unfortunately the novelty soon wore off and I found myself sitting in the hallway mournfully watching tv through the doorway as the pump slowly whirred away.

Last week I had had enough. You see since having the piglet night times have become precious. A beautiful hour or two where you can lie on the couch, rather than walk around in circles with a baby that doesn't like people sitting down, and enjoy a cuppa while it's actually hot. Bliss! So I begrudged spending it sitting in the cold having my boob molested by a plastic funnel.

So I took the pump to bed with me. The piglet had moved into her own room the week before, meaning I could sit up in bed and whir away to my hearts content.

I think DD had hoped that the moving of rooms would signal the return of the kind of activities that had got us into this position in the first place. So you can imagine his face when he eagerly jumped into bed that night and was met with the sight of me pumping.

Now they warn you to be very careful with contraception after the birth of your munchkins and so avoid any little surprises. I can tell you now that you don't need contraception if you've got a breast pump, it's more than enough. Just ask DD.....

Little white lie...

"This thing tonight goes for an hour right?"

"Mmmmm" I replied non-commitedly.

The thing Devoted Dad was referring to was our first pre-natal class. We had enrolled in these classes to get us ready for birth, and, to be honest, to tell us how to be parents. The reason I mmm'd a response was because I knew full well that tonight's class was going to go for at least two and a half hours, not the mere one DD was expecting.

You see, persuading DD that sharing the most important moment of our life with complete strangers had been hard enough. Throw into the mix that the classes were being held on a week night, straight after work and it was like selling meat to a vegetarian.

So let him go blindly into the meeting thinking he was going to get home in time for dinner and the much anticipated Chelsea game. Who am I to shatter his dreams? Plus, it serves him right for not reading the email.

As DD was coming straight from work it made sense to met him there. But there was a problem. We located the house really easily, meaning we found ourselves by the front door with 10 minutes to spare. "So what's the big deal?" I hear you say, "head straight in and get yourself a good seat." Well that might have been the answer for other couples in our position but DD was reluctant to be there in the first place. Being the first ones there was simply unacceptable.

"Right! We will have to walk around the block" he declares.

"But it's freezing out, and I don't have a coat!" I reply.

"You'll be right" he says marching off, his voice swallowed up by a massive gust of wind.

Wow! There I was thinking being 8 months pregnant allowed me special privileges, obviously not!

So off we go, sticking to the shadows in case any fellow newbies happened to be arriving at the same time. After 10 minutes or so we return to the house, now frozen to the core and me with the sorest feet thanks to having to walk a long distance in heels. (Well I was hardly going to meet prospective friends in flats was I? Plus, I didn't know that we were going on a hike!)

Our walk appeared to have done the trick and we were the last couple to arrive. This meant that all the comfy couches were taken and DD had to sit on the floor. Poetic justice if you ask me!

Now as I explained earlier, DD and myself didn't really know anything about babies before entering that room. Obviously we had figured out how to make them (high five!) but we didn't know how to give birth to them or what to do with them after they had arrived. But we had been watching a LOT of 'One Born Every Minute' and I'm not going to lie, that kind of made us the experts of the group.

The first hour seemed to go well. Thanks to the aforementioned TV show I knew the answers to quite a few of the questions and found some holes in the leader's responses. Apparently it was quite embarrassing when I drilled her for half an hour over her vague statistics regarding haemorrhaging, but I'm sorry, don't throw statements out to a room of journalists if you don't have the statistics to back them up!

To be fair, I was the only journalist in the room, and I was obviously missing work because I questioned that woman like she was on trial at the Hague. But I think the group appreciated the clarification...( I later found out they did nothing of the sort and shared DD's impatience to get the hell home)

Anyways after 'haemorrhage gate', our now slightly frazzled leader announced it was time for a break. Instantly six heads popped up as the men in the room woke themselves up from their boredom induced comas.

DD jumped up from the floor. I say jumped but to be honest it was more of a part jump majority heave as the effects of spending the best part of an hour sitting on the wooden floor took effect. After a rather embarrassing moment of role reversal that saw DD having to be winched to his feet by 4 heavily pregnant women, we were on our way into the kitchen for the promised meal break.

"Help yourself to a biscuit and there's the option of a glass of juice or cup of tea" our leader declared proudly to the room. "And those that are eating for two can have seconds."

Wow did the smiles fade fast as it dawned on us that this was what was meant by 'food will be provided'. You should have seen my DD's face! He looked like someone had clubbed a baby seal in front of him as he looked first to me in panic then to the biscuit tin and back again.

"Don't worry" I whisper, "you can have my second biscuit."

From that moment on it was like being involved in a kind of middle class version of Chinese water torture. Each helpful fact was punctuated with the grumbling of DD's stomach. As his blood sugar levels decreased so too did his patience. It's not often he gets upset or annoyed but when a fellow newbie asked yet another quite obvious question, pushing us over into the three hour mark he was a man on the edge.

We did eventually get out of there and DD's humour was restored with a little detour through the local Maccy D's on the way home. We had several more classes after that one and learnt a lot.

We learnt how to give birth. How to bathe, feed and dress our impending arrival, all useful facts. But most importantly we learnt to never, ever believe it when the pamphlet says 'food will be provided'...

Do these Louboutins come in size cankle?

"Wow, your feet have really puffed out!" declared devoted dad as he whipped off my socks for the perfunctory nightly foot massage.

"Really" I reply, "I hadn't noticed."

Not picking up on the sarcastic tone, or maybe wisely choosing to ignore it, hormones can be a bitch, DD continued on...

"Yeah they are so cute" That's more like it. "Just like little pigs trotters!"

Charming!

I don't know what it is about DD but my body parts always seem to remind him of food. Maybe I don't feed him enough, but over the years I have had legs like chicken drumsticks, my spare tyre has been described as 'gristle that I just want to chew on' and now it seems my toes resemble 'little pigs in blankets.' How attractive do I feel...

That's the thing about pregnancy it changes your body in ways you can never imagine. Sure, you know you can kiss goodbye to seeing your toes for six or so months, but there are some other lovely surprises along the way.

For me the worst thing has most definitely been the swelling. Bad swelling in the feet can be a sign of the condition preeclampsia but luckily mine isn't that. But it is bad.

Imagine Cumberland sausages in the pan when you've forgotten to prick them and you've got the idea. And it's not just my feet that have doubled in size, my hands now resemble slabs of meat.

I find the fluid retention in the feet the most distressing, especially after one helpful friend pointed out that sometimes they never return to their pre pregnancy size. You mean I could be stuck with these galompers forever...? Please God no!

You see I've always had a good working relationship with my feet, in fact i would go as far as to say they are my best body part friends.

Unlike other parts of my body my feet never betray me by suddenly not fitting into certain skirts. They don't decide to use my love of chocolate against me, nor do they choose to expose my times of over indulgence, unlike the traitor that is my backside.

Also feet are the perfect shopping companion. No matter how much weight you have put on, or how rubbish you are feeling you can always find a pair of shoes to fit.

Sure I may not be as tall as some of my friends, nor do I have the fast metabolism that seems to have been given to all those celebrities that "eat whatever I want" "Oh chocolate and chips are my weakness!" We'll, they might be your weakness but you clearly don't eat any of it, ever, you skinny....

Sorry I digress. What I'm trying to say is, I may not be the perfect size 8, or to be perfectly honest, size 10. But I do have lovely and lithe size 3 & 1/2 feet.

This allows me to be quite smug when all my big footed friends are despairing as they search amongst the Kurt Geiger sale rack..."Oh gold sequinned peep toe heels... in a 3 & 1/2... I don't mind if I do...!

Carnage on the central line

'Always carry a sick bag with you'

Those were the sage words of advice from my trusty midwife when discussing my daily commute to work, words that I promptly dismissed.

A sick bag, I don't think so...the only bag I carry with me has two little letters D&G embossed on the side. Ok, between you and me it is a knock off from a very persuasive street seller from Piazza San Marco,Venice. But still, I firmly believe that one should only use a paper sick bag when flying.

So instead I performed the much classier act of throwing up in my mouth and holding it in until the next stop. Now those that have ever visited Chiswick will know that its high street is particularly long, and busy. Therefore I found myself standing by the door of the bus frantically waving at my mouth, as if trying to magically wave away the vomit. A bit like when you wave at your eyes when trying not to cry, and it seems this is just as ineffective. When the doors of the bus finally open I thrust myself out on to the pavement and promptly empty the contents of my stomach. To be precise on the doorstep of Marco Pierre White's restaurant Frankies. Please note the fact that said restaurant has since closed down is coincidental and has nothing to do with me.

So here I am, my tight clad legs spread wide in an attempt to try and save the high heels from splash back, one hand holding my hair, the other clutching the all important handbag.

Like some modern day hobo, all that was missing was the brown paper bag. Which, as we have now ascertained would have prevented all this in the first place...