“F*k sake Mummy. Why do we say f&*k’s sake?” Molly asks innocently as we are driving home one day. The husband and I look at each other, slightly horrified, trying to stifle our laughter.
“We don’t say that Molly, it’s not very nice,” I try to explain. “Who says that? Where did you hear that?”
“But Mummy, you do. You say it. All the time, in the morning.”
Lately I’ve noticed myself using three certain words a heck of a lot. Now, before you close this page for fear this might be some sort of love story about the husband and I – it’s not those three words. Nor is it the three words that make up the abbreviation FFS, although I do confess to letting those slip from time to time too.
“That’s a lame excuse for a press up if ever I saw one! Look at those arms shaking! You’ve got NO strength anymore!! And look at those thighs – get squatting NOW!”
It’s a hot, humid morning. I’m sweating it out in bootcamp in the battle against the jiggly bits. At this point, I need to highlight that the above dialogue is my inner voice talking and not the wonderful, encouraging instructor. Yes, over the last few weeks, my ego has been giving me a right old battering. “What’s the point?” it probes. “You’ve got no time!” it taunts. “You need to put in way more effort than that!”
“Let’s play dollies!” Molly declares, waving her Frozen dolls in my face. “You be Elsa and I be Anna!”
“Ok, let’s pretend they’re going to the park,” I say, bending my knees on the sofa to create a slide for them to go down, in an effort to keep my part in the game horizontal for at least a few more minutes.
“No, let’s go on the bouncy castle!” she cries, making Elsa jump vigorously up and down on my belly. “It’s nice and bouncy, Mummy!”
“What are you doing?” I ask the husband who is inserting an ipod headphone into one ear. “Putting some music on so I’m not bored out of my head,” he replies as I settle down for a cat-nap while he navigates the long drive back from Northern Ireland’s North Coast. The husband is referring to the fact that I have developed a dislike for having the car radio on, declaring: “There are just too many levels of noise – toddlers rambling, music blaring and us trying to have a conversation – it’s too much!” In truth, when it comes to the volume button these days, I’ve become a little grumpy.
I’ll confess to being a bit grumpy over the past few weeks. Ok, you’ve got me. That’s not the full truth. I’ve been tearful, snappy and at times at the end of my tether. Blame it on the hormones, blame it on Henry’s growth spurts, blame it on Molly’s at times challenging and naughty behaviour – whatever the reason – I’ve been feeling out of sorts. Constant feeding combined with sleepless nights have been draining my energy, making me wonder if I will ever find a rhythm that I can comfortably handle again.
Just before I jetted off to Ireland to prepare for the arrival of baby no. 2, I filmed this pre-natal variation of a sun salutation with my bump of 34.5 weeks. I love the simple flow of this – it’s a practice you can even do on its own and will only take a few minutes out of your day.
A few rounds can really help to get the blood flowing and ease pregnancy aches and pains, such as tightness in your hips, lower back, chest and shoulders. It also does wonders to settle the crazy, monkey mind that can often be relentless during pregnancy!
“Mummy. Your bum…” says Molly as she comes up behind me and places her hands on my hips. “It’s soooo big.” In despair, I turn to the husband. “Don’t worry about it,” he says, patting the derriere in question. “After all, you are nearly 8 months pregnant, it’s bound to be a little bigger.” Not exactly the reassurance I was looking for. Sigh. It has been one of those weeks.
Yes, it hasn’t been the most yogic of weeks. It has been a week in which Molly dropped the ‘F’ bomb. Twice. I’d like to say she learned the expletive from some unsavoury child at nursery, but instead I have to take full responsibility, having uttered it myself on at least three occasions that I can recall. Personally, I blame the raging hormones of the third trimester for making my fuse a little shorter.