Never mind jumpers for dogs, how about a SNOOD for a BABY???

I mean, I've got one (Exhibit A), Smidgen's got one (Exhibit B), so it only seems right that Flora should have one too, no?

When I was wee my favourite thing to do, besides reading, was dressing my dolls up in different outfits and parading them about. It has only just occurred to me that I will spend the next 10 years, AT LEAST, picking outfits for my child. I'm not saying she's basically just a human doll, but I'm not not saying that...


Baby knit snood, £7.99, Zara. Money well spent, I think you'll agree.

I saw this Christmas present formula on Pinterest somewhere and it immediately struck me as being so obviously brilliant (subject to the addition of a chocolate orange, of course). As we enter our first festive season with a wee one of our own, and attempt to resist the pressure to spend spend spend, this simple guide seems eminently sensible. Fin and I are going to have a go at sticking to it for each other and for Flora. As she gets bigger there will be a stocking from Santa, and I'm sure her doting aunties, uncles and grandparents will leave a toy or two under the tree, but it seems like a good place to start. We shall see.

Last year's gift guide was a big hit, mainly among the various relatives who are obliged to buy me presents, so in response to popular (okay, paternal) demand, here are some bits and bobs that I wouldn't mind finding under the tree this year.

It took me forever to come up with this list. After two months of living with a capsule wardrobe I've forgotten how to shop, and after four months of living with a demanding infant I don't want anything more than hours of uninterrupted sleep. However, I managed to force myself to think of some little treats that would make me happy, but that I can't justify buying for myself (this is my gift-giving sweet spot).

The final selection gives you an insight into my ideal activities for the next few weeks: sitting on the couch, wearing cosy slippers (1), luxuriating in the scent of a fancy Christmassy candle (4) and eating nibbles from a posh bowl (3) because everyone knows nibbles taste better from a posh bowl. If I'm not holding the baby for ten hours straight in an attempt to make her sleep (which is why I'll need some bronzer that makes me look less like a sleep-deprived corpse, 6), I'll be knitting myself yet another snood (5) or, more likely, writing the seven thousand thank you cards I have yet to write because I don't know where anyone lives, hence the need for an old school pen-and-paper address book (2).

The word "need" is subjective, obviously. These could quite easily fall under "wants," but I couldn't have a blank picture, so. We have a family trip to the mountains coming up in January (insert simultaneous "yay!" and "yikes!"), my ski goggles are falling to pieces and I'd love a decent pair (1). My winter pyjamas (which are also my autumn, spring and occasionally summer pyjamas) are similarly in quite an embarrassing state of disrepair, so some new cotton bottoms and feeding-friendly tops would be most welcome (2).

I adore Inaluxe prints, but our walls are already covered in pictures and they definitely don't count as a "need." A calendar (3), on the other hand, is fairly essential for making sure baby massage doesn't clash with baby swimming (what has happened to my liiiiife?). As for the toothbrush, well. Every year, my mum popped a toothbrush in our stockings, and it seems like a wise tradition to maintain, for reasons of nostalgia as well as dental hygiene. An electric one (4) would be nice, but if we're talking needs rather than wants, manpower is good enough for me.

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This is the first time in many years that I have no need of a sparkly new festive outfit, and I'm struggling to come to terms with it.

I absolutely love the first part of winter, when everything is anticipation. The first snow, Christmas, my birthday, maybe a ski holiday: my excitement for each milestone trembles in the air like an early frost, and clothes are a big part of it. Dusting off my winter coat, pulling cosy jumpers out of boxes like slightly bedraggled rabbits, slipping my hands into snug leather gloves, willing it to get cold. And above all, sequins and glitter.

Maybe it harks back to a wise man offering gold to a tiny baby, or maybe Marks and Spencer have just done a spectacular marketing job on me, but something about this time of year makes me yearn for magic and sparkle. A new dress for Christmas parties, nails painted dark, a sleek pair of heels that are entirely inappropriate for the climate. Is it really too much to ask?

This year, unfortunately, it is. I have no parties to go to - maternity leave has bumped me off the guest list for my work do, and most of my formerly party-loving friends are now boring baby drones too - and even if I did, I couldn't justify the expense (maternity leave has also bumped me off the payroll, or may as well have).


In fact, I'm not buying any new clothes, sparkly or otherwise, for a while. Inspired by Rebecca, I've jumped on the capsule wardrobe bandwagon. It's quite a crowded bandwagon, but we're all travelling light and in impeccable style.

Back at the beginning of October, I carried out an honest assessment of my lifestyle right now and the clothes that will realistically be useful and relevant at this stage in the game. In: jazzy leggings, non-grabbable jewellery, machine-washable knitwear. Out: sequins, statement heels, brushing my hair.

Despite the lack of glitter, I have secretly been enjoying the whole capsule wardrobe experiment. For those who are unfamiliar with the concept, the idea is to select a limited number of pieces of clothing, shoes and outerwear and wear only these for an entire season (a season is three months, not that anyone's told the Scottish weather that). Then when the next season starts, you can mix up your selection, add new things, take some out, so that you don't get completely bored and want to set your wardrobe on fire. That's the theory, anyway. Blogs like Un-Fancy and Into Mind go into the whole thing in much more depth, if you feel like reading up.

I went into the experiment with three goals. 1) Wear clothes that I actually like instead of just whatever I happen to find in the back of a drawer. 2) Get dressed quickly in the morning without having to think about it. 3) Cut down on washing by wearing the same small selection over and over instead of just working my way down to the absolute dregs and letting everything pile up until I want to cry at the sight of my washing basket.

So far, I'd say I've been moderately successful in all three. When the next season rolls around (hello, January) I'll probably aim for a bit more variety, so that my outfits don't get too repetitive, but in general I've enjoyed getting dressed in the morning ten times more. The very fact that I've been getting dressed in the morning at all, despite having a reasonable chance of being dribbled on by a tiny person within ten minutes of getting up, probably says more than anything else.

All I need are some sparkly pyjamas, and I'll be all set.



Images: 1. Natasha Poly by Mario Testino for Vogue Paris October 2014, via Visual Optimism 2. Miranda Kerr for Marie Claire Australia October 2012

...why I shouldn't buy Smidgen this jumper for her birthday.

I mean, LOOK AT IT. And you know Smidgen would wear it better than some terrier.


Whatever, Buster. You're no sighthound, and you know it.

There are, actually, a few good reasons why I shouldn't buy Smidgen this jumper for her birthday. 1) It's £46. 2) It's £46. 3) She will almost definitely roll around in the rotting carcass of a seagull within minutes of putting it on. Even if we're inside. She ALWAYS FINDS A WAY. 4) It's £46.

But hey, a girl can dream. And anyway, it had been far too long since we had a dog wearing clothes around here.

Did anyone see any good doggy Halloween costumes this year? Remember these guys? Never not funny.

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Here is a picture of my face, to prove I'm still alive. It was taken at my sister-in-law's wedding, just eight days after the baby was born. An hour later, I found myself sitting topless behind a filing cabinet in a sweltering catering office, breast pump in one hand, glass of champagne in the other, trying to avoid flashing my in-laws through the window. Motherhood is so glamorous, you guys.

Since then, in case you were wondering, I've chopped all my hair off again, thus definitively answering the 'pixie or bob?' question. At least for now.

I was reading through my blog the other day, as one does, and it seems I have a bad habit of leaving questions unanswered. Fascinating questions, such as which nappy bag did I eventually get? (This one.) Did I ever finish the wee grey hat? (Yes!) Did I ever learn the Marseillaise? (No.) Which coat did I buy? (This one, and I'm very excited about the cold weather returning so that I can throw it on over my leggings-and-baby-dribble uniform and feel vaguely stylish again.) What's the baby's name, for God's sake? (It's Flora, but she's better known in our house as Bumps McGumps. Don't ask.)

Now that I'm on a roll, here are some more fascinating questions about myself that I'm going to answer, lifted from this post by the wonderful Moz. I know you're all sitting there breathlessly anticipating some mundane facts about my life, so here we go.

Question 1: How tall are you?

5'8". Shorter when I'm sitting down.

Question 2: Do you have a hidden talent? If so, what?

My family will mock me for this, since I'm a famously untidy person, but I'm actually a very efficient tidier-up. I can turn a messy room into a reasonably presentable one in the time between someone ringing our buzzer and arriving at our front door (and have done. Often. Just don't look under the couch).

Question 3: What’s your biggest blog-related pet peeve?

There is no excuse for bad grammar.

I hadn't expected early motherhood to involve so much spare time. Not free time; I am chained to that hungry little monkey almost constantly and don't expect to be liberated any time soon. Fortunately, I have a severe case of Stockholm syndrome when it comes to my tiny captor, so I don't mind. But I'm spending many, many hours cradling either a baby or a breast pump, neither of which provides me with much in the way of sparkling conversation. Inevitably, at some point I will find myself gazing blearily into the glow of a laptop or phone hoping to fill some of those quiet hours with companionship, consolation or distraction, depending on my mood.

Pretty much anything will do for distraction - working my way through fifteen seasons of ER, pinning pictures of trendy haircuts that I don't have time to get, rearranging the baby's adorable outfits for the tenth time - but companionship and consolation are more elusive, particularly when you only have one hand and can't move from the couch. So it's the internet to the rescue, once again.

If you have no interest in children, you will probably have no interest in what I'm about to share with you. If, like me, you just want to know that You're Not The Only One, you should bookmark these links immediately.

Please note: as if to prove my point, I am sitting on a couch cradling a baby and typing this with one hand. I don't have the time or the energy to write long, heartfelt pitches as in previous Blog Love posts. You'll just have to take my word for it. This is the good stuff.

TEA & ORANGES

Tea & Oranges is the blog of a woman from New Zealand who is currently on maternity leave. I know no more about her than that, but I know that if I ever ran into her (admittedly not likely) I would give her a hug then give her a high five. Her blog is a combination of thoughts on parenting and society, snippets of her own personal experience, and well-informed rants about New Zealand's parental benefits system, the last of which is surprisingly interesting despite being of no direct relevance to me whatsoever.

I particularly loved this post about being a child of a high-flying career mother. There's a lot of discussion on this topic from a working mother's perspective, but not much from that of the child, I guess because today's children haven't developed the self-awareness or fine motor skills to write about it yet. Slackers.

FLORENCE FINDS

I've mentioned Florence Finds before, back when we were both young and fresh and could sleep for 8 hours in a row. My, how times have changed, eh Rebecca?

Rebecca's beautiful baby Bea was born just a few days after our bairn made her appearance, so Florence Finds is really resonating with me at the moment. From practical posts about slings and nursing bras (in both cases, it's all about the support) to thoughts on body image and the emotional impact of becoming a mother, Rebecca's opinions are always well thought out. I really enjoy hearing her perspective, even if - especially if - my own experience has been different. Her recommendations are also excellent, be they tense BBC dramas or maternity dresses.

In short, she's like a cool mum friend with great taste that you wish lived round the corner. In fact, she's exactly that.

ONE BAD MOTHER

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Images: 1. Mama Watters 2. Top with Cinnamon 3. Rebecca's Instagram 4. One Bad Mother

Leaving the hob on all afternoon.

Then putting a plastic tupperware box down. On the hob.

I have no idea how to clean melted plastic. Maybe I'll just stop using that hob.



Waking from a thick, black, unplanned sleep to find the baby lying where I'd left her on my chest, her fat cheeks cold to the touch. I've never felt panic like it. Seeing her wriggle, then realising that Fin had been awake and alert and watching over us the whole time, did nothing to stop my hands shaking.

Falling asleep at the wrong moment has never been so terrifyingly easy.



Watching a High School Musical spin-off from start to finish because I couldn't summon the energy to change the channel.

Secretly enjoying it.



Image: Natalia on Flickr

I think Fin likes his anniversary present. Funnily enough, he gave me exactly the same thing.

Our baby girl arrived on Friday morning, just over six weeks early thanks to complications from the appendicitis. She's still being cared for in hospital but doing so well. I'm home and healing.

When Fin and I got married, my heart was light as air. Today it is full, heavy, bound completely to another tiny fluttering heart that is beating a couple of miles away from me. The last few weeks and days have been overwhelming in every way and I have no doubt I would have crumbled long ago if it weren't for Fin. After exactly four years of marriage, I have never felt as grateful to have him as my husband as I do at this moment. My daughter and I are two lucky girls.


MY DAUGHTER.


I think my heart just popped.

You know what's more fun than a kidney infection? A kidney infection that is not, in fact, a kidney infection but actually secret appendicitis! Wheee!

By the time I was rushed in for emergency surgery, after a month of feeling increasingly not so hot, my appendix was officially "obliterated". That's the word the consultant used in my notes. It was so far gone, he couldn't even find any bits of appendix left, just rampant infection as far as the eye could see. Of course, being a day shy of 31 weeks pregnant added a layer of spice to proceedings. The moment the doctor told us there was a significant risk the baby would need to be delivered while I was being operated on was memorable.

And yet, here we are, nearly two weeks later. One appendix out, one baby still in. It's a sturdy little thing, it seems. Its mother, not so much.

I'm beginning to feel like the punchline of some great cosmic joke. Losing a parent in pregnancy isn't enough, I have to lose a random internal organ as well? Can't I just get fat ankles and haemorrhoids like any normal pregnant person?

Hopefully this will be my last unsolicited medical update for you, and normal service consisting of meandering rants, impractical shoes and dogs in silly hats will resume shortly. At some point, there may even be a baby. There bloody better be, after all this.


Panni Malekzadeh, 'Feelings', 2012 via The Morning News

The second most middle-class moment of my life occurred last night.

My pregnancy yoga instructor, in attempting to help us to calm our swirling thoughts, encouraged us to picture ourselves as "coffee grounds slowly settling to the bottom of a cafetière."

PREGNANCY YOGA. CAFETIÈRE METAPHORS. Good grief.


In case you were wondering, the number one most middle-class moment of my life was the time I googled "Can dogs eat quinoa?"

(They can.)


Karolina Kurkova shot by Norman Jean Roy for Tatler Russia May 2014. Title inspired by this post of yore, which I really should repost over here sometime.

This past weekend, Fin, Smidgen and I were meant to be going on a very glamorous caravan trip to Pitlochry. Instead, I spent four days and three nights in Greece, soaking up the sweltering temperatures, being waited on hand and foot and barely getting out of bed the whole time.

Oh, wait, did I say Greece? Sorry, I meant hospital. The other parts were true though.

Fortunately it wasn't anything too serious, although a horrendous kidney infection feels pretty fucking serious when you're in the middle of it. I'm really hoping my hospital nickname of "septic lady" doesn't catch on. The best part was that I was put on the maternity ward, because of the whole being pregnant thing (the baby was completely oblivious to my plight, by the way), meaning I spent four days of writhing agony in the company of labouring women and newborn babies, who are, of course, notoriously chilled out.

On the plus side, the midwives were absolute angels. Getting admitted to hospital is probably an extreme way to get a free preview of your future maternity care, but I liked what I saw. It's definitely an  extreme way of getting out of a caravan trip to Pitlochry. Sometimes a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.

I mention this only because I've exhausted all other avenues of sympathy, but I'm still stuck in bed for 80% of the day and need entertained. At least it's my own bed I'm stuck in now.

How was YOUR weekend?

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Image: Greek car park from Cara's Instagram. Bet they don't charge you 6 quid to park your car there *cough* Edinburgh Royal Infirmary *cough*

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Sometimes only a dog and a baby wearing matching ridiculous hats will do.

If this story doesn't make you feel better about the world, nothing will.


Image by Grace Chon, brought to my attention by Sara (thank you!)

Loss, by Wendy Cope

The day that he left was terrible -
That evening she went through hell.
His absence wasn't a problem
But the corkscrew had gone as well.


It's not entirely on point. It was she who left, not he. Her absence most certainly is a problem. She even left the corkscrew behind, not that it's any use to me (maybe they only have screwtops in heaven?).

But oh, what I wouldn't give for a large glass of wine right now.

If you didn't laugh, etc.



This poem previously seen here on the subject of a different loss, that of the recipe book my mum made for me. Not just painful because of the recipes but because she also wrote down all of her favourite poems and I bloody well lost them and do you know how hard it is to pick a bloody poem for a bloody funeral??



Illustration by Caitlin McGauley

This is not the post I ever imagined would follow Wednesday's announcement, but life seems to have little regard for my plans. So does death, for that matter.

On Thursday evening, my wonderful mum, Rosie, died. I am heartbroken.

My mum was so proud of me for writing this blog and loved to read whatever nonsense I'd written. She was the first real-life person, besides Fin, to read it and left so many funny and supportive comments over the years.

Mum was bright, witty and had a fantastic way with words. When I left home, she used to send me constant little letters and notes, which I loved to read (and, thankfully, have kept). She was my inspiration in countless ways, but especially in writing.

Not long after I started this blog, Mother's Day rolled around and I asked if she would like to write something in honour of the occasion. In a strange quirk of fate, or timing, or something else, that post was published exactly three years before she died.

I'm struggling to find words to express everything I'm feeling at this moment, so I'm going to hand over to her. She always knew the right thing to say.