You can come back now

After six weeks of following me around, taking afternoon naps and occasionally doing a bit of DIY, Mr Jones has returned to the world of work. He left on Monday for the other side of the country and won't be home until Saturday. We miss him.

At times during his six weeks off I asked what on earth we are going to do when we retire? Being in each other's pockets 24/7 was not as idyllic as it sounds, especially with a small boy in tow. But now he's gone again and while I like the fact that when I tidy the house stays that way for at least two hours longer than usual, it is a bit lonely without him.

The small boy misses him too. Yesterday I got out the photo albums I made him for his birthday - full of pictures of his first year. We got to a picture of him and daddy in the bath and he pointed at it and looked at me quizzically. I turned the page and he turned it back again and again. When we were finally allowed to move on we got to a page full of picture of him and his daddy and he just burst into tears, which quickly turned into sobs. He was looking at me and pointing at the pictures with the most forlorn expression. In the end I had to put the pictures away and take him out for a walk to calm him down.

Now we are counting the sleeps until daddy comes home - only three more left. We can't wait for cuddles.

Terrible twos my a*&^!

Some almighty wobblers have been thrown in this house of late. There have been arm flailing, foot stomping, back arching, fist shaking, lie on the floor, scream, shout and cry trantrums issuing forth from that angelic (looking) little boy.

For all his gorgeousness I sometimes wonder if there isn't something just a little bit hellish living inside him. I was rather proud of myself for teaching him to sign to me that he was "all done" with his dinner, or a particular game - until last Tuesday - when he spent the entire day waving his arms in front of him everytime I got within three feet - "I'm all done with you Mummy!"

He has taken to swiping things off of bedside tables in a bid of frustration, throwing remote controls, hairbrushes and toys and getting stoppy if we don't get him a banana fast enough.

This morning I had the audacity to try and take his sleeping bag off as he made a break for the edge of our bed - the tantrum that ensued was so violent that only Buble could calm him down. We googled in despair. Apparently it's quite common - the "terrible twos" it seems are a bit of a misnomer - they don't necessarily start at two, nor do they cease on the morning of their third birthday. I'm hoping that we're just getting it all out of the way early.

Trying to reason with a one year old is nigh on impossible, distraction rarely seems to work and cuddles make him worse. Daddy it seems is flavour of the month - Mummy is akin to ear wax. I've tried all sorts to regain his affection only to be met with a palm in the face - "talk to the hand Mummy". Mr Jones has recommended practicing general disdain mixed with a tiny smidge of contempt - maybe the small boy is like a cat and is irresistibly drawn to people who'd really rather be doing something else. We'll see - I hope I get my cuddles back soon.

The big ONE

We made it - hurrah - the boy is one and has been since Saturday. We had a party with all the gorgeous people we know and a few thunder storms thrown in for good measure. It was supposed to be an afternoon tea garden party and instead it was more of a barn raising - but we still ate scones - and a rather marvellous cake made by my sister girl. I will post pictures once my lovely photographer has sent them to me - you're a star Stu.

We decided to make his birthday his naming day too. I wrote the ceremony myself because I wanted it to be personal. I managed to get most of the way through it before the tears started. First birthdays are tricky for Mummies there's the happiness that you've managed to grow your baby for a whole year and your excitement/consternation that your once tiny, helpless little new born is now a big toddler boy with a very independent streak - mixed in with the hideous memories of what exactly you were doing at precisely that time a year ago. I had to give myself several stern talkings too in the morning but by the end of the ceremony I'd lost it. Thank you to every who cried with me. And for those of you who missed it - and to save it for posterity here it is.....

Rufus Anthony Jones – Naming Ceremony – 18th June 2011

It might seem strange to be having a naming ceremony for a little boy who has been wearing his name for a whole year now. But it takes a while for you to own a name and for you to make a mark, however small, on the world. So for us it seemed fitting to wait until Rufus’ first birthday to formally welcome him into our lives.

A name is very important. It distinguishes us from others and gives us a sense of belonging in our family and community. Rufus – your name has been chosen with love and we hope it affords you a long and happy life. It means red head – and while some may fear that association, we feel that you have the strength of character to carry it off.

You have grown into your name in this past year – just as you have grown into our hearts. A Victorian writer called Elizabeth Stone once said that Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body. And that is completely true. I never thought that I would be so fascinated by another person, that I could spend hours watching you sleep, eat and play. You have bought an enormous amount of love and happiness into our lives and have truly stolen both of our hearts.

Because of you our lives have changed forever – we are now a family and we are proud to be your parents. We cannot wait to help you grow up and to see what sort of way you make in the world.

It’s not just you who will be on this journey – we will grow as parents too. Someone once said that - As much as we watch to see what our children do with their lives, they are watching us to see what we do with ours. I can't tell my children to reach for the sun. All I can do is reach for it myself.

We don’t take our responsibility as parents lightly, we know we have the most important job to do in bringing you up and we hope that you will bear with us while we find our way. For our part...

We promise to always be here for you, to listen when you talk and to guide you through life’s joys and hardships.

We promise to respect and support your choices and nurture your dreams. We will share with you our talents and strengths and guide you away from our weaknesses.

Most importantly we promise to love you forever.

So far Rufus’ life has been all about our little family of three – but now he is one it’s time for him to start taking his first steps into the world. So we have asked you all here today to help us set him off on that journey. Everyone here will have some impact on the sort of person Rufus ultimately becomes. We all share the responsibility of shaping him into a person and we’d like to ask all of you to pass on your love, knowledge and wisdom to him as he grows up.

We have asked that some of our friends take a special role in Rufus’ life – as “guide parents” if you will. Our old friends Sharon and Darren and Catherine and Adam because of the wonderful job they are doing with their own children (we’re hoping to steal a few tips) and Paul – under the careful and sobering guidance of Jo because we know that one day you’ll be fantastic parents too.

We’d like to ask the six of you to make one simple promise to Rufus – and that is to always be there for him in those moments when we as his parents aren’t able to help and guide him. [When he’s trashed the house, dropped an Emma Bridgewater Mug or broken the X-box]

Finally we would like to say a few thank yous. First off to our families for the love and unfailing support you have given us over the past year. And to our NCT friends and other baby folk for getting us through the screaming, the daddy blues, the tantrums and for sharing our highs and lows – we hope we’ll all be together for many years to come.

And I would like to say a special thank you to two people – firstly to Tim – for growing into a great Daddy and being by my side even through the gruesome bits. And finally to my mum – I would never have been able to enjoy this amazing year as much as I have without your help. About this time a year ago you were walking me to my epidural and through the gas and air haze I remember asking you how the hell you did this twice. You said to me “I promise you that it will all be worth it once you have that baby in your arms” – now I don’t say this very often, but you were totally right.

So I’d like everyone to raise their glasses and toast Rufus Anthony Jones – may you live a long and happy life. To Rufus

So there we go - the little boy is one - I really can't believe it has been a year since we brought him home (the Jeremy cat still hasn't come to terms with it). It has been amazing and I feel so lucky to have been with him every singe day - I shall miss him terribly from my office desk - although I will admit I'm quite excited at the prospect of going to the loo in relative peace.

Nine months old

He's been nine months old for a few weeks now - but first there was the sick and then the snot and the sore throats. Then the crawling turned to standing, then cruising and now stomping up and down the landing with his little wooden trolley full of bricks, knocking over cats and anything else that happens to get in the way.

So I haven't really had much time for blogging. Plus the sun has been shining and there has been veg to plant and grass to cut as well as the perpetual round of washing. I thank the sun for shining and sparing me from the continuous drone of the tumble dryer.

I have started to have nightmares about dropping him off at the childminder and then not being able to find my way back. I wake up in the night in a cold sweat because I've dreamt that he's been fed sweets or didn't get his mid morning snack or that he hasn't had his nap on time. And I am painfully aware that my days of 24/7 Rufus are gradually disappearing - and it makes me sad.

Getting back to work will be strange, I can't say I've really missed it. I haven't felt like a chunk of me has been missing without it. Rufus has neatly slipped into the gap and has provided me with more than enough of a challenge to keep me busy.

Yes, somedays I do think it would be nice to lie in bed with Mr Jones without having to hold onto the back of an errant boys babygro, or go for a walk on my own, or even have the luxury of shutting the bathroom door when I go to the loo, but other than that I don't really miss life before Rufus. That said I am looking forward to the wonder of a "lunchbreak" three days a week and lockable loos, of course. But I will miss him. Two and a half months left.....

I miss my boy

I have been poorly sick. The sort of poorly sick that means you spend a lot of time sweating and shivering on the bathroom floor in equal proportions. Unfortunately the sickness had nothing whatsoever to do with gin. It may have had something to do with mackerel, or perhaps to do with time spent crawling around on floors that need a good dettoling. It has not been fun. I'm still not quite right.

My little boy was whisked away from the vomiting by his daddy and today by his Nana. I have seen him for a sum total of about an hour in the past two days. I miss him terribly. He is coming home soon. I promise not to breathe on him. I don't want him to be poorly too.

I'm sure this seperation has been good for my control freak tendancies. However it has not been in the least bit fun. Two days off from mummying duties and I've spent most of it in the toilet. And no before you ask - I am NOT pregnant again.

Spring is springing

The greyness of the sky is starting to get to me - I feel the need for blue and that yellow thing that radiates heat and that is apparently called the sun. I'm sure it was out last week but that seems like a loooooooong time ago. I'm convinced my vitamin D stores are well and truly depleted and even the big freckle that is always on my nose seems to be looking a touch wan.

As if to save me from a phenomenal bout of SAD and to give me enough hope to get through the day - the garden is sprouting things. There are green shoots amid the dead bits, buds on the trees and blubs poking up through soil (along with a whole heap of weeds, but I'm glossing over that). Call me impatient bu I cannot wait for warmer weather, for flip flops, a baby who just wears a nappy (and select items from Mini Boden), and tomatoes that actually taste of something.

In other news Mr Jones came back for a sleepless night and has gone again for a bit of hotel room induced peace - to say I am jealous is an understatement - but then he does have to work as well.

The boy spent an hour and a half awake last night - chatting - not crying, not crawling around in his cot - just chatting. I changed his nappy, I shhhhhh'd, I tutted and tossed and turned and swore and screamed (silently into my pillow). At 4am I gave in and fed him and he went straight back to sleep. This has happened a fair bit of late.

In desperation I have reintroduced the mid morning feed that I axed two weeks ago in a bid to see if he'll sleep through again. The Health Visitor (who isn't worried, no not in the slightest) mentioned that when babies start crawling their sleep patterns go awry - so it could be that. The first problem is that her solution was controlled crying - but how do you do controlled crying when your baby isn't crying?? The second problem is that he started to crawl at the same time as we dropped with mid morning milk feed - and two days later the sleep issues happened - so we don't know the cause. He is eating his solids well and has never demanded the feed back but when I offered it to him this morning he was all for it.

So now I have mother guilt - for messing around with his routine, for taking the feed away in the first place, for possibly starving him for the past two weeks, for not being able to help him to sleep at the night, for swearing and screaming into my pillow, for eating a Galaxy Ripple (you might think this is unconnected but I blame sleep deprivation for my weak will - I don't even like Galaxy I'm a Cadbury's girl - so the guilt is doubled).

I guess in the morning we'll know - if he sleep through then I stand up to be judged for depriving my son of calories (while feeding myself unnecessary bars of chocolate). If he doesn't sleep through then I may need a large gin to wash down a multipack of finger of fudges or a family sized bar of Green and Blacks - do they do family sized bars?

In awe of single parents

Mr Jones has been stolen by work again - he's in Wales or something. Kent gets him next - lucky Kent. He's been gone for 24 hours. I am very tired. I'm still feeling a mite sick and achey and the wee boy is still practicising his crawling skills in the small hours of the morning, which is not conducive to sleep. He has also decided that 6.30am is the new half past seven so my restorative 12 minute piping hot shower was reduced to a tepid and functional four minute blast this morning.

The toast was substandard, the porridge a bit runny. I had to empty the dishwasher myself while doing everything I usually do at the same time. Last night when I put the boy in the bath he looked at me with a face that said - "er you're not my daddy - your hair is too long and ginger".

Of course if I was on top form this would all be easier - but it would still be hard. I don't know how people do this bringing up of children on their own. There must be some form of inner adrenalin hidden down deep behind the stuff you already have to hoik out as a twosome just to get through a sleep deprived day. So single parents everywhere I salute you - you must be truly superhuman.

It is a truth universally acknowledged....

that if you are married to a man, even if he is a good man, you do struggle somewhat not to nag.

Mr Jones is a very good man. of course, otherwise I wouldn't have married him. He makes breakfast for me and Rufus every morning, he puts the bins out and unloads the dishwasher, he gives Rufus a bath every night, he goes to work all day, occasionally he'll even run the hoover round - and for all of this I am very, very grateful and appreciative.

But there are times when I have to dig my nails into my palms, cross my toes, bite my tongue and resist the urge to tear out my own hair. You see, helpful as he is, very often he never quite finishes a job.

Take this morning for instance - he made his lunch and took the last yogurt from the cardboard outer carton. He removed this from the fridge, but instead of putting it in the bin, he left it on the side. Ditto the empty juice carton (which actually was an improvement to last week when it was left with barely a dribble in it in the fridge). When he cleans up after dinner he won't always wipe down the side or the top of the cooker. He'll put the bins out, but won't have emptied the various bins throughout the house. He'll load the dishwasher and put it on, but somehow fail to have noticed a stray knife, a glass or as of yesterday lunchtime - two empty tuppawear boxes and a mug sitting on the kitchen side.

All of this means that I spend my life in a constant state of "picking up". I find myself scurrying around after him collecting the left over debris and tidying it away. It basically means that every chore takes twice as much effort.

SO my question is - do I nag about this. or, do I keep on biting my tongue and continue to pick up the pieces while thinking myself lucky that he does anything at all? Am I expecting too much? Is finishing a task just beyond men, like multi-tasking? Or is it just down to training? Will I be able to train Rufus not to be a pain in his future wife's ass? (I realise this is more than one question).

Answers on a postcard please!

(PS - I do of course realise that Mr Jones will read this - I'm wondering if I should have been more subtle??)

What can only be described as a classic....

I went to see the Health Visitor this week - it was a different one to normal. I had Rufus weighed, he was 17lb 9oz - up from 15lb 14oz just over a month ago. For the last week he has slept through the night - but then he has had a virus and been a pretty sleepy boy anyway. But still - hurrah, hurrah, hurrah.

I asked the Health Visitor what I should do about his night feed. Prior to the sleep throughs he'd been waking up between 4.30am and 6am for a feed. I was wondering if this was just habit or whether he actually really needed the food now that his weight is heading back in the right direction. She told me to press on with weaning and to try not to let him have his night feed back if he started waking up for it again.

That night he slept through, the following night he woke up at 5am. I went in and changed his nappy and tucked him back in to settle himself (he won't settle if we're holding him - he's too used to doing it himself). He proceeded to shout for the next hour with a few fits of crying and a few momentary dozes in between. Not fun.

The next night he slept through and we hoped that he'd learnt that waking up was a bit pointless. Last night however he woke up at just before 6am. So I went in and changed his nappy and put him back to bed. He started to shout, then to cry. I lie in bed squirming in agony feeling hideously guilty.

Mr Jones started chuntering about whether it was all worth it and asking how many nights we had to continue with this until we gave it up for a bad job and started feeding him again? I repeated the Health Vistor's advice and the fact that I thought he was feeding out of habit.

The crying continued. Mr Jones and I started a terse exchange. "This is ridiculous," says Mr Jones. "I didn't think there was anything wrong with the routine we had going before."

"No, love, I bet you didn't - you weren't the one getting up at 5am everyday to feed him!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

The hair

Right I have truly had enough of my hair. Whatever I do to it looks horrendous. I was never going to be a yummy mummy - frankly I had enough trouble getting out of the house with make up on and my hair beautifully styled before I had a child let alone now I have one. (Yes I understand the irony - I write beauty features for a living - but if I'm honest life is just too short to spend half an hour applying guff to my face and blow drying my hair - but don't tell the readers).

Anyway in life BR - my hair was always just there. It was never spectacular - apart from maybe when I was about 17 when I recall it being all long and wavy and marvellously coloured - but it always looked ok. A mite fluffy at times and prone to misbehaving in humidity (that's enough from you sister - before you start telling stories about holidays and hair straighteners!!), but in general it never looked skanky.

Now it looks skanky. It's falling out in handfuls thanks to the raging post pregnancy hormones and it gets greasy in seconds. This might be due to the fact that there is a small boy hanging from it at any opportunity - but truly it is quite hideous. My forehead seems to grow bigger everyday - which is clearly down to the flat, ugly dullness of my hair. Just call me slap head.

I have hair envy. Where ever I go I see people with glossy hair, fabulously styled and I just want to grab them, grill them about what products they use and how long they spend back combing, poofing and blow drying every morning to procur themselves such a glamorous do?

The chances are they spend hours (or even minutes) that I don't have in front of the mirror making sure their hair looks great. I'd love to wash my hair every day - but I just don't have time. When it does get a wash I spend a good five minutes untangling lose hair from my fingers and then another five unclogging the shower drain and trying not to gag. Then I blast it (still sopping wet - tut tut) with a hairdryer while Mr Jones scowls at me for taking too long to get ready. If I'm lucky, and I've remembered to turn them on, I might even get to run the straighteners through it before I scrape it back into a pony tail in the hopes of preserving some of the shiny cleanliness before it's pulled, chewed and covered in whatever Rufus is having for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

I am tempted to have it all cut off. But I am terrifed that I'll end up with awful Mum hair, or something so high maintenance that I have to spend the next six months in solitary confinement until it grows back out again into something slightly managable. Something has to be done. I can't go on looking like I've been pulled through a greasy hedge backwards everyday. But what?Suggestions please......

An ode to chocolate

Well not really, because who writes odes these days? But anyway - I can't get enough of the stuff. Green and Blacks Creamy Milk is my current drug of choice. This might not sound weird to you because after all I'm a girl and most girls like chocolate - but not this girl. In life BR (Before Rufus) I'd have the odd daliance, eat a square or two. feel sick and then vow not to eat chocolate again.

However, I have just, this very moment, eaten six squares of creamy milk. And - I could eat more. The rest of the bar is in the cupboard and it's calling me. Begging to be melted on my tongue and washed down with a chaser of super cold milk. I find this new addiction disturbing not to mention fattening. I don't feel the slightest bit sick. It's most odd.

It's also odd that I now eat two slices of toast for breakfast every morning - one with marmite and one with marmlade - I like two courses in a meal. Again - probably not odd to you (the toast bit, not the two courses). But BR I didn't really eat bread - not unless I wanted to pay for it with a twisted gut or at the very least a stomach so bloated that I used to pat it and rub it like a pregnant woman in the hopes that people would mistake my errant wind for a small child.

Maybe I'm making up for not having cravings during pregnancy, maybe I'm having them now? Maybe broken night's sleep and days spent with a very busy little boy mean I need the carbs? Somehow I think the last stone of baby weight (it used to be half a stone - but then Christmas happened) might take a while to shift. I may have to go cold turkey on the chocolate. Not sure I could go without the toast. I crave it at 2am and at 3am and sometimes I get up at 5am and make myself a slice. In the middle of the night I forget two courses and just have marmelade. Mr Jones makes the best toast - I don't know what he does - it's just perfect.

Half birthday

Last Saturday - the 18th December 2010 - Rufus Anthony Jones was six months old exactly. I can't believe that in just six months we have gone from this



to this



It's amazing - he's a proper little boy now. He eats grown up meals - he loves a good stew. My kitchen floor loves it less, but doesn't get much of a choice about the amount it's "fed" every day. I'm thinking of starting a company that rents out Labradors to families with weaning babies. The cats don't do bits of chimbled pasta or beef that has been sucked dry - most unhelpful.

A friend asked me the other day if I miss my previous life? And I don't really think I do. Occasionally I'd love to sleep for eight hours without interruption and the other day I was walking through town and it seemed that everyone else on the street was a couple, meandering round the shops holding hands. I do miss that, just Me and Mr Jones time. Sometimes I miss it so much that I want to cry just a little bit.

But I wouldn't give him back, not for the world. I love watching him change. I never thought I'd be fascinated by the way that someone else holds a carrot. I certainly would never have walked around Waitrose singing, blowing raspberries and whooping just to make someone else smile. I'll do anything to elicit that laugh. The second his little delicious giggle escapes his mouth I do what ever it is that has brought it forth over and over again, even if it's throwing him in the air until my arms ache, or making popping noises until my lips are chaffed. It's like an addiction - I really can't get enough.

Sometimes I worry that my brain will turn to mush. That all I'll be good for is singing endless renditions of Old Macdonald or the Wheels on the Bus. Sometimes I miss the thrill of working to a deadline or running a shoot (and I certainly miss the freebies!). But most of the time I just love being a mummy. It's hard work, it's 24/7, but it is the single most satisfying thing I have ever done in my life.

When people ask what I do I don't miss saying "I'm a journalist", I love saying "I'm Rufus' mum". I wasn't sure how I'd feel about that, but I'm just so proud of him. If someone else pushes his buggy and people stop and coo I feel like grabbing the handle and saying "yes he's gorgeous isn't he, he's mine". Selfish I know - but he really is the most amazing thing I've ever achieved. I look at him every day and think - "wow I made him" and it stuns me everytime.

I've met the six months mark with a mixture of happiness and sorrow. I feel like the countdown is on. That every day now brings us closer to the day that I'll have to go back to work. The day that I'll have to hand him over and trust someone else to look after him (only for three days a week!) and it fills me with fear. It's not so much Rufus that I'm worried about, I'm sure after the initial wrench he'll be fine. He'll make new friends and learn new things and hopefully at the end of the day he'll be excited to see me. I don't think he'll miss out at all. But I know I will - I don't want to will him to grow up too fast, but at the same time I don't want to miss his first step or his first word. I want to be there for everything because it's such a privilege to watch him grow up.

And of course - if I'm truly honest - the control freak in me just doesn't want to let go. If I'm at work someone might feed him a jam sandwich made with plastic bread and marg (argh the horror) or let him sit in front of Cbeebies (or Top Gear!!!) for hours on end. At some point I'm going to have to let go - I'm just not sure I can do it right now. So I shall continue to dream of a gentle mooch around town with Mr Jones and a night in a soft fluffy hotel bed where I'll sleep for 12 hours in a gin induced stupor without worrying that something has happened to my little man overnight. I'm sure I'll get there one day - won't I?

Ps - I took Rufus to see the health visitor last Friday. He weighed in at 15lb 14oz - three weeks ago he was 14lb 9oz - it seems a bit of homecooking was all he needed to pile on a few pounds. The health visitor - remember she wasn't concerned, no not concerned at all - looked visibly relieved. In fact she was so happy she almost gave me a hug.

20 weeks old - oh the mess

At university I was sometimes known as Monica. People used to ruffle the rug in my room just to wind me up - and in the second year my cleaning rota was constantly scorned and the bathroom left in a disgusting state until I gave in a cleaned it even if it wasn't my week. While 10 years with Mr Jones has forced me to relax on the OCD cleaning you may well recall that in the latter stages of my pregnancy I spent about 22 hours a day attached to the hoover or mop.

These days I'm lucky if I manage to get the hoover out once a week. I have vacuum withdrawal symptoms. I feel like I need some kind of support group. "My name is Rebecca Jones and I'm a former clean freak who now lives in a slovenly pit". I just don't have time for cleaning - Rufus thinks it's a waste of his day. I tidy, frequently, and the washing machine is constantly on - but my house is no where near as clean as I'd like it to be.

Mr Jones has a different level of acceptable cleanliness. He once exploded a hole punch over his bedroom floor at the beginning of term and by Easter the paper confetti was still adorning the carpet. The living room floor in his shared house was home to a scalextric track, which wove it's way around plates of furry mould encrusted food remants and empty pizza boxes. The bathroom was so disgusting that I used to go home to pee.

I am happy to report that over the last 10 years his standards have been raised to a whole new level - but his tolerance of filth still hovers somewhere way below mine.

That is why, when Mr Jones suggested that while Rufus and I were away on holiday he might give the house a good going over, that I knew things had gotten bad, really bad. So it's not just me that can see the marks on the kitchen cabinets, or the dust on the book shelves? Are other people aware of the cat hair on the stairs and the footprints on the windowsill? Is someone else irritated by the baby handprints on every mirror in the house and are the watermarks on the shower screen glaring at anyone who use our bathroom?

My dad recently found a old book on good housekeeping and childcare. Among the many choice passages, this manual for all exceptional wives and mothers, suggested that the house should be an arena of calm cleanliness when your beloved husband walks through the door after a long day at work. After a day cleaning the house and taking care of the children I should neaten myself up, apply a bit of lipstick and plaster a smile on my face to greet him in the hallway. The children should be clean and angelic, playing quietly, or better still, already tucked up in bed..... it goes on - and on and on.

So what does Mr Jones see when he walks through the door? A picture of 1950s domesticity with a nipped in waist, perfectly coiffed hair and a neatly swaddled baby - does he heck. I'm usually on the floor, my bottom hanging out of pair of mud spattered jeans, my hair wild from a trek across some field or other. The living room is generally scattered with toys, the dinner is usually half prepared, there are bits on the floor, cobwebs on the ceiling and the baby is most certainly not bathed and ready for bed (that's Mr Jones' job).

I would love to be the perfect housewife - but somehow I just can't seem to manage it. I feel guilty if I leave Rufus to play on the floor while I hoover - and his naptimes are too precious to disturb with a roaring vacuum. I've tried to make like Mary Poppins and turn cleaning into a game, but a five month old doesn't really get it. So I sit in the evenings, worn out after a day of play, and listen to the dust bunnies scuttling under the sofa and watch the cobwebs idly weave themselves across each room. Inside I cry just a tiny bit for my lovely tidy pre baby house.

I love the days I get to run the hoover round and file away the paper work. But on the ones in between I remind myself of a little poem sent to me by a good friend:

When my children look back on today,
I hope they see a mother who had time to play,

There will be years for cleaning and cooking,
But children grow up when you're not looking.

So, settle down cobwebs, and dust go to sleep,
I'm cuddling my baby, and babies don't keep.

I hope you don't mind, I hope you don't mind......

.....that I put down in words
how wonderful life is
now you're in the world

We're currently singing this song. It's rather apt I'd say - sleepless nights aside. I loved the original, but this might be better.

It's been a while - we've been busy - I promise to update you all with the events of the last month this week.

Black....

That would be the colour of my mood at the moment - I feel awfully guilty about it, but I just can't seem to shake it. Maybe it's normal and is just another one of those pregnancy things that no one tells you about - or maybe all the emotional aspects of being pregnant, which I have so far avoided, are coming out now.

In the past eight months and three and a half weeks I haven't cried. Once. Even when I had my head in the toilet for what felt like 23 hours a day, I didn't cry. I've cried so little that my tear duct in my left eye became inflamed and sore through lack of use. But in the last two days it's had a workout.

For some reason I just feel angry and resentful. It all sounds hideously unmotherly, and if I was writing this in the Daily Mail I'd expect thousands of letters from women who think I'm perfectly horrible - so don't worry if this all grates a bit. I completely understand that what I'm about to say probably won't be understood or go down well with a lot of people.

But I want my body back, I want this baby out and it's not because I'm desperate to meet it (quite the opposite in fact - I'm quite terrified that I won't like it, or that it won't like me), but because I want to not be pregnant anymore.

If I'm truly honest with myself and with everyone else being pregnant has been a huge disappointment to me. I wanted to love it, it's all I've thought about for years - being pregnant, having a baby, being a mummy. But the reality has been a long way from the dream. I wanted to be one of those women who glow the whole way through. Who keep on going to the gym and have tonnes of energy. I wanted to eat wholesome, nurturing food that was ideal for my growing baby and I wanted to rock up to my due date in blissful happiness awaiting the arrival of my perfect baby.

But it hasn't been like that and now that I'm nearing the end I think I'm finally accepting it - and it's hard to admit that actually I've really struggled with the last nine months - and the longer the baby takes to come out the harder it's getting.

I feel resentful about all the things I've had to give up. Every Thursday when Mr Jones goes to play football I get a kick of jealousy in my gut. I miss exercise and feeling energetic. When he looks at his belly and complains that he feels unfit it takes all my will power not to scream at him. To point out the fact that my legs that were nicely toned are all wobbly again, that my bingo wings are back, that my backside is dimpled and my stomach - which while full of baby is nice and taut - before long is going to all Reubeneque and floppy.

I miss being able to eat what I want to eat - I'm sick of eating shortbread biscuits and ice cream because they're the only things that make me feel ok. I want to eat a salad and feel satisfied, I want to eat an apple without worrying that it's going to make me sick, I just want to eatlike a normal person and be able to have a glass of wine with my dinner.

I still feel incredibly lucky to be having a baby and I still love to feel it kick and wriggle - so please forgive me if I sound like I'm being ungrateful. I do feel incredibly guilty for feeling this way - which in a way makes it even harder. But I'd like to feel like I'm in control of my body and my life again. Not knowing when the baby will arrive is killing me. I'm a planner, I like things to be organised and I hate not knowing how much longer I have to wait.

And at the end of it all I'm utterly terrified that being a mum won't be what I've dreamt of either. What if I can't cope, or I don't love my baby? I'm hoping that feeling this sad now will mean that when the baby finally arrives everything will be ok.

PS I've written this not because I want everyone to tell me that it will be ok, or because I want attention or anything like that. I've written it becuase I want to be honest. I will hold up my hands and admit that in the past I've been incredibly critical of women who have whinged about being pregnant. I always thought they should think themselves bloody lucky when so many women in the world can't have children. And believe me no one is more disappointed that I'm not still "sucking it up" than me. But being pregnant is hard for some people, not everyone gets an easy ride. I hope that for you it is easier and that you never have to feel this way. Please forgive me if reading this has been upsetting for you or if you find it offensive - I wish I didn't feel this way - but I do.

Giving up the sloven

I hold my hands up and confess to the fact that I have a cleaner - she comes once a week (15 minutes early and always catches me in my pjs or mid breakfast - or these days post vomit). She hoovers and cleans the hob and does the bathroom and generally keeps on top of the weekly clean. This however is a double edged sword - it allows me to believe that my house is clean and that I need not get out the hoover, clean under the bed, or wipe the fronts of the kitchen cupboard. So if you look closely you will see that my house really isn't all that clean - well not the sort of clean that I like anyway.

Mr Jones and I have different ideas as to what clean is - I'd like clean sheets every day - he likes the slept in feel. He therefore is perfectly happy with the weekly clean by our somewhat mute Polish "woman that does". I, on the other hand, am suffering frequent paroxysms (heard only by myself and the cats) about the state of the bin cupboard. I know it's a bin cupboard and by nature is supposed to be a bit gross - but I just feel the need to clean it. The thing is the vomiting is rather limiting when it comes to getting down and dirty with the Dettol (or Ecover as it is in our house - but I like alliteration). And Mr Jones can't be persuaded by any stretch of the imagination to clean out a bin cupboard in his rare moments at home (he's still in Scotland).

Apparently this need to clean (I want to move the sofas, sort out all the paperwork, clean under the beds, weed out the wardrobes and rearrange and wipe down the kitchen cupboards) is something to do with being pregnant. A nesting instinct as it were. So the next time I get some spare time, feel a mite human and can get my hands in my marigolds I will be found cleaning out the bin cupboard. Unless of course some kind person finds it in their heart to come and lift me out of my slovenly habits before that day.