New blog

One of the things that I tend to bang on about a lot is body image.

So I've decided to do something about mine and take up a challenge for 8-ish weeks and I'll be blogging about it here The 40 Ouch 8 Week Challenge. Weird that, not that the title isn't a giveaway.

At the moment, it seems to be me whining about the parlous state of my core muscles...

Snowy madness

And thus I am in France, tired of limb and slightly afraid of cheese.

(I posted this one sentence BACK IN MARCH BTW while on a skiing holiday, on the worlds' shittest wifi, in an apartment above a night club and below a lot of youthful ski bums with a propensity for playing football in a room the size of a matchbox and only spotted it now in amongst my drafts).

In many ways I'm quite proud of myself about that trip, because I did a decent amount of skiing and I only cried about four times in abject terror. For those of you who actually know me IRL, and thus have probably seen some photos, I'm a nervy intermediate skier so "ye olde snow plough" is out quicker than a Howard Webb yellow card as soon as I get the fear. I didn't fall over all that much but that's because I'm paranoid about crashing.

So firstly, I love going to France, if I could foxtrot oscar anyway, that would be my first point of call.

Secondly, tired of limb...

It's been a real confidence boost that I've made this squidgy, scarred, injured thing I call my body do some really quite tough things, and keep doing them for a couple of hours. Over a number of days. And not be immobile afterwards. It also makes me very happy that muscle memory exists because I had a couple of really good days (and a couple of short ones - but always best to respect the limbs, though it pains me to admit it) where it flowed and I genuinely felt like I was flying. I can't help thinking though that I'm incredibly lucky considering how long it's taken to recover from having Mini D (c-section, SPD that didn't bugger off immediately post-birth)  injuries sufficiently nasty enough to involve extended periods of immobility and activity curtailment, weight, age and all that other shizzle. I can do it, though sometimes it hurts, and I want to be better at it, and I want to show my kid that just because of all of the above it doesn't mean you've got to give up.

Thirdly, slightly afraid of cheese.

Raclette,
Reblochon
Gruyere
Comt
The bright green pesto stuff they sell in the market in Val Tho.

Alpine food - Studio 54 for the cheese addict, I kid you not. *swoon*.

Thank FSM for plant sterols.

And I travelled to altitude with a small child and lived, but more of that later.

63 days and counting...

3 walks in 3 days.

Took the small one for a push at Newbiggin-by-the Sea this morning, and just to prove that every day actually is a school day, I found out that when Newbiggin was a port, it was ranked 3rd largest after London and Hull for the import of grain...

Blimey.

Have a photo.

64 days and counting...*gulp*

I'm not one of nature's dieters. In fact, (even though I think horoscopes are intrinsically mince) I trot out the line "I'm a Libran, I don't do denial" as I slide a slightly podgy hand into the mega-tonne-super-skip of Celebrations with tedious regularity.

Ah, Celebrations, somehow an altogether dirtier chocolate than many of the others, that leaves you feeling like the Monday after a good festival. If you have more than one, you end up hollow, seedy, grubby and with a residual undertow of guilt because you've been dragged into a whirl of Dionysian excess, where somewhere in your head there are young oily men in short shorts and a glamorous woman riding a white pony through the room while wearing a silver lame' jumpsuit while you're eating them.

However it's a nasty come down when it's over. I went through the Festives patting myself on the back, for *somehow* I had managed to avoid the worst excesses and was feeling quite snappy. This is,however, due to the fact that getting up at 6am with a fractious toddler (with bio-hazard arse) with a hangover is hell on a stick and having tried it, the memory is a wonderful resolve stiffener when you're tempted to let your imbibing inhibitions down.

Then the Christmas sweets got opened and 7 days later here I am committing myself to weaning myself off the stuff like a penitent sinner. I also can't get out for a walk today because I went yesterday and I ache - ah, pregnancy, it's been about as good for me physically as being pushed down a flight of stairs wearing a suit of armour..

Amanda Palmer - dancing around 'til it hurts at QMU....

Bit of a cross post....

UniquelySnowflake - Amanda Palmer Giggage

I had a fabulous time and a right hoot. Everything about the wee trip was cracking and meeting up with a good mate after whoa-years was too...

Owning and wearing boots that were older than some of the people I stood next to in the queue gave me a teeny moment of pause though. Ah, what the hell, nowt wrong with being the "older folk at a gig 'Eeh, I saw the Pixies at the G-Mex in 1991 you know'" type. ;)

Duffed - Boobs

Things about boobs that had never occurred to me before I embarked on this little adventure...

• No matter how big your boobs are under normal circumstances, pregnancy will make them much bigger. You will be able to cut the cups out and wear them on your head in cold weather with no difficulty whatsoever. In fact, stitch on a nicely colour co-ordinated pom-pom and it'll look like someone brought it back as a gift for you from a nice ski-ing jaunt in Val d'Isere. You'll also find that the sizing variations mean that, from the beginning to end of your pregnancy, you'll be able to kit out the entire family, including the one person everyone secretly calls "Football heed". Or at least you would do if everything didn't come in white, greige and black. I know that most of the time, all one cares about is that the damn things are tamed, but pretty and not the cost of a Bentley would be good.
• If you felt mildly discomfited by the people who would stare at your breasts before this takes place, now you are permanently sober and at times, a touch "feisty", wearing the cardboard box that your fridge came in or, if you feeling a little more bohemian, a yurt, has never been more appealing. As does wearing a t-shirt that says "Oi! I've got a ****ing face! Look at that! Tw*t!"
• They cease to be "Fun" bags and become slightly itchy "Ouch" bags. In fact, should you ever have been curious about how you get warm fleshy cannon balls into an extremely utilitarian and aesthetically unappealing elasticated hammock, now's your chance. What previously was an inconvenience is now a trial. Lying on your front? Ha! Suddenly crossing one arm across your body without thinking? Bad idea. very, very, bad idea. Sleeping free range? Not a cat in hell's chance. You will now own bras for sleeping, waking, nursing and sport. And several other sets of circumstances that currently elude me.
• You are permanently pointy as though you've been standing the chiller isle of Tesco's for a bit too long.
• Likelihood of being defeated by gravity and falling flat on your face due to sheer weight of the darn things increases by the power of ten. Coupled with general normal levels of clumsiness and yes, it's fair to say, I'm going to spend the following months rocking on my front like a tortoise that's been rolled or in a heap after executing a perfect commando roll to prevent injuring bump.
• The sheer bewildering range of things, products and advice relating to sucking out and manual or electrical extraction of, mopping up of excess, general containment and control of all things breasty and milky.