As I crawl into bed at the end of my second ever Mothers' Day, I have three thoughts in my head:
- I've missed you bed, we used to spend a lot more time together, when did we stop seeing each other?
- I've had a fantastic day with The Boy and hubby.
- Jesus Christ, my back hurts!
My back and I used to get on alright, the occasional objecting twinge when lifting something heavy, but other than that, we liked each other. When did this change? What happened? When did we fall out?
I'll tell you when. When they shoved a whopping great big needle in between my vertebrae to insert an epidural. No hang on, maybe it was when they had to do it again because they'd done it incorrectly the first time? My back has never been the same since.
Do you know what else changed that day? My bosoms, they now resemble spaniel's ears. No wonderbra on Earth can help them.
Don't even get me started on my skin! Six months post-partum and I turned into a pubescent teenager again. I'm 33 for the love of all things holy, I should not be getting acne now.
Have I ever mention that I fell down the stairs a week after giving birth and ripped all of the stitches out of my episiotomy? And that they wouldn't restitch it?
What about the stretch-marks? My flabby stomach looks like a road-map of Greater London.
The only thing that has started to behave itself is my hair. Eventually! It has finally started to regrow and stopped snapping off.
I know that some of you are nodding in agreement to this. Some of you are thinking "oh belt up and stop moaning!" I bet some of you are still wincing about me ripping my stitches out, aren't you?
However, I want you to understand that I am not moaning because I would do it all over again, one hundred-fold, just so that I can be my little boy's mummy. I adore him with all my heart, and my knackered back.
Thank you to The Boy for choosing me to be your mummy!