About
I am the woman who has just found her 22 month daughter scribbling on her new Miu Miu Coffer bag. Nineteen months ago this would have resulted in me throwing myself on the floor, crying for approximately 2 hours and generally being inconsolable for at least 2 weeks. But something’s changed. While I mourn the perfect bag I owned for all of 10 days, I still love it (and the daughter) and wear it’s war wounds with pride. It does help that the scribbles fall quite handily within the oh so perfect rouching of my arm candy.
So why the change ? Well, that I have to attribute that to my bundle of loveliness who currently refuses to leave the house on hot days without wearing her favourite woolly hat, some plastic beads and sunglasses, and who’s first word was ‘shoes’. Like mother like daughter.
My first three weeks as a mother were a bit of a shock. To illustrate quite how much of a shock, if I’m honest I hadn’t actually considered the possibility that I may actually give birth to a real live healthy baby until a week before the big day. When my 9 lb 11oz bundle was handed to me (and yes, she did have eyes Mrs Martin) I realised I’d successfully managed to become mother - so all I had to do was work on the yummy part (at that very point I couldn’t have been further away from it in a Hello Kitty night dress and smeared mascara).
I still can’t remember much of those first three weeks. Completing ablutions between the furious cries of my first born wasn’t the ideal way of getting myself ready for the day. Frequently I had to remind myself to brush my teeth in the late afternoon because my morning ritual had been disturbed and I just hadn’t gotten round to it. As for make-up, despite my mother suggesting I might feel a little less discombobulated if I “put my face on” my sparkly pots of magic alluded me.
Fortunately for me I inherited by mother’s genes so managed to get into my blue ones a little after the three week mark. Excellent news I thought. the Husband agreed. There is only so much a man can see you in his clothes, and we were both bored of me looking like a teenage skater. That was the turning point. From then on I no longer wanted to be the kind of mother featured in Ben Elton sit-coms. I was a Sex in the City gal, dammit, surely it’s possible to fit a couple of nappies and a bottle in a Gucci bag ?
From that point on, I’ve endeavoured to have it all. The career, the relationship, the clothes and the all important accessories while being the Mum I wanted to be. The road’s been a little bumpy on occasions, and there have been sacrifices along the way (and some huge fashion disasters) but that’s parenthood, as they say.
Here’s my guide to being the yummiest of mothers, not to mention some of the handiest telephone numbers for any gorgeous lady. Welcome to Milk & Manolos …