Wonder weeks aren’t so wonderful

Currently staring at the gorgeous sleeping tiny tyrant that is my son. Today he is gorgeous and lovely. Yesterday he was enacting his Guantanamo Bay torture techniques upon me, in what I can only hope was the tail end of wonder week number one. At seven weeks (corrected age four and a half weeks) it’s due, so here’s hoping that is what that is, or I may be liable for a tantrum on that scale myself.

The Moby sling is proving it’s weight in stretchy fabric, he loves it, sleeps in it, and it means not only do I have to not wrestle with the buggy to escape the house, but I’ve got two free hands to eat with and he still feels held and loved. It’s also got an owl on it, which makes me love it more. I’m still getting used to it and learning to trust that he won’t fall out of it, but it’s incredible and I would genuinely endorse it to anyone!!

In the meantime I seem to be on the eternal quest for post baby clothes and turning my run ragged look into some form of a “yummy mummy”-esque thing. Basically because I’m giving myself a serious complex by looking at other new mammies blogs/YouTube channels and wondering why they don’t have a new wonky figure that no jeans fit well at all or shitty skin or mahoosive rucksacks under their eyes from being up every hour and a half for the last two months. So to them I say “ah feck off”, and to the makeup ladies in Boots and Brown Thomas I seem to be saying “here is my wallet, make me BEAUTIFUL”. My bank account doesn’t quite know what’s hit it, and I’m wearing makeup brands I’ve never tried before. Got to love the bit of retail therapy for the sanity. The jeans are a battle (and a blogpost) for another day.

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