Lovely Michelle over at Mummy from the Heart is hosting a Reasons to be Cheerful linky this week; and as it’s a while since I’ve taken part it one – not to mention that it’s been a while since I’ve done a simple, straightforward feel good post – I thought I’d join in.
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I don’t know what’s come over me. I seem to be in a confessional mood.
Not content with sharing the details of my birth experience last week, I’m now going to post about postnatal depression too. I probably wouldn’t have done this without the prompt of the mental health blog carnival that is being hosted by the magnificent Ellen Arnison from In a Bun Dance. I would encourage you all to pop over there next week to read what other bloggers have to say.
This is going to be a long post, so bear with me. The benefit of waiting three years is that I will (hopefully) write about it more coherently than I could have done at the time.
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I got a hole in my jeans last night.. The cause was nothing dramatic; just too much time spent crawling around on the floor helping DorkySon build traffic jams. So my beloved pair of Levis now has a big rip across the left knee.
This is not a good thing. Holes in your clothes are never a good thing, but this is a particularly not-good thing because they were my last remaining pair of unripped trousers, so now I have to go clothes shopping. And I hate clothes shopping.
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I have a confession to make. I’ll whisper it.
*I’ve never actually watched One Born Every Minute.*
When the last series aired, my Facebook news feed was chock-a-block with people’s thoughts on it – from midwife friends who loved it, to hippy friends who hated it, to childless friends who were terrified by it. I think, for me, it was just a little too soon after DorkySon’s arrival and I wasn’t quite ready to reacquaint myself with the workings of a maternity ward.
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The fantasy dinner party conversation is one that a lot of couples have when they first get together – it’s an interesting way of finding out someone’s interests and trying to deduce your compatibility. If your prospective partner wants to have Pol Pot round for a pizza, or Stalin round for a sausage stew, you may want to reconsider your relationship.
Dorkymum | Stories from Tasmania 