Is one ever too young to be a clean freak?

Baby Mango is crying again and I know that he has soiled himself for the umpteenth time. As I am just falling asleep after the last change 6 minutes ago, it's easy for me to drag myself out of bed and attend to him. I hear Mango, who's taken the shift from 9.30pm till 3.35 this morning, mumble under his breath and roll over, pulling most of the duvet with him.

You see, I'm usually very organised. I bought jumbo boxes of pampers of all sizes during the Christmas sale at Asda and piled them ceiling high. But with the way my boy poos, he's making a mockery of my skills.

This is a typical pattern: Baby Mango wees. He gets changed. As soon as gets a clean nappy on, he gets very fussy, then very, very quiet as he concentrates hard and poos. The he realises he's soiled and cries again. He gets changed. Then he finishes up pooing and cries some more. He gets changed. Then he finishes up his wee.

It's like he cannot stand to have even the tiniest speck of poo or a drop of wee in his nappy. He'll start to poo, clench his bum as soon as even a little comes out and then finish up when he gets a clean nappy. He can stretch one bowel movement into three nappies.

When I complain, Maman will say "Why are you complaining? He's like his mother. He hates dirt." But this is costing me money!

Maman is right though. I remember when my brother was little, he'd take off every scrap of clothing to wee or poo, fold them neatly on his bed and refuse to put them back on until someone had wiped his bum and washed his hands with soap.

I suppose I should be grateful to have at least given Baby Mango something, seeing as he doesn't look like me in any way. But did he have to get the neurotic bit?

Drat and double drat!

After weeks of keeping the baby sequestered - the better to avoid germs, my dear - I've only gone and caught a cold, haven't I?

Can you spell 'IRONY'?

I try not to talk to baby or breathe on him when I am breastfeeding him which is difficult because just this week, I have noticed him gazing intently at my face when I feed him or following me with his eyes when I move. Not the best time to spend our 'Mummy-Baby' sessions with my face up to the ceiling, I tell you. It makes me feel guilty, like I am shutting him out or something.

And it's tearing me apart to push him away from me at night when I know all he wants to do is snuggle and feel my heartbeat (he won't sleep in his carry-cot unless it's in motion or even his crib - long story short, nobody was getting any sleep until he lay down beside us in our King size bed. Don't judge me! You don't know what it's like!).

I know I caught the bug in our GP's waiting room late last week when we went to have the rash on his face evaluated. I'd say 'Can you spell DOUBLE IRONY' but it's well known that GPS' waiting rooms are the sort of places where germs come to date, mate, marry, co-habit and eventually divorce for other relationships. I'm lucky I escaped with just a cold. I hope Baby Mango doesn't catch it.

But until it goes, it looks like I'm going to keep my face away from the boy.

Will this give him any problems, I wonder? I'm thinking mummy/daddy issues, the type of which the Tory Party is painful familiar, where coldness from parents in early life breeds such sexual '(mis)adventurism' that even the News of the World wouldn't touch it with a 10-foot pole?

Riiiiiight.

I'm off to kiss my baby on the lips and breathe into his face.

Some things are worth a few germs.

I'd like to see you try!

I know all babies love to wee when their wee bits are exposed to air, but to borrow a phrase from Mango, 'We're raising a champion pee-er!'

So far, Mango had been the culprit of Baby Mango's hose-downs. I've sat smugly away from the spray and directed him as he spluttered and coughed up a mouthful of baby plumbing contents: 'No, no! Not like that, point it away...away, I said! Didn't you bring any toilet roll to contain it? Well serves you right, next time you'll know better!", feeling superior because unlike him, I am not an only child and have had experience with these things.

But yesterday was different. As usual I blew on Baby Mango's bits as I was changing him and quickly covered it with the soiled nappy. I waited, peeked, blew and covered again. Satisfied that he wasn't going to wee, I turned around to get the cotton wool with which to wipe him when...'Prssssshhhhhhhh!'

My entire blouse was soaked.

"Oh no!"

"What? Did he pee on you?" asked Mango. He took one look at me, took a picture on his iPhone (no doubt to tweet later) and smirked.

"Whatever," I shrugged "At least it didn't happen ...TWICE!!! Ahhhhhhh!" The boy drenched me again, still screaming his protest at being so exposed. Mango doubled over and called his mum, who applauded her grandson, like it was some achievement.

"Right, that's it! All your wet clothes are coming off and I'm running you under the tap!"

As I dried him off, he became very still. I started to brag. "Yes, baby, I know you peed on me twice because I could handle it. I am Supermum! Anyone else would have freaked out." He let out a fart. "That's right, you have the best mummy in the world...Oh God!Is he pooing??!!!" The hand I cupped around his bum was gradually being filled by a warm, mustard-coloured sludge.
"MAHAHAHAHAHAAGGGG!!!!" Mango was turning blue and about to pass out.
I looked at the tiny bum passing such vileness into my hand, looked at the calm contented face and Mango's gagging form.

The old me might have been tempted to wipe my hand on Mango's shirt.

Meh. At least the poo wasn't watery. I got up calmly to wash my hand and Baby's bottom.

Nobody really talks about labour...

...But I will because, you really need to know what is waiting for you should you decide to have kids. Let's make it a bit of a game, shall we?

They say: Labour feels like period pains.

I say: I wouldn't wish such pain on my worst enemy. Well, maybe my worst enemy! It does feel like period pains in the same way that a pin prick compares to a knife wound... they both open the skin to some degree but that is where the similarity ends. It's like someone has tied several strings on each muscle strand in your abdomen and spends their time pulling it tighter and tighter and tighter as the night goes on. The strings extend all the way into your lower back as well.

They say: Breathing exercises help to get through the pain. Concentrating on your breathing helps you visualise all that lovely oxygen getting to your precious baby.

I say: Yes, but not in the way you'd think. Mostly it just takes your mind away from the mind-numbing, gut-wrenching, hallucinatory effects of the pain you're feeling.

They say: Pack lots of food (enough for you and your birth partner), reading material and music as well as your own pillows and scents to help you relax.

I say: HAHAHAHAHAHA! Forget it. Food? Music? You'll not even know where you are half the time. Eventually when you're driven mad by the pain, all you want is for the baby to come out...not to read the latest edition of Vogue.

They say: You may choose to support yourself by holding on to your partner with each contraction.

I say: In that primal state the last thing you're thinking about is a man to support you. More like, a man to kill.

They say: Have a birth plan which will tell your midwives what you want and how you want the labour to progress.

I say: Write a birth plan. Then rip it up and chew it. It probably is of more use to you as roughage (OK, I'm not saying it's of absolutely no use, I'm just saying it was of no use to ME. First of all, as someone with SPD I had access to a pool but there was no one to fill it because they had run out of the disposable lining for the inflatable bath. They just kept walking in, looking at the bath and walking out, like the bath was going to magically fill itself. I had to do the thing with the full effect of gravity weighing on my poor pelvis).

They say: You look at your child at the end, and it's all worth it. You'd totally go through it again.

I say: Yeah, that's about right.

It's a boy!

Born February 14 at 5.06am, weighing 4kg.

I am relieved. And happy!

Bra fitting is such a nightmare.

Funny enough, before this pregnancy. I could bankrupt myself buying lingerie, but since this pregnancy, I have hated bra fitting.

I put it down to the horrible experiences I have had so far. I have been sold 5 ill-fitting bras by Mothercare assistants, who - though nice enough - spent at least an hour each juggling my tender assets and leaving me out of pocket at £18 per bra. At my second fitting in my 20th week, the assistant was kind enough to suggest to me that I looked about 8 months.

Hurrah for sensitivity!

So, you can imagine my Mighty Dread when I approached my 36 week, nursing bra fitting. I asked Mango if it would be bizarre to go through the whole breastfeeding process supporting my mammaries with a strip of cloth. He raised an eyebrow:

"Er...I'm sure...it's not weird...buuuuuuut what about feeding in public?" I could see him tiptoeing away from the conversation in case I snapped at him. But I did concede the point.

So, I asked around not willing to risk the Mothercare fumbling and luckily I got three separate recommendations - one from the midwife at my breastfeeding workshop - for a place called The Fitting Studio in Forest Hill. I made an appointment. I went. I saw. I am ecstatic!

I arrived an hour before my appointment and was seen, even though I was quite prepared to wander around the town centre until it was my time slot. In seconds I was in the dressing room and being tested - get this - WITHOUT a tape measure. She just looked at me, asked me to strip so she could see how my current bra sat and just started fitting. I walked out within 30 minutes with a bra that is so comfortable, so supportive that I feel like I am walking straighter and can breathe better. Yes, people. A well-fitted bra can do just that.

And the best thing of all, I was back home before my appointed time slot. Amazing.

Ok, at £35 per bra, they aren't cheap but you get what you pay for and much more besides.

W-O-M-A-N

I have recently discovered a love for plastic cutlery.

It's not the taste. Nor is it the fact that I can simply dispose of them the minute I finish, although that is a definite bonus. No, I simply like plastic cutlery for the same reason as I favour drinking from plastic cups.

They are non-reflective. I cannot see my image in them - muhahah! Take that shiny/metal cutlery/surface/appliance!

And what an image it is! I almost went into labour walking past a puddle on the way to church. I look like an exaggerated fertility statue, carved after one too many shots of ogogoro local gin.

There's my nose, my nose, my nose. I'd put a before and after set of pictures up but I'm afraid that Blogger would just break down. It's fat, fleshy and flat (I'd say bulbous but it doesn't begin with an 'f'). I can't relate to this new image at all.

Pregnancy is a powerful thing and it should be feared. For what else - short of chemotherapy - can provide such genetic manipulation? I look like nobody in my family right now.

I have rings of flesh round my neck, my back is a hump of fat (honestly what am I going to use it for?) and I can fan myself with my bingo wings when I get hot. Ah! Bliss.

Finally, I am so much darker. I'm talking black, black. I'm so black that in the grey, British winter, it's quite difficult to see me if I step outside. Alek Wek would be jealous, except, well, she does get paid millions of dollars for her look.

Eh, at least I get a baby at the end of all this. Although whether that is a payment to or a fee levied from me is a whole other issue.