Blue skies are coming; Emerging from the Post natal daze.

So this is a long overdue post….

Having had a relatively easy first child who ate, slept, played and had absolutely no stranger anxiety, when I learned that we were expecting number 2 I expected the same.

In fact, I expected it to be a breeze.  Another angel baby but with the knowledge and experience of parenthood in hand this time, what could go wrong?  Confidently my husband and I planned our maternity leave, we’d go and live abroad once the baby was born, allow our 3 year old to learn another language through emersion, enjoy a warmer climate over British winter and C (my husband) could continue to work via the magic of the virtual world.  It would be perfect, I advertised our plan to everyone I met who would either direct me a look of envy (childless people) or scepticism (those gifted with little people).

I should have known little D would be trouble as soon as she was delivered, latched onto my breast and didn’t let go for the next 48 hours- establishing her milk supply and her territory!

It was 7 months ago since we welcomed our beautiful daughter into our family and 8 months since I waved goodbye to work naively shouting over my shoulder about all the projects I would complete; audit ideas, social media enterprise, getting Mummymedics updated and properly functional (neglected since my return to work after baby number 1)  All this on top of caring for my curious little boy, attending a hectic schedule of Mummy and baby activities and of course emigrating for 3 months.  Who was I kidding?

Little D has been surgically attached to me since day 1 and seems to have a genetically determined alarm system for “Stranger Danger!!” or Daddy danger/Granny danger/Any kind loving soul who wants a cuddle Danger.  This, combined with hideous reflux and a ravenous hunger only amplified by the constant regurgitation has meant all our idyllic plans have, you guessed it, fallen off a cliff.

Only now, 7 months in with reflux settled by the introduction of solids and something resembling a routine (some days) that I am starting to uncurl from the foetal…sorry I mean feeding, position.  Realising my return to work is imminent, my baby hates everyone, hates a bottle and I have lost no baby weight and don’t know where my make up bag even lives anymore.

So, after initial panic, meltdown and over dramatisation all aimed at my poor supportive husband here I am, pulling myself together and commencing “Operation Back to Work and Back to Me”.  Along with several other covert operations involving formula, multiple expensive slanty cups, bottles, more expensive bottles and maybe anything else plastic which says it’s just like a boob and costs around twenty pounds.

Wish me luck!