The Running Woman

It is 6.30pm. Husband walks through the door. Alex runs at him, nuts husband in the nuts. Ed has a meltdown because husband greets Ed as “Ed” and not “Rex the farmer”.

I am already waiting in my running gear.

Shoes on? Tick.

Old maternity yoga trousers? All slack-y and naff and washed out black? Yes.

Sports bra? No. The baby sicked on it.

Lets GO!

“BYE DARLING!” I yell over my shoulder, boobs flapping about.

It is so much nicer running now the evenings are lighter….I manage to avoid almost all of the dog crap on the pavements.

I don’t like running. Full stop. But I like that running gives me time to think. I think about anything except how my lungs feel like they might explode. Some people do their lists and thinking whilst having sex with their husbands. I do mine whilst running (honestly darling). It also gives me a chance to fantasise….another thing sometimes people during sex. For me again, when running.

Like making celebrity BFF’s.

Fern Britton lives in my village. I harbour a lovely dream about breaking an ankle (it is a weird dream) outside her house. I manage to drag my body to her doorstep where she and Phil welcome me and wrap me up in a big blanket and feed me Phil’s home cooking. “Where do you live, little one?” they ask. I have *cough* memory failure and can’t remember (so sad) and have to sleep at their house. We all become best friends and go to BBQ’s at Philip Scofield’s house.

When I was pregnant with Ed and my hormones were bouncing off the walls Fern was going through her gastric bypass scandal and had just been banned from going ajywhere near a Ryvita. She was also on a “break” from This Morning. I wrote one, maybe three (holds her head in her hands in shame at the memory) emails to This Morning telling them they needed to support her more and generally BE NICER TO HER, OK?! Because she is NICE. Being a bit pregnant and loopy, in my head this was a totally rational thing to do. She needed support. From me. I never got a reply from This Morning. Weird that. I saw Phil Vickery at the cashpoint in the village recently and texted my friend;

“He is really little and grey. Like a baby owl”.

She replied “You should tell him you wrote supportive emails about his wife, that wouldn’t be weird or creepy at all”.

I still had about 3 baby hormones left in my body and thought to myself, I should definately do that! But he flew away before I got the chance.

Which was lucky for me. I like my freedom and I wouldn’t get that in prison…

Must be 6.45pm by now, surely? *feels something hit her on the bottom* “OH GOD! A sexual predator!” panic. “Oh no wait – it was just one arse cheek banging in to the other”. Phew.

If you are a runner then on your running route there will be a stunning beautiful skinny bitch who runs with an Ipod and a six pack (of muscles. Not of beer. She isn’t on the run from the local Londis) and looks amazing. I expect you hate her. All I can say is, on behalf of that woman, who is me, I am sorry.


Here I am on my run

All lank hair and floppy arms and a face lacking emotion.

7pm. Get home. Check trainer soles for dog poo. Clear. Stinging pain in the throat and chest? Affirmative. Mothers words ringing in my ears “Be kind to yourself, Hannah”? Tick. Straight to the fridge, pour a glass of wine, on to the biscuit tin and pop in mouth a rich tea.

A week after I had had Ed I announced to my husband I would be running the Marathon the following year in order to raise money for charity (*cough* lose weight) I was on a LOT of drugs. In fact, I think the London Marathon organisers should hand out post-birthing drugs at the beginning of the race – “Come on you guys! You can do it! Just eat the pill”.

I am not a runner. I am a sitter-er. But my cousin Alex is a proper runner and is actually only going to go and run the bloody London Marathon. CROWD ROAR! If this blog made you giggle, then I am going to shamelessly rip the backside out of it and ask you to throw her a couple of quid. Nothing much. She is running for little tiny babies whose timers go off on their ovens too soon and they get evicted and who are looked after by brilliant nurses and doctors. In my best celebrity charity fundraising voice “please donate. If you can. Thank you”.

The end.

March 20, 2012. Tags: , , , . Uncategorized. 2 comments.

Be kind to yourself

Someone asked me recently if I had any advice (at the ripe old age of 30 and with two kids) for someone who was expecting their first baby.

Friends went through all the pratical stuff – sleep when you can, sleep when baby sleeps, swaddle cloths, blackout blinds, calpol, make loads of meals before you pop and freeze them down. Out of nowhere, was something my mum always told me, but I never really got until that very moment. “Be kind to yourself, Hannah”.

Be kind to myself. What the hell did that mean? Get a cleaner? Go out for a night out with my friends? Make time for a bath? What?

Deep beneath the surface of the overriding and overwhelming love and joy I had about my baby being born, there was this monster eating away at many of my moments of happiness. Whilst I felt this ecstasy about him being in my life, I felt like he deserved better than me. Better than anything I could offer him. I felt like I failed him. Every day. And every moment I heard my mum tell me to be kind to myself I didn’t know what she meant.

My mum kept drumming that phrase into me for 3 years until I finally twigged what she meant. I twigged it at the moment someone asked me to give advice to the new mother. Be kind to yourself means just that. Give yourself a break. Don’t be hard on yourself. You are not perfect. You are not amazing. You may have dreamt of being a mum your whole life and everyone tells you you will be a natural. You are not going to be able to do it all. You are just a person. You can only do your best. Be kind to yourself.

She is a clever lady is my mum.

February 10, 2012. Tags: , , . Stuff which may evoke a snivvle and tear (from the grown ups, not the kids). 1 comment.