It's my Birthday and I'll cry if I want to

I woke up to my four year old ripping open my cards and presents and singing Happy Birthday to herself.    She even managed to be the centre of attention during the evening of my 22 x 2 birthday celebrations by giving herself a haircut and then having a complete meltdown whilst running around with a big clump of ginger curls in her hand. God, she is a little sod but boy, I do love her.

The previous week, my super fit husband managed to look even more gorgeous and foxy after completing the 100 mile London Bike Ride. I reckon I burned even more calories and pulled more muscles carrying the Ginger One on my shoulders walking through the Surrey countryside trying to catch a glimpse of Benny Boy on his wheels around Box Hill.  We did see him chasing Boris Johnson (and eventually beating him by more than an hour, Yay).

I took Charlotte on a train ride to London to meet Daddy after the Bike race. Jesus, that was embarrassing.  She did some kind of Sporty Spice super flip getting on the grain and was caught in the arms of an absolute hunk whilst flashing her bum.  She then took a shine to a geek that I thought was superman in disguise and decided to land in his lap after a head stand.  But the worst part of this horrendous journey was when a guy boarded the train and Charlotte commented very loudly that he had a large nose.  When I told her off, she just said in a tone like a fog horn, “but Mummy, he has the biggest nose I have ever seen in my life”.  He may have looked like a gang member from the ‘hood but thankfully he got off the train at Vauxhall without pulling out a knife and stabbing me.

I sometimes think that I am not cut out for motherhood. Charlotte and I are best of friends and we have so much fun but we spend about 50% of our time screaming at each other.  I must not let her mirror my behaviour and we have made a pact to be nice to each other with shouting banned from our house.  Well, she started it. Na na na na na. Poor Benny Boy. He spends so much of his time peace-making between us and the phrase he uses often is a good one: “Don’t negotiate with a terrorist”.

My Beverley Hills Princess, KT17

My God, she is only four years old yet she had a birthday gathering with some of her closest chums fit for a Footballer’s Wife, is due a graduation ceremony at her nursery complete with mortar boards and certificates and a summer season full of parties.  This is more  full-on than when I was back in the Ibiza living the dream in the 90’s.

I visited the school she starts in September at the parents’ evening. It was a bit odd as everybody seemed to be best buddies. “What about me? Help. Don’t ignore me, I’m lovely”.  One little man did feel sorry for me as he seemed to be following me around. The three reception teachers are all lovely and Ben asked me to describe them.  One is a grown up Girl Guide, one looks like a bundle of fun (not said sarcastically) and the other looked very prim and proper and is probably a lap dancer at the weekend.  Guess who’s class Charlotte is in? Yes, the lap dancer.  Benny Boy is a bit excited about that and is acting like a horny teenager that has been caught with his pants down.  Well, he has to get his kicks from somewhere.

The Teacher was meant to come round on Tuesday evening for a home visit but she bloody well stood us up! A no show.. It happens to me all the time working in recruitment. When candidates fail to turn up without the courtesy of a phone call usually it’s because their Granny has died. I think one week around ten grannies kicked the bucket. Bless them and that old chestnut.

Anyhow, the Teacher not turning up was a bit of a disappointment. Poor Charlotte wouldn’t go to sleep in case she arrived. Well, Mrs J, did you give yourself a detention for that naughty behaviour? One hundred lines?  The cane, woops, I had better not mention that to Benny Boy in case he can’t control himself.

I am very sad that Charlotte will be leaving nursery after almost four years. She will be leaving her safe little bubble to enter the Big Bad World. The pleasure has cost us around £42,000 (ouch) but I must say it has been worth every penny. The nursery has fed her milk from a bottle, seen her crawl and walk for the first time, heard her first words and given her lots of cuddles and mopped her brow during various bugs and the Pox. It has been her second home and I think I am going to blub forever when she leaves. Is she ready for school? Hell, yeah but she will miss her bested buddies. She has grown up with little Aoife, they are as close as twins and she  loves little Sophie that looks like butter wouldn’t melt (but the two of them manage to scare the entire congregation of St Martin’s church). She lives her boyfriend Zaki but says she won’t marry him yet as he has not bought her a ring and being  married is horrible. Woops, Benny Boy and I must be nicer to each other and not ruck so much about whose turn it is to take out the bins!

My Husband has had a personality transplant

Thank goodness that is over for another three years. Half an hour the doctor kept me waiting and I became a little bit nervous about the important but totally undignified procedure and just waffled away. I asked about the menopause and realised that I don’t actually have any symptoms apart from mood swings and that could be just down to Ben and Charlotte winding me up.

Our new boy at work is fab and has totally changed the dynamics of the office. It is no longer a Mothers’ meeting as we have made way for some testosterone. He says that me, Margo and Janet Half Job (our office names) are moody wenches and he comes to work to get away from his wife’s rants and moans. Ha Ha and please stop taking the mickey out of my lunchtime “lie back and think of England” procedure as it won’t be long before you have to go to the doctor and have his finger stuck up your backside checking for walnuts. Well, all I can say is what a great life we live in that so many illnesses can be prevented from not very nice but essential health checks.

Benny Boy has had a personality transplant since becoming teetotal. It reminds me of a Tony Parsons’ novel that I recently enjoyed about a middle aged copper that inherited the heart of a nineteen year old Rapper. The Wife had to learn to love a completely different person. Ben is more sensible, he no longer snores, is more serious and he goes to bed very early. Maybe he doesn’t fancy me anymore?  After all, it’s the first time in around twelve years that he has seen me without his beer goggles.

50 shades too late

Happy Anniversary Darling. Thank you for my lovely dinner from Sainsbury’s finest range. That definitely was restaurant quality, shame the rest of the evening wasn’t.  Well why change the habit after nine years of marriage. I hope you are enjoying your silly tennis match on the laptop between Queen Victoria and John Lennon. I’ll just blog away and read my book, Fifty Shades of Gray (yes, I know, I am about two years too late) and dream of Christian Gray.

Christian Gray. Mmm, what a babe, but what a complete dick.  Well, I am not even half way through but I have to agree with those of you that think its pretty boring.  The story is quite entertaining but the sex is a little dull. If you want a decent raunchy read, there’s nothing better than a Black Lace novel, now those are naughty but nice.

I think most of us have had our own Christian Gray experiences to a degree, albeit not so sophisticated or rich or violent. My innocence was exploited by an older guy called Barrie and most of this was in the back of a British Telecom van!!

Well, I am sure next year’s 10^th wedding anniversary will bring much more excitement as we are planning to renew our vows and have a party! Yay!!

Wee Willy Ginger

“Have you had a hysterectomy?” That is the question we would love to be able to ask when interviewing for our own office if it was politically correct.  We just can’t consider another menopausal chick with mood swings and dodgy periods!  Ha Ha! We are actually getting a geezer and he’s ginger too which is absolutely fab for me and my love of all things orange. But what will we talk about in our little moments of banter? We will no longer be able to moan about men, sex/lack of it or pelvic floor problems and smear tests. Oh dear.

Life before Centre Parks was getting dull. A week of telly, well one night actually, consisted of me crying over bear cubs, grossed out by Siamese twins joined at the head and sharing all bodily functions and absolutely baffled by men and their lady boys! Gay or not gay?  Well, these creatures are super attractive but they still have willies!

Centre Parks was fun and a great holiday for Charlotte Bear. I loved being super fit for one week by cycling, swimming, badminton and cha-cha-ing at Zumba. Now I am back sat on my lardy arse all day in front of a screen trying to recruit financial services professionals.

One of my holiday highlights was on the way home. Charlotte needed a wee so we stopped in Richmond Park and she did her watering of the grass behind a big tree. During that brief moment I managed to lose the car keys and Benny Boy was stuck in the Ford Focus having a bit of a panic attack. It was very funny and I wish he could have been locked in there for hours or even days rather than minutes whilst I went off and had a nice time with Charlotte. That would have been blissful and the perfect punishment for his lazy slobby ways.

I am proud of my Benny Boy truly and he is still teetotal whilst now training for the London 100 cycle race.  I think he’s having a bit of a mid-life crisis. He never did any fitness with me during my healthy life BG (Before Ginger). He’s become obsessed even eating yoghurt for breakfast and weighing himself every day. He better not have a mistress or I will literally chop off some of his body parts – hey that would lose him a few pounds when he next steps on the scales. 

Anyhow, he admitted that he is scared of falling off the wagon in case the booze causes an Amy Winehouse style early death. What a wally!  A few cans of Fosters are hardly the same as a hardcore alcoholic that also had a big time drug problem. It’s sweet though and if that is what motivates him to stay dry, then that’s a good thing. Bless him and bless the wonderfully talented and beautiful Amy. 

Big Fat Ginger Wedding..

Tell me why I don’t like Mondays, or Wednesdays or Fridays? I’ve had a bit of a crappy week and like Adele and Taylor Swift who write great songs when they have been dumped, I like nothing better that to put pen to paper for a moody rant.

My ginger princess did not get her 1^st choice of school or 2^nd choice or even 3^rd choice, but at least I got a local school in Epsom. Two of my Mummy pals got offered schools on a different planet! So what is wrong with the school Charlotte has been allocated? Not a lot.  It had a bad reputation some years ago, which has clearly stuck and subject to a little bit of surrey snobbery (of which I am the world’s worst). If I lived in one of the inner London suburbs, this school could be five star plus!  I saw it for myself. There is a new super head, a high ratio of staff , happy and polite children and a very cute PE teacher.  The lighting was a bit on the dodgy side (all the better to hide my wrinkles which I well talk about a bit later).  The pupils are from a diverse background. If Charlotte comes home dancing like the girls from big Fat Gypsy Wedding, I will be instantly relocating or camping outside of the Surrey County Council Offices in protest. I’ve got to stop being a middle-aged middle-class Thatcherite and just bloody well get on with it.  As for parental choice – that is just a joke. I am a little bit gutted that Charlotte did not get the church school that we longed for. We go to Church every week and love it but apparently it’s okay to give the school places to the atheists that live close by. To hell with them!  Its tax payers money I guess so all parents have the right to attend the school, but abolish church schools I say and the hypocrisy that goes with it.

I am more pissed off about losing my handbag (well Ben’s man bag with my stuff in it) at the end of a lovely trip to Peppa Pig World.  Why aren’t there more honest people in the world?  Take the cash and the M&S vouchers and run and even help yourself to the variety of panty liners, tampax and ad-hoc bits of make up but please give me back my Raybans, Touch Eclat (for goodness sake I am over 40) and Charlotte’s lovely little coat and new shoes oh and my H&M tee-shirt that was rolled up in there. Last year I handed cash in that was sticking out of the hole-in-the wall at Sainsburys. What happened to Karma?  99.9% of people that I know would hand in a lost bag although I do know of somebody that found a Blackberry in the street and sold it on E-Bay!

What has angered me most of all this week is that I looked in the mirror and noticed that my neck looks like a chicken’s neck. It has gone all pink, wrinkly and wobbly. The one tell tale sign of age that a woman cannot hide is her neck. I have enjoyed wearing a variety of scarves and I need to treat myself to more. I feel like a teenager covering love bites, but without the youth and some geeky guy ravishing me like a vampire. Where’s my Benny Boy?

Maggie my inspiration

Margaret Thatcher, you divided opinions, but were a great lady.  You inspired me as a young woman to want to conserve things. I came back from overseas with a suitcase full of dirty washing and a hairdryer.  Because of you I longed for success, wealth and investments.  I achieved them at that time, although too much of the high life and a failed business means I have little to show for it. However, I am happy with a modest home, a semi decent car and a loving family.  You have more balls than Cameron, Blair and Clegg put together. Your love for Dennis was sweet and tender. You were a great woman Maggie and I love you. RIP

On the note of a loving family and a good man, I was wondering recently if my love for Benny Boy will stand the test of time as Maggie’s did with Dennis.  So I wrote a list of Pros and Cons about him. Here it is:-

Pros:-

• Good in a crisis, he is my absolute rock
• Great Dad
• Nice bum
• Good hair
• Showers every day
• Does a lot of good work for charity
• Listens and gives good advice
• Is like a woman in a lot of ways, you can have a good gossip with him
• Dresses nicely
• Makes sacrifices for his family
• Introduced my sister to her husband
• Puts up with my brother!
• Gets my family
• Was a real sweetheart when my Dad was suffering with cancer
• Loves me when I am a squeezing out of a size 14 or a proper size 12

Cons:-

·        Drinks too much beer but is teetotal at the moment due to Marathon training so that does not count

·        Messy slob

·        Not romantic enough

·        Might turn into his Mother

·        Crap TV choices (WWE, Jeremy Kyle, Man V Food to name but a few)

I am pleased to announce that the pros outweigh the cons and it has made me realise that I love my Benny Boy loads and loads and I don’t think we will get a divorce unless he chooses to do so or runs off with a younger, foxier chick. We are even thinking of renewing our wedding vows next year for our 10^th wedding anniversary, any excuse for a party……….

Letter to my school

Dear St Thomas Moore,

I am very lucky that I made some great friends whilst at the school, but you could have ruined me. You did not notice a bright, intelligent child in need. (There I go blowing my own trumpet).

When Mr Nutt (yes that was his real name, not sure if his wife was really called Hazel), hauled myself and Mandy Mac in front of the whole school to humiliate us, that was out of order.  We had stared at a girl from another school to wonder why she was staring at us. We were not bullies. You knew that. We were good catholic girls from nice families. You should have got your facts right first.

When Mr Pierce practically beat the shit out of Michael Ahearne for giggling in his art class, that has stayed with me for life. Perhaps Mr Pierce, you had your own homophobic tendencies that you were trying to get out of your system.  Mr C, the PE Teacher you were a nice guy, but you didn’t do anything to discourage the girls from flirting with you and you accidentally walked into the changing rooms when we were in a bras and knickers a few times to many! As for Mr Lomax, you were a sadistic bully. It was cruel that you told me that I looked an utter state. Did you know that my Mum was in and out of mental hospitals during my childhood?  Was it absolutely essential that you caned boys in front of the whole school for getting excited when the snow fell?

Mr Everard, you were a wet fart and your Jesus creepers with white socks was not a good look, but you were very kind and your heart was in the right place. You encouraged me to do well and gave me a lead part in the school play.  I relished being on the stage and got great laughs from the audience.  During the school talent show, myself and a bunch of girls rehearsed for weeks and weeks to dance to a song from Grease. I loved wearing the long skirt, ankle socks and pumps. But I never got to perform as I was called out just before going on stage to have my school medical. You bastards!  Could you not have just waited another ten minutes for me?

When my Nan died and I was in a mess with trying to understand my mum’s mental illness, I was a bit withdrawn. But I was not thick like you thought I was. Nothing wrong with French life studies because you did not think I was not bright enough to speak the friggin language but I did not want to be making French onion soup, I wanted some oo la la and when I finally got put in the French Speaking class, I came out top! I also came out with A grades in my exams and when I went up to Senior School, I was in the top ability classes where I belonged. St Thomas Moore, you tried to squash me and did not notice a little girl that needed some TLC. Anyway, thank goodness the children were all so lovely and I learned more from Aunty Marion the Dinner Lady than most of the teachers put together. 

I didn’t do too badly out of this experience anyway. It made me a stronger person. Schools today would not get away with that behavior.  I had a great time at Salesians School in Chertsey.  Oozing with confidence, I became a holiday rep for several years, have been successful in recruitment and ran my own business for six years and write on a fairly regular basis for one of the financial papers. So stick that where the sun don’t shine!

Do you believe in Father Christmas?

This is old news I know, however I have to join in with the banter about the Health Minister saying that fat people are poor people. Well, I am not surprised. Have you been into the pound shop lately?  Why would I pay £2.50 for a multi pack of Charlotte’s Skips at Waitrose when they are, well a pound in my new favorite shop. Once you are in there it is like Santa’s Grotto – chilli nuts, After 8s, Walnut Whirls. Yum Yum and Yum.   

I had a small barney with Charlotte the other day. I said that I would ring Father Christmas to say that she doesn’t want any presents this year. Well, the little monkey ran to the phone, dialed Santa and said, “Mummy is very naughty and not on the good list. She does not want any presents”. Well, I don’t get much anyway so I don’t really care.  I will have to think of a new punishment now! 

Friday in our office is wine Friday. We finish at 5pm on the last working day of the week and celebrate by cracking open the vino a little bit before home time. Usually after just one glass of something sparkly, I feel a little bit squiffy and place some mint drops on my tongue before picking up Charlotte so that Nursery does not think I am an alcoholic. You might thing that a little strange but last year I got called into the office at the Nursery as the staff had noticed that Daddy’s breath smelled of alcohol, not just once but on several occasions. I was mortified but not sure why.  Embarrassed that my husband cannot do the pick up without a quick pint to numb the pain a bit of what lies ahead.  Do those girls really think Ben is an unfit Father that should be on the Jeremy Klye show? No, of course not, they are only doing their job and to be honest I am fairly impressed by how astute they are and Ben now never touches a drop of the amber nectar until the evening! 

I need to tell you about my lodger. He is my brother who moved in with us September 2011 for 3-4 months and he is still with us!  Not that I don’t mind the money, it is nice and helps us with the crippling nursery fees.  He is very good company and fairly tidy – he always washes up his own plate and cup and there is never any of his mess downstairs amongst the rubble of toys, Ben’s shoes, clothes, wet towels etc (there I go again with the towel thing, I have serious issues, I know).  Only little things about him bug me like the nicking of wine and Charlotte’s snack stash.  There is also a little bit too much black sock fluff around the house and the bathroom looks like it has hit an iceberg with the amount of water everywhere.  I just look forward to it just being the three of us again which will help with the clutter situation and I am may even have some impromptu romantic moments with my husband on the sofa of an evening while we are watching Miranda! Euugh, “enough already”, I hear you say. On that note: Hasta La Vista

Temper Tantrums

Dearest Husband,

Next time you run out of the kitchen door in a hurry to get to work and knock over the food recycling bin, CATCH A LATER TRAIN. Waking up to yesterday’s rice crispies, fish fingers, beans AND oven chips all over the floor is not the most pleasant thing to view first thing in the morning. Little Charlotte told me off for cursing you and then saw that I was not impressed by your behaviour and helped me clear up the mess.  She is three, you are thirty eight – please grow a brain.

I love Vanessa Feltz. She is a strong, assertive woman that can certainly stand on her own two feet. I love the way that she speaks her mind so fluently and puts politicians and other idiots in their rightful place. She uses the English language so wonderfully and corrects people if they don’t speak correctly.  We have also seen Vanessa wear her heart on her sleeve. She is a real woman. I rarely get the opportunity to listen to her show on BBC London Radio. Last time I tuned in, the topic was Buggy Wars! Oh how I wish that I could have telephoned in for a rant! Yes, why do Mums feel the need to buy a pram that is more expensive than a second hand car?  It is ridiculous. The baby is only in the thing for no more than six months. Does it matter if you spend £1000 or £100? The viewers of BBC London think not. Though people were generally happy with their purchases, there seems to be no difference whatsoever apart from the designer name. I lost my business and income whilst pregnant so was absolutely skint when Charlotte came along. People were so kind and generous and I did not give two monkeys that I inherited a pram that was not the latest brand and was a little bit bulky and hard to fold. However, I could buy a McLarens when Charlotte was four months old and it was the best baby purchase that I made.  If you spend a small fortune on the pram, you cannot then justify purchasing a perfect and reasonably priced buggy when you really need one and that is something that is absolutely essential during the pre-school years.

Charlotte and I had our first major ruck! She is three but I know for sure with her red hair and temper to match that this is the first fight of many. I screamed at her. Super Nanny and all the text books tell you never to shout, but to look at your child in the eye and talk in a slightly raised and assertive voice. Well that does not work when I am trying to leave home at 8am to be at work on time.  My best tactic to date is my “Mummy Monster” voice which is a bit like warning that the incredible hulk is about to turn green and get very big and scary but sometimes she drives me totally up the wall and I have no time to get a grip of the situation. So this particular day when she was being a little sod, I had a real hissy fit and ran down the stairs to calm down. She cried and cried. After about five minutes, I went up for a cuddle. She looked at me, walked to the door and promptly slammed it in my face. Oh the passion of it. I look forward to many more such tender moments. 

Thought of the day: When I have had the menopause, I will change the name of my blog to the Final Countdown.

Dream a little Dream...

I have recently enjoyed reading a friend's blog. At 44, she is successful in her career, motivated, driven and ambitious (just like I used to be).  Her life is exciting, she has time for the gym, hot dates and diet clubs. Her stories of her search for a man have me in stiches. She wants to change aspects of her life, yet her I am craving all of those things. Two ex holiday reps that lives are parallel lines, yet entirely different. Are we unhappy? I think not. It's all about wondering  what it would be like had we both turned a different corner when we got off the flight from Gatwick all those years ago.  Her contains a lot about what she actually does;full of a busy life. Mine seems to be about what other people do and what I dream of.

I had a crazy dream about a lady that I used to work with quite a few years ago. She looked like an 80 year old barbie doll dwarf and made trout pouts fashionable. In my dream she had a complete hissy fit that I pointed out that she was older than me. She must be about 70 now. My dreams have gone a little bit crazy. Is this my hormones I wonder?  Linked with my rotting eggs?  I only had mad REM sessions like this when I was up-the-duff.

Now back to Singleton V Smug married. Is having a relationship the be-all-end-all?  Yes, I know its easy to say that when I have been in a relationship for eleven years sharing surname and bath towels. A friend that recently split up from her husband cited the reason: "We were like best friends/it was like being married to my brother?". No shagging then, but seriously what is wrong with that?  The jiggy jiggy does not last forever. Does anybody have it all? I could quite easily be married to one of my closest girlfriends and live a life of harmony, joint cooking and cleaning and a tidy, organised household. That is apart from the sex bit. No offence to the lezzas out there but boobies and minnie moos do not rock my boat.

Mother's Little Helper

Benny Boy made me laugh after a recent trip to Sainsburys. They had kid's cereal, healthy cereal and adult cereal. He was gutted that pictures of Pamela Anderson in her hey day did not fall out of his box of muesli.

January has not been full of laughter. I am so sad for my lovely friend that lost her baby. Because she was beyond the date for miscarriage, her baby loss was classed as stillborn. This means that as she was trying to look ahead, she was contacted by the Chaplin at the hospital to arrange the funeral. This means naming the baby, registering the birth and the death.  I never got that far with my pregnancies that nature terminated. How painful, how awful, how truly devastating. I do feel positive though that this special Mummy and her fab husband will have the large family that they have hoped for.

It makes me feel extra blessed when I look at my miracle daughter. I have very few memories of sharing intimate moments with my Mum when I was small. I remember playing with her as she spread the tablecloth, banging my tooth and making it wobbly. Mum was always soft and gentle. She rubbed me too delicately with the towel after my bath; Dad was too rough. I loved it when she picked me up from school. I would be crying if it was too cold. I remember the mental hospitals, the electric shots and the Valium. Those horrible drugs that took my Mum away and made her like a zombie. I remember the terrible breakdown when my Uncle Ron, her brother-in-law died. She bounced back, was a great Avon lady/sales woman and she loved her push bike. At 21, I learnt to appreciate her again, but she was taken away once more when I was 24. She suffered a stroke and once again was zombie-like.

Hair cuts, shopping trips, wedding arrangements were shared with my Mother-in-law. I still have Mum with us in this world so I am very lucky.

She has just been discharged from hospital again after yet another bout of pneumonia. How much more can she fight with just 20% heart function?  Yet she does fight. She is a very strong and amazing lady. God bless her.

You don't bring me flowers anymore

My Husband bought me flowers. Because he loves me? No, because “I’m so bloody mardy” apparently.  Of course I’m bloody mardy – I have to put up with him, work full time, deal with a three year old teenager, clean the house, worry about the cost of childcare makings us bankrupt and look after the oldies! I don’t want friggin flowers. I want to come home from visiting my elderly Aunt after a recent stay in hospital to find the Christmas decorations neatly back in the box up put up in the loft for next December. Oh, and pick up your wet towels while you are at it, throw your sweet wrappers in the bin and take the salt and peri peri sauce off of the sofa and put it back where it belongs!  Yes, I am mardy and peri-menopausal so beware!  Husband, get down the pub – woops, you can’t as it’s “Dry January”. Ha Ha!  Seriously, I am proud of you Benny Boy. So far you have lasted six whole days without a can of Fosters.

Friday night I settled down to watch “Young Victoria” expecting a bit of Posh Spice as a bubba and soon realised that I had my eyes glued to a beautiful love story about Queen Vic. What a Woman. She had nine kids with Albert and it is true, she did go a bit “doo lally” after he popped his clogs, but she was the original Spice Girl and I proud that the Street where I live in was named after her.

The decorations and the tree have disappeared. The house is tidy but looks a bit glum.  I love a bit of flashing lights and Christmas tackiness. We feel cheated as Benny Boy and I both had the flu over Chrimbo. The festive season also bought some glum news. We were advised of a shock relationship break up plus hearing of a few more of our friends that have suffered miscarriages. I am amazed at the amount of people I know that are struggling to make Baby Number two. Yes, they have already been blessed with a child, but also know the joy and happiness that a baby can bring. I kind of know their pain, I certainly feel it and have shed a tear for their loss but nothing or no-one knows how devastating it is, only you, the Mum-to-be. The only person that can fully share the sadness or more is the Dad. The Dad has to watch his partner suffer the physical and emotional pain of miscarriage as well as be there to offer support and help pick up the pieces. Yet, people forget about the Dad and offer lots of sympathy and condolences to the woman. Often the man suffers in silence. Please bear this in mind if you know of a couple that have suffered baby loss. Please remember to extend your kindness to Daddy.