The Blog

The 12 Months of the First Year of Baby

So small, so perfect, so fragile... Yes. Take a moment to remember your vagina the way it was. Then re-grow all your pubic hair to form a secret forest around it, destroy every handheld mirror in the land, and NEVER THINK ABOUT IT AGAIN.

Month One:

So small, so perfect, so fragile... Yes. Take a moment to remember your vagina the way it was. Then re-grow all your pubic hair to form a secret forest around it, destroy every handheld mirror in the land, and NEVER THINK ABOUT IT AGAIN.

Once that's done, your first few weeks are spent trying to drown out the 4,000 comments a day you get about how fast it goes, pretending breastfeeding doesn't hurt, and rediscovering wine...

Month Two:

Ok you're EXHAUSTED but you can do this. You've totally got this parenting shit down. You've joined every baby class in the county and your main plan is to baby-sign-the-sensory-baby-massaging-f@*k out of your newborn... (If you could only stop them shitting all over themselves, the pram and your only remaining clean pair of leggings every time you try to leave the house that is.) ...But still. YOU GOT THIS. Who needs 8-hours sleep and a perfect prep machine anyway right?!

Month Three:

You buy a perfect prep machine.

And Ewan the Dream Sheep. Along with anything else that Amazon and the Internet tells you to. At 3am. Whilst crying.

THEN. Suddenly. One night. Your baby actually sleeps for 5-hours straight. This is amazing. You're a new woman. You're so excited you don't call your husband a penis-wielding-voodoo-bastard that night. You instead plaster your new magic-sleeping-baby news all over Facebook. With a smug emoticon. And begin planning a city break. Which... means you JINX YOURSELF FOR LIFE.... As every day from that point they've mainly been surviving on 45 minutes sleep a night. And the sound of you gently sobbing into a crusty muslin that's been on your shoulder since Tuesday.

Month Four:

You used the Bumbo on the coffee table. (You fucking rebel) Although in between not sleeping that week whilst propped up in a nursing chair freezing one breast off at 4am, you also didn't sleep due to the BPG (Bumbo-Placement-Guilt) so it probably wasn't worth it...

You try to sell the Bumbo on a Facebook selling site, but the experience is so horrendous you nearly murder someone who continuously calls you 'hun' and decide to just punch yourself in the face next time.

Month Five:

Jumperoo. That is all.

Month Six:

Please remove any nice things from your life as weaning means the end of those now. In fact - why not cut out the middle man, and begin hurling regurgitated broccoli and sweet potato at your own face and sofa. Perhaps some will trickle down your forehead into your mouth whilst still warm and you can count it as your first hot meal since you had a baby. Excellent.

Month Seven:

You've made it. You've survived the first six months. This calls for celebration. An epic night out with breast pads, Spanx, and a new found disrespect for your bladder... It was entirely amazing. Until 40 seconds after you got in; when you knew you'd be spending your impending hangover trying not to gag tequila into the face of your baby whilst desperately Googling 'breastfeeding after drinking A FUCK TON of alcohol' and punching Ewan the Dream Sheep in his stupid twatty face.

Month Eight:

It's dawning on you that you're still in your maternity jeggings. And that breastfeeding somehow hasn't sucked you into a size-8... but it's ok, because to make you feel better about that - you eat an entire cake without breathing and/or chewing. Which makes you feel sad and start poking your stretch marks. So you manage that with a Toblerone and some gin. The end. #ginwin

Month Nine:

Shit. It's started moving. Cafes aren't for you anymore. You should know that. #beginningoftheend

Month Ten:

You've discovered the power of CBeebies... But your shame crush on Mr Bloom may be getting out of hand... Heading to the toilet to watch CBeebies on the iPad 'one-handed' is just not motherly behaviour. *coughs*

(but seriously; if you make it in to the loo alone - down a toffee crisp and tweet about it so the rest of us have hope... please...PLEASE.)

Month Eleven:

The Jumperoo doesn't work anymore. And Facebook is NOTHING BUT LIES. And, if you're going back to work you're going to have to face the fact that you'll need to brush your hair and wear a real bra again soon... Shit.

Month Twelve:

So your 'tiny baby' is suddenly capable of head butting you in the area-formally-known-as-your-vagina, capturing the footage on your iPhone and uploading it to their own YouTube channel... but the main thing is that you tell everyone 4,000 times a day how fast it's gone, you've forgotten that breast-feeding ever hurt and wine.... Mainly wine. And wine.



Find more at or follow on Facebook and Instagram at and