Kaftans and Camel Toes!

Shopping - one of my least favourite past times. Put Simply, there was nothing fun about shopping for kaftan's, moomoo's and Bridget Jones style underwear. Naturally however, being a female, I possessed some inner oestrogen trigger working against me and conspiring to get me into the mall and swiping my credit card, despite the self-conscious resistance!

Being a bigger size and yet a younger girl, always made shopping challenging. In my minds eye I had visions of wearing hipster jeans, groovy belts, cleavage enticing shirts, perhaps even a beret (as if!). Sadly however, the best I could do was accessorise with shoes and handbags! Shoes were a given anti-depressant. When the groovy belt's didn't fit, I'd buy shoes instead. When the hipster Jeans made me look like a hippopotamus wearing a swim ring, I'd buy shoes. When the beret made me look like an overweight Britney Spears - I'd buy shoes!

Ironically I actually spent a few years working in a hip clothing store, Jeans West. We were required to wear the merchandise at each shift, not an easy feat when I had love handles spewing out the side of the "easy-fit, high waist" style jeans and was continually pulling my t-shirt out of it's desired resting place - my roll of back fat!

I was working with an eccentric gay man at the time who was a barrel of laughs and fun to boot - but had one major flaw - his fashion sense! Actually, it wasn't a flaw but more like one of his more endearing qualities. He was the exact kind of shopping companion one would want to have. Unless you were fat.

I would arrive at work 15 minutes before the start of my shift only to be reprimanded for wearing last season's fashions whilst sporting a muffin top, a camel toe and cankles all in the same outfit. After a dramatic display of shock and despair which would include fake tears, "why God Whys" and a paper bag for hyperventilation, "J" would set about trying to re-dress a dishevelled and self-conscious me, all the while cursing at my lack of fashion sense and my 'generous' curves. Sadly on more than one occasion I ended up wearing the men's clothes as J tried to pass me off as the store's "tom boy"! Basically I spent my hours looking like a butch version of him!

Needless to say I loathed shopping. Inevitably I would always end up wearing men's clothes or choosing an outfit so wrong for me I'd make an elephants hide look more attractive. I also happened to suffer from fashion/identity confusion. You know the syndrome where one day I'd be decked out entirely in sports gear, baggy pants, jumpers and joggers (clearly trying to give the illusion I was fit) and the next I'd be wearing a business suit from Jacqui E, heels and a french roll to match. I considered a shopping trip successful if I was able to find something which was in between the two styles and suited my age group - this happened very rarely. Some times I wore outfits which were so hideous and akin to Ma Kettle that I am surprised I couldn't attract a seniors discount! All the while my shoe collection was mounting.

When I started to lose weight I was delighted to learn I could shop in the standard section of Target rather than the maternity section. However, despite my shrinking body, my own visual image had not yet caught up and I would still instinctively reach for the large size clothes or anything with an elastic waist. I'd enter the fitting room, try my outfit on and realise with joy that it was simply to big. Reluctantly I would choose the smaller size and when game even choose a more garish item of clothing to try on. Rather than the turtle neck sweater I would sheepishly reach for a shirt with a plunging neck line. Rather than baggy pants, I would dare to consider something fitted, or even in moments of reckless abandon a dress or skirt!

I must admit I am still not accustomed to choosing smaller clothes. I still hesitate when I see size 12 and think, no I better grab the 14, or maybe even the 16! Despite my confidence I still have flashbacks of my tom boy days in Jeans West and freeze. The only thing I seem to know with surety despite having lost weight, is my bra size and it's so depressing it warrants a new pair of shoes anyway ;o)

Huey's Cooking Adventures

OK, so am I the only one who finds it wrong on so many levels that a large man wearing suspenders and sporting a handlebar moustache has an afternoon time slot cooking relatively unhealthy foods?

As I was in the kitchen fixing myself a cup of tea (it's about as domestic as I get) I glanced at the TV, and there larger then life was Ian Hewitson with a dark blue shirt and a pair of flashy red suspenders. I would hedge bets that this guy has so many suspenders he could make the worlds largest sling shot and hopefully use it to sling himself away, and off our 3.30pm time slot!

Personally I think suspenders should be banned. My mother in law kindly bought Jim a pair (what a 3 year old needs suspenders for I have no idea). After thanking her for her kindness whilst simultaneously casting Muscle Man a bemused look, I conveniently 'lost' them in the back of his wardrobe. That is until last week in one of his many "Put me to bed hey, I'll show you and trash my room" episodes. Young Jim thought all his Christmases had come at once when he pulled from the cupboard all the lovely (*cough, cough*) things I've stashed in his wardrobe, including a pair of red suspenders!

Well in true 3 year old Dennis the Mennis form, he HAS been using them as a sling shot. Unlucky for him, the cat has not been a willing participant in these escapades. Needless to say, said suspenders are now residing at the top of MY cupboard. Muscle Man thinks they'd make great handcuffs, I think that's disturbing.

Anyway, back to Huey.

I seem to vaguely recall that Mr Hewitson was an advocate for Jenny Craig a few years ago. Another fact that has not been lost on me. Why would a chef who should have an intricate knowledge of healthy cuisine be relying on frozen space snack meals to lose weight? Ironic, surely. I mean, good on him for making lifestyle changes and advocating them, but surely he could achieve that by putting down the oil, or using his suspenders as a skipping rope.

Today I briefly watched him whip together some form of ragout (this word simply has to be said with a rolled rrrrrr and an ooooo sound at the end). Sure enough I watched as lashings of oil, butter, and salt were added. Unquestionably I am not the only one who would love to see healthy, easy meals, suitable for the family and fail-safe (for those like me who regularly burn tinned soup), made with fresh, wholesome ingredients.

Maybe it's not actually his cooking that bothers me so much (I mean, yes it is) but perhaps it is the suspenders. Perhaps it's his jovial "I laugh at my own jokes" manner, or perhaps it's his continual references to Mr Moon. Has anyone EVER seen Mr Moon? Who the heck is Mr Moon? You know, it could even be the manky tea towel which is used to wipe every plate, his hands, clean his suspenders from splash-back, and wipe the bread board.

It could even be the title! "Huey's Cooking Adventures". Let's be honest, there is nothing adventurous about his style of cooking. There is nothing adventurous about his locations. To me adventure would be cooking on the side of an active volcano, dangling a breast of chicken over the molten lava edge to get that smoke house taste (although I suspect smoulder would be the flavour of the day), whilst boiling some rice in a nearby hot spring and steaming asparagus at the same time. Yes, that would warrant the word 'Adventure' in the title.

I think in light of Huey's obvious flaws, it's high time I approached the prime time TV stations with a proposal;

"Alfie's low-fat, family friendly, freezer ready, fat to fabulous, fantastic foods!"

Never mind I can't cook. That's semantics.

Now, in the words of our social cooking example Ian Hewitson; "A dish without wine is an absolute crime, and pants without braces are simply disgraces"

* I made that up, but c'mon, we all know the guy likes a quote at the end of each show!!

My Other Lover

In my pre-fab days my relationship with food was like a love affair. We were always sneaking around together, keeping our love a secret. I was hiding it in my handbag, my bedroom, my desk drawers at work, the glove compartment of the car. I usually had my lover stashed away somewhere easy to access and would devour it in private!

The sad thing is, our relationship was so one-sided. Here I was lovingly stroking and caressing my Cadbury dairy milk, crooning to my chocolate about how much I loved thee before ravishing the hell out of it and seductively licking the remnants off my mouth. Within moments however the feelings of love I had just languished on my bar of chocolate changed from sneaky bliss, to guilt and remorse.

Yep, just like an affair!

It's hard being a bigger person consuming food in public. Even if they are not, you assume people are staring at your choice of food. I'd be sitting at a table at the local food court with my all you can eat Chinese buffet piled so high on my plate that it been a precarious balancing act simply finding a table to scoff at without wearing half of it (that and the fact I couldn't see over the top of my plate).

I'd have lemon chicken, fried rice and spring rolls covering every available inch of my plate. Suddenly, sitting there with Singapore noodles hanging out of my mouth, and plum sauce splashes on my nose, I'd be all too aware that people around me were probably thinking "Look at that fat girl. Look at what she is eating. No wonder she is fat".

The self consciousness would set in and suddenly I'd feel sick to my stomach with my own image. Sadly however, even in times of immense humiliation like this, my affair was so great I'd simply continue eating, all the while telling myself I was just a failure with no will power so I may as well continue enjoying my fried beef in plum.

There were times where I would choose the healthy options. Salad rolls, sushi, subway 6 grams of fat or less, but even then I knew that once in the privacy of my home or car, I'd again return to the comforting arms of my non-judgemental friend, food. The full of saturated fats, let me add to your cottage cheese thighs, kinds of food.

Socially we have an enormous perception that in order to loose weight we need to DIET. To me the word 'diet' conjures up images of starvation, rules, fat pinching calipers, and eventually failure when eating a crouton for breakfast, lunch and dinner no longer suffices (as if it ever did).

Diets in most cases are so futile that we have even invented diets to try and disguise the fact it is a so called diet. Look at Atkins for example. Sure, there were no carbohydrates but there was BACON!! Fatty, crispy, artery clogging, salty and delicious bacon. SOLD! (As were three quarters of Americans. I'd add a great joke here about their intelligence but in this case it would apply to me also, so I'll save myself the personal sledge).

In addition to diets like this, there were also the crazy, guaranteed to shed kilos in a week diets; such as the 'soup diet'. All I ever saw anyone gain from the soup diet was a serious case of flatulence and a permanent aversion to cabbage, and soup.

I can't honestly tell you that my relationship with food is now perfect. It's not. In fact I know on a personal level I still have a way to go before I will be able to look at a bag of hot chips without curling up in the foetal position and rocking back and forth. It could be a little while yet before I can look at a block of chocolate and not get a twitch in my right eye, but for the most part I now make smarter choices. I am trying to live like the French. Not in the arrogance stakes, but certainly in the moderation.

I am NOT on a diet. I am simply making choices which will benefit me now and in the future.

These days when I think of lovingly ripping the wrapper off something, crooning with affection and languishing my love, I try and look for Muscle Man instead of a mars bar.

Muscle Man would like me to add at this point that I mustn't crave the above foods much because he is fairly convinced I never languish love, nor rip his clothes off.

Back Away from the Scales!

If you are anything like me your relationship with the bathroom scales is one that is fraught with tension. One day they are your best friend, the next your worst enemy.

I must admit that over the years I have owned a few sets of scales. Some I have intentionally smashed to bits in fits of dieting rage, others have simply given up the ghost after having me stand on them multiple times a day. Some I deliberately set to be 5 kilograms lighter just to bolster my dying self-esteem (it never worked - I couldn't deceive myself).

Yes, I was one of those people who was obsessed with the number, the amount I weighed. I'd weigh myself before my morning pee, and again after just to double check that the extra kilo I'd gained in the last week wasn't fluid (urine) retention. I'd weigh myself in a variety of outfits, and of course in my birthday suit. I would weigh myself at the start and finish of a day and several times in between just for good measure. I would even go so far as to weigh myself in kilograms, pounds and stones just to see which was nicer! Stones of course! Yes, 12 stone sounded MUCH more respectable than 90 odd kilos!

Muscle Man: "What did the scales say today babe, same as an hour ago?"

Me: "cough, splutter, gulp...12"

Muscle Man: "What was that babe?, Did you say twelve? 12 what?"

Me: "On the twelve days of Christmas my true love gave to me" - cue me exiting room.

Muscle Man is brilliant at maths (I know, not just a set of muscles) and would come in 5 minutes later and think how clever he was that he had figured out my weight in kilograms! Damn him!

I guess you could say that the scales had a sick hold over me. I'd walk past the bathroom and see them taunting me, daring me to jump on and check if the fact I skipped breakfast and taken my shoes off had fashioned into weight loss yet. Being a gluten for punishment I would walk in and delicately place one foot on the scale followed by the other, holding my breath I'd peer down at the display window and pray for a miracle. The minute I saw the number flash up on the screen I'd feel instant despair and then spend the next half an hour berating myself for jumping on in the first instance and the rest of the day berating myself for being so fat to begin with.

The thing was though, I was never really doing anything that warranted the scales going down. Up, yes, down - no. More often than not I was not adequately modifying my food intake, and I was lucky to lift a finger, let alone my whole arse. I was very much of the mindset that one failed meal meant the entire day was an absolute right off and I may as well visit a few drive-thru's to console myself.

When I joined Jenny Craig the first time, I remember walking out after my first official 'weigh in' and sheepishly admitting to Muscle Man what the big digit was. I cried. The road to slenderness was just insurmountable. The scales were my enemy and had never even provided a glimmer of hope that we could be friends, even acquaintance's was pushing the limit in my mind. We had such an unhealthy relationship that I couldn't possibly imagine ever finding success standing on their harrowing surface. Yes, I was doomed. The only answer was to turn to my good friend, Baskin and Robbin's.

Years later when I joined Weight Watchers for the first of gazillion attempts with their program, I was again shocked to see the result. I had a momentary glimmer of hope as I stood on the old style chemist scales. You know the ones with the little weights that have to be slid along and balanced. Well, in my desperation I only looked at the number the smaller weight was resting on. 60kgs, EUREKA! I knew all along I suffered from Body Dysmorphic thing-a-mi-gigga and in that brief second I'd been thin all along. I was on top of the world, naturally within seconds I came crashing down when my flamboyant "leader" advised that the two weights combined put my weight at 85kgs. Off to Baskin and Robbin's.

I have come to believe that scales are evil. Even now some days I'll apparently weigh a kilo less than the day before, or reverse. I know that when a certain time of the month approaches and I grow horns and breathe fire, my weight can go up by as much as 3 kilos for that week. So on-top of being moody, hormonal, teary, angry, happy, hysterical at any given moment I also have to live with the fact that for a whole week I'm as bloated as a life preserver and it's not the kind of bloating a good old fart could fix. No this bloating requires that bloody Slim N Lift Supreme!

It's for this reason (inconsistent numbers, not my bloating) that I think it is really so important to use other measures to track your success. The way clothes fit and feel, the way your skin glows after exercise, the way your body moves more freely and one of my favourites, the measurements lost as the weight slowly, but surely comes off.

In an earlier blog entry I gave my initial body measurements. I started recording my measurements on June 14, 2006. Over the past 23 months I have lost a combined total of 113 cm's off my waist, hips, left and right upper arm, left and right thigh, and my left and right shin. That figure would probably be up around the 150cm mark had I measured my bust (another classic lie) but at the time it was really just far to distressing seeing the shrinkage in the one place I wanted excess fat!

I tried to comprehend 113cm's of extra size on myself the other week but all I could think of was 3.7 thirty centimetre rulers standing one atop the other and it reminded me of a liquorice strap, so naturally I went and ate something instead.

It is also very heartening that so many of my clothes are now too big rather than too small and some I could use on my next camping trip as a sleeping bag or tent. Even better add a spinica and rope and I have pants which would make an excellent sail. It's great to look in the mirror and only see a small muffin top these days rather than the whole bakery.

Now days I only stand on the scales intermittently and usually I am ready with a stash of carrot sticks to console me rather than the ice-cream. Oh not to mention I am always armed with the mental come back - Muscle weighs more than fat you know ;o)

Love is Blind

So they say. Perhaps though this is partially true.

After yesterday's blog, Sexy Twin sent me an email which said; "Its crazy how skinny you are now, or how I never thought you were that big". Well, first and foremost HOORAY to being called "skinny" (I'll pay you later Twin) and secondly, how did she not see that I was so much bigger?

Sexy Twin is not the only person I know to have made these observations. Mum has also commented that I was "never really that big to start with". Compared to what, an elephant? 20 kilos is 20 kilos right. It's more weight than my 3 yr old and 7 month old combined. It's more weight than my enormous twin jogging pram (true story). It's even believe it or not, more weight than Muscle Man's right bicep, which I might add, is rather bloody large (he'll pay me later).

I recall at a Weight Watchers meeting once being shown a one kilogram replica of a lump of fat! Disgusting. Well, if I piled up 20 of those lump's we'd have one HUGE pyramid of fake lard! Yep, 20 kilos is not to be sneezed at. Even 5 kilos is a fantastic achievement. Realistically for SO many people even the slightest amount of weight gain can be enough to alter their whole perception of themselves and shatter ones self confidence. Those feelings are not mutually exclusive to those in the 'obese' category.

Back to Mum and Sexy Twin. I've thought a lot about it, and I completely understand why they could not see me the way I was. The way I looked outside genuinely did not matter to the ones I loved. They saw the daughter who loved her job and was good at it, the sister who was good at organising things and loved hosting parties, the friend who was loyal and "motherly". What they didn't see was the shy, self-loathing, embarrassed, unworthy me that I saw. The me that I kept hidden away.

I realised as I was thinking about this, the fact the people who loved me couldn't see my obvious weight flaw said so much about them, and even more about me. It said that they valued the traits about me which were not connected to a size 10 or 12 pair of jeans. The traits that were not applied in the form of makeup to pull the focus away from my body, the traits that were from the heart. The REAL qualities of a human being. Meanwhile, when I looked at myself I saw none of these things, or if I did, it was a way to replace the true self consciousness I had over my size. Put simply, I did not love myself. I saw EVERY flaw rather than a few. I saw the flaws rather than seeing any of the wonderful things about me. The unique things that make me ME.

How can someone genuinely change their lives, or change their habits if they don't believe, or feel, worthy of the change? Why would you even bother? This was how I felt for so many years.

Just before Angel's (younger sisters code name remember) wedding I actually had another potential "light-bulb" moment involving Muscle Man's cousin. Myself, Sexy Twin and our friend, JP (who is said cousin's partner) were having a few drinks when somehow the discussion of weight loss and body size came up. I honestly can't recall the exact details or In's and outs of that conversation but I will never forget that for some reason I asked Muscle Man's cousin if he thought I needed to loose weight. He said "YES".

At first I was so indignant. I was so angry that he had answered truthfully. Why the heck hadn't he lied? Didn't he know when we women say we want the truth we mean the truth we WANT to hear. It was the first time someone had said I needed to loose weight and I couldn't shake it off. I'd been called names before, but previously it was easier to put it down to credentials. Random strangers, or vicious girls from school spreading salacious gossip was easier to chalk down to plain bitchiness. This on the other hand, was simply an honest answer to a question I had asked.

Naturally I came home and fell into a heap in the enveloping arms of my Muscle Man. He soothed me and said it was just not true (see, he knew what I wanted to hear!). Deep down though, I couldn't shake the knowing feeling that it was. It was true. I needed to loose weight before it engulfed any more of my life.

In hindsight I realised that I actually appreciated the honesty and the risk that Muscle Man's cousin took by telling me he did think I could lose some weight. It hurt at the time because even though I knew I needed too, I had also somehow convinced myself that the problem was mostly mine. I thought perhaps I saw myself worse than others did, and hidden inside my gigantic jumpers, jackets, scarves and high heels (you know, the illusion of height and slenderness) that no one really could see how big I was. In hindsight he did me a favour.

I honestly can say that I now love myself. I have gained self-respect and a genuine feeling of self-worth. In many ways I loathe that it came about from weight loss. Social engineering if you will. However, I would prefer to think that rather than finding self love because I am now attached to a size 12 pair of jeans, it's because I value myself enough to fight for me. Enough to make me get off my butt and keep fit. Enough to aim for longevity and fitness with my kids. I love myself enough to know that I feel better without the added stress of a 20 kilo pyramid of lard attached to my butt, thighs and belly.

Before anything else; before you put the joggers on and go for a walk, before you cut up the veggies for tonight's stir fry, before you sign up to your local Weight Watchers to see your own pyramid of fat, ask yourself - DO I LOVE ME? If the answer is no, then please let me tell you, it's time to start.

The tent known formally as a Jumper!

It's pretty nerve wracking putting pics of myself up on the net. Sure, sure, some may think I am an exhibitionist and in my former college days with a bit of grape juice under my belt, I have been known to flash a collar bone or two. But putting these "fat" pictures up is actually quite difficult. It's hard for me to accept I looked like that. Hard to put the vanity to the side and acknowledge the changes between the two.

None the less, for the sake of self motivation (having a mental "fat" day) I thought I would share some "before and after" pics.

Honestly, these pics are all just plain frightening! The quality and resolution is doing no one any favours but I think if you see past my pixelated face you get the idea :o)

"I've Just had a Baby"

So, how long is that comment plausible for I wonder? For me, after the birth of Jim I was still using it as my justification for eating copious amounts of food and sitting on my big bazoo well into his second year of life. It was my tried and tested excuse for everything. "I can't possibly walk with you today Muscle Man, I've just had a baby" I'd be saying this as Jim would be running past, singing his ABC's and competently peeling his own banana. Yep, very much a baby, right!

It was really the same as when I was pregnant and I was eating for two. One donut for me, one for the baby, one Big Mac for me, one for the baby. Of course during these 'eating for two' pregnancy binges I was never thinking about the fact that only ONE of us would have to do the work to burn it off and get back to having 2 thighs instead of 4!

In all honesty though, both pregnancy and post partum are very difficult times for many women (myself included) when it comes to accepting the changes our body is, and has, made. Even without the help of shares in McDonald's I am confident that some of the changes which have taken place on my body would have still occurred regardless of what I did or did not eat. I am convinced I must have had a pre-disposition to stretch marks, and sadly I am not just talking one or two little red marks on the side of my hips. No, I am talking about the angry, fiery red ones that were so big in some places they now look something like an accordion of skin (gross!).

I also had the very deceptive problem of my boobs growing so big that I could have given half the Playboy Bunny's a run for their money (only in the boob department I might add). That is until I had a baby literally suck the life and size right out of them within a few short months. Now the only person I could give a run for their money in the chest area is Muscle Man. Even sadder, it's a close call with his muscular pectoral area! There were many times when Jim would ask for "booby" and I'd want to palm him off to his Dad!

After Jim's birth I felt very despondent about my appearance. Despite having been a big girl before I fell pregnant with him, I can't say I had ever experienced the problem of excess skin. Suddenly I was dealing with a new baby, shrinking boobs, a stretched jelly belly and an unwanted flap of skin. I wanted to pack that excess skin up with a little red handkerchief tied to a stick and a pop tent and tell it to find a new place of residence, oh and while it was at it, return my disappearing boobs thank you very much!

It's odd when you think about how the human mind works. Here I was feeling so depressed about my appearance and yet attempting to quash the sentiment with anything deep fried and loaded with sugar. And I thought I was not an emotional eater! Pfft!

I stupidly assumed all through Jim's pregnancy that breastfeeding would finally be my ticket out of the grey and bleak land of fattydom (yes, I've made up a word). My own Mum was one of these women who left the hospital with a new baby, smaller then when she fell pregnant. Especially after the birth of Sexy Twin and I (cows...the lactating variety of course). Yes, breastfeeding was my free ride to battling the bulge. How wrong I was.

There are a few myths I have learnt from parenting. You know, the things well meaning people tell you about losing weight after the birth of a baby to make you feel better about your Jupiter sized buttock's. Examples;

Myth: Breastfeeding will melt the weight right off you.

Truth: Not if you are me it won't. In fact what breastfeeding will do is leave you ravishing with hunger so you eat everything in sight and then gain more weight then you had at 9 months pregnant! Even after Bob's birth and eating very sensibly, breastfeeding did NOT melt the weight right off.

Myth: When you are a parent, you are so busy chasing kids around and cleaning up after them that you lose weight, or simply never gain it.

Truth: OK, perhaps this would be true if I wasn't chasing the kids and the ice-cream truck at the same time. And perhaps if I DID clean up, and chase around after my hurricane Jim I'd burn a few calories. In any event I actually still am not convinced that this is a method of weight loss that would meet a Dr's approval.

Myth: Waking through the night to feed a baby will burn more calories as you are feeding more.

Truth: Founder of this myth, you're an idiot.

Jokes aside though, I do want to share my thoughts on weight loss after pregnancy.

I completely understand how frustrating it is seeing your previously glowing (and bursting) belly looking like a deflated balloon. I understand how incredibly annoying it is being in-between sizes with clothes. After Jim I didn't fit back into my "pre-pregnancy" clothes for a very long time. I was still trying to wear elastic waist pants 14 months after he was born (basically I lived in pyjamas). I also understand all too well that the pressure and personal expectations we place on ourselves can be unrealistic and emotionally draining.

It certainly does not help that we live in a society that splashes pictures of celebrities walking out of hospital, new baby in arm, bikini on body, nanny in tow. Usually the headline is some sensationalist crap announcing "Sue Smith's amazing after baby body and how she did it".
Quite simple really, she had her plastic surgeon, make-up artist, bikini designer, Yoga instructor and shot of wheat grass all on stand by for that grand exit. How can a mere mortal like me possibly stand a chance!

Yes, the saying "it took 9 months to put the weight on and 9 to take it off" is true. We mothers need to be kind to ourselves. We are our own worst critics about a myriad of other issues and it's probably high time we put the emphasis back on praising the female body for it's amazing ability to sustain life. Take those first few months easy. Fatten up your breast milk with a Tim Tam and then put your beautiful baby in a pram and go for a walk (and make sure you add at least one hill).

As for that flap of skin - sadly only half of it took my offer of a pop tent and moved on. The other half is now Jim's favourite spot to get a decent bear hug with Mum.