Category Archives: Pregnancy

Morning Sickness

I need to get a rant out of my system, and it’s about the greatest pregnancy misnomer there is: morning sickness.

I was in work one day, about 6 weeks pregnant with my first baby and feeling fine, when I was suddenly hit by violent waves of nausea. I lay down in a meeting room for a while, but eventually picked myself up and walked out of the office. I didn’t return for 10 weeks. Instead, I lay in bed quaking with sickness, consuming nothing but Lucozade and crackers. Vomiting actually brought blessed relief from the nausea, for a few minutes at least.

Think back to the worst hangovers of your life – you know the sweaty, fat-tongued ones where you’re afraid to move your head in case you puke down the wall, where you can’t even contemplate bacon and Coke, and the merest chink of light makes your eyeballs explode? Now imagine that for 24 hours a day, for weeks and weeks on end. This is what they daintily call ‘morning sickness’.

This offensive term is constantly used in the press, on parenting blogs, in books – EVERYWHERE – and is a complete load of bollocks. For a start, most expectant mothers I’ve known actually experience their nausea in the evenings, when energy levels are low and exhaustion takes its toll. Some women – Kate Middleton being a famous example – are even admitted to hospital suffering from hyperemesis gravidarum – or to use the technical term: dehydration from relentless spewing.

Yet some women don’t experience pregnancy sickness at all. There is no medical explanation for it, it’s just ‘one of those things’. I was simply one of the unlucky ones. What makes it even more difficult is that it generally peaks during those first 12 weeks when you’re not supposed to divulge your pregnancy to anyone, or when you don’t have a big belly to wave in people’s faces on the bus to get a seat. Most women have to just suffer in silence, getting by with an office desk drawer full of Ritz crackers and frequent trips to the toilet. One friend of mine nearly crashed her car en route to work as she screeched onto the hard shoulder, opened the door and barfed into the road. Amazingly, she wasn’t pulled up for drink driving.

But my main gripe is with the genius who coined this phrase and the massive disservice they have done pregnant women. It implies that those of us who couldn’t get out of bed, who couldn’t even walk into our own kitchens for fear of smelling food, are weak, maybe milking it a bit to get some attention and time off work. Believe me, I’d have loved nothing more than to feel good and enjoy my first pregnancy. Instead, I was forced to waste nearly one-third of it feeling like shite when I should have been out enjoying my last months of freedom.

So please, newspaper and magazine editors, people of the world in general, can we start calling it pregnancy sickness?

Did you suffer from pregnancy sickness, and what helped you cope? Do share with us!


Preggo Watch: The Labour Surrogacy Outreach Programme

You lot are great pals. You’re always there for me, clicking on my little links, being kind about the almost-nude preggo pics that I insist on posting online, humoring my articles such as ‘Is Smalltalk Really Necessary At The Gynecologists?‘ etc. I feel like your support knows no bounds…. doesn’t it?

If this is truly the case, then you might do me one last favour:  I am currently looking for someone amazing to take over this pregnancy until the baby arrives. You will need to know that there are either two OR five weeks left, depending on whether this is a Back-Of-The-Van-At-Electric-Picnic baby, or a Went-To-A-Charles-Bradley-Gig-Alone-Got-Hammered-Went-Home-And-Woke-Alan-Up-With-A-Few-Demands‘ baby. I’m sorry that I can’t be more specific, but really, my levels of irresponsibility with the taking of my contraceptive pill knows no bounds.

Your Number One duty as the new vessel for my baby will be to go through with the labour and birth on my behalf. Honestly, I can’t be arsed at this point because I am WAY too busy getting through the list of things that I’ve put on the longest of the long fingers. They include:

1. Finding the right pram (yes, seriously, I still don’t have one)

2. Deciding on what sling might work best for me, baby and my crockety back.

3. Buying a few nursing bras. Honestly, I don’t have even one.

4. Finishing off the paint work in our new house. The mixture of fumes and bending up and down repeatedly isn’t exactly working well alongside my preggo body so I’d like to get back to that please because the staircase that I started looks ridiculous.

5. Getting the car cleaned. I’ve genuinely only been putting this off since Xmas and I think the baby might prefer to come home in a car that doesn’t have melted ice cream stuck to every seat, soiled baby wipes shoved down god knows where or a humongous spider residing in the wing mirror.

6. Finish knitting the baby cardigan that I started for my nephew 4 months ago. (Although, to be fair, the kid might be better off without it. I might just go to the shops and buy one).

7. Put all the bills on standing order like a normal, grown up person, so that The ‘Has The Electricity Been Cut Off?!’ fear doesn’t hit me every time Alan simply turns off the lights in the landing when we go to bed at night.

8. Spending more time getting Jacob to stay in his EFFING BED AT NIGHT. Like, seriously, am I going to have to staple him down?!

9. Training Pearl to stop barking at the postman & black children as they walk past our house to school. Yes, her discrimination knows no bounds, although perhaps I should stop rewarding her with treats when she goes ballistic at the canvassers so that they move on to the next house.

10. Kegels. Kegels, kegels, kegels. I promise, if you take over this pregnancy, that I will do three rounds of kegels for you PER DAY. I just can’t be pregnant and do them at the same time, it really is too ridiculous an ask.

All interested parties, please contact Sharyn at and I will arrange for you to take over my body at a time that is mutually convenient. Failing your interest in this position, there’s a bit of paint work in my kitchen with your name on it…. ;o)


‘This Body could Be Yours! No Fee, No Charge!!’

[Did you read the Irish Blog Awards Nominated Post: ‘Preggo Watch: Avoiding the Gaybours’? Read it HERE]

Preggo Watch: Avoiding The Gaybours

I can’t stop peeing my pants. There you go, I’ve said it. My name is Sharyn Hayden, I’m 37 years old and I haven’t been doing my Kegel exercises.

When I laugh, I piss myself. When I sneeze, I piss myself. And given that I’m prone to giggling at everything AND bouts of hay fever, both pee-inducing events are happening fairly regularly. Since ‘squeezing it in’ in advance of said giggle or sneeze only results in a pain in the tummy, it’s not really an option. However, I have taken to wearing black leggings and knicker pads as a matter of daily routine. I’ve also been ‘pretend laughing’ and doing those inny-sneezes which make me sound like a chipmunk and look like a weirdo. Both practices mean that I am wholly unsociable and unsuited for comedy or outdoor events.

We moved house in February of this year and have some amazing neighbours. To the front, my longterm pal and beautician (SCORE!) Khadeja who runs Glow Beauty in Skerries and who I am generally counting on to conduct an entire makeover when the baby arrives. Despite my constant enquiries, she assures me that she isn’t qualified to perform any breast enhancements.

To the side is a lovely young couple with son Alfie, who came to introduce themselves and brought us a bottle of ‘Welcome Wine’ as soon as we had moved in! Obviously, they are on my BFF list forever. I met them while out for a short walk last week, sneezed and 100% pee’d myself standing right in front of them. Quick leg squeeze together, some excuse about leaving the gas on in the kitchen and needing to get home & I MAY have gotten away with it. Haven’t seen sight nor sound of them since, mind you.

To the left, it’s The Gaybours, who I am reluctant to introduce myself to until I am no longer an advertisement for the ‘breeders’ that they dread so much. They and I haven’t said so much as ‘Christina’s work has never been as good as her first album’ to each other, but I appreciate that The Bump is creating a fabulousness barrier between us. Mind you, every time Ass Monkey is out the front at the van or in the garden, they trip out to have the chats. (Who can blame them; he’s a handsome man with a lawnmower/hedge trimmer/van keys in his hand).

I am totally jealous though, particularly because I can’t wait to ask them where they got the chandelier that hangs in their conservatory, but I would hate for either of them to say something amazingly bitchy about Katie Price ‘not knowing’ she was pregnant at 6 months, and have me destroy my carefully chosen ‘Conversation With The Gaybours Outfit’ right in front of them with my wayward urine.




[Don’t miss ‘Preggo Watch: Won’t Someone Think of the Vaginas?’


Preggo Watch: Won’t Someone Think Of The Vaginas?

I’ve been to an ante-natal refresher course this morning at the maternity hospital. As I previously attended the countless classes as an unassuming expectant first-time mother with Jacob, I got to attend this two-and-a-half hour reminder class, and this one alone. That’s precisely how I like my courses: concise, rolled in to one day or a weekend at a push and preferably, with free booze on offer.

(Note: if you attend ante-natal classes at a maternity hospital, they do not provide free booze, but there will be a plentiful supply of lukewarm water from the dispenser in the hallway so knock yourself out).

Most couples who were in attendance were in fine form, which was only enhanced by the hysterical midwife/closet comedian who presented the information to us. Ten minutes into the class, and I was literally crying with laughter at her fab approach. Great one liners such as ‘We’re not allowed to ask for top-ups at the canteen any more, we have to say ‘refills” will keep me going for weeks! She should write a book at the very least, have her own show at the very average and come to live with me at the very most. I LOVED HER.

I found the refresher course really helpful for reminding me of all the basics in terms of what will happen when The Babs decides that he/she wants out. The theory communicated today was that labour with a second child is far quicker than the first, but as ever, I’d be fairly reserved when it comes to generalizing these things. I’m of the opinion that every baby has their own unique journey into this world, and my vagina probably won’t behave exactly the same as the next lady’s. Truth be told, my vagina hasn’t behaved herself for years anyway.

There are two very important things I took from today:

1.    I must not fob the care of Jacob off on Ass Monkey, or any other family members (as planned, actually) when the baby arrives, but really try to spend lots of time reassuring him that he is still the Top Dawg. That plan is a go.

2.   I am so completely unprepared for this baby. Like, entirely. Assuming that baby doesn’t decide to come early or anything appalling like that, I have just over seven weeks to go to decorate a nursery, buy a pram and car seat, teeny tiny nappies, bottles, sterilizers, baby clothes, nipple cream, nursing bras, puke cloths, colic meds, bibs, soothers, clear out a space in the freezer for tea-tree sprayed fanny pads, apologize to my dentist for not wearing my retainer even though my teeth have moved about dramatically in my gob during the last seven months…..

When am I going to get it together, eh?!




[Did you miss ‘Preggo Watch: I Flashed The Intern’? Read it HERE

Preggo Watch: I Flashed The Intern

When I was a teenager, I wasn’t a fan of jeans. There was something about the thick, heavy material that made me feel even heavier than my obsessed-with-being-thin-teen-mind could handle. I thought my arse looked terrible in them, and so I avoided them completely. Instead, I wore dancer’s clothes – thin, baggy combats and fancy tracksuits that you could only buy in an actual sports store. My arse and I were content.

Somewhere in my mid 20s, I gave in. Jeans weren’t all the same any more; they were thinner, longer, boot cut, slung low on the hips and they made sense to me again. I went to Nude on Liffey Street and tried on a few pairs. The sales assistant said; ‘Not being a lesbian or anything, but your arse looks great in them’.  SOLD. I bought three pairs.

But now that I’m pregnant, the aversion has returned. Preggo jeans and I have had a major falling out. The two pairs I had since Preggo The First are a size 12, and I don’t recall them being a problem, but they have literally been falling off my arse and down from my front for the last few months. ‘You’ll need them in a few months’ my mother advised. ‘You’ll grow into them’. But I haven’t, they make me feel bigger than I necessarily am and what pregnant woman needs that? In fact, they are so ill-fitting that I can pull them up and down when using the toilet, without having to open any buttons or zips.

‘Perhaps they aren’t the right size!!’, you’re yelling at me. I CAN HEAR YOU. Not so, my friends, not so. I did read on a few maternity wear sites that you should buy the size that you were pre-getting-knocked-up, and I WAS a size 10. So off I popped to H&M yesterday in Swords Pavilions (PS: Why is the maternity section the one part of the store that is completely squished together? A bit of space between the rails wouldn’t go amiss, you weirdos) – and bought a pair of size 10 maternity jeans. Of COURSE I didn’t try them on until I got home because I had Jacob with me, and when I did, guess what? They were too bleedin’ tight. They go on and all, but I’ll be hating them into an hour of wearing them because bump and I will be too uncomfortable. And I’ll definitely have to open buttons and zips to go to the loo, a practice which I am now completely unfamiliar with.

In the office last week, I was still wearing the non-fitting size 12 jeans. I was also wearing VERY red shiny underwear. Our intern from last year, Super Dave, had come back to do some training with us, and as I came out of the toilets, he asked me how the bump was. ‘Great!’ says I, pulling open my cardigan to properly see the bump beneath. ‘Getting very bumpy, thanks!’

Super Dave smiled and got back to work. I adjusted my jeans (as one constantly does), before sitting down and there it was: a great expanse of red satin knickers gaping through where preggo jeans should have been. I DID open them that day to go to the loo, and so unusual was it, that I never bothered to close them back up again.

I fucking hate jeans…




[Don’t miss ‘Preggo Watch: Pissing and Moaning’!] 


Why I Opted For A Caesarean

The birth of my first daughter, Mia, in 2010 was traumatic – a long, long labour, being rushed into theatre for an emergency forceps delivery, then an interminable, painful recovery period. The whole thing left me emotionally and physically scarred. Imagine, if you will, running a marathon for two days, while being beaten up, then chucking your fanny into a blender. And so, when I got pregnant again two years later, the first thing I announced at my midwife appointment was: ‘This time, I am having a Caesarean’.

Requesting major surgery may seem masochistic, but for me it was the only way that baby was going to come out. With Mia, I had done all the ‘right things’ to prepare for a natural birth – yoga, ante-natal classes, I’d read every book going. I was going to breathe the baby out with just gas and air to take the edge off – oooh, maybe even under water! – then go home the next day. Instead, I found myself in a very scary situation completely beyond my control.

I live in England, where we are incredibly lucky to have the National Health Service. However, the NHS doesn’t just hand out Caesareans to anyone without good reason, and neither should it. If every first-time mother was given the option, I imagine many would opt to have their baby whisked out via the sun-roof and avoid the ridiculous agony of contractions. I had some convincing to do. My community midwife remembered me from the last time (she examined me weeks after giving birth and actually winced – this is a woman who has been up close and personal with ladygardens for the best part of three decades, so mine must have been in ribbons). She felt I had made the right choice. Despite her support, I had to then discuss my labour story with another midwife/counsellor (more trauma) in order to get referral to a consultant, who I then had to also convince I would settle for nothing less than a C-section. Gallons of tears later, I was finally given a date for the operation.

The day of Sylvie’s birth was incredible and every detail is seared on my memory. My husband and I jumped on the bus, headed to the labour ward and casually announced I was there to, you know, have a baby. In the distance, I could hear the howling of women in labour, and I felt like such a cheat. For the couple of hours while we waited, I wondered why should I get special treatment, when metres away women were doing it the ‘right way’. But when I walked into the very same operating theatre where Mia had been pulled out under such stressful circumstances, I mentally patted myself on the back for sticking to my guns.

The spinal went in and I lay down, and straightaway started to feel weightless, like I was floating in warm melted chocolate. (I don’t know what’s in that stuff but there are days now where I’d be happy to take it recreationally – that and pethidine.) The anaesthetist sat by my head on one side (my husband on the other) and she talked me through what was happening. And everything happened so fast. ‘The incision is being made. Ok, here comes one shoulder. And … another shoulder … the head is out. HERE’S BABY!’ And when the surgeon lifted Sylvie up, she cried and so did my husband and I.

My decision to have a C-section is the best I’ve ever made. When Mia was born, I was scared and exhausted to the point of hallucination. I didn’t feel much when they handed her to me, apart from ‘oh she’s cute … can I please have a can of Coke and a sleep now?’ But with Sylvie’s birth, I remember every detail with such clarity. I felt that longed-for rush of euphoria – I fell in love, movie-style – which I hadn’t experienced with Mia. And another huge positive was that my husband felt so included in the whole experience. He sat there beside me, the staff included him in every conversation we had that morning, and he was the first to hold Sylvie. With Mia’s birth, he was so terrified at the speed with which I had gone from trying to push her out to being whisked into theatre, he nearly passed out.

The reason I wanted to share my birth story is because I want to reassure women that opting for a C-section, or being told you need an elective section, is not the cheat’s or loser’s option. I really don’t like the term ‘natural birth’ when referring solely to vaginal deliveries, as for me my C-section felt entirely natural. I am so glad I gave birth this way – it helped me to draw a line underneath Mia’s birth, and I hope anyone nervous – indeed, unhappy – about a pending elective section can console themselves that can they can be really beautiful experiences.


Preparing Toddlers For A New Baby

When I volunteered to write this piece, it didn’t dawn on me for a while that, actually, you can’t really prepare them at all. Sure, you can explain that Mummy has a baby in her tummy. They can help you choose new baby clothes and tiny little nappies. They can help to dust off the Moses basket, baby bath and pram, and help to pack the hospital bag. They can even, as mine did, come to midwife appointments to hear the baby’s heartbeat. But the reality of you actually coming home with a new baby in your arms, well as my mother put it ‘imagine how you would have felt, Suzanne, if Gary just moved a new woman into the house and you had no choice but to put up with it.’

So here is my advice – not so much on preparing them, but on damage limitation before and after the baby arrives. It’s from my own experience (I had a second baby when my daughter was two and a half), plus some helpful tips I gleaned from friends.

First of all – and I only realise what good a tip this is in hindsight – don’t make too big a deal of the pregnancy. Well-meaning people will constantly ask your toddler ‘are you excited about being a big brother/sister?’ and ‘won’t it be BRILLIANT having a baby to play with?’ Well, no, it won’t. Because newborns do absolutely nothing for a good few months except glue themselves to Mummy’s boobs, cry and poo. From a toddler’s perspective, they are completely boring and pointless. So play it all down a bit and be honest with your toddler – tell them that babies cry all the time and that Mummy will be really tired and have to hold the baby a lot. If they’re expecting Christmas morning with fireworks and a massive chocolate cake on top, they’ll be sorely disappointed.

When the baby has arrived and you’re back home, one key thing for us was keeping our daughter’s routine exactly the same. If they go to crèche, keep sending them (if money permits). Do all the playgroups and usual stuff you normally do. Stick with the same mealtimes and bedtime. The baby will just have to come along for the ride. Toddlers love routine and despise change, so try your utmost to keep things as consistent as possible. I fondly remember reading my toddler her bedtime story and even tucking her into bed with one hand while breastfeeding the baby.

Another key thing is allowing the toddler to get involved. Let them help you change nappies, feed the baby their milk, bring them toys, give them cuddles. Try not to be too precious about the new baby – we all handle our firstborns as if they’re bone china, but a few rough cuddles won’t kill them. It’s important for the toddler to feel included and that they’re a brilliant help. I very quickly trained my toddler to bring me babywipes, nappies, Sudocrem and a nice cup of tea whenever I needed them (ok not the last one) and she loved, and still does love, helping out.

It’s also good to try to set aside time for just you and the toddler. Let someone else take the baby off your hands and do something fun with your little pal. It reassures them that they’re still hugely important in your life, even though for the time being you can’t give them as much attention as you’d like.

I tried to prepare my daughter for the new baby’s arrival and she seemed cool with it, telling everyone that my bump was ‘little sister’. Cute. All good. But when I came home from hospital, what I wasn’t expecting was how horribly insecure it made her. She had nightmares every night for months and would consequently refuse to go to bed. She invented a ‘sore foot’ that made her cry for hours (there was nothing wrong with her foot). She wanted me, and only me, to do absolutely everything for her, from talking her down after a nightmare to changing her nappies. It was exhausting and I was riddled with guilt.

But that was months ago and now, things are brilliant. The two girls adore each other and my toddler is back to her lovely, happy self. And if you, like me, are an older sibling, just remember this – none of us are permanently damaged as a result of new siblings coming along. I would wager that nobody can even remember what life was like beforehand. It was the hardest time of my life but now, when I see my two daughters rolling around on the carpet breaking their sides laughing at something only they know about, it was all worth it.


Suzanne and girls

Preggo Watch: Pissing and Moaning

When Ass Monkey and I found out I was pregnant with Jacob in 2011, I made a promise to both of us that I would never complain to anyone about being pregnant. There were so many people in our lives at the time who were having difficulty getting pregnant, or who had lost babies, that it seemed like the most selfish thing we could do. We were lucky: we had gotten pregnant quicker than the time it took to say ‘Quick! Grab a johnny!’, I was fit & healthy, I had no morning sickness, and the baby developed as he should for the duration of the pregnancy. What the fuck did we have to be moaning about?!

I like to think that forcing myself to be mentally positive throughout the pregnancy helped me through on tough days when, you know, you have to try sleeping in the ‘sitting upright’ position because you have wretched heartburn, or you laughed so much at a comedy gig that you accidentally wee’d in your pants in public. These little things happen when you’re pregnant, and it’s vital not to let them get you down. When the big things happen, you get to handle things a different way.

I was also a bit…brave, no – A SHOW OFF – the first time around. I didn’t believe that being pregnant meant that I couldn’t do anything I might normally do. So I continued to lug heavy items around, gig on stage as much as possible, socialize, exercise, paint & decorate the place we then lived in and flirt with boys… Yes you CAN ACTUALLY flirt with boys when you’re pregnant, but only from the comfort of your Blue Fiat Punto when they only see you from the shoulders up and don’t actually know that you’re pregnant. It’s the CRAIC.

I have to be honest with you though, this pregnancy? I’m letting it all hang out. I’ve quit the live gigs for now, I refuse to lift anything I deem heavy – that even extends to my breakfast bowl from the table to the sink sometimes – I’m asleep by approximately 9pm every evening & there’s a good chance I will never flirt with another man human again. And anyway, the Fiat Punto is long gone…

Moaning? Yes there has been some moaning. This morning, I complained to Ass Monkey that my old maternity jeans no longer fit and caught myself stating ‘It’s bad enough being pregnant without feeling like a frump as well’. BAD SHARYN. I didn’t mean it, and retracted it from the atmosphere in our GrimNagh kitchen immediately. It’s not ‘bad enough’ being pregnant ANYTHING.

So I now vow to you that I will recall my positive mental attitude from 2011 and stop all this ‘But I’m preggggnanttttt’ whining for the next 5 months. Promise. But the pissing bit? Fuck-all I can do about that, I’m afraid. I’ll just try and keep it inside my pants this time ’round ;o)

Panto Pic

[Like this: Then don’t forget to read ‘Preggo Watch: I Forgot To Take My Pill’]



Preggo Watch: I Forgot To Take My Pill

For someone who banged on relentlessly about my right to leave Jacob as an only child if I so wished, and not be harangued by pushy relatives and – as usual, strangers – into having more and more and more….. I should really have been a bit more careful about taking my pill so that I wouldn’t find myself in yet another ‘situation’ ;o)

My reluctance to have a second baby was this: we had a hard time the first time around and I wasn’t ready to go again. Simple as that. In the last two-and-a-bit years of Jacob’s life, Ass Monkey and I have moved house twice, have been building up a surprisingly busy business from scratch (mostly from home) AND we were adjusting to our new roles as parents. To a kid who is a terrible sleeper. On top of that, I was trying to hold on to my identity as an artist, squeezing in auditions and plays and gigs, interrupting the flow of our family business, costing us extra money in childcare and causing endless rows. It all happened together and there was never enough time to process any of it.

Since Jacob started acting like a dog…. oh, haven’t I mentioned this? Yes, he errrrr, clearly spends too much time with Pearl and during the summer last year at the park, when Pearl would lie on her back in the grass for a scratch, Jacob would fling himself down and do the same. He also crawls on all fours around the kitchen floor and under the table with her. Not to mention the time that I heard him in the sitting room; ‘7…8….9….10… Ready or not, here I come, Pearl!’ Yup, he was playing Hide & Seek with our dog. He clearly needs a sibling.

In September last year, Jacob turned two and for the first time, Ass Monkey and I really talked about our upset regarding Jacob’s birth and the subsequent struggles we encountered. It was nothing to do with our lovely child, it was to do with our own circumstances at the time, the stresses we had put upon ourselves. We were disappointed that it wasn’t as romantic and calm and loving as we might have imagined… but thankfully, we had made it through to something resembling the other side. I will never forget sitting at the harbor in Rush, overlooking the sea as he moon came up and I had a little cry. It closed the door on it.

Little did I know how perfect the timing of that chat was – as I was already pregnant again! I didn’t find out for a few weeks, when I was so tired that I thought I was coming down with some sort of snot-and-sneeze-free pneumonia and couldn’t get off the couch. On October 26th, the day of my dad’s birthday, we were in my parents’ house where I took a pregnancy test in the toilet like a scared teenager. Positive. I looked again: POSITIVE.

Ass Monkey was summonsed and when I showed him the evidence, his response was ‘Who’s Is That?!’

‘Let me see…’ I helped. ‘In this house right now we have you, my dad, Uncle Gerry, mam – who is definitely past child bearing age at this point – Jacob, and me. Who out of that list of people could this possibly belong to?!’

We couldn’t believe it, especially since our plan was to wait until some time this year to start trying again, but after the initial shock subsided (took a few weeks) we’re totally delighted. This is our chance to have a happier pregnancy and a less stressful time. A lot can change in two-and-a-bit years; the business has come on, we now have a premises outside our home and help, we’re about to buy our first family home and we’re all much happier together as a family. It’s the right time and thank GOD we stuck it out!

We’re planning to do a lot differently this time, starting with not finding out the sex of the baby and wait for the ‘surprise’. Although if you ask Jacob ‘What’s in Mammy’s tummy?’, he’ll say ‘Baby Brother’.

Watch this space ;o)