Tag Archives: Wee

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?’


Artificial En-Suitener

11001924_393935754118887_7558410217770741492_nThere are few things more embarrassing than being caught with your pants around your ankles, and as I have discovered over the years, this could happen for a myriad of reasons.

I’ve never had an en suite before. We’ve just come from having the teeniest tiniest bathroom of all time ever in GrimNagh – they somehow squeezed a shower-bath, toilet and sink into what can essentially only be described as a broom cupboard. The bath was so tiny that I couldn’t even stretch my legs out in it (and I ain’t got no super model legs). We figured it was designed for ages 14 and downwards only, if that age group of little people were allowed to live alone. Or maybe the average height in GrimNagh is Munchkin…who can say.

But now we have a new house. A NEW HOUSE! God, I couldn’t be happier. We worked our asses off and saved our shekels and we did it! I’m so thrilled that you probably haven’t heard me complain about anything for several weeks now, which is obviously not very like me. Part of the joy with the new house is that Ass Monkey and I have our very own grown-up en suite in our grown up bedroom. You know, one that can be completely rubber-duck and potty training-paraphanalia free? I may even leave expensive makeup lying around because it will never be touched by toddler hands.

However, as I discovered last night, to my absolute HORROR, the en suite does have it’s down side. Jacob came in to our bed, as he does sometimes, during the night and decided that he fancied a drink. He wanted it now, and he only wanted me to go and get it. (There’s something very unnerving about how that kid demands that only Mammy does things like change his arse and fetch his biscuits. I’m willing to see how it pans out before I decide that I have a two-year-old misogynist on my hands).

‘Ok’, I told him. ‘Mammy will bring you downstairs in a second. I’m just going to have a wee-wees first’.

I dragged my preggo hoop out of bed and shuffled the few steps over to the glorious en suite for my 72nd wee of that particular 24 hour period. I heard a little kerfuffle outside as Ass Monkey tried to get Jacob to calm down a bit and then…. and THEN…. the door to the en suite flew open and there stood my little person, staring and crying that I had dared to pop out of the room for two seconds while he was mid-tantrum.

And there, over his head, I could see Ass Monkey sitting in bed with a stunned, confused and middy amused look on his face – concocted by a mixture of his sleepy head and the view of yours truly taking a piss for all to see.

‘DON’T LOOK AT ME!!!’ I ordered and he duly popped his head back under the duvet.

I’m not even sure that I fully finished weeing before the embarrassment of it completely overwhelmed me enough to stand up to go and get the crazy kid’s juice. At which point he pulled my pajama bottoms down and refused to let me pull them up again.

Jacob: 1

Dignity: Nil


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’]