It's Troutie's 1st Birthday!

On Tuesday 23rd June 2009 I shared my very first thoughts on motherhood with the rest of the world.

I had no idea if I would ever reach a first birthday but here I am one year later.

Apart from a short break in the New Year (when I was getting over the shock of being pregnant without meaning to for the second time around), I have become a fairly consistent blogger.

In the past year I've produced 80 posts and have amassed 59 followers, which makes me sound like the leader of a messianic cult. I've dispensed fertility symbols to complete strangers, stalked internet celebrities and received one free book as the spoils from my blogging. I've had a total of 9,327 page visits (mostly me visiting myself). I also believe that I've used the word fuck in nearly every one of my posts. It's been fairly exciting......

I think its only fair that on my birthday I get to recycle some of my old posts and give myself a well deserved mini-break, so here are some of the best bits from Troutie's first year.

First off, my first post. Short and sweet.

Why do they call me Troutie? Well, here's your answer

Secondly you can read some of my more explicit posts on anal sex and female ejaculation

Then there's my intellectual side

and lastly String Vests the infamous conversation between my loved one and I about appropriate clothing in the bank managers office.

I haven't taken part in Tara's Gallery much, I'm not a great photographer and I am too tempted to enter inappropriate images like this for my idea of motherhood.

If you've seen this all before, I apologise profusely. I'll do my damnest to come up with something excrutiatingly witty for next time.

Meanwhile, I'm off to enjoy my bloggin' birthday.

Date with the midwife - How honest are you?

Before I’ve sat down or even made eye contact with her, the sturdy African midwife makes her request.


“Urine?”


“I’ve literally just arrived, I was sent straight up here.”


She beckons me to sit down.


“Feeling well?”


I say yes, even though what I mean to say is “I have a bad back is there anything I can do to alleviate this?”


Lie number one.


“Eating well?”


Again, I say yes, knowing that not a single piece of fruit has passed my lips yet today and its 3pm already.


I notice that she ticks the box ‘discussed diet’


I personally would not have called it a discussion but being a box ticker at work myself, I understand her predicament.


“Ever smoked?”


“Yes.” I say. My first truth!


“Given up?”


“Yes.” I say. It’s two all.


“Alcohol?” buoyant from my two truths I let slip a third.


“Yes” and suddenly realising I may have revealed too much I add a lie.


“One glass of red wine a week – it didn’t hurt me last time.”


It’s now three all.


Her two word interrogation technique continues in this vein for some time including,


“Mental illness?”


To which I tell the truth, "No."


Then she takes my blood pressure, weighs me, (12 stone?! – sigh) and listens to the baby’s heartbeat. I squirm as she takes my blood. In the silence of the room I can hear my blood splashing against the plastic walls of the vial.


“When baby is born you sleep in the same room but not in the same bed. Yes?”


“Yes.” I say. Another lie as I am most definitely a co-sleeper.


“You breastfeed on demand. Yes?”


“Yes.” I say again thinking that this is still all very much up in the air


“Here’s your form to get your one ninety from the government. Book an appointment for three weeks time.”


“Yes.” I say fully expecting the pregnancy police to be waiting for me outside the door.

"Ms. Troutie, you are under arrest for drinking whilst pregnant, eating nothing but cake, intending to smother your child in her sleep and lying to the midwife. You'd better come with us."


Overheard in the prison yard today (this is the truth and not part of the above fantasy)


"It's so lovely out here in the sunshine, all I want is a bottle of beer, me boyfriend, me dogs and a line of coke. That'd be fuckin' great."


Top Tips for a good read this weekend:

The Knackered Mother's Wine Club

Today is my birthday



Plugs for friends:

A Southern Decline - the Phoenix Rises!

The Blossom Parlour- Bunting Queen

The Big Doula Guns – Part One

The smell of sausages hung heavy in the air as the vegetarian Doula and her back-up Doula entered the room. I offered herbal tea as a way of making amends. Her sidekick was in a bright orange fleece, possibly the worst clothing crime I can think of, but I put this from my mind as I served up the tap water that they had both requested and we set to business.

I explained that my previous birth wasn’t great. I had wanted a home birth and did most of my 22 hour labour at home. As the pain kicked in, off went the hypnobirthing CD and on went the hardcore ragga. I was getting myself psyched up for battle.

When the midwives arrived I became self conscious, switched off my music and before I knew it, it was all about internal examinations and dilation measurements and whether I was meeting their targets. In the end, my son was born with a little help from the episiotomy fairy, in hospital, while I lay on my back.

It was everything I had been trying to avoid.

I think the cherry on the cake was when the woman, entrusted with the stitching up of my vagina, stuck her finger up my arse without so much as an ‘excuse me’. When I complained I was asked, "Didn't I want her to do a good job?" I just thought that everybody agreed it was common courtesy to knock before you enter, or ask before you shove a digit up someone's anus - but maybe I'm just old-fashioned?

When it was all over I was surprised not to be sat on a polystyrene tray, looking out through some cellophane, on the shelf at Tesco’s, as part of a 2 for £5 deal.

Nothing went seriously wrong, but looking back I was actually having fun up until the midwives arrived. Almost everything I didn’t want to happen, happened, and it wasn’t in the least bit empowering.

This time I want to protect my choices. This time I’m sending in the big guns: The Doulas.

That’s right baby, The Big Doula Guns.

This time, there’s no fucking way I’m setting foot inside a hospital unless I’m on the verge of death. For one thing I want a stiff drink when I’m done. Waiting 48 hours for a shot of rum to ease the post-birth trauma, or a glass of celebratory champagne, is just not fair on a girl.

Secondly, I want my own bed, my own shower, my own peace and quiet, my own choice of food and I don’t want to be waiting endlessly for doctors to come and tell me something I already know: that my baby is fine.

So last night The Doulas stayed for three hours, ate a pound of cherries, a huge bunch of grapes and a large punnet of strawberries. We laughed about the nun/midwife who came to my last birth, to whom I kept apologising as I cursed ‘Jesus Christ!’ thinking that this was better than shouting out “This fucking hurts!”

We discussed my feelings on nipple tweaking (not on your nelly), breastfeeding (unlikely), delivering the placenta naturally (let’s wait and see) and everything in-between. I made it clear in a roundabout way that I was by no means a full on hippy. I don’t need to cook the placenta or get Bushman to cut the cord or lick the vernix off my child or do any kind of special bonding with anybody. I just want to have my baby as naturally as I feel comfortable to, without people prodding and manipulating me unnecessarily.

And for god’s sake, when it’s all over will someone pass me a fucking drink……….

Haven't got a clue what a Doula is? See here.

The incredible shrinking Trout

Yesterday I managed to eat:

Two pieces of toast with Marmite, One Smoked Salmon and Cream Cheese bagel, a small Beetroot and Cous Cous salad with extra lettuce and tomatoes, 1lb of cherries, a pizza (with three types of meat on it), a lemon tart, a Magnum ice-cream and three pieces of fudge from some pick n’ mix.

This is not an unusual day’s intake and so it follows that the extra pounds I am hulking around are clearly not “all baby”. Extra lumps and bumps have appeared around my bottom and thighs with cellulite creeping around my arms. My increasing breasts (not in a sexy way – more matronly in style) now have a geographical map of veins spreading across this new expanse of flesh whilst my stomach fills out so that my matronly bosoms can rest upon it. My proportions are ever growing. My curvy, clearly defined, size 12 lines have melted into obscurity. I am now a waddling blob.

This is fine, I can handle it.

As I sit here typing away, I am finishing off the pick and mix from last night’s trip to the cinema with Vivienne Westwood and Lady Violet. Clearly I am not so distraught by my new vastness that I am actually prepared to stop eating. God Forbid.

The ladies and I met up in Tottenham Court Road for our Sex and The City 2 ritual.  While I waited for the arrival of my dear friends I did a spot of shopping, actually managing to find a couple of non-maternity items that suited and fitted me. In the changing room I tried on a navy vest top with a gold pattern which seemed to help detract from my immense stomach. I had picked up a size 16 to accommodate my front bulk, but it felt a tad tight as I pulled it on.  Once it was shimmied into place though it looked quite good so I carried it to the cash desk.

As the woman started cashing the goods I suddenly noticed the label on the vest top staring at me.

“Size 8”

“Hang on,” I said to the woman “Is that……is that a size 8?”

“Yes.” she said

“But….” I was absolutely stupefied as the reality of the situation came over me.

I was almost six months pregnant and I had got into a size 8.

I haven’t been a size 8 since I was aged 8.

I am still confused as to how this happened.

Naturally, in the end,  I purchased a roomier size 16 anyway which is more like a tent dress than a vest top but the fact still remains, for a moment, albeit a fleeting one, I was a size eight.

The moral of this story is: EAT. Size is just a label.

Bark from the Park

Bark from the Park....Springfield Park to be precise.

Just because I love trees.

Serious Genital Questions

Things are looking up. After coming nineteenth in a hotel Beauty Competition last week, I spent last night with a long-haired Brad Pitt in a red convertible. Who knows what tonight’s dreams may hold?

Before coming to my very serious questions this morning I would just like to share a couple of things with you. Last Sunday, Miss Stitchie and I went walking by the canal. In order to fortify us for our trek we had a grand three course brunch. I even cleared my table and put a table cloth on (unironed).

I served:

Hash browns with Smoked Salmon served with Soured Cream and Cherry Tomatoes
Orange and Grapefruit Juice
Followed by Breakfast Muffins and Fresh Fruit (strawberries and mango)
And a cup of caffeinated tea

This has set me on a path of grand breakfasts and brunches. This morning’s offerings are Apricot French Toasts with Maple Syrup, followed by Melon and Grapes.

And now we come to the serious question of genitals. Returning from lunch in Covent Garden yesterday and after a sticky bus ride home, I stripped my son of all his clothes, placed a potty on the floor (we have never successfully collected anything in it yet) and sat him on a throw on my sofa. He watched TV, legs akimbo, with one hand in a bowl of grapes and the other on his genitals. Perfectly normal behaviour for a man. But we are coming to the stage where I need to give a name to his genitals.

I asked Bushman.
“What do they call it in Jamaica?”
He shrugged (usual response)
“Penis?” he offered.

I considered this. I have also been considering the fact that in the not to distant future I will have an entirely different set of genitals to name too; a whole trickier set of genitals with even weirder and vaguer terms. For example, the very general “bottom” and even worse, the whole “front bottom” scenario. Which ever path I choose to go down I need to decide now, because if my son has a penis surely it should follow that my daughter has a vagina? I can already see my mother dying of embarrassment if my offspring were to proclaim either word in public. I don’t think my mother ever referred to my genitals directly.

So, I started canvassing opinion. My friend Platinum Blonde admitted to me that somehow her daughter’s genitals had ended up being called ‘Mrs Mimms’, there was a squirm of embarrassment mixed with laughter when she told me. There was a lot of ‘willy’ and ‘fanny’ business with other people and I was left very confused. Medically correct terms or friendly mainstream colloqualisms?

So, question no1. this morning is: what do you call yours, or theirs?

Now down to question number two. In my life I have always dealt with fully grown penises attached to men who knew how to take care of them. Now I have a penis of my own which I have never really paid much attention to. I may have once or twice gently pulled back the foreskin to check that everything looked healthy but I’ve not spent much time closely examining it. My friend Buttercup recently disclosed that her doctor had ticked her off for not cleaning his penis properly. She was instructed to pull back the foreskin and clean around it. I have never done this. Is this something I should be doing, I asked myself?

So, I did what I always do in these situations, I googled it. There was a lot of conflicting information on the net, however this was my favourite offering. The sink thing had me in stitches!

Anyway, the question still remains and I put it to all you mother’s of sons, what the hell do you do with that penis? (Of course I have already asked the very clean but none too talkative Bushman, who shrugged and seemed unsure if, at 18 months, it was too early to be pulling back the foreskin.)

I’m off to make my grand breakfast now. I hope it’s not too early for such serious genital talk.