I apologise if this letter at times seems a little confrontational or rambling. I’m getting very little sleep you see. I am so utterly shattered even simple tasks like trying to find the milk leave me blinking in confusion at the fridge door as I try to recall what I’m looking for. I’m like Bambi as I stumble about trying to get dressed in the morning and invariably end up in odd socks and an inside out top with yesterday’s tomato sauce on it. The children are down to their last nappy because I forgot to buy them some more when I wandered into a supermarket yesterday with no list and left with two bars of Dairy Milk and a tub of Ben & Jerry’s. The house is a tip and I, shock horror, haven’t changed the bed in a month. I’m sure some self-righteous scientist would love to lecture me on the bugs lurking in my filthy sheets however I find it impossible to follow a coherent argument at the moment.

But I had to write because I’m having trouble understanding you Mother Nature. You see everyone keeps saying you’re a miracle worker but I’m failing to see it.

You’ve given me two healthy babies. I’m so so grateful.

But I have to ask Mother Nature, WTF were you thinking? 2.8million years of evolution and this is all you’ve managed to achieve?!

Let’s run through what you feel is an acceptable baby-making process.

During the nine months of pregnancy women endure nausea, vomiting, decreased appetite, increased appetite, swollen ankles, round ligament pain, pelvic pain, lower back pain, stretch marks, heartburn, incontinence and a constant need to pee, chronic headaches, fatigue, disturbed sleep, constipation, rib pain, cramp, itching, inability to cope with any temperature above 18degrees and, to round it off with a neat little bow, piles. I have complained previously of how having kids has ruined my body here.

Finally to top off this atomic bomb of bulls**t we then have to go through the marathon of labour.

In this new horror, which we thought reading all about it had prepared us for but actually didn’t, we are expected to push something the size of a large melon out of something the size of a small lemon. Except before we face that mountain to climb we have to experience contractions because the door to the exit doesn’t just open when it’s time for baby to be evicted. So as we wait for the fricking cervix to decide it’s time to dilate we have one of your minions, known as midwives, reassuring us to listen to our bodies. Well my body was telling me to abandon ship, get out, flee, the invader has turned nasty and there’s no hope.

To round off this experience with a nice cherry on top there’s a good chance you will poo on the bed. In front of one or several strangers.

Then when we emerge from this, the most physically draining, humiliating and emotionally charged day of our lives, we have a helpless newborn to care for who didn’t get the memo that humans sleep at night.

A tiny newborn who sometimes doesn’t know that breast is best and hasn’t already honed their latching skills.

A tiny newborn that poos and wees around the clock.

A tiny newborn who cries for hours for no discernible reason.

So I ask you Mother Nature to please explain why you have not made further progress in this total mindf**k of an experience. To be honest, the only miracle I can see is you’ve managed to make women blank out so much of this horrendous ordeal that they go back for seconds. And sometimes even thirds.

Please, for the sake of women everywhere, stop sitting back with your feet up admiring your miraculous handy work and make some improvements. Let’s have another giant leap forward in evolution. And if that’s too much to ask, please make it so we don’t poop on the bed.


One very tired mummy

Lucy At HomeLucy At Home