You already know who it is. This bloody sheep haunts my dreams; by the time we were done with him (at around 3/4 months) his fur was matted, his batteries were falling out, and he smelt like very questionable baby vomit. But, I think he might have been a lifesaver. 

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Me and Danny, the selfish bastards that we are, flew to barcelona last week without our tiny adorable six month old child, and we fucking loved it. We drank 3€ cocktails in the sun, slept in til 9am (never thought that could feel so wild), and went to cafes that had no pushchair access. In short, we lived like absolute kings. 

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Women who are fourty weeks pregnant don’t tend to have much going on anyway, but wouldn’t you rather be kicking about enjoying your last few lie ins instead of strawpedoing raspberry leaf tea and sticking primrose oil up your coochie?

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I am in such a good place with Remy right now. I spent our first few months together admiring his and Danny’s relationship, because damn it is a beautiful thing and I think it always will be. It was lovely to watch, but I couldn’t help but feel pretty left out of it all.

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I wanted the hypnobirthing, water-pooling, meditating labour of dreams. But obviously, this is me and so everything was about to go tits up.

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