They helped me change the first nappy when I admitted, frightened, that I had no idea how to. They encouraged my breastfeeding, supported me in expressing milk, and explained that it’s totally okay to formula feed. They rocked Remy to sleep when I was too exhausted to, and played with him when I just wanted to escape the ward for a bit.

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Yes, I’m going to be a self-indulgent prick and spend an entire post talking about what I’ve done this year.

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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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