Aimee Horton

Everyone Is Having Babies.


Everyone is having babies, and I’m TOTALLY cool about it. Yep, that’s right, as one of my favourite friends has just shot out baby Lottie (ok, she didn’t shoot out Lauz, I’m KIDDING), and another is preparing to shoot Aimee Jnr out in 8 weeks time (I’m relying on her keeping my name alive), I’m TOTALLY COOL WITH IT.

Everywhere I look, people are pregnant and having babies. My social media timeline is filled with bumps and bundles of joy, the school run was filled with discussions of baby names and new sparkly prams. AND I AM FINE.

Because of course, that’s it for me. As everyone is preparing for these new little people entering their lives, as they’re up overnight wishing for sleep, I could not feel further away because of course, my baby is starting school in September.

We decided to stick at being a family of four a long time ago, and in my head, I’m sure this is the right decision. I mean, after quite a few years of toddler pain – and I’m sorry, he was a turd a lot of the time – life is getting easier. The boys are playing together, I’m going to be able to work school hours without the guilt, couples weekends are easier for both us and the poor suckers who look after the little mons… cherubs. Life is easier. Why would I want to change that?

But my womb is rebelling. It’s kicking me in the gut, and making my brain think funny things such as “oh how I miss baby sick in my bra” and “potty training – it wasn’t so bad.” BOTH LIES. After all, last summer while we were on hliday, I saw my future and I liked it.

There were two families by the pool. The family with the young children, and a baby who was hot bothered, hungry and tired. The mum looked exhausted, and hadn’t even bothered to bring her book with her. I mean, let’s face it, she couldn’t have fitted it in the suitcase full of STUFF you need to survive an hour by the pool. Then there was the other family, the ones with the teenagers who visibily loathed their parents, sat far away listening to their ipods soaking up the sun, while mum and dad sat with their books and a second bottle of prosecco in their ice bucket.

I wanted to bet that family.

And not just because I’d had to apologies to a family for Larry using the tree they were using for shade as a urinal. I liked the relaxed feeling they had, I liked the amount of books they’d read, I LIKED THE PROSSECCO!

So we’re going to be a family of four. This is cool. I like that I can have a teeny tiny car, and when we climb in it to go, I can sort out our playlist while the boys sort themselves out. I like that at traffic lights, we can air guitar, rather than listen to the screaming of a baby that cries every time the car stops. I like that at the supermarket I can do that Super Nanny technique of getting the little feckers to find things off the list.

But my womb is playing games with me. It’s exploding as I walk to the gin aisle, swerving me left to gaze in amazement at the new range from Ella’s Kitchen. THEY DO CEREAL NOW GUYS!!! I will never get to buy baby cereal again. It’s making me think that Weetabix in my toes wasn’t so bad, and it’s telling me that the smell of baby rice didn’t make me bork like I remember it doing. It’s actually telling me that I wouldn’t mind not drinking in excess of nine-months if I got a brand spanking new baby, with that baby smell, and it’s little curled up legs and quiet snuffles.

STOP IT WOMB. Can you imagine how vile I’d be if I didn’t drink for that amount of time? Just ask Mr. Aimee how Dry January was in the Horton household – it was not good.

But think how much money we’d save if I didn’t drink, and I was much happier with my pregnancy figure – after all, it stretched my muffin tops out. Plus, as my womb is reminding me, and are you listening to this Mr Aimee being pregnant makes you clean at some point doesn’t it? I remember getting stuck in a cupboard, I remember scrubbing some skirting boards. In fact, I’m getting flashes that those skirting boards might actually be white not a blue/grey shade that the seem to be now.

My head reminds me of the sleepless nights, the constant laundry, but my womb reminds me that Larry still doesn’t sleep through the night, and never in my life have I seen a child get a white polo shirt so many different shades of dirt.

So who is going to win the battle, the womb or the head? Well neither, the head has a steady ally in the name of Mr. Aimee, who, if we’re frank, is mainly ruled by is wallet and his sleep. But if we’re also honest, probably remembers a very poorly wife during both pregnancies. So poorly that we’re not sure if her body could make it through another. A Mr Aimee who probably doesn’t want me, or him to go through another c-section – and that would have to happen – and the scar splitting four months later again. So Mr Aimee’s head is having to rule for both of us, and while my womb is fighting madly – I’m trying to remind it of all the pro’s of having two healthy boys who don’t poo on the floor now (although they don’t seem to wee in the toilet either!), of me being able to eat my dinner with BOTH MY KNIFE AND FORK instead of one handed, and most importantly, I get to enjoy the boys when I like them, rather than the last three years when frankly both of them nearly drove me to getting into my car with my overnight back, and hiding out in a hotel until one of the many boarding schools I’d been researching take the little feckers.

I need to remind my womb that I’m not sure I could write another novel – my dream job – with baby brain.

Pass the gin – if I can get through Larry starting school, hopefully my womb will happily go into retirement and be happy to just snuggle other peoples babies, and give them back when they shoot poo down their leg.

When they turn four.


Four years ago to the minute that this blog is posted a scrawny 6lb 7oz Theodore Christopher Horton entered the world.  For the 30 seconds after they pulled him out of me he was quiet.  This is the only time he has ever been quiet for that long.  I had to ask the Midwife to pinch him as I’d scared myself by watching too many midwife emergency programmes back to back during the final months of my pregnancy, and on these, if the baby doesn’t cry something is wrong.  Once he started he didn’t stop.

With the exception of 4am on night 3 of his life where I told Matt I’d changed my mind and perhaps we could take him back and I could get a nice pair of shoes instead, we instantly clicked.

He’s infuriating, loud, constant, smart, hyper, selective in hearing, wired, happy, caring and obsessed with 90’s dance music and Spiderman.

He’s the light of my life, even if most days I just need him TO SIT DOWN QUIETLY for just FIVE BLOODY MINUTES.

He’s changed my life.  After all I no longer sleep, I survive on caffeine and booze, know all the words to all three of the Spiderman movies, and my favourite song is the CBeebies bedtime hour.  But I’m also a better person.  Amazingly more tolerant, more confident (I know), and I don’t sweat the little things as much as I used to.  I look at the world in a different way, and that’s down to him and his NEVER ENDING questions.

So Happy Birthday SpiderTheo.  Don’t eat too much cake, I want some with my wine tonight. x

Happy Birthday Spiderman

When you pretend you can’t smell anything.


One thing they never tell you when you are pregnant, one thing that is witheld (whilst animated in depth tales of piles, late nights, stretch marks are forced upon you), is the part where you play the avoidance game with your partner.

You probably all know what I’m talking about, but don’t want to comment yet, in case you have the wrong end of the stick.  I’ll go into more detail, white lies, usually focused around pooh or sleep.  You’re all with me now aren’t you?  Please tell me it’s not just me.

You become aware of the lies quite soon into the new born stage.  I would say it happened about day five of The Beast’s life.  I’d spent a hard night jiggling, feeding, bouncing, rocking, cleaning sick out of bra, changing nappies, changing vests, changing sleepsuits, bouncing and feeding.  I’d had very little sleep.  At times, when it got to sticky to be just tipping the sick from my bra into the sink, I had been known to lie a screaming baby right next to Matthew whilst I changed. I may have  laid it right next to his face, and when he didn’t even appear to stir, I have climbed into bed accidentally kicking him.  Still he doesn’t APPEAR to wake up.

In the morning, he would leap out of bed “well, that wasn’t a bad night was it?”.  I think the mood following that was what is known as “stabby”.

We all know men are “supposed” to have this natural ability to sleep through a baby cry, but sometimes I just think they pretend not to hear.  However, they don’t suddenly lose their sense of smell…do they?

Nappies.  Pooh filled nappies.  Not my favourite part of being a parent, especially first thing in the morning.  When Fatty gets into a nappy routine, it’s like that for about a week, and right now his nappies are first thing in the morning, and around bath time.

So, when I stumble into his room at 6.45am to re-insert his dummy (no milk until 7am!), if I get a whiff, I may pretend it’s just stale air.  Why?  Because Matthew’s shift begins at 7am.  So I have sometimes just snuck back into my room and snuggled into bed without acting on my motherly instinct to put that wobbly little bottom in a clean nappy.

When the 7am shift change kicks in, Matthew gets the milk and heads to the nursery.  Now.  Here’s the thing.  Sometimes he will change the nappy, muttering, making “eurgh” noises, but sometimes…just sometimes…he  can come back into our room and disappear off into the shower (WITHOUT MY CUP OF TEA), leaving me with a complaining child and I end up doing the nappy.

Another example, would be perhaps I smell a whiff, just as I’m going to fake a necessary visit to the loo (with a quick game of DrawSomething to boot), but as I turn around, I see Matthew hurrying down the stairs with his arms full of laundry and rushing into the virtually sound proof utility room HE NEVER DOES LAUNDRY!!! Darn it.  I end up changing the nappy.  One of us suddenly has some pressing paper work/tidying/phone calls/nipping to the shop as soon as the sweet scent of dying animals makes it’s way across the room where the fat one is sitting read faced and grunting.

At night, as DH is about to come to bed the baby makes a noise, he’s just about to go to the loo, but I pretend not to have woken up, so he has to deal with him.  As a direct response to this, he feigns not hearing the noises over night, even though we both know he has because at one point he shakes me awake and tells me that the baby is crying.  In the morning I point this out, he denies all knowledge.  I’d believe him if he hadn’t also remembered me calling him a rude name.

Nappies and sleep, it’s become a competitive avoidance game, “it’s your turn”, no “it’s def’ you, I did the pooh 3 days ago” “I DID FIVE YESTERDAY”.  The daily battle is then interrupted by bargaining “if you wipe his bottom I’ll do the nappy”, “I’ve been at work all day!…YES, I know staying at home with the boys is work but…no, you’re right nobody has wiped snot on my shoulder…no, my phone conversation wasn’t interrupted by EXCUSE ME MUMMAY I NEED FIVE MORE CREAM BISCUITS OR I’LL DIE…oh ok” or my personal favourite “I’ll let you pick, you can either tidy the pots up from dinner, or go up to the child shouting on the landing”.

I’m assuming this stops as soon as they can wipe their own bottoms?  Or do I need to reserve a few for when it’s time to bargain out the “sex” talk, as I’m RUBBISH at “Rock, Paper, Scissors”.