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 you’re avoiding a job.


There’s a job I need to do, and I really don’t want to.

I’ve been avoiding it for about three weeks, finding excuses, pretending it’s not on my list.  It’s not a big job, it won’t take long, half an hour tops, but by completing the task, it’s the end of a chapter, and it’s a chapter that I’m not sure if I’m completely happy to be finishing. (See what I did there? bringing in the old book thing?).


When your baby turns 3.


I started a long post on this, and I have just deleted it.  After all you all know that birthdays make me broody, and a little bit emotional.  You all know that every year my boys get older I go and start looking back at old scan and baby bump photos, the first picture I posted on Facebook, and even go and hunt out a teeny tiny nappy.  You all know this. So I’m not going to tell you all about it again (as I cry into my gin and tonic whilst looking at the first photo of my boys together).

Instead, I’m going to tell you about My Chunky Monkey.  My fat little boy who if you just see him in a supermarket car park whilst being karate chopped into his car seat, or in B&Q being carried in full plank (literally) kicking and screaming by a worn looking version of my instagram feed photos, you’ll think he’s horrible.  If you read my status updates about him poo’ing in the swimming pool, spitting, stomping his feet, answering back, not eating his dinner, changing his mind, screaming because he doesn’t want to leave his brother at school, shutting the toilet seat on my back because he doesn’t want me to go to the toilet, ignores people who say hello to him, systematically placing blueberries into the goldfish bowl to prove that he’s never ever going to eat them, you’d think he was horrible.

And he is.  Sometimes.  But he’s also three.

He’s three years old, with wild hair, and a very loud voice.  He always has snot on his cheek, and food on his clothes.  He refuses to potty train, or try fruit and veg, he wakes up in the night and does a medley of Wheels on the Bus, One Direction and The Superman Song. He answers back, scarily in the same tone of voice I’m using, and sends me to the hall (31 one minutes in the hall ON MY OWN? Yes please).

He’s three years old with a wicked sense of humour (both meanings of the word), he is a performer, an actor, a clown.  He’s smart, not only with both his numbers and letters, but also in how he knows how to push his brothers buttons in one easy sentence “No, I’m five and you’re three”. 

He’s three years old and when he dances the whole house shakes.  Especially as he does the official dance moves from the One Direction video.

He’s three years old and tells you every time he does a trump then laughs about it, his bum is so fat he needs size 4-5 pants, and his head is so big that when you try and help him into a top it takes about 5 minutes for it to pop through the neck hole.

He’s three years old and knows how to use the iPad better then I do, to the point where he’s managed to memorise the restricted access password so I can no longer lock him into a specific game.

He’s three years old and whilst I tell everyone that he will only ever drink milk or water he is also a “tup of tea” thief, drinking my tea and dunking his biscuits in whenever he gets the opportunity too.

He’s the three year old that when he doesn’t get his own way will face plant into a bucket of soil.

He’s three years old and the most loving cuddly little boy I know, pulling you in for a “big kiss big cuggle”, nuzzling into your neck with one arm holding you into a firm head lock, or grabbing your face for a full on kiss.  He strokes your hair and your face, and just runs up and after making a dinosaur or monster noise pulls you into a massive big fat hug.

He’s three years old and a clown, the Norm of the school run, where everybody knows his name.

But most importantly…

He’s three years old and in January will be eligible for free childcare funding for fifteen hours.

Hurrah!  Happy Birthday Chunky Monkey x