About five months ago, I promised myself that I would not put on as much weight with this pregnancy as I did with the last one.   In retrospect, it was a hilariously ridiculous promise to make.  For I forgot about the insatiable hunger of the first trimester, and the fact that the only time I don’t feel sick, during the first few weeks, is when I’m eating.  And while I may have been craving things like tomatoes and mushrooms, I want them deep fried, covered in cheese, and washed down with full-fat lemonade.  And then I want jam doughnuts for pudding.  

 
The only thing positive thing that I have managed, regarding the promise, is to continue going to the gym.  On some days, it has been nothing more than a leisurely few lengths of the pool, but on other days I have managed to work out to pretty much the same intensity as I did pre-pregnancy, and haven’t really had to change my routine at all.  All well and good for now, but last time it fell apart at around the six month mark, and I only swam from thereon in.  So this time, I decided to consult an expert before that happens: Simone at the Virgin Active in Notting Hill, who is specially qualified in pre and post-natal training.  

 
The first thing she did was to dispel the myth that your heart rate isn’t supposed to go above 140 when incubating a baby.  Your heart rate can go up as high as it is used to going – so there’s no excuse for me to ease off on the cardio.  She then took me through a good range of squats, lunges, and various exercises to strengthen my back and keep my arms toned, the emphasis being on endurance.  (Well, labour is tough!)    

 
Otherwise, in terms of the body beautiful, my efforts are fairly superficial, but nonetheless important.  I have a proper bump now (and I know I do:  I got offered a seat on the tube) so the Basq Belly Oil is out in force – I’d forgotten how good it smells.  My nails have finally stopped splitting, and so can once again be painted pretty colours, courtesy of Posh Nails on the Portobello Road.  My skin still isn’t looking perfect – what is it with the spots?  I didn’t get them last time – but it’s beginning to look vaguely better.  Oh, and it’s sale time, my favourite time to shop.  Online.  While eating jam doughnuts.

Well, actually, there’s no ‘oops’ about it.  My hormones went haywire, and screamed ‘get pregnant! get pregnant!’ so insistently that we decided to throw logic and caution to the wind, and forgot about our initial thinking that a three year gap would be the ideal.  Baby number two is due on the 6th July; there’ll be twenty three months between it and Sholto.  I am beyond excited.

I do concede that it might be quite hard work, initially at least.  But Sholto spent the first year of his life accompanying me on shoots, to interviews, not to mention endless breakfasts at Cecconi’s and lunches at the Wolsely. (I miss those days.  He’s no longer even remotely restaurant-friendly, and I had to stop taking him to work when he learnt to crawl/climb and could therefore reach the photographer’s equipment.) The point is that I figure that his little sibling can spend the first year of its life accompanying Sholto on his play dates, and to Gymboree classes, Baby Picasso classes, and everything else – all from the comfort of Sholto’s Bill Amberg papoose.

Oh yes, because this time, I’ve already got everything.  Or at least, I’ve nearly got everything.  My husband’s first comment on seeing the pink line was “Okay, but, just so you know, we can’t afford for you to ‘nest’ this time, so don’t get any ideas about re-doing anything.” (He might have been referring to my accidental 38-week shopping spree on Walton Street. Or the fact that I persuaded him to spend a whole week sanding down and re-painting the banisters of our staircase.  Or the two weeks we spent re-painting the whole house . . . .)  However, this time I’d like one of those bassinet things that attach to my bed (forget the Moses basket), Sholto is going to need a bed so that the new baby can eventually go in the cot – and I’d love to get our skirting boards painted.  Today, I’m thinking charcoal grey.

And then of course, there’s me.  I’ve still got the cotton jersey skirts from American Apparel that did so well for my last pregnancy (they’ve had to go on rather earlier, this time – I started showing almost immediately) and a whole wardrobe of Issa and Anne-Louise Roswald silk jersey dresses.  However, as I no longer have to dress for the office, there’s rather less call for them this time around.  So I invested in a couple of bias-cut velvet maxi dresses (the Handwritten sample sale) which I’m wearing with long, over-sized cardigans.  Perfect for this time of year – and they’ll work when I’m not pregnant, too!  In terms of maternity tights, the Spanx ones are my favourite, alongside regular Falke 90 dernier in extra large.  I’m not that tall, so can pull them right over the bump.  (A lot of the other maternity tights don’t work properly for me as the bump is not yet big enough – and yet I still have to allow for it.)

However my absolute favourite bit of this pregnancy is that, now that I’m freelance, I can fit in a post-lunch nap with Sholto every single day.  It’s made dealing with the exhaustion SO much easier.  I’m fifteen weeks though now, and can feel the energy returning.  Hello second trimester.

Sholto is now Five months old, Christened (in a 200 year old family Christening gown), Christmased (in a Marie Chantal angel wing babygro) and sleeping through the night – hurray!

 

I am better rested, back at the gym (I realised that I need MTV and Shakira/ The Pussy Cat Dolls etc. to ensure that I’m motivated to becoming a She-Wolf/ Hot like a Pussy Cat) and working again (freelance, from home). Life is reassuringly similar to what it was pre-baby – even my social life: I just take Sholto with me to dinner parties, and leave him asleep in one of the bedrooms. In fact, it’s going so well that we’ve started thinking about number 2 . . . For which I figure I’ll be much better prepared, as I now know the following:

 

1.) One doesn’t actually need specific ‘maternity’ clothes. I wore maternity staples and transitional designers such as  Issa throughout. Although one does need good feeding bras though: Amoralia, & Elle McPherson get my vote.

 

2.) Apparently stretch marks aren’t obligitory – thank you Mama Mio. And one’s body really does return to normal, so I don’t need to worry about ribcage expansion during pregnancy, and cry over the apparent likelihood

that my clothes will never fit again.  Everything fits, including the size 10 Erdem dress I pre-ordered when nine months pregnant.

 

3.) Having a pony as a child is really good preparation for having a baby. If I didn’t go and muck Rainbow out first thing, she rolled in her poo.

 

4.) Baby sick doesn’t stain, and Mitsouku masks it, so one can wear Chanel.

 

5.) One doesn’t need to micromanage everything; the cleanliness of the house isn’t as important as I thought it was pre-Sholto. Dimmer switches exist for a reason. (I’m not sure how well this will work in the summer, but the point is that I’m considerably less OCD than I was.)

 

6.) Finally, the unconditional love I felt for Rainbow doesn’t even touch on how I feel about Sholto. I’ve never known anything like it. Which is why I need to have more babies.
The only question is where we’re going to put them?

 

I can see a busy few years ahead . . .

 

So thank you for all your messages, and goodbye, ’til the next time,

 

Fiona xx

Wow time flies. Two years ago, I was single, childless, mortgage-less . . . And now my first wedding anniversary is fast approaching, Sholto and I are still a single entity when it comes to going anywhere (so much for thinking that giving birth would end that!) and my husband and I have realised that we’re going to have to sell our flat and buy a bigger one if we ever want to give Sholto a sibling, which we do.

About the single entity thing: I’m over the initial shock, and thoroughly enjoying it. My ten week old child is actually quite good company. He comes to the cinema with me (Scream screenings at the Electric), we’ve managed several more gallery visits (his preferences are for Pop Art and Russian Constructivism, it’s all in the primary colour scheme and bold outlines) and he’s even attended a wedding. Then there are baby massage classes, baby rhyme time, and certainly I see a lot of my friends Melissa, Johanna, Willow and Annabel, and their children Iris, Ludo, Wolf and Olive (Sholto’s best friends. He has no choice at this age.) The Bill Amberg sheepskin papoose is perfect for exhibitions and going anywhere on the tube, for longer expeditions the Bugaboo Bee is doing brilliantly (mine is all black to go with most of the clothes in my wardrobe, but I’ve got a bright pink parasol, which I ordered having clocked the colour on the Milan Spring/ Summer catwalks.)
All this socialising very much puts the onus on me: but thanks to the Powervibe Studios on Westbourne Grove, and the odd jog down the canal (if you see a slightly podgy girl with a blonde pony tail running through the streets of North Kensington, chanting ‘my clothes will fit again’ over and over, that’s me) I’m almost back to my original dress size – discovering Hummingbird Whoopie Pies hasn’t helped the journey, necessarily . . . Meanwhile I’ve managed to go the hairdresser (you can totally breastfeed while getting your highlights done!), get waxed, and, as I can reach my toes

again, occasionally retain the energy to paint my nails once Sholto is asleep. There’s nothing like Chanel’s latest shade for distracting people’s gaze from one’s waist.
Aside from clothes not fitting, there are a few sartorial changes that need to be made when one’s constant companion is a breastfeeding baby. For instance, unless you want to spend half the wedding sitting in a loo cubicle shivering in tights and high heels, one’s back-opening silk dress hanging on a hook on the door, I would suggest wearing a dress in which you can breastfeed (I so should have worn the Issa cross-over number!)

Secondly, pushing a pram does not really leave a hand free to carry an umbrella – to which end I have taken delivery of a Philip Treacy leopard print

trilby, which I decided was the chicest solution.

Thirdly and finally, I definitely recommend getting a wipe clean handbag (check my last blog post!) I’m carrying an Anya Hindmarch metallicleather Carker in bronze/ gold – it looks great with the camel that is so in this season, and is further distraction from my imperfect waist. Oh, and it fits in a couple of nappies and a packet of baby wipes.
Have baby. Will travel.

Sholto is coming up for four weeks old. Which also means that it is four weeks since I had more than three hours of sleep at any one time . . . While exhaustion is accumulative, I do feel that I am approaching the light at the end of the tunnel. Taking advice-that-suits from Gina Ford and The Baby Whisperer, and with the invaluable help of both my husband and my mother, Sholto and I are certainly developing a pattern, if not a routine, to our days. There are moments when I have to take a deep breath (I was carrying him past where my handbag was sitting when he managed to be sick both over it and into it) but equally we’ve managed to achieve things, too. We’ve been out for a walk every single day since we came home from hospital. We’ve been shopping: Smythson’s (Sholto is writing his thank you notes on their adorable ABC cards; he has received so many presents and I do feel that it’s important that he should learn good manners – and good taste – at an early age!), the Matthew Williamson sample sale, and, on a more pedestrian note, Marks & Spencer, for microwave ready meals for me. We’ve been to the Serpentine Gallery (he didn’t wake up) and to watch graffiti artists under the Westway (he still didn’t wake up – art appreciation is obviously going to have to wait.) Most amazingly, my husband and I managed to go out for lunch at our local tapas restaurant, with Sholto in his Bugaboo beside us.

 

I’m not yet a size 10 again, which is disappointing, as I fantasised that my body would just ping back (the same way that I thought I’d go from svelte to Angelina Jolie-pregnant-earth-mama without the ‘is she fat or pregnant?’ stage in between) but, rather like everything else concerning having a baby, it was a symptom of my naivity. However, I am en route: I lost a stone immediately (admittedly everyone does) and have lost just over half a stone in the four weeks since then. There is still a stone to go. But I brought out the Spanx on the two occasions that we’ve had friends over for dinner, and our guests swore blind that I looked exactly as I did pre-pregnancy! (I should mention that they’re very, very good friends, and that my Yves Saint Laurent black patent belt tells a different story, one involving my waist still being 4 inches bigger than it was. even with the Spanx . . . ) It would help if I cut down on cupcakes from the too-close-for-control Hummingbird Bakery – and I’m going to have to, for the Christening is booked for late October, and I am determined that I will wear the Erdem skirt and jacket that I wore as my going-away outfit for my wedding; it will be our wedding anniversary, so it seems appropriate.

 

My mother, who’s deeply into natural cures and ‘not rushing things, darling’ (she even heals the animals at home with crystals, to the occasional chagrin of my sister, who is a vet)  has been reading up on what I should be eating.  Despairing of my addiction to ready meals (no preparation! no washing up! they’re edible with one hand while breastfeeding!) she has been making sure, when she’s around, that I eat lots of prawns and lots of chicken, along with brown rice and plenty of vegetables. But despite all that goodness, my

body is still showing occasional signs of post-birth suffering.  For instance, my skin has become alarmingly dry. So the minute Sholto is down in the evening I’m straight in the bath with Mama Mio Body Buff, followed by Mama Mio O-Mega Oil, and O-Mega Wonder Balm on my elbows, knees and cuticles. Thank God I stocked up! (And I knew that someone else would sort out the food if I failed to . . . . ) 

 

Finally, I have one very important tip for this immediate post-partum period: unless you live right next door to a drycleaner, and are happy to spend thousands with them, don’t wear Chanel (or indeed anything else that you care about and that can’t go in the washing machine!)

 

P.S. In the excitement that is Sholto, I clean forgot about the sweetpeas. I’m ashamed to say that they have died. Fortunately I seem to be a better mother than I am horticulturist.

I wrote last week’s blog still high on the post-birth rush of hormones. Those same hormones – or perhaps slightly different ones, I’m not an expert – then reduced me to a soggy mess of tears of exhaustion and incomprehension in the face of a seemingly permanently crying/ hungry baby, who’s nappy needed changing almost hourly and who has developed an amazing ability to be sick all over both of us, on an unerringly regular basis.

 

Fortunately, Sholto’s health is not in question. He is gaining weight in a manner that makes the midwife smile, and is already more than he was when he was born. And I managed to get through all of yesterday without crying once. Two things have helped enormously, and made all the difference to the hours I seem to spend breastfeeding:

1.) I have rigged up my laptop in the nursery. Not only can I now reply to emails while the baby is feeding, peruse Mumsnet for tales of new mothers having a much worse time than me

(whichshouldn’t make me feel better, but it does), I can also watch DVDs. Thank God I didn’t get into box sets while I was waiting to give birth – else what would I be watching now? (I can also internet shop, but my husband has started reading this blog so I don’t want to give details – suffice to say that I have been perusing the new collection on this site, however!)

 

2.) There’s an article in the September issue of Vogue, by Frances Bentley, on meditation. Now, I’ve never really been into meditation before – I don’t even have the patience for yoga – but I read the article at half past four one morning, while feeding, and it struck a nerve. These past couple of weeks it has become blindingly apparent that I no longer have any control over my life – oh, I can try, but ultimately I’m at the mercy of a baby with no cognitive ability who lives by a four hour clock as opposed to our twenty four hour clock – and suddenly meditation seemed like a very viable coping mechanism. “I’ll go to some classes when Sholto is a little older and I can leave him,” I thought – but the author of the piece very kindly took the time to point out to me that I could still achieve something even with a baby on my breast, and suggested that I just concentrate on breathing in and out. I don’t do this at every feed, but certainly I’ve been doing it at night. It relaxes me enormously, and, as a bonus, it seems to help Sholto too. He goes straight back to sleep when he’s finished suckling.

 

On a more practical level, and for anyone who is expecting their baby soon, the one thing I have discovered is that I need more of everything. More babygros (Mothercare for everyday, Marie Chantal for visitors), more front opening night dresses (Sholto is perfectly capable of being sick twice in one hour!), and, definitely, more sleep . . .

Sholto Isambard Tatlin Allardyce Steel was born on Saturday 31st July, at about eight o’clock at night, weighing seven pounds nine ounces. My labour was textbook: I woke up in the morning having very mild contractions approximately fifteen minutes apart; my waters broke in a gush at half past ten on standing up from the breakfast table; by two o’clock the contractions had become properly painful, and at about half past four we realised that it was time to head for St. Mary’s. I was put straight into the birthing pool, and a lot of gas and air later, was presented with my son.

 

I realise that it makes it sound very easy, and in a way it was. However I don’t want to gloss over everything in a totally unrealistic fashion; yes, giving birth is the most painful thing that I’ve ever done – but, even immediately afterwards, my thoughts on the pain were “Well, it could have been worse.” And yes, there are those unattractive things that happen that one worries about beforehand, and, well, yes they do happen. But you know what? In the grand scheme of things, they become totally unimportant. (If anyone would like specifics, I am more than happy to answer questions, but I’m not going into details in a public domain!)

 

And, now on day six, my body is well on the way to recovery (I can recommend arnica pills, incidentally – they really help with the post-birthing ache) and the breastfeeding and changing routine is becoming almost second nature. Of course I’m tired – make that exhausted, even – but Sholto makes everything more than worthwhile. The greatest surprise has been the overwhelming love and protective urge that I feel for him. You see, I’ve never really been particularly interested in babies – I’ve always preferred puppies and kittens – and one of my greatest worries in the later stages of pregnancy was that I wouldn’t have any maternal instinct. It turns out I do.

 

I’m still desperate for my body to feel like my own again. And I don’t care if saying this smacks of vanity when I should still be marvelling at the wonders of nature. I know that I’m voicing the opinion of many, many women. What I can say is this: having beautiful nightwear and attractive nursing bras makes an enormous difference in the immediate post-birth period (my mother is very jealous of my Amoralia numbers – “We had nothing like that in my day darling – mine were all hideous!”) There is plenty of time for long baths and the slathering on of one’s favourite moisturiser while the baby is asleep. Oh, and empire line dresses with pretty cardigans are still the key to daytime dressing – it would be too cruel to force my body into Spanx straight away.

 

What I have got to do is work out which of my clothes are going to work for breastfeeding. Issa cross-over dresses are a definite, but I’d like to see what else I can find in my wardrobe. And in the September issue of Vogue, out now with all the new collections . . . .

I’ve started cleaning. Finally. And it’s as if I can’t stop. The only thing getting in the way is my enormous stomach – why this instinct only kicks in four days before my due date, I just don’t know. It would have been much easier even a month ago!  But no matter.  And between scrubbing the bath, bleaching the kitchen sink, and persuading a spider family that they would prefer to live with the sweet peas than with us, I have also been on a throwing out session, which I’m counter balancing with some serious stockpiling.

However, I don’t seem to be stockpiling food, or anything else that would be useful for us as a family.  Rather, I’m ensuring that I have enough Clarins, Kerastase, Basq and Mama Mio products to last me for roughly the next year.  God forbid I should run out of serum.  I’m not buying for the baby in quite the same way, as that would be tempting fate (we’ve only bought enough nappies to last a week, even) – also, while I don’t mind my husband knowing how much baby stuff costs, I live in fear of his discovering how much I spend on myself.  He’d doubtlessly suggest I substitute butter and olive oil for the pretty pots and bottles on my dressing table.

 

But my newly acquired sudden burst of energy is not only being directed into cleaning.  I’ve also been spending lots of time with my husband, which has been lovely.  I would advise anyone who is in the same position as me, i.e. on the verge of giving birth, to do the same, if they can.  It suddenly struck me – it’s not going to be just the two of us again for years!  We went to the Tate Britain on Sunday, and looked at the jet fighters currently on display in the ground floor galleries.  Andrew took photographs of our reflections – I look even more enormous than I actually am!  And last night, we went on a proper date: dinner and the theatre.  There’s a trilogy of plays about Afghanistan on at the Tricyle Theatre in Kilburn – The Great Game – which I can definitely recommend; not only are the plays brilliant, but one can park easily and the theatre itself, with it’s air conditioning, padded bench seating and ample leg room,  is perhaps the most comfortable theatre in London for someone who is thirty-nine and a half week’s pregnant.  We saw part one, I guess whether or not we manage to see parts two and three is entirely dependent on when this baby decides to make his appearance . . .

 

In the mean time, there’s more cleaning to do – oh, and I need some more scented candles, too, and I’ve had the most genius idea:  I’m going to order them from Mama Mio, and claim that they’re for the baby, an essential . . .

So much for saying I was ready – I knew it was tempting fate!

 

First, I had to go back to the office this week, to find a new maternity cover. I went straight in after my 38 week check-up, at which I discovered that the baby is now ‘engaged’; the bump has quite literally dropped, making walking anywhere significantly trickier. Numerous potential fashionistas have been interviewed by a giant waddling mama, occasionally clutching at her extended belly (Braxton Hicks contractions!) asking desperately, “How soon can you start work?”

 

By yesterday, I was quite tired, even though I wasn’t doing full days. I had a dizzy spell in the morning, and came home. I still managed to faint yesterday late afternoon, and fell quite heavily (I’m not sure how I’d fall ‘lightly’ at my current weight) and started having much more painful contractions. My husband was at work, I was alone, and I panicked, and rang my mother, begging for reassurance. My mother, ever pragmatic when it comes to medical emergencies, replied “Darling, I’m in Yorkshire, I really think you should ring the hospital if you’re worried as there’s very little I can do from here.” The hospital suggested that I should come in.

 

Of course, when I wrote last week that I was ready, what I really meant was that I’d done everything but pack my hospital bag. I’d have plenty of time in the early stages of labour, I reasoned. Well, for all those who think that they can leave it until then, I suggest you reconsider: being in pain, confused and crying is not an ideal set of conditions for making rational choices. I packed nothing but Rabbit, the toy I have had since birth (and incidentally have no intention of sharing with or giving to the baby), The Forsyte Saga (which I’m 20 pages away from finishing so it wouldn’t really keep me entertained for long), the entire top of my dressing table, and finally a clean pair of knickers (silk, Myla, with frills – hardly the sensible disposable ones that we’re recommended to wear immediately post-birth.)

 

Fortunately, around two o’clock in the morning, after a variety of tests for both me and the baby, my husband and I were told that the whole thing was a false alarm, that I was not hours away from giving birth, and that we could go home again – oh, and that I am to rest, properly.
Which I will do, just as soon as I have actually packed the hospital bag!

This is tempting fate, but I’m going to say it anyway: I think I’ve got everything. I have literally been running around London like someone possessed, but now everything is bought, assembled, ready and waiting.  The nursery is finished –  bookshelves are up,  pictures hung, cot made up, and, thanks to my Grandfather, we have even got an air-conditioning unit in there.   And my underwear drawer is host to nursing bras, matching knickers, and, most excitingly, post-pregnancy Spanx, waiting for the moment I can squeeze them on and start on the return journey to being a size ten.

 

I’ve also booked all my ‘final’ beauty appointments – I want to look as pretty as possible in the endless photographs which will doubtlessly be taken in the aftermath.  I’ve put on about two and a half stone in total, which I think is at the higher end of recommended weight gain, but not a disaster.  I am desperate to lose it though – as I’m sure most mothers are – but when I asked the midwife at my antenatal class when I could start exercising again , i.e. at what point it is safe (I’m envisaging jogging down the canal between breast feeds) she looked at me like I was slightly insane and just said “Trust me, you won’t want to.”  Well, I don’t believe that:  my friend Jo, who had her baby two months ago, says that she feels ready to go back to the gym, which gives me great hope.  Obviously I’m not suggesting that I want to run the marathon anytime soon – or indeed ever, actually – and nor am I going to starve myself in anyway which would affect my milk supply – I just want my clothes to fit again.  On the plus side, though, regarding toll on my body, I don’t seem to have acquired a single stretch mark – which I feel I owe entirely to Basq Belly Oil. I’ve just ordered more as it’s important to carry on nourishing ones skin even after the birth – it smells heavenly, too.

 

And so, at 38 weeks, I’ve realised that it’s finally time to stop shopping (as I mentioned, I have everything, anyway) and working.  As for that last, I have, in any case, suddenly become very stupid – things like completely forgetting to pick my car up from the garage after it had been MOTd, even though I had set out especially on that errand; telling my husband that we had no hot water and that the boiler must be broken when, in fact, I’d turned our mixer tap the wrong way.

 

No, my aim for the next however long is very simple:  finish reading the Forsyte saga while lying on the sofa, go swimming every day to make sure that I sleep as well as possible, and then, Operation Bring On Baby:  fresh pineapple, curry and raspberry tea; lots of going up stairs (that will be quite easy for me – we live on the 5th floor and our lift is broken); finally, lots of xxx with my husband . . .