Now I'm bilingual.

During a recent evening feed my baby invented a new game. It goes a little something like this: baby scratches my arm. I say "no" and pull baby's hand away. Baby laughs. Baby scratches my arm. I say "no" and pull baby's hand away. Baby laughs. Baby scratches my arm ...

I thought I'd give "no"a test drive since my more common phrases of "don't pull mummy's hair please", "don't scratch mummy's face please" and "don't attempt to throw yourself backwards out of mummy's arms please" didn't seem to be achieving the desired results.

When did I start talking in the third person? My use of language has changed so much. I was adamant I wasn't going to speak to M with baby talk (to help him gain a rich vocabulary and sophisticated sentence structure, you understand) but I have failed. New words have been coined to replace words which were already perfectly reasonable and up to the job. Not only do I use these new words with the baby, but with grownups too. It's just easier that way.

And another thing. I'm not sure I care about what other people do with apostrophes anymore, either.

Oh, how my standards have fallen.

I am currently wearing a top which has a mysterious stain in the bottom left hand corner. I have no idea what it is or how it got there. All I do know is that I spotted the stain well before I left the house and wore it anyway. I figure that it's the least of my worries.

Don't get me wrong. I've never been what you would call immaculate. My phobia of ironing attests to that. (If you hang out washing on hangers you will never need to iron again. Ever). (But you can't just hang it any old which way. You have to pay attention to the line of the shoulder seams). However, wandering about in such attire means that I have sunk to a new low.

Have you ever picked up a glossy magazine and read an interview with someone impossibly chic? Maybe a buyer for a boutique or a designer for a new label. If you could describe your look in three words, what would it be? Sexy. Sophisticated. Feminine. Of course. Before M was born I had condensed my look into three words too. Not. A. Castaway. Heck, I'm a realist. Now with this latest turn of events I can't even aspire to that. Maybe I should stop washing my hair and be done with it.

The soy bean is not my friend.

Hands up who knew bread contained soya flour. Not me. I've been so busy trying to avoid entanglements with dairy during our trial that I didn't think to check the label on something I eat all the time. Cue yet more interrupted feeds and incessant crying due to painful wind.

On the face of it, trying to steer clear of soy looked pretty easy, seeing as it tastes of pureed cardboard. No, wait. Cardboard which has been left outside in the rain, torn into strips, boiled down to a pulp and sieved through a muslin cloth to create pure essence of cardboard. You get my drift. I won't labour the point.

Now that M and I are at the end of our dairy and soy free dietician-endorsed experiment (silly mistakes aside) I think we can safely say it worked. Naturally, I am thrilled that we've finally got to the bottom of it. My excitement fades as I contemplate a future devoid of decaf lattes, Cadbury delights, blueberry muffins, hot buttered toast and cream of tomato soup. I am making up for these glaring omissions in my diet by ingesting vast quantities of ginger nut biscuits.

The only alternative is to give up breastfeeding, but as I've fought so hard to keep it going I'd rather carry on, for now. Anyway, we're preparing to wean shortly, so no doubt that will be a whole other kettle of sushi (minus the soy sauce).

Oh man.

Today I met the woman I am in my head.

She of the ethically-conscious, environmentally-responsible, sling-wearing type. She exists! She has swaddled three sons in cloth nappies. She buys ethically sourced wooden toys for their amusement. For the love of Pete, she feeds her family vegetarian food lovingly cooked from scratch. (I suspect that she knits too). In all honesty? She reminds me of all I am not. I want to hate her guts. I can't. She's too nice. Damn.

See? This is what comes from attending parent and baby groups. Next time I feel the urge to converse with another human being over the age of six months I shall sit on my hands until the feeling passes.

Everything is changing and I don't feel the same

One of the many, many things I wasn't prepared for was the tiredness.

At the beginning, the kind that hits you like a bus. The kind that induces migraines, uncontrollable sobbing and sharp words to visiting mothers who were only trying to help. Now, the kind that settles into your bones. I wonder if I will ever sleep properly again. I wonder if M will ever have a bedtime earlier than ours. I wonder if we will ever be able to watch The King's Speech from start to finish. At the moment it's only snatched episodes from Gavin & Stacey or Sean Lock's 15 Storeys High (which is brilliant by the way).

Everything from my life pre-baby seems to have changed. Not a complaint - just an observation. I used to read books. For fun. To pass the time. Now if I can get in a paragraph from the NHS Birth to Five booklet during the evening feed I consider it successful. I used to be able to dedicate a few hours, consecutively, to cleaning the house and admiring my sparkling windows/mirrors/hair. Now if anyone comes to visit I panic about the state of the hand basin. When did I last wave an all purpose wipe in its direction? Will they notice the state of the rug? Will they notice the state of me?

Everything is different and I'm just not used to it yet. I wonder if I will ever be.