Address: Wilbo's Clutches, Somewhere in Cheshire.
Telephone: Which one would you like? You can reach me in a manner of ways, as I'm a paranoid mother.
Date of birth: 25th January 1988, which makes me 24. But with the amount I am asked for my ID, you would think I was 12 and a teen mother: "Oh wow! I thought you were one of those teen mums." Oh fuck off.
Personal StatementFormer, functioning adult female. Now need coffee to survive the days and wine to survive the nights. Very friendly, especially when a suitable amount of sleep has been achieved. Can't remember how to have a conversation that doesn't include my son, his breastfeeding habits or the contents of his nappy.
I am able to complete daily tasks, such as applying mascara and publishing a magazine, without making too many errors due to lack of sleep.
I am not shy at all. Perhaps due to the fact that several people have seen my vagina now, and have also watched me poo on a hospital bed. In fact, that marked the state of things to come, as I haven't used the toilet for quite some time without an audience. It's actually the Jack Russell's enjoyment of staring while I wee that worries me the most.
A competent individual, I can effectively change a nappy without getting pissed on, I can recognise a Poo Face a mile off and my biggest moment so far was making a full roast dinner, on my own, while attending to a teething baby, an energetic terrier, and not burning either of us, or the food. I think you will find that impressive enough.
Wilbo's MamaJune 2012 - present
- My present role involves shaping a respectable member of society, who knows every word in the dictionary, eats all of his vegetables and helps old ladies across the road. I say this with unabashed optimism, as he currently can't even walk.
- One key task is to pretend I am indeed in fact a dairy cow. I am required to pump at least 22oz a day for His Lordship's consumption, while I carry out my other job, which brings in the money. I pretty much allow his full access to my udders and I can safely say that my milkshake brings all the boys to the yard. Well. A boy. And his Dad who looks on with distant memories and lust. Poor thing. Moo-ing not compulsory.
- I am required to understand what varying degrees of screaming and/or crying means, and must take instruction accordingly, along with additional sign language, by which I mean being twatted in the face, poked in the eye and having to watch my son as he shoves a handful of nature's spaghetti (my hair) into his gob with fury. Now consider self to be bilingual. I speak a little French too. Oui, mmm, baguette.
- I am highly skilled at dressing what feels like an octopus on Speed. Am able to fully coordinate tiny outfits, which make my son look like an infant member of One Direction, as opposed to a Baby Hobo, a look that his father seems to favour.
- I run a house and keep three men (of varying type and size) happy, clothed and fed. Have innate knowledge of the holy being that is The Washing Machine and use this more than recommended by Hotpoint. I also cook, but this has it's downfalls as I'm suspecting at almost five months' postpartum, that the "I just had a baby" excuse will no longer work towards explaining the size of my arse.
Interesting PersonI'd say from 2009-2012 (I really wasn't that cool a teenager)
- Took baths averaging three hours, that didn't include tiny humans or numerous bottles of Johnson's Baby something or other cannonballing into the bath with you.
- Could tell you who was in the Top 40.
- The worst pain I could fathom was stubbing my big toe or standing on an overturned plug. Ignorance is bliss.
- Had perky breasts and nipples that had a reasonable level of feeling.
- Nothing had yet escaped via my vagina.
- Had limited knowledge of the time that is 4:00am, unless under the influence of alcohol. Or in need of a half-asleep wee.
- Could easily spend wages on things of huge importance. Like nail varnish and Bacardi.
- When people asked me what I'd done at the weekend, I could tell them a story that they would care about.
- Expert sleeper.
- When you squint and drink too much, my stretchmarks look like Geri Halliwell's face.
- Can remember and even do four-part harmonies of every children's TV programme theme tune.
- Can tell you the current sexual tension between Handy Manny and Kelly, better than I can recount the plot of Geordie Shore.
- Bilingual - speak English, Babylish, basic French, and Handy Manny also teaches me Spanish on evenings and weekends.
- Expert at administering Calpol.
- Can restrain a scream when I realise there is baby poo on my hand.
- Making my baby laugh.