I see this phrase a lot on birthing and parenting blogs, testament to the fact that everyone with children needs help from time to time. We turn to family, friends, experts – Jonty and I didn’t wash Isaac for three days after he was born, until someone showed us how. Our tribe and its collective wisdom is there when we need to learn new things.

But my tribe is scattered. Singapore, Scotland, Spain, Sss-London. Always at the end of a phone line, but not necessarily on hand for a cup of tea and a hug.

This isn’t to say I’m alone and destitute in Singapore; Isaac has a rockin’ little hamlet contributing to his up-bringing. But we lack the knowledge of bigger numbers (and different generations) and the past seven months have been lonely and tough at times.

Hiring a nanny was supposed to make it better. Someone who knows lots about babies, someone to give me a break when Jonty’s work means 12 hours alone with the little fella. I had a list of indulgent things I was going to do once the nanny came: yoga, massages, pedicures. But it didn’t work that way.

I used the breaks from caring for Isaac to sit alone in my room and feel sad. I’d guessed I was struggling emotionally for quite a while, but I hadn’t really had the time or space to recognise it. But there’s no denying it now, my brain chemistry is baffled by its current predicament and that means it’s time to go to a doctor and get help.

When mothers struggled in the 70s the solution was to view their children through a valium haze – the wrong end of a telescope keeping life at arms’ length. Today the drugs are kinder, less intrusive, so here I am, prescription in hand.

It takes a village to raise a child. But sometimes you need Prozac too.

I feel instantly guilty, and hope he didn’t hear, but the words still came out.

His crying unravels something deep in my soul. I want so desperately to fix it, to make it stop, but at the same time I resent the cries for even existing. If they could be sucked back into the void, and that meant taking the baby with them, so be it.

I tell Jonty in the morning that I’d fantasised about running away in the night. I’d imagined finding someone who could love Isaac and take care of him, and I’d give him to them and just run and run.

The confession opened the floodgates and I’ve been crying ever since. I know these feelings are normal, I know everyone struggles at first, but I feel so desolate; so small and full of fear.

The pregnancy felt so easy, everything fit into place and made me strong. And the labour and delivery even more so. I’d never felt more aware, happy and certain of who I was and how I fit into the world.

Three weeks later I feel the exact opposite. I thought becoming a parent would be the same – not that it would be easy or I’d be perfect at it, but that it would feel right, feel like something I was meant to do.

I knew there would be sleepless nights and lots of feeds, but I was prepared for the physicality of it because that would fit into the framework of my new identity. I would be A Mum, and those are things mums cope with.

Except I don’t feel like a mum at all. I feel like a lost little girl who cries when her baby cries because she doesn’t know what else to do.

I can’t understand any of the things he tries to communicate to me. I constantly second-guess myself. I feel like any way I respond to him is wrong, and worse, I worry that my poor responses are somehow damaging his development or making him more likely to get upset.

I don’t know where to go from here, except to see if I can find some help. I need to know that I’m responding in the right ways to him, or I need someone to show me how I should respond if I’m doing it wrong. I need to know that he’s normal, that he doesn’t cry more than other babies, and that he’s going to cry less with time.

I need to rediscover my self-belief. I know it’s in there somewhere still, it always is. I need to dig it out and dust it off and let it make some of the decisions, instead of letting self-doubt continue to call the shots.

I need to take a deep breath and look at the sunshine and the new day and my new baby and *smile*.

Even if it’s only a half smile, tears still quivering at the corners, it’s a start.

It’s 7am and I’m sitting at the dining table sobbing and sobbing, little rivulets running down my neck and through the valley of cleavage to form reservoirs where they meet the big belly.

The reason? I can’t see how I can be financially independent AND be as good a parent as I want to be, and I can’t see how Jonty could pay my way and not resent it. (Especially when he said as much last night, albeit while he was drunk and angry at his nicotine cravings.)

It feels horribly tangled from a feminist point of view. I’m pondering the female version of emasculation (I found ‘exogynate’ on two sites online and quite like it) and whether such a word would even be applicable. I want to be independently able to fulfill a ‘typical’ female role, where I can dedicate myself to small children and running a home, but there doesn’t seem to be any way that adds up.

Edited to add:

(Especially when he said as much last night, albeit while he was drunk and angry at his nicotine cravings.)

This isn’t fair. We’ve since talked and we both imagined the other was saying “That’s my decision, not yours,” when in fact neither of us was thinking that. Sometimes it is good to go to bed angry, cos then you have time to re-approach conversations more rationally.

I don’t agree that a relationship can’t evolve from one state to another if those states are determined (by whom?) to be too different. Shrews and warthogs share a common ancestor – all that separates them is a tiny handful of gene mutations and many, many years.

Time. This is the all-important factor, wherever the relationship is heading. In a situation where one person wants to be poly and another is set against it, you either have the conversation and possible separation now, or you say “Maybe we’ll be poly in the future”. If the anti camp still feels the same when the future arrives, you’ll likely separate then instead.

But… time does change things, not least warthogs and shrews. Sometimes when a person says “Yes, but not now,” they really mean what they say. Rather than assuming that means “Not ever”, patience, understanding, baby steps and a willingness to pick yourself up from the falls can help you reach a place where things really have changed.

I know cos the boy and I lived it. “One day” was the point we worked towards for many years. It wasn’t a case of “No, no, no” followed by a day when we stripped off our clothes and tripped naked through fields of third parties. Rather we got there in small steps.

Things didn’t always work out the first time, but that didn’t stop us trying again once more magical time had passed. Things didn’t always go at the pace I’d like, and yeh, sometimes I was impatient and bratty about that, which was hurtful. But I never doubted that we wanted to get to the same place, and that certainty plus a belief in the parts of our relationships that didn’t involve a poly label, meant the invested time kept ticking by.

Eventually enough of it had passed that our relationship looked very different. To labour the evolutionary metaphor, we changed to become adapted to the environment we’d chosen to live in. We’re red in tooth and claw, baby, and raring to go.

And having talked specifically about change at the macro level of monogamy or polygamy, I think there’s a pretty important message in here about change at the micro level of day-to-day happiness, however you structure your relationship. If you don’t accept that the first is possible, you are presumably more likely to overlook the second.

By accepting the small changes that happen daily, you make your relationship reflexive and responsive. You’re far less likely to look up one day and wonder where the warthog reading the papers came from.

The other person categorised “up to 30” as “normal”, although personally I suspect that’s a little above average for their age group. But I didn’t see the benefit in trying to convince them, drunk and determined, that the truth might be otherwise.

However, they went on to say “You’ve obviously slept with loads more. I bet at least 50,” and there seemed to be value in pointing out that the true figure is somewhat lower.

My dear husband was a pleasingly even and divisible number 20, and I consider most of my whoring to have been done before I met him. Of course, we’ve been slutting it up together since then, but even so the figure has barely doubled. And that’s for a generous definition of sex – including all the girls (strap-ons or no) and plenty of boys where there were genitals but no actual penises in vaginas involved.

But the person I was talking to wasn’t interested in challenging assumptions – I’m a slut, and sluts have sex with lots of people. Quod erat demonstrandum. Thing is, I’m happy to be thought of as slutty, but I don’t think it comes down to notches on bedposts.

Perhaps instead it’s a question of sex with strangers? Another assumption I’ve discussed with a friend is the idea that I must have lots of one-night stands. In reality, the number of times I’ve gone out partying, met and fucked someone and never seen them again can be counted on one hand. It just doesn’t float my boat.

But if I’m not having sex with large volumes of unknown people, who am I fucking?

While I was doing the seating plan for the wedding I got bored and started thinking statistics. After omitting anyone ineligible (defined as related to me via blood or marriage, involved in my up-bringing in any way, or under the age of consent) I worked out I’d had sex with about a quarter of the guests.

I’m basically happiest fucking my friends, and will loyally continue to do so for years rather than seeking lots of new conquests. But some things that define me are traditionally perceived as slutty: I like to have lots of no-strings sex; I enjoy having sex with several people at once; I like watching my husband fuck people.

I’m also happy to talk about these things, from which point people join the dots backward to the types of assumptions above. Rightly or wrongly, it’s easy (and sometimes helpful) to categorise in this way.

I’ve said before I’m not too concerned about boxes; the only right or wrong I think we need to worry about is a sex life that makes us happy. Whether that means fucking lots of new people, a handful of friends, or one person for a lifetime doesn’t matter, just as the labels we choose and the tallies we keep are incidental.

We just need to accept that we are free to make honest choices about who, when and how we fuck, and we can embrace sluttery (in all its forms) at its happiest.

I felt rejected and frustrated, and kept trying to force myself on her (IRL she’s someone who’s a mixture of comfortable and coy about that kind of thing). Back in the dream, she and her boyfriend then tied me by my wrists between two poles.

I was on my knees with my arms pulled far above my head. I felt exposed and turned on, and confused about why I had been tied up. I begged the girl to get me off but she kept saying no. I woke up with my arms still aching.

I think it’s fair to say this dream represents a degree of sexual frustration. This pregnancy lark has thrown a real spanner in the sexual works. My body doesn’t respond to stimuli the way it used to, and everything is sensitive in a way I don’t know how to cope with (J accidentally brushed his hand against my nipples twice after I asked him to avoid them and I damn near killed him).

We are trying to start over without any expectations, but I almost feel I’ve forgotten what to do. Our roles feel different; I can’t figure out how our bodies relate to each other right now. I’d quite like to sleep with someone other than J – someone I don’t have such an emotional connection with – just to see if it helps.

J and I come at sex with other people from opposite viewpoints though. For him it is something that should be an addition to good sex at home – to want it when things aren’t so good is a rejection. For me changing the status quo when things aren’t so great is a positive way to refuel and bring energy back to the relationship between J and I.

Either way something needs to change. I can’t see the current situation being sustainable.

26-30 days post-ovulation

And skin, apparently. And a wee heartbeat. And the fucker’s making me fucking suicidal.

The mood swings are tough. Tougher than the nausea, though thankfully there are touch points that remind me this ISN’T depression.

Depression for me becomes 24/7. I can smile though it, but it’s always there. The bad feelings become background noise – I hear them whenever I listen, and the desire to submit to them is strong – but life limps alongside as best it can.

There is no such constancy with the bad feelings I have now. They flare up bright and strong and unfamiliar and utterly derail me. I have moments when everything stops and I’m completely lost, flailing for a handhold – the sense is definitely one that’s desperate and grabbing.

But they’re over quickly and then I’m ok. The happiness in between is real, not a smile papered over the cracks to keep people distant. Adjusting to the choppy nature is hard, as is not panicking when the waves hit me but I think mostly I can deal with it.

Amazing that such big differences can be wrought by such small changes in chemistry.

At what point does one trade a reluctance to inflict pain with a partner’s desire to be hurt?

What effect does that have on a relationship?

Ok, so it depends how reluctant. As with anything in life, if you truly don’t wanna do it, that’s gonna show. That’s not to say you shouldn’t try it to see, but if you keep doing something that leaves you cold I suspect it could have a fairly negative effect in the long term.

With reluctant SM specifically, your partner will likely respond badly to a complete lack of enthusiasm. At the same time you could start to resent him/her/it for asking you to do something that makes you uncomfortable, especially if they don’t even seem to enjoy it. Bad.

So let’s inch down the scale of reluctance to a more interesting spot. You’re kinda ok with giving it a go, but you feel nervous and self-conscious and not sure the whole thing’s for you.

You possibly have one or more of these concerns:
I’m gonna look like a dick
I’ll say or do something wrong and my partner will laugh at me
I’ll say or do something wrong and my partner will get turned off/be disappointed/not want to fuck me anymore
I don’t know where to start
I might hurt him/her/it

Right, first up – take some pressure off. The first time you play you aren’t gonna produce a mind-blowing, DVD-worthy scene, with you as inscrutable top and your partner as blissed out, quivering, pushed-to-her-limits bottom – so take that goal off the table. You can come back to it if you decide this sort of play is for you.

Rather, you need to practice. Everything you do outside your autonomic nervous system is a skill you learned at some point, and there is very little you can’t learn with time, patience and practice (you are a unique snowflake, also ).

One of the things paramount to practising is a bottom who’s not a dick, cos you’re also gonna need constructive feedback. A physically experienced bottom isn’t necessary but one who’s long been turned on by masochism is handy – she will have a rich seam of kinky fantasies for you to mine (yeh, she turned into a girl, better than pronoun vagueness). Start with a frank conversation about what turns her on. Then talk together about how that translates to something you’d be comfortable trying.

So if she wants to be spanked with a 4-foot broad sword, don’t run out to an armoury (what, there isn’t one on your high street?). Find a safe place to start – your hand is good bet.

Now remember this isn’t the Ultimate Scene, you are learning, practising. Smack your girl. Then stop. Ask her how it felt. Too hard? Too soft? Taking this into account, smack her again. Ask her how that was, what she’s thinking about, anything. Don’t worry if the pair of you collapse into giggles. Once you’re done wait a while then discuss how you both felt about the experience.

This all sounds pretty basic, I know, although the practising rather than performing approach holds true for anything new kinky people want to try. But where I’m really going is here: Don’t jump in at a point where you’re really reluctant. Start somewhere simpler and get comfortable at that level. You’ll often find the reluctance falls away, and suddenly the two of you are moving forward together rather than one of you being dragged along on the other’s ride.

How does this effect relationships? Approaching stuff you’re not sure about in a way that encourages masses of two way communication is never a bad thing. It builds up trust even if you don’t actually enjoy the experience you’re trying out.

Giving something a fair trial will be appreciated by your partner, and if you do enjoy it you are building a framework that allows you to learn together.

This is psychological advice, of course, although people treat it like it has mystical, medical relevance. I understand that if I post on facebook or tell everyone in my office I may find I have to respond to countless congratulations with an awkward “Actually, we lost it.” That would be unpleasant so I’m choosing not to share yet in those settings.

But I also realise that facing pain and social awkwardness is my decision, not something a doctor can prescribe against. In simple terms, the post below is supported by the fact that if I do miscarry, writing here will be one of the first things I do to figure out my feelings.

Hopefully it won’t come to that, although I’ve been freaking myself out googling fertility stats. For my age group, 1 in 5 confirmed pregnancies fail. Gulp. That’s much higher than I expected. In my favour: I not skinny, I’m not obese, I must’ve stopped smoking the minute I conceived (because it made me feel sick, our bodies are smart!) and for every 20 balls of cells that don’t make it, 80 go on to grow fingers and toes and force their way into the outside world.

Of course, all that forcing comes with its own set of worries… *frantically does kegels*

Two blue lines that I am staring at in the toilets at work, half jumping around, half panicking about what to do next. They aren’t the first lines – there were two earlier, pink ones.

The second pink one was so faint I hadn’t really believed it was there, and sort of hadn’t wanted to believe. But I checked the pack insert and it said however pale, consider yourself pregnant.

That hadn’t felt great, oddly. I’d been angry, sad, frustrated about the idea of leaving an amazing job 10 months after starting. Resentful that J would never have to make that career choice, or stop drinking, or completely remodel his body for the sake of a babe.

But then I took the second test, and despite all that initial negativity I found myself thinking “Please say yes, please say yes,” while I waited for the lines to appear.

And here we are. Two of us. Except the second of us is less than 1mm long and looks like this:

Neurulation at about 16 days post ovulation

In reality it was less like bad PMS than I’d been expecting. Some of the signs were similar – my boobs have been insanely sore and I’ve felt bloated – but the things that stood out to other people were stuffing myself with carbs, being oddly edgy, and feeling hungover without drinking. Based on those both M and J called it earlier in the week, but I didn’t believe either of them.

The strangest thing I’ve noticed is that I smell different. Not different as in bad – just that we each have our own scent (hence a perfume will suit one person but not another) but normally we don’t notice it cos we are exposed to it permanently. But a small change is enough that we can become aware of it again. For the past two weeks I’ve noticed the smell of warm skin moving around – weird and likely related.

$64,000 question – is it gonna affect our lifestyle? As long as people still want to fuck an edgy married pregnant lady, this edgy married pregnant lady is still gonna fuck.