Once upon a time, I was a clean person.
I wore freshly laundered clothes, happily bereft of stains and pulls and holes. I washed and blow dried my hair at least twice a week, with the added goodness of a straightener and styling product thrown in from time to time for good measure. Ablutions abounded - brushing, flossing, plucking, cleansing, clipping, toning, exfoliating, conditioning, shaving and moisturising.
During pregnancy (when I became a shiny, oversized balloon woman) my cleanliness and self-maintenance schedule shifted. Trips to my hairdresser went down, attempts to ward off stretch marks went up. I tried everything I could get my hands on: oils, lotions, cremes and creams, soaks, treatments and scrubs. While my hips and thighs are living proof that my attempts were futile, I was sure as heck one nice smelling pregnant lady.
Since Buggy came along, my standards have naturally slipped. In the last five months, my hair has descended into the untamed category and the only pair of jeans my postpartum hips will fit into have developed a serious undiagnosed spotty rash. The hood of my hoodie has also proved its worth as a spew catcher, but that's something I'd rather not remember in too much detail.
I was just acclimatising to my new messy world of spew, milk, unidentifiable liquids and unpleasant nappies (or diapers, for those of you playing at home in the United States) when solid food turned up and crashed my party. DARN YOU FOOD!