It’s amazing how when your child is born you cannot wait for their first birthday…when they’re talking, moving, laughing, playing, producing fully-formed turds…
Have two birthday cakes and eat one of them all to yourself. Without using your hands. Just stick your face in the middle and eat your way out. Tell yourself you look sexy.
Failing that eat an extra-large Toblerone like a Peperami.
Plan a day out together as a family. At the pub. Without the baby. Or your husband.
Do look at photos of your baby at just a week or two old and compare them to the chubby, angry, cat-lassoing toddler stood in front of you with rice-cake enamelled to their eyelid.
Be drunk*. Obviously.
*Just the right level of drunk to maintain a smile but not pass out whilst riding Colin the Snail and asking if anyone can tell your tits look lopsided from ‘favouring the left’ throughout breastfeeding.
Insist EVERYONE brings a bottle. Failure to do so is punishable at the door by stabbing.
Don’t invite any of your pregnant friends. In your delicate state you’re at serious risk of letting them know what it’s really like.
Wear enough ‘hold-it-in’ underwear to make your eyes bulge and fish shamelessly for complements. Also dress like a slut and wear 6-inch heels… (where the f@*k else are you going to wear them…)
If you’re inviting other babies, have a separate area. Or cage. Away from the alcohol.
Forget pass the parcel; for entertainment, subtly remove your child’s nappy and play a bit of poo roulette…
Remain drunk until the guests’ alcohol runs out a week or so later.
Remember not to have another baby this close to f@*king Christmas.
Remember not to have another f@*king baby.