PCOS & Me: A Chewbacca Story

(WARNING: This post contains girl talk.  If you get squeamish, don’t read.  You’ve been warned! 🙂 )

My monthlies have been up shit creek my whole life.

Since the age of 11, they have been totally unpredictable, painful, and a total pain in the arse.

“You’re a woman now” my mum told me when the curse came for the first time; “you’ve got forty-odd years of this”.

I cried for about a week, I thought my life was over.  I would never again wear my white pedal-pushers(early noughties, Donnay jumper, Tammy sandals, I looked the tits.  Well I thought I did) and I would never EVER swim again.  EVER.

Periods.  The curse.  The crimson tide.  Whatever you want to call it, its a fact of life, and its there, every day, turning members of the sisterhood into emotional angry crazy bitches on a regular basis.  (Think The Walking Dead is scary?  Try Soft Play full of premenstrual mums.  Far FAR scarier)

A diagnosis of Polycystic Ovary Syndrome at a young age confirmed my lady parts weren’t working as they should.  The doctor I saw at the time just gave me a prescription for the Pill and sent me on my merry non ovulating way.

Whilst its common, may I just say – I hate that term.  Yes, it may be common, but it accounts for so many things and causes so many emotional and physical symptoms, to an individual it can be crippling.  To a teenage me, when everyone else was skinny, clear skinned and looking amazing and I was a fat, spotty grease-ball, it knocked my confidence badly.

Acne was a huge issue from age 15 up to last year, age 30.  I tried just about every lotion and potion going and nothing worked.  Having a baby and going hormone free seemed to fix it but I think I just grew out of it in the end.

I wish I’d grown out of the puppy fat, that never went.

Trying for a baby was a nightmare, that took three years and a lot of drugs, according to doctors I don’t ovulate but we got lucky(excuse the unintentional pun) and we had one lucky egg.

For me, the most noticeable and bloody annoying part of PCOS?

Hair.  So.Much.Body.Hair.

My bikini line starts at my eyebrows and ends at my toes.  I’m hairier than my husband and that’s not a fact I’m proud of.

The mancub took my socks off the other day, pointed at my toes and shouted “oh mummy, wow, SPIDER”.

Dammit, no tarantula there son, just ridiculous hobbit-like hairy toes.  Awkward.

PCOS is something I’m not completely well educated in, but I believe it is something to do with insulin resistance and some sort of hormone imbalance.

Whatever it is, I am Teen Wolf’s doppelganger and it’s not cool.

I’m too embarrassed for waxing and I’m not ashamed to admit I’m ashamed.  The thought of going into a salon and having someone ripping the hair out of my body fills me with dread.

So, shaving it is then.  Hubbo always comments and says its like a Gorilla has been shaved in the bath after I’ve been in.  Cheers babe.

The last time I was waxed I was brave enough to let the nice(hmmm questionable) lady to wax my arm pits.  She seemed nice enough, I felt comfortable.

When I took my t-shirt off she gasped.  She fucking gasped.

“I’ve never seen so much hair there, I may have to trim it first” she said.

Oh, the shame.

I joke and say that it looks like I have Bob Marley in a headlock, but its not that long.

Armpit dreadlocks are a thing right? I could totally rock that shit.

🙂 Lx

The Bloggerhood…

I’m only a few weeks into blogging, it’s still all very new to me, and I feel like a complete newbie!

Up until now my social media has been limited, and I feel like it’s painting a not so real picture of life, and that’s how Pass The Prosecco Please was born.

I love writing and always have done, and I read a lot of blogs.  So the next natural step was to have a stab at it.

I’ve tried before, and my attempts were complete shithouse.

Previous attempts were always me trying to write what I thought people wanted to read; and not true to myself at all.

So I decided that PTPP would be anything and everything I want it to be. 

I’m a mum, wife, bookworm, computer nerd, and cat lady.

I’m a sarcastic, depressive miserable bitch.

I’m poorly and I don’t know why.  I’m a huge festering pile of fatigue and pain.

But I’m a motherfucking Queen and I rock the shit I was born with.

The bit I am loving about blogging is the Bloggerhood.

It’s great to meet people in the virtual sense, and gain support, tips and all sorts, and I’ve been blown away with how much of a community it is.

For me this isn’t just a blog, it’s therapy, an outlet, and I’m proud to be a part of the Bloggerhood.

Happy Sunday bitches!


Becoming a Mummy( Part 1)

I’ve been trying to write my birth story for a while.

The truth is, it was over two years ago and I’m still so traumatised by it I can’t seem to get it out.  I think about it every day, it truly haunts me.

My kitchen window looks out onto my little garden, it’s not huge, but it’s green and it’s outside, that’s enough for me.  Sometimes when Big D is being his usual irritating self and hanging around making me feel miserable, I catch myself staring into space, having a good think.  Today was no exception.

I started thinking about when I became a mummy.  

Me and the hubbo didn’t think we could have children, to this day I still don’t ovulate but I had one lucky egg in February 2014.  And a lot of wine on the hubbo’s birthday… And seven weeks later we had the shock of our lives.  

I was booked in for a laparoscopy in March 2014 to try and see why my ovaries wouldn’t release any eggs.  I was gowned up, ready to be wheeled in, and the nurse said she had best check my wee just to make sure.  She walked into the ensuite loo, was chattering away about how she’d make me a lovely cup of tea when I woke up.  And she went quiet.

“Oh.  Blimey” she said, followed by a long pause.

“Umm, did you know you’re pregnant?”

I cried, hubbo cried, she cried.  “Congratulations” she said.  But in my head it was just another of my bodies wicked tricks.  There was something seriously wrong and my body thought it was pregnant.

I’m going to die, I thought, it’s really bad.

Pretty much the whole hospital came in to congratulate us, hug us, kiss us, but I was so scared.  Yes, I’d pissed on six sticks by this point, but I still didn’t believe it.

My consultant, the amazing Mr P came in, said that the surgery wouldn’t go ahead and he was going to scan me.  Off we plodded to the scan room, everyone smiling at us, I just felt numb.  I was in total shock.

I lay on the bed, cold jelly squeezed over my tummy, over the pen marks where I had been marked for surgery.  Hubbo held my hand.  We watched the screen, and then we saw it.

A little baked bean.  Bobbing about in my belly.

And then we heard the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard.  The little bean had a heartbeat.

I cried, hubbo cried.

“Well, congratulations” said Mr P, “you are going to have a baby, well done Mummy and Daddy”.

I was happy, I was over the moon.  But I was SCARED. What if something happened?  

This was my one shot at being a mummy, and I wouldn’t relax until our baby was here.

To be continued… x


Thursday Thought: Am I a good parent?

I’m still getting used to Twitter, I’m fairly new to it, and I’ll admit I love it, I must have lived in some sort of Twitter-shunning cave for the last few years.

This morning I’ve seen quite a few #thursdaythought posts and there is all sorts from all sorts of people.

This got me thinking about my life, who I am what I am, and all sorts of related deep shit.

Thinking about what I am, first and foremost?

A parent.  A mum.  That’s what I am.

No, it isn’t who I am in the physical or emotional sense, it doesn’t define me, but it’s my main job and my life.  That little smelly fartbox is the love of my life and he needs me for everything.

Simply put, being a parent is simple.  Keep your child happy, healthy and loved. Boom. 

Reality? It’s very fucking hard.

Those days where you feel like shit on a stick and you hurt so much you can’t move?

Tough.  You cook, clean, play trains and generally wing it whilst pondering how bad you actually feel.

Those days where you dress your child in their smartest bestest outfit, and yourself too?

Poo explosion.  Shit of mass destruction.  Your clothes and theres are covered.

At the moment we are right slap bang in the Terrible Twos, aka ACTUAL LIVING HELL.

Don’t get me wrong, when the kid is asleep or sweet for two minutes and I go all soppy and doe-eyed and forget how awful he can be, but holy fanny flaps he is vile at the moment.

We have a dividing wall between the kitchen and front room, and this morning he just keeps banging it.  It’s like Chinese torture.  How I haven’t lost my shit yet I don’t know.

He just will not listen, everything is a tantrum or a no.

What’s strange is, when he misbehaves, or plays up, it hurts my heart.  It’s my fault, I’m a terrible parent for making him that way.

And that’s parenthood.  You constantly feel like despite giving your best you haven’t done enough.  Doesn’t matter what you do, it’s never enough.

It’s hard to remember that these little people we create are simply moulded by us, and we can’t be responsible for everything they do, they grow and learn all the time and have their own personalities built in.

Am I a good parent? Who knows.
But I rock the SHIT out of being the best parent I can be.

Diary of an imperfect mum

Hydration for the nation

I’m so shit at keeping hydrated.

I’ve never been encouraged to keep drinking and how important it is not to get dehydrated and I am basically a walking advert for dehydration daily.

I’ve mega lost my ability to tell the difference between hunger and thirst, and the new tablets seem to be really helping, 

I’m trying to be mindful when I eat or drink, instead of just letting auto pilot take over, I’m asking myself; do I need to eat this? Am I really hungry? am I thirsty?

I’m not denying myself anything, I’m just trying to retrain my body and it’s so hard!

This morning for breakfast I did the mancub two slices of toast as normal, then I went to do myself two slices.  But it was auto mode again – I wasn’t that hungry, just giving my body what it needed.  So I had one slice and that’s all I wanted and needed.

I’ve spent my whole life seeing food as something to do to cure hunger, and not to fuel my body and brain, it’s hard to change but I want to and really need to.

I’m finding nutrition fascinating and especially at the moment how what you eat fuels your brain and what is ideal brain food.

I’m not going to lie I’m not eating flax seeds and berries etc. as well as I would like, my aim is to reduce processed food and refined carbs going forward but for now it seems important to get my brain and stomach back on the same page and then see how it goes.

I have a lovely HydrateM8 bottle which is a brilliant idea, but the bottle is HUGE and not practical to take out and about. Boo.

So I’m back to simple measures and counting 250ml glasses.

It’s amazing how poor diet and lack of water impacts the body, in myself I notice I feel so poorly and I wonder if I can alleviate any of my ongoing symptoms simply by adjusting my diet.

Lots to think about this morning, and maybe a good idea to set a little goal – I am rather attached to a sweet fix with a cup of tea every evening, so my mission is to find some natural and nutritious sweet treats.

As always, any suggestions welcome ❤


Anxiety, you great big SHIT.

Today is not good.

Today had so much promise.  I had a job interview, I was well prepared, I was excited, it was all looking good.

And I’ve woken up feeling so rough it’s ridiculous.

I’m so anxious I’ve been sick. Twice.  My chest hurts and I feel like I can’t breathe.  Mouth has erupted in stress plague(aka ulcers) and there isn’t much of me that doesn’t hurt.

For some reason whatever this virus is that is making me feel poorly, stress, upset and anxiety seems to be a huge trigger and I don’t know how to control it.

My clothes weren’t right this morning, I could smell garlic on myself, I have a spot, and such stupid little things were putting me on the verge of a heart attack this morning so I decided to be kind to myself and cancel the interview.

In any case, I’ve bottled it and I feel gutted.  But I’m not in the right headspace and hubbo said something that sticks in my head:

Problem is, babe, your current job might be stressing you out, so a new one will be double that, maybe it’s not best.

Truth be told I’ve felt totally alone in everything at the moment.

Don’t get me wrong my husband is amazing, but emotionally I feel so alone.

No one really knows what to say to me, so generally things just get ignored.  Especially my family, that’s not something I want to go into but I feel totally alone.

Next week I have an appointment with a mental health support nurse and I’m hoping something comes of it, I can’t carry on feeling like this.

I wake up in the morning, open my eyes, and for a split second I feel happiness and excitement.  But it’s always short lived; then the bad thoughts come in.  I want to run away.  I want to stay in bed all day.  If I disappeared the world would be a better place.  I’m tired, I feel physically ill, I just want to feel that split second of happiness again.  But it never returns.  Until tomorrow.


Be Kind to Yourself

Yesterday, one of my friends said the above to me and it’s stuck with me.

I told her how bad I was feeling and she said, simply, be kind to yourself.

Big D is a fucker and anyone who suffers/suffered knows that the only person that can make you feel better is yourself. 

Man, that’s really fucking hard when you are in it.

I don’t know about others but when I am being suffocated and crippled by Big D it’s small simple things that stick in my brain and help pull me out.

Be kind to yourself.

To me that says so much – it says wash your hair, draw your eyebrows on, be lazy, indulge your guilty pleasures, be you and be kind to yourself, whoever you are.

I love a quote that I can remember and especially one that inspires and motivates me.

These are a selection that I found and have helped me today, if anyone else reads this, I hope it inspires you too.

And please, be kind to yourself.


Puddles, an Avocado & Happy Tears

We haven’t been out for a few days.

Big D is being a huge dick at the moment and making life miserable.

I’ve been on Fluoxetine for two weeks and the anxiety is crippling.  I have chest pains, I can’t breathe, can’t sleep, I’m in a terrible state.  Hubbo is at work and this morning I discovered we have no nappies.  I found an old cloth nappy insert and a swim nappy and thought that was going to have to be modified until we got to the shop.

Luckily a quick rummage in every handbag I own came up trumps and I found a lone nappy.


Off we plodded to the shop, the weather is vile.  In the words of Peter Kay, “it’s tha’ fine rain… Soaks you through”.

The mancub was staying strapped down in the buggy, at the moment he refuses to have the rain cover over him.  Usually I won’t give in, but he’s now put his foot through three rain dovers and I give up.

Managed to squeeze him into a 12-18mths puddle suit, poor lad was like a board.  

I needed only a few things shopping, milk, nappies, fresh fruit and veg, and some sort of meat for dinner.  I’m trying to be kind to myself, and trying to be organised.

The mancub was his usual cheery self, screaming and playing up rotten, and I figured I just needed to ignore him and get the shopping down as quick as possible.

If any Parent Police read this and judge me based on that last statement, go suck a dick, I’m all for an easy life, leave me alone. ❤️

I knew I had £20 for the bits I needed, I added it all up, it was around £18, all was good.

I am feeling fuzzy.  My eyes are blurry, heart racing, anxiety is coming back.  Shit.

I get to the checkout and I just want to run, people are chatting to me, asking me about the mancub, I feel like I’m drunk, I can’t handle it, I need to get out.

The checkout chick was talking to the mancub, and I’m not sure if she could sense I wasn’t alright, I felt like I was off my tits.

Shopping packed, total comes up.


Fuck.  How did I get that wrong?

It’s ok, I tell myself.  Deep breath, chill.  I tell the chick to take my avocado and drink off, I’m short and have miscounted.  I’m not upset, I’ve miscounted, I just want to be discreet and get out.

She says it’s ok.  She takes them off and then puts them back in my bag.

Whoa.  Hang on checkout chick.  I tell her to take them off.

She winks at me, and says not to worry, and asks me for £19.42.

I don’t know how I feel. Feel a little like I’m stealing. Argh.

Lovely elderly lady in the queue behind me offers to pay too.  Eek.

I tear up dammit.  These lovely people have made my day.  Checkout Chick insists, so I pay and leave.

I cried into my cashew nuts on the way home, not because I’m sad, ok maybe I’m a little embarrassed but I am yet again astounded and humbled by such gorgeous lovely people.

These people don’t know me, yet have made my day.  

Big D = -4 points

Faith in humanity = + 4 points.


Tantrums a-go-go

Today the mancub has been VILE.

I don’t know about everyone else but I can only liken the task of getting out of the house and running errands to being stood in front of a very tall spiky impossible wall and having the choice of going over it or just staying where you are and eating randomly concocted meals and mouldy crumbs of cheese out of the fridge.

This was today.

It’s freezing, I’m fucking depressed at the moment and I just want to sleep for about six years and I may feel marginally better.

But every morning I go through the same thought process.

  1. I wake up.
  2. I feel optimistic that I’m happy and all is good.
  3. Big D comes and clouts me round the head and reminds me that I’m miserable.  Tells me I’m useless and I may as well stay in bed all day and not be a burden on anyone.
  4. I hear the usual cry of ‘mummy BOOBIES poo hahaha’ and remember that it doesn’t matter what Big D says, I have to be a Mum and I have to get out of bed and be that little person’s world.

We got up, snuggled, managed no dirty protests or shit smearing, watched TV for a bit(fuck you kids TV, we watched Soldier Soldier, 90s TV gold) and then had breakfast.

I then had that awful feel deep in my stomach.

Is it the week 2 Fluoxetine shits(they have been awful)?

Nope. It’s the knowledge that you have the take the mega tantruming mancub out because we need bread.


Yes, I know, I’m a drama llama, it should be easy I hear you say, quick five minute jobby.

In theory yes.  Reality? Big fucking pile of steaming shite.

  • 8.38 – we start getting dressed.
  • 9.12 – we finish getting dressed.
  • 9.22 – ready to go.
  • 9.23 – he shits.
  • 9.45 – I’ve wrestled him into a new nappy and redressed him.
  • 9.47 – ready to go part two.
  • 9.48 – what’s that smell?
  • 9.49 – I have shit up my arm. Washes arm.
  • 10.02 – ready to go part three.
  • 10.05 – we are outside the front door. Mancub runs and hides.
  • 10.13 – child wrestled into car.
  • 10.14 – ‘mummy you STINK’ – great. Clearly that’s not korma on my jumper sleeve.  Shall I go change?  Fuck it, wet wipe and body spray will fix it.
  • 10.35 – we arrive at local supermarket.
  • 10.37 – I put my token in a trolley.  I ask the child to get in said trolley.  He runs to the back and hides.
  • 10.43 – child is in trolley.  Feel shit because I have had to bribe him with the promise of a biscuit.  Hope he doesn’t notice when I don’t give him a biscuit. 
  • 10.44 – we are in the shop.  ‘MUMMY BIIIIKBIIIIIIIK(biscuit)’.
  • 10.45 – bribe child with Brioche bun.  Feel that is a healthier option than a biscuit.  Bullshit. Peace.
  • 10.53 – checkout.  Child lobs brioche bun at the checkout chick.  Checkout chick gives me that look.

That look.  It’s that look only a parent knows.  Think Hunger Games, and all the people pledging solidarity to Katpiss, with the three finger salute.  That look speaks volumes.

    It says I’m with you.  It says I know you love your child so much you think you may explode and die.  It says I know you are doing your fucking best as a parent and I have so much respect for you, because I have been there.  

    It says I know you want to lose your shit, and run off into the woods screaming hysterically followed by men in white coats.  There is no one word to explain it, it is just that look.

    That one glance, with its subtle smile and discreet nod, tells you that you are doing a good job.  It tells you it’s ok to lose your shit.  It tells you that you may feel humiliated, embarrassed, paranoid and like a bad parent.  It tells you that you are not ANY of those things.  And in a splint second, you feel better.  You don’t feel alone.

    And then you get to the car, and the vile child picks up the box of eggs and throws them.


    And you see the checkout chick look out the window…

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