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Melody Thomas has been writing for Capital since the very beginning. Now, she is a finalist for Best Columnist in the 2020 Magazine Awards.
We take a trip down memory lane and revisit her very first column in June 2013.
In February 2013 Melody Thomas became a first-time Mum to a little girl called Sadie. It seemed a natural step for her to bring the two together and write about it.
Four months into this new parent thing and I’m realising that everything I’ve ever defined myself by has gone out the window, and it’s all the fault of the adorable little terror that once slept a ten-hour stretch just to lull me into a false sense of security, before deciding a waking-every-two hour pattern suited her much better.
Once, I would have described myself as fun loving, energetic, witty, social – all manner of endearing adjectives. Now? I know this looks like a fun-loving laugh, but really it’s the maniacal cackle of a woman half-mad. Once or twice a day I may even pass as energetic, but that’s likely because I’ve just consumed a cup of coffee, which I know you’re judging me for but, hey, my midwife said it was ok and I refuse to research further because I know I’ll discover information to the contrary.
Wit? Ha! Half-wit more like! Social life? Once upon a time the term “night life” meant eight hour dancing stints and moderate to serious levels of inebriation. Now it refers to relentless middle-of-the-night breastfeeds spent half awake in the glow of the laptop. In the past four months, I’ve watched seven seasons of Project Runway (“Make it work, designers!”) and gotten myself up to date on every season of The Mindy Project, New Girl, Girls and Parks and Recreation. I’ve even resorting to The Carrie Diaries when desperate, although I tell myself it’s just for her outfits and so entirely excusable (I know, it’s not excusable).
I am a sad, strung-out shadow of my former self, and it’s only the ridiculously adorable little face of my baby girl that stops me from losing it completely – only her big blue eyes, button-nose and angel-wing pout stand between me and a life spent in intimate acquaintance with Dr Phil, track pants and chocolate.
Seriously, thank goodness I had a cute one. I don’t know how the parents of ugly babies do it.