The last we heard from Polly Dunning, she was striving to recover from pregnancy trauma:
There were dark moments in the middle of the night (when all those dark thoughts come), when I felt sick at the thought of something male growing inside me.
Dunning’s life has since gone from bad to worse, her uncaring husband expecting her to care for their horrid male child for a few hours one morning all on her own:
The first time in my adult life I had gastro was when my son was 11 months old. He had just learned to climb the couch (and everything else he could reach) but was yet to master a dismount that wasn’t a headfirst dive, so I was lying on the floor so as not to tempt him into climbing. He wanted to play (fair enough), so was becoming increasingly frustrated with me. Pushing me, pinching me and pulling my hair. It was 7:30am and I was on my third pair of knickers for the day.
My husband left for work. I sobbed. It would be at least ten hours before he would return.
Reinforcements (my parents and my father-in-law) were due around 11am. So I spent the next three hours between the living room floor and the bathroom with a climbing, crawling, cruising baby trying to stop him sucking the toilet brush or knocking over the bowl of vomit by my side. If we weren’t lucky enough to have family available, it would’ve been the whole day.
Buy a playpen, dumbass.