We've started a baby zumba class. They're two words you don't often hear in the same sentence. Baby. Zumba.
Unless it's, 'I was thinking about doing a class, as I haven't done any exercise in the best part of two years, and I was toying with zumba. Mind you, I don't know if I can stand shaking all the wobbly bits I've developed since having a baby.'
The' baby' bit of the class was that you brought one along, and they sat on the floor while you had a dance.
I don't think we'd thought this part through, as Ulrika and I hadn't brought anything for Nancy and Ebba to play with, so ended up giving them our water bottles to push round the floor.
There were about ten mums, and we all stood around apprehensively, split into two aesthetic camps- those who'd gone out and bought a whole new sports outfit, Lyra top, leggings, headband. The works.
And those of us that were wearing what we usually sleep in.
But as the dance coach cranked up Beyonce's Crazy in Love, we were suddenly a team, training for the dance off of our lives, in a kind of Step Up, back street gym style.
And it was brilliant. Like being at a disco, except it was in the middle of the day in a church hall, and I had Nancy with me.
Nancy was the first to start crying, as one of the other babies hit her in the face with a rattle. And like dominoes, one by one they all started. Mums stopped mid routine to pick up their child, and attempted to shake their shoulders provocatively, while an 11 month old pulled their top up and stuck a finger up their nose.
The best bit though had to be when the class was split in two, and we had an old school dance off.
I totally got into the zone. Imagining steam coming from drains, flickering street lights and distant sounds of police cars, as we battled it out to see who was top dog of the St Michael's Church Hall.
One half of the mums were instructed to give it some attitude, and threaten the other 'dancers' space, accompanied by Dizzy Rascal's Bonkers. Only for the other mums to then reciprocate by ass dancing in response.
In reality, it looked more like a Jeremy Kyle esque chav fight, than a Jets and Sharks scene. As if all the mums had come out to have a row in the street, bouncing a baby on one hip, while giving the talk to the hand.
Ben wondered if we should be going at all. If it wouldn't have been more appropriate to don a white outfit, get the roller blades out, and take a dog for a walk on the sea front while holding a balloon.
Because after nearly 20 months, my periods have started again.
Now, that's a part of your body going back to normal I could do without. Actually, it's more the emotional stuff that goes with it.
The days leading up to it, I thought I was going mental. I couldn't stop crying. About anything. And I couldn't understand why. Everything just felt out of control.
Now, some things were justifiable.
Who didn't have a bit of a blub when Britain won the women's rowing? And you'd have to be made of stone not to get a bit teary to some of Steve Wright's dedications on Love Hour.
But forgetting to empty tissues out of a pair of jeans when they went through the wash had me literally inconsolable.
And I found a letter from an old lady I'd met on a train. We write to each other as pen pals, in fact she's the only person I really write to. Which is a bit weird, I guess, as she's 87, and I only met her for two hours between Kings Cross and Peterborough.
Anyway, I realised it'd been months since she'd written. And I started panicking she was dead.
And then I couldn't stop crying.
Then two days later the old periodicals start again and it all made sense.
Mind, I hope this is just a back log of 20 months of hormone related blubbing, and not a sign of things to come.
Or it's going to a right laugh in our house every four weeks.