Do you ever get all your jobs done when you're a mother?
Friday, 18 October 2013 | Mummy and Little Me
After almost a year of life with my little girl, the prospect of having a week off is hugely welcome... especially post-virus and teething hell! Couple that with Peanuts Daddy having a week off work too and my mind was flooded with romantic ideas of lovely city breaks, days out and yummy meals at restaurants that we’ve always wanted to try. But no, we ended up in B&Q buying bloody paint!
Our 5-year plan (yes, we have a 5 year plan coming to an end and we’re only 29... sad isn’t it?) involves a new home towards the end of next year and the itchy feet started after Caitlin was born. A mass of baby essentials silently spreads everywhere like a sickness bug does the rounds at a nursery, and as soon as we noticed the sheer volume of what I’d call crap taking over our humble home it started. So rather than the lovely week off I was hoping for, it became a mad rush to squeeze in every chore we’d been putting off for the past year as is the case when a baby-free day comes around. Unlike the odd day we’ve had here and there where we could get away for a few hours of ‘just us time’ a week means that you’re bound to the big jobs and so painting the kitchen and bedroom became a must.
Now the theory was much different to the reality of what happened; we had hoped to get finished off with a day or two to spare and enjoy but it never turns out that way really does it? We spent the best part of 3 days sorting out a messed up succession of wedding and honeymoon plans and then evenings of moaning about it while necking Shiraz by the bottle (we deserved it, no guilt!) Before we knew it, the week had gone and I was rushing to get out of my decorating gear and into something half-decent to pick up Peanut from nursery.
The fact is that a baby-free day is not baby-free at all; it’s a reminder of a number of different things:
After all the decorating was done and we had a lovely looking home again, Peanut came home none the wiser and by bedtime the baby crap had taken over once more. But that’s life as we know it now and this isn’t some Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, buttered-up fakery where mum gets out of bed with perfect makeup and hair coiffed; I’m a mess, my house is a mess, Peanut’s the happiest girl in the world and it couldn’t be better.