So, I’m at my parents’. I could be out with them and my two little ones, taking a steam train ride across the Cheshire countryside. But no, I’m back at the house. Because I wanted some “me time”.
Obviously I feel a complete and utter cow about this. My sons are cute and loveable, I work full-time so it’s not like I’m with them all week, and while, at two and four, they’re pretty fond of me, they’re not going to want to hang out with me forever. Before I know it, they’ll be grown up, and here I am, missing all those rare snapshots of innocent joy. But the fact of the matter is, I’m REALLY REALLY TIRED. And, with apologies to Bibi Lynch, I’m coming to feel that if youth is wasted on the young, the pleasures of raising small children are sure as hell wasted on the permanently exhausted.
So, am I making the most of my precious mummy-me-time? Because, like, the countdown to my children returning started the minute they walked out the door and I’ve now got to justify every second. So what have I done so far?
- I’ve had a bath. Just a normal, Radox bath. I didn’t indulge in any unnecessary “pampering” beauty treatments, so we’ll need to take marks off for that (perhaps this afternoon I can make up for it by heading into town and getting some fish to eat my feet, or something).
- I ate a cupcake in the bath. That was obviously a treat – sufficiently treaty, in fact, to make me now feel rather sick. Of course, I could have gone the other way and “treated myself” by embarking on a full body detox, consuming nothing but almonds and ginger tea. But I thought fuck that.
- I weighed myself upon getting out of the bath. Re. point 2, I probably shouldn’t have thought fuck that.
- I got dressed without doing the usual hair-and-makeup ritual. So here I am, totally au naturel. Is that indulgent or isn’t it? I just can’t tell. Some might say that taking time off from your beauty routine is just the thing to do on a special me-day. Who these people are, I really don’t know. I think the general consensus (courtesy of L’Oréal and Boots advertising) is that women in general, and mummies in particular, should see making themselves less ugly not as an expensive and unrewarding form of labour, but as a special treat which men (tch! men!) just don’t understand. So hey I’m totally letting the side (aka “the girls”) down here. Evidently I’m just not “worth it”.
So that’s been my day so far. Where next, given that the mummy-me-time clock’s still ticking? Where next indeed?
Well, to be honest I’m now charged with taking my disabled elder sibling out to lunch. And I don’t want to because he’ll just go on and on about his bowel movements, so then I’ll have to distract him by getting him to rant about something in the Daily Express. And hey, fuck his disability and loneliness, this was meant to be my day! So it’s a whole new level of guilt and frustration.
Didn’t quite mean to wander off into that rant just yet. But anyhow, don’t judge me. Because today’s, like, All About Me.