In between listening to Ed Sheeran’s new album (precisely 34565756434249 plays thus far) on the daily drive to nursery and work I like to flick on the radio. The morning banter of Big John on the local station never fails to make me smile.
However, there is one thing that’s really getting on my nerves on the radio at the moment. A bloody Mother’s Day advert that quotes mum’s get an average of 17 minutes to themselves a day. 17 minutes. Who the hell are these lucky bitches mums that manage 17 whole blissful minutes of ‘me’ time a day?
Yesterday lunch time is a perfect example of exactly why this isn’t true. I sat down to watch a programme I’d recorded while I waited for my jacket potato to crisp up. Two minutes elapsed. The dinger went for my jacket. And right on cue, E started bawling his eyes out. Awake from his nap.
The hubby (already fed and watered) was pottering in the garden so I retrieved E, turned the oven right down and made him his dinner. Incase you had ever wondered, tomato soup and a mardy toddler who is determined to control the spoon is not a mess-free lunch option. Lesson learned.
Once E had finished (and by finished I mean eaten the one spoonful of soup he deemed worthy not to throw at me or rub all over his face like orange moisturiser) hubby declared he was running a bath for him. Off upstairs he disappeared leaving E in the highchair with a bit of chocolate to keep him quiet and me finally tucking into my spud.
Five minutes later and less than half way into my lunch I was summoned.
“Can you bring him upstairs? It’s readyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy”
Don’t get me wrong. I’m grateful that I have a hubby who takes the initiative to run a bath for E. But the problem with having such a good one is you always want them to be that little bit better. So a little peeved I stomped up the stairs, mumbled something mardy about my lunch getting cold, had he broken his legs and marched back down the stairs again.
Cold lunch finally eaten I decided to treat myself to a rare, child-free wee. I’d like to pretend I had something more exciting planned for my alone time but surprisingly toilet breaks where someone isn’t waving the toilet brush at you like a light sabre or running away with the loo roll like an Andrex puppy are few and far between. Before I’d even unbuttoned my jeans I was summoned again.
“Mummy, we need a towel!”
And so this continues. Throughout the day. Between the hubby, the dog and the baby 17 minutes to myself is not achievable. So naturally, the advert makes me want to put my fist through the radio everytime I hear it. I’d kill for 17 bloody minutes.
Even once the little man is tucked up in bed for the night the military operation to have everything in place for when he wakes up begins. Packed lunches prepped, bottles washed and assembled, breakfast laid out, hair washed (me), beards banished (wish I could pretend it was only the hubby that had a beard to attend to) etc etc. No sooner than all that is complete and it’s time to climb into bed for the night.
And even after all the pre-match preparation there is simply no preparing for the fact that come morning you’ll be wearing a freshly cleaned outfit for work and feeling cocky about running to time just seconds before your toddler decides to pick up his bowl of porridge, wield it like a clown with a comedy cream pie and throw it at you. Oh and laugh. Well, not even just laugh. Pee himself giggling. Then, to add insult to injury, once you return from a quick clean up, your own breakfast has disappeared from your plate and your son, whilst acting casual, has it all over his face.
But, despite the (little) moan, tonight is Monday night. And Monday night is awesome. Because I’ve started Slimming World. And I get a whole hour out of the house, sans baby, to do something that is completely and totally for me. If you divide that hour by seven days it makes my grand total of ‘me time’ more like an average of 8.5 minutes per day, but I’ll take that. Because let’s face it, I wouldn’t swap the little man (or his dad) for any one of the additional 8.5 minutes that would make me average. Who wants average?
Happy Monday!
Scribbles from Sheffield 