Category Archives: Feeling Inadequate at this Mother Gig

Finding Time For Charity: That’s Me!

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Just the two of us. (Image by Bibo Photography).

Just the two of us. (Image by Bibo Photography).

 

My absence of late has largely been due to an overwhelming insecurity (and let it be said envy of other mothering blogs), that my ramblings are both insignificant and tedious for those who actually follow my writing. But seeing as the only person for whom these entries will have a lasting impression is my daughter, I thought it apt that today I make a return to chronicle our rather harrowing morning.The past few months have been difficult for our little family. Nothing exciting, just what my own mother would probably describe as the “great tedium”. The Toolman is working hard and long, I’ve taken to helping him do a little bit of work from home, Bella is growing into a toddler, we’ve spent our weekends either working or fixing up our investment property for rental and money is, as it usually is, tight. Many families are in exactly the same position and I often just refer to this time as “our working years”. It’s normal to go for stretches of time like a rat on a wheel, reveling in the small patches of sunshine the day may bring; usually some delightful outburst from Bella.

Bella has taken to pushing a small pram around the house yelling “Beep Beep, Go Go Go!” at the top of her voice which has me in stitches for much of the day. I even find it endearing how she’s taken to calling me “Cow”. But in our day to day lives, I seem to have lost a sense of who I am in all of this.

Two days ago I woke up with a thorn in my side and cried for most of the day. When the Toolman returned from work and saw my puffy eyes, he looked worried, half squinted with his head cocked to the side and told me, “If you go down, this ship will sink”. It made me laugh but I realised it was true. This was no time for sinking ships.

You see, that day in question, I had been to our local Aquatic Centre to look at the facilities, the gym classes and the child minding room. I saw that I could leave Bella there for up to an hour and a half while I took a class. After touring the place, we were only half way home when the waterworks started (from me) and didn’t stop.

So often a mother and wife can simply become the support team for everyone else. This is the role I have chosen and logistically it’s one that makes sense, I have the ovaries after all and after I last checked, the Toolman cannot grow children, so it’s logical that I put my efforts into growing our family. But it also means I long, LONG, for time that is about me. Mothers around the globe will nod their head I am sure when I tell you the delight that can be had from getting in the car (alone) to buy some milk (alone) at the supermarket (alone). At this point anything (alone) looks good as the overwhelm of being with a child 24/7 for weeks on end clouds over.

Acknowledging that this is an actual need of mine and not seeing another way to regularly book a time for myself with family or friends, the gym seemed like the most viable option. The fact that I am willing to lift a barbell in a choreographed fitness class most probably run by a Paris Hilton lookalike should be testament to the aforementioned need.

Did I deserve this time every week to go to gym? Would she be ok? Is 18 months too young? What if she needed me, would they find me? Would they feed her? All of these questions could be easily answered but the glaringly obvious anxiety that I couldn’t overcome was, what if “something” happened to her? Luckily for me I have a shrink on speed dial (I’d encourage everyone to hook themselves up with one of these. They have to listen to your neuroses, you pay them)!

Knowing that I will never be able to definitively answer any of these question, she might not be ok and yes, “something” might happen but choosing to tolerate the anxiety anyway, I took Bella today for a short play in the gym playroom today. We stayed for a while together and then I told her I was leaving and that was it, no tantrums or crying, she was easily distracted by her most beloved book after waving goodbye.

I on the other hand ran from the room crying and there began a schizophrenic hour of spying, crying, walking back and forth in front of the windows, tissue in hand and even ended up crying so much that snot was dripping uncontrollably from my nose. In short, we’re talking snot candles. Got the picture? I heard the women that have gone before me in my head, in their unsympathetic voices saying, “oh, don’t be silly, she’ll be ok”. I’m aiming a little higher than ok I want to scream at them!

On my return, Bella was playing in the sandpit, saw me and laughed, and moved on to the slide. Was this normal? What sort of attachment style was she exhibiting? Damn that psychology degree. We read and few books then headed for home after waving goodbye to the staff.

So she was fine and I was not. Mother guilt, check. Neurosis, check. Undermining voice telling me that I would be judged by other mothers, check. I was starting to resent my mothering hormones that had reduced me to THIS. I just know that I have to try the gym again.

The popular notion that on ones deathbed, one never regrets the work they never got to, the car they never had or the clients they didn’t see but rather, the time they didn’t spend with their family got me thinking about my own choices in life.

Being a martyr without a break for an hour and a half a week to avoid judgment from other mothers who WON’T be at my bedside during my last days would be in exchange for a happier mother, raising a happier daughter who will, I hope, be there.

And for me, right now, that’s my better than ok.

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Battle of the Tantrums: Our Day at the Movies.

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The lead up was big enough in itself. I had decided that I was going to take Bella and I on a little date to the movies. Where I live the local cinema has “mums and bubs” sessions where you can see current release movies and pretend that life goes on after you have baby. Wrong. Well, wrong for me anyway.

Now I really should start by declaring that as much as I thought I would be an “easy-going” mother, I fear I’m more of a nervous nelly. Mothers like me are generally not revered in parenting circles. Not only do we need to breastfeed, co-sleep and parent “consciously” these days, it seems we also need to approach the whole affair with an air of Bob-Marley-come-Miranda-Kerr “zen-ness” which sees these types of mothers slide graciously into their role.

I’m more the neurotic and tearful type of mother which means I literally want to puke up my lunch when I leave Bella for more than an hour or so. I was also the mother that packed a small suitcase to go to the shops when Bella was younger simply because I was acutely afraid that she may want or need something and I needed to have whatever it was with me to satiate whatever that need or want  was at exactly the moment it appeared. So you can imagine the mental preparation it took for me to come around to the idea that I could take her to a movie.

The Toolman implored me to go, told me to take some time to do something nice for me. So last night I excitedly made a lunch box for us to take, packed only a few nappies and one small rug and went to bed with the anticipatory excitement of a child before their first day of school. I got dressed this morning in normal big kids clothes as opposed to the mummy uniform I wear everyday and applied makeup. Was definitely on a roll.

It started well. We arrived early, I had a coffee and bought an extra snack to take with us. I didn’t think about requesting an appropriate seat to be with the pram so was allocated one right in the middle of the cinema. Problem you ask? No, I’m all easy breezy you see and I’m just running with it at this stage.

A slight little twinge of anxiety began when other mothers started rolling in and they had all brought newborns asleep in their prams. Not a toddler in sight. Good on them I thought. But then these sadistic nutters who don’t even have kids started rolling in. It was about this time that Bella realised that in the aisles on both sides there were stairs. Ok I thought, no problem, we’ll just go and sit right down the bottom where there is a large area and she can crawl around down there. Sure, I’ll be so close to the screen I’ll get a headache but beggers can’t be choosers, so off we went.

Now dear daughter has realised she can climb a proverbial mountain of stairs, very quickly mind you, right to the top. She hasn’t mastered crawling down yet so she proceeded to teeter at the very top, threatening to make a 15 metre tumble to the bottom. I spent a good fifteen minutes running up and down quietly apologising when people couldn’t see over me. I tried sitting with her on my lap, lying down, standing up. None of it settled her.

Deciding there had to be a better way, I put Bella in her pram which provoked the biggest all out tantrums of the century. In and out she went from the pram for another ten minutes, now in a real state. Knowing she was tired, I tried to feed her and I can now hear whispers of “They need to turn the volume up”. I decided to attempt to get her to sleep outside in the pram and so walked her up and down the theatre entrance for thirty minutes, Bella screaming all the while. Thirty minutes…just ponder that for a moment, thirty minutes.

I’ve never felt angry before. I’ve been sad and tired but never felt outright angry about having a child. Didn’t she realise this would be magnificent if she was just asleep as I knew she actually wanted to be at this hour? Didn’t she realise the effort it took for me to do this? Didn’t she realise I really needed this.

And then I was crying too because I feel like I’ve failed at this. Because I can’t see myself in this anymore. Because I can’t manage what others seem to.

I called the Toolman to vent and he told me that these sessions were made for this type of thing. I shouldn’t worry if she’s crying, everyone will understand.

I hung up on him.

I called my sister and my best friend. No answer.

I looked at Bell staring up at me and felt suddenly a huge divide. I felt like she had won a battle and for the first time I didn’t want to be around her. On top of that, I had let her cry in her pram instead of picking her up which I know is all she really wanted. And then the tears really did flow.

You know those moments in movies (which I of course HAVEN’T seen) where a tearful mums totally disgraces herself in public and everyone around her just assumes she has a touch of post natal depression? Bingo! You’ve really got the picture now.

So we left. I waited in line at the ticket office, tears flowing and asked for a refund. The poor teenage boy wouldn’t dare refuse. We got in the car and came home. As the movie still runs and maybe some or all of the mums are left watching it, I’m here writing this and Bella is blissfully unaware have a nap.

My silly tears are still flowing and it’s all over a movie for heaven’s sake. I’m not really sure what lesson I learnt from it all. I may even be silly enough to try it again one day. I’m starting to think it was silly to even attempt it in the first place.

But most of all, right now, I’m having one of the biggest all out tantrums of my own.

The Sleep Over

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Three generations of women, two of them built to adore Bella.

I’m sitting on the cusp of another milestone; the first baby sleepover. Suitable motherly type substitute? Tick. Plenty of milk and porta-cot already by the door? Tick. Gut wrenching, nauseating anxiety? In abundance. And this isn’t even happening till tomorrow!

I have put it off and off this sleepover; Bella’s first soiree into the night with her Nani. A few months ago it was meant to occur but I found a convenient reason why it wasn’t to be. Since then, there simply hasn’t been an occasion where we needed the night away but tomorrow we have been invited to a lovely garden wedding and can’t wait to attend. Usually under these circumstances either my husband or I would appear but we have decided that tomorrow we will arrive as a duo.

It has to be said that I have come a long way from the days where I would have happily placed Bella in a catapult had I been convinced she could hurtle safely across the city to my mother’s house. It’s even true that only in recent times, I’ve been known to have a teary in the backyard, longing for just one night of 8 hours sleep. But as that becomes less and less of a reality, I have become all Dalai Lama about it and quickly learnt the art of acceptance. Yes, 4 hours will suffice Earth Gods…. ”Ommmmmm”.

So why now all of a sudden the anxiety? Her grandmother adores her and has even raised four children of her own. I know Bella will “be alright”. All the rationality in the world tells me that she’ll be “alright” but what if “alright” isn’t good enough. What if she’s crying for her Mama in the night and I’m not there? What if she’s reaching for me as she does every night in our bed and she can’t find me? That’s enough to make me choke up already.

I have however decided not to weaken my resolve to place Bella in her Nani’s loving care and it’s all from a conversation I had with my Aunty. “What have you gained from being a mother?” I asked her out of the blue. She had to think about it a little bit but told me in the end that it is the sense of “mother”; that she will now forevermore have another dimension to her that cannot be taken away, that of “mother”. It’s a powerful picture, especially for someone like me who admired for so many years the idols of motherhood; the pregnant woman, the nursing mother, the mystery of renaissance imagery.

For every inch I value this, it reminded me of another set of images I now so often forget. And no, it’s not those of a footloose and drunken summer nights (although I miss those too), it’s the times I’ve shared over the last decade with my husband.

Here my dear friend is where we reach an impasse. The negotiation of the modern woman’s time; how to be mother and wife (let alone colleague) and do it well? How to value all that you have shared with your partner, while at the same time being lioness to your cubs? Once the King of the Jungle, the toolman is often relegated to the other end of the couch, the other end of the bed, the other end….of basically wherever I am!

So tomorrow will be a date for us so that we might remember where it all began. No doubt this will please the Toolman and no doubt Bella will be alright. It’s me I’m worried about.

And if she’s not, mum is under strict instructions to place her in that catapult and fling her straight back into my arms!

The Holiday

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Enjoying the small things. A ladies lunch!

I’ve had a really good day today. A really good day. You’re going to have to stick with this one though. It started with an early morning wakeup call from my brother that went like this.

“How was your weekend away in Lorne?”

“Not bad. I’m a bit tired.” I yawned.

“Who’d you go with?”

“Ummm…just us and a few friends. Six adults and Bella (our daughter)”.

“No other kids?!!! What were you thinking?” he laughed. Precisely!

Let me just start by saying that the friends I went away with are delightful. Pick of the bunch type of people. Top notch. But I just wish I had had the above conversation a few weeks ago. By about the second day in to our four day break I was feeling down and resentful.

I’ve been aware over the years of the dilemma facing parents as I’ve heard my sister in law talk about how holidays away are merely a matter of picking up your life and your routines and transporting them to a different location. The holiday simply lies in the fact that there are more people to witness the doldrum. It seemed to me that there were constantly things that we were not able to do. Morning one, activity one: a hike in the heat. Afternoon one, activity two: lazy naps and smoking in the hammock under a tree. The writing was already on the wall.

By evening two my poor friends were witness to what can only be described as a full mummy-meltdown tantrum. Had I been a four year old I would have been flailing my arms and legs around, rolling on the grass. I didn’t intend on bursting into tears straight away, I was trying to be laid back and cool, demonstrating the fine and seamless art of attachment parenting…take your kids anywhere, strap them to your back, live, laugh and eat plenty. But as you are all aware by now, my experience of this takes work and plenty of it. My weekend would have been much easier if I were the “pop them in a play pen and swing them a little phenergen if need be” be type of mama.

In truth, what was really going on was that behind my good old fashioned tantrum was the desire to do what I very well pleased. To sit with my friends, pick up the paper at will, drink wine in the afternoon. And I can’t do this anymore. And they can. And I found this too overwhelming to contain. Herein lies the childish tantrum.

One of my friends (male) made two points, put quite bluntly. 1. This is the price for a “beautiful little girl”, and 2. You need to decide what it is that you really want to do and feel you can’t do while having a daughter and make moves to sort out some time so that you can do them. Both infuriatingly logical and reasonable. Another friend (female) responded differently, “You just want the choice of how to spend your time don’t you?” Bingo!

But infuriatingly logical male friend is right. It is the pay off. This really should be the end of the tantrum. Right? Well the tantrum may be over but the feeling remains.

And then something else happened on our little holiday which put the wheels in motion of today being a really good day.

The toolman and I walked down to the beach to see a friend of ours who had been lying in the sun for some hours. The toolman and my friends had all spent the afternoon napping while I entertained our ten month old who didn’t feel like following the holiday snooze time itinerary. Needless to say, as we walked towards the beach I was wondering why I was there in the first place. I was pretty sure that I spent the afternoons doing the same thing at home.

As soon as we arrived on the beach bubba decided to start squawking and in the afternoon sun and the sand, I decided to almost immediately return home. It was close to bed time, she needed dinner and a bath and by staying here while she was obviously tired, I would be making our night time routine more difficult. Only another parent would understand this logic.

But the toolman insisted we stay and cradled her in his arms on the beach while she slept, throwing caution to the wind and deciding that we would deal with whatever happened later. If she was then going to sit up till midnight, we’d deal with it. Somehow I managed to enter into a conversation with someone I hardly know and will probably never see again about enjoying the moment, mindfulness, Eckhart Tolle, mediation, liking myself, not liking myself and how I can make my days more balanced. It was bliss. Mainly because my husband was so beautifully resting with our daughter but it was also because I felt like me again. Not just a 24/7 milk machine but the person who used to do this, talk relaxedly with friends. The importance of this cannot be underestimated.

Admittedly this conversation was at the back of my mind within about an hour when bath and dinner time were at the forefront but I was reminded of it today when I was alerted to another blog. I opened it and started to read about a womans plight looking after her kids and wanting more time away. Tick, yep, sounds like me. And then she wrote that “grappling for time apart from our kids often leads to more frustration and upset all around. It rarely recharges us enough, as promised, to feel better when we come back and we are stuck in a vicious circle of craving more and more (and feeling frustrated when we can’t get it).”

She goes on to say that the more we desire time away, “Mummy time”, all things that we are told we need to keep us sane, the less we actually enjoy time with our children. This made me STOP DEAD. How much of the day do I actually spend thinking about time away from my daughter? How much of the day am I stressing about getting into another room to do the dishes, the washing, pay bills when I could be sitting with her and watching her in her little but very important play. A lot. The answer is a lot.

I have always thought that mothering is hard if it’s done right. I have been proud of sacrifice I have made for our girl. I have also obviously developed an unconscious ideal that being the best mother I can be means it has to be hard work. But what if it isn’t hard? What if the place is a mess and birthdays are forgotten and Bella and I spend hours together on the floor mastering the art of getting that oval peg through the oval hole. What if I push my friends in their hammocks away and pull my daughter closer. What if I watch the expectation of having time “for me” move in and out of my mind.

Today I saw a pile (now I mean a dirty big pile) of biscuit crumbs under the rug and I put my girl in the pram and went for a walk in the sun. I stopped to look at a tree trunk and nearly laughed at myself. I started describing the tree truck and most certainly did laugh at myself. Walking along a main road, I had a mum behind with a toddler on a trike (embarrassingly somehow keeping up with me pushing the pram) and passed a mother on bended knee negotiating with her four year old about something.

I felt a whole new type of proud walking along knowing that I was actually enjoying it; that this was better for us than picking up the crumbs. That if family and friends saw said crumbs and wanted to make a judgement about them, they could do so because my daughter and I had a sweet secret; that we’re not worried about them.

On the way home I thought about stopping for a coffee as Bella was now asleep in the pram and it was a sunny morning. I thought about buying a magazine and sitting there, flicking through the pages while Bella slept. But I went home instead.

As I said, today was a good day but it wasn’t a miracle!

This Way to Normal Road.

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So as I told my friend, it was like being on a long haul flight…to Singapore with a six hour stopover in Sydney, fussing babies everywhere. I mean everywhere. Scrap that, it was like being on a long haul flight sitting up the back ass of the plane.

I bring you the Sleep Seminar.

Never have I seen a more diverse but desperate group of women than today, all sitting perfectly in rows straining to hear a professional and any pearl of wisdom they may be able to throw their way. Half way through I was wondering why there was no sister solidarity, no pats on the back, no real understanding. And then I remembered this wasn’t a kumbaya fest of compassion, this was survival of the fittest. The plane was going down and we were scrambling over each other.

Our pilot of the day is renowned for teaching what is often referred to as “instinctive parenting”. You know the type; we’re talking slings, breastfeeding and co-sleeping. I should probably disclose here that on the continuum that ranges between a military mother at one end and a twenty five year old hanging off a mothers breast at the other, I’m probably more inclined to lean towards the later. I’m aware I have given two rather ridiculous examples of parenting but you see the point I am trying to make. If Placentophagy rings a bell, you too are probably up my end. But here’s the thing, it doesn’t really matter what end you’re up because we’re all in the same line.

In fact, I tend not to think about my choices too much, I just go with “if it feels wrong or slightly dodgy, don’t do it” mentality. I’ve tried the analysing thing and all the books and theories do make sense when you read them in isolation but in practice, going with your instinct in the moment seems to work for me. This is the exact sentiment that our pilot preaches in her many books so I was convinced she MUST have the answers for me.

Alas, I came away no more informed than when I went in. To be fair, I’ve read her books cover to cover so the blame really isn’t hers. It’s just that like many mothers who were there today we were looking for answers to the greatest puzzle we’ll face….how to get our babies to sleep. In a very small nutshell, here’s your answer.

If your bub is under the age of 18 months….

If your bub is still teething and waiting for the last milk teeth….

If your bub is not walking confidently and thus going through rather massive physical and developmental changes…..

Drumroll please…..

IT’S NORMAL.

“So, just to clarify” I asked at the end of the seminar, “You’re saying that actually, my baby is normal and what? I just need to get up and continue to feed her? Maybe a few times a night. Continually, every night. So, that’s it?…..THAT’S IT?!!!!!” I had friends with me so was holding back the tears. I’d already been that mum at mothers group, I couldn’t possibly break down again!

Surely this lady didn’t understand. This author and woman I had idolised hadn’t seen me book my ticket to this thing at 2am, exasperated and fighting with my husband, everyone sleep deprived. She obviously didn’t get the memo that told her I had been looking forward to this for weeks as it was surely going to solve everything. And she certainly didn’t hear on the grapevine that the anticipation of attending had been the shining light at the end of the tunnel that had kept me going.

And here my friend, is the exact predicament that many a mother end up on. SLEEP DEPRIVATION Alley and CONTROLLED CRYING Rd. I always get to this part of the neighbourhood somehow. Sometimes it’s an amble and sometimes I run screaming there but I always look round that corner and stop. I stop dead. Because it’s not for me.

Now I strongly believe that it is not our place as women to criticise how another woman mothers; our behaviour alone is enough of an advertisement. I’m also a strong advocate for women doing exactly what they need to in order to get through and be the best they can be.

But here is my gripe. If I always turn around and waddle back down Sleep Deprivation Alley, why is it that I am continually told that it is my “choice”, that I could easily solve the problem and get to PEACEFUL SLEEP Way via the very road I don’t want to go down. You see, I’ve spent the last ten months trying to dig under my house and get to Peaceful Sleep Way via an alternative route. I’ll be damned if I’m going to undo all the work I’ve done on my tunnel by turning around at this point. And dismissing my struggles and confusion while continually sending me down the very road I don’t want to go down only works to invalidate me.

I’m pretty sure at this point you’re all getting the gist of my state of mind as I’ve created a whole village with stop signs and underground tunnels to get my point across. Have I mentioned the bomb shelter where I occasionally go for a good delirious and hysterical laugh or cry? But this is it. This is my experience of mothering and I suppose today I received a shock. I’m normal, my baby is normal and this is hard. It’s brilliant, it’s exceptional and it’s hard.

People love to say, “If it works for you, do it”. Well you know what, most of the time, it doesn’t work for me. Co-sleeping for instance is most of the time a bit of a juggling act of fingers, toes and milk. Expressing milk for months on end because my bub never attached certainly does not work, I do it because I think it’s best. And sometimes I just want to shout it out, “For God’s sake, I’m trying here!”

And I have complete faith, because I need to, that all mothers alike are trying. We may all have different bests, go down different roads or be on totally different continents but surely we are all aiming to raise happy and healthy individuals? Either way, after all the circles I go in, after all the books and the professionals I listen to, it seems one thing is clear. We’re normal. It’s normal.

My inability to make a point without using a complex systems of geographical analogies may not be…But when I go to bed late tonight, preparing myself for only a few small hours of sleep, I have to know that we’re doing alright.

And that may jsut be all I can hope for.

Mother, Interrupted.

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It sounds so clichéd but its true when people say that the things that excite you after having a baby will be worlds apart from the things that excited you before. If I can just paint a little picture for you – When my husband and I first started dating and would hang out with friends on balmy summer evenings, nothing would delight the boys more than if, when popping a top off a beer bottle, said top accidently ricochet off a wall and ended up in a bucket ten feet away. You get the picture?

See during those days, we had time to wait for things to amuse us. If we’d had a less than interesting night out with a friend, it was no problem; there was a bottle top only moments away ready to delight! Nowadays, as expected it’s the giggles and self-accomplished squeals from baby that delight.

But seeing as I’m all about setting the precedent of absolute honesty here in regards to my mothering let me get another one of those nasty forbidden truths out there. Jammed right between absolute adoration and completely voluntary servitude for my daughter, is the undeniable urge to run screaming from the room never to be seen again.

As I explained to some friends the other day, a lot of the time I have an overwhelming desire to…well….be really, really drunk. We’re talking best-friend-holds-your-hair-back  kinda drunk. And so it got me thinking- I either need to call my brother who works in drug and alcohol rehabilitation or there is something else at play here.

I think it would be too easy to assume it’s about “having a break”. With a bit of extra thought, I think it’s more accurate to say it has more to do with responsibility. With a husband who is now largely unavailable because of rather fantastic work commitments, I find that the charge of care has fallen solely to me.

Yes, yes, boo hoo I can hear you say (especially those of you well over your child rearing years who I generally find the most unsympathetic variety of bystander); it’s just that I genuinely can’t remember what it was like to have myself all to myself. When my body was my own and so was my time.

These days, the time I have to myself is always threatened with the possibility that any minute my daughter will need me. No TV show is really ever enjoyed and no shower is taken without the rather disturbing psychotic paranoia that you can hear a baby crying. Even now, as I sit here writing while baby sleeps, it is at the cost of all the things that will make the next four witching hours run more smoothly; preparing bottles and food, getting a bath ready, preparing my dinner, doing the washing etc. So you see that every activity has a proverbial payment; everything always comes at the cost of something else or is threatened to be interrupted.

Let me just clarify- it’s not WHAT I do with my time that bothers me (I don’t know why but I’m a born homemaker), it’s WHEN I do it. Because my day is no longer my own and my life is completely dictated by another human being; a darling little girl who I have decided is either asleep or awake and attached to me.

Most women seem to find this gig a bit easier than I do. Half the time I stare in wonder as they seem to negotiate nap times, meal times and sleep routines better than I. From the moment my daughter slaps me in the face to wake in the morning or as she did this morning for a little treat, stuck her fingers up my nose; it seems to be a marathon of sorts till bedtime (my little bundle of joy sleeps

with her mama who has decided that sleeping babies in cots must simply be a fable).

And I love it. Most days. Like on Monday when I saw my darling in a music class, grasping the use of a wooden guiro. Or Tuesday morning when we went out for breakfast and shared some poached eggs like two little ladies out for tea.

Wednesday though, had I been less responsible, I would’ve been searching for the bottle. Like I’ve said before…work in progress.