Our lovely little chaps were three months old last week. We’ve watched them grow from tiny mites into
robust, smiley babies. Archie’s taken a
three pound lead over Flo and as he gets bigger, she seems even smaller
somehow, even though she’s growing well too.
They’re finding their voices - Archie
has an owl-like “hoooo” while Flo coos and babbles, smiling constantly. And then there’s the hands. We’re loving watching them randomly pointing,
staring at their own fingers and brandishing a Superman fist. A truly delightful sight is watching Archie
stroke his own fuzzy peach-skin head.
The last few weeks have been the most exhausting by
far. While the babies are pretty much
sleeping through the night, the trade-off is very wakeful daytimes. Even now we’re using bottles, feeding still
takes up a huge part of the day and I’m frustrated at the lack of tangible
evidence of anything vaguely productive to show for my day. I never seem to have a long enough run at
anything before the next epic double feed/burp/change round starts. I leave snatched meals uneaten, the ironing
pile half-creased, emails half-written, exercise abandoned. A diehard completer-finisher, I struggle with
what to me seems chaos. Just asks: “Did you have a good day?” when he gets
in from work and I woefully tell him I’ve not achieved a single thing, nothing
to report, just the nursery run, baby duties and domestic drudgery. He hugs me and tells me I’m a great mum and
that Evie, Flo and Archie are growing and flourishing under my care – that that
is my biggest achievement. He says all
the right things but the fact is that while I’m very good at working, I’m a
pretty hopeless housewife. Sadly I’ll
never get the same buzz from baking a sponge as I will from cracking a strategy
or pitching a great idea. I give myself
a good talking to about making the most of this special time with Flo and
Archie as my return to working life will come round soon enough. At that, I switch my brain down several gears
and slow the well-oiled cogs, stick a muslin on my shoulder and put on my pinny
(spotless and for show obviously).
Well-meaning friends and glossy magazines tell me I need ‘me
time’ to separate mummy-me from me-me.
But I don’t know how to fit that in.
I used to think of ‘me time’ as being a spa day or shopping splurge,
solo cinema night or long soak in the bath with my book. Now it’s more likely to be going to the loo
without a four year old in tow or an evening trip to the supermarket to pick up
forgotten groceries. This weekend though,
I finally get me some of that elusive time.
I winch myself into skinny (ish) jeans, dust off my towering wedge
sandals and attend a drinks party at my local art gallery. It’s wonderful. Chilled white wine soothes my ‘new mum alone and out of the house in
going-out clothes’ angst, the company is charming and bohemian, and the art
baffles and intrigues me in a most pleasant way. While I’m there, something happens deep
inside my head but I don’t recognize the feeling. Then today I go to the Hay Festival to listen
to my favourite columnist, proud and potty-mouthed feminist and mum Caitlin
Moran, discuss her caustic take on the modern woman’s lot. Her witty rantings are bitter-sweet and
entertaining and create much chatter amongst the crowd afterwards. Then that thing with my head happens
again. I drive home and as I put my keys
in the front door and hear the familiar sounds of my family, I realize what’s
happened this weekend. I’ve done
something I’ve not done for a good few months.
I’ve done some THINKING. I’d like
to try doing it again, just as soon as I finish this ironing.
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