I’m leaving my baby
At noon on Friday, I will board a train with a dress in my bag and without a baby on my chest. She’ll be snuggled up in a sling worn by her uncle who I’m leaving armed with eco-disposables. I felt it unfair to expect him to fold cloth on top of looking after my oft-confirmed demanding baby.
I will sit on that train to London, reading The Other Boleyn Girl and hoping it’s trashy enough to distract me from what I’m leaving behind.
It’s an opportunity to meet face-to-face women I’ve got to know over the past year through their inspiring writing. Some of these are women who’ve shared in my joy on Circus Queen and have been endlessly supportive when I’ve opened up about difficulties.
It’s also a chance to drink more than one glass of wine without wondering how much booze is going into my boobs or questioning the safety of sleep sharing with a tiny person.
On Friday night I’ll have glass in one hand, iPhone in the other, live-tweeting my way through the event (of course) and a big-ass camera round my neck, making sure I can spill all the details here when I get back.
I’ll be high-heeled without being driven into the ground by eleven pounds of baby, hair styled without expecting little hands to rip strands out of my scalp and, best of all, my outfit supplied by Mamas & Papas will be gloriously vomit-free.
Fingers crossed, I won’t obsessively text Laurence to check that they’re coping and I’ll actually get a decent night’s sleep in the Raddison Edwardian Bloomsbury Street (fancy, huh?). Maybe. Probably not.
You can follow the events of the MAD Blog Awards on the live blog as the evening unfolds. Thanks to all of you who voted for getting me there.