When I’m all grown up I’ll…
My body has decided it’s time to do something about my ego. Rightly, it figures that making me climb bum first then legs together into a car as if I’d forgotten to wear underpants would be the best way to go about it.
We’re packing up the flat to move into our first house this weekend and I’m coming face to face with my usual lack of organisation. One suitcase has books, shoes, a mini djembe drum, a hot water bottle, hangers and a game of chess. My mother would look at this, amused, and wonder what these things have in common. They’re all stuff that was living room at the time, Mum. I’m sorry, you did try.
Then the moment of truth comes, will I initiate the exchange of numbers? She’s got no reason to initiate it. She’s settled in her life, her social group. So it’s up to me to make that move. And more often than not, I don’t. I just hope we’ll bump into each other again.
Actually, I didn’t start interrogating my body again until pregnancy began to make itself apparent. I felt frumpy. But I didn’t talk about it because I didn’t want to appear shallow or ungrateful for the baby.
In this flat, we have a bedtime routine that I’m not altogether proud of. If we stay up beyond 11, I’ll almost inevitably go into a funk that doesn’t allow me to go to bed without making a fuss. It goes like this.
Yesterday I proved that my husband is patient enough to put his life and, more impressively, car into my shaky hands simply to encourage me. He yelled, “Brakes!” a couple of times but there were no beads of sweat, whispered prayers or attempts at thinly veiled contempt.
with pinches of salt for the coming year. Mompetition hits it again.
Late nights courtesy London friends left me struggling to get to sleep at a reasonable hour last night. My iPhone was (shock, horror) battery dead so I decided to read
Yesterday, I drank well over a pint of water, lugged my unhappy bladder into the filthiest taxi I’ve ever sat in and went to the hospital. Two signs on the
I’ve been sickeningly obsessed with Christmas since July this year. Laurence has been caught somewhere between amusement and horror as I’ve enticed (coerced) him into buying presents from hippie stalls
Laurence hates that I call our unborn child “the creature”. It apparently sounds like something gooey and mean out of Alien vs. Predator, nothing cuddly, cute or even human. First