Christmas is by far my favourite time of year. I just love fairy lights, the smell of ginger bread, mulled wine and the colourful decorations that brighten up grey winter days. So when John Lewis asked me to contribute my set of rules for a ‘Perfect Family Christmas’, I was more than happy to join […]
Every now and then, a tiny bit of the old me resurfaces and gives me a smile. The-putting-on-makeup-me. The-strutting-around-in-heels-me. The-choosing-cream-white-coat-over-practical-me.
So when Big M took me out for dinner on Saturday, I felt more like being just me than I did over the past seven months.
Yes, she is seven months already. And I know that some parents manage to finish the nursery six months before the baby is born. But as you might have realised already, I am not the first in line when it comes to accomplishing household related tasks. Hoovering the floor? Tackling the laundry pile? Painting the hallway? I’d rather flip through the pages of my Grazia, thank you very much. Especially when I have to start off with this:
Hoping it would all be over within a few days, I didn’t really mind to get my mail a few days later than expected. But with the strike going on and with no solution in sight, I am getting more and more annoyed by the whole scenario.
In the six months since little L’s birth, I have barely been separated from my precious baby girl. There have been about ten evenings where I nipped out for an hour or two, leaving Big M behind to keep a close eye on the baby monitor. An easy task, as little L usually doesn’t wake until the wee hours, once mummy has tucked her in and kissed her good night. Then there have been about six times she spent an hour in the gym crèche, guarded by the lovely Jane and her staff. But all of a sudden, little L decided not to like staying there anymore, and Met Mum had to be called to her rescue via the intercom. So there it went, my tiny bit of me-time.
My feet are once again walking on British soil. I am still feeling a bit seasick from the jet leg, and little L not wanting to settle back in doesn’t help. On top of it, I brought home a nasty could, thanks to the Americans’ OTT love for air conditioning. Yes, it’s hot out there, but do you have to cool down every room to minus 10 degrees Celsius?
New York, New York. I completely forgot how hot New York can be in August.
Last Sunday was seeing little L and me attending the Christening of L’s babyfriend T. On our way to the reception, one of the guests asked me, if I was going to have little L baptised. Answering the question herself, she said ‘Well, I guess it’s better to have them baptised at an early age.’ Is it? I am not quite so sure.
July is my favourite month. Not only are the market stalls laden with juicy strawberries and sweet melons, it is also the month of summer holidays, ice cream and BBQs. Oh, and it is my birthday in July, too.
While thinking of what to do this year, I was remembering last year’s birthday celebrations. All very well planned in secret by Big M to surprise me, the celebrations turned out to be a lot calmer than arranged for – the champagne remained unopened and the sushi untouched, as we were hit by an even bigger surprise just the day before.
A completely average Wednesday morning, around 9:30AM. Rushing around my local Sainsbury’s with little L screaming, juggling piles of grocery shopping on the pushchair. Queuing at one of the few tills that hasn’t been turned into a ‘self-checkout’, I dare to look up and count annoyed co-shopper’s looks against encouraging fellow mummy-smiles.
Result: one cashier who looks like wanting to kill me, a drunken dosser who just about manages a smile, two annoyed grannies disapproving my parenting abilities, four silently smiling mums and six dads. SIX DADS? Now, what is going on here?