Thanks to Liz at Violet Posy, not only did I make it in time to the Gap to admire Stella McCartney’s cooperation with the high street brand, I even hunted down one of the one-piece sweaters for little L.
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:
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.
It’s official now. The leaves are falling, temperatures barely climb over the 20C mark and scarves, gloves and hats are back on the menu. It’s autumn! One thing that really cheered me up recently is… gardening. Maybe it’s because I am a mum now, that I find these things appealing. The whole philosophy of the circle of life, the old making space for the new, the deep connection between life and death. Or maybe I am just getting old.
In a recent comment-conversation, the lovely Rose said: ‘Oh I envy little L, I imagine she has a great wardrobe of clothes!’ I had to think about this, because a) yes, she does (thanks to her generous grandma, little L is sporting Ugg Boots, pink Ralph Lauren corduroys and a white Petit Bateau hooded jacket in the picture above) and b) I envy her myself, because she’s better dressed than me. Realising this kind of hurt, but it’s the truth and it’s time to face it: I am a slummy mummy.