Time poor mum that I am, I find myself in a constant state of self-flagellation over not being productive enough during the day (but it should be noted that as I write this, the child is sticking a microphone in my face in the hope that I’ll treat him to my world-famous beat-boxing which he’ll then attempt to replicate but that will result mostly in copious saliva emissions after which the microphone is shoved back against my mouth for a very wet encore). The point is, I’d like to do some non-baby stuff. Raising my son is great, I do love it and understand it’s a privilege but there is also a tugging at the back of my mind telling me there is more I could and should achieve. At the back of my mind, I know I should be writing. One, I NEED to flex the writer’s muscle lest it seize up altogether. Two, I WANT to record a history of this time with my infant son. So, one plus one equals BLOG.
But first, a bit of housekeeping. It should be said from the outset that I HATE the word blog. Despise it. Passionately. To me, blog sounds like bog and that is another word for shit and yes, I’m that juvenile. It just makes my skin crawl so I’m not going to use that word again. Hey, the heart wants what it wants and it DOESN’T want that word.
More housekeeping, a friendly heads up, if you will. This is NOT for the sainted mothers. What is a sainted mother? If you’ve ever uttered the phrase, “Would somebody please think of the children?” in complete earnestness (and not while quoting a Simpson’s episode) then it’s safe to say you are probably a sainted mother. For me, motherhood is this – understanding that your child is a profound gift (he is) and yet, occasionally referring to that same profound gift as “the little fuck” (I do). I’m aware that not everyone sees it my way….or maybe they’re just not admitting it…..whatever, I don’t care but if you think you’ll be offended then please, go read the White Picket Fence Chronicles or some such.
And I suppose a quick introduction is in order. Hi, I’m Angie. I’m 32 and cute as a button. My perpetual fiancé (three years and counting) B is 33 and also buttony cute but in a more gigantic, hairy man way. And then there’s LD, almost 18 months old, who is the cutest button of all. He really, truly is.
So………it occurs to me that being home with a toddler ultimately means I spend my days chasing my tail. And invariably, chasing his cute but annoyingly fast tail too. This morning, LD was blissfully distracted by something (cheese grater? power point? who knew?) and knowing I had possibly a whole 90 seconds to myself, I busied myself playing domestic goddess and made our bed. I make the bed every day without fail but it’s a timely business given all the cushiony bullshit I go for and the added compulsion of achieving the crease-free bedspread. When I’m done, it is a thing of beauty – if the rest of the day goes to shit, at least I can fall back on the perfection of my bed. Although the caveat here is that one is advised to never actually fall back on said bed as, in truth, it is covered in cat fur. I love my cats but their determination to ruin the one perfect thing I’ve got going has made me consider more than once handing them over to the local Chinese take-away. But then, I eat there so that’s just plain silliness.
But back to (non-cat related) tail chasing. There I was savouring my 90 seconds and putting the finishing touches on the only piece of housework guaranteed to be finished today when I discover the thing that has been distracting my son for the last minute and a half. Unraveling the brand new toilet paper roll. Completely unraveling it. It takes me a stupid amount of time to reroll the stupid thing and, of course, like a tent that just never fits back in the fucking bag it came in, the toilet paper, once a neat, tight and aesthetically pleasing roll, now measures a metre high by a metre wide. On the up side, I’d like to see the little bastard unravel it now – it’s fairly chocked onto the holder and frankly, I just hope no one is in a hurry to access the paper at any stage.
So what has motherhood taught me today? Even the seemingly achievable goal of veneer-perfection will be systematically destroyed by your child. LET. IT. GO.