S**t people without children can do

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As I walk through town looking like something that’s been shat out of a TKMaxx jumble sale, I can’t help but reminisce of the days where I agonised over which plain white T-shirt looked best with my jeans. Motherhood has been the dawn of me: version 2.0.

I used to be up to date with the latest foundation, now I never remember to put any on. I prioritise an extra five minutes of sleep over sitting in my boudoir like a princess, carefully applying some glittery bullshit to my eyelids. I look wistfully at women in the street, lusting over their perfect “put-togetherness”. I want to be put together God Dammit! (Alas, this will not happen as long as I am wearing my pyjama top under an oversized coat to take the children to nursery).

I used to flirt with actual MEN, instead of staring at Mr Tumbles rotund behind on a screen and wondering if I fancy him (I don’t).

I now live vicariously through the sordid stories of my single girlfriends. I want nothing but all of the grisly details of their sexual encounters, right down to the type of underwear he sports. I can only dream of such adventures, and a trip to the salon for a bikini wax would equate to holding a birthday party for my invisible cat.

There’s just so much shit people with children can do. I almost want to go back in time and slap myself for sleeping until midday in a hungover stupor, or not blowing all my money on a five star trip to Thailand while I had the chance.

Even getting down the stairs is a problem. I have two children under five. I might as well be climbing Everest for all the effort it takes.

Going to the supermarket is now something I dread. I never once had to avoid the sweet aisle, or pay for smashed jars of tahini. I’ve never had to hold another human being over a bush so they could urinate outside Tesco (he was “afraid” of the toilets).

Planning a night out needs a map with pins on it, I don’t know any of the songs and I still don’t know how to dance. Any “adventures” have to be cut short because I’m not paying a babysitter to have sex in a toilet with a coked up stranger. I get drunk on two drinks because I don’t drink anymore and wake up to two hungry children at 6am with a screaming headache.

Holidays. Ha. No longer a relaxing refuge to sunbathe the ills of life away but instead an army style exercise in keeping my children alive/not sunburnt/calm in public/not kidnapped by an international drug ring or something.

Eating in public is now a quick prayer to each God from every religion that I do not have the baked bean version of Hiroshima on my hands in front of thirty strangers. That the youngest child doesn’t squirt ketchup in my hair, making me look like a crazy lady that doesn’t wash. That I can actually eat two bites of my meal before it turns cold.

Sometimes it seems like those minus children have it all. I’m not ashamed I feel that way either, if I had been wiser I would have spent my time pre-babies much differently!

Yet when all is said and done my wonderful mother gives me a break. She takes the children for their holidays, for which I am immensely grateful. I find myself sighing – freedom!! I don’t know what to do, should I bungee jump? Just for the hell of it? Get my freakin’ nails done or some crazy shit like that? Or maybe I will settle for sleeping in on a Sunday ….

But no. The motherhood funny bone kicks in. I find myself walking around the house like a hen who’s lost her eggs. I wander aimlessly into my sons’ rooms expecting to see their little sleeping bodies. The house feels empty and strange without them. I wake up sometimes close to cardiac arrest thinking I’ve forgotten to make them breakfast, and then remember they aren’t there. I miss them chronically. I find I still don’t have time to perfect winged eyeliner either, no matter how many effing YouTube tutorials I watch…

Soon enough they are back. And I dream of sleeping in until 9am and pissing without an audience …

 

 

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