As I have heard many a time during these four years of bottom wiping, food shovelling, buggy fuelled pave raging, extracting stray lego out of feet etc, it is so very important to keep a diary. Had I taken this irritatingly accurate advice from the word 'push,' it would be a lot easier to fill this blog with knowledge and tips on parenthood. As it stands I will have to resort to rooting through those moth riddled boxes in my mind for any little experience gems that I can share with you. Maybe we can all fish out our advice gems and donate them to saving the Western World from 'toxic parenting.' (more about toxic parenting when I'm in the mood for long words and lecturing).
So, for all this time devoted to moulding and shaping my little blob with eyes, my son has been painstakingly transformed into a generally socially acceptable four year old whipper-snapper. (Apart from his tendency to pivot his head 360 degrees and puke streams of green liquid). Little Louie skipped off to 'big school' two weeks ago, leaving me the freedom to do whatever I darn well chose to do. As long as most of it was housework.
After the initial joy of being able to finish a *whole* cup of tea, whilst revelling in the ability to actually put a full face of make up on without having to do twenty other arduous tasks, I was left in an unfamiliar state of peace. It felt like the aftermath of a fervid party that had sucked you in, spun you round and spilled you out into a dazed heap on some stranger's ashy carpet. The hangover of motherhood had begun.
So, for all this time devoted to moulding and shaping my little blob with eyes, my son has been painstakingly transformed into a generally socially acceptable four year old whipper-snapper. (Apart from his tendency to pivot his head 360 degrees and puke streams of green liquid). Little Louie skipped off to 'big school' two weeks ago, leaving me the freedom to do whatever I darn well chose to do. As long as most of it was housework.
After the initial joy of being able to finish a *whole* cup of tea, whilst revelling in the ability to actually put a full face of make up on without having to do twenty other arduous tasks, I was left in an unfamiliar state of peace. It felt like the aftermath of a fervid party that had sucked you in, spun you round and spilled you out into a dazed heap on some stranger's ashy carpet. The hangover of motherhood had begun.
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