I have a confession to make: I’m not a girly girl. Yes, I love make-up, clothes and all those good things that us lot with vaginas get to do with our hair, but put me in a room of women and I will not know what to do with myself. The screeching, the cattiness, the drama, the girliness of it all… it scares me.
Before I had kids I literally had an infinite amount of time. Nothing, but nothing took too long because there was this huge abyss of empty time stretching before be, just waiting to be filled. If I chose to sleep 50% more than strictly needed? Fine… It’s not like I had anything else to do.
That’s the thing I am finding hardest at the moment. My time is not my own anymore.
Before I had kids I didn’t realise how much guilt would be involved; guilt and parenting go together like olive oil and balsamic vinegar, like ginger biscuits and a cup of tea, like a glass of wine and my mouth. It’s a given, it’s meant to be.
The guilt is constant, yet not always about the same thing.
One thing I struggle hugely with out here in the middle of nowhere is the lack of a decent burger. I’ve tried EVERYWHERE within a 10 mile radius, and none of them compare to the delights you get in London. Our local pub’s offering is passable, especially since they gave up doing those massive huge chips that were basically roast potatoes and went with slimmer chips.
Living in London our weekends were mostly spent eating, drinking or hungover. I dread to think how many days I wasted sleeping away my fuzzy head, but at the time we had no other pressures or worries and the biggest decision to be made was which pub we’d eat lunch in that day. I could take as much time relaxing as needed, as long as my brain was half way engaged on Monday mornings.
Every time someone asks me how old Hux is I feel terribly guilty. I look a bit crazed and panicked and say “uhhhh” a lot, because I don’t really know. When I had Elfie I knew exactly how old she was down to the weeks and days, but now all I know is Hux is somewhere around 14 or 16 weeks. Sorry, Hux.