Freedom Fridays – The Unworked-Up Mum
Yet another Friday rolls around. Yet another night with broken sleep. Yet another wrinkle appears and a deeper shade of black (sounds like a Steps song) circles my eyes.
It was a tough night for all involved; the crying began at 01:36. Tried lying on the floor next to Wrigglet’s cot but it just made him try harder to scale the slippery bars to join me. Tried talking through the concept of the Gro Clock once more but he was not having any of it. Tried to let him cry it out but I then got the flack for “fully waking” the husband. I’d been ‘fully awake’ for thirty minutes by this point so as you can imagine I was very receptive to his critique of my sleep methodology.
Hence delivering Harry to nursery was necessary for my sanity today after finally getting to sleep, with him heavy breathing on my face, at about 4am. The house is a tip. There are a million and one things to do. I am behind on everything. So there was only one thing to do today. Say ‘f*ck it’. Apologies to my mum. At forty-two years of age it’s time to accept that not only am I high maintenance but I’m also a potty mouth. Today’s top three are those things I’m not going to get worked up about.
Washing: Has someone been feeding my washing pile after midnight as it appears to be multiplying like clothes gremlins. Seriously – I wear one outfit a day and pop on my pjs in the evening. Where does it come from? I can do three piles and yet still the next day, there’s a basket full again.
I blame the glut of Lycra from my sweaty exercise exertions and Harry for his multitude of layers, ability to smear his pjs in weetabix every day and smother every outfit in… unknown substances. Today though: it can sit there. Enough is enough. It’ll still be there tomorrow. Even more will be there tomorrow but I’m giving the washing machine and myself the day off.
Dishes: Yes, my new CV covers cleaning and general house duties (like it did before but now I have to earn my keep, it suggests a more thorough job). Throughout the day I load the dishwasher – a skill set that needs some work according to my methodical husband – and I also actually put the bloody thing on so there’s a hope of a clean dish, unlike his good-self. However in the allocation of jobs, after dinner (cooked by moi) Mr Unyoung still retains the role of tidier upper after our meal. More often than not I will tidy as I go and selflessly unload the dishwasher as I cook, so it’s not the biggest of responsibilities.
There are currently three strikes against his name for just leaving everything on the side when we go to bed. Admittedly, last night was pub dinner night but it appears that it has been taken as red that it renders him exempt from duties. So today, against every fibre of my being, I have left the house with a pile of dishes to come back to. I have rinsed the weetabix bowl as everyone knows you could render a house with that sh*t – it sets harder than cement and leaves the dishwasher helpless. It was somewhat liberating but I know I’ll have that dirty sense of shame, akin to a kebab after a night out, when I get home.
Lack of exercise: Fridays, as you may have gathered, are my day for running the undulations of our woodland trail. I would’ve no doubt felt reinvigorated for a forest run but today was not the day for dragging my sorry arse along the 7km route. And a sorry arse it is. It’s sorry for the two bagels I inhaled for lunch yesterday despite having prepped the ingredients for a glorious butternut squash salad (the boss was asleep in his pram in the kitchen – I couldn’t risk noisy microwave, oven and warm salad preparation. Bagels were the silent and most satisfying option despite my optimistic #healthymum insta post). It’s sorry for the kilogram of galaxy I have consumed over the week #unhealthymum. It’s sorry for the two chocolate mini-rolls I had as a post-breakfast desert on Tuesday #filthydirtymum. It’s sorry that I’ve still not got round to pumping up the running buggy tyre now that little man refuses to let me run on the treadmill #lazyarsedmum.
This is a public apology from my arse for letting you all down. Today though, an hour back in bed after drop-off was about self-preservation. Next week my arse will get in to gear – you have my word #committedmum.
Here I am now, heading back on the tube across all of London, feeling tired but happy I’ve done something for myself. I opted for lunch with a fabulous friend and feel no regret at prioritising me over dishes, washing, steam mopping and all things domestic. Do you get days where you just have to let it all go and weeks where you let yourself go despite all the best intentions? Here’s to self care and sodding it all off. Happy weekend folks!