With only 7 weeks left until mini man #2 turns up, I return to my old faithful pal, mortality.
It’s not depression. I’m not upset, distressed or desperate. I’m resolute. I will die. This new life will be the end of me. Period.
I will suck my last worthless breath and my husband will be left raising two boys alone. Or perhaps he’ll shack up with young hot designer from work, yes, that’ll be it. They’ll be calling someone younger and fitter ‘mummy’ and I’ll be bloody well dead.
Eldest used to be so chilled. Such a chilled dude. Everyone always said. So happy, so chilled.
You want milk? Yeah? Just have a bit more, ok? Cool. Thanks. You woke early. Just go back to sleep, yes? I’ll just leave you until you do. Great. Worked a charm. Want this toy? Yes? And this one? Great. You don’t want the toy your cousin has, no? No. Good boy. Good, chilled, happy boy.
But wait. 18 months arrived, and with it a completely different specimen. Coinciding with a muggy, light-mornings summer, he’s waking at crack of sparrow fart. He doesn’t go back down. He’s learned ‘the cry’. Not had it yet? Lucky you.
Mum of Mini Men has a Pinterest account.
On it are boards like ‘Boys Craft’, ‘Boys Room’ and ‘Boys Toys’. Even as I clicked on the + to create them I could feel the feminist in me dying as I realised what I was perpetuating.
Recently we took a trip to my brother’s. He’s got a girl with another on the way. The house is top-to-toe with baby dolls, My Little Pony, fairies, princesses, you name it.
There, eldest son happened upon a baby doll which he took rather a shine to and dragged around looking not dissimilar to a rugby second row gently but firmly keeping hold of his ball.
Buy newborn nappies.
Get shit down from the loft. ALL the shit.
Wash vests. Hundreds and thousands of vests.
Shit, where’s the boy? Oh, there he is. Where was I? Oh yes,
What’s he doing under there? What are you eating? SPIT IT OUT! NOW! My god, you’re so gross, that’s yesterday’s lunch. No wait, that means I’m gross, I can’t even clean up properly. I mean, it’s hard to get under the table 7 months pregnant but still.. Right. Continue Reading