So you can imagine I embraced motherhood with as much energy, exhuberance and practical planning as an A4 folder with colour dividers would allow. I religiously followed Gina Ford's rules to a letter, I enforced Annabel Karmel's healthy menu's to a tea, I restricted TV, drowned in Arts & Crafts and read each book enthusiastically 164,493 times (sometimes in one night it seemed). I put pressure on myself like a cherry on top of an icing cupcake of pressure. But recently things have been changing. I'm not sweating the small stuff any more - perhaps because I've so much big stuff to sweat these days.
Last week alone, I did so many 'wrong' things, I might as well have been following the Bad Book of Parenting. Here's a few tasters:
- I let the girls watch TV still in their pyjamas. At 3pm.
- I took them to Eddie Rockets for burger and chips because I couldn't be bothered to make tea and fancied somewhere that threw away the plates That was how my precious baby who only eats home-cooked organic foods celebrated her 3/4 year - with a chip in each hand and 4 in her gob.
- I didn't wait for the girls to be in bed before I opened a bottle of wine - it was 6.15 and the sun was shining, and I thought I should raise a toast to the glowing sky
- I didn't retch, scream, or pull out my hair when circumstances of a day out meant Ruby didn't go down for her 12 o'clock sleep until 3pm.
- One day I rejected every pore in my body and sat on the sofa while Ruby slept and the girls played and ....... read my book. I did not hoover. I did not bake. I did not clean behind the pot plants. I read. A Book.
I'm wallowing in my wrongness. I'm rather hoping this week is an utter disaster.