Day eleven. 1.17pm. Baby propped. Bottle cocked. And here was I, a big fat shadow of my former self, barely recognisable to the world. And still in my pyjamas. I pitied the postman, I really did. Poor guy had more than he bargained for behind the door at number 88. A sleep-deprived bag of a woman, screaming baby in one hand, mobile phone pinging in the other. WHAT THE HELL TIME DO YOU CALL THIS? I wept. His non-smile said it all. He’d seen me in my smalls [or not so small lately] on far too many occasions. Miserable bastard. Continue reading “Baby Bootcamp”
Esther’s first day at Big School prompted the resurrection of the Ironing Board. OK so perhaps use of the word “resurrection” is wishful thinking. Rather more truthful would be: Esther’s first day at Big School prompted the erection of the ironing board. For the first time. In 5 years of marital bliss and pseudo-domesticity.
A culmination of guilt, embarrassment and one too many of those disapproving up-and-down looks [that we all know so well] dragged me kicking and screaming to this point. Let’s face it, deep creases, curled edges and crumpled hems are simply not cool at any time but sported by my poor daughter on her first day at Reception, is frankly speaking, pretty G’damn brutal and just not very normal. So it was finally time to take stock, re-evaluate and do some serious homework on my “Household Management” skills. Continue reading “Ode….to be a Perfectly Normal Housewife”