[dropcap]H[/dropcap]ave been thinking about writing this post since a time when – ooh – I didn’t have a permanent stream of sweat cascading down my back, but after reading this from Vicky Gooden, it inspired me to actually y’know, put fingers to keyboard.
The cat jumps on the end of the bed and starts meowing for breakfast. I think not, hun. Moments later the baby starts whimpering through the monitor. I keep my eyes closed and pray everyone just goes back to sleep.
Classic FM starts smoothly chortling through the radio which means oh yes excellent my boyfriend needs to get up for work. I look at the monitor and see that Atti is awake and apparently fascinated by his hands. Either he’s been awake and occupying himself for the past 45 minutes or he fell back asleep. I’m hoping for the latter.
I get him out of his cot, change his nappy and give him a bottle in my bed whilst surrounding him with a nice little selection of toys.
ASOS have launched a 20% discount code for today only, so drag my laptop onto the bed to very quickly place an order from products that are lurking in my Saved Items folder. They’re not actually for me, but for my mate Chloe as we’re doing a ‘blogger friend does my ASOS haul’ bit of Instagram story content for the lolz. I did the legwork the night before so literally just need to add to basket before everything sells out in her size.
After playing with Atti and giving him a bowl of porridge, I put him down for his first nap and utilise the time to do the washing up, refresh the steriliser, cook and eat an omelette, make the bed, shower, throw on a jumpsuit, put a ribbon in my ponytail and put on super basic make-up. I also put out my ‘The HG Ten’ on Instagram stories and start editing a photo to post.
HE IS AWAKE. But not crying. He’s playing with his hands again. Sure, sure. I continue editing and whip together a quick caption and get the post out, convincing myself that OF COURSE everyone (including seven-month-old babies) loves a few moments alone to gather themselves after waking up from a nap.
I change his nappy and go to get him dressed for the day. Mid-change he starts doing a poo and it is the biggest baby poo I have seen in my entire life. I am shook. I take a photo to send my boyfriend before realising he probably doesn’t want to receive a photo of what looks like an adult poo mid-meeting.
We take the 30-minute stroll into town for coffee, toast and a short mosey around the shops – we’re on foot today as my boyfriend has the car for work appointments.
HOME! I go and pick up a missed delivery that has been flung over our back fence before giving Atti lunch, reading a book with him and putting him down for his next nap of the day.
I have received a letter in the post from the NHS advising me to book a smear test which is all very well and good aside from the fact I had one three months ago and never received the results. Try to ring my GP but am number 20 in the call queue and quite honestly no.
I sit down to type this post having had the OMG YES LET’S DO THIS HOW EXCELLENT thought this morning, before making myself a cup of tea and taking the washing off the line.
I also blitz through the most important of emails lingering in my inbox which mostly say ‘Hi Hannah, sorry to chase but have you had a spare second to look over my last email?’.
I have more work to do but get completely and utterly hooked by an online article about working mums which then forces me to pre-order a book about working mums and then ah well nap time is over.
I decide that this afternoon seems like as fine a time as any to top up the supplies of baby mash in the freezer, and decide that YAY ME AND ATTI WILL COOK A TOMATO PASTA TOGETHER.
He wails the entire time he is in his highchair, unless I am plying him with Ella’s Kitchen Melty Puffs or performing elaborate dances for him.
In fact, he doesn’t not stop yelling at me for the next two hours until I decide that I’m going to put him down for a random afternoon nap because maybe he’s tired? PLEASE SAY HE’S TIRED.
Would like to just sit and stare at a wall but instead got an inbox to refresh and a kitchen to clean. Sweet joy.
Ten minutes into cleaning the kitchen, just as I have spritzed every surface with my beloved rhubarb Method spray and made a small dent in the washing up, there is a knock on the door. Because OF COURSE today is the day our Tesco delivery man swans up early.
I manage to find space on the floor for everything we’ve bought and just as I say ‘have a nice day’ and close the front door, I can hear hysterical screaming coming through the monitor.
Please just picture me tapping my fingers together like Mr Burns and going ‘eeeeexcellent’.
There is one delightful upside to my boyfriend having the car – he arrives home a full eight minutes earlier than normal and is clearly in a 10/10 mood because he’s not only brought home a cheese scone but he happily takes the baby off me and heads off upstairs for half an hour, leaving me to cook dinner in peace.
Dump loads of cold spaghetti on the baby’s high chair tray and surprisingly he thinks it is the most exciting thing he’s ever seen. Cue us eating dinner like a grown-up couple whilst he flings spaghetti at us, the floor and the wall.
Take Atti upstairs for a bath to clean all the spaghetti off his belly, a book, a bottle and bed.
Turns out the reason my boyfriend managed to distract the baby for half an hour was because he gave him a rice cake to eat in our bed. On top of the fresh bed sheets I put on… ooh less than 24 hours ago. Spend five minutes picking tiny crumbs off my pillow.
Kettle boiled and a last check of my emails in case Virgin have got in touch begging me to go on a family holiday to Cuba leaving tomorrow. They have not, but there is a lovely press release on denim watches waiting for me.
Put laptop away, change into my pyjamas and settle down on sofa with chocolate and boyfriend to watch Sharp Objects. Watch with subtitles because it’s too arty and there’s too much mumbling and I can’t hear what’s going on with the white noise coming through the monitor.
Face oil slathered on, sleep spray spritzed and eye mask firmly covering my peepers from the bright glare of THAT BLOODY MONITOR (love it really, I GET TO CHECK MY BABY IS BREATHING EVERY 30 SECONDS).
And good night, I am done for the day, resigned to a glorious sleep in my rice cake crumb-laden bed.