So I’ve lost count of which week we’re on, and the house is beyond a tip, but we’ve made it this far without too many tears (mine mostly).
I love having the kids at home, and always feel bittersweet when the 6 weeks have ended, but boy can it feel like a long time. A healthy mix of several ice-lollies a day and grass fights in the garden, plus a lot of help from grandparents has been our weekly routine so far.
Mr T starts nursery in September, my second baby to fly the nest for pre-school. When L started nursery, I felt a twisting wrench in my gut, which became even worse when actual reception loomed. The day of full school drop off, I walked along to my friend’s house (whose daughter was in the same class), and we sobbed for an hour straight. This was before we felt the sharp realisation of freedom which those extra hours of childcare brought. Why is motherhood such a confusing and emotional journey?
The well-known notion that having a child is like seeing your heart walk around outside your body, hits home every time. Although I think this may also be true about my brain. Especially the other day, when I deposited mascara into the toothbrush holder. Or the week before that, when socks were found in the bin rather than the washing machine. Don’t even get me started on the sting of confusing hairspray for deodorant.
Tucking L into bed the other night, I told her she was the most special girl in the world. Her reply, “and you are the most special Mummy”, followed by a sloppy kiss, removed all the layers of worry to reveal that true meaning of parenthood. Even if I do never regain organised thought again, or know where my makeup is.