I thought this week would be emotional because I’m going back to work tomorrow (how time flies when you spend your days singing wind the fucking* bobbin up and trying to get a baby wipe out when your hand is covered in shite (lactose intolerance = runny poo after yoghurt btw)). But then Brexit happened and it tipped me over the edge. About 7.30am last Friday morning in the usual breakfast carnage, when Hector said “I really didn’t think it would be a leave result.., you’ve got a lump of Weetabix on your foot”, I realised that life goes on. Thank fuck life is not going on with the risk of a blonde ball-less bullshitting buffoon running the country though….
Barry’s settling in 2 years ago was pretty traumatic so I decided to make Enid’s gradual. When I mentioned to another mum she was doing an extra 30 minutes every couple of days, she frowned ‘is that normal?’ – ‘Yes. It is for me, it makes me feel better, so piss off with your frankly cocky, non-clingy, possibly just thick, child! Anyway, Enid hasn’t cried once and I’m sure she would have actually waved bye to me if she knew how but that’s another skill we’ve not yet mastered along with crawling or a first tooth (she’s still gummy bear at 9 months – 9 fucking months but she’s started clapping – woohoo! In your face babycentre barmy milestones!!!!)). I should be pleased that she’s happy and fine leaving me but I drove away sobbing my heart out with as much energy and volume as Barry if I’d given him hoops when he wanted Weetabix for breakfast. There’s no bloody winning.
Dare I say, I’m looking forward to going back to work? I’ve been watching House of Commons debates on the Parliament channel this week (even after Brexit that is seriously sad); I’ll be watching bloody Jeremy Kyle next if I stay off any longer – take that back, I think I’d have to completely lose my marbles for that to ever happen.
Best go and get some sleep so I’m fresh for the morning. Just got to get a ‘mickme’ mouse teddy, a winnie the pooh teddy, a muslin, a captain America rocket and a transformer car out of my bed along with the (90th percentile) 2 year old that is holding them all tightly despite being fast asleep. Night night don’t let the bed bugs bite or the sleeping toddler kick you in the face…again
Ps. Don’t worry I don’t say ‘fuck’ out loud at Bounce and Rhyme when singing wind the bobbin up. Not that it would matter – The number of times I’ve sat in a group and suddenly realised I’m singing to myself (with all the bloody actions) like some fucking numpty because my child is chewing the mat they’re sat on, pulling all the library books off the shelf (a Barry favourite) or some other shite which isn’t watching my efforts adoringly. Anyway, how did a responsible adult with a full time proper job become a numpty sat on the floor singing fecking songs about incy wincy (wtf?) spiders or bobbins (wtf?!) on a Wednesday bloody afternoon?