Making it to the Top of My Own List

When she was four and a half, Daughter bought me a bracelet with a locket on it.   I suspect she had help; she’s always been smart but she wasn’t tall enough to reach over the counter at that age.   It was a silver bracelet with a heart that says ‘I love you Mummy’ on the front and ‘There’s not a Mummy in the world more special than you’ on the back.   Cheesy, right? But of course my most treasured possession. When it was new, the locket was anchored on to a particular link on the bracelet.   It was where it should be at all times.   I wore this bracelet 24/7, and there the heart was, same place all the time.   Then about a year later, out with the girls for a meal, it fell off.   Luckily, it dropped onto my lap and I was able to take it to the jewellers and get it fixed.   But I didn’t get it fixed on to a link, on the advice of the jeweller.   So suddenly, it wasn’t exactly where I thought it was.   It moved up and down, caused a bit of distraction. And then you guessed it;

Day 312 of working from home…and learning from home…and homing from home…What’s that you say?   It’s only Day 2?   Oh.   I feel I may have been a bit premature with my 5:45 glass of wine then.   Must try harder. So it’s all a bit odd isn’t it.   For everyone, I know I’m no different.   I’ve got a List of Things to Do and am wondering about adding ‘running a book about how many of the things I’ll actually do’ to the list.   It’s all good stuff.   All this extra time!   Usually I have about five minutes an evening to myself, what with child collecting, dinner, lunches, washing, homework, hair washing etc etc, and suddenly there’s all this time .   I was literally ripping clean clothes from the fellow housemates today as I’d emptied the washing basket yesterday (in scheduled breaks and lunchtime, of course).   I’m saving ironing, don’t want to peak too soon.   I had a bath, cleansing mask and moisturising mask, meditated, watched some TV, and then it was 7pm!   Ha ha, I joke.   I

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I read a magazine cover with excitement recently.   I can’t remember the exact title, but the gist was ‘Make a Massive Amount of Money Doing what you Love’.   Whoop, whoop, whoop!   I could hardly write my list fast enough – fortune makers, each and every one! Things I love to do: Sleep Go to the beauticians for treatments Reading Watching TV Having a bath Running Perusing the aisles in Boots Eating chocolate Going out with the girls Shopping   And yes, of course, spending time with Husband and Daughter.   But I was under the impression that this was all about a new job, and Husband has his own and Daughter is too young to work.   So they are excluded.   I will let them share in my new wealth though. I excitedly flicked through the pages looking for the application form, daydreaming about how I could properly describe my skills in the activities on the list to do myself justice, and fight off the no doubt massive competition.   What woul

Holiday minus 1 Holidays cost.   I’m not talking about the flights or the accommodation or the hundred weight of toiletries.   Or the new clothes (and underwear; how does that happen?)   Plenty in the drawer and then boom!   Not enough for a mini-break, let alone a fortnight in the sun.   )   Oh no.   There’s all the preparation to account for.   Husband:   Haircut.   Me:   Cut and colour.   Foot overhaul at the chiropodist (so much more ruthless than a pedicure).   Eyebrow threading.   Spray tan (scrapped this time round after being a bit David Dickinson last time).   Bikini wax.   All this in the name of not scaring the children .   Husband doesn’t get it.   Absolutely bamboozled by a bikini wax.   Why can’t I do it myself (like I do all year).   Because I want to pay for the humiliation of making small talk whilst a girl half my age and size attacks my nethers with a level of scrutiny and precision last exercised by the doctor who sewed me back together after giving birth.  

There’s no shortage of sticks and the opportunity to beat yourself with them in parenthood.   It’s a minefield.   Maybe it gets easier with subsequent children, but for firsts or onlys, every day has got the potential for you to do something wrong.   Doing stuff wrong is an alien concept for me.   I’m a planner, a thinker, a reviser.   I treated pregnancy like I did my academic qualifications; reading, research, planning.   I didn’t go into it half-baked, and much of the research was focussed on how to get a girl.   Grapes and strawberries, apparently. Copious bowls of Frosties and eggs (not together, I’m not an animal) were also part of my diet, but I was well pregnant by then so imagine they didn’t have any impact on the pink or blue issue.   I wanted a girl, and was willing to take a bit of dubious advice.   I’m no scientist, who am I to argue?   Anyway, I Got It Right.   Early babyhood was approached similarly, and really, there’s not that much to get wrong. So, from right