How are you? It’s a loaded question when you’re a new mum, and you think to yourself how much do they really want to know?
In my past life I was a successful white collar worker, moving project by project up the corporate ladder. My work had allowed me to visit some remote and beautiful countries, and I went from being an Aussie backpacker in London to a home-owning, loft-converting immigrant with indefinite leave to remain.
A preventative double mastectomy slowed me down in 2013, but following that I got married, we travelled the U.S. for 5 weeks, and I ran my first marathon.
Then I had a baby.
The baby is rocking like a crazy person and I think is it because I haven’t read to him today? It’s 6.20pm, and instead of sitting with him in the nursery I’m frantically ladling soup from the pot on the stove to the food processor.
‘Almost done baby’ I say, watching the clock.
The dog creeps by, out the pet flap and I think what’s she up to? I look outside and she’s got another bloody dummy.
‘Molly!’ I shout. ‘Molly no!’
The baby thinks this is hilarious, and toddles full speed towards the back door. I’ve got the fridge open, and as he barrels past me a tomato falls out and onto his head.
Oh shit a tomato just fell on my baby’s head I think, and wait for a wail. When it doesn’t happen I go back to the food processor because, well, what else?
I struggle not to spill soup on my new kitchen counter, and give up when I learn that yes you can put too much liquid in a food processor. Bloody shit I think. Fucking bollocks.
My dog ate another dummy. She likes to eat the nipple, and tends to leave the evidence in clear view of the back door.
I found this one when I went outside for a poop run. We live in London, so when I say ‘garden’ I may as well say ‘grassy verge’. I don’t know what made us think having our own lawn would be a good thing. I guess we had pictures of picnic rugs and sunshine, and the baby rolling around joyfully in the sun. Did I say we have a dog? And a very small area of lawn? Let’s just say the reality is far from the lush, green dream-lawn in my head.
It’s usually my hubby’s job to pick up poop, but he was away for the week so I found myself outside, barefoot, trying to pick my way through wet grass without stepping in shit. I honestly don’t know how our dog Molly isn’t dead. I count four poops overnight. Four. My brain cannot even.