Posts Tagged 'motherhood'

Raisin’ raisins

They are cheeky little juicy bits of heaven in my book but then I’m dried fruit fiend.  The question today is why does my daughter participate in such rigorous quality control over said raisins?  Does anyone else have this problem?

Is it not enough that they are the finest organic specimens, boxed neatly and colourfully for her delectation?  Does she know something we don’t?  Is there a conspiraisincy?  Or perhaps this is a future wine tasting genius in the making and she’s getting her laughing gear around the closest thing that’s legal for her age?  If so I hope she has more success than her mother.  I taste a ladda wine but I’m no closer to being a genius.  I shall keep plugging (or rather uncorking) away.

Anway I digress.  Back to the question.  Why are half the raisings eaten and half spat out from any given box she is presented with?  I have assessed the specimens on the basis of colour, size, freshness and wrinkliness and can find no answer!  Thoughts on a piece of dried fruit please to this address.

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What every parent needs in their toolbox

Emergency Chocolate

This is now in a safe place behind glass in my kitchen.

Nuff said.

Single parenting: a different type of reflection

The reality of single parent life means that the majority of your time is spent rushing around and not thinking about yourself.  Your every waking second is spent either busting a gut at work to earn a crust (inevitably cramming a 5 day week into the 4 days I work to prove that my flexible working isn’t harming operations), then busting a gut doing the nursery run either side or work, then busting a gut to ensure you’re organised and one step ahead for bubba (is the nursery bag packed with spare clothes?  is stuff washed for tomorrow?  must remember to speak to nursery about where the missing grey sock has gone etc)  then finding the energy to have that precious quality time with bubba on the moments when you aren’t running around like a headless chicken. 

Not to mention trying to keep the flat tidy and organised after the trail of destruction that munchkin can leave within seconds.  Cue picking up the wet flannel from the floor that she’s pulled down from the sink and mopping up the water so she doesn’t slip.  Rolling the toilet paper back onto the roll (I swear she’s auditioning in secret to be an Andrex puppy).  Putting all the grill trays back that have found their way from the kitchen into a toy box somewhere and removing the shoes and Happyland characters that have been stacked in their place.  And repeat.

Anyway I was absent mindedly brushing my teeth at boyfriends house the other day whilst munchkin was off visiting her dad when I noticed a woman looking at me.  I jumped for a second, heart pounding.  The startled on her expression was almost comical.  There she was.  And no he hasn’t been hiding a secret bit of female fluff in the bathroom.  It was me.  It was my reflection.  In the huge mirror hanging over the bath. 

I suddenly realised that in my world of rushing around I never actually stop to notice what I look like in the mirror any more.  Not in a vain sense.  I just don’t think about me and what I look like.  I don’t give a second thought to the image I’m projecting with my clothes.  I couldn’t tell you what’s in fashion.  It’s enough to get out of the house with no snot, dribble or toothpaste wiped on me. 

Nor do I give a seconds thought to my hair other than to run a brush through it so there’s no tangles.  Hair that through being studiously ignored has now got so long its tumbling down my back like it used to when I was 18.  Except now it’s now got some imposter grey hairs and is lacking any lustre despite an almost daily dose of Pro V. 

So I stopped and actually spent a few odd minutes looking back at me.  I think the twinkle in my eyes is still there.  Or perhaps it’s the glint from the metal off the shopping trolleys that are now parked under each eye.  I’ve got an alright figure.  Probably half a stone heavier than I’d like to be but I’ve been eating properly for some time now and close friends will tell you when I’m not eating it’s a fair signal I’m very stressed.  I’m curvy.  I like curvy.  Sorry Kate Moss but there’s plenty of things that taste better than being thin.  Treat yourself to a decent cheese board, love, and a glass of port.

In the end I smile.  Because although I look after myself and I like to think I dress nicely, and although I definitely look more haggard than I used to thanks to the strains of single parent life, actually none of that matters.  This face, this tired, tired face, is the one that smiles ecstatically when I collect munchkin from nursery every day.  This beleagured face is the one that makes munchkin’s beautiful little face light up like a Christmas tree, makes her drop whatever toys she’s holding, and run with her arms in the air, barreling through whoever or whatever is in her way to be swept up into my arms to be smothered in kisses and hellos when I appear at the nursery door. 

I may be starting to resemble Cousin It but it’s liberating nonetheless!

Acknowledgement to Susie B for  use of the photo.


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