As a mum, there are some things I choose to do with Q in my arms.
· Hang out washing for example – before she was crawling, but was Captain Cling and couldn’t be out of my arms for a second.
· Make dinner – I am very good friends with slow cooker, all you really have to be able to do is open cans and chop stuff up. So yeah, things might not all be the same size, but the only person that upsets is my husband the chef, which thereby results in him offering to cook tea. Brilliant.
· Fold laundry – Q over my shoulder practicing her standing by digging her feet into my abdomen.
· Write a blog – I am a demon one-handed typer.
· Answer the phone – don’t actually manage to have an intelligent or lengthy conversation with anyone this way, but at least acquire the essential information.
Then there are some things I do with Q at my feet, hanging onto my leg.
· Clean teeth – she loves the sound of the electric toothbrush – weird because she’s scared of the hand blender and they’re nearly the same sound.
· Shower. When you’re staying in a motel with no bath in a country town without your husband and she’s covered in the mandarin she destroyed at dinner and therefore so are you.
· Pluck my eyebrows. That would be very dangerous if she were in my arms. I’d look like a chicken on its way to the oven.
· Washing up. I can often distract her with a wide selection of Tupperware and a couple of nicely pitched pots and pans.
Then there are other things I choose not to do with Q at all.
· Ride a bike. Some people possess the required skills. I, unfortunately, do not.
· Go to an audition. While she’s cute and all, she’s also a horrible distraction, not the least because looking at her may dilute my want to get the gig and leave her at all anyway.
· Talk to my superannuation fund. I don’t understand them at the best of times.
· Stretching post run. Very difficult to stretch your quad with Q hanging onto it while you try. As a result I am tied more tightly than an actor’s purse strings.
· Wax my bikini. Seriously, not an activity I need her along for. Not so my neighbour who bravely decided to take her daughter up to the local salon. Armed with a bumbo seat, she places her child inside and lets the beautician get to work. Very quickly her daughter realises something is awry. Why is mum squealing? Why is that lady making that horrible ripping sound? What is that hot, dripping substance in the big bowl over there? Why is my mother’s leg braced against the wall, her other one at an angle that makes it look broken? What is that weird, annoying, waterfall elevator music and how do I make it stop? So there my neighbour is, teeth gritted, legs spread, hoo-ha exposed and her daughter, serenading the experience with her ear piercing shrieks. One could argue it would detract from the pain of having hair ripped from your nether regions. Maybe my neighbour is onto something after all…