It is 2.33pm and I am still sitting in the gym pants and a sports bra I put on for my walk at 8am this morning, faintly aware of my own body odour and minus the singlet I was wearing because Q managed a sneaky wee out the side of her nappy when she was lying on me while I was desperately trying to get her to sleep, which was an epic fail because she had managed a quick 15 minute Q-nap on her way back from the butchers with her father and decided that was all this 15 month old needed.
Punch me in the face.
Neither of them are my favourite people right now.
But mostly Gregory. I blame him. That would never have happened on my watch.
I live for her naps. I stage my whole day around them. I dream of the cup of tea I’m going to have hot and steaming, while I sit – for once – and nibble on some form of delicious carbohydrate. (Even peanut butter on Saos if that’s all I can find).
I AM TIRED.
I’m always tired.
And it’s not always (or even entirely) Q’s fault.
Who wouldn’t be tired if they were a fulltime mum who’s also trying to open a restaurant?
I’m an idiot.
But since I didn’t put Q’s name down for childcare when she was in utero and we were still calling her ‘peanut’, this situation is unlikely to change.
It would help if Q didn’t have as much energy as she does, seriously, she’s made of kryptonite.
Nothing less than 2 park visits, an adventure and usually a swim all by 12 noon will guarantee a nap.
Problem is, I’m so exhausted I need one too.
But I can’t because there is laundry to do, weetbix to extricate from her highchair, a Tupperware drawer to organise (I just chucked a little tanty and pulled every single piece of plastic onto the floor and refused to let Q put them back until I had found their matching lid), and a bathroom to clean.
This ‘stay at home mum’ gig is for the birds.
Tomorrow I'll be back to my Stepford wife self.
Here endeth the whinge.