Until my baby was born, I used to get bad-tempered if I slept for less than eight hours a night or missed a meal. I’d go mad just seeing the living room untidy, with cushions on the floor and the table strewn with glasses, or the laundry basket overflowing. It was unthinkable to have my nails anything short of impeccable, with nail polish in the season’s most fashionable colour; or to spend the day without wearing one of the forty pairs of high heels in my closet.
But then along came this little being who turned my world upside down and now I find myself never getting more than three straight hours of sleep, looking at the watch and realizing I haven’t eaten anything for hours or even finding clothes scattered all over the house along with glasses, packets of milk, bibs and pacifiers and simply ignoring them. Also my nails are a mess because every time I go to paint them I remember I’ll be changing nappies before they’re dry and – get this – I’ve noticed there’s dust on my stilettos, it’s so long since they’ve seen the light of day (or evening).
Telling myself ‘tomorrow I’ll get my hair cut’ or ‘tonight I’ll finally watch that film’ is beginning to sound like those last-gasp promises in an election campaign. So the first lesson this little being who’s moved in beside me has taught me is: it’s pointless making plans. Better to take one day at a time and make the most of moments like these, when I happen to take a look at my blog and get an enormous urge to write – at the exact moment he’s fast asleep. If I’d planned it, no way would it have happened.
if you like my blog check out my book Thirty Something
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