Forgive me followers, it has been one week since my last blog post. Christmas came along and literally threw me in to a time vortex. I neither knew what day it was or where my feet were (thanks to the ‘eight-months pregnant with a food-baby look’ I’ve been rocking). In between rolling to the fridge to smear clotted cream on anything remotely sweet and picking up plastic food for the fifty-nineth time (Harry insists on emptying the entire box of one-hundred and twenty pieces on the floor every time to locate the fried egg), I’ve had no time to share my inane musings with you.
But fear not. It is FRIDAY! There I was on Boxing Day, planning a family day out when Hubby reminded me that it would be Friday tomorrow. I was promptly chastised for demonstrating too much glee when I realised Wriggles would of course be in nursery. Coming from the man who spent the entirety of Boxing Day in bed with a stomach bug (who are we kidding – it was the result of over-eating) leaving me to entertain a house-bound toddler, I let the chiding wash over me. Little Man needs time out from me as much as vice versa – I continued to tell myself that as he wailed for ‘mummy hugs’ as I left him. Nb. I emailed and he was fine after a bowl of Rice Krispies.
Daddy Unyoung is ‘working from home’ until the 6th so this Friday it was – duh duh duhhhhh – just the two of us. Alone. There’s only one good use of that time. Yep… SHOPPING (not sure what else you were thinking)! Hubby declared it a ‘date day’, signed off work and off we popped to Bluewater – the mecca of sales for the South East. And who said romance is dead – certainly not me with his Amex in my hand.
We drove, both sitting in the front seats – a rarity. We drank coffee and ate cake – without Daddy having half of his snaffled by a toddler. We looked looked in all the shops – without a single meltdown or need for food bribery. We spent – all Daddy’s money on nice things for Mummy. Yey!
“But hark”, not herald angels… but I hear the cry of my followers (that’ll be my mum then #TopFan)… “what are your top three this week?” It has to be the top three ways to tell Christmas is over…
One – Waistbands
My skinny jeans have become an ironic statement. There ain’t nothing skinny about these legs right now. When I get ready for bed it’s like I’ve been engaging in a little light bondage where my waistband and chest upholstery have dug in to my skin. It’s a little more M&S than S&M as their underwired plunge bra is responsible for reducing the blood circulation to my upper body – that and the rhubarb crumble and custard I had for dinner on Boxing Day. The fridge is thankfully nearly bare of anything to further expand, bloat and stretch my lethargic arse. Please – get me back to meal planning and vegetables (other than sprouts) before I actually burst. After I finish the mahoosive bar of galaxy and kilo of brie with Carr’s Cheese Melt crackers that is.
Two – Rubbish
There’s been an awful lot of curtain twitching in the last couple of days. It’s not a result of an over-zealous neighbourhood watch. It’s waiting for the brave soul who makes the first move, off-timetable – to put rubbish out. Cue the entire street following suit, with whichever wheely bin the instigator has selected. Will it be the green or the black – the Russian Roulette of refuse. Rubbish men really are the unsung heroes of Christmas. Posties bring all the joy with cards, presents and parcels to delight and charm. Rubbish men rid your road of the smell of stale sprouts and the mountains of cardboard that are currently making our street look like it is sponsored by Amazon. They physically and metaphorically clear the decks ready for a Christmas-free New Year. Thanks guys! You are legends.
Three – Toy Carnage
Let’s be honest – the majority of the parcels under the tree were not for us and rightly so. Christmas really is about the little people. I tried to introduce the story of Christmas to Harry and explain about the bearded fella that will be breaching our security measures with the magical deer he’s nicked from the forest.
The Christingle service at the church would’ve been the perfect way for Harry to experience the nativity story, had he not have inched down the aisle with a train someone had given him to stop his wailing. It was quite a way to introduce myself to the local community, commando crawling behind him, fiercely whispering that all his presents would be sent back and Thomas would be sent to the smelter’s yard if he didn’t get back to his pew right this minute. Child under arm, mother holding back tears of exhaustion and humiliation, in the buggy and home we marched before we’d even sung the opening verse of ‘Little Donkey.’
Despite his lack of understanding of what this Christmas lark is all about, he has however enjoyed all the wonderful new things he has been extremely generously gifted. You know Christmas is over when all that neat packaging is gone and you need to find homes for the aforementioned one-hundred and twenty pieces of plastic food, a full miniature kitchen (I can’t even keep my own kitchen tidy and now I have his to sort too…), all his new train kit and caboodle, fluffy things, bubbly things, more books and basically all the stuff! Can I suggest that, if you were to visit our house, then you don’t open any cupboards. They are filled to bursting point, like a booby trap waiting to blow if you should so much as brush past. You could lose an eye if hit by a flying Paw Patrol Pup. You have been warned.
All there is to do now is take down the tree and embrace the starkness of normality. Oh, and I have three-hundred and sixty-three days to look a little less like a pig-in-a-blanket before we have to do it all again. It was fun though! I hope you had a very merry Christmas one and all. Here’s to fifty-two new Freedom Fridays in 2020! See you on the other side!