Just one of those days
Don’t we all know the feeling when you wake up and things are a bit off? Perhaps you are missing a sock, your favourite coffee cup smashes or you can’t remember the password to any of your accounts. And, more often than not, these days do not get any better. In fact, in my experience they get far worse.
18 July 2019 was one of those days in our household. I woke up at 7.00am. Lottie normally sleeps a 12 hour shift (on a good night) from 7.30-8.00pm. I always bank on those 30 mins or so in the morning for some “me time”, whether this is a quick (and somewhat pathetic) 2o minute workout in an end room with no jumping or breathing loudly to avoid waking Lady Charlotte, reading an article or enjoying a nice cup of hot coffee. It is a very important time for me and, if successful, makes me feel energised for the day ahead.
On this fateful morning, I put on my sports bra and tights, pulled my hair back into a mum bun and went to the end room motivated to get a workout in. I started the timer. I was two squats in when I heard the initial distress call. F***. I stood still like a deer in headlights, waiting for a few seconds to ascertain whether or not that was a cry. Justification: I have lost count of the number of times I have got out of the shower because I thought I heard Lottie cry only to find her sleeping like a log. I told myself I was just hearing things, trying to avoid the start of an inevitable “bad day”. Other than my own heavy breathing which is the result of a much less vigorous fitness regime post baby, I heard nothing further. Relief.
I reset my pose. Arms out, stomach (because I can no longer accurately describe my mid as sporting anything remotely like abdominal muscles) clenched tight and bum (such a cute word right?) ledged out over my two legs positioned underneath.
Right as I recommenced my first squat, the loud squawk from the bedroom sounded. F***! Her timing was impeccable. It was if she knew the exact time to really assert her baby authority, and warrant the highest level of internal frustration felt by her mother. I knew at that moment it was going to be one of those days and boy was I right!
What started as an innocent squawk, turned in to what felt like the longest grizzle in baby history. Without a word of a lie, it seemed to last the entire day with the only silence being when she had a food or drinks break, slept or when I danced around the room with her to the Baby Shark song hoping like hell that no-one would turn up unannounced.
That morning I tried to bake what should have been the easiest brownie in the world after I finally got Lottie down for her morning nap. What a palaver. Still stressed by the negatives of the morning, I was on edge and it was showing. I left two eggs on the bench. As I turned my back to turn the oven on, both eggs rolled onto the floor. Of course they did. It was just one of those days.
Then began the drama which was cleaning raw egg off the side of the cupboard and the wooden floor. The jury is still very much out on the best way to do this and I welcome anyone’s feedback.
Cocoa – 2, smeared egg yoke floor – 1, cupboard – 0. In my frustration, I overlooked the fact that the text blocked most of the scene of the crime.
10 minutes later and 20 mostly “cleaning” wipes (but I neither confirm nor deny whether baby wipes were involved) down I had finally managed to clear the area. As I read the remainder of the recipe, I heard that oh so familiar squawk. Of course today Lottie wouldn’t sleep for more than 20 minutes when this would normally be her longest nap time of the day. It was just one of those days.
While I finished the brownie with one hand and managed to get a photo of the end product depicted below, I was unable to enjoy it. Testament to my new eating style, I inhaled it and washed it down with my cold coffee in the one spare minute I had.
What I like to call the “hot mess” brownie.
The day progressed in this fashion. My phone died right when I was making an important phone call but I couldn’t find the charger (which was in one of the unpacked boxes), we lost Lottie’s favourite toy (which I later found in her toy box) and we ran out of milk (but in my condition I was in no state to be leaving the house). It was just one of those days.
It would be an understatement to say that I was stressed. With the wisdom of motherhood, I can safely say that what used to be a “bad day” for me was more of a fine day with a few hiccups here and there. The difference is, when things are going wrong these days (and as a responsible parent) I can’t:
Watch Netflix because Lottie would get bored within a minute and demand that I walk around the room holding and jiggling her. Also, they (classified as everyone who shares their opinion on parenting who either does not have a child of their own or hasn’t parented a small child in over 50 years) say screen time is for “lazy” parents.
Drink a bottle of wine because:
I am breastfeeding so Lottie would get the “tarnished” milk and it is not worth the sobering (pun intended) guilt which would follow;
I would be well on my way because my tolerance for alcohol has decreased significantly and that could present a safety risk for Lottie. I will not be illustrating with examples to keep my dignity but will simply confirm that University was where the tolerance levels reached an all-time high;
The benefits of feeling intoxicated for a few hours would not outweigh the dire consequence that is a “mum hangover”.
This can all make for a very difficult day. A day where you cannot wait for your little one’s bedtime so you can have time to clean up the mess from the day, cook dinner and perhaps (if you are lucky) have a five minute shower.
As I flop in to bed exhausted, I hope that tomorrow will bring another day so I can start fresh. I write the day off as “just one of those days” and thankfully I find that they are, more often than not, simply that. A day which eventually will be shared with mum group with laughter and with pride, as though you have been awarded a badge of honour to recognise that you survived the worst day in baby history.