Blimey, tomorrow is New Year’s Eve. A few years ago, well six in fact, when I was single and child-less I’d be making plans for the whole big night shindigs, which I’m convinced revolves around most people in their 20s wanting to go to the ultimate drunken party, getting trashed and having a “crazy” night. The reality is never, or was never, quite as amazing as you hoped, although I did have some fabulous drunken New Years in my flat with my best mate. Particular highlights were “one bollock Bob” and the year my flatmate was so trashed her boob (right I think) fell out yet she didn’t even realise.
Cut to now and I still have these dreams of that perfect New Year – a house party with just the coolest people, being whisked off to New York, invited to a naked rugby team’s night.
But the reality is, I shall be spending it on my sofa envious of all you childless people or those with babysitters while Mr Mother Fudger and I are “crazy” by ordering a takeaway. And it doesn’t stop there, as the takeaway will be a fat-club friendly one. I know – do I know how to party or what. AND it also means no alcohol as basically it’s sugar, which turns to fat, and fat I just don’t need, so this chuffing baby weight is like some kind of curse of motherhood that is like shit to a blanket – as if I didn’t have enough of the literal stuff to deal with.
Although I am in a zen-like state after today as had a day date with Mr MF. It was chilled, child-free and we went to the cinema. My truly wonderful parents looked after the children. As if sitting in front of the TV to drown out the shouting in my head of “you’ve lost your social life” doesn’t suffice, we decided we’d go to a giant screen instead. And we even had a meal out together. Mr MF said approximately 57 times “we’ve only got one bag”. It was true. One bag, my handbag. I didn’t have wet wipes, or nappies, or a bag of potty related stuff, or endless supplies of children’s clothes to change them in, or toys to entertain them, or bottles, or Calpol for emergencies, or an enormous double buggy that helps to carry the endless shit I can’t go anywhere without. We didn’t have to perform some form of crowd control to stop our daughter exploring her new surroundings. I didn’t have to get several hundred tupperware containers of bread sticks, houmous, fruit, 14 spoons or crawl on my hands and knees post lunch to scrape up the preloved regurgitated food from the floor. We both actually burnt out mouths a little bit because we were able to eat our food straight away.
And whoever designed 3D glasses has been told that they don’t fit on people with glasses, and now actually do fit, so although I still look like a twat wearing two pairs of specs, it is a painless experience.
On the moment we picked up the babes, the boy baby nearly hyperventilated at seeing “Mumma” then promptly refused to look at me as he was cross. And my daughter was knickerless – as seems to be the case at the moment – before she wrapped herself around me as if I had broken her heart to have left her. Insert a huge slab of the ole parenting guilt here. But it was a lovely part of our Christmas so far.
I hope you all had a wonderful Christmas.
Highs this end:
*grown-up pre list writing meant I got what I wanted minus duplicates. My family’s OCD nature rocks.
*my daughter’s little face on seeing her stocking. Thought she may actually explode.
*eating far too much of the good shit
*completing a 500-word piece jigsaw at the in-laws’ house – I joke not
*seeing my sister try to act out “ugly” in charades
*my mum shouting “the prawns” every time we sat down to eat
*the boy baby screaming from 3am to 5am Christmas Day night
*completely changing said boy baby at 3.30am on Christmas Day night
*cleaning up possibly the fullest poo nappy at 4.30am on Christmas Day night
*a family member not revealing a hidden trust fund that would provide for me for the rest of my years
*the three-hour packing before and the three-hour unpacking and washing mission when we returned home
Had a lot of middle-class guilt when we returned home with the sheer amount of stuff we’d been bought from our generous families. The whole rise of the food banks and the sheer number of people who can’t afford to eat is just hideous and felt quite wrong to have so much stuff, so much excess food and generally made me feel so damn lucky really.
I’ve learnt a lot this year about myself – who hasn’t, who doesn’t ever year – but I finish the year feeling just so lucky with my lot in life. For all the moans and the realisation that my mum’s mantra throughout pregnancy “two babies is more than double the work” is spot on, my children are utterly wonderful in every single way, my husband is insanely supportive, my family are truly wonderful and I will have the best New Year ever, even though I’ll be sat on my sofa saying “well it’s just a shame Jools Holland isn’t live” like the rest of us telly watchers.
Sos for the Jerry Springer pay off end bit there. Enjoy, make merry, get tipsy, and have a damn good time you lovely lot.