I have already done a post outlining what I do all day.
This one is about things I don’t do.
Being a mum is a funny old thing. Never in my life have I been so busy, yet moved so damn slowly. By the time each day comes to a close I’m weary and aching for bed despite, on the face of things, having achieved relatively little (if we discount keeping two small children alive).
For instance, in a pre-child life, if someone were to ask me what I got up to at the weekend and I replied that I went swimming and to the supermarket all in one day, the person asking might look at me as if to say ‘and…?’. With children, doing two different things in 24 hour period is something to be proud of. Medal-winning territory.
And yet, despite the many hours which could, technically, be categorised as ‘not really doing a lot’, there are a lot of things I just don’t have time to do. Even when I just had the one child and she still napped (oh, those halcyon days) I probably didn’t have time for these things:
I do occasionally, when the stars align and everything is going well. Weekends, usually. But when both kids are in my sole charge and they are grumpy and demanding to be fed as children are wont to do, sitting down with a bowl of porridge (alright, Coco Pops) is the last thing I have time for. If I do, by some miracle, manage to make myself a slice of toast I am usually met with this kind of scene:
More usually, food is eaten on the go and straight from the cupboard or fridge in unlikely and disgusting combinations; a slice of cheese here and a spoonful of peanut butter there.
Straightening my hair
…Or drying it, getting it cut, or any general maintenance really. To be honest I was never that good at this before I had kids; they are really just a convenient excuse for its permanent woeful state.
Trialling new recipes
I’ll buy all the ingredients especially apart from one thing I really need which will have to be left out. It will create a lot of washing up and above all be disappointing; no one will bloody eat it anyway. We stick with what we know here.
Tasted better than it looks
Dear Zoo doesn’t count, not even the noisy book. Pre-children I was a library-card-holding, reading machine… I now have three years’ worth of unread Christmas presents to work my way through. I’ll start one, but after reading each sentence fifteen times over I tend to give up quickly. It takes months to finish a chapter and every time I pick it up again I have to flick through the preceding chapters because I have no idea who Elizabeth is even though she’s one of the main characters.
Catching up with friends
I do see friends, I’m not a hermit… but they basically have to offer to be human climbing frames for a few hours and often we will part ways without having exchanged any real information about our lives (but they will probably know intimate details of the workings of my baby’s bowels).
Mowing the lawn
I used to garden for pleasure; plant seeds, grow vegetables and everything. Rubbish looking knobbly ones, but they tasted alright. Now my garden has more plastic crap than shrubs, the weeds are prolific and the grass is six inches high.
If Amazon Prime or Ocado don’t deliver it, I don’t need it. Browsing is for people with a lot of spare time, as is trying things on. I genuinely can’t remember the last time I went into a changing room (actually I can, but I was using it to sneakily change a horrible nappy in the absence of anywhere more sensible to do it and had absolutely no intention of buying the awful crop top I took into the room with me).
Having a bath
I mean a child-free one, sans plastic toys. It’s a lovely way to relax, but quite honestly who has time for that when you can be done in six minutes in the shower? Maybe ten if I’m shaving my legs. So, six minutes then.
Two hours?! I can’t possibly commit myself to stay up that late. As for going to the cinema, that is a careless waste of a babysitter. I’d rather wait for it to come on Netflix and not watch it then.