I have no time.
I HAVE NO TIME.
Maybe I should rephrase that. I have no time to myself.
I realised the seriousness of the situation when I found myself trying to have a wee in peace this weekend. I sneaked off, locked the door, sat down in blissful anticipation of a whole minute to myself... it must have lasted all of ten seconds before the kids managed to track me down. They stood outside the bathroom door, hammering on it with their fists and shouting to be let in.
I mean, jeez. Give me a break. A woman's got to retain some form of dignity. A bit of private time to go to the loo isn't too much to ask - is it?
I work from 8am to 5.30pm - which, considering that my occupation/vocation is public relations, is really pretty good. (There was a dirty rumour flying around recently that one of the big PR firms had installed beds into their offices so that employees no longer had an excuse to go home. Nobody batted an eyelid. It was like, yeah, and? Like, tell me something new.) My employer is the enlightened humanitarian movement of the PR world, and still... I have no time.
I finish work and go to pick the kids up from nursery. We drive home. I curse (a lot) at other drivers with the audacity to dawdle or cut me up (don't they realise I'm on a tight schedule?) First born tells me off for my 'potty mouth' (the shame, the shame.) We race from the car to the apartment as quickly as possible before the ticking timebomb that is my children's stomachs explodes in a chorus of anguished screaming. I throw pasta/rice/couscous/quinoa in a pan, defrost a sauce (yes, even though I have no time I find the time to bulk cook nutritious meals then freeze in pre-schooler portions in the fear that otherwise I will sink into a mire of pre-packaged ready meal guilt). Then I clean the pasta sauce from the walls, wrestle them out of their clothes (at least one will be wailing at this point), throw them into the bath (more wailing), persuade them to get out of the bath (full scale screaming), wrestle them into their pyjamas (bellowing), milk, story, prayers, huge cuddles (maternal love tinged with working-mommy guilt), lights out, and.... collapse. Five minutes later I will be summoned back to their bedroom for any of the following reasons:
I mean, it could be worse. Alpha Male cooks in the evening and takes the kids to nursery in the morning. I have a cleaner. It's not like I'm doing this all on my own. If I was, I would probably curl up and die.
How the hell do we manage it? It's no wonder I'm on a one-way street to Botox.
I HAVE NO TIME.
Maybe I should rephrase that. I have no time to myself.
I realised the seriousness of the situation when I found myself trying to have a wee in peace this weekend. I sneaked off, locked the door, sat down in blissful anticipation of a whole minute to myself... it must have lasted all of ten seconds before the kids managed to track me down. They stood outside the bathroom door, hammering on it with their fists and shouting to be let in.
I mean, jeez. Give me a break. A woman's got to retain some form of dignity. A bit of private time to go to the loo isn't too much to ask - is it?
I work from 8am to 5.30pm - which, considering that my occupation/vocation is public relations, is really pretty good. (There was a dirty rumour flying around recently that one of the big PR firms had installed beds into their offices so that employees no longer had an excuse to go home. Nobody batted an eyelid. It was like, yeah, and? Like, tell me something new.) My employer is the enlightened humanitarian movement of the PR world, and still... I have no time.
I finish work and go to pick the kids up from nursery. We drive home. I curse (a lot) at other drivers with the audacity to dawdle or cut me up (don't they realise I'm on a tight schedule?) First born tells me off for my 'potty mouth' (the shame, the shame.) We race from the car to the apartment as quickly as possible before the ticking timebomb that is my children's stomachs explodes in a chorus of anguished screaming. I throw pasta/rice/couscous/quinoa in a pan, defrost a sauce (yes, even though I have no time I find the time to bulk cook nutritious meals then freeze in pre-schooler portions in the fear that otherwise I will sink into a mire of pre-packaged ready meal guilt). Then I clean the pasta sauce from the walls, wrestle them out of their clothes (at least one will be wailing at this point), throw them into the bath (more wailing), persuade them to get out of the bath (full scale screaming), wrestle them into their pyjamas (bellowing), milk, story, prayers, huge cuddles (maternal love tinged with working-mommy guilt), lights out, and.... collapse. Five minutes later I will be summoned back to their bedroom for any of the following reasons:
- more cuddles
- a sudden urge to poo (to be repeated at 15 minute intervals)
- tuck me in!
- monsters!!! under the bed!!!
- monsters!!! behind the curtains!!!
- etc
I mean, it could be worse. Alpha Male cooks in the evening and takes the kids to nursery in the morning. I have a cleaner. It's not like I'm doing this all on my own. If I was, I would probably curl up and die.
How the hell do we manage it? It's no wonder I'm on a one-way street to Botox.
Comments
Ahem. Now I have that off my chest, I feel your pain. Truly ruly. And even though what I'm going to say next will sound as much of a set piece as what I said up above, Trust Me This Is True: when the youngest turns three, everything gets just a bit easier.
See? Don't you feel all better now?
Hang in there.
PS. Came to your site via Glamourouse 'cause I love the name :) I'm not stalking you Bec - honest!!
I have a 17 month old (who sleeps thru the night) and a 4 1/2 month old, both are boys.... getting the little one to sleep from 2-6am is killing me! I'm so tired, my body aches from sleeping in uncomfortable positions as I sleep while holding him in my arm for hours. I work two fulltime jobs, my profession and motherhood. I need a massage, so tired, so tired...