I think it happened somewhere between the third trimester and the episiotomy: a seismic shift in my pleasure receptors and what I considered a reward. Once upon a time I took great pleasure in travelling, new shoes and finding the right shade of lip gloss with a zero hair-stick factor – I’m not saying these things no longer give me pleasure, but these days they are considered more of a luxury. After having children, the little time-vampires have an effect on how you view menial tasks; perhaps it’s because prior to the little second-suckers entering our lives we would freely roam super markets, casually taking minutes deliberating which fresh juice one might prefer to sup in peace on a lazy Sunday morning, or, leisurely separate, not just lights from darks but, silks from wool as we generously applied a suitable washing detergent based on the fabric composition.
Not only do I
dream fantasise of a trip to Waitrose (sod it, I’d be just as thrilled with a rammed Asda these days) on my own, for at least an hour, without having to referee what looks like Tyson Vs Holyfield in the bakery dept, as my 7 & 8 yr old go hell-for-leather for the third time whilst childless twenty-somethings gawk in disbelief, but I find myself ranking household chores into things I must do first before I’m allowed to move on to the more “fun” tasks. A reward system based on minimal endorphin inducing jobs. For example, I must clean one of the boys bathrooms (yup, including the toilet!) before I’m allowed to do some ironing, or, I must poop-scoop the garden prior to carrying out “exhilarating” admin duties like paying bills on the internet! Am I the only one?! The only problem here lies in the fact that very rarely do I ever allow myself to move onto the better chores like ironing, admin and wardrobe sorting, as the crap ones always need doing again.
Maybe I’m the only saddo that feels this way, but when Mr Only Girl mentioned this morning that he “needs” a week off to sleep, rest and recoup after a few grueling weeks at work, I replied that I would give a Miele drying room (a girl can dream) to have a week to finish all the ironing, washing, wiping of skirting boards and clearing of kitchen cupboards – and the worst part, that would be enjoyable! Oh the bliss it would bring to polish, scrub and bleach to my hearts delight, then move onto a bit of garage sorting followed by alphabetising my books and finally colour coding my freshly ironed wardrobe.
After all, there’s nothing like just allowing yourself to get the ironing board and lovely steam iron out of the cupboard (who am I kidding, it never bloody gets put away!), sorting all the clothes you’d forgotten about at the bottom of the pile, only to hear your little angel stirring over the baby monitor – your heart sinks and you mourn the clothes you were so close to regaining. Maybe next nap-time!