It is time to reclaim my life! My son is the centre of my world, and life has exclusively revolved around him since he was born. No more said I! Other such gung ho phrases were repeated convulsively last night as I attempted to convince myself and my partner (conveniently once our little one was asleep) that I would no longer be held hostage by his every whim – it was time for routine and order in our house and heaven help us, routine and order we shall have!
It would begin with making use of his 6 am wake ups – in the pram he would go and a daily exercise regime for his Mumma would ensue. And no more grocery wrangling only when hubby was home, time for this Mumma Bear to put on her big girl undies and brave the shops solo. It was easy to imagine, given that our son had been a wee angel all day. No crying, no fussing, napping like clockwork.. Clever little terror had me lulled into a false sense of security. And as I made all these plans, with hubby providing dubious support, my little darling was no doubt laying in his cot, dreaming up ways to throw a spanner in the works.
So day one of our new routine and Fletcher thought “Ha! I’ll fix you woman!” And for the first time in four months, slept in until 8 am. Never mind, minor speed bump I thought, into the pram we go – and it was raining. Bugger.
Right. Exercise is a write off this morning, but when it stops raining I’ll put him in the pram and we’ll walk to the shops. Whilst waiting for the rain to pass, I decide to get a head start on laundry.. And Fletcher decides that he wants to spend his morning enjoying a very long, very lazy breakfast. 45 minutes later, he’s asleep at the breast. Brilliant! Laundry time. I sneak him into his cot and head for the laundry. I’ve barely cracked the Napisan when screams of rage emanate from his bedroom.
Skipping the boring details, it’s a few hours later and my little man is adamant that the day will be spent either at the breast, or in my arms as I pace the hall way. No, he doesn’t want to play. No, he doesn’t want his favourite toy, his bouncer or his tummy time mat. I’m determined not to give in, so in the pram we go – its time to venture to the shops.
This does not sit well with Mr Fletcher Bear Cranky Pants. He proceeds to scream for the duration of our shopping trip, inciting sympathetic stares from other mothers and vague looks of horror from the handful Nanna’s picking up their necessities. In my hurry to speed through the shopping and end our torment, I forget half of my shopping list. We make it home and the feed, pace, futile attempt to settle routine continues.
Hubby rings to see how our routine is going and ask what’s for dinner. I hysterically scream down the phone “milk arrowroot biscuits and a tin of frickin’ corn!” would be on the menu for the foreseeable future. I try to convince myself that pacing the hallways does indeed count as exercise, and no one died having lived on two minute noodles.
As I settle on to the couch, baby at breast, remote at hand to continue with the Law and Order marathon that has been the extent of my life in the past few weeks, my little man gives me a huge gummy smile, content in the knowledge that he has won this round.
I will persevere with reclaiming my life.. Tomorrow.
Alli is a new Mummy of 11 week old baby boy Fletchy Poo who is the brightest new joy in his whole families life.