It’s the weekend, baby! Or is it?
Lift talk at work:
“Boy, what a week at least it’s Friday hey?”
“Yes. Yes it is.”
And tomorrow is Saturday. No need to wake up at the buttcrack of dawn.
Oh wait. The baby doesn’t know about the whole weekend thing.
So it’ll be up at 6:30 then, in PJ’s until lunch time chasing after him, grabbing packs of couscous from behind the TV and salvaging remote controls from bin. Until he naps, at which point you draw a blank, forget all about those incredible plans you had for those 45 minutes and end up going from room to room trying to remember said plans whilst attempting not to wake him up, which of course you do when you grab a coffee cup from under the mikado mountain that is your kitchen drying rack.
That is not a good sound, you’re pretty sure half of it is cracked and now the baby is up, you’ve had no coffee and you’ll soon be hunting after stock cubes behind the couch. And it’s the afternoon and you manage a quick shower so you can make it out the door with him while it’s still light, to get some fresh air and SUN. Nevermind it’s freezing and windy and he refuses to put his shoes on even though it’s for his own good, so he can run freely after rocks and daffodils instead of cupboard dry goods.
But you win, he finally has his coat on, the shoes, and you have shoes too which is a good thing. But neither of you has an umbrella which would kind of come in handy because now it’s raining. It’s not that bad anyway, you can still make it outside and you do. You chase after him as he runs and falls down 10 times and you check his hands for dog poo. Ten minutes later, the “fresh” air pretty much piercing your skin and the rain sticking to its guns you head back home, place him in the playpen – that thing not popular with people with various sets of arms – and frantically peel carrots while he protests behind bars.
The TV is on and from the sound you know which episode of The Cuddlies this is and can only hope the dinner you’re cooking him looks half as good as Yum Yum and Tickles’ stew and buns. Yours has salmon, it’s slow cooked with organic veggies. What could go wrong? Apart from the bit where he throws it in your face and rubs it on himself for the 45th day in a row, pretty much nothing. Oh and those blueberries nursery claims he eats all the time? He squashes them in his little hand, one by one, with the quiet defiance of a Cold War leader. Look at me destroying your blueberries, mother. Look. At. Me.
You release him from his highchair, add salt and chilli sauce to his unfinished dinner and eat it yourself while he resumes his kitchen cupboard exploration, climbs the stairs for the 12th time and pulls cables you didn’t even know were there.
You pick up a book, all the sleep therapists, other mums with a hang on this motherhood thing and i’m pretty sure the neighbour’s cat, say it’s the key to a proper wind down and blissful sleep. Then there’s the part where he’s actually supposed to acknowledge the book thing but would rather eat it instead. You hope there’s nutritional value in paper.
While he’s busy chomping through those vegetable fibres you run a bath. You consider jumping in there yourself and putting him to bed unwashed but there is hardly anything more revolting than hair with flecks of mashed salmon in it. It’ll come back to haunt you when nighttime wake ups require mommy fingers through curls. So you get him in there, you scrub the salmon off, you make futile attempts at stopping him from drinking the bath water but reconsider because there is fish in there after all. Total win. This could become a thing.
You sort of breeze through nappy, lotion, babygrow, deflecting baby feet kicks in your pregnancy annihilated stomach muscles like a circus freak and think how this could actually turn into a trendy sport.
And then your uncooperative toddler puts his head on your shoulder, entrusting you with his sleepy vulnerability as his eyes close and he nestles deeper into your arms, his salmon free curls tickling the tip of your nose, his body soft like melting butter fusing into yours. And you melt too, from exhaustion and love, the golden star words of the parental dictionary.
So Is it the weekend, baby?
Yes, yes it is.