Give me a day where we get out of the house, make time for a nap AND do something about the housework, and I’ll feel like we’re the winners of everything.
I have been so unstoppably cheerful this week. Yesterday we spent a couple of hours at the soft play centre, me scrabbling after Henry with Teddy under one arm, up stairs and down slides and through spaces far too small for the three of us. Teds is a dreamy chunk of a baby at the moment, all rolls and dribble and dimply knees, and after an hour of heaving him over padded obstacles I felt like I’d been beaten with a large stick. Henry burned through so much energy – most of it through yelling ‘COME OOOOON, MUMMY!’, probably – that he wolfed his lunch, asked for seconds and then requested a nap. At which point I crossed myself and looked for angels. If the soft play place was free and not quite so scabby, we’d be there every day just for that.
We had loaded baked potato soup for dinner. It’s a heart-attack in a bowl, but it feels like you’re rolling around in a bed of bacon and joy, and some days you just deserve it.
I’ve got an old, crinkled List of Things to Do Before I Die in a box somewhere, that I wrote when I was seventeen. I still have high hopes of writing a book, spending a week in Italy, and going up in a hot air balloon. I’m even holding onto the possibility of adding to the lipstick kisses on Oscar Wilde’s grave, even though they’ve put up screens now so it might take a bit of ninja stealth. But I’ve just written a List for Right Now, to be going on with. As follows.
1. Accomplish the outing-nap-housework super triple combination twice a week.
2. Find a way to get twelve hours’ sleep at least once before Christmas (bribe, threaten, whatever).
3. Eat cake, and bacon. Attempt to put bacon on cake, and see how that works.
4. Become muscly enough to get Teddy up to the giant slide at soft play.
5. Wear lipstick. Smile. Read Agatha Christie. Give liberal kisses. Rehearse ninja moves, just in case.
I think that’ll do for the moment.