Barefoot In The Kitchen

Here’s this week’s entry for The Gallery at Sticky Fingers.  I can’t promise it’s any good, because, well, I’ve been working with clients this week who only like Tahoma, there is NO OTHER FONT IN THE WORLD THAT WILL DO, NOT EVEN FOR FANCY TEXT, and banging one’s head against a brick wall isn’t really conducive to good writing.  Anyway, head over there and have a look around, it’s well worth it.

I don’t drink any more.

It’s not out of any sense of moral superiority or strongly-held personal belief.  It’s not really because drink contains so many empty calories.  It’s not because I’m still breastfeeding- a drink after David goes to bed isn’t going to affect his pre-nap feed the next morning.  It’s simply that I don’t enjoy it any more.

My line between sobriety, fuzziness, and complete all-out drunkenness is a very thin one.  So thin, in fact, that after a glass of wine I’ll be unable to think coherently.  I’ve always been like this- I spent my teenage years in a drunken (and otherwise) fuzz, because drinking equalled being drunk, and not necessarily because I was drinking too much.  (Incidentally, I was.  Far too much, and far too often.  The innocence of youth…)

I am a control freak.  I hate knowing I’m about to lose control, I have to be either completely in control or too drunk to care either way.  Two years of total pregnancy-and-breastfeeding-related sobriety have ensured that the point where I stop enjoying a glass of wine and start to feel a loss of control is approximately two sips in, and honestly?  I don’t see the point in drinking if I’m not going to enjoy it.

I went through a stage of just not drinking and having pregnancy and breastfeeding as an excuse.  Now that’s almost passed (and trust me, I’m not mentioning extended breastfeeding in my local!) I’ve realised I’ve no desire to ever drink again, other than the odd taste of Joe’s ale.  So, I’ve made the decision to “not drink” as a matter of course.  It’s incredibly liberating.  The pressure to just “have a sip or two”, or “have a shot of vodka in that Diet Coke” (thanks, Brian!) has gone, because I can just say that I’m sorry, I don’t drink any more, and that’s that.  People can think I’m weird all they want, I don’t care- I feel like a weight has been lifted.

…and Joe, of course, has the benefit of a designated driver when he and his friend Ed get through most of these in a weekend.

Bottles are one of my favourite subjects, the way their curves and lines capture and reflect the light.  So everyday, and yet so beautiful… does this count as a still life?

In a week where I’ve been struggling to balance work and life, a week where I’ve not had a moment to sit down, a week where I’ve worried that my depression is coming back, I’m grateful for days like this.

Days with toy cars.

Days warn emough for David to run around in a nappy and a t-shirt.  (Mostly because, well, have you ever TRIED to put trousers and socks on my wriggly fifteen-month-old without a screaming fit?)

Days with zebra-print Blueberry Side Snap nappies.

Days with startled cats.

Days when fifteen-month-olds decide they’d like to sleep in the carrycot they outgrew nine months ago, when they climb in, snuggle down, and fall asleep without any parental input.

Days with striped trousers.

Days with trips to the park.

Days with curls like these.

Days with blue skies and bright sunshine, when it’s warm enough to not need a coat for the first time this year.

Days with lots and lots of cuddles.

Apologies for the photo post again, there will be a proper written one at some point.  Maybe.  If the world doesn’t end before I finish this project.

I’ve wobbled and almost fallen too many times to count.  I worry constantly about whether I’m doing things right, whether David will end up in therapy in twenty or thirty years’ time.  I know for sure that I only want to do this once, and I definitely couldn’t do it on my own.

Despite all of this, (and trust me, it’s taken almost fifteen months to get to this point), I love being a mum.

I love the smiles and the giggles, the grin on David’s face when he’s doing something he knows he shouldn’t be.  I struggle not to burst out laughing alongside him.

I love holding his hand as he discovers new things, and I secretly delight when he comes running back to me.

I hate it when things aren’t right in his little world, and I love to hold him until it’s better.  I adore watching him sleep and hearing him breathe his snuffly breaths, but picking him up as he wakes and feeling him bury his face in my neck is the best thing in the world.

Although they’re frustrating, deep down I relish the tantrums and the challenge they bring.

I love watching David with his daddy: their bond is so different to the bond I share with him, and yet still so achingly beautiful.

I’ve watched my baby turn from a 9lb 3.5oz newborn who cried inconsolably without the help of Infacol,

to a four-month-old whose special skill was fitting an entire foot into his mouth,

to an eight-month-old poser who loved to crawl as fast as he possibly could,

to a VERY SERIOUS one-year-old,

to a fourteen-and-a-half month-old bundle of terror and joy.  (Yes, that is a pen in his hand, and no, I don’t know where he got it from.)

I know I’ll look back in eighteen years’ time and wonder even more where that tiny baby went, but right now, I love almost every second of this and I’ll treasure it for ever.  I’m going to hold him tight on this Mother’s Day, and for as many more as he’ll let me.

Also?  If tomorrow is going to be as good as today, bring it on!