Just took my baby to a class.
There are tons around in my area, and I haven't been able to go to one until now.
It sounds dumb, but my schedule has been nothing short of mental.
Mental I tell you.
'Yeah yeah,' you chide. 'You mother's spend your days baking cupcakes, cooing and wiping bottoms. You could write a thesis you have so much time.'
Shut it. I barely have time to brush my teeth. Make up on my face is a bonus.
Anyway. So I finally got to a class, where the babies lie around while you sing songs, get bubbles blown at them, feathers thrown, all this sensory stuff, and it's all quite fun and sweet.
Then as he slept like an angel in his pram, I thought I'd swan along towards a pavement cafe and grab myself some lunch and a coffee.
See, that's what I envisioned maternity leave to be about. Not classes or around-the-clock nipples out. (Everyone has seen my tiddies in the past 4 months. Including my father-in-law and the Brit's best guy friends. Testament to my tiddies' new role in life, so I couldn't care less.)
I envisioned maternity leave as a cafe crawling mother, pushing along a pram with a quietly napping baby at all hours of the day. Wearing dark sunglasses, drinking a latte, indulging in cafe culture at its best.
I obviously forgot that I don't live in Paris.
Or that babies don't sleep all day.
Or that there'd be times I couldn't leave the house, as I was still in my pyjamas at 5pm.
Today I lived that. Took in a baby class and then ate an omelette on a sidewalk cafe in Clapham Old Town.
Just pretend you don't see the chips. I'm not allowed the chips on the Operation Get My Body Into A Bikini In December In Cape Town diet.