When you are a mum - or a Stay At Home Mum (SAHM), your weeks merge into your weekends. You still have to get up to make bottles, you still have to change nappies, and you're still living your life according to your baby's nap and eating times.
Now that I'm back at work, I see my weekends differently. They're precious as fuck. I get to do the nappies and meals and bottles all day, but because I haven't done that all week, suddenly it's all very precious and fun and I get to spend time with my boys.
But. Being a working mum does mean you never get me time. Or it's seldom. I consider my me time to be my bath at the end of every day. I love a good bath, it's how I unwind. Some people smoke a doobie, some people have a bottle of wine. I have a long, hot bath to relax, be by myself, and warm my cold bones.
Other than that, every other bit of time I have is dedicated to other people (husband, child, boss).
So when the Brit told me he had a surprise for me on Saturday, and dropped me off outside a beautiful townhouse in Chelsea with a, "see you in three hours!" I couldn't believe my luck.
Possibly the best Valentine's Day gift a man can give a woman [with child,] is three hours, all to herself. Not only that, three hours in a luxurious day spa set in a house down a quiet street.
It was a small 'hidden gem' of a place,which meant it wasn't crowded with millions of other relaxation finders. Instead, it was just me, in a one piece, hanging out in the plunge pool and in the steam room, drinking things like hibiscus tea in the relaxation room, in a thick robe, smelling of coconut oil and other Asian fruits. Just me. No need to talk to anyone, no need to think of anything in particular, just me. By myself. Until I was called to have a 90 minute facial by a woman who had a low, very calm, very soothing voice, which kind of puts you in a trance before you even set your head down on the treatment bed.
Fuck, it was absolutely devaan.
I couldn't help but think how lucky I am, and how good my life is right now. I have a gorgeous child who is starting to develop so beautifully - moving and crawling, smiling, coming in for hugs, laughing and copying the things we do. We are so lucky to have him. I have such a lovely, kind husband who gave me the gift of Alone Time while being pampered.
I have such a lovely job, doing things I love to do, and at a brilliant company. I live in a world class city. I have lovely friends. I am so fucking lucky.
"We use only natural, organic ingredients, picked by the hands of Buddhist monks in the free-trade forests of south East Malaysia," my facial lady said, purring.
"I will gently massage your face, hands, head and feet, and then rub oils over your skin that will both moisturise and flush out the toxins. At the same time."
The low hum of her entrancing voice had already made me quite sleepy, and I was starting to drool from the right corner of my mouth as she described the delectably relaxing things she was about to do to my skin.
"Is there anything specific you'd like me to focus on during our 90 minutes?"
"Oh my God," I slurred. "I CAN SLEEP FOR NINETY MINUTES UNINTERRUPTED WHILE YOU PLAY WITH MY FACE?"
"Yes....I suppose you can."
"THIS IS THE FUCKING BEST THING MY HUSBAND HAS EVER BOUGHT ME. THANK YOU OH THANK YOU SO MUCH."
[silent pause. Panpipes music in the background]
..."Sorry. Let me just bring this down a notch. I have a child. He is waking up in the middle of the night a lot at the moment because he gets stuck? Between the slats of his cot? Like, his arm hangs out? And we have to move him back into the lying down position, because he doesn't know how to do this by himself yet? Sometimes it's three, four times a night. So we don't get much sleep. And I'm just so excited, I could l
It was amazing. It was just amazing. I think it may have been the best facial I have ever had. I stumbled out into the stark greyness of Sloane Street where people like Victoria Beckham walk past, with oils and stuff all over my face, but I didn't care. I had a nap, my face had basically been remodeled, and I was excited to see my son and husband again.
I also drank lots of champagne this weekend. Which is always pretty exciting.
Not only did the Brit and I go out for supper, I went to one of my new mummy friend's houses and drank champagne with her too.
On top of this, I have realised that my incessant gym workouts are finally - finally - because it's taken a due amount of time - starting to pay off.
I am not dying in the middle of my workout, but instead getting that lovely feeling of increased energy in the middle of my run, so I know I can push myself harder and my fitness is at a good level.
I have also now lost about 4 kilos since our very meaty and wine-saturated holiday in South Africa.
To the point where I'm going to have to buy some more intermediate pants.
I have a wardrobe full of trousers. On the one side, there are my maternity trousers. These I haven't worn for about 6 months.
Then on the other, there are my "intermediate trousers." A few pairs I have bought to tide me through to the point where I can fit into my pre-pregnancy pants.
These are starting to look like my pyjama bottoms, I've realised. I am sitting here at work, in a, what I thought were, fetching pair of aubergine checked trousers (very ON TREND). Except that they are now too baggy and I look like I'm trying to be Kanye/just rolled out of bed.
I have grown out of my intermediate fat pants! Hooray! Except. That I still don't quite fit into my normal OLD Peas On Toast ones. They're still way snug.
So I'm going to need some intermediate- intermediate pants.
Fuck. This really does take it's jolly old time doesn't it?
Anyway. It is exciting to know that I'm getting some inkling of my old body back.
It's been a year to the week since I left work to go on maternity leave. I was the size of a rhino with an appetite to match, happily bouncing along with cards and presents from people at work for my twins. Twin sets, "double trouble" commentary, all those things, ready for the future. Little did I know that next week, Molly would stop growing. And the slide until her death would start. I just can't help but relive everything, week by week, and day by day.
Here's my little boy, uhb-sessed. He loves wheels. He is really is a boy's boy. Give him anything with a round, spinning thing and he will play for it for what seems like an endless nine minutes at least.
That's hummus smeared all over his face.