“Are you not cross now Mummy?” says Molly looking up at me with big eyes. “No, I’m not cross anymore,” I sigh after a particularly tiresome tantrum over the right to devour three more fairy cakes before eating lunch. “Ok. Good Mummy. Now…we eat more cake,” she says triumphantly, with a grin that has the power to dissolve any annoyance.
It’s just one of the examples of the recent battles lost or won that I look back on now and realise was not quite the molehill to mountain scenario my frayed nerves told me it was at the time. Tears have been cried over the last week and I’ll admit quite a few of them have been mine! My temper has been a little shorter – most likely due to the soaring hormones of my 37-week pregnancy and the fact that the urge to waddle to the bathroom is waking me up five times a night.
“You only want to join for a month?” says the young girl behind the Virgin gym counter, warily eyeing up my rapidly approaching 36 week sized bump. “Yes, just to keep up my swimming,” I tell her. “I think a month is all I’ll be able to squeeze in.” Membership formalities aside and I’m dropping my ball like self gingerly into the pool, while the 20 something lifeguard looks as though he’s weighing up whether he’d actually know what to do in the event of an emergency.
Yes, I’m back home in Northern for the birth of bean number 2, and swimming is my attempt at holding on to some semblance of my normal routine. A chance to keep my sanity when my mind tries to continuously remind me: “Routine? You’ve got to be joking! Be prepared for all that to go completely t*ts up in a few weeks!”
“Mummy. Your bum…” says Molly as she comes up behind me and places her hands on my hips. “It’s soooo big.” In despair, I turn to the husband. “Don’t worry about it,” he says, patting the derriere in question. “After all, you are nearly 8 months pregnant, it’s bound to be a little bigger.” Not exactly the reassurance I was looking for. Sigh. It has been one of those weeks.
Yes, it hasn’t been the most yogic of weeks. It has been a week in which Molly dropped the ‘F’ bomb. Twice. I’d like to say she learned the expletive from some unsavoury child at nursery, but instead I have to take full responsibility, having uttered it myself on at least three occasions that I can recall. Personally, I blame the raging hormones of the third trimester for making my fuse a little shorter.
Did you bounce out of bed today or hit the snooze button again? Cheryl asks why are we so tired these days, and where does that leave our yoga practice?
My husband was recently away on business and what did I do? I watched repeats of Come Dine With Me and went to bed with a good book at 8.30pm, praying that my toddler would sleep through the night. A little pathetic, some might say? It was brilliant! You see, lately I’ve been finding the hottest subject besides the weather is our level of tiredness. If I had a dollar for every time I told someone that I was T.I.R.E.D. then I’d be a pretty rich woman. (If you are nodding your head in agreement over your cappuccino, then please inbox me now.)
In a world of multi-tasking mayhem, mother and yoga instructor Cheryl Parsons asks, have we become too busy being busy?
I bumped into a friend in Starbucks recently and together we lamented over our endless chore list. “Yes, I am just sooooo busy these days,” I cried as we swapped ‘life is too hectic’ tales across our open laptops. Both of us were trying to squeeze in a flurry of emails before we powered down and headed to my yoga class. It was barely 8.15am, but we had already gotten ourselves tied up in a tizzy of ‘to dos.’