With the impending house move, it has dawned on me that neither of the BUBs are going anywhere for weeks. Once we have moved BUB.1 will go to preschool again, but for now it’s just five days a week, me and them, a house to pack up, swear words to be swallowed, fists to be bitten, tears to be dried and activities to find.
But weirdly, I feel a little bit relieved. For two months leading up to Christmas, BUB.2 had been looked after by a lovely childminder for five hours every Wednesday. The idea was that I would sit at my desk and ignite my freelance career with gusto. But with three of those eight weeks seeing her or us call in sick, and two of them spent on the phone to estate agents, and the remaining three spent writing a newsletter for a client and updating my CV, I had high hopes for the last day.
I spent fifteen minutes searching for my car keys after dropping BUB.1 off at preschool only to find I had popped them helpfully into his little school bag which was hanging on his peg. So back I went.
Running fifteen minutes late, I dropped a clingy, crying BUB.2 at the childminder and I drove five minutes home only to hear his little bag containing a change of clothes, nappies and hat and scarf drop off the front seat. So back I went.
When I finally got to my “desk” (kitchen table), I was interrupted four times by the postman bringing Christmas parcels, and once by the delivery of my weekly shop. Putting the sausages away, I noticed the dishwasher needed emptying.
No. I drew the line at that. How do working mothers do it, every morning? I guess the key is they generally go to work and leave the devastation and interruptions behind. I guess I am out of practice.
But these few weeks packing and playing with my two boys is a one-off, never going to happen again. BUB.1 will always be somewhere for part of the week from February. So for now I am trying to enjoy them under my feet, under my skin and under my control (sometimes).