This week has been all or nothing when it comes to parenting, housing and adulting (I do love a good made up word). I should have known on Monday that it would be one of those weeks when Hugo decided that the poultry aisle in the supermarket was the best place to casually do an impression of a volcano erupting after a belly full of chicken and tomato something organic. Clearing baby vomit off the floor with an industrial sized blue roll was obviously the trigger for buying no ‘real’ food and filling the trolley with cleaning products, toilet rolls and baby vests in a spectacular panic buying waste of money on a no-wages-end-of-maternity-leave-before-Christmas-budget shop.
Tuesday saw me close to a repeat of the The Great Fire of London whilst cooking a chicken thanks to a build up of grease. I double booked a play date for Hugo with an oven valet on Friday, Saturdays travel plans failed and saw nearly 3 hours spent in traffic. On Sunday, lunch was not confirmed, resulting in neither party being in the right place at the right time and by 7pm that evening I was throwing away enough food to feed a small army thanks to a well established colony of wheat weevils. Fail, fail and fail again.
All this time I was pretty convinced I’d been nailing the whole being at home with the baby deal, Nigella meets Supernanny – when in reality it’s probably been more headless chicken meets Life of Grime. When did I turn into the sort of person that lets the oven get so dirty it almost sets the house on fire? The kind of person who doesn’t notice that the house is falling into disrepair or that no one confirmed the lunch booking? Someone who doesn’t do ironing?! This is not me. This is someone who thinks that these things aren’t important, that thinks there are better things to do than clean out the oven or cupboards. This is definitely the attitude of someone that has one of those ‘vintage’ (painted MDF) signs that say ‘a clean house is the sign of a wasted life’ or ‘it takes real planning to organise this kind of chaos’.
I’m in denial, I need one of those signs. It’s not that my life up until now has by any means been a waste, but it puts in to perspective how much more there is to it than freshly pressed pants or a shining clean kitchen. I might have forfeited Hugo’s play date to clean the oven, and those words are the perspective that I needed on Sunday, when I all but tattooed the word fail on my head. If it hadn’t been the oven or the weevils it would no doubt have been something else. So as much as last week looked like fail, fail, failed to me of days gone by, everything got done, no one got hurt. Perhaps this headless chicken is running in the right direction after all (sometimes it’s even wearing mascara).