Mami’s diary.

06:24. My eyes start to open and the bright light coming in to the room forces me to shut them again. I know of course it’s morning, but I don’t know exactly what time. I don’t care, I want to go back to sleep. I hear my husband snoring lightly (by that, I mean really darn loudly. But you know when you’re in the process of waking up, noises are distant and unknown, until your brain fully wakes up and acknowledges the familiar sounds for what they really are? In this case, annoying) and my five-and-a-half-month-old son making his own version of annoying sounds in his crib on the other side of the room. The oh so familiar sounds of pooing. Not just the sound of feces coming out of his cute little bum, but particularly his grunts, emphasizing the effort he’a having to put in to fill that highly prone to leaks nappy. Yes, guys, that’s my morning alarm. Let’s goooo.
09:00. First nap time. His, not mine. I used to nap every single weekend and holiday before Baby was born. I welcomed each one with open arms. I’d wake up in the morning and look forward to having that well deserved one hour long siesta, at any time of the day. Sometimes, I fell asleep involuntarily, while watching something on TV, and wake up refreshed and happy to carry on with my day. That is now just a distant memory I can look back on while I jealously watch my baby practicing the art of napping through the baby monitor. Now, Baby’s first nap is mami’s time to catch up on maintenance of chores and general running of the house. The number of things that need to be done is as big as the NHS waiting list and mami becomes overwhelmed. I get briefly excited when I remember there is a new show on Netflix, and then see my own mother reminding me that it’s work, then play. This life lesson was really engraved into me, so I rush around, doing everything to a standard my husband would approve of (it sounds old fashioned but my husband is blind to housework and wouldn’t notice if I swung a wrecking ball through the living room as long as the TV screen didn’t crack and the surround sound still worked). Finally, I sit down with a reheated cup of coffee from breakfast, turn on the TV, find that TV show I’d added to my watch list, click play, wait for it to load because I live in an area where internet is still not quick enough for shows to just play instantly like on normal TV. It comes on, plays the theme tune, and off goes the monitor, summoning me to mothering duties.
19:14. Bedtime already? I’m reflecting on the activities of today, trying to figure out where the time went, when my train of thought is interrupted by a hard, firm, slap in the face. It is that of my son, who recently took to enthusiastically waving his arms around while breastfeeding. As I grab my phone to type a message to Baby’s father to blame him for making a child who would do such things, Baby frantically slaps the phone out of my hands. There mami sits in bed, gobsmacked, speechless, confused, and somewhat amused about the whole thing, while Baby giggles with milk still in his mouth, and then goes back to suckling on my left boob. I then think to myself that he can carry on slapping me as much as he wants as long as he keeps paying me with that giggle and beaming eyes full of love.
