You know when you’re on a night out with your bestest gal pals and you’re so totally ready to hit the dance floor but you can’t until you’ve been to the bar and you have your fave drink in hand. And that’s not just because you need to be a little tipsy to get your groove on, although let’s face it – it helps, but you literally need that drink in one hand, clutch bag in the other, just to somehow remove your self-consciousness and worry of “ermmm what should I do with my hands whilst dancing?!” problem. Well, that’s exactly how I feel about my babies. They are my path to confidence on the dance floor, they are my most favourite faux pony skin envelope bag, my security blanket.
I’ve come to realise that despite feeling probably the most confident and comfortable in myself and my abilities that I ever have, I somehow lose this confidence if I don’t have a baby on my hip or a tiny hand to desperately cling on to and squeeze into mine. I’m off on my friends hen night this weekend and despite the overwhelming Mum-guilt I’m stricken with for leaving them both while I swan off to Edinburgh, I feel like I honestly don’t know how to go anywhere without them. I mean, I no longer own a bag that’s sole purpose isn’t to house nappies and wipes and tiny toys. I have no idea what to wear cos I still pull on my baggy, ridiculously unattractive maternity leggings each morning. I no longer own a bra that isn’t a nursing bra and my daily outfit choices revolve around which items allow easy enough access for my absolute boob monster one year old. My standards of what is and isn’t an acceptable level of presentableness for the school run are slipping day by day. I heard the ‘I woke up like this’ look was a good one, yeah? And walking anywhere without my pram which I absolutely rely on as a walking aid (have I ever mentioned how frequently I fall over?) is a terrifying thought. People talk about babies having separation anxiety. I am self diagnosing myself with the Mama version.
When you have the world’s most smiley, people-loving baby by your side or a crazy-talkative, beautiful four year old in tow, the attention is all on them. I am just their Mama, there to keep them safe, fed and watered. To play with them and help them learn. No one notices the oversized luggage I’m packing under my eyes after weeks of zero sleep, or my eau de milk scent of choice these days. I’m not judged for these things. I’m congratulated on my lovely babies, told what a good job I’m doing and how lucky I am. Take those little beauts away and you’re left with a stale smelling, bit of a mess of an almost thirty year old, and lets face it, ain’t no body going to congratulate me on that.
So without my two miniature sidekicks this weekend, I guess I’m going to need one hell of a fancy bag. I have abused ASOS and Zara for all their worth and I’m hoping a wonderful outfit is going to just fall together in my lap. Perhaps it’s a good excuse for me to overcome my baby reliance and an even better excuse for an entire night’s sleep. So if anyone can find my sense of fun that doesn’t involve the Moana soundtrack, double hi-fiving when the four year old can spell seven letter words and pushing ‘too high’ on the swing, do let me know. If you could parcel it up and send it my way, even better.