This isn’t the kind of post I always tend to write. I apologise in advance for the lack of ranting and snark.
Today’s my birthday. Happy Birthday to Me!
It’s 11.30am on the second of my two child-free mornings of the week.
I’m sitting at my kitchen table, every surface within sight (and touch) gritty and sticky with the remnants of breakfast.
Beyond the kitchen, dirty toilets, dusty furniture, smeary windows and more plastic tat than I would have believed possible before I had children.
A load of washing, half hung on the line, waiting to be filed neatly in the airing cupboard.
An overflowing ironing basket.
Emails to answer, and some things unwritten.
I stood by the kettle, stressed, grumpy and annoyed that I hadn’t had a more productive morning despite feeling like I haven’t drawn breath since I woke.
Then, quite suddenly, things shifted and I remembered what I have achieved today.
A walking bus to school in bright sunshine and a good catch up with a neighbour I haven’t see properly for months.
Excited children walking and laughing with their friends.
A chat with my youngest’s key worker as he toddled late but happy into preschool.
A soul-restoring coffee with a lovely friend.
A phone call from my 90 year old Granny, ringing to wish me happy birthday.
Texts and cards from family and friends.
And I realised that actually this is just how I’d want to fill the year ahead.