Stress. That is what it’s beginning to look like. Stress on top of stress on top of stress.
I’ll never admit this to him in person, and when he reads this I shall deny all knowledge of this admission and plead ignorance … but my husband was right. Yep. There. I said it. Back in June when I *finally* got my way and started the process of putting the house on the market, he warned me that it might get too much as I was then slap bang in the middle of my Masters level training for my new job. Did I listen? Yes, of course. Did I heed his warning? Did I bollocks. I managed to get him to agree to a visit from Pendle Hill Properties to have our house valued, marketed etc. Don’t get me wrong, as stressful as the last 5 months has been, I don’t regret it and I’ll come on the reasons behind that later.
Good lord above, what did I do? In my former life I mean. Did I shoplift? Did I live a life of giving zero fucks about the environment by not recycling? I ask because … come on!
Look, he’s even giving me side-eye because I am daring to ask if it’s time to tidy up!
Don’t get me wrong fellow bloggers. I adore the fact that our house is a messy, lived-in family home. I’m not saying I’d change it, of course I wouldn’t. If you’ve read any of my other posts (or if you know us personally) you’ll know what we’ve been through to get here. But, every time I step on a slightly angled plastic knife, or a discarded piece of fruit (I would say plastic fruit but it’s not always the case), I cry a little inside.
You know the worst part though don’t you? The part that really kicks you right in the foofa .. When they just walk away. They drop the toy bomb and then saunter off and start trying to open drawers to hunt for something they know they shouldn’t have hence why we hid it in the drawer. They then attempt to climb up the curtains which one can only assume is to practice for their upcoming Spider Pig audition. This is all topped off by an attempt to crawl under the sofa to retrieve a cheerio they hid there 3 days ago, before then getting stuck and screaming blue murder.
I’m not quite sure why I’ve chosen now to write this post. Well, that’s a lie. It is partially because I now have Noah so I can write this with a clear mind in a way that will bring comfort, hope and an aspect of realness (I hope) that others may be searching for. If I’d have written this at the time, it wouldn’t have made for very pleasant reading. I was a mess, I’ll be honest.
I also think it has something to do with conversations I’m having with The Divorced Dad (We’ll call him Dave, mainly because I’ve been listening to “The Twelve Daves of Christmas” on Absolute Radio and it’s obviously had an impact.)
Where to start? “At the beginning” I hear you say. Well of course. So,
Well, I actually owe the birth of this blog to a new online friend, The Divorced Dad. He has a blog page himself and encourages his members to share their voices. He then shares these anonymously on his page for all to see.
I’ve offered up a couple of posts and the reception has been incredible. I then realised how much I loved writing and not having to worry about who would see it. Nobody knew it was me. I could be true, raw, honest and not think “oh what if the Perfect Parent Brigade see it and then start offering up their opinion on the fact that I said the baby is close to going in the bin” Yeah, he’s being a troll. So shoot me for wanting a break!