This weekend, YoungestGirl has us to herself. EldestGirl is visiting Grandma and Grandad, as she felt she hadn’t been spoiled enough recently.
It is astonishing how much easier it is with one child rather than two. Where we are normally wrangling porridge out of the children’s hair, this morning we managed a bacon sandwich and a conversation. Instead of one of us frantically taking EldestGirl swimming, whilst the other is keeping YoungestGirl from hurling herself off the sofa and is trying to get lunch ready, we wandered into town for a leisurely shopping trip. I even managed to buy something that wasn’t for the children. During YoungestGirl’s nap, instead of making time to play with EldestGirl, we actually grabbed half an hour for ourselves. It is amazing.
But I remember when we only had one child, that it seemed like such hard work. So it seems that the most sensible thing to do is to keep popping out children, so that you can nostalgically look back at how much easier it was when you only had however-many-children-you-had-before-this-one. (I am not actually going to do this. I am fairly “spirited” anyway, and I hate being pregnant so much that I basically turn into a less-empathetic version of Attila the Hun.)
Before we had children, a Sunday morning would consist of staying in bed until one of us agreed to get up, feed the cat and bring a cup of tea and bacon sandwich to bed. We’d then stay in bed for a couple of hours watching Friends repeats, or an Extreme Couponing marathon.
So, I should probably write a really lovely, long blog about my freedom, but instead, I’m going to kick back, have a cup of tea, a chocolate biscuit that I do not have to share and watch repeats of Friends on TV. Toodle pip.