I am not good at doing nothing. I never was. I have ants in my pants. Metaphorically not literally. This has only got worse since becoming a mother, when you are juggling so many important, essential, brightly coloured balls you forget to breathe and in the rare, quiet moments there is always something practical and useful that I can be doing. Usually laundry. When I do stop, I tend to stare at beige walls or zone out to Netflix. My brain is like a computer on shutdown, I just want to be alone, with my own thoughts, and possibly the cast of The Vampire Diaries.
I have not been feeling well for a couple of months. I think it started when I had a breast lump removed, I named it ‘bad Harry’. Whilst physically not being the pleasantest of experiences what I should have done was taken a couple of weeks off work, regrouped, given myself some emotional TLC instead of sweeping the possibility of breast cancer under my nice jute rug and ploughing busily on. I shut my brain worries away into a dark cupboard; with the nauseating fear of what if and the spiky whispers of what happens if I have to leave my little family when it is only just beginning. I also did not heal fantastically thanks in part due to Doctor Leo’s bedside manner. He was doing marvellously, gently pretending to take my temperature; five minutes later he decided to test the endurance of my stitches with the little plastic hammer from his dress up medical kit. Not his future profession I feel.
The last couple of weeks I have been feeling drained…inarticulately…meh. My pot of mind sunshine has been running low. I have been feeling thinly stretched, like sparse butter on a big bugger off piece of bread. Too little of me to spread across my many worlds; home, work, being a partner and parent. Cue full on, raging temperature, aching body, flu. It is a miserable thing. I am one hot muma..but not in the good sense.
The postman just cheerily told me I look like crap. He isn’t wrong.
I have been told to rest and I thought I was; but then washing up needs doing, bills needs paying, Twitter needs tweeting and then little boy comes home and I need to be mummy. Vertical mummy, not horizontal mummy. Rest is not what it used to be. I also have not being at work guilt. My boss gets loveliest person in the world award but I feel like I am letting people down. That leads to berating oneself and crying onto my Fat face pyjamas (they were a gift, I am not that classy). The school run feels like the Olympics, I am not recovering as fast as I need to. I am being unkind to myself. It is hard being ill as a parent, but parents are human being too.
Positively it is lovely having a partner that can give you a non-poorly hand..when I was a single parent I despondently recall Leo and I both had sick bugs and I wept in the middle of the night because I was at an utter loss. You cannot pass out, head down a toilet when a little person is depending on you. I always nod at the blog posts that say a parent needs them time, you time, me time. I am a hypocritical nodder. So I am trying, trying to be gentle with myself, be mindful, praise instead of criticise, listen to the supportive people in my life and stop trying to be a superhero. I do not wear underwear on the outside of my clothes so should stop trying to be invincible. I am going to drink a gallon of water, munch on the vegetable section of Sainsbury’s, sleep (as much as any parent can) and with shaky steps get back to me.
I am off to listen to Enya and call Doctor Ranj.