Caving in to ‘mummy mode’

I celebrated yet another birthday this week, and while the occasion has always brought joy in the past, it reminded me I was edging ever closer to middle age.

THEY say age brings wisdom. Big whoop.

It brings the wisdom to know you're getting bloody old - that's what it brings.

I celebrated yet another birthday this week, and while the occasion has always brought joy in the past, this year I would have rather poked my eye out than be reminded I was edging ever closer to middle age.

Anyone who says ageing is fun is a filthy liar.

I just have to take one look in the mirror to prove that point.

What is staring back at me is a sad old state in disrepair … neglected since giving birth because quite frankly it's a miracle just to walk out of the house in the morning with clean clothes and no food in my hair.

The days of spending my spare time painting my nails, popping on a face mask and shaving my legs are gone.

If cavewoman were a style, I'd have it mastered.

And the only reason I know this is thanks to the smartphone.

I'll be going about my day all fine and dandy when boom! Out of nowhere, my partner decides to pap me and then gleefully leans over to show me his handiwork.

What stares back at me gives me such a fright, I beg him not to do it again, which he does, and then posts to Facebook for the world to see.

So yeah, that's how I know I've let myself go to wrack and ruin but so far, I haven't summoned the wherewithal to do anything about it.

But somehow I think my partner must have cottoned on to this because, lo and behold, presented to me in bed with wild bed hair and stained PJs on my birthday was a little rectangular card.

Inside that card was a voucher for a beauty clinic that specialises in skin treatments (no liposuction, though, unfortunately: COVID has not helped this waistline).

Instead of being taken aback at my partner's not-so-tactful slight on my appearance, I wept with joy.

Not because this was an opportunity to give myself a mini-makeover, but because it would mean several hours in which no one would be shoving their hands down my top, tugging on my dress, whining because they were hungry or asking what was for dinner.

Three hours where it would just be about me is about the best thing a mum could hope for.

I know I must do better, eat healthy, exercise and all that jazz, but it does sound rather dull.

Maybe next year.

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