A Woman On The Edge

Ladies and gentlemen. It's official. This woman? Is on the edge. For the past seven years I have either been growing babies or raising babies. Seven years of my life has been taken up with nappies, sleepless nights, weaning, weeping and rowing a bit with my husband. Seven years, which now on reflection seems like it has been six months. From September? My last baby will be at school and I will be let alone. With no bums to wipe, no soft plays to hang around in and no tiny voices screaming "MUUUUUUMMMMMMMYYYYYYY".

And it's breaking my heart. I feel lost. I truly feel that my children are deserting me. These past few weeks with my son has mainly been me overindulging him, hugging him that little bit too tightly and saying "YOU KNOW I LOVE YOU RIGHT". Whilst he looks at me with confusion in his eyes and tries to run off to play another game of hitting things with plastic swords. My husband is looking worried whilst I say tentatively "shall we have another one?". I know that's not the answer. Because when that one went to school I would be saying the same.

Knackered but happy

I'm not worried for my boy as he is totally ready for school. He is excited to see my girl in the playground and I know he will change but only for the better. My six year old who is entering Year 2 is a delight. She reads Roald Dahl, enjoys Rainbows ands still likes a cuddle in front of the TV. No I am worried for me. No one really chats about what the f*ck we are supposed to do now. I am sure some Mums are like "thank god for that now I can crack on with life". But I am more from the school of "well that's it now isn't it. LIFE IS OVER".

It doesn't help that I have big birthday looming. Child free and 40? It doesn't bode well does it. It has all the markings of a "this woman is going to have a full breakdown". Maybe I will be like JK Rowling and find a small coffee shop to write international bestsellers. Or maybe I will mope about watching the Real Housewives of New York whilst eating Fruit Pastilles. Five days. Five days a week. FIVE DAYS. To myself. To work, to drink hot tea, to I dunno maybe take a nap when I could be putting the vacuum round. No excuse not to do housework now. Balls.


Five days a week to do all the things I have dreamt of doing these past seven years. It seems bizarre. I am paralysed with the fear of all the things I could do but potentially won't as I'll be yearning after small people to run around my feet driving me mad. No Peppa on the tele, no raisins squished into my slippers, no one watching me whilst I poo. It sounds bliss. So why do I feel so very sad? Why did I actually consider home schooling (short lived dream as I realised that didn't involve me watching TOWIE whilst the kids did maths). The next year is going to be a rocky journey. I hope you all come along with me and support me when my husband loses his sh*t. As I've bought three puppies, a kitten and a goat for the back garden.
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