Post-children school departure, I went back to sleep. It’s blissful when I get the chance to do this. It’s the best sleep I get – way better than the night time rest.

I think it’s a combination of a number of things: I’m slightly dehydrated (comparatively) by the time morning rolls around, so there’s less waking for the bathroom breaks, Husband is up so no snoring, No interruptions by children, but more than that – no chance of an interruption by a child, which means my brain can actually turn off the constant “high alert” state that it’s been living in for the past 5 years and 9 months.

So, great. I’m actually rested, but I have lost three hours of child-free time out of the day, and today I’m the one picking them up from school so I need to watch the time. I just remembered when making breakfast that I need to take a run out to my GP to pick something up. And there’s also the interminable form of doom that keeps bouncing back, incompleted, between myself and the Department of Education.

Anyway, no need to leap into panic stations just yet.

You may not have realised it, but my brain went right down the path of worrying that I now won’t get my maternity benefit in time and I’ll spend a few paychecks down around 500 quid. It says apply for it at least 6 weeks before you intend to go on Maternity leave. Which I did initially, but now it’s closer to 5, and will be nearer to 4 by the time the damned thing actually gets sent off at this rate.

Like I said. Don’t leap to panic stations. First I have to finish my breakfast, finish these words, clean my body, pick up a cert from my GP, pick up my children, get them to do homework – and while they’re working I’ll go across the road and sort out this damned cert. Hopefully.


It’s maybe easier to pick one thing and just panic mildly about that, than the alternative. It’s easier to focus my anxious turtle in the direction of one actionable problem rather than let him spiral over the myriad small potential unknowns of life, house, purpose and pregnancy.

I’ve had another “My bump is shrinking!” morning. I’m Chicken-Licken but pregnant.

I’m trying to not let such considerations take over in an obsessive way but it’s really really hard.

How am I a grown-up? Seriously. I’m pretty sure that no matter what criteria you use for it, I now most assuredly qualify as one. Except. I just don’t feel it sometimes. I just want so much support and hand-holding. I want someone holding a protective shield over me and whispering that it’s going to be okay, that I’ve got this, that the world is my oyster and so filled with potential and I’m gonna shine!

But that’s not my position anymore. We’re out of the Hamlet years and we will never play that character again. Admittedly I’m no Lear here. A good solid Macbeth, perhaps. Though I feel like I squandered my Hamlet years playing “up” wanting always to be older and perceived as precocious, more able than my years, cool and mature enough to hang with the older gang.

Now that I am the older gang, I want little enough to do with it.

A lie! I don’t actually mind being older. I just hate the sense of the journey ending and that there are no more exciting side paths to explore; that it’s a straight downhill run from here to the end. And we all know what lies at the end.

So, what I want now is to reassure myself here that all the possibilities in the world still remain open to me. One good way to do that is to remind myself that I felt like this a bit at age 23! You know, when you get into your twenties there’s the feeling that you’ve passed the point at which you’ll ever be a prodigy. I spent so much time grieving that lost life-path that I nearly forgot to get my feet on the next one.

If I iterate through the bullet-points and achievements of my life, it makes a pretty nice CV, all told. But I just don’t care about past accomplishments at the moment. I want more. I want a bright shining oyster-future.

Well, the only one who’s currently telling me I can’t have it is me, y’know.

Oh, and society. I forgot about society.