Before parenthood, I could be seen taking the best part of a day to get ready before going out for the evening somewhere. I would ensure I had plenty of beauty sleep, have brunch, read magazines for hours in the tub, de fuzz all areas, wash and condition my hair, apply a face mask and then meticulously plan my outfit, makeup and hair to match the occasion… right down to heels and handbag.
Nowadays, it is in itself a miracle that we get to go out and socialise not to mention that it now takes me nearly two days to get ready! Not because I have upped my beauty routine, but it is merely a case of having to be super organised and precise on all that needs to be done before the event takes place.
It was my Mum’s 60th Birthday this week and we all went out to celebrate with a swanky meal at a nearby hotel. I started getting ready for this the night before, putting my freshly washed hair in curlers so it could air dry and save me having to style it before the meal. Only, I awoke the next morning and, upon unravelling said curls at the breakfast table whilst simultaneously feeding BB his porridge, I discovered that the cute, shiny spirals that the method promised me actually turned out to resemble a lion who had come into close contact with a Sky Satellite Dish before being struck by lightening (see pic below).
So I ended up curling my hair with my curling wand any way before piling the lot up on top of my head so I could forget about it for the day. I put BB down for his nap and took the opportunity to defuzz my legs, which were shamefully beginning to resemble the fuzzy felt play mat that kids play with cars on. Two blunt razors, the whole 45 minutes nap time window and a few tissue plasters later and I had ticked another thing off of the ‘make oneself presentable’ to do list.
Then came packing BB’s baby bag for all we would need upon taking him with us. The table was booked for 7.30pm, his bedtime is usually 7pm so I was optimistic that he would fall asleep in the car on the way there. I went through the list…. clean bottles (3… heaven forbid we run out), milk powder (3 helpings, 1 for each bottle), calpol (you never know?!), change of clothes (just in case), wipes, nappi…. shit. No nappies.
I glanced out to see our cul de sac blocked by our neighbours who were going to town on cleaning their car. Social anxiety hit (as it does in times of stress) and I couldn’t bring myself to go out and ask them to move their car, the hoover, all the car paraphernalia littered about the place plus their jet wash kit.
So I thought to myself ‘It’s fine… they won’t be long. By the time I dress BB they’ll be done and we can leave… it’s only 2pm, plenty of time’.
They finished at 4.30pm.
A mad dash to the corner store was made, nappies obtained and we were home in time to start BB’s dinner shift at 5. For a second time that day I found myself multitasking during a meal time, applying mascara and lip gloss whilst spooning sausages and beans into an amused BB’s mouth.
At 6pm it was bath time, and after receiving a text from PB asking me to bring him some clothes as he had forgotten to pack some when he’d left for work that morning and isn’t permitted to socialise in uniform (agh!) I plonked a now bemused BB in the tub and hurried about locating a baby grow for him, spandex pants for me and a black polo shirt for PB.
At 7pm, I tottered down the road in my heels (wearing a petticoat adorned kneelength skirt and rather bosom friendly wrap over top) and navigated around piling a near bed ready baby into the car, plus pram plus hand bag and baby bag.
We arrived at the hotel for dinner just 3 minutes late (hi five!) yet BB was still awake (dammit!). I made my way in, greeted my family and left my offspring with them whilst I went in search of his father to give him his clothes.
But. I had forgotten the clothes. Correction. I had remembered just a t shirt. A black one… complete with cat hairs and fluff from our laundry filing system known as ‘the floor’. Mortified! So poor PB had to detour back home to get changed whilst we went to take our seats.
Now, this restaurant is rather swanky and the majority of people there were over 55. A rather sullen faced waiter took us to our table and, I swear, I have never seen such a busy room. Nor have I seen so many faces peer at my baby on my hip and look panicked. Call me paranoid, but I could feel the judgement and the dread in the air. How could I possibly conceive the idea of bringing a toddler to a swanky dinner? How could I be so bold as to expect everyone to put up with an infant after 7pm??
I sat down calmly with BB on my lap and he happily looked about the place with the odd delirium fuelled babble word coming out from time to time, taking particular interest in a skylight above us and all the shiny silver cutlery on the table.
He then nestled against me, enjoyed a cuddle and then got promptly transferred into his buggy with a bottle and blanket and fell asleep just as we received our starters and PB arrived in non cat DNA adorned clothing.
We managed to enjoy our meal without any interruption and were the last ones to leave. Mission accomplished!
|Less Lion King for me… and PB in clean clothing!
Additional information and findings from this week :
– All my high heels no longer fit me. Correction, 2 pairs out of around 30 still fit me. My feet have obviously changed throughout pregnancy and not returned to their former shape. I officially have boat feet/hooves.
– One plus point to taking a baby out to dinner with you is that, as you try to retrain yourself in the art of walking in one of your 2 pairs of heels that still fit, you can hold onto the buggy by way of cleverly disguised zimmer frame. I didn’t fall or trip all evening despite my lack of practice.
– Razors need to be invested in. My disposable ones from Poundland were not up to the task. At all.
– Heat styling is much more trustworthy than air drying your hair into curls. Less chance of looking like an extra from Lion King…
– Applying makeup whilst feeding a baby is tricky. At one point I almost tried to apply mascara with the back edge of the baby spoon!
– Wrap tops are flattering but they do encourage larger boobs to try to escape. At one point I thought I saw a bread roll on the table in front of me out of my peripheral vision, then I realised it was my right breast trying to make a bid for freedom.
– BB cannot walk a step or stand unaided but he can climb up four steps of our staircase and up on top of the foot stool we are using as a feeble attempt to barricade the TV from his eager fingers. Go figure?!
– Running out of nappies is like running out of oxygen.
– Social anxiety causes you so speak in an american accent and respond to ‘Hiya!’ with ‘Alright, thanks’. I know from experience as this is the exchange I had with another neighbour this week when I conquered my fears and asked her to move her car.
– BB’s speech is coming along nicely. He is mimicking us left right and centre so am suddenly very aware of just how much I swear. I have taken to exchanging certain words with ‘Fudge’ and ‘Sugar’ when I can…. although this was not the case when I dropped a bottle of Peach Bellini out of the fridge onto my toe one night in the week. I turned the air (and my toe!) blue and found myself crying in a hunched up heap over my kitchen work top. I can birth a baby with no tears, but drop a glass bottle full of bellini on my big toe and I will cry as if I am in mourning! Again, go figure.
– Toys continue to consume our living room. It is like a battle scene from Game of Thrones at times!