I have moments of ridiculous levels of confidence in myself.
I got this.
I can do it all and more.
I will be the mumiest mum that ever mummed. I will cook all the things from scratch. I will get up before my children and have their uniforms ready. I will make their breakfasts. Their lunches. I will put the dishes away and get the washing done and not have to give them any chores.
And then I don’t. But I don’t really think that’s a bad thing. They are capable of making their own lunches and breakfasts. They might complain about it, but they can do it. They are still of an age where being allowed to put on a load of washing is a bit of a novelty. Sure, some socks get missed along the way but that’s nothing in the scheme of things.
Lola is the one that I have to argue with. Sometimes. Sometimes –and usually when her brother is being a butthead- she is the most helpful person in the world. But a lot of the time I have to fight with her to get her to help. And eat her dinner. Anything she doesn’t want to do, really. The reality is, she’s just like me. Fuck.
All of this is super important, getting the kids to be independent and active contributors to the household because I’ve just enrolled in THREE units for uni this trimester. And yes, my uni has trimesters, this isn’t a subtle hint I’m pregnant.
I just super duper confident I can definitely do it all, and then I spent about 2 hours sitting in my car yesterday just so Morrigan would fall asleep because she either hates me or hates sleep or maybe both at the moment.
Oh well, worst comes to worst I can do my uni on my laptop in the car while she’s drifting off, right?
Are you studying? What? Who through? Maybe we’re doing the same thing!