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Friday 18th
Oh poo. My maternity leave is nearly over and I have to go back to work
on Monday. I’ll have had forty five weeks off work by the time I go back. Forty five weeks! Where has
it gone? Where? It seems like yesterday I was gloating about not having to go to work (not that
looking after a baby isn’t work of course, ahem) and now I find myself sorting through my old work
wardrobe, too fat to fit into most things. I squeezed into my old trouser suit last night and paraded
around in front of Steve. He made some smart remark about Alexei Sayle so I smacked him one.
Forty five weeks. I’ll never have that long off work again until I retire, unless I get lucky on the
lottery or seriously injure myself or something. Even if we have another baby I doubt that financially
we’ll be in a position for me to take another forty five weeks off work.
Not that I have been
idle whilst at home you understand. On the contrary, aside from cleaning up after the boy I have actively
been trying to supplement my income. I enter Richard and Judy’s phone-in Midday Money competition at
least twice a week but, bizarre as it seems, they’ve never called me back. I could take them to the
cleaners as well, compared to the usual stumours that find their way on, struggling to notch up more
than a couple of thousand pounds in winnings.
I received confirmation of my new work arrangements
yesterday. I'll work Monday to Wednesday lunchtime, in a new position, dealing with the new Freedom of
Information Act, which should be quite interesting. I like the people I'll be working with, so it's not
that I'm dreading going back. It's just that I'd started getting into a nice little stay-at-home-mum
groove, lots of pootling around to various mother and baby events with nothing more taxing to think about
than what to cook for tea, and I guess that all that will change from next week. Everyone I know who
has already gone back to work part-time claims to be knackered, and it seems inevitable that I'll have
work on the brain, even when I'm at home looking after FT. It just feels like I'm coming to the end of
an era, I suppose.
Mine and Steve's parents will look after him when I'm at work. I'm keeping
an open mind to how well this will work, as he's umm, 'lively' to say the least and they are getting
on a bit, I wonder whether he'll be a bit of a handful for them. Time will tell I suppose. I've impressed
upon them the need for them to tell me if they feel he's too much for them. I was also a bit unsure of
how my mum and dad's dog will react. Kim. A dim witted, ill disciplined border collie that they dote
on, a stupid, smelly, nervous creature given to dropping drool ridden toys in your lap and sticking his
nose up your skirt at every opportunity. How I loath him. I've talked to my mum about my concerns about
kids and dogs (i.e. that they don't mix very well) and she's promised to keep him on a lead when is
FT around, and never to leave them alone together. For all that I hate him dearly, he does seem quite
a good natured animal and has never shown any signs of jealousy of FT, so I'm not overly worried.
I keep wondering how I'll feel without FT on Monday. I suspect pretty OK, actually. Given that I
don't have the trauma of handing him over to the care of strangers, I may even head off with a spring
in my step and my hat tipped at a jaunty angle, bouyed by the knowledge that I will not be pinched, bitten
or vomited on for the next eight hours. Not by my son, anyway.
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