Why I'm NOT a working mum

I’ve been back at work for two weeks and already I can feel the old syndromes kicking in: destroying my posture by slouching forward onto my desk, resisting the need for caffeine, every hour, on the hour, feeling the urgency in every single task.

There’s a conflicting undercurrent in the office, a mixture of complete apathy and boredom offset by the sense that everything needs to be completed yesterday.

I’m tempted to refer to my return as a transition from ‘mum’ back to ‘working mum’ but I don’t think I will. I feel like that implies I’m returning from some sort of holiday, sun-kissed and full of energy, ready to once again face the trials and tribulations of schedule and responsibility. 

Like that’s a new thing for me. Pff.

3 Things You Have to Respect About Toddlers

It's hard being a toddler, both for the toddlers themselves and the parents. All those emotions and all that energy coursing around one tiny little uncoordinated body. It's a tough job working out how to express it all. Who can blame them when it all gets a bit much?

That's what my rational, caffeine-boosted brain reasons anyway.

At half five in the morning, pre-coffee, with (someone's) drool smeared across my face and a three-year old running around the bedroom singing 'Happy Birthday' (when it's not even my birthday), I might be inclined towards a different opinion.

Like it or not though, sometimes, despite whatever craziness is ensuing, I want to proffer the mightiest high-five to all the toddlers out there.

Here's why I think they deserve our respect:

How Old Are You Anyway?

"You don't look very old."

I stared at the grey-haired till operative and considered responding with "No I don't. But you do."

Her question annoyed me. It was clear she was fighting an internal battle over whether to ask for ID or not. I looked young for my age, but there was also an increasingly long line of customers waiting behind me, and insisting on verification would only make the grumpy queue grumpier.

I wouldn't have minded if she'd asked for ID. At the time, I was in my mid-20's but was fortunate (or unfortunate, depending on how you look at it) to appear in my late teens, so was used to having my age queried.

But she hadn't asked, she'd dithered, and her resulting statement felt more like an unnecessary accusation. Like I was subtly trying to get away with some cheeky underage purchasing and this was my opportunity to own up before she called in the Feds.

To make the situation a whole lot worse, sitting on the conveyor belt between us sat not a bottle of whisky, nor a set of knives. Not even a second-hand AK47.