One lump or two?

If you’d have asked me six months ago whether I would ever consider another child, the horrified look on my face wouldn’t even need me to give a verbal answer. Me? with two children when I can barely manage one?!

No way.

Fast forward a few months and I found myself answering slightly differently than the answer I gave to the last person who asked. Whether the main change has been just simply having more time on my hands to ponder or its whether I’m watching all my friends who have two, three and even four kids just absolutely boss it.


This would be a good time to talk about one of my dearest friends who I completely admire and wish I was more like. Having her most recent little cherub at the end of last year she now has three children 5 and under! This girl can breastfeed, read a bedtime story, change a nappy whilst simultaneously putting a wash load in..all whilst baking a fricking cake! Serious mum goals there. Some people just have the knack, don’t they?


Then there’s me, who almost goes into cardiac arrest if my daughter gets more than one toy out at a time. I mean, I’m trying to get better but I have a major control issue in the house.
If the house is chaotic, so is my brain.


One of the main things my therapist and I worked on was to try and let go and relax. Apparently, it stems back to keeping my bedroom such a tip when I was growing up, almost mentally scarring me of all the bad times and struggles I had when I locked myself in there for days at a time! Sounds dramatic but makes sense as I can’t relax if there are things out everywhere and I lose my temper unnecessarily.

Mess triggers me. But weirdly only at home. In my own little bubble.


So anyway, the thought of another, although still slightly scary, is enticing me more and more. Sometimes I watch my daughter talking to rocks in the garden and it breaks my heart. She asks all the time for a little brother or sister as all her friends have them and it stumps me… I’m full of um’s and er’s as I have no real excuse other than reminding her she would have to share everything and sometimes mummy wouldn’t be able to give her ALL the attention. She usually pipes down a little bit then. But still. I am wondering.

But my questions are –

Am I mentally strong enough to do this all again when I struggled so much first time around?

Am I letting childhood memories of having an extra three step-siblings pretty much torpedoed into myself and my brothers little broken home overnight affect my judgement?

Am I letting the collective family opinion of ” I think ones enough for you Jaz” shape me more than it should?


Answers on a postcard boys and girls.

Happy groundhog day!

On Saturday the 21st of March I went to work like everybody else who works Travel/Retail/Any other customer service type role. “Right then, what arseholes am I going to have to deal with today” you know the attitude. That one that when you started the job you couldn’t wait to get stuck in making dreams come true , and now, a couple of years down the line the phrase “I’m just wanting to go somewhere hot, not sure where but it needs to be cheap” makes your face contort the same way it would  if somebody were to come up to you and expel a fart in your vicinity.

Don’t get me wrong, my job is different every day and the team I work with well, there fucking awesome but little did I know that day when I finished my shift at 3pm that it would be the last time I saw the place until…well who knows right? In hindsight, if I were to relive that day knowing what I know now I would have rode horseback William Wallace style through town shouting about freedom and drinking gin. Not clock watching waiting to go home.. Which is where I’ve been ever since.

Life’s challenges have changed somewhat. At the beginning I could not believe my luck! No work?! Time at home to catch up on housework and maybe even re wallpaper the huge fireplace shaped empty patch on the living room wall where my other half thought it would be a great idea to move the room round a little? This is kind of exciting! And then I remembered that I was a parent, to a 4 year old. A 4 year old with sass.

It started well. The daily itinerary went like this –

  • A rude awakening at approx. 7am from Child where I promise I’ll be up in one minute if she plays nicely in her room.
  • Joe Wicks workout promptly at 9am
  • Snack
  • Spellings and numbers.
  • Snack
  • Crafty fun
  • Snack
  • Lunch
  • Dog Walk for the allotted 1 hour time frame.
  • “Quiet time” (with snack) most popular choice for freetime was the tablet where I learnt that horrid Henry really is a Horrid little shit.
  • Daddy gets home resulting in very over excitable and giddy child before bed.
  • Tea
  • Bed for child, 1 sly cigarette and gin and tonic at the bottom of the garden for me.

New Daily itinerary

  • A rude awakening at approx. 7am from Child where I promise I’ll be up in one minute if she plays nicely in her room. (28 minutes later, I’m still scrolling through Facebook with one eye open)
  •  “Quiet time” with breakfast in bed.
  • Snack
  • Argue with Child about the amount of outfits she has already worn in the hour we have been awake. Child will now only reply to the name Elsa.
  • Snack
  • Tidy up Elsa’s bedroom, hide the clothes.
  • Lunch
  • Dog walk to any location that child can run freely so I don’t have to look after  worry too much.
  • Stare at Wall where the wallpapering never got done whilst eating snack.
  • Daddy comes home and mentions I might like to take up running?
  • Tea
  • Bed for Child, 16 cigarettes openly smoked near the back door so other half can see that I’m stressed and two Jager bombs.

And just for those wondering, which your probably not, The roll of wallpaper still sits behind the door.