Wednesday, 2 March 2011

Recipe Rifle is on maternity leave

Okay I admit defeat.

I was going to just stagger along pretending that I hadn't had a baby. But the thing is that she's so DEMANDING. And in the ten minutes per day when I'm not:

- feeding her insatiable little mouth
- wiping her shitty bum
- washing her pissed-on clothes
- expressing
- ordering 8,000 nappies (size 2 already) from Ocado
- staring at my stomach in the mirror thinking "any smaller today?"
- saying "I wouldn't throw a cup of fucking tea back in your face, you know" to my husband

...I am leaning at a 45 degree angle with my forehead against any available wall, making my tragic lunatic face by pulling down the corners of my mouth and rolling my eyes up into my head as far as they will go.

We haven't cooked anything for days. We are surviving on a box of cheese from Neal's Yard and stale crackers. Occasionally I will swipe a handful of dried fruit out of the larder, while my husband tells me for the 6th time that there's more sugar in dates than in sugar (eh?)

So continuing this, for the moment, is just madness. Unless you don't want recipes anymore and just want my thoughts on Infacol vs Colief, NCT classes, Bugaboo vs iCandy and how to get the little buggers to sleep through the night? No? Thought not.

But we're going to have to come to some agreement about maternity leave. Because I know people like you, you're all like "Essssthherrrrr... we valueee yooooooooou. Go and have a good time with your baby and we'll ALL still be here when you come back. We are committed to supporting working mothers and a fair maternity package."

Yeah, like, whatever and then behind my back you'll all be saying how Cupcakes and Cashmere is a way better blog and the thing about Eat Like a Girl is how dedicated she is and how Liberty London Girl never asks for shit like time off.

And I'll come back, all shaky and traumatised and shy from being locked up with my baby for 6 months and suddenly you'll all be friends with different people and having different things for lunch and have formed all kinds of new political alliances that it'll take me months to unravel and I'll be fucked.

But I've got to take some time off, despite all that. So shall we say two months? From now? I'll aim to be back at work on 2 May, the day after my 31st birthday.

This all reminds me of one of my Dad's favourite stories from his days as a high powered City suit.

"Bob and Jim are leaving the office and they're waiting for a lift," my Dad says. "It's Bob's last day at the company and he turns to Jim and says '... and just think, in four weeks everyone will have forgotten about me.'

And Jim says: 'Four weeks? Four weeks?'"

Then Dad usually laughs until he cries.