So it was the second week after Christmas and I was feeling extremely virtuous. I had lost some weight over the Festive Season. Forget the virgin birth; I've a miracle for yiz all right here. I had a shitty week. I mean shitty. I was all, "What'll I do now? I know! I'll eat a tin of Hero's!" Boredom eating. All week. With no running whatsoever.
Was seriously tempted to give the weigh-in a miss but I was brave and stepped up. Guess what! I had lost two pounds!!!!!! I was so sceptical (and shocked!) that I moved the scales downstairs and tried there too. Same reading. That made it five and a half pounds in total that I lost over December and into January.
I was sick the week before Christmas and nothing was getting past the inflamed area that was my throat. Much the same over the holidays. I had neither interest nor inclination to eat.
I was also a better parent. In my own mind at least. This was due to the presence and assistance of Mister Husband and the regular change of scenery. I was able to go out for a run most days and to say I enjoyed each and every one of them is an understatement.
It was a lovely Christmas. I even managed to get out and socialise no less than three times. That is three times in one month. The last time I had been out was during the summer.
It’s a bit like having that first Pringle. Once you pop, you can’t stop. I’ve had my appetite whetted once again for a bit of craic with a glass or five or six of Guinness and I intend to keep going.
Then the schools opened and it was back to abnormal. Ho hum. I could feel the walls of the house (and my brain) closing in on me.
I am not cut out to be a housewife. Or a cook. Or a child minder. I crave conversations with people over the age of 7. And myself. And Ray D’Arcy. I covet head and body space. I can’t seem to escape the constant noise that breaks me, each and every day.
I woke up, Thursday 10th January 2013 still with a strong urge to kill or at the very least, seriously maim something, anything and poor Conor was nearly that something, anything, anyone. (Sorry, Con)
To add insult to injury the car was going through a serious teenager phase and refusing to co-operate. Not even the jump leads or a swift belt with a wrench could persuade her to giddy-up those last two days.
*I have fallen into the man trap of calling the car a “her.”*
Grandad received a phone call that morning and he very obligingly came over to help us out. As we knew he would. Many apologies for hauling you out of your winter morning bed.
So I was housebound. Housebound, I tell you! Yes, it was frustrating, especially at this time of year. But it also meant that Mister Husband had to do the remainder of the school runs. And the pick-ups until the car was sorted. It was harder on him as his work was interrupted.
That Thursday morning, the three older ones were in their various places of education and it was just me, Juno and Smallest Boy. I put on my wellies, our coats and we went for a lovely walk around the garden to chase away the cobwebs that had been lingering all week.
It wasn’t a run, not even close but it helped. It helped a lot. I realised that it was the first time I had been outside the door of the house in two days. Maybe there is some truth behind all that Vitamin D stuff.
And then a little chink of light made its way through the closed curtains. Smallest Boy went for a snooze and I got to spend a very enjoyable and most productive couple of hours at the computer. It. was. Bliss.
Mister Husband got rasher sandwiches for his lunch and I got three blog posts done. From scratch. And etched out a couple more.
I love Thursday mornings. They are the new Friday and I want more of them. I was in my happy, creative bubble and loving it.
The washing, cooking and cleaning will always be there but those few hours of easy silence are precious and will be gone in exactly one hundred and twenty minutes.
Make the most of them. I intend to whenever they present themselves.