I recently found myself feeling really envious of a friend over a Saturday morning Facebook post.

 

I’m sure it was an entirely unremarkable post to him but, upon viewing it, I was suddenly filled with a deep jealousy. The post is below. Hands up if you immediately understand.

 

It’s a tranquil and humble post, admittedly, but that’s the very reason it struck a chord, so distant from my morning elbow-deep in code brown nappies and screaming did it seem.

 

I could smell the coffee, the bacon and that core, ingrained beery smell that even the classiest establishments and the harshest of cleaning chemicals can’t eradicate.

 

But who would want them to? I LOVE that smell! My favourite aroma is that musty, beery, even smoky fragrance on The Silver Fox’s jumper when he gets home from a rare night at the pub. Delish. Why? I guess it reminds me of so many fantastically happy nights out.

 

Plus that little something extra. That promise of unadulterated fun and, more specifically, the excitement of embarking on a night out and not knowing where it could take you. Nights full of untold possibilities. Parties, people, places... I should stop... I’m getting a little over excited.

 

 

The truth is I miss it.

 

I miss it because I barely go out. I’m too knackered and when I do, Silver Fox often has to ring asking me to come home because Tiny won’t stop screaming. The first night out I had since she was born resulted in my waking her up on my return by hiccupping too loudly, (true story,) and then having to feed her so she’d go back to sleep whilst panicking about the alcohol content of my boobs, (negligible, as it goes.) I didn’t get to sleep until 3.30am and was back up at 5.00am. Felt great, that did.

 

So a guilt-free night out, a morning coffee, even a glorious child-free twenty minutes in the shower without someone sitting on the loo asking why my tummy is so stripy all seem incredibly appealing to me right now. Bet you didn’t see all that in your FB post, did you, Jared?

 

But then I stop and think, didn’t The Wizard of Oz teach me anything? The Emerald City, for goodness sake. The literal greener grass, the shimmering jewel, the pot of gold at the end of the yellow brick road. And what did it end up being? Nothing more, or less, than where Dorothy and the crew hailed from. Just different. It’s a thinly veiled metaphor I really ought to heed.

 

 

I always do this. I always think the grass is greener.

 

When we were struggling to conceive, I wouldn’t have batted an eyelid at the coffee picture and I would have hated to hear anyone moaning about life as a parent. Selfish and unreasonable it may have been, but nonetheless painfully true. I could have all the nights out I wanted. I could go for a posh coffee on almost any morning. And I did.

 

But did I appreciate it? You know I didn’t. Hangovers came with their own kind of depressive gloom and I would gaze over a posh coffee at the cute kid at the next table smearing babyccino all over their dimpled face with a longing that threatened to break me open. But then we got lucky. We got really, really lucky. With the help of the wonderful folk at the fertility clinic, but that’s another story.

 

So, a pep talk is in order. Pull yourself together, Gem. Take your shoes off and wiggle your toes in the incredibly verdant grass beneath your feet. So what if your feet are half a size larger than before you had children? The grass over the fence might be green, but mine is pretty lush too.  

 

Shout out to Jared from the fabulous Fresh Fitness Food for kindly allowing me to drag him into this by discussing his innocent Facebook post. Fancy a coffee sometime?

"Motherhood is a piece of cake!" said nobody, ever. But it makes me want to eat cake. Lots of it. And write about it, because honesty and laughter is how I cope. That and shutting myself in the airing cupboard with my favourite gin and a bag of fun-sized toffee crisps.

When not smudging the guest towels with chocolate crumbs I can be found rambling around the park, playing netball, reading interior design magazines or dancing round the kitchen with my babies. Whilst baking cakes, of course.

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