The Grass is always Greener....

Husband says I am never satisfied.

He has a point. This morning he got Sproglet breakfast and crawled back under the spare room duvet cover declaring he was ill - stuffed to the gills with a cold. As he reached over meekly for my hand, hoping for some sympathy, I found him mildly irritating. He had after all, been at a swanky dinner with all his HODs last night - one no doubt filled with fine wines (including dessert) and mouth watering dishes courtesy of an Alan Yau restaurant. Must be tough. I'd sent him a text asking him to hang out some washing when he trundled through the door, as I'd put it on and then realised I was too bushed to wait up for it to finish. Did he do it? No.

So I treated him to a long tale of CM's completed chores from yesterday. He looked amused as I eked out every tiny mundane activity that I had slaved through. Sproglet finishes at school at 3pm (he no longer goes to his nursery as the Easter hols are over and I am no longer at work) and has been banging on for weeks about wanting his Mummy to pick him up, like all the other Mummies. Yesterday I proudly strolled towards the gates,(no other Mothers there - think I was early) imagining a scene not unlike the beach one in 10, where Sproglet would run at me, arms wide, a face filled with love.He ambled towards me, handed me his lunchbox and promptly went back inside again. Great.

Now, post job, post Easter hols, post nursery life, I've got 4.5 hours each day with Sproglet to fill before bath time - which I know this is a good thing. Something I wanted. Craved even. But why now does it feel like the clock has permanently stopped and I'm running out of fun! Ideas! To! Do! and it is only day 3 of CM's new routine...

Plus there is the whole deal of what to cook every night. Sheeshhh - when did Sproglet get so fussy? Can a child survive on pasta, fish fingers and peas for the rest of his days? Hope so... Then there is the lunchbox trauma. 'Mummy I want jam sandwiches.' Sure you do. But I want you to have teeth by the time you are 5 - so jam once a week only. That leaves 3 days (he is in lunch club 4 days a week) of cheese. This morning - you've guessed it - he announced he doesn't like cheese anymore. Then there is the whole minefield of - what will the teachers think if I add in a frube? Are they good for a kid, or 'pretend good' and are actually full of more fat and sugar than a McD's milkshake? My own Mother used to tear her hair out trying to work out what the hell to feed me every day - was I a veggie this week, or back on the tuna that week? Now karma is having it's revenge. Roll on next year when I can stick Sproglet in hot meals club. He is gonna love them even if I have to go to the school and shovel it into his wee gullet myself.

Plus - all this new afternoon time means I have more time for Sproglet to hang out with mates - but we are still at the stage where I then have to hang out with the Mums too. All are lovely - so why can't I just relax around most of them?? I feel like some awkward teen meeting my date's parents - trying to find something to say and sounding odd, stilted, idiotic. I comb over every subject I know we have in common: kids. Packed lunches. Kid's parties. Other kids. Nit scares. Kid behaviour. Then I'm all out of material. I have been known to start chatting to Sproglet to fill the gaping silence, as I've run out of stuff to say. Me! Motormouth CM - run out of stuff to say! Impossible, but true.

All the while I feel my palms sweat and my mouth go dry and I flail around like a fish out of water - scared I'll swear. The summer stretches out before me as one long awkward conversation. I was so desperate for this and now... well, the writing is great. I actually feel that typing here now - I'm having an affair with my blog, when I should be banging away at the book. But it is a lonely old business - staring out of a window, wishing for inspiration. Lighting candles and creating an ambiance - which I am sure will make all the difference to my creativity...

I always want what I can't have. The grass in my world is always greener on the other side. I don't miss my old job for one second - the people and general chat - yes. Job - no. On my leaving card there were about 10 comments about 'we'll miss your stories/chat/tales in the office' which made me realise how little work I did - and how my main objective was doing the rounds with folk, nattering away. Now there is no-one to natter to. A cursor blinks at me as if to say 'hurry the fuck up.' There are meals to plan, activities to sort, laundry to do. I must get writing! I must get writing! Every second counts! Hurry - hurry - write, write, write!!!

Enough of my procrastinating. Back to the book. It'll be 3pm before I know it and I've got an awkward teen to turn into.