Transition traumas.

Phewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwweeeeyyyyyyyyyyyyyy.

I made it through my first week back at work... full time work that is. The great things about my week:

1. An assistant script editor joined the same day as me and she is super lovely. To have a partner in crime (or in my case, someone to watch 6 weeks worth of Eastenders with) was fantastic. She is a girl's girl. Supportive and warm. Really helped me not feel like the lumbering Mother trying to squeeze herself back into the working world only to find that the world has moved on fifty years since I last did the 9-5 grind.

2. Everyone at work seems lovely and understanding about the fact I have no idea what anyone is talking about.

3. I have plastic rubber duck fairy lights above my desk for some reason.

4. I visited the Square!! Saw Arthur's bench, Kathy's cafe and the Vic. Embarrassingly excited about it and annoyed I forgot my camera for iconic 'Albert Square' stand-by-the-railings shot.

5. I went out with husband for cocktails at a farewell do.

Bad things about my week:

1. Could I be more nervous? You know that old paranoia that eats away at you - Will they find me out? Suddenly realise it was someone else they were meant to employ and turf me out as soon as it comes to light that I am crap? Can I do the job? Will my writers want to murder me? What is my name again?

2. Sproglet missing me. OH MY GOD. He followed me out even though I put on a DVD and crept out as if I was only popping to the kitchen. I quickly shot down the stairs and once outside the flat door, bent down to tie up my laces. I heard him career down the stairs after me. Then he banged his small fist against the door and howled. My heart sank to my converse and it took every ounce of my willpower to keep on walking out the front door, stomach in knots. Head metaphorically in hands. Heart left battered on the hall floor.

The next day I got wise - placed him in his Dad's arms so they could tickle and cuddle through my surreptitious exit. Husband rang me later to say that the minute Sproglet heard the front door bang he flew down the stairs and performed his banging on the door lament, then was mopey all morning and clingy when he was dropped to his child minder (whom he loves). If guilt were a monster it would be Jaws and I would be Robert Shaw in the scene where the shark chows down on him - as he slides down the boat into his hungry gaping mouth.

3.Husband is now having to get up when I head to work at 8:40am. (Train 8:48). He has a window of 2-3 hours before Sproglet goes to his childminder (a GODDESS full to the brim with patience and a telepathic ability to control Sproglet). Husband gets in at 3am/4am ish and then is up 4 hours later. He is tired. Super grumpy. Oh and I don't see him. We leave those dreadful cliched housemate type notes to each other ('Take out the bin'; 'wash dishes' 'we need milk' etc.) Romance has jumped out the window and down the street, never to be seen again. So Thursday evening was a big deal. We had a sitter and were actually going out together on an evening to Pocket's leaving do. We got there to discover it was at a ridiculously trendy bar where all the girls wore strappy tops, big earrings, scarves and giant heels and the boys had more products in their hair than Boots would stock for Xmas. It was so 'meeja' and youthful that I felt about 75. The music - thud thud thud - reverberated off the walls and husband declared he was leaving the moment we arrived.

I was so torn. My dear, dear friend Fran (Pocket) was leaving to go to LA with her lovely husband - FOREVER - and my husband wanted to walk. That good old 'friend v partner' debate. He bought a drink and sulked outside. I tried to explain to Pocket why husband was now an ogre. I understood he was tired, but I had looked forward to this night and just needed to let off some steam after such a transitional week. Pocket understood thankfully. My toes curled as husband pointedly refused another drink in front of a group of folk and stared me out with the look of death. Realising I needed to leave immediatly or he would divorce me - I said my hurried farewells, unable to get a decent goodbye (we Irish love our lengthy goodbyes that normally involve a 5 course meal, 3 toasts, a bottle of port, a cup of tea, 2 biscuits and 16 hugs)and didn't get to say hello or even goodbye to Steph - a girl who I was dying to have a great yarn with, as she used to work where I now do.

As I hugged Pocket (my rock in the past 2 years) - the one person I relied on most in my lonely Motherhood journey; the girl who always made time to pop in for a coffee no matter how busy her life; who cheered me through my job hell and who offers the best advice in the world (fact) - the tears spilled. It was like the boy and the dam - but the bugger took his finger out and the water kept a comin'. Husband and I went for dinner and he sent me to the ladies as I wept so much people were staring. You know you should stop the cocktails when you tell strangers in the loo your dramas as they try to dry their hands and they look frightened. Not for you. By you.

I blame PMT. Tiredness. The stress of trying to exchange on a house when mortgage folk are complete NUMPTIES. Losing a dear friend to another continent. Missing Sproglet. Going back to work stress. Etc. Etc. We rowed for oh... a good two hours. Who had the most stress? Did the most in the flat/for Sproglet? That lovely competitive row that gets nowhere and you go in circles until you wonder why you ever even shared a plate of chips never mind a life together. I drank far too many vanilla martinis and sobbed in the cab. If I had thrown up it would have a be a re-run of many nights out in my 20s, but instead - now in my 30s, I ended up weeping on my child minder's shoulder. She stroked my hair in a tender Mother-like way and I felt soothed.

Husband and I talked yesterday briefly. He sent loving texts. I had a moan to my best mate over wine (always helps to vent). Today we snuggled together in bed and laughed again. Sproglet keeps giving me lots of kisses. It is a time of change for our relationship, our family life as we knew it - juggling jobs, a house move and parenthood with little help isn't easy. I don't do change too well. But the dust will eventually settle. Until then I'll avoid the martinis and stock up on Evening Primrose oil.

Have a good bank holiday weekend y'all.

Damages ...

...is over. What the hell will I do with my Monday nights from now on? What an amazing series. Did you not watch? Get the DVD box set quick - banish kids and spouse and grab a cuppa and a half price Easter egg and get comfy. You are in for one helluva treat. A lesson in how to sustain a story arc over 13 episodes that initially appears simplistic but has more twists and turns than an Irish country road! What a rollercoaster of a ride. And rejoice - for series 2 is currently in production!!

Wasn't Glenn Close amazing? Mind you the woman has never put in a dud performance in her whole life. Where would 80s films have been without her? 'The World According To Garp,' 'The Big Chill,' 'Jagged Edge' 'Dangerous Liaisons' and of course 'Fatal Attraction' to name a few. She is one of the all time greats. Who knew Ted Danson had such depths? I really have to rein in my need to pontificate on how great this series was - as we'd be here all day. Plus I just cannot write anything without giving a key plot point away and I really would rather cut off my eyelids than spoil this rare treat for the lucky few who have yet to discover the thrill of Damages.

Meanwhile... the sun is shining... Nemo is NOT on the DVD. Husband thawed slightly when I bought him a £45 bottle of something oaky and full bodied. He still hasn't done the weekly shop and therefore there is no butter for my toast but he has said he will deign to speak to me again today. I'm kinda getting over the whole punishment thing now - an Aries girl can only hold her fire for so long and I have eaten enough humble pie to fill a bakery twice over. If he doesn't get over himself and embrace forgiveness as a virtue we may enter a new battle zone. I know he wanted me to grovel. To skirt around him on tippy toes full of remorse and subservient wife gestures - but I am only capable of acting this despised role for so long - and then snap! Must go - sproglet needs me. By the way - I am taking Justine's advice - and am loving every moment with my son. This age is just a joy. He has taken a huge shine to a duck stuffed animal and carries it under his arm - everywhere. Including into the bath yesterday. Then howled in his cot when Duckie was getting his feathers toasted on the radiator and was too damp for a night time cuddle. In the end I had to put Duckie in with him - dry side round and then sneak it out from under his arm while he slept to complete the drying process... Thank god sproglet is far from high maintenance - I couldn't put up with 2 Divas at the moment!

What happened to us?

The sun is shining, the birds are singing and I want to scream my head off. It is not yet 10am. Wee bunny has been fed and watered - by me - and has taken a massive dump. But the nappy has managed to come off so said dumpage is now all over him, his sleepsuit and the nappy. This is no job for the meek. I manage to strip him and plonk him in the bath. I am hosing him down, all the while he yells like I have set the poor little chap on fire. I meanwhile am covered in stale crap, struggling to hold the bunny up in one hand, a shower hose in the other and navigate my way through his nooks and crannies to clear the debris that has welded itself to every available surface of his bum. I think he is clean and lift him out. Yeooooooowww. Something goes in my back. Bunny is howling still and I shush him as I dry him, patting his baby soft skin and noticing that all the shit has not come off and is now on the towel. I wipe his arse, slap on some cream, nappy and dress and him, stopping to let his fluffy hair caress my face and then return to clean the bath/my hands, dump the dump in the bin and then place the clothes in a nuclear site to be eradicated - I mean, in the washbasket.

Husband surfaces. Makes his weird bird seed and meat so-uncooked-it-is -still-breathing concoction that will be his days sustenance. I'm all right Jack is his attitude. I hate him. I hit the shower and try not to cry. My life feels like an endless well of poo and dishes and washing and bath times and I want MORE THAN THIS!!! I dream of running away with some obscenely young boy who looks like Mark Ronson with the wit of Eddie Izzard and the money of Donald Trump. Husband tries briefly to be understanding but returns to his cook-athon leaving wee bunny to endless Bob the fecking builder repeats. I try to dress. Notice the dimpling and curves were once taut flesh stood. Full of self loathing I reach for something to wear. Husband and I have had no conversation today whatsoever. No laughs. Breakfast together? Don't make me laugh - he is always so tired after his long bar shifts that he has no energy for me or the wee bunny. Oh but energy for the gym. Husband has managed to give wee bunny a small cup from the bathroom - a dirty old playtime cup no less - which wee bunny drinks from and then spills over himself. Enraged I get husband to dress wee bunny again - as his clothes are saturated. Husband thinks I am insane and tells me to de stress. It is not husband who spends every waking hour worrying about money and where the next job is coming from. It is not husband who spends two hours making the wee bunny healthy chilli beef for his lunch today and who has to make sure wee bunny has wipes/nappies/food/milk/clean clothes etc etc. I hate him with every bone in my body for having a life. We argue about trivial stuff. These daily verbal jousts exhaust me and wind me into a frenzy. The dishes are left for me to do - he claims they are mine and I scream that they are all dishes from the child's breakfast. He sarcastically tells me maybe I need a lie down. His goading eroding any confidence I have left in myself and making my blood boil. Is the bunny's bag ready, he snaps. Of course it is - all packed, all ready as my life is one only designed to clean up everyone else's shit and make sure everyone else is good to go. What about me? Where did my life go? My hopes, my passion for my work? My sense of goddamn self?

He slams out. The wee bunny follows, trundling along, his every step melting my heart. A sinking feeling grows in the pit of my stomach as I note we haven't kissed goodbye once this week. We're did we go husband? The 'us' in all of this. No longer a team we rant and rage and bully and hate and slowly tear us to shreds. It is all about my unfulfilled needs and your fucking job that gives us no semblance of a normal life. Where do we go from here I wonder? Because I can't live like this forever.