surreymom.com

K: “I told Henry today that we were going to Centerparcs.”

Me: “Uh huh.”

K: “He told me he was wearing Big Boy pants.”

So, tomorrow I meet a potential nanny. She currently au pairs for another family with two school-going kids, so has free time between the hours of 9:00 (school drop-off) and 15:00 (school pick-up). Ideal really. Twice a week, for two to three hours, she can take care of J, who by his very toddlerish existence is back-breaking to me right now (I come from a family of bad backs and, sadly, the affliction does not seem to have skipped my generation).

BUT, I am notoriously bad at delegating childcare. I find excuses at every opportunity. Part of it is the belief that as a stay-at-home-mum, you have to do it all. I mean, you don’t get to delegate your office job when you fancy a break or a long overdue trip to the gym, do you? But then, I tell myself, an office job provides sick leave, annual leave, training, the odd bit of departmental socialising.. all deemed to recharge and motivate employees and keep them functioning optimally. And I am not functioning optimally at the moment. My back is constantly aching, and if we have any hopes of trying for a third child at any point, I need to regain a semblance of physical fitness.

So, assuming the nanny does not arrive sporting multiple piercings and smelling of weed, I shall have no excuse but to take the bull by the horns, hand over my beautiful boy for a few hours a week and (gulp!) try to regain some vestige of an adult life. Perhaps, after all, it is that that I find daunting!

It was either a cervical smear at a local Wednesday night sexual health clinic, or getting two overtired kids bathed and bedded. (Again.) Needless to say, the speculum won hands down. There was an 18:40 appointment with my name on it and my hubby (God bless him) was home by 18:15 to deal with the sprogs.

I grabbed the car keys and swiftly made my escape.

Waiting room conversation with drug-enhanced, sexually overactive Surrey felt rather enchanting, unpunctuated as it was by toddlerhood or incessant demands for attention. And even the bright lights up my nethers seemed a small price to pay for 45 minutes of time to myself. I mean I’ve booked unnecessary dental work before just to escape the kids on the weekend… Yes, it gets that bad.

The kindly, semi-retired nurse asked me all the relevant questions about my health – reproductive and otherwise – and finally asked if I ever examined my breasts. Sheepishly, I admitted I didn’t. At which point she helpfully noted: “Never mind love. With little ones like that, I dare say you’d notice anything abnormal rather quickly.”