House on bricks

I must confess: the minute I posted my last entry, the sun came out. The park formerly known as ‘mud pit’ has dried out and walking the dog is less a lesson in trying not to fall arse-over-tit and more a gentle perambulation.

I shouldn’t write ‘arse’ or ‘tit’, should I? Close your ears against such naughty words and remember: it is every parent’s right to be a hypocrite. While I may swear with navvy-like abandon, any foul-mouthed emissions from my son will be met by a quick clip round the ear.

But I will have carried you for nine months, given myself over to stretch marks and saggy tits (there I go again), a gravity-loving arse (really, I can’t help myself) and don’t get me started on childbirth. Third. Degree. Tearing. So I reckon that after all that trauma I am allowed to be a hypocritical mama.

Do as I say, child, not as I do.

Etc.

Anyway, the sun has finally come out and I’m sat sweltering in the attic, a gentle breeze blowing over the roof-tiles and in through the window. The dog’s in the garden, belly-up in the sunshine, and I imagine your dad is downstairs with both kitchen door and beer bottle resolutely open.

I’m in the attic as I write because there’s nowhere else to sit. The attic, usually my office, is now sanctuary from the hellish building works going on downstairs. In honour of your impending arrival, we thought we should sort out the damp, get a new toilet (not that you’ll be using it for a good few years yet), stick in new windows, lift the floorboards to stuff in acres of insulation, re-plaster, make your room bigger and better, oh, and the list goes on.

It feels like the house is jacked up on bricks, waiting for some kindly mechanic to take pity and restore it to full working order. And, loath though I am to shift the burden onto such tiny shoulders, it’s all your fault. If it weren’t for you I would have been quite happy to ignore the mouldering damp, the shelves falling in, the skirting boards flaking off. I would have made do with our leaky WC, our draughty front room with its hideous textured wallpaper ceiling, our strangely-shaped spare room. Honestly, I would.

But with you on the way we’ve been galvanised into action, and so on top of the physical joys of pregnancy I’ve got to put up with a house on bricks. I guess this is my first lesson in motherhood: it’s all about give and take. I give, you take.