One day I will be able to eat a whole biscuit to myself without a little monster nibbling at the edges.
One day I won’t have to pick up a pile of muddy, wet kit from the bottom of the stairs and transfer it to the washing machine.
One day I won’t be used as a child’s personal handkerchief.
One day I won’t be labelled the ‘Fun Police’ because we can’t have yet another sleepover – unless they happen at least twice a week they literally don’t count and I’m being selfish.
One day I won’t have to clean yoghurt off the TV/curtains/office chair.
One day I won’t get blamed for everything bad that happens. Or be told I’m a mean mum because I won’t let them have a Milky Bar for breakfast.
One day I will be able to go to the toilet in peace.
One day I won’t get moaned at for making a ‘disgusting dinner’ when I had the audacity to make roast beef and she wanted a bowl of Weetabix.
One day I won’t have to constantly be told how funny farting is. Or how even funnier it is when everyone gags from the stench of it.
One day I won’t have to listen to how UNFAIR I am being.
One day I will be able to buy chocolate and not have to hide it. *
One day I won’t hold warm little hands on the school run.
One day I won’t be the ‘most beautiful mummy in the world’.
One day the sound of children’s laughter won’t wake me in the morning.
One day I won’t get big, gangly boy hugs. Or a little girl creeping into my lap and tucking her head into my neck.
One day my two children will be out there, forging ahead in the world, and I will crave for these days again.
* Oh who am I kidding? That will NEVER happen.
One of the first bloggers I ever started reading back in the day hung up her pinny and went in search of a ‘real life’. She came back for a while last year, flirted with blogging again, but has dropped off the internet once again.
So this post is in honour of the lovely Millennium Housewife – I am paying homage to the sort of posts she used to write.