The women who do Pilates, the mothers of the adult children, fully grown, nest flown
they tell me that one day I will miss all this (as they sip their post class cappuccino in peace).
And they are right, surely? They must be. For they are old(er) and wise(r)
One day I will miss the piss on the toilet seat, the weetabix and toothpaste spit, un-rinsed in my freshly cleaned sink.
One day I will miss the relentless fighting, the screams of “he’s hit me/looking at me/breathing my air’.
One day I will realise I don’t have panic rising in my chest over a forgotten PE kit or packed lunch or World Bastard Book Day costume, remembered only as I pull up to work, 10 miles away. And I will miss that “Oh fuuuckkk” feeling.
One day I will have less washing to do, just a few loads per week, for me and him indoors. And I will miss the piles of muddy football kits spilling out of the wash basket.
Ah… yes. Football. One day I will miss my car seats being permanently encrusted in mud, and I will long for a large sprinkling of those black astro-dots all over my silver grey clean carpets.
One day I will miss having to tidy up bedrooms, pick up half-eaten apples (half eaten is optimistic), be a taxi driver, therapist, mediator and modern day slave. One day I will even miss always, always putting myself last.
You’re right Pilates ladies… One day will come, some day.
But for this day, today; is it alright if it’s all just really getting on my tits?
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