I’m in the closet.
Tomorrow night I am going out and I am dreading it.
Except I am not really dreading it, if you know what I mean. (Do you? Do you know what I mean? Because I’m not sure I do, so if you do, will you tell me? My brain has died!)
I am looking forward to it. I think. Underneath all the stress and anxiety of what going out actually means these days, that is.
Do you know what I mean? (I have now cottoned on to what I am getting at.)
Since becoming a mammy, I don’t know how to go out. Does that make sense?
I used to go out in short skirts and figure hugging tops. I used to go out and get absolutely steaming with my friends and laugh until my sides hurt. I used to go out in fancy dress and dance the night away. I used to go out and not give a flying hoot about what my arse looked like (I had the confidence you see, those were, what I now refer to as the confident days) and I used to go out with butterflies of excitement in my belly.
I used to go out with no plan, and see where the night took me. I used to go out and enjoy the getting ready and the coming home and chatting until the early hours. I used to love going out.
Tonight, however, on the eve of my third night out since giving birth ( a year and a month ago. Did you hear me? A year and a month ago!) I have butterflies which are a little more annoying and a little more sinister. (Bats then, rather than Butterflies. I have bats in my belly.)
I am absolutely certain I won’t be pulling on the first thing that jumps out at me as I open the wardrobe (because I already tried 7 things on), but am more likely to huff and puff and strop my way through my entire wardrobe and still cry and scream and stamp my foot while hissing at the Irish One ‘no i don’t look beautiful in this, You haven’t even looked!!! I look like a hippo under a duvet. Look Irish one, Look! Look at my back fat!!! This is your fault, yours! You and your bloody sperm!’ (He is so sick of me. I don’t care. If it wasn’t for him I would still be thinner than my wildest dreams. I also wouldn’t have Addy, but that is beside the point. )
What will I talk about when I eventually get out? (Feeling like an elephant wrapped in cling film, no doubt.) I am no longer the confident woman I once was. Post Natal depression has whipped that woman from out of me and left me with a skin full of nerves and shadows. (Imagine a water balloon, but full of nothing, but still bloated somehow. Yup, that’s me.)
I am a woman who has lost all her sparkle.
At least, I think I have, maybe I could find it, if I could concentrate for long enough to remember what I am looking for in the first place. The problem also is, I cannot remember what my sparkle looked like. It has been that long since I have seen it.
But on to more pressing matters, what handbag will I take? I don’t know how to leave the house without nappies and wipes anymore. Maybe I should take them anyway? You never know what you will run in to, and then I could just take the changing bag? I don’t remember what carrying a bag weighing less than a bowling ball feels like, and surely, If I am just taking my wallet, my phone and my house keys, I wouldn’t even need a bag? Oh god. I am not sure I can leave the house without a bag! What will I do with my hands? Where will I put them? What will they search for?
And while we are on that subject, what can I drink? I am no longer a woman who can mix beverages and order anything she fancies without worrying about the consequences. I will be up at Dawn’s crack the following morning, but nowadays, not because my head will be down the loo, but because there will be a clampit sticking his finger up my nose in an attempt to wake me up. Do I still drink willynilly and just live in the moment (and regret it in the morrow) or do I put my boring sensible foreboding head on and drink water between every drink and only half let my hair down in case i feel too rough the next day? In which case, shouldn’t I just drink soft drinks? But I want to feel a little drunk, I want to and need to throw caution to the wind! But what if, in doing so, I break wind? (No control over that yet either.)
I don’t know how to go out anymore!!! I don’t know what to talk about!!! I don’t know how to act!!! I don’t know who the fuck I am anymore.
I know I’m not just a mother, but usually I am just a mother.
So for the six or so hours, tomorrow night when I am not just a mother, but a young (ahem) woman on the town, I don’t know who I will be.
I’m not the woman I was. I don’t know if I am the woman I should be, and I’m not sure I have the energy to be the woman I could be.
I suppose only time (and wine) will tell.
I’m going back to the wardrobe. (If I’m not back in four hours, call Gok Wan.)
See you on the other side
(And yes I am grabbing my boob, but let’s just ignore that. This photo is a symbol of me not knowing who I am. Not what I am grabbing… Ahem.)
Can I still be me? That is the six million dollar question.
I will try to be me, I suppose. When I have worked out who me, now is.