It turns out that ignoring feeling a little bit ill and deciding to carry on and burn out and not find the time to indulge even a little for a week leads to feeling more than a little bit ill.
The last week saw me crawl back to bed one afternoon and not surface until the week was almost out. What started as ‘no, I just feel a bit flu-y. It’s ok, I’ll be fine…Oh, alright then I’ll go and rest, but just for a little while’ mutated into super bad chest pains and a bit of gasping for breath thrown in for good measure.
It’s amazing just how much being AWOL for as little as a day and a half can be felt. It’s amazing that when you stagger downstairs, bleary eyed and sore and tired and hot and cold and achy all at the same time to be greeted by a beaming toddler who proudly announces ‘mummy!’ *points to sock* ‘yelelow!’.
And not just that, inches have been grown and hair is blonder and speech clearer and oh my goodness I have to go back to bed again because the world is spinning and you’re growing up far too quickly.
What’s most amazing of all though is how, for the first time ever, being upstairs and alone wasn’t (isn’t) a sanctuary and is instead lonely and boring and when the giggles and yelps float up through the floor my heart pangs for all I’m missing. Because for the first time it’s obvious and sad and painful to miss.
It’s Mega-Blok fortresses and thrones and carrying ‘baybee’ around while tenderly patting her back. It’s learning new words at a mile a minute and it’s getting spoon to mouth before any food has the chance to fall off. It’s yelelow.
It’s being a mummy. It’s her.