Not to bang on about motherhood or anything, but it struck me today how the very incidents I used to occasionally read about and laugh at in (usually British) chick-lit novels about the trials of motherhood aren't nearly as funny when experienced in real time.
Example:
This morning, trying to juggle work and a teething toddler (it was a no nanny day alas alack) the following all happened within 2 minutes; said toddler managed to spill apricot juice all over the floor, said toddler then decided to simultaneously wedge herself in a) sticky puddle of juice and b) between the 2 uprights of the cat scratching post (seriously that post is not serving the purpose I thought it would...), then, obviously, I received a call from an important funder-type person and then, obviously, said toddler realised she was decidedly wedged and proceeded to scream in panic while I attempted to dislodge her without dislocating a shoulder (hers or mine) or getting too covered in juice all the while keeping funder person on hold. Having freed said (very sticky) toddler and calmed her to a whimper, retrieved my call and continued conversation in a calm and professional manner I grab a newspaper to put over the puddle.
The title staring up at me: Working Motherhood: Women have to make difficult trade-offs when it comes to work and family.
I kid you not.
Chick-lit be damned. I just can't read that stuff for fun anymore. My life is far more entertaining.
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