Radio silence. It’s odd, isn’t it, how quickly you fall out of good habits. They take a lot to forge: effort, will power, determination… long stretches of plodding, pleading and coaxing of the obstinate mind as if it were an elderly, overweight donkey flicking flies in the sun. And then suddenly, one slip, and you’re off the wagon, lying confused on your back. Just like that.
I’ve blogged every week for eighteen months and loved it. It came naturally after six weeks or so, the words just slid through the keyboard and onto the screen: tappity tap. Even when I was heavy and exhausted and pregnant and the size of an elephant, when I was weepy, leaky and hormonal and trapped beneath a newborn, when I had six times as many work deadlines as brain cells… tappity tap, out it came automatically (which might explain the quality of some posts… apologies for that).
Then we went on holiday for a week. And suddenly it’s been sixteen days. And I just. can’t. get. my. mind. to work. I’ve fallen off the wagon. And from down here in the dirt, the effort it would take to clamber back up to the driving seat looks way too much like hard work. I’d rather lie down and gather dust in the road.
And, I’m afraid, the same goes for good habits. When we went on holiday, I gave myself a week’s grace on cloth nappies. I wasn’t sure what the washing set-up was going to be, so we bought a packet of pampers. And it was SO good. I hadn’t expected it. I don’t find cloth nappies tricky. I don’t mind the extra washing, the occasional poo scraping, the never-ending cycle of stuffing and unstuffing liners. Or, at least, I didn’t. I find it all, in its small way, rewarding. Or, at least, I did.
We came home, and the house was a tip and our street was scruffy and polluted and choked with cars and I missed the rural idyll of Devon and the kids running free through meadows without a moment’s thought about traffic or toys or The Octonauts and Captain (I’ll tell you just where you can stick your) Barnacles. And so I bought another packet of pampers. It was kind of like comfort eating: when you’re feeling low and you buy a family sized bar of the cheapest, tackiest chocolate you can find. And yeah, it’s partly because you’re going to love devouring it, but it’s also, partly, out of a kind of loathing, masochistic, self-pity-fest.
And then I bought another packet. And now – ARGH! – it’s been two and a half weeks. And I KNOW I need to go back. I know I’ll be happier when I make the break, when I’m not staring guiltily into The Pedal-Bin Of Landfill-Doom four times a day. But… The house is still a tip. There is more dirty washing in the basket than I can ever hope to wade through, more clean laundry hanging around the house than I can ever imagine coaxing into drawers. And the baby’s had a throat infection. And then we both had thrush. And builders are going to be taking our house apart for the next six weeks and and and… I want that giant bar of Dairy Milk. Actually, I want a whole KFC family bucket meal to go with it because once you let one corner of a project go, the whole structure starts to wobble. I want to take the baby to a music class. I want to buy crisp new clothes for them in the online sales. When we were away, one of the other families had those strawberry mini rice cakes for babies. They were quite convenient. I want, I want, I want…
Except I don’t of course. I know that. But it’s hard to grab hold off your principles while you’re flat on the dirt track and the dust is being kicked up around you. SOMEONE HAND ME MY STIRRUPS AND HAUL ME BACK ONTO THAT WAGON, PLEASE!