Between a Bump and a Work Place

Twenty months on and I finally consider housewifery the profession of choice. Each day of the week now specially formulated to include just the right amount of Chickie Activity Time, Chickie Snoozy Time and Chickie Bed Time.

I have lapsed into the comfort of a lifestyle where a slight tummy is expected, relax at home wear essential and a keen interest in childhood constipation useful. To ensure flexibility, I have recently incorporated some new elements into the daily routine. These include plant inspection at 8am to gauge the progress of my new herbaceous border as well as an evening garden watering session at 7.10pm sharp.

I’ve also been pleased to note that, after checking Chickie’s Latest Key Performance Indicators, that tantrums are down to a respectable once a fortnight, sleeping through the night is up by 90%, naps have become epic in duration and cuddles are not only forthcoming but plentiful.

The only problem being is that ‘question of the week’ seems to be, “when are you going back to work?”. It’s taken me nearly two years to adapt to being at home, surely I can’t be expected to go back now? But it seems that I am. Now that Chickie is getting on a bit, expectations are that I either become a useful member of society again or I pop out another sprog to qualify for a home working extension.

Not fair! A second one sends me back to ‘Go’, minus £200, and wreaks havoc with the cushy set up I’ve finally got going on. Whilst the additional £4.50 each month is a dazzling incentive, the 90 hours worth of preparations for 21 hours of painful employment isn’t doing it for me either. Plus, how am I supposed to hold my stomach in for 7 hours a day?

P.S. Photos are finally working again (sort of)!