Blogging and no baby-free zones anywhere

It's been one of those weeks. I am completely and utterly done for, shattered beyond all belief, I can hardly keep my eyes open, and it's not even lunchtime. The reasons why are patently obvious - husband still away, clocks going forward, children throwing tantrums, trips to hospital, children's parties, etc. But I should be used to that. I am used to that. But over the past couple of months, it's been something entirely different which has kept me from sleeping at night. You see, in days gone by, my evenings would consist of cooking, watching tv, having long leisurely baths, reading a book, and all this before curling up in bed by 10 (this is where I don't even have the energy to pretend that my life was exciting). But that was my life before blogging. These days, if I'm not writing my own posts then I'm reading other people's. And we all know that there are some real gems out there. So for the past couple of weeks it's been a case of 'Oh just one more before bed', and then 'Oh maybe just one more won't hurt', and before I know it, it's midnight and I'm due to wake up in 6 hours time to two very demanding children.

So not only have children taken over my life, but now blogging has too. When I first started writing my blog I thought that it would be about my life (my life) and be somewhere I could come, away from the world of babies and children and nappies and poo and vomit, and concentrate on me instead. But pretty soon it became obvious (er by about the first sentence of the first paragraph of the very first post) that my life was in fact, my children's life and that the only things I had to write about were the childen. And actually that was fine. I changed the name of the blog from 'Blog Fire' to 'Maternal Tales from the South Coast' and I conceded defeat, or at least I embraced it. I am a full-time Mother; I live children, I breathe children, and now I even write about children. I sometimes dream about them too.

But even though I may have embraced this new-found pastime, it doesn't help with the fact that not only am I exhausted, but I look it too. Huge suitcases have taken up residence under my eyes, my skin is rather more on the sallow side than I would like and my hair is just a mess. Well, that was until I bit the bullet this morning and booked myself in for a hair appointment. I mean there's nothing like a bit of pampering to make you feel better. And I even had a little fantasy that for three hours at least, I might be able to speak about something other than children. Right? Er not exactly...

Now I love my hairdresser. She's called Kelly and she's been doing my hair for at least ten years, so we're kind of past that polite stage. I know that she has two cats called Chav (seriously) and Maisie (or is that the dog? I always forget) and that she has boyfriend called Trevor and has recently moved in with him and that her Mum is only 5 foot tall and that she doesn't speak to her Dad and that she loves Jennifer Anniston but thinks Britney is a tramp. You see, we talk about all sorts of things, Kelly and I. And today that was what I wanted. I needed to sit down, be pampered and to talk about the latest offerings from Heat and Grazia. I could have done with a conversation about who's dumped who and who's sleeping with who. And I really thought that Kelly was my girl. I mean, there's no way Kelly would want to speak about babies and poo. Unfortunately for me it soon became clear that there would be no talk of Britney or Jennifer. Instead I got this...

'Guess what? I'm pregnant. Now we can talk about baby things too.'

Aaaaarrrrggghhhh. I guess the more you try to fight it, the harder it becomes! At least my hair looks good hey?