I have become my mother. No – scrap that, it’s even worse. I have become my Gran.
I have no idea how or when this happened, but it hit me today.
After waking in an inexplicably foul mood, I decided to vent my frustration and do “something productive”. I could have done any number of things to alleviate my grumpiness: Drunk wine, Googled Gary Barlow, watched Jeremy Kyle. So what did I choose?
Yes, that famous mood-enhancing act of cleaning the bathroom. And as I scrubbed the bath and polished the shower screen, I felt a sense of satisfaction. Even getting down and dirty with the toilet brought a smile to my face.
And that’s when it dawned on me. I am my Gran.
Not that I’m saying my Gran (“Nana” to you and I) gets a sadistic kick out of cleaning toilets. It’s just that I always imagine her at her happiest while bustling about doing something domestic. But that’s not how I picture myself.
Since having Frog, many things have changed. I’m at home more now. I recently quit my job to begin freelancing, but I’m still officially on maternity leave. I’m in a no-man’s land of work and home, maternity leave and work. I still see myself as a “career woman”, but actually, at the moment, that isn’t really who I am.
So I suppose cleaning helped me feel like I was doing something productive. I may not have won a Sony Gold this week or written a feature in a national publication, but at least my toilet’s clean.
And then I noticed my daughter watching me cleaning. She had a perplexed look on her face, as if to say “what the hell are you doing Mother?” (Clearly, the sight of me with a duster is a rarity).
I began to ponder her future, what she’ll decide to do when she’s all grown up, like me. Will she have a high-powered job? Will she be a mum? Will she become a domestic goddess?
And as I turned on the hoover I got my answer, a loud scream signalling Frog’s new Vacuum Phobia. The look of pure fear on her face said it all: Me? Domestic goddess? No chance!
That’s my girl.