Welcome back, valued and lovely readers. It’s Wednesday night, I’ve got a glass of wine to hand and I really should have written this earlier. Today I found myself pottering around doing all those things that I visualised myself engaging in the minute I went off on maternity leave, 17 years ago this July. Ambling around in the garden, gently snipping at overgrowing foliage, pottering around making bread, knocking up a batch of scones for my hard-working husband upon his return from work, sitting in a chair gazing up at the intense blue sky and doing nothing. Dear reader, I did none of those things back then. But today, I did.
I would never describe myself as a homemaker. I mean, I live in one…
I would never describe myself as a homemaker. I mean, I live in one, I do home makery stuff like dusting and hoovering and occasionally choosing new curtains (once every 13 years), but it doesn’t bring me joy. I have to do housework, but if I didn't have to, I wouldn't. I’m not like the ladies I see online who cannot rest until their toilets are gleaming, their skirting boards immaculate and their floors shining. One of the things I’ve always wrestled with is how you succeed in enjoying the moment. I have never been able to manage it. I’m always racing ahead to the next thing, or worrying about what I haven’t done.
Not this past week, though. Blimey, it’s been a revelation! As a self-employed person, I’ve watched nearly all my work dry up overnight. That’s not great, but my philosophy has always been, “If life gives you lemons (which it undoubtedly has), make a lemon tart.” Just a few weeks ago, my days looked like this:
Wake up. Roll over in bed and hope it’s Saturday. It’s not. Get up, stagger about yawning, check various school bags and packed lunches, herd children into car, do school run. Come home. Diddle about a bit washing up, drinking tea, hanging out washing, making bed, putting off work. Sit down with tea. Write some stuff. Write some more stuff. Amble off for a bit to do more housework and think about the stuff I wrote. Come back to it and change it a bit. Do some letters and bills for catering business. Think about doing tax return and decide against it. Look at clock and realise am late for school run. Do school run. Come home. Talk to children, break up fights, talk through latest hormonal challenges. Do tea. Drink wine. Watch telly. Fall asleep on sofa. Go to bed.
And repeat.
Everything’s changed. My days are completely different. Here are some things I have done over the last week.
1. Baked bread
2. Pimped up a cheese scone recipe with exciting results
3. Made cake
4. Helped husband build two compost bins, covering self in chicken and quail poo in the process
5. Stared at rhubarb
6. Made rhubarb gin (numbers 5 and 6 are related)
7. Opened compost bin to feel temperature
8. Lovingly massaged outside of compost bin daily for same reason
9. Genuinely considered installing a hen cam so that I can work out which of the ladies is laying thin-shelled eggs
10. Written 4.5 short stories in 10 days (never written a short story in my life)
11. Come up with a new business idea in conjunction with 2 fellow self-employed Suffolk ladies (there is a clue to what this might be in last week’s blog, Ruth's Top Lockdown Tips.
And weirdly, I am living in the moment, for the first time in my life. So back to the lemons analogy. No income. Not so good. But my tax return for 2020/2021 is going to be a piece of cake. No new writing work. But I’m finding new ways to write and loving it. No social life. Really grim. I miss my friends. But I can chat to them in other ways (hello FaceTime!)
This is a really difficult time for all of us. We are in a situation we never anticipated and all the control and comfort has gone. However, I choose to encourage, to inspire, to support and to love, rather than to waste my time worrying incessantly about things I can’t change. When this is all over, I am going to remind myself that last week, I was as happy as I could be standing in stained old clothes with my husband shovelling grass cuttings, egg shells, old tea bags, veg peelings and the aforementioned poo into a compost bin. I was investing in the future. That compost will help our veg to grow. My short stories might just be published and bring in a new source of income.
Who knows what will happen? Not me. 36-year old Ruth with her glossy hair, unlined skin and neat little bump back then had aspirations she never achieved. 53-year old Ruth is. Who would have thought it? Not me. Not in a million years. Or even 17.