Farewell twenty eleven

This post was going to be a sparkling, witty and relevant retrospective of 2011, but when I came to think about what I would write, I realised that pretty much the whole year is a total blur and I can’t remember anything specific until about October.

If pushed, I could probably attach a theme to parts of the year.  January onwards was mainly sitting on the sofa and watching Cbeebies with Pickle clamped to one or the other boob while Ziggler attempted to clamber on to my knee.  Sleep didn’t feature very strongly then, from what I remember.  Ziggler’s second birthday was in there somewhere, with the vague expectation that things would surely get easier once she was two.  Tee hee.

Then came spring, and early spring was hot, and we spent a lot of time visiting parks with children’s waterplay areas that were not open yet.  There was a hot and slightly cross and definitely sticky trip to the seaside with my dad which culminated with a traffic jam on the Dartford Crossing in which Pickle yelled and yelled and yelled her head off and I ended up darting out of the driver’s seat while my dad bolted round to my side to drive so I could sit in the back and breastfeed her.  Then I didn’t shut the back door properly and couldn’t open it again because of the child lock, and well-meaning passersby kept beeping and gesturing to tell me it was slightly ajar.  Blimey we were pleased to get home.

My friend Melody came to visit with her son and we bumped into somebody we knew from school at the local park.  Turns out he lives a few doors down from me and he and his partner have two girls (Daffodil and Tiny) the same age as Ziggler and Pickle.  That was one of the best things to happen all year.

I don’t remember a thing about my birthday in May but I’m sure many people endeavoured to make it lovely, and no doubt succeeded.

June had a fab Cornish holiday in it, with crabs in buckets and sandcastles and lots of clotted cream.  Ziggler still talks about Holiday House and the playground in the garden and the cows that lived next door.

The rest of the summer is a mishmash of No Playgroup, scooters and picnics in the park, potty training and the stink of piss, pooey accidents a-plenty and playing with the tent in the garden.  Also trying to stop Pickle from eating everything contained in the great outdoors and slathering everyone in sun cream every 30 seconds.

September – dunno.  Wait – Ziggler started nursery and, I suppose, I could have a look at my blog if I wanted other particulars (you should feel free).

I’ve been planning a wedding since October, and worrying about my dad who turned out to be pretty much OK for the time being in November.  Then we got married and it was Christmas, and I have had a truthfully lovely two weeks remembering that Trulove and I really do love each other – a fact sometimes too easy to forget when one of you is up to their elbows in baby shit and the other one is working hard to forge a career in one of the meanest industries around.  We haven’t bickered about who’s tiredest or pissedest off, or who is right with regard to disciplining the kids, or who has to get up early.  We’ve just been thankful for each other and our girls.

Now, quite honestly, I’m panicking about going back to the drudgery on Tuesday.  This tells me that 2012 has to be a year of action, in which I carve some space for myself as well as my lovely girls and the washing-up.

So that’s my 2011.  I can’t remember very much of it.  It seems to have gone in a heartbeat now it’s leaving, but I know it hasn’t felt like that most of the time.  My friend Marge once said that the years with tiny children go by really fast but that each day feels like a decade.  That about sums it up.

So, Happy New Year, everyone.  Bye bye, twenty eleven.  I think – I’m pretty sure – you have taught me a lot.  I’m just not quite sure exactly what.

 

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About vickola

Bad housewife.
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