Cracking open a bottle of red at the end of the day was my reminder that I was an adult. My reward after the demands of another rinse-and-repeat day. Early starts, long days, keeping myself and 2 small humans safe and cared for. That bottle of red symbolised something that was all mine, my special treat that was off-limits to the kids.
After trying to cram as much as I could into what limited time I had in the office, I would bolt out of there to collect the kids, bracing myself for the whirlwind hours that would ensue before their heads hit the pillow again.
Whilst I listened to my eldest tell me the excitable details of his day, I would crack open a bottle of red. As soon as that first sip hit my lips it helped me wind down, I told myself it made me a “better Mum”. Relaxed and happy to get going on their dinner, whilst hearing the nitty-gritty details on who had what at show and tell and praising finger-painting number 1345.
Glass number two followed me to the bathroom, always within arm’s reach. It was my go-to between popping the bath toys back in the bath – after being pegged out on repeat. I would brace myself for the hair washing, carefully avoiding small eyes and meltdowns (myself included) at all costs.
Without conscious thought glass number three was woven into the bedtime stories.
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