A Day in the Life of A Working Mum

I get home from my “day job” at 2am and I’m exhausted, but also still wired from a hefty shift and a pretty long drive home. Of course, Ruben is wide awake and has been for an hour or so, so I greet a very harassed husband and cheeky baby. I need the toilet but that’s going to have to wait as Roo is pulling my dress down, wanting some milkies.

I rock on the nursing chair for a while whilst feeding my boy and sniffing his head like a woman possessed. I do love these moments. Especially having missed him all day, knowing he’s glad to see me is pretty wonderful. After unsuccessfully trying to get him to sleep for what feels like years, we decide to just bring him into bed with us. It’s a bad habit but if it means we all get sleep, then we do whatever it takes. 

Of course, Ruben is still not ready to sleep. He wants to (very loudly) tell me about his night. And poke Daddy’s sleeping face. And feed. But by feed I mean latch on for around a minute (at most!) then roughly pull off. Put his dummy in… then take it out and latch on again. This boy isn’t gentle and I currently have some pretty nasty bruises which look as though they were developed in a more interesting way than a hungry baby. Gutted. 

After a considerable amount of time of this horrific cycle, Steven wakes up to me almost in tears. It’s been a long night. Being the hero he is, he takes the milk monster downstairs so that mummy can catch a little sleep. This is 3:30am…

When I’ve been at work during the night, Steven works from home the next day, so that I can have a little lie in. He’s basically a saint of fatherhood. 

I eventually drag myself out of bed because this idiot booked a double class today. What a nob. 

I don’t have time to shower, but Steven hands me a multi-vitamin and that’s breakfast sorted. I cover my hair in dry shampoo and wish it was long enough for a cute mum-bun, rather than a ratty ponytail. I pick at some spots which have appeared (hormones? Bad diet? Not taking my makeup off at night… ever?) and then manage to do my make up in 6 minutes flat while Ruben watches some singing puppets on Youtube and I sing along.

We rush out of the door to this new class. Ruben is wearing some gorgeous, handmade-from-Insta leggings and a cute sweater from a nearly-new sale. Mummy is wearing leggings (in a size smaller than my pre-pregnancy size thank you…), that may or may not have a dollop of either poop or food on them (Ruben’s… I think) and an old jumper which isn’t exactly breastfeeding friendly, but whatever, I’ll just pull it up if he needs a feed and give the other mums a cheeky flash of my mum tum and ENORMOUS knickers. 

The new class is actually pretty great. Live musicians, real instruments for the babies, singing in another language. Soak up that culture baba! One of the teachers asks if I’m a musician because I’m picking things up so quickly. Not gonna lie, I might be a 27-year-old mother but I still love being teachers pet. I actually really enjoy myself and I’m not even ashamed. 

Feel v middle-class. There are talks about an orchestra concert for babies. Obviously we are all planning on taking our children. I’ve become one of THOSE parents. I kinda love it. 

We have two hours before the next class and mama is hungry. So we get in the car and drive to Maccies. (Look, if there were other drive-thrus locally I might mix it up a bit but there isn’t so cheesy bites and a Coke it is). I play Say Hello to the Sun on repeat in the hopes that Roo will fall asleep. It’s a success. I am a mediocre mothering God. 

I sit in the carpark and scoff some fries and try to get a bit of freelance work done on my laptop. Say Hello to the Sun still blaring of course. Ruben wakes up before I’ve even finished my drink, so we go back through the drive-thru (and of course, the woman recognises me. Judgy cow) to grab some food for Steven to thank him for being a good egg. 

Head back to the house, and hide in the car until Steven come out so he can eat his maccies while I drive him to a meeting. Am a top wife. 

Off to Baby Sensory. Need to poop. Of bloody course I do. My friends aren’t here yet so off I trot to the loo with Ruben. Try to decide what’s less gross – put Roo on the floor with other people’s poo particles, or let him sit on my lap while I go. Oh glamorous life. Ruben lovingly strokes/pulls my hair while I poo. Just how I always imagined mum life to be.

Save the best mats in sensory for my two pals. We do the opening song with so much gusto you’d think we were professionals. We wish! The babies are pretty ambivalent about their own mums, and spend the session watching other people do the songs. Cool. Whatever. Deffo doesn’t hurt my heart. 

I get a lot more excited about bubbles than Roo. He’s seen bubbles every week since he was about 5 weeks old. He thinks they’re just part of the atmosphere at this point. I am still excited by them. 

Session finished. Do I have work to do? Yes. Do I have a house to tidy? Yes. Do I sack all of my responsibilities off to sit with my mummy friends in the awful cafe upstairs and drink coffee? Yes. 

The service is always abysmal. Properly awful. They no longer do a vegan option as advertised because “I can’t be bothered with all of that”. But the company, adorable but mischievous babies and laughing until I cry makes up for it. We end our coffee when the staff are ‘subtly’ cleaning up around us and walk down the stairs singing Tribute by Tenacious D. Decide that the ‘1 and 1 makes 2 2 and 1 makes 3’ means that it’s educational so Ruben and I rock out all the way home…

Where he falls asleep again. Too scared to wake the sleeping dragon/baby, I pull up outside my house and carry on working. Mid-way through an article on the benefits of sororities in college (yep), Roo wakes up hysterical. I get him out of his seat but can’t find the house keys. I drop his dummy. I drop a toy monkey. I lose the last marble I had in my possession. All while sing-songing “It’s okay sweetpea. Mummy is here” and wrestle with the key safe on the side of our house. 

We get into the house and decide it’s snuggle and Youtube o’clock. This involved me flopping my baps out so he can feed at leisure (the dream for us all) and stick on a speed cleaning video so I can sort of feel productive. Then we cuddle on the sofa, Ruben sleeping, Mummy watching him breathe like a creep. 

My phone rings. The job I went for yesterday is calling (my current position but permanent), I only went and bloody got it! Yaaas. Quiet celebrations as baby is still asleep. And attached to my nip. Thank goodness it’s not a video call. 

Steven comes in from his office. Check the app. (Huckleberry. V useful. Predicts sleeping patterns. Would recommend). It says bedtime should be 9:10pm because Mummy is a nob and let the grumpy baby sleep later. Daddy suggests we go out for food. He is the best. 

Armed with student discount and a gift voucher, we head to pizza express. Come at me dough balls. 

Dinner with a baby is more stress than luxury. I feel other diners staring daggers as soon as we walk in. Ruben is a very vocal baby… oops! He also enjoys dropping his toys on the floor and staring into the souls of strangers. Wonderful. 

I order a glass of Prosecco to celebrate the job. Also an elderflower soft drink so I have something to guzzle while I eat. Also a jug of water because #breastfeedingproblems. 

Picking up strewn socks, Sophie the Giraffe (have you seen how giraffes fight by the way? Absolutely wild.) and of course the baby and its off home. 

Steven does bathtime while I rummage through my BlogOn Goodiebags (yep, it’s been that long!) because last time I bathed with Ruben, this happened:

Not able to resist the giggles, I go upstairs to play too and enjoy a game of peekaboo along the side of the bath. My heart is happy. The house is a mess. 

Get Ruben out of the bath and snuggle him in a towel. He pretty much wraps himself up in it now and is the cutest thing ever. I bloody love him.

Bedtime finally. Ruben knows we say “Alexa, play Ruben’s bedtime playlist” so he looks at where his Dot is in his room and shouts “Eh! Eh”.I can’t decide if this is amazing or worrying. Or both. 

Bon Iver starts because my husband is trying to raise a hipster baby. We read Fox’s Socks. It’s a tumultuous tale of lost footwear but spoiler alert, it has a happy ending. 

Pop Roo in his vest (he is crying at this point because screw clothes) and a snuggly grow bag (wish I could rock a wear-able sleeping bag) and get ready for a feed. Sit in the nursing chair for foreverrrrr feeding. Whenever I think he’s finished he latches straight back on. Try to savour the moment rather than wish I could detach my breasts. 

Finally Ruben is asleep. Steven heads off to bed because he’s basically been the king of keeping shit together in the Wright household (as always). 

I pop on a video of someone cleaning again, and try to sort out the kitchen.