...I don't know. I don't know what I want for Christmas. I've been casually ignoring everyone who's asked me for months now and with one week to go I still can't come up with anything.
All I can think is that we need some more wooden spoons because Rory used ours to poke about down a drain. We need a potato masher too, and our tin opener has seen better days.
But a tin opener, a wooden spoon and a potato masher does not make an acceptable Christmas gift, especially from one's husband. So I try to dig a bit deeper - what do I really really want?
Oh God, I don't know, but it's ages since we had a new toilet brush.
See what I mean?
Has anybody else become similarly afflicted since having a child? I don't understand how it's happened but over the last 3 years (because it started the Christmas that I was 15 weeks pregnant) I have paid less and less attention to my own needs and desires and more and more to those of my son, my husband and the running of the household. I suppose that's somewhat normal, right? Please let it be normal.
Partly it's because I don't have any money. Yes, I write and yes, I get paid for it, but I barely get any time to work due to looking after a small person 24/7, so it goes without saying that I can't earn very much, and I'd rather spend what I do earn on making sure that Rory has enough pairs of trousers to keep me from having to do laundry every waking second of my life than anything for me. I was never very materialistic anyway, and I have always been a low maintenance woman (I've always been far to manically busy to sit in a beauty salon getting my nails done). I've just become even more so. I have some standards (clean hair, relatively clean clothes, 2 minute make-up job if I'm planning on going anywhere further than the local shop), but any days of striding along in high heels are long gone and these days I pluck my eyebrows (on the rare occasion that I remember) with a toddler in full war cry hanging off of my leg.
It's started me worrying. How do you know if you've lost yourself? How do you know what defines you and do you notice when it's gone? I like to think that things don't define a person and that I'm still here exactly as I was; laughing, cocking up on an epic scale several times a week, talking about music with my husband, reading when I get the time, writing, writing, writing, ankle deep in Gordons. It's just that I only own one pair of slightly holey jeans and all my shoes need re-heeling. And re-soling. And generally to be thrown in the bin and incinerated.
Maybe I need a 'thing'. Women are supposed to have a 'thing' (generally clothes or shoes or cosmetics or something). I don't have a 'thing'. I live in trainers because I need to sprint at the speed of light up the crisp aisle in Waitrose on a regular basis to stop my son from creating a storm of fried potato confetti. I don't know or care what's in fashion and never really have done, and I've made the unhappy discovery that £1.99 moisturiser from Aldi really does the business. I think my 'thing' used to be nice underwear, but have you tried joining in with Heads Shoulders Knees & Toes at Rhyme Time with the buttons on your suspender belt pinging off in all directions? It's not to be recommended.
I don't know. Maybe I should feel the fear and wear the Agent Provocateur under my slummy mummy uniform anyway. Maybe that's what I need for Christmas. That and a rotary egg whisk.