Time Flies When Your Baby is Having Fun | How Much Did I Spend Last Week? April 10-16, 2023
Isn't that how the old saying goes?
Maybe my money diaries need to be retitled. “Things I learned this week”, part i, ii, iii and so on. There’s always something, and it’s not always related to finances.
This week, I learned that there is no period of time that goes faster than the period of time your baby is at the childminder. Not the last week of your two-week holiday; not the first six months of your baby’s life; not the time it takes you to go from starving to stuffed in a booth at Olive Garden.
The three hours during which Atlas is being watched by someone else, on a Monday and Wednesday morning – decided upon in a moment of sheer desperation when I realised that nobody can be expected to do two full-time jobs, simultaneously – might as well be the length of an episode of Bluey.
Suffice it to say, my productivity levels have not taken the giant leap I thought – nay, hoped – they would. But I’m trying.
Monday
It’s Atlas’ first day in childcare, at a house a five-minute walk from ours, where the lovely Miss Robin looks after a handful of little kids who are too young to be at school.
Atlas is still in his “sleep til 9.30am” phase – what?! Why?! I mean, I shouldn’t even question it – so I wake him up today at 8.30am with the thoughts that I’ll get him some breakfast before I dispatch him off. He’s having none of it, though, and just wants to nurse, so we sit and I nurse him and tell him all about how much fun he’s going to have before we head off.
I pack a bag – nappies, a change of clothes, some snacks, his water bottle – and decide that we could probably walk to Miss Robin’s. (Have I ever met a toddler before, you could ask yourself.) We get to the end of the driveway and Atlas makes a break for it, running at top speed – quicker than you’d think, honestly – back to the house.
I try again. “We’re going this way!” I tell him, cheerily, grabbing his pudgy little hand and directing him towards the path.
Readers: I carried him.
(A related aside: I lived in Crumlin for a while, in my mid-twenties, and there was an elderly woman who used to walk around Crumlin village with an empty buggy. The sight of it – and her – used to make me so sad, even though I strongly suspect she just used it to carry her messages. I genuinely think it was that women who put me off bringing him in the buggy, specifically because I didn’t want anyone to see me pushing the empty buggy home.)
Anyway, I chat with Robin for a while about Atlas, she fills me in on their routine and I tell her I’ll be back by 12.30pm to pick him up – then I sneak off while he’s distracted with toys and hope that he doesn’t lose his mind when he realises I’m gone. I even text her, telling her to let me know if he freaks out and is inconsolable. She assures me that “he hasn’t even noticed you’re gone”. That’s cool. That’s fine. Great, even! I’m delighted.
When I get home I feel distinctly weird being in the house without him. I’ve got so used to chatting to him as I go about my day that I keep having a minor panic that I’ve left him upstairs, or that he’s stuck down the side of the couch or something, before remembering he’s not there.
Anyway, I needn’t worry about missing him because the time – in which I make myself French toast for breakfast and write my money diary – flies by and I don’t get the other 10 things I’d hoped to do, done.
I walk back to get him – with the buggy this time – and am most gratified when I walk in and he bursts into tears. He immediately begins straining to get out of his high chair where he’s eating lunch (five toddlers sitting around a kitchen island eating their lunch is an incredibly adorable scene, by the way). See?! He does love me!
He’s obviously exhausted from his morning of socialising because he practically falls asleep having his nappy changed (usually a high-stress moment), after which I go back into the office to work through the list of things I didn’t get done this morning.
Brandin and the boys get home at around 5pm and we all play outside for a while before coming in for dinner – we order Pizza Hut, which Brandin goes to pick up (he pays).
Atlas eats loads of pizza and then pukes on me at bedtime, which, I have to say, has put me off Pizza Hut entirely. Why am I always the one who gets puked on?! (This is the third time, to Brandin’s ZERO TIMES!)
I take a soothing bath and go to bed early. Getting puked on really puts a dampener on your evening.
Daily total: $0
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to Anchor Baby to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.