A realistic will
Not sure how much of actual worth I'll have to leave behind when I depart this life, but there are some things I just know I'll be passing on.
Dear Buddy
Rather than doing practical things like reading baby books and getting the nursery ready, I've been writing notes to my bump since I found out I was pregnant. Way more fun.
The cycle of faffing
Woke up with the best intentions this morning, as I always do. I was gonna do some exercise, clean the whole house, make a million pounds, and stumble upon a cure for cancer, all before 8am. But then before I knew it it was 11am and I was boiling the kettle for the umpteenth time and I'd achieved nothing.
It's fine though, because once I've made one more cup of tea I'll be totally ready to crack on and conquer the world. After one final scroll through Instagram.
How many more times?
The other day, as I was eating a not-so-great pizza, I got to thinking about how many more pizzas I would get to eat in my lifetime, assuming I continue to eat them at the current rate and that I live to a ripe old age. I eat about one a month, so if I live another 50 years, that's 600 pizzas. Quite a lot really.
But then I started thinking about how many times I might do other things, like go to the seaside with my mam and dad. And that number was considerably smaller.
It all sounds pretty morbid, and I guess it kind of is, but I find reminders like this incredibly useful for making sure I make the most of my time on Earth with the people I love.
Making a baby: the fantasy vs the reality
We made two! And they're both swimming merrily round my belly as I type. Coming to Earth sometime in January 2018.
Bedtime: the fantasy vs the reality
Nope. Not that kind of fantasy. There's definitely no time for that when you've got dishwashers to empty, bins to take out, and other people's photos of novelty cocktails and pool inflatables to stare at absently on Instagram. And then since I'm on my phone already, I might as well just check my bank account in case someone has mysteriously deposited a six-figure sum in there. And my emails, just in case I've finally been invited to dance on Strictly. And Rightmove, to look at some houses I can't afford. Then I might as well have a quick look on Facebook and Twitter too, since I don't quite hate myself enough yet...
Time flies when you're having fun. Not so much when you're doing the plank.
"12 million years. That's how long I've been holding this plank for. I'm totally sure of it, but according to my watch it's only actually been 43 seconds. Damn thing must be faulty."
Those were the thoughts going through my head the other day as my whole body shook and sweat dripped off my forehead onto the rug. When my minute was finally up, I went straight to the kitchen (it was 12.03pm, way past my lunchtime) to heat up last night's leftover pasta for lunch, and although the microwave swears only 3 minutes passed, I'm convinced it was more like a thousand years.
It's a funny thing, time. Doing anything remotely fun? Bam, there it goes. Waiting for an email you've been expecting? Or for your appointment at the doctor? You'd better take a seat because you are in for a loooooooooong ride.
Me with music VS me without
The other day I was sat in my studio trying to get some work done and everything just felt so hard. All I could think about was all the work I had to do, all the deadlines I had to meet, and the dust under my desk that desperately needed hoovering. Pretty soon, I found myself spiralling into an existential crisis, questioning all of my life choices, and planning on staying locked up in the house for the next 5 weeks, just to get everything done.
Then I remembered that this thing called music existed, put some on, had a dance around and slapped myself around the chops. Life doesn't need to be so hard after all.