Usually people write to their 16 year olds selves but honestly I don’t think I have anything to say to my 16 year old self that I would like.
My 16 year old self would think I was boring, old and uncool.
I don’t mind she’s a dick who spends the next 5 years only being able to see out of one eye because she keeps losing her contact lenses.
At 16 I’d rather not know that Morrissey turns out to be an idiot, I’d have to wait 26 years to see Kate Bush live and I dumped both a comedian and a magician before deciding to settle down and have children with a man who works in IT.
The only good news I have for me at 16 is that I did eventually get massive breasts.
(Obvs. I’ll leave out the fun bits about them being lumpy, erupting in milky explosions at inopportune moments before eventually disappearing.)
Instead of boring my 16 year old self to death I decided to write to a version of me who would be interested in what I have to say.
Me 5 years ago.
Me before children.
Mainly because I’ll be stoked to find out that I did eventually get to be a mum.
But not the mum I thought I’d be.
The mum you imagined yourself being before the reality of parenting kicked in?
You know the one.
The mum who had all her babies firsts saved in a special box.
Instead of the mum who screams every time she opens her jewellery box to find two shrivelled umbilical cords slowly disintegrating amongst the earrings.
The mum who framed the baby pictures instead of forgetting to download them off her so-called smart phone which she dropped down a toilet drunk.
Not so smart now are we Samsung?
The mum who made the footprint pottery.
Rather than the mum who has actual footprints on the walls, the television and the windows.
(I could wipe them off but I’m still trying to work out how the hell they got there.)
The mum who didn’t come home from her first post baby night hammered on red wine, throw up into the cutlery drawer then have to be forcibly banned from breastfeeding.
THAT never happened.
Yeah you know her.
The mum you thought you’d be before you realised that being a mum is waay too much hard work and actually just keeping children alive, clean, fed and dressed is enough of a job to be getting on with thank you very much.
Don’t get me wrong I don’t think I’m a bad mum.
I’m just not what I expected.
I don’t think anyone is what I expected.
They would be exhausted.
I’m not actually going to write a letter instead I’m going to email myself back in time with a link to my blog.
There’s definitely an app for that.
Thinking about it I write most of my blog with her in mind.
It’s not that I want to crush her dreams of a perfect life with perfectly dressed children eating perfectly healthy home made food.
I just want to let her know that none of that shit happens and life is still fucking brilliant.
Oh and one other thing: If you are going to throw up in the kitchen the cutlery drawer is literally the worst place to do it.
It’s right next to both the bin AND the sink you dozy cow.
I’d love to know if anyone actually became the mum they thought they were going to be?