Before I had children I used to go to the hairdressers. This was known as ‘getting a haircut’.
Now I am a parent I still go to the hairdressers but this is considered me time.
It’s essentially the same thing but now the act of hair shortening is supposed to be some sort of treat.
Well I’m sorry but going to a hair salon and staring at my own miserable face for 45 mins while I’m made to look presentable is not my idea of a treat.
As far as I’m concerned me time is a massive crock of shit. Stop trying to make basic maintenance something special. I’m having a bath not spending a week at a yoga retreat.
A recent survey claimed that new mothers have on average just 17 minutes of me time a day.
Me time is not for mums. I’m speaking from personal experience here – as a mum the last person I want to spend 17 minutes with is myself. My life is boring. I don’t need time to reflect on that.
When you are young and free all your time is me time. That’s how life works.
Everything is about you – this is because you are bright and happy and make dumb decisions in life which result in you having to climb out of a toilet window in the middle of a really bad date with a man who may or may not be joking about spending time in prison.
Things like this do not happen once you are a mum.
Once you’re a parent someone else does all the stupid things while you make sensible decisions and worry about speech development and chicken pox.
In Britain we love reality shows like The Only Way Is Essex and Made In Chelsea which feature young, single people making terrible life decisions.
The stars of these shows require me time to reflect on the many ways they have been ‘mugged off’ or ‘disrespected’. They can then use this time to arrange nights out where they can throw drinks in other people’s faces which is apparently the best way to regain respect should you ever find yourself mugged off or disrespected.
I fear for these people when they have children.
Being a parent involves being mugged off and disrespected on an hourly basis. I have tried throwing drinks in my children’s faces but it is simply a waste of Pinot noir.
So as far as I’m concerned as a mum you can stick your me time where I stick my children’s art work – in the bin.
A wonderfully bonkers American blogger read this post and whipped herself into an angry frenzy at the thought of me chucking wine in my children’s faces, in fact she was so incensed that she penned a delightful blog post calling me a bitch and diagnosing me with post natal depression.
You can read my reply here if you like, or simply get on with enjoying what’s left of your 17 minutes peace.