Cracking open a bottle of red at the end of the day was my reminder that I was an adult. My reward after the demands of another rinse-and-repeat day. Early starts, long days, keeping myself and two small humans safe and cared for. That bottle of red symbolised something that was all mine, my special treat that was off-limits to the kids.
After trying to cram as much as I could into what limited time I had in the office, I would bolt out of there to collect the kids, bracing myself for the whirlwind hours that would ensue before their heads hit the pillow again.
Whilst I listened to my eldest tell me the excitable details of his day, I would crack open a bottle of red. As soon as that first sip hit my lips it helped me wind down, I told myself it made me a 'better mum'. Relaxed and happy to get going on their dinner, whilst hearing the nitty-gritty details on who had what at show and tell and praising finger-painting number 1345.
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Glass number two followed me to the bathroom, always within arm’s reach. It was my go-to between popping the bath toys back in the bath–after being pegged out on repeat. I would brace myself for the hair washing, carefully avoiding small eyes and meltdowns (myself included) at all costs.
Without conscious thought glass number three was woven into the bedtime stories.
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