Before motherhood I would talk to myself frequently. I've been caught out by my husband on several occasions. He'd come back from nipping out to the newsagents while I waited in the car and catch me at it. Apparently he could see my lips moving as he approached the car. 20:20 vision as he likes to remind his four-eyed wife. He also seems to have some sort of supersonic hearing. He's actually shouted to me to stop talking to myself in the bathroom upstairs, while he was in the kitchen of our then house downstairs. I was taking precautions too, by whispering. However, whenever I shouted down to him for something from upstairs he would be strangely deaf as a bloody post.
Anyway, I digress. Just as I was beginning to blend in what with everyone else using hands free sets, I went and had kids. Now I have no chance of a peaceful natter with myself because the instant I open my mouth one of the kids intervenes with a "what are you saying mama?" "Nothing," I reply, "I'm just talking to myself." "But what are you saying?" "None of your bloody beeswax," I retort. "Can't I just talk to myself in peace?" "No, we want to know what you're saying." And so I have to explain what I've been saying and why, which takes all the damn fun out of it.
Well, got to dash. I have to rescue the kids from a giant who has just gone upstairs carrying a torch and shouting Fee, Fi, Fo, Fum while the kids play hide and seek.
By Mummy Dearest
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