On Happiness…

It’s my birthday today, and I am really really REALLY happy.

I am happy because:

This is my first birthday in two years that have not been ‘ah god, poor Ciara really needs a good day after the last few months’. It is BLISSFULLY uneventful. The boys are wrecking my head, pouring flour onto the flour, and pushing each other’s faces into it. We just got back from Lidl, where I intended on buying lots of sensible ‘dinner’ things, but instead bought two bags full of SHIT. I bought Magdalenas, because they remind me of a summer in Barcelona. I bought roasted almonds because I LOVE them, but never buy them, because they are too expensive. I bought chocolate biscuits GALORE. And have hidden most of them away, in case I get a giant attack of the munchies later.

Also, the mini heatwave has made me quite brown, which in turn, make my man arms look a little skinnier, and thus, I am able to wear a sleeveless dress without fear of a wibbly-eyed look from someone later on.

Another reason I am happy is because this weekend I slept quite a lot. Given that my bedmate (1 year old Mikey) is a fan of NOT SLEEPING, EVER, this has given me a giant boost of non vitamin B-related energy.

Mostly, I am happy because one week ago I got to go AWAY ON A HOLIDAY. To London. To visit my sister, who I ADORE. For three days, I lived the life of a twenty something year old. I drank Pimms. I saw a jazz band. I went to the Lady Ponds of Hampstead Heath. I saw one of my best friends ever for Sunday drinks in a pub that was teeming with sun-kissed people who had not a child between them. It took me a week to stop feeling like a toxic wasteland, but the inner boost it gave me will go on for at least six months. I felt ALIVE. In a way completely different to the way that I do around my kids. In a way that I forgot I could feel. And that was the best birthday present ever, really.

So, today I am HAPPY. And I am excited for the next year. I hope, now that the boys are slowly coming out of the hardcore baby stage where they want to crawl all over me, and pull my hair and expose my boobs in the supermarket (a new, and most disturbing turn of events), that I will be able to write more. Because I have really really missed it.

So, chin chin to me. I am raising my imaginary glass of Pimms to myself. And the fact that no matter what happens, I will never be famous enough to be chased by paparazzi like what looks to be my birthday twin, the new royal baby.

(KATE MIDDLETON, THE MUMS OF THE WORLD ARE SENDING YOU HUGS AND KISSES AND WILLING THOSE VILE PRESS PEOPLE TO STOP THINKING ABOUT YOUR VAJAYJAY).