Introducing The Miserable Monologue

Saturday 12th June

Baby sister woke us at 5.45am. I considered this unreasonable and was furious with her. She doesn’t cry, but growls and gurgles and babbles cheerfully. I feed her, both breasts; still not drowsy at all, she wants to chat and play. And shriek. Shut UP! I say. I don’t want her to wake Big Sister, I don’t want to look after two children when I’m this tired and this grumpy. I don’t want Big Sister to wake too early and become tired and grumpy by lunch time. The Doctor wakes without complaining and begins to play with Baby Sister. She is happy with this but still, will not play quietly. I grumble at Baby Sister and open the bathroom door and wardrobe door across the corridor to try to muffle the sound, so that Big Sister doesn’t get woken.
Today, Baby Sister and I are going to visit Chloe in St Albans. It’s going to be a little break away; nice girly chats, eat chocolate, drink wine, and discuss Chloe’s wedding plans.

But I feel so irritable, tired and close to tears. Is it hormones? I explained it to The Doctor in terms I thought that he might understand:
“ I feel like I’m going to get my period maybe.”
He smiles sympathetically. He knows that in a man’s world this means I will be unpredictably over emotional. He helps a lot with the dishes and kids. I do breakfast and wash and dress ‘em. Despite being woken early I leave half an hour later than planned after packing a million essential things needed to take Baby Sister away for twenty-four hours. Plus clean pants and a toothbrush for me.

I struggle to Kings Cross and people on the tube smile at my incredibly cute baby (probably the best baby in the world.)

At Kings Cross ticket counter I see a sign that indicates I may need to take an alternative route to St Albans. One that involves more tubes and escalators with a pushchair.
“The engineering works...?” I nervously ask the woman at the desk.
“Can I get to St. Albans from here today?” I try to stop my lip trembling. If she says no, I might burst into tears. She says yes!
“But the trains are leaving from upstairs today.”
Upstairs? What does that mean? I’ve never been upstairs in the new station. I begin to feel panicky.
What platform is that?
It’s just, I’ve got the pushchair, I explain, pleadingly. I don’t want to go the wrong way.
“There is a lift,” she assures me kindly.
I feel a nervous wreck with a continual self critical paranoid monologue going on.
“You’re the only one who feels like this,” says the monologue.
“Everybody else is coping. You are making the simple molehill of mothering into a mountain. Enjoy your children for goodness sake, they’re not young for very long.”
My monologue throws clichés at me.
“They grow up so quickly these days.” My monologue reprimands me. My monologue is very busy and very paranoid. She says,
“Do you think Chloe wants to hear this? Chloe just thinks you moan too much.”