Mama’s Hot Tea, by The Blue Bucket

Yep, this mama’s been drinking some hot, hot tea. That’s what happens when a little thing called Shared Parental Leave kicks into action. HOT tea. Giving me life. Every day. For two weeks. And then Tom went briefly back to work, and me and the microwave became besties yet again. But, while Tom had the misfortune of ‘cashing in’ his first stint of shared parental amidst the latest lockdown, he’s now embarking on weeks three and four of it. I am absolutely thrilled, not least because I can observe what exhaustion induced error may occur this time (I have promised I will not dwell on the fact he made it to Wandsworth Common in odd shoes last time) and I can once again drink my tea at the temperature God intended. But, beyond thrilled, I am mostly – and I can’t emphasise this word enough – relieved, because Ruby now crawls. And the task of keeping a crawling disaster alive in the run up to Christmas while we are housing an eight-foot Nordmann Fir that’s just waiting to topple cannot rest solely on my shoulders.

As the guardian of any newly mobile child will appreciate, the past month or so has been a new kind of exhausting. Ruby has attempted to swallow the lid to nappy rash cream, torn down cables, removed baby proofing measures with ease, and conducted microscopic inventories of the kitchen floor for anything she may be able to consume. The requirement: simply that it’s small enough to fit in her mouth.

That she’s turned into a human hoover is quite ironic when we consider she’s simultaneously morphing into the world’s fussiest food critic. Move over Grace Dent, there’s a new girl in town and she’s got a pallet like no other. She does not care for the homemade classics, gagging on the chilli con carne I lovingly slow cooked for us all and sacrificed my favourite aspect of: the actual chilli (as you can tell there’s zero resentment here). She eyes any unfamiliar food not coming directly from an Ella’s pouch with a look of deep suspicion, taking a tentative half mouthful before pursing her lips in a grimace and then sealing them shut. If we attempt to bring a spoonful more towards her she lets out the cry of the tortured, until aforementioned pouch – or vat of yoghurt – is produced in its place. At a time when we’re meant to be ditching the blender and getting her onto something texture worthy of someone with five not insubstantial teeth, she’s decided it’s silky smooth or sod off.

All that said, it’s been bloody good fun watching Ruby change. She’s engaged and expressive, and basically a bit cheeky. The kind of cheekiness where you know it’s sort of naughty but it’s too entertaining to put a stop to it, even if we could. Having Tom home has been brilliant. All those moments I’d usually be laughing (or sighing) on my own, he’s been around to share.

Even before we had Ruby, I thought two weeks statutory paternity leave was an absolute joke: here’s 14 days to meet your offspring (their arrival, in itself, may eat into several of those), bond with the baby, support your wife, introduce your nearest and dearest to the new member of the family and try to hold on to your sanity. Now forget about eating, sleeping, processing what’s just happened or doing anything else that may look like selfcare, and get back to work – with the world having shifted on its axis right beneath your feet.

Shared parental leave is a step in the right direction: it means Tom can have important time with Ruby. She loves him being at home, and he can see what a legend I am for taking sole care of her most of the week (sorry not sorry: this really is how I sometimes feel). But it’s a shame that – for those who do go back to their pre baby jobs – this additional leave comes at the cost of reduced maternity leave. Significantly longer statutory paternity leave would be a real improvement, and, as a society, we remain positively archaic without it.

And without a dynamic parenting duo at home (I refer to us in this instance, for your guide), how else do you come up with cool new band names like The Blue Bucket (the toy of the moment), and the title of their inaugural smash hit single: Mama’s Hot Tea?

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P.S. Thank you to the Londoners who’ve completed the concept testing survey I’ve been shamelessly spamming you all with (terribly sorry about that!) Asking the questions about an idea is as close as my almost unemployed arse has got to kicking into action, and all I’ve got in terms of a ‘what next for work’ update. While digesting the feedback from over 150 of you, the next couple of weeks will mostly be about savouring this festive season – ready to crack on in 2021 (whatever cracking on looks like…!)  

Wishing you a truly tremendous Christmas break! Balls to the presents; just enjoy being present. Peace out, and catch you on the flip side x