The self maintenance selection

On Tuesday I was sitting bare foot in the kitchen with a sleeping babe on my lap staring at the six of my toes that retain a patch of the red nail varnish applied three weeks before she was born (that’s 19 weeks ago folks!). I was convinced our baby would arrive early, and naively bought into the idea that looking at my painted toe nails might somehow comfort me during labour. Of course, admiring my pedi was the last thing on my mind when the time finally rolled round. But I digress. Looking at these patchy little piggies this week I was thinking about something I heard on the radio recently. That – in the spirit of not letting ourselves go in lockdown – we must continue to, at the very least, take care of our toe nails. It would be easy to blame the state of mine on the life altering arrival of Ruby. But, to be totally honest, I never really got started on nail maintenance (traces of my wedding pedicure could be identified over six months after the event), never mind continuing with it right now.

To demonstrate the point, I recently claimed – as my trainers became exceptionally tight – that pregnancy had made my feet bigger, before realising I simply needed to cut my big toenail. Clearly, I’m not one to fixate on this particular detail. Mascara, yes – I’ll apply as many lashings of it as my lashes can take. Concealer, hell yes. Blowdried hair, I’m all for it ideally. But toe nail maintenance… what a thing to have to do.

I get the point of the comment though: now is not the time to abandon the key components of self care, whatever they may be for each of us. Add being a new parent to the current corona virus context and all the extreme limitations that come with it and the odds seem to be stacked against personal maintenance – physical and psychological. You often hear that parenthood might change you, that you might not have time for you anymore, that you might lose every previously spare moment to a very sweet but highly demanding new boss. I found that to be largely true for the first couple of months, and she is – through necessity but also through choice – very much my focus. This will, I imagine, always be the case. And the enormity of that can feel overwhelming at times. But I’m realising it is possible to do some of the other stuff I care about and want to do. Motherhood for me has been a short cut to finding out what that is. And, because of the need for ruthless prioritisation, the things I never cared much about anyway simply don’t stand a chance now – soz toes and persevering with watching average telly in case it finally gets good and having an immaculate home (although, as Tom can attest, I am prone to a dramatic outburst when the house becomes a little too lived in).

So whenever I can, as infrequently as once a week, I make time to exercise, or write this, or read something, or cook decent food (gazpacho up next) and every night we watch at least one episode of the Chicago Bulls/ Michael Jordan documentary (it’s bloody good. And I’ve never followed basketball at all). Doing this stuff keeps me roughly together, gives me some sense of autonomy, even if it’s an illusion. And when I want to feel more composed I reach for my makeup bag and hairdryer. In fact – far from objecting – Ruby looks on with vague amusement, slightly perplexed, as I swish make up brushes round my face and – her personal favourite – loudly drag a tangle tease through extremely tangled hair. Baby sensory innit.

Anyway, fast forward 24 hours to Wednesday, the hottest day of the year so far. Tom had booked the day off work, my make up was on, my hair was sort of done, I was wearing all the jewellery I could reasonably justify for a trip to the common and the pram was packed ready for prime picnic (it even contained beers in a cool bag called picnic IPA). I was, to sum it up, winning. And then I realised, given the scorcher of a day it was, I had no choice but to showcase my sub standard nails in Birkenstock’s (aka the ugliest shoes ever invented, according to Tom) to the unsuspecting people of Wandsworth. Nope, these toes could no longer be contained in my footwear of choice: a Veja trainer.

It’s a familiar conundrum: the weather demands a certain attire, my body is ill prepared. This has happened a thousand times before to pre baby me. Except now, I’ve decided, I’m owning my imperfect feet. My 80 per cent done appearance. My persistent failure to be fully put together. Because I figure the things we don’t pay attention to say as much about us as things we do. And, currently, these relics of red nail varnish remind me that – no matter how strange life gets – some things never change, and I am as much myself as I’ve ever been.