I filed my last big feature last week, as though I were falling over the finish line of a particularly gruelling, rain- lashed marathon. The hospital bag was packed, the baby clothes washed, the baby gym erected, the collapsible buggy finally demystified.
All that was left to do was to put the feet up, rest and wait for the Big Show.
Catch up on sleep and enjoy every second, because things are about to get wild. Savour each cup of tea to the last drop because you’re not likely to drink a full hot drink for years, is the general gist of others’ advice.
If only it were that easy.
I had visions of myself in the days before childbirth, guzzling Netflix until my eyeballs begged for clemency. I’d read luxuriantly, catch up on the BBC Four music documentaries (recorded months ago with the best of intentions), and use the dozen or so bath gift sets that all pregnant women accrue in their third trimester.
The other plan was to sit alone with myself and my thoughts for a few days. I used to be great at all of these things. I’ve long been a Cruiserweight champion when it comes to wasting huge chunks of time on vegetating without intent.
But last week, I experienced what I can only describe as a professional FOMO. I’m not used to not working when the rest of the world is going full pelt.
Every day felt a month long. The only other times in my life where I have sat in front of daytime TV during the week have not been easy ones: bereavement, depression, illness. I tried thwarting this with…
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