Motherhood hasn’t come naturally to Daisy Leverington. Five years in and she remains wide-eyed, terrified and in awe of the little person she’s responsible for. This week, anyone suggesting #NewYearNewYou changes can shit right off.
And I’m taking you with me whether you like it or not.
I also couldn’t give a dick if it makes you feel bad about yourself. I’m planning to Instagram every last calorie of my new diet just in case anyone misses a single, inspirational morsel, and post regular snaps of me in my underwear to show how much hotter I am as a person than all the fat people are.
Ladies, I’m at my wits’ end. I really am. If I see another post telling me that January (or any month of the year) is an ideal time to change, I’m going to strip naked on the high street, roll in honey and throw quinoa over myself until someone calls social services.
The insane pressure on women BY OTHER WOMEN is twisting my melon. It’s great that people find the time and money to look after themselves; I envy your free time and commitment. I also think that if I didn’t have a kid and a full-time job plus freelance work, a house and two cars to pay for, I might indulge in some me-time too.
But I do, and I love it. I love my busy, messy, chunky, Play-Doh stained, early-bedtime lifestyle. I love the hips which brought my kid into the world. I love how she rolls onto me and nestles into my (frankly hot) boobs while we read a book together.
“The year 2017 might well be the best year ever if you measure success in level teaspoons of lentils, but for me it’s just the same old daily battle of school uniforms, of car tax and rent, of cheap makeup and messy hair.”
I love curling up with my husband and eating crap instead of going to the gym. I love being tired because I work damn hard to keep all of this happening. I love alcohol, chips from the chippy and ice-cream for pudding,
I don’t need to do circuit training or military fitness mud-crawling or measure milk into my cereal because I’m content being exactly as I am. A bold statement for a larger lady like myself, but there it is.
Five years ago, just after my daughter was born, I wasn’t me. I was a sobbing, suicidal mess, having flashbacks of her traumatic birth, too afraid to see a doctor because I thought I’d lose my daughter.
I’ve had a long and exhausting battle with my own head for these past few years and I’m finally OK with being me. I’m flawed (if social media posts are to be believed) and I don’t need to be made to feel guilty for doing things that make me feel good.
So while I’m happy that photos of a mate looking like a model make them happy, they don’t make me want to change in any way.
The year 2017 might well be the best year ever if you measure success in level teaspoons of lentils, but for me it’s just the same old daily battle of school uniforms, of car tax and rent, of cheap makeup and messy hair.
I’m finally happy and it’s taken a lot of work, more work than any gym membership.
Mental health can’t be toned and shaped on the cross-trainer, it takes patience and acceptance, which is why anyone suggesting that this year is the perfect time to change myself can shit right off.
My daughter plays my tits like bongos and jiggles my belly around in the bath. Take them away and I might actually have to talk to her. No thanks.
Read all of Daisy’s Motherhood columns here.
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Daisy Leverington - Actor, mother, expert at winging it.