I Promise I’m Not On Acid Mr Postman

Our postman definitely thinks I abuse substances.

I mean, he’s probably had his doubts for a while now.

The time he arrived to find me floundering around on our driveway, partially under my parked car, is bound to have alarmed him (Kinder Egg toy drama – if you know, you know).

Then there was the terrible time I answered the door to him after I’d been breastfeeding our mewling newborn of a second daughter. Such was my sleep-deprived haze, I forgot to cover my modesty and presented at the door as a wild-haired woman with her boob out.
(Because it was our third child and people had generally tired of the novelty of me producing humans, there hadn’t even been enough cards arriving to make him realise there’d been an explanatory birth.)

Today, I answered the door wearing sunglasses with ‘Happy Birthday’ blaring from my phone.

When you spend your days entertaining a raucous toddler, you find yourself sacrificing every morsel of self-respect you’ve ever had in order to get a laugh. And today, she set the bar at me singing along to ‘Happy Birthday’ with my sunglasses on.

Admittedly, I took it too far by downloading a ridiculously cheerful American version that sounded like gerbils on acid.

But I am not on acid Mr Postman. Please believe me.
I am a sleep-deprived mum who, long long ago, washed her dignity down the proverbial plug hole in the showers of a maternity ward and now wears sunglasses indoors.

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