My Goldfish Theory of Time Management

We all have the same number of hours in a day. The same number of minutes, the same number of seconds. So why is it that some people manage to do so much with those hours and others very little?

"I don't have enough time." "I'm too busy." I have said these things so many times. As a stay a home mum I always feel that I never have enough time. I don't have a very tidy house (and if I'm honest, it's not very clean either), I don't iron anything yet somehow I always feel that I am rushed off my feet and never have enough time to do anything.

My dad once asked me "but what do you DO all day?" I was so affronted by this. I felt he was insinuating that I spent all day watching Jeremy Kyle, while feeding my kids turkey twizzlers in their pyjamas. As anyone who has stayed at home looking after kids for very long knows, it's a busy job. Shitty nappies, trying not to get buried under a deluge of toys and mess, more shitty nappies, dealing with rowing children, dealing with accident prone children, trying to keep them fed and watered and semi clean, trying to keep yourself fed and watered and semi clean, not to mention doctors appointments, sickness and keeping up to date with their social calendar... it's pretty much non stop. There's a reason why you have to pay someone a full time wage to look after your kids full time. It would have been more apt to ask me that question after graduating university, when I spent endless months, literally, doing nothing. What did I do all day then? I've got no idea. Watching a lot of Jeremy Kyle probably.

So how come, when I have spent years using the "too busy" excuse for not writing, I have found an hour or two a day, to do it? Maybe some of my other jobs are suffering. The house gets more messy but I usually find time to tidy it up at the end of the day, and if I don't it's not a problem. And I no longer spend two hours a day cooking a meal for children who then refuse to eat it and demand pizza and chicken nuggets, at least 3 times a week they get their pizza and chicken nuggets, saving me 6 hours a week of futile cooking.

I've got a friend who wakes at ridiculous o'clock in the morning, gets herself and her little boy ready for the day (by herself) then works a full time (very stressful) job, picks up her son from nursery, spends at least an hour of quality time with him (I'm with my kids all day and I am embarrassed to say they probably don't get that much quality time from me), before working all evening, sometimes until midnight, before bed and waking up at 6am to do it all again the next day. And her house is spotless. Spotless, I tell you. And she still finds time to have a laugh with her mates, read, watch telly, iron. She has the same number of hours as me, yet she does everything that I do and so much more! How on earth does she do it?

I have a theory. There is a common belief (apparently not true but it works as a metaphor here so bare with me) that goldfish only grow to the size of their tank. I think the same is true of time. If you have lots of time on your hands, maybe cleaning the bathroom might take an hour or two, if you have very little, frankly you can do it in less than fifteen minutes. My bathroom may not be as spotless now that I spend only fifteen minutes on it, but you wouldn't notice the difference, and having a tidy bathroom really isn't that important to me.

I love organisation and time management. You give me a way to find an extra hour in the day and I'll try it. But it's like stroking a cat the wrong way for me because it's does not come naturally. My messy house, and childhood messy bedroom, is an outward manifestation of a messy brain. But being organised gives me more time. If I don't do a weekly meal plan for instance, I end up in the supermarket every day buying all kinds of things we don't need, and if I don't get my work out in before taking my son to preschool, I won't fit it in later in the day.

The man works 6 days a week, and long hours at that. Yet in the last 2 weeks he has found time to build me 5 raised beds for my veggies, taken down and re-sited our garden shed, build 5 concrete steps and gravel our driveway. I've hardly seen him, but this is all stuff he has wanted to do, not just to save us money (which I am eternally grateful for of course, thanks babe) but also because he enjoys doing it. We make time for the things that are important to us, and if we don’t make the time, maybe it wasn’t that important to us in the first place.

We all have the same number of hours in a day. I am busy. I don’t have enough time. But with a little organisation, and focussing on what's important to me, I'm finding some space in my tank I didn't know I had.

All Grown Up?

What does being a grown up actually mean and how do you know you’ve arrived? Does it happen when you have your first child, get married, get a house? Well two out of three for me, and I still don’t think I'm there yet.

There is this kind of no mans land between adolescence and grownup-dom where you can get away with stuff because you are considered too young to know any better, even though you are legally an adult who can drink as much as you like without having to surreptitiously ask some questionable bloke to buy it, get into clubs without having to look a certain way in the queue (knowing you won’t have to use that dodgy fake ID made with the college laminator is a relief beyond measure) and has the power to vote. All with varying degrees of importance (voting is obviously at the top of MY list). But even being able to do these things does not qualify you as a grown up, for that you have to actually be, grown up. 

I still feel a bit wrong sitting at the grown ups table at family gatherings and parties. Why aren’t I sitting over there with the kids eating chicken nuggets, and hang on a minute, where’s MY goody bag?

I really don’t think I’m qualified to be a grown up yet. I still have absolutely zero ability to drink responsibly, and often insist on staying up half the night, although now without the luxury of sleeping as late as I want in the morning, and frankly I no longer look fresh faced and camera ready after a bottle of wine and 2 hours sleep. I keep looking in the mirror and thinking “Oh look it’s my mum. Oh fuck, no that’s ME!”

I confess to freaking out after filling out my eldest sons infant school application recently. I had one of my fake grown up moments, look at me, being the responsible parent, getting this in early. What, that’s it? Don’t I need to get my mum to sign this or something? It took all my willpower not to actually ring my mum and get her to check it for me.

I do have moments of maturity. There are some things that make me feel fully initiated into grown up land, like driving someone else's car (knowing I’m covered by my own, fully comprehensive with full no claims discount, insurance), writing cheques, being called madam and staying up past 11 o’clock on a school night. I love that, I feel like a 5 year old wearing make up for the first time (look at my sparkly toenails, aren’t they sophisticated?) But there are other situations in which I just want to scream "Don't blame me, I’m only young, I don't know anything!" But I am worried I am fast approaching the age where I just have to stand up and be a man. Or a woman. OK ha ha, can’t make my mind up, very mature.

You always hear elderly people saying “Ooh, I still feel 21 inside!” and I never really knew what they were on about. But I now realise this is not a symptom of senility (I hope not anyway) but a simple fact of life. Maybe none of us ever get past feeling 21. 

I think there should be a recognised level between legal adult age and fully fledged grown up. A kind of P-plate of the adult world if you will. Where we have all the rights and responsibilities of an adult but we’re still allowed to fuck up occasionally and get away with it. Then we should be tested on our knowledge of gardening, clock up a certain number of hours watching Midsommer Murder and show evidence of more than 20 percent grey hair coverage before we’re launched back into the world as a real grown up.

They say that 30 is the new 20 and 40 is the new 30, so technically that means I’m still in my early 20’s and therefore understandably immature and can be excused for irresponsible behaviour. And I have a full ten years at least before I have to start liking Midsommer Murder.