I've gone back to work. A day a week mind, I'm no Alan Sugar. But still.
I don't know why I'd got myself in such a flap about it. But at 3am the night before I woke bolt upright. Everyone else was fast asleep so it wasn't a murmur from Nancy that had woken me.
It was the doom.
The middle of the night frets that you can't shake or do anything about.
Worrying about money, or lack of it is always a good starting point for insomnia. Followed closely by health of family, (specifically Nancy.) Electrical or gas appliances which might not have been turned off before bed.
And finally, and most overwhelmingly this time, am I going to be any good at my job having taken 9 months out?
By 5am, I was completely doing my own head in.
I'd done the washing up from tea. Looked at everyone's Jubilee party pictures on Facebook. Skimmed through a self righteous article in a magazine I'd only bought for the free mascara. And at the moment I thought I might be able to attempt sleep again, Nancy woke up.
So. With a grand total of 4 hours sleep under my belt, I put on a dress I didn't have to get my boobs out in, chose a pair of earrings that were thick with dust, it had been such a long time since I'd worn them, and swapped my Converse for a pair of heels.
And I felt like a fraud. Someone pretending to have a career. Or know anything about anything that didn't involve sniffing someone's bum or knowing how ripe an avocado should be to cut into strips.
But the worst was to come as I went to say goodbye to Nancy. Now I know realistically it's only a day. We've also done this before. but somehow this felt different. I'm going to work. All be it very part time at the mo. But that's not the point. It's taking the next step.
So I squeezed Nancy too hard, and breathed her milky, weetabixy smell in with the intensity of a glue sniffer. Then handed her back to Ben, whose looking after her for the first few days of work whilst we adjust.
I hopped on the bus, sitting at the front of the top deck. Just because I could.
Now. I'd forgotten how knackering it is to think. I mean long term thinking, which is a completely different muscle from working in a reactionary way. Using you peripheral vision to check someone's not putting their tiny fingers in a hinge of a door. Or eating a rogue pea that's fallen off a plate and under the table a few days previously. The most long term things get is checking you have emergency rice cakes with you incase the bus from town's late.
But to think about how something you're doing today will have an impact on a project in several months time is like reprogramming your brain. It's almost like breathing out. Taking stock. And it's really refreshing.
That. And being able to nip out. Buy Father's Day cards, a posh sandwich and a pair of wellies for Ben's birthday in less than 15 minutes as its possible to speed walk, cross roads when the man's on red and go into shops with steps when you don't have a pram, made the day feel like a double win.
I just had a job getting over that niggly feeling that I'd left something important at home. I realised after I'd checked my bag twice for mobile, purse and my new diary, that I was, of course, looking for Nancy.
And I think it will take a few days away from her to stop rocking when standing up. It's fine to do it when you're holding a baby. But makes you look a bit mental when you're just queuing in Millets.
As I walked into the flat, Nancy's head popped round the kitchen door as she crawled to meet me. Giving me a massive toothy grin and unfurling her neck to reveal what she'd eaten for breakfast, lunch and tea.
And I thought, this wasn't the end of the world. I just need to man up. She's happy. If not a tad grubby.
And I'm a working mum.