As I was heading to bed last night, it suddenly struck me that tomorrow would be the last day in which I’d have any time to myself, until July. It was a horrifying realisation. It would be the last day that I had no work, no toddler and no Uni until the middle of Winter. I adore my baby, my job is great and I love studying, but I really cherish my ‘just me’ time. And I don’t get it often enough. So here I was, heading to bed, planning all the things I would do, for me, in that last precious 8am to 3pm slot I had coming up. Of course I had to tick off the Exercise, Rest, Create activities, my life savers that keep me well. A gym visit, some writing and the last episode of Broadchurch on I-view. Then there was the important process of maintaining relationships, so lunch with a friend I’ve been meaning to see since before Christmas. Retail therapy, something new to wear for the first day back at work. House work, some cleaning and food prep to make next week flow a bit smoother. School work, prepping for the start of the new academic year. The day seemed to be busting at the seams already. But I could make it work. I had to. It was my last chance to do all of this. The list was complete, I said a quick prayer for some sleep (the usual fruitless plea – “please let her sleep through”) and I lay down.
Just one more job, then I'll stop 
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