Pre-mumhood I didn’t care about the insides of cupboards. Tidying up was all about stuffing everything into cupboards, not tidying up the contents of the cupboards themselves. I mean, what was the point in that, nobody looks inside cupboards for pete’s sake! No, tidying up was when you rushed hungover-hasty around your poky bedsit and stuffed everything willy nilly into the cupboards out of sight (out of mind) ten minutes before some possible boyf material was coming over for a lunch date.

Fast forward to life post-partum and I’m obsessed with taking stuff out of cupboards and putting it back neatly. Nothing makes me happier than opening my newly sorted laundry cupboard and viewing those piles of tidy towels, folded linen and, uh, a bunched up ball of swimkit (note to self: must organise swimming kit storage for ultimate domestic happiness).

And I think back to my own mother’s obsession with emptying cupboards filled with all the stuff us kids jammed in any-old-how and rearranging it, while the house itself forever looked like it had just been burgled. Possibly because she only ever got half-way to putting the stuff back in. (Never enough hours in the day you see. But that’s another story.)

The point is, once motherhood hit you (and it does, with the subtlety of an articulated lorry) your life is not your own anymore. Any sense of control you once had over your own existence (sleeping, eating, having a normal conversation that lasts from beginning to end) is relegated to the insides of cupboards. Yes, I know, dammit, that nobody can see inside my cupboards. But at least I know what’s going on in that laundry cupboard even if the rest of my life is a total guessing game.

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