Well, up until yesterday that statement would have read "Yes, I am 24..." generally following some lovely person asking: "So, how old are you?" My response always seems to practically knock people to the floor, and more often then not the reply is a shocked "Really?! I thought you were about 28". Yes, yes. Thanks for that.
So, I am an old looking 25 it would appear. Perhaps it is the hagged, weary facial expression, the hair that probably isn't brushed quite often enough or the sheer exhaustion that exhumes from my every pore. Or maybe it's the two little boys I generally have tottering along beside (aka being dragged along behind) me.
I am, what the media love to call, a 'young mum'. In fact, I only just missed out on the prestigious 'teenage mum' title by 5 months. Please note how none of this blog recognises that fact: not my name, nor the title. It is, wholly, irrelevant to me. Alas, to some people it is not but, to be frank, I couldn't give two hoots. No, I don't have a 'career', yes, I will have three children at the age of 25. And YES, they do all have the same father. He is called my husband. Marvellous. Glad we've got that sorted.
Of course, no one actually asks that question but you can always tell when people are thinking it. And as, to be totally honest, someone who is a little too judgemental, I may well have thought the same thing. It doesn't stop it bothering me though, or making me even more determined to prove myself to be a good mother, and to make my life as successful as possible. Not that I'm bothered by what other people think.
Much.
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