A handbag. An accessory. A hold all for a woman’s secret world. Mascara, moisturiser, tampons, earphones, hairbrush, notepad, book, tweezers, nail file, plasters, earrings; a land no man dare venture.
We forget when we have kids, what that’s like – our own little world full of those small things that give us pleasure, individuality, an identity. I pretty much forgoed that ‘right’ from the time we had Noah. Two weeks after he was born, I headed back to university (my second year) loaded with a packed (ugly) bag full of breastmilk, breast pumps, changes of clothes, nappies. I had another bag too. Equally heavy, equally packed, but with English books, notepads and numerous Starbucks receipts. I drank caffeine back then. It was a simpler time when I was more awake but poorer.
Makeup was a nonentity. The only time I saw a hairbrush was first thing in the morning; if it wasn’t for the milk-filled big boobs, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have resembled a woman at all. In fact, I’m not so sure I even resembled a human being in those days.
We take it for granted, our handbag, our own space filled with our little comforts.
Around a week ago I realised that all my handbags – yes, all – are no longer in existence. Whether they were lost when we moved house, or are packed into the loft somewhere, or were eaten by a teething child, I have no idea, but I no longer have one. Or rather, had one.
(Look at those teeth – LETHAL!)
Last week, I decided to buy a bag. Nothing flashy or expensive (what’s the point?) Not bank balance damaging but attractive. In other words, nothing to cry about if it does get painted on or thrown up in. Still, it’s MINE. The excitement at having my own little bag again is a little embarrassing but ultimately WONDERFUL! It’s big enough to fit all my essentials … and nothing else.
Though, I did find a tube of teething gel in there earlier. I must stop this from happening. But how – HOW!?