I’ve had almost two months away from the blog now. A few of you have nervously tweeted me to see if I’m still alive and I dread to think how many PRs have emailed to give me a bollocking for missing deadlines.

It would be much easier returning now if I had a decent reason for stepping away. Another pregnancy, a nasty accident, a relationship breakdown, an impromptu charity mission… any of these would be suitably sexy excuses for neglecting my blog, my one source of income and the relationships I’ve built through it.

The truth is however, I haven’t been up to much at all. Christmas passed in a wine-induced haze, my birthday came and went, and before I knew it, the days had slipped into weeks. There have been no dramas, no tears and no real celebrations either. At the magical age of 33, a few Facebook messages are about all I can stand on my birthday, and Christmas is simply an excuse to get plastered before midday so the squabbling over toys, dry turkey and shit festive television becomes a little more bearable.

It was nice. Nice to know the only responsibility I had was to my children. I spent time reading to them, playing peg puzzles and watching Disney movies in the day with the blinds drawn. I managed to cook a few meals for Craig and I, and had a neat little routine going with the dishwasher - that’s to say, I actually emptied it in the morning rather than pretended to have forgotten it when Craig came home from work. I swung the vacuum cleaner around every few days, and the house saw a few spritzes of Mr Sheen to boot.

Life began to make sense again, and things behind the front door steadily began to look like I imagine every other family home to look like. For the school-run my make-up was on point and my hair was straightened. I remembered His Lordship’s P.E Kit and book bag on the right day, and even met up with the other school mums for cheeky glasses of wine at lunchtime.

All this was possible because I stopped writing. I stopped waking in the night to scribble down ideas. I stopped answering the 300+ emails that landed in my inbox. I stopped babysitting the children, and actually parented them. I stopped blogging.

Sounds like a good thing, right? Dare-I-say-it - a sensible decision.

Yet normal just doesn’t work for this family. I can’t be that mum that sits at the kitchen table overseeing her children stamp cookie cutters into playdough. I hate Disney with a passion. I don’t get any sense of joy from making bento lunchboxes and I positively hate asking Craig to sub me £10 to take the kids to a softplay centre.

I don’t think the kids like it either to be honest. I pick up a 12″ Hulk figure and have him smash Nightclub Barbie, and Dexter quietly rolls his eyes, plucks them from both me and smooths down Barbie’s tutu. I swathe Heidi in blankets and arrange her on my lap in time for Twirlywoos, and she none-too-politely wriggles to the other side of the sofa.

That’s not to say I’m unappreciated. They come to me to arbitrate when one has stolen a toy from the other, or when they trip over one of the many toys strewn across the lounge floor - but this isn’t new, they did this when I sat at the dining room in front of my laptop too. They plant the same number of random kisses on my cheeks throughout the day, and they still grin back at me when I grin at them. In short, they prefer that I’m seen and not heard.

So if I’m not really adding anything to their lives by giving up the blog, and I’m driving them and myself nuts trying to ingratiate myself to them, why do it? Similarly, if Craig doesn’t give too much of a shit if the dishwasher is empty or not, why quit the blog to do it?

I think I was designed to be busy, born to be stressed, and maybe even destined to blog. I’ve kept a notebook since age 6, wrote plays & stories from age 10, and have worked in social media since the conception of Twitter. Blogging is as much part of me as being a mum. I’ve kept this blog since the moment I found out I was pregnant with Dexter, and Craig only knew me a month before I started writing it. He’s well used to my tantrums when the internet cuts out, or the tears at 1am because I’m still typing & I’ve missed a Big Brother Live Eviction. It’s been a part of our lives, like a third child, from the off.

So, I’m guessing that means I’m back in the game. I won’t pretend it’s good to be back, but it does somehow feel right.