well my children certainly laugh and love (well Littly number 1 does. It's a bit soon to tell with the newest addition - I don't think those gassy smiles count, regardless of how adorable they are). As for the rest, well... as with most things in life, reality bites. And as I was having a sneaky (single) glass of wine last night, thinking back to what Saturday nights used to be and what they are now, I figured there was potential for a dangerous drinking game somewhere in all of this. And it goes a little something like this:
never have I ever
yelled at either of my children in a way that is both a monumental overreaction and, frankly, completely counter productive. Oh, wait, no - need to take a big gulp of wine here. A two year old (or at least my two year old) is, on certain occasions, able to raise in me a futile, desperate and frankly all consuming anger - he can be all at once infuriating and belligerent. He ignores my instructions, laughs at my growing frustration and drives me to the very edge of sanity. This is a far cry from the serene, patient Mother-Earth visions I had all those years ago - where cross words were never spoken and I engaged calmly with a child who followed my instructions to the letter,
cried over the seemingly simplest of tasks. Like feeding (from breast feeding the smallest to encouraging the biggest to eat just a single mouthful of something I have just lovingly cooked for him) or putting a baby to bed. Again, another good drink needed here - I am definitely guilty of this. Maybe it's the sleep deprivation that comes as standard. Maybe it's the complete and utter disbelief that such seemingly simple tasks should be met with such blatant resistance. Whatever it is, I have cried A LOT in the past two years, and not just over Children in Need and those charity donation adverts.
used the TV as a childminder. Yup, I am well and truly guilty here too. Sure, my children are not in front of the TV all day everyday, but now there are two of them and MD is back at work, the only way I am going to get showered and dressed before the eldest gets so bored he starts dropping the contents of my wardrobe down the toilet or suffocating his sister is by sticking on that ever chirpy pink pig for 15 minutes, He will sit there happily, quietly, engrossed. His sister is safe. I get a moment to myself. It has its uses, and I am buggered if I'm going to feel guilty for momentarily taking advantage of the modern miracle that is Peppa.
averted my child's attention from the attractions of creative (read messy) play. I dreamed I would be one of those mothers who engaged in endless sessions of baking, painting and crafting with my children. We would while away days in a haze of creative fun. Alas, no one warns you of the havoc a two year old with a paintbrush or a whisk can create. When at 3pm on a rainy Monday afternoon, my question of "what would you like to do" is met with the words every mother dreads - "day-doh" (I've tried pretending I simply don't understand what he's trying to say - it doesn't wash), I am ashamed to say that I have found myself on more than one occasion trying to "jolly up" the alternative option of a snuggle on the sofa with a cup of milk and a story. Or if that fails, Peppa Pig.
sent up a silent prayer of thanks when Tuesday comes and it's time for nursery. This was never in the hippy, hazy, barefoot dream of motherhood, but I have to be truthful here... sometimes after four days at home together, one too many tantrums (his and mine) and a million too many episodes of Peppa Pig, Tuesday's gift of nursery is welcome relief - for all of us. He gets to see his friends and make a mess without some crazy lady following him around with a handheld Dyson. And I get to spend the afternoon digging the Play-Doh out of the carpet.