Parenthood: Expectations Versus Reality

I absolutely love this meme that’s done the rounds on the internet over recent months, largely because the bottom image is so hilariously accurate for my reality of parenthood.  While I was pregnant, I spent a lot of time daydreaming about what it would be like once they were here.  Nearly three years on, I now realise some of my expectations were slightly optimistic. In no particular order, here are the five areas that I got it the most wrong. 

NB: If you’re pregnant for the first time and daydreaming about how lovely it’s going to be, then keep doing just that.  It is lovely.  It’s just also quite a lot more shouty (me) and shit filled (them – thankfully) than I’d anticipated.

1.  Dressing them.

Expectation: I’d buy them super cute outfits (not matching – not a fan of the matchy matchy twin thing on the whole.  Unless it’s a Christmas jumper, in which case I will be forcing them into matching Christmas jumpers every Christmas day, until they are 18.  At least.) and everyone would coo over how cute they look, and I would sit there and beam, quietly but proudly.

The Reality: 9 times out of 10, my children look like they’ve been left in the wilderness for several days, fighting wild animals to survive.  They are not clean and tidy children.   I don’t understand how it happens, but I dress them and they look quite presentable. Five minutes later, Zachary will have pissed himself (or shat himself if I’m honest), Daisy will have added her own twist to the outfit, that makes her look absolutely barking - her favourite at the moment is to pull her socks up over her leggings - and they’ll both be smeared in something: jam, mud, deodorant, Sudacrem…whatever happens to be closest to them.  I’ve given up on nice outfits, unless it’s a special occasion*.

2.  Going out with them.

Expectation: I’d take my well behaved children out to lots of exciting and educational places and they’d play with each other while I chatted with my friends.

The Reality: Oh sweet Jesus.  I don’t mean the getting them out of the house – I’ve already blogged about how hideous that is.  I mean once we’re out.  If I’m alone with them, then my stress levels are HIGH.  I physically cannot keep tabs on both of them.  This means one of two things: either the one I haven’t got eyes on is in some way attempting to physically harm another child (in playground etiquette, this is Not Good), or they are about to do something that will likely harm themselves. Either scenario is not the dream.  Nor is getting judgey stares from judgey parents who don’t realise that I’m trying to keep tabs on two.  Fuck off judgey parents, nobody needs you and your judgey eyes. Parenting is a team sport – we should have each other’s backs.  

If I’m meeting someone, it’s sort of easier.  Sort of, because although there is another pair of hands, I’d quite like it if I could talk to that other pair of hands.  This is what that conversation usually goes like:

Me: How’s work?

Friend: Yeah good-

Daisy: Mummy mummy mummy watch watch mummy mummy I am climbing mummy I am climbing high watch mummy watch.

 Me: I’m watching! What a clever girl! [To my friend] Go on.

Friend: So, work-

Me: ZACHARY! STOP! THAT IS INCREDIBLY DANGEROUS. GET DOWN FROM THERE NOW.  MUMMY IS COUNTING TO FIVE. 1…2…Good boy.  [To my friend]. Sorry, go on.

Friend: So-

Daisy: Mummy look mummy I am walking I am walking very fast that’s a good idea isn’t it mummy isn’t it let’s walk together mummy let’s walk fast together mummy mummy let’s that’s a good idea isn’t it mummy.    

You get the picture.

 

Oh, and mostly we just go to the park.  Turns out educational places like museums often expect quiet and stillness and obedience.  We don’t do those things. 

3.  Tea time.

Expectation: We’d sit down to eat together.  There’d be some mess, but ultimately we’d all enjoy it, eating up the nutritious meals that mummy had cooked and chatting nicely to each other.

The Reality: If we get through tea time without someone going on the naughty step, it’s a fucking miracle.  Food is thrown, drinks are spilt, people refuse to sit on chairs, people stand on chairs, people shout, people call each other bumheads, people** throw cutlery.  Do you know what people don’t do? Eat their fucking dinner.  They eat my dinner.  Or, if they don’t eat it, they jab their hands into it.  Hands which, only five minutes earlier, were down their pants.    

4.  Story time

Expectation: We’d all snuggle up together and I’d read to them while they gently fell asleep.

The Reality: They fight.  They fight over which books we’re going to read, they fight over who gets to lift the sodding flaps, or touch the textured bit or count the sodding lettuces in Mr McGregor’s garden.  They fight over who gets to sit on my knee first, which bed we sit on, which order we read the books in.  Daisy doesn’t stop talking the whole time I’m reading and Zachary doesn’t stop bellowing ‘DAISY NO! BE QUIET!’ and no-one can hear a bloody word I’m saying because EVERYONE IS SHOUTING. 

I’m an English teacher.  I know the benefits of reading to small children.  I’m not quite sure those benefits are there, if it’s 98% shouting and fighting, and only 2% listening nicely to the story.  

5. Love

Expectation: I’d love them lots. Obviously.

The Reality:  Oh I was so far way.  So, so far way.  ‘Lots’ does not come close.  Before I had them, I didn’t realise it was possible to love this much.  There is no word, I don’t think, that could quantify how much I love them.  And that’s a really nice one to have got wrong.

*Even then, there’s a really, really high possibility that one of them will vomit all over themselves because special occasions are Very Exciting and being Very Excited when you’re two often ends in vomit.

**Just to be clear, I am not one of those people.  My children are.