Parenting Scenarios From Hell

As most of you will know, I’ve spent this week implementing Operation Dry At Night.  This happened for two reasons.  One, because they told me they didn’t want to wear pull ups at night and two, because I only had one pull up left and couldn’t be arsed to schlep to the shops to buy more.  So I went with it.  It’s been a hellish piss-soaked disaster and they are now back in pull ups.  It got me thinking though of all the bloody awful scenarios we find ourselves in as parents.  Here’s my top five:

1) When they ask me to fix something and then bleat at me incessantly while I try to do it.  This is like the Crystal Maze, or some other similarly challenging and stressful game show.  Except it’s more stressful because the consequence of failing is the mother of all meltdowns from an irrational toddler, and the whole time I’m trying to fix whatever shitty plastic toy they’ve broken, they are shouting at me: “MUMMY FIX IT! MUMMMY I WANT IT! NOW MUMMY NOOOOW!” “I AM SHITTING TRYING TO FIX IT! STOP SHOUTING AT ME!” and putting their unhelpful little mitts in the way and hitting me and pushing each other and OH MY GOD HOW IS ANYONE SUPPOSED TO FIX ANYTHING UNDER THESE CONDITIONS?

2) When I have to go to the toilet with them when we’re out and about.  Oh sweet Jesus.  Here’s why this is so fucking awful:  firstly, trying to cram three people in your average toilet cubicle is nigh on impossible, especially when the only person aware of the space constraints has a massive backpack on that keeps getting wedged in the door – the door that the motherfucking three year olds are standing in the way of fully opening.  Once I’ve managed to cram the three of us into the cubicle, I then have to hold one child on the toilet whilst simultaneously stopping the other one from picking up the toilet brush, sticking their hands in the sanitary towel bin and pulling all of the toilet roll off the roll. And it’s even worse if I also need a wee.  Then I have to suffer “MUMMY ARE YOU DOING A POO? CAN I TOUCH YOUR BOTTOM MUMMY? THAT IS A BIG WEE YOU ARE DOING MUMMY.  IT IS ENORMOUS.” at the same time as wrestling the pair of them, in a bid to stop them from opening the cubicle door while I’m mid-wee.

3) When they deliberately hurt me when we’re having a cuddle.  I swear every toddler I know has their own thing.  One friend’s little boy headbutts her, another friend has a boob grabber, and for my two it’s pinching me.  They grab my jumper or trousers and with it, grab a handful of my actual skin.  They know they’re doing it, they just don’t give two shits because, to them, I am barely human.  Let’s remember my son refers to me as ‘the lady’.  He couldn’t care less if he hurts ‘the lady’s’ arm.  What’s she still doing hanging around here anyway?!

4) When they won’t stop fighting.  If you only have one child then take a moment to revel in the peace because when you have two, there is no peace.  One of the most irritating things you can say to someone with twins is “Oh at least you must get a bit of time when they play together.” Hahahahahahahahaha.  No.  They play nicely for approximately 37 ½ seconds every third Tuesday of the month.  If I’m lucky.  The rest of the time they fight: over toys (even though we have two of everything), over who sits where (SHE IS IN MY SEAT! GET OUT OF MY SEAT!” [drags his sister off the seat by her hair]), over absolutely nothing (“He is looking at me Mama.  I don’t like it.  Make him stop.” [smacks her brother in the face]) and of course, over me.  It is fucking exhausting.  Sometimes I separate them.  Other times I leave them to it and hide in the kitchen. #survivalofthefittest

5) When they break shit.  I have lost count of how much stuff my two have broken – a TV, a living room lamp, a toaster, their toy kitchen, my iPhone 6, their dolls house – the list is endless.  This afternoon we were waiting for the Tesco man to arrive, an activity which is Very Exciting when you’re three.  He arrived and Daisy, who was stood on a stool at the living room window shrieked “HE’S HERE ZACH! HE’S HERE!” Zach ran up to window, dragged Daisy off the stool, Daisy grabbed hold of the television in a bid to stay where she was (the one I bought to replace the first TV that they broke), lost her footing and fell off the stool, bringing the whole television down on top of her.  On top of her.  All I could see was her arms and legs poking out either side! Once I’d ascertained she was alright, (& said a silent thank you that it wasn’t the massive old TV that she’d pulled on top of her – pretty sure that would have killed heron impact!) I examined the TV.  The screen has come away from the casing in the corner, but other than that it still works.  For now. 

So, to sum up, if you have kids, they’ll hurt you, break all your shit, put you under unnecessary pressure when you’re trying to help them, never let you pee alone again and fight, all the fucking time.  And you’ll still love them and think they are the most amazing creatures to have ever walked the earth.  Go figure.  

I Do Love Them Loads, But Sometimes They Are Little Shits

Hot on the heels of You Are Nearly Three, And This Is What I See, comes a post about today.  Today, where they are really tired from all the fun they’ve had with the holidays and their birthday, and so am I, and they’ve been LITTLE SHITS ALL DAY LONG.  I like to keep it real, so here’s what today was like.

This morning, I decide we are staying in.  They’ve been bought a gazillion amazing presents so we can do a morning indoors (not the whole day – only a truly horrendous hangover, illness or extreme exhaustion leads to a whole day indoors because, mostly, it makes me want to kill them and/or myself). First we get out the magic sand I’ve bought them.  It is kinda cool – like play doh, but only one colour (YES!) and less sticky.  The only thing is, if you chuck it on the floor, and your floor isn’t pristine, shit sticks to it.  So I tell them not to throw it on the floor. So they throw it on the floor.  Then they get dog hair in it, and my hair in it, and stale grated cheese and old Rice Crispies and all manner of other shit, and then they weep because the magic sand isn’t magic anymore, just a bit disgusting.

We pack it away, stale grated cheese and all.  Next we get out some sponge paints.  The paint is controlled (again, YES! I am not an artsy crafty mum.  I like my white walls.  Small children with paints are not good friends to white walls) by a sponge at the top.  The thing is though, their grubby little mitts aren’t strong enough to squeeze the paint through so the whole 17 hours* that we do the painting for involves one of them bellowing at me “MUMMY DO THE PAINT! DO THE PAINT!” while I bellow back “THERE ARE TWO OF YOU AND ONLY ONE OF ME, YOU NEED TO LEARN TO WAIT!” We pack the paints up.

I decide outside fun is needed.  I boot them out into the garden to play on their new trampolines.  There’s approximately three minutes of nice bouncing before Zach climbs onto Daisy’s trampoline and bounces on her. On her.  FFS.

I decide to go out.  My mum is here (thank Christ) and I need to get some new shoes for me (the sole of my one and only pair of boots is at least 80% unattached on one side – it makes me fall over, a lot) so off we trundle to Primark.  Just getting them in the car makes me want to end it all.  The car is parked far, far away from the house. They’ve been given much coveted umbrellas for their birthday which they insist on bringing, even though it’s not raining.  They both twat each other in the face with said umbrellas 14 times and cry a lot on the walk to the car.  They also demand the umbrellas are put both up and down 47 times.  By the time we get to the car, I’m feeling proud that I haven’t beaten either of them with the umbrellas**.    

Then we have to get in the car. I’m attempting to strap Zach in while Daisy bleats at me about something.  I’m wrestling Zach into the car seat while she makes this noise at me “UUUUNNNGHGHGHGHGARRRGGGHGHGUNNGHGHHH” interspersed with bellowings of “MAMMMMAGGGHHHHHHH!” and he’s twatting me in the face with a fucking spade and I lose my shit.  “RIGHT! IF YOU DON’T STOP SHOUTING AT ME AND YOU DON’T STOP HITTING ME IN THE FACE WITH THE SPADE THEN WE WON’T GO ANYWHERE. WHAT IS THE MATTER DAISY?”

“I give you my umbrella,” she squeaks meekly.  I grab the effing jeffing umbrella, lob it in the front seat, wrestle the spade out of Zach’s vice like grip and strap him in.  I pick Daisy up, apologise for shouting while she belts me in the face, and fling her in the car, in between cars trying to run me over (twin bonus – one twin is always on the road-side of the car – fun times for mama trying to get them in). Off we happily drive to Primark.  Zach falls asleep immediately, while Daisy bleats the entire way there that she’s tired but screeches violently if I suggest she has a snooze (I would actually sell my soul to kip for 15 minutes in the car*** during the day).

We get to Primark.  It’s not pretty.  They do literally fuck all I ask them to, pull stuff off the hangers, ignore me, run away from me, shout at me and generally piss me off. I end up buying them a pair of shoes each and a pair of mock crocs each as a reward for their awful behaviour.  Excellent parenting skills. I also buy them chips from MaccyDs on the way to the car park because that is also what you get if you’ve been a little twat (and mummy’s desperate for you to be quiet for five fucking minutes).

On the way home, we have to go to the supermarket to get food.  People at my local supermarket are lawless (lawless, I tell you) and park in the parent and toddler spaces willy nilly, regardless of whether they have toddlers.  It makes me mad.  We get to the supermarket and there are no free parent and toddler spaces.  I drive round (honestly, it’s not the proximity to the shop – it’s the space either side I want.  I wish they’d put them further away from the shop, but next to a trolley park thingy so I can easily get them out of one metaphorical prison and into another!) and still nothing.  I drive round a third time (while my children shout “WE ARE AT THE SHOP MUMMY! STOP MUMMY!”) and a guy is pulling out of a space.  I pull in and out of another parking space this other guy swings his car towards me, winds his window down, calls me a c**t and gesticulates angrily at me.

Ooh, I’m angry.  I park in the space.  You want this space? Speak nicely to me then.  Do not call me a c**t.  I get out of the car and the guy moves towards me and says in a really patronising voice “Use your eyes next time, we were waiting for ages for that space.” I lose my shit again.  He’s stood there with his wife and two teenagers and has no effing right to park in the parent and toddler parking and I have been dealing with shrieky, fighty defiant toddlers all the live long day and he is not going to intimidate me.  Moreover - have I mentioned this before? -  he just called me a c**t.  How effing dare he? I bellow at him across the car park “You’ve just sworn at me in front of your kids and mine.  Disgusting.  Just disgusting!” in a voice that, unfortunately, makes me sound like a 1950s housewife.  His wife and son also shout at me, at the same time as Daisy shouts at me “WHY ARE YOU SHOUTING MUMMY? WHO IS THE MAN?”  Essentially, there are a lot of people shouting and most of them are shouting at me.  FML. 

We shop.  It’s excruciating because I now have to avoid the family from hell, but at least the kids behave.  Oh no.  They don’t.  They scream, fight and shout the whole way round.

We come home.  They continue to scream, fight and shout over everything, in their new crocs.  Daisy makes me count how many bounces she can do on the trampoline and Zach shoots all of the Stomp Rocket rockets over the fence.  He also tries to lob his new football, but I wrestle him to the ground.

They have tea and I tell them A LOT how tired they are.  The whole time they bellow at me about what they want on their fork and I bellow back that if they’re going to be that picky then maybe they could feed themselves. Zachary asks my mum to smack his winkie at bath time; I worry he’s a pervert.  Daisy tells me after bath time that she will ‘kill me all up’; I worry she’s a psycho.  I put them to bed at 6.30.  Wearing their new crocs.****  FFS.

*10 minutes 

**I’M JOKING.

***Anywhere.  Any.  Where.

 

**** Just as I finished writing this, Daisy came to her bedroom door crying.  I went up to see her and she wept that she needed to sleep in my bed because her feet hurt.  MAYBE THAT’S BECAUSE YOU WENT TO BED WEARING YOUR CROCS. F.F.S. 

You Are Nearly Three And This Is What I See

On Sunday, Daisy and Zachary will turn three.  I cannot believe that three whole years have passed since they had an in-utero punch up that resulted in their arrival into the world, two months early.  This post is for them.

Daisy, you are nearly three and this is what I see:  I see a little girl who has fire in her very core, who is passionate and unwavering and strong. You are fearless (except when there is any kind of insect and/or cow around, and then you shriek hysterically and, in my opinion, completely unnecessarily), you are oh so funny and you are absolutely marching to your own tune.   You do things your way and your way alone.  Sometimes, now, when your way is wearing your pants over your trousers, or eating an entire meal with your knife only, or refusing to put your little paw in mine, it’s a bit hard and I sigh and momentarily wish you were more biddable, more pliant, easier to cajole.  But those wishes aren’t anything more than tiny sparks that flare up and then die out.  I’m immeasurably proud of how individual you are, and how you know exactly what you want and I know that in years to come, you will make me even more proud with your determination, decisiveness and originality.  You might be a twin, my love, but you are a one off.  Lastly, but by no means least, you are top to toe brimming full of love, or as you call it ‘luff’.  I luff how luffing you are and I will never, ever tire of you flinging your long gangly arms round my neck and passionately declaring with every fibre of your being ‘I really really luff you Mama!’ Daisy, you are nearly three, and this is what I see: a wonderful woman in the making.  I think you might end up ruling the world, but if you don’t, you’ll certainly change it for the better (you already have just by being here).  You are marvellous.

Zachary, you are nearly three and this is what I see: I see a little boy who has joyfulness running through his veins, who is a joker but also steady and constant and reliable.  You are wise beyond your years (not always, obviously – especially not when you’re running round with two pairs of pants on your head but none on your arse), you are kind and you are helpful beyond measure.  You approach the world and everything it has to offer with the biggest smile and buckets full of enthusiasm.  You, too, know your own mind, but you show it in a really different way.  If I tell you not to do something, you beam at me with those enormous blue eyes, say ‘OK Mama,’ then do it anyway.  You are incapable of being in a sulk or holding a grudge because you are just so desperate to have fun. Your empathy amazes me and makes me so proud.  I will never forget the time when NyNy was crying because she was sad YeYe was poorly and I didn’t realise.  What alerted me to her sadness was that you bum shuffled over to her and rested your little blond bombshell head on her knee. You might be a twin, my darling, but you are a one off too.  Your love is calmer, less easily doled out, but just as deep and genuine as Daisy’s.  When I get a kiss from you, I feel like the luckiest being on the planet.  Zachary, you are nearly three, and this is what I see: a magnificent man in the making.  I think you will look after the world, keep it organised and make sure everyone is happy (you do all these things to my world already).  You are tremendous.

My darling twins, you are nearly three, and this is what I see: scraped knees and splinters in hands, dinners not eaten and dinners gobbled up, sleepless nights and early mornings, poorly tummies and raging fevers, snuggly cuddles and snotty kisses, uncontrollable laughter and drying big fat tears, fighting and making up, shouting and saying sorry, trying and giving up, trying and not giving up, playing and watching telly, going to the park and to the trampoline place and soft play and the farm and the library and the swimming pool…and weaving its way in amongst all of this, holding it all together and keeping us all going when times are tough, love.  My darling twins, you are nearly three, and this is what I see: love.