It’s been a bit of a rubbish day. In fact, a bit of a rubbish week. Full of parenting fails, frayed tempers and low tolerance. Not my finest hours or theirs for that matter.
Sophie has whinged more or less none stop for three days. Nothing overly wrong, just a background whinge which mimics some sort of Guantanamo white noise torture tactics. Yeah that.
Whinging, which I have to admit has been interspersed with humungous parenting fails. Amongst them, moments such as when I ignored her for just long enough to enable her to eat the dogs breakfast or the time she face planted onto the floor whilst I scrolled through Facebook. I know, I know – I judge me too.
All the Mum shame.
I felt so bad about it this morning that I even considered remedying the situation with a delve into the craft box. Desperate times people.
With respect to Zak’s privacy, I won’t go into too many details about his behaviour. No doubt his mood swings were feeding off mine but suffice to say there was definitely more than one of us cursing, shouting and being generally obnoxious in this house.
In fact, after one ‘shouty Mum’ episode I believe he actually came back in to the room to enquire
“have you calmed down yet?”
Brave, brave boy.
It’s a shame really as I’d been looking forward to this half-term week with them. Being a working Mum means that I pretty much don’t see them for three days of any given week so this was supposed to be our time together, to laugh, be silly, have fun. Instead I’ve spent pretty much 90% of it wishing to get back to the relative sanity of the office and counting to ten.
That’s parenting for you though isn’t it? I’d say that 90% of raising little people is utter garbage. It’s hardly on anyone’s dream job description to deal in bodily fluids, building blocks and bribery on an hourly basis is it? Unless you’re Donald Trump maybe.
In fact if it were a job I might just have thrown the towel in today.
Aside from loving the little buggers (and I admit that’s something to consider) it’s the tiny 10% of the time where they redeem themselves and make my ovaries start to twitch that stops me from giving up. You know what I mean don’t you? That 10% of the time, the heart-fluttering snapshots – that’s where the real parenting magic happens.
The first time your child says “wuv woo” and means it.
The clean, warm, baby-gro’d softness of bedtime cuddles.
The fact that really only Mummy will do when the world falls apart.
Their infectious little belly laughs that fill the room with pure joy.
Or, as in today, the time when your son offers a younger child the last piece of pepperoni pizza in the Pizza Hut buffet because he “wanted to do the right thing” and you realise you might actually be raising decent human beings after all.
It’s the little moments. The everything times that make the rest of the crap totally worthwhile.
I just hope that tomorrow there are a few more of these magic moments and a few less dog-food ingesting ones.