Hello cruel world.
(You must imagine that opener to be complete with Morrissey-esque hands clasped despairingly to the cheeks and eyes rolled artfully heavenwards.)
Yes, I have returned, once again, to share the secrets of what it’s really like to be a stay at home mummy. I remember quite distinctly, when working long days at a country school full of fat farmer’s kids, presuming that staying at home with child would be a doddle.
Imagine my shock then, at discovering it was not!
Imagine my greater shock, after having a second child (a mere 22 months after the first had sprung buoyantly forth) that having two was actually more work! This really did take me aback somewhat. Surely, I thought, two such pint sized creatures couldn’t be that much effort, could they?
The answer to that is yes. Yes, they are.
So this is my world, a sneaky peak into what it’s like to discover every other sentence in your repertoire is ‘don’t do that/ touch that/ hit that/ snort that’ and what it’s like to have baby poo on your thumb for a full hour before you notice.
I shall begin: today. 1st November, 2011.
My first thought of the day this morning was , ‘ooh, that was a good nights sleep!’. About ten minutes later, over a bowl of bran flakes, I realised that it was a depressing day indeed, when I counted a good nights sleep as being only being woken three times, as opposed to five or more.
OH (code- other half) and I blearily avoided any attempt at exchanging pleasantries as we wiped weetabix off DB1’s (age 2) face and bounced DB2 on our laps. Apart from the terse debate over how best to get a new tyre fitted on the car, given ours had exploded on the way to OH’s work yesterday morning.
‘They need to keep the old wheel to fit the new one!’ OH muttered darkly.
‘Why can’t they just throw away the old one?’ I replied, mopping up the toast crumbs.
‘They need the wheel bit, don’t they!’.
In my head, that didn’t even make sense. I declared as much.
OH gave me a look as though a dog had suddenly planted a tightly curled stinking turd on my head.
‘For Christs sake, what don’t you understand?’ he huffled lividly. (a strong reaction, but it was early in the morning.)
I stormed off to have a shower at this point. I may have called OH something rude as I departed.
The day didn’t really improve. After running OH into work, I marched the boys out into the crisp morning air to toddler group. Alarm bells were already ringing as I had to drag DS1 quite literally by his heels across the sofa to get his coat on. His main response was to bellow repeatedly that he wanted to ‘watch telly’. (why didn’t I just go with this? It would have made life much easier…)
We arrived at toddler group and I watched in abject horror as my eldest offspring set about;
1) stealing every toy from every kid in the room, and gleefully legging it across the floor, trousers halfway round his arsecheeks, before turning and sniggering at the bereft infant in question.
2) beating a small girl (well, I say small, she was actually built like a brick shithouse, but that isn’t the point) in the face repeatedly, as she wouldn’t relinquish grasp of her OWN TEDDY.
3) howling because I insisted he pick up the play doh that he had shredded and sprinkled all over the carpet.
4) repeatedly smashing the toy giraffe in the Noah’s ark play box until it’s head started to look a bit wonky.
5) and the finale: going absolutely apeshit over the prospect of joining in with singing time; howling at the top of his voice that it was ‘RUBBISH!’
Add this to DB2 wailing and grizzling the entire time and it was hardly surprising that we departed an hour before the end.
Our return to home wasn’t much more successful. Trying to juggle a screaming DB2, who managed to drop one rancid eggy poo in his nappy, then wait until the very moment when we’d returned downstairs to plant another one; and a wingey, moaning DB1, plus opening the fridge to discover the sodding milk had leaked all over the shelves, was not my idea of fun.
Then the daily decision- who to feed first? Will it be DB1; who likely as not, wont eat anything anyway, but will wail endlessly if not presented with food to spurn. Or will it be DB2, who was throwing very deliberate hinting looks at my bosom whilst attempting to peel my bra down surreptitiously. He hasn’t quite twigged that it isn’t a self service buffet.
One thing’s for sure… It won’t be me! My lunch will no doubt be two hastily scoffed rice cakes and a desperate nibble on the family sized galaxy bar in the fridge (now annoyingly covered in milk.)
They say the day will only get better…