Some days - like today - like ten minutes ago - I do not recognise myself when I look in the mirror or hear myself speak.
I do not like what I see. What I hear. I'm like a drunken fishwife who hasn't got her rocks off for a while. Angry, spikey, snappy - a jagged voice shrieking from somewhere deep within.
The day started with my daughter announcing 'I done poo!' As I peeled off her Pj bottoms ( on top of the bed she refuses to sleep in - she won't move from her cot no matter how we bribe or promise) the nappy somehow got stuck to them - so along with her bottoms coming down - the nappy came too - and the entire contents of it - spilled out across the uncovered duvet.
Poonami hits again. The horror. The horror. I won't go into details but sadly, her bowel offering was not of the 'solid' kind. I used a whole pack of wipes and opened the window. Duvet went into the washing machine. She went to nursery - half a stone lighter.
Then my work internet went down and I heard the place I'm having my party is now accomodating another group of people upstairs and yadda yadda yadda. Just one of those days.
Meanwhile, my throat aches (has done inexplicably for the past three days) and I feel doggone tired. But still I have soup to make, the kids to bath, groceries to remember, homeworks to do, clothes to wash and fold away, dinner money to sort out, party invites to reply to, thank yous to write (from December). Somewhere amidst this I have to remember to floss. Flossing is important. Oh and eat 5 portions of greens. When all I really want to do is gobble down a family pack of Malteser bunny rabbits that someone kindly gave me today.
We got in the car from school/nursery and the arguing had begun. My son can't be heard as Sproglette repeats everything I say over and over and over, drowning out my boy. He gets frustrated. He shouts. She shouts. Then not be outdone, I shout. I grip the steering wheel and think of alcohol.
Then we are home and it's bath time and I warn them not to get their hair wet, as they splash the entire room. Then I gather discarded socks and try to get organised for the next day. But the shouting has begun. 'She hit me!' 'He izzzz nawtee' - then 'No, don't wet my hair.' 'No, that's MINE.' 'NO - MINE.' MUM!!! MUUUUUUUUUUUUUUMMMMM! and she chimes in 'MUMMMMMMY.' And I feel violent.
And they are soaking - hair and all, and I slip on the floor. And downstairs the pin number to all SKY movies is buggered as my son has tried to break in... And so as I slip, I am actually talking to man at SKY who is boring the tits off me talking about Tom Cruise movies... and I drop the phone into a puddle and my thigh hurts and I scream so loudly I could wake the dead and I am not me anymore. I am angry Mummy.
So I text Husband that I want a divorce. It is his fault obviously, because he is NOT HERE. Then I take Sproglet out and announce that they will never bath together again. I dry him and I am raging and I try to reason with him that Sproglette is only 2 - and so she doesn't understand - all the while I - I am being a whole ocean away from being understanding myself. The irony.
He retreats downstairs and then I pull the Diva from the bath. She is crying and saying over and over and over again 'I want a bottle. I WANT a bottle. I WANT A BOTTLE.' 'I WANT A BOTTLLLLLLEEEEE.'
he child could seriously do interrogation techniques for the CIA. She could break anyone. Easily.
I snap 'I KNOW!!!!' Because I am just a ball of snapping by now.
I dry her and dress her and we go downstairs where Sproglet comes and says sorry to her, she says sorry to him and they have what they call a 'huggle.' Bless. Then Sproglet whispers to Sproglette that they should say sorry to Mummy and I feel like THE DEVIL INCARNATE.
So we all eat the chocolate.
As she sups her bottle, all wispy blonde hair and enormous blue eyes, wrapped in her favoutite blanket - and Sproglet - all tufty dark hair and long limbs, cuddles her - I slip away, a tear in my eye.
Upset to be angry Mummy. Upset to be tired and crabby and always working or too busy and still there isn't enough money so what is the point and where am I in my career and what does it all mean and I didn't floss and will I ever be a size 8 again and what does so and so think of me and did we get milk and oh god my throat hurts and I should call that person and make soup - yes, I need to do that... and and and and and and.....
My daughter appears as I write this. She has emptied her bottle and announces she is ready for bed. She wants the owl story and more bottle. She burps and looks delighted. Says 'pardon me' and smiles. She is adorable. She asks to hug me and stares into my eyes. She asks if I am sad. 'Mummy, you alright?'
Sometimes I hate myself. I really do.
I do not like what I see. What I hear. I'm like a drunken fishwife who hasn't got her rocks off for a while. Angry, spikey, snappy - a jagged voice shrieking from somewhere deep within.
The day started with my daughter announcing 'I done poo!' As I peeled off her Pj bottoms ( on top of the bed she refuses to sleep in - she won't move from her cot no matter how we bribe or promise) the nappy somehow got stuck to them - so along with her bottoms coming down - the nappy came too - and the entire contents of it - spilled out across the uncovered duvet.
Poonami hits again. The horror. The horror. I won't go into details but sadly, her bowel offering was not of the 'solid' kind. I used a whole pack of wipes and opened the window. Duvet went into the washing machine. She went to nursery - half a stone lighter.
Then my work internet went down and I heard the place I'm having my party is now accomodating another group of people upstairs and yadda yadda yadda. Just one of those days.
Meanwhile, my throat aches (has done inexplicably for the past three days) and I feel doggone tired. But still I have soup to make, the kids to bath, groceries to remember, homeworks to do, clothes to wash and fold away, dinner money to sort out, party invites to reply to, thank yous to write (from December). Somewhere amidst this I have to remember to floss. Flossing is important. Oh and eat 5 portions of greens. When all I really want to do is gobble down a family pack of Malteser bunny rabbits that someone kindly gave me today.
We got in the car from school/nursery and the arguing had begun. My son can't be heard as Sproglette repeats everything I say over and over and over, drowning out my boy. He gets frustrated. He shouts. She shouts. Then not be outdone, I shout. I grip the steering wheel and think of alcohol.
Then we are home and it's bath time and I warn them not to get their hair wet, as they splash the entire room. Then I gather discarded socks and try to get organised for the next day. But the shouting has begun. 'She hit me!' 'He izzzz nawtee' - then 'No, don't wet my hair.' 'No, that's MINE.' 'NO - MINE.' MUM!!! MUUUUUUUUUUUUUUMMMMM! and she chimes in 'MUMMMMMMY.' And I feel violent.
And they are soaking - hair and all, and I slip on the floor. And downstairs the pin number to all SKY movies is buggered as my son has tried to break in... And so as I slip, I am actually talking to man at SKY who is boring the tits off me talking about Tom Cruise movies... and I drop the phone into a puddle and my thigh hurts and I scream so loudly I could wake the dead and I am not me anymore. I am angry Mummy.
So I text Husband that I want a divorce. It is his fault obviously, because he is NOT HERE. Then I take Sproglet out and announce that they will never bath together again. I dry him and I am raging and I try to reason with him that Sproglette is only 2 - and so she doesn't understand - all the while I - I am being a whole ocean away from being understanding myself. The irony.
He retreats downstairs and then I pull the Diva from the bath. She is crying and saying over and over and over again 'I want a bottle. I WANT a bottle. I WANT A BOTTLE.' 'I WANT A BOTTLLLLLLEEEEE.'
he child could seriously do interrogation techniques for the CIA. She could break anyone. Easily.
I snap 'I KNOW!!!!' Because I am just a ball of snapping by now.
I dry her and dress her and we go downstairs where Sproglet comes and says sorry to her, she says sorry to him and they have what they call a 'huggle.' Bless. Then Sproglet whispers to Sproglette that they should say sorry to Mummy and I feel like THE DEVIL INCARNATE.
So we all eat the chocolate.
As she sups her bottle, all wispy blonde hair and enormous blue eyes, wrapped in her favoutite blanket - and Sproglet - all tufty dark hair and long limbs, cuddles her - I slip away, a tear in my eye.
Upset to be angry Mummy. Upset to be tired and crabby and always working or too busy and still there isn't enough money so what is the point and where am I in my career and what does it all mean and I didn't floss and will I ever be a size 8 again and what does so and so think of me and did we get milk and oh god my throat hurts and I should call that person and make soup - yes, I need to do that... and and and and and and.....
My daughter appears as I write this. She has emptied her bottle and announces she is ready for bed. She wants the owl story and more bottle. She burps and looks delighted. Says 'pardon me' and smiles. She is adorable. She asks to hug me and stares into my eyes. She asks if I am sad. 'Mummy, you alright?'
Sometimes I hate myself. I really do.
2 comments:
This picture is gorgeous. Love you. Car xxx
I can't believe people can read this post and not comment! All I could think while reading this was how utterly lovely your children are, and that just goes to prove what fantastic mother you are to them every day of the year - go easy on yourself, everyone has days like these once in a while.
Martha x
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