I’m 99.9% sure I won’t be winning any parenting awards any time soon. Dexter (4) and Heidi (2) are hard work, so the thought of adding paint, crayons even water to the mix makes messy play a no-no in our house. I leave all the dirty work to Dexter’s nursery play leaders and my God those women deserve medals. If I was left in charge of 20x children for just an hour, I’d be rocking back and forth in the toilets swigging gin.
In fact, my two can be downright unruly. We get through around 7 plasters a week in our house and my two would happily knock the crap out of each other over the iPad. They’re not bad children by any means, they’re just at that age where the thought of sharing Avengers Mashers sends them into a blind panic.
Then there are dinnertimes. Dinnertimes have me knocking back Co-codamol faster than it takes my daughter to wee on the bathroom floor after a soak in the tub. My son has a real aversion to food (all food, not just fruit and vegetables) and we’re guaranteed several tantrums if we have the audacity to read his mind incorrectly and serve fish fingers rather than pizza.
Moving onto bedtimes - these should-be-serene adult times are all too often hijacked by our little night-time ninjas. In fact, Heidi has been affectionately dubbed The Punisher in our home. I truly believe she’s capable of elicting secrets for Our Majesty’s Secret Service; one night with Heidi and sleep deprivation will have you coughing up all your darkest and shadiest deeds.
I can’t remember the last time I slept in my bed without a nappy-clad bum in my face - I consider myself lucky if I don’t wake up beside wee-soaked bedsheets. If you are reading this and thinking what an ungrateful mother I am, don’t worry, the chances of adding us to our brood are made near impossible thanks to our little passion killers Dexter and Heidi. They’ve even started screaming at us if they see us having a cheeky snog in the kitchen.
I’m sure you’ve read many a similar article before where the author will sign off with some twee comment about “not changing anything for the world”, but exhaustion has a way of forcing honesty out of me. I would change lots of things.
I’d rebuild my entire personality - I’d add in healthy slops of patience, self-control and cheerfulness. I’d get rid of this shitty bi-polar and remove any social awkwardness so I could ask for help when I need it. I’d switch up a few of my decisions and have spent more of my youth on practical life skills like learning to drive and cook before becoming a mummy. If we’re going the whole hog and I could change anything, I’d do away with a few excess inches off my bum and boobs too.
As regards my little people, I’d do lots of thing differently if I had the opportunity again. I would serve one meal for the entire family and adopt the “like it or lump it” attitude that better mothers than I have long since used on their toddlers. I would never have given into my daughter’s 3am screaming, and made a rod for my own back by dishing out night-time bottles. I’d stop using gin as a crutch to make it through an evening. And if reality could be altered, I’d have had a volume and sleep switch implanted when they were growing inside my womb.
Yet there are worse things than being a shattered parent, even a reluctant one. Like being a useless one.
Somehow I still manage to read them a few books every night, and they’re crashing through milestones at an alarming rate. They are also capable of moments of such breathtaking loveliness - Dexter likes to hold my hand whilst he drifts off to sleep, and Heidi doles out up to 15 kisses in a row if she’s feeling generous. Despite resenting the state of my kitchen, my garden… my social life… we sort of mesh together as a family and I can definitely see us all enjoying each other’s company when we’re older. We’ll be like that Jewish family off Gogglebox.
And if I’m feeling particularly useless, I’ll reassure myself with the knowledge that my children will never sign up for Love Island and get their bits out for the nation to see. I know they won’t make a fool of themselves and audition for Big Brother either - afterall let’s face it, they’re bound to take after their rather flabby and cynical mother. Yes. There’s always that.
