I once saw a comedy sketch based in a nursing home. (I know, I know, this is a bit dark, but stick with me)
The old folk sat in front of the telly whilst yelling demands at the over worked wreck of a carer.
Buzz words were being shouted from the chairs, you know – the ones with those ridiculously high backs:
By some cruel twist fate I am now living out this comedy sketch in the real. Except this time, I’m not laughing. I am that haggard nurse running from task to task which is spat out by a ToddlerMonster and her 5 year old partner in Crime.
To be quite honest with you I am one tantrum away from fleeing this asylum and opting for a quieter life with the gypsy circus. Not a day goes by where I don’t loose my sh*t trying to get a toddler ready for nursery and an unwilling 5 year old to school.
This is now how our mornings shape up these days: (And if anyone dare comment with “it will all be over in the blink of an eye”, I will not be responsible for my actions!)
There’s a new Witching Hour in town, and I loathe it more than the original…
“My Blankey, WAAAAAAAA MY BLANKEY NOW” More crying. More urgency.
ToddlerMonster has selected her desired seating arrangement to view ‘A Little Princess’. She is very cross that her blankey has fallen to the floor. But, Oh no! I am currently pouring out hot chocolates for their royal highnesses as instructed by the older of the leaders. I dutifully halt stirring the lumps in and spring to action: operation, ‘Where the eff is blankey’ is launched.
As it was RIGHT IN FRONT OF HER the task was executed swiftly so that I could answer the 5 year old’s burning question:
“But WHERE is our hot chocolates?”
“Yes, yes darling they are just coming!”
By this point in the morning my patience is still running at a positive 80%. The use of the word ‘darling’ is around 10 minutes and 6 commands off being hissed through gritted teeth.
I catch a glimpse of myself as I load up the tray with toast and their drinks. It’s still dark outside so the kitchen window is currently a mirror. My god. I make a mental note to consider washing my hair and using some eye cream.
“Mum, Mum, Murray wants to go out. Mum Mum MUM MUM MUMUMUMUMUMUMUMUM. MUM. Murray wants to go out.”
Obviously remembering one does have the use of their legs is tricky to recollect at such an early hour and so I forgive the 5 year old for this oversight whilst rushing to let out our lump of a probably-not-a-cavapoo. Phew, made it.
I turn around. Oh shit the bed…
“Why is your toast on the floor? Please NO! Stop rubbing your tongue on Mummy’s new cushion!”
(Mentally I scold myself for buying a cushion; I knew it would struggle to survive it’s first week in the field).
“I SAID TCHOKLIT. WAAAAAAWAAAAAAA” ToddlerMonster has blown her top. Christ, her body is beginning to convulse as I quickly (everything requires ‘Quickly’) cast my mind back to her breakfast order.
Hang on, why is water dripping off of the sofa?? Jesus that’s not water: Nappy overfill. I neglected to remove the night time pull up and now she is punishing me for poor service with a dry cleaning bill.
“I want toast With NO CUT. I wanna big one”.
“What do you say?”
Wow, so it really is possible to be this much of an arsehole when you are 3.
I decline her demands of another slice. Time is of the essence and I’m now running at 30% patience, which isn’t a good sign because I still need to prepare myself for the Battle of the Uniform. Or more specifically the Battle of the Tights.
I dig deep for my happy face.
“OK girls, time to get dressed now! Yey for the new day” I muster a fist pump in proper MUM style. Only to be met by blank faces. Their eyes are fixated on which talent Peppa will show her class now that all of them have been taken!
I try again
“Yey come on, it’s a new day – it’s going to be a cold one… let’s go get ready!”
Still no response.
Alarms have gone off in my head. Patience level is now at ZERO. I have no back up reserves – they were all consumed 3 years ago during the Battle of the Dummy.
To the backdrop of a repetitive whine, which is not unlike some sort of rare animal mating call.
I loose it. The Trunchball is now hollering out of my mouth, and I am merciless to stop it.
My own buzz words begin to get fired at the two wide eye suddenly innocent looking dictators.
And finally, the killer question that hangs in the air:
“Why do you hate Mummy so much?”
Of course this is a rhetorical. They’ve already pegged it upstairs to wake darling Daddy. Daddy who can do no wrong. Daddy who will cuddle them and tell them in a non-shouty voice that everything is OK and Mummy is just
loosing the will to live tired. Daddy who will take them by the hand and calmly persuade Darcie that tights are not the enemy. That her preferred choice of black leggings are not school uniform and she just needs to accept this.
How the blazes…
I take my shiny fu*ked off face and dark root combo to the shower, silently repeating:
“I hate my life, I hate my kids. Why do my kids hate me? Why did I do this?”
I know how that sounds. I know that makes me a bad person for even thinking those thoughts. But at that moment – for that fraction of about…2 hours (!): it’s how I feel. I can’t even douse my spirits with a mug of Sav Blanc. Apparently it’s not socially acceptable at 7.42am…
We make it to school on time. Somehow we make it to school everyday on time.
As I wave them both off to no doubt be angels for other people, little fireworks explode in my head. I know that for the next few hours I will be exactly the mother I always thought I would be…