Tantrums a-go-go

Today the mancub has been VILE.

I don’t know about everyone else but I can only liken the task of getting out of the house and running errands to being stood in front of a very tall spiky impossible wall and having the choice of going over it or just staying where you are and eating randomly concocted meals and mouldy crumbs of cheese out of the fridge.

This was today.

It’s freezing, I’m fucking depressed at the moment and I just want to sleep for about six years and I may feel marginally better.

But every morning I go through the same thought process.

  1. I wake up.
  2. I feel optimistic that I’m happy and all is good.
  3. Big D comes and clouts me round the head and reminds me that I’m miserable.  Tells me I’m useless and I may as well stay in bed all day and not be a burden on anyone.
  4. I hear the usual cry of ‘mummy BOOBIES poo hahaha’ and remember that it doesn’t matter what Big D says, I have to be a Mum and I have to get out of bed and be that little person’s world.

We got up, snuggled, managed no dirty protests or shit smearing, watched TV for a bit(fuck you kids TV, we watched Soldier Soldier, 90s TV gold) and then had breakfast.

I then had that awful feel deep in my stomach.

Is it the week 2 Fluoxetine shits(they have been awful)?

Nope. It’s the knowledge that you have the take the mega tantruming mancub out because we need bread.


Yes, I know, I’m a drama llama, it should be easy I hear you say, quick five minute jobby.

In theory yes.  Reality? Big fucking pile of steaming shite.

  • 8.38 – we start getting dressed.
  • 9.12 – we finish getting dressed.
  • 9.22 – ready to go.
  • 9.23 – he shits.
  • 9.45 – I’ve wrestled him into a new nappy and redressed him.
  • 9.47 – ready to go part two.
  • 9.48 – what’s that smell?
  • 9.49 – I have shit up my arm. Washes arm.
  • 10.02 – ready to go part three.
  • 10.05 – we are outside the front door. Mancub runs and hides.
  • 10.13 – child wrestled into car.
  • 10.14 – ‘mummy you STINK’ – great. Clearly that’s not korma on my jumper sleeve.  Shall I go change?  Fuck it, wet wipe and body spray will fix it.
  • 10.35 – we arrive at local supermarket.
  • 10.37 – I put my token in a trolley.  I ask the child to get in said trolley.  He runs to the back and hides.
  • 10.43 – child is in trolley.  Feel shit because I have had to bribe him with the promise of a biscuit.  Hope he doesn’t notice when I don’t give him a biscuit. 
  • 10.44 – we are in the shop.  ‘MUMMY BIIIIKBIIIIIIIK(biscuit)’.
  • 10.45 – bribe child with Brioche bun.  Feel that is a healthier option than a biscuit.  Bullshit. Peace.
  • 10.53 – checkout.  Child lobs brioche bun at the checkout chick.  Checkout chick gives me that look.

That look.  It’s that look only a parent knows.  Think Hunger Games, and all the people pledging solidarity to Katpiss, with the three finger salute.  That look speaks volumes.

    It says I’m with you.  It says I know you love your child so much you think you may explode and die.  It says I know you are doing your fucking best as a parent and I have so much respect for you, because I have been there.  

    It says I know you want to lose your shit, and run off into the woods screaming hysterically followed by men in white coats.  There is no one word to explain it, it is just that look.

    That one glance, with its subtle smile and discreet nod, tells you that you are doing a good job.  It tells you it’s ok to lose your shit.  It tells you that you may feel humiliated, embarrassed, paranoid and like a bad parent.  It tells you that you are not ANY of those things.  And in a splint second, you feel better.  You don’t feel alone.

    And then you get to the car, and the vile child picks up the box of eggs and throws them.


    And you see the checkout chick look out the window…

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