It was only a Wednesday evening and I felt like I was going to implode or explode. I had yet to decide which. By the weekend I was Hans Solo. It got so bad that my (amazing) husband took the kids back to his parents house for the weekend so I could have some time to myself – to be quiet, to have things still be where i left them 2 minutes later, to have breakfast without a child begging like a dog for some of my breakfast (when they have left their exactly-the-same-and equally-delicious breakfast 2 minutes ealirer)… to be able to sleep. I woke up Thursday morning thinking Wednesday evening was just a blip. Maybe the whole week so far had just been an “off week”. Alex not eating ANYTHING. Ed being a little more temperamental than usual. My wine consumption having gone up because, after all, it was a lovely sunny week and it is nice to have a glass of wine in the evening in the sun. Thursday morning hit and the shit hit with it. It is never a good sign when Ed tantrums and stamps his feet at me… as i get him out of bed. He didnt WANT breakfast. Then he did WANT breakfast. Then he didnt WANT a cup of tea. Fine Ed, no skin off my nose. Then he did WANT it. Etc etc etc. My cockles were warmed by the promise of Tea and Toast at the sure start centre we go to, followed by choir. Or should i say, my cockles were warmed by the promise of the free crèche for 40 minutes as I attend choir . But at Tea and Toast they told me crèche, sorry, Choir, was cancelled. Which really shat on my day. Lovely Kate (Owens mum) offered to have Ed with her for an hour whilst i went for a coffee as i seemed “a bit stressed”. After much convicing by Kate that this was a good idea, i suggested it to Ed and considering he had been suggesting to me all morning he play with Owen at his house, he screamed at the thought of being separated from me for an hour and refused to release his clamping claw from my skirt. I cant really describe how it got so bad. I suppose you never really can. Or i never seem to be able to. I can cope with big massive whoopers of situations pretty well, but i get worn down very easily by nit picky things – the little digs from hammers that chip away until a giant underground cave is suddenly found and i fall in. By the time it was 4pm i simply had to get the kids out of the house. We had nothing for dinner so i though (foolishly in retrospect) i would kill two birds with one stone and go to Tescos. I got Ed the very specific trolley he wanted (one where he and Alex could sit side by side. I don’t about your local store but ours seem to have abandoned all but 2 of these trolleys so to find one, is a feat in itself). I appreciate it may seem like i had already ergo given him leadership in this pilgrimage however, i thought i was picking my battles and would allow him this one and win the war myself. Wrong. We got to the meat aisle and he hit me, he spat at me, he screamed at me, he hit Alex, Alex hit him back and poked him in the eye. I tried to rise above it, ignoring it, and was looking at the fish risotto. The woman standing next to me told me that risotto was lovely – she had had it before. She was nice to me. And i burst into tears. And i didnt stop crying until Smudge came home from work 2 hours later. I would perhaps normally have judged this woman – she had a hairy lip, she had an ill-fitting pink t shirt on and “mum” jeans (the kind that go up over a big mummy tummy and sit under the boobs). But she touched my arm and told me it would be ok. She talked to Ed, and very nicely, told him off. She said “no, you don’t spit. That isn’t nice. Look, you are worrying mummy”. I don’t condone people telling off other peoples children, but this lady, did it with such grace and compassion aimed for ME that it just made me cry harder. We went home, shopping abandoned, and i carried on crying. Smudge came home from work early and i carried on crying. Not because Ed was naughty, he was naughty, but he is 3 of course he will be naughty, but on that day it was all too much. I felt worthless. I felt like i was worth nothing. I had no opinion. Everything i said was argued with – from “no, i don’t think we do have any chicken in the freezer” to “Yes we DO!”, to….i was back to being a child myself. Not getting to even choose what we watched on my OWN tv – as an adult! I was forced into watching kids programmes. No, i LET myself be forced into watching kids programmes. It was an awful day.
My husband, was amazing. I suggested he and the boys go away for the weekend so i had time to think and off they went and in i stayed. “Hannah is Hans Solo.” I fell asleep on the sofa at 8.30pm (albeit after several glasses of wine). I slept terribly, had awful nightmares, had to use the loo several times and woke at 6.30am. So…everything I would have done anyway with the boys, but would have, if im honest, blamed a stressful day for. But my day wasn’t stressful. It was quiet. Too quiet. I didnt like it. And it made me realise my days with the boys are NOT stressful – well, they are, but not hideously so. I can if i want to, put the ironing down and play trains. Or say “right, you don’t want to eat this for dinner? Screw it, lets eat cereal”. If im honest i doubt i will do those things as much as i should do (maybe not the cereal bit – i will remain a stickler for meals. You eat what is there or you don’t get anything else) but maybe i need to enjoy my time a bit more. It is MY time too. I suppose it is an incredibly fine line between being a fun mum but also being a parent. I read this recently;
“I am not your friend. I am your parent. I will stalk you, flip out on you, lecture you, drive you insane, be your worst nightmare & hunt you down like a bloodhound when needed because I LOVE YOU! When you understand that, I will know you are a responsible adult. You will NEVER… find someone who loves, cares & worries about you more than I do!”
It is a bit cheesy but fundamentally true methinks.