A Mothers Day

A Mothers Day.

Shit, it’s 6am already, do I really need this job? Well yeah I have bills to pay! Listen for the baby, she’s asleep, is she asleep? Maybe I should check? If I go in and she’s awake that means I’ll have to get her dad up and he could do with the lie in until 7am. Listens. Yep she’s awake – fuck sake.

Get out of bed, dressed in the dark, can’t find black socks, in trouble again because it’s not uniform to have penguin blue spotted socks even though I’ve literally not had 5 minutes to pee never mind wash/find a clean black pair of socks. I think the sock monster only takes black socks. Have everything else for work in the bathroom so that dad isn’t disturbed. Consider leaving the light off so the noise of the extractor doesn’t make the baby realise you’re up even though you fucking know she seen you through the crack in the door. ‘Brush’ hair, which generally means the roots and bung the rest into a mum bun. Spray the expensive perfume you own all over to cover the fact that you don’t have your life together enough to wash your uniform every night, plus your dryer died last night and no one likes wet clothes!

Baby is now screaming because she knows your up. Did I mention it’s only 6:10am? Go in with a big smile and ‘good morning princess’ to be greeted by ‘NO’ with horrendous screaming because you’re not their favourite parent, dad is. Dad always is. Ignore the protests while panic rises because you now have to get exhausted dad up because apparently it’s not the done thing to leave your almost two year old downstairs alone until dad gets up. Apologise for waking dad up even though baby is now happy and greets dad with ‘IYA’. It’s 6:15.

Run downstairs, forget to feed the dogs, forget to even put the water bowl down that you took up at 4pm yesterday because one of your dogs loves to dip his nose in the water, watch it drip on his foot, bite it, repeat. Kitchen or swimming pool? You decide.

Flick the kettle on, not for you, but for the ‘gok gok’ (bottle) that the baby has been demanding since you stepped foot on the stairs, getting more insistent with each new uttering. TOAST, GOK GOK. Reassuring her you’re doing both, you’re an octopus so you can clearly do this and hold her/ sit her on the kitchen side and watch her while she tries to climb along the surface.

Dads up. Sorry bab.

Pack the nappy bag, tell dad to recheck before he leaves for the childminders cause the baby loves to fucking empty the nappies everywhere. Quickly put the her hair up because dad is still learning and bobbles aren’t his forté. Reel off a list of jobs for dad to do this morning and remind him of pick up times – he’s only forgot her once. So far so good. It’s 6:45 WHAT THE FUCK. I’ve literally come downstairs, I’m so late.

Forget to feed the dogs. Forget to feed yourself, no time.

Walk to work, mum bun, penguin spotty socks. Got a name badge, keys and till card though so I’m rolling.

Get to work and wish we didn’t have shutters, it’s freezing, I’m cold and tired, I want to be inside. Unlock the door and panic that your lanyard will get stuck on the handle, the fob won’t reach the alarm, it’ll go off, the police will come and you’ll have had a meltdown trying to convince them you work here and you’re not breaking in. Every shift. The lanyard doesn’t get stuck. Success.

Walk in, cry because the delivery driver has been an arse and the place is just a mess or be joyous because it’s a decent delivery and the delivery man has placed everything neatly AND left a delivery note. Normally the latter, thankfully. Make a note to write him a thank you note. Never bother.

7:20. For real? I’ve been here 20minutes and all I’ve done is text the other half to remind him to do a meter reading – no kisses – I’m not in a mood I’m just lazy/tired. Must text later and be nice.

Get all of my morning jobs done for setting up the store, forget a few things because I’m wondering if the baby is okay, if the nappy bag was repacked and if the meter reading will be done. Set an alarm for after work to remind yourself about the meter reading.

7:56. Think I’m doing well because I’ve put the delivery out, done the day dots, turned everything on, began to sort the paperwork, checked the thermometers and done the grind and dose. THE TILL, oh shit the till. Every. Single. Time.

Put the till on at 7:59.

Open the store, it’s cold and the sign is too heavy for me, I’ll ask the next person to carry it out. I hope it’s one of the guys.

Understand that the shop opens at 8, people are entitled to come in but inwardly sigh as the first person falls in as soon as my hand touches the keys. Put on my happy face. ‘Morning how are you?’ Smile. Always smile.

Make them a drink, go in the back, start the paperwork. No customers for ages now except a few stragglers but don’t sit down to do the paperwork because as soon as you do – BAM.
Continue the day in work, forget papers, get in trouble. Don’t forget to do the order. Again. Never again. Have lunch, serve awkward people, lovely people, rude people, the people who have become friends. The people that care that your daughter was in hospital last week and the ones who don’t. The ones who ask how she is and the ones that grunt at you without so much as a ‘hello’. This really is the easiest part of the day though. The easiest. Laugh, have friends, rant and talk. It’s the only opportunity.

2pm. Go home. Go home. Other half picks you up, forgot to get him a latte on the way out. Feel awful because he works outside, it’s 5•c and he doesn’t moan. You work inside, have the heating on 23•c (get shouted at for that) but you’re always cold, without fail. Offer him a brew at home. Ask a million questions about the baby being at the childminders – don’t know any answers. Forget to offer him a brew. He’s done the meter reading though, that’s love!! Offer him a brew, he’s got to get back to work. This was his dinner, running around for you and the baby. That’s love.

Baby screamed as soon as she left the childminders, screamed as soon as you got in the car. Dads still the favourite. Tells the baby he’s just nipping to the door to be able to go back to work while she’s having a melt down about him not taking her. Here we go again.

Talk to the baby, try to hug her, ignore her, tell her to stop, consider crying yourself, will that make her stop? I’ll try it. She just screams more, lately she’s been throwing in kicks too. Man parenting is fun. Fun, fun, FUN. It’s only 2:15 – kill me now. Finally lose your shit and shout. Shout stop it. Then feel awful because she’s almost 2, not 12. She doesn’t understand. Then contemplate that she does understand and she hates you, you’re not dad! Shout again because she’s not shut up. Swear. She shuts up and repeats ‘fuck sake’ FOUR times and for the first time ever, she’s swore. You’re mortified and tell her nicely ‘no sweetheart’ because this was your own fucking fault. Bad mum!! Feel like the worlds worst mum because although you can only make out the ‘sake’ she definitely said ‘fuck’. You’ll tell her dad later because you can laugh about these things together. She won’t repeat ‘mummy’ but everything else is game apparently.

Already she’s demanding a ‘gok gok’ again, even though it’s strictly morning and nighttime. Make the god damn gok gok while she repeats it incessantly then proceeds to scream because she wants a gok gok, you made the gok gok and now she doesn’t sodding want the gok gok. Ignore her screaming go into the living room and try to remember the last time she didn’t scream at you? When was that? Never!!

Go back in the kitchen, let the dogs out, they start drinking dirty puddles, shout at them. SHIT. Remember they’ve not had water down for almost 24 hours. Make them the biggest bowl of water, call them in. Hug them and apologise let them drink as much as they can and put more water in their bowl. Feel guilty, feed them some meat from the fridge, put food in their bowls and tell them they are good boys. The RSPCA would not be impressed. The baby cried because she can’t have dog food, you explain it’s dog food, she doesn’t care, she tries some dog food. Cries. She doesn’t like dog food.

Proceed through the next few hours of minute by minute meltdowns, offering bribes then shouting because she wants another ‘choc’ – dairy free chocolate lolly to you and me. Consider giving her the sodding second lolly to rot her teeth. Remember your fear of dentists and stay strong. Throw the other lolly in the bin. Wonder why because it cost you £2 – the expense for the pleasure of having an allergy child. Try to play, it’s fun, she laughs, then cries. Nothing makes her happy.

Snapchat your work colleagues – non of whom have children to give them an insight into your home life. They reply with ‘lols’ and ‘she’s so cute’. Hmm they don’t know her.

Is it 8pm yet? Feel guilty for wishing away the day so you can get some peace.

5:10pm. Dads home, baby runs to the door, ‘IYA’, never seen a smile so huge. Be jealous because I’ve never got that. Never. Where am I going wrong? I’m really trying.

He goes off for a well deserved shower, I didn’t make him a brew. Feel awful. Make him a brew, have my first of the day. I’m so exhausted. In the hour he’s gone I experience approximately 27 more meltdowns, make the baby a tea I know she won’t touch. She asks for ‘dip dip’ which is any sort of sauce, always opt for mayonnaise. It’s dairy free and contains less crap. That’ll make up for the chocolate lolly.

She eats the mayonnaise, screams at the rest. Get her ready for beddy, she screams. Sofia the first comes on she sings, I join in, she screams. No xfactor auditions for me.

The dogs fight. I shout. It’s my favourite thing to do. The panic is so overwhelming that I’m losing control so I slam things instead of blowing up. Cupboard doors, cups, back patio doors.

Go into the living room, let the baby get out of her highchair. She’s eaten one carrot waffle. I’ll take that. She plays with her kitchen, slams the cupboard door. Spend the next five minutes showing her how to close gently and praising her for it. She loves it. Remind myself I mustn’t slam doors.

She screams approximately 372 more times so I lie her on the sofa for an easy bedtime. Wonder what level I’m on on candy crush. Change a nappy. Pick up all toys, put a wash on, it starts, remember I don’t have a dryer. Panic. How will I afford a new dryer. I don’t even have radiators. I’ll figure it later. Sweep after the dogs, you’d think we live in a mud desert, always wonder how my friends houses are pristine. Be jealous. Panic they judge my home. Panic that’s why they don’t come around. Panic that we’re dirty. It’s just a bit of dust. No it’s a lot of dust. Get annoyed, get every cleaning product out. Scrub the kitchen for an hour. Go in the living room, she’s asleep. Take her to bed, chastising myself for letting her fall asleep on the sofa. AGAIN.

I won’t do that again. I will.

Go downstairs, realise I can’t get the hoover out without the dogs barking. Do my best to polish and clean the floor without the hoover. It’s not the same. Feel dirty, clean another room. Feel satisfied. See some dog hair, feel like I’m lazy and don’t do enough. I’m exhausted, don’t care.

Put tea on, have some quality chill time with the other half. Forgot to wash some black socks. Panic. Remember everything I forgot at work. Panic. I’m really bad at my job.

Relax and start to feel guilty for all the shouting, screaming, lack of playing. Promise myself I’ll start over tomorrow. Promise I’ll trial a week of no shouting.

Go to bed, can’t even be bothered to do that. Check in on the baby, kiss her, apologise for being the grumpiest mummy in the land. Cover her up. Is she too cold, too hot? Maybe too hot. Take one blanket off.

Go to bed. Barely say anything to my other half. Ask what level on candy crush he’s on. Laugh at your competitive streak. Laugh because the TV has forgotten the wifi password again and he’s about to lose his shit. Every night.

Fall asleep.

1am. She’s screaming, she’s unwell – for the 6th time this month. Take her downstairs, dad gets up loads – he needs rest. Check her temp. 39.6. Put on the tv. She’s so unhappy. Sit awake until 5am, comforting her. Fall asleep. Wake with a start, she’s finally asleep. It’s 6:40. Time for work. Feel guilty, never time to do enough.

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One thought on “A Mothers Day

  1. This rings so true-very honest and open. We all loose our shit from time to time. I loose my shit when I try and change my little boys nappy and he rolls over and tries to run away….. every single time! He is only 8 months 😂😂😂

    We are all winging it, being a mum is the most rewarding thing in the world but is also the most stressful.

    Trust me- your doing great! 😘 XxX

    Like

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