I always find I think of my parenting in little snapshots.
I punish myself lying in bed at night running a slideshow in my mind of all the things I could’ve done better or differently that day. It’s a masochistic activity that The Man certainly doesn’t engage in. Many of you may not engage in this mental torture either. I’ll probably be told to “get a grip” in the comments but if you never feel this way then it’s not really you that I’m writing this for. I’m writing this for other mums who feel disappointed in themselves nightly. Who like me are guilty.
Though maybe we’re all just guilty of focusing on the snapshots rather than the big picture.
Either way here’s some snapshots of my day:
It’s 8.35 am: My son is lying face down screaming and kicking in the hall, he’s been like that for what feels like an hour though it’s actually only since his dad left a few minutes ago. I step over him into the kitchen because we’re late. Mornings are like this.
8.40 am: I pull my son to his feet and say too forcefully, “Please STOP crying.”
8.41 am: I sit back on my hunkers trying to pack the baby bag. I’m furious stuffing things in, when he puts his arms around me and gives me a hug. It’s like he’s decided to be the bigger person. I feel terrible, but then I relax, I decide to stop stressing about being late and give him a cuddle.
8.50 am: We’re jumping in the puddles outside on the way to the bike.
6.50 pm: He’s howling and screaming for a bath. “Bath, bath, bath, bath.” It’s relentless. He’s dragging out of me in our tiny kitchen while the pasta water is boiling over. I kick the cupboard door closed in frustration and scream his name, exasperated.
7.15 pm: He’s in the bath playing happily, and I marvel at how I can be FURIOUS one minute and then laughing at him splashing me the next. I hate this about myself.
7.35 pm: He’s running around like a lunatic
7.36 pm: He’s run into the door frame, but he doesn’t want me he wants to go to Dada. This is because you shout at him for wanting a bath my inner bitch tells me.
11.50 pm: He’s squawking away in the room next door. Please don’t wake up, please don’t wake up. I love you but please don’t wake up.
1.40 am: He woke up. I’m pacing the floors while he literally screams his head off, and I feel like kicking something. He hits a certain pitch that is like fingernails on a blackboard. I want to scream along with him. Sometimes I do.
