Please Mind The Gap

This morning, after three phantom poos, I heard a fourth “Muuuuuummm! I need a poo!” He must have sensed I was about to sit down on the loo myself. Twenty minutes later, he was still sat there, insisting he hadn’t quite finished whilst I danced around, my ‘post two kids’ bladder bulging.

“You sit right there on the potty, Mummy, like a good girl. We don’t want an accident.”

“Funnily enough, I don’t think my size 16 arse will fit on a potty designed for a two-year-old. I’d like to get in the shower soon as I need to drive you to nursery and your father to bloody work, before attempting to get myself and your disinterested brother breakfast. Just admit you’re finished! FFS!” I didn’t actually say that. I couldn’t speak as I was concentrating so hard on not wetting myself. Jesus, why didn’t I do my pelvic floor exercises?!

Meanwhile, downstairs, I could hear the six-month-old with separation anxiety, screaming, and the 35-year-old muttering something obscene, not really under his breath, as he tried to get ready for work.


HELP!! Just bloody take it!

Motherhood is said to be the most selfless job in life. However, I can’t help but think that there is a certain arrogance about it. We want to leave a legacy. We create something in our own image to love. And quite often, we want to have someone to wipe our arses when we are old and infirm, in the way we have wiped theirs when they were new and needy. This rather narcissistic act of having kids has its pitfalls. Our children mirror ourselves, both physically and in personality, and sometimes these are images of ourselves that we would rather not see. My eldest son is a mirror image of his dad as a toddler. Yet he is not shy like his father. Instead he is loud and gregarious like me. He does, however, have his father’s bad temper (red haired rage) and is horribly stubborn. Unfortunately, he gets the whole ‘stubborn’ vibe from me.

My messy kids in my messy house
I cringe when he refuses to back down. Partly because he makes a fuss in public and I want to die of embarrassment at being THAT mum but mainly because I hate that I bequeathed him with such a ‘gift’. He is fiercely independent. Despite the fact he is putting his shoes on the wrong feet he refuses help, which is usually why I am a good half hour late for bloody everything these days. (Along with a few ill times poos. The kids, not me) Tragically though, I am just like him.