I am gonna be real, I survive on tea, wine, chocolate and 3 hours sleep on a good night and I like to remind everyone about it. There is also often lots of shouting. Like with everything, there are, of course, days when I might get a bit extra sleep, occasions when I might not shout or be shouted at and days when I even manage my first cuppa before 9 pm. But such is life, there will always be days and weeks when it’s one thing after another, when it’s never ending, when the internet goes off or the kids won’t stop fighting. When the washing machine beeps, leeks, and beeps some more. When all the farmers cut their long grass and I can no longer breath, see or function. Life is filled with these idyllic moments, so when the Kid won’t sleep, the Girl’s has a two hour pre-bedtime fit and the First Born’s pester power has driven me to hide in the nearest cupboard with a giant pack of wine gums. I moan and I now realise that I have become the moaning Mum.
Surely, a good old moan is good for us? A moan a day and all that. We should be able to moan without feeling guilty, we should be able to whine without comparing ourselves and wondering why that other Mum copes so much better. We should be allowed to have days when we just loose our shit and go on a shouting rampage which ends with such random blubber that we don’t even know what we’re mouthing off about any better than the poor souls who have to witness our meltdown. Sometimes you need to run until your sweaty, sometimes you need to drink gin (all day) and sometime we just need to shout ‘I’m not OK’ and not feel bad about that.
So, I’ve given myself permission to moan because, sometimes being a Mum is just tiring. Because Mum doesn’t just mean ‘Mum’, it means, personal assistant, worker, cleaner, shoe-picker-upper, dinner lady, nurse and for the past year, teacher. So surely, it’s OK f we jut have a day? An hour? OK, a few minutes where we just can’t be arsed to do half the stuff that is expected, even if those expectations are purely self inflicted, because lets face it, I am sure my family couldn’t give a shit if the sofa looked messy.
I feel bad for moaning, I feel bad because I think it gives the impression that I am not grateful for my lovely kids and very supportive husband. I am, don’t get me wrong, but that’s the point of this post, I want to moan about stuff and still be able to appreciate them all, just because I moan doesn’t mean I don’t. Sometimes I don’t even moan out load, I just bottle ll that shit up and eventually cry or just drink a lot more that particular night. But today, I’m going to moan to you, you lucky little things.
I moan on the days when I want to hide from my kids – We all hold an unconditional type of love for our children, obvs. That said, they are fucking exhausting. I often don’t have a clue what the first born is talking about because he has an uncanny ability to talk without ever needing to breath. I cannot for the life of me understand phonics. I can’t be bothered brushing teeth for three other people on top of my own, I feel weary at the prospect of changing another nappy. I hate the nights I have to cut their nails or clean their ears (woohoo for me!). I just can’t be bothered sometimes. I wan’t to put my PJ’s on and fall asleep, I want to order take away and binge watch The Walking Dead (back when it was good). I want to slouch on the sofa for more than 3.6 seconds which is about the same time it takes for at least one of my children to ask for a drink/snack/shout that they’ve pooped.
I moan on the days when it feels although 10 people live in my house – Do you ever give yourself a silent high five when the washing basket is empty only to walk past twenty minutes later and see it overflowing with hoodies then silently sob inside? I do. Sometimes I wonder if there is a real possibility that I could be doing washing for the whole street, surely the Girl cannot wear this many pairs of socks in the one day it’s been since I last did a load? Really, the husband wore 6 hoodies since Sunday? It’s only fucking Tuesday! And, don’t get me started on school uniform, it never fucking ends. Like anyone who has somehow been unofficially nominated as head washer of clothes in their house I fight a constant battle with an overflowing basket and children who question why something hasn’t been washed, dried and replaced since they put it in the basket an hour ago. I think my ambition for an empty basket has in turn woken my own internal washing demon which has the rippling effect of causing me to shout about going on strike and gives me ideas such as putting the husbands hoodies back unwashed and seeing if he ever fucking notices. I have made it hard for myself, this I know, I take full responsibility for turning my children into divas with high expectations of a full wardrobe and clean bedding on the regular. I can no longer take random days off (you know like say Christmas or my birthday) without my kids kindly commenting on my failure to wash their shit quick enough.
So, obviously, when the basket has been emptied and subsequently refills itself (as with anything in our house, no one ever takes responsibility). Or the kids make an innocent passing comment about why their favorite t.shirt is still in the wash after all this time (since this morning), the little defensive devil in me uses this opportunity to go on the rant, which is usually about the same time that their ears stop working. I have, therefore, come to the realisation that I now need to follow through on the many, many threats of going on a washing strike and only washing my own clothes or they will never have any respect for what do. Obviously washing and respect are interwoven in our house.
I moan for the kick ass dinner I make which never gets eaten – I seriously don’t get my kids. I cook meals, from scratch, they have healthy shit in them, they taste OK, they smell nice and my kids eat around it all. I stick beans on toast in front of them and they are licking the plate clean. WTF? I have come to realise that there is nothing on this planet that will make my kids it the veggies I sneak into sauce or the broccoli trees and asparagus lollipops I try to pass off, even coated in three layers of tomato ketchup. The First Born only started to eat my chili because I let him add the magic ingredient, he referred to it as chocolate sauce for years after that and it was his most favorite meal. The Girl has recently turned into her uncle and asks for spaghetti pasta mixed with tomato ketchup for tea each night, I am convincing myself this is normal (don’t burst my bubble). Luckily for me the Kid can devour two corn on the cobs like a caveman pulling the meat from a freshly cooked cows leg. One out of three is certainly classed as a mum win.
On the days when the husband moans – Obviously he’s not allowed to moan, that’s my job/prerogative. Anyway, what’s he got to moan about? So the grass is a bit long or the fire has gone out, so he has to go and pick up the coal or put the kids bikes away in the middle of a heavy downpour. Obviously the only thing to do here is moan at him about moaning all the time and repeatedly highlight all the shit I do for everyone around here. I know what you’re thinking, I’m a catch.
I moan about moaning – Best thing about summer – all the dry washing obvs. Worse thing except hay fever, open windows and the realisation that all my neighbors now know I am a world class moaning Mum. Often when moaning I find myself moaning that everyone can hear me moaning, this is normal, right?
So there we go, a moan for the day, I should be good for a bit now.
