When you have babies everyone tells you to make the most of the now before that sweet little bundle of joy arrives. Make the most of the sleep filled nights, get that last bit of the rest, really appreciate that endless peace you take for granted now. Generally, just make sure you live life wild, throw parties, take holidays and eat hot food, yes, you should really make the most of the freedom whilst it lasts. But what they don’t tell you, what those little sarcastic chuckles represent, what do they really mean? It’s the shit they don’t tell you. The shit they keep to themselves whilst secretly revelling in the fact that you will find out the hard way.
Babies are hard, they cry all the fucking time, they poop full on runny korma coloured, dirty, smelly poops, always at the most inconvenient of times. They need naps when you need to go out, they need feeding when you’ve just put your well used tit away. They need an endless supply of vests, wipes and nappies and they make it so you can’t physically get past 7.30 pm without passing out. They are so fucking hard. But there is shit they don’t tell you…
Toddlers are fun, they start to crawl or bum shuffle or if they’re anything like the First Born they have a mouth full of teeth and are walking whilst discussing the ins and outs of steam trains at 7 months old, but still have a bald head. Either way, by this point, you have to baby proof for real, locks on cupboards, bleach out of reach and stairs blocked off. But I swear, there is shit they don’t tell you.
Terrible twos, what the fuck, that shit is easy, they scream but they don’t answer back. They paddy but they can’t storm off, they can’t slam doors ad they can’t reach tablets placed on naughty shelves, unless they are ninja’s, like the Girl. But there is shit they don’t tell you…
Bed time. What the actual fuck. Bed time is the feckin’ witching hour for parents alike. I swear to god, it doesn’t matter if it’s the getting into bed part or the trying to drag their sorry teenage (but not teenagers) asses out of it for school. Bedtime has aged me twenty five years. This is the shit they do not tell you.
I calculate that I spend on average 850 hours of my year, per child, on bed time alone Dad does his own time, probably slightly less at a bout 750 since he gets to go the Moto GP once a year. Obviously, he has it easy.
Granted the First Born has entered the self going to bed mode but it still zaps the life from me to raise him from his pit five mornings a week. We’ll save this one for another time.
Back to the 850 hours thingy. Remember this is on average, some nights are like hell on earth with our sweet little butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth angel of a Girl. This one is all her. The shit they don’t tell you… about the Girl…
When you announce the expectation of a bundle of joy, there should be a handbook with all the fun bedtime shit you have to look forward to after the baby stuff has passed you by. They’re off to school, or nursery or Grandma’s, no more sleepless nights for you, they’ll be worn out from a day of fun, making, drawing and all things glittery. No more nighttime feeds and nappy changes, the teething and temperatures long forgotten, the persistent waking because the room is too hot, too cold or just fucking right. The shit they don’t tell you…
When upon the announcement of bedtime you commence an agonising 45 minutes of wait, tirelessly hanging, hunched over the banister emitting groans of utter defeat, this is just step one. The Girl, she’ll announce; she’s hungry, needs a drink, she’s just finishing these grapes, she needs an apple, needs to take that medicine she hates. She can’t come just yet because she has one more minute left of whatever YouTube shite she’s been glued too whilst Dad passed out and Mum tackled round one with the Kid.
Then eventually, she arrives at the stairs only to commence the “I’m juuuuust soooooooooo tired” game, she needs a carry, a piggy back, she can’t go on and must lie here on the stairs forevermore, or (and this is considered a parental win at this point) crawl up at a snail’s pace for the next 20 minutes. Woohoo…
Teeth. Fuck me. Throughout my parenting life I have approached my tasks with the outlook of ‘pick yer battles’ and stupidly I insist that this is my battle. I will prevail with the teeth fight, no tooth shall go un-brushed on my watch. What. A. Fucking. Battle. Why, why did I do this to my life (the teeth thingy, not the kids thingy – I do actually like the little shits, nearly all of the time).
Kids, mine anyway, cannot brush their teeth without stopping for a wee. The Girl in particular will need a break from the two minutes of brushing to go and draw something she’s just suddenly remembered she just has to draw right now. Granted I have to give it to the first Born, he pulls it out the bag and gets on with it, one shiny tooth and two minutes later with a brush that had barely moved and he’s off to re-assume the position in front of the TV. Obviously, his efforts are just a ploy to convince the Girl he goes to bed at the same time as her and you know, make bed time easy.
You’d be forgiven for thinking we were nearly there, but no, this is the Girl, she can spin this shit out for at least three more hours. Squeeze another wee out, change PJs , start making a friendship bracelet, change PJs. Set Alexa away with relaxing bed time music for children who hate bedtime and want to make their parents evenings miserable, change PJs, lights on, lights off, lights back on, change PJs. Climb the ladder, change the PJs, climb in, change duvet over, need a drink, were’s her sleep mask, she doesn’t like her PJs.
Then comes the hug, the kiss, the checking we won’t forget her cup of tea in the morning, passing the bobbles over, another drink. Another kiss, another cuddle, rearrange the teddies, a few threats of the loss of a tablet from whichever parents has lost their shit first. And she’s down. Round one, get to the door, bounce back to the bed. Round two, get to the stairs, bounce back to the bed. Hit the kitchen and do some jobs, run up the stairs (repeat until nearly dead). Sit down “MUM!”. Sit down “DAD!”.
“I can’t sleep, I don’t want to go to school, when will you die, will you message the teacher and tell them I can’t do PE, can we get a kitten, I need a fresh drink, my drink spilled, I don’t like these pajamas….”
The shit they don’t tell you, round one. More to come…
I think I wrote this about you going to bed in 1987 (without the swearing).