Yesterday, following what seemed like an incredibly long break for Christmas and New Year, normality and routine resumed when Mr L returned to work.
Thanks to inset day the ankle biters and I are settling into things more gently but did at least get dressed before 2pm and I didn’t fill my face with crap so I guess we’re getting there.
As the little little turns 3 next week (WHAT?) We finally got round to writing the invites to her party and, to give people the best chance of being able to make it (although frankly it would save some cash if they were otherwise engaged) we decided to take the invites down to nursery to be put in the lucky recipients bags ASAP.
The big little wanted to scoot there….
Now, I have opinions, plenty of them as it goes and, both general life and motherhood have both had an amazing ability to smack me in the face with them and force humble pie onto my plate in generous helpings over the years. That being said, I ain’t never going to be ok with coke in a baby bottle for a toddler (true story) or spray on tight white leggings and a skinny black thong on anyone other than Kate Moss so, I don’t think I’ll ever truly lose my inner Hopkins but these days I do tend to be more of a lover than a fighter, we’re all on our own journey blah blah blah.
One of the groups of people I used to be all judgy with and internally tut at were the parents who carried their children’s shit.
You know who I mean- the exasperated parent struggling with the pram and the trike on the way home from a “nice family day at the park”. I was all,
it’s their stuff, it’s their responsibility. I’ll tell you one thing for free- you’d never catch me doing that.
HA FREAKING HA HA HA.
Let’s think for a minute about the sheer lunacy of this shall we?
After an hour of preparing to leave the house with wee stops, shoe vs welly rows and scratching snot off your only cleanish top your finally on the move. #winning
You have 20 yards of wonderfulness where it’s all counting cars, commenting on local flora and forna and perhaps an approving look from an elderly passerby before the inevitable whinge…guess what…they’re bored of scooting/pram pushing/dolly carrying.
Whatcha gonna do soldier?!
Argue with a halfling who is so little they are unable to go to the toilet unaided, about the fact that they made the consious decision to bring their dolly/pram/scooter to the park/shop/any other place parents venture with them and, less than a nano second into that journey (but just far enough from the house or car) they change their teeny tiny minds and now want you to carry it.
Lets think about how that might end shall we…
a) with said child accepting the error of their ways, apologising for their embarrassing gaffe and then scooting happily home where everyone laughs about it with a nice glass of chablis
b) with said parent slamming themselves in the face for believing the halflings promises that this time things would be different and they would definitely scoot the whole mile and a half to the shops and it would take less than a fucking eternity to do so.
c) passers by calling the cops and social services after seeing a grown person rocking and crying in the street like a Romanian orphan with a bemused toddler next to them asking their dolly why they never, ever listen to mummy.
Well friends, today as the custom built micro scooter took another chunk out of my shin and the heavens opened whilst I pushed both girls in the double buggy with a slow puncture, I felt karma on my shoulder laughing her ass off.
All this in Dry January?!
First world parenting…The struggle is real people!
Loads of love,