Who said being a parent is easy?

Yeh we all did, when we weren’t parents. You remember we’d look at hassled mothers dragging screaming children round the shops and think: “For chrissake! Get a grip on yourself and the child, it can’t be that difficult, the human race has been round for a long time!”

And you’d listen to them moaning on and on about how tired they were and you’d look at them unbelieving “Good God woman all you have to do is stay at home all day! Try doing a real job.”

Do you ever feel foolish now?

Now that you know what it is all about?

Would you ever think such thoughts again?

Nope, didn’t think so!

The problem with parenting is that until you are one you will have NO idea. The world is split into those who are and those who are not. And never the twain shall meet.

I have friends who do not have children and they just have no clue. For them sitting down to eat dinner at 9pm is normal but by that time my kids would have started to chew my arm off.

Bless my friends; they think getting up early is 7am! Hello! Try an hour earlier and no it is not because I want to pop down to the gym. THEY are awake at that time, they need feeding and watering and making sure they go to the loo. They need separating from each other as well before they kill each other and sorting out in time to go to school. And yes it does take me two hours to do that - I’ve got to fit in the rest of my life as well you know. Dogs, chickens, housework!

And no I can’t just leave them on their own at the drop of a hat to go to the cinema when they are sleeping. Yes they won’t know about it because they are sleeping but there is a law I am sure that says it is not right to abandon your kids without supervision while you go a-gallivanting.

So I would agree that I am not the same as I was before, I would agree that I am not spontaneous anymore. When you are a parent you need to plan a little and things take longer to do. And there never seems to be enough time. And the thing is you have to prioritise. It’s no longer all about me. It’s about my boys…and it aint easy to be a parent.

Well that’s it I am going home to Mother!

Well that’s it I am going home to Mother!

With a slam of the door and a flick of my hair I get in the car and am off. The only problem I have with this scenario which I know is played out across the nation, nay the world is, I actually haven’t had an argument with my husband and so there is no need for me to go home to Mother.

But I am sick and tired of being ill so that is my excuse, a poor one I know but an excuse anyway. Unfortunately I do not think this excuse will warrant much affection for my aforementioned mother. In fact I think she’ll look upon the whole interlude with dread, like any mother who has got used to the freedom of NOT being a mother and all that that entails.

But Mother Dear it is now far too late for any excuses yours, mine or the dog’s, for I am on my way and will see you later.

Oh the joy you must be feeling knowing your erstwhile eldest is on her way. The excitement that you will be in charge again, having to administer to every need and whim, mopping the fevered brow while entertaining two grandsons and trying hard to keep them quiet so that your eldest can rest.

Having to organise food to tempt jaded palettes, wash up and dry up and make the beds. Having to settle arguments, dole out comfort and all the time being on your best behaviour.

Not for you the time to lounge about in bed or to wander your home clad in just your nightie till elevenses should you so wish. No you will have been invaded and the emotional locusts will leave you only when you are parched dry…such joy having the family to stay.

But Mommy Dearest it won’t be for long, as I am sure you will encourage us to fly the nest again by turning the heating down, producing only the most revolting food which you know we do not like, ensuring that there is little else for us to do and making sure Grandpa hogs the TV. Not for nothing have you been through all this before….

Bringing up boys: When you start to sound like your own parents...

There comes a time when you sound exactly the same as your own parents. It is frightening and is most noticeable when I am telling the children off. Echoing down the years I hear the same familiar phrases, the same intonation and I know rather worryingly that the same gestures and penetraing looks are thrown in for free.
Tonight was a classic. Tonight I offered my children Pasta, one of their favourites. With sausage meat balls and home made tomato and choirzio sauce, obvioulsy not one of their favourites...
The Boy: I am NOT going to eat it. I don't like it.
Me: Just sit down and let's get on with supper. You'll just have to have a little bit.
The Boy: No, I am NOT going to eat it, I will be sick
Me: Stop being so silly, you will not . Now SIT down please.

The Boy crosses his arms aggressively and looks belligerently at me from beneath his brows.
Me: Boy! SIT. DOWN...NOW.
The firmness with which I speak and the careful unnunciation of each and every word conveys the gathering menance. I will not be brooked. He sits down.
Me, brightly: That's better! Now eat up everyone.
Just as The Boy picks up his fork his younger brother pipes up.
Bog Boy: I love this Mummy, it's my favourite!

My heart sinks a bit, typical Bog Boy to open his mouth with that sort of thing! Turning to him: That's lovely Darling, now lets eat it all up.

Bog Boy gives his glowering brother a cherubic smile and I want to throttle him, now The Boy will create a stink. I glance up and across, he's toying with the pasta. With great show of effort and a whimper the one piece is placed in his mouth as if I were making him eat slugs. He grabs at his water and glugs down half of it. I purse my lips and peer over the top of my glasses.
Me: Stop making a fuss now and eat properly.
The Boy wailing innocently: But I AM!
Me: You ARE NOT. Now STOP this and get on with it.
With great show, and furious expression, he stamps down his fork on a poor unsuspecting sausage meatball, which unfortunately for him startled by the force at which it is being skewered makes its escape, along with the fork, across the table sending tomato sauce everywhere.

Me, rising out of my chair: WILL YOU BEHAVE! LOOK WHAT YOU HAVE DONE! You will STOP this RIGHT NOW!
There is a momentary silence then a snivelling starts to emminate from the boy across the table.
Me, quietly: Stop it. Here's your fork and just get on with it now.
The fork is raised valiantly to my son's mouth. I am obviously asking him to eat poison. The sausage meat ball is nibbled.With narrowed eyes I glare at him
Me hissing: Properly!
The meat ball once again resumes its painful journey to my son's mouth to be devoured whole, only for there to be a sudden retching sound as it re-emerges almost immediately falling to the plate.
The Boy: See! It is making me sick. You are SO mean.
Me, verging on losing it:  You didn't even try to eat it. You will eat all of that up now!
The Boy, shocked: You want me to eat my sick!
me: You were not sick you just spat that out!
The Boy wailing: I was sick! You are making me eat my sick!
Me in full tirade: Don't be ridiculous. I am doing no such thing. How dare you talk to me like that. After all the time and effort I went ot to make this lovely meal for you this is how you show your gratitude! You should be so lucky that someone cares for you this much. Eat all your food up now. Think of all those starving millions...
Bog Boy, with genuine concern: Starring Villians??? Whose Villians, is he on TV???