You know that feral looking crazy woman who careered past you in the supermarket the other day? Adorned with jogging bottoms, mismatch ballet pumps and an inside out vest? Small child resting on her hip, peanut butter in her hair? The one who left an air of baby sick wafting down aisle seventeen?
Well, that was me.
Sorry about that.
Please Allow Me to Explain…
I haven’t always looked like I got dressed in the dark and I promise you that once upon a time I actually had a brain, but in the summer of 2014 my life changed forever, when at the budding age of thirty-one I gave birth to a ruddy gorgeous heart-string pulling, brain-cell pinching, sleep-inhibiting, LOUD bundle of awesomeness, named Eric. And oh-sweet-holy-mother-of-chocolate-sprinkles – he’s a keeper.
Goodbye Sanity – Hello Motherhood
When my son was two weeks old, I came perilously close to answering the front door with one of my breasts hanging out. On a separate occasion, I signed for a parcel with him still attached.
It’s going to take me somewhere in the region of three hundred and seventy-eight trillion years to catch up on lost sleep.
I am often to be found wearing at least two of my son’s dried-up bodily fluids. (Currently booger and dribble).
I am no longer capable of holding a coherent adult conversation about anything other than nappies, nipples, pee or poop.
I don’t waste time worrying about trivial little things. I have far too many legitimate concerns to address, such as:
- Should I get Eric to hospital by car, ambulance or air rescue? He hasn’t stopped hiccupping for forty-seven and a half minutes.
- How much snot can come out of a little person before they become dangerously dehydrated?
- Is that a rash? I knew I shouldn’t have given him that tomato yesterday. I am a terrible mother. How am I going to explain this to the authorities? This is ALL. MY. FAULT! …No wait, it’s just spit-up. Though I shall keep him away from tomatoes until he’s eighteen, just in case.
I have been known to consult the washing machine for parental advice. It’s far more reliable than Google.
I keep finding my mobile phone in the fridge.
Sanity is Overrated
Okay, so I might have lost a few marbles along the way, but holy guacamole – becoming a parent is by far the most stupendously inspired thing I have ever, ever done.
Who wouldn’t want to wake up to this cheeky little face every morning?
My son spreads joy and peanut butter wherever he goes. He is the jam in my doughnut, the ketchup on my chips – and I love him more than Ben and Jerry’s Cookie Dough ice cream.
That’s right – I said cookie dough.
I’m not a perfect mother, just a work in progress. I can’t teach you how to raise children who poop unicorns or pee rainbows, but I can give you a sneaky insight into my somewhat hilariously dysfunctional motherly world of love and dribble.
Love for motherhood – and all the superfluous dribble that comes along with it.