Yesterday started out as a lovely day; playing in the garden, both babies napped together and then off to the seafront for a quick paddle. I was in such a good mood, that the mess hadn’t bothered me, baby sicking on me was just ‘one of those things’ and a few tears before nap time were bearable.
At the Beach
So where did it all go wrong? It had started on the beach. I could deal with Lil man running into the sea and getting his shirt soaked (he was naked from the waist down) and Baby crying most of the time we were there. I got a little frustrated when my son decided to chuck our beach-combing findings back into the sea. I was going to use them for some toddler fun later, but oh-no he didn’t want that.
Fine! I begrudgingly accept his decision and we head to the car for home. Packing everything away takes longer these days; double buggy, change bag, bucket and spade, picnic blanket. Phew, managed it okay though.
Once we’re home, I start the dinner for me and Lil man and then Baby cries for her bottle. Or so I thought. How stupid of me to assume that 4 hours after her last bottle she might want another! After spitting the milk out several times, I give up and shove a dummy in her gob and try to get back to the cooking. Something quick and nutritious like avocado pasta.
In the meantime, Lil man has covered the kitchen floor in penne and is demonstrating how he is ‘cooking’. Yay! I manage to persuade him to play a ‘game’ of tidying-up-the-crap-off-the-floor (one of my favourites) and just as I dish up dinner, Baby starts to cry again. Breathe, I tell myself.
I grab the baby and sit at the dinner table with my son, trying feed a baby with a bottle and a toddler tagliatelle is not an easy task on your own. Pasta is flicked everywhere but his mouth. He doesn’t want to eat the ‘dirty bits’ in his dinner (basil) and cover his mouth if I attempt to do a choo choo train into the tunnel. The whole time, the baby is screaming and still not drinking her milk.
Losing the Plot
By this point I’ve had it and really want to just chuck his plate against the wall and throw the baby with it. But I don’t. I go into the hall and pick up the baby’s car seat and lob it against the front door. Twice. I don’t know why because it doesn’t make me feel any better, so I thud a wall with my fist. I’ve really lost it this time, I think to myself.
So I lock myself in the downstairs loo, with the extractor fan on to drown out the sound of kids crying, and phone my husband for moral support. (He is out for a drink after work, lucky sod). The telephone conversation went something like this;
‘The house is a tip and the kids won’t eat/drink and now they won’t stop crying! I spend ages thinking up dinners for him, I don’t know why I bother!’ Except there were far more F words thrown in and one shit. (You can work out where they go).
Comforting words (and food)
Husband mutters some generic ‘it will be alright’ statement which is muffled by the hubbub of people drinking and laughing in the background. Now I really want to smash my head through the plasterboard.
A couple of hours later, after bath time and story time, the dust settled. I had a large glass of wine and spoon some Nutella out of the jar. Eff the diet! Why else are fat people always jolly? Probably because they have no kids and a shit load of Nutella and wine in the fridge.
What’s been your #effit moment lately?