Sometimes, and thankfully these times are now relatively rare, I don’t feel like doing the mum job anymore. I’m sick of navigating the whining, the tantrums, and being smacked and shouted at. Even getting the simplest of things done (like getting dressed and leaving the house) can require a load of distractions, tactical manoeuvres, and lets face it, bribes. In short, I can’t be fucking bothered anymore.
This has arisen now, this week, because I’ve been poorly. No, mummy isn’t allowed a sick day. There’s no annual leave either by the way with this package. It puts me in mind of when my journey into motherhood first began. I distinctly remember thinking “I want to give this back”. But of course this ‘item’ has a strict no returns policy, and anyway the shop doesn’t even exist anymore. It’s a bit of a head fuck if truth be told, you’re on this roller coaster ride and there’s no way off. You could hand little one over and run away for a couple of hours, but if you’re anything like I was you’ll find yourself riddled with guilt for even leaving the room to take a bath. That’s the thing you see, when you have a baby the machinery in your brain changes. Cogs and gears get shifted around, you think differently. Most annoyingly you now have a broken tap that spews out crud called ‘mum guilt’ at an alarming rate anytime you consider doing anything for your selfishly selfish self.
I often wonder if I’m built to be a mother at all, perhaps a part of me is faulty or simply put together wrong. I really lost my shit this morning, and to be honest the little one wasn’t even doing anything THAT bad. But when she blatantly laughed in my face as I told her off I just felt this big surge of irrational anger and frustration. What can I take away that’ll make her sit up and notice? What can I threaten that’ll wipe the smile off her face? “Right! No chocolate for you… NO we’re NOT going to the park now!” I’d even consider the so-called naughty step if we had any but living in a flat pretty much rules that out. Perhaps Jo Frost would suggest a naughty chair instead, facing a blank wall maybe, all a bit too Victorian for my liking (and I’m resisting reward charts too for now, but never say never).
Worst of all is the stuff I don’t say at the time but which clatters around my mind like broken glass as I get more and more wound up and annoyed. I’m a person who avoids confrontation, would rather walk away, and frankly doesn’t see why people feel the need to deliberately piss each other off. So I really fucking HATE this part of being a parent where you have to set the boundaries and inevitably do a bit of tough talking (polite for shouting) when they get tested over and over again. At best it gives me a headache and at worst I have to take myself off to the loo and cry into a handful of Andrex Quilted (like this morning). The real pisser of it is I can’t even enjoy a cheeky vodka this evening because of the antibiotics I’m on.
In a perfect world I would be able to stop time right at the point I’m about to lose my shit. Everything and everyone around me would freeze like something out of The Matrix, and I could go fucking mental, unleash my inner bitch, and generally vent my frustration without anyone seeing. What makes the whole thing worse for me is worrying after the event if my getting vexed has had a damaging effect on her. I know we all have bad days but I hope mine don’t also bring her down in any way. There’s no pause button though, no way of expressing these things in complete isolation, it is what it is.
It’s because I’m ill this week, I know that. I’ll read this back next week and think “blimey, what was all that about?!”. But for today, it’s a very bad day at the office.