Feel like you’re being tested?

Anna Hughes - 4 Oct 16

I’m having a bad week. The other morning, while getting dressed as Husband gave the kids their breakfast, I hear shouting coming from the kitchen. I speed downstairs to discover Husband, running around, stressed, topless, while juggling pots and pans of varying sizes. The kids looking on excitedly with wide eyes and Weetabix smiles.

It was raining in our kitchen. Raining. In our kitchen. And no amount of pans, towels or tubtrugs were going to catch all of the drips. Not good. I call the roof guy who assures me that he will be over that very same morning. Still waiting. Five whole days have passed. Curious crawling babies and kitchen puddles are a bad combination. That roofer can do one. I mean, not even a text!

After all the excitement, I eventually manage to catch the baby, change nappy, remove faeces from her feet, my arms, both our hands and floor, apply eczema cream to the eldest WHILE she jumps up and down on the sofa laughing , teeth brushed, shoes found, shoes on, hair brushed (sort of), zips up and the children are out the door, both in mismatching socks AND gloves but out the door nonetheless, before 8:30am which is what we in this business call ‘an achievement’.

There was a moment during the getting ready madness where my eldest kicks off because I won’t let her do up her cardigan buttons. At this point, my patience gives up on me and I really shout at her. I feel bad about the shouting. She tells me it has made her feel sad.

We reach the car and it immediately becomes apparent that someone had issues with our wing mirror. Again. There it sprawls, all broken and useless across the pavement and road. £250 gone quicker than you can say ‘overdraft’. Fucks sake.

In the car, I apologise to my 3 year old for the shouting. She reminds me that the shouting made her feel sad. I remind her that her not doing as she’s told when running late makes me feel sad (what is this crap coming out of my mouth?!) and we made a deal to never do our bad things again. Until the next morning of course.

I drop the kids off at nursery. More tears. I think I’ve done it this time. They hate me. As I leave, I spot a kid quite literally SKIPPING into the room without even looking back. His dad chuckles and merrily strolls off to his day of having grown up conversations and hot coffee, guilt free.

The following day, the kids are both ill. The baby resembles Uncle Fester complete with double whammy eye infection, while the other one has bright red cheeks and a temperature. I run upstairs to fetch the Calpol and, in my hasty return, fall down the stairs. The stair gate at the bottom really adds to the drama. Eyes prickle. Deep breaths.

I limp to the kitchen and make veggie burgers for the first time. The kids will love these, I think to myself. Various vegetables are peeled, boiled and mashed, bread crumbs are made, seasonings are added, the food processor is whizzed. 40 minutes later, the completed burgers are proudly and lovingly placed before the children before being quickly pushed to one side, untouched. Two pairs of eyes look at me, hungry, wondering where their real lunch is.

I, like many other parents, regularly feel as though I am being tested. Not sure by what/whom exactly. But I occasionally daydream about a moment. A moment where I hear the sound of a buzzer, the scenery changes as though a curtain has been lifted, and I am presented with some sort of consolation prize. It’s good, but it’s not right they’d say.

But then today at nursery drop off time, something happened. I saw the skipping boy again only this time he wasn’t skipping. He was crying. And this time it was his mum who was dropping him off and he really didn’t want to let her go. And it was a nice reminder (apologies, sad crying boy), that actually my kids are crying when I drop them because they think I’m, well, pretty awesome. Because I’m their Mum. And that kind of makes it all ok.

That and wine.

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Anna Hughes

Bristol based writer and mother of 2 small people aged 2 and 4. Regular finder of banana in her hair and raisins in her shoes. Follow if you fancy an honest but (hopefully) smirk inducing account of real life mothering. No frump, no fluff, just the (occasionally harsh) truth. Tweet the Author: @bananainmyhair

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