I’m typing this crouched on a z-bed in my sons’ room. It’s 8.18pm and I’m on look out.
About 20 minutes ago I trudged upstairs – reluctantly leaving my gin in a tin and Pom-Bears behind – to shouts of ‘There’s a poo. A POO. On the carpet.”
I walked in just in time to see my youngest step and slide in his brother’s giant turd.
I have a feeling this dirty protest was the result of some over zealous bed bouncing. Because as I cracked open my gin and scrolled through Instagram in the hope of beginning MY evening, the boys were on the rampage. Again.
I have a mountain of To Dos to climb. Why won’t the bastards go to sleep?
I brandished the almighty marble jar. Threats were made. My shouts reverberated through our sleepy village. I felt utterly powerless, and exhausted.
It was only about a month ago that I smugly reflected on how angelic my boys were at bedtime. We breezed through bedtime. My youngest – although a pretty terrible sleeper – for some inexplicable reason never needed assistance nodding off. Pop him in his cot and away he went. My eldest is no rule breaker. He loves his bed. He loves sleep.
I was one of those mothers we all hate.
We could book babysitters for 7.30pm smugly confident there’d be no trouble. They wouldn’t hear a peep. Because we were pros. Oh, the smug.
But then the unthinkable happened.
About a month ago Blue Eyes – aged 21 months – scaled his cot. One of our usual, easy-as-pie nights, I was reading Curly Boy a book, knowing – smugly – that Blue Eyes was tucked in and drifting off. Until I heard the unmistakable pitter patter of his chubby feet. And that was that. We had no choice but to unleash the beast.
And since then, well life has been somewhat different. No more binging on box sets of an evening, no more cooking at a relaxed pace, no more ticking off the to dos, we’re lucky to be left in peace before 9pm. And before this we have to endure hours of tedious toddler antics. By 9pm we are beaten.
I have learnt an important lesson. Never ever be smug.
Because as soon as that smug thought drifts out of your mind and hangs in the air, all puffed up and priggish, you’ve had it. That little self-conceited bubble is just waiting to burst and you’ll be left utterly bewildered.
This is why parenthood is so challenging. This is why mummy bloggers are taking over the world. Because the fun never stops. There is so much material out there. Each week presents a new test. The rules are constantly changing. One minute you’re nailing it, the next you got nothing.
In my darkest moments of parenting, cowering silently in a blackout-blinded room, my only friend a Smartphone, reading blogs has got me through. Because none of this is new.
As I pondered what to write for #BISS – something fresh, different maybe – it occurred to me that what I love about parent blogging is the reminder we’re not alone in this crazy world.
I stop pounding the keyboard. I can finally hear the sweet snores of my boys. Two hours too late, maybe. But all is forgiven.