Mother of All Meltdowns

Today I had the mother of all meltdowns.

Today I had the mother of all meltdowns and kicked my beloved vacuum cleaner for getting caught on a chair. Yes. That’s right. I kicked it because it got caught and I had to walk a whole three steps backwards to release it from that said chair. I swear my kick hurt his feelings and I made his motor skip a beat. He is afterall my favourite household appliance.

Today I woke up knowing a meltdown was imminent. It was brewing before I had even opened my eyes. Brewing hotter and faster than any instant cup of coffee that I once was too snobby to drink but on a day like today I’d drink piss out of a toilet bowl if I knew it would give me energy and a happy face.

Today I woke up with a meltdown in full sight of sleep deprived vision. Sleep deprived due to the woman version of the man flu – just a cold – and a thunderous killer period to boot (me in the vagina) on top of that. So not only did my head and face hurt but so did my belly and my vaj. All parts throbbing like a motherfucker. Merry fucking Mothers Day Eve.

Today I woke up to a little face that was another reason for my poor nights sleep. A little face screaming at me to let him get the budgie out. Fuck the budgie, I wanted to say. But I didn’t. Well not to his face.

Today I yelled like a soccer mum to my young impressionable household, of who I’m pretty sure were not actually listening. I screamed out my standard mum-type lecture… “How would you feel if everyday I rubbed out all your school work and made you do it again.. And then when you rewrote it I rubbed it again… And again. That’s how I feel when I clean up this pig sty over and over again!” Today I tried to make my kids see housework and school work on the same level. Who am I kidding.

Today I attempted a food shop with four energetic boys who I’d spent the morning yelling at. I attempted a food shop with a throbbing head, a pounding vaj, a billion other cranky shoppers and four energetic boys. I should have known better but I needed bread, butter and tampons. The epic meltdown kicked in before I even made it to the first aisle. My meltdown that is. Today a woman stopped me and said; “Don’t worry all of us mums feel like this sometimes. Sometimes we don’t feel like being mothers.” At which point I smiled and replied honestly; “really don’t feel like being a mother today.” An encouraging smile came my way.

Today I flipped my hamburger over crumbs on the floor, toys under my feet, a stubborn three year old, “I’m hungry” every five fucking minutes, the argument between the 6 and 14 year old about whether it was light pink or pink, the banana mushed into the couch, the not-good-kind-of-throbbing, the heavy eyes and the no escape. Today I just wanted to get everything done so then I could enjoy Mother’s Day tomorrow in a clean house. That’s my present to myself. A clean house for a whole 24 hours. Today I learnt that a clean house for 24 hours and kids is un-fucking-realistic. Today I learnt we shouldn’t even aim for 24 seconds.

Then later today my three year old woke up early from his nap. Too early. Today he screamed blue murder when he woke up. Today I finally gave up yelling. I waved my white flag, surrendered and laid with him. I laid with him to console him, to give myself some time to rest and to hopefully get another hours peace from the stubborn threenager. Today instead of the threenager fighting it he rolled over to face me and wrapped his arms around my neck. Not in a choke hold. In a cuddle. A real life, nice cuddle. And he drifted off to sleep. Today while he slept and we cuddled he patted me on the back.

Today I needed that. Damn I can’t tell you how much I needed that.

Today I’m trying to convince myself that I am a good mother I’m just having a bad day. Today I had the mother of all meltdowns and we all survived. Today I’m lucky that they’ll still love me tomorrow.

NOW REPEAT AFTER ME:

I am NOT a bad mum.

I am a GOOD mum having a bad day.

One love,
DRK xxx

Now for a bit lighthearted autocorrect text mum fun….




Parenting Like a Bitch

Becoming a Mummy is one of the most exciting and scary things to do in the world. Exciting because you are combining magic beans with magic cuddles and creating a magic mini human – with many other exciting ways to become a mummy too I know. And it’s scary because well, because you’ve seen it go pear shaped for many – especially those irresponsible mummies with their uncontrollable children in the supermarket. Right? 

Wrong….

Shall we take off our rose coloured glasses and get real here…. Yes, let’s do that.

Parenting is going to suck big time some days!

We’ve all had visions of the type of Mum we would be. We’ve also thought long and hard about how cute and agreeable our children would be and then … Well, then we actually become real life parents.

What we all need to know on those days where it sucks harder than a baby on a cracked nipple is that we are ok and it is ok to feel like we suck at this.

This post is for the days when being a Mum feels like it’s the hardest, most unrewarding and frustrating thing in the world to do. This is your virtual hug from one mumma to another.

SOME DAYS

Some days your mini-human will sleep for a total of 5 hours in a 24 hour period and it is not in one block of blissful sleep but broken into many much smaller-sized portions and always when you have shit to do.

Some days you will be puked on, peed on and pooped on a million times before you have even walked out the door and it’ll be the first time since your bundle arrived that you’re actually out of your PJ’S before lunchtime and you’ve even managed to do your hair and make-up… Sort of… It’s just not until later you realise you didn’t wash the conditioner out of your hair and you only put mascara on your left eye. Just rock it. Own it.

Some days you will post a cute pic of your baby on Facebook with hashtags like: #havenofuckstogive #luckythiskidiscute and you will mean it …. In an endearing way of course.

Some days the mini human is going to tear apart your soul while tearing up the supermarket aisle and you will be the poor mummy copping the stares from the very judgemental supermarket people. Supermarket people really are judgemental bastards aren’t they?! While we are talking supermarkets let me have a word with their marketing teams on behalf of all parents – why must you put everything we don’t want our children to have or eat at their eye level?! Why not hide that shit elsewhere and let everyone keep their sanity and shop in peace!

THE IDEAL

You may have in your mind a perfect picture but please know perfection is an expectation that you should wipe off your list right now – along with the perfect birth plan, the perfect sleep routine, the perfect child. You are giving birth to a human. A human who comes with their own needs, wants, personality and sometimes they’re even upgraded and come with devil horns… Doesn’t matter if you asked for the upgrade or not there are no refunds here! There is also no manual and the sooner you realise perfection is not in your control the sooner you will really enjoy parenthood… And it should be enjoyed. Imperfections and all.

“Perfection is an expectation that you should wipe off your list right now…” ~ Superwoman & Her Dirty Red Knickers

SCRAP IT

If you’ve pictured bliss – scrap it.

If you’ve pictured perfect Mummy, perfect Baby – scrap it. Delete it out of your mind now and forever.

If you’ve pictured only homemade organic food – scrap it. There will be days where preparation of organic food will be as hard and as overrated as the first crap you dared to push out after delivering that organic baby and tearing from one end to the other. 

If you’ve pictures breast feeding bliss and naturalness – some of us need to scrap it. There will be cracked nipples for many new mummies and as natural as breastfeeding is it is still not the easiest thing in the world to do for a lot of women. Totally ok. You are not a failure.

PARENTING LIKE A BITCH

Parenting like a bitch means that you ask for help when you need it. There is nothing weak about asking others for help.

Parenting like a bitch means before you go to bed in the evening when you’ve had one of those days look in the mirror and deep into your bloodshot eyeballs and say to yourself out loud like a crazy bitch “IT’S OK. I. AM. OK!”

Parenting like a bitch means you offer support to all those other mums doing it tough. Give them a hand when you are capable of giving it.

Parenting like a bitch means that after offering support which will be politely declined coz we are all so stubborn that you open your arms and your hearts to the troubles and tribulations of every other parent out there. You don’t have to take on their shit and you don’t have to save the world but being a good listener is heart healing. Trust me.

Parenting like a bitch means dropping the judgement. Dropping the anger, dropping the comparisons and choosing to just be real. Understand that every child and every child-parent relationship is different. Heck, I have five kids but only three of them toe the line most of the time! All five of them have been brought up the same. Same morals, same values and protocols for surviving. Yet two of them live by their own rules. It is what it is.

Parenting like a bitch means there will be moments in your life when you just want to pack up and walk the fuck out. Hell, you don’t even care for packing up – you’re done with that too! But generally once you’re at breaking point magic happens. The baby rolls over for the first time. Or the teenager randomly does the dishes. Or the non-verbal two-year-old drops his toy and clearly says his first word “Fuck.” It’s moments like these you look away, your once tense shoulders start shaking violently while you try to restrain yourself from wetting your pants in laughter … Oops pelvic floors. Wetting your pants is optional… Sometimes… Ok its not optional. You are a grown woman wetting her pants while laughing at her two-year-old son swearing.

From one Mummy to another – are you doing ok?

One Love,

DRK xxx

If you or anyone you know is suffering from Post-Natal Depression please contact your local GP, or someone you trust to talk with and get help. You can also visit PANDA.

Here’s some information from their website on PND:

The signs and symptoms of postnatal anxiety and depression can vary and may include:

  • Panic attacks (a racing heart, palpitations, shortness of breath, shaking or feeling physically detached from your surroundings)
  • Persistent, generalised worry, often focused on fears for the health or wellbeing of baby
  • The development of obsessive or compulsive behaviours
  • Increased sensitivity to noise or touch
  • Changes in appetite: under or overeating
  • Sleep problems unrelated to the baby’s needs
  • Extreme lethargy: a feeling of being physically or emotionally overwhelmed and unable to cope with the demands of chores and looking after baby

So You Quit Parenting?

Some days you don’t think you should have the honour of being called a ‘mother’.

Some days it all just feels too hard.

Some days you whine like a bitch and cry like a baby. You cry more than your own baby.

Some days it takes every ounce of energy not to say ‘fuck off’ to your children for every second, every look, every breath that they take, especially for when you’re hiding out in the toilet.

Some days you hate the role of “mother”. It’s unpaid and unappreciated and you’d rather bury yourself in your ten-foot high dirty washing pile even though you’re scared of germs and goobies. And by germs and goobies you mean stinking-arse-crack-and-sweaty-ball-jock goobies. Bonus, at least, you know they’d never look for you there.

Some days when they say, for the hundredth time prior to 9am, that they’re hungry you just want to grab them by those shitty jocks, lift them so high in the air it’s no longer a wedgie they’re wearing but dental floss for their back molars. Here’s hoping they can taste their own ball sweat.

Some days your patience is as thin as the air we breathe but not as thin as the air that’s coming out of their little lungs coz that air is heavy and loud and you hate that whole breathing sound thing they do some days!

Some days you’d just love some fucking silence!

Some days you just want to unleash the wrath of brain cell killing by giving them their iPads and 24 hours of screen time and high-fat, artery-hardening junk food for breakfast, lunch and dinner and a padded cell (actually, that’s for you) just so you don’t have to hear them or see them or talk to them for one whole glorious day.

Some days you feel so wild at the lack of gratitude your kids have that there’s a little ball inside your belly that wants to explode and bounce shit-fuck-shit off every single wall but you don’t because of the guilt and mess. But mainly the mess. But that doesn’t matter anyway because your clean-two-minutes-ago home is, thanks to them, now-a-fucken-pig-sty.

Some days you can only manage to eat popcorn for lunch because there’s nothing left to eat and there’s no way you are dumb enough to tackle the supermarket with this fucked up attitude and those demons kids.

Some days you let that popcorn get the better of you and you beat yourself up because you only started your new weight loss diet two hours ago.

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Some days you want to throw a two-day-old-shitty-nappy with your fiery resignation letter tucked inside at the bosses face, defiantly stick your middle finger out and scream “Fuck you, I QUIT!”

Except there is no boss.

The only boss here is you.

And that wasn’t a two-day old shitty nappy if you’re honest – it was three.

So now you have three-day-old-shit in your eye.

And possibly some in your mouth.

Some days you can blame PMS for your behaviour.

Somedays you can’t.

Some days you’re not a nice Mummy, hell you’d lucky to be classed as a nice person some days.

Some days it’s ok too.

One Love

DRK xxx

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