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….




Ever Had One of THOSE Days?

I’ve had one of “those days”!

I know you get what I mean when I say that because I bet your bottom dollar you’ve had at least one of those days this year too.

It’s the kind of day where you’re dropping your child at school and you’re totally high fiving yourself coz you’re there right on time for once… And then you see every other student in free-dress. It’s the kind of day where your child cries relentlessly because he is the only one in his uniform and you feel like the worst Mother in the world because you didn’t read the memo! So you drive home, you change him into free-dress and you take him back – which by now, of course, he’s late.

It’s the kind of day when you have so much to do but you have an almost-three-year-old who won’t let you do any of it without a fight. Fuck the terrible a twos these fucked up threes are a nightmare! A tantrum down every aisle, bargaining like a mother fucker just to keep him quiet, a shit in his pants in the Bunnings car park, shoes off/shoes on argument every single stop we make, a Houdini in the seatbelt and a bite on the behind in Spotlight. And just to be clear he bit me! Not from anger just pure enjoyment.

It’s the kind of day where you get granted 1 hour alone time without that Houdini biting child just to finish what you started because it was simply impossible to do it with him and stay sane. You get to the supermarket but you can’t remember how you got there and you start to wonder whether silence in the car is actually more distracting than a noisy and demanding toddler. You arrive safely, thank god, and park in the furtherest spot from the shops because it’s the only car bay where someone has actually parked in their lines. You suit up, smack that “I got this shit” smile on and head in. Locating all your items in the “new look” supermarket is tough and you seem to get caught behind every single granny who has recently had a hip operation. They’re clocking their Zimmer-frames at minus 40km/hour while swerving dangerously all over the aisle. You can’t go around them, ones coming up the rear and their too deaf to hear your polite excuse me’s. It’s snail pace on horse tranquillizers… and there is seriously a billion of them.

It’s the kind of day where you’re “late” for appointments that you actually secretly forgot and your kid forgot to hand in a permission slips for an excursion so you have to do an emergency dash to the school otherwise they can’t go. And if there’s something worse than a three-year-old tantrum it’s a moody fourteen-year-old boy. Ergh, fast forward to a happy well adjusted adult please.

It’s the kind of day when you’re about to sit down, finally, only to realise you have two kids still ‘out there’ awaiting your pick up some time soon. So you fold up your PJ’s and put them back on the bed for later… Much later. Oh well, what’s two more trips to the fourteen hundred already clocked up today.

It’s the kind of day when you’ve finally sent out your child’s three-year-old birthday party invitations only to find out apparently he’s turning one coz one rhymes with fun and three doesn’t and you probably should have known that when you bought the cute little invites.

It’s the kind of day when it seems everyone has decided to drive on the roads at the exact same time as you, but super cautiously…. Must be those hip replacement Grannies from the shops! Like 20km-below-the-speed-limit-cautious. And you want to scream and yell and be one of those psycho road ragers that you see on YouTube coz you’re in a hurry but you’re way too cool and kind for that so you sit behind them muttering obscenities under your breath because if you say them out loud the almost-three-year-old will repeat it in front of his Speech Therapist who wants to hear his ‘new’ words.

It’s the kind of day you need I.V coffee just to get you through.

It’s the kind of day where I may whinge a lot, I know, I seriously do, but I can also find the joy. I’ve high-fived myself on numerous occasions because even though I’ve been late, I’ve been frustrated, I’ve been bitten by my almost-three-year-old … I’m alive. I made it. The kids made it. We managed to laugh and talk and tickle. We’ve managed to shower and eat and fall asleep peacefully. And those slow drivers probably saved me a speeding ticket, maybe even saved me from having an accident. 

Nobody’s going to shake my hand or pat me on the back tonight to tell me what an awesome fucken game of survival I played today. Nobody’s going to give me a pay cheque for being an event planner, a taxi driver, a personal shopper, an au pair, a negotiator or a teething ring for someone who already has a mouthful of teeth. Nobody really cares.

But it’s the kind of day that when I finally crawl into bed at midnight that I can count my blessings. Of which I have many and whinging, freely, in my blog is one. Because I get to say it, unleash it, vent it and let it go while you get to relate or hate or whatever tickles your fancy and we all get on with our day after that. And so my venting here is done and my blessings have been counted. 

How about yours?

One love,

DRK xxx