Toddlers make it really bastard-well hard to be the sort of parent you hoped to be.
I mean – mine really gets in the way of me successfully projecting the image that I’ve got my shit together and am not quietly dying inside whilst simultaneously being held together by the power of gin and blueberry muffins.
I always had dreams of home-life perfection… a tidy raisin-free home, days spent in Weetabix-free clothing, singing nursery rhymes, baking cookies, playing with dollies and pulling moonbeams out of my arse to a chorus of Disney woodland creatures… But. Alas. Life isn’t really like that.
I blame my child. SHE KEEPS MESSING UP MY PLANS TO BE PERFECT AND SHITTING RAISINS ALL OVER MY METAPHORICAL SOFA OF DREAMS.
It’s not so much a complaint as a cold. Hard. FACT.
A prime example of this is that yesterday, she had her first Happy Meal. *places hands over face to shield criticising looks and drown out tuts*… I didn’t even feel bad. Mainly because I knew she’d actually ‘eat’ her beige McLumps without complaining… I ordered a fruitbag too – you know… for ‘decoration’. And watched as she stuck four chicken nuggets in her face whilst barely chewing and upon finishing demanded ‘CAKE’ at the top of her voice whilst feeding discarded grapes to the Ninky-Nonk… Probably the most successful meal-time we’ve had in the last three months. *Sobs a bit*
It is moments like these that make me wonder if I’m doing a good enough job with her… I’m not going to be making fast food lunches a regular thing, but she looked so happy with her little packet of processed beige that I felt a sense of actual ‘relief’. Like a big fat metaphorical McPat on the back… *stands up ready to be shot in face by parenting police*
I just feel like I’m eating my own words on a daily basis…
I will home-grow and home-bake all my own food and definitely not live mostly on Jaffa Cakes – FAIL
I won’t let my child get addicted to kids’ TV whilst I learn all the words to the theme tunes and develop ‘shame-crushes’ on the presenters – FAIL
I won’t bribe my child with toys and let every room in my house become a Fisher-Price showroom – FAIL
I won’t let my child wear her Ballerina tutu every day for a month because I’m too weak to handle the tutu-refusal-toddler-violence – FAIL
I won’t sit around hungover on a Sunday while the toddler licks the sofa for sustenance and graffitis the cats with a permanent marker – FAIL
I will drink less gin – FAIL. FAIL. FAIL.
I could go on… I think you probably get the picture…
So, here I am holding my hands up and saying that I have failed to be the parent I dreamt I’d be, but despite the odd McTreat I think I’m doing a fairly awesome job being the one I am.