A is for still for alcohol. If you don’t drink, you’re probably shit, not a parent and possibly not even a real person. Yeah. We can’t be friends.
B is for breaking point. And knowing that yours is far away with the gin fairies in the big white toilet in the sky at the end of the mother shitting rainbow…
C is chocolate. You don’t even chew anymore… if it doesn’t go down in one, the toddler might notice.
D is for dinnertime and all the weeping you’ve done… as you scrape yet another lovingly prepared meal into the pedal bin and pass them a bowl of cheerios.
E is for envy. No of course I’m happy you had a nice time on your 5* luxury adult-only child-free holiday while I cried into some weetabix as the toddler hit me in the face with a Peppa Pig tambourine…. Really f@*king happy…
F is for F@*k. And how many times I say that a day…
G is for GGGGIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNN. If you have to ask why, please see point A.
H is for humous. What an evil twat that stuff is.
I for ice cream. Your one ‘ace in the hole’… The bribery tool of parents globally. A mystical and magical power to be cherished and never abused. And mostly used to allow you (up to) ten minutes peace and smug time in restaurants and public places.
J is for jumping in bastard muddy puddles. Me and that pig have serious beef. Fact.
K is for Klout. I just don’t get it. Sorry. (Probably be sacked from blogging now)
L is for lying. Because you never do that*. (*This is a lie, you’re so good you don’t even know you’re doing it… amazing…)
M is for Mummy and how you never thought you’d get bored of hearing it… until you started hearing it 3-million actual times a day. And yes, 3-million is the actual number. I’ve counted. Scientifically using fingers and toes and everything.
N is for nipples and how I miss being able to look at mine without wincing.
O is for optimism and how quickly you were broken after they turned one. Ahhh the memories…
P is for pizza. You know why.
Q is Quesadilla. No reason. Just couldn’t think of anything that began with Q. It is another food that my child won’t eat though. I know this because it isn’t pizza or ice cream or cheerios.
R is for random acts of toddler rage. You should be afraid. And wear protective clothing whenever possible.
S is for story time. How lovely it was to begin with… and now, after a year of Cinderella every bastard night, you’re one Happily Ever After away from using Iggle Piggle’s boat to saw through your arms and a Calpol syringe to remove your own eyes.
T is for Toys’R’Us and knowing you’ll never set foot in there again with a hangover and a toddler high on a McLunch.
U is for underhand. Yes. Toddlers are the masters of manipulation… I think I’m being strong but within ten minutes I’m whipping up a petit filous milkshake, wearing a cat mask and singing the f@*king bing bong song.
V is dedicated to the area formally known as vagina.
W is for Why… Why did I ever complain before they could move, speak and f@*k up my furniture… (it’s perfectly acceptable to take a break here to sob into some wine.)
X is for X@!$%NJ. An expletive too rude even for this blog.
Y is for ‘You Time’… and knowing that at best this consists of a wee by yourself whilst eating a hobnob.
Z is for Zingzillas. Those bastards.