You’ve survived another toddler holiday… *twitches a bit*
And you’re expecting your knighthood summons in the post any day now. (Obviously).
And just when you thought holidaying with your toddler couldn’t get any worse… You arrive home… Depressed… Exhausted… Sweaty (Pregnancy Glow)… And get punched in the face with the reality that is your tantrum-throwing-icecream-demanding-turd-slinging-shit-storm of a two year old who’s been the centre of attention for way toooooooo long.
She’s a shit. A smiling assassin. A wolf in Disney Little Mermaid clothing…
Let me lay-out the key changes for you:
Pre-holiday – Wake-up, brush teeth, brush hair, get dressed, head for breakfast… sorted.
Post-holiday – Mummy is awoken by the recently familiar sound of the toddler demanding freshly baked croissants and home made apricot jam for her and her troop of airplane toys, brought in on the back of a mountain goat riding a rainbow. She won’t be brushing her teeth/hair anymore because that would be f@*king ridiculous. And no. She won’t be wearing the simple skirt/t-shirt combo you’ve selected for her today, she’ll instead be fashioning a toga from one of the curtains, and pairing it with one of her Ugg boots, a tiara and your lipgloss. Thanks.
Out & About:
Pre-holiday – Buggy travel, the odd shop-related tantrum, generally appeased by playground trips, iPhone sessions and the odd biscuit…
Post-holiday – I hate Peppa Pig. Your iPhone and your general face bores me. Slides are for wankers. Thanks for bringing me to this shop; I’ve picked out all the shit I need, handed it to the lady behind the till and told her you’ll be over in a minute. Also. I’ll be travelling everywhere via the medium of naked, interpretive jazz-flamenco from now on. Just so you know.
Pre-holiday – A solid rotation of pizza, sausages, omelettes and desperation, interspersed with sandwiches and fruit… Bland, boring, but varied enough to keep me from crying into my salad…
Post-holiday – Chips. Melon. Ice-cream. And Attitude… if those melon ‘hedgehogs’ aren’t cut just the way she likes them and brought to her by a spanish waiter who provides her with a continual supply of ice-cream following her expert recitals of the phrase ‘Ola’, the shit will hit the pink-€1-hand-fan. Every ten minutes she must leave the table to check the sea is still there. Without shoes. Naturally.
Pre-holiday – Milk, bath, cuddles, storytime… (wine).
Post-holiday – F@*k You. I am Wally-Juanita. The Nappy-Removing-Flamenco-Ninja of the West. Quiver as I fart naked in my bed and laugh in the face of sleep…. Mwahahaha. I don’t give a f@*k if it’s past 8pm, put me in a pretty f@*king dress and take me out to dinner you hussy.
*Side-note* Think I may have followed through with that fart… Probably all the melon. You should clear that up. Quickly.
So… with some careful reintroduction of routine, structure and order we will slowly get back to ‘normal’… or I could go crack open the suitcase-rioja, hide in then unfathomable pile of holiday-washing, stay very still and quiet, and just wait for the pregnancy pixies to come and do all the housework/parenting for me. Yeah. I’ll do that. That’ll definitely work. Definitely.