Today I did the very thing I said I would never do. Today, while food shopping with the kids, also known as Mums version of hell, I let a busy buddy put me down and make me feel like a shit mum.
I don’t normally food shop. That’s the husbands job, as the kid seems to become a complete fuck at the mere mention of shopping. But today, needs must.
So, I bribed the baby with a Kit Kat just to get her to stay in the trolley, and let the kid pick up every item she wanted, while slyly putting it back as I went. So what if she was running up and down the sweet aisle screaming “whatlat” at the top of her lungs.
I get to hear her high pitch wail twenty times a day surely the other unlucky shoppers could grim and bear it for another ten minutes. Apparently not.
The busy buddy in question decided the till queue would be the best time to offer me her parenting advice, while I was struggling to contain the baby in the trolley and stop the kid from buying ten more Kit Kats.
“You really shouldn’t swear you know. Kids that age pick up everything.”
“Sorry?” Picture my raised eyebrows in mixed bemusement and confusion.
“Swear. I heard you calling her a ‘arsehole’. It’s not nice.”
Luckily I’m quite blazé about this shit, and I just shrugged it off, damming her to eternal hell where my kids scream, kick, spit and make her play princesses fight witches all fucking day.
But no that’s petty right? Next time I might just stick my kids in her trolley and actually pick up the items I need for a fucking change. Maybe she might have more success then me at reeling them in….
I don’t swear AT my kids. I wouldn’t dare in fear the kid would actually pick it up and repeat it to my mother in law. I whisper, groan and generally rant via Facebook about how much shit I’ve had to wipe today and how I can’t be fucked to wash up again, instead choosing to sit the kids in front of Cbeebies and watch Call the Midwife on iPlayer.
Suffice to say she made me feel crap. At least she can walk away from all the screaming, body grabbing and excess chocolate consumption.
But that got me thinking. Am I really a bad parent? My kids are dressed, washed in part via the pen marks on the baby’s face thanks to her sister’s artistic eye. They get fed, a lot, and generally get played with for twelve hours a day, including when I’m trying to pee (our bathroom makes a good space ship) and attempt some sort of edible dinner.
What is it with society thinking that they can put mothers down so easily? In my view we are more important then the Prime Minister himself in making sure that our young grow up to be nuclear scientists and top notch lawyers. So why do we, as mums, take this shit?
So to the woman standing behind me in Asda, lay off. I may have kids, but I’m still working this shit out as I go. I’m not perfect. No mum is. All we’re doing, day by day, is trying to keep our shit together and survive until bed time. Fact.