It’s early morning and all is quiet on the western front. Which is strange, as The Spratts have been awake since 5.30am and since 5.31am have been shouting, screaming and whining as loud as humanly possible.
Knowing she will pay the price for her lack of parenting later, The Unsung Mum decides to take advantage anyway and puts her feet up, looking forward to a few alone time minutes with a certain Mr. Greg Wallace, when she was suddenly attacked by a great force.Shit.
The offending object, also known as the home phone to more civilized folk, rebounded off The Unsung Mum’s head and hit the floor.
Waiting for her war wound to appear, she silently scrutinizes her second born. Killer look in the eye. Check. Blunt object in hand. Check.
Crap. It can only mean one thing.
Babyhood has gone and toddlerhood part 2 has begun.
The Unsung Mum wonders how the hell she missed it. Had she suddenly run out of brain room and just forgot about this part or had it really been that traumatising the first time that she blanked it out.
The Unsung Mum, deciding to take the offending object, paid the ultimate price.
The Prune Face of Doom.The first time this happened, was last week when The Baby refused point blank to eat the whizzed up hidden vegetable pasta crap she liked last week and wanted cake instead. The Unsung Mum is all for cake eating, but even she knows that if her Spratt’s don’t start eating fruit or some sort of vegetable soon then they will probably turn into mutants.
“Shoe on.” The Baby screams, dragging The Unsung Mum back to the horrid present where ‘Brangelina’ no longer exists and ankle swingers are “in”.
Staring at her second born, who was currently wearing one pink wellie while demanding her blue shoe back, wondered how the hell she was going to make it out the house on time while persuading The Baby to pick just one kind of footwear.
“If she’s wearing wellies then so am I.” The Kid announced offhandedly while holding the toilet brush and wearing The Unsung Mums ten-year-old purple dressing gown.
“No one is wearing wellies today, thank you.” It was bad enough that The Kid already had to pick her own clothes now and refused anything that remotely went with anything else, choosing instead to walk around looking like a fucking rainbow gone wrong.
“Shoe now!” The Baby screamed, almost breaking the sound barrier.
Thinking it would give her another thirty seconds of peace, The Unsung Mum bent over to put the offending shoe shaped object on The Baby’s foot. Cue second Prune Face of Doom.
“Nooooooooo want it! Stoooppp!”
“Are you fucking serious?” The Unsung Mum hissed under her breath. She always thought that two-year-olds were a bit bipolar, but The Baby really takes the biscuit. Quicker than the speed of light, The Baby grabs the shoe and throws it at her sister, hitting the very spot between her eyes.
“Stop.” The Kid screams and throws the shoe back, defying gravity, and hits The Unsung Mum in the exact same place.
‘What the hell is going on here?’ The Unsung Mum thinks rubbing the now parsnip shaped bump on her head. How much fish would she have to eat to make up for all the brain cells she’s now lost? The Unsung Mum doesn’t like fish unless it’s battered or comes in finger shapes.
“She did it,” says The Kid.
“Don’t lie. I just saw you throw it at me.”
“Shoe!!!!” Continues The Baby, while The Unsung Mum wonders if 8.30am is too early for cake or a glass of Pinot.
“Right. Everyone needs to calm the hell down.” Rounding up her offspring, The Unsung Mum wrestles the dressing gown off The Kid and agrees to let them wear wellies all day in eighteen-degree heat if they promise not to step on her toes. The Unsung Mum knows this is a pipe dream, but weirder things have happened.
“Snacktime,” says The Unsung Mum in the hope that everyone will finally sit on their arses quietly for a few minutes without battering each other.
“In please,” asks The Unsung Mum as she tries her hardest to put her now pencil shaped baby into the highchair “In.” she repeats slowly, hoping The Baby will change her mind and suddenly move her now rigid limbs.
The Unsung Mum wonders what happened to her sweet baby who liked bending in the middle.
“No chair. Want floor!”
‘Of course, you do,’ The Unsung Mum thought. It’s easier to bash the TV with your fruit bowl when you’re sat right in front of it.
Slipping away, The Unsung Mum hurries to the downstairs loo to try and barricades herself in. And like any self-respecting middle-class mother, she takes out her phone and starts making a list of all the things so far that have pissed her possessed toddler off in order to try and not make the same stupid mistakes again.
“Okay, things that have set her off are:
“Mum. The Baby is screaming again.” Of course she is.
The Unsung Mum may be simple but she ain’t no fool. No amount of screaming (well maybe) will get her out of the bathroom. No siree.
The Unsung Mum is actually very stupid. She now knows this and can be found in a padded room attached to a cake drip with wine on tap.
And The Baby?