The Guilty Goose

So, here’s my vent. It hasn’t been a great week, it’s been a pretty shitty one so far. And I don’t like admitting that because I know this is the best time of my life, my three darling cherubs at home with me full time, none taken away to ‘big school’ yet. But there are only so many mornings I can take of being screamed at for an hour straight about wanting a dummy, or toast with more margarine, or fruit on the fairy plate, or my girls incessant desire to have everything that their siblings have even when they both possess the same freaking drink bottle!

I usually self medicate with extra chocolate (not a coffee drinker so have to get some sort of caffeenish/sugary hit another way and my morning Milo has included extra teaspoons lately). But this week with all three kids being overtired, Master 9 months deciding he no longer needs sleep…..ever…., snotty noses descending upon our house, a few rainy days thrown in to force us to be contained inside and I’m calling for a sick day, or a day of annual leave. I ask my husband knowing full well he can’t afford to take the time off work, no he has already used his leave to allow me my actual “sick day” when I got gastro a month back. Plus he had to take time off whilst I sat through three sessions of root canal. I told the nurse it was my morning off! Some days the long numbing needle of the dentist seems like a tropical oasis to the frantic mornings at our house. My time in the dentist chair was my mini ‘vacay’ away from the screaming, scratchy small hand grabbing around my neck and legs, the constant rivalry my girls seem to evoke within each other and my baby’s obsession with my boobs and being held, but you must be moving, you cant be stationary or he will cry…..again……

Deep breaths. That’s how I get through…and a bunch of hurried texts and sobbing phone calls to husband for moral support, but also so he can hear that my colleagues can really scream, and scream and cry and scream. I mean I don’t understand their motivation sometimes. I totally understand when they are hungry they get a little tense and frustrated that I’m not peeling a banana fast enough, but they are hungry all.the.time. And why do they suddenly after playing nicely decide to push each other. Is it a power thing? Is it because I am not being attentive enough? Do I sound funny when I use my authoritative voice? And why can’t I just put on my bra or pee without someone getting hurt, or starting a fight?

I lug us all to play-morning. The other mums must sense my desperation as we arrive an hour late. I am actually elated to see another mum arrive just before us. Phew, its not just me! I am asked how I am. I waiver. Do I tell them I’m losing my shit with the constant screaming and frankly bazaar requests. I mean why does Miss 4 require a tutu and ballet shoes and her hair in a bun and her hair clip, no not the purple one, the pink one, THE PINK ONE!!!!!!, to simply dance? And why right now, when I am holding  baby, burning dinner again and pacing the hallway looking out for hubby to arrive home so I can hand over and have a few minutes to cry as I feel I have failed yet again, does Miss 2 need to poo on the potty so I must attend butt wiping duty instantly.

So do I smile and tell them “I’m fine, thank you”. No, I decided to be honest, “I’m tired”. “Why?” the doe eyed mother of two asks, and I respond,  “Because my kids won’t sleep and  they have been fighting and yelling”. “Where’s your husband” she enquirers (like he could do my job any better?) and I respond that he is at work, now wondering what her husband does as she implies he is around clearly more than my man is. Then she asks why so much yelling and I just tell her that’s what life with three kids is like (must be noted her youngest is a baby and unable to be throwing tantrums yet an her eldest, well perhaps she lied when she said she doesn’t scream). Meanwhile my girls are off playing happily, looking like perfect angels who simply have a disheveled mother who clearly can’t keep her shit together.

Back to the me failing part. My reason for failing…..you see I have always wanted to be a mother, always wanted children, lots of them, and always wanted to be a SAHM. But in my fantasy I hadn’t factored in the social isolation. Husband goes to work early so he can come home early enough for dinner thankfully, but mornings can be hard, getting 4 people ready is a tough gig and its usually done in parts. For example I take off my pajamas then chase baby away from the power point. I tell Miss 4 to go to the loo for the fifth time then try to convince Miss 2 she doesn’t need to wear her Frozen dress for the 56th consecutive day, it desperately needs a wash, again. Then I try to wash my face, put on deodorant as mummying is sweaty work and tie up my hair but what’s the sound? Oh crap, someone has hurt themselves. When did you learn to climb baby? He’s ok, phew! Yikes, I still nee a bra, quick, put one on then what’s that smell…..change a nappy…..who is calling for help…..Miss 2 toilet trained herself last week and needs toilet paper…..have I brushed anyone’s teeth yet? And does anyone have shoes on yet????? And again, we are approximately an hour late to wherever we plan on going and likely if its not a preschool day its a too hard to leave the house day.

The only semi adult conversation I get is either online, which is really just me reading posts from fellow mummies on Facebook who all seem to be having a much better day than me posting pics of them painting egg cartons or baking cookies with their smiling kiddies or off at the park when we haven’t even left the house yet. But really who posts that their kid just shit themselves and that they were screamed at for putting socks on incorrectly. Or that their toddler just bit them so hard they squealed in pain as they clenched their teeth and thought of their escape plan; often hiding in the pantry where the sugar lives. Those few who do write honest posts about arriving at an appointment with poo smeared across their shirt, I take my hat off to you, thank you for being realistic about the everyday occurrences of the mummying profession.

Even if I do get to talk to another human adult, its hard to carry a conversation when I’m counting my kids as I watch them, rarely able to make eye contact or complete a sentence anyway. Two mums talking must look like lunatics from a distance, heads moving about in all directions, occasional bouts of yelling “Stop! Come Back. NOW!” and the popular countdown “5, 4, 3, 2…I mean it…..ONEEEEEEEEEEE” as one mum runs off after their spawn trying to avert some sort of catastrophe like their eldest pushing his little sister off the swing. And forget talking to an adult without kids. What else is there to talk about when you have three kids? The weather?

My kids rarely listen to me, unless I slip in the word “lollies” or “chocolate” or “ice cream”, then they are likely to tune in, but only briefly until they can ascertain if there are actual treats available right now and secondly if the reward is worth the effort. It can also be very difficult following a conversation with my little people. Miss 4 told me tonight there was something wrong, when I asked what it was she replied the curtain was closed. Umm yes dear, its bed time, we close the curtains at night. I mean its not exactly riveting dialogue an many occasions, but I was happy for the acknowledgement of my question none the less.  And our dog is so depressed by her bottom place in the pecking order that she hardly raises an eyebrow, let alone move off her bed during the day, even when the kids climb all over her.

I’m lucky I have my mum, thank goodness she knows when enough is enough. She actually turned up at play morning, then we drove to McDonalds and ordered two happy meals and for a moment there was calm. Mum hugs me and tells me its ok that my kids are watching Frozen for the 2nd time that day, that’s its okay they ate junk for lunch, that its ok I needed a break. And gradually her parenting choices I previously questioned start to become clearer and for a moment I understand her and her reasons woman to woman.  Because honestly I feel guilty feeling this way. I think when the midwives told me to check my dignity at the door before childbirth (see my previous post) they replaced it with a suitcase full of guilt. I should have read a book at bedtime, I should have made a more nutritious lunch than a honey sandwich, I can’t believe I yelled…again…..and the guilt creeps on.

I read somewhere that the days are long but the weeks are short. I definitely know this to be true. My kids are growing up way too fast. Miss 4 is now signing her own name on her artwork, Miss 2 is a comedian in dance class making even her teacher laugh and Master 9 months old is now climbing stairs and taking steps as he clutches onto my hands. I know if I blink this will all be over and so I decide I don’t want to take my annual leave. I don’t care how much they scream at me, or that I don’t even have a shower to myself anymore. If I read the description to this job before I met my babies I likely would have refused. Any sane person would. Broken sleep every night, no privacy in the bathroom at all (yes I poop in full view of my kids who are fascinated by bowel motions), no “lunch break”, being on call 24/7, never clocking out, no sick leave unless I am vomiting or have diarrhea or both, and the inability to do anything right according to my Miss 4. Although the job does have its many perks, like now, after a day of screaming, and yes that included me, I go in to check on my sleeping babies. Miss 4 stirs and tells me “I just want you mummy” . She embraces me and I hold her tight relishing in the spontaneous cuddle, even if her hair is in my mouth and I can’t breathe properly. Then she tells me “I love you so much Mummy” and I smile as I whisper “I love you more baby”. I may fail at my job every day but I don’t fail my kids. They are bursting with love and that’s because I fill them with love. But now its time for some self love, massage is booked in for this weekend.