I was going to write a blog tonight about how it was one of those perfect days that you hope for when you’re a parent.
The kids got off the bus all rowdy and full of energy.
I had already planned to take them to the beach to run off their energy while I read Pride and Prejudice, and Lola busted in the door, stripping as she tumbled through, asking “Mum, can you take us to the beach?!”
I told them to go get their swimmers on.
We grabbed towels and piled into the car.
We got to the beach and it was perfect. The sun was warm and everything was beautiful.
The breeze was cool and took the edge off the sun.
The water was clear and the tide was coming in.
I had intended on reading but I only read a couple of pages and then Went in the water with Morrigan to play with the kids.
We played around, swam through, splashed, jumped, shouted.
Dex asked what was for dinner. He asked if we could have takeaway.
I thought Perfect. Perfect end for a perfect day.
I told him “Sure. We can get takeaway. We’ll watch a movie. But I need you guys to do something. We can do this but once our movie is over, we’re having showers, brushing our teeth and going straight to bed.”
And they agreed. They both agreed.
Then it was time to go to bed.
HOLY FUCKING SHIT.
I am doing well to still have three children.
They were rude and argumentative and just ASSHOLES.
And you’re not *meant* to call your kids assholes.
But they were.
It took two and a half hours of going to bed. Of good nights. Of cuddles and kisses. Of tomorrow in the morning.
Of me growling to go to bed. Of me growling that they will lose privileges.
Of me growling they are not going to the party on the weekend. Or playing the playstation for a week.
Of me crying that all I’m trying to do is be a good Mummy and have a great afternoon and this is the shit that I get when I do that.
Of me crying I don’t want to see them any more just please go to fucking sleep.
I’m walking out the door with tears on my cheeks and Lola says to me softly “maybe we can try again tomorrow, Mummy”