Sure, he’s attractive. And you will find fun bits. Like when he put his penis into a pencil sharpener which I found amusing for about 700 reasons tonight.

Sure, he’s attractive. And you will find fun bits. Like when he put his penis into a pencil sharpener which I found amusing for about 700 reasons tonight.

Or as he quietly asks me personally through the back seat if you can find any flies on him – due to him hearing the ‘no flies for you, buddy’ cliché when I’m in jovial moms and dad mode (takes place at the least twice per day – the mode, perhaps not the cliché, we have tens and thousands of the latter). We also find him funny as he tries to rule the global world, ‘stop talking, Mummy…don’t say good morning…turn that track off….get me ice cream…I don’t similar to this dinner…don’t touch Big Ted’. Like i do want to touch that germ infested saliva sponge anyhow. And really, i really like my son. Therefore quite definitely. And I’m so greatly grateful as I whinge away that I was able to get pregnant in the NHS dictated ‘geriatric mother’ zone; many of my friends haven’t been able to and I’m really aware of that. But (cue the violins), it’s such damned hard work! Parenting a two yr old. Single parenting a two yr old. Solitary parenting a two year old in a country that is new. Solitary parenting a two yr old that is obstructive, obtuse, oppositional and obnoxious in a brand new nation. I could carry on.

We often (ok, on a regular basis) wonder if it might be easier if We weren’t solitary parenting.

It is really easy to assume partners lovingly enjoying their Sundays together, generously swapping rest ins and smiling fondly at the other person over their beautifully behaved offspring’s heads – ‘look what we made, babe. Is not this just and fulfilling’. The truth is they’re most likely filled up with resentment at their not enough freedom too, tired of more meaningless moving at the play ground on Sunday afternoon (maybe not that sort of swinging. We find shaking fingers exhausting sufficient these times.) And simply as I’m imagining them in delighted household land, they’re picturing their buddies consuming and laughing during the pub with absolutely nothing to bother about except a small hangover on Monday morning. And people close friends are likely weaving their way house, exploring after all the families and experiencing somewhat envious of these connection and function. Grass = greener, whatever fence we elect to check out.

Parenting can be really lonely. And bland. The routine every single evening is equivalent.

Cook him bland food that we swear I’m maybe not likely to consume but do, clean the kitchen mess up, bathe him, wrestle him into their pyjamas, clean up the restroom mess, coerce him to clean their teeth (with chocolate. DON’T judge me personally), read books about monsters in underpants, or squiggly spider sandwiches or boring bloody roadworks and then tidy up yet again. As well as 7:30pm, the concern we ask without fail: in which the fuck is Big Ted? Those valuable moments when Sonny is in their cage, i am talking about cot, and I also must be wine that is happily injecting my gum tissue, are adopted by the nightly look for stupid Big Ted. We now have a fractious relationship during the most useful of that time period; Big Ted may be the go-to when Sonny hurts himself, he does not want to cuddle me personally within the mornings unless Big Ted is more or less between us as some kind of manky barrier, we constantly need certainly to drive back once again to the home whenever Big Ted happens to be forgotten. We swear I’m planning to have hip and knee accidents, perhaps perhaps not from operating during the last 25 years, but from getting into and out from the damned vehicle to get water/snacks/library cards (just kidding, we now haven’t got around to joining)/jackets/medicine/ipads/fucking Big Ted. He’s got B.O (Bear Odor. Sorry) along with his face is all curved away from form. He almost seems condescending when he talks about me personally. And yes, he does view me. He judges my parenting on a regular basis. Often we kick him whenever Sonny is not looking – he saw me when and destroyed their shit. He’s a wet mound of polyester without emotions for god’s benefit. Probably built in a factory with conditions we actually don’t help. And it is extremely flammable. Heeeeey. Flammable…now there’s an idea.