14 months ago I had surgery to remove a large growth from my abdomen. Two days later T came home with us and we had to figure out how to be parents to this amazing, noisy, demanding bundle of utter scrumminess.
We’ve muddled through the last year or so, figuring out how not to kill him and watching him grow into the bright, loving, playful, funny little boy that he is today. Now we just need to get through the next 17 years without f*cking him up too badly…
I’d like to say I try to be the best Mummy I can be, but actually some days I can’t even be arsed to change out of my pyjamas, let alone do all the messy play *shudders*, craft activities and whatever else we’re supposed to be doing with toddlers so that they grow up to be fully functioning members of society. On the other hand though, it’s not as though I let him play with barbed wire and chew on electrical cables. We go for walks, I take him to the park, we have stories. Sometimes he plays with his toys while I check Facebook on my phone. I’m aiming for “Average Mummy” here.
Housework only gets done when people are coming round. Cakes are very rarely baked. And meals are more often from the freezer than homemade lovingly from scratch (how is it even possible to do this with a small person clinging to your leg?!).
I set myself high standards, which I am much too lazy to meet. I sometimes wonder whether I am really cut out for this Mummy lark. But, for the moment, T hasn’t figured out that I’m a bit sh*t, and I (as well as his Daddy) am his whole world.
To him I am absolutely wonderful. I think I’m wonderfully average, and sometimes my toddler has chips for tea.