Thyroid

Mother’s Day.

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So today is Mother’s Day. The one day a year us Mum’s get a day off, but in the same breath know this will never happen.

Being a mum is hard. I mean really hard. You give up your identity, your body and your life to make sure little versions of you are happy and healthy. From the minute you open your eyes in the morning, until the minute you close them again at night. I work 3 days a week, because quite frankly, the thought of full time along with all the other mum jobs scare the shit out of me.

“You only work part time, why are you stressed?”

“You get to go home now, you’re lucky, you can do whatever you want”

“You’ve only just got to work and you look angry already”

So let me tell you what my woking day consists of. I will use last week as an example.

  •  Wake up to the two younger ones arguing in their room, over god knows what.
  • Make breakfast and sit and listen to the middle two arguing over who looked at who. Yes that really is a common argument in this house.
  • Tidy up, hoover, open curtains, pick up random cups all over the living room from the night before, because the fairies never came to tidy them up.]
  • Tuck all the chairs back in under the table, as children seem to lose the use of their arms in that room.
  • Go upstairs and find clothes for the little one, making sure they don’t ‘feel funny’ on her skin. Whatever that means.
  • Tell the 9 year old to stop rolling around on the floor and get dressed.
  • Tell the 11 year old to get of his phone and get ready.
  • Tell the 9 year old to stop rolling around. Again.
  • Let the dogs back in as I forgot and notice they have now dug a huge hole in the grass. Great.
  • Make sure the little one has had a wash and brushed her teeth.
  • Tell the 9 year old to stop rolling around. I wish I was joking.
  • Play referee over a ‘who is in the bathroom’ debate. God forbid one of them has 1 minute more than the other.
  • Ask the 9 year old if she had brushed her teeth after spending 10 minutes in the bathroom.
  • Establishing exactly what said 9 year old was doing for 10 minutes in the bathroom, as she wasn’t brushing her teeth. Then send her to go and do them.
  • Torture both girls, one at a time. (Brush their hair to you and me)
  • Tell 9 year old for the 3rd time to brush her teeth. Bribe with money. (No shame)
  • Ask all 3 to get shoes on and lunchboxes out of the fridge.
  • Spend 10 minutes finding lost shoes.
  • Finally make it out of the door.
  • Drop the 11 year old off.
  • Drop the little one off to nursery.
  • Drop the 9 year old off to school.
  • Make the 45 minute journey to work, navigating my way through school mums who can’t drive, the same tractor I get stuck behind every week and 2 buses.
  • Arrive at work ready for a strong coffee.
  • Do my work. Peacefully.
  • Leave work.
  • Drive to pick the little one up from nursery, where she is always in Forest School.
  • Walk the 5 minute route to Forest School from the nursery, realising I forgot her lunchbox, so have to go all the way back to get it.
  • Park 400 miles away from the 9 year olds school, because there are too many cars on this planet, or so it seems.
  • Walk across a muddy, windy narnia type field just to get to the school.
  • Stand and wait for 10 minutes, because somehow I am early?
  • Tell the little one 6 times to stop scooting into my foot.
  • Listen to the 9 year old bout her day at school, while carrying a 4 year old, her scooter and a ukulele across the road.
  • Get home.
  • Empty, clean and refuel lunchboxes. Reusing the same apple for the 11 year old that I’ve been using since Monday. Maybe Tomorrow will be the day that he eats it?
  • Make dinner. Not sure why, because 3 out of 4 will hate whatever I make and moan throughout the whole meal.
  • Hoover while dinner is cooking because, well, huskies.
  • Battle through dinner time, with our favourite game of ‘stop looking at me’ ketchup rationing now seems to be a thing between them all. God forbid one has a bigger blob than the other.
  • Wash up, while trying to talk to the husband on the phone. The first real conversation we get, which is mostly always cut short or interrupted with random shouting and lots of swearing under my breath.
  • Hoover again. No, really.
  • Argue over who’s turn it is to tidy the living room. (We have a chore chart where we pay them to do things around the house in exchange for $ for holiday. Yes I am aware this is bribery. Its genius.)
  • Give the little one a 5 minute warning for bed, otherwise its like exorcising a demon. Damage limitation.
  • Manage to somehow get out of putting her to bed for the 4th year in a row, because my husband is literally the best.
  • Tell the others to pack their bags for school the next day and to get ready for bed. To assume they can do this without being told is laughable.
  • Play referee again because she doesn’t want to watch what he is watching, even though she liked it yesterday.
  • Painfully make my way through the next hour of bedtime slots with he help of candy crush and the ability to block out annoying things.
  • Finally get to 9pm and I get to actually see my husband!
  • 9.30 one of us falls asleep through attempt 3 at a single episode.
  • Give up and go to bed. Ready to do it all again the next day.

As a Mum you are also a PA. A very underpaid one nevertheless. Just next week alone I have a church service to attend (where the 9 year old is playing the ukulele – shoot me now), a parents evening (4th one this month), a shield to make (this is all the information I have been given so far and ironically my second one this month),  a squash tournament ( Do we go and watch? Does she need anything?), a meeting with the 11 year olds school, a job interview for my dream job (even though I have just accepted a new one) and an early finish to negotiate my way around. Im pretty sure there is a non school uniform day in their somewhere, where its like social suicide if you child wears the same clothes as last time.

And all that with not one hot cup of tea.

So heres to the Mums on Mother’s Day. I salute you. You fucking rock.

 

 

 

 

 

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