I thought that it would be fitting to blow the dust off the keyboard and remove the cobwebs from the blog by sharing something that I can (pretty much) guarantee will make you smile (unless you are cold and dead inside, then not even small, fluffy kittens will warm that icy soul). Yes, dear reader, I shunned you for younger, cuter models…
With your first child it’s fine to be fastidious with every aspect of their lives, from having ear phones strapped to your belly playing Beethoven (yes I did this) in order to better grow a cultured foetus, to showing a 6 month old flash cards in the hope it will give them an edge over their competition peers. With the second child you’re happy if everyone is dressed and fed and you convince yourself that the older one is passing on all the wisdom you attempted to impart in them to their younger sibling. By the time you’ve reached your third child, a good day constitutes not having misplaced any of them and not having had the neighbours report the screaming coming from next door to social services. Little do they know that it is you screaming, not your children.
Becoming a mother is an assault on every one of your senses, it’s an exercise in surviving mental torture and has a learning curve that puts a banana to shame. Yet, at the same time I learnt so much about such specialised things that, if you pitted my knowledge against the general public’s on the same subject and you would have to concede that I, in the context of the wider world, was a childcare expert, and really that’s something that more mothers should learn to be proud of (Gina Ford, eat your heart out).
I thought that perhaps my days of being able to surreptitiously gather ammunition for free and guiltless use against my children when they morph into grunting, fridge-clearing Neanderthals teenagers were all but over. Certainly my oldest (who is 9, but shows signs of precocious development of the evil genius trait earlier than I had originally