It’s actually quite spooky how my favourite blog just so happened to post about the top ten things to watch out for when you have kids. And it was–as usual–hilarious and also so very, very true. Whilst Chuck Wendig sums up life with a tiny human so well in just one–albeit rather lengthy–post, I’m gonna do it in separate ones.
For those of you who can go to the toilet, close the door, release your bowels in peace–and by peace, I mean to be able to think about life for a few minutes, stare at the tiles or out the window depending on your shit collector’s positioning, in undisturbed, blissful silence–YOU LUCKY BASTARDS.
Say what? you ask.
You don’t know how lucky you are.
I have put on a film for my five year old. Or I’ve got the paints out. They have food and water and entertainment enough to stave their jabbering and questioning for a good half hour–I hope–and with that in mind, I realise I need to pop to the loo.
Now there are two techniques to doing this. I’ve tried both. And neither work.
I either announce to the child that I’m off to the loo and I’ll be right back, with which she’ll nod, say OKAY MUMMY, and I’ll run upstairs.
I’ll quietly sneak out of the room knowing that she is fully distracted and even if she realises I’m gone, she’s too preoccupied to care.
I’ll be on the toilet, and I’ll hear it. The sound of demonic feet thundering up the stairs with the sole purpose of breaking down the bathroom door to demand a glass of water, or lamb’s blood, or to tell me about something completely unimportant that it takes all my self control not to throw the toilet brush at the door in an attempt to barricade myself in.
Yes, I’ve told her not to come upstairs. Yes, I’ve done all of the above to stave her thirst for my moments of peace.
Silence? Uninterrupted toilet breaks? What are these strange things?
And no, locking myself in, or sticking something heavy in front of the door doesn’t work. Believe me. I’ve tried.
On the serious side, I know that the day I realise she doesn’t do that anymore, I’ll miss it.
Why is it that the irritating shit someone does, particularly our children, later on becomes the things we miss the most? We don’t appreciate it when it’s there and we miss it when it’s gone.
Having kids makes me so bloody emotional. I can’t even watch movies with graphic content anymore. More on that another time.
Any parents reading my posts? I’ve noticed I get a lot of likes on my artsy and writesy posts. And that’s cool. If my parenting posts are not your thing, tough titties.
Or am I?
But seriously, anyone experiencing what I’m going through? Let me know. I’d love to read about it.
And laugh at your misery.