I LOVE being a mum. My 17 month old son is the COOLEST human being I know. He makes me laugh all day long.
I’ve never regretted joining the motherhood. Even on the hard days when everything sucks, I still love it and would never want to go back.
Except for days like today.
You see, I’m dying. At least I’m pretty sure I am.
My head hurts, my throat hurts, my body hurts, my skin hurts. You know the kind of sick where someone touching your arm feels like razor blades?
My eyes are red-raw and weepy, my nose is blocked but also running (talented!) and I’m coughing up stuff that looks like it was made in a special effects makeup trailer.
I don’t get sick very often, but when I do, I do it well. Hayfever has morphed into something deadly. It’s serious guys.
I’m taking ALL the drugs and it’s not even touching the sides. I’m probably going to be dead tomorrow.
What I really need is to lie down, close my eyes and sleep for a couple of days. But I can’t. There’s no sick leave at my job.
Taking care of yourself isn’t possible for mums. There’s always someone who needs you more. So you just keep getting sicker until you collapse. And then, while you’re unconscious on the floor, in a puddle of your own vomit, your child will walk over, pry open your eyelids and whine “MUM!?” Because they need a cracker.
Thud is totally unimpressed with my illness. It means nothing to him. He doesn’t care about the hacking cough or raspy, breathless pleas for quiet. He’s JUST NOT BOVVERED.
So he’s skipping and laughing and climbing and destroying with abandon. And it makes me want to sell him on etsy.
He’s running at me like a WWE wrestler, taking flying leaps at my face and all I can think is “take your fun and games and GO AWAY. Can’t a woman die in peace FOR FUCK’S SAKE?!”
You heard me. The sight of his beautiful, delighted face is giving me the shits. Stop it with the gorgeous smile and cheeky dimples, little devil child!
The more aggro I get, the more hysterical he finds it. Cranky, sick mummy is apparently the funniest mummy of them all.
He starts roaring like a dinosaur and doing tiny adorable spins like a Tyrannosaurus ballerina. His Ballerinasaurus spins are my favourite. I literally squeal with the cuteness of it. Normally. But today I want him to spin off to some other room where I can’t see or hear him. Be gone with your cuteness!
STOP the adorable. STOP the funny. STOP the heartbreaking smile. STOP the sweet. STOP it before I cry!
He starts whining for some snacks. The walk to the pantry feels like the last walk I’ll ever take in my life. It takes THAT much energy.
Thud has a melt down because I give him a Cruskit when he clearly wants a Ritz. So I give him a Ritz, but it’s too late and he lies down on the pantry floor to scream and demonstrate his horror at my inadequacy.
GIVE ME STRENGTH.
I step over him and collapse on the lounge again so I can die to the sounds of my hysterical toddler.
He immediately bounces up off the floor with the energy and enthusiasm of a baby fox and leaps across the room, landing on my head. Apparently we need to cuddle. But not sit and cuddle; stand and cuddle. But I’m holding him all wrong and he starts breakdancing in my arms. It’s this super enjoyable game we play where he acts like he desperately wants to be put down, but the second his feet touch the floor he loses his mind completely until I pick him back up again. Does anybody know what this means? WHAT DOES HE WANT ME TO DO!?!?
Jesus Christ in heaven, I can’t deal with this right now.
It’s useless. I’m going to have to die another day.
I give a fleeting, nostalgic thought to those heady days of self-indulgent self-pity before Thud came along. Those days where I could sit and think about myself for HOURS at a time. Where I could wallow in the illness and be all “oh dear, my nose is running, best get a tissue so I can blow it, because wiping snot on your arm is SO undignified. Oh cough, oh cough. Quel dommage, life is so hard sometimes. Lying in bed and recovering is SO difficult! Perhaps I’ll watch some TV to cheer myself up.”
What a whiny wanker I was. Do you know how much I’d kill to have a clean tissue right now? Thud has stolen the tissue box and is gleefully ripping tissues out and scattering them about the house like confetti at mardi gras. No, wait, now he’s squashing them into the bowl of cat food. Excellent.
Please excuse me while I wipe my nose on my arm and drag my sore, sorry arse off the lounge so I can clean that up. Then make lunch. Then change the nappy. Then put a load of laundry on. Then play some more fun, fun games with the tiny dinosaur. Then have a cry. Then make dinner…..No time to die today!
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