There are days when I feel like if my life were to be televised the soundtrack would be the sound of children crying. Every single day of the last week has been of those days.
Sometimes I put it down to me being a slightly shit mum and causing my children to be miserable for a large portion of their waking day. Other times there is a valid reason why they are both crying (often at the same time). For instance that the porridge was too hot or too cold, or in the wrong bowl or because it’s Tuesday.
I try, I really try not to let it get to me. I know all the tricks; distraction; anticipating and avoiding the tears in the first place (my particular favourite – gives you so much comfort as they reach full-blown meltdown state); ignoring; cuddling etc etc. But when it’s the twelfth tantrum of the day and you’re still wiping weetabix off the highchair, it starts to grate.
I’m chain-eating chocolate digestives as I write this in order to try to lower my angst levels. Both kids in bed at their own request. This morning has consisted of playgroup where they both cried; the baby because he was tired and the toddler because the other children weren’t sharing the toys. We then went to the café (at the toddler’s request). The baby was now crying because he was hungry. Baby halfway through being fed, toddler’s cheese on toast (his request) arrives and we have to leave early because ‘it makes me cold’. So home to bed before tired/hungry/possibly ill meltdown ensues (managed to anticipate this time).
I’m fully aware that it’s my own fault for having two with such a small age gap. I also understand (hope) that it won’t always be like this (those wonderful words spoken by people who have lived through this exact thing). But for now, the sight of snot and tears is beginning to leave me slightly deranged and the half bottle of chardonnay in the fridge is calling my name.
I know there is so much I’ll miss of these days when my babies are older and hairier. But the whinge ping-pong? Not so much.