Octonauts has been on all day. We haven’t left the house. The toddler is still in his pyjamas (it’s nearly 4 o clock) and the medicine cabinet is a mess after every baby medicine and teething remedy have been pulled out.
I’m bored as fuck and the only thing getting me through is the night out I’ve had in the diary for weeks and the idea of a very large drink (or three).
These are my worst days. The toddler is ill and the baby is teething. What a combo. The baby isn’t too bad (drugged up with calpol and nurofen she at least has the good grace to laugh from time to time and wolf down the baby mulch I’ve been giving her). The toddler is a sorry mess, whinging and whining about anything an
d everything. He burst into tears earlier because his drink was just out of reach and I wouldn’t get it for him. Kill me now.
I end up feeling worse on days like this because I don’t really try to make the day any better, and that then makes me feel guilty. Usually, we’d have a nice little repertoire of a trip out somewhere, craft of some sort (how stepford) and maybe some baking. I’d make sure Atticus had time to play in the garden and I’d sit and complete puzzles with him and build towers. Days like this completely go to pot though, and I end up feeling like the worst mum in the world for escaping to the kitchen whilst Octonauts is on, in an attempt to escape the whining.
It’s day like today where I have to force myself to breathe very deeply, keep away from the gin (before 6pm anyway) and repeat the mantra ‘the days are long but the years are short’.
In a few (long) days my babies will return to their sparky selves, and we’ll be over the hump for a while at least.