A Day in the Life of a Parent

“Who’d be a parent?” I wondered in exasperation, as many had done before me. “Why would anyone want to put up with this?”

I surveyed the scene before me. Like an over-exaggerated sitcom. Yep. That’s my life: an over-exaggerated sitcom.

I remembered reading about a celebrity who said she was “in a love bubble” after giving birth, and carried her baby around constantly. “Love bubble is right,” I mused, “it’s gonna burst! Carrying her baby around is just going to make it clingy, and cry when she needs to put it down to do something. Fool!”

How critical we are of other parents! How critical we are of ourselves!

I had carried my babies as much as I could too. And demand-fed them. In my current state of annoyance that was irrelevant.

Must be time for coffee and cake! Low blood sugar and tiredness means guaranteed grumpiness! We see it in our children. We plan for it. We plan around it. We need to recognise it in ourselves, too!

Parents of the world: Parent yourselves!

My tired mind continued while the kettle boiled: When did I resort to using drugs of dependence? I knew better than to put caffeine and sugar into my body…but I was doing it regularly! I poured my cup. There are worse sins. I opened the first cake tin. Only crumbs left.

“How many times have I told them to tell me when they finish something, and to put the tin on the sink?” The answer didn’t matter, really. It was going to happen when hell froze over. Mental note: need to bake.

I opened the second tin and smiled. Some of my favourite chocolate cake left. Perfect! I cut a large slab of cake and transferred it to a small plate. Now to smuggle it through the living room without the kids noticing!

I carried my coffee and cake, completely unnoticed, upstairs to my sanctuary: my bed.

There are several disadvantages to having a two storey house, mostly the energy required to carry baskets of laundry up and down stairs. One major advantage in my house is that the young teens mostly prefer to stay downstairs with the kitchen (snacks), big TV and the gaming consoles. This leaves the upstairs as a peaceful ‘parent zone’. I can relax on my bed, which, with its strategically piled cushions and pillows, resembles a chaise lounge. The bedside table is perfect for my cuppa and cake, my ipad never far from it.

Ah! By my age, phrases like “take a weight off your feet” have gained much more meaning. It’s nice to sit down, and stop the creaking in my bones.

I took a large bite of cake, a sip of my coffee and picked up my ipad and the stylus I use. (It’s more accurate for playing games than my fingers seem to be!) Decisions! Decisions! Shall I shoot Zombies with plants, or manufacture and collect various weird objects (like the “Epic Poopy Hat” from collected seagull poop) to build a larger, happier town? Chuckling to myself, I think: “Glad I didn’t actually ask anyone THAT question!” Reminding myself that playing these games is keeping my mind agile, preventing Alzheimer’s Disease and fending off senility (“Yeah! Right! Might be a bit late for that!”), I decide: Poopy Hats it is!! I’m absorbed.

“Muuuuuuuuum!” I hear from downstairs. Already? I look at the time. It’s been an hour. Oops! So much for my 15 minute break!! I haven’t finished collecting the….Oh! That’s right! It’s just a game, not really part of my domestic duties!!

I’m listening to the notes in the voice that is calling. No-one is hurt, it’s not urgently frantic, it sounds happy. Great!

“Yes, dear!” Surely they know by now that I’ll be in my room, if I’m not downstairs? I hear thundering on the stairs.

One of my offspring, slightly breathless but beaming, appears in the doorway.

“Mum! Come downstairs!”

That smile is contagious. I’ve caught it.

I put aside my precious ipad, slip my shoes back on and follow them. “Why am I coming downstairs?” I’ve had a guess, but it’s always nice to know before arriving.

“You’ll see.” Mysterious. It had better be a good mysterious!

I arrived in the ‘dining room’: the half of the living room that contains the dining table. It was cleared, (shock number one!) and set for a family dinner, even with a tablecloth!

“Wow! I’m impressed.” I’m sure that the expression on my face is doing the talking, really.

“We’ve cooked dinner!”

The sparkle in their eyes shows me that they know how pleased I am, which is exactly what they expected.

“Sit down. We’re serving you.”

I feel bad about my earlier mental catalogue of complaints.

“Being a parent isn’t all bad,” I think. I smile, sit, and sip the drink I’ve been poured, and smell the aroma drifting from the kitchen.

“OK. Really, it’s pretty good!”