I can out do any teenager on the amount of consecutive days I have worn a pair of jeans, or how many times I have just brushed the cheesy fluff from between my toes before contaminating a fresh pair of socks, or how long I go with greasy hair before my scalp literally drags itself into the shower.
The biofilm, currently pulsating on my children’s bath toys, may or may not be responsible for my Son’s epic bout of croup. The carpets look like they previously belonged to a crack den. The piles of clothes on the landing have started to become inhabited by woodland creatures getting ready for the winter hibernation.
I often get to the end of the day and scuff wearily around the house, wondering which room to tackle first, only to reach for the cupboard to tackle a Green & Blacks chocolate sensation first (if I’m going to go down, at least go down in style).
I am a telly offender and often leave my children being babysat and brainwashed by the colourful images and cheerful songs that emanate from the screen on the wall, just so I can stand in the kitchen and stare at the wall for some mental health time.
So when I saw a “Happy Mummy = Happy Child ” or “Happy Child = Happy Mummy” conundrum, brought to my attention by another parenting blog post, I realised, it’s most definitely the latter.
What it doesn’t show is the inner suffering being suppressed by ‘happy’ mother due to the other unhappy child sobbing in the car because they weren’t allowed to throw stones. I didn’t put her there. She put herself there. She doesn’t want to see stupid planes without stone rain.
I wouldn’t have normally been so cruel, but I was worried about the stones breaking the spotters’ cameras. There seemed to be an unnatural gathering of them on that particular day.
Unfortunately, what the photo doesn’t show is how happy mother ruined everything by deciding the second from top left looked like it needed more mixture to make it equal with the others, but didn’t ask permission to ‘help’. Rookie mistake. This resulted in a very unhappy child, lots of snot, crying and a complete dislike for anything remotely associated with cake for the rest of her life. Or at least until the oven timer sounded.
Getting ready for Christmas. Making homemade decorations and working really hard to be an interactive, creative parent. Not too over controlling but controlling enough that the decorations are good enough for display. Everyone is happy.
Unfortunately, there isn’t a photo showing the decorations laying abandoned on the floor just moments later, whilst unhappy child storms off, huffing and stamping loudly, because was-happy mother touched the stick to try and move it so she could see was-happy child’s face in the photo. YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE TOUCHED THE STICK. WHY DID YOU TOUCH THE STICK?
0.24 seconds later. UNHAPPY.
Who knew providing happy childhoods could be so exhausting. Perhaps the slogan should read:
Happy child = filthy, unwashed, tired and emotionally dejected with a shit tip of a house, happy mummy.