I admit it…I’m a twat

Not so much with the funny today. I’m sat in Tesco’s Family Cafe (the glamour) while my parents entertain The Eldest and the BSCB by sending them on errands around the supermarket. Well, this is what they’re doing with The Eldest anyway, I’m not sure what they are doing with the BSCB – he’s probably making a good fist of eating the trolley. He’s a trier, that one, I’ll say that for him.

This odd turn of events is because I think my parents have sensed that I am on THE EDGE. The BSCB has not slept through the night in weeks, he wouldn’t go to the fuck to sleep last night, no matter how much I said please, The Eldest wet the bed at 4am, and the BSCB then woke for the day at 6.15am. My back feels like someone is hanging me on two turning screws and is twisting them tighter and tighter thanks mainly to the entire day’s worth of driving earlier this week. It has certainly not been helped, however, by carrying the separation anxiety-ridden BSCB, and all of the leaning over the cot I’ve been doing at bed and nap time. As I look at these words in black on white I realise how pathetic it sounds when, let’s face it, there is actual shit going on in the world. To be honest I feel a bit embarrassed about my late night self-indulgent poncing-on last night. I could take the post down, but I’m not going to I say, in a perfect example of sleep-deprivation-induced-belligerence, because no matter how excruciating it is in its self-pity, it’s the way I really feel at times and I’m in this game to be honest.

I’m in no doubt that there are people who having read my whinge-moan-rant last night would, with the most reassuring (patronising) intentions, tell me that it’s all a phase, he just wants a cuddle from his mummy, and that they need you for so little time that you should enjoy it because, before you know it, it will be gone. Now that may simply be wishful thinking as I’m pretty sure no one has read it (WordPress tells you this sort of thing – thanks for that) but just in case, I have two words for you…

I KNOW (what did you think I was going to say…?).

You see, I am not ungrateful for my children. They are without doubt my single greatest achievement and will always be so. They make me laugh every hour, sometimes every minute, and many a time my face has ached from smiling that goofy smile that parents reserve for their offspring when they achieve something fundamentally inane like stabbing a piece of sausage with a fork. One day I might actually get round to writing a post about all the ways that they’re amazing because when all is said and done they rock my world. They are my world.

But, you see, that’s the problem. I need a solid square inch to myself. Just a little, tiny corner where I can curl up with my laptop and do something meaningful like online shopping, indulge in some Insta-stalking or watch Keeping Up with the Kardashians. In that square inch I would sit next to the “husband”, my former partner-in-crime, who is now more like my partner-in-slime.

In a life where I am touched more times a day than your average door-knob, I am overloaded. I am all touched out. I know there are mums out there who manage to be pawed all day without breaking into a sweary online rant and I try so hard to be one. I squashed the feelings I felt this morning when I just didn’t want to ever get out of the shower and instead I plastered on a big smile and greeted the little vampires with a big hug. Which is fine. It’s what I have to do. Parenting is one long list of things that you don’t want to do but have to. No wonder parents through the ages have resorted to trotting out the age-old adage “We all have to do things we don’t want to” after all the only reason it is a cliche is because it is true. I am confident however, that the unspoken words that follow that line must be “I should know, you ungrateful little sod. I’ve spend your life doing shit I don’t want to.” So, I get that this is just what it is all about but it does mean that every time I squash those feelings, I am closer to the edge next time The Eldest won’t put on her socks (what is it with effing socks?), or the BSCB clings to my kneecaps grunting to be picked up while I’m attempting to, you know, move. Those feelings bubble up then are squashed, they bubble then are squashed, they bubble up and up and nearly bubble over and then they are squashed. But they don’t just go away.

Anyway, my reasons for writing this post are threefold – firstly, as a way of explaining my total twattish self-indulgence last night; secondly to justify my total twattish self-indulgence last night; and thirdly, because maybe there are other people out there who also feel bad about being self-indulgent twats, who can’t mindfully rise above the pressures of the daily grind, who find it makes them small and petty and resentful. I imagine they are nodding and feeling relieved because they realise they’re not alone in their twattishness and we can all be twats together.

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