Note to self: Open when feeling broody

It’s 9:47pm and you’re three speedy glasses of cab sav in. Speedy, because, possibly, some self-medication is going down here. Three, because, well, your two-year-old daughter has only just gone to bed and it took somewhere close to ten solid attempts to get her to stay there. The final time confirmed what you suspect is a new reality: she goes to bed when she’s good and ready. Like a switch, she changes from flying-tear hyperventilation tantrum to waddling up to her cot, climbing up, hooking her leg over and plopping back into her private little world. This can’t, of course, really be reality. Post 7:30pm kiddie bedtimes have no long term plausibility in your real life plan.

“Owie gone, owie gone, owie gone, owie gone.” On the upside, besides not tantrum-vomiting, her mysterious left nostril scab – aka owie – came off in the hysterical bumps, bashes, plods onto carpet from cot. She seemed genuinely proud, even deludedly deserving of applause, at this self-sacrifice and upturn of events amidst the chaos of violent bedtime denial.  

This is a good time to mention that repetitive screaming into your ear is totally fine if the screamer clocks in at less that 90cam tall, apparently.  

Remember two weeks ago? “Wan honey. Wan honey. Wan honey. Wan honey. Wan honey. Wan honey. Wan honey. Wan honey. Wan honey. Wan HONEY. WAN HONEY.”

And 12 days ago? “Wan see poo poo. Wan see poo poo. Wan see poo poo. Wan see poo poo. Wan see poo poo. Wan see poo poo. Wan see poo poo. Wan see POO POO. WAN SEE POO POO.”

In the meantime, your six-month-old son sleeps soundly. It took about four attempts to get him to sleep, unusually non-compliant for him. 

May I remind, you, however, that you tried on your new white linen jumpsuit last night and, within one minute, were vomited over? And this morning, you (plus your trousers and undies), he and your bedsheets all received a comprehensive warm milk dousing? And then a banana one? And then a sweet potato one? He’s adorable. But never forget the washing. The washing. The washing. The washing. 

And the kitchen. What a bastard of a mess. The sink is towering, the floor is the new kitchen magnet home, teetering piles of freshly-washed babygros reach towards the cobwebbed heavens and the cockroaches are circling, clicking their mandibles in anticipation of a piss-easy foraging session. It helps when the two-year-old looks you in the eye, turns round and spits her entire unchewed mouthful over the back of her chair. Gnocchi with lovingly-made fresh tomato sauce, if you must know. Oh, and her entire dressed salad ended up in her water cup, drowned amid pieces of tomato and semi-masticated gnocchi. It’s just play, she’s learning so much and you love watching her wonder. But, you have no dishwasher or microwave.

…Or bathtub, or husband with regular working hours, or solid personal income. Because your career is pretty much on hold for now. None of which you’d ever actually swap, and all of which you really, really love, and every day you pinch yourself about your status as a mumma of two perfect babies. It’s magical, it’s a wild ride. 

Still. Think. Think hardhard. Two is fine, two is great, two is sane. For you, two is just right.

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