Shit parenting volume 4 (or it could be more. I've lost count)

twin 1

At the end of a meeting a colleague asked me how my children were.  Having had my professional hat on for the the last half hour my veneer slipped and I spoke as a mother on the edge.

"I have got no idea why, but the twins just cry so bloody much.  At everything.  As often as they can.  Every morning is a screamfest over getting dressed to go to kindy.  Twin1 steadfastly refuses to wear anything but a tiny little sun dress.  It's 10 degrees outside"

"Pick your battles." My colleague said.  "Don't fight over clothes, just let her wear what she wants.  She probably only makes a fuss with you, I bet she lets the kindy staff put jumpers and trousers on her.  It won't kill her to be cold for a short while."

And so it has been over the last two weeks that I have allowed the tiny little soul to go to kindy with barely a scrap of clothing on.  It's bloody freezing and I ask her if she'd like a jumper but the answer's always the same.  Yesterday I was told that a few parents have expressed concern over her clothes.  The last thing any parent needs is another parent's judgemental crap.  So to all those who give me the 'you're a shit parent' glance when they see twin1 dancing around gaily in her sundress and sparkly shoes while the rain sheets down in icy needles I gather myself to my full height, raise my head snootily in the air, muster as much dignity as possible and shout 'FUCK OFF.'

Get that fucking stick out of my fucking face

One of my very gentle natured friends told me recently that the one thing sure to ignite a furnace of irritation in her is the phrase 'Oh, so and so's such a good mother'.  Even though it's said out of goodwill there's the ever present whiff of competitive mum about it with its incumbent insinuation that although you are part of the conversation, your lack of 'top mum' verbal rosette is conspicuous in its absence.

So I dedicate this post to any mother who has given in to their screaming child at the supermarket checkout, pouring sweets down their throat 20 minutes before dinnertime just to earn 5 minutes of silence in which to pay for and load your car with shopping only to listen to someone deliver that smug, trump phrase after observing your parenting.

I have sworn at my children on numerous occasions.  I'm not proud of it and pre-motherhood I would have wrinkled my nose in judgement if I heard anyone do it but that has all changed now that I know what small children do to your blood pressure.

I took all three down to the beach to play on a wonderfully old fashioned swing slung up on a tree in a nearby campsite.  As we drove down, I had an Enid Blyton fantasy of photographing them on the swing individually, heads thrown back in ecstatic glee as they sliced tip-toed through the air and laughed with rapturous liberty at the blue sky and cool air whipping round their ears.  Here is twin2 enjoying the swing in a much lower octane fashion and for a much shorter time than the full length Disney feature film I had spooling through my head.

Lad wasn't interested in the swing, he just wanted to climb.

That's ok though, luckily I'm an easy going kind of gal who doesn't mind if my best laid plans of magical photo opportunities are dashed.  No matter.  There's always the beach.  I nag and cajole them to sit next to each other while I take their picture.  Lad has a stick and wants me to draw his name in the sand.

'In a minute, darling, just sit here for a few seconds and say cheese then we'll do some drawing.'  Twin 2 is collecting shells, twin1 is chasing a seagull.  It takes some time to encourage the girls to sit next to their brother and by the time I get round to taking the picture, lad has remounted his name drawing campaign.  Irritated, I swat the thing away and scream at him 'get that fucking stick out of my fucking face.'

I glance up to see a middle aged jogger grimacing in distaste at me and an elderly couple, horrified, holding hands and surveying the scene of my children shivering in the biting wind while their angry mother swears at them and dashes their healthy, wholesome, innocent fun, all in the name of a photo I could have taken after hurrying them back home in a murk of guilt and propping them in front of the TV with a warm Milo.

OK so I didn't exactly slosh heroin through their veins but I might as well have done with the adrenaline of guilt pounding through me.  We all feel the same every time we swear at them/give them tinned spaghetti for the third night in a row/put on the 4th back to back DVD to hear the end of a juicy piece of gossip.

Guilt is an important part of parenting.  It keeps our instincts well lubricated.  I just think its important to be able to throw guilt a well timed eye roll now and then too.  As the Rudd family motto goes - moderation in everything, including moderation.