It’s not the parenting dream I envisioned….

My friend texted me tonight, we were talking homework, we were both a little frustrated, she ended her text stating.

It’s not the parenting dream I envisioned….

Ain’t that the fecking truth.  In my head, before I became a parent, I always saw the future parent in me as a calm, caring being who tucked her children in tenderly at night with a kiss and a cuddle.

Tonight I popped the kids to bed with the threat that all technology would be tossed in the black bin outside if they dared to tread a toe outside their bedroom door and all cuddles were fast-tracked as the call of the G&T that was chilling on the side was simply overwhelming.

Image courtsey of Shutterstock

It’s not that I don’t adore the life I lead, but feck me, it is not how Enid Blyton portrayed it.

Instead of my three cheerfully cracking on with chores as they realised, maturely, that helping out in the home meant they could pop off and play with Moon Face and Silky up a tree in a dark, mysterious wood somewhere.  Mine have quickly worked out that doing chores means they still can’t hang out with anyone called Moon Face (would you, really?) so they simply demand cash instead.

Enid would turn in her grave.

Lets take mornings for example.

It’s simple…

Wake up, get dressed, brush teeth, brush hair, make bed, meet downstairs for breakfast as cooked by their live in cook.

Two of them have been following this regime for a decade, the third for almost two-thirds of that.

And they are still clueless.

They have nailed waking up – often at least two hours before the agreed time, but still….

Dressing?

That is a bit hit and miss, – the youngest still rebels against the school uniform and often rocks up at my bedroom door dressed as Elsa clutching a school bag.

The older two, they rebel in different ways, trying to sneak out in odd socks, or yesterdays underwear, or in t-shirts that could walk to the door without a body inside them.

Either way, suffice to say we have not cracked it yet.

In my pre parenting head, I always thought I would laugh this off, gently embrace my kids and scold them with a loving touch and they would skip off to their bedrooms and return properly clothed.

In my actual parenting role, I scream like a banshee, spend five minutes worrying that I am raising simpletons, then realise no one is listening to me, and manually re dress the children (or threaten to throw all technology in the bin.)

It’s not the parenting dream I envisioned….

I was always a better parent before I became one….

Trips to the park – such fun….

For five minutes, then my arse starts to chafe against the swings chains, and my arms ache from pushing, and I simply get bored with watching the kids play on shit that is too small for me to join in.

Listening to the kids read….

What a tender parent and child moment, until for some flipping reason the child loses all memory recall and can’t read the word they have read six billion times already….

I’m not sure I should admit any of this…

It is not the dream I envisioned, yet it is the life I lead.  They drive me potty, make the wine in the fridge speak to me, they wipe their snot on me when they kiss me goodbye as I go into the office.  They fall ill on the days of a really big meeting, they shout rather than speak, and they spend half their time trying to eliminate each other so they can be an only child.

Then I get an escape.

A night out with the girls, where I drink Prosecco like pop and party like I have never been outside of the family home before.

And then…

To any poor sod who will listen, to anyone with eyes who makes the mistake of looking, I will talk about the small ones, show pictures of their antics, tell highly amusing tales about the time the small one dressed as Elsa for school and how I tenderly sorted her out and got her into uniform.

I boast, I joke, I tell the world who will listen how amazing the kids are.

So maybe it was the parenting dream I foresaw…. Just not quite as envisioned.