Beasts come with various needs, and trying to convince them to do anything for themselves is often more trouble than it’s worth – and a perfect waste of wine drinking time, so it usually falls to mummy to keep them clean, generally well, clothed and fed. Unless mummy loses her shit and insists daddy does it because mummy’s about to go all Britney in the mid 2000’s. I know I should be encouraging independence with my little monsters, but one has only so much patience (anyone who has ever met me will confirm I have an especially small amount) before the homicidal rage / desperate frustration kicks in & I just have to intervene and do it for them. On the occasions where we throw caution to the wind and let them do things for themselves we end up 5 hours late with children that look like nobody owns them, with clothes on inside out and mismatched shoes, dirty faces and hungry bellies where no one’s eaten any dinner.
Such simple things for an adult to do, or even a child who is not Beastly could manage perfectly fine. My children, as you know, are beastly, so:
A task that is necessary when snot invades as mummy can’t handle crusty green slime all over noses. Or that noise they make when it’s about to drop out and they hock it back like they’re doing a line of cocaine. So when it’s time to blow, we end up with mummy holding a tissue in place and saying “just blow from your nose, not your mouth – no, no, not out of your mouth, you need it to come out of your nose…oh for god’s sake how hard is it to just blow your nose…keep your mouth closed…ok stop stop stop you’re covering me in spit” for about 5 minutes until just giving up and accepting that they’re going to keep snorting back boogers or letting nasal phlegm slide down their faces for the next week.
“open up, no don’t bite it please. Come on just….ahhhh….bit more….yes I know it’s minty, no I don’t think you can get chocolate flavour toothpaste…well just because people like mint ok? Look, the more you try and complain about the toothpaste the longer this will take”
“Ok good now spit – wha – not all over the wall! Get it in the sink! In the sink! Rinse it away please – alright you can turn the tap off now. Turn it off now. TURN IT OFF NOW YOU’RE GOING TO FLOOD THE WHOLE HOUSE”
Every. Single. Day. Morning and night.
Given the amount of fuss my Beasts make about a simple hair wash you’d be forgiven for thinking they were being water boarded, not just having the encrusted food, dirt, glitter, glue and everything in between removed from their hair. Sometimes mummy actually closes the window before operation hair wash commences just so that good citizens walking past don’t mistake the hysterical shrieks for abuse and call the police on us.
You know you’re a parent when the sound of a cheerful “FINISHED” fills you with a sense of dread and a vague urge to vom. Plus having to buy those fancy toilet wipes; how is it impossible to get a child’s bum clean using regular old dry bog roll and yet adults manage perfectly fine? That’s an ‘in the shower’ thought right there for you. You’re welcome.
“Ok so he just needs these absolutely disgusting antibiotics 4 times a day for the next week, an hour before food or on an empty stomach.”
1. Stare at doctor in disbelief
2. How many times a day?
3. An hour before food or on an empty stomach? All they do is eat. All the time.
4. It tastes like dirty dishwater
5: It looks like Kung po sauce when it’s all cold and congealed the next day because you were too lazy to wash up the take away tub the evening before
5. There’s no way this is possible
In an effort to get the medicine in, mummy finds herself trying threats: (there will be no grandma’s EVER AGAIN). Bribes, wheedling, begging; (sob into hands – please just take the medicine). Outright lies; (it’s calpol I swear), wild promises; (I’ll get you a pony) and mixing it into yogurt (they’re not idiots, that never works). Ends up pinning them down and squirting it at the back of their throats out of that little calpol syringe and feeling deeply unsatisfied about the hollow victory. Cries a bit when they puke it back up three minutes later.
Amid frantic cries of “don’t chop my toes off mummy!” And “don’t mummy! I need my nails! I NEED THEM!” – dodging sharp bits of childrens’ dirty nails flying at you to avoid taking a hit in the eye should be considered an Olympic sport. It takes some real skill to avoid shards of nail hurtling straight towards your face whist still gripping said toes or fingers to get the clipping over and done with as quickly as possible.
If I had a tenner in my bank account for every time one of my children put their clothes on the first time they were asked to put their clothes on, I’d be overdrawn. In fact I’m always overdrawn, so that was a pretty pointless anecdote.
Anyway, as it is, I end up shouting ‘arms in’ ‘feet in’ ‘legs in’ ‘head in’ OH FOR PETE’S SAKE WILL YOU PUT YOUR ARMS IN like a lunatic whilst trying to get the garments over various body parts and limbs, all of which at that moment have gone ‘floppy like a fish mummy ahahahaha’ – a floppy fish which then takes mummy’s eye out with a well aimed toe or finger.
“Oh and who’s Pete mummy?”
“Don’t worry about Pete. Just get your shoes on. Over there, where they always are. WELL IF YOU CAN’T MANAGE TO GET THEM ON YOUR FEET I GUESS YOU’LL HAVE TO GO BAREFOOT”
I seem to have ended up with deficient children who can find plenty of breath and spit to blow raspberries in your face, with extra enthusiasm when being asked to stop blowing raspberries, and enough hot air to complain incessantly about everything, and yet can’t find enough puff to blow on a hot fish finger before eating it. This results in soggy orange chunks being spat out dramatically whist beast in question yells IT’S TOO HOT! BLOW IT MUMMY, BLOW IT!
Bonus points if you’re sniggering at “blow it” (Stop it, you.)
The only way to describe it is wrestling a slippy octopus and getting thick white cream (steady) all over your best jeans* and knowing it won’t come out in the wash.
*and by best, I mean the only ones that fit
“Right everyone needs to wash bums, willies and faces please. No, just – do your faces first please – oh god – no not your bum first…hang on, mummy will do your face, you do your bum…no mummy’s not doing your bum too, bums are private…ok yes you can stop bending over now…stand back up please” *averts eyes*
Sometimes, given the list above, my biggest achievement in a week will just be that we all got out the house on time & nobody cried doing it, and everyone is clean, presentable, fully dressed, not covered in grub, with shoes on the right feet. Two shoes the same, not two different ones.
Well I’m pretty sure that’ll be my biggest achievement, because I don’t think it’s happened yet 🤔
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