A Tired Mom

Ever wake up before the crack of dawn and think, “Today’s going to be easy”? Yeah, me neither. This morning, at the glorious hour of 5:40am, I was rudely awakened by my bat-shit crazy toddler, who apparently believes sleep is for the weak. Without warning, he launches into a full-blown tantrum, shouting, “I hungry!” like he’s stranded on a desert island and auditioning for a survival reality show.

I mumble, slightly aggressively, “Yeah, and I need you quiet,” which is about as effective as asking a tornado to slow down. Down the stairs we go, while everyone else in the house is still tucked up in bed, living their best lives. What a luxury! I, meanwhile, am a groggy, sleep-deprived snack sherpa, escorting my tiny food critic to the kitchen.

Now, I’ve officially become the household’s snack bitch. Today’s menu? Porridge with strawberries on the side — because that’s gourmet toddler dining, apparently. The little guy devours it in seconds flat, then demands a snack. Too early for snacks? Absolutely. But somehow, I persuade him with a slice of jammy toast. He licks the jam off and then offers me his soggy leftovers like a tiny, tired treasure.

My heart (and my dignity) crumbles a little. “No, thank you, baby,” I say, trying not to think about the sugar crash looming. Naturally, this results in an epic meltdown because what’s a morning without a tantrum? I end up caving and taking a tiny bite of his soggy toast. Classic self-sabotage.

Why am I such a mom?

Skip ahead a few hours—9am, the magic hour for sanity—and I declare: “I’m going to mom’s today.” My plan? To do anything that doesn’t involve my children glued to my side like flies round shit. I said what I said! Removing door panels from my car? Impossible with these little henchmen—I’d have my doors half-dismantled, balancing while trying not to drop anything. Telling them to go find their dad? Like asking a kitten to fetch car keys. Neither one works.

So, I escape to my mom’s, who’s cooking a roast — honestly, nothing beats a home-cooked meal after battling toddler tsunamis. (She doesn’t know I’m staying, but I am staying.) I tick off my jobs inside and out, manage to breathe for a moment, and even clean the car. Then, just as I’m getting into a rhythm, my baby daddy rings a million times—at the worst possible moment. I was in the middle of dismantling a car door, balancing the door card and electrics in one hand when that doughnut called about Wi-Fi. Seriously, the timing was horrendous. I wanted to scream. There I was, trying to keep everything intact (literally), and he’s ringing about damn nonsense.

With all the drama dad was giving me, I decided to stay and have dinner at my mom’s. Who’s turning down an epic roast dinner? Not me. I wasn’t about to stress myself out with the knobhead dad who chooses not to parent—sometimes it’s just easier to enjoy the chaos and a proper meal without the added drama.

Back home, I lose the plot. The man-child (that’s the adult, not my toddler—though sometimes the lines blur) gets more than his fair share of my frustration—I tell you, I absolutely lose it. I don’t even know where that meltdown came from, but I unleash it all. I tell the kids to get away from me, and they scatter like frightened mice.

Finally, the man-child leaves the house. And do you know what? That’s when I crack on. Because with him gone, I’m finally able to do all the stuff I’ve been putting off—the stuff I’ve been too emotional to face. I tidy the house, do the laundry, clean the kitchen, and get the beds stripped—all without being interrupted every five minutes.

After I’ve unleashed my rage and tidied up the chaos, I manage to pull myself together. I apologise to my kids—well, try to—while the three-year-old clings to me like my shadow on steroids. We do all the usual: strip the beds, hang out the laundry, clean up the toy tornado, vacuum, change the sheets, feed, bathe, and finally get everyone in bed by 8pm. Maybe victory? Maybe exhaustion? Definitely both.