I heard the phrase “you check your dignity in at the door during childbirth” bandied about a few times when I was pregnant. Sure, I’d seen the antenatal class photos and thought I knew what was up (and down, and sideways, and is-that-even-part-of-a-human-body?!), but after four endometriosis operations, a myriad of tests and a round of IVF, I already felt like my dignity was that unclaimed suitcase you see going around the luggage carousel at the airport. “It’s okay – you’re growing a baby!” Pregnancy introduces new levels of embarrassment to women the world over. Maybe you opened a car door and threw up in the gutter of a busy street while in the throes of morning sickness. Perhaps you kicked your shoes off under the desk at work then found yourself unable to cram them back on your swollen tootsies when it came time to attend a meeting. It’s not unusual to burst into noisy sobs during TV ads. Inappropriately timed and completely unexpected burps that rival those of a drunk first year university …
So while I was stoked to still be standing upright, Amy cried actual tears over me not winning the Auckland half marathon on Sunday. The fact that I was never, ever going to come even remotely close to winning, and my (fleeting) joy at improving on last year’s time meant nothing to her. I gave her my participant’s medal as a jollying-up tactic, but she held it sadly and asked, “well who DID win?” I invented a quick story about a runner named Jonathan winning, who’d run lots of races (because I DON’T KNOW). She thought about it for a while, then morosely looked out the window and muttered, “well, I hope Jonathan got an actual trophy, and not just the same medal that you and all the other people who didn’t win got given”. Gee thanks, “Jonathan”, and the thousands of other runners who drank less wine, trained harder and ran faster…thus causing me to bring non-winning shame upon my family.
When you think you’re taking a cute photo of your daughter in your old childhood dress, and realise you’ve accidentally shot the poster image for a horror movie. #averageparentproblems
Toddler Rage. #CarryMe#PickMeUpSoICanWipeSheepPooFromMyGumbootsOntoYourOnlyTrousers
I’ve just been chastised by my three year old for throwing a semi-frozen pea away instead of letting her eat it. In my defense, I’d like to point out that I’d just retrieved said pea from her left nostril after several tense minutes involving blowing, perseverance, the employment of a bobby-pin, and a great deal of Trying To Stay Very Calm.
Amy took offence to being told to eat her broccoli, and offered the following retort: “well, one day I’m going to get a puppy and he’s going to pee in your wine!”
Offered snack options to the three year old. She declined all options, because: “I’m full…I had some mint from the garden and some fingernails”. Boogers for dinner, then.
Hold tight to the precious memory of your three year old snaking her soft little arms around your neck and whispering “will you lie down in my bed with me mummy? I love you so much and we’re best friends”. Hold particularly tight to that precious memory 40 minutes later at 4.30am as you cling to the edge of a single bed, taking erratic kicks to your kidneys, with a stuffed monkey wedged under your chin, finding yourself saying things like “stop wriggling and go to sleep! Did you seriously just wipe a booger on me?! Don’t DO that!”