So yesterday I had what I would call a FUCK YOU kind of a day.
It was horrendous.
I woke up at the crack of dawn and felt ready to conquer the day after catching up with some work before the little sound of baby steps and incessant screaming for cereal!
Within an hour, everything had gone totally tits up.
I’m not going to go in to the ins and outs of the minuscule to mountainous issues, but it was pretty obvious that the beautifully calm last day of the holidays that I had envisioned wasn’t happening.
When I picked up my diary to reflect at the end of the day (which was a struggle at best) – I couldn’t think of one thing that I had done well.
In fact my biggest achievement was saving my children from killing each other like an unpaid referee (which of course is a whopping achievement).
Waking up this morning with big puffy eyes and after a night of clutching the edge of the bed for dear life because my child channels his inner acrobat all night, I made a conscious decision to forgive myself...
I suspect that my boys are more interested in pregnancy and childbirth than the average 2 and 6 year olds, which is probably a lot to do with my job and their exposure to various birthing videos and stories etc.
It’s something I’m really proud of and I’ve always tried to be open and honest about where babies come from and how they make their way earth-side; they are under no illusion that there are two possible exits, one being the vagina – and yes I use the word vagina.
So their interest means that they ask a lot of questions about their own journey in to the world. Flyn loves hearing the story about how he poo’d all over me when he arrived on our sitting room floor and it doesn’t matter how many times he hears the tale, his enthusiasm never wanes.
I love the stories too and each time I relive it like it was yesterday. The difficulty is when Noah, my first baby wants to hear about his arrival.
I find this challenging and not for the reasons that may have once been so troubling, but becau...