Poorly.

A plague seems to have descended upon my house. Seriously, I am about to go all Old Testament up in this piece and paint our door post with the blood of a lamb.

4 weeks ago, DS came down with a very mild case of Chicken Pox. I say mild because he didn't really scratch them or seem to notice they were there, and was happily running around like a coked up hummingbird inside during his mandatory 1 week quarantine. Joy of joys, ya'll. JOY OF JOYS.

3 weeks ago, I caught the Norovirus after an upsetting incident in a town square involving me being too close to a man very casually and very violently vomiting everywhere, in a very helpful zig zag pattern.You know, to cover as much of the surface area as possible. As one does. This resulted in two days in bed feeling like I was actually dying. Oh, and in case you were wondering if the relentless feelings of guilt and inadequacy of The Motherhood go away when you're very seriously ill and physically cannot care for your child - They Do Not. They increase. Exponentially. With every passing delirious minute.

2 weeks ago, DS, DH and myself all began to fight off various colds and seasonal afflictions, and our house is currently a battlefield of congestion, replete with balled up tissues and strepsil packets.

1 week ago, DS contracted some kind of viral throat infection. I was no longer amused.

Basically, I call bull on these shenanigans, and they will stop.

Oh yes, they will.

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Serenity Now!

I always  knew exactly the kind of mother I was going to be. I knew all the things I was going to do, how to handle every delicate situation and, it has to be said, was very certain how to handle even the dreaded Terrible Twos. I would do it all with grace and composure and I would make it look easy. Then, I would sit down for a brief repose, clutch my pearls, smooth my dress, and perhaps do a spot of light baking to revel in my triumph of the Maternal and Domestic realms.

Then I had a child, and that stuff all hit the fan.

I am not sure there is a way that one can convey to a person who has never had children, or had to look after children, or perhaps (I am told there are even some who) have never met a child the absolute chaotic mess of feelings the little beasts can create in you. However, it is a truth universally acknowledged that a woman in possession of a small child must be in want of a holiday.

I am that woman today. I have abandoned all my high ideals of discussing feelings, and explaining action and consequence and I am just a bundle of nerves which had been tread upon almost to breaking.

But.

It's okay.

That is allowed.

If you're going to try to raise a human being, you need to realize that you are not perfect, you have little more than instinct and personal judgement to guide you, and you will mess up. The best we can hope for is to have a well intentioned syllabus of sorts, and love. Your child will always know they are loved. Similarly, they will certainly know when they are not. Even when you're red in the face from snapping at them, surveying the disaster area that was once your home, and wondering WHY DID I DO THIS TO MYSELF I COULD LITERALLY BE ANYWHERE ELSE RIGHT NOW, they will look at you with their little eyes and communicate something entirely without words.

You are mine. I am yours. I love you forever, okay?

For better or worse, this is the deal that we have struck.

So when I find myself as that big bundle of nerves, I take a couple of deep breaths and I let it wash over and under and away from me, and I continue on. So very little of DS' life is going to revolve around me, I shouldn't resent that all of it does right now. Thus goes my mantra.

Though, I do wish he would heel a little better on his leash...

I was never going to be a mother with a child on a leash, but I never counted on being the mother of a six month old who became adept at scaling the sides of his cot and lunging outwardly, in lieu of sleeping. As he got older, he got bolder, and seemingly less able to appreciate mortal danger. Coincidentally, I became more able to appreciate that much of my motherly role was to keep DS from killing himself.

And that's about the long and short of every day in the Terrible Twos. He's like your drunk friend at the end of the party. You know he should leave, you're tired, he's tired, and he's off his face - so you need to get him home, stop him from insulting people or getting in their way, and hope all the while that he doesn't puke over your new sweater. You just got this sweater, and if he does puke on it, you're just going to kick yourself and think, 'Obviously, Self, this is why we can't have nice things.'

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Catch the Sun?

The sun is shining, the birds are chirping, and we are nearly out of the Embers and the Arys. Or, as I like to refer to them, The Awful Months of Hopeless Dark Which Rend Any Sense Of Happiness and Bunnies/Unicorns From Your Bones And Replace It With Most Unpleasant Tidings Indeed.

November, December, January, February.

Rubbish, aren't they?

It's been dark and rain and snow - break for fun snow days - then the snow gets grubby and it melts but then ices over, so it's even more treacherous and doesn't hold any entertainment value or fun factor, unless you count the fun that DS and DH have watching me fall on my behind and it's like COME ON ENGLAND. You don't need to fulfil absolutely every facet of every terrible weather stereotype that's ever been, do you?

Well, I suppose you do, if you're also going to keep the whinging stereotype going as well.

(I myself have become a champion of said sport, less than two years after my arrival here.)

 But, I digress.

It is the Second of February, so in my head that means it's nearly March, which means it's nearly spring and HO-MUH-GAWD, can I wait for spring? I submit that I cannot.

There is nothing I would like better than to have a leisurely stroll in my beloved Pinner Memorial Park, observing newly hatched water fowl offspring, being cute and fluffy and squeezable-looking, stopping for a cold beverage at Daisy's in the Park, and basking in the glow of the ever elusive English sunshine. That would be a thing to behold. And behold it we shall, once all this absolute-never-ending-grey-please-just-let-me-see-a-patch-of-sky-or-something-i'll-be-your-best-friend-seriously-just-a-patch is over.


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