There are a few questions I get asked often about my family, so I thought I’d just put it out there for everyone to see.
Do they both have the same father? Yes. They do. Not that it would change my capacity to parent well if they didn’t.
Are you still with their father? Yes. I am. And not just because we have young children either. Because I love him – imagine that.
Were they planned? We didn’t plan the exact night on which we would fall pregnant, no. Weren’t trying, but we weren’t not trying. Does that mean I love them any less? No.
Are you feeding her yourself? I’m not sure how my boobs are any of your business, but yes – I am lactating.
Is he a boy? Yes. Just because he has (gorgeous, curly) long hair and nail polish on his toes doesn’t remove his penis.
Gosh she’s little. Was she premmie? She was born smack bang 37 weeks. I’m just lucky and have little babies. It’s great, I get more bang for my buck with clothes.
And one I’ve only been asked once:
Is Pat really the father?
You know, I’m not sure. He’s the one out of the three possible choices that earned the most though, so I told him he is.
For the record, yes, Pat IS the father to both my children. But God, it was worth saying that to the person who asked.
And then asking her if her husband was the father when they fell pregnant.
What questions do you get asked and you feel like saying “Mind you’re own effing business!” ?
I can’t believe that when I write your next letter, you will be two. It seems not too long a go I was bringing you home from hospital wondering what the hell I was meant to do with you.
You are amaing. Beautiful. Mesmerising. Sometimes you bring tears to my eyes. Sometimes I think I must be dreaming. Someone so perfect cannot belong to me. But you do.
Tonight I went and held your chubby little hand as you slept. You murmured “Love you Mummy.” and you brought tears to my eyes again.
Tomorrow you will wake up and prattle on about Grandad. And grandad’s Tractor. And Grandad going to work in the car, in the bowling car. And having weetbix for breakfast. And all the other things you fill my day with. I’ll listen to it all and store it away somewhere special, because it won’t be long now at all that you’ll be all grown up. The last 23 months has flown by.
You make me so proud sweetheart.
I didn’t know love until I had you.
I’m fucking sick of pretending.
I’m not good at being a mother of two.
When I take them both to the shops, it’s not because I’m so great. I take them because it means that I can keep them both in a very small, contained area and it’s ok. It’s actually expected.
It also means I can bribe the child with a donut and everyone smiles at him while he’s covered in sugar and tell me he’s adorable.
I just want one goddamn night’s sleep with no interruptions. I’m sick of dealing with sick children. And being up all night with reflux. And toilet training a child who is adverse to pooing on the toilet. Is that too much to friggen ask?
Pat goes from one extreme of Hubby of the World to the other. Sometimes he is absolutely amazing, sometimes I just want to yell at him “WHAT ABOUT ME?!? I’M SICK TOO!” Luckily, I can’t complain too much. He is great MOST of the time. Just a little oblivious when it’s most important.
I love my family and I love Pat’s family. But sometimes I wish we could just tell them we don’t want to see anyone, do anything or go anywhere. We’re tired. We don’t get a break to just do nothing despite what you might think. Having two young children while we are young is HARD. There are things I wish we had for our kids (our own house being one) but we just can’t afford it. I’d love to have Dex in swimming lessons and baby dancing and all those other things good parents put their children in. But we don’t have the money and I feel like that makes me not a good parent.
Most nights Pat and I just fall into bed. If I’m lucky we have enough energy to have sex. I refuse to lose that part of our relationship due to being too tired, because sometimes it feels like sex is the only thing I do that doesn’t have something to do with being a mother.
I feel guilty when I wonder if this is what the rest of our life will be like. I love my kids, both of them. With my whole heart. If I didn’t I would possibly have shaken them already so I could just get another fucking hour worth of sleep. But I haven’t and I won’t. Because as much as I sometimes question being a mum and if I’m any good at it, their smiles tell me I must be doing something right.