Hold on Mum’s and Dad’s

The daily grind of living life and the pitfalls that accompany parenting. Am I doing it right? Have I done enough? Have I already screwed up my children? School drop offs, Kindergarten pickups, back-packs and soiled lunch boxes. Scribbled hands and dirt stained shorts, runny noses, and scratchy coughs. Scrambling grocery runs — while baby is exercising lung capacity. Where does the time go? And better yet how the hell do we keep it up or together.

Screaming kids demanding… “I want a sandwich, I want crackers, I want a bottle.” I want, I want, I want. Pulling on the last fabric of your sanity. Instead of shackles, or the home detention bracelet, you are wearing toddlers and your sentence is not 3 months but 18 fucking years. This reverberates around your ringing ears and then drops out of sound seeking a disconnection in spite of those high pitched demands. One last time… 18 years.

Relationships. What the hell happened to this existential past-time that was the throbbing heart beat of your now fading past. The existence you long for; like a bowl of melting hot chocolate, over your favorite ice cream, just past midnight. Oh how the thought beckons the past into the present. The longing is only for a brief second or two, but you know what this means. It is an extension of what used to be you. The you who is all forgotten, the you who always comes last, the you who takes a back seat to everything. The you who you don’t anymore, this you is struggling to raise children.

Then a smile, a cuddle, a playful nudge, “I love you mummy, I love you daddy.” your heart skips a beat and you don’t even notice. Eyes beaming with pride. Success, my child actually loves me. Those dimples, curved up corners of the lips and bright shining eyes. And you feel like you again, even if it is for one second or two, you feel you again. And the you that you forgot about resurfaces for a moment in time. You swear you would not change anything for the independence you once held with a death like grip. The magic of parenting, and the juggling hell, all compressed, like a laughing time bomb we hold in our fragile hands.

A few years go by, and the you remembered is not the same you. You have changed, not so much in what you love and don’t love, but in how you react or choose not to react. The you now has flowered, gradually, obscuring that you of yesteryear. You let go. Because of love, because of the screaming, tantrums, bottles made and bottles washed, asses wiped, baths, toys, dinners eaten and most of the time not eaten. Bed time perfection versus bed time disasters; more often than not. We survive, and with this we change.

Those little shits help shape us into responsible adults. Patience, wisdom, kindness, along with destroyed fraying furniture and carpets that look: well… like animal rugs rather than carpets. And the car… the bloody car… You already know!!!

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