This article is 94% true.
Currently I have three kids under twenty-two. Feels spacious :)
Now two of them have left home, I find myself in a fit of nostalgia.
I heard a kid screaming his head off for what felt like hours in the swimming pool changing room. It reminded me of the days of trying to tackle three of the slippery tiny things and their armbands at the end of my tether. I went to the mother and told her: “I think you’re doing a fantastic job”, and then promptly burst into tears, such was the PTSD.
Here’s what it was like when I had three under four, a piece written for my method writing class this week.
Fuck off, leave me alone, can’t you see I’m not interested. I can’t get into it, I’m no social butterfly, I’d rather do my own thing, I’m nobody’s lackey. The saucepan lids are yattering away, won’t give me a minute’s peace, I’ve got a loaf ache, give me a break.
I need some time alone. Time alone is all I need, time alone would be a miracle. For 22 years there’s always been someone in my house. Someone needing my attention. Someone needing my time. Or a lift to the station. Or a lift to school. Or a lift to hospital.
Cor blimey, didn’t you hear what I said, and still you’re still sat there earwigging. Expecting the best of me, wanting me to be all sunshine and roses when I just want to be left to my own devices, to tune out the hullabaloo and just be on my lonesome.
When they were small I wore an Alice band with three pecking birds attached to it. They bobbed and pecked relentlessly, they were inescapable night and day and I hated it. But I hated me more for hating it.
I ran back to work as quick as I could but the alice band mutely bowed and floated with such strongly needing and desperation, clamouring for my weary heart and mind. Smotheringly, plaintively calling out my name, wresting me from my slumber and daydreams. With rancour I replied, curling my spiteful lip at my shame.
I couldn’t measure up to the other mothers, the care wasn’t deep enough in me. I did not know how to play, or fill the endless hours of school holidays. I felt clunky, as I had found myself here by accident, wanting to do a better job, ashamed.
“Get upstairs or I’ll give you something to cry about”, I said. Stars swam in front of my eyes from the force of my rage. I wore old jeans and an old blue t-shirt, another baby clung to my hip. Half-way up the stairs, the back of my daughter’s nappy stuck ou from her tape-measure, her socks falling off her clippers. A small point was stuck to her back. Her plaits fell between her ears and her burden. The monster clung to me tighter. The third baby upstairs was still dirty.
I sank to the starfish step and howled.