It’s Valentines Day today and this morning I wake up slightly differently than usual having sent The Bearded One to sleep in one of the kids rooms for his ridiculous snoring. It’s 7am and I can hear him getting up to feed The Dog.I decide to be the bigger person after our cross words last night and ask him to come back to bed.
It’s all a bit frosty and tense even when I radio up through the baby monitor (so not what it’s meant to be used for!) to see if he wants a tea or coffee.
He needs to leave for work at 8am so after a few awkward exchanges to test out the mood he’s out the door.
I’m still annoyed. More so when we get into a mild but upsetting text battle over absolutely nothing. That “nothing” turns into “something” and by the end of the day we’re at a complete stand off.
The Bearded One and I are so similar it’s almost pointless arguing as it’s like arguing with yourself. We are both incredibly proud, incredibly sensitive and incredibly stubborn. So stubborn in fact that if there was even a hint of a white flag lurking in either camp we would spend hours colouring it black along with any other white looking object.
So sometimes these “issues” (and I use that term loosely as they aren’t actually issues just whatever he or I have manufactured in our heads) can be resolved straight away. Other times it can be an all day-er! Shitty one word answers when the other has sent an essay. Amazingly even after a baby we still find time to sulk with each other.
Full steam ahead with the text argument and I’m trying to get The Baby ready to head out when he does his first ever projectile vom. ALL OVER MY NEW FUCKING CUSHIONS. Cursed! At this point I don’t know what to do, he’s covered, I’m covered, my cushions are covered and he’s making a choking sound. As I pat his back he coughs up the last bit of sick and spits it straight into my mouth. You’d think I’d be horrified but I’m a mother, disgusting bodily functions are now my life.
Having cleaned him up and still arguing with The Bearded One I walk The Baby (screaming) down the road to where I had to abandon the car a few nights previous. I’m delighted it hasn’t been clamped after the neighbourhood busybodies posted a letter communally advising that was a possibility. The Baby loaded up (still screaming) and we’re off to buy The Small One some last minute presents and party food for her 6th birthday.
Realising I need to stop at the bank I plug the details into sat nav and realise the giant Tesco Extra I had banned us from going to was actually just round the corner. FFS. Desperately trying to think of something we needed that couldn’t be bought from Tesco I realise we’re at the bank.
The Baby is howling now and I have no choice but pick him up and wait in line rocking him. The little traitor beams at everyone and gives me a look to say “I have an audience now, just try putting me back in the seat and see where it gets you”. Transaction completed and I’m actually entertaining the “mortgage pitch” from the woman behind the counter. Not because I’m interested but because the bank is slowly emptying which means The Baby can scream the place down. Mummy 1 Baby 0.
Having admitted defeat we head to the giant Tesco and walk immediately into a sea of frenzied, pissed off men manically grabbing £9.99 bunches of roses and an emergency card hoping to find one that’s says “I haven’t left this to the last minute”.
It’s chaos but luckily The Baby has screamed himself to sleep. After our last trip (reference “back to reality” entry) I know better than to trust that he’ll sleep the whole way round. I only need a couple of presents. Shit! No I don’t, I need all the party food, decorations and now I’ll need dinner stuff as The Bearded One was originally cooking dinner. I don’t see this happening as we’re still in the midst of our heated exchange. Optimistic I decide to make a special lamb based meal so mentally start listing ingredients. Having nearly filled the basket underneath the pram I’m debating whether to do 2 trips or if I can carry a basked AND push a pram when The Baby wakes up. Screaming. FFS! He’s inconsolable again. And sweaty, very very sweaty. Leaving me no choice I take him out the car seat, stripping him down to his baby grow and balancing him on my hip.
Actually this could work well if I time it right. I could grab the last few bits and put them him is car seat saving the extra trip and avoid the extra basket. That works brilliantly until he gets too heavy to carry, the pram is too heavy to push one handed. In the end I rest him on the handlebar of the pram and wheel him to the till.
The height of the pram means I can empty it out whilst still holding The Baby, I can then put him in it and empty the lower basket. Everything is a fucking process but I’ve sussed it.
What I didn’t account for was the woman on the till having a complete melt down because I MOMENTARILY put one of the frozen items at the end of the conveyor belt having decided we didn’t need it.
“IT’S GOING TO DEFROST, IT’S GOING TO DEFROST. YOU NEED TO PUT IT BACK”.
“You need to”. Those three little words are guaranteed to turn me into a stubborn toddler quicker than any actual child. No love, YOU need to. I of course didn’t say this. What I wanted to say was “shit!!! Does that mean this will all defrost by the time I get to the car?!” I of course didn’t say that either.
I politely pointed out The Baby (who she couldn’t have fucking missed due to his increasing screams) and said I’m not wheeling him off and could I possibly leave it with her instead as I’m running really late.
Her response “don’t worry, I can watch him”.
ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME.
Ok perfect stranger, thank you for watching my reason for living whilst I run back to put 20 poxy prawns back in the freezer. Could you let me know when I should receive my cheque for fucking working here now!!!!
I ignore her and carry on packing.
“Are you going to put them back?” she asks me.
Who the fuck is this woman? The fucking prawn police?
“No I’m not and I suggest you stop asking me, press your buzzer for assistance and put the rest of my shopping through”.
With that she starts scanning my shopping giving the staff at Aldi a run for their money. She has got a face like thunder and as I bag the last item up she’s now pretending she can’t see me.
She reaches out her hand for me to hand her my card without even looking at me.
I stand there. Listen love, I’m in the middle of a stand off with my husband so I have no issue doing it with you! I wait. I wait for eye contact. I wait for her to tell me how much my shopping has come to. I wait for her to ask if I have a Clubcard.
Her only response “put your card in there” and gestures limply at the card machine.
“How much is it please?”
Not even looking at me she turns her little monitor so I can see the total.
I’m livid. I have several options here.
1. Demand she tell me the total.
2. Tell her I can’t read
3. March over to the next available till, pour out my already bagged shopping and make someone else scan I through.
Option 3 gives me visions of being tackled to the ground by a security officer for trying to shoplift.
I tell myself I have a son now, I need to set a good example (despite the fact he’s only 3 months old and has limited awareness) so I give in and pay like the very British adult I am.
As she hands me my receipt (again without eye contact) I ask her for her last name. “Why?”
“Because when I submit my complaint about your poor customer service I want to make sure they address it with the right “Sheila”.
“We’re not allowed to give out personal details” and then sneers. FUCKING SNEERS!
It’s too late to set a good example now, I’ve seen red. In the calmest fashion I can muster I lift my phone and pretend to take a picture of her. “Don’t worry, I’ll just show them this” and with that I wheel The Baby off without looking back.
It is not remotely satisfying, in fact I’m in a total panic that I’ve just broken some “personal property” law and at any moment she’s going to run up behind me and make a citizens arrest.
I look at my son who is throughly enjoying the jog I’ve broken into vowing I will not unleash my crazy around him again. Well not when he’s old enough to copy.
As I reach the car unarrested and in bits I reach for my phone to call The Bearded One then remember we are still at war. FFS.
Having returned home I unload the shopping FURIOUS that the frozen food has started to defrost and make a start on wrapping The Small Ones presents. The Baby has other ideas and is demanding to be held. Nothing is entertaining him, not the play mat, swing or overly complicated bouncer. I’m resting him on my knee wrapping a mountain of presents realising I probably didn’t need to go shopping in the first place. Fucking baby brain!
Everything finished and The Baby is finally ready to sleep (reference “Treat your baby like a bomb” entry). By the time he’s asleep The Bearded One is at home.
It has become apparent that Valentines Day is no longer taking place in our house as you could build an igloo with the frost between us. Shoving a semi frozen pizza and chips in the oven, topping up my wine I sit back down to see if can resolve anything.
After an hour or so of “sort of” talking we agree we’re on the same page, just tired combined with feeling unwell and head to bed.
The Baby (having refused to go to sleep earlier) is awake again and now refusing to sleep in his crib. As I get him into bed with me I hear The Bearded One fall asleep. Then The Baby FINALLY falls asleep. I am trapped in the middle of the two with absolutely no space to sleep. I combine the diving pose with the planking pose and hope that The Baby is in a deep enough sleep to put him in his crib because frankly I’m too unfit to maintain this position.
As it becomes apparent I’m going to be here for a while The Bearded One begins his nightly snore fest and The Baby joins in.
Fuck my life, fuck Valentines Day but mostly fuck the prawns!