Wednesday, September 21, 2011

Back from hiatus

I went away with the in-laws last week. Beautiful holiday, with lovely company. Including GBM's two nieces, 2-year-old and a 3-month-old. I love them dearly, they are both sweet, good-natured and will soon be independent happy little girls. Just in case anyone is wondering, spending a week with them did not grow me a maternal bone. Rather, it had the opposite effect. 

But it did give me a renewed appreciation for just how hard it is to be a parent. 

I can barely get myself out of the house in under an hour. In fact, it's usually closer to two hours, from wake up to closing the front door. There's feeding and burping and at least two potty-breaks. Then there's the usual fight to put on clothes, with the obligatory 10 to 20 minutes of running around in underwear and having a temper tantrum about hair. And that's just me on a normal week day morning. It's three times worse with two kids. There is no ways I would cope on a daily basis. No, thank you ma'am. 

And all this palava, after nights of most-likely very disrupted sleep, because the little one needs a feed and the other one has been up because of bad dreams, or insecurity or just generally screaming, "noooooooooooooo!" which is apparently the only word in her vocab at 3am. 

Nooooooo... thank you.

Again, it's not because of these two girls specifically. I would drop anything for them. 
Speaking of dropping...

Well, I didn't actually drop her. It was more a topple. Out of her rocking chair. Which thank god, was already on the floor when I tipped her out. And she was strapped into it, so she didn't have far to go. But, the fact remains, that I was the supposed-adult responsible for looking after the 3-month-old. And I knocked her chair on its side, sending the little one sprawling. And that's all it took to give the kid a black eye. 

They call me Aunty Bruiser. 
At least, I think that's what they would call me. If they were talking to me.

Thank god, it was the second child. As it was, I was not left unsupervised for the rest of the week. Which is fair enough. Thank god, both mom and dad have been parents for long enough to know that these things happen. If it had been the first child, or if - god forbid - I had been the very first adult to drop either of their kids, I doubt I would've been let back into the house. 

The poor baby had a slightly swollen cheek below her eye, which was visible for less than a day. But I still felt sick to the stomach every time I saw it. I honestly wanted to cry, and was nauseous with guilt. Is this what it would feel like every time your child gets hurt? Or just when you feel responsible for letting it happen, or worse, are the accidental cause of the injury? Or do you get over it, does it become easier to see a scraped knee or hear your child screaming from fright and pain? 

No thank you, ma'am. I'll not be signing up for that emotional trauma, exhaustion and under-appreciation. 

Gimme a puppy any day. 

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