Someone has stolen my son. They have replaced him with an angry unreasonable demon that I can’t wait to put to bed.
Hubs has popped out for afternoon tea with a friend (how very British!) and I’m stuck with the spawn of Hades. He’s poured squash on the carpet. Tried to pour it in the wheetabix tin. Tried to kick Captain and laughed at me when I told him off, demanded an apple that he’s not frigging eating and had an absolute shit fit when I sat down with some cashew nuts. He didn’t want to share he wanted them all. So stormed out of the living room into the hallway, shut the door only to (frequently) open it and shout ‘That’s mine mummy!’
Can’t a girl eat a bowl of nuts in peace? Can’t she do the ironing without the little sod throwing a ball at her? Can’t her offspring listen when she tells him to stop pouring squash over his trousers?!
I am in the ‘very to extremely’ pregnant bracket now and tired. I’m so tired I could cry. All I was is a nap and a snack I can eat without being shouted at. That’s not unreasonable is it?
He’s been affectionate at times today, but that’s mostly involved climbing on me and jabbing bump with all his pointy limbs. In fact most of his affection today has been downright painful.
In my head, there are so many things I’d like to do. Like carry on sorting the room THAT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A FINISHED NURSERY BY THE END OF OCTOBER!! I need to get the pictures up in the hall. The same pictures I’ve been meaning to do for over a year. I need to dust the light on the landing that has now become a giant spider palace. I need to get that last bookcase out of the ‘nursery’ I need to investigate why the bald kitten from Hades’ teddies smell mouldy and I need to wash them. I need to clean the cupboard by the cooker. It’s truly revolting in there which is weird as it’s mostly got boxes of tea in it.
And I need to get my head around the fact that I’m having a baby in February. Because I haven’t got my head round it yet. Not even close.
But I don’t want to do any of those things.
I. Just. Want. To. Sleep.
That is not an option. So we I’ll try and neutralise the demon with a bubble bath…
In other news:
I’ve been listening to Christmas songs. This will form my daily soundtrack from now until NYE.
90% of my house is sticky.
I think the bald kitten is having a poo as I type. This really is the day that keeps on giving.
I’ve completed my first week back at work (well two and a half days…) and it’s safe to say it’s nearly killed me!
My son continues to shun my affections and on Wednesday instead of giving me a kiss goodnight he shouted ‘No!’ and smacked me in the face. I felt my eyes well, hubs said not to take in personally (easy words from the favourite…) but I’ve decided, instead of getting upset I’ll wait until he’s a teenager and wants a fiver or a lift somewhere, I’ll refuse. That’ll learn him.
I am considering taking the little scamp out for a walk today, but reluctant after the new years day shenanigans. And if it’s only me with him and he kicks off I can’t walk away and pretend he’s not mine. It’s safe to say the festive season has taken its toll on my waistline, hubs and I have resolved to walk more (even if it means carrying a bawling toddler all the way round). On Tuesday evening we did a belly comparison, Will walked into the kitchen to see us pressing our bellies together and was furious. There was shouting and arm waving involved. I guess either he didn’t like the fact I was touching daddy or he knows the midriff is a dangerous area to carry extra weight and he’s concerned for our health…
Before any of that though, I must give the boy a bath. It seems he’s a little under the weather. It could be his teeth, it could be something that’s going round. All I know for is whatever the issue is he ‘sharted’ as some point last night (a fart with poo) so a bubbly bath should freshen him up a treat.
In other news:
The cats are at loggerheads again. The season of peace and goodwill is most definitely over.
Hubs and I attempted to learn how to whistle last night, fingers in mouth whistling. All we managed was loud blowing. Must. keep. practicing.
Two sleeps until my 32nd birthday.
It has indeed been a while since my last post, I’ve been going through some things, maybe it’s a mid/quarter life crisis. The most upsetting thing I’ve been trying to handle is the unshakable feeling that my son doesn’t love me anymore.
Sounds a tad dramatic, so was calling my sister last Sunday in floods of tears declaring ‘He hates me! I love him so much but he hates me!’ She tried to calm me down and I tried not to choke on my own snot.
I’ll explain. It’s been gradual, my decline in his esteem. It started as a running joke when he preferred to be cuddled and put to bed by his dad. Wrapping his little arms around hub’s legs, hugging him and exclaiming ‘Ahhhhhhhh’, but not cuddling me. Despite the fact that I would put myself in his way giving him lots of opportunity to do the same to me. Like a silly schoolgirl going out of her way to be around her crush. The thing that pushed me over the edge was trying to kiss him when he was in his dad’s arms and he pulled away from me, swiped at me with the little arms, (that I grew, inside me) and burst into tears.
Hurts much. I excused myself sharpish, not wanting to ball in front of the boy and proceeded to alarm my sister by wailing like a dying moose down the phone.
In company I’d joke about it, and relish the days when I was at home and hubs was at work being the only adult around meant I would get affection from my son. Hubs is still the clear favourite, but waking up on the sofa, with my son’s favourite monkey teddy wedged in the crook of my arm was all the proof I needed that actually… he quite likes me.
In other news:
The new year is upon us and in lieu of a resolution I won’t keep, I’ve accepted I’ll be the same train wreck of a person I’ve always been.
My sister gave birth to my new niece in October and has confirmed birth the second time round is a walk in the park. (That’s definitely NOT what she said but I spoke to her on the phone afterwards and she had the same care-free tone as someone who’d just popped out for a coffee)
If I have to read Meg and Mog one more time, I may kill myself.