First time mum/referee/ sleeve snot wiper to a wild toddler. Designated household bum changer. Blogging about this motherhood malarkey from a refreshingly honest and unfiltered perspective.

Embrace Every Second? No way.

"Enjoy it because it won't last," chuckles Barbara as my child screams, kicks and howls in the middle of the shop while, me, harassed, close to tears and ready to open the bottle of rum right there, attempts to keep myself composed and prevent the bubbling slur of swear words throwing themselves up my throat.

Fuck off, Barbara.

I feel too often we're told to, "cherish every second" because, "it all goes too fast" and "I'll wish for these moments five years from now." (I'll repeatedly say, as I already find myself doing so, "Where does the time go?" or, "Where has my baby gone?") and while that is all so painfully true, it still doesn't mean I want to revel in every second of it all.

I'll miss the days spent on the couch, infused with that newborn smell. I'll miss the tiny cuddles and his little face nuzzled in my chest. I'll miss his belly aching laugh and his incoherent baby babble. I'll miss my best friend when he's too cool to hang out with mum anymore and would prefer to retreat to his room.

I think as parents, we feel obliged almost to put up this pretense that parenthood is always tremendous.
We feel we need to show we are so endlessly grateful for the chance to be a parent and fear if we reveal even the slightest hint of dissatisfaction, that we will be judged, ridiculed for not appreciating such a blessing. 

Of course we adore our children and wouldn't wish for anything else. Of course, we love them dearly and swim in how magical it all is.

But when it's 4 am, when your baby is up for the FOURTH time, when they've exploded through their nappy and created a shit massacre over the bed, the early days of cluster feeding, and the unforgiving colic curse. The days as a sleep deprived robot. The relentless anxiety as I spent my first few days as a new mum refusing to sleep for a solid 3 days fueled by caffeine and a merciless terror that my son would stop breathing.
When I've felt so god damn alone. Or when my babies lungs have sang tears all day long.
The crippling guilt of failing. The loss of friends who don't call round anymore. The same, boring routine. When it's the day where nothing in the world can stop him from crying and I want to scream into a pillow. I absolutely do not want to relish in that fucking storm of shit.

Why? because it sucks, and we absolutely don't have to cherish every second. That being said, it doesn't mean we don't love it all the same.

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