As women we give our bodies over to producing a living being for roughly nine months. It is the ultimate sacrifice. We do it for love. And our other half? Has to put up with us being proper psychotic for nine months. They too do this for love.
But it doesn't stop there. There are the obvious things we give up for the love of our children. Like losing sleep. Our social life. Our tiny minds. But after a particularly trying 'baking with a toddler' session, it dawned on me - there are other things I fooking hate doing.
But I do them 'for the love'. The love of my child. And the whole time I do them I am internally sighing and rolling my eyes so far back into my head they can actually see the inside of my tired and grumpy brain.
Eat crap cakes
I have taken to 'baking' with my daughter whilst my boy sleeps. I hate baking. I am sh*t at baking. Although not as sh*t as my daughter. Who adopts the 'one for me, one for the cake' rule of thumb when it comes to adding ingredients. I actually had to restrain her from eating 125g of butter earlier. A solid lump of butter vom.
But luckily there is one thing I won't do for love. And that is eat them. I ensure that she makes them alllllll for Daddy. And he better eat them all or he doesn't love her. That's the rule.
Attend tea parties
"Mummy. Would you like to play tea parties?". This is such a cute phrase.
It made me so happy the first 564 TIMES I HEARD IT. Now. I shudder each time the tea set comes out.
I have been known to hide or do imaginary housework. Sometimes when coerced into playing it AGAIN I ask for a double gin in my pretend tea. Mix it up a bit.
Watch crap toddler 'produced, directed and starring' shows
I am a bit of a drama queen. I love a musical. I have been known to do the running man in the street. My girl has also acquired these 'skills'. And now we have the "Mummy do you want to see a show?". Now if it was the toddler version of Les Mis. Well yes my sweet. I would. That show I should love to watch. But alas it generally is a nonsensical tirade of words and odd fit like dance movements. I sit and clap enthusiastically. All whilst making a mental note to NEVER let her apply for the X Factor.
Make tw*ts of ourselves
My husband is very quiet. Very, very quiet and he is 6ft 2. Now, is a very quiet and very tall man, the kind of man you would expect to stand up in front of hundreds of people with Michael De Souza the creator of Rastamouse? Who made him dress as President Wensly Dale and talk in a Rastafarian accent. Then reenact a story with tiny children playing the other main characters.
I have never laughed so much in my life and as I write this. I am laughing again. He made a total and utter tw*t of himself. For love. For not wanting to let his daughter down. Who to be honest didn't seem that arsed. Oh it was brilliant, it really was.
Get excited about ridiculous things
I went to see the Justin and Friends Show. And after the interval. Mr Tumble ran through the audience. And I screamed. I actually screamed "LOOK THERE HE IS. THERE IS MR TUMBLE!".
1) I hate Mr Tumble and 2) I am aware he is actually Justin. He is! Don't be shocked.
Yet for the love of my girl I overreacted so she would enjoy the show. And when he sang his classic (ahem) hit 'Hands Up' I picked her up and ran to the front like it was Take That and Gary Barlow was singing Back for Good. Naked.
I love my children. I really, really do. And I do a host of stupid things that I really hate doing, purely to make them smile. But I am happy and safe in the knowledge that when they are older. When they have families of their own and have moved, hopefully not to far, away. I will insist on showing them 563 photos from our various retirement style holidays. Then they too will have to sit there, nodding enthusiastically, whilst internally screaming "Shut the f*ck up!".
Bring it on babs. Bring. It. On.
This blog has been republished with kind permission of Brummy Mummy of 2
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