Today was really fucking gruelling. I mean Really. Fucking. Gruelling. My patience was tested to the absolute maximum by a soul sucking, sleep torturing, energy draining vampire from the bowls of Hell itself; my 15 month old son. OK, maybe that was a little harsh. He is my miracle child and oh god when I look at him smiling or sleeping I often get actual tears from the overwhelming feelings of pure and true love that stream out of every minute pore in my body, but let's be honest here, miracle IVF child or not, toddlers are fucking horrendous sometimes, right? It's not like when a baby is conceived after years of infertility they magically know to behave themselves and not throw down like they are at an early 2000's hardcore Straight Edge gig anytime you say no. Trust me, whether they are conceived in a two minute, drunken Tinder alleyway meet up or after 3 years of miscarriages and endless needles, toddlers all end up being fucking disgraceful and will test you harder than Abby Lee at a pre-teen dance comp. 


It was 8am and Oakland ran full pelt into the corner of the computer table in our bedroom. Instant egg. He was sitting on my lap hysterically crying while I magically kissed his owie better, and it wasn't working. It was at this moment I knew today was going to suck. This was the beginning of the end. 


Minutes later I was standing in my bathroom applying my makeup, hands covered in foundation when there is a huge crash. Oakland had knocked over (pulled over) my indoor pot plant and the wet soil sprayed over the entire bathroom floor. Fuck my life. So there I was, trying to juggle makeup and clean the floor at the same time, while Oakland just kept trying to walk through the pile of wet dirt. 


Not even ten minutes after that we found ourselves in the kitchen. Oakland was standing beside me as I washed the dishes and he was trying to rummage through my cupboards. Before I could stop him he had my teabags in his hand, tearing the box apart and throwing them on the floor. I told him a very stern "no!" and that was it, he fucking cracked it. He threw himself face first into the tiles and smashed his head. This of course set him in to fit of rage and a stream of tears. Then the bloody dogs got into it. They ran into the kitchen and were jumping and barking, almost bowling Oakland over. 

It's moments  like this that drive a mumma to not only insanity, but also the park. Or the beach. Or the shops. Basically, you will drive anywhere as long as you aren't at home, in hopes that the drive and adventure will distract and ultimately tire out your little cherub. I was in luck. After a huge play at the park he FINALLY fell asleep on the car ride home. There is a GOD! 

I had all limbs crossed that today would be the day that he decided to sleep for more than an hour. Well that was fucking hopeful (and stupid) of me. Just over an hour later he awoke screaming and hungry. Thennnn we were at it again. The tears, the food being thrown on the floor, the clinging and face slamming. Me, watching the clock for 5pm (dinner time), then 6pm (bath time) then finally it happened. The hands magically ticked over to 7pm; bed time!!!! Despite the tears and fidgeting while he had his milk, the screaming once he went into his bed and I closed the door, and then me trekking in to his room several times to pat, lie him back down, sing, stroke his face, kiss him and reassure him, he eventually fell asleep! It was Mum time. I had a little bit of time before Alee got home, meaning I could sit, have a cold drink and a hot meal, pee by myself for the first time that day and then get ready to do it all over again in a few hours. 

Yep, I fought to be a mum. I had no idea what I was in for and it is the best thing ever!

Published by Perils of a Passable Parent