The day I sang ‘Happy Birthday’ to a Yorkshire pudding was a low point in my life.
Don’t get me wrong, I am glad my children possess the imagination to personify flour-based delicacies they find on their dinner plates.
But, nevertheless, this wasn’t exactly how I’d pictured my thirties.
I imagined I’d be in (unstained) pale grey loungewear relaxing on a chaise longue while my children played happily nearby with educational wooden toys. I imagined sipping a latte in a pleasant vintage coffee shop on a busy Saturday afternoon while my children had hazelnut steamers and talked about their favourite planet.
I didn’t appreciate that I would rather remove my own teeth with a set of pliers than bring my children to a coffee shop on a busy Saturday afternoon.
Nor had I ever considered the possibility that a miniature dictator of sorts would command me to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to an inanimate object. Nor that, such would be my fear for the safety of my eardrums in a refusal scenario, I’d happily oblige.
I definitely didn’t foresee the day we had a visit from clergy shortly after our youngest daughter was born. My son thought it fitting to parade around the room with our bathroom bin on his head. Not content with his bin efforts, he went on to fire a Minion Fart Blaster at the poor man before shouting ‘fat ass!’ at him from behind the sofa. My face attempted a shocked, ‘Oh where did he hear that terrible language from?’ My sleep deprived eyes, however, definitely said, ‘OK, OK, he overheard me slagging off Susan over the road that one time… twice at the very most…’ The poor man definitely left our house thinking I fed my children E numbers intravenously.
I could talk on about the many, many other times motherhood hasn’t entirely been what I expected. Like ‘partially eaten plum gate,’ the time our son got his head stuck in railings at Tayto Park, our eldest’s insistence on shouting ‘amend!’ at the end of a prayer, chocolate muffin being hurled at a man wearing an expensive looking suit in Costa,and the many times I wondered if I’d make it out of Pets at Home before my 60th birthday.
Being a mum isn’t what I thought it was going to be like.
For a start, I’ve realised that a chaise longue is delightfully similar in shape to a diving board. (That will only ever go one way). No item of food ever gets eaten in its entirety, especially apples. Pets at Home is pretty much a petting zoo in the eyes of children. And there’s so much poo. And pee. And saliva. And snot. All the fluids. All the time.
There isn’t a lot of glamour involved in being a mum. There definitely isn’t a lot of sleep.
But there’s laughter. Oh all the beautiful, (usually inappropriate) laughter.
And the fun and the precious imagination that has long since rusted in most adults.
I love every single utterly bonkers minute of this whirlwind.
Now, what exactly do I get for a Yorkshire pudding that has it all?