So I just totally lost my shit with the beans. I didn’t really shout, I just told them how it was. I spoke to them like they knew what the fuck I was on about and now, as they’re sat in front of me eating Christmas chocolate and watching Netflix, for the first time ever I don’t actually feel guilty about it.

As my title says, I am not Superwoman and I am fed up of having those expectations put on me just because I’m a mother…believe it or not…they have a father too. SHOCK!

Now I’m not saying he doesn’t pull his weight, I’m saying he isn’t expected to pull is weight. It’s bull shit and today I’ve had enough so I’m writing an aggressive blog post about it.

I missed the beans today, I always feel guilty for putting them in nursery just so I can get my shit done. I’ve had no work this week but have needed to get so much Christmas stuff done I’ve still put them in nursery (except on Monday when I hung out with them). The day started well but then got slowly worse so the need for a bean hug (and a fat gin) was growing.

As soon as I picked them up they started playing me up. In every possible way. Kicking, screaming, refusing to get in the car, hitting each other….Now I was a total bitch when I was growing up so I get that this is some kind of sick joke from the universe, but two of them being bitches is just mean! The universe is a pervert.

Three

Then they started with the emotional torture. “We don’t want you mum. We don’t want to go to our house. We want to go to Daddy’s. We love Daddy, he is our favorite grown-up.” Then they actually started to fight over who loves him the most. Bean#1 started crying because her sister was saying that her Daddy was her favorite grown-up and Bean#1 didn’t want to share Daddy.

I suggested that Bean#1 choose another grown-up, to which she said “I would rather share Daddy with sissy than choose another grown-up.” For the rest of the drive they just chanted his name: “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!”

I know they’re kids, and kids are generally arse holes, but this is abuse. Parent abuse.

I have spent all week trying to get shit together to make their Christmas perfect, I am working full time to pay for their shit, I am sleeping for around three hours a night because I am either having a recurring nightmare (don’t ask. I’m a total fuck-up in my own rights), or I’m laying there worrying about money, schools, toilet training, their mental and physical growth…the list is endless. When I do nod off both or one of them crawl in my bed and either lay on me or push me out the way. But who do they want? Who is their favorite person? Their Daddy.

Two

I know the above paragraph is the case for most mothers, in no way do I think I am different or an exception. I’m just voicing the fact that I’m pissed off about it. I’m pissed off that by the point a child is old enough to appreciate what an arse hole they were as a child and how grateful they are, they’re too grown up and dealing with their own little arse holes to do anything about it. How is that fair?

So I’m calling it. I’m not pretending to be the super hero any more. It’s hard and I’m struggling. I’m struggling and failing with every aspect of parenting, PLUS I lost all my close-by friends in the divorce so I’m having to moan about shit on a sad fucking blog rather than to an actual human.

So no, I’m not Superwoman. At the moment my body is so hairy, my hair is so dirty and my clothes are so grubby I’m hardly even a fucking woman!

One

But I’m doing this shit and I’m doing it on my own. My two little beanie arse holes will appreciate it one day and hopefully I’ll do a good enough job to not let them grow up in to professional arse holes; then it will all be worth it.

Rant over. Gin poured. Kids kissed and cuddled (the last one is a lie. I’m still raging at the favorite grown up game).

All is right in the Merryfield Bear house.