I can’t quite believe where the last two years have gone and how dramatically my life has changed. My Facebook memories tells me that on this day two years ago I was watching videos of cats going down slides. OK so maybe not THAT much has changed apart from now I have to watch cat videos with one eye whilst using the other to monitor the level of potential danger that my 1 year old is in at any given time.
When I first announced my pregnancy I decided to do it in the only way I know how – by undermining my adult status and revealing all of the ways I felt I was too immature to have a baby. Nearly two years on, and two years wiser (ha!) I thought I’d revisit this to share with you all of the ways I am STILL too immature to have a baby. No holds barred people.
- I still don’t have a “plan” – A life plan that is. I generally tend to wing it from one hour to the next and really can’t see this changing. Surely adults are supposed to know what the shit they’re doing though?
- I enjoy Oscar’s toys more than he does – The other day I spent about 20 minutes in the bath (alone) playing with his penguin wall thing. You know, one of the ones you put water in and it turns all the cogs – bloody amazing!
- I regularly throw a hissy fit because I want to drink all of the cocktails in the world but can’t because I have a bloody baby.
- I am still the laziest person I have ever met and I frequently blame “having a baby” as the reason for my house always being a total state, despite the fact that he is now a toddler.
- Whilst everyone else is all precious and delicate with their darling children, I have no qualms with lobbing mine in the air, tossing him upside down or wrestling. Sometimes I think people may think I’m his big sister (… WHAT? I could TOTALLY be his sister…you bastards).
- I am a lazy cook – I just can’t seem to find time to fit a 12 hour working day and a baby into a routine that also allows me to make something healthy (or even more impressive – batch cook) so that Oscar has delicious homemade meals. He therefore lives on toddler meals, jacket potatoes and toast – meh.
- Poo jokes make me laugh. Poo is funny. As is coming up with amazing ways to indicate level of despair with a nappy. Pootastrophe, Poopocalypse, Poonami, Pooey Theroux etc. etc.
- I take great delight in sneaking Oscar little bits of chocolate amd biscuits because of the incredible appreciative smile I get – despite the OH not wanting him to have any (mum 1, dad 0).
- I find it hilarious now that Oscar has started talking and keeps saying, what sounds like, “shit” on repeat. His Dad is less amused.
- My a) work ethic and b) career aspirations have regressed to those of my teenage self, in that I a) don’t want to and b) don’t have any. I just want to sit at home and watch Baby Jake and eat crisps. All day, every day.
- I still love violent video games but now I pretend I’m shooting that condescending Facebook warrior mum who insists breastfeeding is as easy as wiping your bum and that children should never be allowed to watch TV, rather than my boss.
- I dress like a 6 year old who has been let loose on their wardrobe without parental supervision – I throw clashing colours and patterns of all types of clothing together until I am warm enough to leave the house. Sadly I am now doing the same to Oscar. Sorry kid.
- Although I am much more comfortable talking about bodily functions post-baby, these conversations usually leave me giggling like a thirteen year old school boy.
- I am terrified that I am going to damage Oscar. Either emotionally or physically. Sometimes I feel like he’s just a large tamagotchi and my track record for keeping those alive is pretty shit.
- When Oscar colours outside the lines (inevitable seeing as he’s only one) my right eye starts twitching and I have an overwhelming urge to show how him it’s REALLY done. Being overly competitive with a baby? Definitely not mature.
- I keep thinking I should be all “mumsy” now and start hand-making crocheted blankets and baking healthy carrot muffins… But. I. Just. Can’t. Be. Arsed.
- I frequently have an overwhelming urge to “have a quiet word” with the babies at nursery who insist on making Oscar ill all the time – until I remember I’m not Phil Mitchel and they are 1 year olds.
- Last week I asked the in-laws to look after Oscar for a few hours while I deep-cleaned the house. I actually watching Netflix and ate cheese toasties and biscuits.
- I sent Oscar to nursery wearing pyjamas the other day because I wanted to finish watching Making a Murderer instead of doing the washing.
- I concoct alternative plot lines for In The Night Garden in my mind which are all set in Amsterdam and feature Iggle Piggle as a strange faceless pimp, Upsy Daisy as his prize “bitch”, Macca Pacca as a deformed fetishist (seriously WTF is that sponge obsession about?) and the Tombliboos as a creepy incestuous sex act in a seedy bar (WHY are they always snogging if they are related?).
This level of immaturity is totally acceptable for a parent, right? … RIGHT?