Because what the internet needs is more wittering about rubbish parenting

Monday, 12 March 2012

Wine. Must Have Wine

I am trapped in some kind of parenting hell.

The Littl'un has contracted a stomach bug, which is just lovely. She has been spectacularly sicky and pooey for the last few days, and was so horribly sick all over her face and her last clean sheet last night, that she ended up sleeping in my arms, which always makes me uncomfortable and cross. And Husband's at work, so I can't even go to yoga to work all my kinks out. Bah.

At least the bug has coincided with a few days of nice weather, so I could hang the endless loads of washing out (although I end up having to hang it up inside to finish drying anyway, thanks to my neighbours' unhelpfully tall fence which blocks all the sun from my garden). There's been so much of it, because the bug has also coincided with the probably slightly premature decision to put The Littl/un in the next size of nappies, which aren't an entirely perfect fit, and really cannot cope with the paces The Littl'un's arse is putting them through. It's delightful.

And if you read my last post, you'll know this has all come hot on the heels of me stopping breastfeeding. Well, in retrospect, there were signs of the bug emerging just before I stopped, but I'm not about to let a little detail like that get in between me and a nice big whack of parenting guilt. The guilt is both stupid and two-fold. The first lot of guilt is the totally irrational feeling not that I have caused it exactly, but that it is some kind of karmic retribution for having given up for my own, pretty selfish reasons. You don't have to tell me how stupid that is (and indeed some of you have already tried), I do know on most levels, but breastfeeding guilt is a strange creature. The second lot of more rational guilt comes from the knowledge that the easiest way to deal with a poorly baby is just to shove a boob in its mouth. I know that plenty of people deal perfectly well with ill babies without their boobs (well, not without their boobs, they still obviously have their boobs. Oh, you know what I mean) and I know that I have before and no doubt will have to again, but I do feel a little bit bad that if I had just kept going for a few more days, I could be giving her milk that's easier to digest, with a really comforting manner of delivery. It's probably not too late to start again if I really wanted to, but I don't think I want to that much, which makes me feel a bit more guilty. Like I said, strange creature.

The final thing that the bug has coincided with is the apparent decision by The Toddler to practise her audition piece for Britain's Got Whingey Toddlers. Judging from what I've seen, she's a shoo-in. Her principal party piece is the repeated insistence that she is either tired, or hungry. If I tell her she is not one, she claims to be the other. She has told me she is hungry whilst holding a biscuit, and told me she is tired while lying down. EAT THE F'ING BISCUIT OR GO TO SLEEP THEN!!!!!!!! She is driving me utterly demented. If she is not whingeing at me, she is either doing something she shouldn't be, or pulling on some part of my clothing or anatomy. Husband had to remove her from my presence this afternoon as I was growling with barely suppressed rage at her attempts to drag me across the kitchen by my beltloops.

What with the irritating Toddler, the spewing and crapping Littl'un, the washing machine that has just beeped to tell me it has finished yet another load of washing that I have no place to put, and the fact that due to Husband's stupid shifts I have to do both breakfast and bedtime on my own again tomorrow, this glass of wine in my hand is the only thing standing between me and a nervous breakdown. It's not even very good wine (it was free when we renewed our Costco membership), but tonight, it is my life ring. Cheers.

1 comment:

  1. oh god that sounds awful I hope the wine did something!