Most of the time when I see a little encouraging meme or inspirational quote on the Internet I do a HARD eye-roll.
I can’t help myself, I’m very cynical about these things, it’s hereditary. My mother is a total hard ass about anything “uplifting” or “spiritually nourishing” and I seem to have inherited this. However there is one little mantra I learned from Instagram that I do really rate and call up at least a few times a week: “It’s a bad day, not a bad life.”
10 Stages of A Bad Day, Not a Bad Life:
Stage 1 – 06.32 am: Awake to Cries of “Dada, Dada, Dada.”
“Dada” is hungover (which he is perfectly entitled to be of course, despite the passive-aggressive way that I am mentioning it here). The Child doesn’t want me; he wants Dada. “Muma NO,” he screams as if I’m some complete villain. I’m tired. “You can have me or no one,” I huff back at him. “Muma No, NO, NOOOOOOO.” “You’re making me feel like shit, and it’s not even 7 am yet,” seriously, this is true I feel like crying. I lift him out of the cot and start trying to get his sodden nappy off him, something you’d think he’d appreciate, but he thrashes around thumping my huge bump which his pending sibling does not appreciate. The retaliation kick is felt only by me, however. Starting my day making my son shriek and scream in protest is not fun.
Stage 2 – 8.20 am: Breakfast AKA Spoon Gate
Breakfast is a drawn out and protracted series of blunders on my part. I give him ‘egg toast’ as he requested which is met with completely disproportionate rage on his part. This is then replaced with ‘cereal no milk’ as stipulated by The Child, and then swiftly rejected for no apparent reason. I proceed to get up and down from the table at least eight more times to replace spoons, fetch juice, get water, get wet wipes, source toys and on and on and on. I know I’m the dick who’s actually going along with all this, but I just want to spend time with my son when he’s not freaking out because I cut the toast wrong.
Stage 3 – 10.17 am: Periodic Tantruming Commences (Won’t Abate All Day)
Of course cutting the toast wrong is just the beginning of what is frequent and completely irrational tantrums for the next few hours.
“Muma, no sit there.” I move he’s even less happy with my new choice of seat.
“Muma, make dinner.” But it’s 11 am.
“Muma, water. Water, Muma.” I give him the water – the first THREE glasses I choose are UNACCEPTABLE.
Stage 4 – 12.30 pm: Nap Attempt Part 1
After increasing displays of tiredness and even asking for ‘bank’ which means blanket which means nap time, The Child is INCENSED at being put to bed for his nap. And so beings an hour or more of nap negotiations.
Stage 5 – 2.45 pm: Nap Attempt Part 17
At the moment that I am just about to abandon the nap altogether and risk the Child being an over-tired maniac for the rest of the day, he finally succumbs to sleep. I take this time to dig myself deeper and deeper into my bleak mood.
“It’s a bad day, not a bad life.”
“It’s a bad day, not a bad life.”
“It’s a bad day, not a bad life.”
Stage 6 – 3.43 pm: Bob the Builder Chant Commences
The Child wants Bob the Builder. I find Bob the Builder or too much TV of any kind makes him kind of crazy. We do trains lying on the floor, and I surreptitiously read my phone: Googling ‘passionate child’; ‘constant tantrums 2 1/2-year-old’ and ‘is it normal to feel hopeless with a toddler around?’
Stage 7 – 4.08 pm: Bob the Builder Chant Shows First Signs of Winding Down
I feel like the BTB chant is at last showing signs of winding down. I’m about to propose a trip to the park when I find that The Man has put on BTB on the computer and is happily watching The Match (What match? ANY match.) on his phone while The Child sits transfixed beside him. Rage.
Stage 8 – 6.42 pm: Dinnertime Defeat
Dinnertime is basically a repeat of breakfast and lunch. Everything I do is wrong, and The Man and I are up and down from the table at least five times each to pander to the Child. Anything to keep him happy. I feel like asking The Man if he ever hates being a parent, but with one in the belly and one sitting right beside us, I can’t voice this query. It’s too raw and too real.
“It’s a bad day, not a bad life.”
Stage 9 – 7.48 pm: Bedtime “Routine” Underway
Bedtime is my favourite. The Child and I read Paddington, and he laughs at my animal noises and English accents. We play ‘hiding’ on Dada. We say ‘goodnight’ to everything we can think of and make the baby bed cozy. Blanket negotiations begin. ‘Bank’ on, ‘bank’ off, “Go away ‘bank,'”; “Go away, Muma,”; “Go away, Dada,”; “Light!”; “No light”… It’s endless.
Stage 10 – 8.32 pm: Personal Bedtime Routine Commences
I lie in my bed shouting next door to The Child to go to sleep. I’m going to bed because this is the only way I know how to prepare for what’s coming: Another one. Sleep now. But the thoughts are going non-stop. “What if the next one is even crazier?” “What if The Child freaks when it arrives?” “What if the tantrums and hypersensitivity and pickiness about EVERYTHING are signs of a bigger problem?” Shut up brain. Shut up, shut up.
And so the mantra begins:
“It’s a bad day, not a bad life.”
“It’s a bad day, not a bad life.”
“It’s a bad day, not a bad life.”
Ever have one of these days? What’s YOUR mantra? Let us know in the comments…
