I was cross, tired and weary. Bed times in our house had become more and more drawn out over the last few months. The boys (11 and 7) are usually no trouble; they amuse themselves quietly until bed time.
The girls on the other hand? Not so much. Not naughty; just mischievous. Cheeky; not badly behaved. Still, that doesn’t make it any easier. My body seems to shut down after dinner. It’s been on the go all day; running, cleaning, playing, cooking, washing, dressing, driving, walking. By 7pm I’ve had it. My husband is in charge of bath time. That’s his chance to catch up, play, and read stories. I pop in and out in between sorting laundry, and organising uniforms for the next day. I pick up any stray toys, collect the multitude of cups that are strewn around the house (why can’t children use the same cup more than once?!) I look forward to the couple of hours of peace and quiet, before I pass out from exhaustion.
On this particular evening, I was more keen than usual to get back downstairs to unwind; Netflix was calling my name. It had been a long day. I trudged up the stairs one more time. Settled my youngest (18 months); and told her sister to please ‘shhh’ (she is 4). As I was leaving the room, I heard a little voice; ‘Mummy’. What now?! I thought. I turned, wearily, ‘what is it?’.
‘I love you mummy’.
My heart melted.
Welcome to parenthood. Taking the rough with the smooth since time began.