I have officially lost the will to live. Well, perhaps not quite so dramatic but certainly the will to feign a jovial maternal façade.
Mr A sauntered off to a weekend of blokes-only, family-free bliss in Ibiza in the wee small hours of Friday morning. I say bliss but only out of a firm desire not to think of the probable debauchery involved in a stag weekend. This being the last stag of the group to walk up the aisle as well as their collective hurtling towards the tail end of their thirties, I suspect this was treated like a mission on a par with the final frontier.
In the sixty or so hours since his departure (not that I’ve been counting) the endless tantrums, wee on the floor (from the toilet-trained three year old; not the nappy-wearing one year old), screaming and bickering have felt like a tortuous, relentless battle of World War proportions that I was never equipped to even entertain the notion of possibly winning.
The worst aspect of the weekend so far is the realisation that, when pushed, it appears I’m actually capable of snapping. And when snapped it appears I become possessed by none other than my own mother. Short of her trademark smacking that effectively deterred any repeat offense (this being the ’80s social services wouldn’t have batted an eyelid), I am ashamed to admit I raised my voice (and I mean more than just a few decibels) and, when that failed to elicit the desired response, I sent the red-faced, tantruming three year old, who was giving Damien from The Omen a run for his money, to her room and shut the door.
When she eventually stopped kicking the door and calmed down (luckily before the neighbours dialled 999) I realised, rather miserably, that she wasn’t the only one who had let the side down. The difference being I should know better. I’m sorry for getting angry, for shouting and being a terrible mother…