Holy shitballs, Batman. I have just spent the last 90 minutes trying to get my howling toddler to stay in her fricken bed and go the fuck to sleep. It actually took me 90 minutes to figure out the solution was to put the portacot up (aka toddler prison) and
throw gently lay her down in there so she couldn’t escape.
We’ve been up since 4:30. From 4:30-5:30 we watched Peppa Pig and I snoozed on the couch. From 5:30-7:30 Emily cried about not watching Peppa Pig. From 7:30-8am we walked to the cafe and back for Mum’s sanity in a cup. from 8am – 10am we
did drawings with crayons Emily tried to fit 30 crayons in one of my hands and had a meltdown if i used the other hand or if i couldn’t hold them all.
How long will she sleep today? I don’t even think God knows. I’ve got a work to-do list as long as my arm, my house is a mess, there’s errands to run when she wakes up, and all I want to do is have about 6 hours of uninterrupted Netflix and Sleep.
On top of that? I feel like a shit mum – I can’t figure out what’s wrong, I feel like I might be sending her mixed messages or maybe i’ve started talking in a different language and she no longer understands me. What if it’s not her – what if it’s me? What if I’m the looney-tune dictator? All I can think about is how the first 5-7 years of a child’s life are the years they form their subconscious view of the world, from which they base all their future beliefs and values – what if I’m already screwing up her chances of being an emotionally balanced, super human?
Ahhhhh the pressure of getting it all right.