Stressed Mummy


When I accepted role of Dinner Time Manager, I was led to believe it would be a simple and pleasurable job, where I would cook meals in a stylish Cath Kidston apron, perhaps while sipping a glass of wine. 






I imagined that I would prepare casseroles and roast chicken and all manner of delights for my lovely family who would gratefully eat it all up hungrily before thanking me politely. Then the washing up would be done immediately while I sat down with a nice cup of tea and had a well-earned rest.

However, it would seem that I was misled (mostly by the gravy adverts) because this role was nothing like I had expected it to be.

Firstly, I was not aware that before I even started to prepare any food I would have to wash up the dirty dishes from the previous day’s dinner because no other sod in the house bothers to do it. I was also not told that children turn into idiots between the hours of 4pm and 6pm and therefore, I would often be forced to cook while being pulled, punched, nagged or being run over by a Scuttlebug. Neither was it explained to me that I would have to cook three different meals at once just to keep the peace and if I ever dared to use onions in any meal EVER it would result in World War Three.

Before I took on this role I assumed it would be simple. If no one eats the meal I have made, they will just go without. Except… it turns out that I kind of want my children to eat and be healthy even if that does mean I HAVE TO MUCK ABOUT BLENDING ONIONS AND DOING THREE DIFFERENT KINDS OF BLINKING POTATO.

In addition to this, I was not forewarned that I would be subjected to screams of ‘I AM HUNGRY’ throughout the entire preparation process (I KNOW YOU ARE HUNGRY THAT IS WHY I AM COOKING YOUR BLOODY DINNER).

What is more, I was not expecting to be called a ‘horrible or mean mummy’ when I refuse to hand over biscuits 15 minutes before dinner is served. Then that later, when I kindly explain that if I was a horrible mummy I WOULD give them biscuits for dinner, is met, not with nods of agreement but with screams of rage. Which in turn forces me to hand over said biscuits so I can be left alone to prepare a stupid meal that no one will eat now because…biscuits.

Furthermore, even during the execution of my ‘lovingly’ prepared meal, things don’t improve. My shouts of ‘DINNER IS READY’ are largely ignored until I threaten to chuck the dinner in the bin – which is also ignored until I lose my cool. Then once we are all sat at the table, dinnertime is not the joyous family ritual I had in mind, but a stressful process of bribes, threats, tantrums and tears. Until finally, we reach a point where it is no longer about getting healthy food down them, but about trying to take one small victory from this whole sorry experience. So I beg, I actually BEG, ‘One pea. Eat one single pea and we’ll call it a day. OK, how about you lick a pea? Please lick a GOD DAMN PEA and we can all get on with our lives!’

So, anyway, I apologise for any inconvenience but there are microwave meals on the sideboard and biscuits in the tin. Yep. Biscuits. YOU WIN. If anyone needs me I’ll be hiding in the toilet with my phone and probably moaning about you all on Facebook.

Yours regretfully, 
Mum x


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