“You’re so horrible.”

It was the first time he’s ever said these words to me. I’m sure it won’t be the last, but the words stung – partly because the person (my oldest son) who said them is three-and-a-half and partly because he’s right. 

“You’ll miss these days,” says my husband (before he gets on the train). And he’s right too: I will miss them. But right now, while I’m in the thick of ‘these days’, I feel more and more like I’m in a toddler-based version of groundhog day. I want to pull on my tights in the morning without the baby emptying my underwear drawer. I want to make a dinner without being interrupted by the wails that signify toy squabbles or telly bashing in the room next door. I want a whole day out of earshot of their constant voices. 
Far from the new-year-new-me I’d intended, I’m feeling seriously defeated by monotony, drudgery and 3+ years of seriously depleted sleep.

Today I’ve allowed things to get on top of me. 
I cried that night. I wallowed in self loathing. But since then I’ve made a real effort to remember that my son – tall and articulate though he may be – is so young. I’ve relaxed a bit, hugged more, been liberal with my praise. Sometimes we’re so stretched, our attention divided between children, work, house chores, we forget that we’ll miss these days. But it’s up to us to create the memories that we’ll miss. I can’t promise no more shouty mummy but I can promise she’ll be less of a regular fixture in my children’s lives.