How children take over, and why I'm so very grateful
My house has a thin coating of toddler. Weetabix, hardened into a tough, rough paste, covers the table. I remove it with elbow grease, but honestly, I never get it all. When I sit down to eat my supper in the evening, I can see the crust of their breakfast on the edge of the table. I’m house-proud, but I can’t get to all of it.
In a similar vein, when I’ve picked up all the plastic tat off the floor, there is always that one piece of Lego that catches you out when you do a midnight dash to the loo in the night. When I get a pen out of my handbag to scribble a note in a meeting, I find a matchbox car, or, more unpleasantly, a sandwich crust. My pockets are filled with raisins, conkers and one lonely glove.
My make-up bag still contains the MAC lipstick that he used on the cat. My bedside table has a Paw Patrol sticker on (Skye should you care. He loves Skye because she’s got wings.) I’m bruised from crashing the pram into my shins, and of course my body shows the evidence of growing, delivering and feeding two sons.
There is no part of my life that escapes the children. And no part of my grumpy, tired heart that gets bored of them. At a time of year when we are reassessing what we have, who we love, and what we do, I give huge thanks for the scuffs on the paintwork, the rubber ducks by the side of the bath, and the overflowing washing basket. I hope 2018 is filled with as much love. (I’d take less shitty nappies, toddler tantrums and runny noses, but they come with the package, right?)