Sometimes I hate how hard it is being a mum.

Exactly that. Sometimes it’s really easy to hate being a mum. To hate the responsibility of it. The absolute, exhausting relentlessness of it.

After years of wondering what it’d be like to start a family, focussing only on the positive, nice, fluffy, happy parts of  what is actually a massively multi-faceted job – the reality of it all hits like a brick when times get hard.

Weeks can pass at a time when you’re a mum (or a dad I’m sure), where it feels like all you do is work and parent. It’s the never ending story.

No one told you you’d forget who you are, be shouted at in the shower, talked at while you’re on the toilet or spend half your day trying (and failing) to figure out what they’re crying about this time – sometimes it’s nothing, your kid is just being a dick – they are humans and most humans are capable of high levels of dickishness.

After going to work, attempting to be a functioning adult with a personality when you’re basically an empty husk – you’ve had such a small amount of sleep that you no longer have a reflection –  you complete your marathon list of to do’s before having a drink and attempting to stay awake beyond 8pm.

Spending half the night awake with the baby all too often, making failed attempts to get them to go the fuck to sleep without telling them to go the fuck to sleep.

It’s hard.  Some days it’s a huge effort not to shout and cry.

Hats off to the Dads, partners, family in general, friends, neighbours, postmen , anyone in earshot of us on a bad day.

We are cooks, cleaners, nurses, teachers, negotiators, councillors – always on duty and ready to reason when we’re too tired to reason.

It’s hard and largely thankless. The most rewarding but exhausting job in the world with no pay or breaks.

It’s brutal and yet not only do some of us have more than one child – we wouldn’t change it for the world.

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