Justin Hayward brings tour to Nashville September 10

One thing I have noticed in this gig called parenting is how swiftly a day of smug satisfaction (sprinkled with a sense of actual aptitude and ability) can be destroyed by a day that is equal parts shit and awful. Just this week I had a cracker of a Monday – kicking goals in the parenting world and patting myself on the back for a job done well.

Then, the other shoe fell. Eff you, Wednesday.

Last year when I was working full-time and pregnant with my second baby, that detailed what a day in the life of a working, pregnant mum looked like. Today I thought I would share what a few days in the life of a currently-on-mat-leave-and-don’t-want-to-go-back mum to a one-year-old (N) and a three-year-old (J) looks like. Sometimes, it aint pretty.

Enjoy. Or commiserate. Whatever works. – S

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Monday Enjoy unusually glorious, sunny and warm weather by prancing around the house in a t-shirt and letting your boys hang out for most of the day in their undies. Make fresh fruit smoothies. Go for a walk and smell the fresh spring air. Kick parenting goals when you take both little people – unaided – to the beach, where one of them frolics on the shore and the other moans angrily due to a combination of heat and teething.

Take children to the park; soothe child’s grazed knee with gentle kisses and ferocious hugs. Reward exemplary behaviour with ice cream (and coffee for self). Cook healthy dinner from scratch. Greet husband at the door with a smile and a casual comment of “I’ve made Thai fishcakes wrapped in lettuce leaves for dinner”. Marvel at your own brilliance in multitasking. Go to gym when boys are in bed and run 4km without suffering heart attack. Pat self on back for job well done. You got this!

Emotional score: 8/10. So awesome it almost hurts.

Tuesday Suffer sleepless night care of teething, grumpy baby, who bleats all day and needs to be held constantly. Walk child to school in near freezing conditions, lamenting stupid Melbourne weather that lulled you into a sense of happiness yesterday. Source coffee and do grocery shopping in a frantic rush before baby loses the plot. Spend rest of the day doing thankless tasks like laundry folding and dishwasher stacking. Collect child from kindy who says he wants pizza for dinner. Tell child he is having soup for dinner. Watch child’s face fall with devastation. Present soup for dinner; tell child it will be cool enough to eat soon. Watch as child takes massive gulp of hot soup and burns himself, resulting in considerable tears and screaming (mostly from child). Soothe child’s burns with apple juice and assurances that he can have something else for dinner. Notice that wailing of child has frightened the baby, causing him to cry in solidarity. Consider joining in the chorus of tears.When husband arrives home, greet him with a frantic hello and throw the baby into his arms before fleeing the house. Escape to the gym for first Pump class in over two years. Realise that the last time you heard the phrase “squat track” the grandparents who raised you were still alive. Put melancholy thoughts aside and try to be more positive for chest track. Discover you have guns of steel due to lugging around enormous baby almost every day for the past 12 months. Wish that back pain you endure from same activity would bugger off. Get home and breastfeed the baby. Notice supply is dwindling. Feel happy and sad all at once.

Emotional score: 6/10. Satisfactory result in trying conditions.

Wednesday Endure another sleepless night care of snotty, teething baby, who eventually needs to be fed at 4am. Tell husband to give the baby a bottle so that husband can be just as tired and cranky as you. Sigh when baby wakes for the day at 5am. Breastfeed baby in your bed into a light sleep, thus ignoring all the rules from the three “sleep school” admissions you have attended in desperation. Breathe sigh of relief when child greets you at 6am in a happy mood. Plant children in front of television and return to bedroom to get changed. Navigate bedroom with such clumsiness that you walk into the corner of your bed, causing you to bruise your kneecap and writhe in agony. Breathe deeply. Tell self the day will get better (Ha! Self laughs).

Hobble back to kitchen. Wrap ice pack around knee and present breakfast to children who do not want what has been prepared for them. Watch baby throw food from high chair onto floor only to cry when there is no food on his table. Pipe tube of yoghurt into his gullet, straight from the squeezy packet. No longer care about utensils like spoons. Watch as child takes himself to the toilet and listen as he declares he has “finished” and needs assistance. Leave wailing baby and assist child as needed. Encourage child to play in his room while you dress the baby. Learn that attempts to dress baby are futile as child has returned to the toilet twice more since his last visit. Realise that child has diarrhea. Sit child back on toilet with a book. Hope for the best. Call husband with a view to complaining. Husband in meeting. Text husband instead, hoping emojis will convey your pain. Receive thoughtful, supportive reply:

Change baby in front of television. Decide this frenzied, stressful morning is the perfect time to go to Aldi for party goods that you neither want or need. Decide to make this experience even more painful by visiting an Aldi you have never ventured to before. Park car and try to drown out sound of child saying “But I want to sit next to N in the trolley.” Tell child he can stand in trolley instead. Tell him it’s like a skateboard cage. Wonder if Aldi sells cages?

Source trolley. Load trolley with children and other items that lack nutritional value. Tell child to use groceries that are being piled upon him to make a cave. Watch in horror as child steps on rice crackers and bread. Narrowly avoid baby knocking his front teeth out in a brave attempt to eat the trolley handlebars. Give baby a packet of spinach to play with instead.

Breathe through gritted teeth at the following (repeated) exchange with child:

Child: What’s that [points at random item]? You: I think it’s a [pointless random item] puzzle. It has insects on it. It’s an insect puzzle. Child: Ooh, I love [random item] insect puzzles. You: No you don’t. Child: Can I have it? You: No.

While paying for unnecessary groceries that you could have bought at local, reliable Coles up the road, realise you have made a grave error by not yet ingesting coffee. Tell children that you are going to a drive-through. Child asks for treat. Tell him he can have half of your hash brown. No longer care about nutrition.

Drive to closest McDonalds. Order hash brown and coffee. Pay for hash brown and coffee. Hand child half a hash brown. Drive away. Get home; park in driveway. Go to sip coffee and realise epic mistake. No coffee. Cry and wail “I FORGOT MY COFFEE!” Explain to children that you are going out again so that mummy can order another coffee. While having this exchange, notice that child has spilled yoghurt all over back seat of car. Make loud accusatory demands, including “What happened? Why is there yoghurt everywhere?” causing child to place hands to mouth and mumble, “I don’t know.” Explode with disproportionate response of “GET YOUR FINGERS OUT OF YOUR MOUTH” which makes child cry. Explain your anger. Explain to child that he will need to clean car. Explain you need coffee. Now.

Source coffee. Arrive home. Put angry baby to bed for a nap. Give child a plastic bag and tell him to fill it with all the rubbish on the floor of the car. Go inside to get paper towels to clean yoghurt. Come back to car to hear child proudly exclaim “I’m nearly finished mummy!” Child is not finished. Child is delusional. Child has not picked up anything from floor of the car and has instead used plastic bag to rub spilled yoghurt further into car’s upholstery. Rant wildly. Tell child you said “firetruck”.

Develop slight tick in your eye when baby wakes from nap after 40 minutes. Decide children can entertain themselves with your guitar. Watch as beloved first acoustic is smashed by little hands. Pleasantly, crying abates long enough for you to make lunch for children which you suspect they will not eat. Look in fridge for more squeezy yoghurt.

Finally talk to husband on the phone and are reminded that your in-laws are coming for dinner. Snap at husband in anger before remembering you agreed to the dinner visit and actually invited the in-laws to your house under the misapprehension that it would be “easier” for you. Immediately realise you have nowhere to seat 5 adults and 4 children as your dining table is being used to hold all kinds of items including paperwork for your grandfather’s estate, folded laundry and mail you are yet to open. Also notice that space the dining table used to occupy now houses a Bubba Mat and litany of toys. Panic. Tidy and move furniture as much as is humanly possible with an 11kg person attached to your hip. Sit child in front of Play School and sigh with relief that Teo is on (look, Mummy! It’s normal Teo! He not have beard!).

Realise you have wet laundry sitting in washing machine. Hang it out and learn of another horror mistake – purchasing wrong fabric softener. Scent of incorrect fabric softener brings back images of sordid evenings in your early twenties with boys who wore Lynx deodorant. Now all clothes and laundry smell like they belong to a sleazy nightclub owner named Wayne. Gag as you hang laundry on the line, secretly hoping it rains.

Use afternoon to look for matching cutlery for dinner guests. Lament cleaning limitations of stupid dishawashing tablets, vowing to never buy Fairy brand again. Vacuum. Play on floor of child’s room with child and baby. Become irrationally annoyed when child demands you play Thunderstruck on acoustic guitar. Tell him you can play twinkle twinkle little star. Child suitably unimpressed. Apologise for destroying child’s faith in your abilities.

Put baby down for second nap. Listen for ten minutes as baby bitches about being cozy and warm in a dark room. Pat baby for 10 minutes then creep out of room stealth-like. Play lego with child on floor of child’s room until interrupted by phone call from solicitors in relation to grandfather’s estate. Solicitors have received inventory you provided that listed every single item in your grandfather’s cluttered 5-bedroom home. Solicitors are concerned about the missing items you have identified, specifically the unlicensed, unregistered firearm that you suspect has been taken by one of your icky relatives. Agree that a missing weapon is a concerning development. Hang up and ask child if he wants to listen to music. End up having Shake it Off on repeat at child’s insistence. Dance like an idiot. Notice blood pressure momentarily subside.

At 4pm, realise you haven’t showered. Ask child if he wants to have a shower now. Child says no. Tell child you will have a quick shower; start disrobing. As you remove underwear, realise you can hear the baby crying, apparently awake after a 30 min power nap. Consider showering anyway. Put dirty clothes back on and try to comfort baby. Give baby Panadol. Explain to child why he can’t have any Panadol and distract his drug hunger with afternoon tea and another episode of Play School. No Teo this time. Child devastated. Call husband and tell him he needs to come home early as you look and feel like shit. Husband says he will try to get home before in-laws arrive.

Decide the only way to calm the angry baby is to put him in the bath. Child also wants bath. Back too sore to lean over while holding enormous baby who is prone to toppling over, so decide to get in bath with both children. Know there is no way you will have time for a shower. Somehow manage to hoist self and giant baby out of bath using shattered quad muscles that are barely functioning after the ill-considered Pump class from the night before. While dripping wet and freezing, towel off baby while simultaneously keeping an eye on bathing child. Turn around momentarily and see your husband’s face at the bathroom door. Get such a fright that you scream and burst into tears. Accept husband’s apology and palm baby off so that you can compose yourself and put clothes on. While husband entertains child and baby, get dressed. Curse as you realise nothing in your wardrobe fits and all the clothes you like are on the line smelling like Wayne.

Hear doorbell ring. In-laws are early to dinner. Groan loudly. Realise you are still only wearing a towel.  Tell husband to only let his family come inside if they have brought wine. Husband returns to bedroom with a glass of wine and a takeaway order. Call local Thai restaurant and feel grateful for rapport you have built with staff that allows your order to be delivered earlier than expected. Inhale dinner, your first meal since the hash brown. Go to pour yourself another wine before realising you have to parent tomorrow.

Farewell dinner guests and collapse into bed. Let dog in. Dog leaps onto the bed and lands on your knee at precisely at the same place you bruised this morning. Yell out to husband to come to bed. Ask him to bring the ice pack with him. And more wine.

Emotional score: 2/10. One point for each wine.

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