Murder

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So, call me paranoid but I have a horrible feeling my children are planning my premature exit from the world. And not by the expected routes i.e. sleep deprivation, putrid viruses, exploding arses, heart-stopping exploits or general mortification. Lord knows they have many reasons to wish for my untimely demise. The weird experimental meals. The enduring lateness. The short fuse. The loud music and singing on the school run. The sheer daily embarrassment of being a sweet child of mine. But the truth is, I never thought they’d actually do me in.

So why am I busy looking over my shoulder, and treading on eggshells with my suddenly estranged offspring? Well, the simple answer is that I cleaned under their beds. And what I found was altogether more terrifying than the array of accumulated repulsive debris I expected. Yep, I was ready for dirty socks, well-thumbed paperbacks and miscellaneous Lego body parts. I was even prepared for the odd fake eyeball or mouldering item of food. What I didn’t expect was the arsenal of Nerf guns, bows and arrows, wooden swords, rocks (not stones, rocks!) and sharpened sticks that feathered my beloved children’s nests.

Oh yes, my end is most definitely nigh. And it looks like it’s going to be bloody and violent. So I’m not taking any chances. I’m sleeping with one eye open. I’m wearing extra layers of protective clothing. And I am practising hovering one step behind burly husband (he’s so gonna get it first, by which point I’ll either be half way to the Cuba, or still be busy making a packed lunch for the trip).

And, as I said, it’s not like I blame the nippers. It’s a fair cop. They’re voting with their feet (and a range of frightening self-tooled weapons) for a yummier mummy. What bothers me is whether the punishment will fit their crime, and the ultimate price my babies will pay for their murderous class action. Whilst they are all feisty and arsey enough to survive a life behind bars (I blame the father), I’d just rather they finished their education without handcuffs, communal showers or yard time playing a part.

So I think I’ll be burning the weapons. And holding a gun amnesty. And trying really, really hard to be nicer than nice (probably involving even more tasty bribes than usual). Haribo? You got it. Staying up late? No problem. Gin and tonic? I think I can stretch to that. And in no home worldwide will there be more iPad/TV/YouTube time than here. As long as they don’t get access to ‘Breaking Bad’. Ah, and I will most definitely be mounting a vigilant, nightly clean sweep under the beds… It’s about time cleanliness took a front seat in this house anyway (the car, however, is another matter – work in progress until someone actually pukes on entry). Cleanliness is next to godliness, which surely rules out violence? Every cloud has a silver lining…

Perfect

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So, I’m done with the pursuit of perfection. I say “pursuit of” quite deliberately. Because I’m far from it. Perfect, that is. So very far from it that if perfection were a place – like Devon, say – I’d find myself wandering aimlessly around Doncaster asking pissed up tramps for directions. And don’t give me that shit about these things being ‘a journey not a destination’. The only ‘journey’ I like is the guilty pleasure of singing along loudly and tunelessly to ‘Don’t stop believing’ in the car. To continue the travel metaphor, I have not only lost the map I’m not sure I ever really had one (or, rather, I mislaid it together with my car keys, parking spot and dignity somewhere around the time the midwife yelled ‘push!’ (with the subtext, ‘goddam it’) whilst bracing a leg (mine) against each shoulder (hers)). Ahem. Anyway, what I’m saying is: I think it’s time to give up. On being awesome.

We all do it to ourselves. Constantly striving to achieve more, be a better parent / spouse / child / chef / cleaner / negotiator / rodeo rider. Always with a deadline and, despite the speed of travel, finding you motored past the exit (and then some) without even batting a droopy, sleep-deprived eyelid. Life on fast forward instead of cruise. It’s time to stop the relentless pursuit. And just be. There’s no frickin’ petrol left anyhow.

We don’t need the perfect home. The happiest family. The shiniest car, the biggest career, the battenburg to end all bake offs. And we don’t need tiger-babies. Why can’t we just let life happen? Believe that all things will work out in an ideal world. Stop persecuting ourselves for the lists unachieved (or rewritten, daily, according to grim reality), the diet abandoned (on day two), the spelling test result of less than 100% (who the hell remembers to practice with the little darlings before 8am on the day of the test anyway?) Speaking to my friends, most of whom – I admit – are considerably more competent than yours truly, we are all at it. All bonkers. Driving ourselves crazy with ridiculous ideals. And the ever-present fear of failure, of being ‘less than’.

Ok, so the children have nits. Fine, my house looks like it’s been torn apart by homicide division. Get over it that I haven’t prepared a home cooked meal in over a week and the children haven’t seen the sun in just as long. Will the world end if I take an artfully remodelled Tesco Finest to the mums’ baking competition at school? Who cares that my muffin top has become as large and richly textured as a vat of rice pudding?  And, of course, any form of exercise is overrated when you have wine for euphoria. Getting to school on time is for wimps (and Slavic mummies with a houseful of domestic help). And, really, my home does NOT need to look like an ad for The (off) White Company.

When will I learn to let it ride? Sit and read a book in the afternoon instead of emptying the dishwasher or putting yet another wash load in. Flick through a magazine rather than farting about with celeriac. Forgive myself for cleaning the entire house with babywipes. Choose ‘good enough’ over ‘great’. Take a bath, not rush a shower. Eat custard doughnuts whilst watching repeats of Masterchef and eschewing the call of a Zumba class. My god, that’s it! Forget yummy, I’m totally heading for slummy. With attitude. Let’s do this thing!

And, yes, in case you were wondering, I DID just fall off the detox wagon. Big style. On day one. Courtesy of a buttery toasted teacake and a family bag of Yorkie buttons, which I had no intention of sharing and which has clearly made me fierce. As the ancient Chinese philosophers once said, “even the longest journey begins with a single step,” or was it, “bollocks to learning mandarin.” Anyway, I’m out of juice.