Given the right children I firmly believe I could be an exceptional parent. I have read a multitude of books on how to be a fabulous mother and have the theory pretty much bang on.
I know to blame the behaviour not the child and in theory I can understand how this works but when my eldest offspring is found experimenting with what floats in the toilet bowl I can’t help but think I have given birth to a child with a devil streak rather than a child with devilish behaviour.
In theory I know shouting achieves nothing but a dependence on throat lozenges but in parenting practice it occasionally makes me feel a whole lot fecking better.
You see in theory I am perfect but I think I ordered the wrong kids to translate that into practice. It is like passing the written test of driving exam and then turning up for the big test to be confronted with a manual when you have only ever driven automatic before.
In theory I know not to rock the babe until she falls asleep but reality tells me if I don’t it could be hours before I fasten my lips round the glass of Pinot waiting for me downstairs.
I know sticker charts work, but frankly after six long, hard years of parenting I am bored shitless of making charts to stick stars on to reward them for eating a meal without stabbing each other with their forks. Why can’t they behave without the motivation of something to stick on my adult wall.
in theory I know an inquisitive mind shows a bright child, but in practice I am often found close to tears or gin when I get asked “why” for the fifty second time that morning.
I know I should stick to my guns and follow through and keep my punishments real; but still I hear myself cancelling Christmas, promising to leave them at their nanny’s and I also know deep in my heart if they keep on they will get their way.
Sadly they know this too.
But in theory I am the parent to talk to, just do as I say, not as I do…