Motherhood is HARD. I mean, it’s amazing and fills me with so much more joy than I ever thought possible. But at the same time, waking up before 5.30 for months on end, then preparing entertainment to keep a little boy amused for 5 minutes whilst I make breakfast, then fighting said little boy who seems intent on causing himself a head injury. Struggling with nappies, legs smeared in poo and oops, hands smeared too. 

The relentless crying for boobs. The relentless crying for googoo (my phone) then losing his temper every two minutes because it’s stuck on a photo or video he’s bored of. Then forcing him into his pushchair whilst he bites me and pulls my hair and scratches my face and feeling like the worst mother in the world as he writhes around, screaming, desperately miserable, and I pull my coat on.

It’s only nine o’clock.

Once we’re out of the house he turns into his true self. He coos at the birds, at the puddles, and lists every colour he can see. Then he runs through his numbers, forwards and backwards, and shouts out all the letters he can see on street signs and shop windows.

We arrive at a toddler group and he spends the entire time running laps of the room, picking up the odd toy. He collapses two hours later. But Squeak doesn’t nap in a bed or a car. Oh no. He would wake up after half an hour, angry and bemused and searching for boobs. In the pushchair at least, provided I’m not stationery for too long he might last for two hours or more. Then he wakes up happy and rested, stretching and smiling and ready for his next adventure.

This is when we hit the park and he will run until he can run no more. Provided he has enough space to use up his energy, he is an absolute delight. But cooped up and kept inside, with the TV on and yesterday’s toys lying around he is a very angry little boy indeed, and I don’t blame him for this at all.

I’m exhausted.

I have a wonderfully active toddler who lives life at a million miles a minute, energy bursting out of every pore and a mind which absorbs everything he comes into contact with. I spend all day every day pushing him around, carrying him, restraining him or just plain running after him. He asks so many questions, he wants to know what everything is and show me how well he knows all his animals. He points at a dog and says “moooo”.

On the way home I’ll pick up food for dinner as he runs through the new words he’s learnt. He jumps up and down for the buses. He points at all the motorbikes and says “brrrrrrrr”.

It’s two hours til bedtime and we have cooking, playing, bath time, changing and reading in store. I run through our plans for tomorrow in my head. 

Then he smiles as I hand him his beaker. He takes a big swig, pauses, and says “happy”.

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