I won’t lie.
I was smug.
I wasn’t even that secretive, about being so damn smug.
I would surreptitiously watch these strung out mothers in Morrisons fixing their hair behind their ears, bending down, sighing heavily and preparing for a battle, from the corner of my eye, usually as a pair, or sometimes two pairs, of little legs slammed against the floor and fists punched outwards accompanied by loud screeching protests.
I would feel for the woman, obviously, I really would, my heart would go out to her as she began begging and pleading with the child, before eventually threatening all manner of randomness and eventually pulling the now rigid and writhing octopus child, or octopuses (octopie children?) in the opposite direction of the toy aisle.
I would smile and shake my head as I walked away with my perfect son snuggling in to my arms and I would think ‘poor poor woman, if only she were as amazing a parent as me.’
Because my Ivory tower had strong foundations didn’t it?
My son was not out of control, wasn’t prone to tantrumming and never would be would he?
Because I, Lexy Ellis, was a magnificent example of a brilliant parent.
I wasn’t openly judging, but in my head I was the shining example of the perfect disciplinarian, care giver and role model.
We had had around 3 months of bad behaviour, and I, being the magnificent mother I was, had quashed it.
I was a smug idiot.
Someone should have honestly slapped me.
What is the point of having voices in your head if none of them think to warn you of what a twat you are being?
Because of course, the devil child was watching the toddler mafia, his 3 months of naughtiness a year ago was a trial run.
He was watching and learning.
I gave myself the credit for a whole year each and every time I saw an opportunity to have a little smug gloat to myself.
I may have been a shit, absent, hospital bound, mental head for the first year of his life, I would say to myself, pushing the guilt of having been psychotic and not even remembering the first year of his life, deep down within me, but I have totally made up for it now! I have fought and won!
Look at us! He is my best friend!
And now, look at me.
I am paying the ultimate price of smugness.
I am wrung out.
I was on the way to the doctors for a repeat smear.
Basically, the looming wedding and having to be as organised as I am having to be, has been openly sending me back in to anxiety hell and because of that my uterus has decided to start behaving irrationally too. The little of tunnel of doom has been causing me constant pain just because it feels like it.
Couple that with the thought of having to fly on a 9 hour flight in 86 days, and then having to Actually marry the Irish one in 88, a new job, a mother who is still refusing to attend my wedding but who wants to talk about the fact she isn’t coming and all the feelings associated with her selfish decision all of the damn time, and as always, lest us forget, a poodle with a loose bowel, and well, lets just say, my ivory tower began to crumble!
He was my constant delight in a world of turmoil!!
“Addison get in the car.’
‘NOOOOO!’ my perfectly behaved angel child screeches at me like a deranged monkey ‘YOUUUUU get in the car FIRST!!!’ and with that he lies down on the pavement and begins to body roll towards a puddle.
For. No. Apparent. Reason.
What the hell?
“Addison?’ I look at him as if he has grown another head.
Has someone stolen my perfectly behaved 3 year old and replaced him with a gangster maniac thug?
Am I not an amazing parent?
No, No wait?
You mean wether i’m a good parent or not has nothing to do with it?
The worm has turned.
My three year old has hit the ‘terrible two’s’ a little late and joined the toddler mafia on an extended scholarship.
There are all these secret rules I know nothing about until I have broken them.
I am to make toast without the use of a toaster or he will run to a door and slam it while staring me out with a face like thunder.
I am to whisper for no reason and if I dare to speak then so help me god, he will remind me of my place in the pecking order by pointing his little finger and telling me to get to bed.
I am to fix anything that breaks within a 3 second time frame or he will head butt the wall.
He will repeat everything I say at opportune times with an evil grin.
‘Daddy, mummy called you a Douche bag when you went to work this morning, didn’t you mummy?’
The Irish one glares at me, and I cough uncomfortably in to the silence,
Well let’s face it, I can’t deny it can I?
Nice one Addy.
‘No nana Doyle, I am not having a brother or a sister, mummy wants an Imac 27 inch.’
Ahem. (The truth of the matter, Mrs. Doyle, is that if the 27 inch imac could get a job, I would be marrying it… but anyway…)
I fear this is just the beginning.
I was smug.
I was an idiot.
‘Addison what do you want for breakfast?’
‘Mummy stop mithering me, I am not hungry.’
I fear there may be trouble ahead.
Maybe being re-sectioned isn’t such a bad idea. (Oh yeah, did i neglect to mention that? Yeah, looks like i may be going back in.)
The voices in my head are laughing at me as I try and get him to leave the house for the supermarket.
Tee hee hee, they say.
Tee hee hee.