I’m all over the place today. Don’t laugh ok, but I’m writing a book. Ok you can laugh a little. It’s a total joke because I have this idea in my head that needs to come out and the words are all there, but it’s the process of getting them out that is killing me. Now before you get all excited, I am writing a book in my head. I have nothing on paper, no publisher, no nothing. Don’t ask me about it. Don’t even talk to me about it. Pretend that you no nothing and maybe in 20 years, I’ll finish this piece of shit book. Anyway, I wasn’t even planning on ever telling anyone I was writing a book until it was actually published and then I was going to have a massive party and not invite any of you. hahaha. I would invite my literary friends and heroes, like Vikram Seth and Nikesh Shukla. Arundhati Roy. You know the types. The only reason I’m telling you this is because my stupid computer had a meltdown on Thursday. I think I wrote the best 1000 words I had ever written in my life. And I kept saving because I knew my computer was melting down. It was due an update, but I just couldn’t stop the flow. So I kept saving. Then I did the restart and I lost all my work. All day Friday I was in tears. I just couldn’t deal with life in any way shape or form on Friday. I did no exercise. I ate 3 ice cream cones. I actually cried to Chump. I mean it was embarrassing. But Chump is a genius. He knows how much we love Snoop Dogg and Dre in our house so he said “do you remember that scene in Straight Outta Compton? You know when Dre leaves Death Row and Suge Knight tells him that he has all his money and all his work. And Dre was like fine. Because it was all in his head. He had it all inside him anyway. And then look what he did after? Look at Aftermath. Well, it’s the same thing with you. All the work is inside you. So it doesn’t matter if those 1000 words are gone. They are still there waiting to come out. Be like Dre.” Mind blown. Chump is my guru. I still look at my laptop and want to throw it out the window, but my new mantra is Be like Dre. Wait for the Next Episode.
When I start thinking, bad things happen. Because things get set off in my head and a function of my OCD and anxiety means I can’t rest until whatever thought I’ve been ruminating on is resolved in some way. So I think and I think and I get myself into a complete state of breakdown until finally either a resolution comes to me or I just get so overwhelmed that I have a complete meltdown and shut down for weeks on end to recover from my own thoughts. I’m at the beginning stages of meltdown, so if you don’t see me for a few weeks you’ll know why.
Anyway, it was Boy’s birthday last week. The big guy turned 9. And I can confirm he is growing up to be a massive legend. The guy just says funny things. He thinks profound thoughts. He has the best taste in music. He loves Snoop and Pharrell. I mean legend. So for his birthday, we got together with extended family (outside in that crazy rain and hail we had a few weeks ago) and I made him a birthday cake. He got showered with love and affection. Then for his actual birthday we went to Norfolk and had a beach holiday (hahah it just makes me laugh thinking that a holiday in Norfolk now counts as a beach holiday. What a joke of a world we live in). Today we are taking him and his closest friends out for a little birthday party (again in the rain. What the actual f*ck) and I’ve made him another epic cake. The guy is truly loved. And when it’s Girl’s birthday, hopefully she will feel as loved and special as her brother. And he is also lucky. He is lucky that he has family who love him and look after him. That we are in stable careers and can provide not just his basic needs, but his wants and desires too. He can have whatever he wants (within reason of course). He never (thank God) goes hungry or feels neglected or unloved, or unsafe in anyway. And thinking about how much I love my children and how I would do anything for them made my head spin. In a bad way. Because then I started thinking about all the children in the world who simply don’t have that. They don’t have adults in their lives who love and care for them. I’m not talking about just orphans, but children who have had the misfortune to be born to parents who abuse them and neglect them.
Now as a society, if we really put our heads together, we can eradicate poverty. Poverty doesn’t need to be a life sentence. Of course we need governments to do the right thing and provide for those who can’t provide for themselves. And I’m not going to get all preachy and political, because that’s not my style, but let’s just say that with a bit of compassion and empathy, poverty doesn’t need to be an issue. But what upsets me and where I feel helpless and hopeless is how we can help children who are neglected, abused and unloved. We can’t eradicate that as a society. We can in some cases find children who have been abused and neglected and take them out of those homes and into safety and security, but what about the children we can’t find. Or the children who it’s too late for. It breaks my heart. It hurts my head. As a sentient human being, I never liked the idea of a child being hurt in any way, but when I became a parent suddenly it felt even more unthinkable that anyone would hurt a child.
We are currently watching The Wire. This is where you can chuckle if you know me, because we’ve been watching The Wire for about 4 years now. It’s an epic show and we love it. But I can’t watch too much of it, because it physically causes me pain. We are on season 4 now. The season on schools in Baltimore. And I honest to God can’t muster the courage to watch it, because I can’t watch children in the system who have no hope of escape. I can’t watch children being neglected and abused by their parents who are supposed to love and protect them. Shiiiiit. So now you know. I’ve put the burden on you too. I don’t know what the solution is. All I know is that we need one.
By the way if you’re really bored, please click on this link again and again. The Shiiiit Button. It’s the most fun you’ll ever have.
My head has been in a jumble for the past few days. It’s a combination of being busy at work, the weather and a general business of life resuming because lockdown is effectively over. I’m tired. My head is all over the place. I’m going to sleep at like 9pm and even then I’m not having restful sleep. I have weird dreams. So I’m kind of operating in a daze at the moment. I’m actually looking forward to half term and not having to wash uniform, pack lunches, wash snack pots, supervise homework, run to activities etc. Anyway, Chump being very intuitive to me and my moods, knows just how to cheer me up. He suggested we watch American Psycho. Have you seen it? It’s bloody brilliant. Anyway, the reason he suggested I watch it is this – I really enjoyed watching Christian Bale do push ups in his underwear in Batman. It was all I talked about for like a month. Oh remember when Christian Bale was doing push ups in his underwear I would say. And then I would gaze off wistfully remembering Christian Bale doing push ups in his underwear. So, you should definitely watch American Psycho, because Christian Bale does sit ups in his underwear, Chump said. Sold. I did not need any more convincing. Christian Bale doing sit ups in his underwear did not disappoint. It lifted my mood right up. Now I gaze off wistfully at the rain, remembering Christian Bale doing sit ups in his underwear, talking about Whitney Houston and returning video tapes. There is catharsis.
As a mother of a girl, I often feel really worried about calling my daughter pretty, because you know we’ve all been told how damaging it is to compliment children on their looks, because they then begin to equate their self worth with their appearances. So every time I look at Girl, even though I think she is the most stunning creature to walk the face of the earth (and I’m being totally objective here of course), I resist the urge to smother her in kisses and say my gosh, how beautiful you look. Instead, I compliment her drawings and her math skills etc etc. I mean I’m the perfect fodder for this whole growth mindset thing. You know praise the effort and the work type thing. Lest you think I’m sexist and compliment Boy on his looks (even though, he is the most handsome creature that has ever existed and I’m being objective here of course), I also focus on his work and effort too. Ooh Boy, you worked really hard at creating that comic book, which got confiscated in class because you weren’t paying attention to the lesson. But well done for the hard work. But it got me thinking, when I was growing up, girls got complimented on how we looked all the time. We also were constantly bombarded with magazines that emphasized just how important our looks were. And so we grew up hyper aware of our appearances. We began to associate certain things with being pretty and feminine, things like getting our eyebrows threaded, arms waxed, hair straightened, nails done. You know the whole the nine yards. If any of those things weren’t done, we felt ugly. I say “we” as though I speak on behalf of every woman in the world. Of course I don’t, some women may not have any of these issues. Good for them. I envy them. Now I’ve grown up and you know my Maintenance routine is pretty minimal and I’m kind of trying to reclaim what I wear and wear my Mom jeans all the time. But there are still things that I can’t get away from. That I have been conditioned to think make me look good. Like I need to get my nails done, straighten my hair and have my hair dyed. Without those things, I just can’t function. Yes of course this is vanity and it’s shallow and my worth is not determined by those things. But to me, they lift me up. They make me feel human. When I try to think about whether I really need to get my nails done to make me feel good, the feminist in me wants me to rage against the machine and not do my nails, because what message am I sending to Girl and for that matter Boy? That all girls need to have their nails done and if your wife/girlfriend doesn’t have her nails done, then she is less than? I mean, it’s a minefield. I don’t know how to navigate against this. Is it a lifetime of conditioning that I’m fighting against? Am I strong enough? Not right now I’m not. After a year of lockdown and not getting my nails done and really resisting the urge to go to the salon the day it opened, I finally caved 3 weeks in. That day I felt so good. I was flashing my nails around left right and center. Call me shallow ok? I don’t care. I had pretty nails. And it basically caused me such joy that it radiated into the rest of my day. I crushed my workout. I made an amazing dinner. I wrote a bad ass chapter of my book. But then it also made me sad. I am so pathetic that having nail polish painted on my nails made me happy. I’m telling you, you think I’m going on about something as inane as nail polish, but for women, everything is a feminist issue. Everything is something we have to navigate and figure out. My brain can’t handle it. I’m tired. And I’m tired for Girl and Boy. They are going to have so many more things to deconstruct and figure out from all the things we are subconsciously conditioning them with. I need a nap. But first, I’m going to get a manicure.
I am a massive procrastinator. I’m a quitter and I suffer massive grandeurs of delusion that I need to be productive and meet my potential. But the reality is I’m way too lazy and neurotic to do anything meaningful, so I just sit around and pontificate about how I should be doing more and then feel really guilty that I do nothing. I mean it’s ridiculous right. I know. But anyway, it’s not entirely my fault. I kind of feel like the whole system is stacked against us. By us, I mean parents. I kind of want to be granular and say mothers, but I don’t want to be provocative. And I know dad’s work hard and blah blah blah. So no disrespect to the dads out there ok? You are valuable. I know that. But here’s the thing. For the majority of people I know, the mothers are the primary caregivers. Some women work, some don’t. That’s all fine. I do a mix of both. I am very lucky that I can work part time. You don’t have to recite my privilege to me. I get it. Now pre-Covid, I was also very lucky that I had a nanny to help me with childcare, which meant that I didn’t stress about picks ups and activities etc. I could just get on with my working day in peace. I think we all know that in most cases, when a child is unwell, nursery/school will call Mum first. Even if she works too! It’s only if they can’t reach Mum, that they might call Dad. Now of course, we can all just say to the schools/nurseries – call Dad, don’t call me. But the reality is, it’s just easier in my family for me to be the first port of call. Because I’m mum. So if something goes wrong, I can just tell my work, I need to go and deal with my kids. And because I’m mum, it’s understandable. Whereas if dad gets a call at work, maybe the employer is less sympathetic, because isn’t there a wife or nanny kicking around somewhere who can deal with all the domestic issues? So, having a nanny was a huge weight off my mind. It levelled the playing field a little bit. Then Covid happened and it turns out I’m working from home and so I can do the pick ups and drop offs and since I’m at home, if I get a call from school, I have a 5 minute journey to school to deal with whatever the issue is. But it also means, my day ends at 2:30pm. Ok, on the days I work, the kids go to after school care at school and I pick them up later, but if I am even a minute late, Girl freaks out, because all her friends got picked up first and she hates being the last kid at school. But on days I’m not working, my day legit ends at 2:30pm. That’s when most people have a coffee break and then get on with their work for another couple of hours. So, get a nanny, I can hear you tutting to yourself. Well, I can’t really justify a nanny for the days I’m not working. Now you may ask yourself, what do you do on the days that you’re not working. Ok, I do mental amounts of laundry. I workout. I see my parents (socially distanced of course). I see some friends. I get dinner ready. Run errands. You know, just general adulting. And then I think, ooh, I need to have a side hustle or do something with all my spare time and my considerable talents. And then I think, what spare time? I have no spare time. By the time I’ve finished all my adulting, it’s like 2:15pm and I just barely have enough time to have a cup of coffee. And then I feel bad that I’ve procrastinated and done nothing, even though I’m a mad genius who has potential coming out of my ears. I don’t mean to sound like such a victim. And trust me being a victim is not the way I roll, but the more I think about it, the more I feel like the system is stacked against me because I am a mother and therefore technically a responsible adult, hahah. What a joke. But also because I’m a woman and apparently we can have it all. We can be mothers, we can be entrepreneurs. We can have careers. We can be beautiful. We can be fit. We can have active social lives. We can have hobbies. We can have hot, fresh, healthy meals for our families. We can do everything. But it’s not just that we can do everything. It’s that we must do everything. And if we’re not doing everything, then we are doing it all wrong. And I am not doing any of the above well. I am failing at everything.
Well the good news is I feel much better from that horrific infection. Thank you to everyone who reached out and messaged. It was pretty cool of you. I’m still taking my inhaler, but not as regularly as before and I’m glad to say I’m back on the Peloton. Now I know I’ve promised to write about the Peloton before and I swear, that post is coming, but not today. Today I want to write about something else. I did a pretty epic Peloton workout this morning. I felt pretty proud of myself because I was at my pre-infection outputs. If you know anything about Pelotons, then you know about cadence, output etc. If you don’t, well then I’m sorry. One day, I will go into full detail, but for now, check this out for any info on a Peloton. After my cardio, I started my usual arm workout. I’m usually very militant about doing my arm workout after cardio because it’s just so easy. I have some major goals I need to hit because my infection knocked me out. Not only that, but knocking back bottles and bottles of Robitussin and Night Nurse, and Raab comes at a price, and I find myself a little heavier than before. Well this is just f*cking great. As if the indignity of having an infection which makes me pee every time I cough wasn’t bad enough. I also had to put on some weight? What is this world? So I have goals. I have goals to get toned. To get back to my pre-lockdown weight. Lockdown was bad for me because I really liked Doritos. Doritos are my downfall. I didn’t realise that Robitussin would also be my downfall. So I aim to workout every day of the week. Take a break on the weekends. You know, have a workout routine and eat well. Standard stuff. But here’s the thing, I’m a quitter. Today, I started an arm workout and just couldn’t be bothered to lift my arms up. I just didn’t want to do the workout. So I quit. And instead, I played piano. I played my heart out. And then I came up here and wrote this blog post. And then I spent ten minutes debating whether showering is mandatory today. It turns out it’s not because I haven’t coughed once today. Sorry to everyone I see in person today. But I told you, I am a quitter. Today I quit my workout and normal standards of hygiene. I really need life to go back to normal so that showers are mandatory again.
Well you know I had a bad infection right? Thank you for all the concern and the well wishes and messages etc. My mum and dad were pretty freaked out because every time I talked to them, I would go into a massive coughing fit and then wheeze my way through our conversation. After about 3 weeks of suffering, I called my dad in a panic and said I needed help. I turned to my roots. To the mysticism of the East. My dad called my Auntie and she concocted a potion that can only be described as magic. He duly dropped it off that very same evening and said to take it twice a day, once in the morning and once at night. I took it that night and could instantly feel my air ways clear and I slept that type of deep sleep that adults dream about. What was this magic potion you ask. Well, its called Raab and it’s an old Indian (I want to say Gujarati, but I genuinely don’t know) recipe of millet flour and spices blended together into a warm drink. You think it sounds nasty and you’re right. It sounds nasty, but to me it tasted like magic and love. Love of my parents and my Auntie Kate who lovingly made this potion for me because I wasn’t feeling well. From that evening, I started to feel better and more positive. I still don’t know why I was inflicted with this stupid infection. Some friends came round (socially distanced and all within the allowed rules of course) and I just couldn’t keep a conversation going for more than 25 seconds because I would just start coughing and wheezing like a maniac and the husband said I needed a chest x ray because I just sounded bad. Another friend told me her husband had the same thing as me and did permanent damage to his lungs. It’s been a number of weeks now and even though I feel better, I still can’t breathe right. Exercise is a long lost dream. I look at my Peloton and feel sadness. I see Chump on the Peloton everyday and going for runs and envy just takes me over. It’s an ugly emotion, but I can’t help it. I go for a walk and within 2 minutes I’m huffing and puffing. I come home and take my inhaler, absolutely defeated, wondering when it’s going to be my turn again. Oh god, look I know I sound completely insane. Like there are real problems in the world. I know there are, I’m not that self absorbed. I know that in parts of the world, 400,000 people are day are being diagnosed with Covid, and there are oxygen shortages and thousands are dying awful deaths. And I pray for all of them. I lament the state of the world. But I would be lying if I said I also didn’t feel sorry for myself.
Today, I set myself a goal. I’m going to get on the Peloton and I’m not going to huff and puff. I chose a 30 minute class and the first 10 minutes were like a beautiful dream. My legs worked, my mind worked, my lungs worked. After 11 minutes, my lungs were screaming for air. And I just couldn’t get enough air in. My mind stopped working and started panicking. And I think everyone knows, if your mind tells you you can’t do something, there is no way your body is going to defy that. Your mind controls everything. I finished the workout, because I’m a stubborn, stupid person, but I hated the last 19 minutes of it. I got off the bike and couldn’t get enough air in. I took my inhaler and now I’m just sitting here, wondering what the hell is happening to me. My tae kwon do studio opens again in 2 weeks. I need to be ready to go back. At this rate, I’ll be lucky if I can do the school run on Tuesday morning without collapsing on the side of the road. Ok, I’m being dramatic. But I’m defeated right now. And it sucks.
We need to talk about cauliflower rice you guys. It’s disgusting. I’m sorry if you love it and I’m dissing your favourite food, but it’s legit gross. Look, I love cauliflower. It’s a beautiful and delicious vegetable and I’m always looking for new ways of using it. I even bought a cookbook dedicated to just cauliflower. That’s how much I love it. It is no trouble for me to eat cauliflower. One of my biggest issues during lockdown (aside from the obvious ones) was that I could never get a cauliflower. My favourite way of eating cauliflower has to be from the legend that is Ottolenghi. His roasted-cauliflower-with-harissa-chili-oil is beyond delicious and I normally make it at least once a month. If you like cauliflower as much as I do, go and make this recipe. Come back and thank me and then thank God for Ottolenghi. So why am I ranting about cauliflower rice? Why did I choose to eat cauliflower rice? Well, I’m Indian, which means rice and Rotlis are staples in my house. As they should be. I want my kids growing up eating homemade Indian food like I did. But as I’m now getting older (ahem, Forty) I can’t always eat rotlis and rice with reckless abandon like I used to. Even Chump, who is the world’s most beautiful man with his Adonis belt (don’t know what that is? Go look it up) now doesn’t eat as many rotlis and rice as he used to. So enter cauliflower rice. And if it’s another easy way to get some brassica goodness in, then sign me up. Don’t worry, the kids still eat rice and rotlis. I want them to grow, grow, grow. But cauliflower rice is just all wrong. It’s watery and insipid and tastes like boiled cauliflower. With all the beautiful things cauliflower can do, cauliflower rice is just simply not acceptable. I’d rather get my brassica goodness another way. That’s it. That’s all I had to say. Nothing else. Cauliflower rice sucks. That’s it. Bye.
Don’t turn me into rice. I don’t like it.
By the way, if you are a subscriber, then hopefully the issues with notifications will have been sorted by now. If not, I’m so sorry. I will carry on taxing my brain to try to figure out how to fix that problem. If you’re not a subscriber, then why not? Subscribe fools.
You guys. I’m ill. Like seriously ill. That’s why I’ve been so quiet. If you’ve written to me and have had radio silence from me, maybe it’s because you’re an asshole, but it’s most likely because I’m really bloody sick. Before you freak out, no it’s not Covid. God knows I’ve had enough PCR tests to last me a lifetime over the past 4 weeks. It’s really unpleasant having a massive Q tip swabbing your tonsils and then your nostrils. Just saying. For the past four weeks, I’ve just been listening to Lil Wayne A Milli on repeat. And then just as loud as my lungs will let me, scream out “Motherf*cker I’m ill”. It makes me feel so cool. I’m not cool. I’m Forty remember? My kids are sick of listening to Lil Wayne and beg me to play something else.
But anyway, what are you so ill with I can hear you asking. Well, I’m ill with a chest infection. Like a really bad one. I’ve been on antibiotics and everything. I’ve discovered the elixir of life. It’s called Robitussin. Robitussin is the nectar of the gods. It tastes like coke and toothpaste. The first time you taste it, you will think you have died and gone to hell. But then it will soothe your throat and break up your phlegm and you will wonder why you have never had this magical liquid in your life before. Then you will go to your local chemist and buy big bottles of Robitussin because that one time you ran out of Robitussin at 1am and you were genuinely worried you might die.
Where is the motherf*cking Robitussin?
But in all seriousness, this illness has been awful. I still can’t shake it. It’s been about 4 weeks and I am miserable. Every night I hawk up a lung. Chump gets really mad at me because I tend to hawk up a lung in his direction. I huff and I puff and I can’t breathe. I’m wheezy all the time. My lungs are part of a symphony. They can hit all the notes at the same time. Girl even kicked me out of her room one night as I was trying to put her to bed. I’m not going to lie, that hurt my feelings. Most nights, I’m huffing and puffing and wheezing and my lungs are crackling. Chump gets really angry with me and tells me to take an inhaler. I’m not asthmatic. I don’t want to take an inhaler. But I take an inhaler because my doctor actually told me to take an inhaler regularly for the next 3 weeks because my lungs are still inflamed. I stupidly asked if I can exercise again and the doctor laughed in my face and told me to take it easy for now, as being able to breathe is a pretty high priority at the moment. If you know me, you know how much I love my Peloton. Not being able to use it feels like physical torture for me. But I also have mild PTSD when I look at it, as I suddenly remember what it feels like to be breathless and I panic. I also am now super afraid of nighttime, as when I was in the throws of my infection, I would wake up, gasping for breath, feeling as though I was inhaling really sharp blades. Chump would have to calm me down and force the inhaler on me. Three weeks later, I still wake up in the middle of the night in a blind panic, thinking I can’t breathe and Chump has to calm me down and pat my back. Now he doesn’t force the inhaler on me, but he begs me to take it. After about a half hour of panicking and hawking my lungs up, I then relent and take the inhaler, in addition to the magical liquid bestowed by Heaven itself. Robitussin. Then I finally fall back asleep. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking God you’re a moron. You’re right. I’m not a very gracious sick person. It is miserable. Like F*cking miserable.
I’m usually a very optimistic person. For those of you that know me, now is when you laugh your head off and think really- You? an Optimist. Yes, I try very hard not to show my optimism to the world, but internally, I’m super optimistic and resilient. And despite my best efforts, I also have a growth mindset. That’s why I started tae kwon do (which I haven’t been able to do in 4 weeks, because of you know, breathing). I’m re-learning the piano. And I’m about to start dance lessons. Partly because I want to stave off Alzheimer’s, but also because why not? Anyway, this illness has completely floored me. It has knocked whatever optimism and hope I have. I can’t talk myself out of this illness. I can’t find a silver lining. I normally try to focus on something positive and then find that whatever the problem is, it just sorts itself out. Or I try to think, ok what do I need to learn from all of this and then focus on whatever I need to learn and then move on. But this time around, I can’t find anything positive. I don’t know what to learn and I keep on saying to myself “why God why?” or “You’re not helping me. Why are you not helping me? Don’t you love me?” I know, it’s first world problems ok. But I am so f*cking miserable. I’m sick of thinking that coke flavoured toothpaste is delicious.
Listen, I’m fine ok. Don’t message me and see how I’m doing. I won’t answer. I’ll be too busy chugging down Robitussin and training my lungs to perform Symphony No. 5 to write you back.
Leave me alone. I’m too busy trying to teach my lungs to play this shit.
So this week, I had a bit of a tiff with Boy. Boy is the nicest kid. He’s sweet, kind, compassionate, patient. I often look at this kid and wonder how he’s my son. I’m such a dickhead as you all know and so is Chump. So the fact that Boy is just a nice kid is mind boggling.
Anyway, back to our little tiff. I brush Girl’s hair every morning and she screams her head off because she hates having her hair brushed. I keep asking her if she wants to cut her hair so that her hair tangles less, but she is insistent. She wants her hair down to her bum. Ok then. And well Boy has nice short hair, but I like combing his hair in the morning, because it makes him look so lovely. And I also feel a little bit like I have to level the playing field a bit. Why does Girl have to brush her hair? Yes I know she chooses to have long hair, but has she been conditioned to think that long hair is what girls are supposed to have? I know, it’s a bit of a head f*ck and not the topic of this blog post, but I feel bad that Girl has to have her hair combed every morning and Boy just gets to wake up and not have to deal with it. I know. I’m a parenting monster. So naturally Boy just screams and screams that he doesn’t want to have his hair combed and I insist that he has to have his hair combed.
Is this really the look you’re going for Girl?
Later that day, Chump asked why insisted that Boy had to have his hair combed and that Boy is such a sweet kid and we need to let him feel like he has control over his life, because kids just don’t have that much control. Yes. Yes you’re right Chump. I agreed with that and then I proceeded to feel bad. I apologized to Boy and I haven’t combed his hair since. But it made me think. We are always told as parents to pick our battles. We can’t win everything and the kids need to feel like they win too. But here’s the thing, the battles that I have to win are so basic. Like brushing teeth, going to the bathroom, having a shower, doing homework, putting on uniform, going to school. These are not moral victories for me. They don’t make me feel good. They are just what normal kids have to do. Why are these shitty “victories” supposed to be my wins, rather than just standard behaviour of decent human beings? And because my kids have to do these things against their will, they suddenly need to win at other things? Parenting sucks. I never feel like I’m winning. I always feel like I’m losing at everything and if getting my kids to brush their teeth is supposed to be some great victory for me, then we are doing this parenting thing all wrong.
