And we’re off. I feel like I just wrestled a crocodile onto a boat and we’re not even out of the end of our road. I turn the radio up, just enough to drown out the fighting in the back.
New venue. New mood. Let’s start again.
“OK my darlings, we’re here!”.
They all roll out of the door onto the pavement. I plop the baby in his pram and put his socks back on, again.
I find a baby seat and tie him in. He is secure, unable to escape. Unable to destroy, bite or run towards the main road.
Then comes the ordering. It’s a menu. There are items to choose from. It’s a normal cafe with normal food. A list of choices is presented in my most joyful tone.
“I don’t like eggs”.
AarrrrghhhhhhhHHHHH!
The food takes ages. Don’t these people know I’m sitting here with three wild chimpanzees that are ready to swing off your hipster light fitting and do a shit in the plant pot. They’ve already undone all the little packets of sugar and tipped over a glass of juice. These people are risking their god damned lives if this food isn’t served within the next 20 seconds.
It arrives with apologies. The waiter passes hot coffees over the baby’s head making me wince, then a knife slips off a plate onto the baby’s plastic tray. I nearly leap out of my chair and shout, “Don’t hand hot drinks over a baby you moron,” but I don’t. I just smile and ask for some ketchup.
The meal itself goes as well as can be expected. Things are spat back on the plate, regurgitated bacon is pulled out of throats, forks are poked in eyes, crap napkins are used to unsuccessfully clean dirty hands and bouncy bits of scrambled eggs are scattered all over the floor.
I have to say ‘Sit down you’re in a restaurant’ at least 13 times and there are 4 ‘I need a wee”s. This seemingly minor task entails getting the key attached to a wooden spoon from the counter, queuing in a car park, taking off three layers of clothes (damn you dungarees) only for the tiniest, most miniscule bit of wee to be expelled.
“I’m done”.
Yeah I’m done too, I say under my breath as I hold her soft little hands under the cool water.
I pay the bill and pile my family back into the car. I’m exhausted.
“Can we watch TV now?”.
“Yes, you can”.
“I thought you said we can never watch TV in the car?”.
“I’ve changed my mind”.
I drive around for ages. I go past my house while they sit quietly in the back with headphones on. I take the time to gather myself. To breathe.
I look in my rear-view mirror at the three of them lined up in a row and instead of being upset that my idea of ‘a nice breakfast out’ was ruined, I think, god, I love you guys.
There is no animosity in parenting. There are only moments. Moments that pass quickly and are repaired before hurt. I catch my daughter’s eye and she blows me a kiss so I lean my hand around behind my chair and tickle her toes.
“Shall we have raisin toast at home tomorrow morning in our pyjamas?”.
“Yay! Raisin Toast!”.
“Sounds perfect,” I say as I pick a bit of egg off my forehead.
“Maybe we could try that new cafe around the corner next weekend?”.
Originally published here.
Victoria lives on The Sunshine Coast on the East Coast of Australia. She has three uncontrollable children, a very patient husband and a dog. She’s been sober for 2 years and writes about her zig zaggy journey in her blog –www.drunkmummysobermummy.com. Victoria is currently writing a book about parenting, alcohol and life as a sober mum.
You can follow her (in a non-stalky way) on Instagram and Facebook.
