It’s a thankless task at the best of times, motherhood.
From the day your child is born you feed, rock and change, feed, rock, and change on repeat only to be met with escalating cries and projectile bodily fluids.
Then they grow, start to move, and you take on the role of FUN POLICE; thwarting their efforts to repeatedly thwack the TV, reprogram the washing machine and/or pluck the cat.
You throw craft projects, trips to the park and ice-cream at them and still, they are not happy. Nothing is ever good/long/plentiful enough.
Words start to tumble from their lips and inform you that the home cooked meal you spent an hour preparing is ‘Yukky’, the birthday present carefully chosen by a loving relative is ‘RUBBISH!’ and your new hair cut makes you look like a ‘Poo head’.
They lie in a heap pounding the floor with their fists because the fish fingers are taking an unacceptable amount of time to cook. BUT If you serve them up frozen they cry to daddy that they had ‘bisgustin ice lollies’ for tea. It always seems to be a lose, lose situation.