The Baton of Arseholeness


You can generally rely on a parting shot from son number 1, 2 or 3 when in a bad mood to really screw the end of your day up quite royally.

Today the Baton of Arseholeness was picked up, and wholeheartedly run with, by son number 3. Not one to quip back when I can help it, of course I told him that it’s ok to be angry and it’s ok to be sad but it is not ok to say hurtful things to people. That I love him and would love to have a cuddle when he is ready.


Gladly son. Quite gladly.

And so we finish another day in paradise. Did I say paradise? I meant as a dutiful, loving, caring, perfectly sane and completely stable Mother Of Boys.

Who am I kidding?! But I have yet to hit the Baileys hidden in the soup bowl cupboard tonight so all is not lost.

Seriously though who comes up with this shit? Each and every day, almost without fail, one, or sometimes more than one of my children, picks up the Baton of Arseholeness and runs like hell with it. Some days they literally throw it back and fourth as if playing a casual game of catch. By the end of a day I can be standing in the middle with my head spinning and my arms flailing, when all of a sudden off they will trot for their showers and bed, cuddles included and kisses not optional. Like, what the actual fuck?!

The other little peach is when they are killing each other (and as a Mother Of Boys I mean literally killing each other), come running to me for help and when I begin to split the situation up and heaven forbid make good on a threat if they don’t stop fighting, I end up as the bad guy and there they are licking their wounds and defending one another from their big bad mother!

Some days I just give up. Sometimes even before we get to school. Hell some days I give up even before they have crawled out of their beds as apparently by merely waking them up, I can initiate World War 754!

Other days it’s not so bad. Some days we have giggles and cuddles and an idyllic moment or two, just like that wonderful video on Facebook where everyone is laughing and running through the sprinklers and the sun is shining down on them all. You know the one I mean. Yeah ok so I think that’s a crock of shit too, but in all honesty of course we have good times. So why is it that this parenting malarkey we try so hard to get right so often feel much the same as pushing a giant marshmallow up a hot spiky hill?

Answers on a postcard, I’ll take all the help I can get.


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